1/28/05
I’m probably not the only one to find odd irony in the fact that that actress (who also had a pilot in the works for Food Network—what the heck would that have been about? [I’ll answer my own question: interviewing New York chefs] All they seem to air these days is crap like Calorie Commando and Low Carb and Lovin’ It) was shot and killed in the exact same part of town on the same day that the New York Post had declared the nabe (barf, they didn’t actually use that term anywhere in the article, but they may as well have) over, too trendy, and gentrified. Everyone’s always pining for the older, grittier, scarier NYC, and well, I guess they got it. I’m not really sure what the moral of this story is, maybe that people have a false sense of security and they should be a little more vigilant even in supposedly safe neighborhoods? That’s not a very good moral, is it? There was an article about that recently, maybe in the NY Times, about recent muggings and how lots of newcomers (and maybe some old timers) are targets because they never knew New York when it was rough and are often carefree in the way they conduct themselves, which sometimes leads to trouble. Me, I’m misanthropic and suspicious of everyone so I’ll do just fine. As an aside, I also find it odd that the victim’s last name was duFresne. The chef of WD-50, who has been credited for single-handedly gentrifying that strip of Clinton St. where the crime occurred with his restaurants (previously 71 Clinton Fresh Food), also has the surname of Dufresne. I don’t think they’re related, but if I were Wylie Dufresne it might weird me out. But then, I’m a nut who reads way too much into random acts of violence. As a super aside: if I see Conor Oberst on the cover or profiled in one more magazine I’m going to pummel the next emo kid I see, even though Conor Oberst isn’t supposed to be beyond that genre. I know he’s reached over saturation when James actually knows who he is (he doesn’t follow music at all, he learned about Conor while being stuck overnight in a Boston airport last week and only having a copy of New York Magazine to read. Interestingly, that article ties this aside into my earlier thread. See, Conor Oberst is from Nebraska, but he recently moved to the Lower East Side. Yes, the same played out neighborhood increasingly known for its velvet rope clubs and botched robberies. He’d better watch out.) and well enough to be irritated by his mug on practically every periodical in our apartment.

1/25/05
Ah, the Blizzard of ’05. Luckily, it landed on a weekend when I can be easygoing enough to actually enjoy being snowed in and appreciate the clean, fluffy whiteness of the snow before it becomes irrevocably sullied like it was by yesterday when it was pee-streaked (like every foot or so—how many freakin’ dogs are in the neighborhood, anyway?) and stomped into precariously slick, gravel gray submission. Friday night I was excited because I’d finally be able to see the new renovated Sripraphai (the best Thai restaurant on the east coast, if you’re unfamiliar, and if you are then you should become acquainted). It’s bizarre because the last time I went was the Sat. night before I impulsively decided to fly to Portland in October, and then like the week I came back it was written up as the main review in the NY Times, which caused a stir because people thought it belonged in the Under $25 column. I was just weirded out be the photo in the review because apparently the dining room had been completely redone in the short time since my last visit. Anyway, I had heard that it was reopening in its new larger form on Jan. 19, but when we trekked out on a freezing Fri., the 20th, it was still under construction. Despite that neighborhood being a trove of varied and inexpensive food, we were bent on Thai. Knowing that we’d be disappointed by anything less than Sripraphai was a given, so we opted for the more atmospheric, yet less authentic Rice Ave down the street simply because we’d never been before. Eh, it was pretty much as expected, not what I’d been looking forward to at all. And the clientele was asking for brown rice, no oyster or fish sauce, commenting on how spicy everything was and using chopsticks. All wrong, wrong, wrong. I had more fun trying to find a Stop & Shop I’d heard about, and knew we’d recently driven by in either Maspeth or Woodside, but couldn’t find because I had my streets all wrong. I’d heard it was big, 24-hours, suburban style with wide aisles and a parking lot. (Actually, this wasn’t our first Super Stop & Shop excursion. On New Year’s Day we checked out the brand new one in Forest Hills—very impressive, though I little spendy.) We eventually found it, and it was all that we’d hoped for and more except that it was a total mob scene due to all the blizzard hoopla. I’ll never understand why people think they need carts full of eggs, bread and milk when snow comes (French toast?), oh, the meat display was completely decimated too. We just bought crap like (store brand) pop tarts, cake, football themed cookies, brie and day old bread (fancy ciabatta for only a buck). I hadn’t lost a single pound when I did my weekly weigh in on Monday, I can only imagine what went wrong. Saturday it was fun being snowed in with nothing to do. That evening we trudged practically 20 min. to get the 7.5 blocks or so to a new restaurant Bouillabaisse in that limbo between Carroll Gardens and Red Hook. I knew it was BYOB because they hadn’t got a liquor license yet, good deal, but troubling because we only had one bottle of wine in the house, something left over from an event James’s mom threw, and no stores were open (even nearby bars were closed, which surprised me. For an after dinner drink we were forced to try scary PJ Hanley’s the closest watering hole that appeared to be doing business. Very Brooklyn crowd, a side of Carroll Gardens I only suspected still existed). I doubt the fruity Spanish red perfectly suited our bowls of delicate French shellfish, but desperate times and measures, you know. But this easy going winter wonderland was brought to an abrupt halt Monday morning when I was faced with absolutely no subway service at our station. This didn’t even have anything to do with the big fire that has completely fucked up the A/C. They just weren’t running any F/G trains in our part of Brooklyn, period. Of course they were in Manhattan, and further out Brooklyn. Hand scrawled signs suggested using the B75 bus, which had like 200 people lined up around the block waiting for it. How could a slow moving bus possibly replace five or six subway cars (who knows how many cars typically make up a train)? I was so pissed after hoofing it all the way up there (I’m a senior citizen in ice and snow, very slow and overly cautious) that I became simultaneously enraged and depressed. For fear of lashing out at strangers, I just went back home and decided to blow off work. Of course the fun of staying home is usually getting to sleep in, and this was already ruined by getting up (not to mention how it’s impossible to rest blissfully with the lovable twin toddlers upstairs who are going to cause a serious problem between us and their parents any day now), dressed and blasted by the elements. Actually, after getting under my covers to get temporarily warmed I conked out and next thing I knew it was already 12:36, my whole morning wasted (though I later spent two hours at the gym to make up for my slothfulness and weekend eating rampage). Though I didn’t feel so bad after finding out that Jan. 24 had been calculated to be the most depressing day of the year.

