Tuesday, June 24, 2008
g-dreams
Dozin' at work for a few, I just dreamed I was at a party where level of engagement/interest was reflected in the color of partygoers' lips. So like, green = available, red = busy, yellowish orange = idle, and gray = logged out (or the fancy new 'invisible'). Okay, I don't remember there being gray, but considering all the other colors synced perfectly w/ gmail's chat feature, I figure there must've been at least one ashen-lipped attendee. Maybe it was me.
Eh, yeah, so not only is it time to flee the Dub V, it's time to get the hell offline. Clearly.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Signs
Yesterday morning, walking downstairs, greeted by the sight of a towel-clad dude who, on noticing me, made no haste in removing himself from the hallway. But that's not the part that said to me: "go home--it's time." The part that said this is the part where I realized I wasn't really fazed by such a thing.
One more week! I can't wait. I miss PS. And hanging out in the park last night w/ Pan & co. only served to affirm. Still yet, millin' about w/ the dog tonight in the Dub V (sorry) doesn't sound too shabby...
Thursday, June 12, 2008
"Is there any humanity in either of these guys?"
Regardless your thoughts on McClellan/his bookish motivations, the focus here is not on him, but on Letterman's affirmed awesomeness: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/06/12/david-letterman-dick-chen_n_106753.html
LETTERMAN: My feeling about Cheney and also Bush, but especially Cheney, is he just couldn't care less about Americans. And that the same is true of George Bush. And all they really want to do is somehow kiss up to the oil people so they can get some great annuity when they're out of office. "There you go, Dick, nice job. There's a couple of billion for your troubles." (applause) I mean, he pretty much put Halliburton in business, and the outsourcing of the military resources to private mercenary groups, and so forth. Is there any humanity in either of these guys?
McCLELLAN: Look, I still have personal affection for the president. I can't speak to the vice president's thinking that well because he's someone that keeps things himself and he believes in doing it his way, and he doesn't care what anybody else thinks. He is going to do what he feels is best and that's not always in the best interests of the country. As we've seen.
This is mostly encouraging--in particular, the bit about McCain's support dropping ten points in the last three months. Now, if we can just sway some o' them suburban white women Obamaward--'cause they've def got it in them, a number having endorsed Hillary in the primaries... I don't know though, I really do think that once Hillary's termination settles out and regrouping is complete, this demographic will (largely) unite in favor of O over M. The latter is just too, too dismal a prospect, and it's only a matter of time before it's more widely acknowledged among these women.
This is/was just plain awesome:
Last w/e in STL w/ N & D & little K: beers, babes, and blistering heat. Wheee!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Idyll
I would make any number of sacrifices to be here, now.
(Photo's from this great blog.)
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Finally, three years in...
Entry number: 282011
Labels: better late than never
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
2008 Boston Marathon
Quick trip, but I Chinatown-bused it to Boston Sunday night, staying at Kassie/Dave's to catch Monday's race. Dave's teaching at Wellesley, w/ K & D living right on campus. This is exactly the halfway point in the marathon--and a new vantage point for me, as when I've watched races in the past, it's been the finish line I'm parked at, or in the case of NYC, close to the start.
Taking it all in at 13.1 was a different experience, then. Runners have generally found their rhythm and held it for a while by now, which is of course welcome, but 13.1 is also the start of those can-be-torturous middle miles, w/ the beginning well-behind yet the end still far from seeming likely/real. This is why the infamous scream tunnel kinda saves the day--distracting/encouraging for at least a mile or so. Oddly I didn't hear much of anything, having stood a ways down the road from it. That there were like a million cowbells in full effect had to have masked a bit, too.
Anyway, per usual, seeing that first pack of elites emerge (this race: women first, followed by the mens a half hour later) made me almost pee myself. It's insane how fast they're going, how fast they've been going for an entire hour, and how fast they'll continue to go for another hour still. And though as a group form/gait was impressive overall, I was surprised to see a few of the frontrunners looking more than a little ragged. Like, arms were flying around to a surprising degree. I don't know, this is probably routine, strange to me only because of the vantage point newness.
