Tuesday, February 27, 2007
If you ask me, Jackie Earle Haley was robbed
Well, we got our pretty snow. I mean, it snowed here a few weeks back, but that time the pretty part didn't come w/ it. This was the sight that greeted Pea & me upon leaving Doug's pad, post-Oscars, on Sunday night. Considering all the feet in this city, it felt satisfying to be the first to create prints in a small stretch of the stuff. Of course, it's messy/gone by now.
Also, the cugcake in the previous post is my latest rendition: Ice cream sundaes lifted from a new bakebook given me by my Valentine. Wild, eh? They turned out well, w/ frosting so light & fluffy it almost didn't exist.
Also also, below is my latest. The illustration they chose is kinda weird, but overall I think it looks nice. And they didn't chop it up at all--unusual.
Also also also, in this same issue of The Writer, which this year is celebrating its 120th bday, the editors take a look back at some choice quotes that ran in the mag's first year of print. Especially fun is the stuff about caring for one's pen. Wow.
And lastly, are you kidding me? It's good as in the mail.
Monday, February 26, 2007
One way or another
For the record, I have no idea what 'suspiciously familiar' means.
So, two weekends ago (Thursday/Friday included) I had all the time in the world. W/ a four-day stretch of nojob ahead of me, I was easily on track to polish off the first draft of my RW story. Yet when Monday rolled around and still I had no draft to wave happily in the air, it occurred to me that I'd totally eff'd up. I had more than enough research and source quotes to work w/, but all for nothing. Or so it seemed. Then Tuesday morning happened. After flinging myself about the apartment in an incredible show of distress, swearing like a mother as I tore through my closet in search of something to wear that wasn't white athletic socks, all the while mourning my status as one wretched excuse for a writer, I got myself to the office, where I proceeded to wrangle already-written sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into a story, w/ the ease of, of... someone who knows what she's doing. No shit!
At least it hit eventually, 'cause I hate to consider the alternative. ("Sorry Katie, the thing just wouldn't gel. I got nothin' for ya.") In the days that followed, thinking about the hideous experience, I realized the problem. I'd been way too dogged in the way I went about writing this one. From the moment I got that first paragraph down, I refused to budge, refused to consider that maybe there was a clearer, more efficient way of telling the story--and it's not a complicated one, either. What I needed to do, I now see, was to turn the thing around, to start from the end, pretty much. Which was what I did, literally cutting & pasting my way to completion.
Cupcakes would be so much easier.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Oh no. At Tea Lounge, and that song just came on. Welcome to my brain, where, much to my chagrin, you'll linger through the w/e. I guess once wasn't enough, huh?*
What else... Pea & I saw Mr. Stephen King an hour or so ago. We were on Seventh Avenue, having just left Naidre's Cafe, when we observed a suspiciously familiar figure nearing us. He looked pretty disheveled, hair sort of matted, and he was in a hurry, swinging two plastic grocery bags at his side. He was definitely him. We figure he's in town for next week's Comic Con.
Speaking of sightings, I saw B.J. Novak on the F train last week. Definitely better looking in person.
*I'd intended to link to an '06 ('05?) post devoted to this exact same problem, but then I remembered my archives are eff'd. Need to deal w/ that.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Awester (sorry)
"Sunny and windy." "18 degrees, feels like 0." Gotta not love it. Ah well, I have the day off, which is good for something. Not that I needed it for any particular reason, but the whim struck, and why not? was all I came up w/.
So, today = RW article writing time (done w/ interview phase, no excuse not to start in), gym time (earlier this week, the lifting prescription expanded to include quads/calves/still no hams), and maybe a sample sale thrown in for good measure. And since I'll be hangin' in Midtown/UES, I'll swing by a gallery on 62nd that I've been itching (gross!) to check out. Not that you asked for a rundown of my day-to-come, but there it is.
Actually, I came here to pay heed, yet again, to Mr. Auster, whom I, three days ago, heard read for the second time in two weeks. 192 Books is tiny, like I said, which made for quite the intimate arrangement. After conversing attentively w/ the shop's owner (I overheard something about a Portugese film director, a mutual friend of theirs), Auster moved to a small table in the middle of the room, where he was surrounded on all sides by mesmerized fans. As he got down to business, I was, yet again, taken in by the charisma the man radiates, the calm, I've-figured-it-out sense about him.
