Fled the Cube

Tim Burton at MoMA

This week Emilia, Rachel, Jemile and I attended a preview/reception for Tim Burton’s new exhibit at MoMA. 

“This major career retrospective on Tim Burton (American, b. 1958), consisting of a gallery exhibition and a film series, considers Burton’s career as a director, producer, writer, and concept artist for live-action and animated films, along with his work as a fiction writer, photographer and illustrator.”

I’d definitely like to go back when there wasn’t a party distracting me. I loved his sketches.

“He says his acrylic painting The Green Man (1996–1998) is a kind of self-portrait and memento mori. It’s about “a feeling of being in a pub in England, thinking about my grandmother who had died, and feeling the connections she had with me.” The sharp edges of the triangular blue mask invoke her death in a traumatic accident. The stitching all over the man’s face is “a symbol for the internal, an indicator of a person’s different sides and struggle to keep it together.” The coat is classic Burton gothicism: “the exact opposite of Southern California,” where he incongruously grew up. And the striped shirt? “I was depressed and disconnected. I couldn’t feel my hands. I bought some striped socks and suddenly felt very connected to the Earth again.” Really? Striped socks? “I have strange things happen to me.” Which will come as a surprise to exactly no one.”

Only Make Believe

Most ladies wore evening gowns, but I showed up unshowered and in flip flops. Someone had given me a ticket to the Only Make Believe gala last-minute, so I was unprepared when I met colleagues at the event after running downtown to meet up with my former roommate Elke. (note, I usually shower before work and often wear shoes, but I was recovering from a St. Maarten toe injury. I don’t remember why I hadn’t showered).

Anyhow, Only Make Believe, founded by Dena Hammerstein, is an amazing organization that brings theatre to sick kids in hospitals. My company supports them each year, both financially and through the super-cool costumes we decorate for the children. Ian McKellen did a superior job hosting the event, with hilarious asides, recitations of Shakespeare as well as a thesaurus, singing and even dancing.

The event was packed with Broadway performances from Memphis, the Lion King and Hair (whose actors were super cute on stage and super gay at the after party), circus shows and satirical songs. My favorite number featured Broadway guru Seth Rudetsky, who offered a brief tutorial on how theatre works (for example, how dancers in the front row know how to (without looking) never block those in the back and what a “swing” is (poor souls who have to be the understudy for every dancer). He had a show in New York over the summer, Seth’s Broadway 101, which I would have loved to have seen.

But back to Ian McKellen. He told us a story about when he was knighted. Apparently, when you meet the queen she asks you two questions. His first: “Are you working?” His answer: “I’m with the Royal Shakespeare Company.” Next question: “Does anyone go the theatre anymore?” Answer: “?”

An Only Make Believe board member, Jude Law (who I want to see in Hamlet), was in attendance and introduced a video featuring the children that OMB helps. Before the show, someone in my group (who I swear I don’t know) went up to him after he sat down and either took his photo or asked for a photo. She was far away from us so we didn’t hear the exchange, but she came back fuming saying he said something like, “Not now, darling, we’re in the theatre.” And then she got loud with him and said something like, “Don’t pull that British shit. I pay good money to the theatre.” !! So then our group of colleagues split up into Team Jude and Anti-Team Jude camps (I captained Team Jude because I thought she was being incredibly rude).

Then we went to the after-party at Sardi’s, where I tried to sweet-talk a clearly gay caricaturist in a beret into drawing a more flattering image of me than he might have otherwise. As he was drawing me, I thought the caricature looked pretty good and had plans to scan it here. But when I left the artist chair and got a real look I was horrified at my exaggerated face. Yes, yes it’s a caricature, but he made me look like a chipmunk with the mumps, so this picture is only on view at the back of my closet.

But more than the awesome OMB show, open bar and free spinach ravioli, what really impressed me that night was the OMB volunteers who were honored for their dedicated service to the organization. The winners are successful in every aspect of their lives, and busy almost every moment of the day with work and other obligations, but they consistently take the time to make significant contributions to Only Make Believe and other nonprofits. I left inspired to volunteer more.

Friday in the West Village

Friday I met up with Elisa, an Italian friend I hadn’t seen in a very long time. She was my Italian tutor before I went to Rome and we randomly bumped into each other on the subway about a month ago. She’s an incredible Siciliana who works for the United Nations. We began our night having drinks with her friend Luigi at a Brazilian bar, where a hostess/model type invited us to go clubbing next week (which I doubt will happen as I’m sure I’m in bed by the time she goes out).

