Saturday, July 29, 2006
å løpe
Spent some time polishing the other blog, namely, expanding the sidebar. Found some fun running blogs to link to, including one maintained by a Norwegian, another by a Dane. The Norseman lives in Oslo, and the landmarks he mentions recall to mind runs I did while there in 2001. Want to go back...
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
HA!
I meant to post on this last week: one of The Three-Toed Sloth's hilarious blog entries about how she keeps cool in her apartment, or tries desperately to do so, sans air conditioning. For instance:
After everything you own is in the freezer, you should have a popsicle or go get an Italian ice from a pizza place (I waited for the sun to go down before doing this - those vanilla chip ices are INCREDIBLE! Just like chocolate chip ice cream but without the dairy! For serious! I'd like to wear a pair of pants made out of Italian ice!). This will temporarily take care of your body's meaty core.
At least an hour before you're ready to go to bed, take sleeping pills. My preferred brand is Tylenol Simply Sleep, because it doesn't have the menacing brand image of the "real" sleeping pills on the market. If I took "real" sleeping pills I'd probably convince myself I was a prescription drug addict or something. But anyway, if you don't take sleeping pills, there's no way you're getting to sleep in this heat. And swallowing the pills is a good opportunity to have a glass of water that's mostly ice cubes.
Monday, July 24, 2006
And on they rock: http://www.thebangles.com/
I figured out the song that "Black Cab" sort of a little bit reminds me of. It's this one:
Aigners are nice
Haven't met a mean one yet.
So the mister and missus left last Friday, having spent a week in a classy EV sublet, a studio apartment rented by one stylish Dane. Too bad I'm not more fluent, or I could've taken advantage of what appeared to be a decent Dansk movie collection. Anyway, they settled easily into their temporary digs, and fast came to know the surrounding streets. They also adapted to the Metro way of life in no time, never once hopping a northbound train instead of a southbound (shutup, E), say. In fact, in an embarrassing little display, it was Pea and I who struggled to get us all home from Tribeca. (Not actually our fault, damn w/e train rerouting/discontinuing. But still, made us look bad. Phooey.)
Gosh, given the freakish heat/humidity, the dynamic duo made serious tracks, covering every Lower Manhattan neighborhood on foot plus a few up north. Pea and I hung w/ 'em over the weekend, managing to fit Battery Park, the seaport, Wall Street, a snobbish cafe w/ real-time video showing the actual preparation of our snobbish food, Tribeca, Ground Zero, the Skyscraper Museum (green building exhibit) and other down-there sights into a Saturday afternoon, then Sunday was an All Souls sermon on the intangibility of hope. The four of us did the theatre thing twice during the week, batting zero once, much better the next time. In fact, yes, Shakespeare in the Park(ing Lot) is one of my new favorite free activities. Plot literally unfolds in a parking lot at the corner of Delancey and Broome. The acting was great, and save the occasional (okay, constant) prattling taking place on the sidewalk behind us, and for that matter, our place toward the back of the crowd (note to self: be earlier), I was impressed. Last week was The Tempest, and soon starts As You Like It. (Wanna go, Tiff?)
In sum, I had a fantastic time and I'm glad we had the opportunity to show off our crazy city to two very lovely people. I'd venture to say they had a halfway decent time, too. :)
My essay's inside
ApparentlyMyDiseaseIsntWhatIThoughtItWas.ToThinkIWasMisledAllTheseYears.jpg
I don't care if he's recycled
In scanning one of several NYC events-based e-newsletters I receive weekly, I found something on a Swedish musician I'd never heard of before, even though he's been around for a good few years. Jens Lekman. His website's a little scramble-y, but if the first few songs I've listened to are any indication, he's a keeper. I love when this happens--when I discover new bands that really get me--as it's not often. I'm generally content to work w/ what I've already got, to stick w/ the music that's moved me for years. Clearly I miss out. Anyway, this Jens guy, who lives in Goteborg, is sort of a cross between B&S, Morrissey, Velvet Underground, Stephin Merrit, and I'm sure several others. Check out these lyrics: I missed the last tram / I killed a party again / god damn, god damn / I wanna sleep in my bed / I wanna clean up my head / don't wanna look this dead / don't wanna feel this dread. Belle & Sebastian, right? Wistful, detached, nostalgic... Here's a video of a perfectly beautiful little tune, although the sound's not so good:
Better sound, minus the visual.
