SoHo, New York City; November 29, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Long Haul II: Tennessee, not Williams
Fake Facebook status: Liz's camera cable is somewhere in the back of her car.
...Along with the rest of her worldly possessions.
So long-haul pictures will have to wait, but rest assured that we've made it to Nashville (via Charleston, SC) and are making friends with barbecue and the Grand Ole Opry. Tomorrow it's off to visit Elvis's "body" at Graceland and then Carrie in Arkansas; more smoked/sauced meats may be necessary.
Updates as news breaks.
...Along with the rest of her worldly possessions.
So long-haul pictures will have to wait, but rest assured that we've made it to Nashville (via Charleston, SC) and are making friends with barbecue and the Grand Ole Opry. Tomorrow it's off to visit Elvis's "body" at Graceland and then Carrie in Arkansas; more smoked/sauced meats may be necessary.
Updates as news breaks.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The state of things
A telling (albeit slightly disgusting) anecdote:
The other night, I had this dream--not that I remember anything now, only that it was epic and sprawling and I think my friend Sue was in it--and in the middle, I woke up juuuust enough to register that my mouth tasted bad. Really bad. Consistently bad. Like rubber.
And then I realized there was something in my mouth.
And then I realized I was--wait for it--chewing on an EARPLUG. I had taken my right earplug out of my ear, put it in my mouth, and chewed it into pieces. (The left one: still in.)
It's still in bits on my night stand.
Stress eater, meet teeth grinder? In any case, I can't stop giggling about it. When I win my Emmy with a character who wakes up with earplugs in her mouth, you'll know.
...
In other news, today is my last day of work. Last! Day! Of work! What?!
Holy crap.
The other night, I had this dream--not that I remember anything now, only that it was epic and sprawling and I think my friend Sue was in it--and in the middle, I woke up juuuust enough to register that my mouth tasted bad. Really bad. Consistently bad. Like rubber.
And then I realized there was something in my mouth.
And then I realized I was--wait for it--chewing on an EARPLUG. I had taken my right earplug out of my ear, put it in my mouth, and chewed it into pieces. (The left one: still in.)
It's still in bits on my night stand.
Stress eater, meet teeth grinder? In any case, I can't stop giggling about it. When I win my Emmy with a character who wakes up with earplugs in her mouth, you'll know.
...
In other news, today is my last day of work. Last! Day! Of work! What?!
Holy crap.
Monday, December 07, 2009
It's been real
You know, I've come to like DC, in a weird kind of way. I like going to things that begin with "National," and the lit-up view of the Capitol from Pennsylvania Avenue. I like the cathedral gardens, and the pizza sandwiches with hot peppers (and a small Oreo shake) from Potbelly. I like snow freak-outs and dogwood blossoms and hanging out with Lincoln whenever I feel like it.
Which, obviously, is why I'm leaving a week from today.
Did I forget to say that earlier?
I've had a good time here--really. When I take stock of the experiences I had and the places I went and the people I met, experiences and places and people that wouldn't have crossed my path if I hadn't come here, I'm grateful. It was hard, too, both confusing and clarifying, but this year has been like nothing else I've ever done--and certainly like no place else I've ever lived--and I wouldn't trade it. I'll even miss it, some.
But there are other things I want to do, professionally, that aren't accessible in DC without, at the very least, a bus ride to New York; to stay wouldn't be a good use of my time. My parents have graciously offered me a crash pad while I take a shot at writing full-time--while I polish and send out my work, take whatever freelance gigs I can get, save up some money, and see what happens. I fully expect a wild-goose chase, but I'm hopeful and in a take-no-prisoners mood. And really, what better time to leave a stable government job than in the worst employment market in eighty years?
In the mean time, I'm a total to-do list hound. I dream about crossing things off of my master pre-move list, and somehow seem to have transcended procrastination for the time being. Mail: forwarded! Return route: decided! Prescriptions: refilled! The car is in the shop today, getting an oil change and a couple of new tires; I'm dying to get it back so I can put the seats down and start loading boxes. Packing up a furnished apartment is bizarre--I'm about two-thirds packed, and everything looks more or less the same, like I'm not leaving at all. Sherlock, of course, is just psyched that I've finally embraced his passion for boxes of clean clothes (little does he know what horror awaits--he's going on the plane with my brother). In any case, by this time next week, everything will be packed, cleaned, locked and left, and I'll be on the road to Charleston (Liz & Al National Tour Stop #1).
Until then, you'll know where to find me: just look for the giant flag of packing tape.
Which, obviously, is why I'm leaving a week from today.
Did I forget to say that earlier?
I've had a good time here--really. When I take stock of the experiences I had and the places I went and the people I met, experiences and places and people that wouldn't have crossed my path if I hadn't come here, I'm grateful. It was hard, too, both confusing and clarifying, but this year has been like nothing else I've ever done--and certainly like no place else I've ever lived--and I wouldn't trade it. I'll even miss it, some.
But there are other things I want to do, professionally, that aren't accessible in DC without, at the very least, a bus ride to New York; to stay wouldn't be a good use of my time. My parents have graciously offered me a crash pad while I take a shot at writing full-time--while I polish and send out my work, take whatever freelance gigs I can get, save up some money, and see what happens. I fully expect a wild-goose chase, but I'm hopeful and in a take-no-prisoners mood. And really, what better time to leave a stable government job than in the worst employment market in eighty years?
