Wednesday, April 26, 2006

The Muzak of Our Lives

A few months back I was in the grocery store and King Harvest's "Dancing in the Moonlight" came over the speakers. It prompted in me a wave of nostalgia for my childhood so acute that I rushed to gather my purchases of skim milk, pickles and packaged tortellini so I could immediately tear home and download (steal) it off of Acquisition.

Suddenly I was eager to acquire (steal) more music online that would remind me of the blissful and simple time of my childhood before my younger brother and sister came along, forever mucking up my life by making me love them so powerfully that it literally breaks my heart when they announce things like, say, "I'm moving to Germany for three years!" Just as an example, of course. (Although, my brother IS moving to Germany for three years, that little asshole. Who does he think he is? A GROWNUP capable of MAKING HIS OWN CHOICES, or something?)

ANYWAY, some of my fondest memories of this time pre-siblings are of riding on the front bench seat in between my parents in their '67 Old Cutlass Supreme ("Old Blue") on the winding roads that ran between our house and a nearby state park in South Dakota, listening to the radio. This was back in the days when people didn't take ridiculously overprotective precautions regarding their children, such as using carseats or not smoking two packs a day while pregnant. Bah! Who needs it? I turned out FINE.

The radio station of choice during those drives was liklely LITE 92.5 KELO-FM, whose playlist, magically, hasn't changed in the last 25 years or so, at least as far as I can tell. Whenever I go home it's like a time audio capsule. The Doobies were light back then, and hey man, they're still light today.

I went on a downloading binge -- the Doobie Brothers, Crosby, Stills & Nash, the Allman Brothers, and my top-top favorite, Ambrosia. "How Much I Feel" has got to be one of the best songs of all time. And, no, I'm not kidding. When he "tries to recall when they were as one," I want to write poetry and run naked into the ocean. Make a wish, and they'll make it come true. Plus, how great is it that four guys sitting around in California trying to think of what to name their band thought their most awesome, bad-ass, rock-star option was "AMBROSIA." Sweet.

The problem with nos-rock (nostalgia rock) is that you can't conjure it up. It has to come TO you, really, be it in a grocery store or an elevator. You can't remember it unprompted. But once you hear it, the songs blow through the heavy curtains of fogged-over memories, dulled as they are by years of alcohol abuse and lack of sleep. They take you back to that place where you're sitting between your parents, looking forward to an afternoon of running around in a pile of leaves. A place where you have yet to dream up names for the babies that are still on the way. (As an aside, when asked, I wanted to name my sister "Cookie" and my monikor of choice for my brother was "Casey Helmet." Surprisingly, my parents thanked me for my input and then went with other options.)

So, here's my question: what songs do you recommend from the 1970s in the vein of the Doobies and Ambrosia that will flow through my ipod, taking me out of a subway car where I'm crammed in between a loudmouthed hooligan eating chicken wings and a smelly bum who just pooped himself, and back to that benchseat in the Oldsmobile of my youth?

Tell me, so I can steal back my earliest memories from the Internet.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Rocky Mountain Oysters

So a recent Statcounter search showed that someone in Philly found my site by typing "erin removes the testicles" into Google. I tried it, and hey, I'm the TOP PICK if you want to read about Erin removing the testicles!

I found this strange because you know, I don't write about testicles that much on this site.

However, last night I did have a conversation about testicles, of which the Googling testicle searcher reminded me.

A couple of days ago, I ran into my very good friend D in the village. He was having breakfast with his sister and his precocious 8 year old niece. When he saw me walk by the window, he came outside and called after me. I went back and hugged him as we said our hellos (something that, as I'd soon find out, didn't go unnoticed by his family), and then he invited me into the restaurant to meet his sister and his niece.

Apparently the niece was cooking up some ideas about me as I sat down and chatted. Her great dream in life is to be a flower girl, and has requested of D that she be the one to throw the petals should he ever land himself a fiancee. As the one unmarried uncle in her family, D is her best shot at making her flower girl dreams come true. D jokes that by the time he finally gets married, his niece will be old enough to qualify for bridesmaid status.

Anyway, D and I got together last night. He told me something his niece said to him after I left the restaurant the other morning: "Maybe if you want to get married you can just marry Erin!" I can just see the dreams of little white dresses and a basket of petals taking root in her mind. D's sister, apparently, seconded this idea.

D and I had a good laugh about how sticky THAT situation would be, since I dated D's best friend and former roommate (let's call him George) for nearly 3 years. The social, emotional and familial shitstorm that would ensue if we moved anywhere beyond a friendly peck on the cheek are too horrendous to even hypothetically consider. I said as much to D:

Erin: "Haha, George would totally cut off your testicles and put them in a PIE if we dated!"
D: "He TOTALLY would. Um. Wait. A PIE? That's horrifying...(swallows) and yet somehow, so apt. Did you come up with that, or did you read it somewhere?"
Erin: "I don't know, I just came up with it, I guess."
D: "Why a PIE?"
Erin: "Because everything is better with a flaky crust."

So there's my latest story about severed testicles. Google searchers, go crazy.

Monkey Monkey

This is a sweet picture of my niece Stella, checking out the gorillas at the Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha (which is, in my estimation, the best zoo in the country). She's going to move to Germany soon. I'm going to miss her a lot.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Let Us Praise Lettuce

Sometimes I find the Union Square farmer's market overwhelming. I never know where to start, so I don't purchase anything and get the hell out of there before my claustrophobia kicks in and I start wanting to knock over baby strollers.