In a small way, that second-to-last Sittenfeld quote remind me of a friend's current battle w/ cancer. As his life fades a little w/ each passing day, I can't quite get myself to believe it's happening, in part because it's taking place across the country from me, but also because it seems absurd, like melodrama in that the whole thing sounds too big and serious and unlikely to really mean anything. This looks like denial, but it's most definitely not that. I'm completely attuned to the reality of the situation, it's just that I can't figure out how to work on the information, and when the grief overwhelms and tears come, there's this disconnect between heart and mind that makes it all (still) seem like nonsense, and I don't recognize the words--generally as having meaning, other times as being my own--that come out of my mouth when I go to talk about it. It's as if parts of me are refusing to work together. The fact that this individual is so bare-faced and open-hearted w/ himself and others about what's going on is complicated to process, too, as it brings to the situation a matter-of-factness, which is weird w/o actually being weird at all, death and birth being the most common, most unifying events in our lives. Of course, it's when it happens far too soon when it becomes uncommon, and I think, something ridiculous. Too strange to be only heartbreaking--at least for a period of time.
I just started a book of poems by Donald Hall, the new poet laureate. It's called Without, and until I cracked it open this morning, I'd forgotten that its inspiration was Hall's thoughts and experiences surrounding the last days of his wife's battle w/ leukemia. The warmth Hall brings to the page is rich to the point of being almost crippling for readers, and whenever I read reflections on death and dying, I'm struck by the peculiarity of events that are simultaneously universal and acutely personal.
As Hall's wife once told him, "Dying is simple. What's worst is... the separation." And that's it: The understanding that suddenly they just won't exist. It feels implausible.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Pedestal
I'd forgotten how satisfying it is to read a book from cover to cover over the course of a weekend. Considering the bulk of my reading is done in-transit or during the occasional lunch break, I'd forgotten the pleasure of rangy, drawn-out sessions. The term self-indulgent comes to mind, although I wish I didn't think of it like this. I also wish my book selection protocol were different. It's like I'll purposely choose that book on my shelf--always about a dozen unread, a combination of mine and the library's--that's least appealing (of course they're all appealing, just to varying degrees), as if to 'get it over w/' so that I can then move on to the real good stuff. Weird. Library books win out often over my own stash, for obvious reasons.
So w/ this book due back a few days ago, it was the w/e's fated read. Not long, nor particularly dense: a perfectly breezy summer novel. Plus, I had little doubt as to its goodness, having recently read Prep and fallen easily into step w/ Sittenfeld's style: sweet, accessible, nostalgic. The premise isn't complicated, basically one woman's quest for romantic love, beginning in adolescence and spanning her 20s. As expected, Sittenfeld finds a way to bring language to mental events that don't readily correspond w/ words, events that another author might write about reductively, if she even attempts it at all. At best this author's descriptions would read flatly; at worst, cheesily. But again, I think that more often such events just aren't regarded as important or crucial enough to include, which is too bad.
Another of Sittenfeld's strengths is dialogue, and it's more than the fact that her characters never sound wooden or affected. It's the content, it's that they sometimes have really boring conversations, or better, they say things that never go that far, that never result in any substantial conversation. Not always, you know, just enough to make you believe they're the real thing. The first time I picked up on this--and I can't recall anything about the sentence I read, probably because it was so random and meaningless--it kind of bothered me. I was like, 'what's this about? what's the point of it?' But I kept on, and the character(s) got back on point, and then it made sense. Actually, I have the same complaint of most TV shows, less notably w/ my beloved SFU (prepare for the obvious): Conversations are always so on point, always so relevant to the scene that's unfolding, so action-oriented. There's never any spontaneity. I don't know, maybe I don't tune in enough.
