In my life, I have seen many movies. For the most part, they have not been what are commonly known as "quality" movies. Many have been rather obscure/poorly-made/flat-out lame. However, of all of these, there have been very few that I have truly disliked. One of those? Miracle on 34th Street.
Now, say what you will, I'm not a bad person in general. I think it's nice that kids can believe in Santa, even though I never really did (one of my earliest memories is of me telling my mother that Santa Claus's handwriting looked remarkably like hers. She spun me some story about Santa not having time to address the gifts himself, and I was just like "Yeah, Mom. I was born four years ago, not yesterday.") And Maureen O'Hara is, in general, fantastic. And most movies set in mid-century New York have thriled me. But this one left me, if you'll pardon the pun, considering it's December in the Mid-Atlantic, cold.
I just didn't care. Whine, whine, whine, Santa Claus must be real. Whine, whine, whine some more. I do believe, I do believe. The USPS believes, so it must be true (because the USPS never gets anything wrong. For example, they have not been delivering my upstairs neighbors' mail to me for the last 5 months or anything. They are infallible!) Whatever, little girl. Whatever, happy holiday spirit. Whatever.
And now I find myself emerging from the subway station on 34th Street outside Macy's every morning. At 8 am, I emerge from the ground into the just-spreading light of another cold, cold day, and I think, "You know what the real Miracle on 34th Street is? The real miracle on 34th Street is that so far (knock on wood) I have managed to make it the 5 blocks from the subway to the office every day without being trampled, pick-pocketed, or reduced to yelling at the tourists to get OUT OF THE WAY!" It's just Macy's for crying out loud. You can see one in your local mall back in Des Moines or Tulsa or whatever fly-over state you came from. Look, it's the Empire State Building. Yes, it's tall. And yes, it's lit up for the holidays. Whoopee! Now get your nose out of your Fodor's Guide to NYC and KEEP MOVING. Or I will not be responsible for what I do.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Silver Bells, Silver Bells...
It's Christmas Time in the city! I've been looking forward to this since the day I first dreamed about moving her. Christmas is a magic time in New York City, I was convinced. People rush around with carrier bags from all the best stores, wearing darling, brightly-colored, matching hat and scarf sets with their lovely double-breasted 3/4 length coats and supple leather knee-high boots with heels that never made anyone take a nose dive into a snow bank after slipping on a patch of ice. No matter how many times I found this happening to me back in the midwest, I was certain that New York had some sort of magical force field around it which kept everyone upright no matter how horrendous the weather and the slippery the sidewalks.
Then I moved here and learned that the magical force field had a name. That name? Hollywood.
Sure, it's easy to stay upright when your filming on a soundstage in sunny LA. Oh, wow, yes, I am freezing, but my darling little pink peacoat is plenty warm enough (Don't fall for that one. Some girl in my office showed up convinced that she was going to make it through the winter with just such a coat, because that was what she'd seen on TV. Oh, honey. Much as I'm generally not a good person and don't mind seeing idiots get what's coming to them, she was so earnest, I couldn't let her go. I just pointed her in the direction of the Century 21 winter wear department and tried not to laugh.) Oh gee, look at all this slush on the sidewalk that will never be shoveled or removed, but that won't ruin my shoes or soak the bottom third of my trousers because I have Production Assistants pretty much carrying me around this soundstage to keep me looking just as pretty as a picture!
In real life? I soak my foot in a puddle just leaving my apartment buidling. Great, now my socks are wet, despite the winter-guard I sprayed on my boots (waste of $8.50, right there. Thanks a lot, Duane Reade.) I nearly slip and have to grab the handrail for dear life climbing wet, slushy stairs out of the subway. I walk underneath the ONE tree on Seventh Avenue just as it decides to let loose all of the water droplets that have been building up on its leaves. I stop short to avoid narrowly trampling a group of asian tourists giving the peace sign in front of the Empire State building, and wind up wearing a lovely splash of my morning coffee on the front of my coat (thank goodness it's black! No pretty colors for the smart midwesterner!) By the time I get to the office, I look like I've trudged through Opposite-Day Hell (you know, where everything is reversed and Hell is cold and snowy and full of slushy sidewalks, and fire and brimstone are actually starting to sound pretty nice by comparison.)
And yet I'm supposed to relate to pretty little Carrie Bradshaw in her weird pink tutu and feel camaraderie as she gets splashed by the bus in the opening of SATC? No thanks. I know the truth about those Production Assistants there to help her stay cute. And until I get my own PAs, I'll just continue to say "No thanks, Hollywood, you lying, lying liar."
Then I moved here and learned that the magical force field had a name. That name? Hollywood.
Sure, it's easy to stay upright when your filming on a soundstage in sunny LA. Oh, wow, yes, I am freezing, but my darling little pink peacoat is plenty warm enough (Don't fall for that one. Some girl in my office showed up convinced that she was going to make it through the winter with just such a coat, because that was what she'd seen on TV. Oh, honey. Much as I'm generally not a good person and don't mind seeing idiots get what's coming to them, she was so earnest, I couldn't let her go. I just pointed her in the direction of the Century 21 winter wear department and tried not to laugh.) Oh gee, look at all this slush on the sidewalk that will never be shoveled or removed, but that won't ruin my shoes or soak the bottom third of my trousers because I have Production Assistants pretty much carrying me around this soundstage to keep me looking just as pretty as a picture!
In real life? I soak my foot in a puddle just leaving my apartment buidling. Great, now my socks are wet, despite the winter-guard I sprayed on my boots (waste of $8.50, right there. Thanks a lot, Duane Reade.) I nearly slip and have to grab the handrail for dear life climbing wet, slushy stairs out of the subway. I walk underneath the ONE tree on Seventh Avenue just as it decides to let loose all of the water droplets that have been building up on its leaves. I stop short to avoid narrowly trampling a group of asian tourists giving the peace sign in front of the Empire State building, and wind up wearing a lovely splash of my morning coffee on the front of my coat (thank goodness it's black! No pretty colors for the smart midwesterner!) By the time I get to the office, I look like I've trudged through Opposite-Day Hell (you know, where everything is reversed and Hell is cold and snowy and full of slushy sidewalks, and fire and brimstone are actually starting to sound pretty nice by comparison.)
And yet I'm supposed to relate to pretty little Carrie Bradshaw in her weird pink tutu and feel camaraderie as she gets splashed by the bus in the opening of SATC? No thanks. I know the truth about those Production Assistants there to help her stay cute. And until I get my own PAs, I'll just continue to say "No thanks, Hollywood, you lying, lying liar."
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