A few highlights from the “Revenge of the Bookeaters” show at the Beacon tonight (Quick because Miss Stacia’s got to go to bed and kick this cold before her Fran Drescher turns into a phone sex operator. If you've had a conversation with me recently you know what I'm talking about.):
1. Jon Stewart making an interesting observation about how Mac commercials kind of make him want to buy a PC (because presumably John Hodgman is the more likable of the two annoying spokespeeps.).
2. “Chicago” followed immediately by “Casimir Pulaski Day” from Sufjan Stevens and his sweet, six-piece band. Major score, and I wasn’t even crossing fingers for favorites like I usually do.
3. A silver-haired, cowboy-booted David Byrne announcing that he was going to do an entire country set, noting, “I’ve played all these songs before, just never all at once.”
But for me, the best part of the night, no joke, was exiting a killer musical showcase onto 74th and Broadway, a mere nine blocks from my apartment. This has never happened to me before, and may never again, as the typical bill for the Beacon theater these days features Linda Rondstadt* or Meatloaf (I shit you not, he was just there). Regardless, I could not stop reveling in the convenience.
Also, although I have seen a fair amount of hipsters make their way through Central Park for Summerstage, it truly tickled me to see them running amok on UWS city streets. An army of leggings marching towards my diner? A cluster of mullets and side-swept bangs in front of the Ruby Foo's?! I don’t think there was ever an occasion on which I could gaze at Zabars and catch so many pairs of thick-rimmed glasses in my peripheral vision. No strollers or little dogs, just a string of skinny chain smokers hanging across the street from the house that bubbe built.
*Sorry Linda, my heart belongs to Carly Simon.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
The College Man: And the Trail He Leaves Behind
I just opened my fridge to get a drink and was assaulted by a 22 oz. Bud Ice that wasn't there yesterday. I think the College Man spent a total of 44 waking minutes in my apartment between last night and this morning and we never went to a liquor store. Kid is a goddamn magician.
The College Man: Sophomore Send-off
Last night The College Man and I went to see Talladega Nights and eat some delish Malaysian noodles while reconnecting for the last time before he returns to the U of Maryland. After waking the groggy bastard long before his typical rising hour this morn, I brought him into the office because I thought he might get a kick out of the studio and edit rooms, and because he had never seen a cubicle-ridden workplace before. I gave him a speedy tour, finishing in my dear friend Shanaberg's windowless equipment sanctuary before leading the way back to the LIRR. On our way out, The College Man turned to me and said, "This is kind of bleak."
No kidding sport. Welcome to life after college.
It should also be noted that The Princeton Review's list of the Best U.S. Party Schools was released today. University of Maryland clings impressively, if just barely, to the Number 20 spot.
Enjoy it while you can my brother.
No kidding sport. Welcome to life after college.
It should also be noted that The Princeton Review's list of the Best U.S. Party Schools was released today. University of Maryland clings impressively, if just barely, to the Number 20 spot.
Enjoy it while you can my brother.
Monday, August 21, 2006
A Hearty Thanks
To the considerate woman who put up the "No Toilet Paper" post-it on my go-to stall in the ladies room. I salute you. Drip drying's a bitch.
Snakes on a Half-Empty Plizzane
Reasons you should see Snakes on a Plane even though apparently no one else has:
1. To appreciate the screenplay's endearing commitment to a ridiculous premise. Says the movie’s villain of his decision to release snakes on the plane (to eliminate a witness who means to testify against him in a murder trial): “We’ve exhausted every other option.” Of course you did.
2. To witness Samuel L. Jackson’s dexterity in wielding random snake defense weapons including a tazer, a lance tipped with a broken beer bottle, and a hairspray-fueled blowtorch.
3. For a disturbing and hilariously predictable string of snake attacks on multiple genital/erogenous zones.
4. For the most ridiculously hedonistic-turned-gory airplane sex scene. See number 3.
5. For Sam Jackson’s PERFECT delivery of the line that launched the hype.
6. For Julianna Marguiles’ underappreciated hotness.
7. For David Koechner’s performance as mildly sleazy and freakishly resilient co-pilot, Rick.
8. To see a Tinkerbell-sized dog punted directly into the mouth of a boa constrictor. Sorry mom/Shayna, it was funny. And some little dogs deserve it.
9. For Keenan. Way more effective sans Kel.
10. For the rewarding epiphany that Samuel L. Jackson isn’t acting at all. He’s just a bad ass motherfucker. As he proclaims early in the film, “It's my job to handle life and death situations on a daily basis. It's what I do, and I'm very good at it.” Damn straight.
1. To appreciate the screenplay's endearing commitment to a ridiculous premise. Says the movie’s villain of his decision to release snakes on the plane (to eliminate a witness who means to testify against him in a murder trial): “We’ve exhausted every other option.” Of course you did.
2. To witness Samuel L. Jackson’s dexterity in wielding random snake defense weapons including a tazer, a lance tipped with a broken beer bottle, and a hairspray-fueled blowtorch.
3. For a disturbing and hilariously predictable string of snake attacks on multiple genital/erogenous zones.
4. For the most ridiculously hedonistic-turned-gory airplane sex scene. See number 3.
5. For Sam Jackson’s PERFECT delivery of the line that launched the hype.
6. For Julianna Marguiles’ underappreciated hotness.
7. For David Koechner’s performance as mildly sleazy and freakishly resilient co-pilot, Rick.
8. To see a Tinkerbell-sized dog punted directly into the mouth of a boa constrictor. Sorry mom/Shayna, it was funny. And some little dogs deserve it.
9. For Keenan. Way more effective sans Kel.
10. For the rewarding epiphany that Samuel L. Jackson isn’t acting at all. He’s just a bad ass motherfucker. As he proclaims early in the film, “It's my job to handle life and death situations on a daily basis. It's what I do, and I'm very good at it.” Damn straight.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
La Musique Transcendant
If you like Francois Hardy or Serge Gainsbourg or my very favorite NYC faux-french seduction act, La Laque, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE achetez-vous Francoiz Breut's 2005 album, Une Saison Volée.
Aussi, a list of songs I may NEVER get sick of walking NYC to:
Widow and Son - Keren Ann
Before We Begin - Broadcast
Chicago - Sufjan Stevens
Us - Regina Spektor
Et une nouvelle favorite pour capituler à la force de l'orchestration:
I Hurt You (off the live Isle of View album) - The Pretenders
Aussi, a list of songs I may NEVER get sick of walking NYC to:
Widow and Son - Keren Ann
Before We Begin - Broadcast
Chicago - Sufjan Stevens
Us - Regina Spektor
Et une nouvelle favorite pour capituler à la force de l'orchestration:
I Hurt You (off the live Isle of View album) - The Pretenders
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
The first step is admitting you have a problem.
I have been a Cocoa Krispies addict for as long as I can remember, thanks to mom and pops' lax policies regarding their children's consumption of sugar cereals. But never in my life, not even in my late-night cereal heyday (basically all of college), did I even come close to ingesting as much soggy rice and chocolate milk as I have in the past 24 hours. I estimate I've consumed about three-quarters of a box since about 9:00 am yesterday morning, which breaks down to around 12 of 16 possible servings and 168 grams of sugar (and I wonder why I can't fall asleep) in a little over 17 hours.
On the other hand, I've also sloshed down about a quart and a half of milk with my chocolate crack, so at least I'm working hard to keep osteoperosis at bay.
On the other hand, I've also sloshed down about a quart and a half of milk with my chocolate crack, so at least I'm working hard to keep osteoperosis at bay.
Somehow we missed the Rice-a-Roni factory.
In addition to the Bonz's move to San Francisco this month, my good friends DC and Juju are also heading to Cali, as they're both from California and claim New York is lacking in natural wonders and relaxed vibes.
I don't know what the hell they're talking about (you mean Central Park isn't natural?!), but as I was recently reflecting upon the mass migration west, I started to tap into memories of the last time I was on the Golden Coast, during Spring Break '04. My roomate Scott and I rented a convertible in San Francisco and drove down US 1, hitting smog-enveloped Los Angeles on the way to our final destination of San Diego. I don't remember all too many specifics of the journey (which is not unexpected for me at this point - again, i blame heredity), although I do remember listening to a lot of Grandaddy and trying to maintain some kind of order to the long hair whipping in my eyes for all 15 hours we spent driving with the top down. I also remember rushing back to my Boston apartment with my digital camera, eager to upload the photos and create this egggcellent slide show with my newly acquired iMovie, posted for your viewing pleasure below.
I'm coming to visit biatches!
I don't know what the hell they're talking about (you mean Central Park isn't natural?!), but as I was recently reflecting upon the mass migration west, I started to tap into memories of the last time I was on the Golden Coast, during Spring Break '04. My roomate Scott and I rented a convertible in San Francisco and drove down US 1, hitting smog-enveloped Los Angeles on the way to our final destination of San Diego. I don't remember all too many specifics of the journey (which is not unexpected for me at this point - again, i blame heredity), although I do remember listening to a lot of Grandaddy and trying to maintain some kind of order to the long hair whipping in my eyes for all 15 hours we spent driving with the top down. I also remember rushing back to my Boston apartment with my digital camera, eager to upload the photos and create this egggcellent slide show with my newly acquired iMovie, posted for your viewing pleasure below.
I'm coming to visit biatches!