1/21/05
I can’t stop thinking about cheese. It’s not quite lunch time yet and I’m going crazy. I’ve been trying to be rational and simply cut down on fried, fatty, sugary things. I think I’ve been pretty successful, but now I’m completely consumed with going out and getting cheese and good bread at the stupid Murray’s in Grand Central, even though all the food in that little market hall is overpriced. Urgh, speaking of overpriced, I finally gave in and took my cat to the vet Tues. evening because she’s been wailing and howling in this totally horrible way since before Christmas, and combined with her not peeing in her box it seemed like urinary tract infection symptoms. Maybe I was projecting because I know how horribly painful UTIs are for humans. And I’m not the kind of person who treats pets with kid gloves, obsessing over every little bump or behavioral quirk, feeding them special food or administering anti-depressants. It’s not in my genes, I can’t spare the expense or emotional energy. A few years ago I got into trouble with my mom when she got computer savvy and was all bent out of shape that I’d called her cheap because she’s not the kind of person who takes animals to vets, and the fact that my cat that she’s watched for the past six years has to be taken to the dr. illustrated how sick the cat must’ve been. Cheap wasn’t a cheap shot, I’m the same way. But anyway, maybe I was feeling guilty and decided to be responsible and bite the bullet with my cat. It was a total trauma getting her there, James had agreed to drive me after work, but then had emergency oral surgery and was hopped up on vicodin when I got home and snow flurries hit that afternoon, but he drove anyway and with the crying cat, drugged driver and slippery roads I thought we were a traffic tragedy waiting to happen. So, Sukey got blood and urine tested and anally examined, and when all was said and done there was nothing wrong with her and I was billed for $265, which I have, but not really to spare. I should’ve just gone with my initial instinct and ignored her howling and insane mournful meowing. Now I have to return a jacket and skirt that I bought last week, but that only helps with about $80. It’s irritating, I could’ve bought those lame J. Crew boots that I wanted, or taken two cooking classes (I had planned on taking “Fire and Spice: Nyonya Cooking from Malaysia and Singapore” at ICE and now I can’t), or purchased an iPod mini (not that I would, but hypothetically) or eaten the nine-course chef’s tasting menu at Per Se with wine pairings. That cat’s ass is grass. Ok, I’m still obsessing about eating a bunch of cheese. Hmm, WWFWD? Yes, what would French women do? The NY Post had an enlightening piece last weekend where the writer dined with the author of French Women Don’t Get Fat at Daniel to see how she does it. The writer assumed they’d skip dessert at the end, mais non with Gallic verve, the subject of the article ordered six desserts and then took one bite from each and had the remainders cleared away (by the way, desserts are in the $14-$15 range apiece). So, maybe I should blow fifty bucks on cheese and just eat a few slices? That’s brilliant. I’m feeling thinner, chicer (and poorer) already.

