Project Me!

The Middle Ages: 48+

"The music at Minetta isn't chosen to 'evoke' anything.  It's an organic playlist, clearly aimed at the sweet-spot of middle-aged hipsters (old usage). "

This one is subjective as it ends up being defined as "people who were cool in the late '60s, the '70s, or the early '80s." Let's say you had to be at least 18 in roughly 1982 to qualify.

I'd like to believe I was pretty cool grade-schooler, though there is plenty of photographic evidence to the contrary.

The Middle Ages: 61

"Middle-Aged Woman Stabs Young Man to Death in Crown Heights, Cops Say."

Joan John, i.e. the murderer, is 61.

Do You Know What's In Your Fridge?

Yes, all too well. But thanks for asking, Container Store.

Sure, in the scheme of things kvetching about brand new modern appliances is mildly monstrous when clean water and electricity are as good as it gets for many. But this is what I do when I have countless more important things to get done. Deadlines are looming so it's time for  procrastination complaining.

First, the positive. I will say that an in-apartment washer and dryer is the awesomest amenity, no question. Can being thankful for a washer and dryer count as a daily affirmation? (I'm not even sure what a daily affirmation is exactly, and I'm not going to look it up.) While my natural inclination is to go cheap and hovel-y, I just couldn't come around to the idea of a laundromat life again. There is little more depressing to me than dragging a garbage bag full of dirty clothes down the street (and I'm scarred because when I last had to do this, the nearest laundromat was far enough away that I'd have to take a bus). I can't do it and I'll now pay not to. However, I never have and never will pay for drop off laundry, which is probably less expensive than paying the premium rent for a private washer and dryer.

A dishwasher, on the other hand, is the most useless supposed perk ever, though it's the one that seems to impress New Yorkers. If you live alone there's no point. Even in the condo with two, we rarely ran the dishwasher. I can't possibly dirty enough dishes to justify running it so I intentionally use a lot of plates and silverware to try and fill it up weekly. But after a week of things sitting in the machine, everything has crusted-on and I end up having to hand-wash again. You must be feeling bad for me now.

The dishwasher was just  diversion. It's this refrigerator, a plastic-paneled LG made to resemble stainless steel, that's driving me fucking batty since it's the most egregiously disproportioned thing ever. The freezer drawers (three) are nearly equal to the upper refrigerator space, which is woefully inadequate for anyone who buys groceries and cooks. I know that's an unpopular past time in NYC, and it's better than some French mini-fridge, but even if I were a fresh-obsessed daily shopper there are still times when prepping for a crowd is important. I'm probably just going through culture shock because I had two (very non-fancy but practical) fridges for eight years in Carroll Gardens and the condo fridge can hold maybe three times this much food.

I nearly lost my mind trying to figure out where to fit an 8lb fresh ham needing four days of brining for Easter. Ultimately, I had to remove a shelf, eat a shitload of leftovers for dinner and assess everything for throw-out potential (all was essential). I can't possibly eat the whole bag of clementines (I refuse to call the overpriced easy-to-peel fruit Cuties because the Cuties are for kids commercials make me want to die even if in theory I'm on board with kids snacking on fruit instead of junk). I then spent 45 minutes pulling all the kale and collard greens from their stems and shredding them to compress the girth of their plastic bags.

I had planned to pick up a dessert today or tomorrow, but that now seems like a practical impossibility unless it's something that won't deteriorate on the counter (of which I have an excess of space--the kitchen is quite spacious for a one-bedroom apartment, which is why the lame dwarf fridge is so frustrating) so I apologize to everyone expecting some cake or pie. I don't think it's going to happen.

 

Penpals

"Do you love Jovanotti? I love Jovanotti."

I had no idea who Jovanotti was, but my brief high school penpal from Italy had scrawled this all over the envelope containing her letter. (I have zero recollection of where I connected these people, and there were many.  I did dabble with the Star Hits' classifieds, though this girl was not part of that genre--obviously, if you know who Jovanotti is.)

When I say those phrases aloud, and I have, I don't hear them in my head spoken with an Italian accent but like that girl in the local Pacific Power commercial who declared, "I like frogs."

Jovanotti was/is an Italian rapper and how I figured this out I'm not sure, probably MTV and quite a few years later; the outlets for such international pop star knowledge were extremely limited.

I spent Christmas Eve with a trio of Italians I'd never met before. Two were joking about Jovanotti, a name I hadn't heard in decades. I told them about my penpal, which only made them ask, "How old are you?!" since they were babies to grade schoolers in the '80s, it turned out.

