Dennis O'Toole
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The Critic's Job: A Bad Ass Explanation by Pauline Kael

10/22/2011

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Pauline Kael, Tastemaker
In this week's New Yorker, there's a great line in Nathan Heller's article on Pauline Kael:

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Hold on.  Before I hit "paste," I should probably explain who the hell Pauline Kael was to all you kids who come here expecting fart jokes and skateboard videos.  (Patience, that is still what this site is about.  Future posts will work to combine both.)  Kael was a film critic for the New Yorker from 1968 to 1991.  She was to that subset of criticism what James Brown was to his trade.  Her style, at once casual and authoritative, was a major influence on a generation of critics.  Roger Ebert, a friend and acolyte, wrote in 2006: "[I]n 1967, I met Pauline Kael and Werner Herzog and many others, but to meet those two was of lifelong importance. Kael became a close friend whose telephone calls often began with 'Roger, honey, no, no, no,' before she would explain why I was not only wrong but likely to do harm."

So that's who the hell Pauline Kael was.  Without further ado, here is that line from Heller's article.  He is describing a dinner party in '65 at the director Sidney Lumet's apartment , at which Kael, then a "small-time movie critic" from Northern Cailforna, was a guest:


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Obligatory Steve Jobs Reflection

10/12/2011

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I just received this chilling email—sent from my own email account.

Dear Dennis,


Read every word of this letter.  We are the cops and we are not fucking around.


Steve Jobs died a week ago.  No one reading your blog would know that.  We keep hitting refresh, but there is still no assessment of his life, legacy, and cultural impact.  Is our browser broken?  No dude, YOU are broken. 

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Nobel Prize: The Picks-to-Click

10/4/2011

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My latest All Things Considered piece:  Winning Fantasy Picks & Some Nobel Predictions.
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Alfred Nobel: Industrialist, prize-giver. "Damn... Y'all make me think WITH MY MIND!"
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D Tries Dee's Place: a Fried Chicken Review

10/1/2011

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Dee's fare. Photo ganked from Time Out Chicago.
First in a series.  Probably.

Dee placed Dee’s Place at 2114 W. Division.  I rode right past it because of a tree blocking the sign.  Also, I expected it to be closer to Leavitt, which is 2200 West.  I must have misremembered the address since I grew up just one house away from Leavitt on 103rd Street.  Today, I live 140-some blocks north, yet still live only one city-lot off of Leavitt.  Thus, I have an abiding close-to-Leavitt prejudice that ever misleads me.

I pulled my bike to the curb at the corner of Leavitt and Division and looked around, desperately, for a Place called Dee’s.  Nothing.  No name even close.  Understandably, I decided that they had recently shut or burnt down.  Depressed and despondent, I threw my arms up at the sky and screamed, “Why doesn’t anything ever work out!?!”


A prostitute offered me her jacket and a kerchief.  
I waved my hand and said, “Away.  Nothing can console me.”  She gathered me in her wiry arms and enveloped me in a stench of whiskey.  I sobbed onto her shoulder.  She sang a folk song about loss.  “Wait,” I whimpered.  “There remains one hope.”  I texted Google for the address.  Turns out it was at the other end of the block.  I gave the prostitute her jacket back and wished her as well as one can hope in this City of Man.

Dee’s Place is B.Y.O.B.  Not sure what that stands for, but they must have a reasonably-priced beer selection since I saw a few tables with entire six packs.   The restaurant is small.  I bet if I laid myself down twice and then a half, that would be the width, and if I laid myself down about nine times, that would be the length.  I’d put the whole room at about 21.5 square Dennises.

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    About Dennis

    Dennis O'Toole is an all-set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime.  He lives in Chicago. 

    If you need to reach me, dial:
    denotoole AT SYMBOL gmail DOT co LETTER M.  

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