Sunday, November 21, 2010

The Age of Odd: A Sufjan Stevens Production

I went to see Sufjan Stevens last week, and promptly started composing a review the next day, but as usual, it's taken a week to shape it into a post. Here 'tis:

Last night, I saw Sufjan Stevens, and it nearly gave me a seizure.
I do not mean a seizure of folky sweetness. I mean that the production value- flashing lights, day-glo tape striped clothing, and trippy outerspace-themed multimedia nearly brought on an epileptic fit. (Apologies to people with epilepsy. I had an epileptic dog once.) This is not your grandpa's Sufjan Stevens. In fact, Grandpa would have most certainly had a stroke at last night's concert.

Critics have mostly lauded Stevens' electronic-laden "Age of Adz," though as a long-suffering fan, I was a bit disappointed. But nothing could have prepared me for the stage show at the Beacon Theater. I hadn't had the occasion or spare cash to see Sufjan with his full band in the past. I saw him play a Hurricane Katrina benefit solo in 2005, the year "Illinois" was released. I remember thinking it was a little too poppy, but there were still enough folk gems to placate me. Alternating between guitar and banjo, Sufjan held the Bowery Ballroom captive with his haunting voice. No one dared to speak for the entire set, and the cadence of his voice carried me away to the sublime regions of the mind.

The next time I saw Sufjan, he was playing a few songs at a PEN benefit, and talking about writing. It was perhaps two or three years ago. He played the piano, and graced us with a song that was later released on the "All Delighted People" EP, "The Owl and the Tanager." The whole night was beyond low-key. So I was not expecting a huge spectacle last night. Before the show, my husband joked that Sufjan was going to descend from a pod and there would be flames shooting out. "That's not Sufjan's style at all!" I said. Then later a pod did descend from the ceiling, and there were flames projected on a scrim in front of the band.

They started out playing a noisy version of "Seven Swans." I was on board. Then they launched into "Too Much" from "Adz." The backup girls thrashed and gyrated while speeded up videos of people dancing, posing and removing their jackets were projected on a gigantic screen behind them. It was indeed too much for me. As the bass thrummed, audience members looked at each other with the question "WTF?" rising from their heads. I too was extremely baffled. Was is meant to be ironic, or in earnest? Should I be laughing or storming out of the theater in horror? The band were all wearing day-glo stripes of tape on their clothing, along with bits of silver lame. Sufjan had sequined bandannas and glow necklaces hanging from his odd metallic trousers. My first reaction was that it was the most awful, steaming pile of artistic self-indulgence I'd ever witnessed, but fortunately Stevens at least offered an explanation for his strange theatrics. "The Age of Adz" takes its title, album art, and inspiration from Royal Robertson, folk artist and self-proclaimed prophet. It's easy to see why Stevens was attracted to Robertson's story- his claims of visions, UFO encounters, and reclusive descent into madness are pure melodramatic fodder, and Stevens may indeed see something of himself in this figure.

Sufjan, while always displaying a predilection for certain musical elements (the banjo, jingle bells, and twinkling flutes for example), has been quite changeable throughout his musical career, preferring to chase lofty projects and wrap each album in a concept. This is Stevens' grand Ziggy Stardust space musical, his Bob Dylan-Newport Folk Festival moment, and maybe someday we'll celebrate it. Personally, I tend to think Sufjan is at his best when he's not trying to convey some grand ideal. Some of my favorite songs are on "The Avalanche," an album of unused material from the "Illinois" sessions, and I still listen to "A Sun Came" from time to time. I also adored "All Delighted People" from the moment I got my NPR first listen. The title track and the psychedelic jam "Djohariah" are a perfect example of what the artist can do with a big recording budget, though there are still those comforting folky melodies to offset the big productions. I expected "Adz" to build on the EP, but the two are totally unrelated. Sufjan played two of the softer tracks from it as acoustic buffer between the electric hullabaloo, but he played perhaps nine of the eleven tracks on "Adz." I sat through it, including the interminable closing number "Impossible Soul," in which Sufjan joined his dancers for a lengthy routine, and beach balls, balloons, and confetti hailed down on the audience.

I took a desperately needed bathroom break, and when I returned, Sufjan and his band returned to the stage in street clothes. He played a rousing "Chicago," then pared down the band and played "Concerning the UFO Sightings...," "To Be Alone With You," "Casimir Pulaski Day," and finally closed with "John Wayne Gacy," unquestionably the most beautiful song ever written about a serial killer. As Sufjan played and sang alone onstage, I wept silently in gratitude. It was what I'd really wanted the whole time. Few performers are as gifted solo as they are with a band, but Stevens knows how to inhabit a big venue and make it feel intimate. Stripped down and spare, his quavering voice conveys a stunning range of emotion. I was left with the ultimate impression that the glittery "Adz" show that preceded the encore only served to demonstrate how unnecessary it all was. I love when Sufjan builds up a huge sound, from "A Winner Needs a Wand," to the noisy "Vesuvius" on "Adz," but I really think he's at his best when he lets his voice become the primary instrument. I suffer the musical doodlings because I love his sense of melody and the ingenuity of his lyrics. One can only hope that the artist will reverse directions in his next effort. Perhaps an a capella album might be an appropriate turn?

Friday, October 15, 2010

Reasons Not to Make Your Own Pierogis

I decided I was going to get creative in the kitchen tonight and make my own pierogis. I should have just gone straight to freezer aisle, but I had already looked up a recipe for "pumpkin sage pierogis," and I decided I could pull it off.

Maybe I just wanted to torture myself. I'm not remotely skilled in the kitchen, unless you count eating as a kitchen skill. I grew up on convenience food. Hamburger Helper, Kid Cuisine, Kraft macaroni and cheese, and microwaveable sliced ham were the staples of my diet. One of my favorite fresh-from-the-freezer meals involved pillowy soft Mrs. T's pierogis, which my dad would sautee with diced onions. I hated the accompanying kielbasa, with its disgusting texture and thick skin, but it was a small price to pay for the chance to eat pierogis. I always wondered about Mrs. T. Was she Mr. T's wife?

After having a go at making pierogis myself, I'm pretty certain she is. First of all, it takes a lot of tough love to coax a pierogi out of a feisty piece of dough. Secondly, I pitied myself for being such a fool. And lastly, paiiiiin.

The first and most difficult step is making the dough. I was halving the recipe, but I was on the phone at the time I was mixing together the batter, so I added two eggs instead of one. Naturally, I am unable to talk and follow a recipe at the same time. It's nearly as difficult as walking and chewing gum, which is why I never chew gum. Anyway, I figured I could balance it out with a little extra flour. The dough took on a dough-like consistency eventually and I left it to set in the fridge for half an hour.

Then I mixed the filling, remembering to halve the canned pumpkin but forgetting to halve the ricotta cheese. So I added the full measure of canned pumpkin, sage, and nutmeg so the filling would taste right. Unfortunately, I now have a container in my refrigerator filled with a canned pumpkin/ricotta cheese mixture that I'm not sure will work with anything else. (And doesn't it sound revolting?)

Now it was time for the fun to begin. I went to roll out the dough, but the dough refused to be rolled. When I removed the rolling pin, the circle of dough shrunk back to its original size like one of those tiny popcorn shirts after you remove it from your body. (Does anyone remember those? I ended up with two of them, but they looked terrible on.) Yes, I may have invented their food equivalent. My dough stubbornly refused to be rolled. After much wrangling and coaxing, I got a piece rolled as thin as I could possibly manage and began cutting out dough circles with a coffee mug. My hands shook as I spooned the filling into my first pierogi. And... it started leaking through a hole I had somehow created in the dough. Clearly this one wasn't going to work out. I chucked it and started afresh. The same thing happened with the next one, but the hole wasn't so bad, so I decided to patch it with a dough band-aid and keep going.

I can't really describe what utter agony it is to fill a pierogi. Sticky dough, slippery pumpkin-ricotta cheese mix... It's just a bad combination. The filling kept squirting out of the sides when I tried to pinch the dough together. But my patience was gone, so I just sealed them up the best I could and moved forward. The recipe I was using was supposed to yield 30, but I ended up with 21 (to be fair, I threw away two plus a little excess dough that could have been one or two more). My pierogis were clearly too thick, but I had been cooking for two hours already and my food was still raw, so I put the pot of water on.



The recipe told me to boil the pierogis ten at a time. I would purportedly know the pierogis were done when they floated to the top, whereupon I was to remove them with a slotted spoon and run them under cold water in a colander. I looked into the pot. My pierogis were like bricks. After about five minutes, I was seriously doubting that any would float to the surface. But after a few more minutes, they began to bob up ever so slightly, one by one. It was actually the most fun part of the whole experience, a bit like magic. The pierogis just seemed to know when they were ready to come out. And they did come out, albeit deformed and with a pockmarked surface.



The last step in this whole circus, after the pierogis dry out a bit, is to sautee them. I put aside enough for my very belated dinner and froze the rest. As the butter melted in the pan, it occurred to me that two and a half hours later, I was at the very same step in the cooking process that I would have been if I had just bought a box of Mrs. T's.



Tomorrow, I'll have the joy of washing half of my cookware and peeling bits of dried dough off of the ceiling, but for now, I just want to enjoy my food. Despite the thickness of the dough, the pierogis actually tasted pretty good. Worth three hours of labor, not including dishes, though? Never.

The thing is, I'll probably forget all about this awful ordeal and attempt it again in a couple of months. Because I like... paaiiin.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Emotional Eating

The hubs is gone out for his last tour on the high seas (er, Delaware River), and I've discovered the perfect food to replace him. I've gone through a heavy rotation of favorite treats, but when my sister was visiting the last time, we had some alfajores. She lived in Argentina for a bit and really wanted to recreate that tasty treat. Unfortunately the alfajores are not so authentic at the MarieBelle Cacao Bar, but since then, I've noticed the Argentinian cookie popping up everywhere around the city.

For those of you who have never heard of an alfajor, it's a sandwich cookie filled with dulce de leche. There can be many different kinds. Here's a visual to get you salivating.



At dinner on Friday night, the hubs and I each enjoyed an alfajor dipped in chocolate. Today at lunch, I found alfajores at an espresso bar two blocks away from the office, these ones with shredded coconut accompanying the dulce de leche inside, and a dusting of powdered sugar on the outside. It's like a whoopie pie, only about ten times better. Note that the dulce de leche ought to be thick and goopy.

Move over, tiny cupcakes, this cookie looks like it's poised to take over this city. Or at least my pantry.

Friday, October 1, 2010

The One With the Dog and the Dental Floss

This past weekend, I was visiting my sister in Chicago and met the two greyhounds she has adopted. The presence of the dogs reminded us of the hijinks of the old family dog, and when we remember her, we always eventually get back to one story; the consummate stupid dog story. It's the best dog story I have, and I've actually had it copywrighted so that nobody in the film industry will steal this brilliant gem of a true story.

When I was growing up, our family had a yellow labrador mix named Sandi. She was mostly a gentle and stupid animal, but when it came to filching food, this dog was a pro. There used to be a picture in the guest room of my grandparents' house of myself and my cousins, aged about 2-4, sitting by the lakeshore with our lunches on paper plates in our laps. Sandi is in front of us, eating my sandwich off of my plate. On another occasion, my father famously left two apple pies to cool on the kitchen counter while we went out to dinner, only to find two empty pie pans on the floor with nary a crumb when we returned.

But this is just to set up my hilarious dog story. Allow me to digress gently and work my way back to it in due time.

At our elementary school, we had a yearly event called Career Day. I can't actually remember any of the presenters, save for one. One girl in my class had a father who was a dentist, and he came every year. The first and second grade presentations were gentle exhortations to brush and floss and I always thought it was pretty entertaining, but when we got to third grade, the man got serious. I can't remember his real name, but I think it was Woodman or something, because we called him Dr. Woody. I awaited the presentation happily because I knew I was going to get a free toothbrush, but soon Dr. Woody started showing slides of teeth with cavities. The images of rotting teeth grew increasingly gruesome as he explained how cavities are formed, and what happens if they're allowed to get worse and worse. He drew diagrams on the board illustrating tooth decay. Dr. Woody identified the common culprits of tooth damage- sugary beverages. I was scared straight and didn't have so much as a sip of soda for the next two years. But we did get gift bags from Dr. Woody with the usual toothbrush, stickers, and mini container of dental floss.

Either my sister or I must have left Dr. Woody's goody bag on top of a small, child-height table when we got home from school that day. We forgot about it. I could think of nothing else except grotesque images of cavity-ravaged teeth at the time.

After dinner that night, we were all in the sun room when Sandi entered, attempting to hack something up. My mother went over to the wheezing dog and saw something hanging from her mouth that looked like a thread. She started to pull. And pull. The dog had her hackles up and made a kind of peanut-butter-stuck-to-the-roof-of-the-mouth movement with her jaws. My mother kept on pulling at it, as the extracted thread began to accumulate on the floor. She was still pulling, and it was ridiculous. The whole family was rolling with laughter. I wish we had had the video camera rolling at the time so I could watch it again. I know we would have won America's Funniest Home Videos. Unfortunately, those were the days when operating a home video camera still required a good twenty minutes of set-up.

There were at least ten minutes of pulling before the end of the string came up. The dog ran out of the room, relieved. We just looked at the pile of thread on the floor and laughed till we cried. It was an entire mini-roll of dental floss unspooled before us. What became of its container, we never found out.

Monday, September 20, 2010

I'm Pretty Sure the Cat Wants Me Dead

Last year, I thought I'd do a good thing and adopt a kitten. My parents were living in the country and three kittens were orphaned outside of their home. My mother took them into her bathroom and took care of them for several weeks, and when they were old enough, we took one back with us to New York.

Despite having mostly lived indoors, the cat still acts feral. We named her Gypsy because of her spunk (I was reading a book about Gypsy Rose Lee at the time), but she more embodies the spirit of the Romani people (as described in racist European folklore). The hubs has a Bulgarian co-worker named Boris who is always telling little gypsy stories, such as, "At McDonald in Bulgaria, you must pay for the ketchup and mustard packets as well, otherwise Gypsy would make a fortune." Boris also has a story about Gypsies cutting down a live power line to try to steal copper wiring. My cat is more like these characters, always up to zany hijinks.


Gypsy with a plastic bag stuck around her middle


Once, when she was smaller, she escaped through the flimsy divider of my a/c unit, jumping or falling about 15 feet. I couldn't find her for four hours, but luckily a neighbor spotted her and took her in. Gypsy had a slight sprain in her back leg, but that was all. I was probably worse off than she was. She still managed to give the vet technicians hell and had to be restrained in a towel for her examination.

She is not too popular at the vet for this reason. Her first visit to the vet, they went to trim her claws, and she let out the most unearthly wail. The vet's young son was in the room, and he was stuffing his fingers in his ears. The vet was calmly talking over the yowling and I was just laughing hysterically. The last time she visited the vet, to get spayed, she earned a caution label on her chart. They decided to do her surgery earlier than planned because it would be tricky to get her down. That evening, we got a call stating that Gypsy was fine but they'd had to use a little extra tranquilizer and she couldn't really walk yet.

I have unbridled affection for this small animal, despite the fact that she sometimes preys on me. If I leave the bathroom door open, she'll sometimes pounce on my feet and bite them at their boniest part while I'm vulnerable on the toilet. If she happens to be sitting on the shelf above my desk and I walk by her, she'll swipe at me with her claws out. Sometimes she'll tear across the apartment, rear on her back legs, and launch herself at my leg. Even in her affectionate moments she feels compelled to nip and softly scratch me. When I brush her, I wear gloves so I'll still have some skin left on my hands afterward.

Gypsy waiting for some feet to bite

I've suspected the cat may hate me or that she's trying to escape from me, but now I'm wondering if she intends to kill me. Weeks ago, she had knocked a small plastic halogen lamp from its mounting and I just sort of left it where it fell and forgot about it. Yesterday, the hubs smelled burning wood and found that the lamp was on and slowly scorching a spot on the hardwood floor. There's no doubt in my mind that the cat was trying to burn down our apartment. It's only a matter of time before an anvil drops down on my head when I open the front door.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Stuff My Husband Says

I love Seth, but he says some pretty stupid things sometimes. Maybe it's one of the reasons I love him. On the night we met, one of the things he revealed about himself was: "I won third place in the Maryland Junior Duck Stamp Contest." That was his most skillful pick-up line. It turns out the ducks he painted for the contest are very beautiful, and his parents still have the framed painting hanging in the hallway with its third-place ribbon affixed to it. Seth blames the species of duck he painted for being too plain to deserve a postage stamp. Anyway, that's the way the man I love talks. He says whatever comes to the top of his head. Sometimes it doesn't come out well, and it could be construed as offensive, but nobody pays mind to that when the words are coming from such a handsome, earnest face. Or at least I don't.

But sometimes I pretend to. Last night, while sitting on the couch, Seth referred to me as "my sexy pumpkin."

"Do I look round and orange to you?" I faux-whimpered.

"Okay... you're my sexy... gourd?" Seth ventured.

"So you think I'm bumpy?"

"Are gourds bumpy? I don't really know what they look like."

"Well there are many different varieties of gourds, but they can be bumpy, and brown, or green, or orange, or a combination of all of those."

"Well if there are so many different kinds of gourds, there's got to be a fleshy-colored, sexy gourd."

"What constitutes a sexy gourd?"

"You'll know one when you see one," said Seth, making that clicking noise and gun gesture in imitation of a douchebag character in an 80s movie.

Then later on, as we were both about to go to sleep, Seth and I were having a discussion about Fort McHenry.

"Man, why did they always take us there for elementary school field trips? I think I've been there at least five times," I was saying.

"I've been there at least twice," said Seth, "but I only remember going when I was in middle school. The second time was probably because of the rocket... ... ..."

"Rocket club?" I was thinking. Where was this going?

Then suddenly he started talking again. "Honey, I really should go to sleep. My dreams are starting to get mixed in while I'm talking."

We both burst out laughing, and then I shut my mouth and left him to dream peacefully about rockets.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Fall Fashion Post: Jungle of Ugly

It's Fashion Week in the city, and I can't wait for it to be over. Why, you ask? Fashion Week was good to me this year. It provided me with plenty of free booze, cheesecake bites on a stick, and the opportunity to hobnob with the current cast of Project Runway. But truthfully, my favorite thing about Fashion Week is going through pictures of the shows to pick out the most supremely ugly garments, so I can dis/discuss them with friends.

However, since the fashion industry is kind enough to let us know what we're going to be wearing six months from now, I'm proud to present my fall fashion issue, albeit a bit belatedly. Here are my bottom picks for this fall.


Highland Fat Suit, Comme des Garçons





Charles Anastase: Snow-woman Abomination





Charles Anastase: Kidney Transplant



Topshop: Wildebeest chic




Chanel: Chanetland Pony


Isn't this fun? And here's a little preview of what you won't be wearing in Spring 2011!


Betsey Johnson: Traffic Accident

Monday, August 30, 2010

Hierarchy of Loathing

Some people love to love, but I loathe to loathe. It seems like every 10 minutes during my waking hours (and perhaps a little less frequently during my slumbering hours), I run into a situation that inspires loathing. Here are some every day examples, ordered from mildly loatheable to loathesomely enraging.

-People who abruptly reverse their direction in the middle of a crowded street. Pick a lane!

-Your upstairs neighbors walking all over their creaky floors when you are trying to go to sleep.

-Your across-the-courtyard neighbors blasting banda music at 9 am on a Saturday.

-Dogs wearing sweaters. God gave them fur to spare us the hideousness of dogs in sweaters, but alas, we live in a fallen world.

-A train closing its doors just as you emerge onto the platform.

-The knowledge that you could have made that train if only you hadn't gone back for your iPod.

-The knowledge that you could have made that train if not for the slow-moving person you were stuck behind on the stairs.

-People who stand on the steps of a subway entrance to talk on their phones. There's no way you're going be able to hear the train coming, say goodbye to your boyfriend, run down the stairs, swipe through the turnstile, and still catch the train, so why not stand where you aren't in the way?

-Groups of people who don't know how to use a Metrocard trying to get through an entrance with only two turnstiles.

-Bachelorette parties.

-Dogs in strollers.

Those are just some of the items on my loathe list. Thankfully one doesn't see a lot of clothed dogs walking (or being pushed) around the city in August, but all of the other items are a fairly frequent occurrence. I could do a whole list on the subway, but let's just keep it right here for now. And for those of you with a lot of bottled-up loathing, why not write a list of the things that annoy you and release some of it before you rage against the dying of the light? Unless of course, writing lists of things that annoy you annoys you.

Friday, August 20, 2010

The Crepuscule of Sailor's Wife Life

Yes, so I went for a little poetry with today's blog title, but why the heck not? And who doesn't love the word "crepuscule?" It's a disgusting-sounding word for the most beautiful time of day, just after sunset. It sounds like some kind of bivalve creature, though.

The grand language I use because this may one day be an historic moment in my life; the moment just before I found out whether my husband was offered a land job. You see, in less than an hour, the hubs is due to enter an office and negotiate a contract for an engineering job- on land. For the four-plus years we've known each other, our relationship has always been long distance for half of the year. For the past three years, it's been three weeks on the ship and three weeks off. There have been birthdays, Christmases, and anniversaries spent apart, and weddings attended sans my plus-one. There have been lonely, pathetic, and frustrated nights. There have been nightly hour-long phone calls. There was one text that read "Another ship hit ours. But everyone's okay!" There was the kitten acquired to dull my loneliness. Then there were the phone pictures of the kitten growing up, sent via email. It became a way of life, and I became accustomed to it. I stopped feeling jealous of other couples who get to see each other every day. To my friends and family, I painted a picture of a life that was exciting and romantic.

But now it may be over. I might finally be on the cusp of knowing what it's like to be married, full time. The possibility is dangling above me for the next hour or so, and yet I have to go on at work like nothing is happening. Yes? No? Yes?

Friday, July 30, 2010

The Funeral

No, nobody died. Not yet, anyway. I haven't written all week because I've been sick. Actually, I'm terribly sick right now. To say I'm typing this feverishly would be entirely accurate. I should just lay back and go to bed, but I wanted to put my thoughts out there, however delirious they might seem when I'm back in the pink of health.

To escape from the pain of my sickbed, I grabbed my laptop and viewed the finale of Gossip Girl. Yes, it is this generation's Dynasty, but they do make some good musical choices. I happened to hear a cover of my favorite Band of Horses song, "The Funeral."

It's an amazing song, though it's a simple one. I saw Band of Horses not too long ago at their free "secret" show at Grand Central, and hearing them play this song live made an hour of standing there trying to see the band through a grandstand and a camera crew worthwhile. I started to think about what it meant to be "ready for the funeral" at any occasion. On a surface level, it could mean always wearing black, which I pretty much do anyway. But I like to interpret this lyric as one symbolizing an awareness of our own mortality. At any occasion, I'll be ready for my own funeral. Essentially, it means I've made my peace with the fact that I'm going to die at some point.

Pop music tends to project the opposite message in general ("Forever Young"). Radio hits are driven by infectious melodies and rallying beats that lift us up from the drudgery of life and appeal to our inner teenager (the one who doesn't care about anything and believes that she is immortal). There are exceptions, of course, but generally morbid music makes its appeal to brooding outsiders.

What I love about "The Funeral" is that it makes the eventuality of death a beautiful thing. It's the essence of folk music; the constant mourning juxtaposed with the sense that life is truly dear. I have in my music collection a compilation entitled People Take Warning! Murder Ballads and Disaster Songs, 1913-1938. It's a rare chance to connect with history. There are train wrecks, epidemics, high-profile killings, and even the sinking of the Titanic chronicled in this rather depressing box set. These tragedies often end with a hopeful note, however- perhaps the deceased looking down from heaven, or a vindictive glimpse of the murderer as he ascends the scaffold. This is the musical world I dwell in.

Sure, I'll join in for a chorus of "Don't Stop Believin'" on karaoke night. In fact, 80s hair metal is sometimes the only thing that gets me through a slow day at work. But when I'm in the mood to really listen, I seek songs that tell a story, songs that tell the truth. The truth is, we should always be ready for the funeral. We'll go to enough of them in our lives. To constantly think about our eventual death may seem morbid to some, but I think it makes life all the more precious and worth living. My cousin and I were discussing the issue of mortality this weekend on our drive back from the Poconos, and I mentioned an article I had read about a scientist who claims to be working on cellular research with an eye to ultimately conquering death. My cousin, a physician, was not impressed. "It would be one thing to cure cancer," she said, "but I don't know that I would have anything to live for if I knew I would never die."

So a dreamy indie-rock ballad has become my motivator. I think of my short time on Earth and am thankful that I have the chance to experience it yet. I think of my family, of my husband, of my badly-behaved little cat, and the sentiments wash over me. I think of how grand my story will sound in future reiterations- a young writer moving to New York City and living on instant mashed potatoes and ramen, communing with cockroaches in a college dorm that was formerly the cheap hotel where Kerouac wrote of his interracial love affair. And I have to admit, I do have some amazing stories. So yes, I'd say I'm ready. Just please give me the chance to write up the playlist for my funeral before I go.

-B.S.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Review: CAN I REALLY DATE A GUY WHO WEARS A YARMULKE?

I'm taking a break from my usual sour diatribe to make sure you all go to see Can I Really Date a Guy Who Wears a Yarmulke? at the Midtown International Theater Festival while you still have the chance.

Yarmulke is playwright Amy Holson-Schwartz's first production, but it has a sophistication and polish far beyond that of a first-time playwright. The play follows Eleanor, a late-twenties Jewish-but-Atheistic Jane Austen scholar who struggles with her identity when she meets Aaron, a charming young pediatric cardiologist who happens to be Jewish and observant. As their relationship progresses, they delve into what each sees as the other's hypocrisy- Aaron won't flip a light switch on the Sabbath, but he'll eat un-Kosher food at restaurants and is all too happy to engage in pre-marital sex with Eleanor. Conversely, Eleanor loves bacon cheeseburgers and expounds at length on her disdain for her birthright trip to Israel, but checks the "other" box in the racial category of a grant application. There are plenty of laughs along the way as Aaron struggles to overcome Eleanor's aversion to Judaism, but Yarmulke doesn't gloss over the deeper internal battles that occur when one considers mating with someone of differing beliefs. Yes, the play is about Judaism, but I'll venture to predict that even a Zoroastrian could identify with its characters and themes.

Formally, Can I Really Date a Guy Who Wears A Yarmulke? is refreshingly old-fashioned. It has the ease and grace of a Neil Simon comedy, but with a modern bite. The dialogue oozes dry wit, and even though there is a lot of it, I never found my attention wavering. I was reminded of my own experiences back when I was first dating my husband. Though we share a religion, we were raised in different traditions, and during the first few months, we delicately felt out each others' beliefs for compatibility. We danced around issues on which we didn't agree as we got to know each others' minds. It wouldn't have made a play anywhere near as entertaining as Yarmulke, but it enabled me to really experience the range of emotions its characters feel. In our largely secular age, faith is still as important as ever in determining one's mating choices. And the onus to preserve the purity of the Jewish culture is perhaps just as strong as it was 4,000 years ago (unless you happen to have snagged the daughter of a former president, perhaps). Jewtopia exploited this to great comic effect a few years back, but Yarmulke does so with a lot more brains. Let's hope that "one season follows another" and this play gets a full run, but there are still four more performances at the Beckett Theater. Click Here for details.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

A Healthy Dose of Salt Air

Today I noticed that my daily Groupon was for salt air therapy treatments at a new salt air spa. What? I had to take a look. I had never heard of this spa treatment before, so I googled it. Apparently salt air breathing is the new ancient ethnic thing that Western allergy sufferers will be spending their money on. One can also obtain a salt inhaler online, which claims that it is based on an "age-old" treatment for asthma, bronchitis, whooping cough, hayfever and colds. Whooping cough? Haven't heard of that in a while. But other websites give a much more scientific explanation of what salt air therapy is (a.k.a speleotherapy from the Greek speleos, meaning cave).

Apparently back in old Russia, if your Uncle Vanya came down with a case of whooping-cough, you would take him up to a cave in the local salt mine to take the cure. The Wieliczka Salt Mine in Poland was active from the 13th century until 2007, and today is a popular tourist destination because of the elaborate rooms that were added to various empty chambers of the mine. You can view splendors such as The Last Supper carved in salt. Just don't bring a horse with you.



But if you're too broke to make a trip to Poland, or too broke to afford spa treatmeants, you can obtain a salt inhaler, or as some saltier web purveyors call them, salt pipes.

Now the term "salt pipe" tends to put me in mind of an ancient, white-bearded, leathery-skinned fisherman standing on the dock regally after a hard day's labor, a plume of smoke rising in the misty Maine air from the tip of his weathered old pipe. Not so. A salt pipe (or inhaler) actually looks like this:



It doesn't look all that interesting, far less so than the Neti Pot. This lady isn't even smiling. She doesn't look excited about her salt pipe at all. She just looks like she's about to pump hand soap into her mouth. It has none of the freakishness of the Neti Pot. I purchased one a few years ago when everyone was obsessed with them, hoping to find relief from my frequent sinus infections. While even my doctor was plugging it at the time, I didn't notice any improvement. Pouring water into my nose only gave me the sensation that I was drowning. I still use it sometimes, but only when I'm desperate for sinus relief. The salt pipe looks a lot easier to use than a Neti Pot, but I still wonder why a salt crystal encased in a piece of plastic with a mouthpiece attached to it should cost $39.95.

Like most holistic health trends, salt air therapy claims to be derived from ancient wisdom, but I would rather get my salt air while sailing or lounging on a white sandy beach. Still, hanging out in a cave sounds appealing. Hanging out in a spa, not so much.

Here is a tangent that I think you will enjoy: I've never had a good experience at a spa. I'm not fond of the nail salon. Mostly it's because I'm impatient, but it's also because every time I go, I have a bad experience.

My aversion to nail salons stems from an experience I had as a ten year-old. The night before my parents' trip to Curacao, my mom was out getting a mani-pedi. I was at home when the phone rang. "Hello?"

A frantic voice greeted me in broken English. "Your mom... she have a hurt but... she okay, she okay!"

I had no idea what the lady was talking about. "Okay..." I said, and I hung up.

A couple of minutes later, another strange lady rang and asked for my dad. She was a patron at the nail salon who happened to be sitting in the chair next to my mother.. For a few hours I had no idea what was going on, but the story unfolded upon my mother's return from the emergency room.

My mom had been getting a pedicure. The nail technician was using a sharp instrument to remove the calluses from my mom's feet. She cut too deeply and my mom started bleeding. The water was red, and my mom quickly passed out. She awoke to a tiny Vietnamese man patting her hand and calling her name. The paramedics came in. There was tobacco on her toe where one of the salon employees had unrolled a cigarette upon it- some kind of holistic remedy. "Who put that shit there?" one of the paramedics barked. "She'll get sepsis!" A medic fit my mother with an oxygen mask. The air inside the mask was metallic and it made her feel sick. Her consciousness started to waver. One of the parademics checked the tank. "This tank is empty!" They loaded my mom up and took her to the hospital. Her toe was okay and she was able to go on her vacation the next day as planned, but she promptly found a new nail place upon her return. I, however, have never had a desire to put my toes at someone else's mercy.

One thing I used to permit at the nail salon was the simple waxing of my eyebrows. My eyebrows started to grow unruly when I hit puberty, so it was an easy solution, considering I was always waiting for my my mom at the nail salon anyway. By the age of 16 I was quite used to it. Then I washed my face one morning after getting a wax the night before. I was shocked to discover that a huge chunk of my left eyebrow was simply no longer there. The hair had somehow been smoothed with lotion to cover up the bald spot before I left the salon, but after scrubbing my face, there it was, a gaping hole in the middle of my brow. I had to fill it in with eyeliner for three weeks.

Then there was the en suite massage that came with our honeymoon package at our hotel in St. Lucia. It was the only professional massage I'd ever received, and it mostly felt good, except for the part that I remarked on afterward to my husband. "Did they, you know, massage your butt?" (They did.)

The worst spa experience I've had thus far, though, was the well-meaning gift of a facial a few years ago. It started with an electric gun-looking device meant to zap my zits. It felt like a bee repeatedly stinging me in the face. There was one stubborn pimple that hadn't yet formed a head at the crease of my nose, and the esthetician struggled to get it out. She couldn't, but she did manage to make it red, angry, and infected-looking for the next week. After submitting me to this torture, she smoothed my face with mud. Then she put on some form of Celtic Moods CD, rubbed my hands in goo, and stuck blistering hot mitts on both my hands. She left the room to allow me to relax for 20 minutes, but the table was hard, the mitts on my hands were nearly burning my flesh, and the mood CD was profoundly annoying. Yet for some reason, I waited there flat on my back, like a corpse, until my captor returned to free me from my bonds. She showed me a mirror. My face looked like a piece of raw meat. "Your skin is just glowing," she said. For the next week, my face blossomed with enormous zits. It was outrageous.

So you'll forgive me if I've been put off spas for life. I'm just not the type to find those type of things relaxing. I'm not about to pay $25 to get coated in salt air. But I'll imagine doing it and imagine it being relaxing, and I enjoy myself a lot more in my imagination.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

The War Within

My brain is always a little slow to start in the mornings, but lately, it's been ridiculous. I could blame the heat, which has us sweating in our underwear as we crank our two little A/C units up to 10. Or an ill-advised ride on the Cyclone at Coney Island this past holiday weekend, which left me with a headache and a strained neck that still feels pretty tender a couple of days later. But allow me to give an example of my own stupidity.

I hit the snooze button one too many times this morning because I had to take care of some dream business before I returned to waking life. While I can't remember if the dream transaction was ever completed, it did make me late. I am not at my best when in a hurry, for the simple fact that I move at a glacial pace in the morning. I typically rise from my bed, stare at the glass of water on my bureau for a few minutes until I realize I am thirsty and remember how to drink it. I'm usually not quite able to calculate how far I need to tip the glass for water to go into my mouth, so I often dribble on or drench myself in the process. Then I go in to the bathroom and sit on the toilet for a while until I realize I sat down there for a reason. Morning eliminations completed, I wash my hands and then stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and pick sleep sand ponderously out of my eyes. How does all that gunk get in there? Then eventually I get to the business of washing my face and applying the various creams, nasal sprays, and deodorizers that keep my skin functioning at its spotty best. While the deodorant dries on my armpits, I shuffle over to my closet and open it. It's always very dark, so I usually stick my hands in and try to find something to wear by feel until I remember that there is in fact a light in there. Once I locate the switch, which can take upwards of 5 minutes, I then stare at the chaos in front of me and think, "Wow, I have clothes." If I haven't planned what to wear the night before, this process can be interminable. I often overlook things like office appropriateness, the suitability of certain kinds of underwear to certain fabrics, or basic color matching when in my morning stupor. I am utterly unprepared to face thoughts such as, "it's hot outside, but cold in the office."

Then I go put in my contacts, which helps a little, considering I rarely think to stop and put on my glasses when I get out of bed. Make-up application is surprisingly a quick and painless process for me, but wiggling into my final wardrobe selection in the morning can be a difficult process. Pant legs and armholes don't seem to match up to my limbs. Often I forget about clothing features meant to aid in the process of dressing, such as zippers and buttons. Then I look at myself in the mirror and realize my outfit needs immediate revision, so I take another stab at it. This process can be interminable.

After feeding the cat and attending to my own feeding (during which I am almost certain to spill sticky, cereal-laden almond milk into my lap), I enter the bathroom to take care of the last part of my routine- hair. I am really terrible at doing my hair. Usually I just sleep on it after showering at night so that I don't have to wrangle with a hair-dryer, which is difficult enough in a morning stupor, but almost impossible given the fact that I have no electrical outlets in my bathroom. When we moved in, there was an extension cord hanging from the bathroom light that looked extremely hazardous, but fortunately I don't care enough about my hair to risk electrocution. I just run a brush through it a few times and get a good haircut every few months and it usually takes care of itself with the aid of a little hairspray. This morning, however, I uncapped a can of hairspray, looked at it, depressed the button and shot a burst of it straight into my left eye. Strangely it didn't really burn, but I did have to rinse out my contact and flush the eye for safety. It still feels a little sticky.

Then, it comes times to transfer items into a purse that matches my ensemble. This is the most hazardous part of the routine. I run down the list. Phone, iPod, book, lipstick, wallet, hand sanitizer, office bathroom key... okay, time to leave. Except, after I have left my apartment building and am crossing the street, I remember what I forgot- my Metrocard. Time to go back upstairs. I shuffle as quickly as I can in whatever insensible footwear I have selected for the day (this morning, it was platform espadrilles). In the courtyard, the lanyard I keep my keys on snags on the ugly chain-link fence around our "lawn" and falls to the pavement. Something is always falling on ground. I pick it up carefully because of my shoes and the fact that my skirt is catching the wind. I go upstairs, briefly wonder why I am in my apartment instead of the subway, and pause for a minute to try to remember my reasons for this alteration in routine. I locate the missing essential object and off I go to work, where I am always ten or fifteen minutes late. Except when I forget the essential object I need and fail to double back for the lunch I packed, which will greet me with a rancid stench upon my return.

Why am I so stupid in the morning? Some may think I'm just not a morning person, but I'm a sourpuss. I'm not an evening person or an afternoon person or a middle-of-the-night person, either. So here's my latest theory: I am schizophrenic, and my other identity is constantly trying to avenge itself because it is not my dominant personality. Sounds far fetched, I know, but there's really no a better explanation.

-B.S.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Rage Rage (Against the Dying of the M)

Well, after a relaxing long weekend full of highlighting the glories of NYC (I took Friday off to show my older sister & brother-in-law around town), yesterday underlined the pitfalls of city dwelling with a big fat jumbo-sized Sharpie.

That's right, I'm talking about the massive MTA service cuts that went into effect yesterday. I knew they were coming. On Sunday, I noticed the new subway maps everywhere. But I did not look at them closely until last night, when I was trying to figure out how you would distinguish between a Williamsburg-bound M train and a Bay Ridge-bound M train if the M is now going to Queens. It was then that I discovered that there is no more Bay Ridge-bound M train. They gave my train to Queens.

I know what you're thinking. I still have the R train, don't I? The M was infrequent and didn't run on the weekends, but now that it's gone, I realize how handy it was in bringing me to my transfer stop every morning. I start work at 9:30, a bit of an odd hour, so there usually aren't many other people at my subway platform when I arrive in the mornings; maybe twenty tops. The past two mornings, the platform was crowded with people, and there were no seats on a train which was usually half empty at that time of morning. And when I got to Atlantic Ave/Pacific Street, the crowds on the platform were also much thicker than usual. This morning, as I got off of the R train, I observed a stuffed-to-the-gills D across the platform. Ordinarily it would have been letting on transferring passengers like myself, but this train was ordered to wait with its doors closed until it could move again. I had to wait for a not-quite-as-stuffed N. The train crept the whole way over the bridge due to congestion, and meanwhile, I was struggling not to make physical contact with other passengers. It wasn't exactly on the level of the 4-5-6 at 8:30 am, but it was still twice as crowded as I am accustomed to. Typically I am never forced to stand so close to another passenger on my morning commute that I am in danger of brushing up against him or her when the train jostles me. It was tolerable. But it's not going to be that way anymore.

I marvel at how I could have been unprepared for this. It was in the news, but somehow I did not understand that my train was being taken away. Could the MTA not have spared a little extra cash to post some signs to the effect of "Hey people who ride this train, just a heads up that on Monday, you won't be able to anymore?" (Judging from the MTA's unbelievable pile of debt, I guess not.) Maybe they should have thought of that before carving up a huge chunk of 2nd Ave with those incredibly expensive machines that bore tunnels through bedrock.

Some made merry by holding funerals for the fallen subway lines and getting drunk illegally on the last ride of the W train, but yesterday, no one was celebrating, except maybe MTA execs who have pulled another fast one on us. No public forums, protests, or political action could have held this back any longer. Why? Because we're all at their mercy when we want to get to work.

This would be a good time to consider taking up alternative forms of transportation, except that I am still traumatized by the terrible bike accident I witnessed. (By the way, earlier this week, my husband came home with a mountain bike. I am still insisting that he buy a helmet.) But when you live in the outer boroughs, your choices are pretty limited. The kicker is that we will all be paying at least 7.5% more for our decreased level of service by next year. I was so mad this morning, I actually took down the addresses of my local representatives. I may even do some angry-letter-writing, if I get around to it.

Because that's going to have a huuuuge effect, I know. Still, I need some avenue for this seething rage. I think it would be really great if we designated one day as a mass transit boycott (preferably on the day my monthly pass expires). What would it be like if the trains and buses were running around town totally empty of passengers? Would that drive the point home?

No, it wouldn't, and do you know why? Because New Yorkers don't care enough about transit cuts to miss a day of work or maybe walk. We just accept our fate with a shrug and bitterly complain the whole way to and from work. Personally, every time I walk onto a crowded train, I contemplate moving somewhere, anywhere else, but the world of driving just doesn't appeal to me. I like to look up from my book and peer out over the East River every morning as I cross the Manhattan Bridge. It's just that the trains are too crowded to see out the windows now.

Friday, June 18, 2010

911 Call

This post will be a serious one, because sometimes, in a few seconds, life gets really serious. I was at my computer editing a project this evening when I heard the squeal of brakes and a crash out on the street. My kitchen windows face busy 4th avenue, so I have heard my share of fender benders happen out there. "Should I go look?" I wondered briefly, before jumping up to go to the window. I was expecting a minor scrape, both drivers pulling over to the side of the street, getting out of the car, exchanging insurance information... I witnessed this kind of seen no more than two weeks ago. But what I saw chilled my blood. I looked out the window and right below me on the street, there was a man laying face-down in the middle of the road, limbs bent out at odd angles. A small SUV was parked about six feet from the man, and the driver was getting out of the car. People swarmed into the street to help. My brain froze. Should I call 9-1-1? I had never done it before, but as I was inside my apartment on the second floor, it seemed like the best thing I could do to help. I sprang into the living room and grabbed my phone. I tapped the numbers deliberately. It all felt like it was an eternity. There was no ring. A man immediately answered and I started spewing out details frantically.

"A man was hit. He's lying in the middle of the road!"
"What borough are you in, ma'am? The Bronx, Manhattan--"
"Brooklyn! It's on 4th avenue right outside of my building. (Here I gave the cross streets). A man was hit by a car and he's not moving."
"He's in the street?"
"Yes, in middle of the street."
"And he's not moving."
"No, I don't think so."
"Okay, is the vehicle still there?"
"Yes, the vehicle is stopped in the street."
"Can you describe the vehicle."
"Uh-- red-- uh-- what do you call it? SUV. A small SUV."
"Can you see any license plate number on the vehicle?"
"No, I'm too far away."
"Okay, please stay on the line while I contact the dispatcher."

As cars moved out of the way, I noticed the crumpled bicycle in the median. My brain was trying to put together a picture of what must have happened. The dispatcher, a woman, was soon on the other end. The operator gave a brief description of the incident and the dispatcher said, "Yes, caller?"
I paused. Is she talking to me? Oh right, I'm the caller.
"Yes?"
I confirmed the incident location and she replied, "Yes, we've received multiple calls about a bicyclist struck by a red SUV at that location. We're sending an emergency response team."
"Thank you," I said, and I hung up.

It was so fast, but at the same time it seemed to take forever. I watched as people went into the street to help and dozens more congregated on the sidewalk to watch. Within a few minutes, an ambulance and a fire truck pulled up. EMTs rushed out of the ambulance and began touching the man in various areas to feel for fractures, while others gathered around his head. Some of the firefighters went to talk to the driver of the SUV. The EMS team brought out several plastic splints and appeared to be securing them around the man, while simultaneously loading out a stretcher, and that rolling thing that supports it. About four of them moved the man's body onto the stretcher, and as they began to move him, a woman cried out, "Oh my God, his he's bleeding all over the place! His head is bleeding!" The team lifted him and set him upon the stretcher, covering him up halfway with a sheet, and slowly moved him into the ambulance. I saw a round pool of blood on the ground where the man's head had been. He hadn't been wearing a helmet that I could see. The driver and the woman who had been in his passenger seat were on the sidewalk, watching. The man seemed calm and eager to cooperate, but I couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind. What it his fault? Would he face charges? I wondered this at the same time that I found myself praying fervently for the bicyclist in the ambulance. It seemed like they were taking far too long in there. I knew theoretically that emergency response was supposed to try to stabilize the patient before moving him or her to the hospital, but in reality, it seemed too slow. This guy must be fighting for his life, I thought, or worse. Were they not driving away because he was already dead? The ambulance stayed where it was. At one point, an EMT got out and seemed to take down the license plate number on the red SUV. The firefighters grabbed a hose and sprayed down the street, yelling at the people standing on the sidewalk to move out of the way. Away went the blood and discarded packaging and tools left by the EMS. An EMT had thrown a bottle of something into the street, and I heard the glass shattering. The whole time, cars continued to squeeze through in the far right lane. The firefighters directed the driver of the red SUV to move his car to the side of the street. I had thought the car was undamaged but then I noticed that the entire windshield was smashed. The cyclist had to have hit it before landing face down in the street. It looked like it had been a head-on collision. Though I couldn't be sure what happened, I thought perhaps the cyclist had crossed while the vehicle was making a left turn.

I almost got run over at the opposite corner of 4th avenue a couple of years ago, so I could easily picture it happening. I was crossing the street (with a white light, not a flashing orange one), and I saw a car coming to make a left turn. Since I had the light, I kept walking. I saw that the car was going fast, but I thought that it would surely stop. It was broad daylight and I was walking on a crosswalk, after all. But the driver, in his impatience, thought that he could avoid me if he made a really quick, sharp turn and cut in front of me before I reached the median. I don't know why people do that, but I definitely wasn't expecting it. All of a sudden, the car looked like it was going to hit me. It was a few months before my wedding, and an image flashed before me of going down the aisle in a wheelchair, because I felt like this guy was going to take my legs out of commission. The driver slammed on the brakes and I jumped out of the way, avoiding his bumper by perhaps a foot, as I let out a terrified scream. I've got a loud scream. The driver paused, probably assuming he had grazed me, but when I took a stunned step back, he peeled off as I yelled at him. I don't know what I said, but it probably wasn't my usual sort of language, and that driver definitely didn't stick around long enough to hear it. I went back to my apartment, angry, a bit embarrassed, and very shaken by the close call. Had I been one step closer, I could have been one of the over 100 annual pedestrian traffic fatalities in New York City. Over a thousand are injured each year, just crossing the street. Cyclists actually seem to be much safer statistically, but I'm absolutely terrified to ride a bike on a busy city street. I just don't trust myself to pay careful enough attention.

After about fifteen to twenty minutes, the ambulance finally pulled away, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Where were the cops? I wondered. It seemed like they should be talking to the driver and witnesses. The firetruck moved to allow for traffic. Finally, forty minutes after I made my 911 call, the police arrived. Two officers got out, with the firefighters quickly filling them in on what had happened. One cop lit a cigarette while the other went to talk to the driver. He got his license and registration and went back into the cruiser to run it. The smoking cop started talking to witnesses, still smoking. It made me mad to see him looking so nonchalant. I could hear the driver's voice but not well enough to distinguish what he was saying. I followed his hand gestures, which conveyed, "I was coming this way, and he was going that way." The cop asked the driver another question, and he shook his head vehemently. Perhaps it was "Have you been drinking tonight, sir?" But as much as I tried to fill in the script, I wasn't getting any closer to learning what had happened. I was shaking and I wanted to talk to somebody, but my husband was at work and his phone was off. So I decided to get all my thoughts out in writing.

Three hours later, the crumpled bike is still in the median. About a half hour ago, I looked out the window and saw a young guy walk up to the bike and stare at it. "Somebody had an accident!" he shouted to a man across the street. Five minutes ago, I saw a car backing up slowly in the right lane. The driver got out and inspected the bike. I thought maybe he was a detective or something, and the police were going to take the bike as evidence. But evidently it was just some schmuck who thought he'd found a free bike. It is the only thing reminding me that all of this really happened. I just keep thinking of the bicyclist and praying that he's still alive. I'll probably never know.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

By the Sea (of People)

So I decided to spend my Memorial Day at the Rockaways this year. Normally I hate going to beach when I think other people might be there to observe my vampirically pale flesh exposed to sunlight (people tend to watch to see if I'll suddenly turn to ash), but I was listening to the Ramones, and they made it seem so inviting.

I wanted to look like a much-less-sexy Brigitte Bardot, so I donned the swimsuit and beaded linen beach dress my husband bought for me on the isle of Capri. I topped it off with the floppy white straw hat I bought in Bermuda last year. It sounds posh, but it wasn't really. I guess I was a little bit out of touch with what Americans typically wear to the beach, considering I've observed The Real Housewives going there more often then I've been myself. My get-up made me look like one of the less-hot, less-tanned Housewives amidst a sea of cut-off shorts.

The hubs and I usually go out to Rockaway Beach a couple of times every summer, but this is the first summer in a few years that finds me employed full-time, during the day, so I wasn't quite prepared for the scene on Monday. Going to the Rockaways in the middle of the day on a summer weekday is pretty zen-like. Seth usually drives there, but because of holiday traffic, we opted to take the subway. It took only forty-five minutes going, but with all of the transfers, it was a hellish hour-and-a-half back, caked in sand and sweat.

But the sand and sweat weren't the only annoying thing about the day. There seemed to be teenagers screaming everywhere non-stop from the time we boarded the A to the time we got home. I played a lot of angry songs and used a lot of distortion pedals on my guitar back in those days, but I don't remember ever being loud. Annoying in appearance, perhaps, but not in an audible way, unless you count the aforementioned angsty musical performances in my parents' basement.

Do you ever wish the world had a volume knob? Or perhaps just your neighbors? The only thing I miss about the country of my youth is its lack of noise. And also having a pool. But mainly the quiet and ease of sleep. There are cicadas, frogs, and peafowl making noise at night, but no neighborly voices, or their music, or their TV, or their two stupid yappy little dogs. I'm aware that I sound like a crotchety old man, but well, I think that one half of me could be very happy as a hermit at the top of a mountain somewhere. But of course the thing about being a sourpuss is that I could manage to find something to complain about something regardless of my surroundings, so don't presume that any place would ever really bring me contentment.

Anyway, back to the beach. When I am going a long distance, my bladder tends to get what I like to call "nervous" about its ability to hold it in, so I had to pee again fifteen minutes after leaving the house. I know I was only going to Queens, but it gets just as nervous any time I'm going above 14th St. By the time I left the train, I had to urinate very urgently. Lo and behold, there were actually bathrooms in the subway station. But it was a one-holer, so I had to wait behind a few other women. While we were in the bathroom, a pack of three drunk/high teenage girls cut to the front of the line, apologizing by way of a "She pregnant." "Yeah, so are we," quipped a sour lady on line behind me. Yet two of them went into the bathroom, and they were so slight that I seriously doubted any of them were pregnant. They began to chant raucously while they were going about their business, so I decided to bust into the mens' room. (Don't worry, no one was in there.)

We finally got to the beach, and it was packed. We walked for about ten minutes toward where the beach was less crowded. "Oh look," I said. There was a big open space due south of a group of aging hippies. When we walked by, we realized why. It smelled like someone had lit the MotherJoint. Or like my college dorm. We trudged on past blaring boomboxes and groups of kids with projectiles, till we found a spot that was reasonably far away from either. It was alright.

Then the wind really kicked up, and blew sand all over my body constantly. I had gooseflesh, so I reinstated my cover-up dress, but my legs were still cold. A group of louder, younger teenagers joined the group of youth behind us. When I went to put on my suntan lotion, the bottle oozed all over my dress. My hat kept threatening to blow away. "Argh, I hate the beach!" I moaned.

