The grooviness of life

Ungroovy:
I got locked out of the house by contractors again. WTF. A girl shouldn't need a hammer to get into her own house. My super cute khaki's are covered in green slime from climbing over the fencing. I am a little bit concerned that I will go home tonight and find that I am again locked out. I am a little bit concerned that this will be a problem next week too. I need to take a lock picking class. And even after I got in and figured out what happened, I was fucking freaked out for the rest of the night and the better part of today. So I started writing a song about it and I feel a little bit better.

When I think about it, I am lucky that I didn't get arrested trying to get into my own home, as Professor Henry Louis Gates was.

In speaking with G about it, she attempted delicately to point out that I have a sort of home issue, that there are a lot of people for whom being locked out of the home, even for several days (like even 2 weeks) would not be such a big deal. It had not occurred to me that I was not exhibiting normal behavior, that my emotional and actual reaction was outside of what most would do. (CK also said something to the effect that she probably would not have gone to the lengths I did to get into my own home. It seemed normal to me, in previous lives I have had friends who helped me gain access to my apartments when locked out. G also attempted delicately to point out that perhaps at the time I was hanging out with a shady crowd and it's a good thing that I no longer roll with that crew.

But I suppose is true. I am very attached to the concept of having a place where I live, somewhere with a door with locks for which I hold the key. I am more of a homebody than I wanderer.


Groovy:
I have three orchid plants at my desk. They are all failing to thrive in my care. Lack of light, lack of proper feeding, lack of good root aeration, but mostly lack of me watering them. When watering them today, on the worst of them, a plant with enormous withering leaves and decaying roots that I recently snipped back to stumps, I spied a little green rootlet extending out from under the leaves. Despite my neglect, despite impossibly unfriendly conditions, despite a lifetime of suffering at my hands, it wants to live. Such optimism, such an impossible act of hope, it's damn inspiring. The plant is flipping me the bird and doing the best it can. In the face of this, what do I have to bitch about?

Seriously.

Can't please all the people all the time ....

A young man in black with sleeve tatoos, goatee and stretched ear lobes complimented me on one of my songs at the open mic last night. "It was so aggro. We were all rooting for you."

And then he told me how let down he was by the sensitiveness of my second song.

Alas. What can you do.

More than one way to peel a banana

As some of you know, yahoo and my friends are my internet window to the world. For better for worse. And so while all of you have probably already seen this. My sense of wonder on viewing this drives me to post the link to this banana video.

http://video.yahoo.com/watch/5485051/14431318

I am going to buy a banana after work and try it.

Brain Freeze

I split a pint of Coffee and Donuts ice cream with the PG this weekend. It sounded like a heart attack in ice cream form. I am sorry to say that it did not quite deliver. I love coffee ice cream and I love donuts. But somehow the combination did not fly. I keep asking myself why? Perhaps the flavor was not strong enough to stand up to the red wine and the hefty serving of cow that preceded it.

At the time all I could think was that hot fudge would have taken it to another level.

Firstly, the coffee ice cream to taste more like coffee, a little more bitter would have been welcome. Secondly, It now occurs to me, that cold donuts are waxy and frozen donuts are even more waxy. You lose the sensation of fatty donutty-ness softened and warmed by steeping in hot coffee. Ideally, they could, make the coffee flavor stronger, soak the donut pieces in the coffee mixture and then freeze the thing. In this way ice cream would be integrated into the donut pieces.

And then, serve it with hot fudge or affogato style with espresso poured over it.

Still, I love the concept. If it would only sweep the nation, I could walk to the corner grab a pint and drown it in coffee. Ice cream on the brain.

Need a new train read

The gallant older gent next to me on the train got up and offered his seat to a mother of two. One in the stroller and an adorable little boy of about 5 or 6. He sat down next to me and waved and smiled at me. I smiled back and said, "Hi." He was taken aback, "You speak English?!" "Yes I do."

After some discussion of the number of languages that he knows with some amused input from his mom, he went happily on with squirming around, bugging his mom and making faces at his baby sister.

"What are you reading," he asks.

"It's a book about a guy who moves to Italy and learns how to make wine," I say.

He shakes his head and starts making that gesture for crazy, where you point your index finger at the side of your head and start drawing circles. And then, as if this is not enough, he brings up his second index finger to the other side of his hand to make twice the circles to the amusement of all on the train.

And while I do like this book a lot, I would have to admit that at his age, I would have been in complete agreement with him. It doesn't have a single robot, talking animal, ninja or superhero in it. What was I thinking.

More than parsley

Yesterday was my first CSA pick up. This is year I have decided to boogie down with the local farms, in a more committed way than groovin' at the Farmer's Market.

I have "every other week" vegetable and fruit shares that I am splitting with JB. From the point that I got the notion to do this, I have been waiting in anticipation for this day, like a kid on the night before Christmas, anxiously pestering the main organizers by email and phone to make sure that they got my contract and my check, speculating about what produce would come my way, worrying about whether I'd be able to cook and eat it all. Day dreaming about tomatoes, all aflutter over produce.

Yesterday I picked up:

1 head of Lettuce
2 bunches of Kale
1 bunch of Radishes
1 bunch of Scallions
1 bunch of Chard
1 Kohlrabi
1 Bok choi
4 garlic scapes
2 quarts of strawberries

Split by two this doesn't seem like a lot of food. "Seem" being the operative word in that sentence. For now, I am grateful for this, especially considering how small the fridge is in my new place. As the growing season progresses who knows, who knows. Still, it's clear that a half share won't last for 2 weeks. This was made clear to me by a co-worker who warned me that the product got from a CSA was much like what you get from a farmer's market in that the food is READY when you get it and won't keep passed a day or two without you cooking, blanching, or freezing it.

With this in mind, I ate the radishes and the kohlrabi raw with salt and a little cider vinegar. Kohlrabi crunches like an apple but tastes and smells more like a turnip. If we get more of it, I will have to get my mom's turnip kim-chi recipe and give that a go.

The strawberries are small and tart and sweet and fragile. I am already half through eating them and hoping that the rest not have turned to mush by the time I get home tonight.

I made colcannon, which is basically mashed potatoes with chopped, cooked leafy greens mixed in. In my case, kale, for others it's cabbage. At first I added half of my batch of kale to the taters which made it very potato-y with some green stuff in it. So I boiled up the rest and added that and had something that was more like a blend of potato and leaf. It was about 3 or 4 cups of Kale leaves chopped up and boiled in super salted water for about 7-10 mins. Didn't use the cream, used 3/4 of a stick of butter, some milk, and some of the kale water to keep things from getting too dry. Added scallions to the mix at the end. It was friendly, like having your mashed taters and creamed spinach in the same bowl.

In tackling the chard, I tried just frying the stems with garlic and capers and then wilting the leaves with them. Unfortunately, the leaves and the stems were much tougher than my internet recipe suggested. I cooked them, and cooked them, and added water, a little chicken bouillon, and a bay leaf and cooked them some more. At the end, they came out tough and wilted at the same time. In the less cooked parts, with the consistency of seaweed. A little bitter, so I added some balsamic vinegar and threw them in the fridge. Will have to dig up alternative means of preparation.

There are bok choi, lettuce, and garlic scapes in my fridge, waiting for me. The scapes in particular are of interest. Apparently if you have a lot of them you can make a pesto. But with two I think that is unlikely. Perhaps in an omelette.

And by the end of the week, I will fall back into anticipation and day dreaming about vegetables.

Naps Get a Good Rap

So, after all that huffing and ranting, I run across this article today about REM sleep and the way we process emotion. It would seem that the Universe and the Internet have cooperatively decided to mock me and rap me on the knuckles.

"According to new research presented last week at the annual meeting of the Associated Professional Sleep Societies in Seattle, adequate sleep may underpin our ability to understand complex emotions properly in waking life."

This is research from Matthew Walker's lab at UC-Berkeley.

"In the small analysis of 36 adults, volunteers were asked to interpret the facial expressions of people in photographs, following either a 60- or 90-minute nap during the day or with no nap. Participants who had reached REM sleep (when dreaming most frequently occurs) during their nap were better able to identify expressions of positive emotions like happiness in other people, compared with participants who did not achieve REM sleep or did not nap at all. Those volunteers were more sensitive to negative expressions, including anger and fear."

Perhaps last weekend, I was particularly sleep deprived and therefore unable to correctly interpret the emotions of others.

"... in people who were sleep deprived, activity in the prefrontal lobe - a region of the brain involved in controlling emotion - was significantly diminished."

And perhaps my reaction, especially last night, is also in part due to a lack of sleep.

