You Can Be Gena Rowlands

The concert was, in a word, delightful. Crowded and singing and dancing and a gorgeous pressed-tin ceiling and chandeliers and Craig Finn gesticulating like a madman and twinkling behind his glasses just like one would hope. I bossed Penn into emailing me his thoughts about various THS songs throughout the day yesterday, and I emailed him a list of the top five songs I wanted to hear, and I think most of them got played, but it actually didn’t matter at all because I would have been happy to hear really anything.

But yall, there was this moment in which things seemed weirdly manic and panicky and dark. “We gotta stay positive,” Craig Finn kept singing over and over again, the title track off of the latest album. “We gotta stay positive.” And obviously everyone was bopping around and singing along, because it’s a ridiculously fun song. But it just made me think that like it or not, “stay positive” has become the 2009 mantra, by default it seems, for lots of people I know. Difficult things keep on happening to so many folks, and there’s nothing really to do but chin up and keep a sense of perspective. Which is the right attitude to take, and really the only useful attitude to take, but what’s hard is that there is no practical response to hard times except to adopt a cheery outlook.

“Sometimes actresses get slapped,” Finn sings, as “Stay Positive” trails into my favorite track on the new album, incidentally also the last song of the set. “Sometimes fake fights turn out bad.” Which to me encapsulates the reason that “stay positive” is an absolutely inadequate response in many situations. There often seems to be so little power over one's circumstances, and during these times, what people want isn't to feel blind optimism, but some sense of control. “This isn’t me,” one might think, as one finds oneself in a new job, or a new city, or the old job or the old city or the same apartment for five years longer than planned. “This is surely happening to someone, like, in a book. Not to me,” as the weirdly unexpected occurs and out of nowhere he’s in love, or she’s lost her job, or you and your friends are suddenly dog owners or pregnant or dealing with sick relatives. Or on the other hand, now you’ve technically been an adult for a decade, but psychic wounds still smart like hell after years and years, and you still beat yourself up over awkward turns of phrase, and you have freaking pimples at age twenty-eight. “But I didn’t choose this,” you protest. Well that’s tough, Finn seems to argue. “Actresses get slapped.”

But then the song takes a turn and suddenly there’s a suggestion, not a perfect one, but at least a sense of how to handle waves of unfamiliarity and scariness and the feeling that seriously the world as we know it is disintegrating. “We’re the directors/ our hands will hold steady,” Finn reminds the audience. “Man, we make our own movies.” Do we really? Not entirely. But these lyrics are enough true that I unclench. I close my eyes and applaud wildly and start to dance to the first notes of the encore.

Quick Poll

What do we think of the new look for LTT? Are the Victorian sidebar people swanky and fun, or are they distracting? Should I go back to the plain-jane version of the blog?

Thoughts would be appreciated and will be rewarded with hugs and Sweet Mint Orbit.

When They Kiss They Spit White Noise

Yall, I am seeing The Hold Steady in concert tonight!  I am so, so excited.  THS is one of my favorite bands ever--- basically an extremely poetic, yet extremely raucous bar band.  The band's lyrics are consistently haunting, funny, and compelling.  Craig Finn, the lead vocalist, describes over and over again the experience of living in the Midwest as a teenager and the passion and awkwardness and hurt and struggles with religion and outstandingly fun times that accompany growing up.  

One time I told N that I felt a little shafted for not getting to grow up somewhere like St. Paul or a suburb of Chicago, since THS makes it seem like those living in the upper Midwest get to live through the seminal American teenage experience.  He laughed and told me that he was pretty sure that people who grew up in Fort Worth went through similar things as kids in Minneapolis.  And of course he is correct.  

Everyone has experienced sparkling, caught-in-the-moment, fleeting evenings with friends when you can't imagine that things could get any better than they are right now.   "We had some massive nights/ Every song was right/ And all I wanted was time/ And your friends were pretty cool and my friends were acting cool."  I love how the last line cuts the absolute transcendence of the first few with a sense of anxiety that maybe the singer's friends are going to do something really out-of-control and ruin the whole evening.