1/17/05
Oh no, it’s a worst-case scenario upstairs. I didn’t even realize until last weekend, when after hearing a lot of commotion and then checking Craigslist that the apt. above us was vacant. Apparently, there was an open house last Sat. and I was nervous because while peeking out the little peephole in our door like the creepy neighbors that we are, it seemed like each prospective tenant had little kids in tow. Nothing against family, I swear, have a shitload of kids if you like, but don’t move them into an apt. directly above me. I’ve been cursed by rambunctious children in close proximity in most of my NYC dwellings. I’d lucked out at this place, the whole building was vacant the first few months James lived here and the three twenty-somethings who eventually took the floor above us never seem to be home. Then yesterday it started, clomping, rapid loud little footsteps racing the length of the ceiling. Relentless thudding like a mini stampede. I was like there’s a fucking toddler up there (or a herd of pot bellied pigs). But I was wrong. I was faced with an even harsher reality after looking out the window and spying a tandem fertility drug stroller so common around these parts. Dear lord, what have I done to deserve two lively little ones mere feet above my head. And if you think I’m overreacting James, who is weirder about small children than I am, is apoplectic. Huh, if anything it’ll kick him into gear sooner to look into buying. He’s incredibly slow in making changes, which I’ll never understand. He lived in his last tiny apt. for like seven years while talking about moving, completely being able to afford it, and yet not doing it. I’m hardly impulsive, but I’m very decisive, I hate waiting around for things to happen that could easily be made to happen. I know, I know buying, particularly in NYC, is a big deal, but the new nearby tots just might be the catalyst. Of course, I have ulterior motives, I want to live in a nice home that I can do up the way I’d like it without having to actually purchase the property myself (inheritance is so not an option. My sister and I politely asked our former step-mom about my dad having a will or anything along those lines, and unsurprisingly there’s zilch to speak of, at least according to her. It’s really kind of pathetic if I think about it too much.) So, this weekend we rented (somehow that sounds old fashioned—do people rent movies anymore? And one of the movies was even on VHS) Manchurian Candidate (James’s choice) and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (mine, and dumb because it’s coming to cable in mere days). Funny, because they’re both about brain washing and manipulating the mind, though in totally different ways. I wonder if something strange isn’t going on with my brain. For no particular reason I started taking Effexor again, which I’d stopped in the summer for a reason I can’t exactly recall either (though it’s coming back to me: extreme sweating, duh). But now I’m remembering the weird side effects like insanely vivid dreams, and the oddest component is that Tony Bourdain often features in them. Why? I have no idea. I don’t think about him in real life. I haven’t had a dream with him in it since I stopped taking the drug in July, then the other night he was in my dream and we were talking about things that happened in my prior dream with him from six months ago (where we were riding around in a tour van with a group of people and a dorky pudgy driver and looking for different restaurants. The tone of these dreams is always that I’m trying to impress him with stupid obscure facts, which never quite works, and there’s also a definite sexual undercurrent. In the dream from a couple nights ago he didn’t seem to recognize me at a picnic table and I had to re-remind him of doing that van tour together and he was like “oh yeah, now I remember you and your husband,” and then I made a big point of saying that I wasn’t married, then he seemed uncomfortable and mentioned his wife.) It was super eerie like my subconscious had picked right up where it left off half a year ago. So far it’s innocent enough, but if Anthony Bourdain starts giving me dream messages to assassinate the president or something, I’ll have to think twice.

1/12/05
I wasn’t going to make resolutions, and I haven’t really, but here at work we have to do this horrible P3 (I don’t know what that stands for) Performance Management, blah blah, goal setting thing. And I’m having the worst time coming up with ideas, especially since it’s all really all busywork sham and won’t likely have any effect on relevant things like raises, which is what they want you to believe so you’ll fill out your stupid paperwork (employees think the true purpose is so that if you’re let go they’ll have a list of goals they can critique you on for not having met them). P3 is irritating and depressing because essentially I’m a goal-less person. It’s apparent in my professional life and increasingly so in my personal existence as well. Though I’m way more into personal satisfaction. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the reverse. More and more I marvel and despair over how someone, particularly someone I live with, can work almost every single waking hour. My strict 9-5, 40-hours a week kills me. Weekends, up till 4am, 70-hour + schedules are so far beyond my comprehension it’s sick. So instead of doing what I’m supposed to be doing, I’ve compiled a list of ten goals for the new year that have very little to do with work.