It was especially stirring to watch the Kenyans pass this year, realizing/imagining the challenge of training in their home country in recent months.
I somehow missed seeing ol' Lance go by (one dressed like a bee), who missed his 2:45 goal by five minutes. Also missed a hell of a (women's) finish...
Kassie and I were talking later about how it's pretty surreal, witnessing the aftermath of such an event--several overfilled trash cans and chucked orange wedges the only evidence of 25,000 runners having passed through town not an hour earlier. And given the holiday, several of the shops were closed, making the streets extra-still. Waiting for Kass to drop her ma off at the train station, I stretched out on a curbside bench, sun on my forehead, and napped in total peace.
Yeah, so it was great to see K & D, as that's a trip I'd meant to take much sooner. They're both tearin' it up w/ their respective art, w/ D just recently commissioned to paint a huge wraparound mural in this prominent campus building. K's stuff never ceases to amaze, and it's been fun to watch her style shift in the years I've known her. Totally inspiring, the both of 'em.
Now if I'd only managed to return home w/ my phone charger, jacket, etc., etc., etc. Long sigh/par for the course.
Also running related: If you live in/around good ol' Kent, WA, do go here. Chef's a good man.
Just pretty: http://gowanuslounge.blogspot.com/2008/04/brookspring-weeping-slope-blossoms.html
Monday, April 14, 2008
Master of my domain
I submitted the following two bits some time ago to RW. Both were turned down, and though I recognize why, the experiences documented were personally valuable, and so, I'll blog 'em instead.
Last month I traveled to Europe for the first time. Week one was spent in Belfast, where runner types were conspicuously absent. Next stop: London, where it was hard to avoid them.
My last day there, I managed to squeeze in a morning run. While winding through idyllic Hyde Park, I met runner after runner; each time, a familiar feeling tugged at me, one I traced back to August's trip to Missoula, to January's stay in Santa Monica, to last year's rendezvous with Madison, Wisconsin. In sum, to most anyplace I'd ever donned a pair of running shoes--anyplace that wasn't home.
The feeling: Reverence, homage paid to the resident runners of a stomping ground that isn't my own.
As I skirted the ovular fountain, memorial to Princess Diana, I thought about the red-vested, thirty-something guy, presumably a Brit, whom I'd just passed. What went through his mind when the momentous stone structure entered his sight? Anything? Maybe it's the Serpentine, lake at the park's center, that holds special significance for him. Or maybe it's something less obvious, something that only he is privy to: a particular grove of trees, a certain house on the periphery of the green.
Regardless, I exchanged several looks over the course of my run. On my end, these looks were meant to convey respect, a quiet acknowledgment of the relationship that my British counterparts have with their environment as experienced through running. In my way, I was thanking them, masters of their domain, for allowing me to share, and enjoy, their turf.
It's different at home. When it's my own turf I'm treading, I've been known to get a little, erm, possessive. I have a tendency to act as though certain landmarks along my tried-and-truest routes--the gnarled tree stump that bears an uncanny likeness to the plastic trolls my Norwegian grandmother hordes, the row of poplars that takes me back to the home of my childhood, the city street on which I was running when I had that minor epiphany--grant me some sort of ambiguous territorial claim.
"So where do usually run?" I ask, addressing my new coworker upon learning that she, too, is a runner.
"Well, I'm a big fan of the Belt Parkway trail in Brooklyn, been running there for years. You ever run it?"
"Um, yeah. That's actually my all-time favorite running spot," I reply, a slight edge to my tone.
I was jealous--frankly, a predictable reaction. After all, when I look back on my running career to date, it isn't the PRs that come to mind, it's the unswerving relationships I've formed with my surroundings as I've worked to achieve them. Unfortunately, relationships, particularly those of the romantic variety, tend to invite jealous feelings into the mix. In the case of my running, a part of my life with which I'm very much in love, I wanted that trail--that is, the fondness I’d developed for it--all to myself.
What I need is to get the whole sharing thing down, take a mental trip back to kindergarten to re-learn this basic life skill. Of course other runners have bonded with the same sights as I--the retro diners, quaint cafes and Gothic style cathedrals, cattail-flanked duck ponds and Saturday morning Little League games--but this shouldn't detract from my own unique experience. The comfort should lie in the understanding that no two relationships are identical, including those that exist between person and place.
