Monday, August 29, 2005
As if
As an ex-Seattle resident, it's funny to hear what tenured NY'ers have to say about our (your?) lovely little Emerald City. Today at work, I overhead this auditor talking w/ one of our VPs--the one I support actually. She (VP) was actually in Seattle last week, first time she'd been. She loved loved loved it--the water, the Market, Kell's... She was going on about how she couldn't wait to go back, then auditor-lady cut in. "They're an interesting people, it's an interesting place. It's funny, you'll see them in flip-flops and khakis, just off their boats and on their way to one of those nice waterfront restaurants. And it's totally acceptable--you can pretty much wear anything, you don' t have to get dressed up to go out like you do here."
Um, excuse me? Ok, so maybe there's some truth to that, but still it bugged. Especially since VP had just mentioned that, 'oh, K's from Seattle!' How dare she pass judgement on my (your?) town in my presence. And the way she was talking, like Seattleites breath different air. Oh wait, they do--the clean kind.
(Tssh, she's probably been there twice.)
It is pretty funny, though, the experiences VP chooses to share w/ others. She's brought up Hemp Fest several times (is that what it's called? that deal in Myrtle Edwards Park?), like, 'oh, those nutty, freewheelin' Seattle types. so funny, they are!' At least I haven't heard any references to dirty hippies--not yet anyway.
Oh, and she'd never heard of Alaska Airlines! Once I'd booked her a flight, I ran the itinerary by her and she was like 'what? who are they?' Too much time in Europe, poor thing.
Response to an email I sent to a woman in our Finnish office in which I asked about the *silent Finn* stereotype
Hi K,
Sounds interesting! Perhaps you will get an opportunity to visit us sometime in the future. You might even like it. :-) We are really a rather quiet and shy people, but not all of us. And with the help of some beers or vodka most men gain enough courage to go and talk to the women. Otherwise we would be doomed to extinction!
Terkkuja,
A
Tehe.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
We went to the beach!
At long last. I had a grand old time at Rockaway Beach yesterday, the first time I'd laid eyes on the glittering Atlantic--at least from up close. Oh wait, there was the Coney Island trip, although somehow that doesn't seem to count. Anyway, the weather was perfecto--sunny, blue, and 80--and it wasn't spilling over w/ shrieking kiddos. Not that I mind them all that much, but I was craving a little quietude. Which I got.
Highlights:
- Running barefoot on the beach, sidetepping the occasional sand-buried kid and dozens of dead jellyfish (so pretty! like brand new silver dollars) as I went. The little blobs served as adornment for several half-baked sand castles, I noticed. One kid had put together a sort of mosaic made up of about 20 of them.
- Watching in awe as hundreds of tiny clams (razor?) were stirred up by the surf, then as it receded, dug their way back beneath the sand. Amazing!
- Jumping waves! And only getting pummeled by a couple.
- No land as far as the eye could see...
- And later, Of Montreal at North Sixth.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Why it was not my day
Mid-afternoon Cheez-Its craving: Run to vending machine (mailroom), insert two quarters. Hit A, hit 4. Pocket change, grab crackers. Set crackers aside, take quick bathroom break. Return to mailroom three minutes later, three minutes later, to find crackers had apparently sprouted legs and gotten the hell out. (The office was all but e-m-p-t-y today, making petty thievery highly unprobable. But obviously, a reality.) Frustrated and wanting, insert last two quarters into machine. A, 4... Cheez-Its become stuck on interior ledge. I am not supposed to have these.
But I do anyway, once a sympathetic coworker kicks the shet out of the thing, thereby delivering the neon-orange, preservative-stacked squares to my waiting hands.
Worth the fuss, though.
I can't come up w/ a title
From Dorothy Parker's Clothe the Naked (Raymond's blind, around 7 yrs old):
"When they were gone, Raymond would start on his walk to the end of the street. He guided himself by lightly touching the broken fences along the dirt sidewalk, and as he walked he crooned little songs with no words to them. Some of the men and women at the windows would say hello to him, and he would call back and wave and smile. When the children, forgetting him, laughed again at their games, he stopped and turned to the sound as if it were the sun."
Laughter as the sun R couldn't see. Beautiful.