But last week, a little bag of lettuce caught my eye at a produce stand near the northwest corner of the market. "27 varieties of lettuce" it said. I was craving a healthy salad so I snapped up one of the unassuming, $4 plastic bag full of greens and carted it home. I also bought a $4 jar of goat cheese crumbles from a goat cheese farmer who complimented my unwashed hair.

A word of advice: GET THEE TO THE PRODUCE PURVEYOR AT THE NORTHWEST CORNER OF THE PARK. BUY THE 27-VARIETY LETTUCE.

I dressed my 27 kinds of greens with a little olive oil and balsamic that I mixed myself, and sprinkled it with a few tablespoons of the crumbled goat cheese (which tasted more like a pungent, dry blue cheese and was explosive and amazing). Get some of that, too -- the dude is also generous with his samples (especially if he likes your hair).

Anyway, this was seriously the best salad I have ever had, anywhere, at any fancy restaurant, or even out of my momma's garden (in fairness, she doesn't grow lettuce...her tomatoes are another story, though, as I have not yet found a New York heirloom variety that even comes close to one freshly plucked and still warm from her garden). When I was done with the salad, I immediately made another bowl. I had two friends at my house at the time who had already had dinner, but it smelled so good that even they were begging for tastes.

You can make about four generous portions of salad out of a $4 bag. Keep the dressing and toppings simple and let the complex flavors of the different varieties of greens come through. You won't regret it.

OK, I don't know why I've been posting about food all the time. Guess it's the, uh, bounty of spring or whatever.

I promise that shortly I'll return to posting about unsatisfying sexual encounters or having a dirty limerick contest, or something. I know you probably don't want to read about lettuce. But seriously -- this lettuce was awesome.

Can't Stomach the Dave Matthews -- No Matter What

So summer's on its way and, as per usual, I start to daydream about living in tents, bathing in streams, having sex in moss-covered glades and generally indulging my latent hippie self that has been languishing under an expensive wool coat and inside tall black boots all winter. I start entertaining dreams of moving to the blissfully sunny, mountainous Eden that is Colorado and purchasing a pair of Birkenstocks. And I guess with this mindset comes...the craving for hippie hippie bluegrass music. Specifically, the Yonder Mountain String Band.

I've seen Yonder outside in the mountains of Colorado, with real, actual, non-latent hippies dancing around in patchwork clothes. I've seen them tear up their guitars and banjos at the (now long gone) Wetlands in TriBeCa, where hard-bitten, cold-hearted New Yorkers gave up the cool and danced and hooted. And I'd love to see them again.

So I went to check out their web page and the next time they're coming to New York, later this summer, they're playing on Randall's Island.

WITH THE DAVE MATTHEWS BAND.

Sorry, even my inner hippie is too embarassed to go there. Even for YMSB. I don't think you could pay me a thousand dollars to sit through Dave Matthews.

Guess I'll have to get my speed jam hippie bluegrass fix some other way. Suggestions, anyone?

Pickle Tea at 44 1/2

One benefit of getting up at the crack of dawn to go to the gym is that you have your evenings free for leisure. While I consider the gym necessary for both my physical and mental stability and well being, I don't normally consider it fun or leisure, unless I'm climbing. And even that sometimes can feel like a necessary chore, if it's done inside.

Anyway, I've been trying to explore Manhattan (and especially its eateries) a little more with this newfound free time. That probably sounds a little silly since I spend SO MUCH TIME in the city, but to be honest, that's almost entirely for work and the gym.

When I'm going out for dinner or drinks, my preferences in the past years have strongly tilted in favor of Brooklyn. No lines, relaxed atmospheres, food that is just as good if not better than many "comparable" Manhattan eateries (at half the price), no annoying B&T running me over and pissing me off with their hideous accents and trying-so-hard-it's-painful outfits. Most of my friends also live in Brooklyn so this usually isn't a problem.

However, now that B, one of my favorite dining companions and closest friends, lives in the city, I find that I'm more often thinking about where I want to eat on the island, as opposed to across the river. This is what led us to Tia Pol on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, B and I met up around 9 near his apartment (around 35th and 10th -- I'm not even sure what to call this area. Upper Chelsea? LoHelKit? SubClinton? OnTopo'Tunnel?) and briskly headed northward to a place he had recommended for a quiet outdoor drink and a small bite to eat, 44 1/2, on 10th between 44th and 45th.

I find sitting outside for drinks or food in New York a mixed bag. I hate sitting on a front sidewalk -- people gawk at your plate, cab horns drown out conversation, car exhaust stinks everything up, tables are invariably wobbly, and pigeons peck around your feet and try to mate near your sandals. Gross.

Back gardens, however, are another story. When they're not crowded, they can be serene and lovely and give you a mini-escape from the insanity happening all around you. So anyway, the back garden at 44 1/2 is really quiet and spacious, with candles and trees and gravel and an open sky. It's great.