My Life in Bonz
For those of you who are new to Collections are Dangerous, or who are unfamiliar with one of it's early stars, let me give you the quickie guide to The Bonz:
1. She pops the collar.
Heyyyyy!
2. She has the rack to beat.
Miss Stacia's left breast acting as an inadequate imposter.
3. She will put peanut butter on anything.
Peanut Butter Encrusted Meatloaf: A Bonz special recipe.
4. She dresses experimental fashionistas in her Lilly Pulitzer when she's wasted.
Yes, those are whales.
5. She innapropriately flashes the devil horns.
Old Fashioned Tomato Soup rocks, motherfuckers!
6. She encourages drinking beer from a cozie.
One of many from the Bonz's collection.
Proper lubrication aids the creative process.
8. She has an unhealthy obsession with Manhattan socialties.
Just call her Bonzley Mortimer.
9. She can shoot the duck.
Not this kind.
Or this kind.
But this kind.
10. Many things make her "uncomfy."
But not this.
The Bonz was my anchor of sanity while I worked for the Citi, and in addition to acting as a main supporter of the Experimental Fashion Friday movement (along with Jules McMattress), she was instrumental in the development of both the Wall of Faith...
Freedom of Religion and Bat-Mitzvah phone card giveaways for all.
and the Wall of Fashionable Orthapedic Shoes.
No way we're wearing Dr. Scholl's when we're 65.
Next week a much tanner chapter of the Bonz's life will begin in San Francisco. I'm sad to see the lady go, but the surf is calling for her preppy chic to wash over the boardwalks of California. All will be okay as long as you don't forget your roots Bonzie. The Upper East Side blondes will never let you live that down.
We'll miss you.
1. She pops the collar.
Heyyyyy!
2. She has the rack to beat.
Miss Stacia's left breast acting as an inadequate imposter.
3. She will put peanut butter on anything.
Peanut Butter Encrusted Meatloaf: A Bonz special recipe.
4. She dresses experimental fashionistas in her Lilly Pulitzer when she's wasted.
Yes, those are whales.
5. She innapropriately flashes the devil horns.
Old Fashioned Tomato Soup rocks, motherfuckers!
6. She encourages drinking beer from a cozie.
One of many from the Bonz's collection.
Proper lubrication aids the creative process.
8. She has an unhealthy obsession with Manhattan socialties.
Just call her Bonzley Mortimer.
9. She can shoot the duck.
Not this kind.
Or this kind.
But this kind.
10. Many things make her "uncomfy."
But not this.
The Bonz was my anchor of sanity while I worked for the Citi, and in addition to acting as a main supporter of the Experimental Fashion Friday movement (along with Jules McMattress), she was instrumental in the development of both the Wall of Faith...
Freedom of Religion and Bat-Mitzvah phone card giveaways for all.
and the Wall of Fashionable Orthapedic Shoes.
No way we're wearing Dr. Scholl's when we're 65.
Next week a much tanner chapter of the Bonz's life will begin in San Francisco. I'm sad to see the lady go, but the surf is calling for her preppy chic to wash over the boardwalks of California. All will be okay as long as you don't forget your roots Bonzie. The Upper East Side blondes will never let you live that down.
We'll miss you.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
This post looks fake. No no, it looks real.
Mama Jones has been dying to go to Madame Tussaud's wax museum for as long as I can remember, and a couple weekends ago, as a belated birthday present, Miss Raquel and I finally took her.
Personally, I have never understood the appeal behind a chamber of eerie, gelatin celebrity look-alikes, and I found the idea of visiting one in heart of Times Square to be doubly repulsive. For thirty freaking dollars, Jennifer Lopez’s frozen doppelganger ought to do more than blush when you blow in her ear – that thing better lap dance me to climax with it’s attractively disproportionate booty. (Apparently all subjects model for their sculptors, offering their bodies up to measurement for accurate replication.)
There are very few profundities to ponder and debate in a museum of wall-to-wall pop culture candles. The four basic utterances one repeats over and over until seizure ensues are:
“Yeah, that looks like her.”
“Eh…doesn’t really look like her.”
“Wow, he looks real!”
“Nah, he looks so fake!”
Of course there are minor variations on these these themes of accuracy:
“Well, it could be Trump in his YOUNGER years…”
“I don’t think Jessica Simpson can be THAT skinny and still be alive.”
and construction:
“Julia’s eye is looking a little lazy.”
“Ghandi’s got a crack in his shoulder.”
And on. And on.
On my visit I found myself occasionally drifting out of the standard debates to tune into the croaking conversation of some Red Hat Society members (A club of which I’m secretly DYING to be a member. Only 27 years to go!) as they hurled grating mispronunciations of “Madame Tussaud” at my pained, francophilic ears.
“Oh, there’s one of Madame Toos-uhd! Ethel, she’s so short!”
And then right back into the fire.
All museum conversation took place in between obsessive photo snapping. Because God forbid you miss out on the opportunity to take a picture with faux Pat Swayze, circa 1987. (Patrick Swayze is not actually represented in Mme. Tussaud’s, NYC, but someone should really get on that. Ken Tailey predicts Swayze will enjoy a rebirth in 2007 à la David Hasselhoff.)
The Jones ladies were pretty discerning about which figures to photograph, probably due to our unease in attempting to integrate the balls-of-wax-cum-celebrities into natural or funny poses. Yet despite our initial reluctance, we did manage to capture a few clutch images with some of our more personally influential icons:
The Direct Imitation
The Part of the Family
The Too Cool for the Wax Museum
The “Tsk Tsk.” (P.S. You look nothing like Lindsay Lohan.)
The Unintentionally Awesome
For me, the most exciting moment of the day came when I realized I could take a photo with the wax Golda Meir, former Prime Minister of Israel, subject of my very first biography book report for which I was required to dress up like the The Iron Lady and read my work in front of my entire fourth-grade class. The wig purchased for my performance was later featured in my fifth-grade old lady Halloween costume, the first October holiday ensemble that instilled within me, pride in creative costuming.
Golda, your hair changed my life FOREVER.
Finally, in true perverted Jones family fashion, we instituted a crotch-grabbing series:
A bit more of a crotch-SMACK...
Miss Raquel jocks the jockey's jock strap. (Okay, jock can't actually be used as a verb.)
The swashbuckler that inspired the very first grab.
Because even wax museum-lovin Mama Jones agrees, nothing's fun if it’s squeaky clean.
Personally, I have never understood the appeal behind a chamber of eerie, gelatin celebrity look-alikes, and I found the idea of visiting one in heart of Times Square to be doubly repulsive. For thirty freaking dollars, Jennifer Lopez’s frozen doppelganger ought to do more than blush when you blow in her ear – that thing better lap dance me to climax with it’s attractively disproportionate booty. (Apparently all subjects model for their sculptors, offering their bodies up to measurement for accurate replication.)
There are very few profundities to ponder and debate in a museum of wall-to-wall pop culture candles. The four basic utterances one repeats over and over until seizure ensues are:
“Yeah, that looks like her.”
“Eh…doesn’t really look like her.”
“Wow, he looks real!”
“Nah, he looks so fake!”
Of course there are minor variations on these these themes of accuracy:
“Well, it could be Trump in his YOUNGER years…”
“I don’t think Jessica Simpson can be THAT skinny and still be alive.”
and construction:
“Julia’s eye is looking a little lazy.”
“Ghandi’s got a crack in his shoulder.”
And on. And on.
On my visit I found myself occasionally drifting out of the standard debates to tune into the croaking conversation of some Red Hat Society members (A club of which I’m secretly DYING to be a member. Only 27 years to go!) as they hurled grating mispronunciations of “Madame Tussaud” at my pained, francophilic ears.
“Oh, there’s one of Madame Toos-uhd! Ethel, she’s so short!”
And then right back into the fire.
All museum conversation took place in between obsessive photo snapping. Because God forbid you miss out on the opportunity to take a picture with faux Pat Swayze, circa 1987. (Patrick Swayze is not actually represented in Mme. Tussaud’s, NYC, but someone should really get on that. Ken Tailey predicts Swayze will enjoy a rebirth in 2007 à la David Hasselhoff.)
The Jones ladies were pretty discerning about which figures to photograph, probably due to our unease in attempting to integrate the balls-of-wax-cum-celebrities into natural or funny poses. Yet despite our initial reluctance, we did manage to capture a few clutch images with some of our more personally influential icons:
The Direct Imitation
The Part of the Family
The Too Cool for the Wax Museum
The “Tsk Tsk.” (P.S. You look nothing like Lindsay Lohan.)
The Unintentionally Awesome
For me, the most exciting moment of the day came when I realized I could take a photo with the wax Golda Meir, former Prime Minister of Israel, subject of my very first biography book report for which I was required to dress up like the The Iron Lady and read my work in front of my entire fourth-grade class. The wig purchased for my performance was later featured in my fifth-grade old lady Halloween costume, the first October holiday ensemble that instilled within me, pride in creative costuming.
Golda, your hair changed my life FOREVER.
Finally, in true perverted Jones family fashion, we instituted a crotch-grabbing series:
A bit more of a crotch-SMACK...
Miss Raquel jocks the jockey's jock strap. (Okay, jock can't actually be used as a verb.)
The swashbuckler that inspired the very first grab.
