Thanksgiving 2007

Contrast

The Moon Looks Like a Walnut

I live for Harper's magazine's "Findings." The seemingly random selection of scientific factoids is so well done -- dry as a bone and yet often laugh-out-loud funny. Here are a few that cracked me up this month:

Canadian researchers found that men are almost as likely as women to be coerced into sex and that nearly a quarter of men are coerced into cuddling.

Astronomers confirmed that Saturn's moon Iapetus is half black and half white because its front side picks up space dust, and its back side accumulates ice. They also said that the moon has looked like a walnut for a very long time.

Female African jumping spiders that lose their viriginity to large males and avoid being eaten by them after sex tend to choose small, less threatening males for subsequent sexual encounters.

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This weekend has been a long one for me. Like 8 days long, at least. That's one upside of a breakup, I guess. Really, really long weekends...

Thursday's Child: for some reason I want to play ping pong

My title (of this entry) has no real meaning. Except that I was born on a (cold, rainy) Thursday in 196-) and today is Thursday. And... "Thursday's child is full of woe" -- 'nuff said... details to (probably not) follow.

Anyway, things that caught my eye and ears (eyes, plural, actually, thanks to my opthalmologist): On deck from NY Magazine's "The DVD Queue," RESCUE DAWN -- "a dark-horse contender for Best Actor, Christian Bale brillantly plays Vietnam POW Dieter Dengler as the strange optimist found in director Werner Herzog's 1997 documentary LITTLE DIETER NEEDS TO FLY." No clue what that means but as one who still, some 20 (?) years later dreams dreams inhabited by Herzog's monkeys from AGUIRRE, I can say, I'll watch anything Herzog-related. (Oh, I also dream occasionally of Klaus Kinski but we needn't go there.)

Also, a cab ran over my right foot (corner of Hudson and Reade, possibly). And I survived. Here's what happens: a rounding-the-corner cab screech, then a strange pressure on said foot, then a completely instinctual and kinda kangeroo-ish physical jump backward and then... nothing. Until one (me) gets home and strips off tights (black, matte) to find entire top of foot is mottled black and green. Nice!

Delightfully pleasant evening with dear friend K. on Tuesday... at a Van Halen concert! WTF? I know! Well, her company (publishing) has a sky box at Madison Square Garden, obviously meant for stressed-out copyeditors to lounge in from time to time (once in a blue moon) to feel "appreciated." Or something. Anyway, I'd not been in a sky box before and it was rather kinda cool and upper-atmosphere (I wanna say... hm.. tropospheric). Yes.) and a very hazy view of the hilariously posturing David L. Roth, et. al. I definitely need to get out more. And will.

My friend A. says I use too many adverbs. Can this be right? What if adjectives just don't quite do it? Huh?

Oh. And this week's The Office made me itch to play ping pong. I'm pretty good...

What I've learned today so far

That Quaker Instant Oatmeal + Fage 0% fat yogurt plus Tibetan Gohji Berries make a fine breakfast. That John James Audubon "counted a day wasted unless he had shot a hundred birds." That fresh-cut freesia last a long time (a week!) but the white ones last longer than the yellow ones. That cats don't like warm water any better than cold. That's it for now; laundry time on a windy, cold November Saturday.

Say It Ain't So

Ever since I've been a Yankees fan (not rabid, but... always there) I've liked and admired Joe Torre as a coach and a man. He radiates a quiet goodness that perfectly counters his melancholy resignedness. Which I guess is a good word for this week, as he essentially resigned, refusing to accept what he termed an insulting offer of compensation for his time and talent. I can only hope he read the more than 100 haikus (!) posted about him the Times' Joe Torre Haiku Contest.

Go Joe, live long, your
hangdog visage will linger
with me a long time

No words

Took my wonderful neighbor Ann to dinner at Market Table, new on Carmine Street for a nice dinner and a sort of tribute to Petey, who died on Friday. I know... shocking, sad. I'm not sure how he died but it was nearly exactly the same way MeMe died (suddent spasm, dead in an instant). And yes, if you didn't know, I'm talking about my cat(s). Petey was a good guy, the quintessential tabby cat and just a darn fine specimen: loving, cool, mellow, happy. I'd post a picture (again) but I'm too sad to look for one. And pissed off that I had to pay $85 for have him cremated (wtf?). Living in the Village is insanely expensive.

Anyway, dinner with 82-year old Ann (who takes/took care of Petey, and MeMe and now O. Henry when I'm out of town) was lovely. I can recommend the swordfish highly (ate every last scrap) with fresh off the cob corn and avocado/frisee salad) and probably the crabcake, which Ann devoured and then took home the bun with the lettuce and tomato tucked inside). Nice place (we got the last unreserved table) but too much space wasted with a weird selection of things I can't imagine anyone would want to spontaneously buy.