Such is my latest reading material. Enjoying J's copy of Dorothy Parker: Complete Stories, her silly/desperate/agonized/pitiful protagonists--"Hobie," she said, "is there a livery stable anywhere around here where they rent wild horses?" ... "Because if there is," she said, "I wish you'd call up and ask them to send over a couple of teams. I want to show you they couldn't drag me into asking who that was on the telephone"--as they struggle to uphold proper dating etiquette, which is essentially the same as today's, just not as fought-against. Don't show too much interest early on, don't ask about the others, you know. I have a few early favorites, one being Sentiment, which is about a woman prone to long and frequent bouts of sentimentality, something her friends insist is foolish: "You wouldn't catch me sitting alone and mooning." But our woman doesn't understand why everyone around her seems to shun feeling, blocking it out in favor of what shall I wear? and who to invite to dinner? This woman, forever hung up on an old flame, sees signs of him everywhere, thus she's constantly got an eye to the past. She's often overtaken by emotion, be it w/ regard to her own life or others' lives she glimpses--on the sidewalk, in a cab, wherever--and she's ever-curious about her impact on others, about how she affects others on an emotional level. "I wonder what she thought when our eyes and our lives met."
When our eyes and our lives met: certainly a lot to that. In a city crawling w/ a gazillion people, there are endlessly many of these chance, fleeting meetings day in and day out. Impressions are so fast, conclusions insubstantial. It can be fun to guess, to pretend to begin to know someone, although for highly sensitive types, the resulting frame of mind can weigh heavy.
Eek. It makes my head spin to think about all the psychology running around Manhattan. Financial ease/woes, love gone right/wrong, family, politics, sex, death, guilt... I'll stop. But really, what psychic energy the city has to offer!
Do visit.
No-win
Frustrating: I've been at this job (open-ended temp assignment) for almost a month now, and it's just not doing it. I mean, I really had no choice but to take it--the whole $-thing and all--but damn if I'm not having a time of it. I struggle to find adequate motivation most days, yet end up feeling like crap when I let the occasional ball drop (most recent drop: this a.m. when I was reminded about a semi-important doc I forgot to collect sigs on before faxing to payroll). Seriously, I feel really bad about this, yet apparently not bad enough to get my butt in gear and focus more closely on my responsibilities. No, instead I choose to search PubMed for RW inspiration, site-hop, email... Arg.
Positions like mine irk me. Taking phone calls, opening mail, FedEx'ing packages, making restaurant reservations, etc., etc., etc. for people who matter, for people viewed as more than mere numbers, makes me a bit bitter, I'll be honest. I have my own interests/cares, and they extend beyond serving others' handsomely paid careers, however much these others need the help. I know I sound like a hopeless complainer, and I'm also aware of the vast number of jobs far, far worse and worthier of complaint than mine, but man will I be relieved when I finally enter the editorial world. Of course, if I end up an editorial asst to start, that'll require the same brand of work I'm doing now, but at least the potential for (desirable) future work'll be there. It's not here.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
I miss my Cabbage Patch Kid
"Radio frequency tags in [Amazing] Amanda's accessories - including toy food, potty and clothing - wirelessly inform the doll of what it is interacting with. For instance, if the doll asks for a spoon of peas and it is given its plastic cookie, it will gently admonish its caregiver, telling her that a cookie is not peas."
Can they do no better than *Amazing Amanda*? Forget the fact that she threatens the imaginations of kids everywhere--in the very least she deserves a better title. Astonishing Amanda, Awesome Amanda, Awe-Inspiring Amanda (my personal fav). Anything's better than Amazing.
Also courtesy of Planet Dan
This:
Uh, yuck?
I'm all for chalices, but...
um.
Unique home decor or unique display of narcissism?
*tip-off courtesy of this dude, whose blog is a routine must-read. Funny stuff.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
To do
In perusing my favorite NYC author events site, I find this:
8/24 - Patrick Swayze, actor and dancer and Lisa Niemi signing the DVD One Last Dance (not a book, but it is Patrick Swayze, after all). 7:00 PM. Borders Books Time-Warner Center, 10 Columbus Cir. 212.823.9775
My am I tempted.
This, too:
10/11 - (children) Gloria Estefan , Latin cross-over singer and author of Magically Mysterious Adventures of Noelle, the Bulldog. 7:00 PM. Barnes & Noble Lincoln Triangle, 1972 Broadway at 66th St. 212.595.6859.
Just what the world of children's lit needs: another Madonna/Will Smith/LeAnn Rimes/Dolly Parton et al. Wondrous. Unfortunate that this genre is so tough for unheard-of's, however talented, to crack. Ah, the upside of fame.
No but seriously. Look who's coming up. Hope to make it to a least a couple...