While it seemed like it could be a scene-y place on the weekend (good looking waiters in kitschy T-shirts with gelled up hair), for a late snack on a Wednesday it was calm and frankly what I was most impressed with was that the waiters were totally nice even though the entirety of our order consisted of a glass of chianti, an iced tea and a $12 thin crust pizza with crimini, black trumpet and oyster mushrooms and a healthy crumbling of some very tasty, earthy kind of cheese. B had already eaten at Cafe Fiorello and I didn't want to pile it on that late in the day, so we kept it very light. Restaurant staff -- lousy ones, anyway -- can make you feel like a "waste of space" if you don't want to order much, and on a busy night, I can understand it. But they were nothing but genuinely nice and accomodating. I'm sure it would have been different at 9 p.m. on a Saturday, but whatever.

Anyway, sometimes food at places like this seems like an afterthought, but the pizza was delicious -- salty and earthy and crispy, generous on the mushrooms and with an unusual but complimentary cheese on the top (sorry, don't know what it was). One caveat: B's iced tea, while sporting a lovely rose hue, tasted vaguely, for some reason, of pickles.

So if you're in Hell's Kitchen and need a late night snack, I endorse 44 1/2. But not the pickle-y iced tea.

Now, back to Brooklyn. The Gowanus Yacht Club is open, and there's no way I'm missing dollar dogs and $2 beers. It's a block away from my house, and I'm thinking of just pitching a tent there for the rest of the summer.

Finally: the heckle index today has hit an all-time high. Ladies, if you're outside, and especially if you're wearing a skirt -- bring a taser. Apparently no matter how white your legs are, you will be harassed, honked at, and endure raunchy "tooth sucking noises" all day.

Catcallers: GO TO HELL AND LEAVE US ALONE! Let us walk down the street in peace.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Basque Eats at Tia Pol

Back in 2004 I took a trip to Spain to go rock climbing in Catalunya, near Arboli.

I met up with some friends (or, actually, friends of friends who soon became actual friends) in Bilbao, in the Basque country, before we took a hair-raising cross-country drive to Catalunya to get to Arboli, where we would climb.

My mom is always scared I'm going to get injured when I'm out climbing, but what she should really have been afraid of was the Spanish highways -- I constantly felt as though I was playing some crazy game of motorized Frogger at 600 km an hour. Normally this would have stressed me out. But the Vascos we were with had a fondness for what they called "porros," or, hash mixed with tobacco. They smoked these from morning till night, even while driving. Once the car filled up with smoke, *somehow* I was able to mellow out about the impending death or twisted-metal doom we always seemed to be narrowly escaping on the road.

I speak a little Spanish, albeit poorly. I can't remember how to conjugate verbs correctly so I end up saying things like, "Four days behind yesterday I want to eat cheese. We buy cheese. Cheese good. Where I buy cheese now?" Although I sound like a certified retard, I can at least come close to making my point if I have a dictionary on hand. Can I keep up with heated arguments about Basque separatism? No. Can I find out where a bathroom is or order a beer? Yes.

Complicating matters on this trip, however, was that we spent much of our time in either the Basque country, or Catalunya. The Basque language is totally indecipherable and as far as I can tell has absolutely nothing to do with Spanish; the words are consonant-heavy tangles of Xs and Ks. In fact, the language has yet to be classified into a language family.
Catalan is only marginally less difficult; it's some kind of mishmash transitory language based on both French and Spanish. The Spaniards tried to be welcoming by speaking Spanish, instead of Basque or Catalan, when we were around. But, the restaurateurs weren't so thoughtful.

And so, when dinnertime came, we usually only had one option: point, pick and hope for the best.

Luckily, the hearty food of Catalunya and the Basque country turned out to be rustic and delicious, and we eagerly sought out every opportunity to "point and pick" croquettes (delicious, fried, melty balls of cheese and serrano ham), tortillas (layered pies of sliced potatoes) and seafood.

We ate so much of the same stuff that when I stumble upon something similar now, it really transports me back to that happy adventure. Thus, I've been wanting to hit up regional Spanish restaurant Tia Pol (one of the chefs is Basque) for some time. A little culinary vacation, if you will.

Last night I and one of my favorite dinner companions, B, toughed out an hourlong wait and went to Tia Pol, which is on 22nd and 10th Ave. Normally, I leave tapas bars still hungry and pissed off about overpaying for underwhelming food. Tia Pol was just the opposite.

For about $40 we got drinks and more food than we could handle -- I think we had about 10 total plates, and I definitely would NOT describe them all as "small." Plates cost $3 to $14 or so.

Things we'd HIGHLY recommend: the salted, blistered green peppers (which have already gotten much love in the press -- get a large order), the fried chickpeas (addictive on the level of nicotine), the ham and cheese croquettes (divine), white asparagus with caviar (delicate), and patatas bravas with aioli (rich, sinful and stacked deep in their crock).

The deviled eggs were OK but I thought they were a little heavy on the paprika. Neither of us liked the salt cod ("Ewww, it tastes like mashed potatoes whipped with fish," B said.) although that doesn't necessarily say anything about the preparation. We both found the lamb skewers to be tough and not all that tasty.

Desert choices were limited -- a flan, an almond cake, and a Calimoxo. "A Calimoxo?" I wondered. When I was in Spain, I learned a somewhat embarassing lesson about the Calimoxo (pronounced cal-ee-MO-cho), which is a sweet mix of red wine and Coke.