So he read--the same material as I'd heard at B&N, but material easier to follow due to the nature of the space. The new book is pretty slim, and after going at it for a good half hour, I figure Auster had to have made it through at least a quarter of its pages. It's good, I can tell I'll like it. While a lot of his past writings have dealt w/ identity/loss thereof issues, this one's extra shadowy, and the main guy literally has no idea who/where/how he came to be where he is. The setting is ambiguous, at least in the beginning, w/ Auster's descriptions, while not exactly imprecise, sort of messing w/ our natural way of thinking about place. It's a quick read--a few hours at most.
The end-signing part had me nervous--my usual--but as I neared the front of the line, my heart retreated to its rightful place, having spent the past few minutes hangin' out way too close to my skin. Kathump, kathump, kathump--you know the situation. I of course had this whole witty monologue planned, a one-way deal just destined to lead to a deeply satisfying and highly memorable dialogue between Mr. Auster and myself. Ha! I'm not that far off the ground.
Just my luck: As I reached the front of the line, some guy w/ some degree of relationship w/ Auster chose to strike up a conversation w/ him, creating this irksome distraction, the source of which I literally wanted to pound over the head. My turn, my time!* Oh well. I rattled off a line about having just moved to Park Slope (half-truth) and getting a kick out of visiting some of the places (restaurants, stores) that A mentions in his novels. Dividing his attention between me and Distraction, A seemed to hear, at least, the tailend of what I said,** and when I followed that w/ a generic, albeit heartfelt, "I really enjoyed the reading--thank you," he looked at me and appeared genuinely appreciative. "You're very welcome. Thanks for coming."
Why am I blogging? I need to make tracks, man. And I need some cheese. Speaking of, here's the blog of Anne Saxelby, purveyor of, some days, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She's a fine writer [...before I could say boo, I was back in France working as an affineur in Herve Mons’ caves in the Auvergne. It was there that I learned to tend and care for all of the lovely little cheeses that graced the cave shelves, patting down mold and flipping and turning hundreds, sometimes thousands (I'm not exaggerating!) of wheels every day]. She'll make you drool.
*Geez, I get so into these things. But when you're face-to-face w/ a person who's carried you through such elaborate plots and subplots and subsubplots, written you into dozens of dizzying relationships and chance, bizarre encounters, you can't help but feel indebted. Y'know?
**Perhaps due to perceived stalker-potential, although I swear I don't operate w/ the deliberate intention of actually running into the man. Honest.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Love, now!
So in my office building, the elevators are equipped w/ those nifty TVs, delivering, per trip, seven seconds of eye-popping newsbytes and stimulating weather & traffic reportage. But for all the invaluable factoids (an office desk has 400 times more bacteria than a toilet, 93% of all greeting cards are purchased by women, a dime has 118 ridges around the edge), it's the surveys I live for. Two days ago, it was this:
What are your feelings about Valentine's Day?
Love it--54%
Hate it--56%
Then, as seen this morning:
What are your feelings about Valentine's Day?
Love it--30%
Hate it--70%
Apparently as the day draws nearer, the rage only builds. Me, I'm pretty indifferent. I mean, I think the day's kinda weird and postured, full of all this stuff you're supposed to do for your sweetie. Not that he's not worth it (is!), not that E/J aren't deserving of three of my hearts for they-know-what, and not that I don't get sick off chocolate anyway (hell, an excuse is an excuse, and I take 'em as they come), but I'd rather pick my own day/way. What's that? I should take Pea on a MEGA DATE? Oh, man.
You're scaring me. But not as much as Tom "Life is short! Kick it up a notch!" Smith is.
Still yet, love to all my Valentines
Thanks for stickin' around. Here, a nice bouquet for you:
x
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Fill-in-the-cat
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Daydream disbeliever
Ugh. I hate, hate, hate this part of it. Transcribing interviews, especially the more ambitious ones (read: the hour-long one I'm presently at battle w/), is just damn tedious. Coffee helps, but considering I've been here (new discovery, liking it) three hours, refilling on the hour, my caffeine intake has reached that critical level where to take even a single sip more could push me over the edge. So, enough.
Thing is, I really shouldn't whine; it could be worse, as in, I could be dealing w/ some major hand-cramping issues. Not that he (she?) looks any worse off for all the longhand.
