Always Double Back

Breaking Up

2006-11-19T13:08:00.000-05:00

On this lazy Sunday morning, I've decided to break up with Blogger. Nothing especially wrong with it, but my eye has wandered over to the shinier, sleeker, altogether more stylish look of Wordpress, so I'm going to give that a try. It's sort of the Firefox to Blogger's Internet Explorer. I'll keep this blog up for a good long time so that people can browse the archives and all. But for fresh material, please set your bookmarks and browsers to my new address: htpp://redsquirrel.wordpress.com. And I really hope Blogger and I can still be friends.

RIP the Company Dog

2006-11-13T18:25:00.000-05:00

Just before I left the office today, the co-owner sent out a company-wide email to let us know that his dog, Bodhi, had died. Almost immediately, I heard cries of dismay throughout the office. Bob would bring Bodhi to work with him most days of the week, so everyone in the office felt a sense of ownership. Bodhi was the most un-doggish dog I'd ever seen. In fact, I never once saw him wag his tail, not when patted on the head, not when it was time for his walk, not even when Bob set a dish of homemade chicken and rice in front of him. He limped arthritically back and forth through the office and spent most of his days drowsing on the battered Persian carpet at the end of the office, occasionally blinking if someone stopped to say hello. In spite of his lack of companionability, though, I think everyone loved him because he represented the homes and coddled pets that all of us are away from for most of our waking hours. I know I'll miss him.

11|11--or, The Fabric of Kings

2006-11-12T13:30:00.000-05:00

While casting about earlier in the week for something different to do with my Saturday night, I received this notice in my email:

Join fellow corduroyficionados and spend an evening waxing poetic on the wide (or narrow!) world of wale. The Corduroy Appreciation Club meets tonight (11.11: the date that most closely resembles corduroy, naturally) to present its annual awards in Exemplary Usage of Corduroy and share the 'roy-inspired art and music of both local amateurs and renowned professionals. Author, storyteller — and apparently, ridged-fabric enthusiast — Jonathan Ames gives the keynote address, and the club provides complimentary libations throughout the evening. All you need: an advance ticket and at least two pieces of corduroy clothing.

I do have an extreme fondness both for corduroy and for the books of Jonathan Ames, plus the Montauk Club is just down the street from Will's house, so I decided that would be our fun of choice for the evening. So last night we strolled down to the grand but slightly threadbare beaux-arts mansion on 8th Avenue to see what sort of people would so publicly declare their love of corduroy. Turns out they were mostly nerdy, shaggy, earnest types in their late 20s to mid-30s; Will theorized that the publishing industry was probably disproportionately represented among the attendees.

The evening got off to an odd start as we were greeted by a camera crew at the front door, part of a documentary film team chronicling the evening. We got our tickets, programs, and name badges and proceeded upstairs to the ballroom for cocktail hour. An older lady was stationed at the door to record--and I'm not kidding here--the type of wale each guest was wearing. Will and I checked in with two items each of medium wale, which was reported as the dominant gauge later in the evening.

At 8:11 (duh) the club speaker reported minutes of the last meeting, held 1|11 (duh again), which were pretty boring. Club founder Miles Rohan then stepped up with his official welcome and State of the Club address, which was pretty amusing, although too long. The membership attempted to vote on the name for their mascot (a whale) and a secret handshake (something vaguely trekkie). The meeting then moved on to Club Rituals, which mainly consisted of talking in silly accents and eating ridged snack foods such as celery sticks and potato chips. Several times, the crowd broke into chants of "Hail the wale!"

We then got a welcome break, at which point I visited the powder room and had a brief chat with guest speaker Emily Gordon of the excellent emdashes.com, and then we reconvened for Jonathan Ames's reading, which for Will and me was the main draw of the evening. He stepped up with the interesting announcement that this was the first reading he had given drunk in several years (his struggles with alcohol are well documented in his books), but he seemed pretty focused. After heckling an inadequately corded girl and a guy wearing his dad's 1970s corduroy wedding suit (pictured below), he launched into his famous essay, "I Shat My Pants in the South of France," in which his favorite green cords met an ignominious end.

