Tonight is the eighth and final night of Chanukah.
As an uncle said, we remember "the re-dedication of the alter which was defiled by the Syrian Greeks for 2 years. After this we could once again bring korbanot (offerings to Hashem)." And also, "the miracle of the cruse of pure oil that they found which was supposed to be only for one day and lasted 8."
Miracles I've had in my own past eight days: Holiday Bonus, Extra Balance on my Phone Bill, Extra Balance on my Gas Bill, and a little extra in the coffer after paying rent, thanks to a good Holiday so far at work.
Yesterday, the store sold its first E-Book. Unfortunately, if you have a kindle, you won't be able to read anything we sell, because that is how Amazon does business.
Anyways, it is perhaps miraculous that histories can be passed along these days through the digital world. It does require quite a bit of energy to move around these bits of information, but Caesar had to die so that Rome could live, amirite? Am I right?
In honor of Cleopatra: A Life, I am spending the latter half of my day off to watch the 4 hour epic.
And it feels right for the day. For how many histories have been written and rewritten through the centuries? Isn't it something how long human beings have been running around reading, righting and rythmaticking?
So as we prepare all 9 lights in our Chanukiot ce soir, let's take a moment to reflect on history, so that we may consider the future.
And also, maybe someone would like to get me this as a present. (LOL, j/K)
But seriously folks. In the fine tradtion of legends (after all, this is the anniversary of John Lennon's tragic murder), lets all take a moment for The Cleopatra of Soul, Aretha Franklin had a bummer diagnosis. May she live it up mightily in these days, with fine china and royal processions all over the place.
Here she is in her natural divinity.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Word Economy
I think it's hysterical that the National Deficit is 1.3 trillion dollars.
That's 12 zeros. Isn't it remarkable? I mean, I think if you're going to get to spending that many zeros, you ought to be able to multiply numbers with that many decimal places without a calculator, or at least, recite that many digits of pi from memory.
Pi is a tasty number and I sure missed sharing it with my family this past week.
Thanksgiving is a big one for us Weinkles. Living all over the continental U.S. puts a burden on regular visits, so we put our energy into bringing 30 people together on a windy beach. It's miraculous and beautiful. Messy in a good pit barbeque kind of way. Fun fact: BBQ comes from the description of the rooster we used to run through the spit, beard to tail. Barbe a Queue.
Here is what I cooked:
Lemon-Glazed Sweet Potatoes with Curry Sour Cream garnish.
Ginger Garlic Kale
PB Krispy Bars
...one turkey carcass later I made a sweet and savory broth with what loads of kale and sweet potatoes I had left.
The surviving sweet potato, was tossed to the cuisinart. sliced some onion, salted, peppered, curried, double egged and mashed potato mixed (in lieu of plain ol' flour.)
Sweet Potato latkes. boom.
That's 12 zeros. Isn't it remarkable? I mean, I think if you're going to get to spending that many zeros, you ought to be able to multiply numbers with that many decimal places without a calculator, or at least, recite that many digits of pi from memory.
Pi is a tasty number and I sure missed sharing it with my family this past week.
Thanksgiving is a big one for us Weinkles. Living all over the continental U.S. puts a burden on regular visits, so we put our energy into bringing 30 people together on a windy beach. It's miraculous and beautiful. Messy in a good pit barbeque kind of way. Fun fact: BBQ comes from the description of the rooster we used to run through the spit, beard to tail. Barbe a Queue.
Here is what I cooked:
Lemon-Glazed Sweet Potatoes with Curry Sour Cream garnish.
Ginger Garlic Kale
PB Krispy Bars
...one turkey carcass later I made a sweet and savory broth with what loads of kale and sweet potatoes I had left.
The surviving sweet potato, was tossed to the cuisinart. sliced some onion, salted, peppered, curried, double egged and mashed potato mixed (in lieu of plain ol' flour.)
Sweet Potato latkes. boom.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Compound Construction
Another early morning in the late season.
I can see people waiting for the Messiah and the bus. Twenty new souls on the street chilled in a purple shade. They watch the sun warm a growing strip of asphalt. Its brightness is burned through by the shadow of a woman made up with clumpy mascara and cheap red lipstick flapping a watercolor likeness of the lord in a tongue of lazy enunciation.
The flock thins around the plump bellied prophet. Eyes dart around her, not sure if she is prepared to break into Oration.
I can see people waiting for the Messiah and the bus. Twenty new souls on the street chilled in a purple shade. They watch the sun warm a growing strip of asphalt. Its brightness is burned through by the shadow of a woman made up with clumpy mascara and cheap red lipstick flapping a watercolor likeness of the lord in a tongue of lazy enunciation.
The flock thins around the plump bellied prophet. Eyes dart around her, not sure if she is prepared to break into Oration.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Bits of dust settle
I spent the first half of my day off waiting for the man to come to fill the rat holes. Fret not, dear reader, we are not co-habitating with rodents. Two and half hours after the time we scheduled with the management company--not answering phones today-- Romanian Bruce Springsteen arrived with caulk, silicone and plaster. Please do not let your imagination wander, dear reader, there is still the kitchen light, the toilet seat and some electrical issues to address.
It was rather uninspiring before the sun burned off the clammy cold, and now, our windows are open to the last couple hours of day. Is it wrong that I should want to spend them laying down with a dead physicist instead of a computer screen?
There's a new biography on Richard Feynman. It's an unfortunate cover, but I have it under my pillow so I can kiss his face in the morning. It's rather good so far.
Also from W.W. Norton, Townie, also unfortunately covered and not yet published. I hope they print it soon, so it can hurry up and be a big deal already. Dubus the Younger wrote a phenomenal portrait of turbulent humanity.
I have a dinner in Onion Square tonight, for a children's writer whose book I have yet to see. I can speculate, but I hope they give us a copy so I can test my hypothesis. Very scientific, this book selling business.
It was rather uninspiring before the sun burned off the clammy cold, and now, our windows are open to the last couple hours of day. Is it wrong that I should want to spend them laying down with a dead physicist instead of a computer screen?
There's a new biography on Richard Feynman. It's an unfortunate cover, but I have it under my pillow so I can kiss his face in the morning. It's rather good so far.
Also from W.W. Norton, Townie, also unfortunately covered and not yet published. I hope they print it soon, so it can hurry up and be a big deal already. Dubus the Younger wrote a phenomenal portrait of turbulent humanity.
I have a dinner in Onion Square tonight, for a children's writer whose book I have yet to see. I can speculate, but I hope they give us a copy so I can test my hypothesis. Very scientific, this book selling business.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Corps! Dormez vous!
I think my body is taking this extra hour and choosing to write.
A half hour ago I woke to the usual sounds of the city, and I haven't been able to go back to sleep. How does one just add an hour of life?
After not blogging for three months, I could probably suck that hour right out of Dear Reader. Perhaps the hour is already devoted to something else.
Suffice it to say, I will gesture and begin to write plus que ça change...I will end up trailing off because I want to write about how I noticed the other day that Raquel Welch has absolutely no dialogue in 1966's "Fantastic Voyage" until nineteen minutes have passed.
So you see, what is an hour? When in some forty years, there are still so many of us fighting the good fight.
I voted, barely. I should have registered in New York but I floated on the blue blood of this town. I'm interested to see what will happen in the two years of a political body that has evolved into something of a Hydra, but what a beautiful beast she is.
Here is my current literary sound-track:
Scott Pilgrim, A+ for Awesome in the skateboard sense.
Witches on the Road Tonight, V for very good and very hard to sell.
Graveyard Book, G++ for Good Golly Gaiman.
and the marvelous Nina Simone.
A half hour ago I woke to the usual sounds of the city, and I haven't been able to go back to sleep. How does one just add an hour of life?
After not blogging for three months, I could probably suck that hour right out of Dear Reader. Perhaps the hour is already devoted to something else.
Suffice it to say, I will gesture and begin to write plus que ça change...I will end up trailing off because I want to write about how I noticed the other day that Raquel Welch has absolutely no dialogue in 1966's "Fantastic Voyage" until nineteen minutes have passed.
So you see, what is an hour? When in some forty years, there are still so many of us fighting the good fight.
I voted, barely. I should have registered in New York but I floated on the blue blood of this town. I'm interested to see what will happen in the two years of a political body that has evolved into something of a Hydra, but what a beautiful beast she is.
Here is my current literary sound-track:
Scott Pilgrim, A+ for Awesome in the skateboard sense.
Witches on the Road Tonight, V for very good and very hard to sell.