"If you're walking through the jungle and you're tired, it might benefit you more to be hypersensitive to negative things," he [Walker] says. The idea is that with little mental energy to spare, you're emotionally more attuned to things that are likely to be the most threatening in the immediate moment. Inversely, when you're well rested, you may be more sensitive to positive emotions, which could benefit long-term survival, he suggests: "If it's getting food, if it's getting some kind of reward, finding a wife - those things are pretty good to pick up on."

One can't help but wonder how many well rested people one interacts on any given day in a city that never sleeps. And viceversa.

REM sleep appears to not only improve our ability to identify positive emotions in others; it may also round out the sharp angles of our own emotional experiences. Walker suggests that one function of REM sleep - dreaming, in particular - is to allow the brain to sift through that day's events, process any negative emotion attached to them, then strip it away from the memories.

And here I imagine a black tar of negative emotion sticking to and building up on the brain after several nights with no sleep - as if sleep is a mental hygiene issue.

"It's not that you've forgotten. You haven't," he says. "It's a memory of an emotional episode, but it's no longer emotional itself."

This "separation between memory and emotion" quote is so great. It has the quality of a very careful finer distinction. So deliciously scientific. I had always thought that the separation of emotion from memory requires the passage of time, great patience and mental processing. But perhaps really good sleep would do the same. It seems like this would be true of positive and negative emotions, the ability of a memory to evoke a particular emotion can be a stunning and beautiful experience, the gradual muting of which is wistful. I wonder if those studies have been done.

That palliative safety-valve quality of sleep may be hampered when we fail to reach REM sleep or when REM sleep is disrupted, Walker says. "If you don't let go of the emotion, what results is a constant state of anxiety," he says.

Which doesn't really sound like the fun way to live.

Overall this make me wonder whether people who never sleep or less much less, dream more intensely. Whether they just get into the REM part of their sleep cycle more quickly. I have always envied those who don't sleep. The head start that they get by sleeping less, by needing less sleep. They are awake for all that wacky life stuff, that I miss by sleeping.

But perhaps, I should leave all of that glamour to those who can handle it. Perhaps this mere mortal is better off sleeping on it. And for 8-10 hours a night at that.

Testing, always testing

Last weekend I went to a party and was handed a guitar and asked to play a song. I did. Everyone was informed that I wrote the song. Which I did.

I was then confronted by two people in the room who I have interacted with and socialized with in the past in a friendly way. They both insisted vigorously that they had heard the song before, they challenged the idea that I had written it. Which made me pretty much not ever want to sing or play another song for that group of people again. They can listen to the radio.

Later, at the same party someone asked me what I had been doing with myself. "Not much," I said, "a little cooking." He asked what I had been cooking and when I replied he said, "That's not cooking, that's just feeding yourself." Baking a chicken, making some cabbage, making polenta apparently is not cooking.

This is another person who I have interacted with and socialized with in the past in a friendly way.

My impression of these people was that they were pretty nice and reasonable to interact with socially. I'm sure that I will do so in the future. But the day after the party, I pretty much wanted to travel back in time and punch each of them in the face. This is probably why I haven't made a lot of friends since moving here.

This city is full of people doing and designing and creating. They run around and brag endlessly about themselves and how amazing they are. Everyone has a 1-5 minute spiel that is designed to impress and amaze.

It can get overwhelming, even numbing after a while. Reminding me of two quotes from movies set in New York:

Marie in When Harry Met Sally - "Everyone thinks they have good taste and a sense of humor but they couldn't possibly all have good taste and a sense of humor."

And Holly Golightly - "Do you think she's talented? Deeply and importantly talented?"

You keep having to check your gut. Is this person's elevator dog and pony show an accurate reflection of who they are and what they can do? Or are they just really good at the sell. Are they actively lying? Are you or they delusional? Or is it worse, they are sincere but deluding themselves? Or are they the real deal?

People keep asking for your credentials.

A blogger? For who? Does someone pay you to blog?
A writer? What have you published? Who is your agent?
A singer? What label are you on? Where do you gig?
College educated or higher? Where did you get your degree? Who did you study with? What did you study? Do you know so and so?
And so on.

On the flip side of that, it's a city-wide pastime to buy tickets, sit in the audience and to make judgements, form opinions. The best of this, the finest of that, the cheapest this, the most original that, the newest this, the most amazing that. Having opinions, becoming a critic, an expert, an aficionado, can become a full time hobby and in this city in many cases, even a paying job. Professional listener, professional audience member, professional observer. Everyone lives an examined life in that they pass judgments when they go out and pursue urban experiences. The self examination extends to the questions of : Do I like it, do I enjoy it? Why or why not?

I am no different in this.

It's a terrifying place to create. When I am trying to tell the truth or reveal myself, to offer up something precious about myself, there will be someone who is judging my offer as a commodity, a purchased experience to be compared with all of the others that they have encountered. It's a terrifying place to blog. People who I don't know very well, have this url and will judge me based on what I write here. My every pore, neurotic thought, typo and grammatical error.

Many here are brave. They reveal what is precious to them. They show you everything in the process. Every line, every stroke, confident that you will be won over, or get invested in the outcome.

For me creating is a delicate process. It is more like that wine commercial from the 80's, "We will sell no wine before its time."

Inspiration is shy and timid, she needs nurturing and shelter, a feeling of safety. She is a nervous thing to be tamed. Things revealed before they are ready, wilt and die. Things revealed before they are strong enough crumple into a bits.

And some days it's all that I can do to keep from smashing them to dust myself before they are ready. To see them crushed by another hands is unbearable.

I am too thin skinned for life. I am going to die alone and obscure. The glitterati can go F*** themselves.

If I could draw I would do nothing else

Salsa soothes the savage beast

Gaaawdddd! I am on the verge of bitchy today. It is a miracle that, I have not caused physical or mental trauma. *knock on wood* The pants are cranky.

I pause from this about to be horrible mood to announce that I am in love with:




this salsa.

Up until recently, I have not been much for Salsa watery tomato puree on my chips to help me choke them down when sitting at a Mexican joint in a haze of hunger.

Until now.

One evening I was over at CK's and she had a bag of lime flavor tostitos and a jar of the Desert Pepper Salsa Diablo.

We never made it out to dinner because I would not be parted from the snacks and there was enough cheap wine in the house to keep her watered. I basically inhaled the jar and licked the lid. To assuage my guilt I brought over another jar when I next visited but could not keep myself from asking if I could crack it open.

Out of sight was out of mind until last night when I walked by display of tortilla chips in the grocery store. I wandered down the aisle, curious to see what kinds of salsa they carried. And there it was. The rest of the evening was spent having one more chip with salsa.

The downside to this is after the burning and the flavor subsides, I am left with a stomach full of corn chips. They settle like a giant rock. But hey, all things come at a price. Perhaps at this time of the month it's not chocolate but spicy salsa that soothes the savage beast. My mood was much better until I ran out of chips and salsa at my desk today.

Regional pastimes

In Chicago, many apartment buildings have a back structure allowing every unit to have a small deck/patio area. Makes it easier to be a smoker. You can just open the backdoor and step out into the open air. You can put out a window box, a couple of potted plants, a funky ceramic ashtray, some comfy lawn chairs and kick it all summer. Have drinks, shoot the breeze, smokey-smoke. Very chill.

Places I want to remember

I have this fear that I am going to forget where I have been and what I have done while living here. Primarily it's been eating a drinking, I think. At least those are the parts that I seem to remember the best. That and the amazing rock show here and the awesome exhibit or other kind of performance there.

As an Aide-memoire I spent a bit of time yesterday creating the following:

The Map of My Stomach


View The Map of My Stomach in a larger map



The Geography of My Liver


View The Geography of My Liver in a larger map

They are works in progress. You can click on the markers, you can grab the map and move the center. There are places I have been that are not included here. Certainly. But these are the ones that I want to remember. Got a restaurant or bar suggestion? Leave a comment, please.

making a mix

The beauty of having friends in their 20's is the clever applications that they quickly pick up and take for granted as an integral part of their lives. Awesome applications that I am the last to encounter, discovered from passing mention. Most of the modern world would have gone unnoticed, completely glossed over without them.

Recently mentioned in passing by the Amazing AM:

8tracks.com

It's a site where you can create playlists of songs.

*love*

Big big bowls

Met up with CK and JK yesterday at Shanghai Mong for some noodles.

CK and I were so hungry that we greeted each other in this way:

"Dumplings?"
-"Yeah."

and then proceeded to chow on a bunch of kimchi and daikon while discussing the fact that we were so hungry that we feared that we were metabolizing our internal organs while sitting at the table.