It's so clear to me that Sittenfeld, although she's termed both Prep and Man works of fiction, drew heavily from personal experience--not necessarily actual events, but emotions that she then assigned to similar enough, fictionalized events. She's just so ridiculously on-target so much of the time. Maybe this all sounds common; like a number of writers, I'm probably not coming up w/ the right words.
Some great passages from Prep:
[I have always found the times when another person recognizes you to be strangely sad; I suspect the pathos of these moments is their rareness, the way they contrast with most daily encounters. That reminder that it can be different, that you need not go through your life unknown but that you probably still will--that is the part that’s almost unbearable.]
[It was Charlie Soco, a senior, another person I’d never spoken to. I glanced at his eyes and saw that he wasn’t looking at me, and then I looked down and then as we came closer to each other, I slid my backpack off one shoulder so it was in front of me and unzipped one of the outer pockets and pretended to rummage in it. In this way, when Charlie and I passed, I avoided saying hello.]
[The big occurrences in life, the serious ones, have for me always been nearly impossible to recognize because they never feel big or serious. In the moment, you have to pee, or your arm itches, or what people are saying strikes you as melodramatic or sentimental, and it’s hard not to smirk. You have a sense of what this type of situation should be like--for one thing, all-consuming--and this isn’t it. But then you look back, and it was that; it did happen.]
["I was terrified of unwittingly leaving behind a piece of scrap paper on which were written all my private desires and humiliations. The fact that no such scrap of paper existed ... never decreased my fear."]
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Tracks
Haven't written about the running in awhile, and since I'm feeling inspired by M's recent success, here goes.
Six weeks ago I was feeling slumpy--probably some combination of dreaded summer heat, rebuff #2, and general boredom. I needed fresh goals, which eventually materialized in the form of this and this, the latter to be run alongside dear friend and fellow ex-Bluebird Tiff/Tiffers/Tippy/Titanium/Tiffany. The plan is to re-qualify for Boston w/ this one, and considering the bulk of my training will take place in fall/winter, I figure my chances aren't half-bad. Anyway, since printing out a new training schedule, things have been on the up. I'm back to five days of running a week plus weights two or three. Now if I could just ditch the daily Starbucks dark chocolate-covered graham cracker habit, summer's evil influence on ice cream consumption, and an unchecked passion for Cheez-Its, I'd be golden.
A couple of recent notable runs...
Tuesday, July 25: This one was supposed to happen on Sunday morning, then Monday, but this damn heat takes so much out of me during the day that I end up sleeping way past my usual six point five hours. It was Tuesday before I finally got my act together, and even then I got a late start and had to cut an hour forty-fiver 15 minutes short. No matter, as I barely managed to eek out the hour thirty for reasons unrelated to the need to get to work on time. For those of you Westies, Tuesday saw temps climb well into the 90s (I know, you've got yours coming this w/e), and even w/ a seven o'clock start, I wasn't the smartest. But whatever--my fault for putting it off.
The first 20 minutes passed easily enough, helped by a still-frozen bottle of Poland Springs and this blind, pesky optimism that always insists on following me out the front door. By 30, I was scrambling to maintain an easy warmup/cooldown pace. I kept thinking how great a cab sounded, how I might just have Pea run downstairs w/ a 10 and call it an honest effort. But I knew I wouldn't actually give in, if for no other reason--and when a run's sucky, this is sometimes all I've got--than the understanding that August's race would be that much more painful w/o adequate training behind me. So I did what I could to maximize my shade-time, keeping to the east sidewalk of the West Side Highway for most of the way. Still, it was just gross, and made worse by sucking down a packet of chocolate Power Gel. Generally this gives me a lift, but in the heat, the stuff settled like lead in my stomach. Plus, I'd probably been a little overeager w/ the water, and then there was the Clif bar I'd scarfed too soon before starting... Crummy, too, because such running misery erases all hope of external distraction (plenty to take in visually over there; for instance, the stunning vista that is Jersey), leading one to associate almost entirely internally, an balanced internal/external association being optimal. Ugh--a run notable only for its purpose as a reminder of what not to do.
