Hang the DJ

Whilst listening to an independent radio station in Minneapolis this a.m., I could have sworn the hokey DJ announced a recent song by "Death Camp for Cutie", which in my estimation is a much, much better name than "Death Cab for Cutie". Something about the nasal tones made it sweetly innocuous. "Dumb Camp for Corey".

It's me, Cathy!

Now and then I am struck with an honest to goodness, deep down hearty NEED to hear some Kate Bush. I grew up in the woods, so perhaps listening to faerie woodland sprites is in my blood.

Tonight I did a search-a-roo on the galawebaxy and found this lil' gem.

It starts off with an advertisement for American Apparel if the founder and CEO were interesting and smart and not a complete misogynistic prick bastard. It quickly segues to Kate herself, looking manic and small and belting it out with the rigor of someone who lives without the fear of being judged. The final installment features a lovely girl wearing a turtleneck. She dances and mimes in a dimly lit, barren room, which I can't believe is her residence. If anything, it is probably the dining area of a house with a high asking price on her block. (Give it two months and it will be a full-on derelict squat.)

Her lip syncing is good, and now and then she gives the camera a look of sheer nuttiness, which pays subtle homage to the original recording artist. Towards the end, however, she starts to sex up her moves, which is really quite incongruous with the song and the vocals. Suddenly, the pretty girl wearing a sweater (which I covet) in the dark room is the loony girl who won't leave, and this is when then terror begins. I can only imagine that months down the road, when the new owner of this 3 BDRM, 2.5 BATH home finds a cassette with Kate Bush scrawled on it in fuschia ink, that a shiver will run down their spine.

Love: Exciting and New...and then Crappy

Along with many others, so it seems, Germany's soccer coach caught my eye. Joachim Löw manages to coach AND wear a spotless, wrinklefree white button-down shirt with astonishing precision (yes, yes, he is a Deutscher, I know). During the match against Turkey, I was taken aback by how well tucked in and groomed he remained. Punching the air did not cause his tailored shirt to leave his trouser band. Some proposed that he was wearing a snap crotch shirt bodysuit. Others just love him the way he is...



but then there is this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WTYrisKGmds&feature=related

Wednesday's Attire is Full of Whoa

I have an interview this morning. I also have an interview this afternoon. In preparation for these meetings with people who have power over my fate, I have chosen to go the spunky-corporate-casual-in-the-summer route.

This pretty much equals Hamptons Mom.

Perhaps I should just submit to this and smear a bit of organic peanut butter on my crisp ecru button down.

(Sadly, Hamptons Mom sounds really appealing right now...)

Mirror, Mirror

If you ever want to feel bad about yourself, have I got the place for you! It's a little shop called BCBGMax Azria. Firstly, I should like to point out that they have beautiful pieces. Lovely tailoring, great colors, fantastic and imaginative cuts, but the largest size is an 8. Despite this, the sales person on the floor encouraged me to try on a lovely citron colored gauzy blousson. I milled around for a bit, got some items together and then found myself gazing at the "Runway" rack. While inspecting the wares of the runway, I overheard the following conversation betwixt two super skeletal BFF's:

Chandra: ..."so then I asked my boss, and he was like, you know what to do, so just do it. Can you believe how rude? I mean, like, yeah I know what I'm doing, but that doesn't-"

Morgan: "Chandra, I love you, but can you tell me what you think of this? I mean, I could wear it with a skirt, or white slacks, right?"

(I slowly turned to take in what magical garment would traverse the world of skirts AND slacks. Standing before me is a 10 year old boy with long hair and an ill fitting, yet stylish, short sleeved, light gray jacket.)

Chandra: "Yeah, it would totally go with white."

Morgan: "Are you sure? Does it fit well? Seriously, you can be honest."

Chandra: "Yeah, totally. Ohmygod, check out this belt!!! But it is a LARGE. Ugh, why is it so big? Why? How can I make this belt smaller?"

At this point I am merely wiping my hands on the Runway line and eaveshating on these two sylphs marveling at the success of their air diet, yet also noting the scent of ketones in the air. In response to the question about making a belt smaller, I muttered "Eat" not so far under my breath. Then I headed to the dressing room where I found the ethereal golden top made me look like the lemon that has been in my crisper for the past month. Ho hum, back to the Dress Barn for moi.

