Award Season

Award season is finally upon us (I know there's a writer's strike on, but I'm using this opening for dramatic license). There's the Golden Globes, the Academy Awards, the SAG Awards, the People's Choice Awards, the Tony Awards, the Grammy Awards...the list goes on and on. However, the best awards of all (and my personal favorite) are the Darwin Awards.

The Darwin Awards were started in 1985 and are (per Wikipedia):"...a tongue-in-cheek honor named after evolutionary theorist Charles Darwin. As described in the Darwin Award books: The Awards honour people who ensure the long-term survival of the human race by removing themselves from the gene pool in a sublimely idiotic fashion."

There are stellar acts cited but there can be only one winner. Here is, courtesy of the Darwin Awards, the deserved winning entry:

THE ENEMA WITHIN (Confirmed True by Darwin)
May 2004, Texas | Michael was an alcoholic. And not an ordinary alcoholic, but an alcoholic who liked to take his liquor... well, rectally. His wife said he was "addicted to enemas" and often used alcohol in this manner. The result was the same: inebriation. And tonight, Michael was in for one hell of a party.

Two 1.5 litre bottles of sherry, more than 100 fluid ounces, right up the old address!

When the rest of us have had enough, we either stop drinking or pass out. When Michael had had enough (and subsequently passed out) the alcohol remaining in his rectal cavity continued to be absorbed. The next morning, Michael was dead.

The 58-year-old did a pretty good job of embalming himself. Toxicology reports measured his blood alcohol level as 0.47%.

In order to qualify for a Darwin Award, a person must remove himself from the gene pool via an "astounding misapplication of judgment." Three litres of sherry up the butt can only be described as astounding. Unsurprisingly, his neighbors said they were surprised to learn of the incident.

As absolutely absurd as this stupidity was there's even more, including a couple attempting to have sex on a pyramid roof of a house and a commuter working on his laptop while driving. Is this a great country or what? Full stories can be found here.

To quote one of the Darwin Awards mottos: "The Tree of Life is Self-Pruning"

You Call That a Prom Dress?!

I watched the prom dress challenge on "Project Runway" last night and was only mildly impressed with the results on the runway. Seems to me that the designers were lacking in real inspiration. They clearly missed some of these real life prom ensembles that express personal style and defy description. What do you think?












And good grooming makes all the difference, so don't forget to do your nails.

That's Good Eatin'

The Queen Bee was driving down to Baltimore on business. She called me mid-day regarding some business matter. There was copious noise in the background. "Where the hell are you?" I asked. "I'm at a truck stop somewhere in Pennsylvania," she said, "and I've stopped here for lunch." "You're in Pee-Ayy?" I replied, "You gotta try the scrapple." "I don't know what it is" she said firmly, "but I'm sure it's disgusting."

That depends on your point of view. A conjunction of pork bits shaped lovingly into a loaf and pan fried says loving to me. Served with eggs or with some basic side dishes, you got yourself a meal you won't soon forget. You don't see scrapple much up here in these parts; toddle down south and you'll see scrapple on every page of the menu. It complements breakfast as effortlessly as it does dinner. I'm not sure what Morewines would suggest but I have to think a nice Riesling might pair well with scrapple.

What's that you say? You don't know what scrapple is? Thank God we have Wikipedia to clearly outline what constitutes this wonder food:

Scrapple is typically made of hog offal, such as the head, heart, liver and other scraps which are boiled with any bones attached (often the entire head)to make a broth. Once cooked, bones and fat are discarded, the meat is reserved and dry cornmeal is boiled in the broth to make a mush. The meat, finely minced, is returned and seasonings, typically sage, thyme, savory and others are added. The mush is cast into loaves and allowed to cool thoroughly until gelled. The proportions and seasoning are very much a matter of the region and the cook's taste. Scrapple is best known as a regional food of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland.

I don't think the Queen Bee actually tried the scrapple (maybe she can add that to her version a "bucket list") so I didn't even tell her about puddin' meat.

To best describe this gastronomic delicacy, Fang told me a story about a visit to a restaurant while in Stroudsburg, VA on business. He and his colleagues saw puddin' meat listed on the menu. Being adventurous eaters, they asked the waitress what puddin' meat was.

"Well you know what scrapple is, dontcha?" she asked.
They nodded.
"Well, puddin' meat is more liver and less cornmeal."
They passed.

I say you should everything once, no?

Dinner à Trois

I was working in New York today and had dinner with Mamela and The Glamazon. The three of us established a tradition a few years back: on the occasion of one of our birthdays, we treat that person to dinner at an eatery of their choosing. We used to go to the theater afterwards (the play being the birthday celebrant's choice as well), but after I forced Mamela and The Glamazon to sit through a three hour performance of Ray Fiennes in "The Faith Healer," the kibosh was quickly applied to that part of the tradition.

The Glamazon celebrates her birthday on Christmas, an irony (which she points out every year) because she's a nice Jewish girl from Queens. Tonight she selected a Lebanese restaurant on 28th Street. She'd eaten there a few weeks before and wanted to go there again. This forced Mamela to blurt, "Whaaa? You live in a city with 15,000 places to eat and you wanna go there again?" Yes, The Glamazon did want to eat there again and well, you'll just have to suffer through the meal because it was her birthday and her choice. So there.

Watching Mamela and The Glamazon verbally spar is pure sport. They're both nice Jewish girls from Queens of the same generation. The Glamazon is a little neurotic but very ladylike. Mamela is an in-your-face-tell-it-like-it-is New Yorker. And I'm the referee. Once we sat down at our gleaming table in the dimly lit venue, it was game on. In fact, they were so enthralled in their opening gambit, they were oblivious to the fact that I was recording their dialogue in a small notebook. Only once did Mamela say, "What are you writing there? We're talking here. Get involved!"

The opening gambit started thusly:

Mamela: I'm so hungry. Are we getting wine? They make very good margaritas here. Delish. Maybe we should get a bottle of the Persian wine.
Me: I'm not eating sugar. And this is not a Persian restaurant.
The Glamazon: I don't want a drink tonight.
Mamela: Whaa? How boring are you? It's your birthday dinner. You have to have a drink. It'll make you less uptight. We'll get some middle eastern wine, wherever they grow it. You'll like it. (to me) Why aren't you eating sugar? That's not healthy.
The Glamazon: I was out of Ambien. I didn't sleep last night. If I have anything to drink, I'll fall asleep.
Me: Is that a bad thing?
Mamela: You should have a drink. You had two glasses of champagne at the Christmas party and I thought you were going to start dancing with yourself.
The Glamazon: I did not get drunk. Is that what you're saying? Oh, please. I'll just have a ginger ale.
Mamela: You are so boring! I want some wine. Look, they have a nice pinot grigio.
Me: Where's it from? Turkey?
Mamela: No, Italy.
We all put on our reading glasses and study the menu. The waiter swoops in.
Waiter: Bottled water for the table? Sparkl--
Mamela: (Not looking up from her menu) No, we'll have good old New York tap water with ice and lemon, thank you.
The Glamazon: Oh, I want the Baba ghanoush and some hummus and tabbouleh...
Mamela: Are you not having a drink because you're watching the calories again? Please!!
The Glamazon: ...and some lamb. We all like lamb, right? (All nod, still studying our menus)
Mamela: Don't get the bread salad. It was a waste of money. All bread and no salad. I like the mixed grill. Let's get that for the table.
Me: Are we doing family style again?
Mamela: Of, course, we all get to try a lot of little things. Like tapas.
Me: That's Spanish, by the way. Maybe they have some Spanish wine. Or Sangria.
The Glamazon: I thought you weren't eating sugar.
The waiter returns with the good old New York tap water.
Mamela: Where are the lemons?!
He scurries off.
Mamela: (takes off glasses and addresses the table victoriously)OK, we'll get the mixed grill and the lamb, the hummus and tabbouleh and let's see what kind of vegetable they have.
The waiter timidly returns with the lemons. Before Mamela can order, he speaks.
Waiter: Can I get you something from the bar?
Mamela: I'd like a glass of this wine (points to wine list). Is it good? (Waiter nods). Good. I'm glad you said so. I'll trust you that it's good. (waiter looks anxious)
The Glamazon: I'll just have water.
Waiter: Just water?
Mamela: She's pregnant!!
The Glamazon: I am not. I just don't want a drink.
Mamela: (to waiter) I'm just kidding. We're too old to be pregnant.
Me: (quickly) Please bring me a Bombay Sapphire gin martini up with lime...and quickly, please.

