Ven Don't

I fancy myself an adventurous eater, and aside from super-spicy food, or the deepest of deep fried, I'm down to try just about anything. Alternately, my mother has always been somewhat of a conservative diner, passing on all things raw or tentacled (understandable), and warning quite often of the dangers of the dive restaurant. Avoidance of the cheapy eateries is a strategy I just can't abide by in New York City, as it would eliminate about 70 percent of the best dumplings, burgers and ethnic delicacies in town, and while scarfing down shumai in a Chinatown basement I occasionally congratulate myself on my well-rewarded rebelliousness. This shit is amazing! Mom doesn't know everything, now does she.

Street vendors have always been another big "no no" for Mama Jones. Pretzels, yes, but street meat, no way. I ate my first vendor hot dog at a cart in Times Square in the five minutes I had to kill between two New Yorker Festival events last fall. I vaguely remember spitting out a tiny pearl of what may have been plastic (or probably just congealed pig intestine), but aside from that, I remember tearing into that bun and feeling so alive. Just a New Yorker eating a New York hot dog. I've probably eaten street dogs about three or four times since, always with confidence that my mother's warnings of cart food illness were an exaggeration. Until it hit me.

Mom and pops came into the city yesterday afternoon to run a few errands and swung by my apartment to pick me up on the way. We drove down Fifth Avenue into midtown, the streets lined with smoking vendor carts that stirred a craving within me.

"Yes. " I thought. "I'm going to eat something from a cart, in front of my mother, right now. I will prove it can be done."

We parked the car but mom separated from pops and I on our way to get the grub from a lonely cart on Madison. I ordered mom's requisite hot pretzel, "and one hot dog please." My father's eyes lit up. He's the man who taught me how to chow down. He's the man who eats the fried shrimp heads - eyes intact - that come with his ama ebi sushi. The man who braved Woodstock-esque festival, Watkins Glenn, with only cans of cured oysters to keep him alive. The man is not afraid of any food item on the planet. And standing there ordering that little log of unidentifiable "beef" parts from the Pakistani vendor, I could see a gleam of sly pride in his eye.

I held mom's pretzel with one hand and watched the vendor flip open the lid of a metal compartment housing about fifteen tan links, floating in water. I thought about my friend Caroline's warning:

"I've seen the place where they keep all the carts at night. It's filthy. There are rats and roaches crawling all around. They never clean the carts."

Fuck that. I was starving.

The vendor dipped his tongs in the water, clamping down on one of the skinny dogs.

"No, the big one!" my father instructed.

"That's a sausage," the vendor told my father.

"Yeah, sure, that's what she wants," dad replied.

Umm, sure. A sausage. From a street vendor. A sausage that looks like a giant hot dog. Can't be any WORSE than a hot dog, right? I bit into the mustard-covered meat. A hot dog with a kick. Not terrible, but nothing I'd willingly buy again. Ravenous, I tucked the sausage away in under a minute, following with a bit of mom's pretzel and some Diet Peach Snapple to normalize my palette. Okay, feeling great.

Fast forward six hours. Errands have been run. A massive Italian dinner of beef carpaccio and tortellini has been consumed. I am curled on my bed in the fetal position and I think I might die. I call Caroline.

"I ate street meat today, and now I think I might die. I just thought I'd tell you so if I call out sick tomorrow, you can vouch for the fact that I am, in fact, dying of food poisoning."

"Awww, Stace," Caroline chuckles. "Did I ever tell you about the time I saw where they keep the car..."

"Yes, yes," I interrupt. "I should have known better, but whatever, what's done is done, and now I feel like..."

Belch.

"Gotta call you back Car."

And then the puke.

And then more puke.

It's midnight and I call my mother. She's sleeping. I ask her if she or my father was feeling sick from dinner and she answers that they aren't. I tell her I just vomited and that I think I have food poisoning.

"The fucking sausage," she says.

"Maybe, " I answer, "but maybe not. It could have just been the sheer volume of food I ate today."

"No way Stacey, that shit is poison! What have I told you about eating meat from the vendors. Pretzels, okay. Chestnuts, okay. But the street meat, that shit will kill you."

Now I want to die because not only is vendor sausage is wreaking havoc on my insides, but I know I will never hear the end of this vendor banter from my mother.

This morning I wake up feeling sick and call out of work. Then I call mom. She's in the office chatting away with the other ladies and asks me how I'm feeling. I tell her I'm feeling better and one of the girls in the office asks my mother what's wrong.

"My daughter ate a sausage from a street vendor yesterday," mom answers in obvious disgust. I can hear the ladies groaning, their matching squished up noses flashing across my brain. I feel my temper start to rise as my mother returns to the phone and begins yet another lecture on the dangers of the vendor hot dog.

I decide then and there that when mom is too old to care I will feed her nothing but street meat.

But regarding the more immediate future, I plan to stay away from the carts for a while. Until the tempting vapors of unidentifiable steamed meat reel me in once again.

Grandmas don't lie.

An email from mine this morning:

you must have brought the mets good luck--hope it carries over to today. dad must be in 7th heaven. i was out playing mah-jongg last night but we had the radio on to listen to the game. the mets will come thru tonight. love you. grandma

Arugula is making a comeback...

And broccoli rabe is the jam. But I just want some spinach in my motherfucking omelette already.

The Name Game

Miss Stacia's afternoon musings on her parentally-furnished name, Stacey (Lauren) Brook:

1. A VP in my office, with whom I had had no direct contact before an interaction this morning, apparently attended a summer camp in upstate New York that contained within it's grounds, nature's very own Stacey Brook. As in the running stream of water bearing the exact same name, "e-y" spelling and all.

2. I already knew of the existence of said brook from a vain Google search.

3. For some reason I decided to inform the VP of my search engine-facilitated familiarity with his childhood tubing grounds. He did not seem impressed.

4. In addition to the aforementioned "Babbling Brook" (papa dukes' college radio tag) or "Stacey Stream" (nickname coined by elementary school gym teacher, Mr. Cyr), there also exists Stacey L. Brook, co-author of The Wages of Wins, a non-fiction book that has been described as "Freakonomics meets ESPN." I first encountered Stacey L. Brook's sports myth dubunkage in a New Yorker feature earlier this year, just as my Fantasy Baseball season was kicking off. Maybe my twin-in-name would have passed on A-Rod as her first round pick. She definitely wouldn't have chosen Edmonds over Lee in the outfield.

5. Stacey L. Brook is probably responsible for the heartbreaking unavailability of staceybrook@gmail.com. But I beat her to staceybrook.com, so we'll call it even.

Hip hip, José!

Read my review of the Zero 7/José Gonzalez show at Webster Hall.

Do it. Now!

Yom Kippur with the Joneses

Totally normal, break fast conversation for the Jones family:

(In the living room of the Cohen family in Annapolis, MA, about thirty minutes from the U of M campus. Papa Jones, addresses his friend Ricky from Podiatry school. Ricky’s 25-year old daughter Lindsay, the College Man and I are all in the room, clearly within earshot.)

Papa Jones: So after we all ate dinner together on Friday and you fed my wife that Grey Goose, I tried to get her in bed. She put on her nightie and I went in for it, and she told me she was tired and that she’d give it to me in the morning. So the next day I wake up to take a piss and get back in bed. My wife asks me what time it is and I say, “nine-thirty” and give her that look like, (sing songey) “It’s time!”

(By this point, the College Man and I have curled into the fetal position with our hands over our ears, and Lindsay is staring off in spacey denial.)

Papa Jones (cont’d): So when we’re finished, I look over at Debs and say, “Sorry honey, but I told a little white lie.” And she asks me what I’m talking about, so I say, “It’s only six-thirty!”

I know we just finished Yom Kippur, but in my opinion my father should immediately repent for telling this story in my presence. Adam would agree, but he’s too busy chain-gagging, while pushing these thoughts down deep in his subconscious.

The College Man: On Home Turf

This weekend, I consented to spending four-and-a-half hours listening to Steely Dan in Papa Jones' hybrid to accompany the parents to Maryland for a long overdue visit to the College Man. After some much needed napping, an extensive NYC realty discussion and analysis and a New York Magazine read-aloud session from Mama Jones (she would have made a great first grade teacher) my parents and I arrived at the College Man's apartment around 6:30 where we examined his sweet and surprisingly clean living quarters. The bathroom was almost spotless and the kitchen, crumb-free, although there was a major explosion of titties all over the apartment walls:



"There seems to be a beer and tit theme to these apartments." -Papa Jones


It's Adam's sophomore year at U of M, and the man has learned a lot. He can maneuver kegs past his apartment security guards, no sweat. When multiple hos are primed and ready, The College Man knows where to go in for the kill.

