Bitchy Bluestocking

everything but the sex

2011-12-04T17:53:00.001-05:00

Originally written November 16, 2011.

To the spaceman: You're a history of New York nerd like I am, and our first date was spent out-geeking each other in Lower Manhattan. However, I wasn't looking forward to the second date after I realized I wasn't ready for something serious. Pulling away and stiffening when you kissed me in darkness that simulated the space station, I never spoke to you again.

To my twin: I really liked you: tall, Jewish, and from the Upper East Side. We spoke as if we were old friends -- we're New Yorkers after all -- but I found out we were much too much alike. "You have an alcoholic father? I have one too!" That's not the kind of similarity I'd like to share in a potential mate, and the likenesses didn't end there. We're both "adult children," and though I found you sensitive (as I am), your obsequiousness repelled me: how you ached to please me because you wanted to keep me since someone who understands you is hard to find (I would know). I saw too much of myself in you, and if I wouldn't want to date me then I'm really in trouble.

To the cartographer: We platonically saw Sufjan Stevens in Prospect Park, and you convinced me to have a birthday party even though I didn't want to. We had a great time with gin and oysters, and my friends noticed how you took care of me that night. You walked me home, and I thought I was ready to date again. You slobbered while making out, and I didn't care since I was excited to see you again. Instead, I discover you're dating the hairdresser I recommended to you. Hope you told her how enthusiastically you went down on me.

To the brand-wearing name-dropper: You have an odd personality that first comes off as insincere, but you're a syncophant at heart. At first I didn't want to go out, told you as much, but dressed up anyway. You flattered by calling me a celebrity since we have a mutual friend. We cabbed it back to my place, and both a hangover and orgasm greeted me in the morning (I really needed the latter). I was surprised how easy it was to please you, especially since you did most of the work for both of us. Too bad that after a night of courting me, you told me to get lost after I expressed an interest in dating, whereas you'd like to keep it casual.

To my rolling partner: You don't fit in with the other guys since you're still in college, and we were both on drugs when we made out, but boy was it good. (Seriously, you could teach the cartographer a thing or two.) I would do it again in a heartbeat because it was so much fun. Half of me wants a round two as soon as possible, and the other half is afraid you'll reject the idea.

To the married man I'm dating: We're really good friends, and I thought there was nothing wrong with our "relationship" until someone pointed out that I'm dating a married man. I do this because you're a safe bet: you're not looking to break up your marriage, I actually do have a lot of fun with you, and we both realize your family comes first. However, the more I date you, the less I'm making myself attractive to men I can potentially date, fuck, and have a real relationship with. You were a good rebound from Prom King, but I'm ready for something new.

tripping on a roll with a paper ticket

2011-07-29T17:15:00.002-04:00

On June 30 I purchased a ticket to see the Stone Temple Pilots play on the Williamsburg Waterfront on July 25. I'm not the biggest STP fan, but when a band of that magnitude plays a mile away from your neighborhood, you go and see them. Unfortunately Bill was unavailable that night, but Greenpoint metalhead Diana accompanied me to keep the douches¹ in line.

I have a special connection to STP thanks to a pot-smoke-filled night of karaoke during 2008's Labor Day weekend. The host, who I believe is Colombian, sang "Plush" en español. It was hysterical: ¿Dónde vas para mañana? ¡Buscando! ¡Buscando! ¡Buscando! I have since performed the translated material after many a drink on other karaoke nights. One night in particular, someone who's Mexican told me I did her language justice. I can barely pronounce English words correctly and may be the only person whose Brooklyn accent comes out when I speak Spanish, but it doesn't matter in song.²

A week before the STP performance, Ticketmaster e-mailed me a reminder -- as if I needed one. I had only been blabbing about going since the day I bought the ticket and was even more buzzed since I was able to get my hands on something that would enhance the concert. Turns out I was impatient (like always) and took said enhancers on Friday night.

That Friday, if you remember, was dreadfully hot. I had plans to see a musical in New Jersey in which a colleague (nicknamed Fresh Meat since he's an intern) was performing. I decided not to travel back to Joisey and instead attended Word's matchmaking night co-sponsored with the Brooklyn Kitchen at Diamond Bar. Though I am certainly off the market -- staying single is safer for me and everyone else -- I had no idea if anyone would show up and thought I could have fun without breaking hearts. I introduced myself as Ginger and said that my favorite pie was cheesecake. (It has a crust!) I also wore a kick-ass red halter dress.

Around ten the event disbanded, but I was just getting started. (Speedy little suckers.) Biking six miles to the Bell House, completely aware I was going to have to bike six miles back, seemed like the perfect idea, especially since Twitter buddy Ben (@misterdisco) was DJ-ing there. Again, I went to show support, not to actually take part in the dancing. And I did not dance until a girl who looked like she was on more stuff than I was asked me and someone I was chatting with to dance "the last dance" per tradition to send off the DJ.

Since the Bell House is also a frequent Skint hangout, we got in touch and he arrived just as there were rumblings of Amanda Palmer being present. She was, and I washed my hands in the bathroom as she was splashing some water on her face.

The next night I dined with the Heathers to Manetta's in Long Island City. Before heading to to the beach with Rowan and Diana Sunday morning, the Brooklyn outpost of Trader Joe's called to inform me that I had won a $25 gift certificate for re-using grocery bags.³ After napping on the beach, which was much cooler than my bed had been all week, I enjoyed caipirinhas with the UCB1PSCLA, the Unofficial Ladies Auxiliary group of Greenpoint-Williamsburg that was formed after this infamous outing.

Suffice it to say that it was an incredible and amazing weekend, which was just going to get better on Monday thanks to STP.

Tweets of the night:

Alkies are separated from the druggies who dosed before the show, which I believed was crucial at keeping the douches away from us.

Firemen just showed up. Be still my heart! I really wanted to ask if they would be able to enjoy the show instead of be "on duty."

If I feel like dancing to the opening act, then this stuff is working too quickly! Unfortunately didn't get the timing right, but I was still up all night.

A Jimmy Buffett shirt? Really? Who are you impressing?

Many dads here with sons younger than I am. It's cute. Bill and his son belonged there.

They're testing the lights! Holy shit this is going to be amazing! And it was!

Woman told me she loves my haircut, its authenticity makes her happy. I'll have what she's having! Strangest compliment ever, but I'll take it.

Not minding the second-hand high. I'm not a stoner, but this is responsible drug use right here. First time ever I have not minded marijuana smoke.

Add Brooklyn, NY -- not Williamsburg ferchrissakes!

STP opens with "Crackerman":

Scott doesn't need two turntables with his microphone:

Before the inevitable "Plush" -- which I did not sing in Spanish -- the band jams Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side":

Loved the lights:

STP closes with "Dead and Bloated" followed by "Tripping on a Hole in a Paper Heart":

The band says good night at 10pm sharp, which is why I got tickets to another show, serendipitously the day before Bill's birthday:

Since Monday I've been listening to as much STP as I can get my hands on, including Velvet Revolver -- I never was a fan of heroin chic, but Scott Weiland does skinny better than Mick Jagger or David Bowie, probably because he still looks like a guy -- and if I have half as much of a good time September 10 in New Jersey, it'll be a successful night. One request, though, boys: "Dancing Days."

¹ The Greenpoint Gals have an affinity for the word "douche" and its variants ever since Subway Douchery came into existence. Keep on douchin'!

² Oddly enough, my Polish was praised by a native Polish speaker recently.

³ It was then that I thought one of the "m"s should stand for "magic."

we can all use a little chauvinism sometimes

2011-05-16T18:20:00.001-04:00

Since I was going to be someone's date last Tuesday for the Farewell Fearless Leader party -- what I called the retirement party for my company's CEO/the coronation of our new captain -- I brought in a few dresses to work, wore a different one each day, and felt glamorous the entire week.

My office husband and I take in the "new" Meadowlands:

Look at the rock star:

My boss was also in town. Slowly but surely she's figuring out that I hang with the bad boys, and she's actually sort of proud. She claims I'm good at networking -- it took a lot of willpower not to reply If that's you call showing a little leg and having guys get you drinks -- and gave me an amazing compliment: "You look so happy. You must be in love."¹

I can't recall the last time I've been so comfortable in my own skin. I'm still not ready to date -- I went on a few recently and just kind of shut down during the last one -- but the IT cronies are helping.

I went out with one of the guys on Wednesday. Sitting in the sun at a rooftop bar we ordered the booze not served at the beer-and-wine-only event the previous night. After four drinks each -- three on him -- we called it a night. During the train ride to the city, we somehow got to talking about Green Day. He asked what my favorite song was, and I answered "Jesus of Suburbia."

"Mine too!" he replied, and he inched into the seat between us, a gesture so young and innocent -- except he's not young and I'm not innocent.

I like how things are, that the pressure is off with these men. I can flirt as much as I want, but there's that line that none of us will cross, so it never gets uncomfortable. Too bad dating can't be as fun as hanging out with them.

¹ Here, I didn't hold back my immediate response and said: "I'm in love with my bike!"

burning rubber

2011-05-08T17:37:00.002-04:00

I completed the five-borough bike tour on Sunday, May 1. Bitchcakes and I finished the route in almost exactly four hours, which is pretty good time for ~40 miles with two rests and a few bottlenecks. We biked on roads that are usually off limits to cyclists, like the FDR Drive and Verrazano Bridge, and couldn’t have asked for better weather! The toughest parts were over the Gowanus on the BQE (the elevation is killer) and along Shore Parkway (regardless of the flat terrain we were biking, as Bob Seger would say, against the wind).

I want to give a big THANK YOU to Bitchcakes for allowing me to accompany her during the ride. She prefers riding alone, and originally I was only heading to the start with her (over the Brooklyn Bridge around 5:30am -- the only time it's not flooded with people!), but we made a good team, I think. When my bags fell off my new rack in Astoria, I expected her to zoom out of sight, but she was kind enough to wait. She also took this triumphant photo of me at the end:

I made the Verrazano my bitch, a photo by bitchcakesny on Flickr.

It's surprising how great this achievement makes me feel, and it makes me sad that I wasn't able to feel as incredible after last year's 55-mile Century Tour. I was arguably in better shape last year, but that tour took its toll. This year, however, I was all smiles and celebration, kvelling to anyone who'd listen.

And, because I'm insane, I biked to Punk Rope at the 14th Street Y the following day, leaving around 10:30 after two happy-hour beers. I survived the round trip in one piece!

After taking my mom to the much talked-about M. Wells in LIC for Mother's Day, I did something I never thought I'd do: I ran an errand in Manhattan on my bike, taking the Williamsburg Bridge to Housingworks Bookstore Cafe. It's so invigorating, and I wish I had the opportunity to ride every day.

day 16: a song that you used to love but now hate

2011-04-22T11:00:00.000-04:00

The Police is one of those bands that I should listen to more often, but I'm familiar only with its singles. If I never hear "Every Breath You Take" again, though, I'm fine with it.

day 15: a song that describes you

2011-04-21T11:00:00.001-04:00

Thank Jeebus for Ashley who introduced me to Jamie Cullum in 2004 after we graduated high school. His Twentysomething album remains a favorite after all these years, and I look forward to every concert of his: he's a wee man who can scat and play the piano with his ass. His covers always impressed me too. He has the gall to replace the Jimi Hendrix's guitar with horns in "Wind Cries Mary" and sings with as much soul as Jimi does. Both Ashley and I think his performance of this song was the first instance of an audience rushing the stage at Carnegie Hall.

Sorry I spoke about "Wind Cries Mary" rather than "Twentysomething," but the latter speaks for itself in today's category.

day 14: a song that no one would expect you to love

2011-04-20T16:46:00.002-04:00

George Michael's "Freedom '90" can easily be a song I can dance to -- I'm chair dancing to it as I type -- or one that's a guilty pleasure, but it's more accurately one that I can't believe I love because it's so cliché and sung by a pop singer responsible for one of the worst hits ever. Sometimes you just have to dance around in your apartment and belt this one out like a supermodel.

day 13: a song that is a guilty pleasure

2011-04-19T11:00:00.000-04:00

Badfinger became my official cleaning soundtrack in 2008, and "No Matter What" quickly became a song to be played when I needed a quick pick-me-up or inspiration to do something I'd been dreading.

Roy Orbison's "You Got It" holds a similar position. Both these songs present a certain level of commitment from a man to his partner. Coincidence? I think not. Hence, the "guilty pleasure" aspect.

day 12: a song from a band you hate

2011-04-18T18:30:00.000-04:00

I'm not a Paul McCartney fan; his style is too pop for my taste and manipulative (he knows he's tugging at your heart). However, when someone played Macca's eponymous first solo album -- on vinyl! -- it came across as genuine. I later discovered that McCartney played all the instruments on McCartney, which gives it a rawness his other albums lack. If you need more proof that McCartney is more than just fluff, listen to the original version of "Maybe I'm Amazed"; I'm in love with the scratchy quality of his voice and instruments.

day 10: a song that makes you fall asleep

2011-04-16T18:36:00.001-04:00

I don't fall asleep listening to music, and the only album that does it for me in bed is Dark Side of the Moon, so instead of subjecting you to more Pink Floyd, these two songs are both slow and beautiful for bedtime.

day 09: a song that you can dance to

2011-04-15T10:53:00.000-04:00

Thank you, Quentin Tarantino, for including this brilliant cover of "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood" in Kill Bill. With the exception of Abba, it's the only disco worth listening to.

modern Mad Men

2011-04-14T18:31:00.006-04:00

#1.10 Girl Rodeo, a photo by Dyna Moe on Flickr.

I'm a big fan of the IT department and a good friend with the guy who runs a certain part of it; we have a bunch of adventures -- baseball games, barbecues, and burlesque -- off the clock. The other guys enjoy my company too. They're all really nice and helpful, even when it comes to non-company stuff. When my phone's SD card was on the blitz, one guy had an adapter and backed up my photos. Obviously that's not part of his job, so I'm grateful.

I also tease them a bit. A few months ago some spam arrived in my inbox, so I forwarded it with a note Who's in charge of e-mail? to -- get this -- the guy in charge of e-mail. He cracked a smile.

Honestly, I'd rather be "one of the guys" and hang out with them at the company x-mas party -- we did shots of tequila every hour last December¹ -- than with others who don't share my sense of humor.

Sadly, though, I'll never be one of the guys, because I'm not a guy. Since they're in IT, they're all a little nerdy, a little goofy -- apparently a new hire once asked: "What does a breast feel like?" -- so surely they're enjoying more than just my personality when I hang out with them.

I'm going to admit something a "modern woman" never would: It's fine, and it's a two-way street. Sometimes you need to have a drink after work, get a little flirty, receive attention, and leave it at that.

My buddy's birthday was earlier this week, so I joined him for two beers at lunch. I knew he was out with someone who reports to him, but I didn't know he was out with this other guy, so it was a surprise when I saw him at the bar. A nice surprise, since I haven't seen him in months. When I mentioned this to a friend, I likened him to Roger Sterling: a well-meaning yet unabashed drunk, but he wears a badass leather jacket, buys me drinks, and offers me the last cigarette² in the pack. What's not to like about that?

I'm two weeks into Beastanetics, a high-intensity workout class. After the first workout, my glutes were killing me, something someone in IT said he could help with. After the second workout, my inner thighs were sore, so I told the instructor that I had stretched in my buddy's office for "both our benefit."

Desk jobs make you desperate for entertainment, and there's nothing wrong with it. I'm getting paid "four times"³ less than they are, but not because I'm a woman nor because our relationship is anything but platonic -- it's because I'm at the bottom of the totem pole in my twenties and they're twice my age and have been with the company since before my brother was born.

It's funny, though, when they're having trouble with their iPhones or Twitter and ask me for help. Always a pleasure doing business with you, guys.

¹ I didn't join them to the strip club.
² I'm only a smoker when the cigs are free.
³ It's not like they never offend or insult me. I was livid when someone mentioned the difference in our salary. It's impolite conversation.

day 08: a song that you know all the words to

2011-04-14T11:00:00.002-04:00

I could have chosen a lot of songs for this one, among them "American Pie" (but who wants to listen to all of that?), and decided to go light with Monty Python's "Lumberjack Song."

Another contender is George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord" -- sure, you think it's the same words repeated until you get to the Hindu gods -- so here's a video from the Concert for George, complete with Dhani Harrison.

day 07: a song that reminds you of a certain event

2011-04-13T06:15:00.000-04:00

Fleetwood Mac's "Over My Head" served as a pre-break-up song for the fellow who participated in the certain event that inspired this post.

day 06: a song that reminds you of somewhere

2011-04-12T11:00:00.002-04:00

I first listened to P.J. Harvey's "Good Fortune" (from her masterpiece Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea) at the Not For Tourists headquarters at 2 East Broadway. My then co-worker Annie played the album, and it brings back great memories of my first job: petting NFT mascots Buster and Tramp, successfully navigating through crowded Chinatown streets with a wagon and two bookcases during the blackout of 2003, ordering Lombardi's for lunch on the company's dime, and downing my first St. Patrick's Day car bomb. The only negative of the office? The Chinatown summer miasma, which I quickly learned how to avoid.

day 05: a song that reminds you of someone

2011-04-11T12:22:00.003-04:00

The best present a mother can give her daughter is Patsy Cline, so this one's for Mom.

I had to include "'Till There Was You" as performed by the Beatles for my grandmother. I'd do homework at her place in high school, and if it were possible to warp a CD, the mix my uncle made of the Beatles would be destroyed by the amount of times we played it.

day 04: a song that makes you sad

2011-04-10T11:34:00.003-04:00

I have a complicated relationship with the Grateful Dead. Since it's sperm donor's favorite band (and a stoner band), I've hated the group for years by association. Last year, however, my company's fitness instructor began playing a mix of the Dead's hits during class,¹ "Box of Rain" being first, and there was no denying the beauty of the songs -- "Box of Rain" in particular.

I listened to it on repeat for weeks on end, making it a break-up song after sobbing when Phil Lesh sings: "Maybe you're tired and broken / Your tongue is twisted / with words half spoken / and thoughts unclear." Digging deeper into the rest of its lyrics, it's an even more appropriate break-up song. It makes me cry when I think about how quickly the relationship turned sour, and I tear up when wondering why a cancer to my family couldn't have been taken by the disease instead of someone else.

¹ And I remembered all the songs from my childhood, even the lyrics in come cases, though more than a decade had passed since I last listened to them. I've always had a good memory, but it was impressive that day.

day 03: a song that makes you happy

2011-04-08T09:57:00.004-04:00

I dare anyone to listen to Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer" from So and not break a smile.

day 02: your least favorite song

2011-04-08T09:52:00.001-04:00

A few years ago, author Joe Hill was interviewed¹ and asked what his version of hell would be. He answered it'd be a place where nothing but Rush was played. I can't help but agree. I can't stand Rush mostly because of the lead singer's nasal voice but also because of the nonsense lyrics.

Speaking of nonsense lyrics, Jethro Tull's "Aqualung" comes in at a close second for this category. I just don't get it.

¹ And no matter how hard I try to find the quote with Google, I can't. It's from 2007 when Heart-Shaped Box, easily the most frightening novel I've ever read, came out.

day 01: your favorite song

2011-04-07T11:20:00.003-04:00

Inspired by Mister Disco, I'm taking the Thirty-Day Song Challenge.

"Time" from Pink Floyd's The Dark Side of the Moon is my favorite song, hands down. There used to be this Web site acting as a Pink Floyd intensive course (sadly, it's no longer available), and the instructor called "Time" the best rock song. I don't know if I'd agree with that statement objectively, but it's got a lot going on. "Time" is multi-layered musically with experimentation (the clocks) and a kick-ass guitar solo (<3 Gilmour). Its existential lyrics would make you want to kill yourself -- or at the very least cry at life's meaninglessness -- if not for David Gilmour's and Rick Wright's lovely performance.

The Dark Side of the Moon marks Roger Waters's first Floyd album as the band's full-time lyricist, and "Time" is the only song for which all band members receive a writing credit. The whole of Pink Floyd is greater than the sum of its parts, and there is no better example of this position than this album and this song.

Here's a live performance of "Time" (along with "Breathe" and its reprise) from Gilmour's last tour. Wright joined him, and I attended the first night's performance at Radio City Music Hall. Though I miss the the energy that the lady back-up singers bring to the studio recording, the light show more than makes up for it.

PS -- I'm going to try very hard not to make this challenge "thirty days of Pink Floyd."

causing trouble wherever i go

2011-03-04T12:15:00.003-05:00

I'm the (un)official book-event contributor to the great online newsletter the Skint, which lists free and cheap things to do in New York City. The guy who runs it uses a short, punchy style that manages to capture events in the vein of Twitter. Here's one of my favorite listings (that I wrote):

7pm: cap and trade sexual emissions at book court, where there will be free wine, cheese, and -- yes -- vegan condom samples in honor of eco-sex, a guide to going green between the sheets.¹

As part of my "job," I sent the Skint man a few blurbs for Pete's Candy Store's reading series, including one for last night: "7:30pm: fine female novelists jami attenberg and diana spechler head to pete's candy store to charm the audience with their literary selections."

Unfortunately one of the authors took issue with being labeled a "fine female novelist," saying: "Turns out the only publicity we received tonight mentioned we were women. They should have added we have vaginas too."

I was mortified, since I was sitting next to a friend I hadn't seen in a bit, and asked the author when she was done why she was offended with the listing -- especially since I (a woman, the last time I checked) wrote it and admire her work. She quickly apologized.

Now, this isn't the first time I caused trouble at a book event. Earlier last year, I went to KGB Bar with Joe Katz. Author Simon Van Booy mentioned that he was going to read a short story inspired by the time he spent in Greenpoint. Joe and I, both Greenpointers, were excited to hear his tale.

Simon read this lovely story -- his writing is very Romantic -- about a couple shopping in a drugstore with a disco ball on the ceiling, calling it a CVS.²

"There's no CVS in Greenpoint!" I yelled from the audience, embarrassing both me and the (poor) author. The reading went on, and I apologized immediately afterward to Simon. He said he'd get Harper Collins to correct the error on the next printing, but here's the original.

If there's any moral to the story, it's that you can't take me anywhere.

¹ I'm really proud of the events (at lest five) I wrote up on the Veterans Day newsletter.

² Joe Katz happens to live behind this building too, and its caretakers don't seem to be good neighbors.

taking a ramp to god

2011-02-22T22:53:00.002-05:00

Which is just another way of saying: "looking for happiness."

Yesterday was a profound day. (And that kind of sentence cheapens how profound it was. Also, this is going to be a very stream-of-conscious post. Just imagine me looking at my life and recent past, and trying to make sense of it all.)

I fulfilled a dream, of sorts, yesterday. I spent the afternoon with Bill at BXL, a Belgian bar in Times Square. It's behind the Condé Nast Building, and though I always tell people I learned of this tourist-free oasis from working at Traveler, I actually found it when I was on a date with a stranger.

When I was a high-school student, Bill pretty much took me under his wing. He showered me with compliments after seeing my amateur performance in a play, and slowly but surely our friendship grew because of our proximity to each other (my locker was next to his room) and his kindness (the compliments). I quickly learned he taught college-level psychology and played Pink Floyd during tests. I told him I didn't like Pink Floyd because 1) my dad liked the band, and anything my dad liked was dead to me like he is and 2) I had a nightmare of the marching hammers from The Wall movie when I was younger, so I figured it was my subconscious telling me Pink Floyd was bad for me. That was sophomore year.

I don't really remember our relationship in junior year so much, except that I committed the notes he left on the chalkboard to memory -- his nice handwriting drew me in -- and he couldn't believe how much stuff I kept in my locker ("You keep your life in there," he observed, and it was true: I had a part-time job after school and wasn't going to wear my uniform while doing it.)

Senior year cemented our bond. In a mish-mash of memory, I remember getting suspended and interrupting his class so he could fight for me, he hired me to copyedit the school newspaper, we finished the other's sentences, we fought constructively, and I trusted him with my darkest secrets, the ones that got me suspended when revealed to anyone else.

Thinking back on when I would visit him during college, he always asked about my family: my mother, my brother, and my grandmother. Ever so thoughtful.

I remember him as a jovial figure -- always with this wide, welcoming smile -- and as he related to me yesterday he remembers me as "feisty." Oh, and about another smile: he told me mine could brighten up a room, that the energy I brought to his class affected him; on my bad days when I walked past his desk without so much as a wave he wondered what he did wrong, and on my good days when -- shit; I'm drawing a blank here, because honestly I don't want to think about me smiling in high school when I was thirty pounds heavier. Anyway, we each fed on the other's energy in a good way.

Sorry I got off track there. Tangents happen.

Bill at his best would diagram my problems -- put them right in front of me -- and change the angle. That incremental shift eased them.

Here's a recent example (although not from Bill, but it's a good one): I was out on Friday with the Skint Dude, someone whose company is an ensured good night out. We attended a comedy show headlined by Kristen Schaal. Part of her act included porn-star names: your childhood pet + the street you grew up on. She opined that a better formula would be to take your favorite alcoholic drink and biggest insecurity. She asked the audience for new porn-star names following her new rules. No one said anything. After a few moments of silence, I yelled: "MARTINI FRIGIDITY!" She repeated it in the microphone and moved on to the next joke. I thought I was a failure because she didn't have any comeback. When I told this to Skint Dude after the show at another bar, he thought it was genius: "You stumped her."

See how easy that is? Why can't I do it myself instead of depending on these men?

Anyway, Bill and I grew distant when I graduated college because I had a full-time job and couldn't visit him as often as I had been. We tried e-mail, but our conversations are enormous and neither of us can say what we really want to say through sterile typed words and without the flourishes of body language (the latter reason explains why phone calls don't work either).

It's really no secret that I love this man and had devised a mythology years ago: I was actually his wife before she found a time machine and "met" him when she was a bit older using the time machine to make him younger. It's crazy, I'll admit, but explains why I never saw a picture of the woman while riffling through his office. Had I seen her -- really me -- the space-time continuum would have collapsed on itself. Duh.

Unfortunately the recent years have not been friendly to Bill: his wife hurt him, dissolved their marriage, and ruined his lovely family. Obviously, I am not her. He got involved with this other woman, doted on her, and wound up with his heart broken yet again so soon after the divorce. Since this second break-up, he stopped writing his one-sentence e-mails, wouldn't return any of my calls -- including the ones of me crying, begging him to call me back, because I had lost my job -- and all but disappeared.

At the end of my crisis-filled summer (job loss, health issues, and Prom King), Bill called me out of the blue one night and invited me to see Porcupine Tree the next day. We had a beer or two before the concert. I cried over Prom King. He told me about his problems. I got angry at him for ignoring my messages from the summer. "Don't you ever keep me in the dark like that again," I demanded after he apologized, admitting how hard it's been for him.

Well, he disappeared again. (Or, perhaps I disappeared from him.) We were supposed to do something during xmas break, but nothing happened. I have pretty much been depressed (clinically, I daresay) since Prom King left me and have been very occupied with getting my health issues resolved. There are other things going on that scare me too, like drinking too much wine daily in order to fall asleep. The drinking leaves me just as alone and just as unmotivated -- and without any real rest. It's horrible.