It was quite a night.

The Wintertime Blues

I'm feeling a bit low today, one of those listless, restless, slightly agitated feelings that you can't attach to any one event. I think it could be a number of factors all rolled together to create one big ball of dissatisfaction. It could be the gloomy winter sky, the dead profile of trees and faded straw like lawns. Brisk cold air does not feel refreshing--it feels harsh and bad tempered. My skin (despite copious applications of thick creams) looks and feels reptilian and as white as parchment. My ass seems so broad that you could rest a pizza on it...along with a six pack of beer. My clothes don't seem to fit me. I'm bored with cooking. With the writer's strike on, there's nothing good on television and I've watched every realty show that you can imagine. It's a chore to shave your legs every week. I'm sick of drinking tea. I can't concentrate to read. I'm close to wallowing in utter ennui. Or that's just how I'm feeling today here in the dead of a friendless winter.

If this keeps up, I may resort to buying one of those seasonal affective disorder light boxes.

Buffalaxed!

Hollaback posted this on her blog recently and I have to say, I can't resist copying her. This is seriously hilarious and has to be shared. Goats and nuns, indeed!

It's OK to Look

A friend of mine recently commented on a typical aspect of male behavior. When out with her boyfriend, she's observed the way he checks out other women's attributes while also furtively trying to disguise the fact that he's looking. Here was my mistake. "Why don't you let him look? It's perfectly natural to look people over." She was indignant. "I don't want him checking anyone out but me." Oh, please. What a boring world this would be if that was the case.

Then I made my second mistake. "Well, don't you check out men's crotches?" She looked shocked. "Oh come on," I continued, "it's the very same thing." "I don't even check out my boyfriend's crotch like that," she replied. Such a liar.

I'd hope the learned folk who favor me with their comments on this blog would agree; we do check people out and should say so. It's in our chemical make up. For those of you that lean towards men, I know you must check out the crotch. Don't you? I freely admit that I do--sometimes, it's almost involuntary. It takes stealth movements to carry a conversation with a man, retain eye contact and wait for that one moment when they avert their eyes so you can glance downwards. It certainly helps if they are sitting and most certainly helps if they are wearing jeans. And bonus points if I catch them checking out my rack at any time during the exchange--that makes me feel less guilty if my eyes wander. To me, this is perfectly natural behavior...the human version of dogs sniffing one another's bottoms.

So I relayed this little same diatribe to my friend and she just looked at me blankly. "Something's wrong with you. Most women are not that way," she said. I could not leave it alone. I cited the scene in the movie "What Women Want" where Helen Hunt checks out Mel Gibson's crotch; in fact, she does it twice. If it can be represented in a film, it has to be something a majority of the audience can relate to, right? Then I thought of some of my online friends and their tendency to upload photographs during online chat of a certain singer's endowed nether regions. And trust me, we all seem to appreciate it.

Seems to me that my friend is in the minority.

Bloody Hell

If she were still living, my maternal grandmother Hilda would have been 95 today. She passed away 8 years ago but I find myself doing things daily that recall her so for me she's very much alive. I say this without a drip of sentimental slop but with the full conviction of truth--she was, to me, a serious inspiration: a woman well ahead of her time and someone who combined Monty Python style humor and Mrs. Miniver fortitude. If that makes sense.

Hilda was a forthright and ballsy woman. She wasn't afraid of stating the truth and she wasn't timid in how she approached the realities of the world. You never had to sugarcoat facts with her and she would offer you sound council. She was wonderfully affectionate and equally blunt. She loved her cigarettes and her endless cups of tea. She swore like the English working class girl she was at heart and growing up, I often heard her exclaim in exasperation, "Oh Bloody Hell!" or (the family favorite) "SHIT!" She was bold and energetic and someone I adored completely.

She had a hard life. Born in 1913 in London, she was raised in a very poor working class English family. She often told me stories of the poverty she faced at a young age. At the time I thought it was a guilt tactic but I later realized that it was, in truth, an incredible treat for her to get an orange for Christmas in her stocking. Forced to leave school at age 14 to go to work, she always resented the robbery of her education in exchange for a family paycheck. She felt keenly the lack of her education. In an effort to improve this deficit, she began to read--yes, read--the dictionary. She became quite erudite doing so. In her later years, I recall her completing the New York Times crossword every day. She was interesting in her recitation of facts and data. I always considered her bright and well rounded in her knowledge. Had she not told me of her earlier life, I suppose I wouldn't have known better.

When she was in her late teens, she met my grandfather Albert. Everyone called him Edgar and that was how I knew him later in his life. Edgar was a maverick. He was a keen aficionado of football (English soccer) and he was chosen to represent His Majesty's team on behalf of Britain. This was the adventure of his life for he got to travel the world to play soccer in the name of the Empire. When he was older, he showed me photographs of this time. Times when he went to India and the Middle East, America and Europe. I clearly recall a succinct photograph of him--tanned and exuberant with the flush of youth sitting astride an elephant in Bangalore. Hilda had compiled the album. The pages were heavy black paper, carefully inscribed in her meticulous handwriting and the pictures framed with measured corner points.

Edgar and Hilda married. Soon after, Edgar fathered two daughters and then he was off on his whirlwind soccer tour. Hilda was not the kind of woman to sit at home and knit (although let me say here that she did in fact knit and was the person who taught me to knit). Hilda established her own business. She bought and operated a cafe in south London. She always called it "The Caf" as East Enders are wont to do. Edgar returned from his world tour. Domestic life resumed. And then, trouble.

Edgar met a girl, Phyllis. She looked a lot like my grandmother (in fact, she still does). She was young at the time (let's say, underage) and she suddenly found herself pregnant. What a horrific dilemma for Edgar. Leave it to Hilda. She said, "Eddie, you have to marry the girl." And like that, they divorced. My grandfather did the right thing and married the girl and they had three lovely children (they are now my aunts and uncle, but that's another story). And if you want a nice ending, they stayed together for many more years until Edgar passed away in the late 1990s. But this story is about Hilda.

So this left Hilda alone, the proverbial single mother with two young girls in London at the outbreak of World War II. And you wonder why I admire this woman so?

She continued to operate her cafe in New Cross, London as the war came on. She weathered the horrors of the Blitz in London throughout the war. She saw people killed and was nearly killed herself, but her indomitable spirit kept her strong. These experiences alone made her the woman she was when I came to know and love her.

She kept her girls with her (as you can guess, one of them was my mother) and rode out the turmoil that was wartime. After the war ended, she resumed her life. She operated her business, she supported her daughters. And then she found love again.

She met and married a man named Fred Wheeler. I don't know much about Mr. Wheeler except that I have a photograph of him. While darkly handsome like my grandfather, he looks a tad humorless. My mother and aunt grew up. My mother married my father, an American in London in the service during the Korean war; my aunt married a Dutchman she met during a foreign student exchange event. They both moved away and settled in California.

A few years passed and both my mother and my aunt wanted Hilda to move from the foggy bogs of England to California. Hilda missed her girls and wanted to make a change. The cafe was closed now and she longed for some new adventures. Mr. Wheeler demurred. He did not want to leave England. True to her nature, Hilda bid adieu to Mr. Wheeler, packed her bags and left her homeland forever. I never ascertained whether Hilda actually divorced Mr. Wheeler, but leave him she did, never to return.