Thursday, July 6: I don't usually run long mid-week, but E was due in so I figured I'd get it out of the way early, not anticipating much running over the w/e. Did a variation on an old favorite, heading north along the East River, then crossing into Queens via the 59th Street Bridge w/ the intention of an eventual return to Manhattan courtesy of the Williamsburg Bridge. Now, although I'd covered this exact route before, I had some trouble recalling the overpass (name and location) that connects Queens to Brooklyn. In fact, it escapes me still, and since I'm feeling too lazy to look it up, it'll go unnamed. Anyhow, I kept trying to go south yet kept looping back up into Queens, misguided by three different people on three separate occasions. Not even the construction workers seemed to know where it was they were. Speaking of, here's one problem I have w/ NYers: not that they're rude or unhelpful, because they're not, but that they're too eager to help, eager to the point of giving wrong and/or inadequate directions when it'd make more sense simply to shrug and keep walking.
I'd started checking my watch compulsively by now, sweating more heavily w/ each passing minute. I recall seeing the numbers 8, 5 and 0, in that order, and thinking how implausible was a ten o'clock start to the workday. (That's right, I start at ten. Really!) Plus, I still wasn't quite sure where I was, and I knew there was no way I had time to reach and cross the W Bridge. Yet I also recall feeling strangely secure that things would work out, that I'd somehow manage to pull of a timely arrival. Thankfully, minutes later I found myself at the Lorimer stop of the L, panting and awaiting the next Manhattan-bound train in the company of starched shirts and espadrilles. Of course, this being NY, no one bats an eyelash at a sweaty weirdo in a sports bra, so no worries there. All worry drained out of me, in fact, as I realized it was only just nine and I was already halfway to First & 14th.
Two stops later, I hop off the train, bound up the stairs and sprint homeward. Twenty minutes later, I'm back outside, having showered and spiffed up quick for work. A brisk walk to Astor finds the 6 ready and waiting. One stop later and, what do you know, the 5 beckons, whisking me express-style uptown and delivering me at, whoa, three minutes 'til. Man oh man, the gust of adrenaline was extraordinary. And now, because I knew I was going here: NY transit is so brilliantly efficient. That I can be two stops out in Brooklyn less than an hour before my Midtown job calls and still make it home in time for a shower, a 10-minute walk to a second train, and a downtown-uptown commute... It all makes my head spin.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Please, someone, invent a word
.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Down, but not out
http://www.hamsterster.com. No joke. That's right, in the wake of Petster.com, Dogster.com, and Catster.com comes a networking site for, why the hell not, HAMSTERS. This is so effin' adorable I am positively beside myself. The only thing is, and I'm still trying to wrap my little brain around this one, they're mostly dead. Or in Hamsterster terms, they've Gone To Hamster Heaven.* Hmm. Reminds me more of this sort of site than, say, this one. Networking for hamsters in the afterlife?
Really though, I read in Newsweek that the site's primary function is as a social networking site for human beings. I know, blah. But, BUT, according to the NW blurb, these human beings correspond w/ one another in the 'voice' of their deceased (or in the rare case, alive) hamsters. DO YOU KNOW HOW EXCITED THIS MAKES ME? Mark my word, I--perhaps along w/ M (M?)--will design a social networking site for stuffed animals. Pssh, no. But how neat would this be? I just mentioned the idea to Petey, whose expression struck me as positive, but then I realized that it wasn't himself he had in mind, but Eugenia. See, Petey sees fur where I see cotton, corneas where I see plastic. Petey thinks he's real. Stuffedanimalster.com? Screw that! Petey wants a MySpace. And you know the routine: What Petey wants, Petey gets. Great parent material, that.