Graveyard Book, G++ for Good Golly Gaiman.
and the marvelous Nina Simone.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
comme c'est chaud!
It's nearin' ninety today, and that ain't nothin' to sniff at. Where some of the weaker souls have a hard time with the temperature, I revel in the fact that l'humidité n'est pas là.
Things could always be worse, eh mon ami?
For example, Paris Hilton, another line on your rap sheet is better than say, falling out a window.
You can blame whomever you like but stories like these are horrendous.
I'm of the camp that finds the tragedy in everything leading up to the conclusion. How totally preventable these stories can be.
LiLo is quick to point her finger to her daddy issues and poor role-models, and if that's the case, she has a long road to recovery. Undoubtedly, Michael Lohan and Dina Lohan have concocted the exact opposite of a healthy, nurturing environment for their children. However, after a certain period of time, patterns become apparent.
To wit: A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H...shall I continue?
It's tragic that LiLo thinks she can recover by blaming everyone else in her life, because it means she doesn't recognize that the real problem.
On the other hand, the late Nicole John must have seemed normal and well-adjusted to her otherwise normal parents, if they were watching at all. It's harder to see where the tragedy lies when the only part of the story we have is the ending.
My thoughts go to people who suffer this tragedy, but then I wonder what kind of tragedy it is.
Last night, we had an event with local author, Ghita Schwarz, a civil rights litigator specializing in immigrants' rights. Her new book, Displaced Persons is a story of an unusual family that searches for some sense of normality after Liberation. It brings attention to the Holocaust as a commodity, but also an experience, shocking and traumatic that "Displaced" close to 25,000 different people.
So, then young girls who were ripped from their children, mothers, brothers. Young men who may have killed or sacrificed other lives in order to make it another day in prison, in mud and shit. Is that tragic enough?
And how to prevent tragedy like THAT again? {Ahem, Yann Martel, not your smarmy experience--recall your Adorno}
So as the media frenzy for the Muslim Community Center at the bottom of Manhattan wanes, and media coverage centralizes over other celebrated issues, how to keep in mind the tragedy of humanity?
In my opinion, it is best to dance, laugh, and live.
(lots o links!)
Things could always be worse, eh mon ami?
For example, Paris Hilton, another line on your rap sheet is better than say, falling out a window.
You can blame whomever you like but stories like these are horrendous.
I'm of the camp that finds the tragedy in everything leading up to the conclusion. How totally preventable these stories can be.
LiLo is quick to point her finger to her daddy issues and poor role-models, and if that's the case, she has a long road to recovery. Undoubtedly, Michael Lohan and Dina Lohan have concocted the exact opposite of a healthy, nurturing environment for their children. However, after a certain period of time, patterns become apparent.
To wit: A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H...shall I continue?
It's tragic that LiLo thinks she can recover by blaming everyone else in her life, because it means she doesn't recognize that the real problem.
On the other hand, the late Nicole John must have seemed normal and well-adjusted to her otherwise normal parents, if they were watching at all. It's harder to see where the tragedy lies when the only part of the story we have is the ending.
My thoughts go to people who suffer this tragedy, but then I wonder what kind of tragedy it is.
Last night, we had an event with local author, Ghita Schwarz, a civil rights litigator specializing in immigrants' rights. Her new book, Displaced Persons is a story of an unusual family that searches for some sense of normality after Liberation. It brings attention to the Holocaust as a commodity, but also an experience, shocking and traumatic that "Displaced" close to 25,000 different people.
So, then young girls who were ripped from their children, mothers, brothers. Young men who may have killed or sacrificed other lives in order to make it another day in prison, in mud and shit. Is that tragic enough?
And how to prevent tragedy like THAT again? {Ahem, Yann Martel, not your smarmy experience--recall your Adorno}
So as the media frenzy for the Muslim Community Center at the bottom of Manhattan wanes, and media coverage centralizes over other celebrated issues, how to keep in mind the tragedy of humanity?
In my opinion, it is best to dance, laugh, and live.
(lots o links!)
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Sensitive issues
Summer was about to slip quietly off the stage, here in NYC. But then the media pigeons spotted a story.
The Story.
There are plenty of words being flung about like steaks in a dog fight. (I think Jon Stewart has the choicest cuts, thankyew Gawker.tv) Is this an issue of religious freedom or of sensitivity to the victims of September 11?
I thought we were all the victims of September 11th's attack.
Granted this country was founded in the name of Puritanical freedom to burn witches and lofty business speculations--but c'mon now, after all these wars I think the general consensus is that might does not always equal right.
Whatever you believe, you'll have the right to believe it. But justice for all means justice for all, and that includes dissenting opinions.
In my opinion, those taking time to protest the "Ground Zero" Mosque---have you walked those city blocks? They are LONG!
might find that their time is better spent in local politics, local infrastructure and local education. At the VERY LEAST, their local movie theaters, watching
THIS MOVIE!!!
Oh. And in other amendment news:
Happy 90th anniversary of the 19th amendment.
Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!!
The Story.
There are plenty of words being flung about like steaks in a dog fight. (I think Jon Stewart has the choicest cuts, thankyew Gawker.tv) Is this an issue of religious freedom or of sensitivity to the victims of September 11?
I thought we were all the victims of September 11th's attack.
Granted this country was founded in the name of Puritanical freedom to burn witches and lofty business speculations--but c'mon now, after all these wars I think the general consensus is that might does not always equal right.
Whatever you believe, you'll have the right to believe it. But justice for all means justice for all, and that includes dissenting opinions.
In my opinion, those taking time to protest the "Ground Zero" Mosque---have you walked those city blocks? They are LONG!
might find that their time is better spent in local politics, local infrastructure and local education. At the VERY LEAST, their local movie theaters, watching
THIS MOVIE!!!
Oh. And in other amendment news:
Happy 90th anniversary of the 19th amendment.
Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Rumor Has it.
I like reevaluations.
Evaluation is all well and good, but if your math skills are on par with mine, a reevaluation will improve your situation. (Thusly, dear Mother, you have explained my grades in Math lo' these many years, no time to reevaluate during tests).
We're watching the Monarch Chrysalid quite closely. It's a pearlescent geometric nugget of nature.
For those unfamiliar with the process by which a milkweed caterpillar becomes a butterfly,
the body of the larva is nothing but an well-spun shawl that keeps all vital chewing gears and pooping parts safe from the elements. As the caterpillar eats and expels his way to the end of the vine, the shawl stretches to keep all the soft parts soft.
Then, after seven days or so of using all its energy to eat and expel, our little miracle might drag itself to a sturdy (albeit inverted) promontory, weave a little silken pad and make a place to hang out for the next two weeks.
Once it is well-seated, it begins to rip the shawl, and a glistening glob settles into a shape that will become a most fashionable bag that will take a prehistoric powder and sprinkle it into a goop that stews into a butterfly with scaly (sometimes membranous) wings. Then, nature rips that bag away, an alien emerges, pumps life-force into its flappable appendages and goes off in search of sex. Perhaps the use of procreational drugs is involved, sometimes called pheromones.
I sent off some mail last week, an opportunity I relished and exploited to sketch a bee on an envelope. Well, I remember getting a ton of mail in camp, and brother, those stacks of letters remind you of home in their own special way. So Chere Cousine S.C. in North Carolina, relish and exploit every moment made available to you. The friendships you weave in arts and farts and crafts, short and long; above all the sunrises.
Also, nobody wants to be the dead girl in the SLEEPAWAY CAMP MOVIE!!
Summer is past its peak and while it is hot, the days are growing shorter. We use these days to reflect the high points of the year behind.
I happened upon Mythology's old friend Thomas Bulfinch this week. He's a delight, and a choice in pure denial, because I also need to review something new that is not the New Yorker, and I have about three write-ups for September. This is of no use, the next month is clearly August.
By Golly, the store is out of good galleys.
So I have fostered the following paperbacks:
Sick City by Tony O'Neill. It struts the stage like Eddie Murphy [following clip most definitely NOT SAFE FOR WORK] Delirious. And the humor is not quite as approachable, or incongruous, or even worthwhile. I think I got over the glorification of track marks and selfish junkies a few years ago. O'Neill's short stories are pretty tolerable, though.
In a similar vein of satire, Albert Cossery, The Jokers. The introduction itself incites scoffing, thank you James Buchan.
Evaluation is all well and good, but if your math skills are on par with mine, a reevaluation will improve your situation. (Thusly, dear Mother, you have explained my grades in Math lo' these many years, no time to reevaluate during tests).