Hilda took up a job in what they used to call a shaver shop (the older version of an electronics shop) in San Francisco. She handled customer service and the registry. She lived independently in the East Bay in a chic little apartment and dated a rather intriguing group of men. For the longest time, she had a debonair Norwegian called Lars who I thought she might marry. Lars always smelled so good; like sandalwood and fresh linen. I still remember that. Hilda had enough of settling down and apparently resisted Lars...and later, Clive..and later, Al. Hilda had many admirers and I enjoyed them all as nice people who loved my grandma. They were interesting and sophisticated people and I begged Hilda to marry one. But she had had enough and preferred to play the field. I appreciate her perspective only now.

After Hilda retired, my Aunt and Mom persuaded her to give up her apartment in the Bay Area and split her time between our homes. And so she did. It was heaven for me having her with us. When I would come home from school, she'd have the kettle going for tea and she'd be rubbing her hands together, ready for a game of Liverpool rummy (her version of gin rummy which we'd play for money and which she'd always win). She always used Yardley's lavender soap and the smell of lavender, Wrigley's mint gum and Kent cigarettes always sort of wafted around her.

She'd sit on the couch and work her crosswords. She kept a massive dictionary at her side at all times. She was a passionate gardener and she would toil long hours in the yard over her flower beds, She would take weekend trips to Reno to play bingo. She would spoil the menagerie of animals in our home; I remember she always called the cats "Titty" (regardless of their actual names). She would whip up wonderful English foods in the kitchen. We watched a lot of old movies together while we knitted. And always the card games in the den.

I soon went to college and Hilda went to live full time with my Aunt and the Dutchman in Palm Springs. I made a few trips down south to see her there and we resumed our easy banter over countless cups of tea, gardening tips, Chinese culture and language. I always felt I could be myself with Hilda. She'd always hug me and grab my bottom with affection saying, "Oy, what a great big bot you have." I knew she meant it with love (though I'd kill anyone else if they ever said that to me).

By the 1990s, I was in New York and couldn't see Hilda as much as I liked. She and I had always written to one another from my early age and at that time, I continued to take the time to write to her. Then there was a day in December 1999, I was on a business trip to Southern California. I was in the airport readying for a red eye flight back to New York. My mother called me to tell me that Hilda was in the hospital. Here was one of those moments I still regret. Should I cancel my flight and drive down to Palm Springs? My mother assured me Hilda would be fine. Uneasy, I boarded my flight. I flew home and when I walked into my house the next morning at 7 am, I had a call that told me Hilda has passed away. I remembered I dropped to the floor when I heard the news. I literally had to turn around and head back west for the funeral.

The funeral was very nice and Palm Springs was decked out fully in holiday cheer (as much as a dessert town can be). After the funeral, my aunt gave me a ring that Hilda has always worn. It was something Lars had given her, a souvenir from a trip to Chile. It was brass and emblazoned with raised motifs, but I remember her always wearing it--it was important to her. I was appreciative of the gesture and I keep it safely now.

I deeply miss many people who I've lost in my life, but I have a special place in my heart for Hilda. We were alike in many ways and I never had to censor who I was when I was with her. She recognized the kinship--I treasure that.

When I think of my grandmother, I recall a story that perfectly illustrates the woman she was. When she was living in the Bay Area, she came home from work one day and discovered her apartment was being burgled. She confronted the burglars and alarmed, they bolted from the apartment. As they ran to get away from her wrath, she chased them down the stairs. She must have been in her late 50s but she was as spy as a young woman. As they piled into their car to make their getaway, my grandmother caught up with them. The car peeled away and I'm certain as they looked back in their rear view mirror they caught this image: Hilda standing defiantly on the curb, shaking her fist at them, pledging revenge in no uncertain terms.

Bibbo!!

So that's how they get the cheese in there. Who knew?

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

I have a dilemma. My blog has been locked since yesterday afternoon. My good hosts at Blogger are investigating a spam alert concern with my blog and I have been unable to post any written posts until they complete their review. I sincerely admire their zero spam policy as a whole and their dilligence in investigation, but that limits my communication to you via YouTube postings (like the spirits in the television in "Poltergeist" perhaps). Think of it as a long commercial break. I trust I will be allowed to properly publish again in due course. Thanks for your patience.

Rocketman

I love the parody that is William Shatner...especially the over the top performer he was in the 1970s. This 1978 version of "Rocket Man" is sheer and utterly campy genius. You'll love it.

Défense de Fumer

Years ago, I used to smoke. I know, I know--please spare me the lectures because I've heard them all. It was a foul and nasty habit and it certainly shaved some years off my life. While you may disdain it with impunity, at the time I smoked I really took pleasure in it. So there.

I quit a while back because I made a promise. My father died of lung cancer and I promised him I would quit. At the time that reason was more important to me than for my own health reasons. Older, wiser and all that shit--it doesn't matter. I quit, regardless.

In those old days when I did smoke I lived in California. It was alarming to hear of local laws being passed that prohibited where one could smoke. First it was in restaurants, then in cafes, train stations, public buildings, common areas and then the horror of all horrors, in bars. Then some particular fanatical local body decided people could not smoke on the street and in some proposed case, in their own homes. What the fuck? Is this Nazi Germany? I remember at the time saying to Fang, "Well, if the California gestapo is telling us what we can and can not do in our own homes, it's time for us to move to France."

By the time we moved to New York we were non-smokers. It was a smoking city then, yet it was only a matter of time before the same ban that had been imposed in California would be slapped on New York. Soon enough, it's rolled out nationwide.

I have to agree that alot of common interior areas should be nonsmoking. Restaurants should be nonsmoking. Bars should be nonsmoking. It's not fair to jeopardize the health of someone who chooses not to smoke. Still, I contend it's bullshit to penalize someone for smoking a cigarette in the outside air on a wide open street. You might as well penalize the buses and trucks who pollute the air with their diesel exhaust as well as people who wear too much perfume on elevators.

Today, the final straw, There was an item in the New York Times that reported a smoking ban had gone into effect today in bars, restaurants and cafes in, of all places, France. It's really now a nonsmokers world if this can actually happen in France.

Mon fucking Dieu.

Fare Thee Well, 2007

If you're gonna live it up on New Years Eve in Manhattan (whilst wisely avoiding the stupidity that is Times Square), you venture downtown, meet with up some local pals and raise a glass or two at some intimate restaurant. That's just what we did. While we were on our second bottle of Veuve, our waiter Alvin (above) sat down with us at midnight and we all shared a kiss and a toast to the new year. The companions tonight? The delightful Boychick and his beautiful missus S-S-S-S-Sylvia (below). A perfect way to usher in the new year. Happy new year, y'all.

Thanking You All

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them."- Ralph Waldo Emerson

As the day ebbs to a close on this most interesting year, I keep thinking of the series of quotes from Emerson on friendship. I realize now more than ever what treasures my friends are. When I look back at this year, most of the high points took place in the company of friends whether old friends or new friends that I came to know this year. 2007 has been richer because of these experiences and because of those of you who are part of my life. I thank you wholeheartedly.

In the new year, I'm counting on colorful gossip, trash talk, sex stories, music enlightenment, any old excuse for a laugh, diatribes about our families and our work, cooking tips and the evolution of our lives as friends.

Happy New Year to you all. Go celebrate now.

Who The Hell is Billy Mays and Why Is He Always Yelling At Me?

I am a connoisseur of cable television and with that burden comes the dreaded infomercial. Lately it seems there has been a spate of commercials featuring this woolly pitchman, Billy Mays. I don't know where this guy came from but I do know that he is so aggressive in his sales pitch that he appears to be yelling at me. Will that level of exuberance force me to run to the telephone to purchase a five pound tub of Oxi-Clean? Or the mega spray bottle of Orange Glo? That's to say nothing of Liquid Diamond Simoniz car polish, the dual set of Samurai sheers, the Zorbeez duster, the Hercules hook or the wireless light switch. He always tells me to order now for if I do he's going to double the number of products he's sending me for the same price as one. All that tells me is the cost to manufacture one Zorbeez duster is twenty-two cents.

