Musicians of Plaza Garibaldi.

One day, in early 1996, I was on Church Street and rented Desperado starring Antonio Banderas. That movie, along with the song Mexico by James Taylor formed an impression in my teenage mind of an unrealistically romantic Mexico full of guitar playing mariachi/vigilantes and incredibly beautiful women with impossibly sexy accents. The music was everything.  Arguably my favorite song to listen to on the run in Mexico. Exhilarating!

I cued up the soundtrack for the movie when I walked around Mexico and my musical highlight of the country was an evening at Plaza Garibaldi, a square in Mexico City where mariachis of all shapes and sizes and attire bring their gear and best tunes each night. Beers, smoke and song filled the air, until one by one we all dragged our tired feet to the main road in search of taxis at the end of the night,  mariachis and revelers, every man for himself. They were definitely upstreaming. And they deserved to. 

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Playing an incendiary cover of La Bamba on a harp

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Thick as Thieves

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Voice Like Honey

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The Professional

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Lead Vocals

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The Hired Gun

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Footprints

April 2nd, 2015

I stepped off my flight from Istanbul to Izmir with my schoolbag, a startling sense of excitement and three days to see this part of the country. All I had been told was that the people of this region were very attractive. I can confirm that now. I descended the escalator off the tarmac and into the airport and my nose was immediately smelling smells it had never smelled in an airport before. These Turks had a fully stocked professional florist’s right there, black escalator stairs ending in a mass of flowers of all colours and fragrances. It was a very strong first impression.

I was spending the day in Izmir before taking the train to Selcuk. Izmir is the third largest city in Turkey. It appeared more industrial, there were no tourists and people were genuinely surprised to see me almost everywhere despite there being a lot of people around almost always. I walked all along the bay in downtown Izmir, following a path past waterfront hotels and restaurants and bars all in soft pastel tones, like San Francisco on a post card long before Instagram filters.

I walked for five or six hours from an old bazaar with nothing but food and clothes, through a modern business area where I relaxed in a posh hotel lobby and put my bag down thankfully. I walked out of there and went down a side street full of kiosks all selling little trinkets. I found one man half asleep and all he sold were turkish artists interpretations of Hollywood movie posters. Framed. I would have purchased dozens if I could have but left happily with a Back to the Future and a Batman Begins that I added to my list of things to not forget somewhere.

I bought a delicious chocolate bar, Turkey has the best assortment of convenience store counter chocolate bars that I have come across in my life. They are clearly of a higher quality than American candy bars.

I listened to my short but sweet Turkish Gold playlist for hours and steadily walked in a drizzle that I frequently prayed wouldn’t turn into a rain. The preciousness of time is amplified even more while traveling, we are clearly at the mercy of the weather gods then, those powerful few known as weathermen in America. These were the sort of deep thoughts l had while listening to Paul McCartney channel his days in Africa.

All I need is a pint a day, if I ever get out of here, if we ever get out of here

I stopped and had a delicious coffee on a side street from an old man. We both smiled a lot and fumbled around trying to talk but neither of us communicated a single thing successfully. Well, actually, when I left he knew I liked the coffee and Izmir, and I knew I liked the coffee and Izmir. I paid him with a single coin.

Soon I was in the station. It was much seedier at night. Drug addicts and tough guys were popping up from buildings I had assumed were shuttered and boarded up. I found my platform and boarded my train and as I got within a few feet of my seat, my feet and knee ached. Maybe it was my imagination.

I found my hostel at 1am after sleuthing around the tiny village of Selcuk for the good part of an hour. I was greeted by somebody who made zero effort to pretend that I had not just completely woken him up. He showed me to my room and I fell asleep, exhausted.

I could hear loud noises. I heard them half-asleep and then they became louder. Now I was awake and could hear the sound moving. I lay there in my bed, under the covers and realized a damn bird was flying around my bedroom. I was alone in the room so I had to get up at some point, adult me lectured sleeping me sternly. I ran to the front door, hit the light, looked up at the ceiling and there is a huge bat flying around. I hightail it down to the front desk and wake up the guy for the second time that night.

He’s looking at the bat in disbelief. He’s asking me if I brought it. I’m looking at him in disbelief. I’m telling him no and that I’m not fluent in the language he’s speaking. I’m only guessing what you’re saying, dude. His plan is to throw the complimentary notepad from my desk up at the bat which is now stationary (pun intended) on the ceiling. Incredibly his plan works and works very quickly. I had resigned myself to sitting exhausted and watching him throw a stack of paper at a bat for at least the next thirty minutes but he grazed that flying rodent on his fifth attempt. It flew out the window and I closed it. We carefully inspected the room for more bats. There were none. He assured me this was not normal. He asked me if I would mention the bat on TripAdvisor.

