Stacy Horn

Normally I would say it matters more than anything. There are all sorts of voices out there, many not traditionally beautiful, but we love them anyway. Actually, come to think of it, someone can have a downright ugly voice, but if they sing with enough heart we want listen to them. But if someone is out of tune, that just never works.

Last night, however, when Shirley Bassey belted out Goldfinger, her pitch was all over the place, and at first I cringed. Then, just as quickly, it didn’t matter. First, her voice still had power, she can still really belt it out. But the main thing was, she was just so game. She gave it everything, and didn’t hold back anything, regardless of the result, and she was only pitchy here and there. Most of it was stupendous. This is what music is about. I doubt there’s a handful of people in the world who would be able to pull that off, but only the most fussy would have missed the art in that performance and why she got a standing ovation. She was big, strong, fearless and fabulous.

The usual. Bleeck is blissful to be near the love of his life, Finney looks like he’s plotting murder.

It’s an experiment. I think tweeting will be easier and faster than updating my blog, which really isn’t the best medium for this sort of thing. So if you want to follow my tweets, click here.

Don’t you wish they had come up with a more dignified word than tweets?

This is looking out onto Duane and Reade Streets from Staple Street in Tribeca, near where Echo’s offices used to be (Echo is the online community aka social network I run). God I loved those offices. When I first moved down there it felt like it was just me and Robert DeNiro, who seemed to own every building surrounding me, and had like, three restaurants at one point. We called the area DeNiroVille.

I don’t want to say where, because I don’t want to embarrass anyone, but the other day I needed to pay for 29 things that cost 25 cents each. The person who was there to take my money didn’t have a calculator and she didn’t know how to multiply those numbers manually. I did it for her.

I was thinking about how terrible I am at math (except for the simplest calculations, like the one above). I wasn’t always, but at a certain point in my mathematical education my mind shut down and it’s not even a matter of making mistakes, my brain won’t even try. It’s hard to describe, but if I attempt to concentrate my brain starts acting like a little kid holding its breath until it turns blue. It will not make any effort. It’s got to be psychological. My best guess was I had a math teach one year who loved to humiliate me. Mr. McGrath. He was a jackass. He’s probably dead now. Serves him right. Except I’ll be dead one of these days too. So.

I love the cacophony of these signs. Usually I think I like a more ordered look, but when I see it in practice, like the town of Sag Harbor on Long Island, where every storefront is absolutely coordinated, I find it appalling. Bring on the chaos. Like my mind in rebellion against numbers. (Except I really wish my mind wouldn’t do that.)

Oh, for the love of god. I just read my cousin Bill’s annual family newsletter and I feel completely paralyzed by my comparative lack of achievement. You wouldn’t believe this family, they are amazing. I would tell you what they are all up to, but I don’t know how they would feel about that. I can tell you that Bill runs a lab of 15 scientists doing cancer research at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and has won all sorts of prestigious awards, that’s no secret. But the I-Might-As-Well-Give-Up-Now point is: his teenage children are more fabulous and accomplished than I am and they are just getting started. Jesus. Soon they will be our overlords. Seriously, Bill and his wife Carolyn have done such a mind-blowing job raising them. They must be punished.

My 2012 newsletter, the Cliff Notes version: I have two cats. Together we watched 7,500 hours of tv. We would have done better, but we lost a week due to Hurricane Sandy.

Here is Bleeck, trying to convince me he’s perfectly comfortable like that.

Oh no. What is he looking at? There’s a tarantula behind me, isn’t there?

It’s absurd how much I look forward to and enjoy Oscar night. I marvel about this ever year. Why do I care? And it’s not that I care exactly. For the past few years I haven’t seen most of the films and performances nominated. (So opposite of the days when I saw everything, good or bad, I love movies so much.)

I think I just enjoy the excuse to kick back and wallow in light entertainment, and I love fashion. So I will be here Sunday, all day pretty much, watching all the pre-shows, following all the live blogs, total Oscar immersion.

To Do: Buy Oscar watching snacks. In the old days that meant onion dip and potato chips, which essentially became my dinner on Oscar night, but these days I find a healthier alternative. It has to be just as delicious, though. Actually more delicious, like some wonderful cheese and fruits.

My keyword stuffing attempt for the day: Baby sloths sleeping with puppies, baby sloths sleeping with puppies, baby sloths sleeping with puppies. Porn.

This is looking towards the Hudson River on my way down to, as usual, the Municipal Archives.