I kept ordering them because that way I wouldn't get a) too drunk or b) too tired -- which tended to happen given the late hours and heavy drinking schedule the Spaniards keep. Often when someone went up for the next round, they looked a little puzzled at my order, or sometimes they smirked. Eventually, someone broke through the language barrier enough to let me know that I was ordering the type of thing that teenagers drink on the sly at weddings -- like a Zima or a wine cooler. My face was red as I gulped down my next glass of fizzy, grapey goodness.

ANYWAY, I thought since it was listed as a dessert that it would be a TWIST on the Calimoxo -- you know, frozen, or served as a, um, reduction, or something. The waitress mentioned something about a granita. However, what showed up was....a red wine and Coke, with a tiny chunk of red wine ice floating on top. It was fine for what it was, but it wasn't dessert. It was just a Calimoxo.

My suggested addition to the Tia Pol dessert drink menu, which would remain true to Basque and Catalan regional fare, is the bom bom, an espresso mixed with sweetened condensed milk. I drank every one I could get my hands on in Spain, and it might make the wait at Tia Pol worthwhile if I could end my dinner with one of those.

Overheard

Hey, everybody! If you have some time to fritter away (and really, who doesn't?) I'm on Overheard in New York today. I even made it "above the link." Thanks, Michael Malice.

Gay Talese story in NYO -- meh

There’s a piece today in the New York Observer about Gay Talese. It captures something about what it’s like to have a conversation with the man, although I don’t really understand why the main theme of the story is procrastination. I guess because “A Writer’s Life” is being published so many years after his last book?

I’ve had the pleasure of having dinner with Gay and Nan a few times, and of sitting in their townhouse, drinking Scotch and listening to Gay spin yarns (something he does very, very well in person, not just on the page). Reading the NYO piece makes me glad that much of Talese’s work is autobiographical, because obviously we can’t leave it up to those profiling him today to do a very good job. Like Oakland, there’s no THERE there. I found the NYO story thin, and I certainly didn’t learn anything new about Gay by reading it (Gay wears handmade suits! You don’t say!). I think the writer should take a page from Gay when it comes to researching, and getting to know, his subjects.

Anyway, maybe I shouldn’t grouse, because you know, hey, I never took a stab at profiling Gay. So whatever. I just thought the story was a little weak – he’s such an amazing person, it seems like that would translate into a rich, nuanced profile if only the writer put a little more elbow grease into it.

Scientology's Virgin Birth

So Katie Holmes (she of the lazy eye and Bell’s Palsy symptoms – has anyone ever seen a movie star that more closely resembles Quasimoto?) squirted out Tom Cruise’s spawn last night.

A hearty welcome the world’s newest little Scientologist, Suri. According to news reports, the name means "Princess" in Hebrew. According to Gawker -- whose accuracy we'll go with every time -- the name means "Lord Krishna" in Hindu.

Here’s a paranoid theory for you. Maybe Scientology is trying to come up with its own virgin birth! They want their own little Jesus!

Think about it. Before Cruise came along, proclaiming his love for her on couches, Holmes was engaged to Chris Klein, who’s obviously a closeted homo. While she was with him, she said she remained a virgin because of her Roman Catholic upbringing. Meanwhile, she’s never actually had sex with Cruise, who’s ALSO obviously a closeted homo.

This is definitely a turkey baster baby. Voila! Virgin birth!

The Christians have Jesus, King of the Jews.

The Scientologists have Suri, Princess of the Psychos.

I'm not trying to be sacreligious here -- just pointing out the Scientologists' brewing, evil plot.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Warning: Lard Sticks to the Chin (as well as the thighs)

Last night I went on a date.

Let's call the man in question Ted, since 1) that's his name and 2) I don't have to give him an alias, since I am not about to reveal that he has an unrelenting case of human papillomavirus (which he doesn't) or that he dragged me into a dark alley on the way home and tried to have his way with me (which he didn't).

Ted has somewhat restored my faith in the ability of a New York male to plan an honest to goodness date. In the past few years it seems that the average New York slacker's idea of a date has devolved from the ubiquitous "dinner and a movie" to something more like "buying a six-pack of Bud tall boys and hoping that watching Friends reruns on TBS makes me want to take my pants off." And I didn't even have to comb the offensive I-banker bars of the Upper East Side to find him!

I mentioned at some point in my interaction with Ted that I had never been to an event at Madison Square Garden and would really like to go to SOMETHING, ANYTHING (since it's pathetic that a seven-year New York resident has yet to do this).

Before I could say "The Knicks are the worst team in the NBA," he had tickets in hand for us to attend the last home game. Score one point for Ted. Even though the Knicks blow, I was excited about the night, my first trip to MSG, and to having some fun with Ted. Ted came straight from work. While he hates his current job, and I deeply empathize with that sentiment, one nice thing about said job is that they force him to wear suits. So, Ted looked especially sharp. That's TWO points for Ted!

The game was fun, though to be honest, I probably got a bigger kick out of the scantily clad KNICKS CITY DANCERS and the kids' contests during breaks at the quarter, where 11-year-old girls tried to outslut each other with every thrust of the undeveloped hip while belting out off-pitch Britney Spears ripoffs.

Afterward, Ted said he was hungry and suggested we head downtown for a bite to eat. The Spotted Pig was considered (which would make TWO places I've always wanted to go, but haven't, in a night), but Ted had a hankering for pizza. So -- OTTO!