Other weekend highlights included a successful trip to Housing Works and a bad epidemiological thriller that made me want to do some detective work to find out who/what killed Pete. First stop: the exterminator who looks like Alec Baldwin (O. Hen had some fleas) and then possibly Purina.....

Update: there were no fleas. O. Henry just had a mild ear infection.

Cocktails and Kite Running

J. and I traipsed all about Manhattan this weekend, starting with an attempt to get to Ellis Island on Friday. I had taken the day off and figured it'd be a breeze. The line at Battery Park, however, threaded past the Indian Museum and seemed unmoving so we gave up and decided to treat ourselves to a drink at the Ritz Carlton's outdoor deck. Which was closed (dumb, since it was about 85 degrees out).

So, tired from walking from Franklin Street over to the River and down past the Holocaust Museum and around the bend to the southern tip of the island, we jumped in a Downtown Connection free shuttle in hopes it would deliver us to DSW near Vesey Street for some shoe shopping. No luck there. We rode with two enormous other people the wrong way (east) and then up the east side to the end of the line at the South Street Seaport. Then we took the subway to Union Square where J. found some wonderful boots at DSW and I forgot to buy a cat-scratcher at Petco. We had a delightful lunch (sushi and Pinot Grigio at Blue Water Grill) and drifted home to nap time.

We recovered sufficiently to spend the night out bar-hopping with C., after dinner and people-watching at Bistro Les Amis (how fitting) on Spring Street. C. amazed me yet again with his effortless generosity and endlessly entertaining antics.

Saturday night found us at the Directors Guild screening room watching a New Yorker Festival sneak preview of The Kite Runner, followed by a conversation (for the audience, not just J. and me, unfortunately) with Khaled Hosseini, the author of the book, Marc Forster (Monster's Ball), the film’s director, and New Yorker writer Jon Lee Anderson. I was stunned to hear that the movie's premier has been pushed back indefinitely out of grave concern for the safety of the two boys from Afghanistan who were the film stars. They are still in the country, which again is growing more violent. Heartbreaking -- both that and the actual movie, which was well done and well received. The film's lead actor showed up as well and spoke briefly and eloquently -- a striking and highly intelligent Egyptian man (he learned the language of the film -- which I can't recall -- in a single month).

Sunday Stuff

This weekend's artistic endeavor... and Henry. Who is often just exhausted by life. And a short moment in the life of a long cat fight (video below) Larger images here.

Miscellaneous

Sometimes it's better to post something than nothing at all. So this will be just to update the record. Saw Al DiMeola at the Blue Note last week with C. Great music, awful crowd: tourists and talkers and a severe lack of enthusiasm. Note to self: only tourists go to late concerts on a Sunday night.

Interesting articles in The Atlantic Monthly: About Facebook and If Sonny Bono Weren't Dead I'd Kill Him.

My friend and colleague A. tells me my blog pic makes me look "haggard." Well, too bad.

Do not buy flowers through 800 Flowers. I ordered my mother some for her birthday and she candidly told me they looked funereal. Great! So I told 800 Flowers I wanted to replace them and 2 days (!) later another sad bouquet arrived. I doubt they were the dozen "Peruvian lillies" I had ordered.

It's raining. Which is great, as I love rainy days but damnit not when I have a gazillion errands to run. Sigh. There. Done.

Damn That Man... and Tickemaster

Damn, that man has a voice. I'm talking about author/pundit Christopher Hitchens, with whom I (and many) don't always agree, but a sentence like this:

Having assumed the title of this very slight novel to be drawn from the famous stage direction in Hamlet, I was quite braced for some Rothian reflections on the Oedipal, with plenty of reluctant and dutiful visits to wheezed-out Jewish fathers in the wilderness of postindustrial New Jersey, and to the grisly wives and mothers who had drained them dry and made them into husks. -- "Zuckerman Undone," Atlantic Monthly, October 2007.

Well. You can just hear his British accent and imperious sniff between phrases and see his hands steepling thoughtfully, regretfully, in front of his impassive visage. His review of Philip Roth's new novel skewers the book. Ouch. I'll still read it, of course.

... Bought tickets to the New Yorker Festival: both readings with Junot Diaz and Annie Proulx and a conversation with Seymour M. Hersh interviewing David Remnick. Should be good brain food if not entertaining. Cannot believe the service fees that Ticketmaster charges. Ouch! Damn them too.

Patterns

The only cure for writer's block -- for me, anyway -- is art. Creating art. Even if it's not-so-good art. For starters, I've begun my new series, Patterns. There will be a new installment each year. Or possibly each season. Essentially, the squares are patterns curently in my life -- my notebook, my mouse rug; my skirt, my shirt, my shopping bag, a bas-relief on my wall, a fancy shoe, a plant, detail from a discarded earing-collection immortalized in plaster of Paris (writer's block project from 2002). Larger view.

