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.

The Eating: Eggplant

2006-09-18T18:46:00.000-05:00

It's been ages since I had some good, fresh eggplant, so I was pleased to see bins of beautiful little baby ones at the greenmarket this Saturday. I bought a small bag and finally had a moment to myself this evening to cook them up. I was tired and hungry, so decided to go quick and easy. I peeled and cubed them, sauteed them with some olive oil and garlic, and then simmered them for about 45 minutes in some good imported canned tomatoes with fresh basil and crushed red pepper. I cooked up a quick helping of angel hair pasta and served the sauce over the top with a little Parmesan cheese. The young eggplant had become almost silky without disintegrating into mush. If I'd had more time, I would have gone all the way with an eggplant parmesan, but that's more of a winter Sunday afternoon affair. Maybe I'll treat myself to that for my birthday.

Weekend Roundup

2006-09-17T20:51:00.000-05:00

It's been a busy weekend...after taking a friend out for a birthday dinner on Friday (seems like most of our friends are September babies), we bought tickets for Magnolia Electric Company's show at the Knitting Factory on Saturday. Will introduced me to their music a little more than a year ago, and I quickly became a fan of Jason Molina's langid, plaintive songs. I think we were the oldest people in the audience by a good eight years or so. But it was an earnest crowd and a very good show.

Today, I met a friend for brunch in Park Slope and then we took the bus over to Red Hook for the monthly Sunday's at Sunny's reading, which I hadn't been to since April. I was shocked to see that a new Fairway supermarket now occupies the ground level of my favorite waterfront warehouse next to the bar and that the cute little park across the street has been partially paved over to make a parking lot for the market. Part of what I loved about that part of town was its isolation and quiet. Now it's overrun with strollers and SUVs. Still, we had fun at the reading, which featured three young writers known for their saucy sex/relationship essays and columns. After the reading, my friend decided to catch the water taxi back to the Upper West Side, and I enjoyed the late afternoon light as I rode the bus home (I'm weirdly fond of the bus, for some reason).

Tomorrow's News: File Under "No Shit"

2006-09-16T13:01:00.000-05:00

I love the New York Times, I really do. Yes, it's self-important and stuffy, but somehow, it's also comforting. It's the print version of NPR. Sometimes, though, I have to shake my head and, like a teenager embarrassed by dorky parents, pretend I don't know the Gray Lady. The online verion of the Sunday Styles section (my guilty pleasure posted every Saturday afternoon) carries just about the dumbest article ever to appear there, which is saying a lot: You Are Cleared for Takeoff carries the shocking--shocking!--claim that people often pop a Valium or three before a flight. Um, really? They devote a good 1,000 words or so to the news flash that: sometimes people take antianxiety pills without a prescription; sometimes they mix them with alcohol; sometimes they get sleepy; doctors frown on this; that makes no difference. Don't come between a business traveler and his Ativan. (For the record, I am a nervous flier and could easily get some happy pills myself. I would, except I'm too lazy to visit the doctor every time I travel. I rely on Benadryl or cold medicine to knock me out.) What really gets me, though, is this article's placement in the Styles section. Wouldn't it fit better in Travel or Health? The whole thing is beyond stupid. It would fit much better in the Post or Daily News--at least that way, there would have been some kooky puns in there to distract me from the painful obviousness of the article itself.

The South: Where Learning Is Fun

2006-09-15T12:19:00.000-05:00

Usually, academic conferences stick pretty close to business and have a few stodgy "activities" thrown in to distract attendees every 12 hours or so. (I know this because I edit lengthy programs and proceedings for these types of events. They read like slow death.) Sometimes, though, organizers try to spice things up a bit; I think the distance-learning professionals are in for quite a party this fall:

Nobody anthropomorphizes food animals like Southerners.

Three Strikes

2006-09-14T19:14:00.000-05:00

So I guess it's just time for me to give up, move to some dustbowl town, and get a job as a Wal*Mart greeter. As I was complaining earlier, I've already been relegated to third-class citizenship by virtue of being female and petite. Now, according to Gawker, I'm a lamely employed social retard in the bargain. They have generated a taxonomy of editors, which, like all good pieces of snark, does contain a kernel of truth. I guess I would fall under the "benignly batty" category:

Just a total crazy
There are variations on this theme, from the malignantly Regan-ish to the benignly batty. But there are a WHOLE lot of them. People who are traumatized as children often look to books in order to escape from their painful realities, and then they become big readers, who in turn become editors.

I wasn't exactly traumatized as a child, but my family, to put it gently, is a little eccentric. They thought nothing of their 8-year-old locking herself away for hours at a time with mildewy Victorian novels. My (Catholic) elementary school had a belfry, for god's sake; when I moved over to public education, I was considered odd, to say the least. As an aside, my early overconsumption of the Brontë sisters probably also instilled in me the tendency to choose wet, cold, desolate places for vacations (northern Scotland, Nova Scotia, Iceland, etc.).

The Eating: Kuma Inn

2006-09-13T20:13:00.000-05:00

One dilemma about living in New York is the bewildering range of dining choices available. When I find a place I like, the temptation is to become a "regular," but then I worry about all the other great places I'm not trying. I first tried Kuma Inn about a month after I moved here and was instantly hooked--the Asian tapas-style menu appealed to the grazer in me, and the cozy converted tenement on the Lower East Side appealed to the dinner-party-goer in me. I went there a few times with various friends during my first six months or so here, then got distracted by shinier establishments elsewhere. I finally made it back there tonight for the first time in nearly a year and fell in love with it all over again (and indoctrinated another friend). We sampled four little dishes between us: fresh vegetarian summer rolls filled with shredded jicama and carrots and dipped in a dark peanut-soy sauce; edamame bathed in basil-lime oil; squid sauteed with chilis, soy, ginger, and black beans; and adobo-crusted tilapia fillets with a ginger-soy dipping sauce. Everything was as delicious as I remembered and served in perfect proportions. I'll have to treat myself again soon.

Ketchup

2006-09-11T20:49:00.000-05:00

The weekend was a fairly busy one, with two birthday parties and my semimonthly volunteer shift at MoMA. We celebrated my friend Michael's 30th birthday at a karaoke bar in Chinatown (much 80s cheesiness was enjoyed, naturally), then followed up with a party for Will's friend Beatrice at her home in Park Slope (insanely sugary Romanian pastries enjoyed at that one). I also fried my brain with another marathon session of a freelance project that I had characteristically put off until the last minute.

Tonight I attended my first meeting of a book club over at McNally Robinson Booksellers in SoHo, which turned out to be a much more stimulating and fun group than the first one I joined when I moved to New York two years ago, probably because almost everyone there was in publishing (and we're the best and most interesting lot out there, of course). The book under review was By Night in Chile by Roberto Bolaño; it's a surreal, stream-of-consciousness novella in the form of a deathbed confession by a priest and literary critic who was a tragically impotent puppet of the Pinochet regime. There was a spirited discussion of the role and responsibility of artists, the media, and the clergy in the face of oppression and corruption. We didn't really reach a consensus, but there were a lot of interesting viewpoints. It was nice to be among people who really put some thought into their opinions beyond "I didn't get/like it." Next month's book, continuing our Latin American theme, I guess, is The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares. Judging by the first 30 pages or so, which I read on the train this evening, it's even more hallucinatory and disaffected. Apparently, there's also something in there about an obsession with Louise Brooks. Interesting.

The Reading: Not Fair!

2006-09-05T17:29:00.000-05:00

I have long chafed under the knowledge that, no matter how many "advances" are made toward equality, I still make about 20 to 25% less than my male counterpart in a similar professional position. Now I learn that I'm probably making about another 10% less because I'm short! Slate is carrying an article that cites several studies showing that tall people are both better paid AND more intelligent.

While height, on its own, bears a strong relation to pay, when adult height is included along with measures of childhood intelligence in pay analyses, it no longer does the explanatory work on its own. Height appears to matter, when intelligence is not included, because taller people are, on average, smarter.

I'm definitely below average height, but I do flatter myself that I am above average intelligence. And yet...well, the smartest person I know does measure in around 6'4". But I also know many brilliant people who are my size or smaller. And we shorties? We're all pretty poor.

Back Again

2006-09-04T21:12:00.000-05:00

Sorry again for the lapse in posting...life does get busy sometimes. After a hectic week, one of my oldest and dearest friends graced New York for his annual birthday visit, which has taken up my time for a few days. We met up for various wonderful meals with large and interesting groups of friends. We also played in a few parks, mused on the unnatural size of birds and squirrels in Central Park, and finished up with a huge lunch of dim sum and odd, gummy pastries in Chinatown today. I also enjoyed a rainy, blustery visit to the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket on Saturday and a quick visit to the Brazil Day parade on Flatbush Avenue this afternoon. In my downtime, I practiced my guitar, learned to crochet, and started and finished The Great Gatsby, which I am ashamed to say I had never read before now. Another classic crossed off the list. Fall is setting in and I'm feeling the old back-to-school excitement. The next few weeks promise some interesting events, including birthday parties, readings, and concerts, so there will be plenty to post on if I can keep up.