I've always wanted to go to Otto as well. Each week I eagerly await the NYTimes Dining In/Dining Out section on Wednesdays, and I spend altogether too much time, er, devouring various New York City food blogs and dreaming about things like fried hominy or blistered green peppers or the latest food fad of the moment when I really should be thinking about work. I am a foodie in spirit, if not in practice (luckily for my thighs).

Three years ago, William Grimes reviewed Batali's Otto in the New York Times, and I have never forgotten his mention of Otto's lardo pizza, which he led off the article with. Later on, he raves of the pizza: "The lardo version is simply covered with paper-thin strips of glistening, heavenly pork fat (which has less cholesterol than butter and fewer calories than olive oil), and scattered with pungent rosemary."

When William Grimes speaks, I listen. After all, I grew up eating Pizza Hut deep-dish and tater tot casserole, so my palate could probably use at least some vicarious refining.

So Ted and I were walking through Washington Square Park on our way to Otto and I exclaimed, with probably a bit too much gusto, "I'm so excited we're going to Otto, I finally get to try the lard pizza!"

"Um. Did you just say LARD PIZZA???" Ted said, a look of fear in his eyes.

Yes. I was about to order what New York Magazine had named the "number one most fattening dish," in the city, in front of a date who was nice enough to offer me a dinner of something other than pork rinds and cheap beer. I know as a "New York woman" I'm supposed to survive on a diet of lettuce, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! spray and Ex-Lax with a heaping side dish of air, so maybe I was tipping my gluttonous hand by revealing what I planned to order.

I guess this would be a test of whether he actually liked me or not.

Anyway, the lardo pizza was ordered, as well as another (sorry, I was so focused on my upcoming lard that I can't remember what was on his) as well as a dish of spaghetti carbonara.

I'm going to take a quick break here to note that either we're not great orderers, or that Otto -- while a decent restaurant for its price range, and one that I enjoyed very much -- has probably let the quality of its dishes slide just a bit since Grimes first raved about it three years ago. It was a lovely place and had a great vibe (at least when not packed to the rafters). The service was good, and I loved the little carafes they poured at our table for our wine. I'd definitely eat there again, and I'd love to explore the menu more. The food, while tasty, was far from transcendent, however. In fact, I'd venture to say that the spaghetti carbonara was undercooked and even a tiny bit bland. And you won't find a person who likes bacon more than this girl.

But back to that pork fat. The lardo pizza arrived, looking pretty much like it had in the picture I had seen of it in NY Magazine -- a white pie with a clear, fruit rollup-like slice of fat on each piece.

I took a bite. The taste and the texture were very distinctive (in fact, I can still 'taste' it today when I think about it), but the thing that surprised me most about the lardo was that you couldn't easily bite it into pieces as you worked your way through each slice.

Which meant that, as I took the first hearty chomp of my first slice, the entire piece of fat slid off the pie and flopped square onto my chin. Lard is also, apparently, not something you want to try to suck into your mouth, off your chin, whole. It just doesn't work.

In my embarassment, I can't really remember how I managed to get a large slab of lard off of my chin and into my mouth, but I managed somehow -- and worked through the rest of the pie as well.

Ted wins a third point for taking me to Otto, a restaurant I've always wanted to try -- and a bonus star for not dying of embarassment that he was sitting across the table from a girl with a strip of "glistening, heavenly" lard stuck to her chin.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Mysterious Signage

So on the corner of 50th and 7th there's one of those scary combo KFC/Pizza Slut/Taco Bell places. I guess these combo ventures kind of make sense -- taking advantage of economies of scale and swapping supplies and all that. When the taco-makers run out of bird parts for the Ranchero Chicken Soft Taco, they can just bop over to the Colonel's prep counter and steal a couple Boneless Fiery Buffalo Wings to substitute. (How is a "wing" boneless? That chicken must have had a hell of a time trying to get any happy flapping done in the expansive green pasture in which it was undoubtedly raised.)

ANYWAY, today I caught a glimpse of some kind of avertising sign in the window of this place. It read as follows: "IT" started here. (Quotation marks theirs.)

What do you suppose "IT" is? Trichinosis? The institutionalized use of pulled, reconstituted and pressed animal parts? Your last bought of explosive diarrhea? Internet technology? You got me.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

An Inquisitive Letter to the Riders of the Haitian "Express"

Dear Haitian immigrants,

Every morning I see you in my office building. The elevator -- which moves at the pace of a sedated octogenarian with two artificial hips and a club foot -- doesn't usually have to stop on any floors besides mine. Oh, and yours -- five, the Haitian Consulate.

Now, lest you think I am hating on Haitians when I ask you what I'm about to ask you, please know that my annoyance is equal-opportunity and crosses all racial, age, and ethnic lines. I also abhor people who shop at American Girl Doll on Fifth Avenue and carry those stupid red bags around, swinging them gleefully and banging their money-wasting purchases into my knees.

But back to the matter at hand. What I want to know, Haitian immigrants, is how you can afford to MOVE SO DAMN SLOW? 'Cause you know, time is money, and I have to get to work.

How come YOU don't have to get to work? What gives? Didn't you just move here from the poorest country in the Western hemisphere, where the average annual income is $240? Doesn't that mean you have a little catching up to do? Well, then, HOP TO IT. Chop chop, cram into the elevator already so we can get moving. Because even if you don't have anywhere to be, I have to get to work.

