Friday, April 29, 2005
I'm seeing...
Stars. Oh wait, it was two nights ago that Pea and I trekked to Bowery Ballroom for our first NY show. The venue's nice and spacious, although drinks are godawfully expensive ($5 for a 12-ounce Bud? Chh). So the Montreal-based Stars are dreamy, much like the real thing (which, btw, I have yet to see in my NY sky). Pea and I have been looping "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" ever since.
Afterward, we went a bit out of our way to visit a new staple: a falafel place called "Falafel" or something. It's proven itself, it's good. Also, the guy who works there, pretty rough around the edges (and who wouldn't be at the end of a 12+ hr shift?) w/ a just-perceptible sense of humor, we like. This time, the joke was on me: Pea had already ordered (the falafel sammich, what else?), and I was on my way to screwing up, seeking "something new this time," which as everyone knows, is just dumb. (If it's not broken/Why change a good thing/etc.) I placed my order: "The spinach roll, please." Funny man: "Cheese w/ that?" Me: "No thanks, no cheese." FM: "So, two spinach, one cheese." Me: "Uh, one spinach, no cheese." FM: Two spinach, one cheese, one no cheese?" Me: Oh, uh, no. One... (you get the idea). FM: [winking at Pea, unbeknownst to moi] "One w/ cheese for me, one w/o for you." Me: "Ohhh. Yeah, yeah." Hee, I'm slow.
I just discovered that, in NY, McDonald's has wi-fi. Filet-O-Fish + Internet = tres bien. Shoot me now.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
I'm still crying
Do yourself a very large favor and pick up Dan Chaon's You Remind Me of Me. (Thank ya mucho, A, for introducing me to this rockstar writer, btw.) Eternal Sunshine fans will esp enjoy, as will those who liked the idea of Tom Perrotta's Little Children but found it to be sorely lacking in realism (read: buyable characters). Man that bugged me.
Among other things, Chaon describes life in a slow, sleepy Midwest town--the result is striking. Turning pages, I felt a vague, bittersweet longing creep in, and a kind of grogginess I haven't known for awhile. Ten years old, summer dusk, Flinstones push-pops, lawnmowers, how it all might have gone differently...
I'll stop now.
It's funny. Although the story contains a lot of sadness, it evokes so much more than that.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Unfriggin' believable, man
I started my mediabistro internship on Tuesday. So far so good. It's a smallish operation, and the mood's laidback. (Jeans to work? In NYC? Score.) I've pretty much kept to myself thus far, but imagine they'll lift me out of my shell sooner or later here. I'm pulling a M-W routine, which means I have today and tomorrow to goof off/write my own stuff. Starting (late) next week, I hope to pick up semi-regular temp work--ideally one- or two-day assignments, and over the weekend if need be. Pea's found a decent agency in Vanguard, so I think I'll start there. (Fingers crossed, however, that I don't end w/ a toothbrush gig. Eek.)
Mediabistro offers various classes and seminars on craft, and they tape-record most every one. Some unfortunate soul transcribes the material, which on average, fills between 30 and 60 pages. Ouch. Whoever does this is pretty good, esp considering the length, but there's invariably a good deal of copyediting that still needs to take place. Enter moi. I spent Tues and Wed editing--the entire time. Ten hrs total, 50-odd pages. Weirdly, I didn't mind this, and actually found it quite entertaining. The speaker/journalist at this particular seminar/Q&A, called "Eight Million Stories in New York," is a regular kick in the pants. More than a little embittered (never been published in NYT, claims disinterest but I'm skeptical), he was full of, er, colorful language, most of which my editor gave me permission to keep in (hey, it's a style-thing). He also had plenty of stories to share--both personal and larger NYC-related. Editing all the while, I read about a fire, c. 1904, that engulfed the General Slocum ferry in flames, killing 1,000+ people; the fires that plagued the Bronx throughout the 60s and 70s; the Guardian Angels, of which the speaker himself was a part... on and on. Say, here's an excerpt, sans edits:
Q: This is all about print. What about websites, pitching websites?
