Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Warning: poo post
As I love character-driven food commericals, this caught my eye. It's disturbing, it's funny.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Writing!
So a few weeks ago I cleaned up an old blog post, formatting it as a formal essay, and pitched it to friend who works for a Northwest-based publishing company. I pitched it as one part of a larger collection--a little anthology, if you will. Well, she presented my proposal to her coworkers at their last 'idea meeting,' and here's what she had to say:
Hey sweets! So we had the idea meeting, and your pitch is now with one of our editors to review and read through and figure out whether this is something we could do or whether it’s something you should pitch elsewhere. She thinks it’s a good idea and really cute, but it may be too small for us to take on. We shall see! So, thanks for getting that all ready for me, I love the essay!
Fingers crossed big-time! But even if it's a no-go at her pub house, I think I'll definitely take it elsewhere. I feel good about this one, folks.
In other writing-news, my second RW assignment has been fast-tracked. The chef/runner profile, originally set to run sometime next year, will instead take up residence in this December's issue, which ups my deadline to Aug. 31--as in, next week! In combo w/ this w/e's big half-marathon, I know what I'll be filling my hours w/.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Journey
A few months back, and at the wholehearted recommendation of my boss-friend, I read The Tender Bar. In it, J.R. Moehringer details his experience growing up in the small Long Island town of Manhasset, a town that, in his words, "believed in booze." A gritty old tav that went by the name of Publicans is at the heart of the memoir, having played a pivotal role in Moehringer's fatherless upbringing. He'd hang there often as a kid, vying for the attention and approval of the half dozen whisky-swillin' men who kept the place in business. In a voice that's at the same time masculine and soft, he reflects on the whole pub mystique, and not in that cheesy 'romance of the corner bar' fashion. (Tough, I think, considering the institution is such a ready target for an affair. Easy to fall into cliche.) He just examines patterns and personalities so carefully, describing w/ such animation. Incidentally, the result is full of romance, but it's organic and sweet.
The Tender Bar, while probably not in my Top 10, or Top 20 even, is still really good, plenty good enough to fuel a fun little sidetrip to the town in which it's set. And Manhasset is just barely out on L.I., making for a quick 40-minute rail ride from Penn Station. So yeah, I went there, one Saturday afternoon. Here's some of, nay, all of, what I saw (it's dang small):
The obligatory Welcome To-- picture.
Plandome Road, main street through town; obviously, mentioned lots in the book. 
Aigner Chocolates! So it ain't just handbags and slingbacks anymore, eh? You've expanded your legacy. And chocolate! (One question: Why wasn't I told, hmm?)
For a brief period in my adolescent reign, I spelled my name like this. Christyn. Or wait, that was Kristyn. Anyway, same idea. 
Publicans! Different ownership, different name, but the interior (according to the bartender I chatted up) hasn't changed much at all. Dark and imposing bar, a few stained glass windows, large restaurant area toward the back... Also according to the bartender ("so does he drop by much these days?"), dude hasn't swung through town since just after the book was published. She's worked there for years and has seen him only the one time. Anyway, it was still neat to whip out my No. 2 & a pile of (Tim's) manuscript pages, and edit on the same bar that J.R. once drafted NYT copy. 
A Hoegaarden later, 'twas time to head back.
From the cubemate
Haha, love her.
I have been told I get this wide-eyed, sad/perplexed look on my face when I'm totally engrossed in something. Weird.
Anyway, I want this Eliana!
Friday, August 18, 2006
Tradition
After feasting on a bottomless portion of them for lunsj, I've decided that crayfish are none other than waterbound cockroaches. That I ate.
Crayfish are to be eaten outdoors, and gaily coloured paper lanterns should be hung round the table. The most popular type of lantern shows a smiling full moon. Both the tablecloth and the colourful plates are also supposed to be of paper. People wear bibs round their necks and comic paper hats on their heads.
If they had to be roaches, there at least could have been more festivity.
Taxicab Rider Bill of Rights
[Commentary in brackets.]
As a taxi rider, you have the right to:
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Misc
Does blowing on soup really cool it off? Because the air that's leaving my mouth is not cool. Is that a dumb question? Oh, yeah.
