Breaking: CBGB *Not* the Only Rock Club in NYC!

I'm going to have to break up with the New York Times if they keep running lame-ass stories that leave out/gloss over/state the obvious like this. Ostensibly, the reason for this one is the closing (finally!) of CBGB a few weeks ago and the upcoming CMJ Music Festival, but really, did anyone doubt that there were many dozens of other perfectly good music venues in the city? There's even a few in Williamsburg--didja hear? There's lots of young hipsters over there. They like the rock-n-roll music.

A Few Thoughts on Beauty

As I approach my 33rd birthday, I've been thinking a lot about how one's face and body change over the years and what constitutes healthy and graceful aging. I think I'm doing okay so far; I have a few very small lines around the eyes and some parts of me are less perky than they used to be, but no gray hairs or jowls (yet). Overall, I have nothing to complain about.

For the past few weeks, professional shopper/Stepford Wife Alex Kuczynski has been all over the news shilling for her new book, Beauty Junkies, in which she examines American women's (and her own) obsession with invasive cosmetic procedures. Ms. K had a lid lift and liposuction at 28 and followed up with several more years of collagen, Botox, and other poisonous injections in her face. She claims she hasn't had any cosmetic procedures in 2 years, to which I call bullshit: Her face is so frozen that she can barely move her mouth to talk, let alone express emotion. She has done all this in the pursuit of looking young, but has ended up looking exactly like what she is: a woman nearing 40 and terrified of it.

What really got me in one interview is that, when asked why so many women opt for these procedures, she answered in all seriousness, "I think it's because so few women are truly born 'pretty.'" My mind immediately yelled, By whose standards? By the standards of women who carve up and distort what they were born with so that nobody can recognize or appreciate what's real anymore? I started thinking about the women I know, of all different ages, shapes, and sizes. Probably very few of them would live up to Special K's nipped and tucked standards of "truly pretty," but all of them are beautiful in their own way. A good friend of mine--beautiful, smart, and stylish--is the first of my peers to go down the cosmetic dermatology road. I've been gently scolding her for weeks for attempting to fix what ain't broke. She says she's doing it as "preventive maintenance," which to me is like calling bulimia a diet. What ever happened to eye cream and sunblock? I eventually gave up; she's a big girl, it seems to make her happy, and it's really none of my business. And then I recalled something I recently read on the blog of a man in his early 40s who has been coming to terms with his own aging process: "I like the idea that life etches itself on people's faces...that the body gets frayed--and yet the spirit within continues to shine." I really wish more women could see themselves like that; at the very least, I hope I can see myself like that 10 years hence.

The Listening: John Vanderslice

Among the few GB of new tunes I recently acquired from my coeditor is Life and Death of an American Fourtracker by the improbably named John Vanderslice (can anyone tell me whether that's his real name?). It was released in 2002, I believe, so it's not really new, but it sounds fresh to me, and that's what matters. It's also definitely not a four-track recording, but it's straightforward nonetheless, and again, gentle but with enough oomph to keep me from dismissing him as a precious hipster sissy (I'm looking at you, Sufjan). He's kindly posted mp3s on his website, so I'm linking to "The Mansion," my favorite track of his so far.

mp3: The Mansion

I like how it coaxes you in with nice tinkly piano and acoustic guitars, then whomps you over the head with booming drums and blaring horns. I was bobbing my head to it at work all day (in between periodic breakdowns of my iPod).

Orange!

For the past 2 years, I have been a sucker for all things orange. I have tons of orange clothes, an orange couch, orange jewelery, and so on. A few days ago, NJPatty kindly gave me a cookbook by Mario Batali. I find his television persona grating, but even in my crankiness, I can't fault his cuisine and his passionate celebration of fine, fresh ingredients. Plus, I am fond of his orangeness: his hair, his silly shoes, the freckles on his chubby face. I even found myself considering purchasing a set of his adorable orange prep bowls at the MoMA Design Store last weekend, even though I need more kitchen equipment like I need another hole in the head.

So this weekend, I decided to christen my new orange cookbook, complete with a color-coordinated marking ribbon, by trying his recipe for cauliflower soup, and what should I find at the local greenmarket but gorgeous ORANGE cauliflower?