I'm sure Billy is considered the new guru of infomercial marketing but the truth is, no one mastered the artistry of the online sales pitch like Ron Popeil. Mister Ronco had some absolutely outrageous shit to hawk and he sold them effectively and convincingly. How many of you purchased the pocket fisherman, the rotisserie ("set it and forget it"), the dial-o-matic, the veg-o-matic, Mr. Microphone, the inside-the-egg scrambler, the pasta maker, the solid flavor injector, the smokeless ashtray, the cap snaffler and my favorite Great Looking Hair Formula (essentially spray paint to cover a bald spot). I personally bought the food dehydrator because I was convinced it would keep me in dried apricots and beef jerky until I was 90 (it ended up in the garage a month later and was sold in a garage sale a year later). Mr. Popeil introduced the classic infomercial patois of "But wait, there's more!" and "Now how much would you pay?" He lured us in and we went willingly.
Popeil was the son of a carny and obviously that influenced his style. He was brash, confident and as dogged as a good salesperson should be. The key to his success? He never yelled at his customers. So learn from that Billy.

Got To Give It Up

Just wait till that sweet bass gets cranking...brother Marvin gets the party started! I've been listening to Marvin Gaye all night and damn, he has got it going on.

Vermilion Love

So every year Fang asks me, "What do you want for Christmas?" While I appreciate the ability to offer a choice, we don't actually go through a formal exchange of gifts. We never have. Sometimes the sharing of a wish list never comes to anything. Sometimes I'll buy him something that I think he could use (an ipod or a leather jacket, say) which he'll disdain at the time he opens it, but which he ultimately uses and enjoys later on.

In the last few years he's surprised me with some lovely and most unexpected gifts: A pair of two carat diamond earrings. A strand of pearls with matching diamond/pearl studs. A Bulova watch. A charm bracelet with the initials of our family members. These gifts mean a lot and I appreciate and enjoy them.

A few weeks ago he asked the same question again.

"Well, what do you want?" I ventured.

He was very precise. He cited some quality cookware and a knife sharpener. A high end knife sharpener. He is a good cook but he's a great sous chef. He loves to prep food and he despairs of a dull knife edge. OK, noted. We agree to go and shop for his high end knife sharpener and pans.

He asks me the same question.

I really need a proper briefcase. I have a shitty, ratty old bag that is serviceable but not really impressive enough for hauling in on a sales call with an important client. I'd rather have a thousand other things, but I NEED a quality briefcase.

"Okay," Fang ventures "A Mark Cross briefcase?"

Actually, I was thinking Coach. It's my gold standard.

Subject is tabled for now.

The holidays come and go. Today we went out to the movies (so I can cross that off my 2008 to-do list). Afterwards, we walked for a long time. We bought homemade bread in the open market in Lincoln Center. We picked up some odds and ends. We bought Fang's cookware and knife sharpener. And as we got near the uptown subway Fang steered me to the Coach Store.

A bubbly woman named Andrea showed us to the briefcases. I went through the collection on display, but they were awfully pedestrian. So incredibly uninteresting. It seemed a shame to me to pay $549 for a dull bit of leather (as high quality as the leather was). I mulled through them and then, oh then, my eyes lit on my vermilion beauty.

She was stationed against the wall on display, crimson and bold and golden as a 15th century Chinese empress. She radiated confidence like Cleopatra in the face of the asp. She begged to be picked up. She was gloriously constructed and gleaming. That was it--it was love. And the briefcase was suddenly miles from my mind. I had to own her.

Despite the fact that the object of my desire cost a bit more than the briefcase, Fang saw that nothing else would do. And here, he anted up the charge card and this brazen beauty was mine.

Trust me, the picture does not do it justice.

Keeping Us Pest Free Since 2005

When Fang and I moved to New York, we lived in an apartment building on the Upper West Side. We had decided to take a year and rent before buying. We chose a neighborhood that appealed to our sensibilities--a place in the thick of the Upper West Side but in the shade of the tree lined beauty of Riverside Drive. The location was as close to urban heaven as could be. The building, however, was not.

It was solely a rental building so the tenants were made up of a mix of rent stabilized long term residents and folks like us who were biding their time for a year whislt looking for something to buy. It was a small prewar unit with fine moldings and high ceilings and an unusually long galley kitchen. It was technically a two bedroom unit although we utilized the second bedroom (the size of a large utility closet) as an office. The sole minuscule bathroom offered the unique functionality of peeing and washing your hands in the sink at the same time. Still, the large dramatic windows offered a broad view of the neighborhood and large shafts of sunlight filtered all day into the main room.

I was so thrilled to be in Manhattan that I didn't care if our temporary home was a closet. I didn't want to sit inside; I wanted to be out on the streets, soaking in the people and the atmosphere and all that je ne sais quois that makes this city so fascinating.

The apartment building had dreadful management. Things would falter and never be repaired. The circuit breakers were vexed beyond reason. And after a few weeks in our new abode, I discovered one of the downsides of Manhattan living: cockroaches. The quality of care in the building was not particularly maintained. Why should it be? Half of the apartments were occupied by long term residents paying a buck ninety-nine for their monthly rent while the in-out-nobody-gets-hurt balance of folks like me were paying an arm and a leg for the privilege to occupy this edifice. The bugs were sure to appear.

I'm a California girl. We don't have cockroaches that look like prehistoric relics in San Francisco. The first time I saw one, I daresay I nearly fainted. It was hovering in the corner of my kitchen, on the floor near the refrigerator. It's wretched attanae shook and it backed away from me slowly. He was the first of many who chose to come and visit. They had a preference for the kitchen and bathroom and on one horrific occasion, there was one suspended on the wall behind the bed. I wouldn't have noticed had not my cat Figaro tried to leap up and attack him. The last thing I saw was this cockroach sliding down the wall behind my head, like a stripper on a polished pole. The horror, people. I didn't sleep all night.

I couldn't handle it. I vowed that when we finally bought our co-op that it would be bug free. Soon after, we did find the perfect home still in the thralls of Manhattan and still on Riverside Drive (just further uptown). The apartment was prewar and with the tall ceilings I loved, but it was also large and spacious and with two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Parts of it were remodeled and modern yet the original charm shone through. I've never been happier to move.

Within three months I caught my first glimpse of a bug. To be sure, it was much smaller than the beasts we saw in our old apartment but anyone knows that a small bug grows big and with one bug comes legions. This was my home now and I wasn't fucking around. I called Orkin immediately.

A few days later, in walked my savior Don Pierre (above). Don Pierre came in and with his mighty pet friendly spray and gel, he rid the premises of any whiff of insect life. Like an exorcist in a diamond embellished jersey, he fought battle mightily. He comes every quarter for preventative maintenance and we've been bug free ever since.

I might question some expenses, but Don Pierre's quarterly fee is worth every penny.

The Queen of the Night

This aria from "The Magic Flute" has been in my head for days. Only the great Luciana Serra could deliver it so flawlessly. I understand this is one of the most difficult arias ever for a soprano to master. Go on--you try it.

Since You Asked, Julie

Recently I posted some blathering about the symbols of holiday tradition in my apartment building. There was a voluminous and twinkling Christmas tree and a bountiful menorah. I also mentioned the stationing of the Kwanzaa table in preparation for its seasonal festooning of bounty. My learned friend Julie asked about this very thing, curious what a "Kwanzaa table looked like." Now that the period of Kwanzaa has finally commenced (it is observed from December 26 through the new year), I can at last respond to that question.

In our building, a table is set out to capture the accoutrement of the tradition (see above). It might look rather demure as a still life yet there's much more to the symbolism of the holiday itself. According to those geniuses at Wikipedia, Kwanzaa consists of seven days of celebration, featuring activities such as candle-lighting and pouring of libations, and culminating in a feast and gift giving. Families celebrating Kwanzaa decorate their households with objects of art, colorful African cloth, especially the wearing of the Uwole by women, and fresh fruits that represent African idealism. It is customary to include children in Kwanzaa ceremonies and to give respect and gratitude to ancestors. Libations are shared, generally with a common chalice, "Kikombe cha Umoja" passed around to all celebrants.