*RIP Opal. If foul play was involved, well, I believe in karma.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
About seven minutes: this trip's tagline for the simple reason that I kept saying it, thinking seven minutes a generally accurate span of time for E & I to get from place to place. Sure, 'five to ten' would've sufficed, but 'seven' just always sounded better coming out of my mouth. Confident. Like I really know my city. No matter the 'about', which mutes everything, making 'five to ten' more reasonable. No matter, also, that I was rarely on the money. (Oh maaan, it's the cold medicine, I swear. Speaking of, I apologize in advance, Aigners, for any bizarre non-sequiters my Tylenol Cold Multi-Sympton Severe may inspire over the course of the w/e. Look at that, I misspelled sequitur--proof already.)
Big fat anyway, it was another one for the record books. Literally, according to this record-keeping, bladder-defiant chick, pictured here w/ not one but two giant teas courtesy of Union Square's Tavalon Tea Bar:
A fine piece of now-Flatiron District architecture, once home to some fancy-shmancy department store (name, E?) back when Ladies' Mile had its footing here. We were on a walking tour of Union Square/Gramercy, although intense heat coupled w/ empty tummies & the close proximity of satiation led us to chop the Gramercy portion. Maybe next time... 
The beach! No, really. Long Island City's Harry's Water Taxi Beach, accessible by both boat and the 7, and home to 400 tons of bona fide Jersey sand! There's also (1) a full-size volleyball court, (2) a hamburger shack, (3) a margarita bar, (4) a tented dance floor w/ disco ball, and (5) the sparkling, pristine waters of the East River. (Four of those are legit. You make the call.) It was hot; we stayed an hour.
My friend/boss is a member of the ritzy, members-only Soho House. Although she was out of town for the w/e, she, as they say, pulled a few strings and got us in on Saturday night. We drank watermelon martinis on the roof; crashed a 40th birthday party (nah, they invited us in, sharing their Milk Duds and a staggering wedge of brie); made believe we were bartenders, sans alchohol; and watched a pretend film in the private screening room. (We're not hoodlums; we were told to explore.) We capped the evening w/ a bowl of Pastis's French onion soup (E) and one pricey cup o' coffee (moi). (Again, blame the caplets for the odd level of detail here.)
Can there be any question as to the origin of our toothy grins? Geniuses, these folks. A 'betic's dream, surely:
Not pictured but no less entertaining: the Dorothy Draper exhibit at the Museum of the City of NY, Hemingways at the Libary Hotel's Bookmarks, ridiculous s'mac, Hell's Kitchen wanderings, Dim Sum that was anything but dim (sorry!), and finally, finally, a night of shakin' to the best 80s lineup a lady could hope for.
Thanks E!
And now, time for a GNC run. Need me some Emergen-C...
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Take that
Petty yet satisfying.
Overkill
By now you've probably grown weary of all my roachie posts, but hey, cut me some slack. After all, this is what we've been up against (in our apt, really):
.
Catch & release
12:05 AM ET: The whale lives. He's probably perfectly nice.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Breaking news!
This just in: 2.5-inch cockroach handicapped beneath plastic garbage pail lid!
Rewind 30 minutes. A whale of an insect emerges from his home w/in the walls, taking an unsuspecting tenant* unawares. The whale scuttles three feet out before pausing to raise up and, let's imagine, stare into the wide eyes of said tenant. Upon recognizing the unsavory impact of his arrival, the whale promptly retreats. Yet wait. Had he previously mistaken a come-hither look for one of pure terror? Aw, probably. He reemerges--this time, to a ring of, what's this, powdered sugar**? Yum! They must want him around after all! Let's have a taste now, shall we? But... but... what's this circular object fast descending on him? Whoosh. Hmm.
Fate of the whale tbd. As of 11:50 PM ET, all signs point to 'we'll see.'
E: Just in time! Lucky devil, you. Still, rodentry you couldn't escape.
*Pea
**Borox
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Fourth! Commentary to come...