A: Really not respected. I mean, I wrote for Rouse.com, which was like a men's thing, and they actually paid pretty well. After the NASDAQ crash—I mean, I left that alone because 1) they don't pay much, 2) uh… I mean, they're great. I love blogs. But there's no money there so I'm kind of…I look to get paid. And it's not—I mean, it depends, like Slate is good. What's the other one—Salon, I've done stories for them, they're impressive. There's not that many where it would be like, Wow, you know? They're written by one person. But Slate and Salon would be decent. I'm sure there's others. Does anyone know? I don't think it's the greatest thing, besides Slate and Salon, most things are hard copy. I don't like reading long stories on the internet. I can't, my eyes start to hurt. I like hard copy. That's a great question, I just don't really do it. I did it from 99 to 2000 and once the NASDAQ bubble crashed, Playboy closed the house down. I mean, it was great, they were paying a dollar a word and they wanted five stories a week. It was unfriggin' believable. Man, I loved Bill Clinton, I didn't care, he coulda shot someone I woulda voted for him again. But once that Mach of 2000, man, that just—so I'm not sure if you can…Salon paid pretty poorly the last time I wrote for them, and that was in 99. They were not paying that great. And I don't think, it's not as respected as a hard copy. Anyone else? Questions?
I've got a soft spot for non-sequiturs, much as I do for the word *unfriggin'.* Hee.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Hold the cheese, please
I had a slab of the most amazing, 100% vegan, chocolate/orange cake last night. That's all.
S/K: You'd better call me back or, well... well.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Article 5
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Ruggles the Rat
We watched an adorable little rodent (why such a detestable sounding title? no wonder their detestable reputation) yesterday. He/she--I'll call him/her Ruggles--lives in Williamsburg and is quite tame. Ruggles hung out for awhile, scampering in then out then in through the cracked door of a colorfully tagged warehouse. Ruggles even posed for me:
Yeah, so we re-did Williamsburg yesterday afternoon, making our way up then down Bedford Ave. We're seriously considering relocating (eventually) here--it has a real comfortable, neighborhood-y feel to it. Plus, many of its residents are youngish, the apartment bldgs are bright and cheery, and the rent--out from center--is affordable.
This got me laughing: As we made our way, I repeatedly hooked innocent passersby w/ my closed umbrella. I'd be walking along, handle facing downward, and I'd suddenly, inadvertently, stop in my tracks. Confused, I'd attempt another step, only to realize I was trailing someone behind me. I'd hear a noise of surprise as *my catch* protested, upon which I'd turn and smile guiltily: "oh gosh! sorry..." Tehe. Good clean fun--and not even on purpose!
Friday, April 22, 2005
Reeejected!
Take a long walk off a short cliff, McSweeney's.
An Open Letter to the Sixty-Five-Year-Old Man Who Accidentally Knocked My Pen Off the Table then Proceeded to Do the Same, Only Purposely, with My Cellular Phone and My Foldout Map of Manhattan at The Cornelia Street Café Last Saturday Night
Dear Seven-Year-Old Sixty Five Year Old,
I'm new to the area. It's only been five days, but as far as I can tell, your behavior the other night was exceptional. By this I mean that other men of your countenance don't appear to go around disturbing the items (maps, phones, travel-sized bottles of hand lotion, what have you) of young people.
I'm stymied, old guy. The pen is of no consequence (an accident, pure and simple). It's the phone and the map I take issue with. Was it compulsive? Inadvertent follow-up to the initial event? Have you a tic? (If this is the caseI feel badly, and discourage you from reading further.) Or maybe, having noted my youthful presence (the glow in my cheeks, the shine in my eyes), you let your envy get the better of you. Presumably, you too were once vigorous.
Another thought: could've been the booze. If you'll recall, minutes before our exchange you fell backward while attempting to seat yourself. Oh sure, your friends were fast to offer excuse: "You know, these chairs are really unsteady,"they said. But you and I and they all know the truth: you were drunk as the proverbial skunk, old buck, and you bit it, hard. You couldn't even right yourself by your own volition, which had to have been embarrassing. One of your cronies came to the rescue, nearly toppling himself in an effort to heave your generous figure to a (shaky) stand.