The next morning, I woke up and ate breakfast. I guess everyone did.

I did not want to take a bus to Ephesus. From the Batcave, it was a 70 minute walk through the countryside so I elected to walk. I first passed cows and sheep and lambs aplenty on plots of farmland. There was a nice clearly designed path to walk alongside the road to Ephesus. That path was empty for many minutes at a time, but I did pass some interesting folks – some schoolboys, some old men, and a young woman exercising. She was really pushing herself through a demanding workout on the parallel bars at a kid’s playground. I saw some college-aged guys on a motorcycle and took one of my favorite photos of the trip. I was asked for a cigarette by somebody. I disappointed him and he too, did not hide it.

I had downloaded a Rick Steves podcast which was a walking tour of Ephesus. If you walked in and timed pressing Play correctly, you had a English tour guide in your ear for free. Directions, history, little facts and jokes. It was fascinating. They said that supposedly Julius Caesar or Cleopatra actually walked down that same narrow rock path. Following in Caesar’s footsteps felt amazing, Efes felt like a truly historic place, could easily imagine how this little place captured the attention of the world in 10,000 B.C.

I left there and walked back to Selcuk. I wanted a haircut. It was late, but Selcuk must be the barber capital of that state. Every lane has two or three salons or barbershops. I walked into an empty one. A very soft spoken gentleman named Salih gave me an immaculate cut. He even burned rogue hairs off my ears with a flaming Q-tip (Pun intended – you should be listening to A Tribe Called Quest). Most restaurants had closed. The village is so small, there must be about six square blocks in the tourist section, but there must be hundreds of restaurants. I was fortunate enough to not only have the best meal of my trip that night but to also become friends with my waiter. We talked about Syria, regional politics, Turkish basketball league, futbol and his plans for finishing college. We closed the restaurant and met with one of his friends for beers at a nearby pub. We then met their friends. Everybody wanted to be somewhere else. Guys who lived in Selcuk wanted to live an hour away in Izmir and those guys wanted to live in Istanbul. And those guys in London. And those guys just hoped the rain would hold off, like it had in Turkey today.

We shot the shit early into the morning and I drank too many beers. I was hungover the next day sitting in the courtyard eating my hardboiled eggs, papaya, berries and apple.

 

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5 David Bowie songs I like.

I used to devour those British music magazines in the 2000s. Q, Mojo, NME, ate them up and each of them always referred to David Bowie reverentially and most often as the thin white duke.  Unquestionably, discovering and exploring his musical catalogue was a damn odyssey in my life and though I couldn’t get into the Berlin stuff, I thought David sang with more soul than most people gave him credit for. Yeah, I just called him DAVID. First time I saw him I think was a video on MTV Classic of Let’s Dance. Young me thought in my little brain “That guy is on drugs.” I was mostly right but when I discovered Changesbowie in high school, it was a wrap. I felt then and now that that album is the single best Greatest Hits album of all time. And please know that I recognize this is a very serious claim.

This one is my favorite Bowie song to play on a jukebox. And an amazing live performance from the man I proudly share my birthday with. (Birthsake?)

Gee, my life’s a funny thing!

This is my favorite Bowie movie moment. With respect to The Prestige, Zoolander, and others, his musical accompaniment to the dance scene in A Knight’s Tale was pure gold. Puts a smile on your ole kisser every time.

Don’t let me hear you say life’s taking you nowhere, angel

For somebody who doesn’t change much and has had one “look” in his life, I still feel like Bowie and I are totally in sync on this anthem. I have sung this in the car countless times and that sax at the end, ooh boy. That’ll do, Bowie, that’ll do.

And these children that you spit on as they try to change their worlds

By far the funniest Bowie ever. He absolutely slayed it in what is one of the funniest tv scenes ever. And the song is actually catchy too!

The clown that nobody laughs at

This one is just one that always comes to mind. So rich with imagery and such a kick ass rock song. The lyrics are below the video and look like a poem, the gray letters on white. Memories of driving in New Jersey and ending the night with this on in my old Toyota.

We were so turned on and you thought we were fakers!

Dear Fantasy Football

 

Courtesy of The Player’s Tribune.

