On Gawker today, on the endless and boorish topic that New York is over. Don't only over the hill people say that about cities? Because New York in the 70s wasn't cooler per se, it was cool to you because you were 20 and everything was interesting to you? And everything is cool when you are 20 and over when you are 50? Including cities? The world wasn't better then, you were just more excited about it! When you stop getting excited about it, you have to start thinking that it's not the world that is so different, but it's you, you who does not stay out until 4 AM, you who does not blow off your job to follow your favorite band, you who are not going on a wild roadtrip with a band of merry pranksters and artists?
Anyway, the article in its entirety, courtesy of Foster Kamer. I was laughing and cringing. Are we really arguing about our cities now?
---------
Oh, hello there, Stephanie Marsh of the Sunday Times. When you write an essay called "New York has lost its edge," and you live here, it's okay. When you're writing from London...
The question presents itself: What the shit do you think you're talking about, lady?
Her two big examples are the John Varvatos store at CBGBs, and the Whole Foods on the Bowery (which is the articles kicker). Great. She mentioned two places within three blocks from one another. Yeah, it sucks that CBGBs is dead, but that place sucked when it was dying and hey, at least Varvatos kept some of the original walls. It could be another Chase Bank, but, whatever.
Here's her thesis:
"The problem for those who would like to see a return in New York to its edgy past is that Manhattan, as more than one New York-based blogger has claimed, is still "a gated community for the rich". The cultural critic Julian Brash has complained that under Bloomberg the citizens of New York have been turned into consumers - it is a place where everything is about what can be bought and what can be sold."
Okay, fine. Manhattan's really expensive, blah blah blah. Bankers run everything, blah blah blah. Everything in New York can be bought. And? This city was built by hyper-capitalists, it's why there's so much goddamn money here. Old hat. Certain things about New York absolutely suck and will always keep sucking worse and worse. And let's get one thing straight: people have been saying things about New York sucking for as long as New York's been around. If you read Monocle magazine, which this essay is basically ripped out of, this is like, every issue. This has long been the party line of travel press types—especially ones from abroad—for at least three years. I mean, if you really want to go back, I believe Rolling Stone called New York the Hot Dead Zone in their inaugural Hot List issue. In 1998. Saying New York is no longer edgy hasn't been edgy in forever.
The sequel to this piece is when she inevitably says that Berlin is starting to get really, really hip these days too. Pretty much anybody who went through Ellis Island and didn't stay probably had some sentiment along the lines of "this place sucks." According to the Daily News, one of our presidents basically told us to stick this city up our collective asses (look where he is, now: dead).
But—and I'm sure others have their reasons—I live here because, quite frankly (A) there's still nowhere else in America like it, and like many other people here, I have some sick/awesome compulsion that makes this grind of living here that much more attractive to me than anywhere else and (B) it's still got better stuff than everywhere else in America. Yeah, fuckin' stuff. Awesome stuff.
Now.
Can we quickly go over the reasons London—a nice city, sure—sucks compared to New York? Great:
* Your food sucks. It all tastes like ass until American chefs take two months to do better what you've spent hundreds of years sucking at.
* The service in your restaurants sucks, because you have to instruct people how to tip by putting a mandatory charge on their tab, like many other countries that do this. Which is the wrong way of doing this, which is why every server you will every have in London will probably be an asshole.
* Your theater sucks. War Horse—no, really, War Horse—is the best thing you have up right now. Anything good you have on the West End came from us. And don't bring up fucking Billy Elliot.
* Your nightlife is just stupid. Pubs close at 11, our bars don't close until four. Who goes to bed at 11? Are you serious? So you guys open up clubs that close at 2AM that have two kinds of people in them: the kind who get unceremoniously drunk and piss on everything, or the places Prince Harry goes. And who wants to go there? Also, you only play American music. You think Kings of Leon are the Second Coming of Christ. The Kings of Leon play our bar mitzvahs, goddamnit. By the way: most of those rappers you guys play on repeat (and not even the good ones...50 Cent?!) still live in New York. Our clubs and nightlife might have their issues, but they blow yours out of the water. You guys wouldn't know what to do with The Beatrice Inn if it crawled up your nose in a $100 bill.
* Nobody knows where anything is in London. Seriously. It's like the worst parts of the West Village for an entire city. Everything is higgly-piggly or whatever dumb word you have for it. We live on a grid. A grid. You guys have the dumbest civic planning this side of kids eating Legos.
* OH. Don't get me wrong. Our subways suck, for sure. But at least they're supposed to work after midnight, and don't cost half our income to ride. Also, an Oystercard? That just sounds stupid. Who's running your design schemes, Lewis Carroll? Stupid. Oh, and, you wanna talk about EDGY? How about our D-Trains getting stabby again, edgy? Exactly.
* You guys have never had a nice day of weather in the history of the universe. Seriously. The only person Madonna has to compete with for causing a scene is the fucking sun. It's yellow, it's in the sky, sometimes, it...nevermind. Have you even been here in September? It's like Central Park is trying to get in your pants and get you off, the weather's so goddamned nice.
* Oh, and the pound is stupid-expensive. Like everything else in your city.
* Your tabloid newspapers make the New York Post look like The Paris Review.
* And Whole Foods on the Bowery, sure, Whole Foods sucks. But it's in a pretty great location, and, fuck that, you know what sucks worse? Sainsbury's. Sainsbury's suuuuuuuucks. Which goes back to your food sucking.
* Do you have Brooklyn? Do you even know what a Brooklyn is? No, not David Beckham's son. You're stupid, shut up. [Quiet Moment: The article didn't mention Brooklyn once, but didn't refer to Manhattan exclusively. Go figure.]
* London's celebrities are all on Big Brother and fucking suck. They're mouthbreathing idiots. They make Tinsley Mortimer look like Jackie Kennedy.
* You guys have soccer—yeah, I called it soccer, goddamnit—teams. Multiple ones. Great. We have two baseball teams (including the 2009 World Series Champions), football teams (Including the 2008 Super Bowl Champions), hockey teams (I'm sure they Won Something Great recently), and a basketball team. All of them except for the Knicks could smash every London soccer player. Nothing else, just "smash" them.
* There is one—and only one—good song about Foggy London Town. There are as many songs about New York as there are New Yorkers, and most of them are awesome.
Anything else? Oh, yeah, did Samuel Motherfucking Jackson just buy an apartment next to your boss? No? Exactly.
Shut up. New York is awesome.
Send an email to Foster Kamer, the author of this post, at foster@gawker.com.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Baby Shower-- Your advice!
Dear readers, I am throwing yet another baby shower! And I sadly have to admit, this time, now that I've done it before and am organizing it in my city instead of Philadelphia, I'm doing a much better job. I'm on the phone with the baker, the tea staff, the party staff, I'm on top of invoices and meetings. It's going to be a good time for those who had nothing to do with organizing it!
This one is in Alice's Tea Cup in the Upper East Side. Everyone will be getting the Mad Hatter tea service with sandwiches, scones, and luscious baked goods. I have sent the invites, sent all the shower registry information, fielded questions and those who want to drop out, drop in, called guests to talk them out of bringing their own food.
It's close.
I've pre-paid for mint green and white latex balloons, handpainted royal-frosted monogrammed cookies and sashays of specialty teas for the guests, and a mint-green chocolate ganache cake (why are cakes the most expensive things ever!). I have also picked up a beautiful baby book for all the guests to sign, and have emailed them to check in with me to sign as soon as they arrive, and also to bring one crazy looking gift bow so that we may trashily deck out the baby book box while keeping everything else an elegant affair.
The mom-to-be will NOT wear a silly hat or play games. Any other suggestions on what I can do/bring/ask others to bring? Any ideas on something fun? Or lay back and just let it happen (remember here, I am now nearly broke after all this, even though I'm having lots of help paying for the space and the party itself, as I keep adding on extras).
And the sleaziest question yet...should I buy an additional gift? I do have the baby book which I bought, but everything else is a surprise or edible or really only is a gift to the party. The last shower I threw I brought an expensive gift that I spent a lot of time thinking about and hauled it to Philadelphia from Austin (where I bought it). But this time...I don't know if I can do that? Is there something with baby showers the same thing with weddings that I have a year to give it ;)
This one is in Alice's Tea Cup in the Upper East Side. Everyone will be getting the Mad Hatter tea service with sandwiches, scones, and luscious baked goods. I have sent the invites, sent all the shower registry information, fielded questions and those who want to drop out, drop in, called guests to talk them out of bringing their own food.
It's close.
I've pre-paid for mint green and white latex balloons, handpainted royal-frosted monogrammed cookies and sashays of specialty teas for the guests, and a mint-green chocolate ganache cake (why are cakes the most expensive things ever!). I have also picked up a beautiful baby book for all the guests to sign, and have emailed them to check in with me to sign as soon as they arrive, and also to bring one crazy looking gift bow so that we may trashily deck out the baby book box while keeping everything else an elegant affair.
The mom-to-be will NOT wear a silly hat or play games. Any other suggestions on what I can do/bring/ask others to bring? Any ideas on something fun? Or lay back and just let it happen (remember here, I am now nearly broke after all this, even though I'm having lots of help paying for the space and the party itself, as I keep adding on extras).
And the sleaziest question yet...should I buy an additional gift? I do have the baby book which I bought, but everything else is a surprise or edible or really only is a gift to the party. The last shower I threw I brought an expensive gift that I spent a lot of time thinking about and hauled it to Philadelphia from Austin (where I bought it). But this time...I don't know if I can do that? Is there something with baby showers the same thing with weddings that I have a year to give it ;)
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Remembering: Night Habits
Things only people who have seen me in my underwear know.*
I like the room freezing cold. Air-blasting, fetal-position-inducing, take-all-the-blanket-fighting, freezing cold. And lots of quilts on the bed. It reminds me of my artic 19th century childhood home in which you seriously had to decide whether a trip to the bathroom in January was worth the likely possibility that, upon touching your toe to the old pine boards, your veins would turn to ice and you’d shatter into a million pieces. Compounded by my father, whose vehement insistence of responsible consumerism I imagine will surely, upon his deathbed, possess him to reach out a hand, pull me close and whisper, “I pass my legacy to you. Promise me you will not let your mother turn the thermostat past 61 degrees in the winter. Promise me this! Oil is too expensive! God damnit!”
I sleep in dresses. Dresses that I wear nowhere else but in bed. Hey, I’d walk around work in a penoir if I could (that’s a dressing robe which is explicitly meant for combing your hair in).
I write to blasting music. Like techno. Or obscene rap. It is really weird.
My friends that are boys in the neighborhood sometimes come say hi at night when I’m writing. And my doorman thinks because of this, I am running a low-class one-woman prostitution ring in a headband and yoga pants.
I dance to no music in the kitchen. And do a lot of jumping.
I wake up early sometimes and am mad about it. I want to sleep longer but sometimes am too anxious or on deadline to.
I get a little crazy right before sleep. Like all riled up and giggly, like if you threw a tennis ball at a dog and jangled your keys and shouted, “Wanna go to the park? Huh? Wanna go to the park!” riled up and giggly.
There is a green wooden armadillo hanging upside down on the ceiling in my room and a million sketches.
I don’t know how to be lonely any more.
Sometimes I wait for people to get home and it makes me happy to see them. Yes, again like a dog.
I could spend the day in bed if I have a really good book.
I have a lot of wacky ideas and half the time I actually do them. This led to me applying to grad school in Hawaii, backpacking through Australia, writing a book, and saying very inappropriate things to upper management with the thought that I’ll be liberally excused because I am a “creative”. Note: “creative” is just a euphemism for “quirkily unprofessional” at best and “not quite all there” at worst.
I am always thirsty but I hardly ever drink anything.
There is someone in my phone listed as "Not Sure."
I think being interesting is a gift and one day I hope to have it. For now I’m okay with being interested.
I think I feel alive and amazed more than is the norm. Like the wind will blow someone’s hair into a pattern and I’ll stop or I will think about the domestication of animals and think, whoa, who was the first person to see a horse and be like, you know what, I’m gonna jump on that thing’s back, what the hell. Let alone a camel! Or that if an alien landed on this planet and saw an elephant, it would freak the hell out and fly away…
* That includes my roommates, mom and best friend, and anyone else who has seen me sleep or woken me up.
I like the room freezing cold. Air-blasting, fetal-position-inducing, take-all-the-blanket-fighting, freezing cold. And lots of quilts on the bed. It reminds me of my artic 19th century childhood home in which you seriously had to decide whether a trip to the bathroom in January was worth the likely possibility that, upon touching your toe to the old pine boards, your veins would turn to ice and you’d shatter into a million pieces. Compounded by my father, whose vehement insistence of responsible consumerism I imagine will surely, upon his deathbed, possess him to reach out a hand, pull me close and whisper, “I pass my legacy to you. Promise me you will not let your mother turn the thermostat past 61 degrees in the winter. Promise me this! Oil is too expensive! God damnit!”
I sleep in dresses. Dresses that I wear nowhere else but in bed. Hey, I’d walk around work in a penoir if I could (that’s a dressing robe which is explicitly meant for combing your hair in).
I write to blasting music. Like techno. Or obscene rap. It is really weird.
My friends that are boys in the neighborhood sometimes come say hi at night when I’m writing. And my doorman thinks because of this, I am running a low-class one-woman prostitution ring in a headband and yoga pants.
I dance to no music in the kitchen. And do a lot of jumping.
I wake up early sometimes and am mad about it. I want to sleep longer but sometimes am too anxious or on deadline to.
I get a little crazy right before sleep. Like all riled up and giggly, like if you threw a tennis ball at a dog and jangled your keys and shouted, “Wanna go to the park? Huh? Wanna go to the park!” riled up and giggly.
There is a green wooden armadillo hanging upside down on the ceiling in my room and a million sketches.
I don’t know how to be lonely any more.
Sometimes I wait for people to get home and it makes me happy to see them. Yes, again like a dog.
I could spend the day in bed if I have a really good book.
I have a lot of wacky ideas and half the time I actually do them. This led to me applying to grad school in Hawaii, backpacking through Australia, writing a book, and saying very inappropriate things to upper management with the thought that I’ll be liberally excused because I am a “creative”. Note: “creative” is just a euphemism for “quirkily unprofessional” at best and “not quite all there” at worst.
I am always thirsty but I hardly ever drink anything.
There is someone in my phone listed as "Not Sure."
I think being interesting is a gift and one day I hope to have it. For now I’m okay with being interested.
I think I feel alive and amazed more than is the norm. Like the wind will blow someone’s hair into a pattern and I’ll stop or I will think about the domestication of animals and think, whoa, who was the first person to see a horse and be like, you know what, I’m gonna jump on that thing’s back, what the hell. Let alone a camel! Or that if an alien landed on this planet and saw an elephant, it would freak the hell out and fly away…
* That includes my roommates, mom and best friend, and anyone else who has seen me sleep or woken me up.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Quote of the Day
Music editor #1: Did you read that sure-to-be-obnoxious piece in NY Mag about Brooklyn music called...'Brooklyn Calling?'
Music editor #2: I tried...but I had to keep stopping.
Music editor #1: Why's that?
Music editor #2: Well, the problem wasn't that I kept rolling my eyes, it was when I brought them back down to the page, I'd invariably keep losing my place.
Music editor #2: I tried...but I had to keep stopping.
Music editor #1: Why's that?
Music editor #2: Well, the problem wasn't that I kept rolling my eyes, it was when I brought them back down to the page, I'd invariably keep losing my place.
What came first: The Book or the MFA?
Story Editor is done reading the book, and has given me her notes, and they (and she) are amazing! They are all super-positive and wonderful and really insightful, and it's really cool to see what complicated ideas I've pulled off and which ones have...well, thrown me off.