Because even wax museum-lovin Mama Jones agrees, nothing's fun if it’s squeaky clean.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Thinking About What I'm Thinking About
Miss Stacia should never be asked to quantify anything complex, especially not the wavering, constantly mutating elements of her life and mind. Obsessive-compulsive freaks like me tend to get wrapped up in personal assessment (still working on my website bio, 2 years and counting), which often obscures more practical and easily-executed endeavors like cleaning the apartment, tackling the New Yorker and of course, making labels. But my dear friend Casiminowski sucked me into this weirdly addictive "percentage game" a few days ago, forcing me to break down and analyze the issues occupying space in my buzzing cortex. This, of course, has succeeded in driving me completely freaking insane.
Cas’ idea behind “calculating your percentage” started with his examination of the concept that men think about sex every 7 seconds. He began to survey the other subjects he spends time with on a regular basis and presented multiple revisions of a list mapping out his estimated thought pattern percentages, challenging others to undergo the same calculations.
This started as a fairly casual task for me, but as Casimir pointed out, coming to terms with your own method of classification is half the battle. I am a self-critical perfectionist and a chronic over-explainer (bullets reflect the breakdowns of the bolded categories) But that is how it must be, so deal with it.
The (estimated, ever-changing, mostly-complete) Thought Pattern Breakdown of Miss Stacia Jones:
10 % Family (If you don’t list this first you go to hell with all the folks who used their "dead grandmother" as a frequent excuse to get out of final exams. P.S. Hi mom.)
3% Independence and Personal Strength/Growth (I don’t need you, bitches!)
18% Relationships (I need you bitches!)
- (4) long standing friendships (The people who remember my past for me.)
- (3) making new acquaintances (Disregarding the Harvard events forced upon me by Miss Jay-Z and the two weeks a year I choose to put faith in internet dating.)
- (5) potential flings/infatuations (Every woman I know is drowning in these thoughts. Percentage is inversely related to length of time since last non-self-induced orgasm.)
- (5) current fires (If you're reading this, expect booty calls.)
- (1) old flames (And the near-impossible task of re-friendship.)
8% Creative Fulfillment
- (4) cultivation (retainment) of talent (Knock, knock, are you in there?)
- (3) career projection (Label making leads to food criticism in The Onion?)
- (1) effects of oversocialization and procrastination (Makes you think a lot about how you’re not writing about what a craaaaaaazy time you’re having.)
16% Cultural Exploration/Studies (Back to school.)
- (5) nyc live events (Life over TV.)
- (5) music (Thank you Thom Yorke.)
- (2) film (Thank you Meryl Streep.)
- (3) literature (New Yorker vs. the book club book)
- (1) the visual arts (Once upon a time, this blog was named “Collections Are Dangerous” for a reason.)
10% Food (Proudly gluttonous. P.S. Hi Rachie!)
- (3) current (pending) meal (Maybe sushi?)
- (2) past meals (If I don’t write about Red Lobster soon, the dub room will riot.)
- (5) future meals (Including Dumont, Momofuku, Peter Luger’s and Hooters.)
4% Self-doubt/paranoia (Do I really want to eat at Hooters?)
10% Activity Organization and Planning (Call a month in advance, and I can safely pencil you in.)
- (2) cheesy work activities (Unofficial director of morale.)
- (3) future live music (More Neko Case!)
- (5) upcoming weekend plans (Some overlap with the “future meal” category here. Crif Dog is always a consideration.)
4% The State of the World (Warring/Melting)
2% The Gym (Crizzunch!)
- (1) health (Feeling great.)
- (1.5) appearance (Looking grood.)
- (.5) hot trainers (Please aid me in stretching out my quads.)
2% Fashion (Miss Stacia stylee.)
- (.5) shoes and bags (and baubles, oh my!)
- (.5) event specific attire (ties, Halloween costumes)
- (1) cultivating style (Karen O meets Carrie Bradshaw?)
1% The Apartment (Dealing mostly with plans to clean and the rationalizations for brushing these plans aside.)
1% Fantasy Baseball (MUST beat the fellas. P.S. Hi dad!)
3% Blogging (And how NOT to suck like the revised Gawker.)
- (1) inspiration (Thank you College Man.)
- (2) action (This was easier when I worked a job where I did nothing at all.)
3% Money (How to be a Sugar Mama someday.)
5% Oh yeah, SEX (And why I never have any.)
Casimir chose to include a miscellaneous category, but in the spirit of adventure I decided any subject I have omitted will be automatically added to the Sex category (where everything belongs in one context or another anyway). The weather (.1%), abandoned puppies (.001%) and the shearing of sheep (.0000000000000000001%) are all now officially related to Coitus Maximus as far as I see it. So tell me what I missed.
Cas’ idea behind “calculating your percentage” started with his examination of the concept that men think about sex every 7 seconds. He began to survey the other subjects he spends time with on a regular basis and presented multiple revisions of a list mapping out his estimated thought pattern percentages, challenging others to undergo the same calculations.
This started as a fairly casual task for me, but as Casimir pointed out, coming to terms with your own method of classification is half the battle. I am a self-critical perfectionist and a chronic over-explainer (bullets reflect the breakdowns of the bolded categories) But that is how it must be, so deal with it.
The (estimated, ever-changing, mostly-complete) Thought Pattern Breakdown of Miss Stacia Jones:
10 % Family (If you don’t list this first you go to hell with all the folks who used their "dead grandmother" as a frequent excuse to get out of final exams. P.S. Hi mom.)
3% Independence and Personal Strength/Growth (I don’t need you, bitches!)
18% Relationships (I need you bitches!)
- (4) long standing friendships (The people who remember my past for me.)
- (3) making new acquaintances (Disregarding the Harvard events forced upon me by Miss Jay-Z and the two weeks a year I choose to put faith in internet dating.)
- (5) potential flings/infatuations (Every woman I know is drowning in these thoughts. Percentage is inversely related to length of time since last non-self-induced orgasm.)
- (5) current fires (If you're reading this, expect booty calls.)
- (1) old flames (And the near-impossible task of re-friendship.)
8% Creative Fulfillment
- (4) cultivation (retainment) of talent (Knock, knock, are you in there?)
- (3) career projection (Label making leads to food criticism in The Onion?)
- (1) effects of oversocialization and procrastination (Makes you think a lot about how you’re not writing about what a craaaaaaazy time you’re having.)
16% Cultural Exploration/Studies (Back to school.)
- (5) nyc live events (Life over TV.)
- (5) music (Thank you Thom Yorke.)
- (2) film (Thank you Meryl Streep.)
- (3) literature (New Yorker vs. the book club book)
- (1) the visual arts (Once upon a time, this blog was named “Collections Are Dangerous” for a reason.)
10% Food (Proudly gluttonous. P.S. Hi Rachie!)
- (3) current (pending) meal (Maybe sushi?)
- (2) past meals (If I don’t write about Red Lobster soon, the dub room will riot.)
- (5) future meals (Including Dumont, Momofuku, Peter Luger’s and Hooters.)
4% Self-doubt/paranoia (Do I really want to eat at Hooters?)
10% Activity Organization and Planning (Call a month in advance, and I can safely pencil you in.)
- (2) cheesy work activities (Unofficial director of morale.)
- (3) future live music (More Neko Case!)
- (5) upcoming weekend plans (Some overlap with the “future meal” category here. Crif Dog is always a consideration.)
4% The State of the World (Warring/Melting)
2% The Gym (Crizzunch!)
- (1) health (Feeling great.)
- (1.5) appearance (Looking grood.)
- (.5) hot trainers (Please aid me in stretching out my quads.)
2% Fashion (Miss Stacia stylee.)
- (.5) shoes and bags (and baubles, oh my!)
- (.5) event specific attire (ties, Halloween costumes)
- (1) cultivating style (Karen O meets Carrie Bradshaw?)
1% The Apartment (Dealing mostly with plans to clean and the rationalizations for brushing these plans aside.)
1% Fantasy Baseball (MUST beat the fellas. P.S. Hi dad!)
3% Blogging (And how NOT to suck like the revised Gawker.)
- (1) inspiration (Thank you College Man.)
- (2) action (This was easier when I worked a job where I did nothing at all.)
3% Money (How to be a Sugar Mama someday.)
5% Oh yeah, SEX (And why I never have any.)
Casimir chose to include a miscellaneous category, but in the spirit of adventure I decided any subject I have omitted will be automatically added to the Sex category (where everything belongs in one context or another anyway). The weather (.1%), abandoned puppies (.001%) and the shearing of sheep (.0000000000000000001%) are all now officially related to Coitus Maximus as far as I see it. So tell me what I missed.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Tie-Day Friday
Since I left the citi for the dub room, I have had great freedom to explore my personal style . With jeans, sneakers, sandals and tank tops at my disposal, I can pretty much wear whatever suits my mood, as long as my nipples are covered. I do kind of miss the citi restrictions though. Sometimes I just long for a challenge.
Last week, in search of the corporate casual challenges of corporations past, I attempted to organize "Tie-Day Friday." I should probably clarify that by "organized" I mean, discussed wearing a tie to work with ONE coworker, Bryan. Bryan is one of the newbies in the office, not to be confused with Ryan, the quiet veteran who, after living with the only "RY"-sound name for a peaceful six months, gets quite peeved when you say "Bryan," and he thinks you've said "Ryan" or vice versa. At some point last week B-B-B-B-Bryan and I decided we would institute Tie-Day Friday to show off the irrepressible class of the dub room team. How refined are WE? We don't even HAVE to wear ties to the office, and we're gonna wear them anyway! There were initial plans to get our officemates involved in the cause, but our publicity effort was overshadowed by busy training days and impromptu performances of songs from The Little Mermaid. In the end, only the masterminds behind The Day of Ties flaunted the unexpexctedly conservative neckwear as a salute to the week's end. But boy did we REPRESENT.
When Bryan entered the dub room Friday morning he was wearing a short-sleeved button down shirt with a brown striped tie, looking very Revenge of the Nerds. It was perfect. I don't have any ties in my closet (although I've been seriously considering investing in a set of suspenders) so I asked Bryan to bring me one of his. He knotted my masculine accessory, a deep red number with beige and blue diamonds, and I slid it on. Not going to lie, at first I was a bit uncomfy thinking about walking around with a panel of red silk flopping against my abdomen like a single strand of spaghetti.
And then, I tucked it in...
Every once in a while, on Experimental Fashion Friday, I would hit on an outfit that was both an eyesore and oddly fashionable. Tie-Day Friday spawned yet another of those ensembles. Unfortunately, the unexpected success of my outfit further buried the TDF movement**. NO ONE asked me WHY I was wearing a tie! I did, however, receive three or four separate compliments on my getup, including one comment from an editor who said I looked like "a modern, 2006 version of Annie Hall." It doesn't get much better than that.
Can't wait for "Jewsday Tuesday." You think I'm kidding...
**Miss Stacia is an awful publicist. No news here.
Last week, in search of the corporate casual challenges of corporations past, I attempted to organize "Tie-Day Friday." I should probably clarify that by "organized" I mean, discussed wearing a tie to work with ONE coworker, Bryan. Bryan is one of the newbies in the office, not to be confused with Ryan, the quiet veteran who, after living with the only "RY"-sound name for a peaceful six months, gets quite peeved when you say "Bryan," and he thinks you've said "Ryan" or vice versa. At some point last week B-B-B-B-Bryan and I decided we would institute Tie-Day Friday to show off the irrepressible class of the dub room team. How refined are WE? We don't even HAVE to wear ties to the office, and we're gonna wear them anyway! There were initial plans to get our officemates involved in the cause, but our publicity effort was overshadowed by busy training days and impromptu performances of songs from The Little Mermaid. In the end, only the masterminds behind The Day of Ties flaunted the unexpexctedly conservative neckwear as a salute to the week's end. But boy did we REPRESENT.
When Bryan entered the dub room Friday morning he was wearing a short-sleeved button down shirt with a brown striped tie, looking very Revenge of the Nerds. It was perfect. I don't have any ties in my closet (although I've been seriously considering investing in a set of suspenders) so I asked Bryan to bring me one of his. He knotted my masculine accessory, a deep red number with beige and blue diamonds, and I slid it on. Not going to lie, at first I was a bit uncomfy thinking about walking around with a panel of red silk flopping against my abdomen like a single strand of spaghetti.
And then, I tucked it in...
Every once in a while, on Experimental Fashion Friday, I would hit on an outfit that was both an eyesore and oddly fashionable. Tie-Day Friday spawned yet another of those ensembles. Unfortunately, the unexpected success of my outfit further buried the TDF movement**. NO ONE asked me WHY I was wearing a tie! I did, however, receive three or four separate compliments on my getup, including one comment from an editor who said I looked like "a modern, 2006 version of Annie Hall." It doesn't get much better than that.
Can't wait for "Jewsday Tuesday." You think I'm kidding...
**Miss Stacia is an awful publicist. No news here.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Non-buyer's Remorse
There is a test that is pretty commonly employed by female shoppers to help determine whether or not they should spend money on an item about which they are indecisive. The item in question is usually an article of clothing, in my case, almost always shoes or a bag, and in nearly all instances, impractical. When something is fashionable but serves no practical function in your wardrobe, sometimes it takes more than a little reasoning to make a wise shopping decision. Sometimes you just need TIME to gauge how badly you want something versus all the other crap you come across for which you have a passing desire.
The idea behind "the test" is that you leave the item you are lusting after in the store for the day, and if a nagging desire to own 4-inch, lime green platforms covered in cherries eats away at you until you can think of nothing but running back to the Bloomie's to rip the last size 7 out of the hands of some blond with a nose job, you go back to get the damn shoes.
Last weekend I took a trip to the neighborhood I most resent (Williamsburg) for the summer event I most LOVE (The Renegade Craft Fair). I discovered the craft fair last year and was overjoyed to find more than just the usual potpourri of beaded baubles, screenprinted notecards and homemade buttons on the NYC craft fair circuit (although there were plenty of each represented, fo sho). Metalsmiths and dressmakers and glassblowers all came to show their wares. Handmade stuffed animals shaped like T-Bone Steaks (shrink wrapped to styrofoam meat trays) sat in booths next to silkscreened Jay Ryan posters and made-to-order corsets. H-E-A-V-E-N. I made a few key purchases last year, buying a dress and a ring that both became staples in a wardrobe admittedly so overwhelming, many gems tend to get ignored. I escaped this year's fair with another dress (from the same woman who made last year's) and a necklace composed of antique charms, including a dog tag bearing a scrabble board covered in French mots. Tres, tres bien.
But since I left the fair around closing time last Saturday something has been haunting me. I've been feeling the emptiness of an opportunity that has passed, and nothing has been able to quench the burning desire I have for this bag:
Now, when the thing was hanging in front of me I didn't even consider purchasing it. I don't have any idea how much it cost or even the name of the artist who so realistically recreated Sir Tupac on the side of a vintage clutch. All I know is that I felt compelled to take a picture of it, mainly to capture the unparalled hilarity and outright GENIUS of the bow incorporation. But now I kind of wish I could stuff Tupac with some cash and Lancome lip gloss and take him out for a gin and juice. Perhaps the reason it never even occurred to me to buy the thing when it was in front of me had something to do with my (embarrassingly) limited familiarity with Tupac's catalog.
Stranger at the bar: "Oh, so you like Tupac?"
Miss Stacia: "Yeah, um, he's pretty good. But how awesome is this bow!"
The idea behind "the test" is that you leave the item you are lusting after in the store for the day, and if a nagging desire to own 4-inch, lime green platforms covered in cherries eats away at you until you can think of nothing but running back to the Bloomie's to rip the last size 7 out of the hands of some blond with a nose job, you go back to get the damn shoes.
Last weekend I took a trip to the neighborhood I most resent (Williamsburg) for the summer event I most LOVE (The Renegade Craft Fair). I discovered the craft fair last year and was overjoyed to find more than just the usual potpourri of beaded baubles, screenprinted notecards and homemade buttons on the NYC craft fair circuit (although there were plenty of each represented, fo sho). Metalsmiths and dressmakers and glassblowers all came to show their wares. Handmade stuffed animals shaped like T-Bone Steaks (shrink wrapped to styrofoam meat trays) sat in booths next to silkscreened Jay Ryan posters and made-to-order corsets. H-E-A-V-E-N. I made a few key purchases last year, buying a dress and a ring that both became staples in a wardrobe admittedly so overwhelming, many gems tend to get ignored. I escaped this year's fair with another dress (from the same woman who made last year's) and a necklace composed of antique charms, including a dog tag bearing a scrabble board covered in French mots. Tres, tres bien.
But since I left the fair around closing time last Saturday something has been haunting me. I've been feeling the emptiness of an opportunity that has passed, and nothing has been able to quench the burning desire I have for this bag:
Now, when the thing was hanging in front of me I didn't even consider purchasing it. I don't have any idea how much it cost or even the name of the artist who so realistically recreated Sir Tupac on the side of a vintage clutch. All I know is that I felt compelled to take a picture of it, mainly to capture the unparalled hilarity and outright GENIUS of the bow incorporation. But now I kind of wish I could stuff Tupac with some cash and Lancome lip gloss and take him out for a gin and juice. Perhaps the reason it never even occurred to me to buy the thing when it was in front of me had something to do with my (embarrassingly) limited familiarity with Tupac's catalog.
Stranger at the bar: "Oh, so you like Tupac?"
Miss Stacia: "Yeah, um, he's pretty good. But how awesome is this bow!"
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Single Grey Female
Dear Mom and Dad,
It was very nice of you to recruit furry companionship for me, your favorite daugther, and I realize you brought home the latest, unfortunately-named canine with my prosperous romantic future in mind. Moses was a very sweet, sensitive dog, but to be honest he was so clingy it made me want to vomit dandelions. In the beginning his aggressive pursuit was intriguing, all the nuzzling, licking, humping - let's face it, it had been a while. But the kid had his nose quite literally up my ass, twenty-four hours a day and it was too much hounding for even this pooch to take. You know how it is. Sometimes you just want to fall asleep to the Michael Bolton medley on the Adult Contemporary music channel without someone rubbing their little weiner up against you.
I'm guess I'm just a little surprised you thought I would take this arranged marriage lying down. That is one command I cannot follow, I'm sorry. A bitch can't choose who she loves. Besides, I'm still young and sprightly. I've got strut left in this stride and I haven't even finished making my rounds on our block. This may sound a bit immodest, but I'm a hot piece of ass. It's 2006. A dog can be whoever she wants, and I can be a sexually curious, emotionally hardened, independent female if I feel like it.
Anyway, Moses had to go. It was inevitable. Don't worry, he's in a new home, one without a female dog around to get his leash in a tangle. Maybe in his time alone he will do some soul searching and build up his self-confidence so he doesn't just play dead for the next bitch that comes along. I wish him all the luck in the world, now that the house is mine once again.