The Eating: Tea and Sympathy

2006-08-29T21:18:00.000-05:00

Last night, I joined a few friends for an early dinner at the landmark Tea & Sympathy, a handkerchief-sized shrine to Anglophilia in the West Village. I had heard of this place for some time, but had never made it over before. B was beside herself with joy, as she only treats herself to their famous cream tea (pot of tea, scones, clotted cream, and jam) and steak-and-Guinness pie once or twice a year. The four of us nestled into a corner and tucked into various dishes of steaming pastry, meat, and enormous piles of mashed potatoes. Perhaps a muggy August evening wasn't the ideal time to experience it, but I was still pretty happy with my serving of bangers and mash, a dish I haven't enjoyed since I visited Scotland back in 2000. People who are down on British cuisine need only visit the corner of Greenwich and Jane to change their tune. I'll be back after the first frost.

Squirrel Fishin'

2006-08-27T18:26:00.000-05:00

A practical demonstration:

The Watching: Little Miss Sunshine

2006-08-27T17:24:00.000-05:00

Friday night we decided to keep things low-key with dinner and a movie. Little Miss Sunshine has been getting good press and features several of our favorite actors. The premise is sort of high-concept: the semi-loser dad (Greg Kinnear), his frazzled wife (Toni Collette), the crazy grandfather (Alan Arkin), and the troubled brother (Steve Carrell) take off across the Southwest in their dilapidated VW bus to take their sunny-natured daughter to participate in a beauty pageant in California. Various scenes of hilarious dysfunction ensue, but these actors transcend the predictability of the formula and managed to make me both laugh and care about what happened to them. Steve Carrell and Alan Arkin were particularly great--as a suicidal, disgraced professor and junkie, respectively, they managed to be the sanest characters in the film, aside from the adorable 10-year-old Abigail Breslin, as Olive. Her final scene alone is worth the price of admission. Go catch it if you can.

Please stand by...

2006-08-27T14:28:00.000-05:00

I just realized I haven't posted in quite a while. The week got busy and I've been having fun, but nothing especially noteworthy has been happening. I have a whole lot of nothing happening today, which is nice. I'll post a little bit on Reading and Watching later today, and I may have an interesting Eating experience tomorrow.

The Playing: Well...

2006-08-22T19:32:00.000-05:00

It was okay. In Georgantas family parlance, I generously give myself a B-minus. Or flat, as it were. I started out fine, but halfway through the first verse I stumbled over a word. Which made me stumble over a chord change. I rallied, but my face was red and then I kept forgetting a word and the cycle would start again. But I was better than I had expected (feared?), so I guess it was a positive performance overall. Right now I'm practicing Yo La Tengo's "Detouring America with Horns," which has a nice progression and makes a good exercise.

You know you're in SoHo when...

2006-08-22T13:07:00.000-05:00

I was waiting on line at the post office and eavesdropped on the trendy young woman at the counter in front of me who was ordering stamps. "I was looking at the stamps you have available and I'm wondering if you have something more elegant? I'm looking for something with more red in it." She then made the poor clerk pull out every "style" they had in stock, but none passed muster, so the girl left in a huff. Really, it's time we had a designer boutique for stamps downtown.

The Playing: Final Exam

2006-08-21T17:52:00.000-05:00

So the moment has finally arrived: Tomorrow is my final guitar class (of this session, anyway; I may sign on for the next level), and I have to sing and play my little song. This scares the crap out of me, as I've had awful stage fright since I was in my teens. I was actually part of a musical theater group when I was a child, and I loved it. Of course, I was all made up, in costume, and drowned out by an orchestra and a dozen other singers--to me, it was just a fancy-dress party. I couldn't even see the audience beyond the stage lights. [Aside: My stage debut was, however, marred by a disgusting case of pink-eye that I contracted from the communal eye makeup during dress rehearsals. In the opening-night pictures, I look like I've been beaten up.] Tomorrow, it's just my hesitant, imperfect playing backing up my hesitant, imperfect voice in a small, well-lit room where I can see my classmates' eyes. So, after tonight's jog, it's another good hour-plus of final cramming practice. Let's hope I don't disgrace myself tomorrow.

Update (10:15 PM): Maybe it's time to stop practicing; my cats have started singing along with me. My neighbors, if they can hear me, must think I'm insane. Not to mention a terrible singer.

The Watching: Get on the Treadmill

2006-08-19T09:10:00.000-05:00

I was out with some friends last night and, as it usually does, the conversation turned to music. One of our group mentioned that this video is a must-see, both for the choreography and for the fun music. I've never heard of these guys, but my hat is off to them. Enjoy.

The Highbrow: MoMA for Dummies

2006-08-18T08:51:00.000-05:00

Usually, I find this kind of thing totally annoying, but for some reason, I'm kind of charmed by Jason Polan's not-so-little project. This guy spent two weeks hanging out at MoMA and hastily sketched every item on display. The museum rotates the displays in the permanent collection galleries every few months, so this is both an interesting exercise in endurance and a nifty document of an ephemeral state. And, you know, it's sort of cute.

The Traveling: Northwest Fjords and Reykjavik

2006-08-16T17:31:00.000-05:00

After leaving the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, we continued north to the fjords, where the population is about as sparse as it gets along the coast of Iceland. Roads were almost never paved, and the houses were miles apart.

We did, however, come upon this interesting spot. We stopped because of the goofy sign, but then saw the windsock and the painted rocks lining the gravel strip. Yes, it was the local airport.

We saw black sheep.

And sheep chilling on the beach.

This is the only intact traditional farmhouse we saw. Note the turf roof. I don't think anyone was living there, but it may be used as a shelter during the annual sheep roundup in the fall.

There were also many, many horses scattered throughout the countryside. I've never seen such herds before, sometimes more than 50 at a time. They're cute, shaggy little guys.

After all that nature and solitude, we were looking forward to revisiting Reykjavik for our final night. We arrived in the midst of their modest gay pride parade and had a great lunch at a little vegetarian cafe, then headed over to our guesthouse for a nap, followed by a soak in one of the city's 16 geothermal pools.

We passed this portrait studio on the way. Gotta love the Icelandic notion of baby pictures.

Then we headed back out to get in one final good meal (food in Iceland generally sucks); we got lucky with a romantic little spot tucked away in an alley. Will had the lamb, but I wanted something that I couldn't get back home, so what did I order?

Whale! I took a photo of my actual meal, but it looks pretty gross. I am happy to report that it was quite yummy, kind of like a buffalo steak.

We didn't need to leave the city until early the next afternoon, so we checked out the local flea market in the morning, which was kind of lame, though I couldn't resist buying a cute Icelandic ear-flap hat.

We poked around the harbor and enjoyed the colorful boats.

Will bonded with his brethren one last time.

Here's the pond in the center of the old city as we passed by on our way to the bus station to leave town. I just realized that the birds look headless. I guess they all chose that exact moment to stick their heads behind their wings.

And that's the end!

The Traveling: Borgarnes and the Snaefellsnes Peninsula

2006-08-14T17:35:00.000-05:00

After we got back to the mainland on Wednesday, we picked up our car and a quick lunch in Reykjavik and hit the road for Borgarnes, at the base of the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, which juts off the western coast of Iceland. On the way, we spied a lovely green valley with the ruins of a farmstead.

We made it to Borgarnes around 5 and checked into the oddly named Motel Venus (the teeny tiny rooftop in the bottom left). By that time, we had lost the sunshine and entered the fog and rain.

We went into the village and wandered around a bit. We visited two parks. One claimed to contain the remains of a Saga hero (not in the one I'm reading); the other contained this sculpture as its centerpiece. Throughout our trip we marveled at the profusion of public art, even in tiny hamlets like this one.

The next day, we continued west on the peninsula. The guidebook told us this "town" was sort of interesting. We discovered that Ari the Learned, a twelfth-century scholar and cleric, had been the first pastor of this church.

We got a little cranky after this stop and Will spied a sign for a geothermal pool down a dirt lane. We went to investigate; it wasn't open yet, so we went to a nearby beach, where we were attacked by angry Arctic terns. We returned to the pool, which had opened, and spent the next hour submerged to our necks in hot mineral water while a cold mist frosted our hair (sorry, no photos of this).

We continued on in a better mood. We rounded the end of the peninsula and found a room for the night in Olafsvik and then returned to the south shore for a little more sight-seeing. I should mention at this point that the rural "highways" in Iceland are only intermittently paved. Here's what our car looked like by evening.

We walked up a little path from the road.

And took the obligatory "awww" shot.

The evening light (it was about 9:30 at this point). An interesting fact about this peninsula is that there is a large, dormant volcano at the tip that is topped by a sizeable glacier. This volcano, Snaefellsjøkull, was where Jules Verne began his Journey to the Center of the Earth. It's not the mountain pictured above; the clouds were too low for me to get a good shot of the big guy.

Later, we investigated the odd rock formations at Hellnar.

On our way back to Olafsvik, we came upon a spooky abandoned house. To give you an idea of how late it stays light, it was after 10:00 at this point.

Tomorrow we conclude with the northwest fjords and our return to Reykjavik.

The Traveling: Iceland

2006-08-13T21:27:00.000-05:00

We are safely back from our week in Iceland. I'm quite tired right now, so will have to tell the tale in two or maybe three installments. I think a photo essay format will work best, so here are our first 2 1/2 days told in images:

Day 1 we landed at 6:30 am at Keflavik Airport and were in Reykjavik about an hour later. It was cold and rainy and it took us another hour to track down a cup of coffee. We explored a little, but it was a bank holiday and nothing was open.