When I had surgery to remove pre-cancerous tissue, I left as fast as I could from the operation in downtown Manhattan, headed to Bill's classroom in Queens, gave him the biggest hug, and couldn't stay because he had a class and no further free periods during the day. When I took a sick day last Wednesday because of terrible sniffles, I made the trek to Queens again and again was too late to chat with him. He promised we'd do something on Presidents Day.

Earlier when I said I fulfilled a dream yesterday, I'm referring to a story Bill told me years ago: a friend/former student shows up at his doorstep one evening with a six-pack, and they spend the night on his living-room floor just shooting the breeze. I have been waiting for that day to come, and yesterday was the closest I got to it.

I started off by complaining about my landlord, who threw two separate birthday parties for himself, keeping me up until 1am on Wednesday and 3am Sunday. Then we got to the personal stuff, and I hogged the conversation like always. I seek him out to help me. It's not a very balanced relationship is it? As much as I idolize him as a penitent does a priest, he calls me Santa Claus: always giving, never expecting anything in return. It's true, in a way; he'd get my right arm, a kidney, you name it, by asking -- and so would a handful of other people I consider my friends, no matter how little time we spend together, because I'm too damn loyal. And, on the other extreme, I cannot forgive abandonment without cause.

That's really what I want: Someone who needs me as much as I need him and who realizes that I'd return the favor and drop everything in return. I don't like flippant people who keep you at an arm's length, or dishonest people who lead you on to believing something that isn't true. I prefer blunt honesty, setting up boundaries right off the bat if it feels necessary and opening your heart when intuition tells you to run with it.

I've opened up to too many people: those who betrayed me in high school, those who abused or abandoned me in relationships -- all under the guise of being sympathetic, sensitive "nice guys" -- and those who disappeared from friendships for no discerning reason. It hurts all too much, so I'm quitting being vulnerable for the time being without quitting on those who've earned my trust -- like Bill.

When our conversation got too upsetting, we changed the subject. Talking about Istanbul -- I had visited Meg and Alex in January -- put a smile on my face, but the tale told about the adventure has become rote (I know exactly the notes I want to hit when I get around to writing up the experience), and Bill didn't deserve the same old story. Surprisingly, he didn't get it.

It was during the part when I told him that I found the Hagia Sophia's Islamic medallions more impressive than the (much older) Christian mosaics that we skipped to the Blue Mosque. He asked me what I saw when I looked at the ceiling.

It's hard to explain, but I envisioned the circular chandeliers suspended from the ceiling by hundreds of cables. If viewed from the right angle, they seemed to spiral top the top. This image influenced my answer.

"A ramp to god," I replied -- and smiled at the language.

"You saw a ramp to god, and you liked it," he said.

True, as an atheist I felt awe in Istanbul. Mosques dominated the landscape, yet were not foreboding. You could catch your breath inside before losing it again in the chaos that fills an ancient, bustling city spanning two continents.

Somehow after speaking with Bill things clicked, and I made changes to improve. I remembered that acupuncture had provided some relief after a previous devastating breakup, so I started going to check my anxiety. Because it's hypocritical to simultaneously take care of and poison yourself, I've cut back drastically on my drinking. The warmer weather means bike-riding adventures with Joe Katz, and I was surprised that my body didn't go through torture on our first trip. It's inspired me to train in earnest for the five-borough and century tours.

It took me months to get here, but I'm taking a ramp to god. The filaments are strong but thin, so it's just me -- but at least I'm escalating.

a lifetime of experience in just two days

2011-02-02T16:40:00.003-05:00

I had my pre-op yesterday morning¹, before which I saw a dead body outside the building next to the doctor. A woman jumped off a building on Maiden Lane.

Had a blast with Joe Katz and the Skint last night. (Two men -- both myths and legends -- meet!) We attended the Adult Education Series on Brooklyn and drank too much afterward.

Woke up with a hangover today. Saved by a delayed opening.

And here's the kicker: for the past few weeks, the front door to the the building has been either open, unlocked, or both. Roommate Prime and I have asked the newbie to be more thoughtful about it, but it may not have been her fault.

When I left for work this morning, I found the front door open and doorknob unlocked. Not knowing whether it was done intentionally if someone was shoveling², I yelled: "You left the door open," and someone -- who I later found out was the landlord's mom -- came out and blamed the new cleaning lady. When I started explaining that the door's been left open on more than one occasion, she shoved me out the door. When I went back in to continue, she said I should get a boyfriend and move out. She walks into the landlord's apartment and shuts the door. I'm screaming in the hallway so she can hear me through the door, and she comes out again and we argue. Ultimately, once she said she'll "never leave [her] son's door open," I left.

The whole day I've been seething over this. It's totally disrespectful, and our relationship with the landlord continues to deteriorate. I've never had this much trouble while renting, and no matter how much we complain about certain reasonable things nothing changes.

On the bright side, my mom's photography was featured on New York Shitty. She's convinced there's a garbage conspiracy. Ever since the first blizzard, waste pick-up has been sporadic at best. If it weren't for the ice storm, I'd have asked to her walk around and take pictures of more orphan mattresses.

¹ I'm having minor surgery next Friday, and I'm scared shitless.

² The landlord shoveled half the sidewalk and didn't bother doing inside the gate. I took a picture. I would have done it myself, but I couldn't find the shovel.

unwanted attention

2011-01-10T12:04:00.005-05:00

4 Frames of Unwanted Attention
Originally uploaded by cameron.mantel

Last night I went to Jessie Sholl's launch party for her memoir, Dirty Secret. It was good but a bit awkward since I was underdressed (in jeans). My pal Meg, who I'll be visiting in Istanbul, is more Jessie's friend than I am, but it was an honor to celebrate with her.

When I returned to Greenpoint, I met a former friend that I haven't seen or spoken to for a year, save bumping into him on the street when he was very drunk in July. It wasn't surprising that he was very drunk last night -- his birthday was Friday -- and though the night didn't begin so badly, it ended horribly. He couldn't stop touching me and giving me cursory kisses, and the night took a turn for the worse when I excused myself to sit at the other end of the bar next to a neighbor. He (the former friend, not neighbor) repeated "I want to stick it in her" to anyone within hearing distance, so I yelled at him and stormed off. My neighbor followed me. I invited him to my apartment for some water and to explain the whole history with the former friend. I cried, he took my hand, and then he tried to stay the night. I kicked him out.

I'm so disgusted by everything today. Why couldn't I have met the Punk Rope people after graduating college? Instead, I wound up with the Poker Stoner Buddies and wasted a year with people who should have never been on my radar in the first place.

On a positive note, I started Dirty Secret on the train back to Greenpoint after the party, and as I got up for my stop the man sitting opposite me asked how the book was.

"Great," I answered. "I know the author."

"I could tell it was good," he said, "you didn't look up once."

I'm really looking forward to learning how Jessie deals with her "dirty secret" -- that her mom is a compulsive hoarder -- because ever since Labor Day, when I admitted to the person I was dating that my ~~dad~~ sperm donor's a verbally abusive alcoholic (and then was subsequently dumped), it's been crucial to figure out how to be open with someone about the skeletons in your closet without being rejected for them.

After last night, however, the last thing I want is intimacy.

if you can't beat 'em, join 'em

2011-01-09T11:35:00.001-05:00

Miss "New York Shitty" Heather edited my original e-mail for clarity.

At 6:30am Christmas morning my landlord's obnoxiously loud alarm clock goes off, waking me up. I send him a text message, asking if he could shut it off (since he's not going to work, obviously, on a holiday and Saturday). After an hour of hearing it I head down to the basement/man cave to search for the circuit breaker because I worry it'll be on the whole day; he's evidently not in his apartment. Well, I learned one thing: do not go into the basement or yet another alarm will go off and wake up everyone on the block.

While both alarms are still blaring, I think fuck this, take a shower, and wonder what coffee shop would be open before seeing The King's Speech at noon. When I get out, the cops are ringing the bell, asking why a noise complaint was called in. Meanwhile, the first original alarm is still going off and the second one had stopped while I was in the bathroom. I explain this. They go to the basement, setting off the second alarm again, and tell me they'll call the company to remotely shut off the basement alarm. Finally, at 8:30 -- two hours after it woke me up -- the first alarm shuts off. Miracles do happen, especially on Christmas.

I head to bed at 11:30pm. At 1am, the landlord and his friends crash into the hallway, waking me up, and proceed to blast Euro-pop versions of Christmas carols in Polish. Naturally, they sing along. I don't think I'll ever hear "Gloria in Excelsis Deo" the same way ever again. I send him a text message, requesting he keep it down. Nothing changes. I call the 94th precinct as a "concerned neighbor" calling in another noise complaint on the apartment. Especially since you could hear the music from outside the building.

Here's what I did wrong: I should have lied and been a "concerned neighbor" across the street instead of on the second floor, because once the person on the line ascertained I was a tenant, she became completely unhelpful. "It's Christmas," she said, "Let them have fun once in a while."

"Well, I can hear it clear as day in my apartment, and you can hear it outside the building."

"You can always move out," she offered.*

"I signed a two-year lease. There's no moving out anytime soon. If I were to throw a similar party in my apartment, he has every right to evict me. What rights do I have in this case?"

We have a little back-and-forth about "how this neighborhood gets" during the holidays -- yeah, the same way "this neighborhood gets" on the weekends and other holidays, with drunk Poles a little more troublemaking on the streets -- and I counter that I grew up in this neighborhood and never had to deal with such noise. Ultimately, she says that I can take him to court to get out of the lease. And she doesn't send an officer.

Protect and serve indeed! I thought they'd be more willing to help out since there was already a noise complaint earlier, and my landlord's parties are a chronic problem.

It's nearing 2am. I go downstairs and knock as loudly as I can between tracks. Yes, the same songs are playing on repeat. A meathead answers the door and says "It's Christmas." I take this to mean they have every right to party as loud as they want on holidays. I ask to talk to the landlord, explaining calmly that we've got talk. Then a woman comes up, less drunk than this guy. I (once again) explain my problem. She goes to get the landlord, returns without him, and says he's in the bathroom and "isn't feeling good."

Ultimately, the male drunk friend will not shut off the music until I join them downstairs for a shot. Though I keep refusing, I eventually go downstairs (barefoot, in my pajamas). The landlord, back from the bathroom, pours everyone a shot, I do mine and then ask them to shut off the music. They don't until I've told them my life story, which so closely matches theirs -- "You went to St. Stan's? Did you have Miss Ronnie?" -- and we become the best of friends after a handful of shots and cigarettes, giving me a horrible hangover.

I told my roommates that I'll be in Istanbul from January 13 through the 18. If during that time they're awakened by Martin Luther King, Jr. carols then they're welcome to join the party -- I'm serious, we have a standing invitation -- and drink as much of the landlord's booze, smoke as many of his cigarettes, and tell everyone spierdalaj (spear-doll-eye), Polish for "fuck off," which I take as being the true meaning of Christmas -- or any other holiday -- in the 94th precinct.

*I should have started ranting once she said this. Move out of my neighborhood? It's a miracle I can afford living in this area. Isn't the middle-class dream to move up and not stagnate?

to JS, wine consultant

2011-01-09T00:23:00.001-05:00

I'm writing this message while finishing a bottle of Carménère. I didn't drink all of it tonight but rather had half Friday night with dinner (steak and broccoli). I had an appointment Saturday afternoon to donate blood, hence the high-iron meal. Before heading to Mr. Mecca's wake, Ashley and I ate at Lombardi's, where I took off the bandage around my elbow once we sat down. Ashley commented that the nurse who took my blood did a great job—there wasn't a bruise.

“I got a bruise only once from giving blood,” I explained. “I had some blood taken after a physical in eighth grade. My teacher saw the bruise and thought I used drugs. He also thought I had a demon in me that needed to be exorcised.” We laughed because the teacher was a nut (religious and otherwise), and it's the kind of thing you can laugh at with a good friend.

Last summer I started a relationship with a good guy, Prom King. I met him though a friend—a literary one at that, since she works at a bookstore—and everything was spectacular; I was so comfortable with him. Then I lost my job. (Since rectified.) Then I encountered a health problem. (Took care of it, too.) I was emotionally weak given the circumstances, and he stayed with me, distracted me, and helped.

I got him into Mad Men, and one night we were watching it at my apartment. I don't know if you watch the series, but this season the main character's daughter gets sent to a psychiatrist. After that episode, he turned to me and asked if I'd ever been in therapy. I cried and could not stop. I wanted to ask him to leave, but didn't. I excused myself, collected a few things from my bedroom (we had plans to stay the night at his place), and quickly pulled myself together with a short explanation.

“Yes,” I answered, “I've been in therapy against my will. My high-school teachers thought I was depressed and suspended me. It was a terrible time in my life, and I don't like talking about it.” He confided that he currently was in therapy: his father had died when he was in college, and he had difficulty getting over it. Neither of us laughed because it's not the sort of thing you can laugh at.

Well, that was the end. I couldn't get that night out of my head. Believing it would do me good to get a few things off my chest I confided in him about growing up in an alcoholic household and about my fears for my brother's future. I bared all, it proved too much, and he dumped me, citing he knew my anxieties better than he knew myself.

How do you feel knowing you had a hand in something that will affect me for the rest of my life, something that I will be fighting to prevent from rearing its head whenever I get close enough to someone that it's only fair we become vulnerable to each other too?

I knew there was the possibility of seeing some unfriendly faces at Mr. Mecca's wake, but with Ashley by my side I thought I could withstand them. Yours was the last I wanted to see, and I am amazed by the extent of my self-control. At least there won't be any awkwardness at your wake since I don't plan on attending it.

how to get along with landlords

2011-01-01T20:50:00.004-05:00

Fact: I am the daughter of homeowners and therefore am a conscientious tenant. I don't host loud parties that don't have an end time, nor do I keep my laptop (or any other appliance, save my alarm clock) plugged in all day to waste energy. I pay my bills on time, keep no balances, and consider myself responsible to the extreme. My worst habit may be my heavy gait if you live below me.

During the summer I apartment-sat for Joe Katz while he was in the Hamptons. It was supposed to give me a month to prep the new apartment -- paint, get furniture, etc. -- without having to live in it. It was very generous of him, and all I had to do in return was pick up his mail and water his plants. Easy peasy.

Joe had said that his landlord, Frank, was going to fix a step on the fire escape outside the apartment in the back. Frank did so immediately after Joe left for the Hamptons, and we didn't cross paths. The second or third day I was at Joe's place, the doorknob to the door to the veranda popped off into my hands -- I was so embarrassed and worried Joe or Frank would be angry at me for breaking something -- but I left a note for Frank and tried not to sweat it. Again, he fixed the problem when I was at work, and I left him a thank-you note and doughnuts from Peter Pan.

It was a very hot summer, so hot that I got a heat rash on my chest, and I became accustomed to stripping upon entering the apartment and heading straight to the shower. One day as I was walking to the bathroom naked, I heard someone's voice and saw Frank on the veranda (inspecting his good job with fixing the step)! I don't think he saw me, but I crawled to the bathroom to ensure we didn't make eye contact.

Frank and I saw each other off and on during the summer, including the first time I invited Prom King to spend the night. We passed him in the hallway very early in the morning, and I was embarrassed again, but for the most part I didn't bother him, he didn't bother me, and it was the best relationship a temporary tenant could as for.

I mention the summer because soon I'll be posting a story about how I spent my Christmas. My current landlord, absent for most of the day, nonetheless had a hand in the holiday's shenanigans.

lost post from the end of 2009, updated for 2010

2010-12-31T12:54:00.001-05:00

1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before? 

Went cabin-ing and hot-tubbing with people I'm no longer friends with, acupuncture, found a decent place to live in Greenpoint (not a shit hole or a place someone's going to booze me up and use me sexually or otherwise), discovered French 75s at the Richardson, failed at meditation, went to Ikea, bought sleeping pills and used them as much as possible during April and May, took a Punk Rope class (which in turn made me join the Greenpoint YMCA and regularly work out there), befriended literary ladies, infrequently shopped at Brooklyn Industries (buying two dresses, articles of clothing that I was previously against wearing), picked up a guy in a Greenpoint bar and later made out with him on the Pulaski Bridge, attended my cousin's wedding near Amish country and spent two days in Philadelphia, went to a Scrabble barbecue, bought and fell in love with a smartphone, tasted tamales and feijoada, raised over $500 for the Brooklyn Heart Walk, learned how to orgasm, and participated in Jewish Christmas.

2010 update: Broke up with the best lover I've ever had (he who provided the aforementioned orgasms), answered a Craig's List missed connection (big mistake), appeared in Time Out New York, had oral surgery (wisdomtoothectomy), hosted a mostly vegetarian Super Bowl party, attended a Sunday Night Dinner, edited a book proposal for which I got paid, ran a twelve-minute mile with the Word running group, signed a lease, trained for an athletic competition (the Punk Rope Games!), kayaked in the East River, lost my job, attended a World Cup party, appeared in re-election material for an excellent assemblyman, had a colposcopy (an extremely unpleasant procedure), fell completely and utterly in love with someone I felt fully comfortable with until I couldn't stop crying after he asked me a question, became clinically depressed when he broke up with me, took antidepressants (for two weeks and never again), biked sixty miles in the New York Century in the middle of all that drama, took a Zumba class, painted my room blood red, and traveled to San Francisco (for a conference for my new job).

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Yes! Joining Punk Rope has given me the irrefutable knowledge that I belong. I'm not sure exactly what I'm doing for 2010, but it has to do with increasing my health and confidence.

2010 update: The luster of Punk Rope wore off after the Games, around when I lost my job -- the first terrible blow of the worst summer ever -- and though I reached my all-time lowest adult weight of 143 pounds this year, it was after a weekend of doing nothing but crying.

 3. Did anyone close to you give birth? 

No.

2010 update: No.

4. Did anyone close to you die? 

Oma (Andrew's grandmother), and everyone associated with Guernsey is dead to me.

2010 update: No, but there were plenty of times I wish I did.

5. What countries did you visit?

Amish country, with a layover in Philadelphia.

2010 update: 'Frisco.

6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009? 

I'm saving up for a premium full-sized bed.

2010 update: I have a full-sized bed now, but no one to share it with. In 2011 I want to believe that I am stronger than I think I am, even when I'm at my weakest.

7. Which dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? 

The week of my cousin's wedding was fantastic: I went to an event for the broken-hearted at Word, met someone at the Punk Rope happy hour, caught the bouquet, went to the Mutter Museum and Philadelphia Zoo. I bounced all around, fit in a lot of time at the gym, and felt great through it all.

2010 update: All the time I spent biking with Joe Katz (to Ikea, in the Tour de Brooklyn, to Floyd Bennett Field, and in the New York Century), and all the time I spent with Prom King (that I have to bury). I took this picture on June 28, before the company picnic, and I think it was the apex of the year: I had just met a fantastic guy, I was moving into my own apartment, and I was completing a project from hell at work -- and damn, I looked hot! Everything went downhill from there, and the last day I was really happy was during Bitchcakes's bowling birthday party.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? 

Inching my way out of depression through physical activity and from relying on others to get me out.

2010 update: Not only did my team, Chick Lit, come in fourth place in the Punk Rope Games, but everyone at the after party complimented my athleticism. I was an athlete!

9. What was your biggest failure?
 
Believing a relationship was an good option with a sourpuss stoner.

2010 update: Expecting that Prom King meant what he said when he offered to be "vice president of cheering [me] up."

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? 

A mysterious knee pain bothered me for months.

2010 update: "Subacute thyroiditis with complete resolution" and an abnormal pap smear.

11. What was the best thing you bought? 

The poor man's iPhone, the Google My Touch, lovingly called "Touch My Google."

2010 update: A passport. We'll see in a few weeks if "a round-trip ticket to Turkey" tops it.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration? 

All hail Bitchcakes! She got me through a horrible period in my life, and there is nothing I would keep from this woman.

2010 update: Joe Katz put up with a lot of shit from me after the nervous breakdown/breakup, and he deserves much more from me than the book I got him for Christmas.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? 

I would love to put up appalling pictures of Sourpuss Stoner, but I won't. Guy from Enid's made me depressed for about a week, then I got over it.

2010 update: My own.

14. Where did most of your money go? 

Rent again. And I got a great 100% wool coat from Bluefly and a trench from Banana Republic.

2010 update: The apartment and new furniture.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? 

My cousin's wedding! Discovering I could work out consistently with eight-pound weights!

2010 update: The first ever Rocky Horror-themed Punk Rope class.

16. What song will always remind you of 2009? 

I didn't answer this question for 2009, but in 2010 it's "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga, and not for the reason you'd assume: while biking in the New York Century along the Shore Parkway Greenway (under the Verrazano), I felt this sudden urge to yell: "I'm a free bitch, baby!" In that moment, the worst summer ever was gone. It subsequently returned when I wasn't good enough for Prom King.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you: 

a) happier or sadder? Infinitely happier.
b) thinner or fatter?  Just a few more pounds of serious muscle.
c) richer or poorer? Poorer because I overdid it with x-mas gifts.

2010 update:
a) happier or sadder? Much sadder.
b) thinner or fatter?  Fatter.
c) richer or poorer? Broke even: richer because I automatically put money into savings with each paycheck and poorer because I spent too much on booze.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of? 

Gym stuff.

2010 update: Same answer.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of? 

Playing a woman scorned.

2010 update: Wasting the last third of the year.

20. How did you spend Christmas? 

Spent x-mas eve with Gentleman Caller and celebrated Jewish Christmas with Joe Katz and Michelle.

2010 update: I will answer this question in a nearly finished forthcoming blog post.

21. Did you fall in love in 2009? 

I didn't answer this question in 2009, but in 2010 I can say without a doubt that I did -- and look where it got me.

22. What was your favorite TV program? 

Continued watching Mad Men, and House remains superb.

2010 update: Add Dexter and Steven Moffat's Doctor Who.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

Matt, Ben, Gina, the whole kit and caboodle.

2010 update: I finished a project from hell for the Bitch Editor and was laid off soon after. She didn't give any acknowledgment of my contributions.

24. What was the best book you read? 

I did not answer this question in 2009, but the 2010 answer is This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper. If you liked the Coen Bros. A Serious Man, you'll love this book.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery? 

I did not answer this question in 2009, but in 2010 I initially hated Sufjan Stevens's The Age of Adz, then loved it at his performance at the Beacon.

26. What did you want and get? 

I did not answer this question in 2009, but the 2010 answer is my own apartment.

27. What did you want and not get? 

I did not answer this question in 2009, but the 2010 answer is an secure romantic relationship.

28. What was your favorite film of this year? 

Inglorious Bastards. Meg and I could not get enough Chrisoph Waltz.

2010 update: The Social Network is perfection from start to finish.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

 I turned 23 with Andrew in Philadelphia. He took me out to a churrascaria. I celebrated with Punk Rope pals -- even Ashley ventured into Brooklyn -- and knocked back glass after glass of French 75s at the Richardson. I had earlier enjoyed pizza with Bitchcakes at Motorino for her birthday.

2010 update: Here are pics from my birthday party (with a few more from Bitchcakes): I had dinner at Roberta's with my family and friends followed by drinks at the Counting Room. On my birthday proper, I attended a Jimmy Fallon taping (care of Prom King) to see a band he likes, Menomena. I'm 24.

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? 

2009 was an above-average year, and 2010 riding on its wave and ultimately crashed.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008? 

In 2009 I felt more comfortable in dresses, and in 2010 I wore short shorts! Then I proceeded to get very out of shape because there's no more motivation to go to the gym (or do anything else once pleasurable).

32. What kept you sane? 

I did not answer this question in 2009, but the 2010 answer is an illegal drug that most likely kept me sane in 2009 too.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? 

Jon Hamm and Christina Hendricks.

2010 update: Matt Smith and Karen Gillan.

34. What political issue stirred you the most? 

I don't really get involved in politics, but let's say term limits: I do not believe in them. Yes, Mike Bloomberg played dirty to get elected to a third term as mayor of New York, but he still got my vote.

2010 update: I should mention Jimmy "the rent is too damn high" McMillan for a laugh and then get serious about my sympathy for David Paterson -- absolutely no one can "clean up" Albany -- and my anger about the mismanagement of the MTA. Second Avenue Sagas does a great job of placing blame correctly, either on Albany or the MTA itself.

35. Whom did you miss? 

Same answer for 2009 and 2010: Bill and I don't see each other often enough, and it's one-way communication on my part.

36. Whom was the best new person you met? 

I technically met her last year (2008), but Bitchcakes takes first place, with Punk Rope Tim coming in at a respectable second.

2010 update: Professor Eval and, though I've only met her casually, Judy "Dategirl" McGuire.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009.

I did not answer this question in 2009, but the 2010 answer is Fox Mulder's motto: "Trust no one."

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

I did not answer this question in 2009, but the 2010 answer is: "Here's to all the pretty words we will never speak. Here's to all the pretty girls you're gonna meet," from Rilo Kiley's "Breakin' Up" (Under the Blacklight).

wake-up call

2010-09-14T09:13:00.002-04:00

I've woken up consistently at 5am for the last three days:

Sunday to bike the fifty-five mile route with Joe Katz on the New York Century tour.
Monday to visit Bill on his first full day of classes.
Tuesday (today) to vote in the New York primary election.

I have voted in every general election -- I may have missed a primary or two -- since turning eighteen because it's when I can make a difference, and I was so honored to be given the first ballot of Brooklyn's 90th district at 6:20am this morning.

It was my first time using the scanner machine -- I miss the old lever system! Now voting feels like taking a test -- and the first bubble I filled in was for Joe Lentol. I must admit that I'm terrible about following politics, but Assemblyman Lentol was made for the job. He's amiable, hard working, and cares about the community. He's also got a great sense of humor.

When the MTA decided to cut the B61 bus route in half and decrease the frequency of service, I named the new northern route the B sixty-screw. Joe Lentol used my off-putting nickname in an official release about the poorer bus service. He also said he'd swim in the Newtown Creek if Google gave his district broadband.

He also works with a great staff. When I heard the G train was going to be replaced by shuttle buses for another four weeks earlier this year, I called his office and spoke with Amy about the situation. She outlined that the cement the tracks lay on needed to be replaced, necessitating a complete shutdown of service over the weekend for it to dry. I'm glad I could receive an informed answer about trackwork from my assembyman's office since the MTA is not as forthcoming.

You can read an excellent endorsement for Joe Lentol in the Greenpoint Gazette and read about more of his accomplishments and service on Bitchcakes's post; we're even featured on official re-election material!

Regardless of whom you vote for, make an informed decision and above all VOTE before polls close at 9pm!

two-month hiatus

2010-06-20T19:25:00.008-04:00

I call this my ill-kept blog for a good reason: I lack the discipline to update it as often as I'd like to. Honestly, after sitting at my desk for the whole day looking at a computer screen, the last thing I want to do when I get home is stare at the screen of my own computer.