When JK joined us, it got slightly more social, but only slightly. Appropriately girly topics of conversation were introduced that I scarcely followed while shoveling and slurping the Chajang myun and Cham Pong. Not lady-like but primal and deeply satisfying. I was hunched over my bowl a little to intently to notice whether I was the only one.

*burp*

It's possible that the best things in life are free. But today it feels improbable.

I want to meet this woman

Two word dialogues in the future

I watched the movie "Wall-E" this past weekend. For most of the movie two words are repeated "Eeeeeeva" and "Wall-eeeee" apparently with gestures, posture, and changes in "facial expression" by which I mean the shape and position of the "eyes" (with robots) volumes and volumes can be expressed and communicated.

It turns out that CK is right - language is one part of the process of communication. But it's not everything.

It's a delightful movie. There were moments where the cynic in me would start tapping on my shoulder and pointing at the screen but then the movie would shift and all was good again.

How strange to have a digitally animated robot remind me that love is more than a feeling. Love is a verb. To love is to pay attention, to support, to sustain, to listen, to understand, to protect. Love is devotion. Yeah, and all that jazz. But there is it.

And if ever you are attacked by robots, play them the soundtrack from "Hello Dolly." They seem to like that pretty well.

hoppity hop hop games

JY and I walked by parents chalking out a hopscotch pattern on the sidewalk on the way to brunch. It didn't look right. Mind you, I haven't played hopscotch in so long and I don't remember the rules.

I commented on this feeling of not-rightness to JY and he replied that perhaps I was being too rigid and unyielding about how the game was played. Maybe he has a point, it's fine to set whatever rules you want for hopping games on the sidewalk. Hrumph. Nonetheless, whatever that game might be, it wasn't hopscotch. Must be the curmudgeon in my shining through on a fine Memorial Day weekend. "Get off my lawn!"

The smell of crushed grass

I rarely check listing for bands coming to town anymore.

When I do, my heart races , my stomach tightens up, I get jittery and I need to go to the show. I need to be there and feel the music. I in fact need to see a bunch of shows that are happening concurrently and before even knowing whether I can afford tickets, whether or not the show is sold out, whether I have prior commitments, I am already tearing my heart to bits and trying to figure out if I can can see any or all of them or even just a little snippet here and there. I make a freak of myself though I generally try to keep it to myself. Contain the histrionics in a calm work place friendly exterior.

But Wednesday, despite my resolve to ignore the Oh My Rockness email, I opened it. And now I know what I am missing this weekend and my heart hurts. The pangs of my live music addiction. Peaches. I am missing Peaches. Gah! And Goes Cube and the Pop Music Festival.

I did go see a show on Thursday with JY. Curtis Eller, an amazing banjo singing, showman. Wireless set up on the banjo makes for antics of the best sort. Also on the bill were Robin Aigner one woman old school folkie and Thinguma Jigsaw a duo from Norway who describe their music as "Splatter Folk" or "Snuff Pop." Picture Neil Young's vocals paired with some driving banjo, accompanied by flute, the saw or melodica. They claim that their influences are folk music and art/cult/horror films. At one point in their set they proposed a toast: "To Doom and Emptiness" which is now my new favorite toast ever.

It was enjoyable but it was not my show. Not my idea. So on Friday, I checked the Oh My Rockness listings and took the M train out to Bushwick.

Dan Deacon was playing a show with his ensemble in what looked to be an abandoned urban lot right next to the overhead subway. The trains ran by with regularity and the subways conductors honked their horns an waved to us when they passed by. As it got dark the light from the train created a periodic shift of mood shedding a fluorescent glow on us all.

It was a ToddP show, I've heard of ToddP but have not until now witnessed his work. They built a stage that day and brought tons and tons of speakers. Which they were wiring and setting up all over. They put up a big white sheet at the back of the stage and a guy with a really high ladder attached a projector to a really big pole to project images onto the sheet.

The space was fenced in with rocks everywhere and weeds and dirt. It was utterly random. The show was supposed to start at 6pm. I got out of the office late around 6:30 and while I thought I'd miss most of the show decided that I might as well head out and see what was up. They were not ready yet when I got there around 7:18 so I got to loiter around, read a little and people watch. So much beautiful youth. I had to wonder where all of these people come from and what do they do for a living. If anything. Many of them were clearly kids. It was an all ages show. Haven't been to one of those in I can't say how long. And of course in my workplace appropriate attire I stuck out like a sore thumb. But for me the alienation is a part of being out and about in NYC experience, like parley with a Diner plate.

A couple of kids from the neighborhood got up on stage and asking for donations to help their basketball team and a bunch of us came up to the stage and handed them crumpled dollar bills. It felt strangely and uncharacteristically community-like.

Eventually the first band started: Teeth Mountain. There were about seven or eight people on stage. Two drummer, two laptops, one with a keyboard, a guy playing random noodley things, a violinist with many pedals and noodley things, and a guy playing the saxophone. It was noise and cacophony with a strong tribal drumbeat. Who does not love toms? I ask you.

Up next was: Future Island. A bass player, a guy with keyboard and laptop, and one really intense hardworking singer. One might dismiss them as a catchy harmless electro-pop band were it on for the sweating, emoting, screaming, growling, massive expression of artistic commitment and humanity that was their front man.

And then Dan Deacon and his ensemble, the bazillion people in decorated white jumpsuits bearing and playing instruments. Dan Deacon had an arm in a sling but this did not stop him from holding court and running the biggest romper room / mickey mouse extravaganza this side of the Rio Grande. The music was manic and zany and catchy. Almost impossible to dance yet irresistable. And then there were the group activities. To get us in the right frame of mind he had us raise and arm to the sky, shout a greeting and give thanks to the neighborhood for allow us to have an outdoor show. He made us sing one note. Over and over conducted by him as his instrument. He had games and dances with rules for the whole group to participate in. He created these all inclusive dance game phenomena during the show. In one that was particularly cute, two people would stand facing each other with their arms stretched out and up towards each other. Two new people would walk under the bridge of their arms and stop at the other side, facing each other with their arms stretched out and up towards each other. As more and more people joined, it became this human tunnel of people dancing and waving their arms that grew and grew, snaking through the open space. It was quite lovely. And with all of these games people started to smile at themselves, at each other, at perfect strangers.

This broke up the whole mosh pit crowd surfing cycle from time to time. I stepped into the pit for a bit. Which was, as always, psychically cleansing. A stomping, sweaty, churning mass steeped in the smell of the unwashed and crushed grass and weeds underfoot. Good times and peril. People were dropped while trying to crowd surf. People were kicked in the head by crowd surfers. People tripped and fell on themselves or the rocks that were everywhere or backpacks and bottles strewn on the ground. Dan Deacon repeatedly cautioned everyone to be careful and even asked people to refrain from crowd surfing during the last song. Which surprisingly, they did.

Sometimes fueled by booze and weed and adrenaline and fast manic music, things get a little out of hand. Crowds can take on a life of their own and the experience of the sum vs. the parts something else entirely. On the train ride home, I noticed a blood stain on the sleeve of my trench coat. It was dark and in the crush of humanity, I cannot know who that was or how serious his or her injury was. I can only hope that they are okay, they don't need stitches, and that they have had a recent tetanus shot.

At the close of the night Dan Deacon has us again raise our arms into the sky and thank the neighborhood again. We invited them to visit our homes and eat as much of our roommates' food as they wanted. ToddP added a request to clean up after ourselves, to not take beer out past the fence, and to refrain from being assholes while out on the streets of Bushwick.

And then I caught the train home and fell dead asleep. I woke up today feeling more human than I have in a while.

Love and Lettuce

Love is grand but to nurture and sustain it takes effort, and patience, and persistence. So it is in "The $64 Tomato," a gardener's memoir by William Alexander. William, the director of technology, and his wife Anne,a medical doctor moved their family to the Big Brown House the Hudson Valley and built the garden of their dreams. A 2,000 square foot garden - flowers, vegetables, herbs, fruit, fruit trees, the works.

And here begin the often humorous trials of William. To grow a garden is not merely a matter of pushing seeds into the ground and waiting for plants to shoot up and offer up their bounty. There is A LOT more to it. The weather, the water, getting pollinators, the weeds, the worms, the japanese beetles, the squirrels, the deer, groundhogs, fungus, the planting, the planning, the fertilizing, the watering, the contractors, and so on, including even the challenge of going from not enough to too much plenty. He recounts his progression from idealistic organic gentleman farmer to food growing realist defending his crop in many cases in the end almost by any means necessary. And the way the garden becomes

"an inseparable part of me, a third partner in our marriage ...we'd been arranging vacations around harvests, I'd been spending virtually all my leisure time between May and October tending it, and more than once it had own marital discord."