Around 1:30 that afternoon we headed over to the local airport to catch a flight down to the Westman Islands for our 2-night stay on Heimaey. There were only four other people on the plane.

We walked around the town a bit that evening and explored the harbor.

Will made friends with a sheep.

That night we began Reading: I read Njall's Saga, a prose epic detailing adventures in medieval Iceland; Will read Atom Station, by Halldor Laxness, Iceland's only Nobel Prize-winning writer. We shared plots and impressions.

The next day we climbed up a steep ridge to go watch the birds.

Just beyond my feet is a sheer 500-foot drop to the water.

Puffins and fulmars loafed on the rocks nearby.

We had a great view of the town and the famous lava flow that nearly closed the entrance of the harbor during the island's 7-month-long eruption in 1973.

On Wednesday morning, we had our first taste of sunshine as we boarded the ferry back to the mainland. It looks calm here, but large swells rocked the boat for most of the 3-hour ride. I had to breathe deeply and stare at the horizon the whole time. Will parted ways with his breakfast.

Tomorrow: the trip to Borgarnes and further driving along the Snaefellsnes Peninsula.

More Updates

2006-08-03T20:47:00.000-05:00

A concerned reader requested an update on my home climate-control situation, and yes, cool air is finally circulating, to the immense relief of my cats. My heart goes out to him in his current troubles with way-past-schedule workers in his own home.

There has been some Reading and Watching, but updates on those may have to wait for a week or so. Tomorrow, we head to Princeton for two days of wedding festivities for a high school friend of Will's, then we have to rush back to NY for the final preparations before heading off to Iceland Sunday evening. And, needless to say, it is unlikely we will be posting from our perch atop the Mid-Atlantic Ridge (I have a weird, nerdy fascination with plate tectonics). So check back around August 14 for pictures of glaciers, cliffs, geysers, and Will tossing pufflings off the cliffs of Heimaey.

The Playing: Minor Breakthrough

2006-08-01T21:33:00.000-05:00

I mentioned a week or so ago that my coeditor gave me a mix CD of basic but good songs that might assist with my Playing, along with a listing of the chords used in each. I've been listening and mentally auditioning them for my big "final" later this month. I figure, since I'm down to my final few weeks, that I need to select and practice one; if I don't, then I'll be stuck plodding my way through one of the classic/soft-rock staples we've been learning in class. Not acceptable. So, as I stated before, I've pretty much decided to do "Drivin' on 9" by the Breeders. I came home from class tonight all fired up from our rhythmic strumming and decided to start learning how to play it--and what do you know, I figured it out (aided by my little cheat sheet, so at least I knew what to listen for) and was pretty much playing along with it by the third try. My only stumbling block was the bridge. I haven't quite figured that out yet, but I'm excited that it was so easy to get the verses and chorus. I'll sort out the bridge tomorrow.

Update...(and some Reading and Playing)

2006-07-31T21:41:00.000-05:00

To update my faithful few readers, I do finally have climate control in my home, and not a moment too soon, as we're supposed to hit 100 degrees tomorrow. Now watch Brooklyn suffer a blackout like Astoria. My camera batteries are dead, so I can't take a picture, but my apartment is back to normal, and I spent about 3 hours cleaning it yesterday. Now, of course, I have a sore throat, just in time for my vacation. I just can't get a break lately...

In the midst of all my bellyaching, I have managed to get some Playing done, though I still have some trouble switching from G to C. Makes me nuts. I often end up pausing half a beat to get myself sorted out. But I'm getting better and I know the transition will be seamless eventually.

I've also been Reading. On my way back from the Frying Pan last week, I foolishly neglected to use the ladies' room before heading the four avenue-length blocks back to the train. When I got there, I realized there was no way I could make it all the way home without some relief and I also realized there was nowhere in the area I could take care of the situation. So I kept walking until I remembered there was a Barnes & Noble in Chelsea that might still be open. It was; disaster was averted (I was in serious pain at that point), and I was so grateful for the use of their facility that I bought Wake Up, Sir! by Jonathan Ames. This is a man seriously preoccupied with his bodily functions, so I figured it was a fitting choice for the situation. I'm almost done with it and will provide an analysis a little later this week.

Last night, there was a little further Reading as we once again dipped into Adventures in Editing by Charles Hanson Towne, whom I have covered here before. In the passage I read aloud, he described one Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox, whose poetry he occasionally published in The Smart Set. He seemed to be condescendingly fond of her and damned her poetry with faint praise:

She believed, I feel certain, that she was an evangelist who spoke in rhyme to her immense audience. The Creator may not have given her a lute; but he had given her a tambourine, and from it she managed to extract a sort of divine music.

Ouch. He further painted her as a benign wacko with too many doilies and cats. I think I would have liked her.

Promoting my friends...

2006-07-28T21:25:00.000-05:00

Wednesday night, I met a friend for drinks and dinner at The Frying Pan, a barge-turned-restaurant-and-bar docked at Chelsea Piers. The place is sort of slapped together with unmatched furniture and partially carpeted with astroturf, and the food and drinks are nothing special, but the setting is spectacular. My friend and I shared a light meal and enjoyed the sunset over the Hudson River while we caught up on gossip and accomplishments of the past few weeks. She was excited that she had finally launched her website, a sleek portfolio of her fashion, candid, and art photography. I checked it out the next day, and was truly impressed with what I saw, so am passing it along for my readers' enjoyment.

The Whining: The Finale?

2006-07-28T21:05:00.000-05:00

In theory, workmen will show up at my apartment at 9 tomorrow morning to install my AC. This is why I'm sitting at home and watching Six Feet Under DVDs on a Friday. My exciting life. So, while I'm sitting here trying to breathe the cotton-candy air of my apartment, I've been cooling off mentally by doing last-minute research for our upcoming trip to Iceland (we're leaving a week from Sunday, woo!). We're going to chuck baby puffins off the cliffs of Heimaey, see geysers and glaciers and fjords, maybe ride some shaggy horses, and eat lots of smoked fish. I can't wait.

The Reading: Listening Enhancement

2006-07-27T10:52:00.000-05:00

The other day the mail brought me a rare copy of the long out-of-print Trouser Press Guide to New Wave Records, the first edition (1983) of the smartest record guide ever written. The book focuses on punk, its mentors, and its protegees, generally a crystalization of the remarkable musical period from 1977-1982. There are short reviews of amazing-sounding bands that I'd never heard of--Crooks, Dark, DMZ, Dogs, Pearl Harbour, Nitecaps--and a section on anthologies, deleted from later editions, that makes me drool. The writing is top-notch, too, succinct and evocative but seldom glib.*

The awesome Trouser Press web site faithfully reprints every entry from all five Trouser Press record guides, so if you want to know a little bit about Craig Bevan & the Tourists, you're in luck. But I like having the original books, too, because I like reading the Trouser writers' early assessments of the teeny-tiny groups that would later become huge, bands like R.E.M., Husker Du, the Replacements, INXS. Unlike Dave Marsh's snotty early 1980s Rolling Stone guides (which obnoxiously and foolishly write off a lot of seminal bands, including Television, Pere Ubu, the Saints, and X), these pieces almost always prove prescient.

Along with "punk," "indie," and "alternative," "New Wave" has become a meaningless, co-opted term (as editor Ira Robbins noted even in the now 23-year-old introduction), but these open-minded writers really were in touch with what was then new--and is still now vital.

* (Ira Robbins on the Damned: "Getting a cogent critical perspective on their recorded oeuvre is like attempting to read the label on a spinning 45--possible, but elusive"; Jim Green on Colin Newman's A-Z: "The overall effect at times suggests being drugged and locked in a room with an inquisitor shouting questions that don't quite make sense.")

Still Whining...

2006-07-26T22:02:00.000-05:00

In theory, my contractor is back from China and may actually do some work on my apartment in the next few days. In the meantime, in a craven bid for sympathy from those whom I have already bored with endless tales of my troubles, I am treating you to photos of what my formerly tidy, spare little living room has become. I'm not exaggerating about the intrusion of the machine.

The ranting: P.S. "Indie" is a really annoying abbreviation

2006-07-26T21:58:00.000-05:00

I was just reading an article about iTunes' breakthrough with "indie" labels last month.

"We're thrilled to add three of Europe's largest indie labels to our iTunes Music Store in the U.K., France and Germany," Apple Chief Executive Officer Steve Jobs said in a statement. "We welcome Beggars, Sanctuary and V2 to the iTunes family and plan to add many more independent labels soon."

What a bleeping joke. Indie relative to what? Lufthansa? Exxon?

I'm telling all of you, unsigned is the new indie.

More Whining: The Elephant in the Room

2006-07-25T16:38:00.000-05:00

Okay, the heat has abated somewhat (though it's still too warm for my tastes), but now I still have the ginormous AC unit sitting in the middle of my living room, with my sofa sort of shoved into the kitchen and rug bunched up in the corner. This has been the case since last Thursday, and neither Mr. Henry nor his formerly-nice-but-I'm-starting-to-suspect-she's-evil secretary Fran has given me any indication of when my apartment will be restored to normal, or even when further messing-up is to begin. If I don't get an answer out of them by Thursday, I may auction the central unit off on eBay and get myself a window unit with the proceeds (against condo rules, but so is non-maintenance of the property).