Foreign cats are the best cats

Speak jibberish? Open a baby store!

I usually know better than to take heed of the mania in Park Slope on a weekend. In an effort to make a fast getaway from the co-op, I chose a fairly quiet back route. However, what I found was yet another baby/toddler geared store. Excuse me, I know everyone is laying a kid egg these days, but seriously, how much crap does a baby need?! Just a quick jaunt down Fifth Ave. in Brooklyn teaches one that clearly, babies need a lot of stuff. They need it cute, they need it pricey and they NEED IT NOW!!!

Naturally, these new spawn stores are trying to capture the eye and the imagination of the happy parents. One way is with a whimsical window display. Yet another is with a whimsical store name. I am sure I passed one called Puddlechunks or WoodenPickles...I am so sure.... but who cares!? There are so many ridiculous store names geared towards the softening skulls of parents-to-be out there. Why hasn't some scientistdoctorperson done a study on the direct relationship between disappearing gray matter and stages of mitosis?

In the mean time, I have done a little research of my own. Following are my top 5 baby furniture store names---all in Brooklyn!

5. Pride Sandman Inc (Sounds like a riot, this place.)
4. Katz in the Cradle (No WASP babies, please. They just fall right out of the cradle.)
3. Baby Gear (Because babies love hiking and/or drugs, eg heroin.)
2. Sovereign Furniture Baby Furniture (Furniture fit for a little monarch!)
1. Everything But the Baby (This is definitely my favorite. How many times does the showroom manager have to explain that no, they don't have babies up for grabs. "Sorry ma'am, no...just the furniture. No babies.")

Next week: Maternity stores. Really, should anyone further than 3 months up the spout really even be allowed outside? I think not! Much less, should they be expected to look good?

Because that is how I roll

My Favorite Time of Day is Night

Ah, Lauren. With a voice like that I would have never thought that you consumed freeze dried grounds before bed.

Finally, I have learned how flavor is really in steam, and it can be trapped with the right glassware.

The Ooog

Let it be known, fair people of Brooklyntown, I was down for the count, but I am BACK.

After spending a week supine on my chaise, sweating Ricola, and watching the likes of Cashmere Mafia, I realized it was time to get well again. I mean in the physical sense, the mental part is just too taxing. I spent ten days in and out of feverish fantasies and doomsday visions, scouring my cabinets for pharmaecopia by day, and building pillow ziggurats to prop my head up on in order to avoid choking on whatever ghastly substance was brewing in my lungs by night. It was a fight of will, a fight for life, that one battle against death that I just wasn't ready to lose yet. Not alone anyway. Images of being found by a surly landlord under a pile of used tissues adhering themselves to me like a twisted papier mache kept me going. As did the will to see the first crocus of spring, sniff the first acrid aroma of burning charcoal and the flame inducing toxin it had been doused in...visions of good times to come kept me going. That, and Cashmere Mafia.

Spring Cometh

Springtime is definitely in my top 4 favorite seasons. It means tulips, Easter egg hunts (this year I have enlisted my favorite Jewish friend to do the honors in Prospect Park), and my all time favorite: the spring clean!!! It is around now that I start to eye the furniture suspiciously, wondering if I can manage to move it myself. Suddenly, nothing has value. I would gladly rid of my painstakingly collected matchbooks from shitty pubs from New Jersey, and that sampling of exotic potato chip flavors from the South suddenly has no meaning anymore. Nothing is sacred, all sentimentality has been stripped from objects d'art. Wedding photos (eh, it turned out to be a sham anyway) can be found in the bin next to a like letter (he just wasn't that into me) and a threadbare concert t-shirt from the formative years. Everything must go! New new new. I can't help but wonder if this is a natural instinct to free myself from the shackles of "things", or if I am just making room for the next round of crap that I expect to amass in the coming year.
Either way, it feels good.

Daddy drinks because you cry

Well, baby cries because she drinks champagne cocktails at an alarming rate. I am going to have to admit to being middle aged. I have reached the point in my life when a hangover is now a two day affair. What happens to the body? Is it less resilient, does my liver really know it is almost 40 years old? EVEN if I tricked it and didn't really enjoy going to the local boozeteria until well into my 20's? The only good to come out of my wasted Saturday was ample time to feel sorry for myself AND the opportunity to watch the first season of The Royle Family.