I've also been busier than ever, so I thought it's time for a wrap-up post!

On May 1 I did something I never thought I'd do: Joe Katz convince me to bike to midtown Manhattan, and I didn't get killed! There had been a bike tour planned down the new Broadway bike lane -- which was poorly organized, so it didn't happen -- but Joe and I biked from Greenpoint, over the Pulaski and Queensboro Bridges, to Columbus Circle, down Broadway, onto Second Avenue, and returned via the Williamsburg Bridge. We biked eighteen miles, and I was exhausted!

Here we are in Columbus Circle:

Here I am taking a nap while a Punk Rope clinic was going on in McCarren later in the afternoon:

On May 4 I went to Word to celebrate the launch of Emily St. John Mandel's The Singer's Gun.

On May 8 Robert Reid took Matt Watt, Andrew "Brooklyn Nomad" Hickey, and me on a tour of Billy Joel's Long Island, which we abbreviated #bjtravel on Twitter.

Here's Robert's 76-Second Travel Show of the day; he did a great job editing out all my giggles, as I can honestly say I never laughed as hard and as often as I did with this band of fellow #bjtravel-ers:

I'm hoping Robert will follow up with a similar visit to Joisey in September for #bstravel, that is, in honor of Bruce Springsteen.

Mother's Day was spent with the maternal one. I took her out for brunch:

On May 14 on my way to the Meat Hook, I spotted the fine Men of Rescue Me, and they offered to take a picture with me after I praised the show!

"Rescue Me" leading men & me!, originally uploaded by rutila.

I continued to train for the Punk Rope Games. Having learned doubles in late April, I practiced a little bit every day at work until I could do twenty consecutively and ultimately did thirty-four doubles in thirty seconds the day of (with one trip). This video was taken the day before the Games:

On May 22 my team, Chick Lit, tied for fourth place with Joe Katz's Newtown Creek Toxic Avengers. Joe Katz, who taught me doubles, and I square off early in the competition:

originally uploaded by bitchcakesny.

And after some propositioning...

originally uploaded by bitchcakesny.

...we make up:

originally uploaded by bitchcakesny.

Bitchcakes and I have a pint at the post-Games party at the Gibson:

Yay! Beer + Rutila = good times, originally uploaded by bitchcakesny.

Not only was the day a major achievement, but many people complimented my athleticism. If they only knew how I despised gym class and used to hate physical activity!

The next day Meredith hosted a brunch, and I didn't feel guilty about all the carbs:

Rutila serves her famous French toast, originally uploaded by bitchcakesny.

On May 25 Daniel Handler popped some absinthe in my martini at Word:

Rutila gets cocktail therapy, originally uploaded by Word Brooklyn.

The next two days I worked at the Book Expo America's autographing area.

Memorial Day weekend was spent with Joe Katz: We biked to Ikea, kayaked with Kristen and Marina, and biked to Manhattanhenge. On Memorial Day proper I made a dent in Justin Cronin's The Passage at the Richardson with two Tom Collinses.

On June 1 I went to Word's event with Joshua Braff and Jonathan Tropper. The latter wrote This Is Where I Leave You, an indescribably hilarious book that similar in vein to the Coen Bros. A Serious Man. I loved it and encourage everyone to read it!

On June 5 I went to the Queens Botanical Garden to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of my foster family and biked in the Tour de Brooklyn the next day with Joe Katz and Bitchcakes:

It's Joe Katz & Rutila!, originally uploaded by bitchcakesny.

And because you can never have enough Joe Katz, on June 8 he joined me for an after-hours event at the Museum of Natural History in honor of its new exhibit, "Race to the End of the Earth," about the two rivals attempting to reach the South Pole first. Look at how dapper he is:

On June 10 I attended the Brokelyn Ball and won a cut and color to Beehive Salon. I had just bought and used a Groupon to get rid of my ponytail -- my hair hadn't been that long since 1997! -- and was disappointed with the cut and service (pretentious hipster stylist), so I was ecstatic:

DSC_0087, originally uploaded by @overstiffdrinks.

On June 12 my colleague and I attended our first Gotham Girls Roller Derby bout with VIP seats. The game was amazing, and I'd like to go to the next game.

On June 15 I attended a reading at Teachers College with Neil Gaiman. Joe Hill acted as moderator of the discussion of genre vs. mainstream fiction.

On June 17 I went to Word's fabulous prom for literary singles, which was covered in the New York Times. Though Bitchcakes got to dance with the King, I got his number!

Rutila, Me, Jaci: Hot bitches @ Prom Night, originally uploaded by bitchcakesny.

And if that weren't enough, on June 18 I told Arthur Nersesian, best known for writing The Fuck-Up, how much I loved his novel Dogrun. I even wrote the copy for the Skint's listing of the event.

I spent this weekend recovering from everything and look forward to a quiet week. If these two months were any indication, I need all the rest I can get for the summer!

proud to be a Hooker

2010-04-28T09:47:00.008-04:00

Ben
Originally uploaded by liladobbs

"The green chorizo will get you laid. The bacon-cheeseburger sausage is High Times–approved stoner food. Pork hearts make for a great Valentine’s Day dinner."
--butchers' everyday claims

When the Meat Hook opened in November 2009, I had no idea what to expect and was worried it was going to be a frou-frou hipster enclave -- that I wouldn't belong, that I wouldn't know what to buy, and that I wouldn't know how to cook it. These concerns couldn't have been farther from the truth.

Butchers Tom, Ben, and Brent welcomed all customers with smiles and free sausage samples. I forget what I purchased on that first visit, but I kept coming back for more: pork chops for crunchy baked pork chops, chopped meat for gwumpki, chicken wings for the Super Bowl, and so on. Sure, the prices aren't cheap, but the meat's delicious and comes from grass-fed animals raised on local farms. And you won't get better service elsewhere.

How to Break Down Half a Pig
Originally uploaded by Caviar

Unbeknownst to me at the time, Tom's a big guy in the Brooklyn foodie scene; moreover the group has gotten a lot of press, but you'd never guess from their total lack of ego. Since they're so generous with advice and sausage, I've dropped off extra gwumpki a handful of times and popped in one Friday with a bottle of Jack Daniel's just for the hell of it. (Note to future groupies: They prefer Wild Turkey 101.) In turn, they've let me know about secret goings-on, shared even more whiskey with me after taking a cooking class, and invited me and a guest to Meat and Gin night free of charge. When I walked in, Odessey and Oracle by the Zombies was playing -- you'll always hear good music -- and Tom and James Moreland from Bombay Sapphire lead us through three pairings. I argued about the proper gin for a martini with James, who taught the class that British bartenders count in "elephants," not "Mississippis," and praised Tom's sirloin, which can put Peter Luger out of business. I left happily drunk with a liter of gin and a special project from Tom.

Brent
Originally uploaded by liladobbs

They've got a great sense of humor and are also open to feedback. When they first tried making kielbasa, it was a failure: too fatty and not enough "smokey." After a few other versions, they've perfected the taste but not the consistency. Though most customers go for their inventive sausage, which tastes exactly how it's described (bacon cheeseburger, bahn mi, and the new-ish scallion and sesame -- stir-fry in casing!), my personal favorite is '90s Man, a nice simple blend of chicken and herbs. I recently explained to Tom why I go for that one above others: it doesn't have the usual 70-30 lean-to-fat ratio their other sausages have, and I dislike the greasiness of the fat when cooking and eating. He suggested I have an edible complex: I grew up on kielbasa, so I'll always go for leaner meat. You can't find such accurate psychoanalysis at your local grocery store!

Encouraged by a co-worker who is not only a sideshow performer but also a barbecue judge, I took a pig-butchering class, learned all the cuts of pork -- even a secret one -- and appreciate these guys even more than before: They spend hours practicing a labor-intensive art, then they do it again and spiel about it. Here's Tom tenderizing ham:

Tom Demonstrates a Tenderizing Technique, originally uploaded by masto.

The Meat Hook and its butchers (I can't call them "men" anymore, since Sarah recently joined the ranks) are another reason to love Greenpoint, even if the store's technically located in Williamsburg. They always make my day when I visit, and Wild Turkey's the least I can do.

You can sign up for their next pig-butchering class here, get tips from Tom here and here, and learn how to cook the perfect medium-rare steak. Follow their adventures on Twitter too.

officially an athlete

2010-04-12T12:13:00.007-04:00

Beatles mania!
Originally uploaded by bitchcakesny

"Sounds like you're suffering from inner-thigh exhaustion." --Lori
"Yeah, but I'd rather it be from something else than from the gym." --Me

Last week was almost a perfectly solid one. Though I reached a nadir in my mood last Tuesday I took care of it via an unusual treatment. It worked, and here are my training accomplishments of the week.

On Wednesday for Total Body Conditioning (TBC), I challenged myself with twelve-pound weights. I could barely make it through the class with ten-pound ones, but after a quick consultation with the instructor, she encouraged me to go for it, and even complimented my form during some upper-body work (not push-ups, in which I remain particularly pathetic). Half-way through the class my body began shaking. It was scary because my heart was racing too, and by some miracle I didn't collapse. Punk Rope followed, with happy hour after that, and I wore a smokin' hot dress.

My inner thighs were in agony until Saturday, when morning yoga was easier than it had been for the past few weeks. I'd been struggling with the poses, even simple stretches. I kept the pace for most of Interval Training and decided to stay for TBC since classes aren't being held next week.

Sunday was achievement city. I joined the Word running group for a jaunt up Franklin and down West on a glorious day. Stephanie showed mercy, keeping an easy pace and leading us just under two miles. After running for twelve minutes straight I needed to recover. Thankfully none of the seasoned runners laughed at me. This is huge, because I've never run for such a long time. (Yes, anything over a dash for the bus is a long time for me.) On the short bike ride back, I decided I had graduated from reluctant gym-goer to an athlete. If I keep this up, I may decide to run the Get to the 'Point 5K and beat my time (47:58) from 1998, when I was thirty pounds heavier and walked the whole thing.

A positive influence who I had written about before, Mr. Joe K., was key to the next feather in my cap. Three-quarters of my Punk Rope team received instruction from the newly certified instructor, and he taught me doubles. After going over some basic techniques, we put it all together, and I got it on the first try. Then I did two doubles in a row. Now all I'm doing is practicing them because I want to do well in the competition.

As recently as last week, I was upset because my first Punk Rope anniversary is in a month (May 20) and at first I thought I had little to show for it because I'm not a size 6. However, since I began training in earnest I now know better than to have a number (clothing size, scale, even weights) define me. I can make it through a difficult workout, keep up in yoga, run, and tie Joe K. in crosses.

veni, vidi, vici

2010-04-05T11:00:00.002-04:00

I had a good weekend, except for the part where I went a little crazy. On Saturday I did yoga and interval training but planned to skip the following class because I was meeting someone for brunch. We had a nice day, walking around in circles in Fort Greene and Clinton Hill, until we met up with his buddies who needed to drive to Bushwick. Bushwick right near where Ben and Gina live, right near where they just opened a wine bar.

I had written about this a year ago, cheering them on. Since then we haven't spoken. Since then I had entered and left a relationship with a mutual friend (whom I met through Punk Rope, which goes to show you how small the world is). Whenever this mutual friend brought them up while we were together, my body stiffened. I hated then how I reacted to people who don't care about me, and I hate that I continue to care about people who don't care about me.

A few weeks ago, this mutual friend stopped me on the street. "Guess where I was last night," he started, and since the previous night was St. Patrick's Day, I had guessed he was out. "I was at Ben and Gina's place."

Well, thank you for bringing up people I haven't thought about in months -- actually, I decided "we" weren't working anymore after the last time you mentioned them -- and for giving me information I didn't need. I had all but forgotten them and their business, and now you've got my mind reeling in ideas: they should get their charcuterie from the Meat Hook. When another acquaintance mentioned putting together a songwriters night, I thought of that wine bar since the original plans included a stage. And lo, there is a stage to the left of the entrance looking out onto the street:

Ben and Gina greeted us. They have always been good hosts. I even got to peck Ben's woolly cheek. Ben came over to our table with a few reds, and I chose the tempranillo that he described as "an iron fist in a velvet glove." It had a bold body and great finish. As I told my group, anything on the wine and beer list would be good because Ben and Gina know what they're doing. We ordered a plate with everything -- meat, cheese, olives, garlic scapes -- and tuna crostini.

Gina preps food behind the bar.

The spread, which included a mild blue cheese that didn't make me sick. (I hate blue cheese.) Also, that bread's from Roberta's.

Tuna crostini.

I used to love going to their apartment for extravagant meals -- it was always gourmet even if Ben was grilling -- and I'll always be thankful that they introduced me to sophistication so I can enter wine bars with confidence. But I cannot endorse them as heartily as I did last year. I want to stop caring.

training

2010-04-02T10:55:00.002-04:00

The Cross Boss Competition
Originally uploaded by Punk Rope

One-quarter of 2010 has finished, and I have little to show for it. Not only does my mood crash hard after the holidays, but schedules that I put in place for the new year were messed up by emergency wisdomtoothectomies and long, stressful days at work. Moreover, I was also somewhat sick these last two weeks and have not been at the top of my game health wise. Hell, I'll be honest: I've been eating too much, drinking too much, and exercising too little. I'd have a good week, then a bad one. All in all, not good.

That's all changing this weekend, as I've signed up with three other lovely ladies to compete in the Punk Rope Games. Our team, Chick Lit, will battle nine others for infamy and glory. I vow to put everything on hold in order to do my team justice and train like there's no tomorrow.

Here's my schedule -- my "week" starts tomorrow, a Saturday -- and I expect all 1.5 readers of this blog to hold me to it. It looks like a lot, but I was working out to a similar schedule last summer and felt strong, healthy, and sexy:
Saturday
8:50 Yoga (YMCA)
10 Interval Training (YMCA)
11 Total Body Conditioning (YMCA) Taking this class is tough after the previous one, but I will try. I also know I can do it because I have done it.

Sunday
10 running with nerds (Word)
11 Pilates (YMCA)
12 Cardio Kickboxing (YMCA)

Monday
12:30 Total Body Plus (work) Starting April 12.
6:30 Interval Training (YMCA)

Tuesday
12:30 Abs & Arms (work) Starting April 12.
6:30 Cardio Kickboxing (YMCA)
7:40 Yoga (YMCA)

Wednesday
6:30 Total Body Conditioning (YMCA)
7:30 Punk Rope (YMCA)

Thursday
11:30 Below the Belt (a.k.a. Ass Class) (work) Starting April 12.
6:30 Pilates (YMCA)

Friday
12:30 Total Body Plus (work) Starting April 12.

Future posts include recipes of my spartan diet and weekly updates -- did I follow my plan? have I mastered double unders? My ultimate goal is to kick some ass with my team. If I look great doing it, then all the better!

to lovers past and present

2010-03-11T11:43:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I wish my sexuality remained unawakened. If I never had sex, I could never be negatively affected by it, much like how you can prevent alcoholism by never touching liquor or drug abuse by not sampling anything recreational. When I was in college, though, I realized that sooner or later I would have to have sex in order to have a fulfilling relationship, whereas you can't say the same about drugs, alcohol, gambling, and a host of other activities that can go wrong.¹ For example, I'm only hurting myself if I can't control my spending or my booze (except if I had a family), but I'm irrevocably including someone else with sex. Whether it's harmful needs to be decided on a case-by-case basis.

To the inconsequentials
You weren't so inconsequential at the time we were having sex. Each time I did it with you -- and there were a lot of you -- I'd feel unfulfilled, thinking, "That's all there is?", and committing myself to a lifetime of frigidity and disappointment. And infections. I'd get you out of my life, decide to start anew, but you'd leave me with a UTI or BV or something else that wasn't an STD (of course I was safe!) but affiliated with doing the deed. Finally, I got fed up with this cycle and decided to give up men for 2008. I still might be harboring grudges on you if it weren't for this other dude.

To the sourpuss stoner
Your original nickname was Marijuana Matt, then you became my rapist ex-boyfriend, but I think "sourpuss stoner" hits the nail on the head when it comes to your pathetic existence. You were neglectful, used me for my money to buy toys for your photography hobby, and raped me after Valentine's Day dinner. (When the person you call your girlfriend on Facebook -- because reality means nothing to you -- wakes up crying after passing out from a ten-gallon martini with memories of you fucking her when she was undressing, perhaps you should try to console her?) Nothing felt "right" the year I was with you, but I stuck it out because you made it seem as if I couldn't trust my own judgment due to my naïveté. I threw caution to the wind, and you abused my trust. I hate you with every cell of my body.

To the guy from Enid's
You met me at the top of my game. In summer 2009 I had been consistently going the gym, felt great overall after befriending Punk Ropers, and had the confidence that losing a few pounds provides to boot. I made the first move, saying you reminded me of John Hodgman, and you shouldn't have felt uncomfortable when I showed up for a burger in Park Slope in a dress; I was feeling hot and had a date. I toned my wardrobe down considerably when we went to Donovan's and had a blast when we made out on the Pulaski Bridge. Though we never had sex, I think it would have been fantastic, even though I still wasn't quite sure what to do with my body. It would take another man to teach me what I liked.

To the gentleman caller
It's impossible for me to say anything negative about you. Our relationship wasn't perfect, but you respected me, comforted me, and gave me the best sexual education when it comes to my body (and yours). You made me forget about the sourpuss stoner, and I will never forget that one night when I opened up, telling you about a time I went completely bat-shit crazy, and you held me, hysterical and crying, in your arms and forgave me. Unfortunately, I felt intimidated and incapable of providing adequate emotional support -- that's what usually happens when I date someone significantly older -- and we walked away on good terms. I will always be grateful for your most important lesson: there are good men in the world worth waiting for.

To the missed connection
Shortly after calling it quits with Gentleman Caller, I was on the G train and overheard you talking to your friends about General Grievous, the robot with a cough from Star Wars: Episode Three. I had to speak up, saying it's impossible for something without lungs and a diaphragm to cough, and then exited at Greenpoint. I was stunned that you wrote a Missed Connection post on Craig's List about it, and we got to know each other. You're my age (check!), from Long Island (not a hipster!), and available (yes!). We went out a few times in January -- I even felt comfortable telling you about my eccentric drug habits, and you seemed interested -- but we didn't really click. Okay. Fine. No big loss. Then the teasing started: You mentioned some of your interesting sexual practices and sent me text messages when you were horny, and I found you attractive because you were unattainable. Then you kissed me after we spent a good night at Punk Rope happy hour. My brain and intuition said not to do it, but my baser instincts wanted you. I gave into them, and then I realized that you were not going to like me the way I wanted to be liked. I ripped you off like a Band-Aid; it hurt like hell, but now I can stop picking at my skin.

¹ Susan Cheever's Desire: Where Sex Meets Addictionis a horribly written book that has few insights, but the author makes clear how sex addiction is different from others.

vegan depression cake

2010-02-26T21:24:00.007-05:00

I took an anti-Valentine's Day cooking class at, where else?, the Brooklyn Kitchen. Our teachers were the inimitable Tamara Reynolds and Zora O'Neill, authors of Forking Fantastic.¹ I had earlier met them at Word's "Sunday night dinner" potluck and appreciated their devil-may-care approach to cooking. Their philosophy is all about having fun when you cook even in the face of disaster, and their enthusiasm didn't wane during class. Every dish is simple and, dare I say, fantastic in its own way: easy to prepare with a touch gourmet. I even searched for miso after Zora encouraged its use.

They welcomed the class with pork hearts as an appetizer before dessert. Yes, dessert, as the class promised dessert first. And it was delicious. And, if you skip the glaze, which I'm not including and is chocolate overload in my opinion, vegan.

I'm not vegan by any means. In fact, nothing would make me happier than spending the rest of my days carnivorously glutting myself at Peter Luger, but I doubt my arteries, waistline, and wallet would be similarly glad. So I attempt to eat healthfully as often as possible: my snacks consist of fruit, protein-rich quinoa has replaced brown rice in meals, and my go-to at-work lunch, which had been roasted broccoli and a serving of ravioli, is now the best salad ever (blog post of the recipe to come).

Anyways, I've been becoming more veggie-conscious, culminating in my mostly vegetarian Super Bowl party, for which I made kick-ass vegan (if you skip the cheese) chili (blog post of the recipe to come), and I make note of the ingredients of every recipe that comes into view in case it's something I can make for my herbivorous pals. When Zora introduced this chocolate cake as "depression cake," all the girls giggled; yeah, we've all been there with a comfort food, stuffing ourselves aimlessly on a bad day or during that time of the month. However, depression cake was invented during the Great Depression, when most families could not afford eggs and dairy.

By definition it's vegan. That doesn't mean it's healthful,² but it beats Entenmann's for special occasions. Just try not to eat the whole thing.

Six-Minute Chocolate Cake (anything in bold is a spin or my preference)
1.5 cups of flour
1/3 cup of cocoa (or substitute flour and cocoa with Bob's Red Mill chocolate cake mix)
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup vegetable oil (or walnut oil [Zora's suggestion])
1 cup cold water or coffee
2 tsp vanilla
2 tbsp vinegar

Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees and gather ingredients:

Grease eight-inch square or nine-inch round cake pan with oil (I used grapeseed) and coat with cocoa (or cake mix):

Sift together all dry ingredients:

Mix together all liquid ingredients EXCEPT VINEGAR in a measuring cup:

Pour liquids into dry mixture and mix:

Pop batter into the pan and ready the vinegar:

Pour vinegar in -- do not be alarmed at the chemical reaction:

And combine until all the discoloration is gone; work fast:

Bake twenty-five to thirty minutes. Muffin is impatient:

Perform the toothpick test and let cool. Do not let Muffin nor roommate eat:

Enjoy during Buffy night³:

Even men like depression cake!

¹ The full title is Forking Fantastic! Put the Party Back in Dinner Party. Order it from your friendly neighborhood indie.

² Bitchcakes has excellent posts about cutting out artificial ingredients from your diet, which I mention because people think "It's sugar/fat/calorie free! It must be good for me!" Well, most likely it's not.

³ Shout-out to Jessica, the best hostess in Williamsburg!

more bus craziness

2010-02-12T11:49:00.004-05:00

The G Shuttle on Manhattan Ave
Originally uploaded by bitchcakesny

The little crosstown that could, a.k.a. the castrated (four-car long) G train, has been out of service for the past few weekends and replaced by shuttle buses. Because trackwork was suspended last weekend, the last weekend of no G, Brooklynites get to enjoy a three-day weekend without the predictably crappy G and with the unpredictably disastrous shuttles. Briana of Unemployed Brooklyn contributed her horror story to Greenpointers. Originally I was not going to write up my experience for this blog but decided to share it here after sending it to Briana's friend Chris, leader of the Skint. He wanted to visit Greenpoint this weekend but was dismayed on this goal after discovering the G was yet again out of commission.

I wouldn't recommend the G shuttle buses because the drivers don't know where they're going and can't help the hysterics who are lost. I was taking the shuttle into LIC, having just missed the B62, and both the driver and a passenger were oblivious to the elevated 7 train. "Where's the 7?" she kept asking anxiously. "I don't know," the bus driver said, "I just stop where I see yellow signs." So I had to step in and point out: "Um, guys, look at the train tracks down the block. The 7 is right in front of you."

To make matters worse, the driver completely missed the Court Square stop (it had a yellow sign) -- after stopping at Court House Square for the 7 -- and this hipster woman in a cropped fur coat and huge-ass sunglasses (at night, in the rain) came down on him like a shit storm and gave it to me when I said she could take whatever came in at Queens Plaza for the same service plus the R.

People of Brooklyn: don't be like that hipster girl; do some investigating about alternative routes and plan on what to do if something goes wrong. This includes seeing if another bus or train can take you to where you're going, and you need not deal with airheads like people who can't see the 7 when it's right in front of them since it has its regular passengers and drivers.

a literary single

2010-01-31T15:38:00.003-05:00

Between the Covers mixer
Originally uploaded by Word Brooklyn

I was recently interviewed in Time Out New York for Word's Between the Covers matchmaking mixer for literary singles. Instead of linking to the article, I'm posting my full replies below. (In case you're wondering, I'm in the halter.) Feel free to get in touch with me via Kontact'r if you don't want to leave a comment to schedule a book chat.

1. How would you like your name to appear [on your blog]?
Rutila, which means "redhead" in Latin.

2. What is your age?
23; I'm a precocious publishing professional, having worked in the field since 2002.

3. Which neighborhood do you live in?
Greenpoint (and I'm a native, so I make better Polish food than most of its obiadys).

4. What do you do for work?
Senior Editorial Assistant for [a nonfiction publisher]. I work in encyclopedias, so I traffic articles from authors to reviewers, from editors to production, copyedit front matter, and make cheesecake when people need a break from tight deadlines.

5. What did your original post on the bulletin board say?
I am a woman looking for a man who likes reading Neil Gaiman -- my favorite author -- but hates Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. I also enjoy books by Mary Roach (of Stiff fame), Frans de Waal, and Robert M. Sapolsky (the latter are primatologists).

6. What is your favorite book about a relationship, or your ideal relationship illustrated in novel-form? Why is it your favorite?
I am looking for the Mr. Rochester to my Jane Eyre. Like Jane, I was a precocious child who got in trouble in school a number of times for bucking it to the administration. Their relationship is one of equals, two well-educated people who debate and spar, and their differences in opinion bring them closer together. So if we're a match of wits, I'll most likely forgive the skeletons in your closet -- or the mad wife in your attic.

7. What are your literary dealbreakers?
On the off chance you're a guy who read and enjoyed Eat, Pray, Love and anything from the Twilight series, I doubt we'd get along. I'm a huge fan of graphic novels, but dime-store comic books shouldn't be the only literature you digest. And is that a Kindle you're toting? I'm an old-fashioned book-in-bound-form reader.

8. What are your favorite bookstores in New York City?
Word in Greenpoint, of course, because its staff recommendations never strike out, and it's so easy to get involved in its events: I made crepes for its Basketball and Brunch event, debated the merits of body hair at the Obsolete event, and suggested an event between the authors of a book on Napoleon's penis and one on Jesus's foreskin, which the events coordinator [Kelly, pictured with me] made happen. I'm also a fan of Greenlight in Fort Greene -- I stained bookcases for the new store in the summer -- because opening an independent bookstore is a gamble in this climate, and I couldn't pick a better staff to put my money on.

9. What are your favorite literary pickup spots? In which bookstores can you pick up the cutest people?
I actually met someone at a Desk Set (an organization of bibliophiles, mainly librarians, that raises money for literacy programs) party at Enid's, and the best literary pickup spot has to be the Javits during Book Expo America (BEA). The nation's top publishers, booksellers, librarians, and educators -- not to mention some cute authors -- are all under one roof and attend a number of parties at night. I went to the BEA Tweetup and was able to collect business cards for professional networking and pleasure. I have yet to pick up someone at a bookstore because I'm most likely paying too much attention to the books.

10. Have you gone on any dates through the board so far? If so, what were they like?
Not yet, but someone recently admitted a crush on me via the board. We're setting up a casual get-together in the near future.