After we left, Luigi departed to meet up with his Parisian girlfriend and Elisa insisted that she needed to get her nose pierced. We hopped in a cab that took us to Venus, which looks like a fancy jewelry store, but the employees are tattooed and pierced from head to toe. Elisa asked if I thought it would hurt and I said that when I pierced my nose years ago it hurt like hell. However, when the needle went through her skin, she didn’t flinch! And by the next day her nose wasn’t swollen at all. I asked her piercer if the holes in my earlobes were too closed up to jam a piece of jewelry. He said no, but recommended I have a professional piercer use a needle because he’s seen people get weird tumor-like growths on the back of their ears due to self-inflicted and piercing gun trauma—ew!

Then we went to No. 28, where everyone knew Elisa, for some Napolitano pizza. We took photos of ourselves and then Elisa had me go into the “kitchen” next to us, where they were spinning our dough.

Finally, we went to another nearby pizza place so she could say hello to a friend who was having a Nutella pizza with some friends. A very fun, Italian—and New York!—night.

It's the Great Pumpkin Patch, Charlie Brown!

The Coop

Here’s a link to the recent New York Times article on the Park Slope Food Coop. My colleague and fellow coop member thought the piece was whiny and forced, but there were also some accuracies. During my monthly maintenance shift, I too hang out in spotless bathrooms and wonder what the hell I should be doing to keep myself busy. I can drag out stair sweeping for a good 10-15 minutes, not counting the time I take to read all the posters tacked to the wall for various classes, meet-up groups, stuff for sale. Believe it or not, this shift goes by faster than when I used to deliver groceries during snowstorms.

However, I disagree with the so-called “community” at the coop. I’ve been a member and have served on various squads for a few years, and while I love the coop’s prices and food judgment, I don’t feel like I’m part of any particular tribe. Though I do enjoy the sometimes bizarre interactions I see there, including one I was involved with tonight. 

Leaving the subway station, I saw an old white woman in a white turban with some sort of medallion pinned at its center. I wished there was a way to discretely snap her picture to share this site, but I just walked by. I stopped at the coop, grabbed some ingredients for lentil soup and got in the checkout line. The woman, who magically transported herself there at lightening speed, ended up being my cashier. Still wearing her turban, she looked at me and said, “Are you from another world?” I said, “No.” I couldn’t tell if she was crazy, whimsical or pissed that I had my headphones on (volume off). Then she said, “Well is there something I can do for you?” as if I was some canvasser who just knocked on her door. I said, “Well, I’d like to purchase these groceries.”

The rest of our exchange continued in this fashion and I could feel the man next to me stifling laughter. I held a straight face to add to his amusement and then lost it when I went outside.

Indian Cooking

Yesterday, Rachel and I attended a cooking class at the Indian Culinary Center, which is actually a rented space in the Inn on 23rd St. Our teacher was a riot who talked all sorts of smack while she taught us to make vegetarian entrees with potatoes, cauliflower, chickpeas and spices. We also cooked an amazing carrot dessert and learned how to fry poori and make paneer—much easier than I thought.

To make paneeer, just boil a quart of whole milk in a heavy pot then add an acid such as 2 teaspoons of lemon juice. We also added 1 1/2 cups of yogurt for extra creaminess. Stir gently to curdle it and lower the heat. Once the milk curdled, we put it in a cheese cloth and let the water drain out for awhile. Since we had limited time, we didn’t let the cheese sit long enough to cut it into cubes, so we just put chunks of it on top of vegetables we had stir-fried. We let the dish cook for awhile without stirring in the paneer so it wouldn’t break apart into tiny pieces. Before it was served, we folded the cheese into the vegetables. Our teacher told us that if we weren’t there, she’d eat the whole bowl of paneer by herself. She’s done it before. 

About 12 of us participated in the class and after the food was ready, we sat down for dinner together. Everything tasted wonderful, though I liked the cauliflower the best. I learned that the word “curry” in India simply means a dish with a sauce and that Indians don’t use curry powder at all. Apparently it’s a British invention that makes every dish taste the same. I also finally understand what it means to julienne something. I highly recommend the ICC!

Avenue C

On Avenue C, people like to hang things from things.

Like umbrellas on fire escapes.

And junk on fences.

Walking around, it’s a mix of hipsters and Spanish speakers and you feel like you’re in Rent as well as West Side Story.

They love Obama.

But not bad murals of George W. Bush.

