Mostly About Food

Okay, so my friend B., who's generally a terrific source for random nuggets of news from the blogosphere (especially if it will debunk anything I've said) suggested that the doomsday scenario referenced in my last post got the chances of an impending astroid hit wrong by a factor of around 30. He also mentioned that it was some high school kid who said NASA got it wrong. Something like that. Well, I couldn't find anything about that kid so I put it all aside.

Then I was reading in this week's New Yorker a well-written article by Bee Wilson (what a great name!) who poses the question "Is the world's food system collapsing?" -- and culls from the recent (and not so recent) publications some illuminating answers from books, from Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation and back to the grim predictions of Thomas Malthus.

"Our current food predicament resembles a Malthusian scenario --- misery and famine -- but one largely created by overproduction rather than underproduction. Our ability to produce vastly too many calories for our basic needs has skewed the concept of demand, and generated a wildly disfunctional market."

Depressed yet again by my leisure reading, I headed up to Citarella where I spent way too much for an Asian pear. No locavore, I. I did, however, refrain from buying a big box of California strawberries, alas. They smelled so good, just like fake strawberry jam. Yum.

Speaking of food, I finally made it to Nobu with B. last week, apparently a good ten years too late. While inventive, it was slightly disappointing. I wanted the omakase, since I get so indecisive when ordering Japanese food, but it takes an hour to prepare (I guess the chef has to spend some time thinking about me and what would please me the most). The sushi I ordered was the size of my little toe (which is very, very small) and the salmon was pale, tasteless and (shudder) farmed, to boot.

We were both very annoyed at a couple next to us from Long Island (hadda be) who felt it was fine to set a video player of some sort right on the table in front of their squirmy seven-year old son who made faces and let food fall from his mouth on at least one occasion. Anyway, the tempura (pumpkin) and desserts were really, really good. That said, I won't be going back, even if I could actually afford to.

This just in (to me, anyway). And now I really really hate global warming.

Photo (salmon tartar) courtesy B.'s cell phone

Chicken Little?

"The odds that a potentially devastating space rock will hit Earth this century may be as high as one in 10. So why isn’t NASA trying harder to prevent catastrophe?"

Interesting -- if frightening -- article in this month's Atlantic Monthly. Great. So now I have to keep my eyes on the skies while simultaneously watching out for dog shit on the streets of Manhattan?

Pulp Fiction

In the spirit of pith (or is it "pithiness"? I know the former is part of an orange, but still) and brevity, I'll keep this short and bulleted.

• Observed a motorcyclist doing a wheelie up Sixth Ave. That was kinda cool. But from the look on his face, I'm not sure it was intended.
  
• I have a neighbor who always does laundry when I do, regardless of time or day. He's a big guy who always wears shorts, has a pleasant demeanor and doesn't have too much to say.
  
• I'm going to start making my own sushi again, as Kirara on Carmine closed and Yama is icky and Koo is weird and Blue Ribbon is only for special occasions.

What Not to Do

Well, I promised a post a day and too bad for you all, all I have so far is my dream. I should never wake up and then go back to bed. I gotten up at 7:00 (ugh! on a Saturday!), finished reading P. Petit's "To Reach the Clouds" and went back to sleep listening to NPR.

Okay, so in the dream, I was with a bunch of new people, atractive men and women, young. In a very cool restaurant. They befriended me and suddenly started talking about Paris. I was thrilled to say, "oh, I've just been there." Which I haven't, by the way, not for a while. I tried to compare the lovely restaurant we were in to one I knew and loved in Paris but couldn't remember the name (kept thinking "Landmarc... no. That's in New York City.") I got rather riled up and couldn't even remember the neighborhood, and they were still indulging me but started to get distracted.

I finally remembered the neighborhood, Le Marais, and spent priceless moments trying to get the French accent right. Now they were really distracted, and talking about dinner.

I found myself sitting with them and a young man who told me he'd dine with me, as he stroked my hand. "Come on," he said, "I'll show you to the best table." We then had to slide down a winding, wooden track and I got claustrophic. At the bar, my new fellow unfortunately started throwing up so we left him there.

Then I was with another group and my ex-personal trainer, all laughing about how I'd just found someone else's cell phone in my purse. We all fell into paroxysms of hilarity as apparently I was well-known for constantly finding other people's mobiles as well as losing my own. M. (the ex-trainer) speed dialed our company's entire Global Management Team to figure out whose phone it was, as I looked on horrified and then he disappeared so I made it my mission to find him. By the way, the phone I had found was made of gray rubber and star-shaped and could do anything... just... anything.