In the mean time, I'm a total to-do list hound. I dream about crossing things off of my master pre-move list, and somehow seem to have transcended procrastination for the time being. Mail: forwarded! Return route: decided! Prescriptions: refilled! The car is in the shop today, getting an oil change and a couple of new tires; I'm dying to get it back so I can put the seats down and start loading boxes. Packing up a furnished apartment is bizarre--I'm about two-thirds packed, and everything looks more or less the same, like I'm not leaving at all. Sherlock, of course, is just psyched that I've finally embraced his passion for boxes of clean clothes (little does he know what horror awaits--he's going on the plane with my brother). In any case, by this time next week, everything will be packed, cleaned, locked and left, and I'll be on the road to Charleston (Liz & Al National Tour Stop #1).
Until then, you'll know where to find me: just look for the giant flag of packing tape.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Black Friday
I've come to the conclusion that my favorite holiday may, in fact, be the day after Thanksgiving. It's not that I don't like Thanksgiving itself--I do, very much. I have no problem with the family project of putting on a huge meal, or with first-time-around mashed potatoes, or with well-loved stories tossed over my aunt's epic centerpieces. But, to me, the wreckage of the next day is even better: food and family, deliberately de-ceremonialized, is where the real fun happens.
My family does a Thanksgiving sleepover model--we're divided into Thanksgiving West in Santa Cruz and Thanksgiving East in New York, but both incarnations involve staying over, so that Black Friday is all about the morning-after sleep-in, leftover pie for breakfast, and hanging around the kitchen together. On the West Coast, we sometimes take a walk on the beach, or go downtown for lunch before everybody wanders home. It's more of each other than we've seen all year, usually, and there's time to talk and hang out and be who we are when it's not a major holiday. It's a good time.
This year, I went to Thanksgiving East, and spent Black Friday fighting a cold, but also sprawling on the couch with my brother, knitting, and assembling my Christmas list. We grazed on turkey sandwiches (cranberry + Grey Poupon for me; some kind of mayo thing for him). We hung out with my aunt and uncle. Eventually, we mustered the energy to leave the house and see Fantastic Mr. Fox; then we came home and sprawled some more and we all watched an old Poirot Mystery until bedtime. That's it. It was nothing, but it was great--it was us being together, with nothing else to do and nothing else expected of us, and that's a great holiday memory.
Plus, you know. Pie.
My family does a Thanksgiving sleepover model--we're divided into Thanksgiving West in Santa Cruz and Thanksgiving East in New York, but both incarnations involve staying over, so that Black Friday is all about the morning-after sleep-in, leftover pie for breakfast, and hanging around the kitchen together. On the West Coast, we sometimes take a walk on the beach, or go downtown for lunch before everybody wanders home. It's more of each other than we've seen all year, usually, and there's time to talk and hang out and be who we are when it's not a major holiday. It's a good time.
This year, I went to Thanksgiving East, and spent Black Friday fighting a cold, but also sprawling on the couch with my brother, knitting, and assembling my Christmas list. We grazed on turkey sandwiches (cranberry + Grey Poupon for me; some kind of mayo thing for him). We hung out with my aunt and uncle. Eventually, we mustered the energy to leave the house and see Fantastic Mr. Fox; then we came home and sprawled some more and we all watched an old Poirot Mystery until bedtime. That's it. It was nothing, but it was great--it was us being together, with nothing else to do and nothing else expected of us, and that's a great holiday memory.
Plus, you know. Pie.
Friday, November 13, 2009
It's November 13th
How did that happen?
I have no photos to share--the date-remembering impulse took the day off for Veterans' Day, apparently. I can tell you that I went to work, ran in the dark, had leftover brown rice and acorn squash for dinner, and watched Bones one and a half times. So, you know. Aren't you sad you missed THAT?
I have no photos to share--the date-remembering impulse took the day off for Veterans' Day, apparently. I can tell you that I went to work, ran in the dark, had leftover brown rice and acorn squash for dinner, and watched Bones one and a half times. So, you know. Aren't you sad you missed THAT?
Thursday, November 05, 2009
She said you're like a disease without any cure
I went to the doctor today. My right eye has been acting funny lately, messing up my worldview a bit--being the freckliest girl in the world, it is unsurprising that I would have a tiny mole on my lash line, rubbing up against my eyeball and making me inappropriately teary, but that doesn't make it less uncomfortable. It's just another day in the life of the temperamentally-skinned. Thanks, genetic legacy!
Luckily, I have Kaiser health care, the kind where I call the advice nurse at 9:30 and they ask if I'd rather have the 10:15 or the 1:30 same-day appointment. I show up and flaunt my eyelid to my GP and to the opthalmologist's assistant; flaky-mascara lecture and eyeball-numbing glaucoma test notwithstanding, we all seem to agree: as terrifying as the intersection of opthalmology and dermatology sounds, minor surgery may be the way to go, here. Soon, the opthalmologist himself shows up. He looks around, resists the urge to flip my eyelids inside out like a junior-high boy, and shines a few lights in my eyes. He hmmmmms to himself. He looks at me.
"Well," he says, "We're going to hold off on the mole. At least until the conjunctivitis clears up."
Let me translate that.
PINKEYE.
I am twenty-nine years old, and I HAVE PINKEYE.
This is actually not that surprising; it seems like, in this world, you're either a pinkeye person or you aren't, and I most definitely am. I was that kid in preschool who practically bathed in eyedrops (but never got good at taking them--even now, I am a reluctant eye-dropper on the very best of days). For whatever reason, I'm conjunctivitis-friendly. It's nice to know I'm accommodating to all, don't you think?
In my (extensive) pinkeye experience, this'll all blow over. I've got eyedrops and ointment(ultra-thick eyedrops: AWESOME, UNIVERSE) and a check-up appointment for Monday; even going without my contacts seems to be keeping the ick at bay. Until then, I'm just trying not to start a Swine Eye epidemic. That would be embarrassing.