At the Sunburnt Cow, you can get an all-you-can drink brunch for $18 (like Chrissy) or a surprisingly good a la carte portobello sandwich (like me). This place is super loud and dive-y, like the aftermath of a house party not cleaned up for a week, but the Australian waitstaff is nice and if you show up at noon you don’t have to wait.

Edna’s Falafel

Before Annie, Sara and I went to The Moth reading at Cooper Union Thursday night, I went to Edna’s Falafel (formerly known as Chickpea) on Third Avenue and St. Mark’s. Seriously the best falafel sandwich I’ve had…maybe ever. The falafel was crispy on the outside and hot and soft (and green!) on the inside, served on delicious fresh pita. I was going on and on about how great it was, snapped some photos of the place and went back to eating. However, in an effort to get myself in trouble for no reason wherever I go, the story couldn’t stop there.

After taking a bite of my sandwich, a giant man with gray hair and dark eyesmaterialized before me. He’s wearing an apron and in his accent asks, “Is there a problem over here?” I’m thinking, “Oh my god, what?” He said he was either the manager or owner and that he saw me taking photos. Where the hell did he come from? Was he watching me via video in some secret room? Taping my phone calls? 

“I just want to know if there is a problem.”

“No. I really like this falafel.” I could tell he didn’t believe me.

“Why were you taking photos?” (I just finished reading The Monster of Florence and his questioning had me paranoid the police were on their way to get me).

“Just for a memento.” I gulp. I’m sweating. Feel my face getting flushed. “Are we not allowed to take photos?”

“Oh no, you are. Just wanted to make sure there wasn’t a problem over here.”

For the record, I don’t plan on opening a competing falafel shop or bombing the place or reporting it to any sort of sanitation police. I really like the falafel here and highly recommend it. Just beware of taking photos.

Day of Service and Remembrance

I absolutely love that President Obama signed into law the Edward M. Kennedy Serve America Act, which federally recognizes Sept. 11 as an annual National Day of Service and Remembrance. What better way to honor the victims than to work to improve the country we love? To help others and give thanks for what we have?

“As a 9/11 family member, I cannot think of a more inspiring, appropriate and constructive tribute to my late brother and all those who perished, were injured or rose in service – to rekindle at least for one day each year the remarkable spirit of compassion and service that unified our country,” says MyGoodDeed.org co-founder and vice president Jay S. Winuk, whose younger brother Glenn J. Winuk, an attorney, volunteer firefighter and EMT, died in the line of duty in the collapse of the World Trade Center. “This groundbreaking national service legislation will greatly benefit the nation in so many meaningful ways as we face these challenging times.”

Of course, there are ignorant cranks who hate this idea and the Village Voice offered this humorous blurb about the “traitors” who will participate in a United We Serve event today. “Clearly [actor Gary] Sinise has been brainwashed by Obama’s food-bank agents. Is there no depth to which he will not sink in his mad quest to reward our enemies with canned goods?”

Birthday Thanks

Thank you to everyone for another fantastic birthday that stretched two weeks. It began with an Italian feast at my grandmother’s, complete with her famous whipped cream cake—and the eating hasn’t really stopped.

After treating me to a pedicure at Dashing Diva, Sarah treated me again to dinner at Pepolino, where the waiters are real Italians who drive motorinos. As you can see, Rachel tried to steal one, as always.

Later that week, my mother visited and took Rachel and me on a food tour of the West Village. Literally, a tour where you just walk around and eat! Had the guide offered more historical anecdotes, it would have been perfect, but still, it was a great tour that included Amy’s Bread, Joe’s Pizza and Murray’s Cheese.

We were bursting by the end of the walk but recovered in time for dinner at Buttermilk Channel, where I ordered the cheddar waffles (as good as they sound), which came with asparagus and mushrooms. The manager (owner?) thought we waited too long to get our meals and so she sent us free peach cobbler for dessert (free food is pretty much all it takes to garner a return visit from me). We then walked home in an 80-mile-an-hour wind storm that knocked down 100 trees in Central Park. Fortunately, we made it to the apartment before the downpour, which surely would have swept away our flip flops in the flooding of the sidewalks.

Wait a minute. I completely messed up this story. The day before my birthday, I returned to Dashing Diva with Mom and Rach for a manicure, then to Buttermilk Channel. The food tour was the next day on my actual birthday. Not that you care about any of this.

Anyway, on my actual birthday we went to Al Di La, where I had the best meal I’ve eaten at a restaurant in a long time (Grandma’s cooking still beats restaurant). Rachel and I both ordered the corn tortelli and we all shared the polenta and Swiss chard (which I only ordered to be healthy, but it turned out to have a surprisingly nice flavor and texture). We had no room for dessert, but later Rachel and Mom sang Happy Birthday while I ate leftover chocolate chip Challah from Amy’s.