So please, I know they're furry and adorable, but no more suitors. Unless you can track down Comet from Full House. He's fucking hot.
Love,
Shayna
**Papa Jones and The College Man were allergic to the new dog, so unfortunately Moses is a Jones no longer. If you see my parents entering a pet store or animal shelter, please shoot them with a tranquilizer gun or taser to prevent further cuteness-induced adoptions.**
It was very nice of you to recruit furry companionship for me, your favorite daugther, and I realize you brought home the latest, unfortunately-named canine with my prosperous romantic future in mind. Moses was a very sweet, sensitive dog, but to be honest he was so clingy it made me want to vomit dandelions. In the beginning his aggressive pursuit was intriguing, all the nuzzling, licking, humping - let's face it, it had been a while. But the kid had his nose quite literally up my ass, twenty-four hours a day and it was too much hounding for even this pooch to take. You know how it is. Sometimes you just want to fall asleep to the Michael Bolton medley on the Adult Contemporary music channel without someone rubbing their little weiner up against you.
I'm guess I'm just a little surprised you thought I would take this arranged marriage lying down. That is one command I cannot follow, I'm sorry. A bitch can't choose who she loves. Besides, I'm still young and sprightly. I've got strut left in this stride and I haven't even finished making my rounds on our block. This may sound a bit immodest, but I'm a hot piece of ass. It's 2006. A dog can be whoever she wants, and I can be a sexually curious, emotionally hardened, independent female if I feel like it.
Anyway, Moses had to go. It was inevitable. Don't worry, he's in a new home, one without a female dog around to get his leash in a tangle. Maybe in his time alone he will do some soul searching and build up his self-confidence so he doesn't just play dead for the next bitch that comes along. I wish him all the luck in the world, now that the house is mine once again.
So please, I know they're furry and adorable, but no more suitors. Unless you can track down Comet from Full House. He's fucking hot.
Love,
Shayna
**Papa Jones and The College Man were allergic to the new dog, so unfortunately Moses is a Jones no longer. If you see my parents entering a pet store or animal shelter, please shoot them with a tranquilizer gun or taser to prevent further cuteness-induced adoptions.**
Friday, June 16, 2006
One Dog, Two Dog, Grey Dog, Jew Dog.
Those of you who know my family well, know that above their own lives and the lives of The College Man, Miss Raquel and yours truly, Mama and Papa Jones treasure Miss Shayna Maidel, personality, princess...family dog. You can't blame them, really. Shayna, a beautiful grey malty-poo (white maltese father, black poodle mother), who was strutting her stuff down the corridors of Jones Manor long before the advent of the nauseating term "designer dog," is a motherfucking riot. She's small enough to cradle like a baby, but unlike other pussy Long Island petite pups, she's a sturdy specimen, exhibiting sharp instincts and genuine athletic prowess. At three-years-old Shayna can dance on her hind legs, sprint at rabbit speed and catch a soaring frisbee in mid-air (the ultimate "real dog" test).
Shayna Joyner-Kersee
Shayna brings out two main qualities in my parents, the first being insanity, the second, compassion. This is what I mean by insanity:
Yes, that is what you fear it is.
Shayna's extensive wardrobe also includes an embellished denim jacket, a yellow rain slicker (she didn't take to the booties), multiple winter sweaters and fleeces, and two Halloween costumes (the only doggie clothing I will sanction). And I don't even want to talk about the doggie stroller.
So logical.
Often I have to remind myself amidst my embarrassment: The parents lavish because they love. This is where the compassion kicks in. Since the dog has entered our lives mom and pops have given generously to shelters and animal abuse-related charities. And watched an shitload lot of Animal Planet. So I guess it was only a matter of time before I got this phone call:
(2:45 this afternoon)
Mama Jones: I'm holding our new dog!!!
Miss Stacia: Shut the fuck up.
Mama Jones: No really. It's what your father wanted for Father's Day. The dog's a malty-poo, we think. We're adopting him from a shelter. His name is Moses.
Miss Stacia: You're not serious. I'm sorry, but I won't stand for that.
Mama Jones: Stand for what?
Miss Stacia: A dog named Moses! We have to change the name. How about Fred? James? Little Stevie. Shit mom, call him Bowie!!! Please! Please! BOWIE!!! I'm willing to give up MY first dog name to our family pet as long as I don't have to call that dog Moses.
Mama Jones: Whatever, we'll talk about it later.
Miss Stacia: Fine. And take a picture with your camera phone...
Let my kibble go.
It turns out that Moses is already two-and-a-half years old and was taken from a disturbingly abusive home to be rescued by mom and pops. There's no way the pup is answering to any name other than Moses, and there's no way I can be mad at him for it. Instead, I will chastise another celebrity couple, Monster Paltrow and Fairy Martin, for their biblical baby-name brainstorming. Fuck you Moses Martin for stealing my dog's thunder.
And still, cursing out skinny blond celebrities and their spawn doesn't hide the fact that the Jonses are now the owners of a pair of obnoxiously Jewish pets, Moses and Shayna Maidel. What is this, Fiddler on the Roof? Mama Jones doesn't need more encouragement to buy doggie kippot and arrange "Bark Mitzvahs." Bitch is dog-crazy enough to go through with it.
When I told Dazrazzle about the new (predictably hairy) Jewish couple living under our roof, Daz asked if Mama and Papa Jones were going to "breed them and make little Isaacs, Abrahams, Sarahs and Rebekkahs." I say, why not. We're due for at least one more. One for mom, one for dad and one for Israel.
Shayna Joyner-Kersee
Shayna brings out two main qualities in my parents, the first being insanity, the second, compassion. This is what I mean by insanity:
Yes, that is what you fear it is.
Shayna's extensive wardrobe also includes an embellished denim jacket, a yellow rain slicker (she didn't take to the booties), multiple winter sweaters and fleeces, and two Halloween costumes (the only doggie clothing I will sanction). And I don't even want to talk about the doggie stroller.
So logical.
Often I have to remind myself amidst my embarrassment: The parents lavish because they love. This is where the compassion kicks in. Since the dog has entered our lives mom and pops have given generously to shelters and animal abuse-related charities. And watched an shitload lot of Animal Planet. So I guess it was only a matter of time before I got this phone call:
(2:45 this afternoon)
Mama Jones: I'm holding our new dog!!!
Miss Stacia: Shut the fuck up.
Mama Jones: No really. It's what your father wanted for Father's Day. The dog's a malty-poo, we think. We're adopting him from a shelter. His name is Moses.
Miss Stacia: You're not serious. I'm sorry, but I won't stand for that.
Mama Jones: Stand for what?
Miss Stacia: A dog named Moses! We have to change the name. How about Fred? James? Little Stevie. Shit mom, call him Bowie!!! Please! Please! BOWIE!!! I'm willing to give up MY first dog name to our family pet as long as I don't have to call that dog Moses.
Mama Jones: Whatever, we'll talk about it later.
Miss Stacia: Fine. And take a picture with your camera phone...
Let my kibble go.
It turns out that Moses is already two-and-a-half years old and was taken from a disturbingly abusive home to be rescued by mom and pops. There's no way the pup is answering to any name other than Moses, and there's no way I can be mad at him for it. Instead, I will chastise another celebrity couple, Monster Paltrow and Fairy Martin, for their biblical baby-name brainstorming. Fuck you Moses Martin for stealing my dog's thunder.
And still, cursing out skinny blond celebrities and their spawn doesn't hide the fact that the Jonses are now the owners of a pair of obnoxiously Jewish pets, Moses and Shayna Maidel. What is this, Fiddler on the Roof? Mama Jones doesn't need more encouragement to buy doggie kippot and arrange "Bark Mitzvahs." Bitch is dog-crazy enough to go through with it.
When I told Dazrazzle about the new (predictably hairy) Jewish couple living under our roof, Daz asked if Mama and Papa Jones were going to "breed them and make little Isaacs, Abrahams, Sarahs and Rebekkahs." I say, why not. We're due for at least one more. One for mom, one for dad and one for Israel.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Dub Rotation will PUMP YOU UP.
Earlier tonight, as I was trying to motivate my coworker CD into sucking up her post-work sleepiness to get to the gym, I inadvertendly stumbled onto what is sure to be the next big NYC exercise craze. I'm calling it Dub Rotation. It turns out, everything you need to get the toned body you desire can be found in the dub room of a major media corporation.
Some examples of Dub Rotation's simple, yet effective excercises:
The Paper Bag Bicep Curl
The Digibeta Pulldown
The Wheeled-Chair Tricep Bend (of Death)
The Client Services Couch Crunch
The K-Boogie Wants To Pretend She Wasn't Fighting Me This Whole Time, Trying To Convince CD To Go Home Instead Of Working Out
Even though K-Boogie spent the majority of today's Dub Rotation session advocating laziness and attempting to undo all my hard work, she did end up inventing the workout's signature relaxation reward:
The Garbage Pail Foot Soak
Now I know some of you will complain, "But I don't have access to a media company's dub room and all the advanced toning equipment it provides, Miss Stacia!"
To which I must reply, "Devote your life to making labels and your health and life will change for the better, my dear friends."