Anyway, here's to massive nights.

In Which Amanda Learns About Grammar and Life

Last night I yelled at a friend about grammar in a bar.  

In case any of yall doubts the obnoxiousness of what went down, let me repeat.  I yelled at a friend about grammar in a bar.

This totally horrifies me.  But at the time, I absolutely could not stop myself.  We were all sitting on a banquette engaging in languid conversation at the end of a lovely night out, and someone off-handedly mentioned being confused about the affect/ effect rule.  My ears perked up.  There are so, so many things that I do not know.  I can only reliably cook two things: scrambled eggs and cinnamon bundt cake.  I have no idea how to dress for work.  I have spent the majority of my twenty-eight years trying to figure out how to prevent my hair from blooming into uncontrollable frizz when the atmospheric humidity level hits above, I don't know, five percent.  But I know affect/ effect.

Or at least I really thought I did last night.  In my best Tracy Flick tone, I stated the rule.  My friend listened, nodded, and then corrected my rule, "Yes, but."  I disagreed with her clarification.  Strongly.  Suddenly possessed by a monstrous sense of confidence, I persisted in pushing my version of the rule on my friend, my shrillness escalating alarmingly.  "You're just wrong," I kept insisting.  "I know I'm right."

Not only did I know I was right.  I somehow, in that moment, also believed that my insane behavior was acceptable.  Became totally blind to everything except how right I was, how wrong she was, and how everything would be fine once people saw that I was not crazy, I was knowledgeable at least about this one thing, and that I was definitely right.  Meanwhile, my companions were becoming more and more uncomfortable and I'm sure wanted nothing more than to direct the conversation back to match.com tactics or anecdotes about co-workers or getting dessert or whatever.

Was I actually right about the affect/ effect rule?  Of course not.  Dead wrong.  Not that it actually matters though, because even if I had been technically correct, I still had yelled at a friend about grammar in a bar. 

But, yall, the amazing thing about my friend is that, while she could have and should have chided me for The Crazy, she did not.  We sat for a few moments more.  Then we got up from the banquette, hopped into a cab, and left the bar to eat chocolate shortbread companionably and call it a night.

Who Needs Love When the Sandwiches Are Wicked and They Know You at the Mac Store

The always lovely Beirne mentioned pointedly to me yesterday that I have been neglecting Laughter Through Tears.  

This is true.  Allow me to explain.  Until this morning, I didn't have internet in my sublet, and thus I was forced to live as an itinerant blogger.  Actually, internet technically existed in my sublet, but I could not access it.  For whatever reason, my usually trusty Mac would not recognize the internet as transmitted through Catie's ethernet cord, and Catie doesn't have wireless.

For a while, I enjoyed traveling around the city in the search for wireless access and tasty snacks.  I frequented my favorite tea shop Amai and feasted on free internet and Earl Grey scones.  Sometimes I visited the as-delicious but heartier Bite to use its gratis wireless while enjoying roasted eggplant and hard-boiled egg sandwiches.  But a slight issue arose.  Both Amai and Bite open at 8:00 and close early in the evening, and these time constraints weren't super-compatible with my ability to show up to my AIG gig at a decent time and do my part to help pay back the government a rather hefty loan.  Err, rather, to do my part to log emails from folks calmly and politely inquiring about AIG's progress in paying back the government said hefty loan.

Also, I heard the other day from the guy who works at my UPS store that Amai will be closing.  It can't compete with Starbucks in this economy.  This threw me into a mild depression that lasted several days.

But then when I finally emerged from the doldrums, and after I had stockpiled a healthy coffer of Amai scones, I decided to take the internet issue into my own hands.  I would call the Mac helpline and, if necessary, bang down the doors of the Mac store until someone helped me fix my computer's internet-recognition mechanism.  I had been internet-homeless for three months, and enough was enough.

This morning I gathered up all available emotional reserves, got my phone poised to call the helpline, and plugged in my ethernet cord.  Except, um, the internet worked this time.  I checked the input where I plugged in the cord, and, yall.  I had been plugging the ethernet cord into the wrong input this whole time.  