*9/7 - Aimee Bender, author of Willful Creatures: Stories. 7:00 PM. Barnes & Noble Astor Place, 4 Astor Pl.
*9/14 - Jane Smiley, author of Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Novel. 7:30 PM. Barnes & Noble Upper West Side, 2289 Broadway at 82nd St.
*9/15 - Salman Rushdie, author of The Satanic Verses, and now Shalimar the Clown. 7:00 PM. Barnes & Noble Union Square, 33 East 17th St.
*9/20 - Neil Gaiman, graphic novelist and author of The Anansi Boys. 6:00 PM. Barnes & Noble Union Square, 33 East 17th St.
*10/10 - Joan Didion, author of The Year of Magical Thinking. 7:30 PM. Barnes & Noble Union Square, 33 East 17th St.
*10/11 - Adam Gopnik , writer for the New Yorker and author of The King in the Window. 7:30 PM. Barnes & Noble Upper West Side, 2289 Broadway at 82nd St.
*10/18 - Amy Tan, author of The Joy Luck Club and now, Saving Fish from Drowning. 7:00 PM. Barnes & Noble Union Square, 33 East 17th St.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
I was so thinking 42 and 7!
The other day, Pea and I tripped out to Grand Central for a little Junior's Cheesecake action (never happened, too much dinner). While in a bathroom stall, I overheard a scintillating conversation. It went something like this:
Little voice: My new Build-A-Bear sure is cute, isn't he?
Bigger voice: He really is.
LV: I can't decide what to name him. At first I was thinking Toot but now I'm not sure.
BV: Hmm. Yes.
LV: I mean, I was thinking Pigtails would make a good name, too. What do you think? Toot & Whistle [presumably a companion B-A-B] or Pigtails & Whistle? Toot & Whistle sound really good together, but I like Pigtails...
BV: Yeah, I don't know. Toot & Whistle is awfully cute...
Washing my hands, I watched the pair--a 70ish-year-old woman and a 40ish one--vacate their stall. Both appeared sound in mind. But I don't know.
I'm all for assisting the elders, mothers and otherwise, but the conversation threw me.
I have nothing to do at work today.
Diamonds & 'betes
The other week I was invited to attend a taping of this. I received the invitation thanks to the fact that I applied for a job (writing script) for dLife a few months back. I didn't get the job, obviously, but apparently they liked my credentials (writer/editor/marathoner) enough to keep me on their radar. They asked that I come by, meet the staff, blah blah. Anyway, I showed up the requisite half hour early (nothing short of amazing, *cough*), made the introductions, and hung around eating cheddar cubes and turkey chunks before the show's start. It wasn't a live taping, and the whole deal took a lot longer than anticipated, taking into account takes two and three and sometimes four. I suppose it was worthwhile; I got some new information, and I was certainly left w/ thoughts I'd visited many times prior--foremost, the *glamourizing* of chronic disease. And not the show per se (incidentally, on diabetes and pregnancy w/ 1999's diabetic Miss America as co-host), but a handout that was given me during. It advertised a program/endeavor called Divabetic, and beyond the fact that the term diva is totally eye-rollable, the concept of, again, glamourizing diabetes just strikes me as odd. Admittedly, in further researching their agenda, they call for a "bold, sassy personae and stance to dealing with diabetes"; so, a sort of all-out, brazen, diva-like approach to managing one's disease. Still, the imagery's there. Hey, it may work for some, but for me personally, it just doesn't do anything. My diabetes isn't something I'm especially fond of, let alone proud of, and smearing on a little lipstick will never change that. Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of myself/feel good when I'm on top of my game, d management-wise, but I guess I just don't feel the need to glam it up any. Maybe that'll change? I don't know, but for now the effort doesn't much reach me. Although again, it obviously does others, which is fantastic.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Love lost
I'm struggling to come to terms w/ the fact that I've lost a good deal of love for some writing I've been plugging away at, off and on, for a few months now. It's a piece of journalism, albeit not in the strictest sense--not like it should be, considering the publications I've geared it towards. The topic is one that's close to my heart, which is I think where I went wrong. I mean, wrong in that I've let my heart/opinion get in the way of a logical presentation of opposing (legitimate) viewpoints. In fact, I believe I exaggerated a few *realities* in hopes of defending my cause. Nothing farfetched, but still, it'd feel like a farce in the end, I know it. (Ahem, were I able to convince anyone to publish it, which I wouldn't.)