On an unrelated note, I hope double French braids aren't too passé for a 28 year old, because that's all I'm sportin' these days.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Rhyme-y
There once was a guy named Jer
Whose name was at times paired w/ Ber
He dug Western shirts and the cheeseburger slice
I'd hardly complain if he visited thrice
Or, how 'bout this:
There once was a guy named Jer
With attitude easy to bear
He asked very little: a pink tow'l and Kiehl's
The latter which gave him the skin of a seal's
Ha! Thanks for droppin' by, Clemens.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
So many words, so little space...
Why don't I ever use the word piebald? Excellent!
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Flak
Nice music essays on Morrissey & Merrit.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Next guest, come on down!
Speaking of distraction/misfortune, our poor little Jer--hopefully conked out on our shabby couch by now--spent all day yesterday plus this morning (from 11 a.m. till like 4 a.m.) at scenic Sea-Tac Airport. He arrived like three hours early for his 12:30 flight, but w/ security lines wrapped clear around the parking lot--the parking lot!--there was just no way. He missed it. And then he missed the two flights after. But Jer, oh, you know Jer, still sounded chipper at two in the morning. Perhaps out of gladness to put food courts, screaming children, and Space Needle magnets behind him; perhaps in anticipation of the scrumptious breakfasts in his near future (Jer, ever the breakfast-man); perhaps out of sheer delirium, his spirits were curiously high.
Or wait, that was a text we received, not a call. But had it been a call, trust me, he would've had something left.
Speaking of waiting, hell of a storm last night. Something like the three inches over the course of a couple hours. (That's right, another storm recount coming.) Here's how it played out for moi:
It's 6:52 p.m.; I'm two blocks from home; I'm wearing delicate suede flats; my umbrella is mysteriously absent. Flash-crack, down comes the rain. And the wind. It's whippin' around like nobody's business, taking everything from discarded refuse to unsuspecting puppies along for the ride. There's no way I'm getting caught. I duck under the nearest awning; I'm not alone. There are five of us arranged in a tight little clump, the staff of the softly lit, just-closed bakery at our backs seemingly mocking our condition. (They don't offer us shelter. They look smug.) We exchange the predictable "Geez, I heard it was supposed to rain, but this is unreal!" and "My umbrella's completely useless in this stuff!" and "Gosh, it's got to calm down eventually!" Then, one guy, in a bid for our boldest, makes a run. He's cleared the awning, he's three steps beyond it. And he turns back. "I can't do it. Not yet." Wimp. But he's managed to fire me up, and as he nestles back into the clump, I declare, "My turn!" "Good luuuck..." The voices rise up from the clump, swirling together and forming a collective, albeit a tad shaky (envious?), vote of confidence. I duck my head, say a quick prayer to whomever, and go for it.
Suddenly I'm surfing. Riding a crest of knee-deep rainwater, my arms extended for balance, my eyes filled w/ blinding spray. My shoes are saturated in a matter of milliseconds, and given their loose-fitting nature, hover dangerously close to losing my feet, their watery gravesite already plotted, expectant. But at the last minute, they're saved. By Duane Reade.
Oh Duane. Ne'er again will I bitch & moan over the shabby customer service dispensed by your employees. Ne'er again will I stomp my feet impatiently, standing in a two-person line at the prescription counter for an inexplicable 45 minutes. Ne'er again will I mourn the high cost of that deodorant which only your stores seem to carry. (Oh, who am I kidding--I'll grant you a weeklong grace period.) Because you Duane Reade, you took us in. All 32 of us. From wherever it is you toil, you made the silent decree that yes, it's okay to open the doors to the windtorn folk floating down Avenue B on air mattresses, and the ones seeking refuge beneath sorely inadequate shop awnings.
So we stand behind the automatic doors, dripping, shivering in unwanted air conditioning. We wait... and wait... and wait, but outside, the rain and wind refuse to let up. I'm hungry though, and whiling away my evening at the drugstore just isn't going to cut it (sorry Duane). We start daring each other w/ our eyes. "Go!" "No, you go!" And one by one, we do. (Proud to say I'm one of the first.)
My second surfing lesson goes more smoothly than the first, for this time, I say 'to hell w/ the shoes; I'll go without!' And then I'm home, and some time later, in full possession of two very clean feet.
Thank you, thank you.
Weird turned sad
Okay, this is too strange not to share.