I don't know if there is a clear moral to this story, but I do look forward to posting more regular entries on LTT.  Also, streaming episodes of Gossip Girl from the comfort of my own apartment.  It's a whole new world.

Unsolved Mysteries

Well I have at least started to get to the bottom of one of New York City's most perplexing mysteries. When I was dropping off my laundry at the inimitable M&N Cleaners this morning, I paused in my idle chit-chat to ask the proprietress a question that had been weighing on me for some time.

"How do you fold the clothes so tiny?" I inquired. "There has to be some special machine, right?"

"No. Three girls downstairs do it," the owner replied.

"By hand?" I was incredulous.

"Yes."

Now, this conversation didn't come close to answering my question as thoroughly as I would have liked. Are there special folding forms that the forementioned three girls use to guide their folding? Could I attend a seminar or take a course that would give me the same mad folding skills? How come these folding tricks haven't wended their way a mere two hundred miles down the East Coast to DC? However, it's a start.

Since my time in New York is almost at the half-way point, my hope for my remaining months here is to answer other NYC-specific conundrums (conundra?) that I have encountered during the first three months. Some of the most weighty issues are as follows:

1.) Cooking gyros and chicken in tiny, movable street carts cannot be sanitary. That said, gyro over rice with a side salad, white sauce, and hot sauce is basically the most delicious lunch imaginable. This lunch costs only $5 (which includes a drink and a free falafel ball!), and it yields enough leftovers for a generous dinner. So the concern is: how often can I eat this lunch and not render permanent damage to my digestive tract?

2.) Why, in the past three months, have I not yet been to the Heathers-themed bar in the East Village, the restaurant that specializes solely in macaroni and cheese, or Little Branch, my favorite pseudo-speakeasy?

3.) Faith and I burst into a liquor store last Saturday night giggling like sixteen-year-olds and very carefully picked out four mini-bottles of Stoli Vanila while discussing our plans to sneak said bottles into a screening of He's Just Not That Into You. So why weren't we carded? As Faith pointed out afterwards, these were prime carding conditions. Is my excellent face cream not working?

I will treat anyone with acceptable theories regarding any or all of of the above inquiries to a drink at the Heathers bar. And then best that person in croquet and hog the red hair bow.

Smite Me Once, Shame on You

Pseudonym update: One of my paralegal partners-in-crime from back in the day, himself a quite accomplished blogger and world-traveler, has on his own accord proffered several pseudonym suggestions for himself. He writes, “If I ever do anything noteworthy enough to make an appearance in your blog, I would appreciate a superlative religious moniker.” He then goes on to suggest “Light Of The World,” “Everlasting King,” “A Chief Cornerstone,” “Possessor Of Heaven And Earth,” or simply, “The Almighty.”

Yall. I mean. You know I do not want to discourage pseudonym submissions. But nor do I want to be smitten, struck by lightning, or trampled by some errant wild beast for breaking what I’m pretty sure is the number one “Thou shalt not” in Judeo-Christian theology.

Especially when, safety-wise, I really have enough to worry about simply by virtue of being an AIG secondee. Yesterday, my boss warned me against flashing around my AIG badge on the streets. Because passers-by have taken to spitting on AIG employees.

Poetry Whores

"Eve was the only woman on Earth who did not have to wait for love," an attractive young woman in a black flapper dress declared from the front of the stage, in the front of the room, in front of the velvet chaise lounge, on which Rafael and I sat listening attentively at 10:30 on Friday night.  The people surrounding us, attired in their best alt-cabaret frocks and shabby tuxedo jackets, nodded knowingly.  How true.

The woman onstage was the opening performer at the Poetry Brothel, a monthly happening in a West Village bar that touted itself as "a new and dreamlike twist on a poetry reading."  Rafael and I sipped our Negronis and vodka cocktails, respectively, and took in the scene from our perch.  A woman named Oola slyly slipped Rafael her calling card.