I will always marvel at the number of fantastic programs the BBC has churned out. In this particular show, nothing happens. The viewer is sucked into the mediocrity of a family of northerners who do nothing but smoke, watch tv, and eat the occasional bacon butty. Yet somehow, it is hilarious and endearing and enlightening all in one go. Unfortunately, it was short lived because of some sort of studio turmoil and the private lives of the cast and writers. The strangest thing is that I find the show somewhat inspiring. I guess a lesson on how NOT to live ones life.

Oh, Caroline Aherne, come to the U.S. and we will make it alright.

Morning Snippet

I hate it when someone gets into the elevator at the last minute. This a.m. it happened not once, but twice. First, a giant man wedged his body between the doors at the last minute. Shortly thereafter, a small mousy being with earmuffs and a coat 3 times her size zipped in before the doors slammed shut. The following conversation took place:

Doors shut, Mouse looks up at Large and says
"Helloooo", her voice is whiny and mocking and I snort a bit at her comedic approach to mornings at the office.

Large mumbles something with an 'H' in it.

Mouse gazes up at the informative Captivate screen, which notes that people from Denmark rate to be the happiest in the world.

Mouse: pointing at the screen, "Now, why do we need to know that?"

It is at this point that I realize that the comedic sound IS her real voice.
Large emits grunt.

The next news tidbit of the day grants the viewer with a list of the highest rated stocks.

Mouse: "And why do we need to know that?"

Large is doing a great job of avoiding Mouse's imploring gaze.
A newsflash about the Bush check incentives flashes across the screen. Mouse fidgets with excitement. The elevator stops. The doors start to open.

Mouse: "Hey, if they send me a check in the mail, I'll take it. Who wouldn't?"

Mouse scurries behind Large as he takes long steps, presumably to keep her from getting underfoot.

This snippet was a fantastic example of what is wrong with this society. The "who gives a fuck about that, oooh, can I have that?" culture. All immediacy, without a thought about the big picture. I hope Mouse spends her check wisely. She will probably plonk down a down payment on a Jennifer Sofabed or perhaps a singles cruise to DR.

I am going to sell all my stocks and move to Denmark.

Swiffer Train

I don't care if you ever take the Shuttle. I don't care if you are the type to not leave your hovel in the far reaches of Bay Ridge or Greenpoint. No matter what you do, you must take your hipper than thou self and get on the Swiffer Train. The interior is made to look like hardwood floors---floor, walls and ceiling, all shiny woodgrain. For some reason, it is very pleasing to the senses. Unless, of course, you have my luck and manage to get on the one car with the hobo. But only then does the campaign lose its appeal. I am going to go home and Swiffer the fuck out of my neighborhood.

In Deep, In Bruges

Yes, connoisseurs of the pan flute will note that I quoted Yanni.

I just returned from a testosterone laden evening, which started with a viewing of the latest McDonagh film, In Bruges, starring Colin Ferrell's expressive eyebrows. The man has gone from touting his sexy wares with a lift of a brow, to befuddling audiences with the knitting of his hair cigars in a look of permanent confusion. Regardless, I still liked the film, though there were a few pat wrapping up of mysteries and some of the twists seemed a bit obvious. One scene that struck me favorably, however, was that of Ken (Gleason) watching Ray (Ferrell) prepare himself for a date. It was a man moment rarely witnessed; tender, charming, and fleeting and it was devoid of the sap one would normally see.
Everyone was up to snuff. Even Ralph Fiennes as Ben Kingsley, the new tough guy (see Sexy Beast), did the role justice.

Best supporting role goes to Belgian ale, which was quaffed copiously.

In retrospect, I find it amusing that the fellas I was with chose to repair to the local brew pub to get Stella and snails. Tough guys are all the same.

Marry Me

It is gorgeous out. Sunny and bright and crisp and cool, and I look forward to exploring the cheese caves at Murray's http://www.murrayscheese.com/prodinfo.asp?number=CAVE021608. Après le fromage, I may take the edge off with a glass boot of ale, but first I have to take care of a little matter.