The Listening and Playing: Simple Songs

2006-07-23T18:47:00.000-05:00

This weekend, my coeditor was kind enough to give me a CD with twenty songs that use only those chords I already know (plus two new ones that I can pick up easily enough) so I can have some practice inspiration and a potential "final exam" song. The songs range from Yo La Tengo to CCR to Springsteen to the English Beat. There are three in the mix that I'm very seriously considering for my big performance at the end of August. I know I have a handful of musicians among my regular readers as well as some highly opinionated music nerds, so feel free to help me make a choice. So far, the front-runners are: "Drivin' on 9," by the Breeders (easiest to play and sing, fairly rock-n-roll); "Look at Miss Ohio," by Gillian Welch (a little harder to play, fun to sing); and "Passenger Side," by Wilco (hardest to play, fun to sing, most rock-n-roll).

Thoughts? Opinions? Alternate suggestions?

The Family: Visiting the Big Apple

2006-07-23T16:53:00.000-05:00

Oy, busy weekend. My mom was in town to attend a writers' conference at the fabled Algonquin Hotel with my freshly retired dad in tow. He is the consummate tourist, excited to talk to every doorman, cabby, and oil-delivery man; poking his head into every open door to see what's happening inside; sampling every dish offered along the street; etc. We all enjoyed several fine meals, and Will was kind enough to give him a grand tour of Brooklyn while my mom and I were busy in Manhattan yesterday afternoon. I called at 3:00 to check their progress, at which point they were cooling their toes in the ocean after chasing each other around in Go Karts out on Coney Island. Later, we all met up at a Greek taverna after my mom and I had an adventure with weekend subway service interruptions in the bowels of Queens. We wound up with a quiet brunch earlier this afternoon in the Algonquin's lobby/dining room and a photo session with Matilda, the hotel's fancy-pants blue-point something-or-other cat, who sleeps on a miniature fainting couch by the front door. All in all, I think everyone had a nice time.

Now I'm back home, trying to tidy up my apartment around the 4 x 4-foot square A/C unit sitting in the middle of my living room and having George Costanza-like fantasies about telling off Mr. Henry and forcing him to give me a rent rebate. Neither of these things will happen, but I can be powerful in my own imagination, at least.

The Reading: Gift Subscriptions

2006-07-21T14:48:00.000-05:00

For those of you who are wondering what to get me for Christmas, the fine folks at Gawker have assembled a list of some very interesting magazines offered through Amazon.com. Who wouldn't want to see Sheep! in their mailbox come the first of each month?

The Whining...

2006-07-20T22:14:00.000-05:00

I haven't been this tired since grad school. For the past three weeks, during a terrible heat wave and just regular summer mugginess, I have been without air conditioning. I had considered it a perk of my apartment that it features central AC, and for a week or two, it worked wonderfully. And then it didn't. And now my trusty landlord, Henry Weinstein, owner and CEO of Canal Jean Co. (henceforth to be referred to as Mr. Henry, after our beloved crook from Bottle Rocket) has taken for-EVER to deal with it, and I can't sleep in the heat. I came home from dinner with a friend this evening to find my new AC unit sitting in the middle of my living room. Fat lot of good that does me. Mr. Henry himself is gracing my humble apartment tomorrow to take a look at the closet wall that will have to be torn out to accommodate this new appliance. When will actual installation take place? At this rate, sometime shortly after the first frost. Meanwhile, I'm fussing and fantasizing about withholding rent or something. But we all know my hands are tied.

Unrelated: I HATE SPAM COMMENTERS. I just spent 15 minutes clearing my site of your lame "Very usefull! One of my favourites!" comments. I don't know what kind of benefit you get from polluting my blog, but leave me alone. You are the online equivalent of cockroaches.

Update on the rant: I've turned on word verification for comments; apparently it's the only way to keep the spam away. I find this extra step annoying, but less so than reading those stupid messages.

The Playing: Update

2006-07-18T19:15:00.000-05:00

I haven't written on my Playing progress in a while, but I've stayed active. Classes lately have been focusing more on technique than new material (we only learned one new chord this week), so I've been honing my rhythmic strumming and speeding up my chord changes. I'm still pretty slow with both, but Camp Counselor Kevin really pushed us tonight and now I feel a lot more confident. I have another challenge/assignment ahead of me to help spur my practice. Aside from the final "exam" of an in-class performance, I've been asked to accompany my coeditor to a Labor Day jam session with a bunch of his college friends in Oklahoma. Our fine work may even be recorded, so I need to get up to speed to avoid embarrassing him and myself. It seems pretty daunting now, but it's more than a month away, so I should be reasonably up to speed by then. I hope.

The Traveling: Weekend Getaway

2006-07-16T17:11:00.000-05:00

So we're back to our beloved smelly NYC after a long weekend with family and friends on Nantucket. At various points during our stay, the crowd grew to 11 people and represented four full generations of the clan, but the house was generous enough to afford everyone who needed it a quiet corner for reading or napping. We punctuated our drive up with a brief detour to the Sea Swirl in Mystic, CT, for some yummy fried clams and our drive back down with a stop in attractively revitalized but strangely deserted Providence, RI. The ferry rides to and from provided some quiet time for practice in diagramming sentences. In between, we ate great fresh fish, dug holes in the sand, skipped rocks, body-surfed, and generally lounged around. We both managed to escape with only mild sunburns and a few bug bites.

Will and I tried out some of our brilliant kebab recipes: he concocted a skewer of pork, pears, sweet potatoes, and onions marinated in sherry, shallots, brown sugar, olive oil, and tarragon; I did one with sweet peppers, pineapple, onion, and halibut marinated in lime juice, garlic, basil, and olive oil. Both were big hits, served with a salad of spinach, pecans, craisins, and Roquefort cheese. The other big meal comprised grilled wild sea bass with roasted zucchini, eggplant, and new potatoes. We were treated to delicious appetizers of fresh clams (raw and Casino) harvested that day by our host. Our lovely hostess also made a wonderful Key lime meringue pie as a belated birthday "cake" for Will.

So, needless to say, we are well sated and rested enough to tide us over until our Big Trip in a few weeks (to be covered in future posts).

Notice

2006-07-11T21:17:00.000-05:00

There won't be any further posting until next Monday, as the editorial staff of ADB trades the stale pee-pee smell of New York for the fresh sea breezes of Nantucket. We'll be back Monday, cursing the oppressiveness of the city.

The Watching: The Devil is in the Details

2006-07-11T20:39:00.000-05:00

Last night, we finally caved to the hype and took in a screening of The Devil Wears Prada, the film based on the novel detailing Lauren Weisberger's brief tenure as assistant to Vogue editrix Anna Wintour. I may be the only female in America who hasn't read the book, and I don't really intend to. But the press on the film has been great, and I'm down for anything that features Meryl Streep, so I figured I'd take the plunge. And I'm really glad I did. Instead of a cheap-shot parody, it was a sharp and surprisingly respectful look at the ruthlessness it takes to produce the world's premier journal of aspirational luxury. Yes, Streep's Miranda Priestly (a thinly fictionalized Anna Wintour) is a tyrant, but I found myself cringing at each stare of icy hauteur and holding my breath as I braced for each softly delivered insult and demand. I vicariously wanted her approval as much as her beleaguered staff, not because of any liking or sympathy for her, but because she maintained the same impossible standard of perfection that she expected of the people around her. The big realization at the end was not that the world of fashion is trivial and silly, but that some people just aren't cut out to devote their every waking moment to the advancement of their careers.

Aside from the psychological tension, the film was a feast of eye candy: clothes, shoes (I still marvel at how all those girls could sprint around in their 4-inch Jimmy Choos, having suffered through a few evenings in them myself), bags, and jewelry. As other people have noted, the younger women were a little dowdy in their stiff Chanel and Prada (duh) finery, but I guess the costumer had to make the clothes recognizable to the wider audience. But that's a small quibble. It was definitely the best first-run film I've seen in a long time.

The Listening: Miracle Legion

2006-07-09T11:13:00.000-05:00

From time to time, the lively commenters here at Always Double Back have opined about the state of Connecticut music. What gets them most excited is the inevitable question: What is the greatest Connecticut band of all time? Is it NRBQ? The Nutmegs? Or perhaps the Chambers Brothers, who appear to be from Mississippi and L.A., but whom I was told are from Stamford by a dude at a party once?

Well, I vote for New Haven's Miracle Legion anyway. Especially now that I just got a burn of their long out-of-print debut EP, The Backyard, in the mail (thanks to Rick from the Lost 45's, another good CT band). The six-song record, released in 1984 on Rough Trade, brought Miracle Legion flattering, if ultimately limiting, comparisons to R.E.M. and was the first step to one of those typically fleeting early 90s major-label deals (with Morgan Creek for 1992's Drenched).

Having heard the later stuff, what surprised me most about The Backyard is how fully realized the band's songwriting, energy, and sound already was in '84. This is great, jangly, melodic stuff, and to me sounds just right for the summer.

Side one of The Backyard is in this folder. Songs are "The Backyard," "Butterflies," and "Closer to the Wall."

The Listening: El Mariachi

2006-07-07T17:25:00.000-05:00

The subways, whether you like it or not, are often New York's cheapest source of entertainment (aside from the streets, which are free). If you ride the trains often enough, you start seeing familiar faces among the performers and panhandlers on each line. The A/C/E often has some breakdancers, the J/M/Z has poets, the 2/3 sometimes has a one-armed harmonica player (for those of you who don't live here, these people perform on the trains, not on the subway platforms like in other cities).