Two hours later, I had to go to the bathroom, so we decided to pack up and go home. The line at the nearest public restroom was phenomenal. "We're going to be in this line for half an hour," said Seth. "It would make more sense to spend ten minutes looking for another place." So we reasoned it out and I left, grumbling. Eventually we found a bar.

Here's where the day turned around. We had escaped into the Rogers Irish Tavern, apparently virtually unchanged since it opened in 1919. The ladies room is actually outside of the place down a hallway because the place originally didn't serve women, and they haven't modernized much. It's a small place with a vintage jukebox and original wood paneled refrigerators behind the bar. I had a beer and let go of my disdain for the day. It had been alright after all.

We headed home, back to the crowded subway platform, where we finished a tub of my not-yet-famous Egyptian potato salad. We observed hipster interpretations of beach attire. All was divine.

I got home and took a gloriously long shower, washing the sand of disappointment from my skin. Never again will I punish myself by going to the beach on a holiday weekend, I resolved. But the thing is, eventually, I probably will.

-B.S.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Dental Sentence

I escaped work early yesterday, but not because it was nice out and I was slacking off. I had a dental appointment that, due to sensitive teeth and infected gums, I was seriously not looking forward to.

I'm pretty obsessive about my dental hygiene. It makes it much harder to accept dental criticism, such as, "You need to floss harder." But eventually I suck it up and increase my daily flossing time from seven minutes to ten minutes. I once heard that ideally, one is supposed to brush one's teeth for two full minutes, so I make sure I do at least four just to be on the safe side. I would say it's over-the-top, but my older sister spends about twenty minutes per daily session on her teeth, with high-tech electrically powered gear that shoots water between the crevices in one's teeth with laser-like precision. I don't have that much money, but I do have a gigantic toothbrush (that is also eco-friendly, because you replace the head every couple of months but keep the handle, which is earth-colored and made of recycled plastic bags).

I had a cavity once when I was about twelve, but it wasn't deep enough to need a filling, so I was always proud of my expertly tended teeth. It may have something to do with the fact that while in the third grade, one of my classmates brought her dentist father in for Career Day, and he showed us pictures of cavities and gum disease. I was so terrified by the experience that I didn't drink a drop of soda for at least two years, and I still don't really drink the stuff. I don't even remember having a toothache until about two years ago (unless you count tooth pain associated with the losing of teeth, or installation of braces, or whitening). So I felt embarrassed going to the dentist yesterday with a lackluster mouth.

Amazingly, the dentist didn't chide me for anything. He didn't tell me to stop eating treats or to floss harder (Thank God, I don't think I could stand more than 10 minutes of flossing per day). What he did suggest was even worse.

After filing down my troublesome left molar to adjust my bite, the dentist wiped my face and made a grave pronouncement. "Hopefully, things should improve in the next week now that we've adjusted your bite. I think, just to be on the safe side, you should wear a mouthguard at night."

"Wait, a mouthguard?" I pictured myself in one of my negligees, giving my husband a come-hither look and smiling to reveal a large mouth appliance. I shuddered.

"We can make one for you," said the dentist. "You'll just need to come back to get impressions made, then we'll send it off and have it molded to your teeth."

"Uhhh... Is it optional?" All I could think about was how dorky it would be to wear a mouthguard. And then I thought about how I am slowly turning into Liz Lemon, Tina Fey's character on 30 Rock. Funny characters on TV wear mouthguards. Sophisticated New York women would never be caught dead in one, right?

So naturally, I left without making an appointment to get impressions made for the horrid thing, and I went to pick up a bottle at Brooklyn Wine Exchange. I knew I was going to require some wine to recover from this blow.

Over a plate of hummus, I broke the bad news to my husband. "So... would you still find me attractive if I had to wear a mouthguard at night?"

"Preow!" said Seth, arching one eyebrow in his trademark jovially-seductive look. "That could be kind of hot."

I thought back to one instance early in our relationship when we were in the car and Seth suggested that it would be sexy if I could find stickers or something to make it look like I had braces. "Is that a part of your braces fantasy?"

My husband doesn't understand the horror of mouth appliances because he's never had them. When the dentist suggested he get braces as a kid, his father asked him if he wanted them. Seth said no, and his dad breathed a sigh of relief. I, on the other hand, did my time in braces, with all the fixins. The braces were followed by top and bottom retainers molded to the shape of my teeth, and the application of composite bonding to two of my teeth, which were replaced with veneers two years ago. I still remember the train track marks on the inside of my lips. To someone who never went through that, dental appliances may seem like an amusing novelty, but to someone with a thick orthodontic past and a high level of dental vanity, the prospect of wearing a mouthguard is deeply shameful.

"You'd be wearing it while I'm asleep," my husband pointed out. "I'd never notice it."

Which is true, because he always falls asleep first. And I keep the bedroom door closed at night, so not even my cat would ever see me with the mouthguard in. Why I am still hesitant?

I think I'll just have to approach this as I approached the wearing of braces: make it as colorful as possible. These aren't too bad, but I would really like a gold one, or something that resembles grillz.



-B.S.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Birthday Weekends, Visionary Artists, and Cat Poop

For starters, I apologize for holding off on the writing. I told you this was going to be tortuous for me. I hate to spend my free time sitting in front of a computer when I already do so eight hours a day at work. But write I must.

I had a whirlwind weekend south of the Mason Dixon Line so my sister and I could celebrate the birthday we share. When I was younger, I used to think it would be very cool to celebrate my birthday by myself, as if it were mine and mine alone, and not have to share it with sister. One of the pains of being a twin was that many kids would come to our birthday party with one gift, for us to share. I always had to share my celebrations growing up, so I thought it would be really great to do my own thing, have my own cake, and not have to coordinate with anyone else. But in truth, a singleton birthday felt lonely in comparison. So I either go down to visit my sister, or she comes up here, and we get a lot more attention at restaurants together.

We decided to celebrate at Mr. Rain's Fun House, which is the restaurant housed in the American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore. We browsed through the museum first, and I was very impressed. The pretentious-sounding title of the place made me think it was going to be a lousy museum, but it really is a great museum.



Have you ever browsed through a gallery and thought, "Hey, I could make that?" The American Visionary Art Museum is full of artwork made by regular people with full-time jobs, but the collected works are much more powerful in their earnestness. It is not called folk art, though many of the works embody folk art traditions. It seemed that all of the work displayed had something to say. I was particularly affected by quilts that Mexican immigrants had sewn, depicting the hardships of crossing the border, with the skeletal figure of death always present.

The museum also happens to have the most awesome gift shop known to man. I spent about an hour inside. It was a melange of joke shop items, jewelry, original artwork, quirky books, offensive greeting cards, and ironic memorabilia. It was unashamedly tacky, much like the museum it is housed in. In short, Baltimore at its best. We obtained two miniature crowns there to wear at jaunty angles on our heads during dinner.

We had a tasty dinner, followed by cake. I slopped a cocktail in my lap. My sister had a kidney infection. It was our definition of high times.

I don't like to dwell on the times when things go right, so I'll tell you about what went very wrong. The next day, my husband and I slept in late and packed up to leave. As we were getting ready to go, our cat, Gypsy, had some very stinky diarrhea in her litter box. Then, after we had packed the litter box, she went again on the carpet. I had a feeling of dread, but I told myself, "she never goes number two outside of the box."

Later that evening, in heavy traffic around Exit 4 of the New Jersey Turnpike, Gypsy became restless. She went into the back, and I smelled something horrible. "Oh God, she crapped in the car!" I moaned. It was so awful, it turns my stomach to write about it. We had to wait about twenty minutes until we got to the next exit, where we cleaned Gypsy and the items she had crapped on. Fortunately it was nothing too important, but I did have to throw out a reusable shopping bag.

"Honey, you can just wash that," said Seth.

"I will never, ever use that again, not even if you wash it ten times," I replied. So that and a plastic garbage bag that had protected some of my clothes went into the trash.

It took about another three hours to get home after that, and it felt like the longest ride of my life. Gypsy was sick for a couple of days, but she seems to be feeling better.



The irony of it all is that this event seems to have been foretold in the birthday card my husband made for me. It reads:

"Gypsy and I were brainstorming over what kind of card we should send you on your Birthday. Unfortunately, we decided to part ways... So, I decided to say Happy Birthday with this card... She decided to put a huge load of crap, stinky, stinky crap in her litter box [sic]."

Maybe Gypsy was trying to give me a birthday present, in her own way.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Swing Your Partner, Do-si-do

Saturday night, I had the opportunity to peek into another world. I was in a YMCA gym in Chinatown. A band was playing traditional reels with a Klezmer bent, due to a rather jazzy clarinetist. There were perhaps seventy or eighty people, from teenagers to septuagenarians, and they were dancing. Together.

