Bookish

When your job by definition involves staring at a computer screen for8 hours daily -- seriously, we don't even have paperwork, and my presence is required at very few face-to-face meetings -- every so often, your eyes have to pay the piper. Meaning, I've been suffering from tension headaches come quittin' time most days this week, so for the sake of my prized 20/20 vision I've put a moratoriumon after-work computer use and most extracurricular reading (except for the book of the week on my morning commute. That's sacred). Which is all a very long, drawn-out way of saying that I haven't been updating the blog as much as I'd like. (But that's perfectly OK 'causeI suspect the readership includes only two or three of my friends, who talk to me all the time anyway. Hi guys!)

There are several new books I've been meaning to get my hands on:

Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis I consider myself a Bellis fan, even though I've read only two of his books: American Psycho, which I thought was brilliant although I had to skim over the most graphic parts, and The Rules of Attraction, which was just OK. (Back when the latter was first published, there may have been fewer print columns devoted to exposing the drinking, drugging, rich and spoiled and sleeping around nature of elite college students than there is now inthis I Am Charlotte Simmons age. Am I right? Maybe? And anyway, I read it the year after I graduated from a private liberal arts college, so my reaction was not shock, horror! but more along the lines of "duh." ) Anyway, definitely planning on picking up Lunar Park to hear what the author has to say about the 'burbs, but might not get around to it 'til paperback.

I must also add that I adore watching/reading interviews of Bret Easton Ellis. He speaks incredibly candidly and intelligently, even when the interviewer doesn't deserve it. I really wanted him to stand up and spew blood at Katie Couric, Patrick Bateman style.

On Beauty by Zadie Smith This one I might actually have to spring for in hardcover. Girl's wicked smart.

Indecision by Benjamin Kunkel I'm intrigued by the high-profile raves this has received, but it seems like the kind of book that would ultimately piss me off. Do I really need to read a novel -college ennui and confusion? I get enough of that with my inner monologue, thanks, minus the whining.

Plus, I already have a favorite young-f'ed-up-20-something-guy-in-New-York novel. It is The Frog King, by Adam Davies. Love it!

So long, Vaughn -- for real

Well, I got my wish! Even I felt a little sorry for poor Vaughn, getting mercilessly machine-gunned into oblivion -- until he SURVIVED to go to the hospital! How is that possible?! Quite the bulletproof vests they're making these days. Of course, then he bit the big one in intensive care. And I almost felt sorry for all those crazy Vaughn fans. Well, almost.

As long as Victor Garber's alive, I'm happy! Sigh.

Alias

I am a do-gooder, and please don't hump near my burger

I'm going to be a volunteer at the International Center! yaaaay.

After my volunteer interview tonight, finding myself in my old work neighborhood, I decided to hit up the New York Burger Co. for dinner. It appeared in our 'hood right after we moved offices and I'd been meaning to give it a try. Anyway, it was all kinds of yum. The burgers are just the right size, filling without being gut-bustingly huge, and the lettuce and tomato were surprisingly fresh, making it a very pretty burger indeed. I had mine with the NY Burger Co. sauce, which is sort of a thicker version of the brown sauce that the Brits put on everything. As for the fries, they're no US Open spicy fries, but they're crisp and not too greasy.

Having said all that, I have to say one more thing about the NY Burger Co.: it's not especially romantic. The lights are flourescent, it was scattered here and there with remnants of the day's lunch and dinner rush, and it's filled with people in fast food uniforms. Hey, that's cool with me. I'm there to eat my burger and leave. Others, however, come to the Burger Co. to get it on next to the soda machine. I mean full-on making out, in front of me, the line cooks, God and everyone. You're startlingly close to the condiments bar, and I'm scared to go get another pickle for fear I might see something that shouldn't be illuminated by flourescent lighting. In short, I must ask you to contain your mad lust or get your burgers to go. Thankyou.