She has pointed out what I've known all along, the first chapter needs to be different. The good thing is that I have all the first chapter material just chopped up in the current first chapter and framed differently. So it's a rewrite of the first 25 pages or so, which at one point in my life seemed like such a long and difficult thing to do (oh the days of 15 page papers, I would take you back in a second!), but now is no problem. If only I could get my priorities straight...whip the book into final perfection (it's SO CLOSE) and get it to the agents...or work on my MFA applications, which also have due dates, and their own considerations.
So paralyzed was I by which one to focus on, that today I did the unthinkable, and instead focused on work for money (boo, hiss!) and then skipped the gym (double hiss! but I'm still sore from Friday's killer workout). Bad dog.
But tomorrow I will have a sit-down about my personal statement, and the good Samaritan who is looking over my writing samples with fresh eyes to ensure I didn't write "COCK" in huge letters on it somewhere (hmmm...maybe I should do that anyway, and call it "experimental writing" and send it to Brown..zing!) And if this good Samaritan has done what he was asked not to, which is to say anything about making it longer or shorter after I crafted every single word so that it fit the maximum length of the minimum requirement for every single school (this was so hard), I will rise our of the ashes and fly screaming for the blood of his young. If not, he gets a card. (Do the right one, Dave!)
Anyway, going a little insane over here. That's a good thing for "creatives", right? RIGHT?
She has pointed out what I've known all along, the first chapter needs to be different. The good thing is that I have all the first chapter material just chopped up in the current first chapter and framed differently. So it's a rewrite of the first 25 pages or so, which at one point in my life seemed like such a long and difficult thing to do (oh the days of 15 page papers, I would take you back in a second!), but now is no problem. If only I could get my priorities straight...whip the book into final perfection (it's SO CLOSE) and get it to the agents...or work on my MFA applications, which also have due dates, and their own considerations.
So paralyzed was I by which one to focus on, that today I did the unthinkable, and instead focused on work for money (boo, hiss!) and then skipped the gym (double hiss! but I'm still sore from Friday's killer workout). Bad dog.
But tomorrow I will have a sit-down about my personal statement, and the good Samaritan who is looking over my writing samples with fresh eyes to ensure I didn't write "COCK" in huge letters on it somewhere (hmmm...maybe I should do that anyway, and call it "experimental writing" and send it to Brown..zing!) And if this good Samaritan has done what he was asked not to, which is to say anything about making it longer or shorter after I crafted every single word so that it fit the maximum length of the minimum requirement for every single school (this was so hard), I will rise our of the ashes and fly screaming for the blood of his young. If not, he gets a card. (Do the right one, Dave!)
Anyway, going a little insane over here. That's a good thing for "creatives", right? RIGHT?
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Babies, more and more babies
Not mine!
Check out Theo, he is the newest baby friend of mine. I'm not a freak! These are my friends' babies. Theo updates his blog more often than I do (courtesy of my bf from high school, Selly).
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
The Editor's Note: Quote of the Day
The line-editing is just about done, and now the story/character/big-picture editor is looking at the book.
She usually takes three weeks (which is incredibly fast) and said so for my 331 page novel. But now that she's reading it, I'm different. She got it last Friday, and she thinks she'll be done next Monday. That's just over a week! I'm tearing my hair out (she is an award-winning novelist and is always right on point) in anticipation of her notes.
But then...she emailed me a quick update and it was this:
"Just so you know, I'm reading and it's wonderful."
Be still my beating heart...
Let's not get too excited yet, she's still got over 200 pages to go...but if she likes that, then I'll make tweaks with her suggestion, and then...actually start submitting it to agents. My God!
She usually takes three weeks (which is incredibly fast) and said so for my 331 page novel. But now that she's reading it, I'm different. She got it last Friday, and she thinks she'll be done next Monday. That's just over a week! I'm tearing my hair out (she is an award-winning novelist and is always right on point) in anticipation of her notes.
But then...she emailed me a quick update and it was this:
"Just so you know, I'm reading and it's wonderful."
Be still my beating heart...
Let's not get too excited yet, she's still got over 200 pages to go...but if she likes that, then I'll make tweaks with her suggestion, and then...actually start submitting it to agents. My God!
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
8 Simple Rules for Helping Me With My Applications
8. Don't say that my writing sample is "too smart" and you "don't get it" to get out of talking about my writing sample because it's actually boring. I wasn't born yesterday! (Offender: Boyfriend. -5 points)
7. Don't ask why I'm applying to schools. I don't know anymore, and I have too many things due to have to explain it again, and yes I know that you can be a writer without this degree, but I'm into it deep. And I still want to be a better writer, hence I want the degree. So have a heart and shut it! (Offender: Old Boss. -10 points)
6. Do say I'll get through it...somehow. It's nice, it's not too aspirational, and it's just inevitable. (Angel: Best Friend. + 20 points)
5. Do offer to make a big cup of green tea when I'm surrounded by papers and broken ink cartridges at 11 at night on a Friday as I stay in to edit while you get to go out drinking. (Angel: Boyfriend. +10 points)
4. Don't remind me that I did this once and failed miserably, only getting into mediocre programs. (Offender: Self. -5 points)
3. Do be amazing and think every stupid idea I have is worthwhile, like this one. (Angels: Mom and Dad +100 points)
2. Don't interrupt me every five minutes with an email about a lost detergent cap in the laundry room. I'm trying to work here! (Offender: Landlord. -15 points)
1. Don't give up on me. (Angels: maybe you guys? +100 points)
7. Don't ask why I'm applying to schools. I don't know anymore, and I have too many things due to have to explain it again, and yes I know that you can be a writer without this degree, but I'm into it deep. And I still want to be a better writer, hence I want the degree. So have a heart and shut it! (Offender: Old Boss. -10 points)
6. Do say I'll get through it...somehow. It's nice, it's not too aspirational, and it's just inevitable. (Angel: Best Friend. + 20 points)
5. Do offer to make a big cup of green tea when I'm surrounded by papers and broken ink cartridges at 11 at night on a Friday as I stay in to edit while you get to go out drinking. (Angel: Boyfriend. +10 points)
4. Don't remind me that I did this once and failed miserably, only getting into mediocre programs. (Offender: Self. -5 points)
3. Do be amazing and think every stupid idea I have is worthwhile, like this one. (Angels: Mom and Dad +100 points)
2. Don't interrupt me every five minutes with an email about a lost detergent cap in the laundry room. I'm trying to work here! (Offender: Landlord. -15 points)
1. Don't give up on me. (Angels: maybe you guys? +100 points)
Monday, October 26, 2009
Things I want to talk about now that I live alone
Well I live alone, without any girls now. It's great! I watch what I want to watch, have my slovenly boyfriend over all the time, cook whatever I like, clean obsessively but let books and papers pile up as I write and rewrite and plan other friends' baby showers...
But I never had sisters. And I was always jealous of those who had. And my best girlfriends now all live in other cities. And well, sometimes you just need another girl to bounce an idea off of, or else you're crazy.
Here's what I want to say to the girls, wherever they may be, on this blog, in my mind, wherever you are!
1. How often do I really have to have a pedicure in the wintertime? It's been over a month...and I feel like I can go longer. This feeling is unsubstantiated now that I am alone most of the time.
2. Is it OK for me to watch Jon and Kate plus 8? I am strangely drawn to it. Please help.
3. What can I make for dinner on Sunday nights instead of ordering? I love to cook, I just hate to shop for cooking. Buying a chicken breast and lemons and herbs and then salad greens? Ugh, all I want is Thai! Also do I have to eat organically? I like Gatorade.
4. What websites are good these days? Gawker is getting a little...and Jezebel is also kind of...you know.
5. I'm kind of done with Oprah magazine. Used to love it, but now I don't. What can I read that is part trash, part stimulating?
6. Is it okay that I don't want to have a baby yet? Or even a pet? That I like to come home and have everything left just the way it was, even though I'm...gasp...twenty eight?
7. Is it okay to be twenty-eight and not even thinking seriously about getting married until I get my book published, which might be NEVER?
That's it! All I had to do was ask, and I feel better. Also, should I take back up knitting, where can I get the best sportsbra, I hate earrings again, I'm not interested in Halloween this year, I wear the same three dresses all weekend long and I don't want to change, and I'm applying to school and am scared I won't get in anywhere or worse, get in and not get funding.
That feels better, okay, back to work.
But I never had sisters. And I was always jealous of those who had. And my best girlfriends now all live in other cities. And well, sometimes you just need another girl to bounce an idea off of, or else you're crazy.
Here's what I want to say to the girls, wherever they may be, on this blog, in my mind, wherever you are!
1. How often do I really have to have a pedicure in the wintertime? It's been over a month...and I feel like I can go longer. This feeling is unsubstantiated now that I am alone most of the time.
2. Is it OK for me to watch Jon and Kate plus 8? I am strangely drawn to it. Please help.
3. What can I make for dinner on Sunday nights instead of ordering? I love to cook, I just hate to shop for cooking. Buying a chicken breast and lemons and herbs and then salad greens? Ugh, all I want is Thai! Also do I have to eat organically? I like Gatorade.
4. What websites are good these days? Gawker is getting a little...and Jezebel is also kind of...you know.
5. I'm kind of done with Oprah magazine. Used to love it, but now I don't. What can I read that is part trash, part stimulating?
6. Is it okay that I don't want to have a baby yet? Or even a pet? That I like to come home and have everything left just the way it was, even though I'm...gasp...twenty eight?
7. Is it okay to be twenty-eight and not even thinking seriously about getting married until I get my book published, which might be NEVER?
That's it! All I had to do was ask, and I feel better. Also, should I take back up knitting, where can I get the best sportsbra, I hate earrings again, I'm not interested in Halloween this year, I wear the same three dresses all weekend long and I don't want to change, and I'm applying to school and am scared I won't get in anywhere or worse, get in and not get funding.
That feels better, okay, back to work.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
You've got to be kidding
This is what it's come to. My brother leaves the nest for college and my parents go and buy the smallest dog they can find. Trading one animal for another! Hey, it's pretty cute.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Gourmet is Dead...and so I'm eating Ego Waffles.
Gourmet's been dead since Monday and the slew of internet opinions on the subject have been a lot of fun to read. Today my favorite is this one, and I encourage you to go read it while I try to write a personal statement*.
*How does anyone write these things without sounding like a total self-centered jerk? Anyway, I work for a food magazine (sometimes) and the Gourmet news is HUGE to us so that's all I can really think about, so let's see how this whole personal statement thing shakes out.
Here's my favorite comment from the reader section:
"I love Cook's Illustrated, and I have begrudging respect for Christopher Kimball (I always deduct points for bowties unless you're Chuck Bass). And while I agree that the Internet has created a whole new class of pseudo experts -- which kind of makes me wish I hadn't closed down my blog for fear that I was a fraud -- I think he's willfully ignoring the good things that have resulted from this tiny revolution.
The web, along with the countless home-cook shows that have sprung up on cable channels, has demystified and de-elited the world of cooking for many of us. A lot of people don't take risks and don't try to advance their skills in the kitchen because of low self-confidence and the fear that some obnoxious chef will swoop in and declare that they will never be chefs, only mere cooks. I won't bother defending Rachael Ray's personality or credentials, but Anthony Bourdain's dismissal of her left a sour taste in my mouth because it wasn't just a cruel thing to say, it was a dig at all of us who love food but for any number of reasons haven't received formal training. (Incidentally, it's why I adore Mark Bittman and Julia Child. No pretensions and no "beginners need not apply" declarations; only real love for food and cooking.)
I've learned how to truss a chicken, deglaze a pan, make flavorful sauces, roast a rib-eye to perfection and make compound butter because of no-name food bloggers. Those tasks are all actually quite easy, but what learning how to do them did for me was to give me the confidence to adjust recipes as I cooked, come up with my own ideas and serve my creations without the nervous disclaimers that usually accompanied even the most basic meals I used to make.
Gourmet was a beautiful magazine, one I read cover to cover for the past few years. But like Vogue, it was only a practical resource for the wealthy and cultured. For everyone else, it was pure fantasy: Isn't that beautiful? I want a farmhouse so I can serve a six-course meal to 10 people and we can all wear handknitted sweaters and drink brandy out of snifters while someone plays a mandolin. Maybe one day I'll be able to afford truffle oil and specialty herbs and those adorable organic baby vegetables and handcrafted cheese instead of whatever's on sale at the grocery store.
I'm not saying there isn't a place for that, or that people with the resources and time to craft such elegant meals don't deserve to have a publication that serves their needs. But if there were actually as many people like that as Conde Nast thought there were, Gourmet wouldn't have gone out of business."
*How does anyone write these things without sounding like a total self-centered jerk? Anyway, I work for a food magazine (sometimes) and the Gourmet news is HUGE to us so that's all I can really think about, so let's see how this whole personal statement thing shakes out.
Here's my favorite comment from the reader section:
"I love Cook's Illustrated, and I have begrudging respect for Christopher Kimball (I always deduct points for bowties unless you're Chuck Bass). And while I agree that the Internet has created a whole new class of pseudo experts -- which kind of makes me wish I hadn't closed down my blog for fear that I was a fraud -- I think he's willfully ignoring the good things that have resulted from this tiny revolution.
The web, along with the countless home-cook shows that have sprung up on cable channels, has demystified and de-elited the world of cooking for many of us. A lot of people don't take risks and don't try to advance their skills in the kitchen because of low self-confidence and the fear that some obnoxious chef will swoop in and declare that they will never be chefs, only mere cooks. I won't bother defending Rachael Ray's personality or credentials, but Anthony Bourdain's dismissal of her left a sour taste in my mouth because it wasn't just a cruel thing to say, it was a dig at all of us who love food but for any number of reasons haven't received formal training. (Incidentally, it's why I adore Mark Bittman and Julia Child. No pretensions and no "beginners need not apply" declarations; only real love for food and cooking.)
I've learned how to truss a chicken, deglaze a pan, make flavorful sauces, roast a rib-eye to perfection and make compound butter because of no-name food bloggers. Those tasks are all actually quite easy, but what learning how to do them did for me was to give me the confidence to adjust recipes as I cooked, come up with my own ideas and serve my creations without the nervous disclaimers that usually accompanied even the most basic meals I used to make.
Gourmet was a beautiful magazine, one I read cover to cover for the past few years. But like Vogue, it was only a practical resource for the wealthy and cultured. For everyone else, it was pure fantasy: Isn't that beautiful? I want a farmhouse so I can serve a six-course meal to 10 people and we can all wear handknitted sweaters and drink brandy out of snifters while someone plays a mandolin. Maybe one day I'll be able to afford truffle oil and specialty herbs and those adorable organic baby vegetables and handcrafted cheese instead of whatever's on sale at the grocery store.
I'm not saying there isn't a place for that, or that people with the resources and time to craft such elegant meals don't deserve to have a publication that serves their needs. But if there were actually as many people like that as Conde Nast thought there were, Gourmet wouldn't have gone out of business."
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday at The Frick
I'm back in class and that means more stories, more searches for color, more drawings that I'll upload for comments, more running around with grubby hands, snatching gallery guides so I can troll the streets searching for openings, art, but perhaps most of all, free glasses of wine.
In the Frick, we spread out, armed with our sketchbooks and assignment--three drawings, and mix it up this time--and we have an hour and forty-five minutes. Spend it wisely.
Don't stand in the gift shop like me and marvel at what is around you: the walls lined with postcards and black and white prints, enormous books against the shelves: the jackets in the boring muted tones run together. Hotel buffet salmon-pink, sea-scum green. Silk-screened totes and wide pine floor boards.
Shake it off, clutch your book and keep moving, past the crowds of slow-moving patrons, the arguing Russians, the surly staff who by now must find no beauty in what they do, protecting priceless things from us--loud-mouthed tourists we all are in this room where we ooh and ahh.