The book is about a labor of love. The story of a man's obsession and passion for cultivation. And perhaps a passion like this is unsustainable. It wears on the heart and the body.

The book closes in his tenth year of gardening. He has come from the doctor who has told him that he has neck injury, a herniated disk in his spine and advises against heavy lifting. Which is a tall order for someone whose hobby is the bulk of the heavy labor involved in the cultivation of 2,000 square feet.

Injury aside, he admits that he has felt increasing dissatisfaction with his garden. And he begins to question the pursuit altogether:

"In short, I am the Existentialist in the Garden. Camus in the chamomile. Sartre in the salad. How on earth did I get here, and how do I get out? Do I want to get out? If this garden is my war, then the golf course is surely Armageddon. What I've been doing is rewarding, nourishing, and reflective of a philosophical belief in self-sustenance and healthy,m fresh food - but how do I make it fun again? This is, after all, supposed to be a hobby, not a burden. I think about the burden of canning peaches: my lesson in how quickly novelty becomes ritual becomes chore.

The great, terrifying existentialist question: If you were doomed to live the same life over and over again for eternity, would you choose the life you are living now? The question is interesting enough, but I've always thought the point of asking it is really the unspoken, potentially devastating follow-up question. That is, if the answer is no, then why are you living the life you are living now? Stop making excuses, and do something about it."

The latter part of this quote is a part of my own struggle too, only without the groundhogs and the pounds and pounds of horse manure.

He does a calculation of the cost associated with each of his heirloom tomatoes coming to the amount which is the title of the book. And he cannot help but ask himself and his wife the

"... unspoken question troubling me, one that spanned months, years, ages. A question I both had to ask and was afraid to ask.

'Was it worth it?'

"Anne deliberately closed the journal, placed both hands on the cover, and looked up at me.

And smiled."

He does it for the food, for the empowerment, For the rituals of the growing and harvest season that he and his family has developed over the years,
to repeatedly witness "the cycle of birth and resurrection in the garden."

He does it because "Gardening is, by it's very nature, an expression of the triumph of optimism over experience. No matter how bad this year was, there's always next year," and because on most days, despite the trials and tribulations, he loves to garden:

" A common bumper sticker reads 'A bad day fishing beats a good day at work.' Yes, I've had some rocky times, but I suppose on most days, when the weeds are somewhat under control, the groundhogs tamed, and my neck isn't throbbing, I feel the same way about gardening."

"Things I remember: Witnessing childbirth. Finding myself standing absolutely alone before Da Vinci's Last Supper. And planting potatoes on a perfect spring morning."

Sometimes our love consumes us and wears us down to the point where we get lost, mired in the endless details and demands of its care and pursuit and upkeep. Sometimes it's the endless demands and details of life in addition. And you need to resurface and find the reminder that you do in fact love, why you love, what you love and how that feels.

The book closes with William pondering his garden. We do not know where he goes from here. We leave him taking a tomato in from his garden for lunch.

Mixing to Infinity

I watched "Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist" this weekend. It has lovely moments.
The scene where Nick and Nora are dancing together. So lovely.

First Favorite quote: "She falls apart and I put her back together again." This is in reference to Nick's Yugo.

Second Favorite quote: "Look, other bands wanna make it about sex or pain, but the Beatles, they had it all figured out. 'I want to hold your hand.' It's the first single. Brilliant, right? Because that's what people want, Nicky. They don't want a 24-hour hump sesh, or marry you for 100 years. They just wanna hold your hand." Hand holding. *sigh* Holding the right hand is dreamy.

If I were a teenager, I don't know if I would have a crush on Michael Cera. But somehow when I see him in a movie, I am completely won over. I have a curious admiration for his precociousness and his awkward struggle to be decent and to have integrity. His characters generally fare much better than I did at that age. He seems to have an awareness that whatever indignities he suffers in the moment, there is life after high school. And I get the sense that he is on the way to becoming a really stellar dude.

Here I have to pause and ponder whether is evidence that I am a cougar. *covers forehead with palm of hand*

I actually walked by the filming of one of the scenes in the movie. There were some folks and lights on the street crowded around this block by the Waverly Restaurant. TBW, the South, and I and the work crew walked by on our way from the Fat Cat to Mamoun's. At the time I had no idea but in watching the film I recognized it. The scene where Nora parks Nick's car.


When I moved here I was going to a lot of shows. Being a moron, I missed going to CBGB's before they closed. From that moment I set a goal to see a show at as many venues as I could in the city. I have not gotten very far on that one: Irving Plaza, the Mercury Lounge, the Knitting Factory, the Cake Shop, Arlene's Grocery, Terminal 5, the Music Hall of Williamsburg, Trash Bar, the Rockwood Music Hall, the Living Room, Union Hall, the Galapagos Art Space, Pianos, Sin-e, the Bitter End, the Highline Ballroom, ABC No Rio, Webster Hall - these are the ones that I can recall.

Tip of the iceberg and I am still missing some really great ones. As a formerly rabid show-goer, I had some serious venue envy watching the movie. They hit some places that I have not yet seen.

Fortunately, I think there is still time.

Taste and Pairings

The world is divided in its perception of the taste of cilantro. To some, it is green, pleasant, and delicious. To others, it is like eating a bar of soap. I fall into the latter category.

A sprig of cilantro nestled in a bouquet of parsley is enough for me to consider tossing out the whole bunch. I pick it out of everything. When I order bun and I forget to ask them to hold the cilantro, I get a second plate on which to put all the cilantro that I pick out.

However this weekend I had a revelation. I went to Hanco's for a Vietnamese sandwich. I ordered the grilled chicken sandwich, spicy, and for once in my life, the cilantro was working for me.

The bread was crusty, the pickled carrots were the right kind of sweet, the chicken was perfectly tender, the spicy was impressively spicy indeed, and as an accompaniment, the cilantro was as it has been so frequently described to me: green, pleasant, and delicious. I was shocked. To the extent where I took a deep sip of my drink and chewed on a sprig without the spicy. It was soapy as ever.

So now, if I get into a situation in which all the food in the world is slathered in cilantro and no one will give me a second plate, I know what to do. Reach for a giant bottle of chili sauce.

When it's not Venn

Discovered via Rands, the following links are to things that are not proper Venn Diagrams. These diagrams are so so so wrong. This, however, does not change the fact that they are frickin' hilarious. In some cases even, slightly devastating.

And while you are perfectly capable of checking out the whole set for yourself on Flickr, I am still compelled to throw up urls for the ones that I like.


Venn Project #2

Venn Project #4

Venn Project #8

Venn Project #9

Wenn Project #11

Venn Project #17

Bases covered

One laptop dead. I think she's dead. I will take her to the doctor in case there is any more for resurrection.

The other, up until today, had a hamster wheel for a CPU and ran not quite as fast as an abacus. However, on the advice of the MO, I bought RAM and installed it myself. (yay me) Now it runs like hamsters on speed.

It seemed silly that I had two laptops. And now it seems like a stroke of genius.

The whine, the wine

A sign of hard times: I have been bringing cheaper and cheaper wines over to CK's place.

Of late we have sampled:
Chateau Diana: "soda pop with alcohol in it"
Two Oceans: "the swill that tastes like the sea"
GatoNegro: "The black cat on the label is very cute"
Frontera - "Wince-worthy"

Today I brought a very large bottle of Folonari which is chilling in the freezer as yet unopened. The anticipation is killing me. I would have bought a box wine but I have yet to find a reputable vendor in the city who carries them. Oh Franzia, what is my life without you?

My liver is about to secede. Perhaps this is a false economy and CK and I would be better served attempting to ferment and distill our own booze in her bathtub.

Burning questions

Just read the news about Chrysler filing for bankruptcy.

I tell you what, the first online source that can identify and list all the members of the "non-TARP Chrysler lenders" is going to get mad web traffic.

What you want when you have everything you need

Now I know exactly what I want for my birthday.

And you, and you, and you

I finally watched "Dreamgirls" on DVD this past weekend. I've never seen the musical, but I can say that I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. There were four new songs added to the movie. They were pretty decent. I especially like "I Love You I Do."

Beyonce channels that Diana Ross vibe with uncanny skill and precision.

And Jennifer Hudson, my God. She's WOW. She's pretty much very extremely WOW. I am not sure that she is bitchy and Diva enough for the role but I like her so much that when her heart breaks up there on the screen, mine breaks right with her.

According to wikipedia we have Jennifer Holiday to thank for the Effie White that is in this story. She was originally supposed to die in the first act. And thank to the Gods that she survived and thrived her way into the closing number.