Now what I appreciate most about Kwanzaa is the celebration of "The Seven Principles of Kwanzaa." These seven principles comprise Kawaida, a Swahili term for tradition and reason. Each of the seven days of Kwanzaa are dedicated to one of the following principles. They are:

Umoja (Unity)
Kujichagulia (Self-Determination)
Ujima (Collective Work and Responsibility)
Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics)
Nia (Purpose)
Kuumba (Creativity)
Imani (Faith)

A very sound ideal and a very spirited ethic. I'm so glad you asked, Julie.

Close Encounters of the Neighbor Kind

So I'm waiting for the elevator in my building the other day and I watch (in dread) as it toddles up to the 12th floor and then slowly, ever so slowly, back down to the lobby. Who should exit it but the wonderful actress S. Epatha Merkerson. You might know her from NBC's "Law & Order" but her body of work is diverse and fascinating. She was magnificent in HBO's "Lakawana Blues" and she's currently doing "Come Back, Little Sheba" on Broadway. She's strong and vital and utterly stunning in person.

I'd like to say that this was my first encounter with Ms. Merkerson but in fact that's not true. A few months ago I was schlepping a collection of shopping bags home from Macy's. It was hot and the subway was crowded so my mood was predictably foul. As I staggered into the vestibule of my building lobby I began to share my complaint with the doorman. Then just out of the corner of my eye, I caught glimpse of someone sitting on one of the marble benches obviously awaiting the arrival of a car service. It was Ms. Merkerson. I saw her there (perhaps I gasped) and my eyes lit up like a rigged slot machine in Atlantic City. She remained emotionless. She simply said, "How ya doing?"

I genuflected with effusive excitement and I think I even bowed to her. I do shit like that sometimes when in the presence of certain greatness. She seemed nonplussed. I realized I was fussing too awfully so I collected my bags to leave. Then something caught me and I stepped back. Composed, I felt compelled to ask her "What do we owe the honor of your presence here in the building?" She replied slowly with the same cool nonchalance, "Honey, I live here."

That alone is worth the annual maintenance increase.

I Love New York

In the December 24th edition of New York Magazine, the editors cited "Reasons To Love New York Right Now." There were 50 valid and amusing reasons why one should adore Gotham but I personally liked one in particular. Reason #30 states "Because although we banned trans fats, we're not afraid of frying."

The article continues:

In spite of mounting evidence that our Spanx-wearing, lipo-loving, diet-crazed citizenry just might be a species as obsessed with its own body image as the average Angeleno, you wouldn’t know it from visiting our restaurants. New York, you see, has entered a new, deep-fried era, one fueled by tankers of canola oil and littered with reams of brown-paper blotters that rest underneath all the toothsome fried morsels that chefs are sending out to the hottest tables in town. Or haven’t you noticed the flotillas of arancini, the armadas of patatas bravas, and the temple of tempura that has sprung up on Carmine Street? A confluence of culinary circumstances (a great surge of tapas bars and Italian small-plate joints, combined with the righteous triumph of gluttony over moderation) has landed us in this finger-licking situation, even as Mayor Bloomberg targets trans fats as public enemy No. 1.

But who needs trans fats when we’ve got other, better methods? Schmaltz, for instance, or duck fat. Both are making “healthy” comebacks. The newly relocated 2nd Avenue Deli is serving gribenes as an amuse-bouche of sorts. Fritti monopolize Italian menus everywhere from Bar Stuzzichini to Centro Vinoteca, taking the form of nutty little panelle or crisp cauliflower wedges or, in the case of Morandi, pork-stuffed olives. At Abraço, a new East Village coffee bar, you can have your macchiato with a plate of ricotta fritters or some risotto balls, both fried to order. Tía Pol’s little sister El Quinto Pino has raised fried fish sticks to an art form, and at the new French wine bar Solex, you can pop foie gras cromesquis—deep-fried balls of liquid liver—into your mouth like M&Ms.

New Yorkers, of course, are a diverse bunch, and they like their fried food low (as in PDT’s bacon-wrapped deep-fried hot dogs) and high (the cubes of hollandaise sauce that Wylie Dufresne miraculously deep-fries to accompany his new, outré take on eggs Benedict).

Still, the fry craze is no surprise to seasoned chefs, who are schooled in the wisdom that fat is flavor and crunch never hurts. No one knows this better than Josh DeChellis, who has opened what may be New York’s first tempura bar, Barfry, where delicate batters encase everything from Skookum oysters to chicken-fried steak. Frying is Barfry’s raison d’être, its modus operandi. It’s also something of an unlikely ecofriendly selling point: Twice a week, the old oil gets picked up and converted to biodiesel, helping make New York not only crispy, but green.

Bacon wrapped deep fried hotdogs? Deep fried hollandaise? Deep fried foie gras? How can you NOT love this town?

The Christmas Elf

Here is the mischievous Declan, son of MaryCatherineFullofGrace and Dr. Doolittle. He's on his best elfin behavior and apparently taking a day off from ridding the planet of unwanted insects and other small predators. Seasons greetings, little man!

Holiday Bounty

This was a rather bountiful haul for the holidays. As family, we don't really exchange gifts. However, amongst work colleagues, there is a bounty of generosity expressed. When I was last at work, my desk was piled with holiday gestures much often conveyed in copious boxes of Godiva chocolate (and what a shame I don't really care for chocolate) and bottles of spirits. The Queen Bea gave me a bottle of Bahamian rum accompanied by her famous egg nog recipe. There were bottles of champagne and lovely wines as well as gift cards from Starbucks and fragrant soaps. But my favorite gift of all was from a good colleague who knows I seek a perfect East coast pizza pie--something I curiously have not found in my time here on the right coast.

My friend gave me a gift card for Pepe's pizza, a Connecticut institution. Pepe's is noted for their original New Haven branch which opened their doors in 1925. I am a particular connoisseur of the elusive white clam pizza which apparently is a specialty at Pepe's. I am in breathless anticipation of this dining experience; it's really only a question of when.

How Did It Get So Late So Soon?

How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon? -Theodor Geisel (Dr. Suess)

I sound like my Grandmother, I know, but where the hell did this year go? It seems only yesterday that I was ushering in 2007 with a glass of champagne and an optimistic heart, gazing at the as yet unsullied months with the intrigue of their promise.

In the past 12 months I've made quite a few new friends, welcomed an old friend to these Eastern shores, attended my oldest and dearest friend's wedding, had two job promotions and savoured some of the most interesting career challenges I've ever had. I was able to spend time with family--a few brief getaways with Marv and Mei Mei and a raucous visit from the California crew en masse last Spring. I had a wild adventure in Tupelo with my online peeps and more than a few nights of silliness with Jewels. I enjoyed the splendor of Long Island's north fork and considered buying a little place there as a getaway. I ate well and drank well and despite these indulgences, even managed to achieve three belt levels in mixed martial arts. I guess I should be satisfied that I can look back at the year which is about to close and feel it wasn't completely a loss.

On the other hand, it's easy to think about the things I didn't do this year and use this as a barometer for improvement in 2008.

I haven't been to the movies in exactly one year. There's an awful lot of good theater that I want to see. I need to exercise harder and often, even when I don't feel like dragging my fat ass out of bed. I need to stop eating my lunch at my desk and go outside for some fresh air and a walk instead. I need to take all my vacation days, even when it doesn't seem like a good time to take time off (I've learned there's never a good time at any time anyway). I need another road trip with the girls. I need to do my Christmas shopping early. I need to write some personal letters to people who always take the time to write long and thoughtful letters to me. I need to visit California and see people that I care for and miss. I need to get on the subway and just go already to the Bronx Zoo. I need to find a bra that fits. And I need to dance, dance, dance.

Seems quite manageable, if you ask me.