11. What did you learn about posting on the board? What did you like and not like about it?
Like publishing in general, there are more women than men. We need to encourage more men to be open about their literary leanings. Do you geek out with fantasy? Say so! You'll be sure to find a similar gal.

12. In terms of books, who are you looking for?
It'd be great to meet a guy who'll admit he buys cookbooks, for the obvious implication that he'd have me over and wow me with his culinary skills, but in something more down to earth I'd like to meet someone who admits to reading young-adult books (YA), as some YA can be just as racy as adult books.

13. Why did you want to meet someone at this event in particular?
Because every once in a while us bibliophiles need to get our noses out of books. I'm going to the event at Diamond first and foremost to support my friends at Word, and more to connect with bookworms than to expect to meet someone. Though if it happens, the right person will get a card from my catalog to use my call number and hopefully won't let the good times expire.

14. What is your "required reading" list, i.e. one-five books you'd really like a potential date to have read, and why?
A tricky question because I can either be really picky or name popular books that anyone could have read. Let's say you've read something by Neil Gaiman (American Gods is my favorite novel); read The Catcher in the Rye, appreciated Holden's honesty but acknowledged his flaws; found a Shakespearean play that spoke to you (mine is Hamlet); and have a battered copy of Strunk and White in your library from school.

not going your way

2010-01-14T11:20:00.004-05:00

The B62 home
Originally uploaded by bitchcakesny

Amy from Joe Lentol's office kindly commented on my post about the B62, and I was thrilled not only to hear from her but to discover that Mr. Lentol himself has picked up the nickname I coined for the new service, the B sixty-screw. In the post I quoted a press release from his office, and I'm following up to reflect that I was not accusing Mr. Lentol of wrecking the B61 -- he does not work for the "think tank" that is the MTA -- but was rather being cynical at the belief that there are such things as quick solutions to chronic problems.¹

Instead of posting the whole discussion here -- Bitchcakes has supplied her own follow-up and the entire press release -- I'll just quote the strongest bits and pieces. Amy writes:

You are absolutely right. The change in the B61 has been a complete failure thus far. Once again the lack of transparency from the MTA -- namely the complete failure of the MTA to so much as mention a change in schedule much a less a complete gutting of the bus schedule -- has turned what we had hoped would be a very positive change into a very negative one.

I'm glad you agree, Amy! Moreover, thanks to Mr. Lentol for driving home this point:

"North Brooklyn commuters are in urgent need of improved subway and bus service. It seems as if the MTA is drowning out our repeated requests for improved services. It is my hope that the MTA reconsiders these cuts and instead considers the needs of the people. I hope to meet with MTA officials soon to discuss how this can be done. However, if my district continues to be ignored, I will be forced to reconsider how I support the MTA in Albany," argues Assemblyman Lentol.

Not only does your district in north Brooklyn deserve better public transportation but also Bedford-Stuyvesant, which your district hugs, and parts south including Kensington and Park Slope (serviced by the F). I lived in Kensington for four months after graduating college and couldn't stand depending on the F, hence the return to Greenpoint where I can accurately judge how unreliable service can be. Now, with the B sixty-screw I can't even do that.

I wish Mr. Lentol all the best while working with his colleagues in Albany. While I do not expect change overnight I value his commitment to his constituency. Also, please keep in touch, Amy; La Diosa del Metro will happily volunteer time and thought to aid her neighborhood.

¹ Allow me to summarize commenters on Gothamist: "Wouldn't it be great if the G ran to Manhattan? It would solve the bus problem." Yes, it would, but you've got to work with the existing infrastructure. Wouldn't it be great if splitting the B61 prevented delays? Yes, but it doesn't due to the nature of traffic in downtown Brooklyn.

the real international man of mystery

2010-01-05T16:36:00.005-05:00

Joe K. supports single moms
Originally uploaded by bitchcakesny

I cannot express enough how grateful (and lucky) I am to be a Punk Roper. Though I am not given to embracing a community spirit, when accepted by a group of the coolest, wackiest bunch of attractive nerds in existence you've got no choice but to embrace back. Having already written a love letter to Bitchcakes, it's time Joe "Sweet Action" K. [ed. note: He asked that his last name be removed.] got a post of his own.

He already has a post of his own, you say? Well, you're right, but he's gotten more awesome since then, except for when he let me to eat fried baby fish from a Korean restaurant before his birthday karaoke party. That was not awesome. Other culinary outings with him, however, have been a delight: we celebrated Jewish Christmas at Madangsui, cooking bulgogi, shrimp, and mushrooms over an open flame. He hosted brunch at his place a week or two before, coinciding with Hanukkah, which allowed me to show off with boozy baked French toast (holla for challah!) and latkes.

During my two-week vacation from Hoboken, we crossed paths several times: he joined Gentleman Caller and me at Avatar in IMAX, requested my company at brunch (letting me pick the venue), and attended New Year's Day brunch, playing a mean game of Taboo.

Though we're often in each other's company, it doesn't mean we always get along. For example he believes in the cockamamie hypothesis that cooking sparked the separation of Homo sapiens from non-human primates. We almost got into fisticuffs in my defense of sound anthropology.

Regardless, Joe K. is the man, even if only for getting me excited about my bike again. He convinced me to bike to brunch, giving me pointers on my riding style, and then we rode around on a short tour of the Greenpoint from my childhood. His encouragement made me feel so comfortable on two wheels -- and that's saying a lot. I've had my bike since May 2008, used it during that summer (the highlight being Summer Streets), and then stopped. Not only did my front wheel need realignment, but it also didn't help that my guerrilla biking partner, Sourpuss Stoner, made me feel incompetent. Who needs negative people when you're toasting with shit wine, brunching in Harlem, taking the 7, or karaoke-ing your heart out? Not me, and definitely not Joe K.

Therefore, thank you, Joe K., for making great Greenpoint and life in general.

MTA fail

2010-01-04T09:36:00.005-05:00

untitled
Originally uploaded by rutila

"Are you on the bus? I hate the B62 already."
-- me to Bitchcakes via text message at 7:00am this morning

Bitchcakes, who follows and blogs about the MTA better and more frequently than even La Diosa del Metro, informed readers that the B61 was going to be split into two lines. Though she was excited about the change, I scoffed at it and explained why in this post, namely because the B61 is convenient as is and because whenever the MTA says a change is going to be the answer to your commuting prayers, it rarely is -- I'm talking about you, V train.

The change is thus: The B61 line is now the B61 and B62. The B61 runs from Red Hook to Downtown Brooklyn, and the B62 runs from Downtown Brooklyn to Long Island City. I had originally thought this change was going to screw up my one-seat commute from Trader Joe's on Atlantic Avenue, but per Gothamist's post on the matter it adds only a couple of blocks of walking with two bags of heavy groceries instead of crossing one street (with two heavy bags of groceries). Relieved that the B62 didn't fuck up my weekend plans as badly as I feared, I figured I'd meet up with Bitchcakes this morning to welcome the B62 together.

She is necessarily obsessive about her commute since she takes the Metro North and must be in Grand Central at such-and-such time to make her train, so I knew exactly when to get on the bus in order to meet her. When I got to the Norman-Manhattan Ave. stop at 7:00am, there was absolutely no one waiting for the bus. Had I missed it, though it was supposed to arrive a few minutes after I got there? I sent her a text message and then reviewed the timetable. No, I did not miss the 7:04 bus because the timetables had been completely re-vamped. I missed the 6:49 and had to wait for the 7:11. The B61 previously arrived every ten minutes -- I should know since I took it every morning religiously during my last two years of high school -- but the B62 arrives with an over-twenty-minute interval in this instance. Checking out the schedule for the rest of the day, I was shocked to see the B62 runs every thirteen minutes at its peak, making it only marginally better than the B48!

Turns out Bitchcakes had not made the 6:49 bus -- of course she hadn't if she expected to take something just after 7:00 -- and she was livid when I saw her on the 7:11. We spent most of the ride chewing out the MTA, and I'm sure she'll post her thoughts tonight.

I had been burned by the B61 before: it made me late for an internship interview -- though I had left an hour before the interview, the bus didn't show up until a half-hour after its posted arrival time -- and something similar happened when my mom and I wanted to go shopping in Elmhurst. I'm as angry as everyone else when the B61 pulls up very late with one or two buddies following it, but the MTA got it wrong when it thought splitting the line and decreasing the frequency of service was the answer to the bus's reliability problem. Perhaps your bus will show up on time now, but it'll be more crowded, as it was this morning.

Does "this initiative [the B62] show Brooklyn residents that the MTA actually does care about its riders’ well-being and satisfaction,"¹ Joe Lentol? I think not. And to think people are paying through the nose to live in Greenpoint, where residents are served by an overcrowded go-nowhere train that arrives every ten minutes or an overcrowded bus with a well-designed route that arrives every thirteen minutes. The B61 used to be my savior from the G train, going that extra "stop" from Court Square to Queens Plaza that the G no longer makes, allowing me to forgive the bus when it showed up when it felt like it. Now I'm nonplussed. Thanks, MTA, for the B sixty-screw.

¹ I'm quoting from his press release, which you can read in its entirety on Bitchcakes's post.

things to do on a perfect day

2010-01-03T22:53:00.002-05:00

Oddly enough, this perfect day happened just over two months ago.

On October 28, 2009, I took a day off from work to go see my doctors, namely my gynecologist and optometrist. I didn't know the day was going to be filled with adventures:

7:00am: Breakfast with Mom
Oatmeal, an apple, and banana with coffee. The usual.

9:00am: Gynecologist appointment (Financial District)
Nothing out of the ordinary. Instead of seeing Dr. Levey, I saw Kayee. Both get top-notch reviews on Yelp, and for good reason; they make an uncomfortable procedure as comfortable as possible. I remember being so frightened that one of the many womanly infections that I usually get when being actively sexually active was going to be found, but everything was normal, and my bloodwork, which came back two weeks later, looked as good as Bitchcakes's results! When I gave blood a few days later, my blood pressure was recorded as 110/70, which is fantastic.

9:30–9:45am: Eyebrow threading (Financial District)
I only go to Thread Salon for my body-hair upkeep, so I walked to the downtown location after my ladybits got a lookover. This franchise deserves a longer detailed post, so I won't praise it now -- though it is highly deserving of your business.

10:30–11:45am: Mini-massage and mini-facial at Nina's European Day Spa (Midtown)
When the threading and waxing were finished, I decided to use a Groupon for Nina's European Day Spa, which included a mini-massage and a mini-facial. The thirty-minute massage was sorely needed, and the masseuse did a move on my calves, running her forearm perpendicularly from my ankle to my knee, that released all the tension I didn't know I had from working out. The mini-facial went over time because of some extra extractions -- curse my oily skin! -- but why complain about getting clean pores?

12:30pm: Return dress to H&M (59th & Lex)
I had bought a form-fitting red strapless dress from H&M thinking I'd dress up as Betty Boop for Halloween. The dress was too big on top and too small on the bottom. It was returned without a problem.

12:45pm: Optometrist appointment (Upper East Side)
Thanks to a no-show, my optometrist saw me earlier than my mid-afternoon appointment. I've been seeing Dr. Cooper for five years, and he's the one responsible for fitting me with contacts to sleep in. I've got 20/20 vision with these babies, and he's convinced the lenses have halted my myopia.

1:45pm: Retrieve diploma from Hunter (Upper East Side)
I've been wanting to scratch this from my list for a long time, but work and anxiety over the long lines at "Oasis" prevented me from doing so.

2:00pm: Scone and tea at Alice's Tea Cup (Upper East Side)
I hadn't been to Alice's in over a year, so I got lunch.

***Commute back to Greenpoint, check e-mail, read articles in Google Reader, get ready for gym.***

6:30pm: Total body conditioning (Greenpoint YMCA)
This was the first time I did a weights-only class at the Y, and if I remember correctly, I did it all with eight-pound weights. Kick-ass!

7:30pm: Punk Rope (Greenpoint YMCA)
After a five-minute breather, I jumped in the Halloween-themed class.

9:30pm: Dinner (Williamsburg)
Gentleman Caller took me out to El Almacen. Excellent date with good food, wine, and conversation.

That's what you do on a perfect day, and my new year's resolution -- though I'm still working on its final wording -- is to make each day as full and perfect as that one.

it'll be just like starting yoga

2009-12-07T00:19:00.005-05:00

summer solstice yoga in times square
Originally uploaded by allysonk

My aunt got me an Om yoga box when I was in high school. She thought practicing it would calm me down. For a week I gave the CD and flash cards a valiant effort, but my body could not hold the poses -- especially downward dog -- and ever since that attempt, any mention of yoga was scoffed at. My lunch-hour fitness instructor at work is a yogi and always encouraged me to sample her class. When I tried my balance was completely off-kilter, I couldn't keep up with the sun salutations, and the pigeon pose caused me so much distress that I figured I was a lost cause.

I was skeptical when trying my first yoga class at the Greenpoint YMCA. What sparked the interest was a conversation with Jan, the Y's yoga maven, during the Punk Rope Astoria pizza crawl. I complained of knee pain, which had been bothering me for most of the year. After participating in the Prospect Park 5K, the pain reached its apex before going away the day I had an appointment with the orthopedist. She suggested trying yoga, specifically poses that open the hips (like pigeon, uh-oh) to help the discomfort.

With Tim's wholehearted recommendation, I went to Jan's yoga class the next Saturday and found her style of teaching calm and simple. We start the class with an om, end in namaste, set intentions, and stretch like there's no tomorrow. She constantly reminds us to listen to our bodies -- it's not a race to see who's the most flexible -- and always says we're giving our bodies the gift of yoga. I had never considered something I was ungraceful at a gift.

Yet my body always surprises me in each class: I got through the first class with nary a bump, which was a miracle. Before Thanksgiving, Jan led the the class through wheel pose, explaining that you could stay in bridge if wheel was too difficult. Well, I attempted wheel and held the pose for a breath, feeling this surge of energy through my arms when lifting my torso. It felt incredible, and I collapsed from the shock. A similar thing happened last Saturday; Jan offered the class a handstand, explaining the variations if you didn't want to try the complex pose. I attempted the "superdog," standing on your hands while holding your body at a right angle with your feet on a wall, and felt the same energy.

Finally, I'm understanding yoga: It's meant to test the limits of your body so you can push back and excel, much like other (Western) exercises.

In other fitness-related news, I used ten-pound weights for the first time last Wednesday in a weight-training class before Punk Rope. Though my ass was killing me from Thursday through Saturday, the sense of accomplishment was worth it. I had been impatient with my body since joining the Y, figuring I'd shed pounds and add muscle quickly, but it's been a more humbling experience. The changes have been more internal than external, and losing weight won't make me any better at doing push-ups or pigeon -- not giving up will.

something tells me I'm into something good

2009-12-04T14:43:00.001-05:00

"Andromeda let her head hit the steering wheel and began crying silently, and he was actually very nice about comforting her. He was a genuinely kind person. She had expected him to call her a crazy bitch or something, and she wouldn't have blamed him. Yes. Yes, I am. A crazy, crazy bitch. How was it possible, she thought then, as she was to think quite often as time went on, that he could be so nice to her?"
--Andromeda Klein by Frank Portman

In September I attended Word's YA Not? event with Frank Portman, author of King Dork and the newly released Amdromeda Klein. I'd never heard of the guy, but Stephanie (a.k.a. Bookavore) encouraged me to go and handsold me King Dork. It was a bit awkward the next day asking a stranger to sign my copy of a book I just bought, but he did so with pleasure, and after reading King Dork I gave it to my brother and demanded he drop whatever he was reading -- screw school books -- and give it a go. Another high-school kid I know is getting a copy for xmas (and, yes, I bought it from Word). I then requested Andromeda Klein from the library and finished it last week.

I'm not reviewing any book in this post, except to say that a book I gave my brother and bought for a similarly aged student deserves your attention, but instead wanted to acknowledge the steps that brought me to read the opening quote of this post. The quote acknowledges adult ideas and insecurities -- Frank Portman is a great writer whose books get put under the young-adult umbrella (N.B.: don't judge a book by where it's shelved) -- ones that have been going through my head recently.

Andromeda Klein, teenage occultist, is an outsider: physically nondescript except for being naturally, painfully slim (and ridiculed for it) and experiencing hearing problems, she spends most of the book trying to rekindle her relationship with St. Steve, an older boy who takes her into bars and gets her martinis, through a magickal sigil. She tells fortunes with tarot cards and sees synchs everywhere. Synchs, signs from the universe that give her advice, help Andromeda recover relics from her soror in the occult, Daisy, after her death.

Lacking self-esteem, Andromeda is amazed that St. Steve takes interest in her and can't believe that he shows more concern for her after she crashes his car into a hedge -- hence her head on the steering wheel from the quote -- than for the car. It was a touching moment for me, especially after experiencing a similar "Shit! I fucked things up with so-and-so" moment. And it turns out I hadn't fucked things up with so-and-so.

In the Thanksgiving spirit I was wondering about where I'd be had I not befriended Bitchcakes and consequently joined the Punk Rope gang and consequently became a member of the Greenpoint YMCA. Where would I be had I allowed my insecurities to prevent me from having a blast at the BEA and consequently getting to know the literary ladies at Word? "They" say 90% of success is showing up, and it's not what you know but who you know. I've internally transformed into an awesomesauce redhead¹ thanks to these pillars in my life that had not been there a year ago.

Call it synchs, call it fatalism, but November was one of the finest months in my twenty-three years: I discovered that my body's in tip-top shape, testing negative for diseases and normal in all blood-work categories; received a promotion and raise at work; and dived into a fantastic relationship. Though my body's not the size six I wish it were, though work causes overwhelming stress, and though I'm worried of coming off as a crazy bitch, I'm showing up and keeping my company confined to people who are nothing but positive influences. Moreover, I'm not beating myself up for not making these changes sooner.

***
Upcoming posts:
More Greenpoint-Williamsburg reviews, and relief of knee pain (and enlightenment) through yoga.

¹Copyright Stephanie of Word, another awesomesauce redhead.

meet the beaners

2009-11-22T19:27:00.004-05:00

Beaner Bar
Originally uploaded by chicapoquita

This was my third weekend in a row enjoying a tamale for breakfast/brunch at Beaner Bar, and I was able to collect my thoughts about this fabulous establishment, a pillar of business on Graham Avenue.

Lori, Rudy, Veronica, Jose, Karen, and all the other beaners greet everyone with a smile and serve up coffee with attitude in a colorful, punchy environment filled with Mexican mementos. Not only can you get a brew of Intelligentsia coffee to order, but they make a delicious concoction called a Mexican mocha -- spicy hot chocolate with a shot of espresso -- that'll leave you wired for the day. On weekends they serve chicken or cheese tamales with a side of elote (corn). The plate may be small (and cheap!) but the food is filling -- and not cheap on flavor. On weekdays, they open at 7:30, perfect to drop by for a brew or pastry before a morning commute.

The front of the bar has a table for local businesses to advertise -- those that I've tried are of great quality -- and outside there's a bench to sit and sip on nice days. Beaner Bar occasionally hosts special events, like el Día de los Muertos, during which sangria is served and candy given away in memory of loved ones who have passed.

Free wi-fi is available, but I prefer the days when customers convene in a communal conversation. (I have helped some people complete the New York Times's crossword puzzle.) There's also a loyalty program -- your tenth coffee is on them -- so give them your name when you drop by.

in defense of body hair

2009-11-13T23:06:00.007-05:00

Greenpoint's friendly neighborhood independent bookstore, Word, recently hosted a debate night about obsolescence with Anna Jane Grossman, author of Obsolete: An Encyclopedia of Once-Common Things Passing Us By, moderated by Faye Penn of Brokelyn. I decided to debate in defense of body hair, having never gotten into a regular routine of removing it as women are expected to do. Thankfully, the men in my life have never begrudged me my leg fuzz or stray eyebrow hairs. Here's my spiel, and thanks to Tim, David N., and Gentleman Caller for putting up with conversation on the subject matter in preparation for the debate:

"Hair just really isn't so necessary," Obsolete claims, and I disagree. Body hair insulates the body, whisks away moisture, collects pheromones, and indicates sexual maturity. Obsessive removal of body hair, especially when people do it for the reasons Anna Jane mentions, like to show off "post-Pumping Iron pecs," indicates vanity. Give me that unibrowed fellow Anna Jane describes as compensating with "extra personality and vim" over a vain body builder.

When it comes to my own habits, I'll readily admit I've never gotten into the practive of shaving in the shower -- I see hair removal as a chore and fit in a waxing appointment when the hair reaches a bothersome length or when I'll be baring my legs or wearing a tank top. I say this to note that just because I'm speaking out in favor of body hair, it doesn't mean I don't groom my own when warranted.

Regarding the argument of pubic-hair removal, that people who do it want to regain the vitality of their pre-pubescent youth, I counter that when my carpet gets unruly it needs a vacuuming. Also, at the age of twenty-three the look of pre-pubescence is the last I'm going for.

Finally, let's ponder why Homo sapiens, the so-called naked ape, retain some body hair. I happen to believe that sexual selection plays a big part. My female ancestors found something appealing in males with a hairy chest -- hence my proclivity to enjoy stroking the hairy chests of my own mates -- so give me a hirsute hunk over a manscaped metrosexual any day, and don't confuse personal preference with obsolescence.

Thank you, Word, for hosting the event -- and for donating a ten-dollar gift certificate (which I won!) -- and to Permanent Records for providing a ten-dollar gift certificate to the second-place debater, Alex, who argued for thesauri.

curb your enthusiasm

2009-09-28T12:42:00.003-04:00

On the E Train NYC Subway
Originally uploaded by NYCUrbanScape

"Unbelievable! So now you're a disrespector of the black man AND the latino man."
--Ashley's reaction to my commuting story from the weekend

Last Friday night I admitted: "I can kvetch like there's no tomorrow. Larry David's my idol." It's true: More often than not I can't keep my opinions to myself. With company I'll mention my two cents to the group -- my mom and I usually can't go a bus ride or a few subway stops without going back and forth about the people around us -- but when alone the pressure to call people out is greater than the social mores that demand I keep my mouth in check. This outspokenness has gotten me into trouble in the past, and I even wrote about one incident that deeply offended me as a Noo Yawker.

This morning I told Ashley -- we also complain about people on the train -- a story about yesterday morning's bus ride from Trader Joe's because she had tweeted: "The subways were empty of annoying teens because of the holiday!"¹ Here it is:

You know the tiered buses? So I'm sitting in the first seat above the step, and there's a woman sitting in the last seat before the step, right below me. She's got a huge bag and a huge umbrella, both in the way of anyone who wants to sit in the back. These three kids come on the bus, and one has a rolly bag with him. Two of them scoot to the very back row, but the one with the bag is struggling to get around this woman. I say something like: "Too bad she can't give you some room," and the kid says: "Mind your business and shut your mouth, white girl."

I start yelling at him: "The woman's being inconsiderate. Why are you starting an argument with me when I'm on your side?" "Just turn around, white girl," -- he had reached the back row by now and was Hispanic -- repeating, "Mind your business, and shut your mouth." Can you believe that?

And Ashley replied with the above quote in bold, reminding me of a high-school incident about which I wrote an essay for creative writing. Here it is, and you'll note that on both of these occasions I wasn't the one who brought up race; skin color doesn't matter to me, stupidity does:

Usually, my morning subway ride to Briarwood guarantees nothing: no delays, no breakdowns, just an hour to people-watch. I sit on the train, this day an E with gray seats, waiting for something to happen. Little did I know that this event would include me. At Roosevelt Avenue, a man walks onto the train. He carries a bag, a newspaper, and a cup of coffee. He looks slightly disheveled, but no more so than someone who just rushed through the turnstile and down the stairs to catch a train.

He slings his bag under the bench, puts the newspaper where he wants to sit, and places his coffee near me, in that private, courteous space between people sitting next to one another. This coffee cup, I add, is open and full; perhaps he had a sip from the Greek-themed vessel earlier. He does not sit down. He fixes himself, specifically his trench coat, making his clothes unbunched. He does this for longer the period of time that it takes for regular straphangers. Eventually, he sits.

The whole time my eyes glance from him straightening himself out to the open cup of coffee. The black bitter liquid undulates in tandem with the train car. Anxious of spills and stains, I move to the seat opposite me instead of suggesting he move the cup to the floor or re-positioning it it myself.

"Somebody hates the black man!" he yells. I notice his scarred face for the first time. He speaks with difficulty, but I do not know the cause of the disability.

"It's foolish to put an open cup of coffee on the seat. It might spill," I respond.

"Foolish, huh? Now the black man's stupid?"

"Well, yes. In this case he is." Perhaps I had acted slightly out of line, but I am furious at his reaction and accusation, that a seventeen-year-old student has anything to do with the centuries-old, incorrect belief that skin color makes one group of people superior or inferior to another.

He attempts to gain support from others on the car. "Y'all racist. Y'all hate the black man. What did I do to you?" He keeps talking, but no one on the train pays attention.

By the time the train arrives at Union Turnpike, the argument has ended. Another scene of flash-in-the-pan commuting craziness.

¹ Ashley and I, both native Noo Yawkers, are of the same mind when it comes to commuting. Bitchcakes and I too agree on many points but differ when it comes to the proposed split of the B61 route. She is in favor because splitting the route may prevent delays in the line -- I'll believe it when I see it -- and I am opposed to the split, which will require a transfer and add time to my current one-seat half-hour bus ride from Trader Joe's on weekend mornings.

cooking for two, part three

2009-09-20T10:58:00.001-04:00

This is the perfect easy impromptu dinner when you've got veggies in the fridge that will soon go bad and need a reason to invite yourself over to that-guy-you've-been-seeing-but-nothing's-official-yet's apartment. And you've already impressed him with gwumpki, so it's better to keep this meal simple.

Roasted Broccoli and Baked Ravioli

1. Prepare broccoli by following this recipe. (Cut off broccoli florets and combine with 1/4 cup of olive oil, two to four minced garlic cloves, 1/2 teaspoon of red pepper flakes, and a pinch of kosher salt and pepper.)

2. Coat the bottom of a loaf pan in tomato sauce (Newman's Own roasted garlic and peppers, in this case). Put down a layer of ravioli -- if they're frozen, then defrost them first -- cover each with sauce, and add ravioli on top. Repeat until there's no more ravioli.

3. Add both dishes to a pre-heated 400-degree oven and cook for 20 minutes, turning broccoli once at halftime.

4. Serve to Gentleman Caller, watch a movie, and stay the night.

Punk Rope for Heart

2009-09-05T10:38:00.002-04:00

That's All Folks, originally uploaded by Punk Rope.

As the few readers of this blog know, I joined a fitness class at the Greenpoint YMCA this summer. Punk Rope is an incredibly fun, butt-busting workout, and its founder, Tim Haft, regularly volunteers his rope-jumping expertise at community events. I recently helped out at the Astoria Water Walk, and there were a lot of happy Punk Rope faces.

