New York City, baby.

Wednesday, November 26, 2003

Some advice heading into Turkey Day...

If you enjoy watching a classic, good-hearted tale turned into a crotch-smashing, curse-ridden, dirty ho-joking abomination check out The Cat In The Hat. The makers of this film should be ashamed for lacking a sense of imagination extending beyond that of a development executive who wears a $5000 watch with a ratty baseball cap and jeans, or a sense of humor that extends beyond the skill of a white, liberal arts educated screenwriter, the kind who watches SportsCenter, has a Fletch poster in his room at the age of thirty-two, and hides his dorkiness by gathering with vapid, indie-rock friends in Silver Lake dives. And bonus, Myers uses his Linda Richman coffee talk voice, in effect turning The Cat into a Jewish yenta from New Jersey. Nice.

Wednesday, November 19, 2003



Bachelor Bob chooses sultry Estella over girl-next-door Mary Jo on the exciting 2-hour finale of The Bachelor. The lovebirds last longer than Evan and Zora, but shorter than Trista and Ryan. Okay, we'll give a number. Three and a half years. Coinciding with full Estella meltdown.


Learn to love Paris Hilton, she ain't going anywhere. Pamela Anderson staying power? You bet. She is this generation's Zsa Zsa. We predict she soon hooks up with an A-list celebrity. This keeps her where her face belongs -- right above front page headlines about Black Hawk Downs crashing in Tikrit. We smell perfect rebound material for a dumped Affleck. Blow on the dice, Paris baby.


The Last Samurai bombs as Tom Cruise activates the Costner Career Slide button, with each of his movies getting sucessively longer and more bloated, his characters devoid of any of the affable charm that made them bearable over a decade ago.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

Blubox enjoys 50 mile winds gusting in our face -- ever more so when we are recovering from a massive hangover. The cause: a nightime excursion under the barbed-wire, across the trecherous terrain of the Meat Packing District, past the well-guarded gates of Soho House, until we were deep within the fashionista camp.

And not just any fashionista camp. A British fashionista camp.

The White Room -- God, what a name -- was the stage for a cocktail party sponsored by UNICEF. No, actually it was sponsored by Duncan Quinn. His men's shop is in Nolita. The suits are tailored back in London.

David Bowie probably owns three of them. Or should. We should too. It would be a good look for Blubox. But if you want to look money, it's helpful to have some.

We had a lovely time in The White Room, drinking amid a roomful of men and women, for whom the art of looking good is not just a job, but an adventure.

The call of the night turned out to be wearing Duncan Quinn clothes to the cocktail party. Our friend - we won't embarass him by using his name, but his website is -- had briefly toyed with the idea while getting ready for the evening, but chose NOT to wear his expertly fitted Duncan Quinn shirt.

His thought process proved faulty. Quite faulty, indeed.Those at the party who chose to wear their Duncan Quinn apparel: winners all. Yet, it struck me as a bit odd. Like going to George Lucas' house dressed as Obi-Wan Kenobi. Flattering, to be sure. But a smidgen much.

Thanks to the Australian in the ivory sportsjacket, we were all introduced to a drink called a French 75.

"What's that?" I ask him.

"A champagne drink," The Australian says.

"Oh. I like the name. French 75. That's a drink you want. Why do I like that name so much?"

"It sounds sexual."

"You're right."

"My girlfriend just gave me the most exquisite French 75. That's something you want to say."

Okay, so too many French 75s were consumed. But they were exquisite. They were also, as the bartender ominously mentioned to us, lethal. But apparently the only other place you can order a French 75 and they'll know what you're talking about is the Soho House in London.

And so that made us feel special. In fact, we're sure never to feel that special again. The electroclash music, the shag carpets, The Italian Job on the flatscreen. That would be the original '60s version.

Using any vintage Michael Caine movie as a visual backdrop at your party is all you need to know about that party.

Did they pull it off? They did. A credit to the combined brit-cool factor of the Soho House, Duncan Quinn, and that guy at the party whose style was dubbed by our friend Carrol G. as "Led Zep circa '73."