Wesolych Swiat

There's nothing like a true Polish Christmas celebration. The Aunts hosted a traditional Wigilia celebration the evening before so there was a bounty of traditional cuisine for our Christmas dinner today. There was fresh pierogi (cheese and cabbage/mushroom) drizzled with butter, onions and topped with sour cream. There was beef and lamb kapusta. There was smoked kielbasa and golabki, fasole, marchewki and ziemniaki. There was fish and shrimp and homemade cole slaw. Then came dessert: babka and chruszciki along with the offerings I had made the previous evening. I was so full at the end of the feast that I could barely waddle from the dining room chair to the sink to do the washing up. That was a meal.

My favorite Christmas tradition is the sharing of the oplatek prior to the meal. An oplatek is a blessed communion wafer, the size of a graham cracker and stamped with a religious image. The participants all get a section of the oplatek and they go from person to person, taking a section of each person's oplatek and biding the other good health and prosperity in the new year. It's a lovely and affectionate tradition.

And the capper? The Yule Log is still being broadcast on television. The continuous footage of the 1960s fireplace still burns bright while the dulcet tones of its Christmas carols reign. We listened to that all day--it utterly set the mood.

So here I sit, my refrigerator chock full of four days worth of Polish food. I'm enjoying the last of the Christmas champagne. My heart is full of good tidings and earnest hope for a bright year ahead.

Happy holidays to you all.

The Genius of Michael Kidd

Another great has passed away--choreographer Michael Kidd. His unique style combined athleticism, whimsy and grace. This is epitomized in this incredible dance sequence from "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." Pure genius.

Fast, Perfect and Always Swinging

Rest in peace, Mister Peterson. You are revered and cherished. You were a master and Fang and I mourn your loss today.

Creature of Habit

It's Christmas Eve and for me, that means only one thing: baking, swilling champagne and old movies on the TV. On tap for this year's offering--homemade chocolate chip and walnut cookies and gingerbread muffins with pumpkin cream cheese orange zest icing. Oh yeah, and a dash of "It's A Wonderful Life."


Happy holidays, y'all. I wish everyone a year of peace and love ahead.

Merriment Has Me In Her Spell

As if I didn't get enough of an alcohol infused day on Friday, I attended a party last night chez The Queen Bea and her Nordic husband, Thor. They live in a woodsy and isolated section of Connecticut at the end of a long driveway, surrounded by flowing dunes of snow and copious trees. Illuminated by twinkling lights, it was really quite a festive setting for indulging in continued seasonal merriment.

Getting there was half the battle. Mindful that I was liable to consume a cocktail or two, I decided to take the train to the party. It's the weekend so Metro North trains heading to their isolated portion of the Nutmeg State were few and far between (about two and half hours travel time door to door). There's something a tad surreal about standing on the train platform at 125th Street in Harlem dressed in jeweled earrings and sequins and clutching a bottle of fine champagne..and I had the same feeling an hour later standing in the desolate cold and muted light of South Norwalk waiting for my ride.

Once ensconced in the charming home that The Queen and Thor own, the night air's chill soon dissipated. The Queen Bee likes to feed people and tonight, she rose to the occasion. The table heaved with beautiful offerings and I was grateful that I had to good sense to fast all day for I wanted to try them all.

There was a grand ham as large as a buffalo's head. She had glazed it with cognac and cloves and surrounded it with freshly made citrus chutney. There was a salad of endive and dandelion greens with prosciutto wrapped goat cheese dressed with a tangy balsamic dressing. There were roasted peppers dabbed with a citrus vinaigrette. There were Scandinavian meatballs and southern wings which were so spicy, my lips bled (but of course I continued to eat them despite the pain in my mouth and the high possibility of staining my crisp white jacket). And then, the true pièce de résistance--a seafood casserole that had me utterly. This simple baked dish held in it's slight golden crust and creamy interior a plethora of sea scallops, fat pink shrimp and chunks of succulent lobster meat. I ate several helpings and then asked for the recipe. It was sublime.

The wine was equally pleasant: an Australian Layer Cake Shiraz and a surprisingly refreshing wine from a Hamptons winery, Duckwalk Vineyards. The selection was simply called Southampton White and it was crisp and festive. Who knew?! It might be worth a trip to their tasting room in Water Mill, NY.

The people were diverse and interesting and entertaining. There were only a few people I actually knew there but as these things go, by the end of the evening, you're all good friends. A lovely evening, all in all.

I ended the evening as I had begun it, at the train station in Harlem clutching a bottle of fine champagne, the sequins contrasting with the clear starry pattern of a new day's sky.

The Night They Invented Champagne

The party was a hit. And I drank so much champagne that I have to salute those friars who invented this marvelous beverage. Here's to you, my brothers. Props.

The Chicken Loves Her Poetry

..and she has a particular soft spot for Rupert Brooke. Here's a favorite:

I have been so great a lover: filled my days
So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and silent content,
And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,
My night shall be remembered for a star
That outshone all the suns of all men's days.
Shall I not crown them with immortal praise
Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me
High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
The inenarrable godhead of delight?
Love is a flame; we have beaconed the world's night.
A city: and we have built it, these and I.
An emperor: we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
And the high cause of Love's magnificence,
And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names
Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,
And set them as a banner, that men may know,
To dare the generations, burn, and blow
Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming...
These I have loved:
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, fairy dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Impassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns...
Dear names,
And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,
Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust
And sacramented covenant to the dust.
- Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what's left of love again, and make
New friends, now strangers...
But the best I've known
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
Of living men, and dies.
Nothing remains.

O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
This one last gift I give: that after men
Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,
Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say "He loved".

Kick Up Yer Heels

I'm letting Frank and Bing set the mood for our holiday work party tomorrow. After the ups and downs of 2007, I intend to shake my substantial moneymaker, sling back a few cocktails and count my blessings. I have advised a few trusted colleagues to restrain me should I climb on top of a table or attempt to remove my sweater in favor of swinging it over my head. It's all in the spirit of things, no?

Hug Therapy

If I didn't disagree with their labor practices, I'd be a natural to work at Walmart. I'd be a perfect entry greeter and I'd be exactly like that old feller in the commercials who puts smiley face stickers on the customers and gives them a big sloppy embrace. In the ad he exclaims, "Hug are good!" OK, old codger--I agree with you.

I'm a natural hugger. Maybe because I am a California girl by birthright and we are huggy, warm and fuzzy people anyway. However I see hugging as an extension of connecting with people. I believe in the tactile expression--touching someone on the arm to make a point, touching a hand to express consensus and giving a fat kiss on the cheek to convey genuine affection for a gift of friendship. I am effusive in this respect and its a perfectly natural expression to me. Yet I've also learned it's important to respect the box of personal space and the demographic levels of comfort to this expression.

When I'm with my homies in California (Northern and Southern), it's a natural love fest. We ooze it. In New York City, it's expressive and in your face. If a New Yorker shows you the love, it will be loud and it is something to be treasured because it is certifiably real. With my new colleagues in Connecticut, I had to temper these outbursts. They clearly have their comfort space and I have respected those parameters. Yet I find now that they have become easier and outward in their displays. With the holidays upon us I have shared unexpected and affectionate moments with my colleagues in Connecticut and they have been as rich and vibrant as the moments that I enjoy with less conservative allies. It really comes down to this---as living expressive creatures, we need the validation of human interaction. It's nice to see that walls can come down when we need them to and that the common gene pool is as common as we always supposed.

I can best illustrate this case with a situation I faced a few weeks ago. On the fateful occasion of some hard business job layoffs, I was really spent at the end of the day. My colleagues looked at me with a mix of fear, anger and suspicion. Understand that's really a depleted feeling but I knew it was important to comfort the staff and remain steady. At this day's end, I ran into one of our circulation managers in the hallway. She's a pleasant woman with a sweet voice and a calm demeanor. She came up to me and said in a most matter of fact voice, "I think you need a hug." And you know what? I did. She gave me a perfectly warm and understanding hug. That gesture alone salvaged the day for me--more importantly, it restored my faith in the positive hard wiring that comes in all people.

So go and hug somebody. Right now.

A Succinct Summary

The late great Dorothy Parker said it best in her poem "Resume":

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
--Dorothy Parker

But this is also the woman who said "Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker." I'm open to all options.