Grab your pens, scratch and the pad and scowl as you desperately try to sketch this relief of Mary, find yourself shouting out the name of her son as you slip and screw it up. Compose yourself, keep going, scratch scratch scratch for twenty minutes, leaving scars in the paper where you've gone too deep, and then, a 70 year old woman who is shouting out everything that comes up on her audioguide, leans over and tells you "that's kind of good," and you can't help but stand a little straighter and scratch a little louder as if someone will see.
Next up get the pencils, look in the dog-eared pages of the book and choose the next page--do you dare to draw on the back of a good drawing at the risk of affixing something mediocre to something you'd be proud of, knowing full well that if you do, someone could always flip the page and all that they thought of you could be erased in an instant.
Say to hell with it, go on and do it, retreat to the dining room and draw the chandeliers, feel all right about it, then draw the door and irretrievably screw it up and again mutter the name of Mary's son and then look at your cell phone and see that time is up, and you must show what you've done, which is not much.
But it's okay to do not much when you're surrounded by so much. It's okay, because you keep trying, because you think, with no sentiment at all, that you love this in a way. You love art even though you are no genius and you'll never be. And also, that love is a true one, because you are getting nothing back and still you do it because some day you believe you will.
Pictures to come...
In the Frick, we spread out, armed with our sketchbooks and assignment--three drawings, and mix it up this time--and we have an hour and forty-five minutes. Spend it wisely.
Don't stand in the gift shop like me and marvel at what is around you: the walls lined with postcards and black and white prints, enormous books against the shelves: the jackets in the boring muted tones run together. Hotel buffet salmon-pink, sea-scum green. Silk-screened totes and wide pine floor boards.
Shake it off, clutch your book and keep moving, past the crowds of slow-moving patrons, the arguing Russians, the surly staff who by now must find no beauty in what they do, protecting priceless things from us--loud-mouthed tourists we all are in this room where we ooh and ahh.
Grab your pens, scratch and the pad and scowl as you desperately try to sketch this relief of Mary, find yourself shouting out the name of her son as you slip and screw it up. Compose yourself, keep going, scratch scratch scratch for twenty minutes, leaving scars in the paper where you've gone too deep, and then, a 70 year old woman who is shouting out everything that comes up on her audioguide, leans over and tells you "that's kind of good," and you can't help but stand a little straighter and scratch a little louder as if someone will see.
Next up get the pencils, look in the dog-eared pages of the book and choose the next page--do you dare to draw on the back of a good drawing at the risk of affixing something mediocre to something you'd be proud of, knowing full well that if you do, someone could always flip the page and all that they thought of you could be erased in an instant.
Say to hell with it, go on and do it, retreat to the dining room and draw the chandeliers, feel all right about it, then draw the door and irretrievably screw it up and again mutter the name of Mary's son and then look at your cell phone and see that time is up, and you must show what you've done, which is not much.
But it's okay to do not much when you're surrounded by so much. It's okay, because you keep trying, because you think, with no sentiment at all, that you love this in a way. You love art even though you are no genius and you'll never be. And also, that love is a true one, because you are getting nothing back and still you do it because some day you believe you will.
Pictures to come...
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Roman Polanski
The debate about him is heating up, what with Whoopie calling the incident not real rape, not "rape-rape" (that set back humanity about 50 years) as if REAL rape has to have a person being beaten almost to death or something? Look, I don't know the facts and I certainly have a knee-jerk reaction to the debate on rape for reasons I don't understand (I'm a girl? I hate how every time a chick gets murdered in a film they seem to want to throw a rape in there first and linger on it, as if murder is no longer horrific enough? What IS THE POINT OF THIS!) but the original report has a 43 year old man drugging and sodomizing a 13 year old girl who yelled "no", so can we please not dispute what rape is and not act like these two were dating or in love or anything and just focus on the fact that he evaded the law and that's all that we are really dealing with here?
Ugh, it is so annoying that because the victim, 30 years later, is basically like "I don't want a trial, I want to move on with my life, please" that people want to rally around the man. As this article nicely points out--it is not up to the victim, the case is the people versus Roman Polanksi, not the victim, and he evaded a plea bargain deal for a long time and now has to deal with it?
Anyway. 43 year old weirdo drugging and assaulting a 13 year old is not what's up for discussion here. It happened. It was horrible, he admitted to a lesser charge so he wouldn't have to do harder time for raping a child. Then he bailed on the punishment for that. He's a piece of crap for that, and I don't care that he makes good movies, lots of pieces of crap are genius pieces of crap, it doesn't make them any less awful.
Anyway, sorry I came back to the blog with this, but it's been really bothering me.
On another note, Brooklyn is beautiful and gorgeous and I am thinking about joining a new gym here but it's kind of too expensive. Also I made brownies last night with a silicon bake sheet (have you tried this--amazing!) and saw Cape Fear (lame, in my opinion, and again with the rape rape rape, come on!) and have been reading a lot and working a lot and neglecting this blog a lot.
Application season is the worst.
Ugh, it is so annoying that because the victim, 30 years later, is basically like "I don't want a trial, I want to move on with my life, please" that people want to rally around the man. As this article nicely points out--it is not up to the victim, the case is the people versus Roman Polanksi, not the victim, and he evaded a plea bargain deal for a long time and now has to deal with it?
Anyway. 43 year old weirdo drugging and assaulting a 13 year old is not what's up for discussion here. It happened. It was horrible, he admitted to a lesser charge so he wouldn't have to do harder time for raping a child. Then he bailed on the punishment for that. He's a piece of crap for that, and I don't care that he makes good movies, lots of pieces of crap are genius pieces of crap, it doesn't make them any less awful.
Anyway, sorry I came back to the blog with this, but it's been really bothering me.
On another note, Brooklyn is beautiful and gorgeous and I am thinking about joining a new gym here but it's kind of too expensive. Also I made brownies last night with a silicon bake sheet (have you tried this--amazing!) and saw Cape Fear (lame, in my opinion, and again with the rape rape rape, come on!) and have been reading a lot and working a lot and neglecting this blog a lot.
Application season is the worst.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Almost Published
Well, at a fine literary magazine I am published, anyway.
Still working on that book, but in the meantime, check out the journal and let me know what you think!
Still working on that book, but in the meantime, check out the journal and let me know what you think!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Making a Home
Now that I have a perfect place to live, how do I live like a perfect person? We scraped down cinnamon-wheat Ego waffles and split up, he ran to the art shop to buy materials for my new Parsons class and I got a neon yellow manicure. When it was done we trotted back, banging the pad back and forth as we rushed to avoid the rain. There are ideas floating around: runs in the park, enormous Sunday dinners, bi-weekly vacuuming, the bed made each morning, fresh flowers in the vase on top of my antique desk. Where are the curtains? How come I can't get myself to the YMCA to check out their classes? I'm too busy putting together my recommendation packets, tidying up my writing sample, sending my next 50 pages of the novel to the editor for edits, map out new novel, and send yet another friend packing--the third good friend to leave me and NYC behind in as many months...
Going to have to make this my home alone now, and a lot lies ahead.
Going to have to make this my home alone now, and a lot lies ahead.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Quote of the Day
Waiting for the F train to come on a very hot platform on this Labor Day...next to me is a beautiful Russian mother with a great tan that I would kill for, and her four year old son who has bright blonde hair and a buzz cut and the largest ears I've ever seen.
After 20 minutes.
Son: Where's the F train? I hate the F train!
Beautiful mother trying to placate him: Maybe F stands for Fantasy, yes? Because the F train will not come. F stands for Fantasy!
Son: F stands for Poop!
Beautiful mother: No, that is a 'P'.
Son: F stands for Vomit!
Beautiful mother: No, that is a 'V'.
Son: Well F stands for something stupid.
Beautiful mother: F train stands for something else, maybe? Something that you're not supposed to say. Something that starts with an 'F' and is four letters long and is something your body does. Hmm?
Son: Fuck! It's the Fuck train!
(At this point I have to leave because I'm laughing so hard. But apparently she was trying to get him to say it was the "Fart Train".)
After 20 minutes.
Son: Where's the F train? I hate the F train!
Beautiful mother trying to placate him: Maybe F stands for Fantasy, yes? Because the F train will not come. F stands for Fantasy!
Son: F stands for Poop!
Beautiful mother: No, that is a 'P'.
Son: F stands for Vomit!
Beautiful mother: No, that is a 'V'.
Son: Well F stands for something stupid.
Beautiful mother: F train stands for something else, maybe? Something that you're not supposed to say. Something that starts with an 'F' and is four letters long and is something your body does. Hmm?
Son: Fuck! It's the Fuck train!
(At this point I have to leave because I'm laughing so hard. But apparently she was trying to get him to say it was the "Fart Train".)
Sunday, September 06, 2009
How to Make a House a Home
I am now living by myself on a tree-lined, sun-dappled block in Park Slope. There are old houses and artisanal cafes and food coops and the park. At night, everything is still, cars drive by quietly, couples walk together, dogs wag and the air feels clean. Inside my section of the brownstone, it's 90% decorated--all with my mother's antiques: French ash buffet, Persian rugs, lamps made of stone urns, gilded frames and old flowered prints. A big soft blanket folded on the couch. My desk is a marble table top over an iron base, there are fluffy towels in the bathroom and outside, my patio has a rattan chaise with a big square suede-like pillow tossed on it. It looks over the little garden, the blueberry patch and the mint plants.
The kitchen is eat-in, the dining room table looks outside and my bedroom is a little cove, painted sage-green. Cream drapes fall from the windows, the bed is overstuffed with white linens and a stiff dust ruffle. My favorite white lamp draped with the beaded pearl necklace and a lambskin rug on the floor. It feels like sleeping in a layered wedding cake, an igloo made of fur, a room at a Vermont bed and breakfast. It's the first time I've lived alone, and I made the smallest room my bedroom so that my office and TV and everything is away. For so long my bed was my desk, my workspace, my entertainment center, even my breakfast nook where I sipped coffee.
Now the bed is sacred. And the apartment too. I find myself bouncing around, playing with the dimmers, cleaning the windows, sweeping the wooden planks endlessly. My clothes are in closets, not hanging over chairs, my papers are in folders instead of strewn across the floor. It feels like a beautiful home, my parents' maybe, my great-aunt's whose house is all white and spotless. Here the walls are pale yellow (except for the bedroom), the ancient fireplace irons flank the mantle, and not only does everything feel so adult, it feels full of possibility and promise.
I wanted a gorgeous place to be for so long, to work, to create. I didn't realize how much I wanted it, maybe even needed it, until I was blessed enough to get it. If I can't get my books published here, get into grad school here, flourish my freelance career here, then there is no hope for me at all.
But today I am positive. I just got here, but it feels like home. Only when I stop and really think does it occur to me it took 27 years for me to find it.
The kitchen is eat-in, the dining room table looks outside and my bedroom is a little cove, painted sage-green. Cream drapes fall from the windows, the bed is overstuffed with white linens and a stiff dust ruffle. My favorite white lamp draped with the beaded pearl necklace and a lambskin rug on the floor. It feels like sleeping in a layered wedding cake, an igloo made of fur, a room at a Vermont bed and breakfast. It's the first time I've lived alone, and I made the smallest room my bedroom so that my office and TV and everything is away. For so long my bed was my desk, my workspace, my entertainment center, even my breakfast nook where I sipped coffee.
Now the bed is sacred. And the apartment too. I find myself bouncing around, playing with the dimmers, cleaning the windows, sweeping the wooden planks endlessly. My clothes are in closets, not hanging over chairs, my papers are in folders instead of strewn across the floor. It feels like a beautiful home, my parents' maybe, my great-aunt's whose house is all white and spotless. Here the walls are pale yellow (except for the bedroom), the ancient fireplace irons flank the mantle, and not only does everything feel so adult, it feels full of possibility and promise.
I wanted a gorgeous place to be for so long, to work, to create. I didn't realize how much I wanted it, maybe even needed it, until I was blessed enough to get it. If I can't get my books published here, get into grad school here, flourish my freelance career here, then there is no hope for me at all.
But today I am positive. I just got here, but it feels like home. Only when I stop and really think does it occur to me it took 27 years for me to find it.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Last Night in The East Village...
and I'm getting sniffy. Doing lots of drugs. Just kidding, I'm sad! All the dirtiness here has been good to me. Is it weird to join a knitting club to get new friends in Park Slope?
Don't answer that.
But seriously, without school or work, and without your friends introducing you, how do you make friends any more? I'm not sure I know. I made some through having roommates, but now that I will just be freelancing and wandering the streets, can I meet people? I never understood how people made friends and the library or coffee shop. Occasionally I have been asked out by a creepy guy this way, but can I somehow approach another girl for wanting to watch Project Runway with, without being a weird stalker? I know you know the answer to this people. I don't know how to do this!
Also me and my film friend are the last of us in the EV and we are getting together tonight and I am forcing cuban food on him. Not that I'm cooking. I will in the new place (love you Ina Garten). But the cuban place next to me, Cafe Cortadito, is amaaazing. It is one of my biggest regrets about leaving this building. Now by doorman who calls me "Stephanie" is a different story. Nice guy but, he has a really bushy mustache and somehow I don't trust him. It's always the mustaches, isn't it? Also I am gazing out at my patio while the boy snores off a hangover on the couch and thinking I'm going to miss the sage I planted, the sprinklers that come on in a rush exactly every night at 10 pm, even padding to the laundry room and all the hot air in there. Why? Because I didn't appreciate any of this while it was happening, that's why!
Am pretty excited for the dinner parties I'm going to throw in the new place though. No one will come because of karma, as I never went to Brooklyn before moving there. Well except for Song in Park Slope because it's the best Thai food EVER, but I don't think I've been to Williamsburg for two years. What am I rambling about? I think all the packing has got to me...better get out of the house while I still can.
Don't answer that.
But seriously, without school or work, and without your friends introducing you, how do you make friends any more? I'm not sure I know. I made some through having roommates, but now that I will just be freelancing and wandering the streets, can I meet people? I never understood how people made friends and the library or coffee shop. Occasionally I have been asked out by a creepy guy this way, but can I somehow approach another girl for wanting to watch Project Runway with, without being a weird stalker? I know you know the answer to this people. I don't know how to do this!
Also me and my film friend are the last of us in the EV and we are getting together tonight and I am forcing cuban food on him. Not that I'm cooking. I will in the new place (love you Ina Garten). But the cuban place next to me, Cafe Cortadito, is amaaazing. It is one of my biggest regrets about leaving this building. Now by doorman who calls me "Stephanie" is a different story. Nice guy but, he has a really bushy mustache and somehow I don't trust him. It's always the mustaches, isn't it? Also I am gazing out at my patio while the boy snores off a hangover on the couch and thinking I'm going to miss the sage I planted, the sprinklers that come on in a rush exactly every night at 10 pm, even padding to the laundry room and all the hot air in there. Why? Because I didn't appreciate any of this while it was happening, that's why!
Am pretty excited for the dinner parties I'm going to throw in the new place though. No one will come because of karma, as I never went to Brooklyn before moving there. Well except for Song in Park Slope because it's the best Thai food EVER, but I don't think I've been to Williamsburg for two years. What am I rambling about? I think all the packing has got to me...better get out of the house while I still can.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Moving!
I'm doing it! Moving to a beautiful brownstone in Park Slope with a fireplace, an office/library space, cherry cabinets, brush nickel fixtures, hardwood floors, Sub Zero fridge, counter to eat at the kitchen and a little patio. It's adorable and near Prospect Park (which Olmsted also designed, in addition to Central Park, and he always said Prospect Park was his favorite of the two). Still, I'm a little scared of Brooklyn. I can't explain it. The same way that we get irritated that the summer is full of rain. August is still August even though it rains every day...Brooklyn is still living in "the middle of it"...sure--it's not even 2 miles away! But then there is the obnoxious whiny part of you that is a child with everything who says, no there WAS no summer this year and Brooklyn might as well be in Ohio.
