The First Echo

If you tuned into the red carpet live coverage of the SAG Awards on E! yesterday you may have noticed the screaming banshees standing in the bleachers and wildly flailing their arms as if they were Titanic survivors waving down a rescue squad. I, for lack of a better explanation than the one I will supply later, was one of them. While Ryan Seacrest and living mannequin Giuliana interviewed the sequinned and the sexy, I sat in the sun, nursing a hangover with some Bayer, my digital Canon ELPH charged and ready to snap some shots of Leonardo and America Ferrera. It was truly the epitome of starf**king. Elisabeth and I were surrounded by less-than-sane, middle-aged couples, manic mothers and daughters, and tabloid-subscribing seniors - all regulars of this bleacher madness, their camera lenses zoomed in on any passing celeb. One woman sitting in front of us had purchased a heavy-duty-looking camera with an extensive telescopic lens just for this ocassion . "This is our fourth

Not only was January 22 the most depressing day of the year (as previously written), but it was also a day that truly marked the end of an era. I had received my final issue of TV Guide ...forever (Cue the dramatic score!). The decision to end my subscription after nine-plus years was easier to make than I had imagined. One can say TiVo and the Internet are to blame for my decreasing dependency on what used to be my second Bible (of course, this was before Entertaiment Weekly entered my life). I have embraced the digital world, thanking my personalized DVR and favorite sites for supplying me with up-to-date schedules and various resources of infotainment. TV Guide and I have traveled down a long road together. From its list price of 75 cents to an astounding $2.49, I witnessed an evolution in television. I fondly remember Jeff Jarvis's Couch Corner, especially the first time he reviewed an on-the-rise GenX soap on Fox "guest starring" Heather Locklear. I soaked up wh

According to scientists, yesterday was the most depressing day of the year. With the remarkably crappy weather and with just enough time past the holidays, during which New Year's resolutions are thrown out the window, January 22 was the day when it hit us - We have an entire year ahead of us to screw things up, a brand new calendar to fill with unnecessary worries and unexpected mistakes. I don't make my resolutions known. I've learned to keep them to myself, and I always suggest others do the same. If you're fat, people already know you're going to try to avoid Krispy Kremes for breakfast. If you're a smoker, don't show off the nicotine patches like they're badges of honor. If you keep your resolutions a secret, only you will know when you've broken them. You'll just set yourself up for disappointment when you later reach for that carton of Marlboros or order an Original Glazed. No one else but you will know you're weak. Maybe this is w

Normally, the sight of Britney Spears in a public venue warrants a frenzy of such Oh-my-God-I-need-to-text-my-Myspace-top-24-right-now proportions that it risks taking the fun out the event itself. The Thursday before last (belated, I know), the VIP lounge at Arena glowed from the screens of multiple Motorolas and Sidekicks as clubgoers alerted their friends, who alerted their friends, that the former Mrs. Kevin Federline was kicking back in a corner booth with her new beau. My little cameraless Nokia remained in my pocket. It wasn’t until I was outside, passing the paparazzi on the sidewalk, that I pulled it out and left a cool and collected voicemail for Molly, scolding her for possibly missing the final opportunity she’ll ever have before leaving L.A. to be in the intimate vicinity of the idol she worships above all things on earth. This surreal evening had started with a little bullshit. For the past year I never had to pay admission to Arena. I was spoiled by the several oc

If you were to Google New Rochelle, New York, you'd find articles on Trump's downtown domination, pictures of the construction progress on 30-story Avalon high-rises, and showtime listings for the latest Ben Stiller showing on IMAX in the 18-screen megaplex at New Roc City. You'd also find a brief, Hugenot-heavy history on the "Queen City of the Sound" that was also home to Thomas Paine, Richard "Shaft" Roundtree, and the Petries on the timeless Dick Van Dyke Show . The New Rochelle I experienced as a child and fondly remember now was a much different place. Before the Bronx moved in, before Bally's tried to muscle its way into every couch potato's life, and before the K building was no longer the towering landmark of the cityscape, New Rochelle was (oxymoronically) that quaint city referenced in E.L. Doctorow's Ragtime , a destination just an afternoon drive away from Manhattan, that affluent 'burb where one could enjoy the autumn

It's like a giant seesaw has tilted back to its original position (back to January), and eventually everything will go through the same motions (leveling off sometime in June, tilting back to the other side by December). A fresh start? Nah. Just a new day. Wishing you heaven in 07. H.P.M.