So this morning I'm walking to the train, enjoying immensely the 70 degree-sans-humidity weather we're presently being graced w/. Approaching Astor, I look left and see a woman w/ a sign. To my befuddlement, it reads: "Need money for breasts." Breasts? Huh? That's when I notice the incredibly low-cut top she's wearing, half of said anatomy hanging out. To myself: Huh. Pretty ballsy way to go about financing your boob job. Well, carry on.
Yet I can't quite--carry on. I have to take a second glance, the novelty of the situation just too much. And here's when I notice my error. For in fact her sign says this: "Need money for breakfast." Oh.
An honest mistake, understand.
Cincin!
I'm in Italian! And what a weird, cool picture.
Also, I'm on the contributor page (pic + bio), which is absolutely a first. For all you non-Italian speakers, here's the translation: Kristen is a New York-based health and fitness writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Health, Runner's World, Running Times and Diabetes Forecast. When she's not staring at her computer screen, you'll find her a) training for a marathon, or b) hitting up her favorite East Village sushi restaurant. The editor also requested (and added) more on my running history, including my best marathon time. So there you have it.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Endings
Impressed w/ his 'new food review' up on McSweeney's today, I Googled Joseph McGonegal and found this lovely little letter/essay on the termination of roads. Read for yourself.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Litspam
I could not live there longer withoutsome advice. You look at these scatteredhouses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I began to ask myself whether I had not done a veryfoolish thing. I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing, I answered. But you shall have it all justas it occurred. There is something distinctly novelabout some of the features. The veryfirst key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, whichseemed quite exaggerated in its vehemence. But it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I wasfrightened and ran out again. With these I journeyed down to Streatham andsaw that they exactly fitted the tracks. I rushed down the passage, through the door,and straight into the arms of Mr. The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will,we hope, be incapable. Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I tooknext. I am glad of all details, remarked my friend, whether theyseem to you to be relevant or not. Athousand things come back to me which make me certain that youhave hit it. Many people are improved by wearingit short and perhaps I should be among the number. It was only yesterday that the chance came. How could my hair have been locked inthe drawer? Thatbrought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. And she would need to be, said Holmes gravely. I slipped in in safety andlay awake half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. Holmes, and, indeed, hehas little to do with my story.
You don't say.
Catch-all
75 w/ a gentle, cooling breeze? HA!
But yes, 'tis for real. It was a long time coming.
Enough small talk. Had to put mine out there though, you know, being part of this weather-obsessed culture as I am. Say, speaking of politics, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?!
This may be so silly as to move beyond reproach. What's the point, you know? Pea made the point that the only people who'll likely comment/ask questions are little kids, considering the way the commercial's presented--kindergarteners puffing on dandelions, jumprope, bubble blowing. Looks to be made w/ this demographic in mind, in fact. Probably the smartest thing about it, as who else would possibly buy into such idiocy? (Not that your kid's an idiot, or any kid for that matter, but you know what I'm saying.) Of course, when the small fry go to ask the question, "But Mommy, the evil environmentalists are making the trees go bye-bye!", Mommy, after passing out then coming to, still clutching her head in pained disbelief, will set little Chloe straight. But still, the embarrassment, the insult one feels in belonging to the same species as those responsible for producing this smut. (Because I'm feeling extreme.) It's got to be a joke. Yes, I've convinced myself it is. Moving on...
My bestest just left town. T-Rae paid me a surprise visit over the w/e, training it to NY following a week of bizniz in Boston. A large chunk of our time was spent lingering over drawn-out brunches, catching up on all things K & T, so little time we get to spend together. We also hit up the Met (finally. finally. finally.), which--shock--didn't disappoint. Particularly enjoyed the Frank Lloyd Wright room, save one teensy disruption. (!) The British fashion retrospective, "AngloMania: Tradition and Transgression in British Fashion," was also a kick, and I got to lay eyes on a kouros, an artifact I'd been curious about since reading Blink, which Gladwell begins w/ an account of the Getty Museum's near-mistake in purchasing an inauthentic kouros, saved just in time by a few experts whose 'thin-slicing' proved correct. Then of course, there was a Mondrian...