How perfect; I love cauliflower but tend to overlook it because it has such a bland appearance. Finally, there's a variety whose color reflects its bright, pretty flavor. Apparently, it only hit the market in 2004 and is even higher in vitamins A and C than the pale original. The soup was delicious and nourishing, a perfect start to my favorite time of the year for cooking. They say that if a cookbook has two or three recipes that go into regular rotation, it's a keeper, and I can see that there are quite a few in this one that will spice up my repertoire.

The Watching and Listening: Mojave 3

I'm a relative newcomer to this band, although they've been around for quite some time, both under this name and earlier as Slowdive. I've been aware of them and heard a song here and there over the years, but never gave them a very close listen. My coeditor gave me their new CD, Puzzles Like You, the other day, and we caught their show at the Bowery Ballroom last night. It all fit perfectly with what I've been enjoying lately: gentle and warm, but with enough of an edge that I still respect them. Last night's show was especially good; it was the right sized crowd (full, but not packed), the sound was great, the band was tight, etc. I never think to bring my real camera to these things, but sometimes I kind of like the graininess of my cellphone camera.

My Halloween Tale of Horror; or, Why I Moved to New York

A lot of you have heard this story, but it's one of my better ones, and a good one to kick off the Personal Archives theme. So...

Once upon a time, I lived in Athens, Georgia. In the spring of my junior year of college I began dating the man whom, nearly six years later, I would marry. Fast-forward to sometime during the second year of marriage. Things were going well: we owned a house, had good jobs, I was in grad school, etc. Husband (B) decided it was time to realize his dream of opening his own store/gallery. I agreed, helped him plot, finance, execute plan. Fast-forward another year, and business was booming, so much so that we decided to hire some staff. Finally, a few months later (February 2003), B decided that New Cashier (henceforth to be known as Blacktooth, due to the deep brown color of her upper canines, stained by years of chain-smoking Marlboro Reds) was The One for Him. After 9 years, I was out.

So I coped the best I could with the hand life had dealt me. I found a new place to live, lost 20 pounds, made new friends and reconnected with old ones, got a new boyfriend (who also turned out to be a lying, cheating loser, but that's a story for another time), and was reasonably happy. For Halloween of that year, two of my girlfriends and I decided to dress up as Donatella Versace. This really just meant we'd wear tacky blond wigs, trashy dresses, and too much makeup. TL and TC both already had sparkly frocks, but I didn't have anything that fit the bill, so I hit the vintage shops in town. There, in the window of one, was the perfect dress: a knit black-and-silver Lurex micromini. I had some shiny knee-high boots to go with it. Sold. It wasn't very Versace; really, I ended up looking like a Goth go-go girl, but it was still pretty cool:



So we hit the town. People loved our look, even if they didn't quite understand it. I left T & T in one bar and went to another with my other friend BC (not a Donatella). And whom should we see in this new place but B and Blacktooth, dressed in matchy-matchy Santa and Mrs. Claus outfits. I froze, then made the fatal decision to have a brief, polite chat with him before leaving. You know, so it didn't look like I was storming out because he was there. So I approached and we exchanged neutral chit-chat. Blacktooth was looking a little stunned, but she never did have a very lively expression on her face. I noticed that B was looking me up and down, so I asked how he liked my dress. He hesitated and said, "It's nice. Um. It used to belong to [Blacktooth's real name]."

You know when you're so shocked and horrified that, even if you're in a noisy place, everything in your head goes silent? It was like that. Before I could stop myself, I drew a deep breath and shouted, "This dress belonged to BLACKTOOTH??" (Yes, that was the name I used.) Then the place really did fall silent, or at least the noise level dropped a bit as people turned to stare. And then I stormed out, having realized that that town had officially become Too. Fucking. Small. for the both of us.

I stood on the sidewalk, trying to collect my wits and the shreds of my dignity as best I could while wearing my ex-husband's girlfriend's dress. I needed to go somewhere big enough where this kind of thing could never happen to me again. I looked up at the sign for the bar: Manhattan Café. And so the seeds of my plan to move (nearly one year later) were sown. Nothing terrible has happened yet, but it's only been 2 years.