We're watching the Monarch Chrysalid quite closely. It's a pearlescent geometric nugget of nature.
For those unfamiliar with the process by which a milkweed caterpillar becomes a butterfly,
the body of the larva is nothing but an well-spun shawl that keeps all vital chewing gears and pooping parts safe from the elements. As the caterpillar eats and expels his way to the end of the vine, the shawl stretches to keep all the soft parts soft.
Then, after seven days or so of using all its energy to eat and expel, our little miracle might drag itself to a sturdy (albeit inverted) promontory, weave a little silken pad and make a place to hang out for the next two weeks.
Once it is well-seated, it begins to rip the shawl, and a glistening glob settles into a shape that will become a most fashionable bag that will take a prehistoric powder and sprinkle it into a goop that stews into a butterfly with scaly (sometimes membranous) wings. Then, nature rips that bag away, an alien emerges, pumps life-force into its flappable appendages and goes off in search of sex. Perhaps the use of procreational drugs is involved, sometimes called pheromones.
I sent off some mail last week, an opportunity I relished and exploited to sketch a bee on an envelope. Well, I remember getting a ton of mail in camp, and brother, those stacks of letters remind you of home in their own special way. So Chere Cousine S.C. in North Carolina, relish and exploit every moment made available to you. The friendships you weave in arts and farts and crafts, short and long; above all the sunrises.
Also, nobody wants to be the dead girl in the SLEEPAWAY CAMP MOVIE!!
Summer is past its peak and while it is hot, the days are growing shorter. We use these days to reflect the high points of the year behind.
I happened upon Mythology's old friend Thomas Bulfinch this week. He's a delight, and a choice in pure denial, because I also need to review something new that is not the New Yorker, and I have about three write-ups for September. This is of no use, the next month is clearly August.
By Golly, the store is out of good galleys.
So I have fostered the following paperbacks:
Sick City by Tony O'Neill. It struts the stage like Eddie Murphy [following clip most definitely NOT SAFE FOR WORK] Delirious. And the humor is not quite as approachable, or incongruous, or even worthwhile. I think I got over the glorification of track marks and selfish junkies a few years ago. O'Neill's short stories are pretty tolerable, though.
In a similar vein of satire, Albert Cossery, The Jokers. The introduction itself incites scoffing, thank you James Buchan.
As the French are the wittiest race in Europe, so are the Egyptians in Africa. Cossery's comedy derives from contraposition of exquisite French and an exceptionally squalid setting.
Translated rather skillfully from the French by Anna Moschovakis, The Jokers does not sit well before bed. I recommend sitting upright for this bad boy.
Coming in first, Gary Shteyngart. (Not that cute in real life, I'm told)
His writing found its way into my eyeballs when the New Yorker published 20 under 40, and the excerpt from Super Sad True Love Story had me with its bashful honesty and brutal satire. Perhaps I have a thing for bespectacled writers, estranged from the Russian Jewry.
And it's not just that he has an event at the store. No, it was my LOLing on the subway that told myself how much I enjoy the book. I said to myself, "Self! You are really enjoying this novel written in nouveau epistolary fashion, you are laughing out so loud!"
And really, dear readers, what other test does a book need to pass, if it is not causing you to miss your stop on the train, or LOL?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Look out honey, I'm using technology
I love having Tuesdays to myself.
I don't have to worry about finding space for the exciting New Releases, although I do get pumped about new titles, and seeing what is being regularly replenished.
I finished Fun Home this morning, enjoyed perusing
the shelves here in Zero-Dome, and have been impelled to use the fleeting hours to read/write El Gran Novela americana.
But whom shall I use as inspiration?
Use this fun (and questionable) algorithm to find out whose writing you emulate!
According to the past five blog entries I have here at Moving Prepositions, I, like, write like :::
David Foster Wallace (haven't read him yet),
Cory Doctorow (ditto),
Nabakov,
and the oh-so-horrid Lovecraft (also never touched, save the copies of a Lovecraft tribute that I counted, packed up and returned)
I have yet to decide whether this is:
1. all that credible (what with the simplicity of web-programming these days)
2. an obstacle I steer to avoid in shaping my own words
3. none of the above
4. all of the above
The store has acquired a pet. Last Thursday, I noticed a fat little inch and a half of Monarch larva feeding his way through the wilting of our weekly floral arrangement. By Friday, our florist had made accommodations for the tiny pest with plenty of milkweed and oregano (whose floral buds are remedial!). When I opened the shop on Saturday morning, the creature had fattened up to about 2 inches, and flung his poop all over the new David Mitchell title and the remaining copies of the third Stieg Larsson. He continued to munch and as Attenborough says, deeeeficate until yesterday, at around 4:30 pm, when he crawled to the underside of a faded sunflower to pull one of these.
Enjoy the linkage today! I had fun throwing it in. Too bad the "IWRITELIKEATRON" can't take my hypertext into account.
Incidentally, is anyone out there interested in/familiar with Storyspace?
From the site, you'd think people who place a high-value on word-structure would hire a decent web-designer, but I'm more interested in the software.
Oh and this entry?
I don't have to worry about finding space for the exciting New Releases, although I do get pumped about new titles, and seeing what is being regularly replenished.
I finished Fun Home this morning, enjoyed perusing
the shelves here in Zero-Dome, and have been impelled to use the fleeting hours to read/write El Gran Novela americana.
But whom shall I use as inspiration?
Use this fun (and questionable) algorithm to find out whose writing you emulate!
According to the past five blog entries I have here at Moving Prepositions, I, like, write like :::
David Foster Wallace (haven't read him yet),
Cory Doctorow (ditto),
Nabakov,
and the oh-so-horrid Lovecraft (also never touched, save the copies of a Lovecraft tribute that I counted, packed up and returned)
I have yet to decide whether this is:
1. all that credible (what with the simplicity of web-programming these days)
2. an obstacle I steer to avoid in shaping my own words
3. none of the above
4. all of the above
The store has acquired a pet. Last Thursday, I noticed a fat little inch and a half of Monarch larva feeding his way through the wilting of our weekly floral arrangement. By Friday, our florist had made accommodations for the tiny pest with plenty of milkweed and oregano (whose floral buds are remedial!). When I opened the shop on Saturday morning, the creature had fattened up to about 2 inches, and flung his poop all over the new David Mitchell title and the remaining copies of the third Stieg Larsson. He continued to munch and as Attenborough says, deeeeficate until yesterday, at around 4:30 pm, when he crawled to the underside of a faded sunflower to pull one of these.
Enjoy the linkage today! I had fun throwing it in. Too bad the "IWRITELIKEATRON" can't take my hypertext into account.
Incidentally, is anyone out there interested in/familiar with Storyspace?
From the site, you'd think people who place a high-value on word-structure would hire a decent web-designer, but I'm more interested in the software.
Oh and this entry?
Monday, July 19, 2010
Adventures in Kitty-sitting
I'm cat-sitting for some teacher friends who live near the bookstore.
Zero is a former tom who sheds fine white hairs on a sparsely decorated, but very nice two bedroom overlooking Fulton Street. Zero has a tabby-vest and apparently, his poop smells terrible, but so far, we've been quietly enjoying company. This is Day 1.
I am still reeling from the physical demand of last week.
The bookstore had a huge party for David Mitchell, whose latest Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (a Dutch colonialist, so I infer it is pronounced "dazoot") enjoyed a rave on the cover of the New York Times Book Review (by Dave Eggers, no less). We scrambled to make the store perfect, and plenty of folks noticed--the perfect part, not the scrambling.
I've been a fan of cold pasta these past few weeks, they're a nice alternative to cooking in a kitchen that is too narrow not to conjure hell when we broil chicken, boil eggs and melt cheese. I threw tri-color rotini, 1/2 a jalapeno, 2 pepperoncini, celery, fresh basil from the roof, pine nuts and turkey bacon together. Lunch for a week, bam.
Also, MayaBee started getting stuffy so I pretty much consumed two heads of garlic. No vampire bites for me!
I also wanted to share the notion of a watermelon salad that I tried at the FOJBBQ.
Long-lost-Long-Island's mother hollowed out a watermelon, sliced some plum tomatoes and red onions; poured 1 part balsamic (maybe red-wine), 1 part olive oil; and sprinkled fresh black pepper, good salt, and feta cheese. Suh-nap, that was tasty.
Any other delicious cold salads I should be trying?
Zero is a former tom who sheds fine white hairs on a sparsely decorated, but very nice two bedroom overlooking Fulton Street. Zero has a tabby-vest and apparently, his poop smells terrible, but so far, we've been quietly enjoying company. This is Day 1.