On Sunday, October 11, I will be joining team Punk Rope for Heart at the Brooklyn Heart Walk in Prospect Park. This 5K will raise money for the American Heart Association, which gets the word out about heart disease and stroke, the country’s number one and number three killers, respectively. It also contributes to research on heart disease and trains millions of people in CPR and emergency cardiovascular care. It goes without saying that some of my teammates will be jumping the 5K, and the Punk Rope team will also be warming up the crowd.

If personal philosophy or current economy prevent you from donating, no worries. However, any donation made to my account will be matched by my employer, so no matter how small your donation it will be doubled -- and make a big difference. Donations of $25 and more made with credit and debit cards can be made on my home page (http://tinyurl.com/HeartWalkRutila). Please e-mail Tim at tim@punkrope.com if you'd like an address to which donations of less than $25 and those made with checks (made out to the American Heart Association) or cash can be sent.

Feel free to send this information to others who may be interested in contributing, and please ask your employer if it too has a corporate-match program to complement your donation.

I am thrilled to be participating in this event with Punk Rope for Heart: We’re taking it one hop, step, and jump at a time against heart disease and stroke -- and thank you in advance for your support.

if it's Wednesday then it must be Punk Rope

2009-08-26T13:40:00.006-04:00

You know those people who say: "I was a mess until I got..." (Jesus, a therapist, Prozac, on a twelve-step program). Well, I was a mess until I stared Punk Rope. In short I depended on drugs and alcohol to go through the motions for several weeks after the break-up. Nothing too serious: I didn't need an intervention, just a new perspective.

May 6, 2009, changed this self-destructive cycle. Bitchcakes, whose company and advice was already helping me out of those patterns, invited me to the Punk Rope happy hour, and begrudgingly I went. Hanging out with her distracted my inner critic from calling me a failure, but this outing included socializing with other people, and I wanted none of that, having spent a year with a group of people I never felt particularly close to. As the pleasantries faded into chat about weight loss and eating habits, I told Joe Katz about my thirty-pound loss in college, and he replied that he joined the YMCA after straining to button his pants. We got a volley going, and my fear of opening up lessened.

Then I met Tim Haft, the founder of Punk Rope. After mentioning I work in publishing, he brought up his history in the industry: he wrote a few books, worked for a few publishers, and knew the founder of Not For Tourists, my high-school employer. Moreover, he worked at Hunter for a few years and advised students who graduated from my high school. Small world, right? Before the night was over, he gave me a free pass to try Punk Rope at the Greenpoint YMCA.

Two weeks later I nervously entered a gym for the first time as an adult. The Y hadn't changed much from my Swim and Gym days as a toddler, and Tim and energetic co-instructor, Shana, quickly put me at ease by starting the class with some stretches set to a soundtrack filled with the Clash, Green Day, and a ton of other bands whose high-energy songs get the class through the jumps and drills. Seasoned Punk Ropers impressed me with their fancy footwork, but the class focused more on teamwork than individual prowess. Think recess for adults, as the group alternates between rope jumping, relay races, and calisthenics, ending with some serious stretching to tunes more up my alley (like "Celluloid Heroes" by the Kinks).¹ I fell in love with Punk Rope during that first class, and I'm not the only one.

Team Katz
Originally uploaded by Punk Rope

Tim and Shana's creativity shine through their exercises and speech. For example we split into "bobsled" teams during a Jamaica-themed night, and on beach night Tim instructed us to "stretch your sunburned shoulders." A core-strengthening exercise on '90s night required us to pivot on our sits bones, reaching to save Jack from Titanic, and during the squat-heavy salute to Joe Strummer Tim informed us that Joe started a band with fellow squatters when he was homeless. It's all in the details.

It's also all about the community. Tim and Shana regularly volunteer their time and recently offered a class on the last Sunday of the Astoria Water Walk. Tim's survey of the event scratches the surface in terms of the fun the participants had. As the unofficial photographer, I captured a lot of happy faces.

Rutila wins a home CPR kit
Originally uploaded by Punk Rope

Punk Rope doesn't end at the gym, as class members stay connected through monthly happy hours² and other outings, including pizza crawls and the annual BBQ -- and no one's turned away. My five-party posse (of which I was the only Punk Roper) was welcomed at the Bushwick Country Club in July. My roommates won pins and CDs, and though I walked away with an at-home CPR kit what I really received was the irrefutable knowledge that I belong somewhere -- with the Punk Rope "gang of misfits" -- one of my goals for 2009.

In order to keep taking Punk Rope, I joined the YMCA for the summer and plan to become an official member after Labor Day to continue increasing my aerobic endurance at the same rate as my confidence. Not only have I learned some advanced jumps but I've also learned how to enjoy social activities. Unlike Groucho Marx, who didn't want to join a club that'd have him as a member, I'm grateful to the friendly company for helping boost my self-esteem. As Tim wrote in a newsletter: "Finding a healthy activity you enjoy is a great beginning. Finding a healthy activity you enjoy that you can share with friends is priceless."

Every Wednesday is a treat thanks to Tim and Shana, no matter how sweltering the weather is. Punk Rope is "the most fun you'll have with your clothes on,"³ and I truly encourage New Yorkers to check out the classes at the Greenpoint, Long Island City, and Prospect Park YMCAs, as well as the 14th Street Y. Tim also teaches workshops around the country, so e-mail him at tim@punkrope.com if your local gym doesn't offer it. To date there are over 600 certified instructors, and there's always room for more in the Punk Rope family. Hop on!

¹ For more specifics on how the class works -- with video! -- check out Bitchcakes's entries.

² Happy-hour details: For Punk Ropers in Manhattan, imbibing begins around 8:15 on the first Monday of every month at Otto's Shrunken Head (14th Street between Avenues A and B), where all draft beers are $2 until 10 o'clock. For Punk Ropers in Greenpoint, the party begins around 9:00 on the first Wednesday of every month at Beco (Richardson Street off Lorimer), for $2 Corona, $3 Stella & Guinness, $5 caipirinhas, and free grub while it lasts.

³ Quote from Bitchcakes. (Think I had a George Harrison moment when writing.)

Brazil comes to Brooklyn

2009-08-18T12:23:00.006-04:00

Punk Rope Happy Hour
Originally uploaded by bitchcakesny

The Greenpoint branch of Punk Rope recently changed its happy-hour spot from Diamond Bar to Beco. Though Diamond has a more convenient location for Greenpointers (it's in Greenpoint, specifically Calyer and Franklin), its drink specials never particularly thrilled me. Therefore, I cast my vote for change to Beco, where we get complimentary foodstuffs and cheap -- as low as $2 -- beer.

I'm usually one to try before I buy, but the opportunity to sample Beco didn't come along until July's happy hour, and I had absolutely no expectations. A few members of the gang of misfits¹ didn't particularly enjoy the longer walk to Richardson and Lorimer, but we instantly adored the bar's welcoming environment, with large windows that fold back to make a porch, and friendly bartender, Daniel. Though Hoegaarden wasn't a part of the beer specials, he made an exception for Bitchcakes, and he also makes some delicious caipirinhas that didn't scare away this sugar-phobe.

If you want something but don't see it just ask. During the August happy hour, the owner (another Daniel, and I haven't come up with appropriate nicknames to differentiate them yet) recognized me from a poker game. We chatted, and surprisingly in all his thirty-eight years this Irish runner never had a car bomb, so I taught both Daniels how to make them. We chugged two before calling it a night, and I'm happy to report that Beco may be the first Brazilian place to serve the Irish specialty. It also has the dubious reputation of being the first bar to give me my first honest-to-goodness hangover -- gratis drinks do that.

I sadly don't have any pictures from that happy hour -- a shame, as my outfit (a corset and tropical-print skirt) received a few compliments -- but went to brunch this past Sunday to take a few.

The happy face is a nice touch.

Daniel the bartender recommended steak and eggs with salsa, rice, and beans. I pounced on the bloody mary, made with home-made mix, with an asparagus stalk.

Digging in with large silverware.

Macro of the rice-beans-salsa mixture.

Meat macro! The rare filet mignon was delectably tender.

Other brunchers on the "porch."

I love the funky light fixtures. Also, pay no attention to size; great food comes out of that small kitchen.

I didn't didn't get the chance to snap a picture of the two Daniels because the place got busy on a hot Sunday afternoon, but I'll definitely return before the next happy hour to sample another brunch plate or dinner. The majority of dishes on the brunch menu are $15, drink included, and have enough food to be your only meal of the day. Though this concern doesn't affect me, vegetarian options are limited.² However, remember what I said earlier: If you want something -- including non-meat substitutions -- just ask, and your request will most likely be accommodated.

All in all, Beco's got a nice, community-based vibe, as Daniel the owner greeted neighbors from the bar. You'll be welcomed at this sweet Brazilian spot, and you should check it out during the gorgeous nighttime weather we've been having. Cool off with a caipirinha and visit Brazil -- it's closer than you think.

¹ Nickname copyright Bitchcakes.

² Alternatively, after a sampling from a Philly churrascaria, I'd like to some beef ancho on the menu!

eventful week

2009-07-20T12:04:00.005-04:00

7/52 – Busy Bee.
Originally uploaded by geneoh!

Though I enjoyed posting pictures and blogging about Donovan's -- and thank you to everyone who provided off-line positive feedback -- this week is turning out to be too busy to do more opinionating. However, I'd like to highlight a few events that are guaranteed fun, or your money back (though the best things in life are free!):

Monday
• Beer Wars premiere at the Bell House. $20 gets you a flight of four beers and a sample of Murray's Cheese. More information.

• That event is tempting, but I'm being a good girl and going to Punk Rope at the 14th Street Y because of a previous engagement on Wednesday, which will prevent me from attending class at the Greenpoint YMCA. The class is from seven o'clock to eight, and Punk Rope is as addicting as heroin because you'll be hooked after one try. For non-members the class will cost you about $15, but it's worth it -- you will never have so much fun sweating your ass off!

Tuesday
• Please trek to Greenpoint (Milton and Franklin Streets, to be precise) at 7:30 and attend "Wickedly Hot Plants: Botanical Book Night at WORD," during which Algonquin editor Andra Miller will moderate a discussion between Margot Berwin, author of the smart "chick lit" novel Hot House Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire, and Amy Stewart, author of Wicked Plants: The Weed that Killed Lincoln’s Mother and other Botanical Atrocities. Here's the Facebook invitation so you can let the wonderful ladies at Word know you're coming.

Wednesday
• So what's preventing me from going to the Y, gossiping with Bitchcakes, and jumping rope with punks? The Restless Legs Reading Series! The founder, David Farely, who will be reading from his recently published book, An Irreverent Curiosity, will join David Grann, author of The Lost City of Z. Though the series's niche is travel writing, I assure you as a non-traveler that Farley's readings are always filled with good literature, regardless of genre. Here's the Facebook invitation, and the event starts at seven o'clock in the basement of Lolita Bar.

Thursday
• Greenpoint's awesome bookstore, Word, will be hosting another event, though I'm not quite sure what it's about. Two organizations, G-Train Salon and Hit Factorie [sic], have teamed up to make a cool window display. Please RSVP on Facebook and make art beginning at seven o'clock.

Ongoing
• Calling all Men! Please get your intelligent minds and Adonis-like figures to WORD quickly! Did you know about the store's matchmaking service, Between the Covers? I checked out the board yesterday, and all the sheets were filled out by women looking for their Mr. Darcy -- or, in my case, Augustine St. Claire. (Never read Uncle Tom's Cabin? Well, you should in order to meet that literary hunk!)

Wishing everyone a great week!

two burgers no waiting

2009-07-18T10:43:00.001-04:00

Disclaimer: Though the name of this blog is Bitchy Bluestocking, this week was relatively free of things to kvetch about: I made crepes and had a wonderful time at brunch at Word on Sunday; on Tuesday I saw Don Johanson -- the paleoanthropologist who found Lucy -- lecture in the Gowanus (pictures and reflection to come); on Friday Ashley and I caught a matinee of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, went shopping in SoHo, lunched at Lombardi's, and, failing to see a dress I liked in SoHo for my cousin's wedding, found one at Macy's; and this post is more or less a love letter to a few places that deserve your business.

When I met up with ex-Random House intern Jonathan around the time of the BEA, we headed to Coco 68 for a few cocktails. The establishment is both a bar and a restaurant in one building on separate sides, instead of going to the bar, which was too loud, we sat at the bar of the restaurant. The stand-out drinks include the following: My drink of choice was the Dandy Andy (Bombay Sapphire gin muddled with fresh lavender and lemon juice), whereas Jonathan preferred the Basil Gimlet (Absolut, basil-infused simple syrup, and lime juice). I also had the French Kiss (amaretto, Bailey's Irish creme, coffee, and chocolate), because if I were stranded on a desert island, I'd have a crate of Bailey's flown in.

Coco 68 made such a positive impression on me -- a polite, personable bartender and good music at an acceptable volume -- that I suggested the place when corresponding with Guy from Enid's. I also mentioned the Richardson and wanted him to choose it because it's my favorite bar, made perfect by good-looking, talented bartenders and a top-class list of classic cocktails. Ultimately Coco 68 was the better choice, as we got lucky and sat outside on Greenpoint Avenue one of the few days it didn't rain in June.

The conversation consisted of comic books and hamburgers. His best burger in New York is Park Slope's Dram Shop, whereas I praised Donovan's in Woodside. The burger competition was on!

Dram Shop is a few blocks east of the Fourth Avenue stop on the F, and now the G stops there too. Though I had my camera with me on the outing, I failed to take any pictures of the place. It's a shame, because I've never seen such large banquette seating -- you could easily sit eight people per table and stay away from the crowd when the bar's full. When the burger arrived, two thin square patties with a slice of tomato, lettuce, and shoestring fries, I chowed down and sipped Guinness. It was a good meal and a good walk to the G at Carroll Street.

Last Thursday we made it to Donovan's, and I owed it to the institution to document the dinner. Thursday was a bit muggy, the first true day of summer this year, so when I got to Donovan's, I cooled off with a Blue Moon and snapped a few pictures.

I maintain this banner has the most truth in advertising since Don Draper stated "It's toasted" about a cigarette made by Lucky Strikes.

Right before I took this picture, two young gentlemen walked out. One, in white polo shirt, asked if he ruined the shot, and as I shook my head no, I recognized him but couldn't place him. Turns out he was Chris, Ashley's date at the prom! We caught up on life, and I returned inside to sip my brew.

This gentleman at the bar noticed my camera and asked me to take his picture. I obliged.

Here's a shot of the bartender in action. Though I didn't catch his name, he was a nice guy from upstate, and I told him that I used to annually dine at Donovan's when my parents celebrated their wedding anniversaries. (It was their go-to date spot.) With all this catching up and conversation, I knew a good night was in store.

Guy from Enid's soon texted me; he was outside. Chris's ride didn't show up yet, so I asked him to relate the Donovan's experience: "I've been coming here since my baptism party." Yup, sounds about right.

However, before we were seated in the dining room, the fellow from the bar demanded I take a picture of this gent, who's tended bar for thirty-five years. Tend on!

We sat in one of two alcoves in the dining room and ordered two burgers, served by a waitress whose Irish accent is right off the boat. Such a wonderful atmosphere cannot be replicated.

We dined on juicy half-pound hamburgers and hand-cut fries, finishing the meal with Bailey's coffee, and walked it off by trekking from Woodside to Greenpoint, almost winding up on the Queensboro Bridge but successfully making it to the great view of Midtown from the Pulaski.

Sometimes you want to go where people treat you as family, even if they don't know your name, and Donovan's is the place to be.

Take the front of the Flushing-bound 7 to 52nd Street. Don't take the express if it's rush hour! Donovan's is a few blocks east of the exit.

Here's a preview of the next cuisine challenge this summer: pizza! Again, he'll be introducing me to a place in his neck of the woods (can't recall the name), and I'll be taking him to Motorino. Lombardi's -- the pizza in the picture is from that legend -- would be my first choice, but he's been. All the better, as Motorino is a just a few blocks from the Richardson!

bowling ambition

2009-06-29T10:50:00.003-04:00

Unassuming Wythe Avenue is one of my favorite streets to walk down because it's still grungy. There are abandoned buildings in which squatters reside instead of empty lots, which dot the less industrial parts of Williamsburg. While most developers are making condos, Wetlands founders Peter Shapiro and Charley Ryan gut an ironworks factory to create Brooklyn Bowl, a bowling alley/restaurant/bar/performance space.

Things are looking up on Wythe.

On May 21, I was privileged enough to attend a tour of the place, thanks to Brooklyn Based. I wanted to write a proper post about the tour, but Gothamist covered it, and there's a lot of information already widely available (here's the Times article), so the plan is to post pics -- ones of much better quality can be seen here -- and some thoughts. Dear Peter and Charley: Please don't hate me for sharing the pics, and I promise to invest in a new camera soon.

Imagine the opposite of a nested doll when it comes to Brooklyn Bowl, each space opening up to something bigger. You walk in to an open space, to the right is the shoe booth for bowlers, to the left is the bar and bowling lanes, and straight ahead is the restaurant (Blue Ribbon, with nothing costing more than $20).

Entrance hangout.

Unfinished shoe booth.

Plush seating, and the table top used to be a bowling lane.

Cute table leg.

More seating, including a mini bar.

A wall of these carnival push dolls separates the bowling lanes, bar, and stage from the restaurant.

Lanes and big-screen TVs. I got a chance to check out David Gilmour's Remember that Night in high-def.

High-tech alleys.

Bar decorations, with more carnival theme.

A view of the huge stage from the bar.

More plush seating!

Even MORE plush seating for bowlers.

High-tech keypads and ball returners/storers.

View from the green room.

Treated to a game and a beer.

Sharon prepares to roll.

Big, heavy balls.

A picturesque ending.

There's a slight controversy about Brooklyn Bowl opening so close to the Gutter, yet the places are so radically different that there won't be too much of a competition -- and I find Gutter's plastic seating and old-school lanes more endearing than Brooklyn Bow's technology and shine. Also, those very posh couches are going to be a wreck one week after the place opens thanks to drink spills.

Don't get me wrong: I wish Brooklyn Bowl all the best, and I definitely had a great time, but my one worry is that it's too ambitious a project. The owners commented that they made the building so custom to their needs that Brooklyn Bowl "won't be a flash in the pan; we're here to stay," but they haven't yet figured out how the bowling is going to work when bands are playing, and they're aiming to have a band every other day. The restaurant is nicely removed from most of the action, but it's too small to consider going to Brooklyn Bowl just to eat. I foresee waits for the lanes, but I'm not sure how those waiting to bowl will be handled -- like Gutter's "now serving" number. Also, in a space so huge, it's going to be as loud as hell, even without a band. With such a lack of intimacy, I won't be going just to drink.

Macbeth's vaulting ambition was his ruin, though Shapiro and Ryan's bowling ambition shouldn't spell theirs once the kinks are worked out.

getting into "Trouble"

2009-06-19T09:53:00.005-04:00

Kate Christensen at Happy Ending
Originally uploaded by HERS Photo

"If you're writing a book about a middle-aged man having a nervous breakdown, you're Philip Roth."
-- attendee's comment about female authors being pegged as writing "chick lit" when their male counterparts are heralded

Two summers ago, when I interned at Speigel and Grau, my favorite day started with a launch meeting with Doubleday-Broadway bigwigs, with Steve Rubin at the head of the table. The S&G editors walked in like they owned the place and proceeded to enthusiastically chat up their list to the table. When hyping Janelle Brown's All We Ever Wanted Was Everything, which follows a suburban housewife's decline into drug addiction after her husband leaves her, Julie likened the novel's style to John Cheever's. Steve Rubin held up his hands and said: "Ladies, take off the white gloves. We have a commercial novel on our hands. Market it as such." Tacitly, he implied the novel was "chick lit."

Books about females written by females should not automatically be deemed "chick lit." Some authors, like Helen Fielding and Marian Keyes, write and embrace "chick lit," but that reflex to label all female authors as such needs to stop. Brown's novel is definitely more Cheever-esque than Bridget Jones, and after last night we can add another bucking-the-trend author.

Kate Christensen, author and Greenpointer, read from her new novel, Trouble, last night at Word. Kelly made deliciously strong sangria, Stephanie made decadent organic brownies, and I took (bad) pictures. Sangria-flavored Wine Cellar Sorbet and Brooklyn-flavored salsa, the hottest offered by the Brooklyn Salsa Company, rounded out the treats.

The biggest treat of the night was literary blogger extraordinaire Maud Newton's interview with Kate. We learned that Kate wrote Trouble in three months, and she considers it her beach book because writing it felt like a vacation after The Great Man, which was difficult for her to write, as it's a third-person narrative. Her hard work paid off because it won the Pen/Faulkner Award.

Kate described her characters as "juicy, opinionated women," "older," and "looking for passion." The main character of Trouble visits her celebrity friend in Mexico City, a city built on human sacrifice -- an odd parallel, as the friend is one of those women "sacrificed" on gossip blogs like Perez Hilton -- and they soon get into trouble with sex, drugs, and alcohol. Sounds like my life since 2008.

I got the chance to speak with Kate, as I wanted to ask her about her next novel. Here's a description of it from Word's blog:

My next novel is called THE ASTRAL—yes, that Astral, the huge red ghetto castle on India Street. It’s about a 57-year-old male poet whose wife of 30 years has booted him out of their Astral apartment...

After discovering she lived in Greenpoint for nineteen years, I wondered why she was now basing a novel in it. She said something along the lines of: "Because I find its history so beautiful and tragic." I told her about the Walking Greenpoint tour, during which I learned the Astral provided progressive working-class housing (better than tenements) for the families of Astral Oil employees. When I mentioned I grew up in Greenpoint, she asked for my contact information for a possible interview! I am thrilled at the prospect.

There are so many books on my to-read list -- Emily Mandel's Last Night in Montreal, Margot Berwin's Hothouse Flower, and Charles Bock's Beautiful Children -- that I don't know where to squeeze in Trouble after finishing The Strain. Maybe I'll have to take the day off when the sun comes out and take a copy to Coney Island, making it a true beach read.

a cheap bibliophile comes out of her shell

2009-06-16T00:35:00.007-04:00

"Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life."
-- Mark Twain

I have an announcement to make: until recently, I have been a terrible book person. Terrible's much to harsh a word though when you hear of my crime. For as long as I've been a consumer, I wait for the sales, use the coupons, and do anything to save a buck. Because Greenpoint didn't have an English-language bookstore when I was growing up, I got used to shopping at B&N and Borders in high school because it was easy to find their locations online, and I preferred Borders because I could request a book online and pick it up at the cash register, saving me from all but the most basic of human interaction with someone at the register. When Borders launched their rewards program, and coupons taking twenty to forty percent off my purchase landed in my inbox, all the better. Then I got a credit card in college, and Amazon provided the better deal nine times out of ten -- and absolutely no people.

One of the assignments in CCNY's Publishing Certificate Program was to interview a bookseller at an independent bookstore. I chose Murder Ink on the Upper West Side, since the professor spoke highly of the store. I don't remember much of the conversation -- it was probably awkward, and I pulled through it for the assignment -- but I hated the feeling of obligation that came with it to buy a book. It also didn't help that the store might have been going out of business. I wound up purchasing two books, feeling I did a good deed. I returned a few days later to purchase Christmas stationery from Ivy's, Murder Ink's sister store. Sadly, both stores did close after the holiday season.

I was unaware when Word opened in Greenpoint in 2007 because I wasn't living here (and still thought Franklin Street was abandoned), and it sadly remained off my radar until last year when I attended the "Forgotten Greenpoint" reading and "walking Greenpoint" tour. I introduced myself as a native Greenpointer to the owner, Christine, while purchasing Walking Brooklyn and promoted the bookstore and its events on Facebook, still frightened to walk inside and feel the obligation to make a purchase.

And even if I had something in mind to buy, it's the fear of chit chat that prevented me from entering the store. I'm not a social butterfly and don't do a good job of carrying a conversation with people I barely know. Add in a horrible relationship where my attempts at communication were rebuffed, and it didn't take much to make excuses for me not to go to the store's events. Until recently, I hated attending social events (putting on a smile and pleasantly agreeing with people is something that doesn't come naturally to me, and I considered my presence at these things insincere) and suffered anxiety (what if I say the wrong thing? what if I'm left with nothing to say, and there's an awkward silence?).

All of this changed this year thanks to Twitter, a service through which you can talk to people without actually talking to them, saving me the embarrassment of an in-person faux pas. Word lured me back to its basement when it hosted an event with John Wray, author of Lowboy, a novel that takes place on the subway (so I had to read it!), which I re-tweeted like crazy, and I also developed a rapport with the store manager, Stephanie, a.k.a. Bookavore. After attending a reading at Matchless at which Mara Altman read a hilarious selection from her memoir Thanks for Coming, about her journey for her first orgasm at twenty-six, I woke up the next day rabid to purchase and devour the book. When I went to Word to get it, Stephanie and I had a great conversation about the book -- "When I saw the catalog copy, I thought why would anyone want to read this?" "Yeah, the premise could have been schlock, but the reading proved the book's got merit." -- and about publishing in general, including some bookseller considerations I was ignorant of.

I attended a panel Stephanie was on at the BEA and hung out with Christine and events coordinator, Kelly, in the the ABA rec room.¹ They introduced me to author Emily Mandel at the BEA Tweet Up. I RSVP'd to attend Emily's reading at Word but was struck last minute by a monster headache and couldn't go. Thankfully, she was also scheduled for an event at McNally-Jackson, so I could save face.

Emily came up to me at McNally-Jackson. She caught me off-guard, and to be honest, I was there out of guilt from not being able to see her at Word, kind of hoping I'd be able to get away with being seen and not heard.

And then her interview with Masha Hamilton began. As she read from the book, discussing themes of disappearance, abandonment, and the complexity of language, I couldn't wait to crack the spine and experience Last Night in Montreal. And I bought the book not out of obligation, but because she sold me: there's magic in hearing a great author talk about his or her work, and Emily put me under her spell. After the reading as she was signing my copy, the words I couldn't find when she recognized me earlier flowed effortlessly.

The lovely Emily chats about her debut novel, Last Night in Montreal:

I'm pretty proud of the strides I've been making socially. Stephanie, Bitchcakes, and I went to a librarian party at Enid's, and I confronted someone who dressed like John Hodgman by telling him he reminded me of John Hodgman. Somehow, this one-off comment turned into a full-blown conversation about publishing (he works at Harper Collins) and Greenpoint (he used to live at Bedford and Lorimer -- right where I used to get my fifteen-dollar haircuts!). He gave me his card, and judging from our e-mail correspondence he sounds enthusiastic to see me again. The feeling is mutual. We'll be heading to Coco 68 -- I'm missing a class of interval training at the YMCA for this! -- so please send an extra prayer to Hermes, god of communication, that our totally awesome conversation continues.