Luckily, I have Kaiser health care, the kind where I call the advice nurse at 9:30 and they ask if I'd rather have the 10:15 or the 1:30 same-day appointment. I show up and flaunt my eyelid to my GP and to the opthalmologist's assistant; flaky-mascara lecture and eyeball-numbing glaucoma test notwithstanding, we all seem to agree: as terrifying as the intersection of opthalmology and dermatology sounds, minor surgery may be the way to go, here. Soon, the opthalmologist himself shows up. He looks around, resists the urge to flip my eyelids inside out like a junior-high boy, and shines a few lights in my eyes. He hmmmmms to himself. He looks at me.
"Well," he says, "We're going to hold off on the mole. At least until the conjunctivitis clears up."
Let me translate that.
PINKEYE.
I am twenty-nine years old, and I HAVE PINKEYE.
This is actually not that surprising; it seems like, in this world, you're either a pinkeye person or you aren't, and I most definitely am. I was that kid in preschool who practically bathed in eyedrops (but never got good at taking them--even now, I am a reluctant eye-dropper on the very best of days). For whatever reason, I'm conjunctivitis-friendly. It's nice to know I'm accommodating to all, don't you think?
In my (extensive) pinkeye experience, this'll all blow over. I've got eyedrops and ointment(ultra-thick eyedrops: AWESOME, UNIVERSE) and a check-up appointment for Monday; even going without my contacts seems to be keeping the ick at bay. Until then, I'm just trying not to start a Swine Eye epidemic. That would be embarrassing.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Side ponytails, unite!
When I was a little girl, my brother Ben and I had a club. We were the Tiger Club (tigers being both intimidating and pleasingly stripey), and mostly I remember having meetings via flashlight in Ben's closet, and plotting to build periscopes out of hand mirrors and paper-towel rolls, and always having to make up a new secret handshake because we'd forgotten the old one. Our parents inexplicably would not let us get a tiger to be our mascot; when I was six or seven, we eventually bargained them down to a turtle (practically the same thing anyway, you know) for which we saved up for months and then changed our club name to match. As you do. Scooter the turtle, I will have you know, was a fine and noble mascot for many years, and I think taught us all a lot about the joys of heat lamps and live crickets.
Last week, I picked my brother up at the airport--he's back in the States after five years abroad, and local to me for the first time since middle school. Thus begins the longest, most awesome Turtle Club meeting ever! He's so excited to be back in the land of pork and uncensored movies, and I am so excited to have him here for general bothering/fun-having purposes, even if it means driving him to every furniture store in the greater DC area until his apartment is furnished (I have a car; he does not). You can guess what we did this weekend.
So what I mean to say, I guess, is this: If you come to DC and it does not seem quite the same as it was, if it seems slightly more awesome and yet also slightly more weird, think of us, and know that the Turtle Club is hard at work.
Now, if we can just find enough hand mirrors, we can finally finish those periscopes.
Monday, October 12, 2009
12 of 12: October
Heyyyyy, it's that time of the month again. So to speak. For all info and background on the 12 of 12 project, see Chad Darnell's blog; it's his baby.
And here we go:
8:45 - Waking up gloriously late. Thanks, Columbus/indigenous peoples!
9:34 - Making the morning admin rounds for the newly launched Austenacious; my assistant sleeps on the job.
10:22 - Stopping by the cathedral on my morning run.
10:25 - My favorite place on the cathedral grounds, the Bishop's Garden.
12:47 - Um, lunch. IT HAS FRUIT IN IT, OKAY? Don't judge me or my baked goods.
1:39 - On the bus to Georgetown.
2:01 - Taking myself to the movie show: Whip It, which I liked very much. It did not, however, help resolve my inner conflict over roller derby (in which I dig the derby culture, but also dig my bone structure as is).
4:04 - In Georgetown, waiting for the bus back up the hill.
4:25 - In line at Giant, where I didn't even bother to track down a basket. Note: hand-carrying frozen peas around will eventually make your hands cold.
5:53 - Working on an original pilot script. Anybody know any agents looking for fresh TV-writer blood?
7:20 - Magic risotto, starring peas and zucchini and a whole lot of parmesan. Time-consuming, but it keeps me fed all week.
9:41 - Skyping with my friend Carly, whom I've known since birth and who is now super-adorable and thinking of becoming an English major. I approve.
That's all, folks! See you all next month.
And here we go:
8:45 - Waking up gloriously late. Thanks, Columbus/indigenous peoples!
9:34 - Making the morning admin rounds for the newly launched Austenacious; my assistant sleeps on the job.
10:22 - Stopping by the cathedral on my morning run.
10:25 - My favorite place on the cathedral grounds, the Bishop's Garden.
12:47 - Um, lunch. IT HAS FRUIT IN IT, OKAY? Don't judge me or my baked goods.
1:39 - On the bus to Georgetown.
2:01 - Taking myself to the movie show: Whip It, which I liked very much. It did not, however, help resolve my inner conflict over roller derby (in which I dig the derby culture, but also dig my bone structure as is).
4:04 - In Georgetown, waiting for the bus back up the hill.
4:25 - In line at Giant, where I didn't even bother to track down a basket. Note: hand-carrying frozen peas around will eventually make your hands cold.
5:53 - Working on an original pilot script. Anybody know any agents looking for fresh TV-writer blood?
7:20 - Magic risotto, starring peas and zucchini and a whole lot of parmesan. Time-consuming, but it keeps me fed all week.
9:41 - Skyping with my friend Carly, whom I've known since birth and who is now super-adorable and thinking of becoming an English major. I approve.
That's all, folks! See you all next month.