After that, there were several other speakers scheduled, but the audience was pretty wound up and the order of the evening was dissolving. We decided we'd had enough, so we stopped briefly to have our portrait taken by Asha Fuller and zip-zipped off to get a late dinner.

Fertile Ground

2006-11-12T13:12:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned a few days ago, I found time during my crazy busy week to read Betty Smith's classic, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I'd been meaning to read this book for years, but I'm glad that I put it off until after I had lived a year in Williamsburg/Bushwick, where the book is set. What was formerly a teeming slum down on Grand Avenue is now a playground for trust-fund hipsters, and the seedy area where I lived on Bushwick Avenue was decribed thus:

Bushwick Avenue was the high-toned boulevard of Old Brooklyn. It was a wide, tree-shaded avenue and the houses were rich and impressively built. . . . Here lived the big-time politicians, the monied brewery families, the well-to-do immigrants who had been able to come over first-class instead of steerage. They had taken their money, their statuary, and their gloomy oil paintings and had come to America and settled in Brooklyn.

Funny what a difference a hundred years makes. I was struck most strongly by Smith's deep love and pride for her home city, evident even in the descriptions of the poverty, cruelty, and hardship that marked the early years of the 20th century in the poorer neighborhoods of Brooklyn.

One unfortunate side effect of the book's popularity is how its title has entered our lexicon as a device for lazy journalists. I just did a quick Google search of "...grows in Brooklyn" and learned that quite a few other things can be found growing in our fair city:

A Fish
Hate
A Navy Yard
A Jew [this is a play]
A Plague
A Spa
A Crush
A Hotel
A Festival
A Cricket
A Key Lime Pie
A Boy
A Farm
A Corpse Flower
A Scam
A Tomato
A Fig Tree
An Exodus

Sale at the Stereotype Store!

2006-11-08T11:06:00.000-05:00

This is hilarious. Domino's Pizza has added a new product to its lineup: "Brooklyn"-style pizza. An intrepid reporter from the Times took one of these pies out to famed Coney Island pizzeria Totonno's for a taste test. The proprietess tried to chase him out, then offered her opinion on how the rest of the country eats pizza:

“In Utah, they’re going to love it because they use ketchup and American cheese on their pizzas,” she said.

Borough president Marty Markowitz had even harsher things to say about Domino's, their pizza, and their marketing campaign:

The [...] marketing blitz rests on television ads and on a Web site, http://www.brooklynstylepizza.com/, which features characters purchased at the Brooklyn Stereotype Store.

An older Italian woman yells out of a brownstone window. A man with the look of an extra from “The Sopranos” pumps iron on the roof. A Rosie O’Donnell lookalike berates a taxi driver for not
folding his slice like a man. And there’s an African-American guy. You can’t hear what he’s saying because the rap music pouring from his car speakers is too loud.

That kind of imagery just grinds at Marty Markowitz, the Brooklyn borough president.
“It’s a multinational right-wing company, mass marketing the Brooklyn attitude with obsolete ethnic stereotypes, not to mention flimsy crusts,” he said through a spokesman.

Mr. Markowitz has yet to taste the Domino’s pizza. But that didn’t stop him from offering an opinion: “To our sophisticated palates, Domino’s is about as Brooklyn as Sara Lee Cheesecake is
Junior’s.”

The Price of Friendship

2006-11-08T09:57:00.000-05:00

My girl in Miami just published a funny/sad post about how much the privelege of being her best friend's maid of honor cost her a little over a year ago. Her conservative estimate was an eye-popping $4,600 for travel, gifts, parties, and wildly patterned dress.

