I wish I could describe the snow in Utah. It's so light, it practically dissolves underneath you. It's almost literally skiing on a cloud. Plus, I got to ski where Olympians dared to tread.
I'd actually consider moving there, but they have some weird-ass drinking rules and, also, it's Utah. No offense intended, really, but...Utah. Noo Yawk City boy in Utah? Not so much, full time, I think.
One of the things I always check out is how New Yorkers are greeted in other parts of the country. On the coasts and in Chicago, there's an immediate, discernible pull-back when you announce that you're from the place that's so cool, they had to name it twice. Almost like, "you guys are arrogant assholes and by the way, don't rob me."
In places like Colorado, Utah and Wyoming, the reaction I've generally gotten is "well, at least you're not from Dallas." Heh.
For the first few months after 9-11, I got a lot of sorrowful looks and heartfelt expressions of solidarity. That was cool - up to a point - but now things seem to be settling back closer to normal, which is reassuring, really.
Who edits movies on airplanes?
On the way out, the in-flight flick was Die Another Day, the most recent entry in the James Bond canon.
While I was checking what the movie was going to be, I noticed that they had the running time at 115 minutes. Now, I don't know how many of you watch Bond films, but they regularly clock in at 2 hours plus, sometimes 2:30 or more. The IMDB page I linked to up there says that DAD is 132 minutes.
So, what do you think was cut? Absolutely right, the best scene in the movie, where Halle Berry (the CIA agent) and Rosamund Pike (British Intelligence double-crossing mole) beat the crap out of each other. Unbelievable. The whole movie basically leads up to this long, brutal (for a Bond flick) scene on this airplane, and it was whittled down to, like, 3 lines and a couple of kicks and roundhouse rights. What a gyp.
I'm wondering why. I mean, it happens on an airplane, but the plane itself isn't the main plot point, and it's not like it's Airport (or Airport '75...or '77...or "run that into the ground much?"), where you don't want the passengers on this airplane, right now, worrying about shit that might actually happen. It's unlikely that any of the screaming babies or slack-jawed troglodytes that I flew with are going to find themselves on a burning jet, saving the world from a nut job who's had a DNA transfer thingy. And if they did, the last thing they'd worry about is the frigging plane, I 'd wager.
Anyway, who's in charge of this? I've got a nasty e-mail to send.
Also, the food sucked.
Posted by mikeski at 12:19 a.m.