Lunch Break: Getting Excited for Halloween

For the first time in a long time, I'm actually looking forward to Halloween because, for once, I have a decent costume idea. Actually, it wasn't my idea--my sometimes coeditor decided we should make the most of our 70s hair (bushy for him, stringy for me) and dress up as Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks. I need to do some shopping, but I think it may actually work. Compare photos; here are Stevie and Lindsey:



And now the ADB editorial team (just imagine us in fly 70s threads and with our hair about 2 inches longer):



It totally makes sense.

Major Oversight

I'm working from home today, so am taking a "coffee break" to wring my hands in dismay (again) at further evidence of senility on the part of the Gray Lady. The lead story in today's dining section is a feature on New York's options for after-hours dining. In the "city that never sleeps" (a description better suited to Las Vegas), it's surprisingly hard to find decent food after midnight, but each neighborhood has at least one place you can count on for cravings that hit in the wee hours. This story focuses, though, on trendy spots like Pastis, 'Inoteca, and the Spotted Pig, which stay open late but aren't 24/7. They did include Soho's La Esquina in the article, but WHERE was mention of my beloved Veselka?? This East Village standby has seen me through some very late-night snacks before I headed home, especially during my first year in the city. Nothing is more comforting than a hot bowl of their mushroom-barley soup during a bitter February predawn, let me tell you.

More Fashion Rantings: Poor Choice of Words

Many of you have no doubt heard of the "backlash" against the ever-thinning crop of runway models, who have become so stick-thin and bobble-headed that the directors of Madrid's Fashion Week banned all models under 125 lbs. For women who are at least 5'9", that's still quite thin, but it's a step in the right direction, though it met with some resistance from designers like Karl Lagerfeld, who insisted that his preferred models aren't underweight, they just have "thin bones." Right.

My beloved gray auntie, the New York Times, devoted a lot of column inches to supporting this bold move against malnourished waifs a few weeks ago. Today I logged on to check out tomorrow's style section and was greeted with this headline:

Woolly Mammoths

The accompanying story is about the sweater-coats available this season to make women "of all shapes and sizes" feel like "sweater girls." And here's a picture of these woolly mammoths:

Granted, the mammoths are probably the sweaters themselves, but at first glance, it seems like the Times is saying that (1) these are big girls in the photo and (2) "bigger" women should stay away from sleeker styles and instead hide under huge, bulky items of clothing. Take a little more care with the headline writing in the future, guys.

Blogging Hiatus

Posting will probably be very sporadic in the coming weeks. I'm completely snowed under with work right now, and am about to make it worse by undertaking a freelance project editing a book of essays on the Darfur crisis, sure to be intensely depressing but educational (and, I hope, getting in good with the folks at Harvard University Press). Also, I'm struggling through a huge book on cultural psychology, which has chapters interesting enough to excerpt if I can find the time (there's a fascinating chapter on Eating). Once I get paid for the freelance stuff, I'll be obsessing on the process of purchasing a new sofa. It's high time I bought some grownup furniture. So there won't be much of interest to report, aside from a few breaks with upcoming shows and taking in a screening at the New York Film Festival.

Whew.

This has been a ranty week. Sorry, but I had a few things I had to get off my chest. I'll play nice now, I promise.

Fashion: Did You Poo in My Shoe?

In more fashion rantings, I have something to say about the couture footwear being presented to women with disposable income this season. Yesterday, I received a catalogue from Barneys New York, that towering temple to conspicuous consumption (I have only consumed two modest items from their co-op floor myself, but I guess that's enough to get on their mailing list), showing me their winter shoe collection. In typical "because we can afford it" fashion, there is only a single, perfectly lit and photographed specimen per page; some shoes contain tiny, confused-looking bunny rabbits. The only reason I can think of to include these poor little creatures is to distract potential customers from the aggressive, almost nihilistic ugliness of said footwear. Unfortunately, I could only find the photo above on their website (Jil Sander, $495), ugly but not the most egregious example, but if anyone can find a picture of the $1,495 Balenciaga suede ankle boots, you'll know what I'm talking about. They're the perfect companion for skinny jeans. Marc Jacobs, whose designs I ordinarily love and covet, is forcing some weird sock/ankle boot things on us ($985), and Chloe, also usually very elegant, is trying to lure ladies of fashion into some dour-looking platform oxfords with speed laces ($715). I hope to god none of these designs get picked up by "taste-makers," thereby flooding the middle markets with knockoffs. I'd better run out and buy up the last few pairs of cute shoes while I still can.