Old chap, I can't help but feel a little disillusioned. Maybe you time-worn folks aren't so principled after all, convening in muted places, draining your vodka-sodas and carrying on like sugar-jacked schoolboys.
I hope it's just you.
My grandfather would never,
KJE
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Hired
And now, an update on the job front: I got one! Er, not exactly--it's an internship (mediabistro.com)--but I'm still quite happy about it. It'll offer me more editing experience in addition to the occasional writing op--and it'll look fabulous on my resume. I start Tuesday at 11:30.
Also, had an informational intervu w/ the research editor at Vanity Fair yesterday. I sat across from a one John Banta in his lovely office on the 22nd floor of the Conde Nast bldg, a lovely view of Times Square beckoning on my left. Mr. Banta is one of the freshest, friendliest people I've met since being here--he answered all of my questions and then some, confirming and dispelling myths about the industry. (Don't get pigeon-holed as an editorial assistant, said he; or at least, don't expect upward mobility. Leave your current employer, however, and find better luck at a different magazine/publisher. He could offer no explanation, but: "It's completely illogical." I don't know, maybe some bs about outside perspective, new life sought...)
Then at about the halfway point, Mr. Banta said: "To get to the nuts & bolts of it, I can't offer you anything now, I don't have anything currently available." Um, what? The prospect of actual, real-life employment w/ VF had hardly entered my mind (not that I wouldn't jump at the chance), so I was taken off guard. I recovered. "But I'll definitely keep you in mind. Would you be willing to freelance?" Um, yes I would. "Great then, let's stay in touch."
Good grief that went well. On top of all else, JB provided me w/ some contacts at other magazines where I was hoping to info-intervu--I sent out the appropriate emails today. One of the folks is the lead research editor at The New Yorker. I swear my eyes were big as he insisted "you should really include them; after all, they are the creme de la creme, and you'll learn a lot." Ye'sir.
What w/ all of yesterday's activity, I've been a total slouch today. Time... to... leave... house. Mayhaps we'll head to St. Marks Street for some good ole fashioned people watching....
Sister Hand Grenade of Love?
"Greetings to the Imprisoned Citizens of the United States. We are Unitarian Jihad. There is only God, unless there is more than one God. The vote of our God subcommittee is 10-8 in favor of one God, with two abstentions. Brother Flaming Sword of Moderation noted the possibility of there being no God at all, and his objection was noted with love by the secretary."
Read on: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2005/04/08/DDG27BCFLG1.DTL
[Thanks Susan--this is grrreat!]
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Yummy mommies
"I know I shouldn't be surprised, but it appears that like much else in our culture, motherhood has been given the US Weekly/In Style / Hollywood treatment."
http://www.skirtmag.com/stories/040105/features_mommies.shtmlSomething to chew on. [Ew, sorry. Hate that expression.]
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Banned voices
Pea and I went back to KGB the other night for a reading entitled "Banned Voices," sponsored by PEN World Voices. PEN is an organization dedicated to bringing voice to writers and journalists the world over who are currently threatened or in prison for exercising the right to freely express themselves. Some are in hiding, some officially exiled, others thrown in jail for their words. The evening consisted of eight celebrated writers reading the work of those unable to read for themselves. Egypt, Algeria, China, Iran, Vietnam and Cuba were all represented, and content ranged from stories of attempted escape, calls to action, and plain mourning. One of my favorites was by Chinese poet, Huang Xiang. He was the only writer-of-his-words present, and as he spoke no English, his words were translated by another writer following his delivery of them in Chinese. He read more demonstratively--by far--than anyone I've ever witnessed; it was almost scary. My favorite line began one of his poems: "You look like a big docile sea turtle, China." As he stood, calling on his countrypeople to speak-the-hell-up already, his conviction was enormous. Awesome. Rick Moody and Margaret Atwood, two of my favorite writers, also delivered. Moody's an eccentric, top hat and all, and Atwood's spark really came through. Awesome.