I am still reeling from the physical demand of last week.
The bookstore had a huge party for David Mitchell, whose latest Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (a Dutch colonialist, so I infer it is pronounced "dazoot") enjoyed a rave on the cover of the New York Times Book Review (by Dave Eggers, no less). We scrambled to make the store perfect, and plenty of folks noticed--the perfect part, not the scrambling.
I've been a fan of cold pasta these past few weeks, they're a nice alternative to cooking in a kitchen that is too narrow not to conjure hell when we broil chicken, boil eggs and melt cheese. I threw tri-color rotini, 1/2 a jalapeno, 2 pepperoncini, celery, fresh basil from the roof, pine nuts and turkey bacon together. Lunch for a week, bam.
Also, MayaBee started getting stuffy so I pretty much consumed two heads of garlic. No vampire bites for me!
I also wanted to share the notion of a watermelon salad that I tried at the FOJBBQ.
Long-lost-Long-Island's mother hollowed out a watermelon, sliced some plum tomatoes and red onions; poured 1 part balsamic (maybe red-wine), 1 part olive oil; and sprinkled fresh black pepper, good salt, and feta cheese. Suh-nap, that was tasty.
Any other delicious cold salads I should be trying?
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Martha kept talking about a Heat Wave
I've let this blog get mighty slack.
It's been months, and while there may not have seemed to be much to tell, I get the urge to cram a whole story in this space. Fear not, gentle reader, I will spare you the digest of the changing seasons.
We are only just in the thick of summer, and while last week kept citizens' hopes up in the high seventies, the Fourth of July forward has been pure misery. I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but 100 degrees Fahrenheit melts all sense of hyperbole.
The weekend itself was lovely. Thanks to Uncle James' graduation celebration, I've connected with long-lost cousins in Brooklyn. I wish I had a better handle on this whole extended relation business, because the way I see it, family is family. Perhaps one day, my grandchildren will try to figure how they are related to my first cousins' grandchildren.
Anyways, this particular bloodline grew up in Long Island, and her own first cousins throw quite the an annual Let Freedom Ring-er.
I brought a Napa Cabbage Slaw, but when I heard the guest-list topped 200, it hardly seemed worth mentioning. I love visiting folks without pretense. Rather than sitting in the shade of the Beach house, I got along with the other side of my new cousin's line (matrilocal, wassup.) There was plenty to eat, plenty to drink, plenty to do.
It's been so long since I've been to the beach (I hardly think a spring day with Coney Island amusements counts).
We danced long into the night, but at around 11, the Brooklynite/Twentysomethings felt it was time to turn in. (I had to close shop on Monday). We said goodbye to the folks holding down the beach house and found some comfy couches to crash into at one Aunt's homebase. Falling alseep was easier said than done.
One of the long-lost cousins (who shares my hometown!) felt that everyone getting ready for bed signaled intense desire to crowd around a laptop and watch a movie! In addition, there were the adorably little yappy house dogs that reminded the guests who was boss. I reached at sleep, while I stretched out in the air-conditioning, finally nodding off around 24:00.
Around 2:30, the hosts finally stumbled home. The dogs announced this, as well as kitchen lights and it was all I could do not to eavesdrop to hear how the party had ended.
This particular 4th had been special because it also celebrated the hosts' daughter's High School Graduation (woo, teenagers!) Apparently, things were starting to get out of hand so Mama Host made a judgment call and kicked the inebriated teenagers out of her house and onto the beach of Long Island Sound. Drinking, smoking, getting loud, I'm sure we're all familiar with the circumstances upon which memorable parties usually end.
So then, things get dark again, and I drift into dreams once more.
At 3:00am, the proud graduate comes and wakes up Long-lost-Long-Island-Cousin, and asks her to come back out to the beach house. Did they decide to have a nightcap?
No gentle readers, apparently some other responsible adults had forgotten their daughter's flip-flops at the beach house and driven back to retrieve them (they were facing a 10 hour drive back to Buffalo, I guess the flip-flops were important).
When these responsible adults had left the beach house, it had been locked up and dark. When they returned, the lights were on, the door was bust open and the music was blaring. Luckily, one of the responsible adults is an officer of the law, and he must have made it very clear to the young hedonists that B&E is illegal and seeing as how the culprits were all at least 18 years of age, they would be tried as adults (and I'm not sure he had to explain much further). Then, they phoned our hosts, which explained the 3 am wake-up.
The next morning, we all lounged and got to know each other over bagels and schmear, and then I caught a ride to the LIRR and rode into the sweltering city and my very busy job.
The week has been swell. The bookstore is doing fine in the summer, especially since we've installed 2 new A/C units that help keep things cool while browsers crowd the shelves. I rang up a special celebrity yesterday, but in the interest of preserving his privacy, I'll only mention he had good taste and spent a nice chunk of change.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go shower for the third time today.
It's been months, and while there may not have seemed to be much to tell, I get the urge to cram a whole story in this space. Fear not, gentle reader, I will spare you the digest of the changing seasons.
We are only just in the thick of summer, and while last week kept citizens' hopes up in the high seventies, the Fourth of July forward has been pure misery. I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but 100 degrees Fahrenheit melts all sense of hyperbole.
The weekend itself was lovely. Thanks to Uncle James' graduation celebration, I've connected with long-lost cousins in Brooklyn. I wish I had a better handle on this whole extended relation business, because the way I see it, family is family. Perhaps one day, my grandchildren will try to figure how they are related to my first cousins' grandchildren.
Anyways, this particular bloodline grew up in Long Island, and her own first cousins throw quite the an annual Let Freedom Ring-er.
I brought a Napa Cabbage Slaw, but when I heard the guest-list topped 200, it hardly seemed worth mentioning. I love visiting folks without pretense. Rather than sitting in the shade of the Beach house, I got along with the other side of my new cousin's line (matrilocal, wassup.) There was plenty to eat, plenty to drink, plenty to do.
It's been so long since I've been to the beach (I hardly think a spring day with Coney Island amusements counts).
We danced long into the night, but at around 11, the Brooklynite/Twentysomethings felt it was time to turn in. (I had to close shop on Monday). We said goodbye to the folks holding down the beach house and found some comfy couches to crash into at one Aunt's homebase. Falling alseep was easier said than done.
One of the long-lost cousins (who shares my hometown!) felt that everyone getting ready for bed signaled intense desire to crowd around a laptop and watch a movie! In addition, there were the adorably little yappy house dogs that reminded the guests who was boss. I reached at sleep, while I stretched out in the air-conditioning, finally nodding off around 24:00.
Around 2:30, the hosts finally stumbled home. The dogs announced this, as well as kitchen lights and it was all I could do not to eavesdrop to hear how the party had ended.
This particular 4th had been special because it also celebrated the hosts' daughter's High School Graduation (woo, teenagers!) Apparently, things were starting to get out of hand so Mama Host made a judgment call and kicked the inebriated teenagers out of her house and onto the beach of Long Island Sound. Drinking, smoking, getting loud, I'm sure we're all familiar with the circumstances upon which memorable parties usually end.
So then, things get dark again, and I drift into dreams once more.
At 3:00am, the proud graduate comes and wakes up Long-lost-Long-Island-Cousin, and asks her to come back out to the beach house. Did they decide to have a nightcap?
No gentle readers, apparently some other responsible adults had forgotten their daughter's flip-flops at the beach house and driven back to retrieve them (they were facing a 10 hour drive back to Buffalo, I guess the flip-flops were important).
When these responsible adults had left the beach house, it had been locked up and dark. When they returned, the lights were on, the door was bust open and the music was blaring. Luckily, one of the responsible adults is an officer of the law, and he must have made it very clear to the young hedonists that B&E is illegal and seeing as how the culprits were all at least 18 years of age, they would be tried as adults (and I'm not sure he had to explain much further). Then, they phoned our hosts, which explained the 3 am wake-up.
The next morning, we all lounged and got to know each other over bagels and schmear, and then I caught a ride to the LIRR and rode into the sweltering city and my very busy job.
The week has been swell. The bookstore is doing fine in the summer, especially since we've installed 2 new A/C units that help keep things cool while browsers crowd the shelves. I rang up a special celebrity yesterday, but in the interest of preserving his privacy, I'll only mention he had good taste and spent a nice chunk of change.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go shower for the third time today.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Show don't Tell
I believe seventh grade was the last year I diagrammed sentences, identified clauses, and dangled participles. (For more fun on diagramming sentences, click here)
Eighth grade was devoted to literature and expository writing.