The Watching: Science of Sleep

I don't go to many movies in the theaters around here because they're so expensive and it's much cheaper to rent. So if I do pony up the cash, my expectations (and thus my potential for disappointment) are pretty high. I was a little nervous, therefore, to go see The Science of Sleep last Friday. I really enjoyed director Michel Gondry's last feature, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and was interested to see what his screenwriting debut might bring. Plus, I have a huge crush on Gael García Bernal. I worried that it might veer too much toward style at the sacrifice of substance, as Gondry is known for packing his frames with whimsical optical illusions and chaotic action. But the story, while kind of thin, was very sweet and funny and surprisingly linear, and the actors were clearly having a blast bounding around sets that resembled something from a low-budget children's show from the mid-1970s. It was well-edited and well-paced and didn't overstay its welcome--it seems like my main critique of movies these days is that they'd be so much better if they were 15 to 20 minutes shorter. Gondry also didn't cop out with a Hollywood ending; instead, the movie ends with the hero once again falling into a sweet, wish-fulfilling dream. Even Will, who has notoriously little patience for what he sees as inconsistencies in movies, was touched by this film (and I think he also has developed a crush on Sr. Bernal).

Just Say No: Skinny Jeans

People who know me know that, while I'm a fairly enthusiastic spectator of fashion, I'm only an occasional consumer. There are several reasons for this: I'm poor; I hate shopping; there's no reason for me to dress up; I'm set in my ways and tastes; and most of what's "hot" is just plain ugly. To subdivide further, I hate shopping for a few reasons: I don't have much free time, and I sometimes have expensive tastes. In the case of jeans, I have expensive needs. I'm short and petite, but, let's say, not boyish. I have tried to wear many, many pairs of lower-priced jeans, but I've finally resigned myself to the cruel truth that the only ones that don't make me look like a denim-covered sofa cushion are the "premium" jeans, so called because of their admittedly lovely and flattering cuts and because of their shameful price tags. Those price tags have kept my wardrobe small and well-worn.

This past weekend, I realized I had not added to my small collection in more than a year, so while my other half was browsing the record bins at his favorite store in Princeton, I went around the corner to the town's main upscale clothing store. At this point, I should mention that I also hate shopping because I'm easily overwhelmed by too much merchandise. A nice young salesman found me staring blankly at the stacks of jeans and helpfully loaded me up with the sizes and brands I specified. I went into the dressing room and tried on the first pair and stared at myself in horror. I had wriggled into the same evil garment that has been straining across the butts of hipster fashion victims for the past year or so: skinny jeans, that horrible stovepipe-legged revival from the 80s. I realized that every pair of jeans that this guy had handed me were the same cut.

I looked down at the price tag. $194?? I stepped out of the dressing room to get a better look. Under the harsh lights, I looked like a puffy inverted triangle. "Those look great," the salesman cooed. I raised an eyebrow at him and went back in to try another pair. No luck. Even though they "fit," i.e., I could pull them on and fasten them without breaking a sweat, they all added 20 pounds and shaved precious vertical inches from my frame. Finally, I shuffled back over to the salesman (the jeans were also about 6 inches too long). "Do you have any bootcut styles?" He pursed his lips. "I think customers got really burned out on those last season," he said. "Maybe you could try one of the trouser-cut styles." Oh, hell no. Did this guy just offer me MOM JEANS? Stack after stack of overpriced jeans, and my only choices were heroin-chic or matronly? I kept staring up at him. Finally, he admitted they had one style of corduroys with a slightly flared leg opening. I tried them on. Nice, slim leg, well-balanced opening, not overly "distressed," normal-sized pockets, etc. I don't care if they screamed 2005, this was what I was used to. Sold. I'm sure I disappointed the guy with my non-fashion-forward taste, but if I'm paying more than $100 for casual pants, there's no way in hell they're going to look like leggings (another tragic fashion revival from my teens). At least he got his commission.