The event, however sobering, made for some great discussion. The strength of the pen is immense, and it's a strength that in many countries is an aggressive threat to the power structure, and is thus frightening and ultimately intolerable. That words on paper are capable of eliciting such intense emotion--be it fear, disgust, sadness or elation--never ceases to amaze me. As a sensitive person, I have been deeply affected by books I've read in the past, and I find it so terrifcally sad that so many are denied exposure--the chance to reach and affect others, the right to exercise their humanity. I want to go to them, pull them away from so much gov't oppression, and take them to a place where people write w/ abandon--outside a jail cell.
There's a new pope in town
So the mediabistro intervu went well. Ms. Singer, my interviewer, put me right at ease. Didn't hurt that she's my age and just damn nice. They're located on the fourth floor of an office bldg in Soho and considering yesterday was quite toasty (at 80, today's toastier yet), after climbing those stairs, I was all asweat. (Tippy: I may have had a minor case of SBS goin' on.) No A/C up there either. Ah well. Their quarters have a certain organic charm--hardwood floors, a 60s-style kitchenette, roomy cubicles... and, a real plus: they dress casually.
Yeah, so wet armpits notwithstanding, I felt great about my performance. She'd asked that I bring some clips along, so I had my neat little manila in hand, wore my neat little suit (tan & light blue--first suit ever), and gave a neat little go. Although I'll lookin' at an unpaid internship, the work itself is really attractive: Not only would I be editing Web content, I'd be contacting agents/editors for interviews (read: establishing connections) and even writing original content if I so desire (I desire). Essays even. Thing is, should I get the job, I probably wouldn't be able to commit to more than three months--and that'd be pushing it. (I'm not sure of the duration of this one; I stoopidly forgot to inquire.) And of course, I'd need to find part-time or temp work in the meantime, and considering the internship is three full days/week, that could be challenging. Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself; no worries yet. I find out early next week, so cross your fingers for moi.
Oh, I've got another lead: Met a guy at last week's conference who works for a paper company. He took my resume and since then we've been corresponding. He works closely w/ Simon & Schuster and Penguin amongst others, and he claims to have passed my resume along to some folks. He also invited me to attend a roundtable mid-May--many house reps will be present. And I believe they're all trade people, whereas that conference was all about digital media/educational materials. It'd have to shell out $55, but I'm thinking it may be worth it (although hopefully I'll at least have some p/t work by then). Then, there's the girl--a new friend, Jill--I met at the bar last Friday, whose papa works for the pub company that does Elle, Woman's Day, Metropolitan Home, etc. She has my resume and seems *certain* she can hook me up. Me, the ever-hopeful.
It actually feels good to blog about this employment stuff--helps me to keep track of things. (I have so many notes, yet they don't seem to find their way to a single location.)
Soon here, maybe even today, I hope to temporarily transcend the work stuff and flex the proverbial creating writing muscles [grunt].
p.s. I have an article in this month's Running Times (national mag!). It can be found at most B&Ns, probably newstands like Steve's on Broadway, too. It's about pee.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Shout out
Also yesterday, as we were making our way to Seventh Ave and a train that would take us way, way up to the Cloisters (never made it), we stopped for a snack at a lively street fair along Broadway. While Pea waited in line for a smoothie, I wandered ahead, pausing at a shoe vendor. I chatted w/ the friendly guy, periodically turning to check on Pea's status. I saw him standing kittycorner and, rather than walk back toward him, I decided to shout (yes, I shout now). "DAVID!" I did this a few times solo, and before I knew it, a handful of surrounding vendors were chiming in. "Where is he?" they asked. "Over there--the green shirt," I pointed. Mr. Shoe climbed atop his chair and started yelling and waving maniacally: "David! DAAAVID! Over here!!" The whole thing totally caught me off guard, and had me in tears--TEARS. Hi-LAR-ious.
David heard, I thanked my accompaniment, and we were on our way.
The shoe, dropped
Yesterday at Central Park...
A shoe lost. De-shoed girl attempts recovery, a kid's fishing pole her chosen tool. Little brother looks on. [Not pictured: Girl's friend tempts fate, inching forward on wet rocks. Fate wins, friend slips, soaking ankles. No shoe.]