We capped the w/e w/ a Staten Island ferry ride, which although I'd done before, is just a really cool way to view Manhattan. Doesn't get old. Also neat to see the bridges--four are visible--from this perspective, love affair that I have w/ them. Speaking of bridges, I finally got an up-close take on the Verazzano, a month or so ago while running long. The schedule called for 1-1/2 hours, and as I'd wanted to see the V for as long as I've lived here, and the nearby Bay Ridge and Sunset Park neighborhoods too, I figured I'd killed off a few birds (not really--my daughter, remember!) at once. And this I did. It was hot and I started too late in the day, but loaded up w/ Gu, Lemon-Lime Gatorade, and a Metrocard that would ride me back home, I set out.
The first two miles were rough, per the usual, but then it got... Oh geez, I'll spare you the details and cut to the chase: Yet another love affair was initiated along this route, this one w/ Brooklyn Heights. While I'd been to the neighboring Carroll Gardens and Park Slope 'hoods before, I'd never had occasion to check out BH. Until now, and accidentally. (Also accidental was yesterday's encounter w/ Red Hook, the soon-to-be home to, what else, Ikea. RH is weathered, rough around the edges, but strikes me as a decent dwelling place--that is, were it reasonably close to a train, which it is not.) I found the loveliest little promenade, flanked by wooden benches and tree-canopied brick apartments looking none too inexpensive. Some preliminary craigslist searching turns up a few affordable sublets, but in the wake of our last let-experience, the wisdom's iffy. Anyway, we've still got time on our current lease, and are far from deciding to leave The Island.
BH behind me, I ran through Greenwood for what seemed like forever, 'forever' gauged by the incredible duration of the Morrissey version of "Moon River" reaching me via the Pod. Speaking of, the combination of intense heat and the sedative quality of this song makes for a hell of an out-of-body experience. Really! Or maybe it's heat stroke. Regardless, it also slows me down.
Anyway, I later realized that Sunset Park had been part of this endlesssss stretch as well. When I reached Bay Ridge and the V entered my line of vision, I felt the giddiness wash over me. Again, not ruling out heat stroke. (Such extreme language today!) But really, big ol' bridges have this effect on me, especially when seen from afar. This one, which as recently as 1981 was the largest suspension brige in the world and is the starting point of the NYC Marathon, is the most staggering at a distance while being the plainest up close. Thankfully, or regrettably, the massive structure remained way beyond arm's reach for a good long time. In fact, as the minutes ticked by, it actually appeared to recede. Perhaps in my heat-induced confusion, I was running backwards for a spell? I'll never know. Anyhow, I'd anticipated making it all the way to its base by the time 1-1/2 was up, but it wasn't to be. After grabbing a chocolate-dipped pretzel at a charming Italian deli--all meat and sugar (the deli, not the pretzel)--I walked the rest of the way, 15 minutes or so.
Like I said, stark, unadorned. Not like the Manhattan Bridge (pretty blue color) or the Brooklyn Bridge (elegant, complex), the latter across which a writer cannot walk w/o imagining Whitman skipping along composing stanzas. But it's expansive, which is impressive enough.
From here I proceeded to head north on foot, spending the next two hours walking the streets of Bay Ridge/Sunset Park/Bay Ridge/Sunset Park, in desperate, desperate search of something to indicate that the area was, in fact, once home to the thousands of Scandinavian immigrants I'd read about on some blog a week earlier. A bakery peddling kransekake, a deli offering open-faced sandwiches, even a kitschy gift shop w/ a nice troll scene in the window--something. But what's this? Irish pubs? Italian restaurants ad infinitum? Chinatown? Don't get me wrong, I'd expected plenty of diversity/overlapping ethnic groups. But accordingly, I'd expected a sliver, a hint, a speck, of the blond-haired/blue-eyed legacy. I was on the phone w/ Pea every 20 minutes, asking him to 'check that blog,' requesting exact addresses of any remaining businesses. However frustrating, it felt exciting, like I'd struck out on my own private little adventure, scouring the streets for some lost treasure, for my own history, really. An early sighting--a miniature Norsk flag resting in a miniature stand in the window of some service club--piqued my enthusiasm, and I kept on.
