And I could look like Chevalier:

My old man believed in calling ’em like he saw them, especially when it came to compliments. If we were on a street corner with him, waiting for the light to change, and an attractive woman happened to be standing there, he’d think nothing of telling her, “My sons and I can’t help but notice what a beautiful woman you are and thought you might like to know as much.”

The woman would smile, sometimes unnerved, not knowing if it was a come on or what. Sometimes, if she was an assured New Yorker, she’d wink at my brother and me. It wasn’t a pick-up line, the Old Man just believed in expressing himself. Take it or leave it, honey. The man had charm to burn and no lack of chutzpah.

In the New York Review of Books, Chess master Gary Kasparov reviews the new Bobby Fischer biography:

Fischer’s remarkable life and personality will surely produce countless more books, and probably movies and doctoral theses as well. But there is little doubt that none of the authors of those future works will be more qualified to write on Bobby Fischer than Frank Brady. A close acquaintance of the young Fischer, a “chess person,” as we call them, himself, as well as an experienced biographer, Brady also wrote the first and only substantive biographical book on him, Bobby Fischer: Profile of a Prodigy (1965, revised edition 1973).

It is hard to imagine a more difficult subject than Bobby Fischer to present in an accurate and evenhanded fashion. He was a loner who trusted no one. His charisma attracted both starry-eyed sycophants and spiteful critics. Fischer had strong opinions of the kind that tend to create equally categorical sentiments in those who knew him—and in those who didn’t. He had a very small family and both his mother, Regina Fischer, and his only sibling—older sister Joan Targ—have passed away. Fischer’s general inaccessibility also led to countless rumors and outright lies about him, making the biographer’s task a challenge.

With all that in mind, Brady’s book is an impressive balancing act and a great accomplishment. Before even picking up the book there is no reason to doubt that Brady liked Bobby Fischer and that he has a friend’s as well as a fan’s rooting interest for the American chess hero. But there are few obvious traces of that in Endgame, which does not shy away from presenting the darker sides of Fischer’s character even while it does not attempt to judge or diagnose it. What results is a chance for the reader to weigh up the evidence and come to his own conclusions—or skip judgments completely and simply enjoy reading a rise-and-fall story that has more than a few affinities with Greek tragedy.

This is a lengthy piece but worth the time. Fascinating stuff.

R.I.P. Kenneth Mars.

Here is a nice appreciation at the fabulously titled site, Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule.

I’ve heard of meyer lemons but until last Friday, never tried one, at least not that I can remember. Not long ago, I saw a simple salad dressing that called for meyer lemons, olive oil and garlic. Sure enough, I found meyer lemons at a market in Manhattan. I haven’t made the dressing yet, but used it in another dressing, and on an avocado. They are sweeter than regular lemons, and while they weren’t cheap (fifty cents a pop), they sure are lovely.

They are easy to find out in Los Angeles–check out 100 things to do with a meyer lemon in the L.A. Times.

Bags vs. Kline

This painting always makes me think of “Flight of the Bumble Bee.”

Head on over to Details for the complete oral history of the funny show, “Party Down.”

Via Subway Art Blog, check out this wonderfulness–an artist who makes collages and gifts them around town.

“The Lovers,” By Pablo Picasso (1923)

From DJ Matt B:

Oh, hell yeah.

Molten chocolate cake recipe from Saveur.

[Photo Credit: foodphotoblog]

Valentine’s Day Edition: Meet Me in Montauk

It’s become something of a cliche to say that the romantic comedy is a dying genre, but I think it might at least be on a ventilator. What was the last really good one? The last romantic comedy as good as Broadcast News, let alone, say, His Girl Friday?

My favorite movie of the modern era that might be called a relationship movie is not really a romantic comedy – although it’s very funny in many places, in that kind of laugh-to-keep-from-crying way – and it is, indeed, set on Valentine’s Day. It’s mostly about a relationship, but it’s also about the human mind and storytelling. And depending on your mood and your general feelings about love at the moment, it can be read as either hopeful or depressing. I think it’s both – or anyway, it’s about as hopeful as a movie can be while still recognizing certain depressing realities. Yep, I’m talking about Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

When I first saw it, at Brooklyn Heights Cinemas, I was not in a good place, romantically speaking, and while I loved it immensely I also thought it was incredibly sad. Now, while I certainly won’t claim it’s an inspiring cupful of cheer, I take a less bleak view. Not so much that love will triumph (the odds are against it, in this film) but that love is worth it. Or, okay, at the very least inevitable. It’s one of those movies that’s a bit of a Rorschach blot. And beyond the central story of Joel (Jim Carry the last time he was good) and Clementine (a fantastic Kate Winslet), there’s a fairly spectacular subplot featuring mind-twisting sci-fi, Mark Ruffalo, Kirstin Dunst, the great Tom Wilkinson, and Elijah Woods in the role he was born to play, a whiny creep. The structure is complex and twisty but always somehow comprehensible in a way that’s pretty much brilliant and explains why I will always have nothing but love for screenwriter Charlie Kaufman, and his darker and more intellectual style bounces perfectly off Michel Gondry’s whimsical and less tightly-wound direction. And did I mention the soundtrack is fantastic too? The trailer really doesn’t do this movie credit:

I’ve never gone out to Montauk on Valentine’s Day. But I bet if you did, you’d find some very cold, lovelorn people with good taste in movies.

Bounce…

On my way to the grocery store yesterday I stopped and tilted my nose in the air like I was a dog. It was warm in the sun and I thought I smelled it–the distinct odor of spring, which can only mean one thing: “Baseball.” It is the smell of soil, carried through the breeze. Eh, I think I might have been straining.

This morning, however, there it was again. Sure, this is a false spring we’ve got on our hands this week in New York (it is supposed to reach 50 degrees today), but I’ll take it.

Couple of Yankee notes fuh ya:

Brain Cashman has some tough love for Joba Chamberlain and Keith Olbermann is even tougher on Derek Jeter.

Update: Oh, and some cool news in the Yankee blogosphere–the Yankeeist and Yankee U have merged to form The Yankee Analysts. Be sure to drop by and check ’em out. I’m sure they’ll be doing some fine work this season.

[Picture by Richard Diebenkorn]

Pitchers and catchers report.

We cool out:

Hubba Hubba.

Here’s Bruce Weber’s obit in the Times.

Let’s get groovy: