Phantom Limb

Happy Halloween !

There, They're

Whenever I leave my apartment in the morning wearing heels, I feel the slightest bit of remorse. Down five flights of marble stairs – clack, clack, clack — I am almost positive that I wake up everyone in the building.

But then I remember a particular pair of neighbors and I don’t feel as bad. I am not sure exactly where they are located in the building, but their constant arguing resonates throughout the entire complex.

In the morning, while I am eating my cereal, I hear, “WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL ME LAST NIGHT TO TELL ME YOU WERE GOING TO BE LATE?”

When I get home, however many hours later it’s, “BUT I ALREADY TOLD YOU HOW MUCH I FUCKING LOVE YOU.”

Usually, I try to remain neutral. In most cases, though, I am on the male’s side. It’s like, she never trusted him to begin with, you know, so he has no room to budge. She can be sooo possessive and, quite frankly, crazy. Sometimes, though, I think she might be right. Because if he really loved her, why would he stay out so late every night?

The other day, however, I heard someone else scream, “WHY DON’T YOU TWO BREAK UP? WE’RE SICK OF HEARING YOU FIGHT!”

And then, a chorus of anonymous neighbors chimed in, “YEAH!”

I had no other choice but to run the eight feet from my bedroom to the kitchen window and scream in agreement.

Now that was fun. I love screaming at the top of my lungs. The only thing is, I really wish we didn’t have a screen on our kitchen window, because I’ve always wanted the chance to scream out a window while shaking my fist.

Robot Rock

Sorry to abandon you, blahg. Last week was just...one of those weeks. You know the type, where everything runs together and so that when recounting the past few days to a friend on the phone, fillers like, "blah blah blah," manage their way in there.

The strangest thing happens when you find a job that you like: It actually consumes your time so that you are really working at work. It's a novel concept, I know, and I'm very big right now on being loused up with my trade.

Of course, that leaves no time for trolling the web loooking for chops. Although a dear did send a link my way which kept me entertained for about 45 seconds. My favorite is this gem:

whorl. Help! I'm caught in a time
- Darren Aronofsky and Ari Handel

I thought that was very clever.

It's almost as clever as the walking piece of sushi with life size chopsticks I ran into the other night. He/She was quite the standout among the store-bought super hero garb and "slut" wear of the moment.

Naturally, Halloween being the holiday I look forward to the most every year, I am not one to skimp out on a crafty costume. Saturday night was a dress rehearsal and tomorrow night will be the big blowout.

And the blah blah blah's? Let's see...last week was a couple nights of catch up with a visitor from North Carolina, a birthday party at a tea house, some music mixed in there somewhere, a one man show that was pretty damn close to brilliant, a Londoner who lost a scorpion ring in a dark bar, causing the entire place to scramble around on all fours, and another one of those art openings that makes you tilt your head and think, give me a break.

45:33

Last Saturday, there were two parties in Bushwick that were right across the street from one another. One party consisted of old old friends, a broken-armed recliner, and five years of catching up, at least. The other party had old new friends, pumpkin gutting and carving, and one week of catching up, give or take a few days. Both parties, however, provided vodka on the house. How convenient.

The Bird and the Bee

44. Camp proposes a comic vision of the world. But not a bitter or polemical comedy. If tragedy is an experience of hyperinvolvement, comedy is an experience of underinvolvement, of detachment.



45. Detachment is the prerogative of an elite; and as the dandy is the 19th century's surrogate for the aristocrat in matters of culture, so Camp is the modern dandyism. Camp is the answer to the problem: how to be a dandy in the age of mass culture.



54. The experiences of Camp are based on the great discovery that the sensibility of high culture has no monopoly upon refinement. Camp asserts that good taste is not simply good taste; that there exists, indeed, a good taste of bad taste.



55. Camp taste doesn't propose that it is in bad taste to be serious; it doesn't sneer at someone who succeeds in being seriously dramatic. What it does it to find the success in certain passionate failures.



56. Camp taste is a kind of love, love for human nature. It relishes, rather than judges, the little triumphs and awkward intensities of "character."...Camp taste identifies with what it is enjoying. People who share this sensibility are not laughing at the thing they label as "a camp," they're enjoying it. Camp is a tender feeling.

Susan Sontag, Notes on "Camp"

Young Folks

chop chop chop chop chop chop


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Guru in the Echo

Just returned from SobaKoh in the East Village. Not bad, not bad at all. According to the worldly NYT food critic, noodles are in season right now because the farmers are out harvesting their buckwheat. (As if I would be able to tell the difference in noodle ripeness, anyway.) I cannot recall the last time I went to a Soba bar, so this was somewhat of an unusual dining experience for me.

As I arrived early, for a change, I was able to survey the restaurant before my friend arrived. At 7:30 on a Wednesday evening, the place was nearly empty. I chose the table by the window and the server was quick to greet me. SobaKoh is a small restaurant with a pretty mellow atmosphere, tasteful Halloween decorations and a mostly non-Asian clientele.

We started with the Japanese eggplant covered in bonito flakes. I don't know what a bonito flake is, but it provides a crunchy contrast to the eggplant. We probably should have tried something a little more adventurous, like the Albacore Spicy Miso, but the eggplant was well executed.

For a main dish, I ordered the Agaedashi Soba Gaki. That's fried soba gnocchi stuffed with ground chicken, served with a light sauce, ground Japanese radish and Japanese scallions on top. When it arrived, my meal looked like a couple of chocolate doughnut holes floating in a vegetable broth. My meal's taste did not actually match up to it's appearance, yet it did not exactly match up to my standards, either. It was too grainy and kind of bland, like eating chocolate doughnut holes without the chocolate flavor.

My dining companion ordered the hot soba noodles with tofu and eel cake in soup. Of course, his meal looked more appetizing than mine and, although I did not sample, it probably tasted better, too. My friend, who has aspirations of becoming a food snob, decided that even his dish was "not incredible."

However, SobaKoh's prices are very reasonable and it was relaxing to eat a meal in this city without being crammed into the table next to you, with one ear tuned into a stranger's conversation. And yes, I suppose the noodles did seem very ripened.

Final verdict on SobaKoh: One thumb up for atmosphere, one thumb down for taste.

See-thru-Skin

Anyway, the rest of my weekend consisted of a windy walk across the Williamsburg bridge, a party in Park Slope, and a taxi ride with a cabbie who gave us interpretive dance lessons.

Friday night was replaced with Sunday afternoon, when I went to a party for my friend, Mr. Hook, who just launched a new film company, called The Film Company. I must tell you, dear reader, that I have never before been to such a party.

It was held in the Time Warner Club Room, on the 51st floor of 25 Columbus Circle, with this fabulous view of the park and pretty much all of New York. I was hired for free to serve champagne to an assload of wealthy arts patrons and celebrities.

Isabella Roseelini made the briefest of appearances. She stands with perfect posture, was wearing a long pleated coat, with a foliage print, and her hair hangs in a dark bob with even bangs. She has her mother’s chin. But Isabella Rossellini is not approachable; you do not prance eagerly up to her and say, “I just LOVED you in Blue Velvet,” especially not in New York, especially not on the 51st floor of the Time Warner Building. You can only admire Isabella Rossellini from afar, like a statue, or whatever.

Helen Mirren was there, although I didn’t notice, and I’m pretty sure I saw Billy Bob Thorton, who I love, love, love. In fact, there was probably more celebrity punch in that room than I could ever be aware of, as I only have an eye for the major movie stars.

So I called up two of my best buddies to, you know, share the wealth, and we ate a picnic dinner of hors d'oeuvres on the freezing balcony and soaked up that view for as long as possible because there is no way in hell --not in a million years-- that we will ever live in this city at that angle.

Come Monday morning, that oh so ravishing party would result in the most boring of head colds.

Smile Around the Face

I just called my best friend, whose husband just passed a kidney stone, and upon picking up, she asked, “What are you doing home on a Friday night?”

It is Friday night and I am sitting at home. This is not because there is nothing going on; it’s New York for Chrissakes. No, it’s just that last week was a string of Friday nights disguised as week nights and now, well, now I’m kind of tired.

So I turned on the stove, for the first time since I moved into this apartment a month and a half ago, and made some pasta. The pasta could’ve been better, but I’m not picky. Then I watered this lazy houseplant we have in our kitchen/livingroom/diningroom/office, and vacuumed the rug.

It’s not like I’m turning over a new leaf or anything but I can do this stuff. Every once in a while – I can do this stuff.

Time Will Crawl

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In order to mark my one year anniversary with New York, I have compiled a list of lessons I have learned over the past year:

*If you have never seen more than two inches of snow in your entire life, prior to moving to New York, it is wise to invest in a puffy Eskimo coat, even if you end up waddling around all winter looking like a Michelin tire.
*It takes approximately seven months before you can (or should) leave your apartment without a map.
*You can hold out on getting food or pot delivered but eleven months and twenty days is the amount of time you can last before pussing out and paying someone $6 to wash and fold your laundry.
*You do not move to New York to save money. No matter how industrious you are, this city will drain your wallet on a daily basis. Yet if you work in finance, you will probably be fine.
*If you get more than four hours of sleep per night during your first summer in the city, you're not doing it right. There is way too much going on to waste time on sleep. Also, your apartment will be transformed into a bed and breakfast as everybody you have ever known will decide to visit you within the span of three months and it is your civic duty, as a hostess, to show them a good time.
*No matter how much time you do not spend in your apartment, it is not easy to live with insane roommates who you found in a desperate, last minute Craigslist search.
*If the guy who runs the bodega on the corner sometimes knows your name, you've got yourself a neighborhood.
*Some novelties will never wear off, like seeing a bum cradling an iPod and sleeping on a Ralph Lauren duvet.
*Sometimes, I feel left out because I'm the only one I know who doesn't go to a chiropractor.
*Although I am insistent on living in Manhattan, the best weekends to be had are in Brooklyn. The parties are better and the boys are cuter - that’s a fact.
*It is quite nearly impossible both to live in New York and dress like a New Yorker. However, there are ways to skirt around that issue. For instance, become best friends with H&M or trade editing skills for designer garments.
*Using ‘summer’ as a verb only works if you have a legitimate reason to do so.
*It really does take a full year to situate yourself within the city.
*It also takes one year to feel jaded. You think it’ll never happen until one night, you’re looking down at some kid who just graduated, saying, "Trust me. Get out of the publishing industry while you can."
*People truly are busy here. I don’t know how it happens, but you can go an entire month without seeing a close friend.
*Reading the New Yorker in New York makes much more sense than reading it anywhere else.
*With all of the choices in dating partners, you also have the choices in relationships. There's the open relationship, the semi-closed relationship, the sticking-out-the-lease relationship, the casual relationship, the engaged-but-not-getting-married relationship, the friends-who-sleep-together relationship, and the serious relationship.
*That last choice is the least practical because even though people here are much more serious than the people on the West Coast, it’s hard to take anyone here seriously.

Can't Stand Up for Falling Down

Last weekend made me dizzy. First there was the Ratatat show at the Guggenheim, which I have to admit was pretty awesome. Although, after a couple glasses (or plastic cups) of sugary wine, the Zaha Hadid exhibit was less impressive as before, as it felt like "seeing art in a mosh pit," and Peggy Guggenheim's stairless tiers became a bit nauseating. Then we headed over to the Four Seasons - because I guess that's what you do when you're out on the Upper East Side - where I had a glass of water. A classy glass of water.

The rest of the weekend consisted of the Avant-Garde-Arama, a night in Greenpoint, where we walked around in circles until we found Studio B, only to wait in line for-fucking-ever, before ending up at Enid's, where we danced in circles. Sunday, we sat in the very, very front row of the movie theater, which is what happens when you don't wait in line, and craned our necks for two hours, watching Jack Nicholson tear Boston up in The Departed (three point five stars).

Get Myself into It

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I lied to Ed Harris last night and he could totally tell. “I loved the show,” I told him at the after party for his new play that I have yet to see. He gave a curt nod, (kind of) said 'thank you', and walked off, leaving me to my own devices at the cheese table.

SO I headed down to the Financial District to see my roommate’s band play at a strip club called The Pussycat Lounge. Sorry, it’s not a strip club; it’s a topless bar. Whatever. There were listless naked chicks crawling all over the place. At least the band had loads of energy.

My life is so glamorous sometimes, I don’t know what to do with myself.

*no really, what should I do with myself?

The Central Scrutinizer

chop chop chop chop chop chop

(chop)

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practice, practice, practice

Cool Breeze on the Rocks

Last weekend was a night at Union Hall, in Park Slope, and a night at Union Pool, in Williamsburg. Somewhere in there fell a mojito on Orchard and Broome and a Girltalk/Diplo show at Irving Plaza. There was also yet another Seattle darling in town, who accompanied me as I checked off all of my screw-ups for the past year. Now. I know it's been mentioned before, but I've never said it: New York looks best when it's dressed up in autumn.