Just a few blocks away from the pulsating gaggle of Lower East Side clubs, I was getting my first taste of contra dancing. A friend of mine had taken some English country dance classes through the organization that runs this contra dance night, and she invited me to come. I was curious. I had never heard of contra dancing, but she kindly included a YouTube video in her invitation.

Plug "contra dancing" into YouTube, and you get quite a range of results, from square-dance-esque to techno contra dancing beneath a blacklight. My personal favorite was a video billed as "Dirty Cool Contra."

When I walked into the YMCA gym and was reminded by the "Shoe Police" to clean my shoes, I had the sensation that I was in a Christopher Guest movie. The place was pretty empty at first, and it seemed like we were among the kind of people that like to attend Renaissance Faires in costume or go to Civil War re-enactments. I started to privately fret about whether being there would detract from my coolness, but my friend had some reassuring words for me: "This is a much younger crowd than English country dancing."

But despite a sophomoric worry over my grade of cool, I was curious. Why were these college students here? How did everybody find this place?

There was a mini-lesson for beginners starting, so we looked on. "You're probably all here because a friend brought you, right?" asked the instructor/caller. Everyone agreed, except for a woman who let us all know that she had found out about it on the internet. "I'm visiting my daughter from Michigan, and I wanted to see if there was any contra dancing in New York."

Lady, we have everything in New York. If you can think of an obscure subculture, it exists here. If you wanted to say, weave your own cheesecloth, there are probably five cheesecloth-weaving meet-ups in Brooklyn. But somehow, even I was surprised by the contra dancing. It just seemed like a room full of the sort of people I would encounter while performing at the Renaissance Festival in costume as a teenager (yes, I know it was uncool, but I only started doing it because my mom bribed me with a handmade leather collar adorned with a wolf-sword medallion and chains). It seemed strange that these people should be in the city, defiantly flouting the iron rule of fashion by appearing in t-shirts paired with patchwork flared skirts.

But I cannot pretend that the crowd was of uniform appearance. Yes, there were some country skirts in there, but there were also tattooed punk kids and a guy with a huge white beard wearing cut-off shorts. Also, there were people who appeared perfectly normal. I tried to concentrate on the dance steps I was learning. The gypsy, the do-si-do, the swing... it seemed pretty easy. But when the band started playing, I had no idea what to do.

The caller stood at the front of the room and named the steps. "Circle!"

"Whew!" I thought. "I can dance in a circle."

But then I was supposed to rotate and trade places with the person opposite me. Worst of all, I was dancing the lead (male) role due to a shortage of men. In contra dancing, one moves up and down a line of "neighbors," maintaining the same partner, but dancing with another group of people each time. By the time I got to the front of the set, I started to feel more comfortable, but then the dance was over.

A middle-aged Indian man asked me for the next dance. He knew what he was doing, which was a blessing. I kept apologizing as I continually forgot what I was supposed to do. I felt like I must really be annoying the people who were seasoned dancers as I blundered into their path. Contra dancing is a great way to meet people or spread disease, as you dance with literally everyone in the room.

Each song was about twenty minutes long, and I was starting to get dizzy from being swung around in a circle so many times. I didn't expect to sweat, but my bangs were plastered to my forehead. We broke for complimentary water and hand sanitizer. The dances were getting more complicated, and I wasn't getting any more offers for a partner due to my embarrassing showing on the dance floor, so I sat and watched. Old couples twirled with more enthusiasm than the college students. First-timers blundered about. It was honestly the oddest mix of people I've ever seen in one place, but nobody seemed to care about dancing with someone fifty years older or younger than themselves. It dawned on me that all this was fueled entirely by lemonade and oreos.

Despite myself, I had fun. Maybe it's because I'm such an abysmal dancer, and I enjoy looking stupid in front of strangers in the YMCA. No, that can't be it, because I quit the Park Slope Y for that very reason (looking stupid in front of strangers). I think I honestly enjoyed the personal interaction in that gym, though I would normally never talk to any of my fellow dancers on the street or on line at Whole Foods.

And that is what gives contra dancing its cache. It is almost cool- in a nerdy way. In fact, I'd be surprised if there aren't bearded guys and tattooed girls in Williamsburg contra dancing tonight as they knock back microbrews and home-cured sausages. It has just enough folksy charm to be appropriated by hipsters, just like antique bicycles and boater hats.

If I can say I was contra dancing two years before anybody in Williamsburg was doing it, will that convince you that I'm still cool?

B.S.

Friday, May 7, 2010

To a Birthday

The arrival of a few cards and many discount coupons in my mailbox recently reminds me that it is my birthday this weekend. Okay, I'm lying, I've been looking forward to it for a month, though I'm not really sure why.

The number 24 is not high enough to really give me any dread of my birthday, but it does give me pause. Didn't I just turn 21 last year? Oh, wait, that was three years ago. And that was the last time I truly had something to be excited about on my birthday.

It's not that I don't celebrate in style. Last year I went to Ninja New York for a fabulously gimmicky meal, during which a guy sneaked up behind me and stuck a sword to my throat. It was amazing. But there is something imminently disappointing about adult birthday parties, in that they always remind you of the pure joy of the birthdays of your youth.

Yes, I had awesome birthday parties back in the day. I happen to be a twin, so my sister and I always had a party, usually rather large and with a particular theme. Our sweet 16 was called "Rock the Boat," because it featured, yes, live music on a boat. Our third birthday, a My Little Pony-themed party, featured a horse, which came when the pony became unavailable at the last minute. Somewhere in my parents' basement, there's video footage of this event- every single kid in our town, crying while riding a horse. Birthday number five involved a Barbie impersonator, while six, a troll-themed party, included a magician. Number ten involved twelve of our closest friends squished into a limo with us, waving crazily at everyone we passed.

They were fantastic parties, giving my mother an opportunity to dazzle our small town with her event-planning capabilities. Accordingly, our 21st birthday was an 80s Hair-aoke party, preceded by a family dinner at Tavern on the Green (not in 80s garb). Myself, my sister, my then-boyfriend, now husband, and one of my best friends rode together in a carriage through Central Park. However, it took us a while to find the carriage, and everyone was running late, so our grand entrance went unnoticed.

This was the fabulous part of my 21st birthday. On the actual day, I went to see a friend of mine from high school play a show at the Knitting Factory. They were a weird electropop duo with filthy lyrics, which was somewhat novel a few years ago, but it was a Thursday night and hardly anyone was there. My freshman year of college, I went to try to see the Mountain Goats there, only to find that I wasn't the only Mountain Goats fan in New York, and the tickets were sold out. However, I gained entry without even displaying my ID. A guy at the door asked, "Are you planning on drinking tonight?" I said no. "We're gonna give you that option anyway," the sleazy door guy said as he planted a stamp on my hand.

But things were much different at the Knitting Factory on that night of my 21st birthday. I was excited about the prospect of displaying my ID to prove that I was 21. When I got to the door, I was smiling, expecting hearty congratulations for having finally reached the legal drinking age. The guy at the door stared at my ID for a while. I had a Maryland provisional driver's license on which my picture appeared in profile, and the words "Under 21 Alcohol Prohibited" were printed in red all over it.
"I'm sorry," said the guy. "I can't let you drink."
"But it's my twenty-first birthday!" I whined. "Why would I have a fake ID that said 'Under 21' on it? Are you trying to ruin my birthday?"
"We don't have to serve anyone who gives us attitude," said the idiot at the door.
"I want to speak to the management," I retorted. "This is ridiculous. I've waited twenty-one years for this moment."
The idiot grudgingly made a call and in the meantime, pulled out a black folder that contained various state driver's licenses over the years. "We don't have to go here," said my boyfriend in a soothing voice, but I was mad. Why was this guy deliberately making me feel like a criminal on my birthday?
Eventually, the manager came out, looking weary. She asked me for my license, and angled it under the light. "You have to look for the hologram," she explained to the idiot. "It's his first night," she said apologetically.

So I was admitted, but the bartender wouldn't immediately serve me, because he'd been tipped off not to by some minion, and I had to wait for communication to happen with the door via the minion before I could get a crappy, overpriced drink. I spent the rest of the night getting over it, so we ended up at The Delancey, where something weird was always happening. I stopped going there when what I thought was a costumed Halloween party turned into a pagan ritual. I'm not joking. The place is bizarre, but it has a small roof garden that is just the place for commiserating over one's ruined birthday.

But now there will be none of that. I have a New York ID now that looks like everyone else's, but I'm rarely asked to display it. It saddens me a little when I go to a bar and I am served without being carded. Do I really look so much older than 20?

But of course I do, and of course my body is taking its natural course. Maybe the way I furrow my brow as I ponder a wine list also has something to do with it. In any case, a birthday is just another day. It will end, like all others, with scooping poop out of the cat litter box.

Cheers to another year.

B.S.