Hmm. Allow me to indulge myself in some public fantasizing, a pleasant little daydream that Ms. E planted in my head an hour ago and that refuses to be shaked. "I've decided that at some point you and I will open up a salon there in New York. You'll do hair. I was telling Jeff [husband] all about it. I'm serious. Next time I'm out there, I want to start hunting around for a location." Whoa there, buddy. But, but, it's actually not all that farfetched, considering my childhood, parent-given nickname was none other than Parlor Beauty. If you had hair and were willing to sit still awhile, I would come at you w/ a pile of plastic barrettes and go to town. Sometimes for hours. Actually, I wasn't quite that feisty, but I did enjoy myself. Then there were the prom updos and the college 'going out' hair arranged w/ a few timely flicks of the wrist. Not bad, if I do say so.
Anyway, our salon, we agreed, would/will be different. It will involve cupcakes, and it will involve books. W/ E and I at the helm, the business will operate as a salon/bakery/reading venue. A designated person will walk around w/ a platter, ensuring that all patrons get their cake, maybe more than one if multiple services are purchased (the usual cut/color/perm lineup). All the while, open mics and/or organized readings will be taking place, w/ featured speakers delivering all kinds of entertainment. In time, that partial foil or those extensions will cease to be associated w/ a depleted bank account alone; getting your hair done will become synonymous w/ intellectual stimulation! And cupcakes! I imagine we'll debut w/ someone/something that speaks to the nature of the business. This, say, or this. Then, maybe once a month, E will lead an evening workshop in the back of the shop, instructing in the fine craft of cupcaking. (I might have to teach her a few things, first.) The more I think about it, the more valuable it all seems. Salon, indeed! (Say, something tells me that she could've benefitted from a cupcake or ten. And that hair, that hair. How we could've helped.)
And how productive I've been. Wow. Could've had that transcription all but wrapped up by now.
Alright, back to it.
Friday, February 09, 2007
For the tummy
1
2
3
4
5
2: Mine! Really! These Mint Juleps, straw & all, are the foodchild of the talented Gail Wagman, and they couldn't have turned out better. They even made the blog! Speaking of, a recent entry features a call for opinions. Write 'em, Seattle.
3: Aw, nothing to hide.
4: Superbowl spread I.
5: Superbowl spread II.
6: The consumers.
Note: I hate it when Blogger inflates my type. This entry looks like trash.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Off the book
Went to a fantastic reading the other night. Of course, I'd hardly expected less, given the man of the hour.
I'd heard Paul Auster read before (at the same place he's scheduled to reappear on the 13th--better believe I RSVP'd, thereby securing myself a seat in one teensy bookstore), but I wasn't any less floored the second time around. This time, though, the impetus was a bit different, because this time it was Paul the person more than it was Paul the writer that got to me.
It wasn't a conventional reading/signing in that the whole deal was being taped for the Web. Part of B&N's Upstairs at the Square series, it was hosted by Katherine Lanpher, and given her heavyhandedness, the format wasn't my favorite. No room for audience questions, and Lanpher's own weren't that creative. The evening was just very structured, and while I know it had to be that way, I can't wait for next week's more relaxed take/setting. Oh, and there were a million people present, 999,900 of whom will be missing on Tuesday, for which I'm also cheering.
Another something that made this event unique was the fact that Auster was accompanied by offspring,* w/ his daughter Sophie sitting/standing next to him the entire time. That's right, Dad's spitting image was also a featured guest, there to flaunt some impressive vocals, especially so considering she's just 18. She recently released an album w/ the band One Ring Zero and is apparently a big hit in Europe, w/ an expanding U.S. fan base. Some of the songs were penned by Sophie herself, others at the hand of Pops, and a few twentieth century French poets chimed in, too. Brooding, amusing, whimsical--they've got it covered.
How it worked: Father would read an excerpt from the latest in a dizzying string of novels (I read somewhere that he turns over a book every fifteen months or so), then daughter (and band) would step in w/ a song. In between, Lanpher would address each Auster w/ a few questions, and the best part was watching them sort of play off one another. At one point toward the end, Dad Auster rattled off a story about how awhile back, upon finding out that Daughter Auster had been hurt by a boy, he wrote her a song, which he proceeded to type up and lay on her bed. Tell me, how does one not cry, hearing that? Sniff.
So yeah, Travels in the Scriptorium** looks to be yet another winner for Auster, and once I work my way through my current collection (still have Timbuktu, The Music of Chance, and Hand to Mouth to cover), I'll have to lose myself in it.*** Auster's a great reader, his voice low and rich, his delivery rhythmic and patient. Actually, I can get a little glazed-over in listening--it's kind of hypnotic.