It was one of those parties where every conversation starts: "So how do you know Duncan Quinn?"

As it so happens, back in Nam, we threw him out of the way of an incoming grenade, saving his life, so he could bring his natty mod suits to the world.

The night ended, excitingly enough, with Blubox running into Mr. Quinn in the posh Member's bar, a short, leather-padded elevator ride up from The White Room.

It was a quick train wreck of a drunken encounter, with one of the impeccably dressed gentleman in his crew handing us a goodie bag as he helpfully navigated us out of the inner circle.

Get more info on the post-meterosexual fashion of Duncan Quinn in Daily Candy, who like our gal Britney, is always In The Zone.

Monday, November 10, 2003


The Wachowski brothers, reacting to their elevation by a legion of diehard fans to the role of demi-prophets, use the final installment of the Matrix, with its mere scraps of philosophizing on the meaning of life, to say: You thought we had all the answers. We don't. We're just directors. Think for yourself. Because to give that away, is to give away your freedom.

Or in other words, I'm not the Walrus. I'm just John.

Thursday, November 06, 2003

Help Blubox solve one of downtown New York's greatest mysteries. Near Time Cafe on Lafayette St., hanging down the side of a building, is a poster for the adultery-theme thriller Unfaithful.

You all remember the lusty image: A sexually ravenous Diane Lane suctioned to her European lover's chest. Above them, in profile, Richard Gere staring off into the abyss, with a look that says: "Why does my wife smell like Armani cologne and prosciutto?"

As much as we enjoy this unintentional exhibit on the nature of cultural irrelevence in our rapid consume-and-dispose lives -- the movie came out on Sept. 14, 2001 -- the question persists: why is the giant ad still hanging there over two years later? Two years.

Not since the Knight's Tale poster on 1st Avenue has an ad lingered around for such an unsettlingly long time.

Did the deal between the ad company and the building owner fall through and the ad company was, like, "Up yours, you take down the friggin' poster"?

Or some diabolical attempt to try to, slowly but surely, make us all devout followers of His Holiness Richard Gere?

Answers, people. We seek answers.

Tuesday, November 04, 2003



CBS pulls the plug on mini-series The Reagans. Some Hollywood liberals fear that Jimmy Carter of Arcadia could be next.


The movie to see this week. Here's a hint: it stars a mentally-challenged hero. No, not Radio. We're talking, of course, about Keanu. Big premiere tomorrow. Attempts to get Blubox Intern to come as Trinity still on going.


The science of hype has reached such elevated levels that it's virtually impossible to find an underrated album. New albums from The Strokes, Ryan Adams, The Shins, My Morning Jacket: they've all been touted by critics and hipsters alike. And were sure it's all more than deserved. But we miss The Find. Does it still exist?


With the presidential election year commencing, today feels like the first day of the baseball season. It could be wishful thinking but with the chaos in Iraq and a still shaky economy (jobs aren't being randomly tossed our way) it appears the Dems have a semblance of a chance. If only any of these guys had a semblance of charm, vision, or general likability. Dems need a stud; what they have is a debate club that couldn't score on a porn set.

The only stud we can think of is, in fact, a studette: Hillary. We think it would be a bad call politically for her to run in 2004, but what a difference it would make in the race. It's the difference between watching a playoff series between the Yankees and the Red Sox and watching, say, a playoff series between the Yankees and the Florida Marlins.


Our good pals threw a sexy-fun book party at Nublu, a bar that exists for the pleasure of those who live for Magic Hour in New York. Gen X stocking stuffers don't come anymore tailor-made than Book of Ages 30, which as their splendid website explains, "explores life's landmark ages in hilariously obsessive detail."


Jessica Simpson should star in remake of: Seven Year Itch. (The repressed married man who fights her off in vain: Hugh Grant.)

Mandy Moore should star in remake of: The African Queen. (The drunk swaggering boat captain: Colin Farrell.)

Britany Spears should star in remake of: Grease. (The bad-boy role of Danny: Orlando Bloom. Rizzo: Avril Lavigne.)