But then again, I'm not impressed by the bags of garbage and people shooting up on my East Village corner any more, or all the dog shit, or all the screaming. I've lived in so-so apartments in incredible neighborhoods for years and sort of just want a pretty place to be, especially since I'll be working from home these days, and applying for school, etc. And it's a place all to myself! I've lived with roommates my whole life (we're counting family right?) I just don't know who I am alone. Did I have to swing the pendulum the entire way to a quiet block in Park Slope? Maybe not. But there has been so much frenetic energy with my multiple jobs, courses, classes, roommates and everything else I kind of want to be for a while, get back into writing more (how lazy have I been about this blog), stop being so damn distracted.
Get a puppy.
My best friends have moved away save a few, and I felt like it was time, in my own small way, to move away too.
I'm getting old, for sure. But I'm kind of excited for it. I love the East Village, the Lower East side, the dirty bars populated with tattooed boys. But now that I'm in a relationship with one of them, we've decided we like to walk past the hipster meat market on any given day and head to the video store to rent old 80s thrillers--bad ones--(have you seen Consenting Adults? MY GOD) and drink wine instead. I'd like to do it in a new place, but I love New York to much to leave it now, so I'll jump across a bridge to Brooklyn and still have most everything I need to do and want to do in Manhattan proper. I am the only person without a family making the reverse jump. Well, I've always been a bit of a weirdo.
Pictures to come! And if you have recommendations for Park Slope, please leave them here! I have no idea what I'm doing...
But then again, I'm not impressed by the bags of garbage and people shooting up on my East Village corner any more, or all the dog shit, or all the screaming. I've lived in so-so apartments in incredible neighborhoods for years and sort of just want a pretty place to be, especially since I'll be working from home these days, and applying for school, etc. And it's a place all to myself! I've lived with roommates my whole life (we're counting family right?) I just don't know who I am alone. Did I have to swing the pendulum the entire way to a quiet block in Park Slope? Maybe not. But there has been so much frenetic energy with my multiple jobs, courses, classes, roommates and everything else I kind of want to be for a while, get back into writing more (how lazy have I been about this blog), stop being so damn distracted.
Get a puppy.
My best friends have moved away save a few, and I felt like it was time, in my own small way, to move away too.
I'm getting old, for sure. But I'm kind of excited for it. I love the East Village, the Lower East side, the dirty bars populated with tattooed boys. But now that I'm in a relationship with one of them, we've decided we like to walk past the hipster meat market on any given day and head to the video store to rent old 80s thrillers--bad ones--(have you seen Consenting Adults? MY GOD) and drink wine instead. I'd like to do it in a new place, but I love New York to much to leave it now, so I'll jump across a bridge to Brooklyn and still have most everything I need to do and want to do in Manhattan proper. I am the only person without a family making the reverse jump. Well, I've always been a bit of a weirdo.
Pictures to come! And if you have recommendations for Park Slope, please leave them here! I have no idea what I'm doing...
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Almost...Brooklyn?
It's a beautiful townhouse in Park Slope? Dare I leave the East Village for the first time in 6 years? Can I exist in Brooklyn, working out of my apartment, or will I go insane? Will I take the 40 minute train ride to my gym here because I have the time and not the cash to cancel my gym membership as I am hanging on to a shred of "city living"? The answers to this...and more...are about to come.
My gosh a place of my own! No roommates...can I make a tree-lined block of Carroll street work?
Eep.
My gosh a place of my own! No roommates...can I make a tree-lined block of Carroll street work?
Eep.
Friday, August 14, 2009
My new boss?
In an effort to bolster my bank account so I may continue writing and apply to grad schools and sell my book, damnit, I am applying for part-time work. I sent a deluge of emails out recently for administrative jobs, or filing, or assistant work. I've done it before and I'm fairly capable and I won't be feeling the need to do anything but my job to its best (not wanting to try to get the boss's job I mean, I just want to be in a submissive role and have a steady paycheck and keep my nose clean).
So check out this email I just got back, in answer to my posting my resume. I have bolded my favorite parts. Spelling and spacing errors have been left as is.
Hello,
Thanks for applying for the post, I quite I appreciate it? I received and read your e-mail and it's reasonable and acceptable. So I will give this a go"
I'm looking for someone that can be trusted and reliable to work very well and good understanding person.
This position is home-based and flexible, working with me is basically about instructions and following them, my only fear is that I may come at you impromptu sometimes, so I need someone who can be able to meet up with my irregular timings. As my assistant, your activities amongst other things will include;*Running personal errands, supervisions and monitoring. Scheduling programmes, flights and keeping me up to date with them. Acting as an alternative telephone correspondence while I'm away. Making regular contacts and drop-offs on my behalf. Handling and monitoring some of my financial activities..
Basic wage is $500 a week . I'm sure you'll understand I tend to have a very busy schedule at t his point, as I am presently in Canada, I will be back in Three Weeks.
I think you're the right person for this post , Please note that this position is not office based for now because of my frequent travels and tight schedules, it's a part-time, work from home basis and the flexibility means that there will be busier weeks than others, so it's a little difficult judging the exact number of hours you'll be doing per week. If you can manage your time
properly, this job may even give you some extra while you do something else on the side. As I have said, I'd want us to get a head start with things as soon as possible. I do have a pile up of work and a number of unattended chores which you can immediately assist me with, I hope we can meet up with the workload eventually.
Permit me to use the coming week to test your efficiency and diligence towards all this, also to work out your time schedule and fit it to mine.. I really need to find the perfect person for this job, I'm confident you can take up the challenge and on the long run we should have a relatively sound working relationship between us.. I'm online most of the time as I am hard of hearing so
I prefer we contact each other through E-mails, but if there is need for me to call, I will be glad to do that. I am glad you are willing to work with me and i promise to be a good boss. I am also glad on the commitment in working. I have been checking my files and what i would want you to do for me this week is to run some errands out to some of the orphanage home, I do that every month. The fund s will be in form of Cashier Check/Money Order and it will be sent over to you from one of my clients and i have some list to email you once you received the funds,You will make some arrangements by buying some stuff for the kids in the nearest store around you so you can mail them out. I will get you more information on that, I will like you to get back to me with your
Contact Details such as.
Once I have received your contact information, I will get back to you with the task for this week,Understand you will also be paid as well as its important for me to
make the necessary steps
before i get back from my business trip back to the states. Hope I am clear with that.
Get back as soon as possible..
So check out this email I just got back, in answer to my posting my resume. I have bolded my favorite parts. Spelling and spacing errors have been left as is.
Hello,
Thanks for applying for the post, I quite I appreciate it? I received and read your e-mail and it's reasonable and acceptable. So I will give this a go"
I'm looking for someone that can be trusted and reliable to work very well and good understanding person.
This position is home-based and flexible, working with me is basically about instructions and following them, my only fear is that I may come at you impromptu sometimes, so I need someone who can be able to meet up with my irregular timings. As my assistant, your activities amongst other things will include;*Running personal errands, supervisions and monitoring. Scheduling programmes, flights and keeping me up to date with them. Acting as an alternative telephone correspondence while I'm away. Making regular contacts and drop-offs on my behalf. Handling and monitoring some of my financial activities..
Basic wage is $500 a week . I'm sure you'll understand I tend to have a very busy schedule at t his point, as I am presently in Canada, I will be back in Three Weeks.
I think you're the right person for this post , Please note that this position is not office based for now because of my frequent travels and tight schedules, it's a part-time, work from home basis and the flexibility means that there will be busier weeks than others, so it's a little difficult judging the exact number of hours you'll be doing per week. If you can manage your time
properly, this job may even give you some extra while you do something else on the side. As I have said, I'd want us to get a head start with things as soon as possible. I do have a pile up of work and a number of unattended chores which you can immediately assist me with, I hope we can meet up with the workload eventually.
Permit me to use the coming week to test your efficiency and diligence towards all this, also to work out your time schedule and fit it to mine.. I really need to find the perfect person for this job, I'm confident you can take up the challenge and on the long run we should have a relatively sound working relationship between us.. I'm online most of the time as I am hard of hearing so
I prefer we contact each other through E-mails, but if there is need for me to call, I will be glad to do that. I am glad you are willing to work with me and i promise to be a good boss. I am also glad on the commitment in working. I have been checking my files and what i would want you to do for me this week is to run some errands out to some of the orphanage home, I do that every month. The fund s will be in form of Cashier Check/Money Order and it will be sent over to you from one of my clients and i have some list to email you once you received the funds,You will make some arrangements by buying some stuff for the kids in the nearest store around you so you can mail them out. I will get you more information on that, I will like you to get back to me with your
Contact Details such as.
Once I have received your contact information, I will get back to you with the task for this week,Understand you will also be paid as well as its important for me to
make the necessary steps
before i get back from my business trip back to the states. Hope I am clear with that.
Get back as soon as possible..
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Quote of the Day
"I need a vacation."
"Me, too."
"How about Europe?"
"Meh, it's over."
My best friend has moved away, the weather remains lame, the job market stinks. It's time for a vacation, right?
P.S. How can Europe be over??
"Me, too."
"How about Europe?"
"Meh, it's over."
My best friend has moved away, the weather remains lame, the job market stinks. It's time for a vacation, right?
P.S. How can Europe be over??
Friday, August 07, 2009
Room Hates
Perhaps roommate stuff is better, but I still want to live somewhere else like an adult...
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Fish Camp
We take the bike out on one of the few summer nights of this year, over the bridge with the blur of lights and long strands of cars. We move through them, back and forth, swerving and me screaming, my bag banging against us both and my dress flying in the wind.
In Brooklyn we go to the fish camp and despite the inexplicably dim staff (why don't they usually have the back patio open on nice days? Who can say?) and tremendous wait and flat glasses of beer and not enough homemade chips for the vinegary ceviche, we wait it out in a corner wooden table that needs to be wiped.
Our name is called and we get to go outside at the long wooden tables with the hanging lines of little lights and the air heavy with pot smoke from the kids who live next door. We get crab claws with parsley and lemon, thick chunks of lobster tail on split rolls, shoestring fries and striped bass with chickpeas, and more and more flat beer. And we laugh with the old folks next to us who are joking over strawberry and marscapone sundaes and decafs and we're all talking about the pot smoke while our charmingly bespeckled waitress keeps calling it "marijuana clouds". So we order the bread pudding even though we're going to be sick and it's high with whipped cream and caramel and it could be the best thing we've ever tasted. It's worth the stomachache. All of it. Just like it always is...
In Brooklyn we go to the fish camp and despite the inexplicably dim staff (why don't they usually have the back patio open on nice days? Who can say?) and tremendous wait and flat glasses of beer and not enough homemade chips for the vinegary ceviche, we wait it out in a corner wooden table that needs to be wiped.
Our name is called and we get to go outside at the long wooden tables with the hanging lines of little lights and the air heavy with pot smoke from the kids who live next door. We get crab claws with parsley and lemon, thick chunks of lobster tail on split rolls, shoestring fries and striped bass with chickpeas, and more and more flat beer. And we laugh with the old folks next to us who are joking over strawberry and marscapone sundaes and decafs and we're all talking about the pot smoke while our charmingly bespeckled waitress keeps calling it "marijuana clouds". So we order the bread pudding even though we're going to be sick and it's high with whipped cream and caramel and it could be the best thing we've ever tasted. It's worth the stomachache. All of it. Just like it always is...
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Drugs, Man
I didn't think people still did heroin (mistakenly thought that all stopped in the 90's, which was just a reincarnation of the 70's) but apparently they do if they're in New York and fancy themselves artistes but actually just do a lot of drugs and film themselves having sex and spray newspapers with semen and glitter. Trust. This is what Dash Snow did (if you don't know the name, he was big in certain circles here for the last five years who was buddies with Ryan McGinley and Gavin McInnes of Vice) and he ended up offing himself a few weeks ago in my neighborhood with 13 glassine envelopes of heroin.
He was 27.
Before we start thinking this is in any way romantic, he committed this knowingly (called his girlfriend to tell her he loved her) and did so despite his two year old daughter. As cinematic as this all is, it's actually very sad, sure, but more so, very gross. We know better. Come on. It's not Woodstock and it's not Punk and it's not even Grunge, all the forward "I'm young and it's a revolution, damnit!" movements in music and art and writing and politics have kind of been made, or at least, because of those who have come before us, have been made way easier and therefore has made this time of shock-value rabble-rousing pretty damn extinct (in my assertion, all we have left is technology wars, which is actually very cool). So what's up with this ridiculous shit! Even hipsters are over, are people really still selfishly dying from heroin for God's sake? This is just another landmark for people who get older but refuse the next and better stages of their lives to still skulk around in Ramones T-Shirts and bemoan when New York MEANT SOMETHING and was all thriving and filthy and dirty and therefore better. But you know what? That's bunk, because people only say that about New York, or any place for that matter, because it was the world they lived in when they were 20-27 years old. When they were full of promise and hadn't done everything already and they had a zest for life and everything seemed new and exciting: love, money, substances.
New York wasn't cooler in the 70's. There were shooting galleries and garbage fires and general malaise and gang violence and all that. Just because CBGB's was home to a burgeoning scene doesn't mean that scene was worth all the rest of the crap that came along with it or even that the scene was that good. But, you know, people who say that it was were young then. And the thing about being young is....everything is good! It's like that phenomenon when a guy gets laid in, say Ottowa, and then later relates to his friends, "Dudes, Ottowa is awesome!" No, it's not. Anecdotal good times aren't evidence, and are colored by factors that have nothing at all to do with Ottowa. And that's what people are saying right now about New York in 2005.
I know, this is what's being said. I can't believe it either. Now that Dash Snow is dead, he's become an icon for the hipster movement and everywhere you go people are going on about how NY was SO MUCH COOLER in 2005. No it wasn't! You're just four years older and you're pissed, because you're immature. People who choose life beyond one-night stands and pukefests that seemed so awesome a few years back are not losers who've lost their edge. It's like this, you thought you kicked ass when you were 13 didn't you? Was life so much more awesome then? No it wasn't. But somehow when this very same notion is applied to the time when you were 21, it holds water. Maybe because you can have sex and drive and do drugs and buy things finally. So you don't romanticize 13, you romanticize 21 because it represents the years when you finally had access to everything in the world and still had the naivete to think it was brand new and you ruled.
The thing is, if you don't think you can kick ass at 30 or 40 or 50, you never kicked ass to begin with. Sorry Kurt Cobain, Sid Vicious, Dash Snow. I had nascent crushes on all of you but I hope I never, ever be so naive as to think that's cool of you.
Also, this is the best thing that I've read on the subject of us as aging kids in New York City. It's just very good if you're not easily offended.
He was 27.
Before we start thinking this is in any way romantic, he committed this knowingly (called his girlfriend to tell her he loved her) and did so despite his two year old daughter. As cinematic as this all is, it's actually very sad, sure, but more so, very gross. We know better. Come on. It's not Woodstock and it's not Punk and it's not even Grunge, all the forward "I'm young and it's a revolution, damnit!" movements in music and art and writing and politics have kind of been made, or at least, because of those who have come before us, have been made way easier and therefore has made this time of shock-value rabble-rousing pretty damn extinct (in my assertion, all we have left is technology wars, which is actually very cool). So what's up with this ridiculous shit! Even hipsters are over, are people really still selfishly dying from heroin for God's sake? This is just another landmark for people who get older but refuse the next and better stages of their lives to still skulk around in Ramones T-Shirts and bemoan when New York MEANT SOMETHING and was all thriving and filthy and dirty and therefore better. But you know what? That's bunk, because people only say that about New York, or any place for that matter, because it was the world they lived in when they were 20-27 years old. When they were full of promise and hadn't done everything already and they had a zest for life and everything seemed new and exciting: love, money, substances.