Introducing Austenacious
I have a new website. Maybe we're not fully ensconced in the 21st century yet--there are no cards for this, no "it's a site!" banners, no candy cigars to hand out. Instead, we have frantic networking and checking of Google Analytics, which is plenty entertaining to a new website owner, but it somehow lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.
Meet Austenacious, where the women are accomplished, the men are smoldering yet virtuous, and nobody ever gets mocked for being a great reader (or, for that matter, for taking pleasure in a great many things).
This is a labor of love--or, really, a labor of friendship. Brainstorming began with Christine and Heather before I moved to the East Coast, and our slogan, "Jane will keep us together," has proven true: we have the full inboxes and the hours logged on Skype to prove it. We think Jane would have liked what we're doing: reading and watching and thinking and talking and laughing and definitely, definitely eating, and looking at her works with the required sense of humor. We certainly like it.
So now you're invited to look around: check us out, join the discussion, leave a comment, tell a friend! (Especially that last one: the internet is a big place; getting the word out is tough.)
Welcome.
Friday, September 25, 2009
A perfect size six, with eyes like the Pacific Ocean
So, here's some crazy news for anybody with a) two X chromosomes and b) a birthdate between 1977 and 1985: Diablo Cody is adapting the Sweet Valley High books. What?! Now?! This is just one big swirling eddy of emotion for me.
First of all: Diablo Cody. Good writer; potentially obnoxious person. I liked Juno, after the first ten minutes, and I've heard pretty good things about her show The United States of Tara. So, no complaints creatively. But last year, I read an article in the New York Times--maybe in the magazine?--about Cody and three of her friends, a sort of girl-screenwriter cabal, who traipse around Hollywood and drink in the morning and wear matching jewelry and occasionally write stuff. The article was completely annoying and pretentious, and made them seem completely annoying and pretentious, and although I would like desperately to have my own cabal of girl-screenwriter pals with whom to traipse around Hollywood (less so the morning drinking and matching jewelry), it did not make me love her in the way that it was probably intended to. Mostly, it made me want to throttle her and then take her existence and her Oscar to retool as my very own. So you'll see why she and I have a rocky relationship.
Now. Sweet Valley High. These books were off-limits to me as a kid, but I sometimes read them anyway (sorry, Mom!), a depressingly Elizabeth Wakefield act of rebellion. I was especially into the crazy multi-generational super-special ones that followed the lines of the girls' ancestors: remember the one with the horsey circus chick, and her daughter the flapper? More recently, I often played the Sweet Valley High board game with my college roommates; we'd fight over who got to be the twins, and who got stuck with snotty Lila, and then we'd all steal each other's boyfriends. I think there were special outfits involved (for the game pieces, not for us). Special times, those long evenings arguing over who needed whose Science Club equipment. Now, I mostly get my SVH fix through The Dairi Burger. But it's a thing. I mean, really: does the love of the late-80s pre-teen book series ever really go away?
It seems to me that this combination is a brilliant but dicey one. To make it really work, it'll have to be utterly biting--deeply familiar with and specific to the Stepford reality of the books--which places it above the heads of kids today, who haven't read the series and wouldn't get the humor. As an alternative, they can try to update it in setting and/or tone, in which case it might either miss the original tone of the books, completely fail to address the hilarious lack of self-awareness in the books, or both. (The second one is unlikely: Cody's sense of irony is probably stronger than her sense of smell.) So it'll have to be a very careful operation: mean enough--in a tough-love kind of way; after all, Cody is a fan--to satisfy the old-school Sweet Valley fans out there, but friendly enough to attract younger girls who don't know anything about, for example, the time Jessica stayed out All Night Long and was maybe raped by a guy named Scott and his pet mustache. I'm not saying it can't be done, and I'm certainly not saying Cody's not the woman for the job. If anything, she's probably exactly the right woman for the job. But if it doesn't go well, if it isn't pitch-perfect, it could be a disaster for all. And everybody knows there are no disasters in Sweet Valley.
First of all: Diablo Cody. Good writer; potentially obnoxious person. I liked Juno, after the first ten minutes, and I've heard pretty good things about her show The United States of Tara. So, no complaints creatively. But last year, I read an article in the New York Times--maybe in the magazine?--about Cody and three of her friends, a sort of girl-screenwriter cabal, who traipse around Hollywood and drink in the morning and wear matching jewelry and occasionally write stuff. The article was completely annoying and pretentious, and made them seem completely annoying and pretentious, and although I would like desperately to have my own cabal of girl-screenwriter pals with whom to traipse around Hollywood (less so the morning drinking and matching jewelry), it did not make me love her in the way that it was probably intended to. Mostly, it made me want to throttle her and then take her existence and her Oscar to retool as my very own. So you'll see why she and I have a rocky relationship.
Now. Sweet Valley High. These books were off-limits to me as a kid, but I sometimes read them anyway (sorry, Mom!), a depressingly Elizabeth Wakefield act of rebellion. I was especially into the crazy multi-generational super-special ones that followed the lines of the girls' ancestors: remember the one with the horsey circus chick, and her daughter the flapper? More recently, I often played the Sweet Valley High board game with my college roommates; we'd fight over who got to be the twins, and who got stuck with snotty Lila, and then we'd all steal each other's boyfriends. I think there were special outfits involved (for the game pieces, not for us). Special times, those long evenings arguing over who needed whose Science Club equipment. Now, I mostly get my SVH fix through The Dairi Burger. But it's a thing. I mean, really: does the love of the late-80s pre-teen book series ever really go away?