 

Dear Fantasy Football,

 

From the moment
I drafted Terrell Owens with my first pick ever
And heard chuckles and whispers around the table
100 yard, 2 touchdown games

Flexing like a jerk after a 7 yard gain on a wide open slant route

making me feel like a champion
I knew one thing was real:

I wanted to keep believing I knew more about sports than everyone else.

A love so deep I gave you my all —
From my mind & body
To my spirit & soul.

As a 22-year-old boy
Deeply in love with you
I never saw the end of the tunnel.
I only saw myself
Running out of one with a ton of dollars in my hand.

And so I drafted.
I drafted on sight, on rumors, on hearsay.
Winners, losers, busts, sleepers.
You asked for my hustle
I gave you my heart
Because it came with so much more.

I played through the sweat and hurt
Not because challenge called me
But because YOU called me.
I did everything for YOU
Because that’s what you do
When someone makes you feel as
Alive as gambling has made me feel.

You gave a dude his goal of being a GM
And I’ll always love you for it.
But I can’t love you obsessively for much longer.
This season is all I have left to give.
My heart can take the pounding
My mind can handle the grind
But my soul/wallet knows it’s time to say goodbye.

And that’s OK.
I’m ready to let you go.
I want you to know now
So we both can savor every moment we have left together.
The good and the bad.
We have given each other
All that we have.

And we both know, no matter what I do next
I’ll always be that dude
With the cheat sheet and the
highlighter in the corner
:05 seconds on the clock
Mouse in my hands.
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1

“Hold up, I’m not ready yet.”

We had a time,
Siddharth

 

 

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http://www.theplayerstribune.com/dear-basketball/

Soda Stereo in Tepoztlán

When I finally made it to Mexico for the first time, it was September 5th, 2015 – a quiet late Saturday Night in Mexico City. I lazily hailed a taxi at the airport rationalizing it to myself “Hey, you don’t want to miss Saturday night” although I was tired and suspected that I would only wind up having a beer or two that night. I hoped however that I would be refreshed and awakened fully soon, an exhilarating combination of exotic breezes, generous pesos and attractive accents jarring me to my senses. That never happened. It took forever to find my way, my cabbie got yelled at by a cop- these charming cobblestone streets were too narrow for a taxi they said- and so I walked around in dark circles, helpless and phoneless and carefree. It was the museum district (one of god knows how many-kudos DF) and all I found was the backs and sides of castle after fort after palace. Sure, I was happy to walk around lost, not all who wander are lost and all that, but the slight responsibility of carrying my bag was really beginning to upset me off. I was definitely hangry. 

I found my room, showered, changed. Got ready to crash and hit the next day with a vengeance. I look up and there is a bat on the ceiling. I can’t believe it. The last hostel I was in was on the other side of the world, and a bat had come into my room through the air conditioner and terrified me in my sleep. There is nothing cool about bats in person, Batman is full of it. 

I ran out to the night watchman, a huge loud coward in the quiet Mexican night, and motioned for him to come to my room. I pointed to the still, black, winged bastard on the ceiling. He said with zero confidence “Oh, es mariposa.”  

I don’t know Spanish. But I did study Spanish. And I suddenly remembered that means Butterfly.

And suddenly-er even, a few words of that ole espanol came back to me and I said “Que? Amigo, es muy grande no? Es  mariposa grande or es murcielaga poco?” BRO, IS THAT A REALLY REALLY BIG BUTTERFLY OR IS THAT A KINDA SMALL BAT? 

And yes, I do only know that murcielaga means Bat because of the Lambhorghini. And no, my Spanish is probably not grammatically correct. This actually and tragically wound up being the highlight of my Spanish skills for this trip.

The next morning I walked out after a breakfast of jam, baguette and cornflakes to a train to a bus to a village that my new buddy Ulysses (Hugh-lee-zees) had recommended to me from across the aisle on the plane. It was a day to remember. I had Googled “Best Spanish Rock Groups” before I went to Mexico and Soda Stereo kept getting mentioned. 80s and badass, and I think a lot of other bands stole their riffs because they were shredding it all the way from Buenos Aires in the 80s and 90s. I walked the streets and mountain all day long, buying Micheladas and leaving a trail of taco plates in my wake. Men threw fire crackers a few feet from busy crowds all day long. The loud bangs would go off and scare passersby for what seemed like a second before nervous laughter would kick in mixed with the belly laughs of the local village men who threw the crackers down. This repeated itself until darkness.