I hopped on the uptown F during my lunch break today to run an errand and was rewarded by the sight of my favorite subway performers, whom I had seen several times before: two middle-aged Mexican men decked out in their cowboy best and armed with guitar and accordion, singing their hearts out. I enjoyed their music from Broadway/Lafayette until 14th Street, then tipped them and went on my way.

The Reading: Belly

2006-07-05T18:58:00.000-05:00

Some time ago, Red Squirrel reviewed The Long Haul by Amanda Stern; we bought the book at a stoop sale, direct from the author, on Eighth Avenue in Park Slope. Ms. Stern was not the only literary light at that stoop, however. Sitting right next to her was Lisa Selin Davis, author of Belly (Little, Brown, 2005). We picked up a copy of her novel, too, and I read it.

Belly, Ms. Davis's first novel, tells the weeklong tale of one Belly O'Leary, a father of three grown daughters who returns home from a four-year gambling/racketeering stint in the slammer to find his native Saratoga Springs, NY, awash in Starbucksian "progress." The bar he owned is long gone, his trusted Republican machine has been run out of City Hall on a rail, he has a bum hip, his two grandsons treat him with unveiled contempt, and damned if he can find a job even at the new Wal-Mart (not that he really wants a job).

So Belly drinks. And drinks, and sleeps with a quickly dependent waitress, and drinks, and looks half-heartedly for his old mistress and partners in crime, and then decides to drink. And bang the waitress. And crash his daughter's car. And go get drunk. And no jolly drunk, he, nor a particularly reflective one, but like his daughters, who house him and nurse him cherubically while he acts just plain nasty, I did stand by him. Or was I just standing by Ms. Davis and her way with the pen?

Sure enough, Belly becomes a sweetie in the end after confronting some not-so-subtle family trauma (a dead daughter, melodramatically unnamed until page 220 of 273), but the transformation wasn't all too convincing. It happened very suddenly (p. 261, exactly), and with too much brackish water under the bridge for me to buy it. Meanwhile, I kept getting glimpses of another story, one that I respect Ms. Davis for choosing not to tell but that, at least for me, would have been more interesting than the relatively conventional family drama that unfolds: What about the gamblers? The shady Tammany Hall fat cats who disappeared? The people he once snorted all those lines with? There are hints, dreamlike allusions, and a brief, unsatisfying run-in with Loretta the Mistress Who Sold Him Out, but for the most part Davis creates a man but not his world. While that's surely the point, limiting Belly to the domestic sphere makes him seem small and leaves his mettle mostly untested.

Like I said, Belly is a first novel, right down to the approximately 1,546 ecstatic blurbs from Ms. Davis's presumed MFA professors and classmates that blanket its jacket and front matter. And while it is not quite as good as they say it is, it isn't bad. I'm curious what she's working on now; my hope is that it will be on the scale of Belly but with a few more risks taken, rather than the classic 600-page sophomore-novel sprawl. Belly made me hungry for some guts.

The Listening: Beirut

2006-07-04T14:00:00.000-05:00

I bought Beirut's debut CD, Gulag Orkestar, over the weekend. From the liner notes it looks to be more or less the one-man band of a 19-year-old named Zach Condon, plus I've just learned that the CD is a major blog sensation. Yet try as I might to be disaffected, I have to admit it's affected me. Condon sure digs Neutral Milk Hotel, but don't we all. Lots of Eastern European-sounding horns, devil-may-care legato crooning, and martial percussion. But I'll cut the kid some slack for copping influences--he was only ten when In the Aeroplane over the Sea came out.

Then again, maybe he should lose half a star for making me feel old as dirt.

The very pretty "Scenic World" is in this folder. Right-click to download.

Oh, and in honor of July 4, that folder also features one of my favorite songs ever, "4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)," by another whippersnapper, the then-24-year-old Bruce.

The Eating: Root Beer Floats, Cheesesteaks, and Chopped Liver

2006-07-04T09:28:00.000-05:00

Following our NYC art adventures, we decamped to Princeton for a change of scenery. Sunday found us a little aimless after a quick visit to a flea market and a few used bookstores, so we just drove around to see what was going on. Heading down one secondary highway toward Trenton, we found a true 1950s drive-in, complete with curbside tray service and specializing in floats made with Stewart's Root Beer, which suddenly sounded like (and was) the perfect treat on a hot afternoon.

We were still at a bit of a loss after that, so we kept driving in the same direction, through Trenton and toward the Pennsylvania state line. At that point, it was coming on to dinner time, so Will suggested we just keep going and find a good cheesesteak sandwich. In Philadelphia. On we went; we drove in circles around downtown Philly during a severe thunder-and-hailstorm, then finally asked a young man in a tattoo parlor if he knew where to find the steak stand that Will had visited several years before. Luckily, it was a famous one, and as the skies cleared, we found ourselves at Pat's King of Steaks with two rolls of meaty treats in hand. I ordered mine with provolone cheese, which was nice but a little bland. Will wisely ordered his the "classic" way, slathered with Cheese Whiz (vat of substance pictured above). I hate to admit it, but it really is much tastier that way. So I learned something (should have noticed that nobody else in line was ordering with provolone).

Monday we headed north to Hartford to visit some friends and their new baby, plus to drop off some instruments in New Haven to be repaired. We made a quick side trip to Rein's Deli in Vernon, CT, where my family used to stop for lunch on our trips to and from New Jersey when I was a kid. They still have corny New York-themed decor and punny signs all over, but they also serve up a mean chicken liver sandwich and tasty, buttery rugelach.

Today? I don't know. There was some talk about heading to a German beer garden in Queens for a cold one and a bratwurst sandwich before watching the fireworks. I had a good jog this morning, so I'm ready.

The Highbrow: Two Nights of Art

2006-07-04T09:17:00.000-05:00

This has been an eventful long weekend so far (not quite over)--we started off with back-to-back art events. Friday night we met in Prospect Park for a picnic dinner of sandwiches from Dom's Italian grocery (sorry, no website, but it's a must-visit in Soho). As we were discussing our next move, a friend called to invite us to an art opening at a rooftop gallery in Dumbo. The art was terrible; I've seen better work at BFA exit shows. But the setting? Spectacular. We were out on a deck eleven stories up overlooking the East River and the entire Manhattan skyline. It was definitely worth walking through some bad art.

The following night we joined some other friends for the Brooklyn Art Museum's monthly Saturday night party. A huge crowd was dancing to a DJ's beats behind the building, and hundreds more were browsing the galleries. We were a little disappointed in the aesthetic offerings that night as well (the featured exhibition was faux graffiti on canvases), but again, the setting was great, as well as the atmosphere of a genial neighborhood party.

More Memes: It's Yer Birthday!

2006-06-29T18:15:00.000-05:00

I haven't done anything meme-y in a while, and my running plan has been sidetracked by a thunderstorm. My dishy friend in Miami issued a public tagging on me today, so I must comply. My instructions:

1. Go to Wikipedia.
2. In the Search box, type your birth month and day (but not year).
3. List three events that happened on your birthday.
4. List two important birthdays and one interesting death.
5. One holiday or observance (if any).

So here goes. Interesting dirt on December 12; my comments in brackets:

Three Events
627 - Battle of Nineveh: A Byzantine army under Emperor Heraclius defeated Emperor Khosrau II's Persian forces, commanded by General Rhahzadh.

1098 - First Crusade: Massacre of Ma'arrat al-Numan - Crusaders breach the town's walls and massacre about 20,000 inhabitants. After finding themselves with insufficient food, they resort to cannibalism.

2000 - The United States Supreme Court releases its decision in Bush v. Gore [and the U.S. officially starts circling the drain in the eyes of the rest of the world]

Two Important Birthdays

1915 - Frank Sinatra, American singer and actor (d. 1998) [Chairman of the Board--aww, yeah!]
1940 - Dionne Warwick, American singer [and psychic friend]

Interesting Death

1569 - Metropolitan Philip of Moscow (b. 1507) [I have no idea who this is. I just like his name.]

Holiday or Observance

Kenya - Jamhuri Day: Independence Day (from Britain, 1963) [pickins are kind of slim this time of year; nobody wants to compete with Christmas]

I won't tag anyone specific, but take it and run with it, kids!

The Eating: Food on a Stick

2006-06-29T17:18:00.000-05:00

We've been invited to a cookout next week with a kebab theme: The hosts are providing snacks, drinks, skewers, and grill. Guests are bringing food to be impaled. Neither Will nor I were much in the mood to work today, so we had a spirited e-conversation to determine what our contribution will be. We came up with a lot of good ideas, so I thought it would be fun to provide an abridged transcript here to give my readers some ideas for their own summer suppers:

Will: I want to create a shish kebob that has pineapple on it. Pineapple gets yummy and caramelized when you grill it.

Red Squirrel: Mmm--the cliched pairing would be pork, but I think beef and red onions would be a nice twist. Maybe even shrimp--or how about a shrimp and mango skewer?

W: Great. Steak, red onion, and pineapple; shrimp, mango, and ______. I'm trying to think of something that would harmonize not only in flavor, but also in texture and appearance. Perhaps something with a little kick--what about a mild chili pepper?