But then I was back in the restaurant, still determined to try borscht for the first time (forgot to mention that that's what I had been flirtingly discussing with the throw-up guy). But the bartender told me dinner was over and I should have this entirely weird cocktail instead. I kept asking her what the strange ingredients were ("Cano?" Is that dog something?") but by then her head had turned into Robert Downey Jr.'s helmet from his new movie. But then Woody Allen and Bing Crosby pulled up barstools next to me. Bing was bright-eyed and friendly but Woody Allen looked like he was decomposing. Then I woke up. Okay, time to do laundry.

Ship's Log

The nano-crumbs of feedback I've received have telegraphed to me that my blog is boring in a way not even I could have imagined. But I get it: a good (journal-like, as opposed journalistic, or focused on a meme, theme or political viewpoint) blog needs daily updates. Not just "What I Did This Weekend," or "Look at All the Cultural Activities I Engage In" or even the overly-wrought experiential or fascinating (to me!) internal debates, no matter how amusing or poignant.

Furthermore, if it's a "log," as I've called my collection of words for years, then it should be taut, like a ship's log -- and updated often.

Over the years, I've read nearly every extant account of sailors -- men and women -- crossing unimaginable distances under extreme circumstances. It began in my father's library with Gypsy Moth Circles the World, by Sir Francis Chichester (he, my father, inexplicably holds onto three copies, one in paperback and warped by salt air from his own journeys) to the Hollywood-ready The Perfect Storm.

What I mean to say is these books contain logs that are pithy to the point of absurdity (out of necessity, but still...):

"Jesus, what an effort. Hand-steering all day."

"Snowing hard, -2 degrees C. , big tabular berg to port."

"Sleep has been interrupted by token lookouts." *

I'd like to say I live a life that allows for such encapsulization. So far, not so much. But in undertaking a daily missive, I hope to find adventure in at least the retelling -- and be inspired to find adventure in even the smallest of things. This effort (like re-joining my gym and quitting cheddar cheese) will start tomorrow.

* From Ice Bird, by David Lewis, who tells of a singlehanded circumnavigation of the Antarctic continent (1975).

The Secret of the Grain

Sunday was filled with La graine et le mulet (The Secret of the Grain), an amazing French film (part of Tribeca Film Fest). I say "filled" because my day started off thinking of it, realizing it started at 11 am and that one was supposed to arrive early. Oops. I also hadn't heard from ex-colleague friend E. whom I'd invited. Oops again.

The line, at the theater on 19th and Broadway, was very long but I got a good seat. I unfortunately hadn't eaten breakfast and when I overheard the popcorn-munching girls next to me say that the move was two and a half hours long, my heart sank as my stomach started growling.

Filled though, also, because it's the kind of film that really lingers in the mind, the characters so real you can conjure them up completely at will. It was... long. Interminable at points, but interminably enjoyable, tense, and erotic.

To be honest, it was slightly torturous, too. There was a family dinner scene in which the characters ate and talked and yelled and laughed -- all with their mouths full of couscous. Ew. And a belly-dancing scene that went on forever. The film's ending, however, when it finally arrived, was perfect: perfectly unexpected and perfectly executed.

I walked home in the suddenly hot sunshine, alone, and only for a few minutes felt a sharp, brief sorrow that comes of having no one with whom to discuss the movie. Luckily, I had remembered my sunglasses.

Weekend Update: Colors and Pain Perdu

Well, my weekend began on Thursday, at a cocktail party thrown by F. and her husband, G. on 9th Street. I almost didn't go, as I was exhausted, but marvel at how I almost missed such a great time. P. from France was there -- my old roomate on St. Marks Street from NYU days, a very dear friend with whom I'd sort of lost touch for a while (like 15 years). His wife, S., was there as well and she's one of the warmest, sincere and attractive women I've met in a long time. There were others there as well, from my past (well, more like P.'s past but tangentially mine). It was a lovely evening of just mingling and drinking red wine, all very mellow, and musings over the view of Washington Square Park at night.

Yesterday, I met A., a woman I met seven years ago, on grand jury duty. Fun times! We met up at Landmarc at the Time Warner Center (not half as cozy as the downtown one) and reminisced about how we (the jury) first acquitted an obvious drug dealer (he had some story about a teddy bear) and, later, feeling we'd shirked our duty, sent a very old and pathetic crack whore (self-described) to trial.