I found myself in conversation with a shy, slight man named Ben.  Ben introduced his companion, a small woman wearing a pompadour and a heavy vintage coatdress.  "This is Taryn," Ben said.  She glared.  "Lora Lee," she corrected him.  She pulled from her pocket a handful of small pamphlets, each no larger than a passport.  "These are my poems.  I'll be selling them later," she explained.  "How much?" Ben asked.  "Ten dollars each," she replied.  Ben laughed.  "Bullshit."

Rafael and I each took our turn cutting a deck of tarot cards.  "Think carefully," the woman who would read our cards directed us, "when you're cutting the cards, and keep in mind the moment where you are, in your life, right now."  We concentrated and followed her instructions.  "This card is the three of cups," she explained to me.  "This is a cheerful card, a very social card.  But do you see this?  This is the eight of cups, reversed.  You might find yourself stuck in life, repeating the same mistakes over and over."  "That reading sounds pretty ominous and negative," I ventured.  "I wish I had only happy news for you," she replied.

Various poets took their turns on the stage.  Lora Lee.  A woman wearing a feathered headdress and Courtney Love-smeared red lipstick.  A man whom the emcee called "The Butler."  Each poet had well-practiced diction, and each had intriguing things to say about love and life.  Mostly love.  A small band played haunting music between readings, accompanied by the sultry voice of a female lounge singer, which in fact emanated from a short, bearded man.

Two men sporting thick-framed eyeglasses complimented my new Annie Hall glasses, which I had worn particularly for the occasion, as well as Rafael's oversized, tortoiseshell frames.  We thanked them and returned their compliments.  One of the men surveyed the room and observed, "There's probably about ten thousand dollars' worth of eyewear in here."

The Poetry Brothel had cost fifteen dollars to enter, but this cover charge included a gold Mardi Gras dubloon, good for one free private poetry reading.  These readings (which were actually, thankfully, only semi-private) occurred in a back room, shielded by heavy curtains and barricaded with a velvet rope.  I decided to cash in my coin.  "Taryn, help her out," the man in charge directed the poetess in the vintage coatdress.  She led me to the back room to meet The Butler, a twenty-nine-year-old man actually named Matthew Yeager.  Matthew read me a lovely piece called "Black Socks, White Socks," about, presumably, the deep sense of ambivalence that accompanies maturity.  Fascinated as I am by any person with a creative, non-legal job, I grilled him about his work for as long as I thought polite.  He revealed that one of his pieces had been chosen for publication in The Best American Poetry 2005.

Rafael had been equally impressed with his own private reading.  "I bought this for ten dollars," he said slightly sheepishly, revealing a booklet of poems.  We agreed that that the personal readings were probably the peak experience of the Poetry Brothel, and accordingly we decided to leave shortly afterwards.  Walking away from the bar, Rafael showed me a tiny scroll of paper, onto which a short poem had been printed in delicate type.  The poem was signed by Oola, and she had dropped it, until now undetected, into Rafael's jacket pocket.     

Gold Star Find!

So it turns out that even in Lower Manhattan, which would truly be a retail wasteland were it not for Century 21, there are some pretty exciting bargains to be found on one’s lunch break. I took a slightly different route to the deli today, in order to avoid a mostly sweet but somewhat lecherous coffee cart clerk, and I stumbled upon the most wonderful book sale! The proprietress of a local pack-n-ship store had for whatever reason decided to buy out the inventory of some defunct second-hand bookstore and to supplement her own business by reselling these books. Um, jackpot, as far as I’m concerned. I ended up purchasing four books for seven dollars: The Stranger, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, The Bridge of San Luis Rey, and the seller threw in Dolly, a 1979 biography of Dolly Parton (with 16 pages of photos!) for free! I managed, but just barely, to get out without The Feminine Mystique and The Evil Twin (a Sweet Valley High super-thriller, obvi).

A Small Thought

I recently read that a key to contentment is seeking beauty in one's daily routine.  

In the midst of circumstances in which every day seems more like the last than not, what an extremely useful and comforting notion this is!