Some examples of Dub Rotation's simple, yet effective excercises:
The Paper Bag Bicep Curl
The Digibeta Pulldown
The Wheeled-Chair Tricep Bend (of Death)
The Client Services Couch Crunch
The K-Boogie Wants To Pretend She Wasn't Fighting Me This Whole Time, Trying To Convince CD To Go Home Instead Of Working Out
Even though K-Boogie spent the majority of today's Dub Rotation session advocating laziness and attempting to undo all my hard work, she did end up inventing the workout's signature relaxation reward:
The Garbage Pail Foot Soak
Now I know some of you will complain, "But I don't have access to a media company's dub room and all the advanced toning equipment it provides, Miss Stacia!"
To which I must reply, "Devote your life to making labels and your health and life will change for the better, my dear friends."
Monday, June 05, 2006
How Brad and Angelina have desecrated my childhood memories.
My memory is absolutely awful, a fact to which my good friend Dazrazzle will attest with vigor. I especially have trouble remembering high school happenings, as around the start of my freshman year I became steeped in my inherited “selective memory syndrome,” blockading all long-term memories aside from the soundtrack to RENT and select reruns of Saved by the Bell. (Sadly, I can sing every word to the Ice Cream Sundaes’ music video.) For some reason my recollections of middle and elementary school are much more vivid and long-lasting. It turns out a cocky asshole calling you “gorilla legs” when you’re thirteen sticks out more than acing that eleventh grade French test.
Not all of my memories of the younger years are traumatic. Many of them are pretty random and hilarious. I remember listening to Weird Al Yankovic in Mr. Stern’s humor class, singing along to the classic, “Amish Paradise.” I remember giving a D.A.R.E. speech in front of my entire fourth grade class. (Some successful program THAT was.) I remember tripping down the atrium stairs of the middle school cafeteria while attempting to avoid stepping in a puddle of what appeared to be pee and arising giddy because 1. No one really saw me fall and, 2. I missed the pee.
One memory in particular that has always cracked me up took place in Mr. Abrams’ fifth grade classroom. Mr. Abrams was the epitome of the jolly fat man, a joker who took great pleasure in alerting his students to the reason why making ASSumptions is so dangerous. (ASS-U-ME) For the majority of the year I sat next to a girl named Maryann Jimez, and every morning when Mr. Abrams took attendance, he would tack the same inquiry to the end of Maryann’s name.
“Maryann Jimez. Did you bring in Shiloh today?”
Of course, Mr. Abrams was not referring to the glamour-bomb dropped out of Angelina’s cooch five days ago, but rather the Young Adult book penned by Phyllis Reynolds Nayer. The novel is a Newbury Award winner and according to the updated book jacket, tells “the classic story of a boy and his dog.” I never actually read the thing, but Maryann must have fucking loved that book. Or lost it. All I know is that there was never a time when I thought Mr. Abrams would call Maryann’s name to hear her reply, “Oh yes! I actually DID remember to bring the book in today.” After the first month of bookless mornings it was pretty clear to Mr. Abrams’ entire fifth grade class that Maryann planned to take Shiloh to the grave. Yet Mr. Abrams, for the entertainment of us all, asked about the book until the very last day of class.
So fuck you Brangelina. Fuck you both up the ass. Shiloh is not an African-born, celebrity-bred, paparrazzi-seducing bundle of puke. Shiloh is a book that will never, ever be returned to my elementary school library. Maryann made sure of that.
Not all of my memories of the younger years are traumatic. Many of them are pretty random and hilarious. I remember listening to Weird Al Yankovic in Mr. Stern’s humor class, singing along to the classic, “Amish Paradise.” I remember giving a D.A.R.E. speech in front of my entire fourth grade class. (Some successful program THAT was.) I remember tripping down the atrium stairs of the middle school cafeteria while attempting to avoid stepping in a puddle of what appeared to be pee and arising giddy because 1. No one really saw me fall and, 2. I missed the pee.
One memory in particular that has always cracked me up took place in Mr. Abrams’ fifth grade classroom. Mr. Abrams was the epitome of the jolly fat man, a joker who took great pleasure in alerting his students to the reason why making ASSumptions is so dangerous. (ASS-U-ME) For the majority of the year I sat next to a girl named Maryann Jimez, and every morning when Mr. Abrams took attendance, he would tack the same inquiry to the end of Maryann’s name.
“Maryann Jimez. Did you bring in Shiloh today?”
Of course, Mr. Abrams was not referring to the glamour-bomb dropped out of Angelina’s cooch five days ago, but rather the Young Adult book penned by Phyllis Reynolds Nayer. The novel is a Newbury Award winner and according to the updated book jacket, tells “the classic story of a boy and his dog.” I never actually read the thing, but Maryann must have fucking loved that book. Or lost it. All I know is that there was never a time when I thought Mr. Abrams would call Maryann’s name to hear her reply, “Oh yes! I actually DID remember to bring the book in today.” After the first month of bookless mornings it was pretty clear to Mr. Abrams’ entire fifth grade class that Maryann planned to take Shiloh to the grave. Yet Mr. Abrams, for the entertainment of us all, asked about the book until the very last day of class.
So fuck you Brangelina. Fuck you both up the ass. Shiloh is not an African-born, celebrity-bred, paparrazzi-seducing bundle of puke. Shiloh is a book that will never, ever be returned to my elementary school library. Maryann made sure of that.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
The Underappreciated Eating Establishment Series: The Olive Garden
I never thought there would come a day when I would anxiously CRAVE The Olive Garden, but a few weeks ago I made my mind up to eat there and had to make it happen. I assure you, it was all about the breadsticks.
The Olive Garden breadstick is one of the perfectly crafted food items of our time, like the Gray's Papaya hot dog or the Dunkin Donuts blueberry muffin. The leavened logs are perfectly fluffy, just underbaked, slathered in olive oil and sprinkled with salt. Like their salad - also quite tasty if you get a good scoop - the Olive Garden's breadsticks will continue to come to you throughout the meal until you can't lift bread to beak. All-you-can-eat anti-Atkins comfort food.
My great Aunt Mimi, also a lover of OG breadsticks, used to wrap them in a napkin and steal them in her purse at the end of our Olive Garden outings. They WILL give you a styrofoam container for that Aunt Mimi, I swear.
I'll tell you what The Olive Garden isn't about. Authentic Italian cuisine. If you go in hoping for a step above Chef Boyardee or Ronzoni covered in Ragu, your expectations will be perfectly met.
The Olive Garden's big mistake is in the marketing of their dishes as authentic homemade. Their commercials feature big, obnoxious Italian families rounded up by plump, jovial grandmothers promoting the sharing of entrees off steaming platters. "Buon appetito!" Everyone clicks forks and snags bites from one another's plates, raising their overflowing glasses of Olive Garden house wine, (promoted in laughably painstaking detail by the OG waiters, btw) while an accordian rendition of "Mama Mia Pizzeria" plays in the background. How festive. Just like Italy. As my coworker Murph quipped one day, "All those commercials do is give you a license to be loud at The Olive Garden."
But the Olive Garden seems to take it's role as an authoritative Italian kitchen quite seriously. When D-Hardcore (my two-time UEE dining partner) and I plopped down in the eatery's synthetic leather booths a couple weeks ago, we immediately noticed little markings next to certain dishes on the menu, which indicated "Specialties Inspired by our Culinary Institute of Tuscany."
Wait.
The Olive Garden has a culinary institute in Tuscany?? And the best they could come up with was Chicken Marsala?
Other Institue options included the less-than-inventive Italian staple, Shrimp Primavera, as well as the moderately experimental Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo, which proved, as I once theorized, that The Olive Garden will cover just about anything in Alfredo sauce. Miss Stacia was not impressed.
But I didn't make the trip for the food. This chick came for the breadsticks.
After much deliberation I chose to keep my meal simple with spaghetti and meatballs while D-Hardcore went balls-to-the-wall with the Tour of Italy, a sampler plate consisting of lasagna, chicken parmesean and, what else, fettuccine alfredo. T-Money and Big Mo (Mo Money) informed me the morning after my meal that I had played it too safe with my entree selection, but I have serious doubts that the Olive Garden has a specialty I missed out on. I just wanted some red sauce to dip my breadsticks in, and that's pretty much what I got. A shitload of spaghetti with three, tennis-ball-sized meatballs that tasted like, well, meat. Covered in red sauce. Perhaps the scary thing about the food at this place is that it's not distinctive, but it's not inedible either. It kind of just is. Hardcore said his food was okay too, although even his six-foot-three frame wasn't up to the task of cleaning the monster portion plated for him on The Tour. I wasn't surprised to see the only dish of the trifecta he knocked off was the alfredo. (A sidenote about pasta alfredo: I understand a ton of people LOVE milky cheese sauce, but I just think that stuff is narsty. I can eat about two bites before I feel like I'm drinking cream for dinner.)
We decided to go in for dessert because I can never resist, sharing a raspberry swirl cheesecake that looked "delectable" in Hardcore's words, but was overrefrigerated and way too rich for my taste. That didn't stop me from eating it. We also indulged in coffee, although I'm not gonna lie, I kind of wanted to end my meal on the breadstick note.
Our meal came out to about 60 bucks between the two of us, hardly the IHOP bargain (about 15 dollars for just as much, if not more, food) but decent for a dinner out in New York City. After we paid the check I asked the waiter if there was any way to dine at the Olive Garden, ordering only breadsticks and salad. Apparently this IS possible. In fact, when I returned home stuffed full o' Prego and bread and chocolate crust, I flipped on the television, which immediately flashed a commercial for the Olive Garden's new lunch special: Soup, salad and breadsticks for $5.99. Now that's an AUTHENTIC bargain I can get down with.