I've been practicing. Take the other day for instance.
I'm running through Brooklyn's Prospect Park--my old standby route. A familiar runner approaches, a guy I've crossed paths with a dozen or so times in the last few months. In addition to my typical restrained nod, I summon a little something extra: a small smile and sustained blink of the eyes. It's my 'reverential look' and it's intended to express the same thing here as it did in London and Portland and Sedona: respect. Regard for one runner's distinctive relationship with, this time, our turf.
running to the rescue
Vacations, endlessly hyped, can be a real pain in the ass. Unless, that is, you're a runner. The other week, armed with my trusty Brooks, I saved a long-anticipated getaway from a disappointing outcome with a few strategic strides. Running, I'm now convinced, has the potential to make almost any vacation feel longer, richer, worth it.
Equipped with a weekend plus two delectable days off work, my itinerary--my original itinerary, ahem--consisted of a pair of 12-hour Amtrak journeys (New York City to Montreal and back) sandwiching 50-odd hours that would be spent cavorting with dishy French Canadians. Oui oui!
Things got off to a rousing start. Upon reaching the station, an unsavory announcement reached my ears: "I'm sorry, train 71 from New York City to Montreal has been canceled." You don't say. You don't! Ah, but you just did. Harumpf.
I then learned that the next Canadian-bound train wouldn't depart until the next morning. Yet I was hell-bent on getting out of the city without further delay, so I decided on a half-day and night in Poughkeepsie--a small town two hours north and directly en route to my final destination. Certainly I could imagine worse than a brief stay along the Hudson, river flanked by trees electric with fall colors. Still, pining for Montreal and mourning a day lost there, the sentiment "waste of time" more than crossed my mind. It lingered.
Time would tell.
I put in a call to Amtrak, and minutes later I had an updated itinerary: NYC to Poughkeepsie in T-minus twenty minutes; Poughkeepsie to Montreal at 10:00 a.m. the next day.
By 2:00 p.m., I was settled into my discount motel in, yes, placid Poughkeepsie. Another hour, and I was breathing sweet autumn air, shoes snug, water bottle topped off, watch primed for an hour's worth of crisp afternoon running.
And what an hour it was. At the advice of the motel's front desk attendant, I wove through the nearby campus of Vassar College, marveling at the confluence of old and new architecture. Immense brick dormitories; a library extravagant with turrets, stained glass, and sculptural detail; buildings displaying the clean, sweeping lines of Scandinavian design...
Thirty minutes in, I left campus for more modest surroundings: neighborhoods characterized by colorful ramblers, casually manicured gardens, retrievers barking at who knew what, kids caught up in pre-dinner make-believe... Residents walked by; we exchanged smiles and waves. There was a mayoral race in progress, and there were all sorts of campaign signs, with "Poughkeepsie Needs a Work Horse, Not a Show Horse" standing out in my mind. Toward the end of my workout/tour, my growling tummy, teased by a string of aromatic restaurants--Italian, Chinese, Middle Eastern--demanded a shift in attention, and visions of thick Tuscan bread and sauteed snap peas accompanied me on the home stretch. (Italian won out in the end.)
The next morning, while awaiting the arrival of the taxi that would whisk me to the Amtrak station, I felt vaguely sad to be leaving this riverside burg, with its academic influence, its two-car garages, its energized politics. Halfway to Montreal, drowsy post-nap, I realized what it was: Over the course of an hour--over the course of my run--I'd forged a connection with this "Queen City of the Hudson," as it's known. I was never "supposed" to be there, it was a chance maneuver, a mistake; yet through running, I'd developed a meaningful relationship with it, an affinity for it.
Had I skipped the run, I'm convinced I would have missed this. I wouldn't have received the same range of visual cues, thus my Poughkeepsie schematic would have been comparatively flimsy. Perhaps more significant, had I chosen instead a leisurely stroll along the main drag, my not-quite-a-daytrip would have been absent that binding thread that mysteriously sews itself between runner and nature, the thread that people invoke when they speak of the spiritual aspect of the sport.