It seems to me that this combination is a brilliant but dicey one. To make it really work, it'll have to be utterly biting--deeply familiar with and specific to the Stepford reality of the books--which places it above the heads of kids today, who haven't read the series and wouldn't get the humor. As an alternative, they can try to update it in setting and/or tone, in which case it might either miss the original tone of the books, completely fail to address the hilarious lack of self-awareness in the books, or both. (The second one is unlikely: Cody's sense of irony is probably stronger than her sense of smell.) So it'll have to be a very careful operation: mean enough--in a tough-love kind of way; after all, Cody is a fan--to satisfy the old-school Sweet Valley fans out there, but friendly enough to attract younger girls who don't know anything about, for example, the time Jessica stayed out All Night Long and was maybe raped by a guy named Scott and his pet mustache. I'm not saying it can't be done, and I'm certainly not saying Cody's not the woman for the job. If anything, she's probably exactly the right woman for the job. But if it doesn't go well, if it isn't pitch-perfect, it could be a disaster for all. And everybody knows there are no disasters in Sweet Valley.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Par-tay
So, you may have heard that I went to New York again last weekend. It was great--Sarah and I spent some (okay, maybe a lot of) time at The Strand, and we saw Bye Bye Birdie. We sat in coffee shops and talked about all sorts of deep and life-changing things--the depressing trend from suspenders to belts on men, why Neil Patrick Harris is our (well, mostly her) favorite...you know, the usual.
And then this happened:
Turns out Sunday was Broadway on Broadway, an enormous free concert in Times Square featuring a number from each of the musicals either currently open or about to open, a total of twenty-one segments. We watched them all, started planning our exit strategy--like people leaving a baseball game after the seventh inning--and then: the skies opened up. With PAPER.
This is why I like New York: getting on the Bolt Bus on a rainy Friday afternoon, did I expect to find myself in Times Square in an absolute blizzard of colored paper? No. No, I did not. And yet, there I was. I'm still picking mysterious confetti out of bags and pockets. (Also, as Sarah commented, any [obviously mental-illness-induced] future desire to spend New Year's in Times Square has officially been dispatched: confetti party minus the frostbite! WIN.)
And then this happened:
Turns out Sunday was Broadway on Broadway, an enormous free concert in Times Square featuring a number from each of the musicals either currently open or about to open, a total of twenty-one segments. We watched them all, started planning our exit strategy--like people leaving a baseball game after the seventh inning--and then: the skies opened up. With PAPER.
This is why I like New York: getting on the Bolt Bus on a rainy Friday afternoon, did I expect to find myself in Times Square in an absolute blizzard of colored paper? No. No, I did not. And yet, there I was. I'm still picking mysterious confetti out of bags and pockets. (Also, as Sarah commented, any [obviously mental-illness-induced] future desire to spend New Year's in Times Square has officially been dispatched: confetti party minus the frostbite! WIN.)
Monday, September 14, 2009
12 of 12: September
I feel like the occasional weekend 12 of 12 makes up for all those entries when it's a random Wednesday and I'm all, "Hey! Guys! Look at these pictures of my cat!" So much the better, then, that this month there's weekend travel involved: a much-planned, much-discussed sort-of-birthday-but-really-just-because trip to New York with Sarah.
As always, credit/blame for any and all 12 of 12 madness goes to Chad Darnell.
8:17 - Morning in "my" room--my cousin's old bedroom, which I adore--at my aunt and uncle's house.
11:38 - On the Metro North train to Grand Central with Sarah, watching the Bronx go by and eavesdropping on the people around us.
12:00 - The main hall of Grand Central never ceases to amaze. I love it for its green, astrology-themed ceiling and for its flippy schedule boards and for its excellent signage. Also for the time I saw a huge crowd of little girls in matching Jonas Brothers concert t-shirts corralled by the world's two most long-suffering mothers.
12:27 - Sarah (right) and I (left) met up with Lauren (middle) for lunch as part of Lauren's continuing mission to introduce me to every delicious and/or Broadway-relevant restaurant in the Theater District.
12:40 - The girls had normal food. I had comically large nachos.
2:13 - The holy grail of New York bookstores. Haul: The Final Solution, by Michael Chabon; When You Are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris; a small and beautiful letterpress edition of the love poems of Pablo Neruda; and a Strand bag.
3:36 - Still there, in the half-price basement. You don't hurry through eighteen miles of books, okay?
5:06 - On a rainy day in the Village, what could be better than a window seat and some (admittedly not very chocolate-y) hot chocolate? Sarah agrees.
6:11 - I hereby declare this the best 12 of 12 ever, simply by virtue of PUPPIES! at a pet store on Christopher St.
7:34 - Back uptown for Bye Bye Birdie, still in previews. Verdict: John Stamos is unreasonably good-looking and wears suspenders very well; Gina Gershon should not be singing in public, period; Bill Irwin is not as famous as his talent indicates that he should be. In other news, I continue to think that being a Broadway chorus member must be the most fun job of all time.
11:03 - Stage door from afar, which is what happens when small talk with famous people is unappealing (Me: "BFFs or nothing!") or when you'd just rather not spoil the illusion of your favorites (Sarah: "But what if Bill Irwin isn't nice? Even if he is singing 'Happy Birthday' to that girl?").
11:50 - Seven whole grains on a mission or no (apparently their ad campaign on This American Life made an impact on me?), I do appreciate Kashi's presence in my hour of dire hunger. Thanks, Kashi!
Thanks, New York.
As always, credit/blame for any and all 12 of 12 madness goes to Chad Darnell.
8:17 - Morning in "my" room--my cousin's old bedroom, which I adore--at my aunt and uncle's house.
11:38 - On the Metro North train to Grand Central with Sarah, watching the Bronx go by and eavesdropping on the people around us.