Why Amanda Is No Coco Chanel

So, I really, really dislike business formal. I have gone on countless rants to friends and loved ones about how I certainly understand the need to look nice and professional at work, but business formal is an arbitrary, unflattering, and uncomfortable way to accomplish this goal. Mainly though I think the issue is that I am totally insecure about wearing suits. I just do not understand them. I really like clothes, and I love putting together outfits, but I do not get how not to feel costume-y and frumpy-looking in a suit.

To wit: I own several suits, all of which I liked when I purchased, but very few of which do not now make me feel extremely self-conscious. Two of these are fine (Sleek Black and Kicky Gray), but Kicky Gray is really only a summer suit. Which leaves me during the winter months with one non-obtrusive, fairly tasteful suit plus:

*The Paula Poundstone: tan pin-striped, double breasted, enormous shoulder pads;
*The Annie Oakley: tan skirt suit with aggressive brown stitching as trim;
*The Junior League: black dress with matching, bell-sleeved bolero jacket;
*The "I'm Right on Top of That, Rose": black tweed skirt suit with big black buttons and yet another set of enormous shoulder pads;
*The Junior State Senator (TM Matty): pin-striped skirt suit with slightly-too-long skirt.

I know that the solution is either to suck it up, or to make a quick trip to Banana Republic to pick up a classy, stylish, fly-under-the-radar suit. But suits are quite expensive, and also I show no signs of ceasing to be very jealous of any suitless persons I encounter on weekday mornings (Meredith Viera, random NYU students). So I guess I'll probably just sulk about this for the foreseeable future. While trying not to wrinkle the Flight Attendant Circa 1984.

Sunday Night Movie

I just finished watching American Psycho, and for a movie about murdering and cutting up women, it's actually pretty good. Parts were extremely biting and funny. I loved the way the movie poked fun at New American restaurant culture--- the opening scene in which falling drops of blood were revealed to be artistic drips of berry sauce adorning a dessert place was a witty visual trick. The ensemble characters' oblivion to Patrick Bateman's increasingly insane behavior was also a frustratingly fantastic indictment of the inanity of yuppie Manhattan.

American Psycho was directed by a woman, and a decent argument exists that the movie's direction and its screenplay (also written by women) effectively culled a feminist film from its source material, Bret Easton Ellis' feminist-derided book by the same title. Critics have contended that the movie version of American Psycho demonstrates the devastating effects of masculinity at its most brutal. An unwarranted sense of entitlement taken to its extreme will result in extraordinary violence, even if such violence doesn't culminate in actual murder (the result of Patrick Bateman's insecurity in his position as a super-man) but in the psychic harm that ensues from treating others as sub-human.

I don't know that I quite buy this argument. Insecurity and competitiveness certainly are not only the domain of men. The claim that women do not experience these traits is untrue, and it relegates women to a position in which they aren't recognized to feel quite natural (albeit unattractive) emotions. Also, that the movie portrays all varieties of female objectification, from pornography, to semi-unwilling sex acts, to graphic murder and dimemberment scenes, complicates the contention that American Psycho is feminist. The movie definitely does not glorify such scenes; they are both uncomfortable and decidedly un-sexy. But can a movie that so insistently showcases violence towards women, even if directed and written by women, and even if such scenes arguably caution against stereotypical masculinity run amok, ever be a "feminist" film?

Duck and Cover

My group at AIG had an emergency drill during work the other day. The drill very specifically was not a fire drill: all of the attendees were given a handout titled "Emergency Action Plan (EAP): Non-Fire-Related Emergencies." We received strict instructions regarding the protocol for handling certain terrorist acts, and we were told to bring an "emergency kit" to work that would hold the supplies and provisions we would need if we were trapped for up to three days (three days!!) in the office.

The expected jokes and grumbling ensued about what provisions would make three days on the 28th floor of a downtown Manhattan office building, surrounded by co-workers, bearable. Everyone agreed that a substantial amount of vodka would be mandatory.