Like I said, Lanpher's questions left something to be desired, generic as they were, but nonetheless, I appreciated Auster's responses, at times more non-responsive than anything else. What I liked was that he refused to answer for the sake of answering, in order to oblige the host or to meet some general expectation. What he chose to respond to, he responded to simply, thoughtfully, and honestly. No cliches, no pretension--awesome.
Thing is, I think sometimes readers of writers can get carried away w/ speculations and ideas about what this means or that stands for in a novel, about what larger point an author was trying to make in having character x act in a certain way. I mean, it's all fine and good to speculate, to imagine why some fictional event happened the way it did, to bring what only you are capable of bringing to someone else's story, but it doesn't necessarily follow that the author was setting out w/ any real intention whatsoever--at least not consciously to the point where he/she can reflect aloud on it. So like, last night when Auster was asked to address why he gave Mr. Blank his name (which is really what he's called in the novel)--"but what exactly does it say about this character?"--and he replied along the lines of "nothing really, to be honest," people (okay, Lanpher) seemed to have a hard time accepting it. Same thing when she cited Travels as "a book for our times." Auster didn't so much comment on this as he did about it being, perhaps, "a book for all times." Then an one point, Lanpher, in mentioning Auster's love of all works Beckett,**** suggested that Travels brings to mind some of Beckett's stuff. Auster: "Really? I don't think it's at all like Beckett." There were other instances unrelated to the book, questions/commentary intended to spur response x but instead brought the less flashy y. Lanpher seemed intent on romanticizing Auster and his writing, a common thing to do I realize, but Auster shrugged it off, much as he did Lanpher's mention of how Salmon Rushdie sings his (Paul's) praises. (Of course, it's this very accessibility that for some fans--ahem--only serves to ramp up the ideality.)
At the conclusion of the program, I didn't wait around for a sig--lines were just too much. Anyway, that's what Tuesday's for.
*Sophie's mom is the Norsk writer Siri Hustvedt--she and Auster are 21 years-married. Quite the handsome trio, eh?) Also, I just discovered that, back in the 70s, Auster and another dynamo-writer, Lydia Davis (love her), were married for a few. And from that came this.
**In searching Amazon for the title and clicking on Auster's name, I found this: http://www.amazon.com/Hunger-Knut-Hamsun/dp/0374525285/sr=1-4/qid=1170975638/ref=sr_1_4/102-8235145-7189704?ie=UTF8&s=books. Wow--Hunger's one of my all-time favorites. Have to check out that intro.
***I've lost myself, only to re-find myself a few days later, in every Auster book I've read. More than any other author, Auster writes the story that, when I'm forced to take leave from it, refuses to allow me to fully re-enter my own life. It's like I have this side-life hanging off me like an extra appendage (ew). Ever had the experience of closing a book that you're really immersed in and feeling like you've literally put other peoples' lives on hold? W/ Auster, I'll sometimes close a book, say when I've arrived at my trainstop, and get the impression that the characters whose lives I was just reading are trapped inside a box that is the book--like I can see them scuttling about in there. Amazing. Troubling.
****Auster told a very sweet story about a conversation he had w/ the man himself, back when Auster was 25 and living in Paris.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Respite
I crawled out of bed 7:30-early on this Sunday morning. I felt well-rested, the sun was shining bright, the sky a clear and brilliant turquoise. What better to do than whip up the batch of Mint Julep cupcakes I'd been putting off for a week. I gathered the appropriate utensils (okay, a few didn't qualify as such; see the conventional metal spoon that would stand in for a wooden mixing spoon, the sterilized bobby pin that would perform the job of a toothpick, the familiar Tupperware...) and got down to business. No matter, the semi-disaster brought about by an explosive creaming of butter/sugar; I was in a pleasant, if not a tinge melancholic, place. As I wrote my friend Nicole earlier, I found myself travelling back to my childhood home in Everett: to a lazy Sunday morning that found my family members caught up in various activities--reading the paper over an openfaced tuna melt, curled up on the patchwork couch w/ a book, making art at the paint-splattered 'art table,' running in and out of the sliding glass door wielding a Super Soaker 100, all while the song "Easy Like Sunday Morning" wafted from the speakers and a lawnmower hummed in the distance.
Man, I'm so glad my memories are my own.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Romantic dramady?
Pah, love it!