Jay Walking Down Project Runway

Scott Wallace Brown Joins the Walk of Fame

After reading my blog post about how much Dave Cawley resembles metrosexual designer Vincent Libretti of Project Runway - Season 3, Adele Marley sent me an e-mail reminding me of how much her boyfriend, Scott Wallace Brown, resembles designer Jay McCarroll, the "Wild Card" winner of Project Runway - Season 1 (as pictured below).



It's true (!), as the pictures below attest (that's SWB on the bottom, dressed up as Jay McC for Halloween):




Ahoy mateys! Jay McCarroll (top) and Scott Wallace Brown (bottom) show off Pirate Chic on "Project Plankway"

What's more, the Simpsons-style cel animated SWB also kind of resembles the stop-motion puppet animated Heat Miser from the Rankin/Bass TV classic The Year Without a Santa Claus!



But I think it's really bizarre that two friends of mine have clones on the same reality TV show. Or should I say, Bizarro, because I'm starting to think we live in a Bizarro Superman world, one where everyone has a doppleganger on a TV show. And usually of opposite sexual preferences. Though Vincent Libretti is married-with-children, I just think he hasn't come out yet, and Jay McCarroll is openly way gay. As are my TV doppelgangers, the flamboyantly gay Carson Kressely of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and tennis commentator Martina Navratilova:




Call me Carsina Navratilova!(That's me in the middle.)

An SOB Christmas

Dunkin' Donuts with the Bagel Boys


They like bagels and they like bikes.

Christmas Day. I'm meeting my friend - and Vincent Libretti Tribute Artist - Dave Cawley (pictured right) at the Lutherville Dunkin' Donuts for our annual Holiday Gift Exhange/Potlatch. As my long-suffering girlfriend Amy and I approach the entrance, we notice the parking lot is crammed with shiny chrome motorcycles ("America runs on Dunkin'" - apparently even its Easy Riders). Uh-oh, we gasp, are we gonna have to rub elbows with an unruly biker gang inside? (I secretly count my blessings that I didn't don my usual metrosexual headgear, a Scottish Tam topped with fuzzy pom ball) and walk in, expecting the worst. But all is well, as the bikers seem a genial sort not likely to dunk a mild-mannered librarian (me), a meek Baltimore County records clerk (Amy), or a wild-eyed insurance claims adjuster (Dave) while we are enjoying our donuts. In fact, our apprehension turns to amusement when Amy points out the gang's logo on the back of one member's jacket: "SOB, Semites on Bikes," accompanied by a grinning shades-and-yarmulke adorned skull head.

I was relieved by this sign of light-hearted humor, because at this point a well-caffeinated Dave was boisterously raving about why Jack "King" Kirby was the greatest comic book artist of his generation and what a "crime against humanity" it was that his DC Comic editors "re-drew" his Superman heads to conform with DC Code - the kind of fan-boy talk that one would expect badass biker dudes to find perhaps a tad "geeky." But no, they were a jovial crew, merrily chowing down on bagels and lox and having a decidedly cool yule amidst Lutherville's goyem.


Kirb Your Enthusiasm: King Kirby deconstructed by Archoids

What a happy happenstance running into these guys! I had never heard of this gang, but when I got home and Googled "Semites on Bikes," I saw that the Baltimore City Paper's best gal reporter, Violet Glaze, wrote a great profile of the SOBs last year ("Gimme Shtetl," City Paper, 11/1/2006). I should have known, as Violet seems to be one step ahead of most people when it comes to Baltimore pop culture.

But there was more merriment just outside the window, as we turned to spot a long-haired middle-aged man in running shorts and what appeared to be big boxing gloves on his hands "prancing" (you certainly couldn't call this "running" or even "jogging") down the sidewalk with a most unusual gait.

"Look Tom," Dave said, "It's Pony Man." The name was no doubt a reference to the way this curious man picked up his feet like a clip-clopping pony, but could also have referred to his mulleted hair, which flopped up and down like an over-excited pony tail. "I see him sometimes when I'm running at the Dulaney High track. He's a character," Dave observed with unusual understatement.

Secure that we were among friends, we concluded our discussion about Jack Kirby (who could have been a SOB, given his birth name of Jacob Kurtzberg) and proceeded with our gift exchange. Dave gave me the perfect "occupational hazard" book, Don Borchart's buzz-worthy expose of the trials of tribulations of public librarians, Free for All: Oddballs, Geeks, and Gangstas in the Public Library. This "Library Confidential" is the talk of the library world (an exciting place to live, Earth peoples!) and deservedly so, but even "normal" (non-librarian) people dig it. Dave admitted that he read it himself before wrapping it for me (and I thought I was the only one who "previewed" Christmas gifts!).

And, knowing Dave's Bantam Boy Interests, I gave him a spy book, a Honey West pulp paperback, a Mutt & Jeff comics collection and, saving the best for last, the Holy Grail of discarded library promotional materials: a mullet-era Michael Bolton "Read Books" poster for the American Library Association. I don't think Dave was as excited by this score as I was. Clearly embarrassed, he quickly covered up the oversized poster and hid it under our table.

"Gee thanks," he said, "I'll be sure to put this up in my cubicle at work. I'm sure my Celine Dion-loving co-worker will be so jealous."