The Lazy Winter Sky

There's something about the lazy gait of a winter sky scape. The way the horizon creeps up to meet your gaze, gradually revealing its phases. It does so wantonly like an old prostitute disrobing for the evening. It's tawdry and spare yet there's a spectacular beauty as the day lolls from start to conclusion.

I notice in the morning that the sky seems emotionless...almost as dead as the sparse trees that splay their withering limbs. Yet behind it are undulating passages from the wind and the promise of warming shafts of light from the sun. It evolves slowly. The sun appears in the horizon--a pedantic and simmering orb. So different from the effusive blast of the summer sun or the fanciful showiness of the springtime sun--the winter sun hangs low and heavy in the sky, mindful of its heady duty to rise. It lumbers above the horizon, strong...purposeful. The clouds are reedy, sparse--like the solid descriptions you'd find of spinsters in Jane Austen novels.

The sun soon rises to its scheduled plateau. It dons its showiest coat come 9 o'clock. Soon the ice and snow that blanket the ground are gleaming pristine in their icy dressage. The sky adopts a magnificent azure hue and it shows off its shiny pride. Reserved cloud patterns dot the horizon. While I know it's 20 degrees outside, from my vantage point it's a visual paradise.

I watch as the sun migrates the hours, moving overhead much like the Victorian face in an ancestral grandfather clock. The light grows fainter come 4 o'clock and soon after, the sky contorts.

Winter is a tempestuous mistress. She encourages contortions of emotion and distress. The day, so hard won, must migrate into a deep night and the conclusion must be violent and explosive. I have seen some expressions played out in the sky that have caused me pause and awe. Only a winter sky has this power. It churns the labor of shining bright and it spits out a last hurrah. It seems to say, "I have made this mighty effort for you." You must merely rejoice in its culmination.

Then comes the night which descends hard and fast. It takes the mantle of a dark blanket and it assumes the penance of a bleak retribution. There's the shadow of guilt at its magnificence. A winter night offers crisp air and stoic indifference. The moon, its only vanity. And here only because it shines.

It's a curious world. How odd to be such a small force in it.

Man's World My Ass

My brother Marv is obsessed with this slightly surreal juxtaposition of soul and opera. I'm not quite getting it (copious violins are scary mediums) but I do appreciate the musicality of both artists. There's high camp here to be sure so just enjoy that sweet aspect...especially when the duets overlap. It's super freaky-deaky.

Oh, What Fun

It just had to be done today. I had to venture out into the unfriendly masses and face a bank teller for the copious cash for the holiday tips and I had to buy holiday cards. There was no other way around it. I'm painfully behind schedule.

Fortified by multiple cups of strong coffee, I ventured out to the Upper West Side. As anticipated, the streets were teaming with shoppers, their arms ringed with shopping bags, pushing strollers and walking in quartets. In order to pass these hundreds of lolly gagging holiday loving pedestrians, I maneuvered around them stealth like and at double time, like a football player would execute a training obstacle course.

First stop, the bank. The line for the tellers snaked 30 deep. Once I arrived at the teller's window, I requested the withdrawal of my hard earned coin, directing denominations (x number in 100s, x number in 50s...and so on). The teller looked at me blankly. Finally he said, "Everyone came to get their holiday tip money yesterday. I don't have any 100 dollar bills. Or 50s. Or even ten dollar bills." I had a fleeting moment of terror that I would be doling out holiday tips in singles. The teller had 20 dollar bills only ("Unless you want to wait till Tuesday," he said with a stellar indifference). I'll take the 20s. When he finally counted (and recounted) a fat stack of twenty dollar bills, he stuffed them into an envelope and gave them to me. I had a fleeting moment of that scene in "It's a Wonderful Life" where Donna Reed flips through the honeymoon money and says, "I feel like a bootlegger's wife!" And I sort of did, carrying that fat packet of money in my purse.

The next stop was Barnes & Noble for holiday cards. We usually send out about 100 cards a year and I try to buy different varieties to appeal to the appropriate audiences. A box of Jesus/Virgin Mary/Raphaelite art for the older Polish family contingent, sundry Catholics and Jesus-y types. A box of traditional snow scenes for relatives. Several boxes of arty Metropolitan Museum of Art cards for friends. A box of generic non denominational scenes for the people getting tips (you've got to put the cash in something). A box of "Peace on Earth" cards for acquaintances, work colleagues and my Jewish friends that I forgot to send Hanukkah cards to. A box of downright crude holiday humor for those good friends (and my brother) who I know will appreciate them.

I walked into Barnes and Noble and immediately thought, "What fresh hell is this?" The store was jam packed. Literally slammed with hundreds of people in every aisle and in every square inch of space. The line to pay the cashier on the ground level had at least--at least--50 people in it. Customers strode through the aisles with force, pushing past people with their big shopping bags and their nasty attitudes. No "excuse me" was heard, nor the simplest acknowledgment of thanks for moving out of someones way. Store staff were stationed to move people through the cashier line and one man stood on a ladder to direct customers to the next cashier. It was retail Armageddon. After 20 minutes of shuffling through card selections, I came away with $157 worth of choices sure to please every seasonal palate.

I've crossed that task off my list but I still have much to accomplish for the holidays. I need to purchase a few cases of champagne to gift my managers at work. I think I'll do that in the civilized environs of Connecticut. I still need to order gifts for family in California and a few special friends. I'll do that online. I'll do anything--absolutely anything--to avoid going into the stores again.

I do love being in Manhattan at this time of year. Rockefeller Center is extraordinary. The lights in Herald Square dazzle. Radio City has an astounding Christmas show. It is glorious if you omit the retail experience. You'd have more fun waiting in line to use the toilet at a free concert on the hottest day of the summer. Run away, people. Christmas shopping in Manhattan is the ultimate fear box.

There is good news, though which keeps my holiday cheer intact. No one has stolen the wreath on my apartment door yet.

Sisters Under the Skin

Hollaback is on a three week whirlwind tour of Asia. I think she should be in Vietnam by now. I didn't want to tell her this, but she ain't the first Hanoi Jane. She's just the better one.

Once A Year

I'm a seasonal sentimentalist at heart and Christmas is a particularly special period. At this time of year, I like to listen to seasonal tunes. There are some songs (secular and ecclesiastical) that I especially love because they continue to move me and remind me of heighten moments in my memory that I wish to preserve. After my usual non-scientific methodology and conclusions, I've deduced that these few elite selections fall into my all time top ten list of songs:

1. I'll Be Home For Christmas
2. Angels We Have Heard on High
3. Christmas Song (Mel Torme's version only)
4. It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
5. Let it Snow
6. Sleigh Ride
7. Winter Wonderland
8. We Three Kings of Orient Are
9. O Come All Ye Faithful
10. White Christmas

And let me add that if I never hear "Jingle Bells" again, I will die a happy woman.

What's on your list?

We Have a Winner!

I never root for the winner of a reality television show because my choice almost never wins. Tonight on "America's Next Top Model" that trend reversed itself. Saleisha, the urban Los Angeles girl who was transformed into a Tootie (think "The Facts of Life") look-alike with her makeover found herself in the final three. Pitted against two willowy, gummy toothed blondes, I had few hopes her fresh doe eyed look could make the cut.

But she did. She took the crown. Awesome.
Easy, breezy, beautiful CoverGirl.

Ike Got This Part Right

Ike Turner died today. We all know that he was an abusive husband to the fabulous Tina but if the man had any redeeming grace, it was this: he was one hell of a musician and he penned some classics. This one is a favorite. Play it loud, people.

My Cups Runneth Over

Is it just me or is it damned near impossible to find the perfect bra? The bra that has the inexplicable gift of containing both breasts perfectly without overhang, bulge, copious boobage or spillage, unsightly gaping or creasing? Straps that offer adequate support without feeling (or looking like an ace bandage, a backpack, rubber bands or duct tape? And is there this perfect bra that also fits the back with ease? Closures that hook flat without bunching, runching, riding up or highlighting back fat? And the clincher? A bra that a woman can remove and slip out through a sleeve without looking like she's wresting a puppy underneath her sweater? Better yet, a bra that a man can actually remove without a referee supervising?