12:00 - The main hall of Grand Central never ceases to amaze. I love it for its green, astrology-themed ceiling and for its flippy schedule boards and for its excellent signage. Also for the time I saw a huge crowd of little girls in matching Jonas Brothers concert t-shirts corralled by the world's two most long-suffering mothers.
12:27 - Sarah (right) and I (left) met up with Lauren (middle) for lunch as part of Lauren's continuing mission to introduce me to every delicious and/or Broadway-relevant restaurant in the Theater District.
12:40 - The girls had normal food. I had comically large nachos.
2:13 - The holy grail of New York bookstores. Haul: The Final Solution, by Michael Chabon; When You Are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris; a small and beautiful letterpress edition of the love poems of Pablo Neruda; and a Strand bag.
3:36 - Still there, in the half-price basement. You don't hurry through eighteen miles of books, okay?
5:06 - On a rainy day in the Village, what could be better than a window seat and some (admittedly not very chocolate-y) hot chocolate? Sarah agrees.
6:11 - I hereby declare this the best 12 of 12 ever, simply by virtue of PUPPIES! at a pet store on Christopher St.
7:34 - Back uptown for Bye Bye Birdie, still in previews. Verdict: John Stamos is unreasonably good-looking and wears suspenders very well; Gina Gershon should not be singing in public, period; Bill Irwin is not as famous as his talent indicates that he should be. In other news, I continue to think that being a Broadway chorus member must be the most fun job of all time.
11:03 - Stage door from afar, which is what happens when small talk with famous people is unappealing (Me: "BFFs or nothing!") or when you'd just rather not spoil the illusion of your favorites (Sarah: "But what if Bill Irwin isn't nice? Even if he is singing 'Happy Birthday' to that girl?").
11:50 - Seven whole grains on a mission or no (apparently their ad campaign on This American Life made an impact on me?), I do appreciate Kashi's presence in my hour of dire hunger. Thanks, Kashi!
Thanks, New York.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Finding Don
This isn't mine, but I want to help out, especially today.
From Sars:
OPERATION FIND DON
Don: A (Very Very) Brief History
Don is a man I met on September 11, 2001. Don and I became "disaster buddies," and ever since, I've wanted to thank him for hanging out with me and helping me keep it together — but I haven't seen or heard from him since we parted ways late that morning.
What Don Looks/Looked Like
Don is an African-American man. I would estimate his age at between 25 and 35 on that day — probably not younger than that; possibly older, but not much. That means he's 30-ish to 40 now.
Don is between 5'9" and 6' tall, and probably weighed 160-180 pounds. (I suck at estimating men's weights.) In any case, at that time Don had a fit build — not pudgy, not skinny, well put-together.
Don had short hair and a goatee at that time. I do not recall any jewelry; he may have worn a watch, I don't remember. No glasses.
Don had on a grey windowpane-plaid suit and was carrying a black soft-sided briefcase.
Don didn't really resemble anyone famous, except Blair Underwood around the eyes a little bit.
Other Possibly Relevant Facts
Don and I met in the lobby of the Bank of New York building, located roughly at Wall Street and Broadway. We left the bank together at approximately 11 that morning.
Don lived at that time in Jersey City, or thereabouts — he took the ferry to Jersey City to get home, from a slip somewhere around Hester Street on the west side.
Don had come into the city that morning via the PATH train, and had gotten off at the World Trade Center stop. He had come into the city for work, but I don't remember whether his business that day was actually at the WTC complex; I don't believe it was. If he had gotten separated from any work colleagues, he didn't mention it. I don't know what he did for a living, and I don't know if his job was based in Jersey City or in lower Manhattan, but I got the impression that he was in the city for an errand or meeting, and that he didn't regularly commute in.
As I said, I don't recall a wedding ring; Don did not mention a wife or any other family at that time as far as I can remember.
Don's birthday is September 11. No idea what year, but based on my estimate of his age it's probably in the late sixties or seventies.
Why You Should Care
Because it's a mystery, a puzzle, a story that needs an end. Because Don is everything good and friendly about the world. Because I owe him my thanks, and possibly a cold beer. Because it's his birthday.
What You Can Do
Do you know anyone in Jersey City, or anyone who lives or works near there? Have you heard a story like mine — secondhand, thirdhand, on someone's journal? Do you recall reading or hearing anywhere about people who ran for the Bank of New York, walked uptown a bit, and took a ferry to New Jersey? Post in the comments, or email me at sars at tomatonation dot com.
And if you are in fact Don? Well, don't just sit there. Show yourself. My mom's friend swears you were an angel and she'll keep believing that shit until I can prove otherwise.
Suggestions? Clues? Conspiracy theories? Send 'em my way. I'll add any new information as it comes in.
In short: Don. He's still out there. And he's another year older.
Update, 2009:
The latest news is that there is no news; if I hear anything, I will let you know, but I haven't heard anything…and it's starting to look like I won't. I don't think I would recognize Don if I saw him on the street, anymore; I doubt he would remember me, especially now that my hair is so different.
It's also possible that Don does not in fact want to be found, or that he's in the Yukon or something, but I've done the paid name/birthday searches and I've hoped that six degrees of separation would loop around, and I still haven't turned him up.
Thanks again to everyone who's mentioned it on sites they run or frequent, or to friends of theirs in the media, and to everyone who's sent words of support. I appreciate it. If you hear anything, or you want to mention it on your blog, please feel free — you never know.
Anybody know anything? Pass it on.
From Sars:
OPERATION FIND DON
Don: A (Very Very) Brief History
Don is a man I met on September 11, 2001. Don and I became "disaster buddies," and ever since, I've wanted to thank him for hanging out with me and helping me keep it together — but I haven't seen or heard from him since we parted ways late that morning.