Park patrol to the rescue. Girl continues attempted recovery as audience assembles.
Mission accomplished. All in a day's work....
Re-shoed, girl rushes after mom and brother. Pea and k10 smile.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
I'm no mother, but...
Sharon Olds' poems on being a mother (the below is included in an upcoming anthology on motherhood) make me cry, and I'm not even one.
First Thanksgiving
When she comes back, from college, I will see
the skin of her upper arms, cool,
matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old
soupy chest against her breasts,
I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment,
her sleep like an untamed, good object, like a
soul in a body. She came into my life the
second great arrival, fresh
from the other world-which lay, from within him,
within me. Those nights, I fed her to sleep,
week after week, the moon rising,
and setting, and waxing-whirling, over the months,
in a steady blur, around our planet.
Now she doesn't need love like that, she has
had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk,
and then, when she's fast asleep, I'll exult
to have her in that room again,
behind that door! As a child, I caught
bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds,
looked into their wild faces,
listened to them sing,
then tossed them back
into the air-I remember the moment the
arc of my toss swerved, and they entered
the corrected curve of their departure.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Best face forward?
Thank you, Misters Honsey, Freeland and Aigner. You wrote this baby. [Mr. Editor called it *brilliant*--referring exclusively to your ZIRH responses. As he tells it, he once pushed a ZIRH rep, who was trying to sell him on the product, away. Something about its, and I quote, "not-so-vague resemblance to Vaseline" spooked him. You'll say.]
Copyediting's a lost art:
http://www.edgeboston.com/index.php?ch=style&sc=life&sc2=features&sc3=&id=454
We went out last night, and met ourselves some mighty nice folks:
Friday, April 15, 2005
Gone fishin'
On the job front:
Went to eBooks in Education Conference yesterday. Networked. Handed out roughly a half dozen resumes, targeting reps of Random House, McGraw-Hill, Houghton Mifflin, Thomsen and a few others. Good exercise for moi, as I basically had to walk right up to folks with nametag-appeal and introduce myself. This is not easy for me, usually, although a few intros in, something akin to confidence crowded out my inhibition, making for a productive day. The conference itself was also worthwhile; I listened as speakers highlighted the latest in eBook technology, including eBooks via television sets—designed for folks w/o home computers. My skepticism was at least partially quelled, as presenters insisted that, no, they aren’t seeking to crowd out my dear print books, only providing viable alternatives. Anyway, I suppose we’ve been headed in this direction for years now. I spoke w/ a woman who mentioned her four-year-old nephew who struggles in reading print media due to immediate online exposure—tutorials and the like. Not that I was overjoyed to hear this, as I consider the print experience—the smell and feel of the pages, the history of the medium, a girl a book and a park bench—impossible to parallel, but what to do? The switch has been flipped, and we’re not going backwards. Still, somewhat encouraging to hear about what these companies are doing to preserve *the experience*--i.e., book-like formats, in lieu of PDAs and smart phones, complete w/ soft leather covers and high reflectivity so one can read outside w/ ease. Ar, I see.
Also: Have a few things set up for next week, including an interview w/ mediabistro.com re: an (unpaid) internship I applied for, some informational interviews (Bazaar, Vanity Fair, Jane), and a whole lotta hope. Please please.
On the unjob front:
Pea and I went to a couple of readings early in the week—one at KGB (bar) that wasn’t good, another at Cornelia Street Café that was half-good. One guy—editor of Somerset (sp) Lit Review—read a list he’d composed: “Things I Don’t Understand.” These struck me: “Why the thesaurus contains so many synonyms for ‘terrible.’” “The criteria cancer uses in choosing people.”
On Sunday, we'll hear Margaret Atwood and Rick Moody.
Oh. My. Gawd.
In about an hour, we’re—really this time—going to Brooklyn (Williamsburg, Carroll Gardens, maybe Park Slope). High hopes.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
We live next to the Philip Xavier Phlebotomy Training School
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Job dissatisfaction
Yesterday, making (read: trudging) my way up six flights of stairs, I paused after clearing the fourth. I heard this:
"Ohhh... I hate my job, I haaate it!" woman wailed--wailed. "I am so FRUStrated. And so tired, just sooo tired."