Anyway, the food was ok, not great. I had salmon tartare (half the size as downtown, and twice as oily) and an undercooked cheeseburger that one could find pretty much anywhere. A. is a hoot, though. A dance instructor and theater buff, she has a million stories that meander all over, in a good way, ending with her recent friendship with an aging film star with the initials S.M. A good pairing!

I left her at the Columbus Circle subway stop and decided to go to MoMa since I was in the neighborhood. For some reason (the crowds?) I wasn't feeling it -- took in a sorta cool nano-art exhibition and then the much-anticipated "Colors," which I didn't find particularly... colorful. Oh well.

Down with the Downtown Alliance

After work yesterday, A. and I walked from the World Financial Center to Wall Street to check out a networking event from the Downtown Alliance at at Haru Sushi. Nice place. Nice people. Met a hairdresser from KK Salon, a director from Trinity Church and a director of sales for the Ritz-Carlton. When our drink tickets ran out we realized we'd not eaten, so we left and wandered up through Tribeca to drink a little more. We ended up at the bar at Cercle Rouge, a favorite restaurant in the lovely little triangle just south of the Renaissance revival American Thread Company building on West Broadway near Beach St.

On another note, my mother found a family of mice living in the engine of her Saab, discovered when the car caught on fire. Mother and mice are reportedly unhurt, though Mom now drives a Subaru.

New All-time Favorite Film

This weekend ended so nicely, with a last-minute mad dash to see "Man on Wire" (a Tribeca Film Festival offering) in the East Village. I had a voucher (8 actually, thanks to a kind colleague) but still had to wait in the "Rush Tickets" line (what an odd name, since all it means is, like, "stand by," and... wait -- after getting there 45 minutes early).

I knew the film was a relatively short feature documentary about Philippe Petit, the high wire artist, who I knew of mainly because I once met a woman whom I remember to have been a girlfriend of his, through my lost-lost friend Janine. (And you can't call me a name-dropper since I don't remember her name, though it might have been Sabine. I can't help it; I just love the serendipitous if meaningless magic of those six degrees...) So anyway, I felt I had a tenuous connection -- but more than that, this film is about Philippe walking -- in mid-air -- between the two World Trade Center towers, in 1974.

I waited in line listening to Charles Aznavour and Edith Piaf on my iPod, with plenty of time, I feared, to start feeling sorry for myself again. But then a man behind me asked if he was in the right line. He was interesting-looking, if a tad affectless. After a few more questions and answers a friend of his arrived, a striking young Indian (possibly) fellow. We chatted about movies and the nutty TFF rules, regulations and experiences, as well museums. A really nice diversion. So I gave each of them a voucher (I couldn't possibly use them all).

We had to enter separately, as they counted off in tens and I was number 10.

But the film! I laughed, I cried and was moved beyond my expectations. I think the filmmaker, James Marsh, did an amazing job of seamlessly melding old footage, interviews, and recreated moments of pure exhilaration. The TFF's quirky characterizations for its movies this go-round were actually spot on here: "Elegant." "Iconic." "Inspirational." "Irreverent." "Playful." "Transgressive." Visceral." Check, check, check, check, check.

Just imagine, looking up from the street and seeing a person, clad in black, outlined in miniature against the sky, seeming to walking on thin air. Incredible.

As I was one of the last ones in, I had to sit in the very front row, in the middle. While that made the movie pretty off-kilter (and made these wonderful French people look short and squat) when the lights came up the MC introduced the British director (wow) and... Philippe Petit! About eight feet from me!

The audience rose as one when Philippe appeared and the standing ovation lasted forever. Philippe, as funny and smart and real as in the film, answering a few pretty good audience questions, looks just like my brother, except with a French twist.

Philippe Petit will make another appearance, next week in Washington Square Park. He doesn't know how long he'll be performing, since, as he said with a grin, the police usually arrest him before he does anything really crazy. I think you know where I'll be next Saturday... hoping (and expect) to see my two new friends there, as well.

Oh, and can I just say how much I love the Web, which connects me when I feel so unconnected. Can't even remember how I came upon Michael Sporn Animation. Oh, right, Wikipedia) and this page on his blog in which he talks about his own (animated) "The Man Who Walked Between the Towers ." And my connection to this extraordinarily talented fellow is that nearly every day I walk past his basement-level studio on Bedford Street and note his hand-scripted sign and always read it as "Michael's Porn Animation." Sorry, dude. Much of his artistic works are renditions of beloved children's stories, including "The Little Engine That Could" and "Jabberwocky."