Don Draper 007 – You Only Live Twice

When it comes to combining music with television or cinema, I invariably remember movies or shows for those moments. When it’s done well, it’s exhilarating. Martin Scorcese, my sources tell me, championed using popular songs instead of original scores back in the early 1970s, as far back as Mean Streets. Quentin Tarantino, Sofia Coppola, Guy Ritchie and Wes Anderson come to mind for directors who do this in a very entertaining way today.

As far as television, Mad Men did a tremendous job. They turned me on to a lot of music and the song was always dead on with the visuals too. (Check out Mad Men’s playlist on Spotify) This particular scene gave me chills the first time I saw it because serial philanderer Don had been loyal to his new wife Megan for a little while and then she wanted to become an actress and take on a role that meant other actors would kiss her on set and Don… flipped. He was first jealous, then angry, and then enraged. Ultimately, the next day he relents with the “If this is what you want…”.

This scene picks up with Don leaving Megan to her fantasies. He literally walks away from her, becoming more distant with each step, until the camera’s angle changes dramatically and he steps into a bar and walks toward the bar counter for his Old Fashioned. I love the James Bond You Only Live Twice theme playing, the fact that it’s being sung by Frank Sinatra’s daughter adding yet one more layer of Cool, the order of his drink (Shoutout to Shaken, not stirred!), the suit and finally the look he gives the girl – when she asks him her question. Also, as always, amazing use of shadows, smoke and silhouette. Are you alone? 

Regarding Jon Hamm’s Don Draper performance specifically, I am repeatedly astounded by how good he is. When people ask me how I can say that this is my favorite acting performance in a television show, I look at them like:   <==

It’s strange thinking/writing about Mad Men in the past tense. What a great show that was. When it was at it’s best, for me, it was better than everything else.

Robin Williams Forever

I was loading my dirty clothes into a washer in the laundromat on the corner of 2nd Avenue and 95th Street one year ago today when I heard a brunette woman folding shirts a few feet to my left tell someone on the other end of her cell phone: “Yeah, he killed himself.” I couldn’t believe anybody could talk about someone they knew’s suicide in such a casual way. I was disgusted.

I walked outside the hot laundromat to the slightly less hot street to kill some time. I checked Twitter and realized that she had been talking about Robin Williams. I was surprised by how sad I felt suddenly.

I dragged my feet around the grey Manhattan evening and just kept thinking about his movies and how much they had meant to me. How he was the celebrity I always hoped to bump into in New York. How I had daydreamed of meeting him on the subway and how he would be insane and nice and just keep talking a mile a minute. He was such a tour de force.

My mom made me watch Dead Poet’s Society when I was 9. Hook when I was 11. Mrs Doubtfire soon after and I thought this guy is THE MAN. He’s invincible! Not that he was bulletproof, he wasn’t, but he gave zero f*cks. That was true invincibility. That was something the toughest guys couldn’t pull off. And Robin never started giving a f*ck even long after he wasn’t considered “cool” anymore. He still went at it with gusto. Full-tilt Williams. He just did not have a dim switch.

I saw so many of his flicks later on when I was a teenager and I was equally blown away by Good Morning Vietnam, The Fisher King, Awakenings, Death to Smoochy and Good Will Hunting among others.

A few days after Robin passed away, I started re-watching his movies. I noticed I never felt sad about his death for even one second while watching them. I think that’s unusual and incredible considering the circumstances. It’s probably because he is such a happy, alive, lovable, exuberant, squirrely bastard on screen that it’s just impossible to not be in the moment and feel awesome while watching his high wire act.

I found a 1984 movie called Moscow on the Hudson in my local library this past winter. When you need a joke loving, jazz playing, saxophone carrying, circus employed, happy-go-lucky, bearded Russian to defect to America in a Manhattan department store, you call Robin. So good. We never had a friend like him before.

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Maybe

One of my favorite things that happens in rock & roll is when a performer is a really shy person who just transforms into a champion tour de force who just grabs everybody in the stadium’s heart when he or she lets their talent rip. That burst of confidence that just lets them flow like pure steel in front of 50,000 people when they are doing their thing, when they can’t barely handle doing one sit-down interview because of shyness. I’m thinking Freddie Mercury at Live Aid. But I keep thinking that with these John Frusciante live clips too. He’s so good and the crowds at the gigs are so good I alternately fantasize about being him on this stage at Slane Castle in Ireland, or one of these swaying Irish in attendance.