When I asked Dave what his girlfriend was getting him for Christmas, he mentioned her sister was making him a Gingerbread House modeled after Hunt Valley Mall. Now that's an ambitious project! Not only that, but kaiju eiga-loving Dave had even requested that his prospective sister-in-law add a menacing Godzilla figure to tower over the gingerbread diarama. Leave it to Dave to add a terroryaki touch to his holiday treat. (Actually, someone's already posted a YouTube clip of Godzilla attacking a gingerbread house; I guess great minds think alike!)

After Amy finished her fourth donut ("Save a little room for Christmas dinner!" I suggested), we bid one another adieu, with Dave making sure he covered Michael Bolton's beaming mug with as much wrapping paper as possible as he made his way out the door.

"God, I hope no one sees me with this!" he muttered with holiday "cheer," as he walked briskly to his "vintage" Toyota with a pace that would easily have overtaken Prancing Pony Man.

As my friend Cody commented upon hearing this tale, "Oh, when will the harsh and unrelenting humiliation of Dave Cawley ever end?"

Don't hold your breath, Cody! As Linus told Charlie Brown, "That's what Christmas is all about."

Blade Runner, Final Cut

Still More Human Than Human, 25 Years Later

I saw a beautiful 35mm print of Blade Runner - The Final Cut on its final night at the Senator Theatre last night. What's left to be said about Ridley Scott's masterpiece - my favorite film of all time - that hasn't already been said (most recently in the documentaries and commentary tracks of the just released 4- and 5-disc Collector's Edition DVD box sets)?. 25 years and countless versions later, it's still the same old story: a tale of love and gory, an ontological case of do or die. It's a film that asks the questions we all ask at some point: "Who are we? Where are we going? How long have we got?" A film in which the only distinction between humans and artificial Replicants is the ability to feel emotional empathy (a line blurred these days by the diagnosis - and prevalence - of Asberger's Syndrome). A film about what makes life precious and death and loss so painful. It's a film that still makes me cry every time I experience it.

I first saw Blade Runner with my sister in 1982 at the old Timonium Theater. We loved it, sitting there in awe after the end credits rolled. These were the days before video (that pre-DVD format we Baby Boomers embraced in the mid-'80s), so there was no video (much less DVD), Internet download or On Demand option to see it again. This was the "buy your ticket, enjoy the show," one-and-done era of real-time entertainment. So we sat there and watched it again. And were still talking about it after seeing it the second time.

Everything in this movie (with the lone exception of the studio tacked-on "happy" ending in the original theatrical version) is perfect. The future noir look, the Vangelis music, the clothes, the special effects, the dialogue, the acting, the sets, the design, the architecture, the final denouement in LA'S Bradbury building (which also provided the setting for a memorable Outer Limits episode, "Demon with a Glass Hand"). But the Godhead of this film was in the details. The iconic owl, the Mayan temple-looking Tyrell Corporation building and Deckard's apartment (both based on Frank Lloyd Wright's Ennis-Brown House), the square glasses Deckard quaffes his whiskey from - even his multi-colored, multi-patterned shirt. I remember my sister found me a similar "Blade Runner" shirt (very dated now!) at Macy's and gave it to me that Christmas. (I wore that thing until it was threadbare!)

You could argue (and I certainly do) that all the actors involved did their best career work in Blade Runner. Though he didn't care for the film and purposedly tried to sabotage his voiceover narration in the theatrical release, Harrison Ford is asked to act in this one, and does so admirably, presenting a confused, conflicted, vulnerable - and not very attractive - character.


When Doves Cry: Rutger Laments This Mortal Coil

Though ostensibly the Bad Guy, Rutger Hauer is the true hero of this movie as the fallen angel Replicant Roy Batty who wants "more life father/fucker!" Hauer never equaled this performance; this was his Hamlet, and he apparently added much to the role, suggesting the dove-in-hand scene and much of his dialogue (e.g., the "Like tears in rain" soliloquy). Gotta love the William Blake quotes, too. But his greatest contribution is the way Hauer expresses the anger that Roy feels faced with his and his loved ones' imminent demise. Seeing Priss die, he becomes Everyman, as he/we feel cheated by our Creator for the brevity of our alloted time in a rat race in which the stopwatch can't be reset. By the final reel Roy's anger passes into an appreciation for the preciousness of life despite its brevity (he lets Deckard live), an appreciation that is decidedly human, suggesting that perhaps these replicants are not so different from flesh-and-blood mortals after all (maybe they are, as Tyrell describes them, "more human than human").

Sean Young is presented here in pre-psycho mode and while I also thought she was good in No Way Out, she never topped this role - no, not even as cross-dressing Lt. Lois Einhorn in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective!


The inevitability of the expiration of our mortal coil in the film's grand finale ("Time to die") again made me think of my sister, who passed away last year, and of one small "movie magic" moment we shared at the Timonium Theater. At this time of year, when families gather for the holidays, thoughts inevitably turn to those loved ones we have lost. Roy pines for Priss. Leon for Zhora and his precious photographs. Families for their depleted ranks. All we're left with are our memories - real or imagined. My memories of Blade Runner remain and they're good ones, 25 years on.

My words can't do justice to Blade Runner. But I do recommend the Blade Runner 4-Disc Collector's Edition review by the always excellent Glen Erickson of DVD Savant and Paul Sammon's definitive book Future Noir: The Making of Blade Runner.