How can you afford not to hustle when you obviously didn't move here with the wealth of a sultan, or even a pizza-delivery boy? I come from a upper middle class family, and I think some of my father's services in his place of business probably run about $240 a MINUTE. I started out ahead.

And still, I run around like a chicken with my head cut off in this city, dashing from one job to another, rising at 5 a.m. and going to sleep at midnight, hauling around 87 pounds of gym clothes, a change of shoes and a tuna sandwich in my backpack at all times because I live in Brooklyn to save money and don't buy expensive deli items for lunch. And I STILL can hardly scrape together enough moolah to pay the rent, let alone shop somewhere other than Ann Taylor, where I purchase ill-fitting clothes that I hate, but that are necessary for holding onto the jobs I need to pay the rent. A vicious circle. How do you do it, Haitian immigrants? Why are your faces so wrinkle-free, your pace so leisurely? Where is your tuna sandwich?

Don't get me wrong. Of the Hispaniola countries, I always thought Haiti was the more intriguing. And I'm not down on you personally -- after all, we're a nation of immigrants, myself included. Years ago, my Norwegian ancestors moved their heavily larded behinds (a survival must for all cold-weather ocean fisherman, thoughtfully passed down through the generations!) onto a big boat, across a continent, and ended up in the Dakotas. But I've seen pictures of them plowing the barren fields behind a team of half-dead oxen at the first thaw of spring and let me tell you, judging by the height of their knees, they were not dallying or lollygagging the way you are when you get on or off my elevator in the morning. No, they were hustling.

Let's make a deal. Either clue me in on how to attain the stress-free existence that allows you to amble around at a snail's pace, inhibiting hard-working people from quickly entering or exiting the elevator, or HURRY THE HELL UP.

Curiously,
A Rider From the Eighth Floor

Things That Go Bump in the (Very Early) Morning

Now that I’m juggling two jobs – both of which pretty much require me to compress a full work day into four hours or less – it’s often 7 or later by the time I manage to dislodge my Incredible Spreading Ass from whichever chair I happen to occupy at the time. And by then I can forget about hauling my bleary self all the way crosstown to my gym on the West Side Highway – ‘cause the hour is ripe for a martini or seven.

The irony of this problem, of course, is that the more I work, the more I need to go to the gym, to prevent my likely decline into an obese, alcoholic, Raisinette-snarfing clinical depression case who can’t even haul herself up a 5.4 anymore and thus uses her climbing harness for more nefarious, suicidal purposes. But the later I work, the less likely I am to put myself through rigorous hour-long torture sessions on the treadmill. So, I’ve started getting up BEFORE the butt crack of dawn and let me tell you, things are weird at that hour of the day in our fair city.

This morning I rolled out of bed at 4:58 a.m. (occasionally I exaggerate for effect, but this time, I am not), pulled on my smelly sneakers, put my ugly backpack over my shoulders and went ISO coffee before I got on the train. It was still pitch black in Carroll Gardens. The tai chi ladies weren’t in the park, the nannies weren’t dropping the brats off at school, and shit, my normal coffee place wasn’t even open.

It’s spooky being on a New York City street alone, and it’s probably why I get the heebie jeebies whenever I go back to South Dakota in winter. You get used to being around people, all the time, in New York. But should you venture out into the barren South Dakota tundra, it’s like being in the opening scene of “28 Days Later” when all the zombies are hiding out in the local church, just waiting for some fresh meat to amble in.

But I forged ahead anyway. The coffee was worth a potential zombie attack. Going to the gym in the morning is hard enough, but going uncaffienated is simply unthinkable. So I altered from my usual route to the closed coffee place and turned the corner to go to Frank’s Luncheonette, which apparently opens in time for the garbagemen, or something.

This is where everything began to get all Mulholland Drive-y on me, and I felt as though I had tripped into some alternate Brooklyn universe where everything was scary and weird instead of sunny and full of hipster goodwill.

Even though “28 Days Later” is a very scary movie, I’m not actually scared of zombies. I am, however, scared of crackheads, and 5:30 in the morning is prime time to be on the lookout for crazy crackheads. The highs are wearing off. The bitches in the living room are no longer getting it on. And they’ll take their guns and shoot you if they think it’ll help get them a couple dollars for more rock. (At least in my mind, that is. Fine. If they had a gun, they’d probably just sell it for more drugs, but that’s beside the point. This is my paranoid fantasy, people.)

The point is, I was having visions of getting gunned down by a toothless crackhead when I mindlessly wandered right into a flock of about 300 pigeons who were nestled down sleeping and absolutely still, totally invisible in the dark. Apparently they were taking their daily 20-minute break from pecking at feet and pooping on pedestrians (who knew!).

Suddenly, I was surrounded by the rapid-fire “crack crack CRACK!” of 600 startled wings flapping ferociously, engulfing me in a nasty, feathery bird volcano. It was enough to spook the bejeezus out of a gore-hardened veteran horror-film reviewer, and the blood-curdling scream I involuntarily released could surely be heard all the way to Red Hook.

Heart pounding and head spinning, I continued on my quest for burned Folger’s. A block later, I got to the bodega. Outside stood an oily Italian man, dressed to the nines in a three-piece suit (at 5:30 a.m.? What gives?) hawking repeated loogies onto the sidewalk in front of the store. Was it some kind of sign? Did it mean I was going to die of lung cancer?