The thread that, apparently, saves vacations.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
400 words
Everyone (most people? no?) has their own weird little compulsion(s)--thoughts, actions, etc. And yet, some of the more nonsensical ones are hard to put into words, which is why I find this pretty amazing. Succinct! (Check out the site in general--neat stuff.)
Speaking of (more commonplace) compulsions, this place, freshly opened, is one whole block from my studio. Toooo-night. Hopefully there'll be reason to celebrate--as in, a replacement cave dweller on the books...
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
In-between
Life as usual, pretty much. Settled into my Village digs by now, and just learned that an initial two months will stretch to make four, on request. That's right--just not ready to leave the place, and don't imagine I will be come April 30, either. And so, through June it is. Certainly looking forward to Sunday mornings spent spying on trees as they flower just beyond my window...
Speaking of, some helpful imagery:
In the meanwhile, all's not so well in/with the cave. (Very) long story (very) short: My subletter's ditchin' out early, courtesy of a number of now-resolved issues, issues that my future subletter (due in by Saturday, the plan) will not encounter. Nothing extraordinary, really, just a few run-of-the-mill (warranted) complaints that were handled w/ supreme dignity and grace, thank you. So there's that.
What else... I'm really liking the neighborhood. Not loving it, which is a little surprising. Yet I don't think it's anything particular to the WV; it's that inkling that I could be just about anywhere and receiving the same degree of enjoyment from my surroundings. It's an impression that seems to emerge w/ the onset of spring. Regardless, I'm having fun w/ the exploring part, and I think my runs have benefited overall. Just more foot-company along the West Side Highway, which does wonders for one's pace (ergo mood, I'd agree).
Writing-wise, got a coupla RW things pending, continuing to enjoy/benefit from my new fiction writers group, and then there's this. Hasn't been up long, and I'm hoping to get the word out in coming weeks. (Do help me here.) I put an ad up on cl the other day, and traffic to the site's def picked up since, but though I've heard/read encouraging words, no submissions as yet...
Been to some good readings recently, including one here (new series hosted by St. Mark's Bookshop) and then, just last night, here, which featured contributors to a new lit mag, Canteen.
Otherwise, just, you know, waitin' for warm.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
well
Stuck trying to come up w/ a title for something, what do I find, entering the word "least" into the search field of my generally trusty online 'cliche finder,' but this:
at least it was a very interesting experience
Huh.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Good game
EKG: Way back in that other lifetime, we shoulda thunk up these (you know)!
Friday, March 07, 2008
Home is here
Last week I visited this place for the first time, went to hear Heidi Julavits read from her latest, and Peter Cameron from his. Bookstore's a winner, and so, it seems, are those two books. True to that review (and from the little I heard read), Cameron writes his precocious main character into a likable guy (you know, he sortof reminded me of the Rushmore kid), really nailing the dialogue: conjuring an 18-year-old's bitterness in a way that's just transparent enough. I'd def read the whole thing. Julavits--I wasn't as instantly taken by what she read, but I've enjoyed her in the past, so chances are.
Anyway, not the point of this. The point (I think) was how perfectly (sap coming) Brooklyn the whole night felt. From the BK writer-heavy stock to the small assembly of people to the cat that kept brushing up against Heidi as she read... Things felt measured--like a town. Then afterward, choosing to walk home rather than put up w/ the finicky F, I took my time, strolling past closed retail and softly lit pubs, stopping for a quick bite of yum. Subdued Court/Smith Street activity at my back, there were (are) several residential blocks en route to the cave, housing broken only by the occasional parts shop, small warehouse, empty lot, the Gowanus Canal (which, incidentally, has all sorts of charm come nighttime/the complete absence of clarifying light). All around, silence, encouraging attention to strange, arbitrary detail--the nonsensical tagging, questionable art projects, ornate carvings in wood/building architecture... And it felt, I don't know, bittersweet, knowing I'd be leaving it all behind for mayhemic Manhattan in less than 24 hours' time--and for two whole months. (Longest I've been away.) Yet there was a confidence, too, a sense of trust that everything would settle back out again upon my return. That the relationship would wait.