New York wasn't cooler in the 70's. There were shooting galleries and garbage fires and general malaise and gang violence and all that. Just because CBGB's was home to a burgeoning scene doesn't mean that scene was worth all the rest of the crap that came along with it or even that the scene was that good. But, you know, people who say that it was were young then. And the thing about being young is....everything is good! It's like that phenomenon when a guy gets laid in, say Ottowa, and then later relates to his friends, "Dudes, Ottowa is awesome!" No, it's not. Anecdotal good times aren't evidence, and are colored by factors that have nothing at all to do with Ottowa. And that's what people are saying right now about New York in 2005.
I know, this is what's being said. I can't believe it either. Now that Dash Snow is dead, he's become an icon for the hipster movement and everywhere you go people are going on about how NY was SO MUCH COOLER in 2005. No it wasn't! You're just four years older and you're pissed, because you're immature. People who choose life beyond one-night stands and pukefests that seemed so awesome a few years back are not losers who've lost their edge. It's like this, you thought you kicked ass when you were 13 didn't you? Was life so much more awesome then? No it wasn't. But somehow when this very same notion is applied to the time when you were 21, it holds water. Maybe because you can have sex and drive and do drugs and buy things finally. So you don't romanticize 13, you romanticize 21 because it represents the years when you finally had access to everything in the world and still had the naivete to think it was brand new and you ruled.
The thing is, if you don't think you can kick ass at 30 or 40 or 50, you never kicked ass to begin with. Sorry Kurt Cobain, Sid Vicious, Dash Snow. I had nascent crushes on all of you but I hope I never, ever be so naive as to think that's cool of you.
Also, this is the best thing that I've read on the subject of us as aging kids in New York City. It's just very good if you're not easily offended.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Remembering: Girls' Night Out
Girls’ night is becoming more and more the standard and these days it feels like summer camp without the shorts. Loose hair instead of barrettes, juice boxes tossed for aperitifs, ants on a log have vanished and frisee salads appear as replacements.
I race out of the office instead of my parents’ kitchen, still with my bag whapping my side and my flip flops sliding around, to meet them downtown in a flickering West Village bistro, arriving late and excited and relieved as though Tuesday was Friday.
We drink too many glasses of wine and divide too few crab cakes at Paris Commune, contemplating New York and LA, reviewing weekend plans and downloading each other on the latest gossip, work and play. Shore houses, summer romances, tennis lessons, promotions; we all have something to share and envy here. And it prompts a Robert Altman conversation pace, everything overlapping, nothing resolved, as our glasses grow dry, the louder we exclaim, “Wait, what are you guys talking about?”
An adult in charge needs to shush us, but our waitress only encourages (probably so that she can reap the benefits of our overtipping to match our over-ordering). For us, the best of the summer week is at night, past our bedtimes, snapping phone photos and comparing sunglasses, making plans and taking initiatives, being aspirational because it’s who we are.
Everything has to be explained more than once, especially since she’s in for a visit, an ex-pat now part of that other city, so we can’t stop our questions. How’s the pool in the apartment? Is just it like Melrose Place? How much is there really the prevalence of smog/collagen/silicone/a thong-clad Lindsay Lohan? Is June gloom anywhere close to the humidity of here? Are all the men blond “directors” with mustaches and vans? We know it’s all a cliché, but don’t clichés start from some point of truth?
I’ve wanted to start a life on the west coast ever since 90210 aired, and we talk about what it might be like next year, if I end up making the move. But now I’ve become such a fan of the pulsating vibrancy of here, I’m not so sure. It’s camp in the city all of the time, and it’s getting pretty hard to leave, particularly since there is no bus to pick me up and tear me away from my friends and paltry paycheck that I spend simply to be with them while we’re still sort of young, and sort of glamorous…at least to us.
I race out of the office instead of my parents’ kitchen, still with my bag whapping my side and my flip flops sliding around, to meet them downtown in a flickering West Village bistro, arriving late and excited and relieved as though Tuesday was Friday.
We drink too many glasses of wine and divide too few crab cakes at Paris Commune, contemplating New York and LA, reviewing weekend plans and downloading each other on the latest gossip, work and play. Shore houses, summer romances, tennis lessons, promotions; we all have something to share and envy here. And it prompts a Robert Altman conversation pace, everything overlapping, nothing resolved, as our glasses grow dry, the louder we exclaim, “Wait, what are you guys talking about?”
An adult in charge needs to shush us, but our waitress only encourages (probably so that she can reap the benefits of our overtipping to match our over-ordering). For us, the best of the summer week is at night, past our bedtimes, snapping phone photos and comparing sunglasses, making plans and taking initiatives, being aspirational because it’s who we are.
Everything has to be explained more than once, especially since she’s in for a visit, an ex-pat now part of that other city, so we can’t stop our questions. How’s the pool in the apartment? Is just it like Melrose Place? How much is there really the prevalence of smog/collagen/silicone/a thong-clad Lindsay Lohan? Is June gloom anywhere close to the humidity of here? Are all the men blond “directors” with mustaches and vans? We know it’s all a cliché, but don’t clichés start from some point of truth?
I’ve wanted to start a life on the west coast ever since 90210 aired, and we talk about what it might be like next year, if I end up making the move. But now I’ve become such a fan of the pulsating vibrancy of here, I’m not so sure. It’s camp in the city all of the time, and it’s getting pretty hard to leave, particularly since there is no bus to pick me up and tear me away from my friends and paltry paycheck that I spend simply to be with them while we’re still sort of young, and sort of glamorous…at least to us.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Eating. Badly.
I love the idea of cooking. How many times have I told myself if only I had the time I would be oh-so-European and shop for food on a semi-regular basis, walking the perimeter around local grocery stores or any isle of the nearby-Whole Foods, plucking fresh fruit and vegetables, a myriad of colors in my little bag (which I would have brought from home and would be very environmentally sound) as I sashayed through the isles: fresh-squeezed orange juice, house-made soups, pre-arranged cucumbers, carrots and celery, perfect for dipping in my newly bought tub of garlicky hummus (the one kind with the pine nuts is so good!).
Yeah right.
Now I'm figure the milk in my coffee is sufficient calcium supplement for the day. I'll eat a quesadilla and call the salsa "vegetables." I'll think because I have flavored throat lozenge, than it's really lemon. How did this happen? I spent my formative years reading the glossy pages of food magazines, eating my mother's apple cake and lamb chops, going out to spectacular restaurants and vacationing at lodges in organic lemon groves?
Oh right, I've got no money. Now that I've got the time to shop the way I'd like, I just don't have the funds. I read somewhere that in the recession, people are turning to canning. Canning? Really? I'm turning to takeout. It's not cheaper, but it's variety and those things take lots of ingredients while I can't buy a spicerack. I tell myself that it will all be different when I'm a grown up. But I'm 27! I fear that if eating and cooking well on a regular basis, on a natural basis no less, it would have happened by now. I mean, writing has. Going to the gym has. Relationships have, hanging out with my family has, stopping shopping unless I really need that coat (realized I don't), catching up on sleep on the weekends (nothing is as wonderful), and even doing laundry (not as much as I hoped, but it's a start) have all become routine. But feeding myself? Not yet.
I wonder why.
Yeah right.
Now I'm figure the milk in my coffee is sufficient calcium supplement for the day. I'll eat a quesadilla and call the salsa "vegetables." I'll think because I have flavored throat lozenge, than it's really lemon. How did this happen? I spent my formative years reading the glossy pages of food magazines, eating my mother's apple cake and lamb chops, going out to spectacular restaurants and vacationing at lodges in organic lemon groves?
Oh right, I've got no money. Now that I've got the time to shop the way I'd like, I just don't have the funds. I read somewhere that in the recession, people are turning to canning. Canning? Really? I'm turning to takeout. It's not cheaper, but it's variety and those things take lots of ingredients while I can't buy a spicerack. I tell myself that it will all be different when I'm a grown up. But I'm 27! I fear that if eating and cooking well on a regular basis, on a natural basis no less, it would have happened by now. I mean, writing has. Going to the gym has. Relationships have, hanging out with my family has, stopping shopping unless I really need that coat (realized I don't), catching up on sleep on the weekends (nothing is as wonderful), and even doing laundry (not as much as I hoped, but it's a start) have all become routine. But feeding myself? Not yet.
I wonder why.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
World's Ugliest Animals
Have you read this article on the world's ugliest animals? Some of them are cheating (three dogs and one hairless cat? Just stop the list at ten and be legit!) but some of them are downright nast-ay, like the fish with four hearts and two brains or the walrus that has a big fat inflatable bladder on its nose. I love animals, wanted to be a zoologists as short as five years ago, but wow, barf.
Though really I don't think this monkey's that bad. Yes his nose looks like a "bing bong" but other than that I find that a baboon's big red ass is the worse of the two and the editors didn't see it fit to make the cut. Anywho.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Follow the leader...
Dear Friends,
I have been neglecting you. Badly. It's because I'm writing for pay elsewhere. That's right, pimpin for cash. You knew I was a sellout when we met, don't act surprised!
The thing that stinks is, I'm hard-pressed to share it with you because this blog's been anon for years. I've been able to take refuge in you guys because it won't get back to the powers that be. Been able to artfully complain about people, give you anecdotes about friends, share my crushing heartbreak or falling in love, my crazy and loving family, or my d-bag ex-coworkers has been only because you've been there for me, and you've been there for me quietly.
Thank you. You rock.
But while it's not time for an all-around unveiling (I said it would be when the book got repped and I will stand by that!), I should send you to another place where I'm pretty much writing every day, albeit for music. Sssh, don't tell them that I live here, and more importantly, live here for you. Or they'll come after me and I'll never be able to tell you the skinny of what's going on in my life as well as I have.
Can you keep a secret? This is just between us. Cool?
I have been neglecting you. Badly. It's because I'm writing for pay elsewhere. That's right, pimpin for cash. You knew I was a sellout when we met, don't act surprised!
The thing that stinks is, I'm hard-pressed to share it with you because this blog's been anon for years. I've been able to take refuge in you guys because it won't get back to the powers that be. Been able to artfully complain about people, give you anecdotes about friends, share my crushing heartbreak or falling in love, my crazy and loving family, or my d-bag ex-coworkers has been only because you've been there for me, and you've been there for me quietly.
Thank you. You rock.
But while it's not time for an all-around unveiling (I said it would be when the book got repped and I will stand by that!), I should send you to another place where I'm pretty much writing every day, albeit for music. Sssh, don't tell them that I live here, and more importantly, live here for you. Or they'll come after me and I'll never be able to tell you the skinny of what's going on in my life as well as I have.
Can you keep a secret? This is just between us. Cool?
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Did Anyone Else See Public Enemies and feel a little conflicted?
No Spoiler Alert, Don't Worry!
Hey, I'm the first one to say that I wanted to love, love, love this movie. But I left the theater feeling...perplexed. I thought everything looked fantastic, was well-shot, the pacing was consistent, Johnny Depp was cool as hell, and well, what else did I need?
I don't know. Some of this was ruined because I read some of the reviews beforehand. (Side note-hours, and I mean hours, could be spent reading movies on Rotten Tomatoes, oh how I adore that site). But I think I wanted more backstory on why Dillinger was who he was (I know that cutsie little "I like good clothes, baseball, fast cars and you" was supposed to sum it all up, but how did these guys meet each other? How did they plan their next move? Who was really best friends and who merely tolerated whom? How close were they with Pretty Boy Flyod?).
Also, I have to admit, I fell asleep during some of the love story. I sort of felt the chemistry was lackluster. And how it ended with the closing credits was kind of nebulous. It would have been cool to follow up with a few lines that "Dillnger stole X amount of money and will forever be known as the coolest guy in the world". Or monster. Whichever. But this movie left me feeling unsure who I was rooting for. No one was all good, and no one was all bad. That's cool, I understand that's the way it is in life. But shouldn't I really understand one person in the film's motivations?
Hey, I'm the first one to say that I wanted to love, love, love this movie. But I left the theater feeling...perplexed. I thought everything looked fantastic, was well-shot, the pacing was consistent, Johnny Depp was cool as hell, and well, what else did I need?
I don't know. Some of this was ruined because I read some of the reviews beforehand. (Side note-hours, and I mean hours, could be spent reading movies on Rotten Tomatoes, oh how I adore that site). But I think I wanted more backstory on why Dillinger was who he was (I know that cutsie little "I like good clothes, baseball, fast cars and you" was supposed to sum it all up, but how did these guys meet each other? How did they plan their next move? Who was really best friends and who merely tolerated whom? How close were they with Pretty Boy Flyod?).
Also, I have to admit, I fell asleep during some of the love story. I sort of felt the chemistry was lackluster. And how it ended with the closing credits was kind of nebulous. It would have been cool to follow up with a few lines that "Dillnger stole X amount of money and will forever be known as the coolest guy in the world". Or monster. Whichever. But this movie left me feeling unsure who I was rooting for. No one was all good, and no one was all bad. That's cool, I understand that's the way it is in life. But shouldn't I really understand one person in the film's motivations?
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
I'm Afraid...
Of our kitchen drain. It bubbles up with soap at odd hours like the goo in Ghostbusters II.
That I don't know how to have a real job any more since I've gone out on my own as a permalancer.
I might never floss properly.
Because I have more nightmares than sweet dreams, and I wake up not remembering them, just that they were terrifying.
Of the pull-up bar at the gym.
That I have chosen wrong, and there will be no course-correcting.
I might be out of touch with the kids today, but am not old enough to be a yuppie.
That I am devolving in the spelling department and that I say "dude" too much.
Of the far reaches of my closet: scarves, one scuffed slingback and...a diary might be in there!
That I might die in the street one day and my family will have to go through my room and through said closet and all my achievements will have been for naught because I don't fold my socks, my bras are hanging from my ettiger, and my potbelly marble-top antique dresser is missing some of its brass work on the side from where I tore a laundry bag on it.
My immune system stinks because I've never been without roommates and we're all touching the remote and coughing in the air.
Of not being able to stand on my two feet forever.
That I push people away when I think I might lose them.
I won't pay off my credit card bill. Not this month. Not this year. Not ever.
Of moving away from New York. And of staying here for missing opportunities I've painted in my mind.
I let bosses walk all over me because I want them to like me, but they never respect me.
That I'll never get a kitten.
My brain might be turning to mush because in an attempt to "detox" from all that I read and write, I only watch Snapped on Oxygen (it rules) and reality T.V. shows (Real Housewives of New Jersey should have been first!) and cartoons (Simpsons and Family Guy--will I be able to watch these when I'm forty?)
Of forgetting all that I have to be grateful for.
Of ever reaching my perceived perfection in my goals, because then I will have no more room to learn, and that is the greatest possible travesty of all.
That I don't know how to have a real job any more since I've gone out on my own as a permalancer.
I might never floss properly.
Because I have more nightmares than sweet dreams, and I wake up not remembering them, just that they were terrifying.
Of the pull-up bar at the gym.
That I have chosen wrong, and there will be no course-correcting.
I might be out of touch with the kids today, but am not old enough to be a yuppie.
That I am devolving in the spelling department and that I say "dude" too much.
Of the far reaches of my closet: scarves, one scuffed slingback and...a diary might be in there!
That I might die in the street one day and my family will have to go through my room and through said closet and all my achievements will have been for naught because I don't fold my socks, my bras are hanging from my ettiger, and my potbelly marble-top antique dresser is missing some of its brass work on the side from where I tore a laundry bag on it.