Does this specimen of foundation garment perfection exist? I put it to you, my esteemed and learned colleagues.

I have a feeling morewines will suggest Pilates.

Tis The Freaking Season

Besides the obvious visual attributes of the holiday season there is a clear indication that whole goodwill to men thing is underway. Those who do services for you year round are suddenly overly solicitous.

The doorman are bouncy with good cheer. They race to open the door for you and skip to the storage closet to retrieve your deliveries. Their voices are almost so cheerful that they sound as if they may erupt into song. It's disturbing. The knowledge that this burst of Yuletide cheer will subside come December 29th or so does provide some consolation.

At the parking garage in my neighborhood where I rent monthly space to house my shiny handsome Angus, the attendants are equally attentive. They are full of smiles at 7 am when I go to pick up my car. They run like a sprinter to fetch the keys. And one them even took my arm to help me walk down the steep incline of the entrance last week when I was wearing three inch heels. That was most surprising. Come January, I'll be inching down that concrete Everest on my lonesome.

They're all putting on the seasonal dog: The guy at the corner bodega. Mike, the owner of the dry cleaner that I go to every Saturday. My hairdressers and the colorist who keeps me blonde. The kid who delivers our copy of The New York Times every morning. Everyone's very cheerful indeed---for tis the season of the holiday tipping ritual.

When I first moved to New York, this seemed the most alien of concepts (after that whole apartment maintenance fees as second mortgage concept thing). There's a whole hierarchy that has to be mastered and alas, no one ever really explains the strata the same way. People must be tipped as thanks for a year of good service and also to ensure continued good service into the next year. There's no pro-rating of a year. Once you dole out the largess, you need to maintain or exceed the level.

No where is this dynamic more interesting than when applied to the concept of the apartment building. At the top of this dynasty is the boss, the big kahuna, the king of the domain: The superintendent. He's the person you see the least of yet he always gets a few C notes. This is followed by the doorman (we have five). You may see some more than others--the senior doormen get the face time during the peak hours and I'd argue they deserve a bit more green. So between this group, they get $100-$150 each. Then we have two handymen. I hear they are handy and in truth, one did come to the apartment this year to fix an antiquated toilet that bubbled like a volcanic bidet when flushed. They get $100 each as well. Then we have five porters. These are the fellows who schlep the trash and recycling out and who keep the joint tidy. They get between $75-100 each. It quickly adds up.

By the time we've flourished around the holiday greenery, we've already spent a couple of grand. In cash, no less.

I haven't even bought Christmas cards this year yet, but at least I know someone will hold the door open for me when I get home from work.

O Tannenbaum

Being an apartment dweller, it's not particularly prudent to install a Christmas tree in my apartment every holiday season. All my family Christmas decorations are wrapped in tissue paper and stored in California (I will have to get them one of these days). I do have the ceiling height to host a 6 foot tree--it's just the floor space that might be a problem. Still, I do miss the pungent scent of a robust fir tree and the sweet blurring of lights twinkling from the boughs. Fortunately our apartment building always installs a communal tree (as well as a menorah and a Kwanzaa table) in the lobby for the tenants. This year's edition just went up on Saturday and I have to say, it's one of their better efforts. Hosted against the turn of the century lead glass windows and the blue and white wedding cake rococo of the ceiling, it's quite festive indeed.
I wonder if the doorman would object if I sit in front of it in my pajamas with a brandy.

The Key To Revitalization

I admit it, people. By the time I dragged my sorry ass through my apartment door on Friday night, I felt mentally and physically whipped (hence the lack of posts here and the sorry state of them when they did appear). It took four key things to reverse this trend: 10 hours of straight sleep on Friday night; constructing the mother of all lassagnes for dinner (and for the next five nights); watching a marathon of cycle 9 of "America's Next Top Model" (now I really have my Tyra imitation down cold); and having three inches cut off my hair. Ah, freedom.

So back to business as usual. Thanks for your patience and even moreso, your brilliant comments. Keep them coming.

Pre-Sequitor

Urban Word of The Day: Pre-Sequitur

Like a non-sequitur, a pre-sequitur doesn't follow what immediately preceded it, but instead relates to something that came much earlier. It is a sudden or jarring break in the chronology, but it does follow... when you remember what it refers to.

Jen: Why did you leave Los Angeles?
Keith: Well... have you ever lived there?
Jen: I visited once, for a week. I liked the street performers on the boardwalk...
Keith: Oh, the boardwalk is where I got this red scarf!
Jen: I was trying to knit a scarf just like that last year but I never finished.
Keith: Where do you get yarn around here?
Jen: There's a good store just a few blocks from here, wanna come see?

... ten minutes later ...

Jen: Huh, do you smell Indian food?
Keith: Hmm, not really... but now I'm in the mood to get some Indian Food.
Jen: Sure, let's!
Keith: It was the pollution, that's why.
Jen: pollution?
Keith: Yeah, I wanted somewhere with real air, and LA wasn't it!
Jen: Oh, why you left Los Angeles!

One More

The Blond Anti-Christ (that would be me) needs one more night off. It's more than a small mercy that 1) no one vandalized my vehicle in the company parking lot; 2) that I have yet to see any weaponry brandished in the last two days; 3) that I still get my fat ass up and off to work at the prescribed time every day when wiser mortals would call the office and say, "I have one motherfucker of a loose stomach and can't come in." Or something like that.

Truth be told--everything will be fine. It's been a tough week and I just need a decent night's sleep. I'm starting to think I look like Lon Chaney in the original "Phantom of the Opera" (above). I hear Benefit make-up makes a terrific concealer.

Your indulgence appreciated.

Caryl Was Right

What's the difference between a Polish wake and an Irish wake? At least there's booze at an Irish wake. And a common language.

This was an incredibly hard day. I'll be back in form tomorrow.

Four Layoffs & A Funeral

Under the category of surrealism at its best, I have to go to work tomorrow and handle several job layoffs with some modicum of dignity. Then I have to leave the office early to go to a funeral. Is this ain't got fun written all over it, I don't know what does. Under the circumstances, I hope you'll grant me a bye tonight.

Mutha Uckers

It's going to be a rough week ahead. I'll let my boys set the stage because there are too many mutha uckers messing with my shit.

Snow

I looked out the window this morning and whaddya know? It's officially winter. The first dusting of winter white has arrived. It's lovely and begs to be romped in. Now I just have to find my black fur mukkluks.

Feeling My Age

Despite my better judgement, I dragged my sorry ass out of bed early this morning to go downtown to the gym. I'll be honest with y'all. I've just had a long, hard, shitty ass week. The week ahead figures to be even worse. Any sensible person would choose to pull their satiny duvet over their heads, pull an eye patch closely around their eyes and sleep away a good part of the morning, I promise you, I so wanted to do just that.

But no. I got up at 7 am and threw myself together to go to a two hour power kick boxing class. The subways were all diverted owing to the constant construction that happens every weekend in Manhattan on the 1,2 and 3 lines. It took me so long to get downtown (between two trains and over an hour of travel time)that I got to the gym five minutes before the course began. I had mere moments to change into my karate gi and belt before the warm ups began. Why was I here?

I have been rehabilitating my knee for many weeks. I had held off actually taking on kick boxing again but my orthopedist recently gave me a clean bill of health. I ventured a couple of grappling classes as a warm up in the least week but I knew I had to truly embrace regular training. I had to go today.

It was daunting. It was exhilarating. I jumped in and trained hard. It felt incredible. That is until about 6 pm tonight. My knuckles and wrists ache with pain because I failed to tape my hands before class. My knees throb with the reactivation of kick rotations above waist height. I have to admit to feeling every last bit of my age just now. A bath, a listen to Boz Scaggs' "Silk Degrees" on the stereo and an an early night should remedy things.

And certainly a regular schedule of training wouldn't hurt.