And so it happened that the following night found me plopped in the backseat of a cab, my poor driver at the mercy of my 'whoa, I've lived here three years but it sorta feels like I'm moving here for the first time all over again--it's the heading-back-to-Manhattan thing, ya know?' commentary. It really was kindof disorienting, though, as it's been, I guess, a year and a half since I did the East Village thing. I think the adrenaline kick was partly due to the just-prior, whirlwind appearance of my own subletter--sweet girl originally from Seattle, of all places. Her NY newness ended being a little infectious, I suppose.
Anyway, as we neared my W. 11th destination, the energy, human energy, started picking up, and my recollection of the previous night's activity expanded in light of the--contrast? I don't know, but it acted like the best old memories act in your head--full and perfect w/ the right distance. Only there was very little distance this time. Instant nostalgia. Weird.
So yeah. Following a (very) short bout of homesickness for some unrecognized place/date, I spread myself comfortably across 150 square feet. It's where I've been since. And I'm not so sure about leaving, either. Arg.
xo.
p.s. I have a personal roll of toilet paper now. And a shower caddy. And coming soon: a hot plate. (Not really.) All I'm missing is Sarah on repeat, doggles. Oh wait, I had that the other night. Uff.
commitment
An excerpt from Lawrence Osborne's "Riding in Red Hook," which is one story of many. While his account of an unraveling relationship sorta left me wanting (though, I don't know, something tells me a re-read might deliver more), I love his RH commentary--all of it, though the last few sentences rank highest.
Here the skies are always brilliant, crossed by soaring trains and by the tracery of dead trees. Strange little companies have their quarters here, things like Fireproof Door Company and Cyberstruct. As we went round and round, we passed the formidable mass of Treasure Island storage on Center Street, which asks you to "Store Your Treasures Here" and offers you a large painted palm tree as an incentive. Hardly exchanging a word, we sailed down Bay and Bryant until we were in the shadow of one of the buildings I love most in New York, the abandoned grain terminal. It looks like a Crusader castle in the Middle East, Krak des Chevaliers perhaps, w/ the mysterious graffiti word BARONE painted across it. Beautiful in its sinister hugeness, it silences the passerby. And on the far side of it one comes to the humble finale of Court Street, little more than an alley running past loading bays for the Hass oil company and ending at the prickly barriers of the U.S. Coast Guard.
This is the quietest place in the city, so close to the sea but separated from it by a mass of chimneys, warehouses, and bright-red pipes and taps w/ fire-hazard warnings. Turn a corner and you hear the water lapping at ruins. I rode behind her, and all this time I followed the outline of the body, so familiar in the way it slanted to left and right, the violin form w/--so to speak--its tightened strings, and now untouchable, like something moving off in the dark. We stopped at Halleck next to the Keyspan yards, where we saw a row of chocolate warehouses swept by dried up vines, and I gave her a tense, squinted glance. It began to occur to me that this wandering was a form of farewell, one in which hands would not be raised or words exchanged.
There were moments to get off and sun, for example at the lovely corner of Sigourney and Otsego, where no one comes and where metal chimneys stand in shining rows. Further on is Coffrey Street, whose buildings have the liver-red oxide color of African roads. A drink at the Liberty Heights taproom, delightfully estranged as a pub can be, and then a slow meandering down Van Dyke, where one can see the Clay Retort and Fire Brick house, built in 1854 by the superbly named Joseph K. Brick. It looks like a small Tuscan church made of gray schist, which was how it was designed, and it reminds you that people once bothered to build brick factories in the image of Tuscan churches.
As the ride progressed, I began to feel happier, more curious about the place where I lived but which I didn't really know. The love affair lost its subtle preeminence for a while, and I let my eye drift up tall brick chimneys for a while, and I let my eye drift up tall brick chimneys slender as Egyptian steles, along lines of cemented windows and boxes of Fafard Canadian growing mix piled along a waterfront. There are moments when a city can suddenly acquire all the kinetic qualities of a human being, a person's moods and expressions, so that she becomes a character of some kind--like a large woman, I often think, half asleep on her side. You find yourself talking to her, asking her questions, pestering her. And living in such a city is a long, monogamous affair, or else a marriage one abandons from time to time. Cities are rarely casual flings.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
All the way back
I mentioned that I've only recently come to know Raymond Carver as a poet. This was sent to me a few weeks back (thanks, Mallot), affirming the admiration.