OCness: The Sexpisode

Just so you know, I called the whole sex-and-death montage thing. And so it came to pass: while Marissa and Ryan were getting it on in a tiki hut, Jimmy Cooper was getting wacked by the Newport mafia. However, I was wrong about the dying part. Instead he's presumably sailing his busted face away to ports unknown.

Aren't you wondering where you've seen that "dean of discipline" before? Well, I'll tell you: he's "the Gregster" (gay football player who gets used by Pacey) from Cruel Intentions. No, I didn't need imdb for that -- I'm just. that. good.

Thus endeth the self-promotional OC rundown.

That is so Party of Five

-Watched: new CBS sitcom How I Met Your Mother. It's good, people! I can't remember the last time the first episode of a new sitcom actually made me laugh. And there was a shout-out to the F train. Holla!

-Purchased: Wake Up, Sir! by Jonathan Ames. This, too, is making me laugh -- out loud on the train, twice today.

-Anticipated: cannolis tomorrow evening when I visit the San Gennaro festival. Mmm-mm. And let's not forget the season premiere of Lost, Best Show on Television!

I went to look for pictures just now and found this. What is going on here? Is Jack going blind this season?

Indie guilt

CMJ is upon us, and I'm wrestling with the fact that I really don't care. To be honest, it sort of snuck up on me -- it's almost a month earlier than it was last year, or the year before that. As much as I love hearing new music, this love is tempered by my distaste for standing packed like sardines in tiny rock clubs (don't get me wrong; I love tiny rock clubs, just not the sardine-packing), when my fellow audience-mates are irritating hipsters and NYU undergrads who talk over the music and spill beer on my shoes. Wow, I sound like such a grumpy old fogey! As I sped down Allen Street in a cab last night, I spied the gaggles of indie rock kids queuing up for the 1AM shows and felt relieved that I'd spent my evening not with them, but in the company of O.C. Season 3, episode 2 at a friend's place uptown.

Because this is New York. All these bands are bound to come back in a month or two, right?

Here's a deep, dark little secret: I sometimes hate going to concerts in New York. I don't mean my friends' bands, of course, or other smaller bands of the CMJ caliber, but if it's a group who's reasonably well-known, I often can't be bothered, even if I like them. For one thing, shows sell out in the blink of an eye here. I'm willing to bet that I could buy my ticket at the door for an Arcade Fire show in my hometown, but here? Scoring a place in the audience involves advance research, and often lots of money (my rule of thumb: no show should cost more than $50, unless it's a) a multiple billing or b) U2). Of course, then I hear how David Bowie showed up to play with Arcade Fire in Central Park last night and I cry sad, sad tears because I wasn't there. Must start doing better research! Must sign up for mailing lists and visit band websites!

Here's another deep, dark little secret: I'm blogging at the office! ooOOOOooh.

Botched Kate Winslet sighting!

So Cyrus and I were walking down East 68th to the 6 train this evening, and as we were crossing Third Avenue we happened upon a happy little puppy trotting the opposite direction. He was golden and tiny and Pomeranian-ish, a compact ball of fluff bouncing through the intersection. At the other end of the puppy's leash was a tall, sporty-looking guy in what seemed like workout clothes, and next to him walked a woman who I didn't really take a look at. As soon as we passed them I poked Cyrus and was like, "lookit that cute dog!!" And he said, "Yeah. I think the dog's owner was Kate Winslet."

Whaaa?!


I can't personally confirm it was her; we have only one man's account to depend on. What was she doing on the Upper East Side -- I thought she lived in the Village? And who was the dude -- personal trainer? It wasn't Sam Mendes, I don't think.

Well, shoot. I think Kate Winslet rocks, and I would have loved to have seen her in person. She foiled me by deploying her super-cute dog -- a dirty trick, I must say. Ah well.