Ninth grade explored prepositional phrases and the introduction to decanting a work of creative writing; identifying the elements that ferment into a full-bodied refreshment.
Ninth grade writing assignments were hell and nirvana. I choked on one writing assignment that required me to show, not tell that "the roller coaster was thrilling." I was probably under additional stress considering Biology, World History and the Coast Guard manual stalking my trail through Homework Forest.
Having at that time fewer than 10 years experience riding Roller Coasters, I was tentative in my treatment of building anticipation while a chain announces each foot of an ascent. The carnies with their smiles like a condemned fun-house, only half there. The hairs on the back of your neck reach for solid ground.
It is too late, testing the surety of the foam on the metal bar now, you have no choice but to meet your destiny.
You are ripped from the rules of nature and suspended over a microcosm of delight, but before you have a chance to appreciate its beauty (for the simple fact that it has not floated away!), you are yanked forward through the dark and carried upwards once more.
There comes a point where it seems to be over, the first peak was ages ago, the train will surely creak to a stop. Then, a final toss of heart to throat, and at last, but far too soon, does everything jerk back into place, hissing relief.
I agonized over the pointless details of the assignment. There were over 50 choices for "Show, Don't Tell" topics.
Was I supposed to let my teacher know which one I had chosen in the title? That seemed to forfeit the game.
Was it like a game of taboo where using the words "roller coaster" and "thrill" were automatic losses?
A whole page?
It's no secret that New York is loud, large city. Its cacophony streams throughout each day. Outside my window it includes, but is not limited to: mass transit, thrumming bass, screaming children, raving lunatics, and blaring car horns.
I've grown accustomed to most of it.
The buses help me keep time. The train makes a friendly whooshing sound as it slows to swallow more passengers.
Screaming children are a part of life, and mostly one that tends to be in bed after 11 o'clock. What's more, I've heard the same raving lunatic drop some serious gems on the sidewalk on more than one occasion. Just last week, he was urging some truants to stay in school, lest they end up a crazy mother-snackpack like he.
I even love the satisfying syllables of the freight trucks as they careen down my street towards Flushing, leaving the ground with one sweet "kuh" and falling back down with a "chunk."
I can even handle to incessant car horns of the car-service driver who is lost and wants to make all the sleeping people aware of it. And the whooping car alarms of the sorry fool who thought he would park his car at his front door? Well, I learned that tune in the suburbs.
However, there is one thing I still have not grown accustomed to, (and it is here where I try to show, not tell) the snackpackin' garbage trucks. It is a truly painful sound. Like nails on a chalk board, if the chalkboard was rusted metal and your teacher's nails were collapsing cans and glass bottles (which need to be recycled!) The pistons always already seeming to exhale their last effort, but no, this is New York and there are probably hundreds of pounds of trash left to compact on this block alone.
NYC garbage trucks are nightmares of reality, and I'm sure--if what I learned about Socrates in 12th grade was accurate--Plato would have urged us to stay in the caves, content with the puppetry, so as never to deal with the amount of waste we create in the world.
Eighth grade was devoted to literature and expository writing.
Ninth grade explored prepositional phrases and the introduction to decanting a work of creative writing; identifying the elements that ferment into a full-bodied refreshment.
Ninth grade writing assignments were hell and nirvana. I choked on one writing assignment that required me to show, not tell that "the roller coaster was thrilling." I was probably under additional stress considering Biology, World History and the Coast Guard manual stalking my trail through Homework Forest.
Having at that time fewer than 10 years experience riding Roller Coasters, I was tentative in my treatment of building anticipation while a chain announces each foot of an ascent. The carnies with their smiles like a condemned fun-house, only half there. The hairs on the back of your neck reach for solid ground.
It is too late, testing the surety of the foam on the metal bar now, you have no choice but to meet your destiny.
You are ripped from the rules of nature and suspended over a microcosm of delight, but before you have a chance to appreciate its beauty (for the simple fact that it has not floated away!), you are yanked forward through the dark and carried upwards once more.
There comes a point where it seems to be over, the first peak was ages ago, the train will surely creak to a stop. Then, a final toss of heart to throat, and at last, but far too soon, does everything jerk back into place, hissing relief.
I agonized over the pointless details of the assignment. There were over 50 choices for "Show, Don't Tell" topics.
Was I supposed to let my teacher know which one I had chosen in the title? That seemed to forfeit the game.
Was it like a game of taboo where using the words "roller coaster" and "thrill" were automatic losses?
A whole page?
It's no secret that New York is loud, large city. Its cacophony streams throughout each day. Outside my window it includes, but is not limited to: mass transit, thrumming bass, screaming children, raving lunatics, and blaring car horns.
I've grown accustomed to most of it.
The buses help me keep time. The train makes a friendly whooshing sound as it slows to swallow more passengers.
Screaming children are a part of life, and mostly one that tends to be in bed after 11 o'clock. What's more, I've heard the same raving lunatic drop some serious gems on the sidewalk on more than one occasion. Just last week, he was urging some truants to stay in school, lest they end up a crazy mother-snackpack like he.
I even love the satisfying syllables of the freight trucks as they careen down my street towards Flushing, leaving the ground with one sweet "kuh" and falling back down with a "chunk."
I can even handle to incessant car horns of the car-service driver who is lost and wants to make all the sleeping people aware of it. And the whooping car alarms of the sorry fool who thought he would park his car at his front door? Well, I learned that tune in the suburbs.
However, there is one thing I still have not grown accustomed to, (and it is here where I try to show, not tell) the snackpackin' garbage trucks. It is a truly painful sound. Like nails on a chalk board, if the chalkboard was rusted metal and your teacher's nails were collapsing cans and glass bottles (which need to be recycled!) The pistons always already seeming to exhale their last effort, but no, this is New York and there are probably hundreds of pounds of trash left to compact on this block alone.
NYC garbage trucks are nightmares of reality, and I'm sure--if what I learned about Socrates in 12th grade was accurate--Plato would have urged us to stay in the caves, content with the puppetry, so as never to deal with the amount of waste we create in the world.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Word Count
Some memories are like tiny splinters in your thumb. A dull pain, throbbing now and again, tells your brain to examine the sensation, and try to squeeze it out from under your skin. Other memories tickle your lower back, and suddenly, your laughter rends the sour silence in a crowded space. Others still simply glow in the branches of the past you can see, hung like candles in the trees. These memories illuminate the forest, but as singular units, don't really call for actions or feelings.
Recently, I remembered flipping through my Florida History book--the history I learned at the age of 9, long before the FCAT.
There were a number of pages that had sky-blue rectangles highlighting a matrix of numbers, subtitled by categories of information. That was the first time I ever learned of a census. My young powers of deduction told me that Censuses took place every ten years, I loved perusing the blue rectangles, watching the population of Florida rise and fall through history, as others searched for gold, and youth, and immortality.
I also remembered being in Pre-Calculus studying logarithms, the last bit of fun before the hell of limits. Of course there was plenty of discussing the practicality of these useful formulas, namely, a sense of the world which surrounds (ah, Nature). When you consider the fact that there's some ridiculously complicated formula to figuring the distance between stars we've actually discovered, it is impressive to consider the remarkably simple application in figuring world population. I wonder if there isn't a star for every soul on this planet, seeing as how we're somewhere halfway between six and seven billion now.
As I aged out of my teens, I remember learning about politics, which are ever evolving. I remember sitting in one of the more demanding English classes, and in a discussion over Jewish Literature, my professor saying it seems ridiculous to reduce politics to conservative and liberal discourses, "Am I conservative, you ask? I say about what?"
I remember learning that seeing as how the government is run by a bunch of human beings, it can turn into giant mistake machine and really stomp a mud-hole in the middle of my life-crises (to which I have the right as an American). I learned in an abstract way that the government does many things that I happen to dislike, on that I'm sure we have some common ground.
These memories all flickered into my present mind while I sat in the bask of neon at Los Hermanos and hearing a person at my table claim ignorance of what a U.S. Census actually is, and then question its importance.
While the United States Constitution is full of bullshit like-- oh I don't know, the right to for you to vote for the wrong guy, and the right for you to open your yap, the right for me to take my handgun and shoot you in the face when you piss me off, and the right for me to shutthefuckup when the fuzz bully club my ass for murder--it also has very simple straightforward guidelines like the number of senators from each state, the whole "born in this country" thing, AND A FRINKING POPULATION COUNT EVERY TEN YEARS.