Not that you or I would recall but yes, of the three (I mean four) I still pick Jennifer.

A one story difference

Despite my efforts to do nothing, to avoid change, it finds me. In this revolving world, the movements of others shift the ground under my feet. A move was requested from me. So I moved down one story.

It's a lovely place. While it is one floor down, the dimensions, the amenities, even the number and placement of the windows is different. It is a place with entirely different possibilities.

It was not a very orderly move. Then again, I am not known for my orderly moves. I am not know for being orderly in general. JB hired someone to do the heavy lifting for me and I did the rest. Lots of running up and down the stairs.

Now, I can't find a damn thing. Like losing your place in a book, I've lost my place in my life. What exactly was it that I doing?

On the other hand, I have also found few things that I had misplaced, reminders of things that I have intended to do, and reminders of other phases of my New York life. Some of them seem a distant memory now, like separate lives. I can't even remember why I stopped doing those things and being that person. I just did. Perhaps it was time to move.

At the heart of a cynic

"None of the media ever seem to look out the window. Everyone's used to being in motion all the time."
-David Foster Wallace (DFW)

You thought I was kidding when I said that I might devote all of my posts to quoting David Foster Wallace.

No joke, Friends, he is my subway companion and I am liable to start speaking only using his quotes in the very near future.

"The way the techs handle deep boredom is to become extremely sluggish and torpid, so that lined up on the ottoman they look like an exhibit of lizards whose tank isn't hot enough. Nobody reads. Pulse rates are about 40."
- DFW

All of these butchered quotes (someday I will ready the MLA or some other meaningful style manual.) come from an essay entitled: "Up Simba" that he wrote about John McCain's 2000 presidential campaign.

" - what one feels when they [politicians] loom into view is just an overwhelming lack of interest, the sort of deep disengagement that is often a defense against pain. Against sadness. In fact, the likeliest reason why so many of us care so little about politics is that modern politicians make us sad, hurt us deep down in ways that are hard to even name, much less talk about. It's way easier to roll your eyes and not give a shit."

"It's like we all learned in social studies back in junior high: If I vote and you don't, my vote counts double. and it's not just the fringes who benefit - the fact is that it is to some very powerful Establishments' advantage that most younger people hate politics and don't vote."

"Why do these crowds from Detroit to Charleston cheer so wildly at a simple promise not to lie? ... Because we've been lied to and lied to, and it hurts to be lied to. It's ultimately just about that complicated: it hurts. We learn this at like the age four ... and we keep learning for years, from hard experience, that getting lied to sucks - that it diminishes you, denies you respect for yourself, for the liar, for the world. Especially if the lies are chronic, systematic, if experience seems to teach that everything you're supposed to believe in's really just a game based on lies"

"It's painful to believe that the would-be "public servants" you're forced to choose between are all phonies whose only real concern is their own care and feeding and who will lie so outrageously and with such a straight face that you know they've just got to believe you're an idiot. So who wouldn't yawn and turn away, trade apathy and cynicism for the hurt of getting treated with contempt?"

-David Foster Wallace

From the personal - It is common to think that pain and betrayal could lead one to seek justice, vengeance, sympathy, healing, closure, perhaps a state of grace where one can forgive. That's how it is in the movies. But these are not the only responses. DFW points out that apathy and cynicism can be a reaction to being hurt. A person can go numb or try to find a way to insulate or distance themselves through cynicism. It is a means by which to survive. A person's callous response to your pain may telegraph suppressed pain - an actual callous on their psyche over where they would otherwise feel empathy.

From the political - what John McCain was to the 2000 election, Barack Obama was to the 2008 election and I think what he is trying to be with his administration. Perhaps the thing to remind our leaders in business, in politics, in our communities is that lying hurts. It does harm. And when you do it, you hurt us.

I am only halfway through the essay and may have to rewrite this when I am done.

Hard Times for Snoopy

This NPR story makes me sad. :)

The recession and pets ...

A resounding gong or a clanging cymbal

1. I described myself as complicated in conversation over the weekend. The PG asked me why I was complicated. I was not quite sure how to reply to this. I told him that I want many things all at once and they are generally all mutually exclusive to each other. He replied that this did not make me complicated, this made me conflicted. To which I shrugged and said, "Tomato, Tomah-to."

And now I wonder if this is true. Conflicted, not complicated. I prefer to think that in fact everyone alive is very extremely complicated too.

Isn't there an inherent complexity to the world and our relationship to it? Yes? No? On occasion, I am accused of over-complicating things, both in my outlook / analysis and my solutions. I am accused of engaging in byzantine thinking as a self-indulgence, as a way to amuse myself. But that might just be evidence that I am a goober.

My new mantra (it's two days old) is: "What's stopping me? I am."

2. I was accused over the weekend of being "Real." I think it was intended as a compliment but if I think about it - I am Real and conflicted when I'd much prefer to be complicated and Mythical. How do I get in on THAT action?

3. Lately I have been hearing many people use the expression, "It is what it is." Firstly, tautology, redundancy. What's wrong with saying, "It is this." I suppose that it's supposed to sound Zen but it sounds resigned and defeatist to me. As CK would say, "I don't like it."

4. Because G has been reading DFW's essays and the South has as well, I bought "Consider the Lobster" and have been reading it on the train. I am tempted to devote all of my posts on this blog to DFW quotes, from now until the day I die.

"It's not that Turnbull is stupid: he can quote Pascal and Kierkegaard ... It's that he persists in the bizarre, adolescent belief that getting to have sex with whomever one wants whenever one wants to is a cure for human despair." - David Foster Wallace

"No wonder they cannot appreciate the really central Kafka joke: that the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from that horrific struggle. That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home." - David Foster Wallace

With new eyes

My new glasses insist that I wear eyeliner more often and have persuaded me to change the way I part my hair. I have become one of those fussy girls who plays with her hair all the time.

My new glasses have given me permission to smile less than I used to.

Mind you, as I had this thought while walking through Chelsea, a guy on the street said, "Miss, you've got a nice smile."

Drat! Foiled again.

existential justifications

Inevitably, when you are describing a groovy thing to a group of people there will be someone present who asks you, "But what's the point of that? What's it good for." To which I always want to retort (even if it's someone who I like), "What's the point of you? What are you good for?" And I curb the urge to stick out my tongue and then moon them.

Can you not just take in the utter grooviness of the thing? Can't that be the point and an end in itself?

Utilitarians make me bonkers.

Confidence Building

In talking about how lousy the economy is, people keep talking about the excess of fear and the crisis of confidence. As if it is an emotional problem. As if the economy and the consumer needs anti-anxiety meds or therapy.

But here's the thing, a bunch of people lied and cut corners and made mistakes and did irresponsible things. They were not regulated or supervised and they lost a lot of money for a lot of people who thought that they were making good investments, who thought that they were making safe investments. And that has had a domino effect.

What allays fears and increases confidence is evidence that the institutions and people that you are doing business with are reliable and deliver.

What allays fears is evidence that these institutions and people are accountable for their actions and decisions and the demonstration of trustworthiness. Evidence, not public statements carefully crafted by PR firms and communications offices. Transparency might help too. The more information that you have the better. What exactly are the banks doing with the money that we've given them in the bailout so far? What is the rationale for what they are doing? What are the expected outcomes besides bonuses and remodeled corporate offices?

Confidence has a foundation. It is does not come from sunshine and rainbows. You have confidence when you encounter a demonstrated ability, dependability and competence.

Other people's lives

At long last, I got new eyeglass frames. I was driven to it by a catastrophic incident in which I snapped my old pair in half at the bridge. Even after this, I tried super glue, electrical tape, crazy glue, scotch tape, duct tape, and then someone clued me into a miracle - nail glue for acrylic fingernails. But even then I rebroke them twice. It was time for a change.

As with many simple tasks, in NYC, this was an ordeal. It's actually an on-going ordeal. First, to make the time to shop for glasses. Second, to find a pair that I don't completely loathe. Third, to get the prescription right. And now, to get them adjusted so that they stop squishing my head.

All of this aside, I have another problem. I hardly recognize myself in these glasses. These glasses have distinct personality. They demand a different kind of girl. A girl who wears black turtlenecks with pencil skirts and boots. A girl who wears well tailored suits and big silver jewelry. A girl who listens to experimental music, only watches movies with subtitles, reads Der Spiegel every morning, and Le Monde every evening. A girl who scoffs a lot and looks askance at everything. A girl who used to be very politically active and is now very pragmatic and personally ambitious, maybe a little bloodless. A girl who doesn't eat sweets. A girl who makes other people cry when she is unhappy because it's more efficient than having her own cry. A girl who takes no crap.