What Don Looks/Looked Like
Don is an African-American man. I would estimate his age at between 25 and 35 on that day — probably not younger than that; possibly older, but not much. That means he's 30-ish to 40 now.
Don is between 5'9" and 6' tall, and probably weighed 160-180 pounds. (I suck at estimating men's weights.) In any case, at that time Don had a fit build — not pudgy, not skinny, well put-together.
Don had short hair and a goatee at that time. I do not recall any jewelry; he may have worn a watch, I don't remember. No glasses.
Don had on a grey windowpane-plaid suit and was carrying a black soft-sided briefcase.
Don didn't really resemble anyone famous, except Blair Underwood around the eyes a little bit.
Other Possibly Relevant Facts
Don and I met in the lobby of the Bank of New York building, located roughly at Wall Street and Broadway. We left the bank together at approximately 11 that morning.
Don lived at that time in Jersey City, or thereabouts — he took the ferry to Jersey City to get home, from a slip somewhere around Hester Street on the west side.
Don had come into the city that morning via the PATH train, and had gotten off at the World Trade Center stop. He had come into the city for work, but I don't remember whether his business that day was actually at the WTC complex; I don't believe it was. If he had gotten separated from any work colleagues, he didn't mention it. I don't know what he did for a living, and I don't know if his job was based in Jersey City or in lower Manhattan, but I got the impression that he was in the city for an errand or meeting, and that he didn't regularly commute in.
As I said, I don't recall a wedding ring; Don did not mention a wife or any other family at that time as far as I can remember.
Don's birthday is September 11. No idea what year, but based on my estimate of his age it's probably in the late sixties or seventies.
Why You Should Care
Because it's a mystery, a puzzle, a story that needs an end. Because Don is everything good and friendly about the world. Because I owe him my thanks, and possibly a cold beer. Because it's his birthday.
What You Can Do
Do you know anyone in Jersey City, or anyone who lives or works near there? Have you heard a story like mine — secondhand, thirdhand, on someone's journal? Do you recall reading or hearing anywhere about people who ran for the Bank of New York, walked uptown a bit, and took a ferry to New Jersey? Post in the comments, or email me at sars at tomatonation dot com.
And if you are in fact Don? Well, don't just sit there. Show yourself. My mom's friend swears you were an angel and she'll keep believing that shit until I can prove otherwise.
Suggestions? Clues? Conspiracy theories? Send 'em my way. I'll add any new information as it comes in.
In short: Don. He's still out there. And he's another year older.
Update, 2009:
The latest news is that there is no news; if I hear anything, I will let you know, but I haven't heard anything…and it's starting to look like I won't. I don't think I would recognize Don if I saw him on the street, anymore; I doubt he would remember me, especially now that my hair is so different.
It's also possible that Don does not in fact want to be found, or that he's in the Yukon or something, but I've done the paid name/birthday searches and I've hoped that six degrees of separation would loop around, and I still haven't turned him up.
Thanks again to everyone who's mentioned it on sites they run or frequent, or to friends of theirs in the media, and to everyone who's sent words of support. I appreciate it. If you hear anything, or you want to mention it on your blog, please feel free — you never know.
Anybody know anything? Pass it on.
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Remember me to Herald Square
This post started out as a grab-bag post about the book I'm reading (Lolita) and the website I'm starting (watch this space for details!) and how I subsist entirely on tomatoes and chickpeas in the summertime--essentially, all the reasons people hate blogs, if people do in fact hate blogs--but it turns out that I mostly wanted to talk about New York. (And anyway, my love song to chickpeas is really only posting for the sake of posting. You're disappointed, I know.)
I took myself to New York for my birthday weekend--I met up with my friend Lauren and saw my new favorite piece of absurd legally dubious feminista musical theater, 9 to 5: The Musical. This may be like the time I started to see deep philosophical meaning in 13 Going on 30, but I loved it: talented women working together and loving it, dance-y production numbers, soaring girl-power ballads, truth about women and work and friendship and love, and Dorothy Hamill haircuts, all with music and lyrics by Dolly Parton, who is really just a walking, talking lesson in talent and work and grace and really enormous everything, isn't she?
And if all of that weren't enough, I propose that if Allison Janney wore a white suit every day, men in sparkly-pinstriped suits really WOULD follow her around everywhere, singing her praises and dancing in formation, like so (...wait for it, ignore the quality, and enjoy the rest of the clips):
We also improvised a walking tour of Lauren's (former, but still adopted, and hopefully again someday) stomping grounds on the Upper West Side: a stroll through Riverside Park, a bit of shopping, the low-down on which famous people live where, a stop for ciders in one of the ubiquitous neighborhood pubs (a book from which DC could stand to borrow a page or two: ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME, DC?). We did not meet any of the fictional characters who clearly inhabit that corner of the city (Liz Lemon, meet Joe Fox!), but there was much friendly chatter and making of small memories, and that is maybe the best thing you can hope for in a city like New York.
Even if New York weren't the most fun you can legally have on the East Coast, I think I'd have to go there periodically just to eat. That city's got FOOD. Every time I go, I find something new that I can't live without: enormous buttery jammy hamantaschen, or the hot spinach-and-goat-cheese croissant-y thing at the Israeli place we ate at after the show, or the cinnamon babka I bought at Zabar's--known to non-locals as "the Upper West Side grocery store in You've Got Mail where Meg Ryan has no cash," and to everybody else simply as "heaven"--and ate all week as birthday/breakfast cake. I suspect this is why New Yorkers walk everywhere: they wouldn't be able to move if they didn't. Too much good food just lying around, waiting to work its deliciously sinister magic.