Slowly but surely I'm realizing that there is nothing intrinsically wrong with me, and it's great to see these baby steps -- like going to Punk Rope happy hour or visiting Word just to say hi² -- turn into great times. I used to think the occurrence of good things happened outside my sphere influence, like fate, but ever since the BEA I've been carrying around more confidence than usual. It happens when you find the right crowd and actively seek to be a part of it instead of leaving yourself up to others' whims. I have finally found the agency I longed to possess.

¹ Also, thanks to Meg introducing me to the Restless Legs reading series, I'm able to drop the names of a few travel writers into the conversation. I'm hoping David Farley and Tony Perrottet agree to chat at Word when Farley's An Irreverent Curiosity comes out.

² That obligation to buy went out the window after I realized we're all book people and we all have shelves and stacks of books in our to-read pile -- we're not necessarily looking for another one. Also, Stephanie has tweeted about being lonely when she's the only person in the store. The human connection I've neglected for so many years is suddenly out in full force!

***
So what exactly was my crime? Noy "buying indie." Here Indie Bound's great, succinct reasons why you should consider abandoning chains and start living an indie lifestyle:

When you shop at an independently owned business, your entire community benefits:
The Economy
• Spend $100 at a local and $68 of that stays in your community. Spend the same $100 at a national chain, and your community only sees $43.
• Local businesses create higher-paying jobs for our neighbors.
• More of your taxes are reinvested in your community--where they belong.

The Environment
• Buying local means less packaging, less transportation, and a smaller carbon footprint.
• Shopping in a local business district means less infrastructure, less maintenance, and more money to beautify your community.

The Community
• Local retailers are your friends and neighbors -- support them and they’ll support you.
• Local businesses donate to charities at more than twice the rate of national chains.
• More independents means more choice, more diversity, and a truly unique community.

Seriously, befriending the people at Word may be the best thing you'll ever do, because I can't think of another place that would allow a Neil Gaiman fanatic to organize a party in the hopes that he'd visit.

placeholder

2009-06-12T12:47:00.001-04:00

Hello, world! Sorry I've been lazy of late regarding blog posts -- and I actually met someone outside my social sphere who reads this thing!¹ -- so I promise to catch up. A trick employed to ensure I got everything done in college is making a list and crossing off each item when completed:

• preliminary review of Brooklyn Bowl
• joining the YMCA and Punk Rope adventures
• a praiseworthy review of Coco 68
• a hate letter to skirts

Hopefully I'll find a few hours of free time this weekend to at least opine about Brooklyn Bowl, but until then I leave you with Time Out New York's Noo Yawker quiz. I scored a 108 (out of what?):

DO YOU BELONG IN NYC?
Yes, but sometimes you wish there were a better option.
You do love New York, and you fit in here better than you have anywhere else. You're committed to the city, and you take advantage of all of its amazing food, culture, nightlife and arts. But you have nagging doubts about this relationship. Spend your whole life here? Not sure about that. Sometimes you wonder about that farm in your fantasies or even just a smaller city. But in reality, you know there's nowhere better. Click here for suggestions about how to really enjoy NYC. Do you belong in New York City?

***
Questions that I loved to answer:

6. Your thoughts on the subway fare hike: It sucks, but we're captive customers. What are you gonna do?

8. True or false: A 45-minute commute on the train or bus is too long. False. (All the better to read!)

9. How many times have you talked about leaving New York for someplace less demanding? That kind of talk is for cowards. I don't need those lily-livered varmints in my town.

11. When you're stressed out, you... go to the Met and wander through the permanent collection. (Ashley probably does this more than I do.)

14. Taking the subway is... the way you've always done it and always will do it. (If I can't get there via public transportation or my own two legs, then it's not worth it. Seriously, I was out last weekend with this brat thirtysomething who loved taking cabs everywhere and got us lost -- though you're never really "lost" with me -- en route to a place because I couldn't find my landmarks, which I would have noticed on foot. He got a tongue lashing.)

15. Your brand of hypocrisy most often entails... blowing $120 on dinner and then refusing to pay an extra few dollars to cab it home. (See above.)

26. Give yourself one point for each of the following things you have done: Paid a quarter in suggested admission at the Met (museum), called in sick so you could join the line for Shakespeare in the Park tickets, hopped a bus to a neighborhood you’ve never been to just to look around.

37. How do you save money? Never leave the city, for vacation or any other reason--you can do, see and eat anything you want right here

42. The biggest obstacle to maintaining a love life here is: The long distance (East Village to Astoria) can drive you apart. (Made me chuckle.)

45. Your date gets major points for suggesting: a guided walking tour in the East Village (Seriously, the quickest way to my heart is something fun involving New York, Pink Floyd, primates, or books.)

¹ Her one comment: "Your ex sounded like a dick." Right on!

why I will never work for McGraw-Hill

2009-06-02T12:21:00.001-04:00

this is the random-ass shit that goes on at book expo
Originally uploaded by cybermelli

Look at the woman in this picture. She's a common sight at Book Expo America: tired from walking the floor all day, perhaps going up and down the escalators dozens of times because she has to get from an in-booth signing to a conference and then wait on line for an hour in the Autographing Area.

And look at her bags, filled with galleys, books, and other promotional material.

Bags are big at BEA -- my favorite from this year is Chronicle's -- and once the floor opens on Friday people are rabid to grab them.

I always try to be polite when snagging one. (In 2007, my first BEA, I was too polite and left without very snazzy DK and Wiley totes.) For example, I struck up a conversation about Robert Reid when asking for a Lonely Planet bag for Meg. On Saturday, I asked a McGraw-Hill rep where she'd like the line to start. Yes, a line for a bag. McGraw-Hill's bag is enormous (this picture doesn't do it justice), and it's one of the most coveted bags at BEA.

Because my badge labeled me as "staff," I got on the floor before the bookselling/librarian/educator attendees and was first in line. Another note about my badge: My affiliation was listed as CCNY, the City College of New York, the institution from which I received a certificate in publishing and through which I was able to volunteer in the autographing area. Since I officially work for a publishing company, I wrote in my company's name to promote it.

So I ask the rep about the start of the line, and she examines my badge for a good ten seconds, which feels like thirty to a minute.

"We're giving them out to booksellers and librarians only," she replies, "and it doesn't help that you work for [...]." Of course, she named my company, which is a competitor of McGraw-Hill.

She did not have to cross that line, especially since I thought publishing was a gentleman's business. We're all competitors of one another, yet we're all kind of friends too. The previous night, Debbie Stier explained that she called up Jane Friedman, then-CEO of Harper Collins, for advice on her career when she was at a rival house. Debbie currently works for Harper Studio, a revolutionary imprint at Harper Collins, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was because of that conversation.

So, McGraw-Hill, I think I'm going to stick with my company -- one that didn't discriminate when giving out free stuff -- because your workers like to burn bridges before they're even built.

boozin' and shmoozin'

2009-06-01T20:45:00.004-04:00

Cartman does BEA
Originally uploaded by rachelkramerbussel.com

As my Twitter followers have noticed, I attended my second Book Expo America last weekend. It was a blast!

Wednesday
• wore the sexy red dress to the Emerging Leaders panel, where I didn't learn anything new
• threatened: "I'm going to have one more drink and tell those Geoffs how bad they were."
• had "one more drink" -- all on the AAP's dime, thank you very much -- but didn't let my tongue stray

Thursday
• attended the ABA's social-media panel, where Bookavore and Word (where she works) stole the show
• caught up with a former Random House intern (more drinking)

Friday
• waited an hour in line to get a whiff of Neil Gaiman
• spoke briefly with authors-who-don't-impress-me Chuck Klosterman and Joshua Ferris (the latter was more my type)
• attended the successful 7x20x21 panel, where Spiegel & Grau's Chris Jackson and Harper Studio's Debbie Stier gave wonderful presentations
• drank complementary Belvedere vodka at the impressive BEA Tweet Up

Saturday
• asked Craig Ferguson to sign his memoir to my mom and his novel to me
• met Dr. Ruth
• acclaimed DJ Cousin Brucie charmed the hell out of me when I got his CD signed for my uncle
• attended Wiley's in-booth beer party
• enjoyed Bookavore's doughnut

Sunday
• had the balls to tell Michael Pietsch that Little, Brown's business model will save publishing (maybe it was all that drinking...)
• went to Fort Greene's No. 7 with Meg and dined on fried broccoli and stuffed cabbage with brisket and marinated mushrooms

Now I'm back to my desk job and missing all the interaction.

greenpoint shitty

2009-05-23T21:32:00.001-04:00

Though I have met Miss Heather, the phenomenal keeper of New York Shitty, in passing on occasion, I had the pleasure of hearing her read last night at Matchless, where she wowed the crowd with this tale of indecency.¹ It was a lovely night with the Heathers, chatting about gin with Mr. Heather at Teddy's and about Brooklyn Bowl -- I had attended a private tour of the huge space Thursday and owe a blog post about it -- on the return walk to Greenpoint.

Inevitably the subject of photography came up, as photos feature heavily on New York Shitty, and I said that while I do carry a camera around I am nowhere as prolific as Miss Heather, nor do I pass as many interesting scenes as she does. Over the summer I contributed to the Gowanus Lounge and Greenpointers Flick'r pools, but I don't consider what catches my eye to be of the New York Shitty aesthetic. Here are a few selections, however:

I sent Miss Heather this picture with the following note on May 7:

I've wanted to send you this photo since last October, but since Matt "mugsniffer" Glasson took it (at my request), it was on his computer until it came to my possession in January. Your post stuck a fire under my ass to finally send it your way.

The Viridian isn't the only new development with an incorrect vehicular phenomenon. Check out this photo of 90 Guernsey Street. It's pretty subtle, but notice that the driveway does not meet up with the garage but is off by about eighteen inches to two feet. My friend's car was towed a few months ago because he was parked in front of a driveway, even though he swore he wasn't. I wonder if this was the property he parked in front of. Can a car be reasonably towed from an imperfect driveway?

While walking to Word to order a book from another of last night's readers, I passed this delightful sign on Milton near Franklin:

And on Leonard near Greenpoint, behind St. Anthony's, this fellow was taking a siesta:

¹ When she mentioned Briarwood, I said aloud "Oh yeah," which turned a few heads, and later explained that I had experienced a similar situation at 23rd-Ely while en route to high school and had to report it at Briarwood, coincidentally the same stop as my alma mater.

reasons to love Greenpoint

2009-05-21T18:11:00.002-04:00

Rutila, Me & Pony, originally uploaded by bitchcakesny.

Bitchcakes, local Greenpoint blogger-celebrity, regularly writes about why she loves Greenpoint. It's time for a Greenpointer to return the favor.

I first discovered Bitchcakes via New York Shitty and read about her second Commuting Casanova, Louie. I laughed hysterically because I've encountered the same fellow on Manhattan Avenue -- he's been pursuing me since I was fourteen -- and learned that she regularly updates two other blogs (one that follows her success on Weight Watchers [she's a WW celebrity too, with over 1000 followers!] and a journal-like blog on top of her commuting blog).

I first e-mailed her regarding Summer Streets in late August, telling her how invigorating it was to bike over the Williamsburg Bridge, up Lafayette and Park Avenue, around Central Park, and returning to Greenpoint after going over the Brooklyn Bridge; I related to how proud she was when she conquered the Williamsburg Bridge. We slowly built up correspondence on her blogs, and I was thrilled when she accepted my invitation to the Matty & Ben show. I unfortunately woke up too late the next day to brunch with her and her gang, but the invitation put a smile on my face; I was cool enough to brunch with!¹

There are so many times when I read her blogs and am grateful It's not just me!, especially when she's writing about body image or escalator etiquette.² I was really touched when she sent me a message after the break-up, and she completely understood my depressing reply, much to my relief. Though I've been feeling unworthy of fun, she's been getting me out: we've been frequenting The Richardson, went to last Sunday's Bust-sponsored Craftacular, and jumped to the Ramones in Punk Rope last night.³

A conversation never devolves into a pity party because whatever the topic -- relationships, body image, healthful foods, or commuting -- one of us has the solution. Seriously, when she was distressed about oatmeal, I knew which brand to recommend. (Nature's Path.) When I was upset about making someone else upset, she reassured me that I did all I could do. (I don't have to keep apologizing for who I am, how I feel, or what I want.)

She's a font of positivity that doesn't advertise herself, and she makes a tremendous contribution to the community at large by corresponding with Assemblyman Lentol about the MTA "doomsday" fare hike; getting Starbucks to re-evaluate the calorie content of its pastries, which in turn had CBS investigating other mass-produced foods sold by other chains; and being an inspiration to hundreds of people who yearn to make their lives healthier -- all on her own time.

I'll always appreciate the time she could have to herself in her very busy schedule but decides to spend with me. We always have a blast -- the above photo was taken on Rockabilly Night at Legion the week I moved out of Guernsey, and I still cannot get over that particular smile -- so, Bitchcakes, thank you for being a reason to love Greenpoint!

¹ Damn, I could have met the Joe Katz a few months earlier!

² This post too is a gem regarding walking on escalators. The MTA should add the "commuting is like driving" analogy to its code of conduct. And you can read about a "move it" situation I had here, which actually took place after the Matty & Ben Show.

³ Nice meeting and teaming up with Miss Dewey Decimal, too!

spring cleaning

2009-05-20T17:25:00.001-04:00

I did a little housecleaning on this blog, moving a few potentially reputation-damaging posts to another site. Leave a comment if you want the address, and I'll consider the request, depending on our level of friendship. I'm a pretty open person and normally am against this sort of self-censorship, but I'd hate for writing that stems from a volatile time in my life to define me to others.

Since this blog never really found its footing, I invite anyone who's interested to follow me on Twitter, where I'm thrilled to be "tweeting" with the likes of:

• NY1's best morning anchor Pat Kiernan, whom I've had a crush on since high school (and he sent me a direct message recently!)

• book babes Stephanie, who manages the awesome Word bookstore, Kelly, and Jessica

• travel writers Farley, who hosts the brilliant Restless Legs Reading Series, and Meg, collegiate friend who introduced me to the travel genre

• the one and only Bitchcakes, whom you'll learn about in an upcoming post

If you follow me, you'll be getting updates about publishing, primates, and happenings in Greenpoint and Willaimsburg. For example, I'll be going on the Brooklyn Based tour of Brooklyn Bowl tomorrow, and my packed BEA schedule -- I'll be working in the Autographing Area four days straight -- includes the Emerging Leaders panel and party and the BEA Tweet Up.

As Jamie Cullum put it: "I'm a twentysomething, and I'll keep being me" -- insecurities and all. I just won't be sharing them here.

my secret admirer

2009-05-17T22:17:00.006-04:00

Last week my inbox greeted me with a message from a stranger. Apparently, late last summer I sat for an artist on Union Avenue, gave him my name and an e-mail address I don't use, and forgot about the event. He came across the sketch, colored it in, and sent it to me with a nice note.

Last summer was the first time I began to feel comfortable wearing tank tops. Even though I had lost enough weight to make me a medium, I was still self-conscious going to barbecues dressed like this. That picture -- and most of last summer -- was a turning point. Viewing my body at such odd angles, in such new clothes, made me face how far I've come since high school in a good way. In senior year of high school, I was scared shitless to wear this gorgeous red dress because of my arms. (In both pictures I was a size 12 and weighed 165 to 170+ pounds.) My arms, like my thighs, were huge, and disgustingly discolored with freckles.

It was a big step for me to go to Las Vegas with mostly arm-baring clothes -- but seriously, when you look this good, who can blame you? Before the break-up, I declared to Ashley that this summer was going to be the summer of tank tops because they no longer frighten me. I was going to take pride in being shown off. Now, however, I'll have to show myself off, and if I caught someone's eye in a tank top last summer, it's possible I can do the same this summer. Let's hope others find themselves as captivated as that artist, whom I hope to meet and make his work a proper commission by buying a round or two.

carnivorous

2009-05-09T16:15:00.004-04:00

Peter Luger
Originally uploaded by laverrue

On May 15 I'll be heading to Dylan Prime in Tribeca to taste its carpetbagger steak, filet mignon stuffed with oysters in a Guinness sauce and served with baby spinach and mashed potatoes.

My first visit to a steakhouse was in 2004 with my high-school girlfriends in Disney World. Our inaugural dinner took place at Shula's Steakhouse, and I chose the twelve-ounce filet mignon because it was the smallest cut of meat offered. The gals returned to Shula's location in New York at least two more times for We Hate Men Valentine's Day dinners, but it wasn't until last year when I took pride in my inner carnivore and regularly stared sampling steakhouses, starting with the best -- Peter Luger. Here's my take on steak thus far:

1. Peter Luger: It shouldn't be surprising that perennial favorite Peter Luger tops my list of steak. Each juicy piece of the huge porterhouse for four was cooked to medium-rare perfection, and I preferred drizzling the steak's own juices on top of my slices instead of using Luger's own tasty steak sauce. We ordered steamed broccoli on the side to give the table a breath of health. Though I was skeptical about ordering dessert because I know cheesecake, the attentive waiter accurately described Luger's as "the best in the country" -- yes, it's more moist than Junior's, especially with a bit of schlag added to the fork -- and Luger will remain a tough act to follow when it comes to steak and birthday presents.

2. Lawry's: You may have noted that in the previous paragraph I wrote about the dining environment as well as the steak. Well, Lawry's in Las Vegas was a nice change of scenery from the bright lights of the strip. We dined in an earth-toned-filled room, and the waitresses' modest costumes were a far cry from other ladies apparel. The waitress prepared a spinning salad as part of your prime-rib meal, which you order by amount (cut) and temperature (done-ness), and the meat, served with a good helping of its own juices, practically melted in your mouth.

3. A. J. Maxwell's Steakhouse: I've already written about my Valentine's Day 2008 dining experience, and I maintain that A. J. Maxwell's Louis XIV (filet mignon topped with foie gras and port wine sauce) was more satisfying than the drunken, unwanted sex that followed. The reason why it's listed after Lawry's is because this dish popped my "foie gras cherry," so the experience was overpowered by the duck delicacy instead of the main meat. Broccoli and mashed potatoes were good sides, but one huge martini put me under the table and under my host, spelling disaster.

4. Shula's: I haven't been here since Valentine's Day 2006 but recall its satisfying twelve-ounce filet mignon, dinner-plate-sized hash brown, and broccoli bouquet -- nothing comes in "small" -- and excellent apple cobbler for dessert, which you have to order at the same time as dinner. The dining experience is mediocre, but if you're a first-timer or bringing first-timers to Shula's, ask for the dining-selection spiel, and watch out for live creatures!

5. Jackson Avenue Steakhouse: Taking the B43 back to Greenpoint after dining at Motorino on New Year's Day, I turned to Former and said: "Our diet consists of steak and specialty pizzas," with the full intention of treating him to coal-oven-pizza mainstay Lombardi's just over a week later for his birthday. Instead, he requested to try this sorry excuse for a steakhouse. We ordered a medium-rare porterhouse for two and found it unevenly cooked and fatty. The garlic mashed potatoes were the night's saving grace, as the steamed mixed vegetables were as limp as a wet noodle. My one praise for the place is that the waiter didn't bat an eye when I requested anisette with my espresso.

crass and cultured

2009-05-04T22:47:00.004-04:00

NYC - Brooklyn Museum of Art - "The Rebel Angels" by Salvatore Albano, originally uploaded by cerdsp.

Last weekend was up in the air because of plans that were canceled at the last minute. Upset, I experienced an insomniac night -- they're not fun -- and created mayhem. Interestingly enough, the craziest thing that happened early Saturday morning was not in fact unintentionally locking myself on a roof but escaping from the clutches of a drunk on the way back from that unannounced visit.

After a few hours of sleep, I headed uninspiringly to Target in Fort Greene to waste time and bought the Die Hard trilogy for twelve dollars. Had a simple but scrumptious salad at Mullanes and was surprised by a few Deadheads at the jukebox who played "Ripple," a song I performed in the fourth grade, learning the lyrics from a beautifully illustrated comic book.

Saturday night was much better, gallivanting to La Vuelta, Rose, and the Brooklyn Ale House to top it all off with absinthe. The next day's hangover was ameliorated by being greeted with a glass of water when my eyes flickered open. We ordered in breakfast and watched JCVD, which started off hilarious but quickly got tiresome. Good thing the film's just over ninety minutes.

Made an impromptu visit to the Brooklyn Museum and got to see its renowned Egyptian collection, many pieces of which I remembered from grade- and high-school textbooks. Then we headed to Soda, gorged on its kielbasa sandwich and kasha pierogis with bacon, and watched Die Hard upon returning. It's a successful, albeit unconventional, date movie -- especially when you're filling in Paul Gleason's dialogue with quotes from The Breakfast Club.

The good news is he passed the Bill test. The bad news is part of the upcoming weekend is already reserved for Mother's Day, and it's going to be difficult to leave for a few hours and fulfill daughterly duties when I'd much rather be wanton.

don't waste your time on assholes

2009-04-30T21:15:00.005-04:00

my father-in-law, somewhat absent as usual
Originally uploaded by no_copy

Last Friday I took off from work to be a hair model at Nick "What Not To Wear" Arrojo's salon. Though the cut isn't really what I wanted, at least my hair is off my neck for the spring and summer. While walking back to the train, I called Bill to inquire about an impromptu visit. Since he was free at 1:15 I hopped on the F to Van Wyck, and we had a lovely conversation regardless of the touchy subjects.

He asked if I'd prefer an annoying father or an absent one. You see, he's trying to help a friend who's going through a divorce. She was married to the absent kind of alcoholic, whereas I had the "pleasure" of growing up with an annoying one. Without hesitation I told him an absent dad is preferred and cited the lack of privacy, as his mere presence in the house was enough to put panic in everyone's heart rate (the technical term is hyperarousal), as a top reason.

It's a sad state of affairs when it comes to fathers these days, or men taking the easy way out in general. First there's this idiot on whom Newsweek reported as having postpartum depression. He writes:

I ceded nearly complete authority to my wife, then blamed both her and my son for my feelings of loss and insignificance. I took on every parental responsibility with sucked-up reluctance on the outside and contempt on the inside. My wife seemed to consider me selfish and irresponsible. She was tired, she'd say, of parenting both of us. Even when the bickering ended, the wounds never healed. Our marriage took a fatal hit.

Why does this man look for sympathy? It takes him two more kids -- "Hey, honey. I don't like the kid we have. Maybe we can fix this situation by having more." -- and a divorce to find his inner father and discover the sacrifice of parenting doesn't have to feel like your life is over.

Still, he's a saint when compared to this asshole:

I became more and more of an ogre. I would snap at her. Tell her "no" sometimes for no other reason than to distinguish myself from her mother. If she got an A on a report card, I'd ask why it wasn't an A-plus. Unconsciously, I would intimidate her. Once -- I can't even remember what she had done -- all I had to do was look at her and my expression sent her running to her room, afraid of me. I never hit her, and have never contemplated any form of physical response toward her or anyone else, but what mattered was that I made her afraid of me.

He made his daughter's home, a place where she should feel completely safe, into a nightmare and then highlights the fact that he never hit her. Bill has always maintained that the cumulative effect of names can hurt more than sticks and stones and broken bones, and he's right. Give me a physically abusive father that I can report to the police over someone who tells me to get my "fat ass" out of the way or who tells me I'm an idiot for getting one question wrong on a math test because I forgot to carry the 1. Perhaps if this guy simply loved his little girl instead of trying to compete for her affection with her mother, he wouldn't have turned into that ogre.

Eventually he separates from his wife who gets complete custody of their daughter. He whines about "missing out on many of the small things that parents enjoy: the moments of discovery, a tender bedtime, the daily interactions" -- events that he was ruining for his daughter by his presence -- and rationalizes that now he's an absent father their relationship is better than ever because he can tolerate her more and concludes: "Not only has my girl not suffered, I am willing to predict that when she looks back years from now, she'll be able to see her relationship with her father in a positive light, which might not have been the case had the separation not happened."

So, is an absent father really better than an annoying father? If the absent father gets off scot-free, if this guy's daughter lives her life with the impression that her dad's a good guy, then absent fathers are in fact worse because they live under the guise of integrity. At least the children of annoying fathers can collect evidence of nefariousness and get rid of their dads.

Speaking of false virtue, I love how Dan Savage rips a new one on the guy who wrote the first letter. Self-absorbed people like that become the whining, "Why me?" fathers whom Newsweek and The Globe consider newsworthy in a pathetic sense. I'd much rather be reading stories like the one I recently heard: A guy doesn't hear from a woman he's been seeing after she has a run-in with her ex. He worries his head off, wondering what he did wrong, until she finally calls him and explains that she didn't want him to see her cry. "What's the worst that can happen?" he asks. "I'd put my arm around your shoulder?"

That story made me cry because I already experienced the worst that could happen. Well, now it's time to have a nice guy take care of me instead of expecting an asshole to do it.

typos, slips of the tongue, and innuendos

2009-04-15T14:45:00.002-04:00

Indulge at Peter Pan on Manhattan Ave, Greenpoint
Originally uploaded by bitchcakesny

Skyler and I went out to lunch today and got free cookies from Subway because it's Tax Day. The second she finished her cookie, she said: "Oh no! I wasn't supposed to eat this because of Passover." (The Chosen People aren't supposed to have grains mixed with water that rise, like flour in a cookie.)

I tried to make her feel better by saying if St. Pat's fell on a Friday in Lent, the Irish still eat corned beef. As I was saying this, something didn't seem right, but I continued: "So you're totally absolved because it's Tax Day, and when I started this conversation, I had no idea I was going to connect Jews and money."

***
Yesterday, I invited a friend over for "vaggie lasagna" instead of veggie lasagna. He pointed out my typo when I expressed offense at his "Eww" response. (Yet if you're stuck in a year-long dry streak, then I'd assume you'd look forward to vaggie lasagna, right?)

***
One recent Sunday as I was having breakfast on Humboldt Street, my brother introduced me to the acronym SMD, which he defines and "Suck my dick," and I replied: "My dick-sucking days are over," in front of our mother.

***
More innuendos:
"Do you prefer your kielbasa with or without casing?"

"These are great Polish cabbages."
"Thanks, they're 34Cs."

"Thank you for the compliments about my cabbages. Now, if I could return the favor with compliments about your --"
"Souvlaki?"
"I don't think I've had souvlaki."
"You're in for a treat."

"My souvlaki comes with me everywhere I go."
"As does Pony's chorizo."

stuck

2009-03-07T11:51:00.001-05:00

stuck: new year's message
Originally uploaded by @muntz

"You've got three options:
Keep your job and seethe.
Keep it and stop seething.
Switch."
-- Anneli Rufus, Stuck

I'm throwing out underwear dating from high school. All the undies are a size too big, and though I've been slowly replacing my wardrobe since last April -- when I finally bit the bullet and spent money on new clothes, discovering what I had lost -- I could not give up my many pairs of low-rise bikinis from Victoria's Secret until now. They've become ratty and filled with holes, and I'm sick of looking at their sorry state. I'm going to miss a pair in particular, army green labeling the wearer "Flirt" in sparkly pink cursive. I have often wondered why a company that caters to making women feel sexy chose a paradoxical design: masculine army green versus pink, flirty, and feminine.