Spring in Maine

Maine in early Spring is always a challenge... a test of faith in nature. (see vid below). I had such a great time this go-around, easy flight, then working outside the Portland, Maine International Jetport (PWM) in crazy 65 degree sunshine waiting for J. to pick me up. I listened to the other waiting people who made such easy conversation... "How ya doin? Where'd ya come in from? Live nearby?"

I just sort of encloaked myself in work paraphenalia and marveled in the hot sun, alone.

Highlights of the trip this time included bonding with Sascha (parent's dog) and actually not feeling afraid; observing an all-day cooking affair (mom trying duck a l'orange for the first time -- with 2 ducks! Crazy! And one duck had its head and feet on! Oops. It also outweighed the other duck by a good 2 lbs., so... much discussion about that particular math/cooking problem.

So good to see P. and J. Happy couples make me equally happy and sad, generally, but they (as well as Mop and Pop) just make me happy.

A few more pictures here.

Some random thoughts: Finally ordered from Gobo (W. Village veggie place). Really yummy.

Finally got tickets (only 2!!!) to Tribeca Film Fest. One must be super dooper fast (and an Amex cardmember) to have any hope. So.. no Baby Mama and Tina Fey (rats), but The Secret of the Grain. Details to follow.

It's 68% Better In the Bahamas

Definitely time to upgrade publishing mechanism. I'd written a more thoughtful and detailed account of my and J.'s and my recent trip to the Bahamas. But something went wrong with blogger and even though it'd been saved.. it disappeared... Whatever.

I'm way too tired to detail AGAIN so will just post my boring pictures and thank my sis for coming with me for some much needed down-time. Highlights included the sad, scrubbly but still interesting Aradastra Zoo; the freakishly white-bread hell that is Paradise Island; the cab fare to BOTH Poop Deck restaurants -- neither of which turned out to be the one I had gone to with C. (on the water, wooden picnic tables, great ambience); the sad "Bible Boat," (we'd been told it was a "floating bookstore," conjuring up images of wonderful used books on an historic yacht or barge. Alas, no. It was an un-air-conditiouned mini-cruise ship full of crappy remainders and way too many Christian tracts...).

High marks for the British Colonial Hilton, with its rich history and just slight shabbiness. The private beach was just perfect and we swam until our arms were sore.

Another Major American Holiday

Much of blogging is driven by the desire to make one's life sound interesting, full and exciting. Well, I'm here to tell you that the vast majority of MY life's moments are not only deadly dull but actually worse: they're spent agonizing over the very dullness that dulls my existence.

So, Happy Easter.

My dad sent me a bunny. I'm thrilled to say I haven't eaten or even unwrapped it. It's a dark chocolate (hmm), hollow (hmph) Russell Stover confection and it's very much appreciated. Other than a few whacked-out hats spotted on dubious characters during my Sunday walk, it didn't feel like Easter that much.

I spent much of the day backing up my iTunes, preparing for my personal musical Armageddon (when some new fabulous invention renders my Tunes obsolete). Then I attempted to return a shirt from that nasty discount-designer-label store at Sixth and 20th than I won't name.

How dumb is this: I found that the shirt (midnight blue cotton button-down) that I purchased last week still had the damn security tag on it. Great. So I walked the twenty blocks up and into the store, setting off the alarm that as usual no one cared about, and while going toward the cash register picked up a few more "must-have" items.

At the register, I paid for my new stuff and then asked that they remove the security tag from my shirt from last week. I was asked for the receipt and presented one that I thought MIGHT be the right one.. but of course it wasn't. "Oh well," I said. "Whatever. Just please remove the tag."

Of course, she couldn't. Oh noooo, not without the receipt. I said, "well, that's dumb. This was your store's mistake, not mine." A "manager" appeared instantly (I have a feeling there are "conflicts" a lot here in this store). He also demanded a receipt and we argued pointlessly for a while. Then he was stuffing my shirt into the bag and saying "Well, it IS your shirt." And I'm like, um yeah, but I can't exactly wear it now, can I? And he said, not without the receipt. And I'm thinking, wow, good for you I'm not a professional shoplifter because you just gave me a shirt without a receipt AND with a security tag intact. Dumbass.

So I walked out, forlorn except for my new DKNY trenchcoat, of course setting off the sad security alarm that no one even noticed.