There was a horrible food festival (nearly any outdoor food festival is abhorrent  to me--I don't get the point of waiting in a sweaty one-hour line with New Yorkers for small portions of something made under suboptimal circumstances that I could just as easily get in a restaurant with a kitchen, tables and air conditioning) last year that you may have heard of. They are reprising it this May and Jovanotti is playing.

This is Jovanotti more or less now, circa 46. He received a New York Times profile in October.

I don't love Jovanotti, but I'm fascinated by his longevity. Nearly everything written about him in recent times compares him to Bono and/or Springsteen.

 

Required Reading

The new library. Well, I'm in-between libraries, geographically. I had a book sent to Leonard (The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, which is certain to be uplifting) which I picked up today, and Speedboat, which I put on hold like four months ago in Clinton Hill and recently changed to Williamsburgh (old-timey spelling theirs) and it appears to be in transit. I also made it 54% of the way through the electronic version of The Secret History (eh, one of those books that everyone seems to have read, but never sounded appealing to me--rich kids studying Greek at NE liberal arts school and kill a classmate?) before it expired and I had been reading it like crazy. Apparently, it's 592 pages long, which explains why the percentages (is there a way to make a Kindle show pages instead? Though I guess that makes no sense since they're variable) barely seemed to budge, while The Sheltering Sky, which I paid for, jumped to 18% like that (352 pages total).

So, Leonard lacks the outdoor book drop of Clinton Hill, the only branch where I've ever encountered the obvious convenience, but it's the only library I've been to in Brooklyn with self-checkout, which counts for something. The Orange Eats Creeps was on the tiny fiction shelf, so there's probably a cool librarian working there. I also learned that there is a graphic novel called Chimichanga. Freak in the Sheets was nowhere to be seen.

I signed up for a writing class right before Christmas that was to start after the new year, but I freaked out because there was too much going on to focus and I didn't want to waste my money, so I postponed until the next session and forgot about it. Apparently, today was the first day of class and it's too late to back out. All my library books are likely to expire while doing the required reading, and I have no idea about blogging since there will be multiple writing assignments which I'm completely not inspired to do (I just like rambling about nothing, not thinking too hard). I had the idea that I would have tons of free time, nights and weekends, living alone and watching less TV (I don't like watching TV as much by myself yet I'm paying a shitload for cable now so keep it on) to focus on this class but that has yet to be the case. I spent nearly all day (yes, and working--my whole department is virutal the next two weeks while our new temporary office space gets set up) unpacking and organzing books and knick knacks today, even though I've been here over a month now. I didn't have the shelves until last weekend and didn't put them together until last night.

Ok, to required reading now.

 

 

How About We...

When I say I love chain unironically I mean it. At least I think I do.

Then that How about we... advertising on Eater finally go to me and I clicked. Who are all these horrible people who want to "get crafty at Tørst in Greenpoint" or " go backstage at the taping of the Jon Stewart Show using my American Federation of Television & Radio Actors membership card and meet " or "take a Yoga or Pilates class together at Equinox on 74th and 2nd?" or can't even fill in the blank properly and write a whole new sentence?

How about we… a bespoke cocktail later this evening at ward 3. by this evening I mean thurs evening. 10:30?

What? We are bespoke cocktails?

How about we pretend I never went to that site? Except that I had to create a login to see the profiles and now I get a daily email, which I don't hate enough yet to unsubscribe from.

And if I had I would've missed this dude from Bayonne who wants to go to the Shannon Rose. I've wanted to go to the Shannon Rose "Northern New Jersey's premiere Irish Pub & Restaurant" for at least a year. But I hadn't pictured myself going with a Catholic hockey guy, and I don't think that means I only want to experience the Shannon Rose for the lulz. Saturday night I was eating white tuna sashimi (you know that's escolar, a.k.a. the shit fish, right?) at a Paramus Bonefish Grill attached to a Crowne Plaza (two Bonefishes in three months is a lot even for me) and there was no mocking.

Also, I'm half-remorseful for using this person's real photo behind his back. I would say that it doesn't matter because he couldn't possibly be reading this, but you just never know. Someone recently recognized me outside my apartment building from reading this blog (hi girlfriend of the guy who lives here! I will not shit-talk neighbors, for sure now). At least nine years ago I took a letterpress class because I have a degree in printmaking but obviously don't use it and was full of minor regret because by the mid-2000s letterpress everything was hot shit. But the class was full of ladies making wedding invitations and I complained about it here and the teacher emailed me to say that she was a reader of my blog and agreed with my dismay, though she never let on in class. That was mortifying.

So, Bayonne guy, sorry. I don't mean to judge you and I'm sure a nice lady in New Jersey will eventually take you up on your chain Irish bar suggestion.