Why do citizens feel the need to snub this simple survey? The internet already knows everything about you anyways.
Recently, I remembered flipping through my Florida History book--the history I learned at the age of 9, long before the FCAT.
There were a number of pages that had sky-blue rectangles highlighting a matrix of numbers, subtitled by categories of information. That was the first time I ever learned of a census. My young powers of deduction told me that Censuses took place every ten years, I loved perusing the blue rectangles, watching the population of Florida rise and fall through history, as others searched for gold, and youth, and immortality.
I also remembered being in Pre-Calculus studying logarithms, the last bit of fun before the hell of limits. Of course there was plenty of discussing the practicality of these useful formulas, namely, a sense of the world which surrounds (ah, Nature). When you consider the fact that there's some ridiculously complicated formula to figuring the distance between stars we've actually discovered, it is impressive to consider the remarkably simple application in figuring world population. I wonder if there isn't a star for every soul on this planet, seeing as how we're somewhere halfway between six and seven billion now.
As I aged out of my teens, I remember learning about politics, which are ever evolving. I remember sitting in one of the more demanding English classes, and in a discussion over Jewish Literature, my professor saying it seems ridiculous to reduce politics to conservative and liberal discourses, "Am I conservative, you ask? I say about what?"
I remember learning that seeing as how the government is run by a bunch of human beings, it can turn into giant mistake machine and really stomp a mud-hole in the middle of my life-crises (to which I have the right as an American). I learned in an abstract way that the government does many things that I happen to dislike, on that I'm sure we have some common ground.
These memories all flickered into my present mind while I sat in the bask of neon at Los Hermanos and hearing a person at my table claim ignorance of what a U.S. Census actually is, and then question its importance.
While the United States Constitution is full of bullshit like-- oh I don't know, the right to for you to vote for the wrong guy, and the right for you to open your yap, the right for me to take my handgun and shoot you in the face when you piss me off, and the right for me to shutthefuckup when the fuzz bully club my ass for murder--it also has very simple straightforward guidelines like the number of senators from each state, the whole "born in this country" thing, AND A FRINKING POPULATION COUNT EVERY TEN YEARS.
Why do citizens feel the need to snub this simple survey? The internet already knows everything about you anyways.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Internet is for funsies and new werds that make yew miss spell.
The internet is for funsies and made up words, which is a dignified way of avoiding the truth that if it weren't for the taboo of pornography, there would be no internet as we know it--the hyperactive information sharing imaginatorium of sex.
I imagine the internet a bit like the chapter in Hitchhiker's Guide when Slartibartfast gives us the guided tour to Magrathea, with vast staging areas devoted to adorable kittens and 633k 5p34k (geek speak, if you have to ask).
I like the parts of the internet that don't include Comic Sans and believe in a dictionary, or at the very least, little red dots that second guess your aptitude as a good speller.
In homage to hypertext and what hypertext was nonce, the interwebz is good for bopping around like Mario on little clouds of knowledge and bonking your against bricks for extra points.
So, while I was doing some research on Travesties by Tom Stoppard, I bounced around between some Dadaist, Leninist and Marxist Websites, I found a literate blog that had a meme that looked like funsies.
Thusly,
Hardback, trade paperback or mass market paperback?
Hardcovers are excellent collector's items. They collect lots of dust.
(I'm sure serious readers amass plenty of each.)
Waterstones, Borders or Amazon?
Whiskeytangofoxtrot is Waterstones? If it is an independent bookseller, I'm into it.
Bookmark or dog-ear?
I dog-ear galleys and bookmark editions in print, out of print or not belonging to me.
Alphabetize by author, or alphabetize by title, or random?
The progeny of philosophers and booksellers, I first put my books in sections and rearrange the flow between shelves according to my humor. The alphabet is only necessary until the books come home with me.
Keep, throw away, or sell?
And give away. And steal from friends.
Keep dust jacket or toss it?
Screw top or flip cap?
Read with dust jacket or remove it?
Am I reading on the train? Is it a big art book? Does it belong to the library?
Short story or novel?
Both please?
Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket?
Wiz kid.
Buy or borrow?
Just as long as you're not one of those assholes who confuses bookstores with a library where you can sit and take up space sipping your latte, making notes and cracking the spine.
Tidy ending or cliffhanger?
What is this? Amateur hour?
Morning reading, afternoon reading, or nighttime reading?
I envy the fact that some people can actually schedule parts of their days for reading. I tend to do it in my twenty-first century version of "spare" time.
Favourite series?
I found this meme on a stranger twenty-something's blog and she is apparently Canadian, which has me wondering, if it's pronounced "aboot" why not "fave-oo-rit?"
And I bet she missed out on some serious Sweet Valley High action.
Favourite YA book?
I wish Judy Blume could re-write Are You There God? It's Me Margaret with cell phones so that these impressionable young things wouldn't have to rely on Twilight for the prelude to their nascent sexual awakenings.
Favourite book no one has heard of?
I hate this question. If no one has heard of the book, then how the hell are there printed copies floating around?
Favourite books read last year?
Richard Feynman.
Favourite book to re-read?
I haven't re-read much since I was 12.
Do you ever smell books?
You don't?
What are you reading right now?
1921 about New York City baseball, but I can't read just one.
What are you reading next?
New Yorker perhaps.
I imagine the internet a bit like the chapter in Hitchhiker's Guide when Slartibartfast gives us the guided tour to Magrathea, with vast staging areas devoted to adorable kittens and 633k 5p34k (geek speak, if you have to ask).
I like the parts of the internet that don't include Comic Sans and believe in a dictionary, or at the very least, little red dots that second guess your aptitude as a good speller.
In homage to hypertext and what hypertext was nonce, the interwebz is good for bopping around like Mario on little clouds of knowledge and bonking your against bricks for extra points.
So, while I was doing some research on Travesties by Tom Stoppard, I bounced around between some Dadaist, Leninist and Marxist Websites, I found a literate blog that had a meme that looked like funsies.
Thusly,
Hardback, trade paperback or mass market paperback?
Hardcovers are excellent collector's items. They collect lots of dust.
(I'm sure serious readers amass plenty of each.)
Waterstones, Borders or Amazon?
Whiskeytangofoxtrot is Waterstones? If it is an independent bookseller, I'm into it.
Bookmark or dog-ear?
I dog-ear galleys and bookmark editions in print, out of print or not belonging to me.
Alphabetize by author, or alphabetize by title, or random?
The progeny of philosophers and booksellers, I first put my books in sections and rearrange the flow between shelves according to my humor. The alphabet is only necessary until the books come home with me.
Keep, throw away, or sell?
And give away. And steal from friends.
Keep dust jacket or toss it?
Screw top or flip cap?
Read with dust jacket or remove it?
Am I reading on the train? Is it a big art book? Does it belong to the library?
Short story or novel?
Both please?
Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket?
Wiz kid.
Buy or borrow?
Just as long as you're not one of those assholes who confuses bookstores with a library where you can sit and take up space sipping your latte, making notes and cracking the spine.
Tidy ending or cliffhanger?
What is this? Amateur hour?
Morning reading, afternoon reading, or nighttime reading?
I envy the fact that some people can actually schedule parts of their days for reading. I tend to do it in my twenty-first century version of "spare" time.
Favourite series?
I found this meme on a stranger twenty-something's blog and she is apparently Canadian, which has me wondering, if it's pronounced "aboot" why not "fave-oo-rit?"
And I bet she missed out on some serious Sweet Valley High action.
Favourite YA book?
I wish Judy Blume could re-write Are You There God? It's Me Margaret with cell phones so that these impressionable young things wouldn't have to rely on Twilight for the prelude to their nascent sexual awakenings.
Favourite book no one has heard of?
I hate this question. If no one has heard of the book, then how the hell are there printed copies floating around?
Favourite books read last year?
Richard Feynman.
Favourite book to re-read?
I haven't re-read much since I was 12.
Do you ever smell books?
You don't?
What are you reading right now?
1921 about New York City baseball, but I can't read just one.
What are you reading next?
New Yorker perhaps.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Book man
On Friday, after a late closing, I went to an art auction fundraiser for the next Swimming Cities expedition. I ran into some of the folks who helped build Greenlight, and was able to procure a couple of free tickets to the Armory Show, which ran until this evening.
The exposition was huge, taking place at Pier 94 along the Hudson. The area itself is a bit subway-challenged, but getting there wasn't difficult. I arrived a bit too late to see everything, but I stuck to the Modern Art galleries, which I think are more fun to think about.