I probably like that design because I suffer from endless cognitive dissonance. Thoughts of I am fat fight with thoughts of I am attractive, What am I doing with my life? against Look at how well you're doing, He loves me when I get an e-mail and I'm a burden when I don't get a reply, yet the most irksome thought is I am alone because it doesn't have a comeback. Why does that belief disturb someone who read, enjoyed, and identified with Anneli Rufus's Party for One: The Loners' Manifesto?

I recently discovered she's written other books -- loners don't publicize their efforts, however brilliant -- and placed Stuck: Why We Can't (or Won't) Move On on my library queue. Though I've been in a bit of a self-helf binge -- I bought a teach-yourself-happiness book after a week of seeing it advertised in Shelf Awareness, began going to acupuncture, and am considering learning meditation -- Stuck is not a self-help book. It's more of a get-over-it, face-reality book.

Just what I need.

I haven't been great, or more precisely haven't felt great. Ask me how I am/how I feel; I'll politely say I'm good, but I don't feel well. (See tip number two if you're confused with the distinction.) I still have my health and my job, but happiness eludes me. I feel trapped, stuck.

Absurdly, I am stuck because nothing is sticking. If the positive thoughts stuck then I'd be happy; if the negative ideas stuck then label me depressed. I'm stuck in this neutral/gray/purgatory-like zone where I can't tell up from down nor good from bad. Why can't thoughts be like underwear? Keep 'em if they're working; toss 'em if they're ratty.

Socrates posited that the unexamined life is not worth living, and that's where I'm stuck, endlessly examining and analyzing.

Rufus writes about a heroin addict who got clean after his socks that he had just removed were picked up and smelled by his girlfriend, and she immediately vomited. Rufus asks: "What will be your stink-socks moment?" What will be my ratty-underwear moment?

I'm grasping at straws and fighting mine off, attempting to stop the seething.

pep talk

2009-03-05T10:45:00.005-05:00

When I mention "poker buddies," it's more often than not a reference to domestic couple extraordinaire Ben and Gina. Since I've known them, they've mused about opening a wine bar in their new neighborhood (Bushwick) that would cater more to the natives than to the new locals, and their pipe dream is close to a reality. I wrote this message to Ben this morning and hope he doesn't mind me sharing it because so rarely do the words flow as they did when writing this note.

"A car needs an engine and a transmission," Nemko says. "Your intelligence is your engine, and your gumption is your transmission. You need both. If the engine isn't good an/or the transmission isn't good, you can tune that car up all day and it isn't going to run."

I finished Anneli Rufus's Stuck today, which is where the quote is from. The book ends on being "stuck" in a job -- she also covers being "stuck" in the past, with bad habits, and with people -- and I thought of you because Current mentioned your wine-bar, *ahem* La Boca, jitters.

Rufus would tell you point blank: It is happening. Get over your what-if fears and just do it! Thus, I spread her word.

I think you're at the right point of your life to start a business and to succeed with it. You strike me as an independent spirit, paving your own way. I remember a conversation we had over the summer when you said you had only three jobs: rock star, travel agent, and Roundabout. I really admire that: you haven't and don't live a typical lifestyle, you don't let people make you fit in to the standard, and the reason why these things are true is because you have talent and spirit -- an engine and a transmission. You truly can do anything because you've already done it!

I find it odd when Gina mentions your anxiety. Your knack at performing certainly helps because I've never considered you as nervous. Changing is difficult, but look at how good you have it: You're settled down to some extent with your business partner, Gina (who's got a brilliant mind of her own), in Bushwick. You can walk to work at the wine bar. You can -- and will -- make a difference in your community. You've got Ylon, a long-term friend, as your backer. The pieces are falling into place! Yes, there's going to be some initial sacrifice, but what have you got to lose? A job that you're not really "stuck" to/enthusiastic about anyway? And won't you still have time for your music? You're so ready to be an entrepreneur.

And even if this venture fails, what have you lost? Some money, sure, and if La Boca doesn't work out, it'll be timed well with the beginning of a better economy so you'll be able to make that back with a new job. You won't lose your friends -- we're all rooting for you -- nor your dignity. And you'll still have Bully!

If you find this note sycophantic, it is, but that description comes with it some deception; you should know me well enough that I don't bullshit. (That's why it was so hard to go to that couples' dinner on Valentine's Day; I was smiling and chatting through gritting teeth. This situation to some extent sadly continues, and I'll become un-stuck my own way.) I'm a Ben Warren/Gina Leone/La Boca -- and Matthew Glasson, regardless of parenthetical asides -- believer through and through.

Follow your gut on this one, even if you've got butterflies in your stomach. 2009 IS THE YEAR OF LA BOCA! Make it happen!

to-blog list

2009-02-26T18:14:00.001-05:00

To-Do List 2008.08.30
Originally uploaded by One Pretty Thing

I enabled Google Labs in G-mail and now have a literal "task" bar, filled with ideas for to-be-written blog entries. Readers, all three of you, I promise the mental gears are in motion to provide posts that are more than just pictures and instructions.

Emotional upheaval is behind the dearth of material in January and February. I sadly have one fewer friend in my social circle, and for a while it looked like my relationship was going to end -- on Valentine's Day no less. I won't get into the reasons why publicly (to protect the innocent), note the fact to express relief, and focus on the positive, namely legal, VD experiences.

We celebrated Valentine's Day a day early at AJ Maxwell's Steakhouse, arrived twenty minutes early, and sat at the bar while our table was prepped. I ordered a ten-gallon martini, which I knew was going to be the end of me, and Current had a vodkatini.

I had the Louis XIV, filet mignon with foie gras in port-wine sauce. He had sirloin, and we shared steamed broccoli and mashed potatoes. We both thought we had the better meal. And after reading about foie gras in the Village Voice, I don't feel as bad enjoying it. The superb service from the bartender, host, and waitstaff made me feel like royalty -- it was a VD celebration after all -- and the fifty-dollar gift certificate from Restaurant.com ensured that going Dutch doesn't have to hurt the queen's wallet.

On Valentine's Day proper, we went out on a "couples' dinner" with poker buddies and other acquaintances at Fiore. The table shared excellent bottles of wine and a large plate of lightly battered fried calamari and crispy zucchini. We both stayed light with our entrees: my spinach ravioli in a butter-sage sauce was a perfect portion after pigging out the previous night and satisfied both the taste buds and tummy, and his pizza bianca (sans sauce but with prosciutto) was also a filling yet not overwhelming meal.

We also finished watching the first season of Dexter, and I can say without reservation that the series is much better than the novel -- Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay -- on which it is based. Lindsay is not a bad author nor did he write a bad book. The series remains loyal to the beginning of the book and the spirit of the story; going on wonderful tangents with supporting characters is something a first-person narrative cannot do, and the screen elaborates where the novel does not. Bravo to the writers and people behind the novel who put it in the right hands at Showtime!

"the rules" of cooking

2009-02-20T19:07:00.002-05:00

The cooking bug bit me two nights ago, and I made roasted butternut squash in apple juice with chicken rubbed in paprika, thyme, and tomato paste. It sounds easier to cook than it was -- the kitchen was like a crime scene with tomato paste in place of blood -- and though I wasn't entirely disappointed with the outcome, the meal's just not worth the effort.

Finding this article in my Google Reader yesterday morning was pretty entertaining because of rule number seven:

7. Don’t let him help with the washing up.
WHAT?! He should help clear up if you’ve gone to the trouble of cooking a meal for him, right? Wrong. When you invite people for a meal, do you expect them to load the dishwasher? No. And we don’t offer to do it at other people’s houses either. One key objective in cooking for a date is to make you look like a capable, efficient hostess who hasn’t slaved too keenly over a hot stove all day. It must look as though you have whipped up a delicious spread without skipping a beat, AND without making a massive pile of dirty pots and pans. You are not auditioning as his housekeeper! Incidentally, clear up mess and conceal the work you’ve put into the meal BEFORE he arrives.

This advice is for first dates (who the hell makes dinner for a guy on the first date?), but I still find it laughable because I completely do not follow that rule when I cook, particularly that night, because:
1) I kvetched once the Pyrex pan was in the oven: "I am not making that again, unless it comes out and you'd pay $100 dollars for it in a restaurant."
2) I yelled at the chicken fat under my nails, at the tomato paste between my fingers, at my gorgeous Wusthof knife for not adequately cutting off the chicken skin.
3) I left a mess of pots, pans, and tomato paste in the kitchen sink, a testament to the operation.
4) Current cleared the table instead of me! My mind was hopelessly elsewhere, probably thinking You are never making this dish again or You are going to have nightmares of chicken fat and tomato paste or Lost is such a stupid program.

In other words, I am a bad first-date girlfriend. This guy, though, you should see him in action! He wooed me last year with a meat sandwich to die for. I still remember his flawless preparation, nonchalantly caramelizing onions and pan-searing the steak as if second nature. I'm jealous.

That's not to say that I can't whip up something yummy effortlessly, as I did last Sunday with ~~poker~~ bowling buddies -- ravioli with roasted broc -- but what I have in terms of fearlessness with experimentation I lack in style. Practice makes perfect, hence my proclivity to keep trying.

After work on Wednesday I went to Whole Foods on the Bowery because the one in Union Square is always packed. Finding the chain's Lower East Side location bare made for happy browsing and shopping. I chose this recipe because it looked simple: few ingredients cooked all in one dish. Though I was concerned about the butternut squash when I couldn't get pre-cut pieces, prepping the veggie was a breeze compared to the tomato-paste fiasco.

• olive oil cooking spray
• 4 cups peeled, diced butternut squash
• 1 cup apple juice
• 1 teaspoon dried thyme, divided
• 4 cloves garlic, finely chopped
• Salt and pepper to taste
• 1/4 cup tomato paste
• 2 teaspoons paprika
• 1 pound skinless chicken drumsticks
• 1 pound skinless chicken thighs

Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees and gather all the ingredients:

If you were unable to get pre-cut butternut squash (or want to save money by buying a whole one, I assume), then follow these easy-to-follow instructions, and you'll be left with a bowlful:

Spray a 9x13-inch baking pan with cooking spray. Add squash, apple juice, garlic, salt and pepper, and 1/2 teaspoon of thyme. Toss gently or use a brush to combine:

In a small bowl, stir together tomato paste, paprika, remaining 1/2 teaspoon thyme, and salt:

Good luck rubbing the chicken pieces with the tomato-paste mixture. Arrange on top of squash in a single layer:

Cover with foil and bake for 30 minutes. Remove foil and continue baking for an additional 20 minutes. If desired, line a serving platter with noodles or cooked brown rice, then top with squash and arrange chicken pieces on top.

I was so fed up with the process that I forgot to take a picture of the final product and captured the leftovers:

omelet disaster

2009-02-08T15:00:00.002-05:00

Next in the series of Cooking for Two: tomato-avocado omelet.

Ingredients:
4 slices of bacon
1 large tomato, chopped
1 small avocado, sliced
1 tablespoon green onions or chives, minced
4 eggs
2 tablespoons milk
¼ teaspoon salt
ground pepper
splash of Tabasco
1 tablespoon butter or a generous amount of olive oil

Optional:
2 English muffins
weird-flavored cheese (Yancey's Fancy does the trick)

It is imperative to keep everything in twos to keep both omelets even!

Fry four slices of bacon on low heat; flip as needed:

While bacon is cooking, slice an avocado, dice a tomato, and chop up a handful of chives:

Take off bacon when crispy and place it on a paper towel to absorb the grease:

Sauté tomato pieces in small amount of bacon fat until tender:

Crack eggs (two per omelet); add milk, salt, pepper, Tabsasco, and whisk:

Crumble bacon:

Add eggs to two pans to make two omelets that finish at the same time. The pan that was not used to fry bacon should be coated with melted butter or olive oil to help the "flip." When you include all the ingredients -- avocado, tomato, bacon, and chives -- and flip, it'll look like this:

If you don't have enough lubricant, you'll end up with this omelet disaster:

Buñ is disappointed:

Serve with toasted English muffins with horseradish cheese (broiled for two minutes):

two reviews, no waiting

2009-01-31T15:08:00.009-05:00

Red Star Bar
Originally uploaded by TrespassersWill

After boking to Red Hook to sample the vendors' pupusas, Current and I knocked back a few pints at the Red Star Bar and shared a disappointing "Greenpoint Cheese Steak" on Labor Day before going on a photo walk. A sandwich unworthy of the cheesesteak moniker notwithstanding, we learned about and wanted to sample the bar's culinary special on Wednesdays -- thirty-seven-cent wings -- and did so this week.

It was a stressful week at work because of preparations for an important meeting on Wednesday, so I welcomed beer and comfort food. We arrived at 6:30, with thirty minutes to spare for happy hour and thirty minutes to wait for wings. We squeezed in two beers each before seven o'clock and had another round with a dozen wings, ordering another six soon after.

The wings come in four varieties: Mild (not spicy at all), Hot (spicy), Super Hot (¡ay, chihuahua!), and Garlic. Since we are lovers of hotness -- as well as lovers who are hot -- we ordered six Super Hot and six Hot, the latter to be on the safe side. The two orders came on separate plates with bleu cheese, and the bartender gave us an adequate amount of napkins and moist towelettes. We were disappointed with the intensity, or lack thereof, of the Hot wings and definitely preferred the Super Hot plate. The spices on the Hot wings affected our noses but not our mouths, whereas the Super Hot selection had me reaching for a few cool-down gulps of beer, after which a slow, steady burn remained.

Still not satisfied, we ordered three Super Hot and three Garlic. Surprisingly, the lovers of hotness deemed the Garlic the best of the bunch because the wings' skins were crispy instead of soggy, an unfortunate yet inevitable consequence of hot sauce. After an excellent, educational conversation about camera lenses and aperture, we called it a night and got Lost.

El Almacen
Originally uploaded by TrespassersWill

My stressful week at work continued through Thursday and Friday, unfortunately, so I was most grateful Current asked me out again last night. (Yes, I still get excited going out!) Though he mentioned Donovan's, home of New York's best burger in Woodside, and I Dumont, burgers seemed a slightly unattractive option so soon after all those wings. Ultimately we wound up at El Almacen, a new-ish Argentinian place on Driggs and North Seventh that was given a thumbs up by poker buddies.

The place was empty upon arrival, and we were greeted and told to sit anywhere. Though the specials sounded appetizing, I kept it light with guacamole and the pescado plate, blackened tilapia served over butternut squash with pumpkin-seed salsa. Mi novio comienzó con el maíz en la mazorca con mayonesa chipotle y queso y cenó tacos de bistec. The tasty guacamole had a little kick to it, and I sampled the corn, enjoying the grilled texture but disliking the topping. Current thoroughly enjoyed the flavorful corn and downed his tacos. Regarding my meal the tender butternut squash complemented the fish, but there was something a little off about the sauce that I couldn't put my finger on but prevented me from giving the dish an enthusiastic recommendation.

Sadly the pinot noir -- the place is BYOB -- loosened my tongue too much, souring the conversation, so we left without dessert. (I would have opted against it, already full from dinner.) El Almacen showed its potential and deserves another chance, perhaps after place gets its liquor license, and I'll limit myself to one glass of wine instead of half a bottle.

you're so vain

2009-01-26T09:24:00.010-05:00

self-portraits in the park, originally uploaded by mugsniffer.

My family -- one side of it anyway -- has a history of "a man taking a picture of a man taking a picture"; one of those inside jokes because my uncle had taken a good shot of my curmudgeon grandfather taking a picture of me and my mom, probably with my brother and grandma in the frame too. (Perhaps it was Mother's Day, circa mid-90s, but it doesn't matter in the fuzzy annals of memory.) Ever since I've enjoyed taking photos of people taking photos, though this is the first time I got a kick out of catching someone being self-absorbed.

This picture was taken before cooking tacos, mixing margaritas, and attending my grandmother's wake, so it's dedicated in her honor.

beginnings

2009-01-02T23:02:00.004-05:00

Happy New Year - Times Square 2009
Originally uploaded by PostMan1107

I celebrated the end of 2008 in a Times Square office with a prime view of the ball drop and, ten stories directly below, the Jonas Brothers, Lionel Richie, and the Clintons with Bloomberg. Vodka, tonic water, cheap champagne, and snacks (I made roasted asparagus wrapped in prosciutto) were available, but Greenpoint was where the party started -- and, sadly, abruptly ended. I felt the effects of overindulgence acutely, and it's not a party at Pony's until everyone's passed out.

The first day of 2009 was spent lazily with movies. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof may have made wowed audiences in 1958, but having seen the play in 2003 with Ashley Judd and Jason Patric I consider the adaptation uninspired, not that the stage production felt considerably electric. The cult space-horror film Event Horizon, starring Sam Neill (one of my earliest crushes thanks to Jurassic Park, my feelings intensified by Merlin), was just short of fantastic. Though I have my qualms about exposition -- particular scenes don't seem to fit into the overall narrative -- it was a gory, edge-of-your-seat tale filled with frights.

A couple of phone calls later, dinner in Williamsburg's Little Italy was in store. Though the original intent was to dine on Barosa's yummy pizza offerings, the place was closed for the holiday; we settled for Motorino down the street.

Artichokes
Originally uploaded by Jeffrey_Allen

We all had roasted artichokes as an appetizer, and though I found the leaves weren't particularly meaty the heart was wonderfully complemented with a buttery lemon (lemony butter?) sauce. One quarter of my party gave a thumbs up to the arugula salad, made with pears, figs, smoked bacon, and gorgonzola, while the rest of the table enjoyed a spicy soppressata pie (fior di latte, tomato, spicy soppressata, garlic, and chili oil) followed by a a margherita DOC (mozzarella di bufala, tomato, and basil). The soppressata curled up like pepperoni on a Lombardi's pie, and other than the dough being a little too limp near the center the pie was flawless. The plain margherita DOC was likewise as delish but a bit too oily for my taste, having had a spatter of quality olive oil added like a topping.

Tiramisu
Originally uploaded by Jeffrey_Allen

If it weren't for the holiday season's indulgence of sugary sweets, I would have enthusiastically had my own tiramisu for dessert instead of having one-and-a-half spoonfuls. The top was drenched in cocoa powder, so much so that a few drops of dust fell on my shirt and were easily brushed away, and the rest was creamy without being so moist that the layers leaned like a tower in Pisa. Post-dinner drinks, a cappuccino and apple cider, were late arriving to the table, but the somewhat poor service won't prevent a return trip to try the Pugliese pie (burrata, broccolini, sausage, fresh chilies, and garlic).

Mindlessly staring out of a bus this morning, I felt the aura of 2009. If the first day of the year is any indication, let's hope it portends to a fantastic new year, with unbelievable sights and sounds, folly with friends and family, and excellent entertainment and nourishment.

year-end review

2008-12-31T23:59:00.007-05:00

"When British rock legend David Bowie came to America for his first tour in 1973, he said he felt like a fly in a glass of milk. He was half-drowning in a flood of interesting new sensations and perceptions, while at the same time he was greedily drinking it all in, stoked with fascinated joy. According to my astrological projections, Leo, you're in that fly-in-the-milk state yourself, or will soon be."
-- Rob Brezsny

1. What did you do in 2008 that you'd never done before? 

Oh my, what a list (and in chronological order): Graduated college, dealt with roommates, played poker, had brunch, got a job, dabbled, went camping, had something to do every weekend during the summer, made genuine attempts to be sociable, enjoyed sex, ate at Peter Luger, biked to Central Park and back, got an IUD, voted for a presidential candidate who won, got a (free) vibrator, went to Las Vegas, and I'm going to celebrate the end of 2008 in Times Square.

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Man-less year went by the wayside rather quickly because a date in February went further than anyone could have expected. For 2009, I'll be trying to find myself and assert her wants and needs.

 3. Did anyone close to you give birth? 

No.

4. Did anyone close to you die? 

Grammy, Opa (Andrew's grandfather), and Eddie Bizinski, a friend of the family.

5. What countries did you visit?

None, really don't travel much; the aforementioned Vegas trip was my second time on a plane.

6. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008? 

The irrefutable knowledge that I belong somewhere.

7. What dates from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? 

I had originally answered this question straightforwardly, looking up the dates during which milestones occurred, but I have to say that the times that meant the most were spent half-drowning and greedily drinking in the company of new friends (poker, Bushwick barbecues, Wii Bowling) and lovers (coffee and concerts, honesty and ecstasy, disappointment and downgrades) -- all of which happened far too many times to itemize.

The last two weeks of my grandmother's life from August 24 through September 8 -- calling her for her birthday, visiting her in the hospital, and going to the wake and funeral while attempting normality with Hair in Central Park, a short visit with Bill, and a dentist appointment -- were most surreal and hyperreal.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? 

Discovering I had lost two dress sizes and getting a job.

9. What was your biggest failure?
 
Taking everything personally, the inability to remain calm in the midst of stressors.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? 

No.

11. What was the best thing you bought? 

Two thirty-dollar faux-wrap dresses from Old Navy that make me feel sexy just thinking about them.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration? 

Meg deserves praise for following her heart to the LSATs and not giving up on law school even though she considered her score low.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? 

I have to be honest: Ashley, who has yet to make it to Guernsey and decided to be with someone else on my birthday, but in terms of someone deserving of ostracism -- can't say I've added to my blacklist this year.

14. Where did most of your money go? 

Rent.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? 

Two live Zombies!

16. What song will always remind you of 2008? 

Elliott Smith's "Waltz #2."

17. Compared to this time last year, are you: 

a) happier or sadder? Happier, even though there remains a silver lining of melancholy.
b) thinner or fatter?  About the same.
c) richer or poorer? Richer thanks to job, but not by much.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of? 

Boking (bike riding).

19. What do you wish you'd done less of? 

Crying.

20. How did you spend Christmas? 

With the Warrens in Bushwick, and some Guitar Hero thrown in for good measure.

21. Did you fall in love in 2008? 

I have felt passionate and affectionate but fell short of agape.

22. What was your favorite TV program? 

Mad Men on Blu-ray, and SNL was finally funny.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

Again, I can't think of anyone new to the blacklist. 

24. What was the best book you read? 

Steve Toltz's A Fraction of the Whole.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery? 

God: The Band, and Ben Warren by extension.

26. What did you want and get? 

Job stability.

27. What did you want and not get? 

Living stability, i.e., an apartment with Andrew.

28. What was your favorite film of this year? 

Iron Man made me a fan of RDj.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? 

Had breakfast with Current and his parents; had a weekend visit with my grandmother, uncle, mom, and brother; got dressed in sexy red dress; ate at Peter Luger; had a short after-party at a bar; and Guitar Hero'd with Andrew, James, and Pony. I turned 22.

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? 

A home in the traditional sense, where my heart is.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008? 

Getting used to shopping for Ms and 8s!

32. What kept you sane? 

My friends, but Marino in particular because he came through like a big brother during the downgrade by taking me to brunch and Iron Man.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? 

Don Draper (Jon Hamm).

34. What political issue stirred you the most? 

It's not a political issue, but I'm annoyed at the current state of trade publishing with layoffs, pay freezes, and imprint condensation.

35. Whom did you miss? 

Ashley and Bill.

36. Whom was the best new person you met? 

Current.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008.

Say yes to everything.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

"I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful / so unloved for someone so fine / I can feel so boring for someone so interesting / so ignorant for someone of sound mind." (Alanis Morissette, "So Unsexy")

Dave's not here

2008-12-16T06:22:00.006-05:00

Toke-1
Originally uploaded by Marketing Ronin

"We had a pound of pot. That's it. That's nothing -- like people have a pound of flour."
--Shelby Chong, Tommy's wife

I watched a fairly good documentary Thanksgiving weekend about Tommy Chong (of Cheech and Chong) going to jail. Try to catch it on Showtime.

Though the the movie slightly side-steps the fact that a law was broken, hinting that Tommy's son's bong business was entrapped, it'll make you question our judicial system's protection of our rights.

The background: A DEA agent posing as a bong enthusiast repeatedly called Chong Glass's headquarters, attempting and failing to place an order that would be shipped to Pennsylvania. Since the company refused -- because shipping drug paraphernalia to Pennsylvania and a handful of other states is illegal -- he placed a large order with Chong Glass and claimed he'd pick it up. He never did, so all these boxes are taking up space in the Chong Glass warehouse, and ultimately someone shipped them.

Whoever made that decision was an idiot. I've worked with fulfilling online orders, and if someone doesn't pick up an order you refund the money and return the products to the shelves. Regardless, Chong Glass was shut down thanks to Operation Pipe Dreams, and Tommy's house was raided -- even though he had no hand in the business other than being its de facto figurehead.

Tommy's lawyer advised him not to take the charges to trial but to accept the plea bargain: Tommy pleads guilty while his son and wife receive immunity. He went along with the plan.

During the court proceedings, Tommy said something to the likes of "The only weapons of mass destruction found this year were my bongs," which the prosecution did not like. It used that statement and cited his popularity in "cannabis culture," including the 1978 film Up In Smoke, to argue that he deserved a harsher sentence because he has made a commitment to trivializing drug-law enforcement. He served a complete nine-month incarceration and had one year of probation, the most severe sentence received by anyone brought up on charges under Operation Pipe Dreams -- including repeat offenders.

It disgusts me that a judge would agree that criticizing the government and making a career from associating with a brand of humor (one that I don't find particularly funny) is acceptable grounds for Tommy's sentence. How can a movie made thirty years ago be deemed as evidence?

The documentary's ending -- news that Barney Frank introduced a bill to legalize marijuana -- pissed me off, because I'd rather have politicians up in arms that the judicial system's ignoring every citizen's right to free speech than make a lame-ass attempt to change America's outdated, draconian drug laws.

I would have liked the documentary more if it focused on First Amendment issues and quoted Voltaire ("I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."), because I doubt Tommy Chong's assertion can be equated with those of people who deserve to be incarcerated, who show no remorse.

Operation Pipe Dreams failed to make Tommy Chong a martyr, and AKA Tommy Chong -- what a bad title! -- fails to make me rally for drug reform, though it makes me happier that someone who admits to recreational drug use will soon be in the White House because at least he'll understand the other side's point of view.

how to really make veggie lasagna

2008-12-14T10:53:00.003-05:00

I was a little manic yesterday morning after going out with Meg and Alex, meeting Other Matt, and returning worse for wear. Without even having breakfast I decided to make vegetable lasagna, because it always comes out delicious, and to document the process step by step.

Look up recipe, so you know what ingredients to get from Key Food:

Ingredients:
• 2 jars marinara sauce, preferably something with basil
• 1 small onion, chopped
• 3 large cloves of garlic, minced
• 2 zucchinis, shredded via food processor
• 2 large carrots, shredded into ribbons with a peeler
• 1 red pepper, chopped
• 1 package frozen, chopped spinach
• 2 boxes Barilla no-boil noodles
• 1 medium container of ricotta
• 1 mozzarella ball, grated via food processor
• 1 brick pepper jack, sliced via food processor
• 1/4 cup parmesan cheese, grated
• 1/3 cup white wine, marsala wine, or sherry

Go to Key Food with the brother and pick up other niceties, like bread:

"I don't like it when it's too hard."
"That's what she said."
*pause*
"Sorry, you walked into that one.