Keeping Calm, Carrying On

It would only make sense that as soon as I secured my most optimal commute in nearly 15 years, my office would move to midtown (and yes, this is a half-assed complaint from someone who doesn't go into the office daily, though that will likely change. Maybe not with Yahoo-like severity, but I will likely feel the need to switch to a majority of time in-office rather than in-home). 25 minutes door-to-door is a record (if the J comes within the first few minutes of waiting) and I haven't had a transfer-free journey since 2004 or so. But I will enjoy the next five months while I can. The only saving grace may be the Señor Frogs in the basement of the new building. Maybe it'll be like when I worked at the Post and we got 20% off the Au Bon Pain on the ground floor and I got sick and sluggish every afternoon from over-carbing but this time it'll be on chimichangas and Redheaded Sluts (I had to look that one up).

Back to living the urban dream, i.e. gross supermarkets with cramped aisles, no selection, overpriced everything and surly staff. Actually the C-Town, two blocks away, isn't that horrible (neither was the Associated, one block up Myrtle in Clinton Hill) and larger than it looks from the outside, it's never crowded and the cashiers are ok. And you have to hand it to them for being on Facebook (recent cover image above) and having an app, which is more than one would expect from a utilitarian regional chain.

Plus, they're known for Krasdale, the classiest of store brands. And the subject of one of my favorite recent graffitis.

The first person I saw upon entering the store was a girl with a Keep Calm and Carry on tote bag. Ugh, why? She said excuse me when I passed by too closely (not sure if it's parka season to blame or underestimating my girth) and we brushed against each other, and it was said in such a quiet, guileless way that I realized she was just a kid. Kids with their 2008 quotes on totes doing no harm and me being the judger. Carry on. YOLO.

I tested C Town on four needs: Fage yogurt, Wasa crackers, sherry vinegar, smoked salmon. I got one. At least the three for $5 yogurt was a good deal. And they do have smoked salmon at the small deli counter; I'm just opposed to waiting for things to be cut for me (part of the reason why I don't find artisanal shops or old-fashioned butchers to be that fun). And somehow I ended up with liverwurst.

Something frivolous, mildly grotesque, and uncharacteristic is the hallmark of new grocery store visit. When I got my first apartment toward the end of my freshman year in college, I bought a pack of hot cross buns, overly sweet glaze and filled with raisins and hard, candied fruit during my visit to the neighborhood grocery store on 14th and Morrison, now long gone with a name I can't remember. Now in its place there is one of those Northwest woodsy, inoffensive strip malls that pretends not to be a strip mall. I only know this because I picked up a hard-to-find bottle of wine in a shop there two birthdays ago.

Despite the lack of hearty crackers and fancy vinegar, I found solace in the spelling quirks. Bockoy, daycon, swichard sound fantastical, right?

And Old Bay categorized as ethnic.

Major aside while I'm thinking about grocery shopping: I've officially become a cranky New York old-timer because I liked Rossman Farms, this glorified 24-hour bodega under the BQE, better when it was a shithole, I lived down the street and had a teenager try to mug me across the street. They still have dirt cheap produce out front that will go bad if you don't use it immediately, but they've also started doing that annoying thing where they package vegetables together in large amounts and charge large amounts when I only want three radishes not 20. It all changed when they put in a small cheese section, added organics in the corner and installed sliding glass doors instead of the clear plastic flaps that smack you in the face (oh, weird, those were back on my last visit a few weeks ago now that I think about it). Now there are lines and lots of white people. Obviously, I'm a white person, no harm there, but White People who leave carts and strollers unattended and in the way (these are the same people getting robbed at Trader Joe's) with no regard for anyone else who needs to get by and then give dirty looks when you touch fruit from the same section they are standing in front of and staring at full of inaction. (I really hate it when people put stuff on the counter before I'm done being checked out--I mean counters, not conveyor belts, which they don't have--but I'll do it to these types because they're all selfish personal-space-valuing transplants and I know it will upset them.)

It doesn't have to be like that. My favorite Western Beef on the Ridgewood/Williamsburg border did slowly add organics, better beer, and my canary in the coalmine, Fage yogurt, but it's still kind of a dump in the best possible way. Likely because it's hard to get to and not on a subway line.

The stores aren't fully to blame for needlessly upscaling Look at Roland, the everything brand, getting all fancy with tamarind and fig balsamic glazes.

And while I do prefer Fairway or Wegmans with their illusions of plenty (I could live without Fairway's clientele, however), I would hate to see the C Towns transform into New Brooklyn.

From my building's basement gym, there is still a splotch of original graffiti visible in a blocked off wing that's under construction.

Soon those walls will likely be improved with the graffiti-inspired art that graces the rest of the habitable sections of the apartment.