If you've grown up with an understanding of religion, it isn't hard to appreciate the driving force behind much Western art. I could spend ages looking at paintings of Maria and her nino, the same basic elements reworked thousands of different ways, brought into the world of artifice by so many consciousnesses.
But when you're at an intimidatingly large art show all by yourself, it is way more fun (and perhaps slightly less pretentious) to peruse a few key booths and wonder not only what gave the artist cause to cast aluminum and steel into a cylindrical shape and varnish it with candy-colored enamel, but how the gallery decided that someone might want to spend $20,000 on a stack of said shapes.
My favorite exhibit was a collection of mens' faces carved out of old Bybels and other black leather-bound books stacked into an appropriate medium.
It was just something to do after a lovely brunch with some lady friends, but any chance I get to pound the pavement down the big blocks in Manhattan, I hop into my comfortable walking shoes and do it. There's an aspect of Manhattan that is hardly appealing--the rampant entitlement to materialism leaves a funny aftertaste (although for parts of Brooklyn to find itself above smacks of hypocrisy). Still, there is a thrill I get from the steel giant, a pulse that is hard to read. I suppose that's what I love most of all, walking out of time with the center of the universe.
The exposition was huge, taking place at Pier 94 along the Hudson. The area itself is a bit subway-challenged, but getting there wasn't difficult. I arrived a bit too late to see everything, but I stuck to the Modern Art galleries, which I think are more fun to think about.
If you've grown up with an understanding of religion, it isn't hard to appreciate the driving force behind much Western art. I could spend ages looking at paintings of Maria and her nino, the same basic elements reworked thousands of different ways, brought into the world of artifice by so many consciousnesses.
But when you're at an intimidatingly large art show all by yourself, it is way more fun (and perhaps slightly less pretentious) to peruse a few key booths and wonder not only what gave the artist cause to cast aluminum and steel into a cylindrical shape and varnish it with candy-colored enamel, but how the gallery decided that someone might want to spend $20,000 on a stack of said shapes.
My favorite exhibit was a collection of mens' faces carved out of old Bybels and other black leather-bound books stacked into an appropriate medium.
It was just something to do after a lovely brunch with some lady friends, but any chance I get to pound the pavement down the big blocks in Manhattan, I hop into my comfortable walking shoes and do it. There's an aspect of Manhattan that is hardly appealing--the rampant entitlement to materialism leaves a funny aftertaste (although for parts of Brooklyn to find itself above smacks of hypocrisy). Still, there is a thrill I get from the steel giant, a pulse that is hard to read. I suppose that's what I love most of all, walking out of time with the center of the universe.
70 Million by Hold Your Horses ! from L'Ogre on Vimeo.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Author event
I just returned from a dinner on the UES with an emerging young author who has written a young readers' novel that might remind readers of Gaiman's Coraline, where a young girl travels into a different world while living within the realm of a strange house belonging to a strange family. Of course, there is an adversary in the world within, and this particular brand of magic gave me a serious case of the heebie jeebies as I rode the train to the dinner hosted by Penguin Group for Young Readers. It was good company, and the author is a former teacher who worked in one of the smallest school districts in Wisconsin, although I bet most of her students can spell Wisconsin (maybe even Massachusetts or Connecticut).
She was quite kind and flattered, having done a week-long whirl of dinners in L.A., Chicago, NYC tonight--to meet her agent face to face for the first time (and schmooze with us and Pengy.) Tomorrow morning, it's South Carolina and then back to her hometown. There is a lot of work going into the marketing of the book, and it's interesting because unlike most of what I've looked at in the past two months or so of pulling Y.A. novels out of the box--this is a book by strong writer that paints a Pieta of sorts--Young Readers see this trope with C.S. Lewis et al., only the delight is in the terror she brings with antique ghosts.
Tomorrow night, Ted Conover is reading at the Strand. His new book on roads, Routes of Man drives me through some country I've never considered while watching all of America out the window of Poppa's white Dodge van. Right now, I'm with him on a frozen river that is literally a rite of passage for a gang of forty teenagers that have grown up in a Himalayan valley almost 12,000 feet above sea level and who have all "maxed out on the education in Reru, their medieval hamlet, and were taking advantage of the cold to get out of Dodge." Conover is not so swift on the ice, while these kids have grown up tested by and testing the river that runs off the Indus. Cradle of civilization be damned, I've already been deep into Peru, where the "uncontacted" are still considered. The nuggets of knowledge are plentiful, although at times I think the writing gets a little tangential, but maybe that's just New York City commuting with me--funnily enough, DJ Random Play (itunes) is bringing me Fela Kuti's "He Miss Road."
I can never remember which imitates what, art or life.
She was quite kind and flattered, having done a week-long whirl of dinners in L.A., Chicago, NYC tonight--to meet her agent face to face for the first time (and schmooze with us and Pengy.) Tomorrow morning, it's South Carolina and then back to her hometown. There is a lot of work going into the marketing of the book, and it's interesting because unlike most of what I've looked at in the past two months or so of pulling Y.A. novels out of the box--this is a book by strong writer that paints a Pieta of sorts--Young Readers see this trope with C.S. Lewis et al., only the delight is in the terror she brings with antique ghosts.
Tomorrow night, Ted Conover is reading at the Strand. His new book on roads, Routes of Man drives me through some country I've never considered while watching all of America out the window of Poppa's white Dodge van. Right now, I'm with him on a frozen river that is literally a rite of passage for a gang of forty teenagers that have grown up in a Himalayan valley almost 12,000 feet above sea level and who have all "maxed out on the education in Reru, their medieval hamlet, and were taking advantage of the cold to get out of Dodge." Conover is not so swift on the ice, while these kids have grown up tested by and testing the river that runs off the Indus. Cradle of civilization be damned, I've already been deep into Peru, where the "uncontacted" are still considered. The nuggets of knowledge are plentiful, although at times I think the writing gets a little tangential, but maybe that's just New York City commuting with me--funnily enough, DJ Random Play (itunes) is bringing me Fela Kuti's "He Miss Road."
I can never remember which imitates what, art or life.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Story hour
I'm with my cousins and visiting the grandparents in Aspen. Thankfully, we were all able to fly in on the same day (despite the snow). My flight from LGA went fine, even though my cab driver dropped me off at the terminal for US Air instead of United forcing me to use my New York walk in Queens so that I could get to the terminal in time (I was early).
The first few days of sitting for Adena (Baby turned 1 year old on Monday) were a bit harried. Like most infants, she cries the second her mother is out of sight. I've been getting her out of the house, into the stroller and making tracks around the neighborhood, but it's hard for her otherwise. I had been trying to convince Grandma that it's okay to take a baby and a stroller on the bus, so that I could get Adena to the library for some board books (which, go figure, are in short supply at this house).
Arguments why I can't/shan't:
-Nobody takes strollers on the bus
-I don't know where the library is
-I won't be able to get home.
But I had already done my research (Google Maps is the best!), and refuted Grandma's thoughtful points.
Today, I managed to hitch a ride with Mary Norma while she went to City Market, but I left the stroller at home thinking it might not fit on the bus. Adena and I arrived at the library about an hour before it was open, but I kept her busy with a walk towards the Nature Center, a quick stop in Clark's supermarket (where I let her help me with self-checkout and press buttons). I was beginning to regret not bringing the stroller, she's 17 pounds and I am not used to maternal duties, but I was not about to call and bother Grandma.
When the library opened it was story hour, so we sat for a few about bears and hibernation.
Then we picked out a few board books and one picture book, and hit the road. I guess I'm used to walking the big blocks, because we were at the other end of town/bus depot in no time. In other awesome timing, we arrived just as our bus did-- I realized I would have been able to bring the stroller-- and baby fell asleep on the ride home. Since I didn't have the stroller, I figured it'd be fine to get off at the short-cut/hospital and hike the hill over to Meadowood, she napped until I started to pull off her snowsuit.
Tomorrow, there are even more cousins coming to visit, which will make Friday's day off totally sweet. I've been reading and watching plenty of movies in the time between.
It's a shame about Howard Zinn, but I guess this leaves a vacancy for a new historian. I'm glad I took the chance to hear him speak a while back.
Speaking of departures, a coworker is leaving the bookstore. He resigned in poem form, so I responded in kind. He'll be gone when I get back to Greenlight.
This one's called,
"Re: Pre-meditated Resignation for the Kindly Folks, Yes....ah, well!"
Lifting her coat off the wary hook,
beneath her breath
chuckling,
though the evidence is long gone
as with the help which reached high
or updated clues in creation,
she spots a stain on the shelf
where the broth or stew
once brimming with ambition,
reached the consummation
of containment and
left a smile.