Frustrating, this. Generally by now, the edges would be crisper, the voice clearer. But this story, however myopic, just has too much going on, too much *idea creep* as my friend Sarah calls it. It's all over the place. (Remember that Bangles album? Anyone??) And I can't get far enough out of it to write it--that is, unless I make it into a strict opinion piece, which just isn't what I set out to do. Thinking about the time I put into it--the interviews, the Web research--it kind of makes me ill. But this is when it becomes really important to remember why I write at all, which is, among other reasons, to improve, to learn. In this case, I'm seeing the risk I run, the difficulty, in attempting to neatly box up a complex subject that both moves and baffles me. I won't allow myself to consider the time as wasted.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Thanks to Nicole for directing me to this. Neat to compare the degree of change this city has seen from then to now, block depending.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Dismissed
Early into today's a.m. run, I experienced a phenomenom (sic, on purpose, intended to rhyme w/ kanomanom) that's become fairly routine, esp on Saturdays, since we moved to W-burg.
As I mentioned in a previous post, this particular part of the 'hood is home to a large Hasidic population, and it's been interesting observing their various traditions: mode of dress, social interaction, etc. But the phenomenom, a behavior that's been esp impactful, is the way the men respond to approaching (non-Hasidic) women, which is to blatantly shield their eyes. I'd read about this prior to the first time I experienced it, that it's a gesture of respect to their wives, but still, it threw me.
Pea and I were shopping at a nearby market. Moseying down an aisle, we neared a 40-something Hasidic man and as soon as he caught sight of me, he cast his gaze down and to the left. A very obvious shift. At first I didn't think much of it, but when it happened a second, then a third time, I had to pause. It was bizarre, the impression the action left on me, and it continues to affect me each time it happens. Like I said, it's most evident on Saturdays, when they stream out of their apts en route to synagogue. And it's not like it matters what one is wearing--be it a sports bra and running shorts or a regular old shirt and long skirt, the response is the same.
It always makes me feel so conspicuous. Like the plague, sort of. Definitely strange to get used to.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Genius
Thursday, August 18, 2005
What I've Been Missing
Graphic novels, comic novels, whatever your preference. I discovered this delightful little genre while rooting through J's stash in the apt, and am I ever glad for it. O.K.! The first selection I read was Debbie Drechsler's The Summer of Love, which is about two teenage sisters who move to a new town and engage in various teenage activities and learn various teenage lessons, always the hard way. The illustration is neat--kind of rough and suggestive--and the coloring unique. It's done entirely in shades of green and brown, and the result somehow ends up complimenting the characters' struggles.
It's only getting better from there. Next up was Jeffrey Brown's Clumsy, a novel (buy it, now!) I eventually learned has its own cult following. I can see why. Brown's uses shaky, delicate lines to illustrate his frames, a style that syncs perfectly w/ his subject matter--the frailty of relationships. Clumsy is part of the Girlfriend Trilogy, an autobiographical three-parter rounded out by Unlikely and Any Easy Intimacy. (I'm now reading AEI, purchased from a comic store a block from my work, and Unlikely's en route via Amazon.) Brilliant is the man, just brilliant. Brown endows his characters, one being himself--"Jeff"--w/ an honesty that's painful, sweet, and smileable, often all at once. Plus, their cuteness will make your brow furrow. :) I'm excited to venture beyond the GT, but also a bit skeptical, as I can't see how it can get much better. Toes crossed.
Oh, this is funny. Some, perhaps more men than women, may roll eyes at the Jeff-character's dogged sensitivity. To give you some idea, here's an example: Jeff and Theresa, the gf, have decided to go out for dinner and a movie. However, Theresa refuses to budge from the couch--she must finish watching Xena. Jeff finally persuades her to get a move on, but she's none too happy. Later that evening they discuss the situation, Theresa explains that she wasn't feeling well, blah blah blah, and Jeff ends up the "sorry" one. So as a rebuttal, Brown put together Be a Man, Clumsy's parody, in which Jeff, well, gets a spine. Here's an excerpt, which you'll appreciate that much more once you've read C.
So... anyone got any recommendations? I've got Dean Haspiel's Opposing Thumbs on the way, as well as Bob Fingerman's Beg the Question (review by Augusten Burroughs on the back--can't be bad). But what else??