 

 

 

All Dressed Up

I finally found something I have in common with Girls. This bright, stripy dress I got on sale at Anthropologie for my birthday back in July. I never thought of myself as a Marnie. Or not (she doesn't end up wearing it).

Slowest

Speaking of slow, I am really excited about that one of my favorite not-that-famous bands since high school, The Pastels, is releasing their first album in 16 years. And fittingly, it would be called Slow Summits. An interview on music site, The Quietus, turned up some insights.

On  recognizing abilities and limits:

"...it is a struggle because we have other lives and are not dedicated musicians. There is a struggle in what we are technically capable of and the type of music we want to make now. The kind of music we play isn’t particularly complicated but it is at the limit of our capabilities."

On invention, not nostalgia:

"To have integrity, it has to change. It can be extremely melancholic watching a group trying to recreate what they were. It’s slightly vampire-like for the audience – they are in their early 40s but want to feel like they did in their early 20s."

Perhaps in my 60s I will want to feel like I did in my 40s. Best channel and savor it now this very second. 

Slower and Stupider

Eventually most self-ware people come to the realization that they're mediocre (and I don't mean counter-intuitive mediocrity). That's fine. I'd take mediocre. But I'm starting think I'm subpar. Like genuinely too stupid to execute. I can never find the interesting angle or the kernel with universal appeal. Focus is lacking, for sure, and I'm lazy, but I'm wondering if there's also an intelligence gap that can't be...argh, I started to type breached, which is the dead opposite of what I meant (patched? spanned? bridged?) and only proves my point. What do you do when you're too dumb to accomplish what you want to--or worse, too dumb to pinpoint what you want to accomplish.

I used to see things and think  oh, I could that. But I can't or I would've. I do not mean lifestyle publication crap where anyone could write it if they had the right connections. I'm burnt out on food right now anyway (not eating it, clearly--I will always envy the I'm too tired/stressed/angry/upset/down to eat people. And I'll continue hating the "I'm so busy I forget to eat" types even more). It's boring, it's competitive, repetitive. I'm talking more about stories with business or marketing angles (they could ostensibly be about food).  I would not go so far as to say think pieces because that's ridiculous. I don't mean Malcom Gladwell (this morning I tried analyzing this 2004 New Yorker piece about the creator of the American mall and I never would've made a connection between Vienna's Ringstrasse--even thought I was physically there last year--and the influence on the Viennese architect profiled) or the power of introverts Quiet lady (I'm a total loud mouth and am definitely introverted) or the Pulitzer Prize-winning guy who had the 14-page excerpt from his book about insidious junk food marketing in this weekend's NYT Sunday magazine. Those are leaps for another lifetime (or maybe just another decade--I don't have that skill set or level of confidence naturally).

But the 1,000-word article or the well-crafted three-paragraph blog post? That I could handle. For example, this post on NPR's food blog combines big data, the sort of thing I cover for work (for my next report I'll be analyzing real-time pricing, a similarly popular subject at the moment) and The Cheesecake Factory (chains, duh)  in a short speculative bit about how a company called N2N Global could potentially use customer feedback to track things like poor pickle performance in different parts of the world. It would seem that the author got his idea from this press release dated yesterday.

Here's where the disconnect lies (or is it lays?). I read stuff like this all day long and I would not see a story in this. But all you need to do is decide a restaurant using big data to maintain quality is newsworthy, get in touch with the person touted in the release, get some quotes, give some examples, boom, the post is live the next day.  

Oh, because of my Google alert for "Cheesecake Factory" (among others) this very second I got an email linking to Business Insider's take on the same thing--using one of my photos (a non-SLR one) no less!

I'm not saying I want to be a press release-recycler, i.e. what a lot of blogging is, and I'm pretty sure Business Insider doesn't even pay. These examples just further display my lack of good judgment or good ideas.

I've thought about pitching Brandchannel (just checked--they also have the Cheesecake Factory/big data story) or Fast Company, but like I said I'm horrible at coming up with ideas. Or at least ideas that others care about. I spend time here instead, and little stories I tell myself is not a marketable genre. The latter was just advertising for freelance writers for its Co.Create section, and they certainly pay, but holy shit, there's no way I could come up with three-to-four pieces a day, which I realize is pretty typical for a pro blog. I just don't have the brain for it. I currently work on a six-week schedule and I've grown accustomed to it. I see jobs that are more newsy, less analytical/long-form and I shy away.

Maybe I will write a book called Slow that will be about the benefits of taking a shitload of time to make decisions and produce something. I knew it! The Slow Fix already exists was published less than a month ago. Ack, and In Praise of Slowness has already been in existence for a while. 

Dammit. Even being stupid is taken.

Good night.