Cocktails and Community

Had a great time last night at a well-attended cocktail reception celebrating 50 years of Downtown Lower Manhattan Association and honoring its founder, David Rockefeller.

Mayor Bloomberg was there, as were a host of business and political muckety-mucks, all of whom were very well behaved. The hors d'oevres were delightful, the cocktails flowed freely, and the parting gift was truly lovely -- a crystal possible coaster (picture left). I didn't attend for the freebies, I assure you, however; I believe strongly in the importance of the organization's mission to enhance the quality of life in Lower Manhattan.

The event was held on the 60th floor of One Chase Manhattan Plaza, which, as you would imagine, has amazing views. I was hoping to regale Mr. Rockefeller with tales of working in his grandfather's building, the Standard Oil building, where I and my colleagues sat out the events of 9/11, trapped a few short blocks from the crumbling Towers. It would have been even more apropos, as the view last night included an impossible close-up of the top of the historic building. If you don't know it, please take a look at Tom Fletcher's New York Architecture.

More on the event

I was accompanied by A., who definitely did come for the treats. He also lured me to a highly unnecessary couple of nightcaps at Cendrillon, which I found absolutely charming, with the nicest of waiters and dizzying aroma of jasmine rice.

A moment of panic

I woke up paralyzed this morning.

Last night I watched "The Sea Inside," an amazing Spanish film starring Javier Bardem. (Completely unrelated*, the very night before I had sat, mesmerized, before "No Country for Old Men.") Now, as I've noted, my LAST favorite movie was "The Diving Bell and the Butterly" (possibly my favorite movie ever).

"The Sea Inside," another film based on a true story, is similar in plot affliction brilliance to "Diving Bell." Okay, both films are based, respectively, on true stories and both focus on a single character trapped inexorably in a paralyzed physical state. And both are completely compelling.

As for me, I'm not actually paralyzed. I had just slept too long with my elbow under my head. It's a very scary phenomenon to wake up to. While my arm thawed out and I tried to not panic, I took a moment to think about just how it would feel to live with ... that... for a year. Or fifty.

* I had ordered The Sea Inside for my parents who love the ocean, not knowing it wasn't really about the ocean all.

Love em and leave em

Just some random observations. Don't bother reading if you don't know me, or even if you do. I'm just trying to get these down on paper. Virtual paper. Whatever.

Okay. Let me say for the record: I love old people. Older people. Oldsters, elders, seniors -- whatever they want to be called and I'll be one of them soon enough so I'll be working on that nomenclature. But why, oh, why have I been subjected so often, recently, to the "love 'em and leave 'em" scenario inflicted on me... by... them?

Case in point. Sunday evening. Walking home from MOMA (yes, I know, it's kinda far). Somewhere in the Village I feel a small hand on my arm. Small, light and weak. I look down. A smallish older woman looks up at me and asks if I can help her cross the street. She looked nimble enough but explained that she hated when turning traffic came at her. Hey sister, I hear that, lemme tell ya. I took her arm and we set off, arm and arm, not only across that street but six more (she was heading to take in a flick at the IFC on Sixth and Third).

We managed in that short period of time to discuss film careers (my stupidly short one and her rather longer one -- -- writer, actress and wife of a producer). We had both gone to NYU (she long before Tisch is where it is, obviously, both geographically and otherwise). We both grew up in Maine (what are the chances??!!).

Anyway, we had tons in common. We laughed, she hooted, she clenched my arm, we smiled at each other; we bonded. I had to walk really, really slowly, which is not my favorite thing to do.What a great New York moment, what an interesting new friend.

When we reached the IFC there was a long line. Actually, two long lines. Before I could say "So..." she stopped, let go of my arm, nestled her way into a group of what could have been current NYU film students, young German tourists or Village drug dealers (to me they all look the same) and yelled "Is this the ticket or the ticket-holders line?" I tried for a nano-second to try to help her discern this, but she wasn't looking at me anymore. I waved, awkwardly and said goodbye and... that was it.

This heartbreaking scenario has played out a little too often for me. Hey, I'm not looking for new friends. I can barely keep in touch with the old ones and Facebook isn't helping. But, jesus, you old fogies, if you're going to pour out your heart and history and elicit some of mine, for god's sake say goodbye, nice talking to you. I know... I know... I'm being too harsh but next time one of you wants to cross the street, just do it and be done with it.

And me.
sniffle