Speaking of, here's a NYT article published yesterday about the difficulty of transferring comics to the Web. Funny, 'cause just a week ago I wouldn't have given it a second look.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Wowed
NYC's annual Women Center Stage is currently running, and last night I went to one of the featured performances. "Woman Rebel: The Words of Margaret Sanger" chronicles a span in the life of Sanger, founder of Planned Parenthood. (The Woman Rebel was a newsletter penned by Sanger & co. back in 1914, which demanded the legalisation of birth control. At this point, the gov't qualified such talk as "obscene." Speaking of, there was once a gov't-sponsored "obscene list" that, up until 1970, made mention of contraception. 1970!!) Anyhow, although I was familiar w/ the lady, I knew hardly any detail going into last night.
Now I realize--wow, what a lady she was. Her early years were spent as a nurse working in NY's Lower East Side, a time during which she witnessed what happens when too many children are born to parents w/o adequate resources to care for them. The mother falls into poor health; her family into poverty if they're not already there; she resents her role as mother of children that, in some cases, she never desired to begin with... And so the cycle goes. Sanger dove in head first, spending the rest of her years crusading for the right of women to dictate their own pregnancy rate. This, not to be confused w/ the right to *terminate* pregnancy. Sanger advocated prevention--not abortion.
From innumerable publishing credits, to international lecture circuits, to organising the first world conference on population control, the lady got things done. Something I found especially interesting was an account of her 1935 meeting w/ Mahatma Ghandi. Apparently, it was largely understood that part of Sanger's purpose in arranging this meeting was to sell Ghandi on the logic behind her premise--that is, birth control as an answer to the overpopulation problem and all of the ill effects that stem from it. But he refused to budge on his position against b/c, for fear that encouraging its use would lead to a surge in non-procreative sex, which he considered immoral lust. From there, the two diverged on the topic of sex-love vs. sex-lust, w/ Sanger arguing for the distinction and Ghandi insisting there was none. To him, sex for any purpose outside of procreation was lust, lust being the enemy. He drew on the food analogy, which I remember hearing for the first time my senior year at S.H.S., courtesy of one of the more conservative students in Mrs. What's-Her-Name's A.P. English class. "You don't eat past fullness or when you're not hungry/don't require food [or you shouldn't, said G] so why sex for any purpose other than what it's meant--to make babies?" Oh dear. I also recall a certain other student's refutation of his claim, which I'll refrain from repeating. :) Anyhow, Sanger's response was that she, no surpise, didn't buy into the analogy--that sex, when paired w/ love, has the capacity to reach people on a spiritual level, on a level of higher awareness. Some may claim the same of Godiva, but we'll leave that one alone. Consequently, procreation-only sex limits what sex is ultimately capable of representing for people, argued Sanger. I don't know, Gandhi.
I came away from last night thinking about how we, individually, are each capable of so much. It's hard for me to comprehend.
Some neighbors
Monday, August 15, 2005
Sucker
When I find myself at the mercy of the latest material object of my affection, I feel the need to prove it. To others? To myself? Who knows. What I do know is that after revisiting The Last Unicorn the other day (song still a-head), I found the need to eBay. Would it be a canvas tote? A gold-plated charm? A compact that doubles as a cigarette case? Or, how about a keychain? Yes, that's it! A keychain. Because hell, I can always use another keychain. And so it went. A swift *buy it now* click later and the thing was mine.
It arrived today, and I'll be if it isn't a button in disguise. Someone's gotten their hands on one of those nifty little presses, looks to me.
Gosh, if this doesn't teach me. Don't worry, it won't.
what_the.JPG
Sunday, August 14, 2005
gimme gimme gimme
What I wouldn't give for a little Seattle forecasting right about now. But no. Instead, I get this:
Ok, so next week's not as bad as this one's been, but still, I kind of miss you, Steve Pool. You may get it wrong an awful lot, but this guy brings no love.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
55 dollars had us
watching Me and You and Everyone We Know at BAM. It was written and directed by Miranda July, performance artist (Whitney, Guggenheim, MOMA) and short fiction writer (Harvard Review, Paris Review). Finishing at just 90 minutes w/ a what-next ending, it left me wanting, which indicates its goodness. Although some of the symbolism is a bit heavy-handed, the characters are well-developed and likable and their words'll make you laugh/cry/sigh. Among other things, the sexual naivete of kids/preteenagers--the mystique and the range of emotion that accompanies sexual awakening--is explored, and it's done well, and sweetly. Movie recommended. Sorry, Wan.
But, for $55*, something tells me we were slightly stupid. Or, better, still new.