It was a dark and stormy night.

There are certain childhood books that so thoroughly involve and transport that they become part of your later-life psyche, allowing you to drift back in time (or forward, as the case may be) to worlds of infinite possibility. Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time was one of those books for me. Sadly, Ms. L'Engle has died... or possibly been whisked away by a tesseract.

Things I just learned about her today:

Her most famous (and Newbery Prize-winning) book was rejected 26 times before Farrar, Straus and Giroux saw its genius. She dabbled in acting in New York City... and was later married to Dr. Charles Tyler (from All My Children soap), also known as Hugh Franklin. The two bought and ran a general store in Goshen, Connecticut.

Telephilosophy

I will never be a television critic. I feel sordid just dwelling on the fact that I watch so much the small amount I do. Of course, those who know me know I only watch PBS and the Philosophy Channel. Just kidding. That felt good. And no, there is no Philosophy Channel (why? why?!). P. (a snob) asked me recently what I watched these days.

Current addictions: Weeds (always surprising, occasionally hilarious, and I'd watch anything starring Mary-Louise Parker), Curb Your Enthusiasm, Damages (relatively clever intrigue with Glenn Close and Ted Danson), Rescue Me (soo new yawk), any cooking-oriented reality show, Entourage. I tried Californication and really enjoyed it but I'm from New England and I think that's the one that made me feel sordid.

The trouble with cable is a) you have to remember what channel the shows are on, if you're hamstrung with TWC's lame DVR and b) the associated websites seemed designed to confuse and make sure you'll never know when the next new episode is on. Sigh.

Conspiracy theory filter... Fact: The "good" shows are almost universally now on at 10 pm. Fact: The people who watch them are supposedly "educated," from blue states and on average work the white-collar 9-to-5. Fact: The shows that are made of cotton candy -- if not FOX-created propaganda -- and which melt the mind and alter the sensibilities of millions of Americans every day are on early prime time (we won't speak of daytime tv). Fact: It's a scientifically proven fact that lack of sleep can lead to permanent brain damage (I'll find a source on this right away). You do the math. Rupert Murdoch wants to make us stupid and pliable. Ok, more stupid and pliable. Tell me it doesn't seem to be working. Of course, this theory only works if the cable programmers are in on the game. Who knows? I'm too tired to figure it out.

Let's Call It the End of Summer

5:00 pm on Labor Day, 2007. I spent the day bizarrely cleaning my house. By bizarre I mean fanatically: tackling first the scary tangle of wires, surge protectors and routers under my desk. And the gazillion dust mice and miscellaneous detritus caught up in it. I found: 3 unused telephone wires (one connected from the wall to... nowhere. Hello? Can you hear me now?); one unused power supply (connected from the wall to... nowhere); three ethernet cables and about $400 in quarters and Italian lira. Go figure.

I tried to figure out why I spent half of my last day of vacation doing this. A little self-analysis can go a long way and I finally connected to a conversation with C. over the weekend. We had talked about where to live, if we are "going forward," and California came up. I honestly think my cleaning was a way to dip a toe in the water of (gulp) moving from my little hovel after so many years. Sure - Cali. No problem. Of course, the circumstances under which this could be possible would include C. moving there first and finding a highly affordable 2-bedroom in a cool SF or Santa Monica community (the two places in CA where I've got the public transportation down pat.

Speaking of death (oops, I wasn't, but cleaning out from under my desk made me feel like I was "getting my affairs in order," as they say, plus I'm reading Christopher Moore's hilarous A Dirty Job, all about the humorous side of death). It made me think of the three times (that I know of!) I was close to death: the spider bite and 105 degree temperature in Paris last year; up on the suspension cables of the Brooklyn Bridge in the early 90s; and when I slipped under the front wheels of a white van on a steep hill in a strangely snowy San Francisco when I lived there. Dodging death seems to be one of my strengths, and maybe it's because I've never really dealt with it except for poor MeMe (my first personal cat, RIP) who died right in front of me a few months ago. 4.5 grandparents and nary a funeral for me, though they're all gone now. I wasn't purposely avoiding their funerals, just happened to always be too far way. One memorial service this summer but that was outside, in the sunlight, surrounded by my born-again relatives -- and that's it. I wonder what they call it when a born-again calls it quits on the whole religion thing: died-again? Hm. Must research.

Anyway, back from the gym (day 5!) and still sweating in 82 degree humidity, end of summer notwithstanding. I've embraced the gym wholeheartedly (another way of cheating death?) and have lost 4 pounds already. Not working for more than 10 days definitely agrees with me. I'm pretty sure I've completely forgotten how. Which may work out well when I'm fired for general laziness and have no reason not to move to California. Or Kentucky. Or Paris.