The first few days of sitting for Adena (Baby turned 1 year old on Monday) were a bit harried. Like most infants, she cries the second her mother is out of sight. I've been getting her out of the house, into the stroller and making tracks around the neighborhood, but it's hard for her otherwise. I had been trying to convince Grandma that it's okay to take a baby and a stroller on the bus, so that I could get Adena to the library for some board books (which, go figure, are in short supply at this house).
Arguments why I can't/shan't:
-Nobody takes strollers on the bus
-I don't know where the library is
-I won't be able to get home.
But I had already done my research (Google Maps is the best!), and refuted Grandma's thoughtful points.
Today, I managed to hitch a ride with Mary Norma while she went to City Market, but I left the stroller at home thinking it might not fit on the bus. Adena and I arrived at the library about an hour before it was open, but I kept her busy with a walk towards the Nature Center, a quick stop in Clark's supermarket (where I let her help me with self-checkout and press buttons). I was beginning to regret not bringing the stroller, she's 17 pounds and I am not used to maternal duties, but I was not about to call and bother Grandma.
When the library opened it was story hour, so we sat for a few about bears and hibernation.
Then we picked out a few board books and one picture book, and hit the road. I guess I'm used to walking the big blocks, because we were at the other end of town/bus depot in no time. In other awesome timing, we arrived just as our bus did-- I realized I would have been able to bring the stroller-- and baby fell asleep on the ride home. Since I didn't have the stroller, I figured it'd be fine to get off at the short-cut/hospital and hike the hill over to Meadowood, she napped until I started to pull off her snowsuit.
Tomorrow, there are even more cousins coming to visit, which will make Friday's day off totally sweet. I've been reading and watching plenty of movies in the time between.
It's a shame about Howard Zinn, but I guess this leaves a vacancy for a new historian. I'm glad I took the chance to hear him speak a while back.
Speaking of departures, a coworker is leaving the bookstore. He resigned in poem form, so I responded in kind. He'll be gone when I get back to Greenlight.
This one's called,
"Re: Pre-meditated Resignation for the Kindly Folks, Yes....ah, well!"
Lifting her coat off the wary hook,
beneath her breath
chuckling,
though the evidence is long gone
as with the help which reached high
or updated clues in creation,
she spots a stain on the shelf
where the broth or stew
once brimming with ambition,
reached the consummation
of containment and
left a smile.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Overdue
I guess I've always had a problem with procrastinating, which is why I've let way too much time pass since my last real update.
For the sake of being succinct, I'll have to gloss over the goings-on since--oof, before Thanksgiving?
I spent what felt like five minutes in Miami, and then drove up to Amelia Island with Daena to spend some QT with the Weinkles. 'Twas a lovely visit and the little cousins are now getting to be bigger little cousins.
Which reminds me of my stokifying news, I am off to spend two weeks watching the little cousins and hanging out with Mary Norma and Julian. I'm excited to have the time off from receiving at the store, which has been doing well in the post-holiday-madness lull.
Greenlight's Team Awesome kicked butt over the gift-giving madness, mostly because of our staff's perspicacious handselling. If you'll allow me to play my own piano, I am the resident YA expert. Customers looking for young adult literature find themselves at the register with armfuls of my recommendations. Most of what I suggest are titles I read when I was a youngin'. I tip my proverbial hat to Mom and Pops on that one.
Despite the popularity of the e-readers (namely Amazon's Kindle), I'm pretty sure the codex format has staying power. Kind of like vinyl hasn't ever lost it's value. Cassettes and CDs are out, mostly because they don't last in the long run. Even DVDs are something of the past as more and more tune in online. As technology is ever moving forward, it's clear the e-readers will evolve. Certainly, there are issues with the proprietary nature of Amazon's monopoly on certain titles (and who's to say the publishing industry won't experience it's own version of illegal downloads?) But I know some of my customers are Kindle users, and they still like the feel of turning pages, so they're happy to visit the brick and mortar and friendly faces.
Speaking of turning pages, I've had some delicious texts in the past couple of weeks.
Amy Hempel's Collected Stories were remarkable. A truly gifted teller, she made me laugh and made me cry.
Dave Thomas's Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell is a rather engaging account of the business relationship between David Bowie, Iggy Pop and Lou Reed.
Katherine Dunn's Geek Love is simply a full meal (and a unputdownable tale of geeks and freaks).
I'm reading Melanie Watt's new novel Alice I Have Been a fictional/history of the real-life Alice Liddell, and it is positively fascinating, to the point that I missed my subway stop the other night.
I also picked up Chris Moore's new novel Bite Me: A love story, which picks up the saga of Abby Normal, everyone's favorite adolescent goth who gets into some sticky situations when Chet, the vampire cat unleashes his undead fury on San Francisco. 'Twas cute, a good Chris Moore novel.
One thing I did not care for was Jonathan Dee's new book The Priveleges. He wishes he were Tom Perotta. Unfortunately, there was nothing about Dee's hideously wealthy characters in a financial setting similar to this one, that stuck with me. Reviews say each of the characters must come to term with their personal ethics, but I found nothing redeeming or tragic in their lives, it seemed rather trite to me. The only good thing about the book is the first chapter, in which Dee's writing is a strong demonstration and description of a "typical wedding." I'm not sure who The Privelegesis written for, and maybe that's part of the reason I didn't like it.
That's all for now. Tonight is Asian Film Fest with some pals. We're watching Wild Zero and Riki-Oh: The Story of Riki.
For the sake of being succinct, I'll have to gloss over the goings-on since--oof, before Thanksgiving?
I spent what felt like five minutes in Miami, and then drove up to Amelia Island with Daena to spend some QT with the Weinkles. 'Twas a lovely visit and the little cousins are now getting to be bigger little cousins.
Which reminds me of my stokifying news, I am off to spend two weeks watching the little cousins and hanging out with Mary Norma and Julian. I'm excited to have the time off from receiving at the store, which has been doing well in the post-holiday-madness lull.
Greenlight's Team Awesome kicked butt over the gift-giving madness, mostly because of our staff's perspicacious handselling. If you'll allow me to play my own piano, I am the resident YA expert. Customers looking for young adult literature find themselves at the register with armfuls of my recommendations. Most of what I suggest are titles I read when I was a youngin'. I tip my proverbial hat to Mom and Pops on that one.
Despite the popularity of the e-readers (namely Amazon's Kindle), I'm pretty sure the codex format has staying power. Kind of like vinyl hasn't ever lost it's value. Cassettes and CDs are out, mostly because they don't last in the long run. Even DVDs are something of the past as more and more tune in online. As technology is ever moving forward, it's clear the e-readers will evolve. Certainly, there are issues with the proprietary nature of Amazon's monopoly on certain titles (and who's to say the publishing industry won't experience it's own version of illegal downloads?) But I know some of my customers are Kindle users, and they still like the feel of turning pages, so they're happy to visit the brick and mortar and friendly faces.
Speaking of turning pages, I've had some delicious texts in the past couple of weeks.
Amy Hempel's Collected Stories were remarkable. A truly gifted teller, she made me laugh and made me cry.
Dave Thomas's Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell is a rather engaging account of the business relationship between David Bowie, Iggy Pop and Lou Reed.
Katherine Dunn's Geek Love is simply a full meal (and a unputdownable tale of geeks and freaks).
I'm reading Melanie Watt's new novel Alice I Have Been a fictional/history of the real-life Alice Liddell, and it is positively fascinating, to the point that I missed my subway stop the other night.
I also picked up Chris Moore's new novel Bite Me: A love story, which picks up the saga of Abby Normal, everyone's favorite adolescent goth who gets into some sticky situations when Chet, the vampire cat unleashes his undead fury on San Francisco. 'Twas cute, a good Chris Moore novel.
One thing I did not care for was Jonathan Dee's new book The Priveleges. He wishes he were Tom Perotta. Unfortunately, there was nothing about Dee's hideously wealthy characters in a financial setting similar to this one, that stuck with me. Reviews say each of the characters must come to term with their personal ethics, but I found nothing redeeming or tragic in their lives, it seemed rather trite to me. The only good thing about the book is the first chapter, in which Dee's writing is a strong demonstration and description of a "typical wedding." I'm not sure who The Privelegesis written for, and maybe that's part of the reason I didn't like it.
That's all for now. Tonight is Asian Film Fest with some pals. We're watching Wild Zero and Riki-Oh: The Story of Riki.
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