But I continued on and made my way to the counter, gingerly dodging spit puddles! Once inside, another customer with the visage of T-Bag, the child molester from “Prison Break,” and the drawl of Sawyer from “Lost” (fine, I’ve been watching too much damn TiVo!) turned to me and inquired – slowly, for a more intensely creepy effect -- “Are y’all havin’ cawfee?”

Ummmm, no, it’s 5:30 in the morning, I thought I’d have a Tylenol PM and a nice cup of hot cocoa. Of course I’m having coffee. “Uh, yeah, I’m having coffee.”

So T-Bag drawls to the man behind the counter: “I have to buy her coffee! I just have to do it. I’m going to bed, but she’s just getting up. I can’t have the coffee. But she can. So I have to buy it.”

By this logic, maybe I should have bought him a nice soothing cup of chamomile tea and read him a bedtime story. But I was too flummoxed to make sense of any of this bizarre situation and instead just took the cup of joe and went on my way, thoroughly expecting to see a grotesque miniature version of my grinning grandparents on an escalator somewhere or wake up and realize I was having some hot erotic dream about my nonexistent lesbian girlfriend.

Instead, I went to the gym. And if you live in New York, you’ll be happy to know that by the time I got out, all had turned right in the city. The nightmare was over and all was normal again. The sun was shining! The birds were shitting! An immigrant thrust a copy of AM New York at my nose! The man who obviously forgot to beat off this morning gave me unsolicited feedback on my looks and my bootie! The coffee vendor who, despite serving me a large coffee light with no sugar every day for the last month, still thought I wanted tea!

But wait, what’s this? Why, it's a man doing push-ups in the middle of the sidewalk on 40th and Madison.

Well, if it were too normal, it just wouldn’t be New York, now, would it?

Monday, April 10, 2006

The Inspiration Dryeth Up

While it's true that I can usually muster up the nerve to complain about anything -- too little work, too much work, too many men sniffing around, too few coming to call, having too many clothes spilling out of my two foot by two foot closet, having absolutely nothing appropriate to wear, ever (all of these are current, if completely contradictory, complaints, somehow) -- lately, I have been unable to even scrape together enough inspiration to come up with one measly blog post. Which, of course, normally consist about me bitching about one of the above. This is not because I've been trying to ACCentuate the positive (though, I have -- not that I can ever trick myself into it for long; guess it's just not in my nature).

I'm tired, people. I need to go live in a tent for awhile. This is something I haven't done since, oh, I don't know, 2003, when I made an all-too-brief escape from New York to go muck around and climb big walls in the deserts of Mexico. Oh sure, since then, I've had vacations -- adventures, even. I've traveled on four continents -- sometimes not even on my own dime. (See, I told you I could find room to bitch about anything.) This winter I spent some great long weekends in Vail and Denver and Salt Lake for some fairly incredibly snowboarding. But those trips were exhausting! Redeye flights, rushed visits to 37 friends in two-day spans, etc. I think to really recharge my batteries I need to get away from the dadgum internet, the cellphone, the desks, the fluorescent lights that are sapping my soul of its joy and freedom and the new experiences it takes to remind me I'm alive, if only for this short time. (Again, I'm a freelancer, and I'm bitching about freedom. It's truly amazing! Then again, no one's paying me to take vacation. Staffers don't have it all bad...).

I normally find New YOrk pretty inspiring, but I'm starting to feel like I did that time back in 2000. I had lived in New York City for about nine months and NOT ONCE had I left the boroughts of Manhattan or Brooklyn. Lacking a car, I one day hopped the Staten Island ferry and walked around in St. George, blissfully trespassing on people's lawns so I could feel the grass beneath my feet, and seeking out the neareset Subway so I could return to my roots and experience the quiet normalcy of visiting a shitty strip mall. I felt cooped up and sick of the money grubbing and out of touch with nature.

Obviously, I need to get out of here for awhile. Calgon, take me away.

Dont' worry, I"m sure my mood will improve tomorrow after I go to the gym. I'm sure you're all relieved.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Stolen Kisses

Those bitches at the New York Times are RIPPING ME OFF!

Me: "To further avoid embarassing kiss-haps, I propose we STANDARDIZE the New York greeting kiss. One kiss, on the other person's left cheek (or, the kisser leans to the normally dominant right to plant the kiss)."

NYTimes: "Even so, confusion often reigns because there is no set formula for social kissing...In most countries the social kiss begins with the right cheek, probably because most people are right-handed and, according to a German study in 2003, most people tilt their heads to the right when heading for a lip kiss. So it follows that they would lean right for a cheek kiss."

And they didn't even have it in them to make the rest of the article funny. Hrmph.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Overheard on the Subway

I was on the F train this morning around 9:30, minding my own business and salivating over the Dining In/Dining Out section in the New York Times, when a group of, oh, I don’t know, SIX HUNDRED or so elementary school kids boarded my car between East Broadway and Delancey, seemingly on a field trip. Simultaneously, every adult on the train frantically plunged their hands inside their respective pockets or purses to crank up the volume on their iPod or mp3 player.

I was less quick on the draw and was digging around in the bottom of my bag for my earbuds when I heard the teacher shout over the deafening roar of pre-pubescent screams and shrieks: “Kids, kids…QUIET! Remember, NO ONE ELSE ON THIS TRAIN LIKES CHILDREN!”