I heard a more subdued voice, male I believe, respond, although I couldn't discern words.
"I hate it there, I HATE IT! I'm 41. I have been working for so many years, and I'm just so tiiired."
More response, still male, still undiscernable. Faceless woman continued in the same fashion; I left her mid-wail. Okay, so I was sort of eavesdropping, but I couldn't help myself. The desperation, the sheer misery, apparent in this woman's voice was so palpable--haunting, even. I've thought of her since.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Connection sought
Woo it's late. Tonight, after bungling yet another reading (er, wrong neighborhood), this one by the guy who wrote Rats: Observations on the History and Habitat of the City's Most Unwanted Inhabitants (want it!), Pea and I set out to find a wi-fi enabled Internet cafe, any wi-fi enabled Internet cafe. Seems there's a shortage of these (why? thanks to crappy coffee/few indie coffee houses?), although a number of bars appear equipped. But it was java we sought, so the hunt was on.
Going off a tip from a dude at Pick Me Up Cafe on Avenue A (cute, but slooow connection), we ended up at Drink Me Cafe (www.drinkmecafe.com), which I think is just fine. We closed the place down tonight, and although I imagine this'll happen from time to time, I'm predicting earlier starts in our near future. I don't know, there's something about starting one's day at 4:30 in the aftynoon--one's day outside of one's apt anyway--that throws a girl off. Not that such a girl is being lazy--she's applying for jobs, after all--she just craves the movement below, a change of scenery, something to remind her that, yes, she is a part of the living, breathing, sweating, shouting, swearing human race, if only sort of. A fitting quote: "To be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul.... A human being has roots by virtue of his real, active, and natural participation in the life of the community, which preserves in living shape certain particular treasures of the past and certain particular expectations for the future." --Simone Weil, The Need of Roots
Speaking of jobs, I have a few leads (fingers on left hand crossed). My uncle has a colleague in the publishing industry--a pretty well-connected guy. He's invited me to attend a conference on e-books/digital learning, which will take place this Thursday. Sounds like I'll work the registration desk early on, then just sit in/walk around and network, hand out resumes and biz cards, that sorta thing. Word has it that all the big house execs'll be there, so dear gawd, it'll be no time to be shy. Note to self: check that shht at the door. Also, I may have an opportunity w/ New York Road Runners; I applied for an online editor position there a week ago, and turns out a Metro Sports editor I've worked w/ in the past has a few contacts. He's allegedly been in touch, although says he hasn't gotten a response. I called HR today and found out they're just now going thru resumes. If I hear back at all, it'll be relatively soon. Please please please--won't someone take me on. Taaake ooon meee...take on me...taaake meee ooon... Enough.
Lastly, we embraced Fresh Direct (cheap-fresh-fast groc deliv) for the very first time today, and man, what an embrace it was. 1.49 knishes, .79/lb org bananers, 2.00 boxes of Health Valley cereal... our FD delivers in more ways than one. I mean, the love. The love! We'll never eat out again. Unless.
Tomorrow, Brooklyn. 
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Marathoning on my mind
There are 28,000 acres of non-concrete jungle with your name on it. That's 614 ball fields, 919 playgrounds and 14 miles of beaches. So, run for Van Cortlandt where you can hear the Bronx accent bounce from the oak trees. Run for Corona Park in Queens were you can tackle miles without seeing a single Greek restaurant. Run for Greenbelt where it's easy to forget your treadmill. Run for all 1,700 New York parks by running one four-mile loop in Central Park. And if you're fast enough, you'll finish without one person asking to paint your portrait.