RS: I was thinking the same thing. Maybe poblano? That's my new favorite secret ingredient. For both combos, I think a basic lime-garlic-cilantro marinade would be nice.

W: I think lime, garlic, and a little olive oil would be a good marinade for both. For the shrimp, we add cilantro. But for the steak? Tarragon. Yup, I said tarragon. (Or should it be chervil? Esquire editor A.J. Jacobs used to say that chervil was the funniest herb. After much back-and-forth, he agreed with me that fenugreek is the funniest spice.) Actually, a little red wine in the steak marinade might be nice, too. And Pernod for the shrimp!!

RS: No, I don't think red wine would be good--think of the pineapple! Tarragon might work as the herb--it goes well with fruit (surprisingly yummy with fresh figs). If you want some alcohol in there, how about tequila in the shrimp marinade or rum in the steak one? Whoa--if you're thinking shrimp + Pernod, how about making shrimp, fennel, and mango?

W: The shrimp combo is rock solid w/fennel and a citrus/Pernod marinade. Done and done! Now what if we moved the poblanos over to the pineapple and steak? Would that be too conceptually cluttered? I think you're probably right about the booze.

RS: I think the rum should be nixed if we put poblanos on the steak skewer. Somehow I think that would be a weird combo. But I'm digging the idea of steak/pineapple/red onion with rum/lime/garlic. No herbs.

W: Fair enough. What kind of rum? A dark rum would impart more flavor once the alcohol evaporated off. Or what about bourbon?

RS: Hm, that's intriguing--bourbon or dark rum would work equally well, depending on whether you're going for a tropical or American flavor. I think tarragon should go back in the mix if we go with bourbon. Or how's this for a kooky mix: steak, fresh green figs, and red onions in a bath of bourbon, tarragon, and garlic?

W: I like your kooky mix. Sounds fun, plus we Greeks dig the figs.

RS: Oh, and a final tweak to the shrimp idea: shallots instead of garlic in the marinade. I think garlic would fight too much with the Pernod.

W: Nice. Shallots will be good. So it's

- Shrimp, mango, and fennel marinated in Pernod, lime, and shallots
- Skirt steak, green figs, and red onion marinated in bourbon, taragon, and garlic

A little olive oil in both marinades?

RS: Yes on everything, except I think the steak combo should also have shallots instead of garlic. Ooh--maybe toss chives into the shrimp marinade, too?

[...]

W: We got excited about shish kebobs.

RS: I'm hungry.

The Collecting: Cigarette Cards

2006-06-28T21:09:00.000-05:00

Back in the day, it seemed that every product had trading cards attached to it. The most famous, of course, are baseball cards, which inspire nostalgic fervor among most American men. Will is among that group--he's not a "serious" collector in the sense of seeking out especially rare or valuable cards. He simply likes to keep a variety of cards representing different brands, eras, and trends in baseball and will pull out a box or binder of them when he's feeling blue. Inspired by how much poring over his baseball cards cheers him up, Will recently made me the thoughtful gift of my own set of cards. I know almost nothing about baseball, but I know a lot about gardening, so he presented me with a small stack of Wills's Tobacco Cards from their Gardening Hints series of the late 1930s. Each one is a bit smaller than a standard business card; the recto side has a four-color illustration depicting a garden chore, and the verso carries helpful instructions for, say, building a dovecote. So now, when I'm blue, I can pull out my little cards and dream of building my perfect English garden.

The Playing: Progressions

2006-06-27T19:47:00.000-05:00

Week 3 of my quest to become a guitar goddess brought me three new chords (E minor, C, and D7), to bring me to a grand total of six chords, which is shocking. I can actually remember them all. We also learned the classic G-Em-C-D7 progression, upon which a surprising number of songs are based. Our new tablature piece was the theme from Peter Gunn. Bleh. I know it's good to practice those pieces to build dexterity, but I have very little interest in fingerwork at this point. Speaking of which, my calluses aren't quite there yet. Fingers hurt. I think I should be toughened up properly in about one more week.

The Watching and Listening: World Cup and Rockabilly

2006-06-25T21:45:00.000-05:00

So this was an eventful Sunday. Following brunch, we met up with some out-of-town friends to watch the Portugal vs. Netherlands World Cup match (I'm participating in a pool and both of my choices won today, go England and Portugal!). After we parted with said friends, we headed back to Brooklyn to catch some of the day-long fest of rock and sausage at Hank's Saloon. I haven't seen so many Bettie Page 'do's and duck's-ass pompadours in one place in a long time. I also got to clean out a stranger's wound with a shot of vodka and then apply bacon-strip bandages to her foot. I left Will behind the bar with John, the owner, about an hour ago. Let's hope he gets home in one piece.

The Listening: Aerosmith Ruled

2006-06-23T21:00:00.000-05:00

"Riff & Roll," a nice, sloppy 1981 Aerosmith studio jam in this folder.

I'm not saying it's the pinnacle of their artistry. But their follies over the past 20 years have made people forget how sweet they once were. The Pandora's Box box set, 3 CDs of stuff from 1968-1982, is a great reminder.

The Reading: You Can Take the Old Man out of Georgia...

2006-06-22T06:49:00.000-05:00

There are many reasons I left Georgia for New York almost two years ago, but for the most part I have nostalgia and still feel strong ties to the medium-sized Southern city that was my home for 13 years. I still occasionally read the online version of the Athens Banner-Herald (kindly provided in daily digest form by a friend) to keep up with the big, small, and silly issues that affect the community. The guest columns fall into the silly zone (silly as in stupid, not humorous), but I still can't stop reading them. Mr. Loran Smith is one of those; every week, he devotes a few hundred words to extolling the virtues of porch-sittin' or biscuit-eatin', but I've never gotten the impression that he was ignorant or unsophisticated. Just corny, kind of like your grandfather might be when reminiscing about the Good Old Days and the Simpler Things in Life. This week, Loran went out of his comfort zone and decided to take on the big, bad, evil war zone of urban blight that is Brooklyn. For those of you (cough *dad*) who find it too tedious to click through and read the column, here's the money quote:

Now [Brooklyn] is a locale where murder has taken place in broad open daylight. Triple dead-bolt locks on doors have become standard. Gangs and drugs; broken-down buildings and emotionally nauseating debris. Few cities know more blights than Brooklyn.

Right--it's a place where marauding thugs will shoot you in broad daylight and the few good, honest folk who haven't fled to the suburbs scurry home to barricade themselves behind barred windows and a complicated system of chains and deadbolts. "Back then" it was a charming place where Dodgers played and apple-cheeked children ate ice cream. Mr. Smith managed to get this impression over dinner in upscale Brooklyn Heights. I guess I could waste a lot of space pointing out Brooklyn's virtues, but then it might encourage more visits. Maybe next year he'll tour the Bronx.

The Playing: Week 2

2006-06-20T19:10:00.000-05:00

My second week of guitar instruction seems to be carrying things along nicely. I had a terrible day at work and was feeling more inclined to skip class so I could go home and spend an extra hour feeling sorry for myself, but I'm glad I didn't. I found that I'm keeping up with the class and am finding it easier to play. My fingers have almost stopped hurting, and we added a new chord (A7) and song ("I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"), plus began learning tablature (the "solo" theme from Batman). I'm still cranky, but definitely better off than when I started.

The Eating: Big Fat Sicilians

2006-06-20T19:00:00.000-05:00

We decided to liven up a rather drab evening last night with a field trip out to L & B Spumoni Gardens, almost to Coney Island, for a few slices of pizza and a cup of spumoni. We had been there once before, back in the fall, but last night I think we experienced it as it's meant to be. This landmark restaurant serves up thick, gooey Sicilian pizzas (square), not too much cheese, and overlaid with a not-too-sweet sauce. They have a large patio area where we could smell the salt air and observe families and groups of teenagers socializing. We were far from the high-rises and trendy shopping and eating areas that most people associate with the city, but as Will observed, it was as much a classic New York place and experience as any. It was comforting to sit for a while in a place where people seemed to know each other and were enjoying a simple, pleasant summer evening (brief rainshower notwithstanding).

The Highbrow: Da Da Da

2006-06-17T14:54:00.000-05:00

Thursday evening, a friend and I attended the opening of MoMA's new Dada exhibition. The sixth floor of the building has been turned over to a collection of hundreds of objects from the French, German, Italian, and American participants of the first truly conceptual art movement. I took issue with a few selections that I consider more to be in the Surrealist (Max Ernst) or German Expressionist (George Grosz) traditions, but overall it's a comprehensive and thought-provoking show. This was the first reception I've attended there; wine was flowing freely (best enjoyed while wandering around the sculpture garden), no food, but I have to give them props for the numerous full-size ice sculptures of Marcel Duchamp's famous "readymade" urinal. There was prime people-watching among the hundreds of guests: Upper East Side benefactor types, Williamsburg hipster types, Chelsea gallery types, even a few model types hanging on the arms of banker types. I'll be interested to see how the tourists receive this show--summer is one of the biggest seasons for out-of-towners in New York, and this show is somewhat out of the mainstream for the crowds who arrive for the sole purpose of looking at "Starry Night" and Monet's waterlilies. We'll see what they make of signed snow shovels and Duchamp in drag.