1. Become an expert on something: I envy those with focus and passion for a particular topic. I’m jack-of-all-trades, master of none. I’m too scattered with interests—S.E. Asian food, writing about non-serious things, restaurants, new food products, letterpress (this is a renewed and somewhat reluctant interest. I will be taking classes at The Center for Book Arts next month. Being an expert is often bolstered by credentials, and the only degrees I have are in Printmaking and Library Science. Those are not two things I make use of in my free time, though I do like both. I am irritated that letterpress has become so popular in the past couple years and that many of these popularizers don’t have formal printmaking training, but a background in design. I would most like to be an expert on something culinary, but have no more than a few recreational classes and book knowledge under my belt. Perhaps passion, a dash of aggression and unfaltering authoritativeness are also helpful. Unfortunately, I don’t possess any of those qualities.) child stars, crafts that never get completed or off the ground in the first place, anthropomorphic food, advertising—huh, I though I had more interests than that.

2. Eat more Japanese food: It’s the Asian cuisine I know the least about (well, after Korean) despite being the rampant trend of the moment in NYC. And in general it’s healthier than the Thai (all that coconut milk) and Chinese (lots of frying and pork) food I’m drawn to.

3. Read more fiction: I got a head start during Christmas break. I finally finished The Corrections last weekend. It took me nearly two weeks of sporadic reading versus the manic two days You Remind Me of Me consumed. Granted, the former is a freaking tome at 592 pages. Even so, while sly, astute, humorous and all that, I liked it more than loved it. My three Christmas library books expired today, so I renewed them last night and began tucking into the shortest, remaining novel, JT Leroy’s Sarah. After about 40 quick pages, it’s Ok, not life or death if I don’t finish it. You Remind Me of Me was the best find of the lot.

4. Quit being in a perpetual hurry/violently impatient: It makes me needlessly sweaty and I probably miss important things while walking around.

5. Learn to make sausage: I’m sick of all these people with Ivy League backgrounds and high paying jobs who throw it all away to craft artisanal products like pickles and jams (or start organic farms in the country while maintaining Manhattan apartments) gleaned from cherished family recipes. Barf. There’s no tradition of sausage-making in my family (or anything making, really. I swear almost all my childhood dinners consisted of either eggs and bacon or Banquet frozen fried chicken from a box. And going back a generation doesn’t help matters any—my only memories of meals at grandma’s trailer center around soggy bowls of puffed wheat poured from pillowcase sized bags from 99-cent stores) so I’m on my own here. See today’s NY Times for but one mere example (this link will be dead within a week, so why not simply go to the subject of this particular article’s own press page. I have nothing against this guy personally, I only use him to illustrate my point because he makes it easy to do so). I’m going to start making hand-crafted sausages for absolutely no reason and they’re going to be really fucking good.

6. Paint things around the house that need painting: The table my computer is on is a chipped, dirty mess. And while browsing Wallpaper* for inspiration, i.e. finding things I could recreate for cheap, I was wowed by a colorful wicker Jean Prouve chair (not this exact one, the magazine used a white version). James got this hideous castoff ‘80s dining room set with wicker chairs from his parents (I don’t know why he can’t say no—I won’t take anything unpleasant that my family tries pawning off on me) and I’ve been wanting to get rid of it from the moment it entered our apt. But heck, ₤325 for colored wicker? I should paint our plain freebie chairs and pretend they’re designer.

7. Wash my bedding more: I do the pillowcases because they’re little, but honestly I only wash my sheets maybe every six months and my duvet cover once a year or so. That’s gross, I know. But I’m really the only one that suffers. Oprah would have a shit fit. I inadvertently caught her stupid episode last month where she freaks out the audience over germs in sponges and mites in bedding. I was still not scared straight. There is also a new commercial for a laundry detergent whose name I can’t recall where they use the term “body soil,” which completely disgusts me. The use of the words body soil bothers me more than the actual grime, however.

8. Try to wear more of my clothes: Sometimes I refrain from wearing nicer items because I think I’ll ruin them (this does seem to happen with my shoes). This is dumb because cute clothes don’t stay cute for long unless you buy classics, which I don’t. Who needs an out of style, yet well preserved wardrobe?

9. Answer my phone sometimes: I only pick up the phone maybe 10% of the time it rings. I don’t know why, I guess I don’t feel like talking. That’s the main reason I find cell phones completely futile. Why would I pay extra for something that I don’t even use the traditional version of? Dumb. And cameras and text messaging aren’t incentives.

10. Hmm, I had Don’t Be Afraid of Strangers written down as number ten, but I can’t recall why and I only typed that maybe 45 minutes ago. You should be distrustful and wary of strangers, duh. That was an idiotic goal.