**Apologies to Juju and Jay-Z, both of whom were promised an outing to the Olive Garden prior to my trip with D-Hardcore. For the sake of blog writing and curb craving, I gave into the temptation to visit early, but I will return again, if only for the breadsticks.
The Olive Garden breadstick is one of the perfectly crafted food items of our time, like the Gray's Papaya hot dog or the Dunkin Donuts blueberry muffin. The leavened logs are perfectly fluffy, just underbaked, slathered in olive oil and sprinkled with salt. Like their salad - also quite tasty if you get a good scoop - the Olive Garden's breadsticks will continue to come to you throughout the meal until you can't lift bread to beak. All-you-can-eat anti-Atkins comfort food.
My great Aunt Mimi, also a lover of OG breadsticks, used to wrap them in a napkin and steal them in her purse at the end of our Olive Garden outings. They WILL give you a styrofoam container for that Aunt Mimi, I swear.
I'll tell you what The Olive Garden isn't about. Authentic Italian cuisine. If you go in hoping for a step above Chef Boyardee or Ronzoni covered in Ragu, your expectations will be perfectly met.
The Olive Garden's big mistake is in the marketing of their dishes as authentic homemade. Their commercials feature big, obnoxious Italian families rounded up by plump, jovial grandmothers promoting the sharing of entrees off steaming platters. "Buon appetito!" Everyone clicks forks and snags bites from one another's plates, raising their overflowing glasses of Olive Garden house wine, (promoted in laughably painstaking detail by the OG waiters, btw) while an accordian rendition of "Mama Mia Pizzeria" plays in the background. How festive. Just like Italy. As my coworker Murph quipped one day, "All those commercials do is give you a license to be loud at The Olive Garden."
But the Olive Garden seems to take it's role as an authoritative Italian kitchen quite seriously. When D-Hardcore (my two-time UEE dining partner) and I plopped down in the eatery's synthetic leather booths a couple weeks ago, we immediately noticed little markings next to certain dishes on the menu, which indicated "Specialties Inspired by our Culinary Institute of Tuscany."
Wait.
The Olive Garden has a culinary institute in Tuscany?? And the best they could come up with was Chicken Marsala?
Other Institue options included the less-than-inventive Italian staple, Shrimp Primavera, as well as the moderately experimental Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo, which proved, as I once theorized, that The Olive Garden will cover just about anything in Alfredo sauce. Miss Stacia was not impressed.
But I didn't make the trip for the food. This chick came for the breadsticks.
After much deliberation I chose to keep my meal simple with spaghetti and meatballs while D-Hardcore went balls-to-the-wall with the Tour of Italy, a sampler plate consisting of lasagna, chicken parmesean and, what else, fettuccine alfredo. T-Money and Big Mo (Mo Money) informed me the morning after my meal that I had played it too safe with my entree selection, but I have serious doubts that the Olive Garden has a specialty I missed out on. I just wanted some red sauce to dip my breadsticks in, and that's pretty much what I got. A shitload of spaghetti with three, tennis-ball-sized meatballs that tasted like, well, meat. Covered in red sauce. Perhaps the scary thing about the food at this place is that it's not distinctive, but it's not inedible either. It kind of just is. Hardcore said his food was okay too, although even his six-foot-three frame wasn't up to the task of cleaning the monster portion plated for him on The Tour. I wasn't surprised to see the only dish of the trifecta he knocked off was the alfredo. (A sidenote about pasta alfredo: I understand a ton of people LOVE milky cheese sauce, but I just think that stuff is narsty. I can eat about two bites before I feel like I'm drinking cream for dinner.)
We decided to go in for dessert because I can never resist, sharing a raspberry swirl cheesecake that looked "delectable" in Hardcore's words, but was overrefrigerated and way too rich for my taste. That didn't stop me from eating it. We also indulged in coffee, although I'm not gonna lie, I kind of wanted to end my meal on the breadstick note.
Our meal came out to about 60 bucks between the two of us, hardly the IHOP bargain (about 15 dollars for just as much, if not more, food) but decent for a dinner out in New York City. After we paid the check I asked the waiter if there was any way to dine at the Olive Garden, ordering only breadsticks and salad. Apparently this IS possible. In fact, when I returned home stuffed full o' Prego and bread and chocolate crust, I flipped on the television, which immediately flashed a commercial for the Olive Garden's new lunch special: Soup, salad and breadsticks for $5.99. Now that's an AUTHENTIC bargain I can get down with.
**Apologies to Juju and Jay-Z, both of whom were promised an outing to the Olive Garden prior to my trip with D-Hardcore. For the sake of blog writing and curb craving, I gave into the temptation to visit early, but I will return again, if only for the breadsticks.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Everyone Loves Unidentified Meat
Occasionally people bring goodies into the office to share with their coworkers. Most of these offerings are of the baked variety- brownies, cookies, an occasional birthday cake. The generous Mo Money brought in a massive tub of oversized oatmeal raisin cookies just the other day, and it didn't take long for the community stash to disappear in this office of junk-food-lovers. But nothing has disappeared quite as fast as today's random blast-from-the-past goody, the Slim Jim.
I have no idea who purchased the elongated red and yellow box, a cardboard container I almost exclusively associate with 7-11, but about ten minutes ago someone ran through the dub room sticking their hand inside the convenience store carton to distribute the salty sticks. Almost no one who was offered the snack refused. And these weren't the wussy mini-Jims, they were the real deal, foot-longers, the ones where about a quarter of the way through you can already feel your blood vessels turn to processed meat.
Now I LOVE those things. They smell like breakfast meat mixed with two-day-old sock, and somehow that is irresistable to me. I love Slim Jims in much the same way I love hot dogs. The satisfying snap of the casing, the so-salty-I-can-feel-my-blood-pressure-rise tang of the meat. What's REALLY in a hot dog? Not sure I really want to know. I didn't really want to know what is in a Slim Jim either, but my loverly coworker CD pointed out that the meat is not "unidentifiable" if you simply read the vacuum packaging.
Ingredients include: meat (very specific), mechanically separated chicken (praise technology!), water (in everything), SALT (duh), corn syrup, dextrose, FLAVORINGS (again, the specificity here), paprika, SPICE (and everything nice), hydrogenized corn gluten, soy and wheat gluten proteins (need your daily dose), SODIUM nitrate (more salt), lactic acid starter culture (to help you cultivate your very own supply of lactic acid).
I chose to skip out on the snack (even before reading the ingredients) as I'm still in breakfast mode around noon these days. But I did derive much pleasure from people's attempts to make snapping sounds as they tore huge chunks from their personal logs of stringy, smoked flesh, exclaiming, "I haven't eaten one of these since
a) I was a kid!"
b) the last time I was stoned!"
It's a communal snack of an overindulgent, sickening unhealthiness that will be hard to top. After all, it's pretty hard to share SPAM.
I have no idea who purchased the elongated red and yellow box, a cardboard container I almost exclusively associate with 7-11, but about ten minutes ago someone ran through the dub room sticking their hand inside the convenience store carton to distribute the salty sticks. Almost no one who was offered the snack refused. And these weren't the wussy mini-Jims, they were the real deal, foot-longers, the ones where about a quarter of the way through you can already feel your blood vessels turn to processed meat.
Now I LOVE those things. They smell like breakfast meat mixed with two-day-old sock, and somehow that is irresistable to me. I love Slim Jims in much the same way I love hot dogs. The satisfying snap of the casing, the so-salty-I-can-feel-my-blood-pressure-rise tang of the meat. What's REALLY in a hot dog? Not sure I really want to know. I didn't really want to know what is in a Slim Jim either, but my loverly coworker CD pointed out that the meat is not "unidentifiable" if you simply read the vacuum packaging.
Ingredients include: meat (very specific), mechanically separated chicken (praise technology!), water (in everything), SALT (duh), corn syrup, dextrose, FLAVORINGS (again, the specificity here), paprika, SPICE (and everything nice), hydrogenized corn gluten, soy and wheat gluten proteins (need your daily dose), SODIUM nitrate (more salt), lactic acid starter culture (to help you cultivate your very own supply of lactic acid).
I chose to skip out on the snack (even before reading the ingredients) as I'm still in breakfast mode around noon these days. But I did derive much pleasure from people's attempts to make snapping sounds as they tore huge chunks from their personal logs of stringy, smoked flesh, exclaiming, "I haven't eaten one of these since
a) I was a kid!"
b) the last time I was stoned!"
It's a communal snack of an overindulgent, sickening unhealthiness that will be hard to top. After all, it's pretty hard to share SPAM.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
For my lovely sister on her 21st birthday: A blog entry all your own. Says Miss Raquel: "It's all I've ever wanted!"
The College Man gets a lot of attention on this website, mostly because his late-afternoon incoherence and drunken antics fall in the sphere of obvious hilarity and allow me to reference things like bitches and blunts with rewarding frequency. But Miss Raquel Jones, middle child, homecoming queen, bookworm, and raging bull cannot go uncelebrated for much longer.
Besides, it’s hot mama’s 21st birthday.
The College Man forces Miss Raquel to get down to business.