I look scary. Smiling doesn't soften the effect. Smiling makes me look scarier. This is going to be interesting.

Everyday another boulder

There are days when I think the Myth of Sisyphus is no myth. It is reality. Office work is Sisyphean. As is bureaucracy in all its forms.

Sometimes I manage to roll the boulder up the steep hill and without a moment to rejoice, I find that I am at the foot of another steep hill with another boulder.

Would that I had an anti-gravity beam.

Gentlemen, can they rebuild me?

On Monday, I woke up to a day off. I sat on the couch, opened a word document and then tried to reply to an email while watching TV, playing minesweeper, chatting on IM, text messaging, talking on the phone and thinking about the real life things that I really should have been doing: laundry, cleaning, dishes, grocery shopping, cooking, looking for jobs, writing a song, practicing, and reading a book.

I realized at some point that in the flurry of whatchamahoozy, I was not doing anything.

Oddly this is what my days at work look like if you substitute office wage slave tasks with all of the things listed above. It's not clear to me that I am getting any more accomplished there than I was at home.

This is why computers will take over the world. They are, increasingly designed to do things in parallel and run tasks in the foreground and the background.

Am I struggling to reshape my brain and behavior to keep up with the technologies that were supposed to take the struggle out of my life? IThe Luddites would assure me that this happens a lot. Then again, perhaps they were only designed to increase my productivity leaving my struggle intact.

Maybe I should focus on partitioning my brain:

Work / Other

Today we listen to the Shins and soak in the sensation of the chest cavity expanding.

"The gutter may profess its love,
Then follow it with hesitation,
For there are just so many of
You out there for rent

A stronger girl would shake this off in flight,
And never give it more than a frowning hour,
But you have let your heart decide,
Loss has conquered you,

You've won one too many fights,
Wearing many hats every time,
But you wont win here tonight
[...]
Oh girl, sail her, don't sink her"

-The Shins

In my ongoing desire to retain a sense of wonder about the world, I am mocked by those smarter and more world-weary who find me to be too easily impressed. But I think that it is they who have overinsulated their souls with experience and facts, who have stopped paying attention to the response of their hearts to what is all around them.

Let yourself be moved by a perfect shade of blue, calling out to you, or three measures of music that make your skin tingle.

It might very well be that the best way to make sure that people pay and properly report their taxes is tap them for appointments in the cabinet.

On the other hand, I breathe a sigh of relief that these are the biggest bones they can dig up.

SK (whoa.) SKH when preparing for his three month tour of Asia said that he didn't speak the language in any of the countries that he would be in. He said that his smile and his beard would be his ticket to the world, opening doors and winning friends.

I don't have a beard but I do sometimes wonder if I essentially wander through life with my smile to see me through.

Other times I wonder if it's the miracle bra.

quiet places

I have been going out alone of late. New York has places where you can sit alone and feel entirely comfortable. Narrow dark places with candlelight, where the staff is laidback, friendly and infinitely patient. Where you can sit and savor your life without feeling in anyway strange or self-conscious. Where you are somehow insulated such that you don't have to give a shit what anyone says or thinks of you - so you don't.

There are few (perhaps no) vast open spaces here that make you feel like you are alone and at one with existence here. But there are small quiet places that somehow make space. That make you feel like you can hear your heart and take a breath, be still.

And of late, I have been thinking that I wish that I could bottle this sensation and take it with me to remind me that at one time in my life I was here. I was really here and it was, even, at times, delicious.

Which makes me think of a scene from the movie "Breakfast at Tiffany's" so described in an article by David Dunlap:

HOLLY GOLIGHTLY looked wistfully on the face of Manhattan as she prepared to depart for Rio. "Years from now, years and years, I'll be back," she declared. "Me and my nine Brazilian brats. I'll bring them back, all right. Because they must see this."

The power of imagination

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions — who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

-Barack Obama

do not disturb

It's 1:41am on the A train and people are tired.
Solitary bodies bundled and leaning, chin into chest, temple to window, eyes closed, slightly swaying to irregular rocking.

New York is tired.
The train is almost warm.
Not quite
but if you raise your shoulders high and scrunch your neck low, it feels like something.

New York is tired. Just worn out.
Seeking silence unable to hold on
to the state of waking.

Jarred by the periodic announcements of obvious things through the loudest of crackling speakers slightly muffled by the preaching of the shouting poet demanding your guilt, your shame, your conscience and your cash, all without rhyme, or meter, or one image, even, to snuggle up to.

Jackass.

Shoulders slumping and sagging because the trip is long
and you can't always hold on - sometimes it gets away from you.

Holding a book open, words unseen trailing off with lids aflutter.
Body curled and reclined across three seats, hands holding, enclosing but unclenched. Winter is long and silence, sleep, respite is rare - stolen occassionally in the soft intake of air, underground on orange seats.

Not fit for social interaction

I am in this weird phase where I can't take a compliment. I can't even recognize them when offered.

*sigh*

Time to audit Communication 101: the art of listening.

A Daddy complex?

I will admit that the major major crush that I have on Kevin Smith colors my opinion of all of his movies. That being said, I just watched "Jersey Girl." And I really liked it. The Sweeney Todd scene is HILARIOUS. Makes the movie. No question.

I have developed some new crushes recently and on older men. Go figure. Perhaps this is a breakthrough.

I am the last person to discover just how delicious Colin Firth is. I always knew that he was a good looking man. But in "Mama Mia" I found that I couldn't take my eyes off of him whenever he was on camera.



And after watching "Dan in Real Life" following "Little Miss Sunshine" I have thing for Steve Carrell too.



There seems to be this growing genre of sensitive single Dad movies: Jersey Girl, Dan in Real Life, Definitely Maybe. The marriage is out of the picture and the movie focuses on father's and daughters - very disney.

I am not sure who they are supposed to appeal to, probably single women in their late 30's who melt at the thought of a man who can nurture. Come to think of it, Colin Firth played one of these sensitive single dads in "Then She Found Me."

Oh no. It must be the hormones talking. That and the cheesy movies.

your own personal -----------------

"I subscribe to Krishnamurti's principle... he said that "we need four billion religions." Now that number is up to 6.5 billion - a religious tradition for everyone on the planet, 6.5 billion paths to God."

-Rob Brezny

life at low resolution

My new year's resolutions for 2009 were to: 1. love my life and 2. be less frumpy.

Five days into these resolutions I am in the throes of sick. The kind of sick where you are weak and sweaty, have no appetite, everything tastes icky and you just feel out of sorts. I spent the whole weekend sleeping and watching crap on Netflix while playing minesweeper very badly. I pretty much blew myself up all over the place. I was in fact too delirious to really track what I was doing ... But it was strangely compelling.

And I snapped my eye glasses in half this morning on the way to work. I am trying to see through them with a strip of electrical tape holding them together. With my astigmatism, the fact that they are not precisely joined or firmly cemented together makes the world look that much more wiggly and weebly. Is the Universe trying to tell me that I am a powerful creature who, not knowing her own strength, must be gentle and patient with the world? Or is the Universe trying to tell me that if 2009 is to be the year of less frumpy, I will need to get some contact lenses, asap?

I am leaning my upper body against the desk so that I am closer to the screen and so that should I collapse at least I will be face down which somehow strikes me as being safer. I am drinking ginger ale non-stop as it is the only significant source of calories that I have taken in since two taco on Friday night and it is the one thing that tastes slightly less like ass.

It's a hilarious and somewhat anti-climactic start to the new year. Apparently, loving my life right now consists of loving Ginger ale, loving Minesweeper, loving Netflix, and weekends that you can sleep away, undisturbed, in a bundle of fleece.

Speak for thee

Today I saw an online dating profile in which the fella had written the loveliest words:

"When everything is lonely
I can be my own best friend
Get a coffee and the paper
Have my own conversations
With the sidewalk and the pigeons
And my window reflection"

"And I know you have a heavy heart
I can feel it when we kiss
And many men stronger than me
Have thrown their backs out trying to lift it"

At first I was caught his words and then I had this suspicion that he probably didn't write them. They were way too good for exclusive use on a mere online dating profile. Which turned out to be the case. He had pasted in the lyrics to the Bright Eyes song "Lua" which has gorgeous lines.

I imagine that he was posting it to find someone who also loves Bright Eyes and would immediately recognize the song and send him a message about how that was her favorite song or how she loves Bright Eyes and her favorite song is blah blah blah, she's seen them in concert blah blah blah.