So it's finally happened: I've become one of those people with "I Heart New York" stamped on their consciousness--perhaps not enough to ever live there full-time, but enough to dream about how I could, if I wanted to. (This is probably why I don't: people who live in New York, who can claim to be New Yorkers, don't dream about it--they move.) The good news is that, even as I dream wistful dreams of Jewish bakeries and eighteen miles of books, I'll be back--this weekend, to be exact, and then at least once (possibly twice) in October, and then for Thanksgiving. I'm so glad; I wouldn't want to leave it alone yet. We're just getting to know each other.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Making stuff
I made risotto tonight. I did it partly as silent treatment on the script I'm working on (giving it a taste of its own medicine--YEAH, SCRIPT, I'M TALKING ABOUT YOU), but also because I bought zucchini at the Saturday farm stand that has apparently opened across the street from my apartment. And really, in August, when it's 90 degrees and 85 percent humidity outside and in, why wouldn't I want to stir rice on a hot stove for an hour?
I used to make risotto all the time--in the way that some people keep on hand the ingredients for, say, a quick spaghetti sauce or a grilled cheese sandwich, I decided awhile back to make sure I was always stocked up (a little risotto humor for you, there) on rice, onions, chicken stock, and white wine. It's a time-consuming staple--about an hour, start to finish--but it's versatile, one batch keeps me fed for a long time, and it comes with a pleasing sense of Making Something. It's you and the rice and some cooking music and a glass of that wine, like a little starchy kitchen party. And as a bonus, there are few greater motivations for getting through the morning than pulling a Tupperware full of cheesy ricey goodness out of the work fridge. I rarely use a recipe anymore--it's pretty standard, no matter where you look--but I used this one to confirm my quantities after my time away. Delicious.
I also pinned a sweater to the floor this weekend--at long last, I finished the February Lady Sweater, and for lack of a better place to block the lumpy-bumpies out of it, I laid it out on a few layers of towel/bath mat/carpet in the living room and pinned it into submission. All seems to be going well: it's almost dry, the inexplicable short side has lengthened out just fine, and Sherlock has done an admirable job of not batting at the pins. Vintage buttons are on their way via Etsy. Weather-wise, I won't be able to wear it for another month, at least, but all indications are that this may bypass "teachable moment/objet d'art" and go straight to "wearable garment." I call this a win.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
12 of 12: August
Welcome 12 of 12: Central Oregon Edition! I'm working in Corvallis for the week, taking advantage of Tillamook ice cream and non-oppressive Northwest summer weather. In the mean time, for more 12 of 12 madness, check out Chad Darnell's blog. It was his idea.
Onward:
7:54 - Okay, I deviated from routine, a bit. I was half-dressed before I remembered the date, and may in fact be wearing makeup already. Sue me. Next month: bedhead and eye boogers, promise!
8:36 - The OSU football stadium directly across the street from my hotel.
11:20 - The fatal e-mail: Cinema Hype's parent company has gone out of business, effective immediately. Blah blah blah, writing; what is this "paying to go to the movies" of which you speak?
12:27 - Some schools have gargoyles; OSU has...beaver door handles. So, about the same on the gravitas scale?
12:34 - The student union Panda Express, where a) my beloved tofu and eggplant no longer exists, and b) the mixed veggies are not vegetarian. You just think about that for a minute.
4:40 - The Lace Ribbon Scarf in Berrocco Ultra Alpaca, ripped out and re-started on the plane due to self-compounding errors. Better now.
6:33 - Central Park. Not the one you'd think.
6:42 - Waiting for a train as I wander downtown Corvallis in search of food that is not beer.
7:11 - Victory! Adorably artsy pizza pub American Dreams, where the fresh tomatoes are not so much "cooked" as "warmed by pizza." Still good.
7:43 - I don't think there's anything I can possibly add to this. It's just that, whatever you thought about central Oregon, YOU WERE RIGHT.
8:45 - At a work event, having been thoroughly welcomed to the Uzbek portion of the evening. And I don't think "welcomed" means anything legally binding, though it seems that I'm pretty excited about it even if it is.
9:24 - And a complementary good night to you, too, Hilton Garden Inn.
Onward:
7:54 - Okay, I deviated from routine, a bit. I was half-dressed before I remembered the date, and may in fact be wearing makeup already. Sue me. Next month: bedhead and eye boogers, promise!
8:36 - The OSU football stadium directly across the street from my hotel.
11:20 - The fatal e-mail: Cinema Hype's parent company has gone out of business, effective immediately. Blah blah blah, writing; what is this "paying to go to the movies" of which you speak?
12:27 - Some schools have gargoyles; OSU has...beaver door handles. So, about the same on the gravitas scale?
12:34 - The student union Panda Express, where a) my beloved tofu and eggplant no longer exists, and b) the mixed veggies are not vegetarian. You just think about that for a minute.
4:40 - The Lace Ribbon Scarf in Berrocco Ultra Alpaca, ripped out and re-started on the plane due to self-compounding errors. Better now.
6:33 - Central Park. Not the one you'd think.
6:42 - Waiting for a train as I wander downtown Corvallis in search of food that is not beer.
7:11 - Victory! Adorably artsy pizza pub American Dreams, where the fresh tomatoes are not so much "cooked" as "warmed by pizza." Still good.
7:43 - I don't think there's anything I can possibly add to this. It's just that, whatever you thought about central Oregon, YOU WERE RIGHT.
8:45 - At a work event, having been thoroughly welcomed to the Uzbek portion of the evening. And I don't think "welcomed" means anything legally binding, though it seems that I'm pretty excited about it even if it is.
9:24 - And a complementary good night to you, too, Hilton Garden Inn.
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