*$12 cab ride to BAM, courtesy of driver who "never drives in Brooklyn" + two $20 tix + $23 unmarked "cab" ride home (don't want to take about it, thanks) = s.o.l. Anyway.
And now, to the roof. Hope you're well.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Flattered
These folks linked my Dan Chaon review. Fun!
Easy on the ears
Running w/ a bottle of water, completely frozen through: I love moving the thing up and down my forearms and listening to the razor-sharp cracking sounds it makes as it melts. Seriously, it's a very satisfying sound.
Cutting hair: For some indeterminable reason, my new coworker just entrusted me w/ her lovely long locks. "Will you just even the ends out?" But of course. Her hair's pretty thick, and our scissors--your run-of-the-mill, stainless steel Universals--not the greatest. Still, I dare say I did well. Chhhhhrp went them snippers as I sheared off a good half inch here and there. (Don't tell, but her last night's attempt wasn't altogether thorough.) Again, a nice sound.
All for now.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Oh dear. It's about time...
"... if we lose the combover, we lose all the secrets it reveals, from self-esteem to social status to fear of death. In the quest to get into the heart and mind of the Other, the combover provides answers that Foucault (who, incidentally, shaved his off) never could."
Salon
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
What's w/ the outfit?
A cross between a cowboy, a superhero, and a prep student. Go W!Monday, August 08, 2005
Saturday night, way up high
You and me and the moon
I love this half-finished studio. I love its exposed pipes and mottled cement ceiling and cheap latex-painted floor. I love this building, w/ its creaky elevator, its layers of weird tagging, its busted-out windows and floor-to-ceiling ivy, its varied cast of characters, from the freaky IT dude who hooked us up w/ wireless to the 30-something woman I just met in the elevator who, in seeing my seahorse necklace, recommended an exhibit at the Coney Island Aquarium. I love this neighborhood. I love its heaps of decaying garbage, tossed car parts, bike wheels, old batteries, 151 bottles, beat-to-hell couches, shredded lawn chairs, surprise coffee shops, wine bars, creperies, and bodegas that pop up every few blocks amidst deserted storefronts w/ 60s-era signage. I love imagining how Sorley's Family Thrift did back in the day, what kind of business Frank's Corner Auto pulled in, the stories told w/in any one of the long-gone drinking holes around here. On a good day, that is. On a less-than-good day, the whole scene disgusts me and/or makes me sad. Yep, that's my early analysis of my new neighborhood, insofar as how it impacts me personally. Mood depending, I either love it or, well, hate's too strong a word, so I either love it or I love it a lot less. More often, though, I love.
Running around here has been really engaging; I've definitely run down Kent Avenue more than I've crossed the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan, and w/ good reason. It's plain interesting. The other day I found myself in the heart of Greenpoint, which is a predominantly Polish neighborhood. Two blocks later, surrounded by Japanese folks. Ten more minutes and I was thick into brownstones and heavy tree canopies. Neat! I've also gotten a lot of pleasure in walking home around dusk, along either Kent or Wythe avenues. Kent, closest street to the water's edge, runs for blocks w/ nothing but quiet loft spaces--large windows open, leafy palms moving in the breeze. The occasional gallery pops up, lit softly from w/in, the back of a person visible, brush in hand (really). The blare of the city is hardly audible, making these walks some of my most peaceful since moving here. People stroll past every so often, sometimes alone, sometimes w/ a companion or w/ little dogs in tow. They almost always smile and say hi. I have yet to feel threatened, as--thank you, Hassids--security cars flank the sidewalk at regular intervals. This morning, rising at a godawful 4:30 a.m. for a 20-miler, I watched my neighborhood wake up. Actually, I watched it yawn--preparing to wake up, you might say. A half hour later, Manhattan's who I really got to see, and let me tell ya, she's no Seattle. No lazy, hazy, *I need my latte before I turn back into a human* for M, no siree. M wakes w/ a start (if she ever truly goes to bed), horns blaring, people shouting, dogs yapping. All this, sans double-tall extra-foam. Quiet is very, very short-lived here. Which is fine, as I'm learning to appreciate it all the more.
Another bit about crossing from dark into light while running: I've done it a few times, typically w/ the pa at my side, and it's--there's no other word--magical. It tends to stretch the experience backward, such that you feel like you've been running all night long, and moreover, that you've acquired a secret shared w/ your companion, if you've one, and maybe, maybe, the moon. Try it.