The Playing: Once More, with Feeling

2006-06-13T19:28:00.000-05:00

Back in March, I posted about my foolish goal of teaching myself to play guitar. I was to have been able to play a basic song by, oh, about two weeks ago. A month or so ago, I gave it up as hopeless. Some people can sit down with a book and sort things out for themselves, but I'm not of that favored class. I need professional help. So I decided to sign myself up for a series of ten classes at a local guitar school to see if a structured curriculum, the stimulation of my peers, and a significant outlay of cash couldn't move things along a bit. Today was my first lesson, and I'm happy to say that I think this may do the trick. After one hour of instruction, my four classmates and I were playing--ponderously and awkwardly--a two-chord song (D and G, "Give Peace A Chance," for those of you keeping score). That's more than I was able to teach myself. I can actually switch between those two, slowly, without looking down. Again, more than I could manage on my own. Of course, the instructor has already managed to strike fear into my heart: Our "final exam" will be to play and sing a song for the class. Not so much looking forward to that, but I'll wait at least a month before I start stressing about it.

Questionable Band Names

2006-06-12T17:25:00.000-05:00

There are many, many bands out there with incredibly ill-advised names (a few are mentioned in my profile as an example). These guys, however, definitely make the short list. Let the jokes about hard rocking begin.

The Highbrow: Modern Art

2006-06-11T21:43:00.000-05:00

This past November, I began volunteering at the Museum of Modern Art. It took a while to get on board there. I filled out their 10-page application and sent it in--more than a year ago. They pretty much told me that they'd get in touch if someone died, and so I forgot all about it. So I was a bit surprised when they got in touch with me in October for the first of two interviews to see if I was good enough to give up two Saturdays a month for free. After I told them I worked as a real museum employee for six years, they deemed me worthy to hand out stickers for their free gallery talks and now I have unlimited access to one of the world's finest museums. Since then, I've spent about seven hours each month wandering the galleries (and indulging in some world-class people-watching), and I discover something new each time. Right now, there's a new exhibition up of a recent bequest of a significant collection of American art made between the late 1960s and the present, a period about which I know very little. The two most "name-brand" artists in the show are Philip Guston and Mark Di Suvero, but some of the lesser-known ones struck me more strongly. The first was a simplified, iconic painting of a horse by Susan Rothenberg (I've posted a similar work of hers here); the second was an abstract painting titled "Room," by Jake Berthot (again, a similar image here). The best part is that these galleries are largely bypassed by the tourists bent on photographing each other in front of the Van Goghs and Picassos--nothing against them, but visitors stand ten deep at those paintings, which quickly becomes maddening. By contrast, the contemporary galleries are nearly deserted. I guess, being so crowd-averse, I'm in the wrong line of volunteer work, but the free admission is too good to give up.

The Lowbrow: Why I Can't Watch TV

2006-06-08T18:16:00.000-05:00

Many people wrongly believe that I'm a non-TV watcher out of elitism. Nothing could be further from the truth. I love trashy TV, talk shows, reality shows, South Park, etc. I also have the unfortunate tendency to talk, and if properly provoked, scream at the tiny people on the screen. If I had regular access to television programming, I would quickly devolve into one of those shut-ins who spend their days in a crumb-covered La-z-boy shouting at the idiot box and composing threatening letters to news anchors. A prime candidate for sending me over the edge would be Ann Coulter. I've read about her, seen her photo and excerpts from her books, but have so far been spared the live version of this shrill, anorexic love child of Rush Limbaugh and Barbie. I guess she's on the talk-show circuit lately to promote her latest manifesto, and I was directed to a clip of her discussion with Matt Lauer on the Today show. This woman is certifiable and more offensive to my tastes than the most twisted pornography. My poor little laptop almost went sailing out the window to the courtyard below.

Update: I was chastised in the comments for expecting my readers to watch the clip and form their own opinion of Ms. Coulter, so I will explain why she offends me so much: I'm well aware that she rants against liberalism. I really don't care about that, since her way of expressing herself is so insane that it hurts her own cause. What set me off was her claim that the 9/11 widows are "enjoying their husbands' deaths" because now they can criticize Dubya all they want. I have neither the time nor the patience to get into how fallacious that is, but what really gets me is how callously she can dismiss the grief endured by thousands of families.

Also, in the interest of the "diversity" that I'm scolded for not supporting, here is a link (sorry, you'll actually have to read it) to a highly positive review of her new book, complete with excerpts. Read it and weep with laughter.

The Reading: Can't Rupert Afford Proofreaders?

2006-06-08T07:04:00.000-05:00

I recently finished reading Bel Canto, Ann Patchett's best-selling and award-winning novel about a group of international businessmen and diplomats held hostage for months in an unnamed South American country. There were good and bad things about the story, but I enjoyed it overall. What bugged the crap out of me, however, was the fact the name of one of the principal characters was spelled inconsistently throughout the book. The fictional opera star Roxanne Coss, who sets the book's action in motion, is spelled with two n's on the back cover, but alternates between one and two throughout the text, sometimes on the same page. Now, as an editor myself, I know that sometimes, despite our best efforts, mistakes creep into a book: time is short, revisions are numerous, etc. That is what second printings are for. When it goes back on press, we have the opportunity to fix whatever small mistakes slipped past in the first round. I point this out because the copy I read was the second paperback printing of this book, which came out about two years after the initial release. Did no one at HarperCollins pick up on this mistake throughout the numerous hardcover printings and two paper printings? Either the people there are stupid or they're lazy--either would fit the NewsCorp (parent of HarperCollins) profile.

The Eating: Chocolat Bonnat

2006-06-07T18:57:00.000-05:00

Over the past few months, I have had the fun of sampling several offerings of some of the finest chocolate I've ever tasted. This is saying something, considering the cocoa obsession and snobbery from which I sprang. In its ongoing race to become the next West Village, Park Slope is now home to the charming Chocolate Room, a combined cafe and confectioner, which makes its own candies and carries an assortment of esoteric varietal chocolates from around the world. On Valentine's Day, I received several bars of chocolate from this shop, including two by the Bonnat Chocolatier of Voiron, France. Hoo, boy, this is some good stuff. They offer eight varieties of bars, made from South American and African beans. The labels carry poetic descriptions of the subtle shadings of taste from one variety to the next, which I initially scoffed at. After tasting two side-by-side, however, I was convinced. Some are smoky, some are creamy, others are acidic, while still others are fruity. These are not for the faint of heart: 75% cocoa content is a LOT of chocolate, and not much sugar. However, for those who care about gourmet foods, these are well worth the investment of time and money.

The Bashing: Webster Theater Sucks Ass

2006-06-05T17:30:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the vulgarity, but it's true. Last Friday, Will & Co. played what will be their final show for a while (as bassist Jake goes on paternity leave) at Hartford's Webster Theater, the city's "best" (cough, cough, *only*) music venue. We suffered 4 hours of driving rain and snarled traffic so the guys could open for The Radiators at this marginally converted movie theater. Management told them they had 30 minutes to play. For the privelege, the members of the band had to sell a certain number of tickets, which they paid for in advance. No other payment was forthcoming. This "pay-for-play" scheme is not only highly unethical and lazy (do these people not promote their events in any way? what if the band has no friends in fair Hartford willing to buy tickets like so many boxes of Girl Scout cookies?), but it is also probably illegal. Rest assured that local journalists are standing by to cover this story, as it's a crime that has been perpetrated against many, many other hard-working bands who justifiably never want to stop in Hartford again.

Anyhow, aside from the indignity of selling tickets for this crap venue and getting dozens of people in the door to spend more money on drinks and snacks, the band almost literally got the hook after about five songs. This had happened to the previous band, as well: They got to the end of one song, and as they were launching into the opening chords of the next, the lights went off and house music came on. Just like that. Will tried to forestall this by asking after a few songs how much time they had left. Ten minutes was the reply. After a 4-minute song, darkness fell and classic rock spilled out through the PA. Boos resounded. Birds were flipped. Jake was uncharacteristically angry (for those who know him, anything stronger than "dude, that wasn't cool" is practically a tantrum).

So if any of you in Hartford wonder why no good bands ever play in your city while they flock to smaller, more out-of-the-way venues, now you know. And if there are any entrepreneurs among you, the market is wide, wide open to create a better club; the bar is currently set very low.

The Reading: Franco-American Pride

2006-06-04T17:00:00.000-05:00

I am not of that proud background myself, but I grew up in southern New Hampshire, in a mill city that was and still is heavily populated by French Canadians. The nuns in my Catholic elementary school taught us Canadian French from the first grade, and my schoolmates throughout my childhood had names like Paradis, Ouelette, Biscornet, DuBois, Cote, and so forth. Unfortunately, this large minority (and in many communities, the majority) became the target of ethnic stereotypes and slurs over the years (this is one of the whitest areas of the country, so I guess the meatheads had to find their targets elsewhere). Now it seems that New Hampshire's more enlightened eastern neighbor, also home to many of French-Canadian descent, has decided to celebrate its ethnic heritage. Let's see if Manch can follow suit...

The Reading: Blogs for Brains

2006-05-31T20:53:00.000-05:00

In my ongoing campaign to promote blogs even more obscure than mine, I would like to direct your attention to The Way I See It by Yuliya, a young Russian neuroscientist with a sense of humor and a way with words (we'll just leave the vodka issue alone for the time being). Go check her out--you can learn how to lose weight by thinking really hard and get a glimpse into the future of genius pills.

The Lowbrow: Summer Fun!