This got me to thinking about my own (ill-fated) nuptials, the total cost of which, including dress, catering, photos, etc., came in around $5,000 for a very elegant, private, family-only affair. I had no bridesmaids, did not register anywhere, none of that rigamarole. I will say that we had a surprising number of parties thrown in our honor: two engagement parties, a shower, and a "ladies' luncheon" (in lieu of bridesmaids' lunch), but each of those was spontaneously proposed and organized by our close friends. Likewise, since we had amassed all the necessary household stuff over our 5-year courtship/cohabitation, it was not necessary to register anywhere, so any gifts we received were a result of our friends' unprompted generosity and all the more precious for it. Even when I was planning my own wedding, I was appalled at the crazy expense of these dog-and-pony shows and the stress and hostility that often accompany them. Now that I'm out of that game, I have even less patience for it. In the unlikely event that I ever take the plunge again, the "aisle" I walk down will be the corridor at City Hall and my reception will be dinner for two at a nice restaurant. And maybe my friends will still like me.

Ketchup

2006-11-05T18:36:00.000-05:00

Where did the last 10 days go? It's been a whirl, so some brief highlights:

October 28: Split between celebrating a good friend's birthday at Le Pere Pinard on the Lower East Side and then enjoying some pre-Halloween fun at Hank's Saloon with Jon Simmons, Thunderegg's biggest British fan, who was stopping for the weekend on his way to Los Angeles. Can't argue with French food, rockabilly, and men in drag.

October 29 & 30: I have no recollection of these days.

October 31: Halloween; as mentioned below, we dressed as Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham. No photos yet, but I'm hoping our kind hostesses will email me some. The costumes were moderately successful, I'd say. Party was fun. We took a whole pumpkin pie home.

November 1: House cleaning.

November 2: Casper & the Cookies, friends of mine from Georgia, arrived to play the CMJ Music Festival. My apartment sort of took on the look of a youth hostel, but it was fun to see everyone. They stayed two nights.

November 3: We visited one of our favorite restaurants, Robin des Bois, a cozy spot in Carroll Gardens that has a lot of chandeliers and gravy-laden food. I fell asleep very early.

November 4: I had my first run with my new running group and made a brisk lap of the park. Then we met up with some friends for dinner at a Japanese place in the East Village, where I had a yummy bowl of soba noodles with vegetable tempura. Then we headed back into Brooklyn to catch the Crevulators at Freddie's Back Room (where Thunderegg played more than a year ago). Will met up with a friend from high school there who was in town to catch a reading by one of his favorite poets. Late night, needless to say.

Today: I fought the marathon crowds on the 6 train to meet a friend for lunch on the Upper East Side, and then we went to the Met to see the exhibition of artists represented by legendary turn-of-the-century art dealer Ambroise Vollard. The scope of this show was staggering, and the wall text offered an amazing amount of anecdotal and historical information about the paintings' provenances. I also learned that Pere Ubu was a character in short, satirical plays that Vollard wrote to blow off steam. I may go back after the holidays to reexamine parts of the show.

During this period, I also read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, but that really merits a separate post, perhaps tomorrow.

Breaking: CBGB Not the Only Rock Club in NYC!

2006-10-27T12:26:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-25T19:35:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-25T18:14:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-10-22T21:02:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-21T17:05:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-19T16:56:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-18T12:46:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-18T08:52:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-14T15:25:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-10T22:05:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-10-06T09:17:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-10-04T19:01:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-04T18:25:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-02T17:41:00.000-05:00

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.

Personal Archives

2006-09-27T20:04:00.000-05:00

One would think that, upon moving to New York, my life would become exciting and weird, and that I would have all sorts of crazy stories and experiences to relate. This coming weekend will mark 2 years since I moved up here from Georgia, and while I have had a lot of fun, I can't really say that I've had any real "one for the book" episodes. I've met smart, nice people, gone to a lot of cool shows, restaurants, parties, etc., but nothing all that bizarre or hilarious has happened to me. (My date with Face Down Ass Up and the handing off of the Uterus Piñata are two notable exceptions; I may go into those later.)