Since I'm all about other peoples' writing today
This woman taught a humor writing class I took at Hugo House a while back. It was an ok class, although I think teaching people how to write funny is a pretty ambitious (read: near-impossible) task. Still, potentially valuable for already-at-least-a-little-funny writers.
Teaching people how to write in general is ambitious, but that's another post.
Fluff
While these days, my magazines of choice are almost all running, general health, city event, and music oriented, I've been known to pick up the occasional In Style, Vogue et al. Hell, the last informational interview I went on was at Glamour. (Purely for the sake of adding a contact to my list, swear!) Still, it's true: your typical women's mag recycles the same old stories, which, as ES points out, relies waaay too much on the bulleted list format; features eye-rollingly cliched phrasing; and offers up many a contradictory message. As if you didn't know this. :)
Unlike ES, I like to shop, I like clothes, hair, all that. But *12 Updo's for Every Occasion* just doesn't cut it. I'll read a takeout menu over that.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Plight of the memoirist
Oh geez, wasn't it bound to happen?
I'm presently obsessed with:
1 14-oz can chicken broth
10 oz frozen veggies (broccoli, cauliflower, corn, sweet peppers all work well)
2 tbsp sour cream
dash of hot sauce
sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
Load all but cheese into a medium saucepan. Bring to boil. Pour mixture in blender, blend, then distribute in soup bowls. Sprinkle cheese shreds on top. Makes, oh, two small servings.
It’s fast, it’s easy, it tastes great and it looks expensive. I’m sold.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Exasp
I can’t imagine being a f/t freelancer, although this is what I profess to want for myself eventually. My main gripe? Payment. A while back I received two checks from two different running mags I’d written stories for. Into my account they went, or so was my intention. But no, no no. By some stroke of un-luck, they failed to register in my balance. Of course I tossed my receipt, something only an idiot would do, thereby creating a whole lot of work for myself. [Stop reading now if you’re sick of my ranting.] After countless and fruitless trips to the branch where I’d made the deposit, it was suggested that I request photocopies of each check (both had cleared) from its issuer. Did this, and a good month later, received a copy of check #1. Check #2, however, has yet to reach me, and I have a sneaking suspicion my request is being ignored. I’ve emailed so many times it’s silly. Not sure what to do now, save pay a visit to their offices & eff shet up. But that’s not my style. So I’ll just continue harassing, I guess.
Situation #2 involves Grey, ad firm where I’ve been copyediting off and on. Can’t seem to get these folks to pay me for anything, and I’m owed a good deal. Thing is, I know they’ll eventually come around--albeit not w/o another string of calls/emails--but I want my $ already!
Grrr.
Now that's talent, Charlotte
My ma took these at her cabin in Quilcene (Hood Canal). Cute/neat!
Ta-da!
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
From one island to another
[This, written on Monday.]
We have a new address--for another two months. Honestly, that'll just barely be worth it, considering what a production this move ended up being. You'd think that living in this city all of four months--that living in 100% furnished quarters--we'd hardly have had time/need to accumulate much of anything. Ah, you'd think. To our credit, food contributed a signif part of the load, that damn jar of grape jelly included. (Shh, I actually like it.) Other than edibles, I have prematurely UPS'd books/photo albums/knickknackery to thank for stretching what should have been an hour-long undertaking into… a much longer one. Ah, I bitch and moan, when really I'm just excited. Evidenced in pics above, the space has already endeared itself to me, and had we gotten here earlier this evening than we did, the rooftop would have won me over just the same. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. Come 7:00 p.m. Tuesday, armed with portabella mushrooms, zucchini, yellow squash, red onions, orange peppers, and fresh peaches for dessert, we'll tie the knot. One of those Webers has k10 spelled out in charcoal, swear. Tonight's Stouffer's mac 'n' cheese TV dinner, purchased and eaten in honor of the recently-passed Mr. Stouffer (or was it the Swanson guy... oh geez) can't hold a candle to a caramel-y sweet Vidalia. Nuh-uh.
So as I sit here looking at the saucepan that'll cook our Sunday morning scrambles, the white plastic colander that'll strain our linguine, the striped bowls that'll hold my Cheerios (plus vanilla soy milk and sliced bananas), I'm surprised at how normal it all seems. A credit to our last (and first) sublet, I think I've started getting used to the idea of a home not my own.
