Giuliani’s First TV Spot: It’s No ‘United 93’
It’s a pivotal moment in the 2008 race: The day voters get to see Giuliani’s ferrety smile in a softly lit close-up. That’s right, the Republican front-runner finally answered the public clamoring for more multimedia Rudy and premiered his first TV campaign spot, which will begin running today in New Hampshire. The ad goes straight to Giuliani’s credentials: eight years running New York City, “the third- or fourth-largest government in the country.” (About that “third or fourth” thing — they couldn’t look it up?) As we know, whenever Giuliani mentions his hometown, he’s forced to perform a complicated two-step of praising it and dumping on it at the same time; this time he does it with, um, pictures.
Norman Mailer’s Self-Penned ObituaryBack in 1979, at the height of his curly-haired glory, Norman Mailer composed a witty and sharp obituary for himself for Boston magazine, which has reprinted it on their Website on the occasion of his death this past weekend. “Norman Mailer passed away yesterday after celebrating his fifteenth divorce and sixteenth wedding,” it begins:
He was renowned in publishing circles for his blend of fictional journalism and factual fiction, termed by literary critic William Buckley: Contemporaneous Ratiocinative Aesthetical Prolegomena. Buckley was consequentially sued by Mailer for malicious construction of invidious acronyms. “Norman does take himself seriously,” was Mr. Buckley’s reply. “Of course he is the last of those who do.”
In it, he offers up fake eulogies from some of his friends, which in retrospect are surprisingly poignant. “He was always so butch,” “Truman Capote” says. “I thought he’d outlive us all.”
Mailer’s Death: We Called It [Boston]
Earlier Intel’s prodigious coverage of the death of Norman Mailer
The City Is Tired of You Getting Your Bike Seat WetBehold the city’s newest benefit for bicyclists: a sleek public bike-parking shelter that will start rolling out next month. The structures are from the same company that’s installing those adorable new bus stops around town. As you can see, they look very similar, except they’ve removed the side and rear panels for easy access for up to eight bikes. (And their ad panels will show off the city bike map or reminders to pedal safely.) The Art Commission approved the design yesterday, and the contractor will build the first 5 of 37 at commuting hubs. Look for them at 17th and Broadway, DeKalb and Flatbush, Pelham Parkway and White Plains Road, Jackson Avenue at 50th Street in Long Island City, and the St. George Ferry Terminal. “You judge a good street by how you see people going out and using the space,” Transportation commissioner Janette Sadik-Khan told us. “We’re working hard to make sure that the materials we put on the street are high quality and sustainable.” And, from the looks of it, pretty. —Alec Appelbaum
Okay, Now Who Leaves a Kitten on a Rooftop?Brooklyn Heights: Rumors are burbling that the hood’s symphonically hyped “Subway Cyrano” saga — where a guy reconnected with his subway crush after searching for her via an online vid — is a Lonelygirl-type hoax. Wouldn’t that be sad? [Brooklyn Heights Blog]
East Village: Sure, two low-paid young’uns can share a $3,000 Stuy Town one-bedroom. If they bring along their $1,000 pressurized wall. [Hunt Grunt]
Flatbush: Several cats have been abandoned on a rooftop! And they’re scared and hungry! [Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn]
Norman Mailer, Warhol’s Inverse, Helped Invent Modern FameIt’s safe to say, now, that Norman Mailer did not become the heavyweight champion of fiction — safe to say because he’s no longer around to take a swing at you with his cane. Even in his last year, Mailer would vigorously defend his reputation if he heard something he didn’t like. After this magazine recently published an innocuous chart chronicling his many highly entertaining feuds, he called to deliver a loud, hearing-challenged verbal pummeling. But, though he doubtless wouldn’t fully concede the point, even he must have realized that his greatest work was not fiction.
Robin Williams, One-Man BandRobin Williams was in rare (okay, typical) form last night at the premiere of his new schmaltzy caper, August Rush. In it, he plays a Fagan-like proprietor of an abandoned theater, home to a gang of musical orphans (really). We asked him if he ever played a musical instrument in real life. “Yes,” he said, “and I’ve been asked to stop.” Turns out he spent some time playing the sax: “I did a black blues-player set,” he said; then he turned into a black blues player: “Man, you just gotta relax! You gotta make love to it, don’t hurt it, you know?” But his favorite music, he said, is the music of New York. “Look around you,” he exclaimed. “It’s like Gershwin flowin’! It’s got music, girl, everywhere. Uptown, downtown” — he turned into a feisty Latina. “Hola, mira, Mami. You got this thing, and it just keeps you movin’, ju know? You gotta have it, Papi. You know, leesten, leesten. Iss all crazy! You got to have music! And then you have the Russian clubs in Brooklyn” — with this he made some Russian-seeming sounds — “and Jewish music, Vhot, music!? It’s klezmer, what! Music to flee by! That’s why we take the skin off our penis — you gotta move! You can’t travel with that! Then you get in a cab” — he made some high-pitched wailing sounds — “Can you turn the radio down? Osama, please.” At this, the publicist began pulling him away, either because she felt enough was enough with the ethnic stereotypes or because the screening was about to begin. In his wake, however, there was a chorus of laughter. —Ben Kawaller
More Party Lines quotes and photos from the August Rush party: Keri Russell’s an instant cello virtuoso; Tamara Tunie philanthropically screws over her relatives.
The Titillating Temp WorkerOnce a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Titillating Temp Worker: 23, female, Williamsburg, journalist, bisexual, single.
9:40 a.m.: I wake up clutching my flimsy pillow as if it is a real person. In the two months I’ve been single, I’m beginning to prefer polyurethane to the pricks I’ve been sharing my bed with lately.
6:25 p.m.: I’m thinking about calling this guy I met last week for a date, but do I really want to go out with someone who has dreadlocks? I don’t do anything.
7:32 p.m.: I make sure my bra and underwear match and I’m wearing my favorite Star Wars T-shirt. In other words, I’m feeling lucky tonight or at least like getting lucky.
9:48 p.m.: My random night leads to hanging out in the hotel room of some band that has a VH1 reality show. I was expecting cocktails and feather boas on the floor. Instead, I get stoners watching HBO.