The Clairvoyant Zoopraxiscope

A lot of New Yorkers seemed to have accomplished the art of being hard-bitten without necessarily being angry. Which has led some, of course, to say they're more kind than nice. What passes for "nice" in other parts of the U.S. is a sort of distant cousin of "friendly," which is to say there's a lot of chatter, much of which involves the insertion of person A's proboscis into person B's business. Or "bidness," depending on location. And once person B has lived in New York long enough, the said poking becomes close to intolerable, leading to the term "the provinces," which begins, uh, well... let's just say you can see it from the East River or the Hudson. I did grow up in "the provinces," and so I can say that the ease of breathing, combined with a certain ambulatory comfort and an increased half-life of the money-pouch, makes that life well worth some thought, even favor.

I had dinner with someone on Friday night who expressed hatred for numerous things. One of them was Lost In Translation--and perhaps it was the Merlot, or perhaps it was something in the lobster they used for the lobster ravioli I had (excellent--although most consider Pesce Pasta to be middlebrow, the food remains Dependable, which is more than one can say for so many joyless highbrow restaurants)--but I was persuaded. He was bothered by the indolence that ran through the movie: the indolence of Scarlett Johanssen, the depressed indolence of Bill Murray (Tokyo's a big city, and all he could manage to do was karaoke-ize 'More Than This'?). And as a matter of fact, watching Sofia Coppola standing and delivering (and receiving) last night, she frequently looked quite indolent herself. But how could that be? It's a willful indolence, perhaps.