Well said, lady. Well said.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

What Constitutes Game?

I was having dinner with my friend D. the other night and telling him about a date I went on awhile back. On this particular date, the person in question made sure I had no food allergies or dislikes (and I don't, besides sun-dried tomatoes, which RUIN anything they touch). He then suggested a good, but not frighteningly expensive, restaurant without all that annoying back and forth of "Where do YOU want to go," "No, where do YOU want to go" that drives me bananas. Afterward, he planned a fun activity that went beyond the basic "Let me get you drunk enough that you'll feel like taking your pants off -- or won't feel it when I do!" The last time I had as nice a date was probably more than a year ago when I went with someone to the gorilla exhibit at the Bronx Zoo, and that was a LONG time ago. That's right -- the ass double, in retrospect, couldn't hold a candle to watching a monkey scratch his own testicles. (Although, that's kind of what a date with the ass double amounted to, as it were.)

Anyway, as I was going on and on about how nice it was to have someone ask me out and actually plan dinner and an activity, D. -- who's been on the dating scene for a good 20 years or so -- stopped me and asked, "Is planning a date all that it takes to constitute game these days? Shit!" (D., for the record, plans very nice dates, at least from what I can tell -- I think he was amazed that standards have dropped so low that this was enough to make a date notable.)

And I realized that perhaps that's what it's come to. So to all my male friends who bitch and moan about how hard it is to get dates with decent women, consider it a lesson: just be confident, ask someone out, and plan something for fuck's sake. Repeat after me: "Do you want to go to XXXX concert with me on XXXX day?" I mean, maybe I've just been dating the wrong people, but if you ask me the odds are good that she'll be so floored that someone thought about what she might like to do that it won't even matter if you're flatulent, fat, or five-foot-two.

Furthermore, it doesn't even really matter what the activity is. You could probably take her to an asbestos factory or a Superfund site and she'd have a good time, as long as she didn't have to go through the stress of deciding where to go. Women already have to make so many decisions in one day; sometimes it's almost more than I can handle to pick out a pair of shoes in the morning. Don't make us plan a date on top of it, at least not when you're the one doing the asking.

Does this make me antifeminist? I don't think so. It just makes me tired of trying to navigate New York's dating scene, wherein passing out in my lap at 3 a.m. apparently indicates interest. Call me old fashioned. But if you plan a date, in my book -- yes, you've got game. Do the ladies of New York agree?

Identity Crisis

So I was walking up Madison Avenue today when I was stopped by a reporter for New York's CBS affiliate and asked to comment on camera about retirement.

I have a couple of thoughts about retirement, the first being, "I have thirty thousand dollars in my 401k, is that enough to last me the next 50 years if I quit working tomorrow?" and the second being, "Is Bush even PRETENDING to try to fix Social Security anymore, or has he given that up for the sham that it always was?" So, presumably, I would have had something to say.

But what I said instead was, "Sorry, I can't comment -- I'm a journalist."

Now, being a "journalist" (more on that later) hasn't precluded me from getting screen time in the past. Back in 98 or so, I was on the Sioux Falls NBC affiliate on Thanksgiving when a reporter trolling the local mall asked me why me and my family were going to the movies on a holiday. I think I said something like, "It's become a family tradition over the years," although if I had been truthful, I might have said, "We were sick of watching TV, starting to fight about politics, and how many times can you play Cranium, especially when Dad always CHEATS? Oh, and we ran out of booze." Then in 1999, I was a guest "expert" brought on to talk about President Clinton during the Juanita Broaddrick scandal on Canada AM, which is our northern neighbor's version of "Good Morning America." I felt kind of bad about it, because I liked Clinton, but they offered me a hundred bucks, and I was broke. Later, of course, I found out this was a hundred CANADIAN dollars, and felt a little hijacked, but whatever....

ANYWAY, the point is, by the time I hit 43rd street, I realized that what I said to this TV reporter was no longer true. While I shouldn't have commented, since I do occasionally write freelance stories about retirement issues, and since I now consult at a think tank that is trying to sort out the retirement-savings debacle, to say I was a journalist was a lie. I am no longer a journalist.

This realization (which, in truth, I've known for some time -- this just put it into harsher relief) brought on a pretty severe identity crisis. Being a journalist, or even a writer, has always been a big part of my identity. It gave me a professional outlet for skepticism, for inquisitiveness, creativity, or even for championing a cause. I still work with words for a living -- moving them around, getting people to use certain ones, checking to make sure they're right, sometimes even stringing them together for publication -- but I realize that I'm never going to be working on an investigative reporting team at the New York Times, and it's kind of sad to know that you have to let that go. It's just not in the cards. Since September 2004, when I left the WSJ, I've been reshaping my career, and while it's been an interesting ride I also realize that I have to make sure that I don't get so far off track that I don't even recognize myself anymore.

What's really annoying is that this crisis was brought on by a *TV JOURNALIST* -- the type of person I would have scorned a few years ago, back when I was a real reporter, out to "change the world" and all of that. As if standing on Madison Avenue asking a bunch of random idiots what they think of retirement is doing anything to further the dialogue regarding the shitstorm we're going to face when Social Security peters out and baby boomers scrape bottom on their thinly padded retirement accounts.

Although I try really hard not to get bogged down in self-defeatist thought, sometimes I fear my career peaked at 21, at least in terms of personal satisfaction.