It seems counterintutive, but all the weird, funny stories of my life center around the 13 years I spent in Georgia, particularly the 3 1/2 years that I lived in Crawford (population 600). So, in the coming weeks, when it seems like my stories of Eating, Reading, Listening, etc., just don't have enough sparkle, I will trot out my memories of Johnny, Little Johnny, Rollin' Joel, The Murderer, Snout, Lois, Venerable, The Yard Dogs (a.k.a. Shane and Kitty), and other Southern Gothic characters who populated my stranger-than-fiction life down there. I can't exactly say I miss them, but they make for damn interesting cocktail-party talk.

Things I've Been Enjoying Lately

2006-09-27T17:23:00.000-05:00

I'll do a real post after my run tonight, but here are a couple of things that have been amusing me:

Gawker's week-long vivisection of the Meatpacking District. I've only hung out there twice; once included a nice meal and was early enough in the evening to be fairly low-key, but everything about this small part of town makes me shudder. It's everything that's bad and shallow about New York. Even Frank Bruni thinks this neighborhood has jumped the shark. That's like your dad pointing out that your clothes are out of style.

Season 3 of Arrested Development. The final season lacks the magic of the first two, but it's still better than most of the crap on TV by a long shot. My hat is off to them for quitting while they were still ahead; the concept had a limited shelf life, a la The Office (British), and they packed it in before it got stale.

Basil and tomatoes. The family loaded me up with basil, parsley, heirloom tomatoes, squash, and eggplant from their garden over the weekend, so I've been enjoying some fine, fresh produce over the past few days. Despite that, I feel like I might be coming down with something.

Gary Shteyngart. I loved The Russian Debutante's Handbook a few years ago and had been eagerly anticipating his sophomore effort, Absurdistan. It's not out in paperback yet, so I went on half.com and got it for, well, half price. I read it last week; I could easily have read it in two evenings, so I only allowed myself to read it on the train and made it last the whole week. It was funny and sarcastic and surprisingly romantic, though he used the phrase "squishy paws" a few too many times. Minor quibble.

Crocheting. I'm getting the hang of it pretty nicely and am looping up a cute little red beanie for winter.

The Eating: Spice Market

2006-09-24T20:51:00.000-05:00

Okay, as posted earlier, there's been too much going on for regular updates. But I have plenty of material to dole out over the next few days. I just got in from my weekend in Maine, but will start with mention of Friday night's dinner at Jean-Georges Vongerichten's Spice Market. I'd been there once before, last summer, but just for cocktails. The sapce, in the way-too-glam-for-me Meatpacking District is huge and stunning: a bilevel layout with multiple bars and dining areas decorated in a luxurious Southeast Asian style. Think lots of carved wood, gauzy draperies, metal chandeliers. When I was there before, I was tantalized by the fragrant food that was carried past and ever since have been meaning to return to sample the curries, chili pastes, seafood, noodles, and bright veggies. As I mentioned earlier, my girl from Miami was in town for the weekend, so I met her and her lovely family for an early dinner there. Decor and service were as wonderful as I remembered. The food was very good (I was pleased that the kitchen complied with my request for extra spice on my shrimp and chili noodles), though maybe not quite as transcendent as the reviewers had led me to believe. It's definitely ideal for large-group meals--food is brought out at random and is intended to be shared. As I stated in my write-up of Kuma Inn, I'm a devoted grazer, so I was happy to take a bite or two from most everyone's plates. In addition to my chili shrimp noodles, I sampled mussels steamed with lemongrass and coconut juice; vegetables with green curry and rice noodles; lobster rolls; wild mushroom spring rolls; mango salad; and some yummy salt-cod dish. It's a bit of a chore for me to get over to that part of town, but I'll probably make it back some time in the next year or so for more grazing.

Coming up: some Reading, Watching, Listening, and more Eating, perhaps with some Family thrown in.

Also...

2006-09-18T20:34:00.000-05:00

I doubt I'll have much time or energy for blogging over the next several days. The coming week holds for me: Sparklehorse (Tuesday); knitting (Wednesday); Lambchop (Thursday); dinner with an out-of-town friend (Friday); Brucefest III in Portland (Saturday); then driving back to NY (Sunday). That's a lot of scampering for this Squirrel, so I hope you'll forgive another lapse and look forward to an exciting update early next week.