But what if this is the song that describes him, his life right now, where his head and his heart sit. If that's the case it would be wise to steer clear of him, cuz he sounds like trouble in an adorable 20-something package.

The other day I ran across a dating profile in which the fella pasted in excerpts from Camus' "the Stranger" which was very strange. Of all the books one could quote to impress and attract girls, "The Stranger," would not be one that I would think to pick.

Now I am wondering if I had to take the words of others and use them to describe myself or to attract a date, what words would I choose. A quote from a Whit Stillman movie or a Kevin Smith movie? A Beastie Boys song? If you had to, what would you choose?

Funny haha and strange

I have recently encountered a string of fellas who don't think that I am funny. They don't even break a smile for me much less volley a return to what I lob at them. Lovely guys, but clearly we don't share or even overlap in our sense of humor. The effect created in their company is that of the "Fun Sponge" a term coined by SD and several of his friends in grad school. The Fun Sponge is the humorless person who sucks all of the fun out of a situation.

I used to mock guys who said that they were looking for a girl with a good sense of humor. "You mean, she laughs at your jokes," I would say. Because that seems to be what most guys mean when they say she has a good sense of humor.

But of late, I am thinking that having someone really laugh at your jokes would be great. As opposed to having them say, "That's funny," or kind of barely smirking.

Sharing a sense of humor, sharing laughter is a great thing. At least as good as hooking up, sharing a great meal or kisses under the covers. And you can keep your clothes on while doing it, if you want to....

Laughter is a dimension of compatibility that I have not given much consideration up until now. But if I think about dating as a search for a life companion, I should consider it more. After all, who wants to spend the rest of their life with a Fun Sponge.

note to self and others

When you mean to say "A Clockwork Orange" which you have not seen, which Stanley Kubrick directed, you should not say "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" which was directed by Milos Forman and starred Jack Nicholson who was also in the Stanley Kubrick movie "The Shining."

It may be that I have lost two too many neurons...

Cheap Thrills

Today, I have the worst craving for sweets. I could dive into a vat of cotton candy, eat my way to the bottom, and then eat my way back up. If that doesn't sound disgusting, you must be under the age of 9 in which case, you probably shouldn't be reading this blog.

Today, I have been stuck on the song "Build Me Up Buttercup" by the Foundations. I have listened to it at least seven times in a row. It's making me feel giddy and giggly, like my heart could burst into a shower of colored confetti.

If my life were a movie I would bounce out of work and run smack into someone very cute, who gives me a big old smooch and the two of us would walk away from the camera holding hands and talking as the music swells and the camera rises up and out into a view of the city at night.

If I were still in an a cappella singing group, I would give my left ventricle to sing the baseline.

In real life, I am dancing in my chair at the office and making a list of things to do for the rest of the week.

Hey hey hey! Hey Hey Hey!

The way you hold your knife

Reapply your lipstick, adjust the stockings, and let us raise our glasses in a toast to dangerous women.

Santa Baby, a roomba and a kitty

Roomba Driver @ Yahoo! Video

Well, maybe a creature was stirring

My landlady and my downstairs neighbors have been hearing this scrabbling noise in the walls. Being understandably creeped out by this, they called in pest control.

And so, a gentleman bearing the implements of rodent control came up into my apartment. The only man to see the place since the LYM decided that he needed to be away from me. In fact, the disasterous and mortifying state of my place has been my excuse to not bring any men home of late. And while I was mortified, Mr. Pest Control assured me that in his work, he has seen it all.

He walked around with a flashlight looking for holes, for signs, for droppings. And when he looked in my closet, jackpot.

When I first moved to Brooklyn, my parents had driven out bearing gifts of ramen, canned goods and two bags of rice. One regular white rice, which I kept out in the kitchen area. The other a bag of sweet Thai rice, which I kept in the closet undisturbed and forgotten. I basically opened an all you can eat sweet rice buffet in my closet and the mice came to partake. How could they not.

Despite this smoking gun, Mr. PC went through the rest of the rooms in an effort to identify all means of entry.

He walked into another room and saw a sign that I had taped up from last year that said: "Yoga twice a week."

"Does that help?" he asked.
"It's great," I replied, "although I haven't been to yoga in a very long time."

He asked if going to yoga would be my New Year's resolution for next year. I replied that my resolution for next year is: To love my life.

He grinned and said that that was his resolution for 2008. I asked him how that went and he said that he was going to make it his resolution for 2009 as well, along with being less picky.

Which also sounds like a good resolution to make.

All is calm, all is bright

It's snowing. Big fat fluffy flakes that drift softly, so softly. A soft touch to your hair, face, shoulder, the tree, the ground.

And the quiet that settles, surrounds and embraces.

Almost as good as a Vodka Gimlet as a recipe for happiness.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Despite my timid, introverted, shy, repressed, bashful, uptight personality, I do on occasion make an ass of myself in public.

On some days it doesn't even take alcohol to do this.

This leads the people who witness it to state the obvious to me. "I saw you out there on the dance floor all by yourself during that Beyonce song."

"Ah. Well yes. You did indeed."

They are just lucky that I didn't drop my pants first. I couldn't, I was wearing a dress.

------------------

More things are filtering through my memory and the memories of others about Friday.

Apparently, someone got sent home in a cab after having a scene with her ex. She woke up in her own bed four hours later and called me, confused, disoriented and with no memory of how she got there.

Apparently, someone woke up the next morning at home with a black eye and no memory of how it happened.

Apparently, I was smacking people on the ass on accident all night. I don't recall this but I was scrolling through my text messages and this was apparently my update to CK about how the party was going.

Deja vu but not

While in Champaign Urbana, a fella invited me to drive up to Chicago with him for a party. I asked if I needed to dress up and described two dresses that I owned. His reply was, "Pick whichever one has the shorter skirt."

I foolishly did and ended up being his date for a co-ed bridal shower in an inappropriately short skirt. I draped my cardigan over my lap for the better part of the night.


Today, I emailed CK to ask about what to wear. "My chubby valentine" or "Do the cha-cha in a haltertop." CK replied "Halter top. The more skin the better."

The situation may call for a cardigan. It may, in fact, call for two cardigans.

Has skin become the new black? It's getting a mighty chilly for that kind of thing. Madness.

Haute Cature

My parents bought Kitty a sweater.







I could barely take these pictures with my cell phone, I was laughing so hard.

Bluer than Blue

I just watched Wong Kar Wai's film "My Blueberry Nights."

It's frickin' gorgeous. And by that I mean that beyond having an extremely good looking cast, the look of the film is painterly and almost distractingly beautiful. There were shots that had these compositions that had the feel of still lifes ( still lives?), scenes shot through windows and doorways framing the action, delicious and drenched in color.



It is a mood piece. You see, you hear, you pick up the vibe, you imagine, you dream. It transmits frequencies - love, lostness, connection, uncertainty, strength, desire, floating, seeking, loss, alienation, buoyancy, the curious intimacy that you can only share with strangers.

Sometimes you sweat the small stuff

I am going through one of those "for want of a nail" periods in my life. It's not that a kingdom, my kingdom, is on the verge of being lost.

The scenario is more that there are things that I want to get done. They seem to be simple things. At least they seem simple until I actually try to accomplish them.

My options breakdown to: A. throw money at the problem, or B. solve a series of very small interdependent problems that lead to other interdependent problems that eventually lead to the ability to get things done.

And the internal dialogue goes like this: "Ok. Deep breath. This is totally doable. If I want to save the kingdom what I really need is to win this battle which requires me to have that rider which means getting this horse which means getting that horseshoe replaced. Yeah, I'd better get online and find a blacksmith to take care of this. Am I bringing my own horseshoes? Maybe I'll bring one just in case. And if I don't end up replacing them all, I really should ask him to check the nails on the rest of them, I wonder if yelp.com has any entries on blacksmiths ..."

I will try to talk about other things after this, I promise

On Wednesday, I went back to Momofuku with CK, SD, and PD. This is the Momofuku Ssam Bar. It was pointed out to me that there is more than one Momofuku in this city. I was a little worried that it would not be as good as I remembered it.

I was ecstatic to be proven wrong. The pork buns - this time I found myself licking my hand to catch the juices running out from the bun. I didn't realize that I was doing it at first. It was an instinct. And when I did notice, that did nothing to stop me. Love has no pride.

SD and PD love food. They eat with real passion. When the first few dishes came to the table SD partook and said positive things. But when the fluke arrived at the table, she was utterly won over and from then on you could tell that she was hooked.

They make a Brussel sprout dish that has changed my mind about Brussel sprouts. I won't eat them anywhere else, but I could eat them by the bowlful there.