My immune system stinks because I've never been without roommates and we're all touching the remote and coughing in the air.
Of not being able to stand on my two feet forever.
That I push people away when I think I might lose them.
I won't pay off my credit card bill. Not this month. Not this year. Not ever.
Of moving away from New York. And of staying here for missing opportunities I've painted in my mind.
I let bosses walk all over me because I want them to like me, but they never respect me.
That I'll never get a kitten.
My brain might be turning to mush because in an attempt to "detox" from all that I read and write, I only watch Snapped on Oxygen (it rules) and reality T.V. shows (Real Housewives of New Jersey should have been first!) and cartoons (Simpsons and Family Guy--will I be able to watch these when I'm forty?)
Of forgetting all that I have to be grateful for.
Of ever reaching my perceived perfection in my goals, because then I will have no more room to learn, and that is the greatest possible travesty of all.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Crazy Sore Throat Cure
So yesterday I woke up with an insanely sore throat. I could feel this one coming on, as I always do, the night before and I was the third beer in of the evening. Of course I figured, by the time I felt it, there was no going back, so I ended up finishing the pitcher and getting cheese tator tots (hey I work out too much not to eat like a jerk, right? If I had to work out AND eat well all the time, I don't know if there'd be any joy in life at all. Today at brunch I ordered an appetizer. An appetizer. For brunch. I'll let that sink in).
So being a freelance writer has some incredible perks--several bosses, teams and jobs so each one feels fresh and interesting; the work always has to be turned around quickly and I work best under pressure, and the hours are flexible--I do work hard, but if I have to run to an appointment or go to my parents' home in Connecticut, I can take the computer with me or make up the work at 4 in the morning if I like. There are also drawbacks--you can feel lonely, you drink too much coffee, I've stopped wearing heels and makeup, nothing's secure and the pay is lowish, depending on the job. Another one? Health insurance.
Back to the sore throat. It was really bad. And mayhaps the beer aggravated it, but it was there, I swear. I woke up foolishly hoping it wouldn't be there, but it was. Much, much worse than before. I lied around in my bed trying not to swallow and watching old 30 Rock episodes and sipped tea to no avail. My mom's always sworn by warm saltwater gurgles, but it's never really worked for me. I just don't feel it. So I looked around on the internet in a furious rage that can only belong to an underinsured freelance writer on a Saturday afternoon having cancelled two sets of plans because of the damn throat, and found something.
Cayenne pepper.
I know! I was in so much pain I would try anything. I gargled with a teaspoon of the stuff, several shakes of salt and almost-hot glass of water. I gurgled a big cayenne bubble that popped and then flew up and hit me in the eye. I don't recommend this--do it with your eyes closed! Online they said do it every 15 minutes until the pain subsided. And it DID!
I'm not saying it worked completely and it wasn't nasty. It was. I gargled, I combined it with honey and lemon and ate the stuff, I made the worst hot chocolate known to man (about a quarter inch of cayenne on the bottom-ick), I covered the Pad Thai we ordered in because I ruined our plans by being sickly. But it kind of felt better.
And this morning I woke up with no sore throat--and that NEVER happens! Of course, the cold has now moved to my sinuses and I can't really breathe and I'm hacking a lung and almost ruined brunch. But the point is, I went to brunch! I felt well enough to go and though it was too expensive and I couldn't taste anything, I could swallow. And that was a victory.
I can't believe I didn't know about this before! Now to get rid of this nasty cold. Anyone out there have any surefire ways to get rid of a sore throat/cough/head cold without resorting to pharmaceuticals? And I promise, if I'm still bad by Tuesday, I'll go to the doctor...
So being a freelance writer has some incredible perks--several bosses, teams and jobs so each one feels fresh and interesting; the work always has to be turned around quickly and I work best under pressure, and the hours are flexible--I do work hard, but if I have to run to an appointment or go to my parents' home in Connecticut, I can take the computer with me or make up the work at 4 in the morning if I like. There are also drawbacks--you can feel lonely, you drink too much coffee, I've stopped wearing heels and makeup, nothing's secure and the pay is lowish, depending on the job. Another one? Health insurance.
Back to the sore throat. It was really bad. And mayhaps the beer aggravated it, but it was there, I swear. I woke up foolishly hoping it wouldn't be there, but it was. Much, much worse than before. I lied around in my bed trying not to swallow and watching old 30 Rock episodes and sipped tea to no avail. My mom's always sworn by warm saltwater gurgles, but it's never really worked for me. I just don't feel it. So I looked around on the internet in a furious rage that can only belong to an underinsured freelance writer on a Saturday afternoon having cancelled two sets of plans because of the damn throat, and found something.
Cayenne pepper.
I know! I was in so much pain I would try anything. I gargled with a teaspoon of the stuff, several shakes of salt and almost-hot glass of water. I gurgled a big cayenne bubble that popped and then flew up and hit me in the eye. I don't recommend this--do it with your eyes closed! Online they said do it every 15 minutes until the pain subsided. And it DID!
I'm not saying it worked completely and it wasn't nasty. It was. I gargled, I combined it with honey and lemon and ate the stuff, I made the worst hot chocolate known to man (about a quarter inch of cayenne on the bottom-ick), I covered the Pad Thai we ordered in because I ruined our plans by being sickly. But it kind of felt better.
And this morning I woke up with no sore throat--and that NEVER happens! Of course, the cold has now moved to my sinuses and I can't really breathe and I'm hacking a lung and almost ruined brunch. But the point is, I went to brunch! I felt well enough to go and though it was too expensive and I couldn't taste anything, I could swallow. And that was a victory.
I can't believe I didn't know about this before! Now to get rid of this nasty cold. Anyone out there have any surefire ways to get rid of a sore throat/cough/head cold without resorting to pharmaceuticals? And I promise, if I'm still bad by Tuesday, I'll go to the doctor...
Thursday, June 25, 2009
WTF
The first public death that affected me was Kurt Cobain, when I was 13. I cried for days, Then I was unaffected, an affectation where I was consumed in teenaged angst where nothing bothered me and nothing was considered by me unless it was my own selfish little bubble, who I loved, who didn't love me back, where I was going, why I wasn't there yet.
And now I think with last year's death of Heath Ledger, I felt oddly strange, upset, for a man I did not know, whose apartment I passed daily and did not realize, who if I saw while alive, would not care. And this week, there was Ed McMahon, who while important was old, Farrah Fawcett, who was the same to me, some abstract creature that did not relate to me in any way, I knew she meant something, I just didn't know to whom. I knew her death was sad, but for me, for cancer, there is time to reflect.
Michael Jackson, a man I grew up watching descend, his brilliance matched only by the swiftness in which he fell--much of it perhaps in his own creation, he was the first of us to overshare to nearly blog when there was no reason to blog, he was the first celebrity I knew of to melt down over and over, and why I knew this I cannot say. At the time I was too young for even grunge, even though I thought I was just old enough really, and I didn't care to understand disco, and thought pop was garbage (though grunge WAS pop, I see that now). I wasn't even a year old when Thriller came out, my mother told me that when I did, it terrified me, and again, far before anything else I mourned, I cried for him then, because I thought he was coming to kill me. The video, long-since considered a masterpiece, gave me nightmares, I hear. I saw it later, saw something which was mystifying and amazing and only scary in its complete awesomeness, but by the time I saw it--and saw that in him--he was not that man any more.
He was something else, a fabulous disaster to us, the grabbing masses, something that they called Sid Vicious thirty years ago when he self-destructed, and now I can't help but feel in impenetrable sadness as I watch hours of videos of imitators and news coverage feeling like this man, this poor man, was a joke to us in his twilight years. Today, at least we remember him well. I must be getting old or things are just different in the world, but now I see death and it comes very often, perhaps more than anything else.
Tonight I'm saying WTF. This is horribly sad to me, and I do know why, because it is death, and he was a man who must have felt an inordinate amount of pain for the past fifteen years, and part of me wonders why he couldn't have died before he was tarnished, as awful as that seems, because today we care about him more than we had for decades. Today we remember him more fondly, there are no Walmart boys' pants half off jokes, today we remember his genius, and we should have, we should have before.
And yet. If he did what he did...who can say. The man is dead and I for one, hope he can finally rest in peace.
And now I think with last year's death of Heath Ledger, I felt oddly strange, upset, for a man I did not know, whose apartment I passed daily and did not realize, who if I saw while alive, would not care. And this week, there was Ed McMahon, who while important was old, Farrah Fawcett, who was the same to me, some abstract creature that did not relate to me in any way, I knew she meant something, I just didn't know to whom. I knew her death was sad, but for me, for cancer, there is time to reflect.
Michael Jackson, a man I grew up watching descend, his brilliance matched only by the swiftness in which he fell--much of it perhaps in his own creation, he was the first of us to overshare to nearly blog when there was no reason to blog, he was the first celebrity I knew of to melt down over and over, and why I knew this I cannot say. At the time I was too young for even grunge, even though I thought I was just old enough really, and I didn't care to understand disco, and thought pop was garbage (though grunge WAS pop, I see that now). I wasn't even a year old when Thriller came out, my mother told me that when I did, it terrified me, and again, far before anything else I mourned, I cried for him then, because I thought he was coming to kill me. The video, long-since considered a masterpiece, gave me nightmares, I hear. I saw it later, saw something which was mystifying and amazing and only scary in its complete awesomeness, but by the time I saw it--and saw that in him--he was not that man any more.
He was something else, a fabulous disaster to us, the grabbing masses, something that they called Sid Vicious thirty years ago when he self-destructed, and now I can't help but feel in impenetrable sadness as I watch hours of videos of imitators and news coverage feeling like this man, this poor man, was a joke to us in his twilight years. Today, at least we remember him well. I must be getting old or things are just different in the world, but now I see death and it comes very often, perhaps more than anything else.
Tonight I'm saying WTF. This is horribly sad to me, and I do know why, because it is death, and he was a man who must have felt an inordinate amount of pain for the past fifteen years, and part of me wonders why he couldn't have died before he was tarnished, as awful as that seems, because today we care about him more than we had for decades. Today we remember him more fondly, there are no Walmart boys' pants half off jokes, today we remember his genius, and we should have, we should have before.
And yet. If he did what he did...who can say. The man is dead and I for one, hope he can finally rest in peace.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Your advice is needed!
I haven't been here because I have a new gig writing at a music site and long story short I spend about all my free time doing that, and going to my brother's high school graduation (which has the startling capacity to make me feel SO OLD that he's graduating the same year I had my reunion) and wrapping up three classes and enrolling in a new one and sending the novel off to the editor and really getting on writing the second novel and talking with my writing sample--arguing with it really--for school and organizing all of my lists of where I'd move to school to.
All this in the rain.
It's exhausting! I need a staycation (can't afford a vacation) where I just don't use the internet after a certain hour or I turn into a gremlin. I want to stay at Mogwai. My boyfriend's feeling neglected.
So I'm spending the time I should be scouring for new artists, looking up my favorite music videos of all time. So far I've come up with this, but I want to post some more on the site. So any more suggestions?
Radiohead - Paranoid Android
Uploaded by hushhush112. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.
Riskay Feat Aviance & Real - Smell Yo Dick [NEW]
Uploaded by PeteRock. - Watch more music videos, in HD!
All this in the rain.
It's exhausting! I need a staycation (can't afford a vacation) where I just don't use the internet after a certain hour or I turn into a gremlin. I want to stay at Mogwai. My boyfriend's feeling neglected.
So I'm spending the time I should be scouring for new artists, looking up my favorite music videos of all time. So far I've come up with this, but I want to post some more on the site. So any more suggestions?
Radiohead - Paranoid Android
Uploaded by hushhush112. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.
Riskay Feat Aviance & Real - Smell Yo Dick [NEW]
Uploaded by PeteRock. - Watch more music videos, in HD!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Advice, Etc.
Rant Alert!
Boy am I glad this blog is pretty much anonymous because my God do I feel shafted by a group of designers right now. Why is it that every time I work with them they shirk their work so that they're doing the absolute minimum (and not one iota beyond their job description, even though they ask that of me) and they refuse to take a phone call and instead insist that any changes I have, no matter how small, no matter how much they screw them up unless I walk them through them, that I EMAIL THE CHANGES TO THEM.
Actually this is a rant about emailing versus calling people. I have spend an hour and a half writing a document which spelled out changes that a designer needs to make in layout and STILL they get it wrong? They do it even though I ask about 10 times can we just talk on the phone? But NO. They want to talk by email.
The 40 email chains that go back and forth instead of a 30 second phone call. And because of this, we are all working TWICE as hard, because I have to spend the time typing out the changes, they incorporate them and make mistakes all over the place incorporating them (because let's face it, making changes is hard when you are looking at two different documents and trying to keep your place, I get that, I've been there) when we could both BE ON THE PHONE, looking at the same document and MAKING THE CHANGES TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME. Then when it comes back to me, I don't have to freak out that everything will be all screwed up.
BTW, they still make me email the same document back and forth, even when they change things in layout that AREN'T IN THE DOCUMENT. AND CHANGE THEM WRONG (I'm editing text and some of it is in word form, some of it they use later for titles and stuff and even though I ask them to change it by email, they don't do it right, because they are ONLY LOOKING AT THE DOCUMENT WITHOUT THE EMAIL). AH! People just pick up the phone! Once you hear my voice you will know I sound like a child and am not scary and am actually trying to do this as efficiently as you!
And they all think I'm an annoying biatch because I demand that they do it right--I just know I'm known over there as the person that's difficult to work with because I have to keep saying over and over and over again, we are not to have "www" in front of a website, the magazine doesn't like it that way!
And yet, I still have and love this freelancing gig and apparently they do too and we have to work together and it blows because without them picking up the phone, they think every email I send is bitchy, and truthfully, I think the same of them.
Why Lord, why? And they always start every conversation with: I think there's been some confusion. Or why don't you go ahead and do that--when I have sent a request to them to do it? I get no respect there and I know they are nice people (why else would they keep getting hired) and good at what they do (except they don't seem to want to be working on the same team with me and somehow think my changes are negotiable even if something is spelled wrong because I have to tell them ten times it's wrong). Frustrating! What am I doing wrong? Anyone?
Boy am I glad this blog is pretty much anonymous because my God do I feel shafted by a group of designers right now. Why is it that every time I work with them they shirk their work so that they're doing the absolute minimum (and not one iota beyond their job description, even though they ask that of me) and they refuse to take a phone call and instead insist that any changes I have, no matter how small, no matter how much they screw them up unless I walk them through them, that I EMAIL THE CHANGES TO THEM.
Actually this is a rant about emailing versus calling people. I have spend an hour and a half writing a document which spelled out changes that a designer needs to make in layout and STILL they get it wrong? They do it even though I ask about 10 times can we just talk on the phone? But NO. They want to talk by email.
The 40 email chains that go back and forth instead of a 30 second phone call. And because of this, we are all working TWICE as hard, because I have to spend the time typing out the changes, they incorporate them and make mistakes all over the place incorporating them (because let's face it, making changes is hard when you are looking at two different documents and trying to keep your place, I get that, I've been there) when we could both BE ON THE PHONE, looking at the same document and MAKING THE CHANGES TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME. Then when it comes back to me, I don't have to freak out that everything will be all screwed up.
BTW, they still make me email the same document back and forth, even when they change things in layout that AREN'T IN THE DOCUMENT. AND CHANGE THEM WRONG (I'm editing text and some of it is in word form, some of it they use later for titles and stuff and even though I ask them to change it by email, they don't do it right, because they are ONLY LOOKING AT THE DOCUMENT WITHOUT THE EMAIL). AH! People just pick up the phone! Once you hear my voice you will know I sound like a child and am not scary and am actually trying to do this as efficiently as you!