I also love the song choice, homie is covering a 1958 song that critics call the emergence of the girl group sound that would become so huge in the 60s, it’s so beautiful lyrically but the standout feature of the song for me is the lead singer’s vocal performance – her voice – dang! Heartbreaking!

I still feel her pain 58 years after they recorded it, shoutout to Arlene Smith from the Bronx! The Chantels, ladies and gentlemen…a song I never would have heard of if not for John Frusciante taking a step forward in front of half of Ireland with an axe to shred and a soul to bear.

Grand Bazaar’s Young Hustlers

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My very first morning in Istanbul, March of 2015, I went walking out of my hostel door with my carefully selected playlist blasting in my ears.

My only mission was to enjoy the music, look around, maybe take some photos and to exchange some dollars for Turkish Lira or “Tee Ells, mate” as one Sydney-sider at my hostel had corrected me. Following only a trail of currency exchange bureaus that seemed to each offer a more favorable rate than the last, I wound up at a side gate of Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. I walked around the inside and got tired of it quickly since I didn’t plan on buying anything. Still, I do have to say I was impressed by how much Hindi every random Turk threw my way. Stiller, I was much happier circling the bazaar from the outside and taking photos of the people who worked there running to and fro, people of all ages both male and female. I saw one young boy running through a market street while a shopkeeper chased him angrily until the grey-haired man grew tired and cursed behind him. Where was I – Agrabah? Despite the Artful Dodgers, I also saw plenty of shopkeepers offering prospective customers fresh bread and hot tea. I found a mosque on the edge of the market to one of it’s countless sides and laid back there for a while. Many a man came out to wash his feet. Not a woman did. I thought to wash mine but suddenly noticed a quiet removed stairwell snaking up behind the mosque. If it led me to the roof, I’d be able to peer directly into the market through it’s open roof so I was excited to get up there and take some photos.DSC_0486.DSC_0588DSC_0593DSC_0485DSC_0615

The bad news was there was no vantage point. The good news was the “Street Rat” Aladdin-wannabe I had seen being chased earlier was up here now and wrestling some kid older than him. Let’s call him Jafar. When I asked them why they were fighting, after the bigger kid had won, he held up his hand triumphantly with a cigarette in it, and lit it. Everybody smokes in Turkey. Hell, I guess everybody smokes everywhere else. Everywhere European anyway. I did not know they started smoking in Fight Clubs. Travel teaches. “Street Rat” asked me to buy some Tops. Now, I love Tops and have since many schoolboy trips in India to tiny shops without names to get them. I asked Aladdin how much. He offered me 2 for 20, I said 3 for 10, we agreed on 3 for 15 if he let me take a bunch of photos. He agreed to this caveat only if he got Final Cut and I delivered the photos to him via email so he could make them his Facebook profile. This kid was born in 2005. No sooner did I give him the money, the formerly victorious Jafar offered me a much better deal. DUDE, where were you two minutes ago? I took their photos as the familiar sting of regret came over me as I walked away from the mosque curious how much those two jokers had paid for their Tops. They had seemed too pleased with themselves.

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I walked past a familiar face on my walk home after the currency exchange. I asked him “How much for a Top?”. He answered “2 Turkish Lira” while his eyes angrily surveyed the busy market streets for the two dodgy kids who kept stealing his Tops.

Gotta steal to eat, gotta eat to live, tell you all about it when I have the time…

Future Keyser Soze

Future Criminal Mastermind Keyser Soze

And the Oscar goes to

Spent Oscar evening how I spend every Oscar evening, watching old Youtube clips of Oscar speeches during the actual live event

Through my circuit of favorite Oscar speeches – Jamie Foxx, Russell Crowe, Matt & Ben, Cuba and more, I kept one ear on the 2015 festivities. The red carpet has always been ridiculously dollhouse and hard for me and my unfashionable brethren to watch, so yesterday my ears perked up when I heard people taking umbrage to the red carpet show & tell. Those people were mostly women in dresses worth more than my car. Not judging, but I was surprised.

#AskHerMore is a hashtag popularized to make Red Carpet “reporters” take heed to ask more important questions than what designer an actress is wearing. Julianne Moore and Patricia Arquette talked about how Hollywood had to change this. I empathized because I could never have the patience to do a red carpet, but I also wondered who is that question being asked for? Is the suggestion that it’s sexist? Men don’t care one iota who designed a single actress’ dress. That, you can take as gospel. Also, the dresses don’t do as much for male hormones circa 2015 as they did in the 1940s. The entire fashion aspect of the show is done for women (consumers) and the labels. It has nothing to do with us! (red-blooded civilian males). It’s big business, and every woman in the world knows that.