Raquel, like Gravy, has a penchant for teen-dream eighties flicks (particularly those starring the insufferable Molly Ringwald) and when we were younger she adopted a saying she absorbed from the previously heralded Some Kind Of Wonderful, a mantra which seems more and more fitting in each passing year: “You mess with the bull, you get the horns.”
Now don’t get me wrong, Raquel is a warm, gentle soul and if you deal with her straight she will put her life on the line for you. She’s moral and trustworthy and what’s more, she’s always been effortlessly social. This is a talent for which I had little teenage aptitude. While I spent my time in high school strategically avoiding uncomfortable social situations, Raquel plowed through those uncertain years seemingly oblivious to the bullshit that festered around her. I obsessed over snide comments delivered by ignorant doorknobs and Raquel simply turned up her headphones (Hootie and the Blowfish was her preferred form of “white noise”) and buried herself in a bedroom full of books. It’s not that little sis didn’t realize high school drama was unfurling around her, it’s just she recognized it for what it was – completely inconsequential. “I don’t have time for this bullshit, bitches. I’ve got work to do.”
And where did this noncommittal strategy take the lovely and bookish Miss Raquel? Straight to the Homecoming Queen podium, no fucking joke. When my mother and I heard Raquel was in the running for the crown we looked at each other and both said, “She’s gonna win.” And you know what, for perhaps the first time in recorded history, a Homecoming Queen was chosen for the right reasons. Raquel’s peers, whether they had anything in common with her on the surface or not, had RESPECT for her. She brought a warm and witty presence to her scholastics and extra-curriculars and even though she’s always been a shoot-from-the-hip kind of girl, she’s really a silly fucker underneath it all and not afraid to show it. The College Man once described her as “the definition of down-to-earth.” And upon this diamond personality for twenty-one years Miss Raquel has thrived.
But the real reason Raquel is and will always be such a social success, is because she seriously does not take shit from ANYONE. It’s not a quality that is overt and grating, but rather it pulsates like a protective shield cast by one of Mario’s magic mushrooms. Without being snooty or snobbish or aggressive, the girl’s presence just DEMANDS respect. She is one of the few intelligent, beautiful women I’ve known who’s managed to wind her way through life, exhibiting her many gifts and reaping rewards without much backlash. She's got a gift. It’s like the girl is coated in Vaseline – she just slides on through.
The thing is, you don’t want to mess with Raquel. She’s a royal bitch if you cross her the wrong way. Last summer she was driving home from a weekend out-of-state with her boyfriend Alex and Alex's little sister Casey. Casey had mentioned to a few scumbucket girls at the day camp she worked at with my sis that her family would be gone for the weekend and that she might hold a small get together the last night before her parents returned (Raquel, Alex and Casey returned home a night earlier). Well, these ballsy bitches rolled up to Casey’s house and proceeded to throw a keg party in the front and backyard, trashing the place before Casey and Co. had even crossed back into New York State. The police were called and restoration ensued, but important to note is that the next day my sister approached the main girl rumored to have orchestrated the unsanctioned bash. Their conversation went something like this:
Stupid Bitch Who Throws Parties at People’s Houses When They’re Not Home: Oh Raquel! I’m so glad you came over to talk to me! I was afraid Casey would never speak to me again.
Raquel: You WISH I didn’t come over here, trust me. I’m your worst nightmare.
This is where SBWTPAPHWTNH started to cry. Raquel finished the tongue lashing regarding the respecting of friendships and people’s property – all the obvious stuff. Coming from Raquel, i'm sure it was terrifying. Cause most of the time my sis just wants to chill and make bead necklaces and chat about Grey’s Anatomy. You have to do something pretty fucked up to get her juiced. You mess with the bull…
When you’re related to the girl, your chances of avoiding the wrath decrease. As we’re both the stubborn spawn of Mama Jones, neither Raquel nor myself is likely to back down in an argument. (It’s notable that I have always been at least three inches taller than my sister and I’ve never for one second doubted that she could beat the living shit out of me.) But now that we’re older and have discovered the advantages of cooperation and collaboration (“family dinners” on the credit card?) we’ve managed to curb the bickering and hair pulling and “nails” attacks - where you dig your grimy claws into the flesh of your opponent until they scream for mercy - to a minimum.
Now we just get drunk together**.
Tonight we're gonna do it legally.
**N.B. The last time Raquel and I got drunk it was on margaritas at some obnoxious UES frat bar. The next day, nursing hangovers, we woke up to meet Mama and Papa Jones at the MET. It was there in the first hallway of Egyptian pottery that Rachel said to me, "I fell asleep sitting up, with my shoes on last night." Through our hysterical laughter I could hear my mother call out to Papa Jones, whose face was pressed up to a glass case in curious delight: "They're just BOWLS Steven."
Besides, it’s hot mama’s 21st birthday.
The College Man forces Miss Raquel to get down to business.
Raquel, like Gravy, has a penchant for teen-dream eighties flicks (particularly those starring the insufferable Molly Ringwald) and when we were younger she adopted a saying she absorbed from the previously heralded Some Kind Of Wonderful, a mantra which seems more and more fitting in each passing year: “You mess with the bull, you get the horns.”
Now don’t get me wrong, Raquel is a warm, gentle soul and if you deal with her straight she will put her life on the line for you. She’s moral and trustworthy and what’s more, she’s always been effortlessly social. This is a talent for which I had little teenage aptitude. While I spent my time in high school strategically avoiding uncomfortable social situations, Raquel plowed through those uncertain years seemingly oblivious to the bullshit that festered around her. I obsessed over snide comments delivered by ignorant doorknobs and Raquel simply turned up her headphones (Hootie and the Blowfish was her preferred form of “white noise”) and buried herself in a bedroom full of books. It’s not that little sis didn’t realize high school drama was unfurling around her, it’s just she recognized it for what it was – completely inconsequential. “I don’t have time for this bullshit, bitches. I’ve got work to do.”
And where did this noncommittal strategy take the lovely and bookish Miss Raquel? Straight to the Homecoming Queen podium, no fucking joke. When my mother and I heard Raquel was in the running for the crown we looked at each other and both said, “She’s gonna win.” And you know what, for perhaps the first time in recorded history, a Homecoming Queen was chosen for the right reasons. Raquel’s peers, whether they had anything in common with her on the surface or not, had RESPECT for her. She brought a warm and witty presence to her scholastics and extra-curriculars and even though she’s always been a shoot-from-the-hip kind of girl, she’s really a silly fucker underneath it all and not afraid to show it. The College Man once described her as “the definition of down-to-earth.” And upon this diamond personality for twenty-one years Miss Raquel has thrived.
But the real reason Raquel is and will always be such a social success, is because she seriously does not take shit from ANYONE. It’s not a quality that is overt and grating, but rather it pulsates like a protective shield cast by one of Mario’s magic mushrooms. Without being snooty or snobbish or aggressive, the girl’s presence just DEMANDS respect. She is one of the few intelligent, beautiful women I’ve known who’s managed to wind her way through life, exhibiting her many gifts and reaping rewards without much backlash. She's got a gift. It’s like the girl is coated in Vaseline – she just slides on through.
The thing is, you don’t want to mess with Raquel. She’s a royal bitch if you cross her the wrong way. Last summer she was driving home from a weekend out-of-state with her boyfriend Alex and Alex's little sister Casey. Casey had mentioned to a few scumbucket girls at the day camp she worked at with my sis that her family would be gone for the weekend and that she might hold a small get together the last night before her parents returned (Raquel, Alex and Casey returned home a night earlier). Well, these ballsy bitches rolled up to Casey’s house and proceeded to throw a keg party in the front and backyard, trashing the place before Casey and Co. had even crossed back into New York State. The police were called and restoration ensued, but important to note is that the next day my sister approached the main girl rumored to have orchestrated the unsanctioned bash. Their conversation went something like this:
Stupid Bitch Who Throws Parties at People’s Houses When They’re Not Home: Oh Raquel! I’m so glad you came over to talk to me! I was afraid Casey would never speak to me again.
Raquel: You WISH I didn’t come over here, trust me. I’m your worst nightmare.
This is where SBWTPAPHWTNH started to cry. Raquel finished the tongue lashing regarding the respecting of friendships and people’s property – all the obvious stuff. Coming from Raquel, i'm sure it was terrifying. Cause most of the time my sis just wants to chill and make bead necklaces and chat about Grey’s Anatomy. You have to do something pretty fucked up to get her juiced. You mess with the bull…
When you’re related to the girl, your chances of avoiding the wrath decrease. As we’re both the stubborn spawn of Mama Jones, neither Raquel nor myself is likely to back down in an argument. (It’s notable that I have always been at least three inches taller than my sister and I’ve never for one second doubted that she could beat the living shit out of me.) But now that we’re older and have discovered the advantages of cooperation and collaboration (“family dinners” on the credit card?) we’ve managed to curb the bickering and hair pulling and “nails” attacks - where you dig your grimy claws into the flesh of your opponent until they scream for mercy - to a minimum.
Now we just get drunk together**.
Tonight we're gonna do it legally.
**N.B. The last time Raquel and I got drunk it was on margaritas at some obnoxious UES frat bar. The next day, nursing hangovers, we woke up to meet Mama and Papa Jones at the MET. It was there in the first hallway of Egyptian pottery that Rachel said to me, "I fell asleep sitting up, with my shoes on last night." Through our hysterical laughter I could hear my mother call out to Papa Jones, whose face was pressed up to a glass case in curious delight: "They're just BOWLS Steven."
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