In time I managed to locate exactly three outlets--a bakery (w/ kransekake to boot!), a deli/catering service (had to splurge on some tube-food), and a bakery/gift shop (closed for the entire month of July). In other words, what I'd expected, only fewer in number. In asking shopkeepers what was up, they just shook their heads. They've all closed, they said. Most have been gone for years. Later that evening, a Web search alerted me to one retail venue I'd missed, and at the rate these businesses seem to fall by the wayside, I figure I'd best not wait long to pay a visit.
Non-retail landmarks are greater in number, although none too visible. There's the Norwegian Christian Home on 67th; the Norwegian Lutheran Deaconess Home and Hospital, now Lutheran Medical Center, on 55th; Sporting Club GJOA on 62nd Street near 8th--one of the only soccer clubs w/ significant Scandinavian presence that's still in existence (apparently there used to be several); the Danish Athletic Club on 65th; and the Scandinavian East Coast Museum on Ovington. And let's not forget the Norwegian Folk Dance Society of New York, its homebase the GJOA. Excepting Lutheran Med Center, I missed them all. What I didn't miss was Leif Ericson Park & Square, a sizable green space w/ plaques commemorating Ericson's contributions as an explorer, the man having discovered Newfoundland in the 11th century. There are also some artful depictions of Norse myths involving Odin, Thor & the gang. Neat!
After plopping down on the lawn for a breather, I started back toward the train. But wait, what's this? Leif Tavern?? Too good! And who am I to pass up the chance to enjoy an ice-cold Ringes, or perhaps a refreshing pint of Aass Genuine Pilsner? I saunter on in, shamelessly sweaty and ruddy-faced. What'll it be? Well, whadaya got for Norwegian beers? Oh [laughing], nothing. We're an Irish bar! Oh, yeah, of course. Leif Ericson, Irish. I pan the room. Emerging from the darkness is indeed a conventional Irish pub scene, complete w/ soccer tourny posters and crusty regular-types slumped over the counter. At two in the afternoon, of course.
Damnit anyway.
Before taking refuge on the N (or was it the R?), I decide to make one last pit stop: a short sidestreet where, allegedly, I would find housing containing elements of traditional Scandinavian architecture. Picking up my ankles w/ my hands and moving them forward in customary walking fashion, I trip there. For nothing. Actually, I did invent something, tricking myself into seeing rosemaling where there wasn't any, but after the heat/brain damage wore off, there was just no foolin'. Strangely, later Web research showed me images that I swear were not those I'd taken in.
This journey felt really important to me. I took the small relics I succeeded in finding and held them close to me for days after, reflecting on the significance of family in my life, a significance that's more evident than ever these days, being as I'm so many miles from home. There was also the challenge aspect, because while a person need only walk down Ballard's Market Street for a satisfying bit of Scandinavia, clearly it's not so easy here--surprising, considering the prominence of so many different cultures. Yet while I never got my big 'a-ha' moment, the park was reasonable consolation.
And you know, the fact that so many landmarks evaded me (well, several anyway) made the experience almost dreamlike; it was like I was chasing down something that resisted being found, which, really, is what one's family history is about. Because while a person can pore over geneology research for years on end, obtaining vast stores of information on births, deaths, marriages, places of origin, livelihood, circus stints (my great-granny's sister, I want to say), etc., there will always be that missing element, namely, the way a person lived truly, internally. And even if I'd located every last inkling of Scandinavianism in Brooklyn, I still would've come away wanting. Because, for instance, I'll never know what it was like to be Nils Nilsson, my great-grandfather who journeyed westward from Sweden in 1887, or more plausibly, to know him and engage w/ him, making me wistful and nostalgic for something only daydreams can bring.
Just thought I'd share. 
Verazzano Narrows.
The Norwegian Day Parade (2005?), commemorating Norway's adoption of its constitution on May 17, 1814. Not my pic.
Tube-food. It was gone in a week.
Tiff & I atop the Met.
Tiff w/ a utensiled dinosaur.
En route to S.I.
En route to N.Y.
And in the meantime...
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Flap flap
Upon telling poet-friend-coworker that by the end of yesterday, all teeth had officially been removed, she said: "I, too, am all gums." Success all around! This time.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Just out of the mouth of my dear poet-friend-coworker
Writing is like pulling teeth, but not tooth by tooth--sliver-of-tooth by sliver-of-tooth. Without Novocaine.