Oh, no. I’m not done. Another cake awaited me. The following weekend I visited Lacey and Jay and sweet little Addison. We ordered Mexican and drank wine and watched My Life on the D List. They then surprised me with an ice cream cake, which we ate while playing The Office Trivia Game. I was Jan. I won.

Thanks again for the great food, books, beach trips, Italian DVDs, fun and everything else! My birthday is over. Summer is over. But here’s to a good fall.

Frankie’s

Rachel and I had dinner at Frankie’s Friday night. The weather was perfect, so we sat in the garden and drank rosé (well, I had rosé. Rachel does not believe in it and had white) in the garden until our table was ready.

We both enjoyed the gnocchi and shared the chocolate tart for dessert. Frankie’s offers sandwiches on their dinner menu, which is both rare and fantastic and, based on the fresh bread they gave us, I’m sure they’re delicious. Rachel also ordered an espresso and said it’s the best she’s ever had.

We loved the tin roof (get that B-52s song out of your head) and wooden décor. Carroll Gardens is our new favorite nabe.

Oh, and we took photos all night as if we’ve never had access to a camera. To the left, Rachel + wine. To the right, the lowest doorknobs ever. That’s where the gnomes live.

Below, what we passed on our way there (in addition to new and renovated buildings)

And on our way back down Union St. All aboard Rachel’s Geriatric Express! Cut out the photos and make a flip book. 

And Speaking of Missing Children

As I was running through a wooded part of Prospect Park today, I came upon an old man playing a banjo on a bench. A little boy nearby clapped in accompaniment and up ahead, a couple pushed a stroller. I thought it was nice of them to walk so slow so that their boy could listen to the music a little longer. I kept running with my headphones on until I noticed a woman trying to say something to me. In a foreign accent she asked, “Have you seen a child? A little boy with a blue shirt?” I said yes and she looked scared and hopeful and said her husband had been looking for him. I’m guessing they’d been at the nearby green market, which can get crowded, and the boy slipped away. I tried to assure her that her son was OK and was just listening to music, but she was understandably frantic, so I ran with her until she could see him. I’m glad this story had a happy ending. I’m still so upset by that story in California and how our country continuously fails to protect children.

It’s Official. I’m a Bum.

Statistically, New York is one of the safest cities in the United States, and now I have my own anecdote to confirm this. Yesterday, my colleague invited me to a last-minute barbeque in Prospect Park after work. Because it had rained that evening, we had the place to ourselves and, despite the wetness and mosquitoes, had a lovely time sitting around picnic tables in the dark talking about books (White Tiger and The Lemon Tree are now on my list). At one point, a lawyer named Becky, who had 1940s movie star eyebrows and pinned-back curls, wanted us all to be quiet so we could listen to the peep frogs.

So we’re sitting there like good school children quietly listening to the nightlife when all of a sudden two giant police vans roll in and shine their headlights on us. Eight cops get out of the car to investigate our little soiree and they take our licenses to see if we are criminals. We’re not, though half of us had expired licenses since no one drives. If I were a teenager, I would have hysterically cried, but since I’m old, I found the situation kind of amusing.

The police, who were polite enough aside from mocking one young man for drinking non-alcoholic beer, said someone had ratted us out for having a party and that we would have been fine if we had left earlier (it was about 9:30 or so). We all received tickets for drinking in the park, except for one guy who used his magic card. I kicked myself for not giving mine along with my license, but 1) I had completely forgotten about it as I don’t often have run-ins with the police and 2) I doubt I would have had the balls even if I did remember.

Now I have a court date for September. I heard one cop say something about paying a fine instead, but I don’t see anything about that on the pink summons he gave me. Of course when I arrived home, a sketchy crackhead was rummaging through my neighbors trash and trying to pick a fight. I didn’t bother calling the police, though. They’re busy enough busting up wine and cheese parties. 

Spelling & Dumpster Swimming

Brooklyn was all over NPR this morning. In one story, the host says, “One popular adult spelling bee lives in an unlikely place.” And I thought, “Hm. Unlikely. Unlikely. Is she talking about Kansas?” But then she says, “A bar in Brooklyn!” What? That’s absolutely the first place I’d guess an adult spelling bee would be occurring.

Another story was about the dumpster swimming pools in Carroll Gardens. But don’t get too excited. Swimming in the trash bins at this “urban country club” is by invitation only.