And they all think I'm an annoying biatch because I demand that they do it right--I just know I'm known over there as the person that's difficult to work with because I have to keep saying over and over and over again, we are not to have "www" in front of a website, the magazine doesn't like it that way!
And yet, I still have and love this freelancing gig and apparently they do too and we have to work together and it blows because without them picking up the phone, they think every email I send is bitchy, and truthfully, I think the same of them.
Why Lord, why? And they always start every conversation with: I think there's been some confusion. Or why don't you go ahead and do that--when I have sent a request to them to do it? I get no respect there and I know they are nice people (why else would they keep getting hired) and good at what they do (except they don't seem to want to be working on the same team with me and somehow think my changes are negotiable even if something is spelled wrong because I have to tell them ten times it's wrong). Frustrating! What am I doing wrong? Anyone?
Monday, June 15, 2009
Gawker Says It Best: Like a Staycation, But at Work, For No Pay
I'll admit I used to be a big fan of Gawker. Now, eh, not so much. It's recently become more recaps of shows (God Bless that Richard Lawson, he's the only funny one left) and blatant and not-so-great ripoffs of DListed (that website is so, very good. If you are still reading Perez Hilton or the Superficial, I implore you, DListed is the gold standard). But this article caught my eye, and I'm hoping the tide is turning over there so they can get back to what made them great, what continues to make, say, Jezebel great (except when they are just recapping shows and ripping off DListed as well...sigh).
Today's article is about the Union Square Virgin Megastore closing. Have you seen this? Another nail in the coffin for those of us who are praying that there will be some sort of divine intervention to come down and pull us out of this mess. I was a permalancer. Now? Prolancer. I'm a professional lancer of sorts. I freelance as a profession in a world where nothing is certain and anything can be taken away with a drop of a hat (sounds like a great movie line, right?) Anyway, on with the story.
From Gawker:
"The Way We Live Now: Eking out a hard living in cubicle hell while beauty dies, duh. We work without music. We work without pay. We work without jobs, just to say "Hey, one day."
Virgin Megastore is officially dead. Dead along with it is one of your top five theoretical backup jobs in the event of your layoff; the idea that selling music in a store could be a profitable endeavor; your own whimsical daydream about one day maybe opening up a little record shop, just the really cool shit, and just living that life; and the music industry as a whole.
Hell, Joan Kroc gave the Salvation Army $1.8 billion and it still can't scrape together enough to build a new swimming pool in Detroit. Argentina's not crying for you, buddy. At least you have a job. You better hold onto like the precious diamond that it is—a valuable gem made out of dirt that you squeeze really tight. You do what you must. You do what the boss says. You do what the boss doesn't say, just to scrape and give yourself that tiny edge that just might cause them to lay off Doris, the receptionist, instead of you, when the time comes. "Furloughs," they said. "Ten percent less in the check, but you get a few more days off each month," they said. What happened? You work right through those furlough days. Because there's too much work. It's kind of like a staycation, but at work, and minus the "-cation." Just a "stay."
Of execution? One might say that. Yes one might. Because your Stay could be a staycation—of poorness:
"The real problem is that long-term unemployment is going up dramatically," said Franklin Allen, finance professor at the Wharton School. "Unfortunately, many people in their late 40s and 50s may never get jobs again."
How do you like them apples? I hope you like them enough to sell, for nickels, for the next 30 years."
Ugh. Wretched. And how much do we hate Franklin Allen? What a jerk! I mean, yes we're looking at the coffin in the store, but could you at least wait until someone dies before you decide to bury it? That metaphor worked in my mind, at least. But come on! Let's hope Professor Allen doesn't get laid off in his 40s and then decide his life is over and just give up and buy ten cats and stare at a wall for the rest of his natural-born life.
Today's article is about the Union Square Virgin Megastore closing. Have you seen this? Another nail in the coffin for those of us who are praying that there will be some sort of divine intervention to come down and pull us out of this mess. I was a permalancer. Now? Prolancer. I'm a professional lancer of sorts. I freelance as a profession in a world where nothing is certain and anything can be taken away with a drop of a hat (sounds like a great movie line, right?) Anyway, on with the story.
From Gawker:
"The Way We Live Now: Eking out a hard living in cubicle hell while beauty dies, duh. We work without music. We work without pay. We work without jobs, just to say "Hey, one day."
Virgin Megastore is officially dead. Dead along with it is one of your top five theoretical backup jobs in the event of your layoff; the idea that selling music in a store could be a profitable endeavor; your own whimsical daydream about one day maybe opening up a little record shop, just the really cool shit, and just living that life; and the music industry as a whole.
Hell, Joan Kroc gave the Salvation Army $1.8 billion and it still can't scrape together enough to build a new swimming pool in Detroit. Argentina's not crying for you, buddy. At least you have a job. You better hold onto like the precious diamond that it is—a valuable gem made out of dirt that you squeeze really tight. You do what you must. You do what the boss says. You do what the boss doesn't say, just to scrape and give yourself that tiny edge that just might cause them to lay off Doris, the receptionist, instead of you, when the time comes. "Furloughs," they said. "Ten percent less in the check, but you get a few more days off each month," they said. What happened? You work right through those furlough days. Because there's too much work. It's kind of like a staycation, but at work, and minus the "-cation." Just a "stay."
Of execution? One might say that. Yes one might. Because your Stay could be a staycation—of poorness:
"The real problem is that long-term unemployment is going up dramatically," said Franklin Allen, finance professor at the Wharton School. "Unfortunately, many people in their late 40s and 50s may never get jobs again."
How do you like them apples? I hope you like them enough to sell, for nickels, for the next 30 years."
Ugh. Wretched. And how much do we hate Franklin Allen? What a jerk! I mean, yes we're looking at the coffin in the store, but could you at least wait until someone dies before you decide to bury it? That metaphor worked in my mind, at least. But come on! Let's hope Professor Allen doesn't get laid off in his 40s and then decide his life is over and just give up and buy ten cats and stare at a wall for the rest of his natural-born life.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Items for the Weekend
Dinner with Emily at DGBG, Daniel Boulud's foray into downtown dining (I hear sixteen kinds of sausages and an ice cream sundae cart!)*
Look out the window and pray for sunshine
Anxiously await the edits from my first personal essay ever, slated to be published, in a brand-spanking new literary magazine (if it happens, you'll be the first to know)
Take a nap
Finish Stanford class and breathe a huge sigh of relief, then, slow-witted as I am, sign up for a new class to tackle the 2nd book (yes I'm still working on the first!)
Go to Torrington, Connecticut for a clambake reunion of high school friends
Drink a little too much wine somewhere and barefoot
Hunker down and get those music blogs in for that new job, edit an article on Hawaii for an old job, and be very thankful for working at all, even if freelance and part-time translates into weekend full-time
Gather new obsessions: mint green tea, Stephen King movies and a new motorcycle helmet
Don't look at my paltry bank statement, don't, don't, look
Clandestinely watch all the episodes of So You Think You Can Dance that the boy refuses to watch with me
Find the four inches of scarf I knitted in winter, my cell phone charger, time for the gym
Have a wonderful weekend!
*and very excited to see DB's takeover of the branding of famed Sid Vicious vomitorium CBGB's.
Look out the window and pray for sunshine
Anxiously await the edits from my first personal essay ever, slated to be published, in a brand-spanking new literary magazine (if it happens, you'll be the first to know)
Take a nap
Finish Stanford class and breathe a huge sigh of relief, then, slow-witted as I am, sign up for a new class to tackle the 2nd book (yes I'm still working on the first!)
Go to Torrington, Connecticut for a clambake reunion of high school friends
Drink a little too much wine somewhere and barefoot
Hunker down and get those music blogs in for that new job, edit an article on Hawaii for an old job, and be very thankful for working at all, even if freelance and part-time translates into weekend full-time
Gather new obsessions: mint green tea, Stephen King movies and a new motorcycle helmet
Don't look at my paltry bank statement, don't, don't, look
Clandestinely watch all the episodes of So You Think You Can Dance that the boy refuses to watch with me
Find the four inches of scarf I knitted in winter, my cell phone charger, time for the gym
Have a wonderful weekend!
*and very excited to see DB's takeover of the branding of famed Sid Vicious vomitorium CBGB's.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Ten Things I've Done That Lead Me To Believe I am Old
1. Think the phone on the T.V. show is my cell phone getting a new text. See also: listen to the T.V. way too loudly and watch a WHOLE lot of "Dateline on ID". You know you love it, too. Oh, also "Snapped" where there are harrowing tales of women killing their cheating husbands.
2 Find dogs and children adorable and take every opportunity to have a staring contest with them when their owners/parents aren't looking. See also: name the pets I do not have yet.
3. Let a boy get up and give his seat on the subway to me (I wasn't even wearing heels! They were flats, still kind of uncomfortable, but still).
4. Sort of enjoy prunes (Have you noticed they now call them pitted plums? We know what prunes are! Old people food that looks like doodie and tastes delish!)
5. Be hot and cold and the same time--so wear a sweater and no socks and solve nothing.
6. Can't remember what I ate yesterday. Maybe it involved prunes. It also involved dried figs, also old people food. As if Fig Newton constitutes a cookie! God I was so mad when my parents passed those off as cookies to me. Now Raspberry Newtons, that was something I could get my grubby little fingers around.
7. Buy a foot massager so I can stop asking my boyfriend to massage my feet. Ask him about three times a day to do it anyway. Then complain that he's "doing it too hard" and "no, in the arch, I said the arch!"
8. Use the phrase, "I'm too old to be suckling from the indie teat, so find someone else" during a music job interview, and get the job anyway. Being crotchety is so hot right now! (PS Why do people always give you the jobs you tell them you don't want?) See also: saying I don't want jobs online and sort of not caring who sees because I'm too old to be caring about people who care about what in tarnation I do online.
9. Talk about the way New York used to be and sigh. (So what if I'm only referring to last summer? Everything's closed down, it's so depressing!)
10. Have a sexual dream about Tom Jones. See, let me explain this one. I was JOKING about it and then it happened. That is such an old person's thing to do. Also, I had a dream where I made out with Conan O'Brien. Or maybe it was Tilda Swinton. I can't remember. Wake up feeling both too hot and too cold.
2 Find dogs and children adorable and take every opportunity to have a staring contest with them when their owners/parents aren't looking. See also: name the pets I do not have yet.
3. Let a boy get up and give his seat on the subway to me (I wasn't even wearing heels! They were flats, still kind of uncomfortable, but still).
4. Sort of enjoy prunes (Have you noticed they now call them pitted plums? We know what prunes are! Old people food that looks like doodie and tastes delish!)
5. Be hot and cold and the same time--so wear a sweater and no socks and solve nothing.
6. Can't remember what I ate yesterday. Maybe it involved prunes. It also involved dried figs, also old people food. As if Fig Newton constitutes a cookie! God I was so mad when my parents passed those off as cookies to me. Now Raspberry Newtons, that was something I could get my grubby little fingers around.
7. Buy a foot massager so I can stop asking my boyfriend to massage my feet. Ask him about three times a day to do it anyway. Then complain that he's "doing it too hard" and "no, in the arch, I said the arch!"
8. Use the phrase, "I'm too old to be suckling from the indie teat, so find someone else" during a music job interview, and get the job anyway. Being crotchety is so hot right now! (PS Why do people always give you the jobs you tell them you don't want?) See also: saying I don't want jobs online and sort of not caring who sees because I'm too old to be caring about people who care about what in tarnation I do online.
9. Talk about the way New York used to be and sigh. (So what if I'm only referring to last summer? Everything's closed down, it's so depressing!)
10. Have a sexual dream about Tom Jones. See, let me explain this one. I was JOKING about it and then it happened. That is such an old person's thing to do. Also, I had a dream where I made out with Conan O'Brien. Or maybe it was Tilda Swinton. I can't remember. Wake up feeling both too hot and too cold.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Mean Girls: Yoga Edition
I'm trying to get back into yoga. Used to love it. But ever since I got a trainer that left me sore for days after running suicides, I let the yoga classes fall by the wayside. Plus they were always so damn full, every time someone did Warrior 2, I'd nearly loose my head by some errant jerk who wasn't watching their elbow.
But still, I have gone three times this week--I need the flexibility, like the deep breaths, and even get some sort of sick thrill from the yoga instructor adjusting my poses. It feels like a mini-massage, but painful. And it makes me feel like we're friends. I get it, I'm lonely for friends now that I don't go into an office. Don't judge me, a yoga instructor counts as a friend! Even though she doesn't know my name! Right? *Sigh*
So anyway, today. I finished up working out exactly at 11:30. Yoga class starts at 11:30, but people usually mill around for at least 45 seconds so I figure if I can grab a mat and head to the back quietly, I'm golden. Except the clock in the yoga room is FAST. Five minutes fast to be exact. How do I know this? I'm in the gym five days a week and know which clocks are right and which aren't. No one ever said I wasn't a loser.
So I come in and people are sitting in lotus, ready to begin. There is a girl who looks to have not have eaten or gotten laid in about four years taking up two spaces with her mat, sweatshirt, shoes, etc. I make eye contact with her, all she has to do is move six inches to the left and we're good to go. I walk around her. I smile. I say, "Thanks so much, sorry to make you move." Keep in mind this is a FREE CLASS AND NOTHING HAS HAPPENED YET.
She doesn't say anything. Let me also tell you that I am sandwiched between her and the wall. I can't move. She must. There is about two feet to her left that she can move and still give the girl on the other side plenty of room. Me, I just want six inches. The girl moves from sitting position to standing--a perfect opportunity to scoot her mat. Does she? I think you know the answer.
Instead she begins stretching her arms in sun pose (is that what it's called). And looks at me with daggers in her eyes as I stand there patiently waiting for her to move. And says "Watch it, my arms are coming out." I stand, mouth agape. "Okay, I say. Maybe if we both moved..." I trail off.
I do nothing, I can't start any of the poses, I can't start anything, because it's apparently more important in this life for this girl to push me out of the way. After she moves through several exercises and I've been able to do nothing, I say "I'm so sorry, could you move a little?"
She doesn't respond.
After a few more, I ask again. Now I've wasted a good four minutes of workout waiting for her to do the right thing. "I'm sorry, can you move over just a little?"
Nothing. Finally I say, "Are you even going to move at all?"
To which she hisses "YOU CAN WAIT GOD DAMNIT!" Other people look.
The instructor looks at us, confused, as if she can't understand why this girl won't move to the side. I want to say "I know, right!" Instead I say nothing.
Girl continues hissing at me. "You're just going to have to wait, got it? And by the way, YOU WERE LATE!"
And then, here's the kicker. She proceeds to loudly breathe the entire time, as if my 10 seconds forcing her to move have entirely unbalanced her chakra, and goes on to restart everything she did before, and even though the instructor gives her extra time, makes a huge deal of not doing the rest of the moves everyone else does. Can I catch up with them even though this girl robbed me of a good five minutes? Of course I can! It's a free yoga class people! Not the army! She thought she was so much better than everyone else that she took all these long breathing breaks and make a big deal of doing the poses really slowly (and might I mention, badly as the instructor comes over to her more than once and moves her around). I'm not saying the instructor didn't come to me, she did (and you know I loved it! Free touching equals mini-massage!), but if this chick was soooo much better than everyone else and I set her off so badly by forcing her to be a human being and treat other people in her FREE YOGA CLASS like other human beings, then she better be doing the Lotus upside down.
I remember why I stopped yoga in the first place. I want to offer her a cheeseburger, but it would have done no good. Fine, I'll go get one myself.