Where Water Comes Together with Other Water
I love creeks and the music they make.
And rills, in glades and meadows, before
they have a chance to become creeks.
I may even love them best of all
for their secrecy. I almost forgot
to say something about the source!
Can anything be more wonderful than a spring?
But the big streams have my heart too.
And the places streams flow into rivers.
The open mouths of rivers where they join the sea.
The places where water comes together
with other water. Those places stand out
in my mind like holy places.
But these coastal rivers!
I love them the way some men love horses
or glamorous women. I have a thing
for this cold swift water.
Just looking at it makes my blood run
and my skin tingle. I could sit
and watch these rivers for hours.
Not one of them like any other.
I'm 45 years old today.
Would anyone believe it if I said
I was once 35?
My heart empty and sere at 35!
Five more years had to pass
before it began to flow again.
I'll take all the time I please this afternoon
before leaving my place alongside this river.
It pleases me, loving rivers
Loving them all the way back
to their source.
Loving everything that increases me.
Earth to Corrigan
I have a new blog obsession, name's Kimberly. She's the daughter of my ma's good friend, and she's in the midst of a journey (business and pleasure combined) that includes stops in China, Vietnam, South Africa, Zanzibar, Botswana, Greece, and South America. Her accounts bounce between informative and hilarious--and both at once. Case in point: a traveling w/ one person for a long time-/cramped quarters-induced fit of rage involving Playtex javelins (or cardboard-encrusted missiles--take your pick, K uses both), documented here.
Oh, and I should mention... Hippos! All her pictures are amazing.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
instructions for dancing
I have one James Goldsmith to thank for my unabashed infatuation w/ the Magnetic Fields (see 'em? they're there). Because it was a great many moons ago, after an evening spent at Beth & James', that David lit up the stereo, the room, the apartment, the city, my whole life--w/ a disc that hasn't since slipped from my personal top 5 (3?). Oh, Holiday. My first love was "Desert Island," which soon gave way to "Deep Sea Diving Suit," which never gave way to anything though "Strange Powers" and "Take Ecstasy w/ Me," at times, came dangerously close. As we stood doing whatever (making dinner, if memory serves) in the kitchen of that old Ballard beauty (that black & white checked bathroom, those skylights, the space the space the space), a strange new sound filled the room/my ears. And boy did I like it. "What? Who's this?" "Uh, Magnetic Fields. Borrowing it from James." I don't know, I must've gotten in a "why am I just now finding out about this?" to which I must've received a "because you don't know good music" (heh, sore point). Anyway, suffice it to say, life'd be less lustrous w/o staggering quantities of MF in my music library (for one, a particularly juvenile stalker-story wouldn't have found its way into the archives, which'd, I think, be a shame), and so thanks--those who know/knew.
The Town Hall show was on Saturday--their third of four. At my side, Doug and David; in my heart, hope (no Distortion/all 69, no Distortion/all 69). And whadaya know--hope was not for naught. The lineup:
01 "Wasps' Nests" (The 6ths)
02 "No one Will Every Love You"
03 "California Girls"
04 "The Abandoned Castle Of My Soul" (The Gothic Archies)
05 "The Nun's Litany"
06 "I Looked All Over Town"
07 "Epitaph For My Heart"
08 "I Don't Believe You"
09 "Dreams Anymore"
10 "The Little Ukulele"
11 "All Dressed Up In Dreams" (The 6ths)
12 "Zombie Boy"
13 "Papa Was A Rodeo"
14 "Take Ecstasy With Me"
15 "Courtesans"
16 "Crows Everywhere" (The Gothic Archies)
17 "Too Drunk To Dream"
18 "The Book Of Love"
19 "No River" (Future Bible Heroes)
20 "Drive On, Driver"
21 "What A Fucking Lovely Day!" (Merritt tune from Showtunes)
22 "Yeah! Oh, Yeah!"