2006-05-31T11:25:00.000-05:00

Those of you who are bored with the traditional water guns and Super Soakers may want to give this gadget a shot. Oh, ha, ha, get it? Shot? A bunch of Amazon.com reviewers got the joke.

(We can thank Will for this classy information.)

The Family, the Listening, the Eating...

2006-05-29T18:08:00.000-05:00

The weekend at Casa DePrima in New Hampshire...

The Listening: Bruce Springsteen, Tweeter Performing Arts Center, 4th row behind the pit, 19-piece band. Quite a production, with goofy dancing, spirited sing-alongs, the works. Chubby bald session players got to behave like rock stars. A great time was had by all.

The Eating: The "tailgate" preshow meal consisted of barbecued chicken, chipotle potato salad, Israeli couscous salad, and smoked/baked beans. Other meals included stuffed shells, green bean salad, homemade blueberry muffins, blackberry cake, fried clams, banana ice cream, and more. Oof.

The Family: Always intense, always interesting. There is a new dog, after the eldest guy Cliff (age 16-ish) departed this world shortly after Christmas. Jeffrey is a tan and white Lhasa Apso who entered the family as a stray. He's a sweet boy currently dealing with abandonment issues through therapy and doggy Prozac. Sally the cat is not pleased. Okie the parrot probably isn't either, but she hates everyone.

There was also a quality visit with my childhood pal Monica (she of flying-squirrel-in-hair fame) and her very tall son Brent.

Now very, very tired...

Am I finally chic?

2006-05-26T08:37:00.000-05:00

Not likely, but it's nice to see that at least one aspect of my "style" (such as it is) seems actually to be in style. The New York Times Thursday Styles section, always slightly behind the curve, reports that the no-makeup look is all the rage in France, and that French women think American women are trashy and overdone. They even like crooked teeth! Amen to that. Although I will say my lack of full makeup (it's a major Day of Beauty if I walk out the door with anything more than concealer and mascara) is due more to laziness than idealism, I applaud the emphasis on skin care over camouflage.

Now if unkempt hair and tattered t-shirts paired with hand-me-down jeans come into fashion, I'll be a style icon.

The Reading: Great Subject Lines

2006-05-24T16:11:00.000-05:00

Only in my line of work, in a company like mine, could the following email subject line actually make sense:

Missing Fear Thermometer

And yes, it was attached.

The Listening: On the other side of the park...

2006-05-22T19:21:00.000-05:00

This afternoon during an after-school staff meeting, I actually caught myself starting to write "REPLACEMENTS" on my notepad in puffy letters. God, they're a great band. Now, a couple of slugs of DayQuil later, I'm home in my burrow watching old Replacements videos while Ms. Squirrel eats fresh asparagus. There are a bunch of tracks from a 1981 show up on YouTube. Here are a few that just slayed me.

Replacements: "Kick Your Door Down" (live, 1981)
Replacements: "Goddamn Job"/"Junior's Got a Gun" (live, 1981)
Replacements: "Careless" (live, 1981)
Replacements: "Customer"/"Rattlesnake" (live, 1981)

The rest of the show is available for free at www.twintone.com, in the Replacements section.

The Eating: Quick Dinner

2006-05-22T19:07:00.000-05:00

I'm so in love with my dinner right now, I have to share. I bought a bundle of asparagus at the farmer's market on Saturday and realized when I got home this evening that I needed to do something with it right away. My larder is nearly empty, so I just trimmed and steamed the spears, then cooked up some pasta and tossed it all with a little lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, S&P, and freshly grated Parmesan. Sooo good, and mighty pretty in my nice green bowl. My favorite meals are those that can be prepared in the time it takes to boil a pot of water.

Heh

2006-05-22T08:31:00.000-05:00

Reason #??? that I'm glad I sold my car before moving to NY? I got it right here.

Promises Unfulfilled

2006-05-22T06:40:00.000-05:00

It looks like I didn't have any time for posting this weekend. There was Eating (Aunt Suzie's again, plus a cookout and grazing of regional produce, bread, and cheese at the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket), Watching (finally got around to watching Hero, which was quite beautiful), Reading (Michael Azerrad's terrible essay on The Replacements).

And there was Playing. We joined some friends at a practice space in Greenpoint to noodle around on instruments for a few hours, and I decided that my attempt to teach myself to play guitar has been a failure. I'm one of those people who needs an expert to hover and correct my posture, grip, etc., and I need a curriculum and assignments. Sitting at home and struggling with a chord chart doesn't cut it. So I'm going to enroll in a 10-week beginners' class starting in a few weeks and hope that the structure and atmosphere of mild competition, not to mention the financial investment, combine to bring me greater success.

A More Worthy Blog

2006-05-19T12:58:00.000-05:00

While I wait to get home and do some real writing, you all should check out Adrian's blog. He's a buddy of Will's from their undergrad days and he's actually out there doing something good for humanity, as a doctor treating HIV-positive children in Uganda. As you might imagine, he is able to update only sporadically, but he offers his readers some beautiful pictures and interesting insights into the challenges of life as a doctor in a third-world country.

Dang

2006-05-19T09:49:00.000-05:00

One of the advantages of moving up here from Georgia was that I would no longer have to worry about life-threatening weather. Just two weeks before I left the South, tornado sirens interrupted my afternoon nap and three houses within a block of me were destroyed. Imagine my unpleasant surprise to look out of my office window a few minutes ago to see that familiar murky yellow light that can only mean a twister is in the area. I checked the Weather Channel's website, and sure enough, a funnel cloud has been spotted over Jersey City. Sheesh. At least it's headed for midtown. Times Square is overrated anyway.

Busy Week

2006-05-19T08:26:00.000-05:00

Has led to light posting, much to the boredom of my tiny klatsch of readers. Sorry about that. I'll try to make up for it this weekend.

One notable event of the week was Wednesday's fundraiser for the Bronx Academy of Letters. The evening's featured entertainment was hipster standup comic Demetri Martin, who introduced us to some great alternatives to the lame screen abbreviations people use in e-mails (e.g., LOL, LMAO, blah blah). Hate, hate, hate 'em. Mr. Martin is a rather deadpan, understated fellow, and he shared his favorite alternative e-mail lingo: lqtm (laughing quietly to myself) and c (chuckle). Use it, spread it, stop irritating me with LOL.

Over the weekend, I'll share some cooking news, plus my take on the New York Culinary Festival, which I will graze and sip my way through with a friend this evening.

The Family: Yeah, they're garden pests...

2006-05-16T18:01:00.000-05:00

...(not my family), but wee woodchucks are pretty cute. The latest orphan, and perhaps one of the last, to pass through the DePrima triage. In my mom's words, "I've never gotten such a small one, but she's doing fine. Next thing, Dad will start asking if we can keep it--just imagine, a 20 lb. rodent waddling around the house eating the baseboards."

Always Double Back

Breaking Up

RIP the Company Dog

11|11--or, The Fabric of Kings

Fertile Ground

Sale at the Stereotype Store!

The Price of Friendship

Ketchup

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

A Few Thoughts on Beauty

The Listening: John Vanderslice

Orange!

The Watching and Listening: Mojave 3

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

Lunch Break: Getting Excited for Halloween

Major Oversight

More Fashion Rantings: Poor Choice of Words

Blogging Hiatus

Whew.

Fashion: Did You Poo in My Shoe?

The Watching: Science of Sleep

Just Say No: Skinny Jeans

Personal Archives

Things I've Been Enjoying Lately

The Eating: Spice Market

Also...

The Eating: Eggplant

Weekend Roundup

Tomorrow's News: File Under "No Shit"

The South: Where Learning Is Fun

Three Strikes

The Eating: Kuma Inn

Ketchup

The Reading: Not Fair!

Back Again

The Eating: Tea and Sympathy

Squirrel Fishin'

The Watching: Little Miss Sunshine

Please stand by...

The Playing: Well...

You know you're in SoHo when...

The Playing: Final Exam

The Watching: Get on the Treadmill

The Highbrow: MoMA for Dummies

The Traveling: Northwest Fjords and Reykjavik

The Traveling: Borgarnes and the Snaefellsnes Peninsula

The Traveling: Iceland

More Updates

The Playing: Minor Breakthrough

Update...(and some Reading and Playing)

Promoting my friends...

The Whining: The Finale?

The Reading: Listening Enhancement

Still Whining...

The ranting: P.S. "Indie" is a really annoying abbreviation

More Whining: The Elephant in the Room

The Listening and Playing: Simple Songs

The Family: Visiting the Big Apple

The Reading: Gift Subscriptions

The Whining...

The Playing: Update

The Traveling: Weekend Getaway

Notice

The Watching: The Devil is in the Details

The Listening: Miracle Legion

The Listening: El Mariachi

The Reading: Belly

The Listening: Beirut

The Eating: Root Beer Floats, Cheesesteaks, and Chopped Liver

The Highbrow: Two Nights of Art

More Memes: It's Yer Birthday!

The Eating: Food on a Stick

The Collecting: Cigarette Cards

The Playing: Progressions

The Watching and Listening: World Cup and Rockabilly

The Listening: Aerosmith Ruled

The Reading: You Can Take the Old Man out of Georgia...

The Playing: Week 2

The Eating: Big Fat Sicilians

The Highbrow: Da Da Da

Breaking: CBGB Not the Only Rock Club in NYC!