Upon returning, put on Badfinger:

Prepare ingredients:

In a large pot, sautee onion and garlic for five minutes:

Take picture of Buñ:

Add vegetables and cook for five minutes:

Take picture of Ebbs:

Add wine and both jars of sauce:

Prepare the spinach by wrapping the block in a paper towel, placing it on a plate, and mircrowaving it for five minutes:

Take picture of video-game-playing boyfriend:

It's Wipe Out HD!

Buñ gets in on the Playstation action:

Squeeze out the liquid from the paper-towel-wrapped spinach -- you can do this while running it under cool water to avoid burning yourself. (Getting rid of the liquid is important -- it's bitter!)

Add the spinach to the sauce and cook for ten minutes:

Begin to do dishes:

Build the lasagna in layers as follows: a little sauce to coat the pan,

noodles, sauce, ricotta,

cheeses, including a sprinkle of parmesan, sauce,

noodles, sauce, ricotta, etc. Fill pans as long as your ingredients last. A dusting of parmesan tops the concoction nicely:

Buñ is disgruntled because he can't have any:

Wait for company:

Make drinks:

Cover with foil, bake in a pre-heated 400-degree oven for 50 minutes, and cool for 15 minutes:

Serve:

Put away leftovers:

what we have here is a failure to communicate

2008-12-11T17:28:00.007-05:00

"Last week, I freaked the fuck out on a bunch of high-school students on 68th Street because they were loudly talking, taking up the whole sidewalk, and moving really slowly. One of my colleagues thought I acted ridiculously, and I told him off. Why? He's born and raised in Bay Ridge -- he should know better!"
-- Ashley's personal note responding to a draft of this post

I despised growing up in Greenpoint because I'm not Polish. That statement may not make sense because my mom's ethnicity is 100% Polski, but her family isn't Polish by any means: Grammy and Grandpa spoke the language, my aunt picked it up somewhat, but they're American to the core and railed against the off-the-boat Polacks crowding Manhattan Avenue.

I, too, am American to the core, specifically Noo Yawker. I speak Brooklynese, filled with Yiddish-isms, cawfee, and rs that I don't even hear (sawr); any iota of Polish I know came from grammar school. Sure, I eat kielbasa, pierogis, and gołąbki, but grammar school was all about dzien dobry, jak sie masz?, and dziekuje. From the very beginning of my life in the public sphere, I was an outsider.

So last Saturday I was doing laundry at the Grand Slam Laundromat (Nassau at Jewel), separating the wet lump of material from the washer to the dryers, of which I had my pick of the litter. There was a Polish woman sorting and folding her laundry near a few, so I decided not to tread there, as doing so would crowd her.¹ However, after choosing my dryers I noticed an out-of-order sign on the floor, and I couldn't tell which dryer was broken.

Ugh, I moan. No matter how honorable my intentions, I knew she wasn't going to understand me, and though explaining my motivation was the right thing to do I probably made the situation worse.

"Excuse me," I calmly, politely interrupt her folding. "I don't mean to crowd you, but one of those dryers is broken, so I'm going to use these."

She gives me that cold Polish stare of disapproval that I'm used to when I'm in a bakery or deli -- though never in a meat market -- and request that the person summing up my purchases repeat the total in English. She continues to stare at me as I throw my clothes into the dryers, mumbling under her breath. Thankfully kurva wasn't uttered. What poetic justice: she couldn't understand me, and I couldn't understand her!

Since I was never Polish enough to peacefully coexist with my neighbors -- there have been countless similar scenarios of miscommunication -- one may assume I'm happy with the way the neighborhood is changing; English has arrived in Greenpoint, along with Starbucks and higher rents, thanks to hipsters. This population surge, not of off-the-boat Polacks but of fresh-faced out-of-state post-grads, is assuredly not making anything better. Case in point: "Move it!"

Zonal Pony encounters Mugsniffer
Originally uploaded by rutila

I was out with these two fine fellows -- by no means hipsters or newbies -- on a Saturday night turned early Sunday morning. (We had met up with Bitch Cakes, whose commuting blog is a superb piece of journalism. I wonder what her take on this story is.) As we, slightly inebriated, returned to Brooklyn, I yelled "Move it!" at hipsters who weren't walking down the stairs at the Brooklyn-bound entrance to the First Avenue L stop. I thought they were talking on cell phones -- you should see how much that happens at Bedford Avenue; stay on the street, people! -- but it turns out they were informing others of a change in service: use another entrance. So as we're waiting for the train on the other platform, Mugsniffer reprimands me: "That was rude. They were trying to tell us the station was closed." I replied: "I don't care. I don't trust them. I want to read the sign for myself."

Zonal Pony agreed I was out of line and later said: "I'd be a little embarrassed if my girlfriend was screaming every time she got impatient at some dumbass on the train." I admit I could have handled the situation better, guys, but yelling at dumbasses is expected behavior in my neck of the woods. After I told Ashley the "move it!" story, she sided with me, saying: "The L train has spoiled them. The subway is a ruthless place everywhere else," and sent this helpful post for tourists. Subway Blogger hits the nail on the head: "Keep moving or get out of the way."

Though we share the same language and space, hipsters are equated to tourists because they don't know our rules, our mannerisms, nor our expectations, as communication isn't all language and diction.² I perceived my rudeness in that staircase situation as "they should have known better." I can't tell you how many times I've told people standing on the left of escalators to "move it!" If it's rush hour, more likely than not I'm behind fellow straphangers who begin complaining: "I'll move it once this fat-ass in front of me does." During off-hours, though, tourists, hipsters, newbies, and the like don't see what the big deal is, and accordingly treat me like an impatient bitch. They're making me a stranger in my own city, and it's my duty to enforce my city's rules.

***
My mother surprised me at the laundromat after the "excuse me" altercation, and I ranted about the drama I had to go through just to get my clothes in the dryer. "What was I supposed to do?" I asked as I neared the end of the tale, almost out of breath from ranting about damned if you do, damned if you don't. "I hate when people crowd me, so I explain the situation to her, which pisses her off because she doesn't know what I'm talking about."

She relates a similar story: "Your uncle and I went through the same thing with Dana," she said, speaking of my grandmother's Polish cleaning woman/caretaker. "We hated trying to bring something up because sometimes she got so upset because she didn't understand. We stopped trying even though we wanted to include her."

Similarly on Monday, I flew off the handle about work. "And I wasted so much time because I had to label forty figures as 'figure one,' 'figure two,' etc. And not only were there forty figures, but there was 'figure thirteen-a,' 'figure thirteen-b.' Do you know how much time I wasted doing that? And then I had to write a report for this woman that I kind of don't get along with, but we've been okay recently, and it took over two hours. Do you know when I finally e-mailed it to her? Four twenty-five, five minutes before I leave. Do you know what that looks like? Like I was just sitting on my ass the whole day instead of preparing this report that I somehow eked out before I leave."

Yet I wasn't kvetching about my bad day with my mom but with Current, Midwesterner-cum-naturalized New Yorker, who asked me to calm down once I began boisterously shouting. He perceived my enthusiasm for getting my point across as agitation;³ as I stood in the kitchen, my boiling blood cooling to room temperature, the silence was unnerving. Where was his tale of having his time wasted with tedious projects, of being misunderstood at work? (When he wanted that goddamned cup of coffee!) Give me something, even if it's a simple "How annoying." When I re-start the conversation by asking him how his day was, my words echo off the cabinets.

Silence makes me worry, probably because Noo Yawkers are always talking over one anther. I went out for drinks with a seasoned editor at Simon and Schuster on Tuesday, and we spoke circuitously about the current state of publishing, layoffs, holiday parties, CEOs, bosses, co-workers, etc. -- some poker too. It was tough to tell when one topic stared and another began. That's how I like my conversations: they should grow like the Blob, starting off small but incorporating everything until all that's left is an amorphous mass where you can't tell the beginning from the end -- and you're both exhausted from feeding the beast.

¹ I went crazy Friday night when a woman sat next to me at the Landmark Sunshine. The theater, while full-ish, wasn't packed, and there were enough seats in my row to accommodate an elbow-room seat between couples. I don't bat an eye when being shoved onto the L train with barely enough room to breathe, but really, lady, you should have followed the tacit leave-a-space rule.

² I found this article while researching a linguistics project in college and thought my head was going to fall off from all the nodding. My favorite point the article makes:
For them, dismissing the other’s problem was a way of implying, “You shouldn’t feel bad because your problems aren’t so bad.” When it comes to switching subjects, New York women [follow this model]. New Yorkers trust others to get back to a topic if they have more to say about it.

What’s the logic behind these New York conversational strategies? The style can be understood as “high involvement.” You show you’re a good person by demonstrating enthusiastic participation in the conversation. You offer talk as a gift. You convert minor commonplace experiences into long, dramatic stories full of acted-out dialogue and exaggerated facial expressions. You talk along when you listen, offering little (or big) expressions of interest or disbelief or even mini-stories showing your understanding through shared experience. You toss out new topics to forestall any lulls. All this conversational exuberance is intensified by loud volume and fast pacing, to reinforce the enthusiasm and participation. The risk of offending by not talking is deemed greater than the risk of offending by talking too much.
³ I identify all too closely with Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm. Perhaps the show's name is a good bit of advice.

thankful

2008-12-04T18:36:00.006-05:00

"It’s like it’s all happening in a dream."

"Brooklyn is no different from any other place," said Neeley, firmly. "It’s only your imagination makes it different. But that’s all right," he added magnanimously, "as long as it makes you feel so happy."

-- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
from Lauren

I mentioned recently that I read the LJ and hated what I found. Almost a year has passed since I left the label student, sheltered in college, residing at a dorm, and entered true adulthood with all its responsibilities -- get a job, a good one; find a place to live, not just sleep; budget time and money well; and prosper, not just survive.

It's depressing to read where I was just a year ago, searching for these necessities. Though it took longer than expected, I found a job through a career fair -- my company was the only publisher in attendance, which is despicable to say the least for the other companies -- and though my day-to-day tasks are somewhat menial, I am very proud of where I work. As I had written, the CEO speaks frankly with humor and humility. When I was at Random House, then-CEO Pete Olsen came off as a capable, yet cool, leader. You'd want to knock a few beers back with my guy. My co-workers, including my boss, are darlings for the most part.

Similar to the job-hunt, apartment-hunting was a bumpy road: four months in Kensington, two months in a Greenpoint shithole, and currently with an intimate stranger, about which I was most hesitant but must admit the situation has worked out for the best.

Budgeting time has admittedly been harder than budgeting money, as I've always been better with black-and-white aspects (numbers don't lie) than with gray. My Atlas Complex -- being everywhere at once, pleasing everyone, and feeling guilty when I put myself first -- is slowly deteriorating. This is good. I'm choosing whom I spend time with rather than being stuck associating with people I can't stand out of necessity. The growing pains are still being felt, but it's getting easier.

So am I prospering? Yes, happily. I have often questioned why I've been told "It's been so wonderful to see you so happy over the last few months," yet I don't feel it. It's because I'm stuck in an outdated worldview instead of seeing what's in front of me. For years I've survived, people telling me it'll be better in high school, college, post-education -- and you can believe promises that never come true only for so long. Remaining distrustful prevented me from seeing my different, current, better environment as it is.

Regardless of how much I adapt, old superstitions persist. Is the universe providing happiness to make up for all the years of neglect? What have I done to earn it? My reality doesn't feel like a reality; it's as if I crossed destinies with someone more deserving of my lot. I'm hardwired to handle disappointment and failure, and as much as my head is ordering me not to settle for my recent prosperity my heart desires and deserves every morsel.

the place to be

2008-11-24T22:32:00.002-05:00

"We don't publish fiction -- at least not intentionally."
--my company's CEO

As six-month-old colleague, I was treated to my company's -- I'm deliberately not naming the corporation -- orientation with the CEO. I have heard this man speak only twice, and have bumped into him on the elevators a few times, yet he's inspired so much pride because he speaks honestly with humor and humility.

A good chunk of his speech was about the current economic climate. He frankly explained how publishing, and our business in particular, is hurting. Consumers are being cautious with their money, so retail spending (at Barnes and Noble, Borders, Amazon.com, independent bookstores...) is down, hence sales reps are selling fewer books. Moreover, since credit is hard to come by, fewer people are able to invest in themselves and stay in school, so textbook sales are down. He said this is the first time he's seen across-the-board struggling.

How are we surviving? With an excellent business model in which we satisfy our customers better than our competitors, "the other guys." There's been overall saving in re-negotiations for PPB (paper, printing, and binding) and benefits. So even though we're hurting with making money, we've saved enough not to really feel it.

We're also not going through a hiring freeze, though HR is obviously being more selective and departments doing more with fewer people. He called layoffs "dis-invitations," which he takes seriously. "I handle dis-invitations personally," he explained. "It's my duty, because if I have to dis-invite someone that's effectively saying 'I screwed up.' I expect them to hold me accountable."

It was refreshing to hear this kind corporate responsibility, especially after what happened at Doubleday. In short, sixteen people lost their jobs due to financial mis-management. The big wigs that signed off on these decisions remain.

Not only have I been following this story because I'm in publishing but the imprint I worked with last summer was hurt. Someone who was there from the start of S&G lost her job, and someone recruited just this January did too. It's a real shame. Now, I doubt S&G itself is completely blameless, as its spent a bunch of money that I have no idea how they plan on recouping, but I'd rather the people who made sweeping poor decisions live with less than employees get pink-slipped. Hell, I'd rather a publisher stop publishing than have people lose their jobs.

When I was getting my publishing certificate at CCNY, the professors prophesied that the electronic format would be the death of the book. I always doubted that would be the case, and I doubt a bad economy will do it either, but these are distressing times for everyone as every market model turbulently changes.

happenings and stayings in Vegas

2008-11-13T21:52:00.010-05:00

Ylon kisses PR, originally uploaded by mugsniffer.

Ylon and I are walking back from his hotel room to the Penn and Teller theater after the dinner break for the 2008 World Series of Poker. He puts his arm around my shoulder, I suggest he cops a feel while he's at it, and Current asks for a kiss for the camera.

Ylon's moist lips made me glad it was just one smooch.

The camera didn't catch when my boob popped out of my bra and tank the next day en route to the Atomic Testing Museum.

Abba's to blame

2008-11-01T13:58:00.005-04:00

New World Stages
Originally uploaded by folkyboy

What was Abba thinking when it licensed its music to the creators of Mamma Mia? That action heralded in a new Broadway age, one in which the audience couldn't care less about the story but wants instant gratification from nostalgic beats. The format has multiplied on the Great White Way, giving birth to Movin' Out, The Wedding Singer, Xanadu, ... and now Rock of Ages, the most recent drivel to spring from this dearth of original material and creativity.

In short, German real-estate developers want to tear down a number of seedy clubs in LA, and one, where the owner takes in sincere young folk -- like destined-to-be-a-couple Drew and Sherrie -- refuses to be bought out and puts on one big last show with a famous name the place created to save the club's legacy, e.g. think of the money CBGB could have made if the Ramones were able to play its last show. Sprinkle in hits from eighties hair bands, and you've got an off-Broadway show!

I knew I was going to dislike the production once the show opened with a narrator with blatant disregard for the fourth wall and has "meta" exchanges with the audience, like: "What kind of story would this be without love?" To make matters worse, the actor went to the Jack Black School of Over-Acting.

Perhaps disliking the show from the start was ultimately beneficial since I could then focus on things that I appreciated: The very talented actors, sans faux Jack Black, are sure to be handed much better roles once this production closes -- Will Swenson has the voice, the moves, and the correct level of camp to make anyone a fan for life -- the impressive choreography will want to make you get up and dance, and the secondary storyline of re-development hit close to home, as the character who begins the protest against razing the beloved club embodies Miss Heather.

I probably shouldn't be too harsh on the show since I got to see it free; on the other hand, my date wanted to leave during intermission. Ultimately Rock of Ages will provide mindless entertainment if that's your goal. Here's a good deal so you don't break the bank: Make an account with Playbill.com, and click here to see the show for $40.

I Have Wasted My Life

2008-10-27T18:19:00.002-04:00

This unfinished short story from May 2005, found yesterday while perusing the LJ, is inspired by James Wright's "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota." It also spurred me to sign up for NaNoWriMo, which I hope will put an end to my self-critque that I have no talent. (Caveat: Re-reading it has brought out the copyeditor, but I'll leave it untouched.)

Lying on a hammock and surrounded by nature and trees, John imagined he lives in a log cabin. His upstate house isn’t a log cabin, but the terrain suggests it should be. He’s enjoying the last days of summer vacation. Pretty soon, he’ll return to the city and to the daily grind, which includes a wife and two kids. Sure, his family is with him upstate, but they keep to themselves; they leave John alone because it’s as much his vacation as it’s theirs.

Excluding July, for the past ten months John’s been taking care of the family, waking up at five every weekday morning and ensuring everyone gets ready and sets out for the dawning new day correctly and on time. You can’t really blame his wife for not helping him; she’s the night owl to his morning lark. Their circadian rhythms might not mesh, but she puts the kids to sleep, and he can’t complain.

Each weekday of the school months begins and ends the same way. His clock radio is set to play Pink Floyd’s “Time.” It’s his favorite band, and the opening audio collage of clocks is enough to grab anyone from the realm of sleep and put the fear of god into them. (John doesn’t believe in god, but that’s another story.) His alarm clock, unlike other people’s, is located on his dresser ten feet away from his bed. To shut off the cacophony of ringing bells, he must rise from the queen-sized bed and walk. Waking his legs in turn wakes his mind; his schedule becomes instinct.

After silencing the alarm, his walk to the bathroom becomes a pirouette; whether he’s wearing boxers or sweat pants, he removes the clothing in a swift movement. He had perfected the dance in his college years, where seconds meant arriving to class on time. Funny, he still needs to arrive to class on time, this time to teach.

He hates following the schedule, but he knows he needs it. He wills his mind into rationalizing his situation: Follow the schedule, and nothing goes wrong. His yearning for spontaneity can come on the weekends and school holidays. Unfortunately, he must keep his wife and kids in mind when using these days to yield to his temptation. Rarely can he call a day his own, but he committed to a family fifteen years ago, when he knelt on one knee with a hidden rock in his hand.

After showering and taking care of other bodily needs, he dresses himself in boxers that no longer advertise beer or promote drug legalization; as he ages, his underwear becomes starker, whiter, and almost too sterile to be underwear. After that comes an undershirt -- he remembers a teacher from high school who never wore an undershirt, whose nipples protruded through the lightweight cotton-poly dress shirt and made him the worst-dressed man on campus for his teaching career. John doesn’t want to repeat that mistake.

In fact, John has something of a reputation to protect in the school where he teaches. He works at a strict Catholic school. He’s lucky that no nuns teach there; the nuns from his Catholic grammar schooling still haunt him in nightmares. He remembers his blistered, bruised hands and the excruciating hours it took him to remover the splinters remaining from beatings of wooden rulers. He was a brilliant student, hence the punishment. He read too much, which caused him to ask too many questions.

His worst beating happened after he asked about reincarnation.

“Half the world’s population believes in reincarnation,” he told Sister Mary Clarence. “How can you be so sure that they’re wrong?”

“Because Jesus said that the eternal soul, when it leaves the body, will remain in heaven with the father until the second coming.”

“How do you know Jesus is right?” John prodded.

“Because he rose from the grave as he predicted.”

“Isn’t the resurrection a type of reincarnation?”

The nun told him to stay after class; she’ll explain the difference of the resurrection to him better because his theological questions were preventing the class from learning the meat of Catholicism.

Instead of explaining what makes resurrection different from reincarnation, Sister Mary Clarence politely asked him to present his hands palm up. She beat him so hard that the blood soaked through his uniform shirt to the elbow.

John puts on his oxford shirt, the kind with a buttoned-down collar to prevent his noose -- his tie -- from loosening. He doesn’t keep his “work” ties at home; they’re in his basement office. (The other faculty wrongly assume “out of sight, out of mind.”) He keeps only three ties in his closet at home, for dress occasions. Conservatively colored and styled -- a solid maroon, a shimmering gray but not silver, and a striped light blue and navy. For work, he wears ties designed by Jerry Garcia. He also has a few extras for public use. Why should a student receive detention for forgetting a tie when he could borrow one from John?

John hates giving kids detention. He comes from Voltaire’s school of thought. They’re a generally good bunch with a few bad apples. John never hesitates giving a detention to those bad apples though, who usually ask for trouble anyway.

During his preparation, his wife has been showering and his kids have gotten dressed in their uniforms. (He hates sending them to Catholic school but cannot afford a secular private one.) When John goes downstairs, his son and daughter are already eating cereal. John Jr. eats Wheaties with milk, thinking they’ll make him a stronger martial artist, while Beth enjoys Cheerios. She doesn’t put milk in her bowl; instead she drinks a gulpful of milk from her glass and then adds a spoonful of Cheerios to her mouth. She swishes the molasses-like concoction like Listerine. It’s a disgusting way to eat a balanced breakfast, but it works for her.

Although one would think his wife needs more time getting ready for the day, one’s wrong. John’s spontaneous and likes choosing his outfit in the morning. Joan, however, meticulously prepares her outfit the night before, down to the last pin and earring. Her routine, like John’s, is rote, but she takes enough time to light a candle whose color corresponds to the day, offering the wax, flame, and a prayer. To whom she does not know.

John drives the children to school and leaves Joan with a kiss. The king of spontaneity does not disappoint; it’s a peck on the cheek if the kids are looking, but it’s a tongue penetration if they aren’t. Kids prevent some passion but not all of it.

John puts the car into gear only after seeing Joan drive away with Sheila, her fellow coworker and car-pooler. Sheila isn’t known as dependable because John has been known to be late for work in order to drive Joan when Sheila’s hangovers prevent her from walking in a straight line, let alone driving a car properly. To this day, Sheila blames her “sick” days on traffic with an alcohol stench exuding from her mouth.

When John arrives to work on a normal day, which means a half-hour to eight after dropping off the kids, he pours a cup of coffee with milk, no sugar. He was never one for sweets and believes bitter coffee is the only coffee; sugar subtracts more from coffee than it adds. Coffee, in John’s world, is also meant to be hot, not scalding, which is why he uses the smallest amount of milk in order to end rising steam.

John doesn’t eat breakfast, per se. If he remembers, he’ll grab a granola bar before leaving.

self-help

2008-10-26T23:27:00.005-04:00

"Ever notice how happy kids don’t write in their diaries very much? They don’t have to. Life’s too fun. Diaries are for when life isn’t fun. They’re for figuring what went wrong."
-- Lesley Arfin

It's true: I stopped writing in the LJ in May after starting a relationship -- my final post documents why the first attempt went horribly wrong -- and return periodically to look up chronology. A month ago, though, I read for the hell of it and cried because the posts from late 2007 focus on my impending state of unemployment after graduation (I'm a failure) and my tendency to be used by men (I'm a slut).¹

The melancholic tone of my writing from a year ago made me realize how skewed online personas are and reminded me of senior year of high school, when I was suspended and labeled as depressed because I wrote candidly and publicly on Xanga about how much I hated my environment both at "home" and in school. Anything I wrote against the school was libel, the admin claimed, no matter how true it was, and what saved me from getting expelled was the depression I was obviously suffering from because I'd complain about "asshole alcoholic sperm donor" when the stress that bastard caused trumped the BS of Briarwood.

Here's the thing: I wasn't depressed. I had an average of over 100, was overweight but without sudden weight loss or gain, and woke up every day at five. Aren't slipping grades, major weight fluctuations, and overall fatigue symptoms of depression? Admittedly I cried a lot and wrote about suicide, but I had a fulfilling part-time job and wanted out of Greenpoint and high school. I remember looking up sublets on Craig's List in the financial district -- I could walk to work! -- and finding one for $600 per month in the summer of 2003 when I seriously considered working full time and dropping out. This pipe dream lacked support, so upon my return to student life I exhibited frustration -- teachers whom I considered friends went behind my back to the guidance department instead of personally telling me their concerns -- and let it out online.

Within six weeks I was suspended, forced to get a mental evaluation, and involuntarily compelled to see a psychiatrist who immediately diagnosed me with ADD. Knowing I was neither depressed nor hyperactive, I didn't speak during our sessions and instead played long songs like "Bohemian Rhapsody," "Hotel California," and "American Pie" in my head.

Fast forward to college: Around the time I broke up with Ex, I found a list of descriptions that perfectly describe my personality. Initially it was a relief to know I wasn't alone, but I later grew upset at the implied predestination.

Let's skip time again to this summer: Having previously glossed over my situation with sperm donor when the topic of family was brought up in conversations with Current and made it known that it's a no-discourse issue, I honestly and completely answered what my childhood was like, citing clear examples of why I despise the bastard, and how I hate my family for its dishonesty.² I expected a reply of: "You're right. That sucks. You're stronger for it," but I manically flew off the handle and don't remember much except the pain I felt when he suggested I see someone. It felt like high school all over again, and I was depressed for over two weeks until my grandmother's death became a distraction.

Why can I pull it together for a wake but not for my relationship? That argument has, for me, become the idiomatic elephant in the room, and for someone who already has trouble with articulation it's made communication even more difficult. I can't tell if I'm inconsiderately remembering something that should be forgotten or ignoring something that should be talked about.³

I've been reading more ACoA sites, and Guess What Normal Is is my favorite because it focuses on autonomy rather than therapy, and I keep reminding myself of this statement:

In a healthy relationship you [...] will not be greeted with a guilt-trip, but with an "Okay, see you later." This will be 'uncomfortable' only because it's new, and different. But, wonderfully beautiful and different.

It's true, and I should stop being suspicious of happiness, regardless of the initial discomfort.

¹ Lainykins hits the nail on the head with: "Please fuck me and make me feel worthwhile."

² From the LJ: I have never been good in math. When my second-grade class began to learn the times tables, I could perform only the easiest multiplications: those by 2, 5, and 10. I don't think my grades suffered much from not memorizing math; however, asshole alcoholic sperm donor would get these drives, from where I don't know, and he would immediately make me stop what I was doing and yell multiplication tables at me. If I didn't know what 4*9 was, I'd have it screeched in my ear and beaten into me.

I especially remember one time when 60 Seconds had a feature on Goosebumps. I don't know what I was doing, but I heard my mom say: "Should I call in [PR]? She likes these books." The answer was: "I don't care what she's reading. She's gotta learn those damn times tables!"

I still don't have them memorized, or maybe I do after more than a decade of math classes and of shopping. Anyway, I also remember on the same night as the Goosebumps fiasco that I was asked/told: "Do you want fries with that? Are you average? Because you're average if you can't learn this stuff. As long as you can memorize 'Do you want fries with that?' then you'll be made for an average life."

For this and many other reasons, he is, in all senses of the phrase, dead to me.

³ Thanks to my catharsis, this is no longer an issue.