Hopping from one sublet to another as we have, I'm viewing things more in terms of utility than sentimentality. The fact that so few of the housewares around me are my own means that a lack of attachment is pretty inevitable, but for me, girl who cherished her mid-century Pyrex way too much, is a new experience. Rebecca's plain black dishware, her thick glass drinking glasses, her tribal-print blankets--now stuff of my past. And why would I look back? Leaving that apt and all that's inside of it was easy as could be, in sharp contrast to the time I had saying bye-bye (albeit temporarily) to the little TV stand Pea tiled for me, or the mint-green, 50s-era hairdryer I picked up at the Aberdeen (or was it Hoquiam) Goodwill. In a way it's been nice, adopting this vagrant lifestyle, as it's forced me to realize how little I truly need. It's also been a bit of a relief. Not entirely fresh thought, as the same understanding compelled frequent de-cluttering rounds back home, but it was nothing like what I've done in moving here.
Still I confess: I love to collect. It started in my youth w/ stamps, rocks, shells, Gumby paraphernalia, Bangles merchandise, movie posters, etc., etc., and once twentydom hit, a fondness for mid-century furnishings took over and thrift stores got my $. Next came the plush/plastic creatures--Mort, Moges, Tray, Doggie, Chris, and probably some others--entering my life in a year's time. Most of them (sorry Krabs) made the trip w/ us, but plenty of other collectibles we left behind. I don't know, as of now I'm not missing much, which may or may not change the way I come to view ownership in the future.
And the whole sublet concept? Strange to me. I mean, I'm glad for my own sake that folks do it, but I'm not sure I'd be able to myself. On my end, the end of the let-ee, it's a fascinating little character study. Especially odd was our last let, as we'd never even met the resident. There we were, using her spoons and lifting her dumbbells, w/ only some pictures and a few phone calls to prove to us her existence. W/in an hour it became clear, judging by all the reading material, that she has a lot of pride w/ regard to her (Korean) culture. Moreover, the spices in her cupboard indicated an appetite for Asian cooking; her earthy furnishings, a laidback personality (I'm taking liberties here); the weights and Pilates DVDs, an eye to fitness; and a number of elephant figures/images, a love of, um, elephants. When we spoke w/ her the other day, she mentioned going out for a beer when she gets back end of August. I'm curious to see how close I have her pegged.
3M
Why people, at their desks, find need for twelve different highlighters, two dozen ballpoint pens, six pencils (all w/ faulty erasers), and stacks of Post-It pads in every color known to man, is beyond me. I wonder if isn't a carryover from kindergarten: the whole *I want that pen, and that one, and that one.* More likely it's just a case of administrative lethargy, or sheer lack of concern over the state of one's workspace. I can certainly identify w/ the former, but the latter, well, the Virgo in me simply won't let it go, ever. Big surprise, then, that I had my afore-nasty cube sparkling by the end of my first day, for which I actually felt kind of bad, worried that its previous occupant would take it as *my, weren't we slobby.* Eh, whatever. I need an OCD outlet, and if it's not at home, then let it be at work.
Some people
We moved into our new Brooklyn digs on Sunday/Monday. I’ve written about it a bit, but am presently unable to access that which I wrote, as it’s saved on my Internet-less laptop. Last night we met one of our neighbors--C, resident tech-y--who gave us the permissions we need to connect, but something’s wrong. Hope to get it resolved tonight, at which point I’ll post the backlog, pictures included. In the meantime, I’ll say this: J is one filthy lady. And by that I mean, J’s apt is, er, was filthy. After spending a good three hours vacuuming up an insane amount of cat hair/human hair/plain dust; scrubbing most surfaces, including a microwave w/ the thickest layer of grime I’ve ever seen; and washing some pretty questionable bedding, it was finally habitable. We figure we’re owed a rent credit, or two. Aside from the raunch, J strikes me as a pretty cool chick. I especially like her wind-up toy collection and the dozen-plus books and graphic novels I plan to plow through in the next two months.
Still haven’t made it up to the roof. Maybe tonight--if we don’t head to the Bowery for an Olivia Tremor Control show. Speaking of shows, I missed Liz Phair at Joe’s Pub last night, which is lame. Reviews suggest she’s playing mostly old stuff this time around, including impromptu numbers and plenty of fan requests. Would’ve been fun. Thing is, it couldn’t have been well publicized, as I’ve been keeping up (I think) w/ such events about town. (I like saying that: events about town.)
Back to pretend-work. All the VPs are out on holiday/other this week, which translates to -0- responsibilities for moi. I'll enjoy it while it lasts.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Pure art, that Syd
Year of the backpack
As many of you know, my backpack is very, very important to me. :) Sad its reputation has taken such a dive. :(