This year, our vantage point was a Tribeca rooftop. Views weren't great, what w/ all the downtown buildings in the way, but we caught slivers of both the lower and upper Manhattan displays regardless. Anyway, the 'works looked kind of neat framed between the eerily lit buildings.
Unintentional blur, but I kind of like the result.
Jen & her lawyerly pals.
Earlier in the day: free Belle & Sebastian concert in Battery Park. Doug & Chad gave Pea & I two extra tickets; Pea had tried for these himself, but the 'stand in line for hours at one of four Starbucks locations' tactic failed. Anyway, the show was alright. Always fun to see them live, and Stuart was as usual: prancing about stage, flirting w/ the crowd, offering up bits of British witticism & anti-Bush rhetoric. He dissed Starbucks (if someone had told me they were giving out tickets, well, I would've done something about it), questioned the logic of having a British band perform on the Fourth of July (is it because we're indie--as in, short for independence?), and talked repeatedly about whether or not the band should grant the crowd their independence. They opened the set w/ I Fought In A War and toward the end delivered The Star-Spangled Banner. (Both points taken.) The playlist, though, just wasn't good overall. Curiously, all of the music blogs I've read suggest it was one of their best ever. It was: Fought in a War / Another Sunny Day / The Model / Sukie in the Graveyard / Don't Leave the Light on Baby / La Pastie de la Borgiosie / Jonathan David / If She Wants Me / If You're Feeling Sinister / Lord Anthony / Dirty Dream Number Two / Funny Little Frog / I'm a Cuckoo / Your Cover's Blown / The Wrong Girl / White Collar Boy / Sleep the Clock Around / Star-Spangled Banner / Boy with the Arab Strap. See what I mean? Lacking. Especially since Stevie Jackson got to sing, Stevie Jackson having, like, the most horrible voice ever. They did do Sinister, which is one of the greatest; Sleep the Clock Around and The Model, two more sweet ones; and of course Arab Strap, fantastic if not completely predictable as the encore. But still, too many duds, too many off the Catastrophe album. 
Clearly, it was still fun.
Soused
So I'm scrolling through NYT online when I see in the Health section a story on Seattle, specifically, on the 1811 Eastlake housing project we started hearing about, I don't know, early last year? I say to Pea, "Oh wow, a story on Seattle in the NYT. And it's about that 'alcoholic' Eastlake place--you know, the one so close to Robb's business. [Robb is my cousin's hubby. Robb owns a small trophy shop just south of 1811. Robb was none too happy when the talks started up.] Hmm, let's read more about this..." About three quarters of the way in, lo and behold: Robb Anderson. Just a blurb, but still, weird to see it in this particular publication. Big story. Not that his inclusion is surprising, considering he really is the only nearby business to speak of, well, not counting a certain 'what the hell've we got to lose?' coffee shop.
I don't know. I mean, it makes sense to remove the saddest of sad cases from the sidewalks, where their drunkenness causes them to fall down and seriously harm themselves, pass out in extreme temps, that kind of thing, which, as the article states, leads to ER/jail/recovery center visits which in turn uses taxpayers' dollars... But, it's not like (also as stated) booking them a room eliminates health-related problems and associated costs. Pre-existing conditions like diabetes and heart/liver problems will always be around, and treating syptoms is hardly cheap. And of course, there's footing the bill for the rooms themselves.
More importantly--if you ask me--is the problem of determining when to throw in the towel. At what point do we (well, the gov't) decide that all hope is lost, that it's better to simply let the sorry folks have their way w/ the bottle than to encourage further rehab attempts? I think the article said something about how tenants have to have tried for sobriety so many times before they're considered--but where to draw the line? When to say, 'time to let ol' Frankie slowly off himself w/ a flask of Jim Beam'? No way in hell would I put myself in a place where I'm making that call.
About my cousin: I feel like he should be getting some gov't assistance himself--say, in relocating. That's a cruddy deal for him, and if he starts seeing a real impact on profit, he should be able to move locations w/o taking a bigger blow than he already is (assuming he is).