Undoubtedly, the best and most informative part of the drill was the forementioned handout. Not only did it contain helpful bullet points, printed in two fashion colors, but it boasted five extremely alarming graphics depicting the various non-fire emergencies that might affect my office building: Chemical Release, Blackout, Natural Disaster, Biological [Warfare?], and Nuclear [Waste? Explosion? Winter?].

I showed the AIG emergency drill handout to N, who remarked that the graphics had conspicuously omitted "corporate financial implosion."

The Hood

Catie recently confirmed that I can stay in her apartment through the month of June, which is a huge and utter relief. The idea of moving all of my possessions to a new place sometime during my six-month stint in New York was obviously quite stressful. But mainly I just really like where I am staying. The apartment is charming, and I am actually developing a nice routine around the neighborhood. I've figured out where the best laundry is, at what times I won't have to wait in line for an hour at Trader Joe's, and that the pork-and-chive "recession-priced" dumplings advertised at Vanessa's Dumplings on 14th Street are indeed priced to move ($1.49 for five) and delectable.

Amai, the tea joint up the street, is my favorite place in the neighborhood. I try to go there every day before work to Breathe Deeply and check email for half an hour before the craziness of the day sets in. Amai sells something like fifty kinds of tea, and I plan to try them all. I might actually go broke in the process, because tea and scones there are priced as if made of Pure Gold. Catie told me that she has seen Ethan Hawke at Amai, which impressed me deeply. Also, she reported that some main actor from Law and Order comes there daily.

So I'm at Amai currently, thinking about all of the stars that Catie has seen here, and seriously I am so bad with faces that I would never know if someone famous were ordering a cup of Malty Assam in front of me. I generally only see duos of artsy-looking, middle-aged women here discussing their children, their love lives, book recommendations. But wait! One of the women sitting at the table next to me (edgy haircut and glasses, check; Zabar's bag, check) just told her companion that she is currently "running a shoot" for Law and Order! I do not know what this means. I very un-stealthily eavesdrop to glean more information. Something about shooting schedules. Her job seems also to involve Ugly Betty, which is kind of interesting. Sigh. Where the hell is Ethan Hawke?

Tables for Two

Olive Garden Italian Restaurant ($$)

2 Times Square. Upon entering the Olive Garden Italian Restaurant in Times Square, one immediately is assaulted by layer upon layer of olfactory and aural stimulation. The scent of melting parmesan is not confined to the restaurant itself, but indeed hovers several blocks away from the neon-lit, can't-miss-it establishment. A dour hostess greets visitors with a strident bark, "Hour and fifteen wait. Hour and twenty wait." Such discouraging news daunts few, probably because elaborate specialty cocktails prove a most pleasant distraction while waiting to be seated. The Limoncello Lemonade comes especially recommended: this granita-like beverage tastes tart but not too acidic, and the sugared rim is thoughtful touch.

Cheese lovers will rejoice at the Olive Garden's menu. Salad, appetizer, and entrée alike all allow the chef to showcase his extensive talent for incorporating dairy elements into each offering. While the cheese is as tasty as it is plentiful, the bill of fare might disappoint connoisseurs, as the cheese options seem confined to the un-specified "four cheeses" that appear in nearly every menu item.

If parmesan and mozzarella do nothing for you, never fear. One also might feast on a tasty-looking chicken marsala, which is available stuffed (albeit presumably with more cheese) or unstuffed. An asparagus and shrimp risotto dish presents a lighter option for the health-conscious, if one manages to avoid the pats of butter that coagulate cunningly around its rice grains.

The wait-staff is enthusiastic, accommodating, and anticipates customers' needs intuitively. Novelty-sized bottles of red and white house wine come with the helpful recommendation, "It's not that expensive." The Manhattan suburbs have decided collectively (and accurately) that the Olive Garden is the perfect birthday party locale, and waiters summon mostly-believable gusto in fêting celebratees with songs and hand-claps. Bloated birthday party attendees are presented with a slice of cake to top off a thoroughly enjoyable meal. What kind of cake, you inquire? Well cheesecake, naturally.