Who is it? Who are you, you genius that invented the Fleur de Sel caramel? And who is your evil, lovable twin who put it in ice cream?

I ask because I think I love you.

Intermacgooglewebular

Through the powers of the World Wide Web, an old college chum has found me. Naturally, it is not rare these days. People are found, re-discovered, romances re-kindled, hates re-formed daily. Hourly. But is it really wise? Back in the day, you graduate from a mediocre college and when you are gone, you are gone. One could rely on the powers of just bumping into someone on the corner of Haight and Ashbury (ok, this happened to me once and it was horrifying. I was running and errand, I swear!!!). Looking someone up is one thing, but now when you find someone you see quite a large part of their current lives. Or, as much as someone wishes to share, which is often too much, in my opinion.

I am not alone in thinking that perhaps this "tell it all" culture is a bit odd. What I find more troubling is that I walk past hundreds of people on the street that wouldn't give me a second glance on the sidewalk, yet once they are behind closed doors would have no qualms with telling me about their alcoholic step-dad and their propensity for bondage. I fear that the more exposure one allows themselves in one forum, another realm will suffer, namely, face to face. Such divulging of secrets may tap out the reserves, so then what does a person met "in the wild" have left?

It takes about 10 minutes of online dating to realize that the beauty of the internet is creating a new persona. Imperfections and quirks welcome, because gee, don't they sound great and funny in print? Sure! Given the right context, a hypochondriac who collects Pez dispensers and lives with 10 guys in a warehouse is de rigeur. I can fool myself, I can fool you--for months, friends, because I will believe my own new life. That is, until you get to know me and things fall apart.

That is why I sometimes think that online dating is like cloning. Both make a certain sense, but they are ultimately unnatural. It all seems fine in the beginning, but who knows how things will progress down the line, how things will age and warp in the future when the truer elements start to take over. I want to meet the animated version of my beau FIRST. A great photo is alluring, but what about the gleam in the eye, the little crows feet that form when he laughs, or the quirky hand gesture when relaying a story? That to me is all more important than having them tell me how they had to add pages to a passport to accommodate all those stamps at the border. (By the way, the world traveler thing is passé at this point. Everyone likes to travel, even if it is just to Montauk. This Paris to Positano bullshit must end.)

The point is, I am going to see someone I haven't seen in over a decade. I cringe at the thought that I knew this person as a young adult. Does that make me a pre-middle aged adult? He found me. Threw me an e-wave. So, of course I will go. I just hope he doesn't think my online self is my self.

My Funky Valentimes

I really don't have any true feelings of malice towards the creator of this holiday (and I use that term loosely, Hallmark). However, I find it mildly amusing and somewhat irritating that people spend millions of dollars on absolute rubbish. Running to the train this a.m., I spied a table full of cellophane-wrapped plush bears, each with his tiny poorly sewn paws clutching desperately at a faux rose. They looked uncomfortable in their clear tombs, and their collective expression was not unlike that of the man who fails to plan an evening out for his beloved. Gents: For the future, note that anxiety ridden bears make great gifts.

As a single gal about town, I could find comfort in watching badgered looking men walk arm in arm with their scantily clad, well shod mates du jour. The women tend to carry an expression of forced happiness, flashing the pearlies, or they appear spoiled and petulant. It is not an endearing scene and certainly not one that makes me long for another.

When I recall times past when I was involved in some sort of quasi-relationship, my focus leaned towards the absurd. One year I made my one true love a card out of various clippings from nature magazines. I taped a picture of his head on top of a mountain range and quoted the chorus from that detestable John Mayer hit. Another year, I created a heartwarming funeral wreath out of fake black roses. In return, he would go to the nearby bodega and find the naffest card imaginable, or make a gift of a bag of dried cuttlefish. The heart warms just thinking about it.

masseusical

After becoming a female Herman Munster due to extreme neck pain, I finally relented and went to the local Tui Na massage parlor near the work place. I asked for the lunch special (3o minutes of rub for 20 bones...not bad, right?) but almost as soon as my face hit the paper towel/face hole, i passed out. Minutes or an hour later I awoke to find that not only was a small Asian woman on my back grinding her elbow into my upper trapezius, I was crying and could hear the tears hit the industrial low pile carpet. I think she hit my sad bone.