Okay, so it's courtesy of a Nike ad, but it's working for me.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Ooh-la-la
We said goodbye to The Infamous Doctor E-ho Mlle. ten minutes ago. He stayed w/ us the last two nights, and boy what a treat. The three of us discovered the best cheap Thai ever--less than 10 blocks south of us. Edamame for 1.95? Get outta town. The next day, we walked to/thru Chelsea (Big Cup = fantastic espresso w/ a great indie coffeehouse vibe + plenty of E-ho opportunists) and W. Village (pet stores galore, one in which we witnessed a four-pup pileup--a teensy daschund at the mercy of a few wily terriers). Come sundown, E and I experienced the magisk of Tori Amos Live. It was the first time I'd seen her perform, and I was impressed--and a bit tearful. She sang "Yes, Anastasia," which she'd apparently never performed live, and as it's one of my favorites, I was much pleased. Erik was, it goes w/o saying, wowed; in fact, he proceeded to glow all the way to Slipper Room, our next and final destination. It was there we met up w/ Pea and some new-to-us folks, Shayna's Jen included (we love her, S!) and sat down for an hour and a half of spirited burlesque. A real kick, it was.
This morning found E-ho and I, croissant and coffee in hand, perched on my front stoop. While I'll miss that guy, it won't be long before he's the proud renter of a lovely W. Village studio (please?) and enjoying many a pastry w/ yours truly.
Oui oui.
i_like_my_men_cute.jpg
Pidge
We have a new friend, and his name—Pidge. Pidge is a pigeon, one we describe as small and fat, whereby we mean small head, fat body. Although we haven’t exactly seen Pidge, this is how we’ve chosen to describe him. Pidge’s primary means of communicating w/ us is *oh-oo-oor* and we think that by *oorhh!* he tells us he’s alarmed, maybe even a little scared. A couple of Pidge’s buddies were hanging out on our fire escape today, and apparently they felt some kind of kinship w/ us, as they were carrying on right next to the window. It was playtime, we figured, considering all the amicable nudging that was going on. We followed suit, hoping to engage them a little. Doing our very best to mimic their antics—me butting Pea’s chest, Pea moving his lowered head back and forth across my face—we succeeded. Both heads cocked in our direction, they appeared more than mildly interested. Yes! Maybe they’ll come back for more play tomorrow.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Rat candy
Yesterday was relaxing. We slept in a bit, then tried to walk/ride to Battery Park to catch a glimpse of Ms. Liberty. (Another sunny-and-68-type day, thank you.) However, twasn't in the stars, as our train rode us clear out to Brooklyn. (Not that we were many stops in before realizing our flub. See, the train's map and our own, turns out, are glaringly out of sync. Phoey.) Anyway, twas no matter, as we took the opportunity to enter Manhattan via the Brooklyn foot-bridge. The view: in-effin-credible (images below). While in Brooklyn for all of ten minutes, we noted the nice neighborhood-y feel and vowed to reconsider it as a future dwelling place. Hmm.
Later that evening, Pea was downed by an almost-migraine, thus I went back to Happy Ending alone. Steve Almond (writes for Nerve, wrote Candyfreak) read and another candy-pumped duo read-slash-demo'd. Before our very eyes, little choco-peanut butter *pods* surfaced, and were later sampled out. I do like my candy, esp when it's brown. Yum.
Also, saw my first-since-I've-been-here rat while walking to an les-bound train, if only its icky tail. He looked beige as he darted between fence and dumpster. Ook. Funny, 'cause I was sure my first sighting would occur in a subway tunnel, but nuh-uh--the rat hunts that Pea and I first instigated during our last visit here have proven fruitless. Too much rodenticide.
Yay: I just finished an EDGE Boston story + sent a person profile submission to Seattle Magazine. Seattle, my not-home. #:-/
Now for some playtime. After a run, I think Pea and I may seek out some grossries.
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Tuesday, April 05, 2005
A picture's worth 1000 (or 10) words
So the last few days were chock-full of fantastic. Longtime friend Erin and I literally hit every neighborhood in Manhattan, and with bizarre amounts of energy. As there's just too-too much to recount, I'll let my pictures do the talkin'. (Love you, E--lists and all!)