23 "It's Only Time"
24 "Three-Way"
25 "As You Turn To Go" (The 6ths)
26 "Grand Canyon"
I mean, Epitaph? Rodeo? Book of Love? Yikes, the goodness was almost too thick to absorb. Though I'd seen Rodeo live once before, both it and Book of Love sounded especially vital this time around. Just so pretty and brave. Sadly, though others seemed approving, I found Ecstasy to be a bit of a letdown--piano-heavy and w/ Shirley, not SM, at the helm. Just a different song this way. And, and, and... Grand Canyon. Gulp. This is, I dare say, my favorite of favorites, so it goes w/o saying that I couldn't have imagined a better finale. The only thing better would've been if it had come as a surprise. (Damn bloggers, posting setlists from prior shows. And, okay, damn me for seeking them out.)
What else... I don't know, the Distortion stuff was alright (live, they went sans fuzz/feedback in favor of succinct melodies & lyrics), though I firmly hold that Merritt's writing's not up to snuff this time around. Feels kinda lazy. And the Claudia/Stephin back-and-forth was predictably cute/witty/cranky, though w/ a few too many Muppet references in my opinion.
Again, spotlight on the early years, as I suppose is generally the case...
More/better.
studies
I like this picture: Cafe Regular, my neighborhood. Though Pan & I dug certain elements (all exposed brick, antique furnishings, rustic feel), its tiny size made personal conversation difficult, and those old schoolhouse desks, while sweet, don't convey much warmth/coziness. Onwards. (We're planning a WV survey, once I'm tucked into my new living quarters.)
Run, pause: classic shot of BK Bridge/Financial District.
One of my favorite parts--nay, my favorite part--of running across the Manhattan Bridge is when the apartments of Chinatown come into (close) view. At one point, your line of vision is on par w/ top-story windows, and I love the glimpses of small scenes unfolding--people at the sink washing dishes, cooking over the stove, chatting on cell phones...
Chinese New Year proceedings were still underway on this day: I caught some dragon dancing (sortof visible in the distance), also seen hours earlier on my way into the city.
Chinatown on the w/e is nutty--just so much clamor. The day before this, while running to the WV to check out that (my) studio, I'd gotten an earlyish start--like 8:30 or so. And it was amazing, how much was already happening. The bakeries had lines, the produce and fish markets leaked people and smells, hair salons were in full tilt (at 9 a.m. on a Saturday??)... 
Second-favorite. Incredible in person.
Roche-Wolbrink
At the annual Roche-Wolbrink Oscar party. Ashley gets a tatt: tears, three. 
Aw, second home, as of late.
C. Wolbrink was one of several who devoured my crack-popcorn mix/contribution (salted nuts, dried cranberries, melted white chocolate...). Best smiler I know.
Same flat, different night, w/ pig...
Wha??
Shuga
4-pack, minus one. They came from here (Sunday's running destination of several weeks back), and they pretty much delivered. Cake lacked the perfect amount of spring, and the frosting was a wee bit sweet, but they're damn cute, huh? And they come in so many flavors... Oh, and I love the way their bakers wield an icing tool (knife? spatula? whatevs), love how it comes out all wavy and dense... 
Now these, these are all mine. (Send Tupperware?) Made 'em for D's daughter's first birthday party (an actual order! my first), and though the requested princess accessories (sugar crowns, wands, castles) evaded me, good ol' fashioned sprinkles (jimmies, whatevs) apparently went over well enough.
Vegan-everything. Except, I guess, the sprinkles?
For Doug's 30th. Frosting's white/vanilla, not lavender as suggested. This was maybe the finest batch I've cranked out to date, the cake springy and moist, and just rich enough, chocolate-wise. They were best kept chilled, as exposure to room temperature made a small mess of that frosting...
These just were not very cool. (Do I need to say?) They came from here, and that frosting was totally Duncan Hines. Not automatically all-bad, but paired w/ cake that was just alright and an alarming marketing campaign (right above their bakery case is a giant poster ad depicting a heaving Philly Cheesesteak, a food item which happens to be peddled one narrow counter over), it kinda was.