The Brisket, my God, the Brisket. There were times during the meal where I couldn't make eye contact with other people. The experience was too personal to share. The Brisket was one of them.

The Spicy Pork Sausage with Rice Cakes were ordered on my account. Crunchy and chewy and flavored. This is not your run of the mill Rice Cake. If the chef will not have me, then I will offer myself up to the one who works the Rice Cake station. *swoon*

As I got full, I started to feel a little bit sad, because it meant that I would have to stop eating.

And as happened the other time, no one wanted dessert. We were so blissed out that sweets seemed so - unnecessary, though I can only imagine how they must be.

SD was beaming for the rest of the night. She would turn to me and say, "I'm happy. I'm so happy right now." I could only nod in agreement.

A little smooth music to take the edge off, Pussycat?

Yesterday, while FM was noodling around on the piano I was reminded of "Minute by Minute" by the Doobie Brothers.

Before I pegged it there, I thought it was "Biggest Part of Me" by Ambrosia.

And now, I've caught the fever. I want to rollerskate on the boardwalk in hot pants and drink pink champagne from those flat glasses.

*flutter*

We Are Family, My Kangaroo Sisters and Me

I am not sure to what degree this article: "Kangaroo Genes Close to Humans" is new newsy news. It's one of those things where, had it gone the other way, we'd all be ooo-ing and ah-ing about the amazing genetic diversity of life. Having it go this way is alright too, although slightly less novel and spectacular. You just don't know until you do the experiment, right?

The quotes are just so good, who could resist running with it ...

"Australia's kangaroos are genetically similar to humans and may have first evolved in China, Australian researchers said Tuesday."

This work was done by the Centre of Excellence for Kangaroo Genomics, in Australia which is now the site of my dream job.

"There are a few differences, we have a few more of this, a few less of that, but they are the same genes and a lot of them are in the same order," centre Director Jenny Graves told reporters in Melbourne.

"We thought they'd be completely scrambled, but they're not. There is great chunks of the human genome which is sitting right there in the kangaroo genome," Graves said

Humans and kangaroos last shared an ancestor at least 150 million years ago, the researchers found, while mice and humans diverged from one another only 70 million years ago.

Baby it's truuuuuee, me and yooooouuu, we are kangaroooooo!

Just makes me want to hop with joy.

what rhymes with oven

I fell asleep last night thinking about rice cakes and woke up thinking about pork buns. *sigh*

At the greatest meal of my life, before the food arrived, FC told us of how bringing baked goods led to proposals of marriage, while wearing sexy and revealing clothing did not.

Curious.

Then again, I suppose one appetite can be gratified in a variety of places, while the other requires large appliances and oven mitts.





Try this for oven rhymes

This website makes me happy

http://www.newyorkontap.com/subways.asp

What you ask for

When I first told PJS that I thought I might want to stay in New York for a while, she chalked it up to Stockholm Syndrome. I laughed about that. But there are days here where I wonder if that is true. My life here is pretty silly, to be sure. And yet it does not give me quite the pleasure that I would expect such a silly life to deliver.

I get restless and dissatisfied, cranky, tired and bummed out, lost, overwhelmed, and lonely, so so lonely. This would be true anywhere, I am sure but while here, I can conveniently blame it on this place. People in response to my belly aching often ask, Why do I stay? What am I waiting for? Questions that I ask myself at least as often.

I thought I was waiting to get successful. I was waiting to prove my worth to myself and the world. I thought I was waiting to come into my own, to find myself, to find my purpose, my calling. I thought I was waiting to crack the code of this city and conquer it. I thought I was waiting to fall in love with someone or some idea or something. Or some such clichee. But actually none of that is true.

I was waiting for two things:

1. To have the greatest meal of my life.

Now, I have to say that I have actually had the greatest meal of my life six times in this city. But tonight was the first time that plates of food inspired in me a love for the universe and a singular passion for the chef. The pork buns at Momofuku are love, plain and simple. Our party of six proposed to him right after the appetizers were served. It will be a small private ceremony. A simple affair, with a few members of our immediate families present.

2. To be in the presence of someone famous who I like and greatly admire.

We were sitting there and WC's friend J pointed to a gentleman at another table and said, "I think that man over there is famous. He looks like the kind of person who does a show on PBS, like Charlie Rose." I carefully turned to look and it was Charlie Rose. (!!!!) Charlie Rose!!!!!

We finished our meal and went out and I tried to steal another look at him but didn't manage it. There were too many people obscuring my view.

Our dinner party was milling around outside. Some of us smoking, all of us chatting and watching the rain, when who should leave the restaurant, but the man himself. J exchanged pleasantries with him. Some girls came up and asked to have their picture taken with him and he agreed. He has a great smile. He was so affable, so warm. The charm he projects in person is magnitudes beyond what you get off the screen, if you can imagine.

I cannot speak to famous people whom I admire. Even quasi-famous local people. I get super shy. I am a blathering idiot. It's terrible. So I don't even try. Everyone laughed at me and teased me for not talking to him. But I couldn't, I just smiled.

The thing about living in New York is that there is always so much going on. And I always have this feeling that I am missing something. I have not seen everything, met the key people, nor accomplished much. "I'm not internationally known" or "known to rock microphone." I have not been to all the cool bars, I have not had the best meals, or worn the best clothes, I have not seen Ellis Island or been on the Staten Island Ferry.

But as he walked off I felt like what I have seen and experienced is enough. I had seen everything I needed to see here. I have had the greatest meal of my life and I have been in spitting distance of a famous person who I respect and admire. And he seemed very much in person as he was on TV. I could leave without regret.

Of course, if tomorrow I run into Chuck Klosterman, Malcolm Gladwell, Peter Gabriel and Travis Morrison and they invite me to join them for beer and popcorn, I am not going to sniff at that. Nor have I packed my bags to leave.

Here's the funny thing. On Wednesday, I was out with History Guy and in the course of conversation with him I said: 1. I was surprised at how rare it was for me to have an incredible meal in New York. 2. I said that the two people in all the world who I wanted to meet were Malcolm Gladwell and Charlie Rose.

Go figure.

Or a Dance to a Constantly Surprising Refrain

Recently while I was out and about I ended up in a conversation with a young man, very young, 23, about life. At some point during the evening he asked me why I wasn't married, why I was single and why I lived alone. Maybe this is a Long Island thing. Off the island I am a curious creature to live as a do...

I didn't have much of a reply. I said nothing had really worked out for me up to this point but there was always the chance that it would in the future.

In conversation with CK it occurred to me that maybe the reason is: I want love to be like "The Very Thought of You" ignoring the fact that it's actually like: "My Romance".

As I sit here now, I realize that I've actually loved in both ways, sometimes simultaneously and it was great. Just great. And then one day it wasn't.

I guess I'll stick with my first answer and say, nothing has really worked out for me up to today but there is always tomorrow.

The Heart Has a Sense of Place

I want to dream of Oleanders in June.

Freedom, Freedom to, freedom from, and Zombies

"We helped them reclaim their nation, and they helped us reclaim ours. They showed us the meaning of democracy ... freedom, not just in vague, abstract terms, but on a very real, individually human level. Freedom isn't just something you have for the sake of having, you have to want something else first and then want the freedom to fight for it."

-Max Brooks, "World War Z"

GRCH is lending me the book "World War Z: an Oral History of the Zombie War." And while I was initially skeptical about it, "Ooooo zombie novel ...." It's really damn good.

I am sorry to hear that a movie based on this book is in the works for either Brad Pitt or Leonardo Di Caprio. If the movie ends up being the Zombie version of "The Longest Day" or more, I will be mollified. Anything less and I will be beyond furious. If Pitt or Di Caprio saves the world from Zombies with the aid or their girlfriend, played by Jessica Alba in the movie I will be spitting mad.

a Hug with a Hoodie

I have been walking around today with the strangest sensation. I feel like someone somewhere loves me. Not someone that I can name. It's kind of a freefloating sensation. It's not the first time I have felt this way since moving to NYC. It's always kind of strange.

I was telling CK about it. It feels so great. And yet, weird. As I was describing the sensation to her, what I came up with is that I feel like I am getting this really great hug.

And then it occurred to me. Maybe it was my sweatshirt. I am wearing this rust colored fleece sweatshirt today that my mom bought me. It's super warm and a little heavy. For the first time since the change of season, I am sitting here feeling not cold.

It must be the sweatshirt. I am wearing the sweatshirt of love. It's a gift from my mother.

People get ready

"This victory alone is not the change we seek -- it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you ... in this country, we rise or fall as one nation; as one people." - President Elect Barack Obama

There is important work to be done. As always.