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Now my heart is full
It’s sunny and 65, and I’m sitting on a concrete step in front of an apt building off First Avenue. I have a cup of soft serve in hand: quiet observer of the moment. It’s lunch hour, and I watch players of corporate America pass by, toasty in dark suits with briefcases swinging at their sides. Next, two military reservists, toastier in thick, starchy uniforms; a pair of women, chatty and cool in bright ribbed tank tops; an older lady shuffling past in slippers and a muumuu, pushing a metal cart brimming with plastic bags; a dozen junior high cross-country runners, joking and throwing elbows en route to the East River Trail; a dad pushing a stroller, kid obscured; a 20-something couple, cute in long bangs and aviator shades; a kind-eyed man progressing at a leisurely pace, slowing to tip his cap. Many are smiling, and in such pleasant conditions, it’s hard to imagine not. Since my arrival, this is the first time I’ve felt truly relaxed.
Fast-forward 30 minutes: I’m sitting on a park bench, sun on my cheeks, magazine spread. I’m skimming pages when a bouncy four year old, cheeks streaked with dirt, approaches me. “I just got the Thomas the Tank Engine movie! Do you know about magical dust?” I shake my head. “I don’t. What is it?” The little dude starts gushing excitedly, so much so that I’m lucky to make out every fifth word. Without explanation, he rushes off to “go get some magic dust,” returning seconds later with a handful of yellow flowers. “Do you have a bank at home?” I repeat the question in hopes of clarification. His mom offers some in the form of “he means a piggy bank.” After extracting a promise from me (“sure I’ll save it in my piggy bank”), he rattles off more plot, confessing to fast-forwarding past a particularly scary part. His mom inserts the occasional commentary, and I instantly like her when I hear this: “Honey, it’s time to pack up and go. I told you I’d give you an art class before dinner, remember?” [I think back to yesterday afternoon, when E and I were in Zabar’s, chichi market on the Upper West Side: “I think we’ll have leeks for dinner.” “But Moooommeeee, I hate leeks!”] Five minutes later, without mommy-prompting, I’m greeted with a giant kid-hug, followed by a sweet little kiss on the mouth, dirt streaks and all. Then I hear this: “My name is Louis.” I respond, “Hi Louis. It was fun talking to you. Thanks for the magic dust.” Louis: “What’s your name?” Me: “I’m Kristen. Maybe I’ll see you here tomorrow, huh?” Louis: “Yeah, ok.” Louis’ mom: “Probably.”
Aw.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Wet blanket
Eight o'clock this morning. Doorbell chimes repeatedly. I bolt out of bed. Doorbell chimes repeatedly. I yell "hold on a sec!" Doorbell chimes repeatedly. I scramble to dress. Doorbell chimes repeatedly. I shriek something.
It's the 80-year-old Russian lady who lives directly below us in 4C, in full-fledged morning garb: silk robe, velcro rollers and puffy eyes. She's just *stopping by* to find out whether we've contacted the super in regard to the heavy stream of water--courtesy of Pea's shower--that doused her yesterday afternoon. Actually, I had, and the response had been: "Tell her to call me in the morning. She needs to call me." The whole exchange had hinted at prior history, that perhaps the super considers our downstairs neighbor one of those complainer types. But as Pea & I will attest, leaky ceilings = no picnic.
So I relayed his request, wrote down his number for her, and off she shuffled, trailing thank yous.
Here's to hoping we're able to wash ourselves today. In the meantime, friend Erin and I are off to the Chelsea Flea Market--and I need to caffeinate.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Mmm, nuts. And a rancid wad of meat.
Of all the glorious smells to be sniffed in this glorious City, the roasted nuts peddled by street vendors take the cake. (Not that the Italian delis w/ their rich, heady olives, sundried tomatoes and fresh-baked Tuscan bread don't offer up some stiff competition.) Wandering past the sweet & spicy, vanilla-tipped scent means my nose is invariably left behind the rest of my face as I, still walking, turn to savor the departing smell. Half the time, this elicits a loud sigh or a "hey!" as I narrowly avoid smacking into some passerby.
Word has it that smell overtakes taste in this instance; I'll find out.
On another note, I have a new story--an intervu--up here: http://www.flakmag.com/features/athf2.html. Gotta love that little dude.