Stuff and things

-OK, now the '90s XM Satellite Radio channel is really pissing me off. You have the entire '90s at your disposal... and you choose to play the Sixpence None the Richer version of "There She Goes"? Whatever happened to The La's?? I just double-checked, and theirs was released in 1991.

-Speaking of "There She Goes," it's mentioned in a Slate article in which readers complain about commercials that completely disregard the meaning of the songs they're employing to sell their product. Like "Lust for Life" in those Royal Caribbean spots: "Nothing says maritime comfort like a song about shooting up junk." Well, I suppose it does help with the seasickness...

-And speaking of nothing in particular, I saw a boy in a red Merc t-shirt today! In Midtown, no less! Oh Merc, I'd almost forgotten about you.

I Heart the '90s

One of my coworkers turned me on to the '90s channel on XM Satellite Radio, and I'm absolutely, completely hooked. I've been listening to it nonstop for the past two work days, to the detriment of all other projects. When they say '90s, they mean it -- the channel is completely exhaustive, from the last throes of hair metal to early-mid Britney. It's been a reeducation of sorts.

In 1990, I turned 10. I started that decade as a fourth grader and lived through middle school, high school and even a couple years of college before the millennium turned. They say that the music playing in the background while you're young is the music that sticks with you forever, the songs you'll love and be nostalgic about for the rest of your life. If this is true, god help all of us '90s children.

There's a classic line in High Fidelity (both book and movie) in which Rob says something to the effect of "I grew up listening to songs about heartache and loneliness -- no wonder I'm a mess. Did pop music make me miserable, or am I miserable because I listen to pop music? Which came first, the music or the misery?"

Well, what about really, really bad music? What of kids who came of age to lyrics such as "Rhythm is a dancer" or "Girl, I know you really love me -- you just don't realize" or "Am I Johnny Ray? Am I Jimmy Ray? Who wants to know, who wants to know about me?" Who, indeed. I applaud those of us who made it through the '90s with any sort of taste at all. Let's all take a moment to pat ourselves on the back, and to remember lessons like "You can buy your hair if it won't grow/ You can fix your nose if he says so."

They play a hit from TonyToniTone and I'm back in my fifth grade classroom, having dance-offs during an indoor recess (we were a funky bunch of suburban white kids). That's where I first heard gems like "Poison" or "Ice Ice Baby" -- which, granted, also see me savoring beer out of plastic cups at college parties in 2002, not to mention a bout of drunken karaoke with the softball team two weeks ago. But every once in a while they'll play a song I literally haven't heard in a decade. It'll be absolutely horrible -- cheesy, club-lite synth beats, meaningless lyrics -- but all of a sudden it's 1992 and I'm comparing tans with my friends at the public pool, or riding through a strip-mall parking lot in the back of my mom's long-gone minivan, or talking about C&C Music Factory during homeroom. (For some reason it's usually summer in these memories, and the sun is bright and hot.) Go a few years later -- Natalie Merchant's Tigerlily album, maybe -- and I'm driving around in my own car, to and from high school practices or through the winding neighborhood streets at night after all the traffic lights have shut off. And the 2005 computer-bound me will be gleefully IMing my office cohorts who are tuned in to the same station, to see if they, too, are bearing witness to "Don't want to fall in love" by someone named Jane Child ("I don't wanna fall in love/ Love is just like a knife/ You make the knife feel good"). Bands I couldn't stand at the time -- I'm looking at you, Gin Blossoms -- are now embraced like prodigal children. How could I ever have switched the station on that song by Sister Hazel?!

Mainly, '90s XM radio makes me feel really freaking old. Have I already reached the age where it's possible to embrace utter crap simply because it's reminiscent of the good ol' days? Like a baby boomer who waxes nostalgic about the Animals or the Beach Boys, I'm inextricably linked to Biggie and Tupac, En Vogue and Sublime, Pearl Jam and Jock Jams ("Come baby come baby baby come come..."). But I'm resigned to my fate. I have lived without my Toad the Wet Sprocket for far too long, and I'm now downloading their entire catalogue.