I thought the #AskHerMore thing was similar to how Marshawn Lynch or other athletes have been thinking in the recent past. Remember him getting in trouble for wearing his own hat at the Superbowl presser? And him saying he wanted to wear his own shoes? And refusing to answer questions. That’s because he got annoyed with the fact that someone else was profiting over what he was forced to wear. That seems like a possible cause here, actresses essentially feeling like they are walking the world’s most viewed catwalk, and not being compensated with anything other than a free dress rental.

One argument I heard is that if these actresses didn’t want to hear that question (“Who are you wearing?”) then they should dress down. That makes zero sense, they are at a work obligation that requires a certain level of attire. If an actress wore jeans, they’d probably bar her from entering. The dressing up is part of the game. It’s the prom. And if you are not paying for your own clothes then the person who clothed you is going to want a shout-out or twenty. I wonder what would happen if the actress refused to answer the question? Would the label be offended? Would she have to buy her own clothes now? With the media and business line getting blurrier every day, It’s increasingly interesting to me when these new grievances come up. I understand the frustration but I don’t think it’s a sexism issue personally. Apart from those few actresses, I saw a parade of women who were only too happy to name their designer and jeweler and make up people and Serena Williams even answered by saying ” ____ _____. They dress me every time.”  Being dressed? She is literally ceding control like a toddler. She probably sees this as some sort of Cinderella deal, get dolled up by the fairy godmother and go out on the town till midnight et cetera. I think it would be a very tempting offer.

Favorite Speech of the Night:

Graham Moore, screenwriter of The Imitation Game. He got personal as you can, but still somehow kept it light and inspirational. Good guy Graham was a much-needed dose of caffeine in a lagging part of the show. Another great speech was given by Lonnie and Johnny better known as Common and John Legend. Their performance and their speeches (seconds later?) were powerful.

Favorite Joke of the Night:

Not many. My favorite was by far the comedy stylings of John Travolta. The hapless former ballet dude and disco god put his foot in his mouth last year by mispronouncing Idina Menzel’s name while introducing her, and he spent the whole telecast yesterday trying to tapdance his way out of that. Seeing how insecure a big star can be is really charming in a way, getting all sweaty and nervous and making jokes that don’t make sense, it’s the first time I’ve empathized with Travolta. Not your fault that she’s got a tongue-twister of a name Johnny!

The Awards:

My favorite of the nominated films was The Grand Budapest Hotel though I wholeheartedly believe the best movie of 2014 was Nightcrawler which was criminally under nominated. Jake Gylenhaal deserved a Best Actor nomination at the very least. He also came up with the concept for this trailer for the film:

Another overlooked performance was Chadwick Boseman in Get On Up. He was a mesmerizing James Brown, a top-notch song and dance man who also captured the exuberant joy and tortured genius of the Godfather of Soul. I also especially loved A Most Wanted Man, the very last movie Philip Seymour Hoffman made. His portrayal of a beat-down by life German spy carries the film and his German accent is great. Another performance that stayed with me is Miles Teller in Whiplash, he was in my tempo and I thought as deserving of a nomination as the abusive JK Simmons. The two things the Oscars made me want to watch even more than I wanted to before were Selma and Citizenfour. By the way, pretty ballsy moment by Ed Snowden’s girlfriend picking up the Best Documentary Oscar onstage for her boo.

Quick points:

-Eddie Murphy has not aged in twenty years, that’s what no booze or drugs and a lot of money and a healthy lifestyle gets you.

-Lady Gaga killed it, I expect she’ll be doing The Sound of Music on Broadway in a few years.

-Rosamund Pike is gorgeous when she’s not killing dudes.

-Bradley Cooper’s third straight Best Actor nomination! And that’s not even counting my favorite performance of his, as the voice of Rocket in Guardians of the Galaxy.

-Meryl and J-Lo in a film adaptation of Broad City? I’m in.

As usual, the Oscar show was so overblown, I started wondering about the director of the Oscars, he’s under major pressure and he can’t even direct these actors! Wondered how they manage all these shots and movement…Check out this clip of what it looked like behind the scenes during my favorite Oscar moment in history and you’ll get an idea.

Dennis Rodman, who are YOU wearing?