But still, I have gone three times this week--I need the flexibility, like the deep breaths, and even get some sort of sick thrill from the yoga instructor adjusting my poses. It feels like a mini-massage, but painful. And it makes me feel like we're friends. I get it, I'm lonely for friends now that I don't go into an office. Don't judge me, a yoga instructor counts as a friend! Even though she doesn't know my name! Right? *Sigh*
So anyway, today. I finished up working out exactly at 11:30. Yoga class starts at 11:30, but people usually mill around for at least 45 seconds so I figure if I can grab a mat and head to the back quietly, I'm golden. Except the clock in the yoga room is FAST. Five minutes fast to be exact. How do I know this? I'm in the gym five days a week and know which clocks are right and which aren't. No one ever said I wasn't a loser.
So I come in and people are sitting in lotus, ready to begin. There is a girl who looks to have not have eaten or gotten laid in about four years taking up two spaces with her mat, sweatshirt, shoes, etc. I make eye contact with her, all she has to do is move six inches to the left and we're good to go. I walk around her. I smile. I say, "Thanks so much, sorry to make you move." Keep in mind this is a FREE CLASS AND NOTHING HAS HAPPENED YET.
She doesn't say anything. Let me also tell you that I am sandwiched between her and the wall. I can't move. She must. There is about two feet to her left that she can move and still give the girl on the other side plenty of room. Me, I just want six inches. The girl moves from sitting position to standing--a perfect opportunity to scoot her mat. Does she? I think you know the answer.
Instead she begins stretching her arms in sun pose (is that what it's called). And looks at me with daggers in her eyes as I stand there patiently waiting for her to move. And says "Watch it, my arms are coming out." I stand, mouth agape. "Okay, I say. Maybe if we both moved..." I trail off.
I do nothing, I can't start any of the poses, I can't start anything, because it's apparently more important in this life for this girl to push me out of the way. After she moves through several exercises and I've been able to do nothing, I say "I'm so sorry, could you move a little?"
She doesn't respond.
After a few more, I ask again. Now I've wasted a good four minutes of workout waiting for her to do the right thing. "I'm sorry, can you move over just a little?"
Nothing. Finally I say, "Are you even going to move at all?"
To which she hisses "YOU CAN WAIT GOD DAMNIT!" Other people look.
The instructor looks at us, confused, as if she can't understand why this girl won't move to the side. I want to say "I know, right!" Instead I say nothing.
Girl continues hissing at me. "You're just going to have to wait, got it? And by the way, YOU WERE LATE!"
And then, here's the kicker. She proceeds to loudly breathe the entire time, as if my 10 seconds forcing her to move have entirely unbalanced her chakra, and goes on to restart everything she did before, and even though the instructor gives her extra time, makes a huge deal of not doing the rest of the moves everyone else does. Can I catch up with them even though this girl robbed me of a good five minutes? Of course I can! It's a free yoga class people! Not the army! She thought she was so much better than everyone else that she took all these long breathing breaks and make a big deal of doing the poses really slowly (and might I mention, badly as the instructor comes over to her more than once and moves her around). I'm not saying the instructor didn't come to me, she did (and you know I loved it! Free touching equals mini-massage!), but if this chick was soooo much better than everyone else and I set her off so badly by forcing her to be a human being and treat other people in her FREE YOGA CLASS like other human beings, then she better be doing the Lotus upside down.
I remember why I stopped yoga in the first place. I want to offer her a cheeseburger, but it would have done no good. Fine, I'll go get one myself.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Baby Boy Boden! (Cheesy Girl Post)
My wonderful friend Colleeeeeen (from college) and her husband Read (ditto) just welcomed into this world a baby boy! As their long-distance supporter (I'm glad I bought the semi-unisex baby gift because they waited to find out if their baby was a boy or girl and now there is absolutely no excuse--I must go visit them pronto) I am posting the pics they sent everyone here. Yay Boden!
It's enough to make the most hardened semi-employed writer with three roommates go "Awwww." Also, my God are they big when they come out. I have a really gross baby question that I just asked my other preggers friend Selly: when the baby comes out, he or she breathes air for the first time, so I was wondering if the baby peed for the first time after coming out, and if not, does the baby pee inside you? That can't be right! But there are so many fascinating and insane things that happen to your body and the baby's during the whole process that I don't even know how idiotic my question is. Can someone tell me?
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Friends with an Ex, Part Deux
So there was a time on this blog when I asked, can you be friends with an ex? The discussion got good and then I got conflicted. All my exes (save one who flat-out refuses to talk to me because he thinks that talking to me will break up his engagement--come on I'm not that evil/fascinating/rich for that to even be a consideration! Think about it, Person Who Hates Me) want to be/have wanted to be friends at some point.
Methinks there is an ulterior motive sometimes. Others, I can't say. When you break up with someone (or someone breaks up with you) isn't one person basically saying to the other person "I deem you unworthy as of this moment" and shouldn't both parties just straight disappear forever? Won't you always be rehashing old times and pissing off your current boyfriend/girlfriend? What is the point unless you are going to try it again, and btw, don't ever try it again if you broke up because that trust can never come back, right?
I am full of questions tonight after an ex called long-distance because of a song 'that reminded me of him' and I sort of asked all these questions inappropriately. I sort of had a grandstanding speech when the guy was just trying to tell me he missed me. I sort of said, "We're fake friends, not real friends! I want real friends and we can never be real friends!" I got hung up on. I don't recommend following in my path. It feels crappy.
But crappy or not, is it true? Or am I clinging to some antiquated idea of what friends are and affixing myself to the pain of our relationship which ended years ago! Will I forever be the brat who can't let bygones be bygones?
I'm dying to know...
Methinks there is an ulterior motive sometimes. Others, I can't say. When you break up with someone (or someone breaks up with you) isn't one person basically saying to the other person "I deem you unworthy as of this moment" and shouldn't both parties just straight disappear forever? Won't you always be rehashing old times and pissing off your current boyfriend/girlfriend? What is the point unless you are going to try it again, and btw, don't ever try it again if you broke up because that trust can never come back, right?
I am full of questions tonight after an ex called long-distance because of a song 'that reminded me of him' and I sort of asked all these questions inappropriately. I sort of had a grandstanding speech when the guy was just trying to tell me he missed me. I sort of said, "We're fake friends, not real friends! I want real friends and we can never be real friends!" I got hung up on. I don't recommend following in my path. It feels crappy.
But crappy or not, is it true? Or am I clinging to some antiquated idea of what friends are and affixing myself to the pain of our relationship which ended years ago! Will I forever be the brat who can't let bygones be bygones?
I'm dying to know...
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Someone Tell Me...
1. How I've gotten to the 21st of May with only 4 blog posts? See this is the strange thing about not working in an office. With all the free time to write, I push and push it off! Just like I said that I would explore all these parts of the city that I never have before since I had the luxury of doing it on a weekday and working instead on the weekend. You think I've done it? Yeah, well you're right, I haven't.
2. If you've ever gone anywhere by cashing in miles on an airplane and if it was the worst trip of your life. I've had the same US AIRWAYS Visa (yes, everyone calm down, I have such a pimp card right? It was my first credit card and I was 17!) for ten years and it's finally amassed an amount of miles that I could use to go to Hawaii (well another $2500 to spend on it to go I think). Now I'm thinking, once I hit my limit, I'll have to take fourteen planes to get there right? On a side note, is US Airways even a airline any more?
3. Where the good salads are that aren't in midtown. Now that I "work" from "home" I can't get a salad the way I used to. And sometimes, I want one. And making one seems like it makes less sense since my fridge is teeny and my wallet is empty.
4. What shows you DVR. I got really overexcited and now the TV is full of 20/20 and 30 Rock and nothing else (I kind of think the Office stinks these days, I know I know, but I want Jim and Pam to break up. Am I the only one? Barf them! I liked their pining, not their whining). Now that we're about to go into TV no-man's-land (the summer) I think I need a cache of good watching and I don't know where to go.
5. What you're doing on your summer vacation. If you've ever been to Cambodia. If you have a fun idea for a day trip outside the city. Or in your own town. As I ponder what pictures are appropriate to show and a story about San Antonio (have you been here? Holy CRAP you would not believe how weirdly strange, cool and scary it was!)...
2. If you've ever gone anywhere by cashing in miles on an airplane and if it was the worst trip of your life. I've had the same US AIRWAYS Visa (yes, everyone calm down, I have such a pimp card right? It was my first credit card and I was 17!) for ten years and it's finally amassed an amount of miles that I could use to go to Hawaii (well another $2500 to spend on it to go I think). Now I'm thinking, once I hit my limit, I'll have to take fourteen planes to get there right? On a side note, is US Airways even a airline any more?
3. Where the good salads are that aren't in midtown. Now that I "work" from "home" I can't get a salad the way I used to. And sometimes, I want one. And making one seems like it makes less sense since my fridge is teeny and my wallet is empty.
4. What shows you DVR. I got really overexcited and now the TV is full of 20/20 and 30 Rock and nothing else (I kind of think the Office stinks these days, I know I know, but I want Jim and Pam to break up. Am I the only one? Barf them! I liked their pining, not their whining). Now that we're about to go into TV no-man's-land (the summer) I think I need a cache of good watching and I don't know where to go.
5. What you're doing on your summer vacation. If you've ever been to Cambodia. If you have a fun idea for a day trip outside the city. Or in your own town. As I ponder what pictures are appropriate to show and a story about San Antonio (have you been here? Holy CRAP you would not believe how weirdly strange, cool and scary it was!)...
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Anybody been to Austin?
Bake ooey, gooey brownie bites that are so soft and rich they are practically fudge, check.
Rewrite short story to appeal to liberal white guilt more in the hopes that it will get published, check.
Forget to do laundry, check.
Watch the Monorail episode of the Simpsons, check.
Forget to write a chapter of the children's book, remember that I made the brownies for them, feel better, check.
Start to incorporate running into work-out routine. Gain four pounds but lose three percentage points of body fat and call it a wash. Eye brownies, check.
Celebrate Mother's Day late and give her a shout-out on my blog for being so fantastic and supportive (you too Dad!), check.
Make itinerary for anything to do in Austin as I am going there tomorrow. Whoops.
Anybody been to Austin? Is there anything I must do, must not do? Any bar I must dance on, drink I must chug, shop I must buy shoes in, park I must lie down in?
Anything would be so helpful...hooray!
Rewrite short story to appeal to liberal white guilt more in the hopes that it will get published, check.
Forget to do laundry, check.
Watch the Monorail episode of the Simpsons, check.
Forget to write a chapter of the children's book, remember that I made the brownies for them, feel better, check.
Start to incorporate running into work-out routine. Gain four pounds but lose three percentage points of body fat and call it a wash. Eye brownies, check.
Celebrate Mother's Day late and give her a shout-out on my blog for being so fantastic and supportive (you too Dad!), check.
Make itinerary for anything to do in Austin as I am going there tomorrow. Whoops.
Anybody been to Austin? Is there anything I must do, must not do? Any bar I must dance on, drink I must chug, shop I must buy shoes in, park I must lie down in?
Anything would be so helpful...hooray!
Friday, May 08, 2009
Finally!
It's time for some good news on the writing front, and here it is, from Dave King, one of the best editors in the entire world!
WHAT WORKS: Oh, nearly everything, but perhaps this sums it up best: I’m a middle-aged editor living in the Massachusetts countryside, where most of my social life takes place at either the library, the local hardware store, or the town dump. (Actually, the Ashfield town dump is probably not what you’d imagine.) I was still drawn in by the coming-of-age story of a young woman who moves among the upper echelons of Manhattan’s monied wastrels.
Of course, she moves in other circles as well, and one of the things that drew me in was your near-perfect pitch for character creation. Becks, the Ruffians, Connor and Kay, Alfred, even minor characters like Stewart and Blaine are all beautifully, clearly developed. And likable, which is difficult to do with the more shallow, self-centered characters like Becks or Kyle. (You do a very good poor little rich girl.) The relationship between A. and her mother – especially the scene on the way home after A. hits the deer – was beautifully done, as was the love scene between A. and Connor or the scene between A. and Kay in the amusement park.
Then there’s A. herself. From the start, you’ve captured (at least as far as this middle-aged, Massachusetts editor can tell) the fear, the lost hopelessness, the confusion of a young girl’s coming of age. You’ve also resisted the temptation to simply spin generic banalities about growing up and becoming an individual. The longstanding tension between A. and her mother, the way their relationship revolves around money, the secrets her mother has been harboring all of her life, all give concreteness and reality to A.’s transition into maturity.
There are a lot of little strengths as well. You manage your plot exceptionally well for someone writing such a character-driven story. Both the news (SPOILERS THAT I'VE TAKEN OUT!) well-crafted surprises, and you keep the tension up until the end. Your descriptions are vivid and visceral, with some very nicely turned phrases (“Beck’s father was a boldfaced name,” for instance). Your dialogue is crisp and feels authentic.
In short, you have written a remarkably strong novel.
Yaaaay! No rest for the wicked, am still working on many projects. But this gets me ever-closer getting an agent. Fingers crossed!
WHAT WORKS: Oh, nearly everything, but perhaps this sums it up best: I’m a middle-aged editor living in the Massachusetts countryside, where most of my social life takes place at either the library, the local hardware store, or the town dump. (Actually, the Ashfield town dump is probably not what you’d imagine.) I was still drawn in by the coming-of-age story of a young woman who moves among the upper echelons of Manhattan’s monied wastrels.
Of course, she moves in other circles as well, and one of the things that drew me in was your near-perfect pitch for character creation. Becks, the Ruffians, Connor and Kay, Alfred, even minor characters like Stewart and Blaine are all beautifully, clearly developed. And likable, which is difficult to do with the more shallow, self-centered characters like Becks or Kyle. (You do a very good poor little rich girl.) The relationship between A. and her mother – especially the scene on the way home after A. hits the deer – was beautifully done, as was the love scene between A. and Connor or the scene between A. and Kay in the amusement park.
Then there’s A. herself. From the start, you’ve captured (at least as far as this middle-aged, Massachusetts editor can tell) the fear, the lost hopelessness, the confusion of a young girl’s coming of age. You’ve also resisted the temptation to simply spin generic banalities about growing up and becoming an individual. The longstanding tension between A. and her mother, the way their relationship revolves around money, the secrets her mother has been harboring all of her life, all give concreteness and reality to A.’s transition into maturity.
There are a lot of little strengths as well. You manage your plot exceptionally well for someone writing such a character-driven story. Both the news (SPOILERS THAT I'VE TAKEN OUT!) well-crafted surprises, and you keep the tension up until the end. Your descriptions are vivid and visceral, with some very nicely turned phrases (“Beck’s father was a boldfaced name,” for instance). Your dialogue is crisp and feels authentic.
In short, you have written a remarkably strong novel.
Yaaaay! No rest for the wicked, am still working on many projects. But this gets me ever-closer getting an agent. Fingers crossed!
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
I Can't Stop Laughing
First,
This is the Slap Chop. If you hadn't seen the infomercial before, there is a point where Vince says "You're gonna LOVE my nuts!" before chopping them.
Second, Vince, the Slap Chop spokesperson is also the ShamWow spokesperson (I have one and it rocks!) and was somewhat recently arrested for punching a prostitute that tried to bite off his tongue (ick, not that we didn't already know he was insane from these infomercials). And now, the remix. My favorite is that lady at the end who is so happy she has a Slap Chop.
Thank you BT!
This is the Slap Chop. If you hadn't seen the infomercial before, there is a point where Vince says "You're gonna LOVE my nuts!" before chopping them.
Second, Vince, the Slap Chop spokesperson is also the ShamWow spokesperson (I have one and it rocks!) and was somewhat recently arrested for punching a prostitute that tried to bite off his tongue (ick, not that we didn't already know he was insane from these infomercials). And now, the remix. My favorite is that lady at the end who is so happy she has a Slap Chop.
Thank you BT!
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