Criticizing the Critical Shopper

Every Wednesday when the New York Times Style section email arrives in my in-box, I say a little prayer that there's a Critical Shopper inside. Of all the unintentionally hilarious Times style features, this one is by far my favorite. Even the concept is a little nutty -- writer Alex Kuczynski journeys from store to store, sometimes across the country, and bestows upon us her impressions of shopping there. Imagine if a strange breed of upper-class Manhattanite alien was beamed down to your hometown's mall for a spin around the local Gadzooks, and then filed an article on it (O.K., they haven't yet featured Gadzooks, but I'm patiently waiting).

By far my favorite of recent months is the expose on Kitson, the L.A. boutique much vaunted in the pages of US Weekly and other celeb-centric mags. As it turns out, under Kuczynski's critical eye, Kitson was revealed to be not that cool of a store, full of silly t-shirts and kind of messy to boot. And then the sun went dark and the Earth spun off its axis.

However, this week's exploration of J. Crew is almost as good. I'll break down the most relevatory parts for you:

- Thanksgiving is the preppiest time of the year. Also, gin and tonics are the preppiest drink.

- The other shoppers look nothing like J. Crew models. (Repeat: the other shoppers.) But they secretly want to. Don't you know that's why they're here, poor things??

- Fat children shop at J. Crew. They can only aspire to argyle.

- First rule of shopping at J. Crew: never, ever speak of the fact that your clothing is from J. Crew. If you must, lie and say it's Prada, or an ill-conceived piece from Ralph Lauren.

- If you're a well-known reporter from the New York Times, the sales people might remember to tell you they can messenger over your purchases.

- The key look here is "collegiate good health." If you're looking for college kids with STDs and acne, move it to the Gap, son.

Here. Read and learn for yourself.

Into the great wide Open

Thanks to Rebecca, we went to the U.S. Open for free again this year. I've never followed tennis as rabidly as some, but I love the Open. It's the most good-natured, civilized sporting event I've ever been to. No yelling "you suck!" at the opponent, no throwing of trash, no conspicuous overconsumption of alcohol. Everyone's just thrilled to be there to watch their favorites slug it out, to dance to the cheesy music in between sets, to laugh good-naturedly at whoever's on the Jumbotron.

At one point, there was a guy sitting behind me who somehow found a way to work the word "service" into every sentence. "Venus Williams just hasn't brought her service today." "Oh, good service." "That service is a little off." "Oh, there's her service!" At any other event, I'd mutter something under my breath like "Say service one more time, beeyatch!" but somehow at the Open, these things make you want to laugh and smile and eat more spicy fries (oh, the spicy fries!).

Probably my favorite thing about the Open is this: If you decide to be a jerk and do something idiotic to distract play -- like yelling into Venus Williams' serve, or throwing a ball onto the court during a tense moment -- you will be roundly booed by everyone in Arthur Ashe stadium. The people sitting around you will obligingly stand up and point you out, so everyone knows where to direct their ire. But of course, the ruckus comes to a stop once the referee silences the crowd with a terse "Thank you." I love it! Can you imagine this happening at a football game? No, you cannot.

(Speaking of football... GO BUCKS!)

Action figures -- now with more action!

Go see The 40-Year-Old Virgin. For real. It's the funniest movie of the year. But is it funnier than Wedding Crashers? everyone seems to ask me. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. And it's just so sweet, too.

One of the main traits of Steve Carell's hapless character is that he owns a lot of action figures, and they're displayed all around his apartment. He collects them and lovingly refurbishes them when they need a new coat of paint (or when he's bored on a Friday night). This is presented as a corollary to virginity: the amount of action figures collected and displayed around a grown man's apartment is inversely proportional to the number of chicks said dude might bed. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here to tell you this is not necessarily true, and I have heard it disproved with my own ears. Witness the following overheard conversation:

A Saturday night/ Sunday morning at 3AM.