1/10/05
I’m one of those sad people who needs something to look forward to, no matter how little or lame, in order to get through the day. Like I feel actual elation Monday morning because it’s bagel day. If I didn’t have my weekly free bagel and cream cheese the day would be ruined (last Monday, the first day back from vacation there were no bagels and I almost lost my shit—fortunately, they came Tuesday instead which was an unexpected surprise, and therefore even better than looking forward to something and being fulfilled. Surprise satisfaction is better). But today marks my foray into rational, healthy eating (and just in time—I knew I’d plumped up a little in 2004, the last three months I totally gave up and gave in to every whim and craving no matter how fatty, but I didn’t realize how plump until this morning. It’s bad, I’m up 15 pounds, exactly what I weighed Jan. 2003) so instead of focusing on food I need to find another pointless diversion (I’ve never understood folks who throw themselves into their work, so to speak. I can’t seem to get carried away with anything that would ever prove financially or emotionally rewarding) which apparently is television. Looking forward to new shows is one of the few pathetic things I can get revved up about. Last night I missed both premieres of Carnivale and 24 because I was out eating German food at the bizarre Killmeyer’s which must be located in the most desolate out-of-the-way pocket of Staten Island. So, I stayed up way too late watching 24 on tape, and it was hotter than I could’ve hoped for because Lukas Haas plays a gangly computer hacker whose coworkers and mother were all ruthlessly killed in the first two hours and was kidnapped by a bad Turkish guy who has him bound and gagged in the back seat of his car. I didn’t have time for Carnivale, maybe tonight, but it’ll be a tight fit because I need to see Everyday Food, the new spinoff show from the same-named Martha Stewart magazine. I’m not sure if I should be excited about this program yet, the hosts look scary, but the mini mag itself actually has pretty good recipes, so who knows. One of my new favorite shows is Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares on BBC America. Unfortunately, there are only four episodes, but there’s a Fox show with Gordon Ramsay in the works. Oh, and Lost fills the void on Wednesdays (I still can’t believe I missed last week’s episode, but I was busy eating pulled pork at Dinosaur BBQ that just opened in Harlem. And of course, I got home just in time for Alias, which I totally can’t stand). But this only covers the next three evenings of television viewing, I’m not sure what I’m going to do the rest of the week—I need new diversions quick.

1/5/05
Las Vegas is a crazy bad show. I would never have discovered this unless I had watched on Monday night in anticipation of the cheesy scene with Duran Duran playing at the casino. It was all silly fun until this minor plotline developed where two of the characters (I don’t know names, roles, any of that) had two different versions of the Duran Duran concert they’d attended their senior year. It was a big milestone to-do, a la prom night where they were going to cut loose and get it on for the first time. But all was ruined when according to the guy, the girl got too drunk and puked, and according to the girl the exact opposite scenario. Ok, losing your virginity after getting all hot and bothered at a D2 concert is amusing. But I couldn’t get past the inaccuracy of this scenario. The characters appeared to be maybe late 20s, possibly 30-ish, close to my age (in real life the actor Josh Duhamel is exactly my age 32, the actress Nikki Cox is 26--clearly there is no way they were both seniors at the same time, so we are to suspend reality on many counts). You could split the difference between their real ages and make them both 29, class of 1991. I graduated in 1990, and believe me, even though I was a bit of a music snob and a good half decade beyond my D2 obsession, there was no way any average teens during that time would’ve found a Duran Duran concert cool to attend. Especially, not popular kids, as these two characters probably were. Duran Duran did not tour in 1991 (or ’90 or ’92 to be safe on both sides), and they had absolutely no recognizable hits during that year (though I suppose “Ordinary World” from ’92 sort of counts). Oh, I forgot to mention the tip off. It’s conceivable that these two were freaks who appreciated D2 well past their prime, but the guy mentions wearing Air Jordans at the show. I recall clearly that Air Jordans were huge when D2 ruled the airwaves, the shoes were a big deal with the boys when I was in eighth grade, 1985. It’s right on the Nike timeline, plain as day. This whole storyline was so half-baked I had a hard time watching the already lame show. Simon warbling their new hit single couldn’t even salvage it for me. If television writers are going to jump on the ‘80s nostalgia bandwagon, they should at least be semi-accurate. It’s not as if there’s a lack of source material floating around—every time I turn on TV there’s some I Love the ‘80s show, Nick at Nite rerun (they’re all ‘80s now) or bad music remakes--don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten Mariah Carey’s Journey cover. So, thumbs down to Las Vegas, I only have enough time in my life for classy shows that cast soft porn actresses as teary eyed bastards (does adoption cancel out bastardness?) like Who’s Your Daddy?