Tipsy girl: Heehee. So this is your apartment.

Friend of mine who will remain nameless: Yep, come on in.

Girl: Wow...you have a lot of action figures.

Friend: Yeah...I have more in my room.
Footsteps, followed by shutting of door.

And it WORKED! Can you believe that? Clearly alcohol was at play, but still. Adult comic book geeks of the world, take heart -- subtle wordplay may be your saving grace.

There now. Don't say this blog never lived up to its name.

Narcissian Tragedy

I was hopping around on the blogosphere today and came across this item, courtesy of Lindsayism: it seems that well-known blogger Stephanie Klein has accused another blog of plagiarizing her work.

I don't read Ms. Klein's blog. I tried once after she was profiled in the Times, but I found I couldn't get through a single entry -- they're too long and self-analytical and filled with the kinds of things I can't imagine would be of interest to anyone who doesn't know her (though that's apparently not the case, judging from her reportedly wide readership). But it seems to me that she's afflicted by the same misconception that plagues a lot of newbie writers and freelance journalists and gets dispelled very quickly (or rather, it should) once you've been in the game or spent any amount of time on an editorial staff. Quite simply: your ideas, your opinions, even your personal experiences, aren't anywhere near as original as you think they are. If you've thought of an idea for a piece, odds are that someone, somewhere, has also thought of covering the same thing in a similar way. Think about it: we all live in the 21st century; we watch the same TV shows (ahem, Sex and the City, Ms. Klein), have heard of the same bands, read the same books in college, have been to the same places -- hell, many of us media folk live right here in New York. The result? No idea exists in a bubble. It's born of the same influences and experiences that shape everyone else's ideas. To believe otherwise is the equivalent of a first-grader yelling "copycat!!" to the teacher because some other kid also drew a blue house during fingerpainting hour.

I can see why this might have failed to register for Ms. Klein. She hasn't worked as a professional journalist, she's never before had an audience for her written work -- let alone a nationwide following -- and she's receieved a lot of publicity and praise for her blog. But dude, you have got to let it go and stop jumping all over people. If they want to satirize you, let 'em -- it's their right, and face it, you're an easy target. If someone, god help them, really is imitating you... so what? It doesn't matter. It really doesn't. Also, plagiarism is a much dirtier word than you think it is. You don't point fingers lightly. I won't innumerate all the ways in which your case doesn't fit the bill, but there's no way in hell. Sorry. (And not to bite the hand that feeds this blog, but I have to wonder at Blogger for the role they played in encouraging Ms. Klein's unfounded ego-tripping -- namely, shutting down the accused copyright-infringers. Why??)

I'm no self-styled superstar journo-blogger, but I did have the random experience of having a feature I put together at work magically show up on the pages of Reader's Digest. It was pretty clear that they'd seen it, liked the idea, and devised their own little charticle using a lot of the same information I did. And you know what? It was awesome. I got to run around for a week telling my friends how Reader's Digest ripped me off. Hey, I'll take my flattery where I can get it.

Here comes the story of the Hurricane...

This landlocked-Midwest-raised gal came closer than she's ever been to a hurricane on Monday. We experienced Katrina from the vantage point of our ill-timed four-day vacation in Walton County, Florida (on the panhandle, just east of Panama City). Mostly, this meant a smattering of rain, very high winds for 24 hours, and a beach, already ravaged from the season's previous storms, that vanished as if it was never there. It wasn't particularly dangerous for us. One perky out-of-towner interviewed on the local news actually described it as "totally awesome!" Um, I hope you meant that in a Biblical sense, honey, because the reports coming out of Louisiana and Mississippi are totally horrific and scary. Impossible to wrap one's head around, really, and there's no way I could write anything insightful about it, so here are two links:

Network for Good :: Home

Hurricane Katrina - Slate's take on the natural disaster.
particularly: Jack Shafer