One thing the man has not yet learned is how to make a good rumrunner. This drink in my hand is fucking toxic. But I can't hate on the kid for pushing his weekly kegger from Friday to Saturday night in my honor. I'm 99 percent positive I'm getting sexiled from his room later, and I'm being forced to listen to shitty 50 cent songs, but I'm ready to kick it College Style. Live blogging or morning reporting on this jam is soon to come. For now, stay fresh. Roll them blunts. Rock them hos. Or something.

Born Planner

Jay-Z's impression of Miss Stacia, age 5:

"First, I'm gonna play Barbie. Then, I'm gonna bake muffins. Then I'm gonna take a nap, and tonight I'm gonna read myself to sleep."

I'm sorry, but it's never too early to set short-term goals and master time management.

Stacie Rose @ Sin-é, 9/21/06

At the bar before Stacie Rose’s show at Sin-é this past Thursday, a friend attempted to describe Rose's sound, offering up the preview, “Her music matches her engagement ring.”

Rose and I have been coworkers for about six months now and I have never once looked down at her left hand. In fact, about a week ago I can remember being startled when she casually mentioned her husband in conversation, mostly because Stacie is vibrant and attractive, and at 23 years-old it never occurs to me to assume my social and professional contacts are committed to lifelong significant others. I finished my beer wondering how people come to get married, what this funky, talented promo producer’s dream wedding would entail and how her ring would sound if shot out her vocal chords through the speakers of Sin-é.

From the first notes out of Rose’s mouth I assumed the setting was platinum. The lady’s got chops. Her folky sweetness, unpretentious refinement and barrage of “oh oh ohs” led me initially to Natalie Merchant, but in her slower, softer moments she channels a coy whisper, Jewel sans yodel. When laying a little twang on the sugar and the polish, maybe LeAnn or Faith Hill. In her grander, stockier, ballsier moments, even a little Ethridge. It’s not a discount to Rose that she conjures thoughts of so many other female pop singers. You can never really point your finger at one because she’s gleaned the best from them all, fusing them together, giving her voice a distinct but immediately accessible shape.

This shape was bolstered by a full band, including electric and acoustic guitarists (Rose’s husband on acoustic), a bassist, a drummer, and a backup singer. It’s invigorating to see a singer-songwriter travel with such a deep crew, and the full sound enhanced Rose’s poppier compositions, swelling to meet her peaks and dropping out to let her shine in moments of melancholy and quiet triumph. But the standouts were Rose’s country-tinged numbers, acoustic laying the earthy foundation and electric guitar solos threading the seams between Rose’s uplifting vocal choruses.

Recorded, Rose sounds a touch bubblegum, but onstage she spits more attitude. She sings songs about disaster with sly pride. She banters about “guns and drugs and puppies.” She tells you she likes to write sad songs and then throws down “Sad But Blue,” a drum-heavy powerhouse that hardly seems sad when delivered with such unapologetic resolution. She sings, “I’m a lucky girl…I’m a happy girl…I’m a troubled girl..." on "Okay," her lyrics suggesting trust and graciousness, coupled with a distinct distaste for game playing. She cuts to the chase, and effortlessly.

That ring could be a promise string or a five-carat rock. Regardless, I’m sure it is precisely what the woman wanted.

Another Saturday Night

Mama Jones and I just finished watching Say Anything (with commercials on Bravo - so annoying) and I am left with two lingering thoughts:

1. As Chuck Klosterman once postulated, Lloyd Dobler, or the dateable equivalent, does not actually exist. Coming to this realization while painstakingly studying Dobler's limitless devotion to Diane Court (played by the poor man's Jennifer Connelly) brought me to tears. Personally, I'd rather date Rob Gordon with his enyclopedic pop culture knowledge and endearing obsessive tendencies, but it would be comforting to know there is a man out there who might live for the opportunity to teach me to drive a stick shift, accompany me on adventures overseas, or even just call me every day. (Although, in life, the boombox schtick is a bit overkill.)

2. Jeremy Piven is way sexier at forty-something than he was in his early twenties. And I'm convinced his career began to soar the day he decided never to rap or beatbox on camera ever again. I bet most people don't even remember seeing the future Ari Gold in Say Anything, but trust me, he's in there and as my mother observed, "he hasn't yet grown into his teeth."

Indulge in my box.

Next Saturday night, take some friends here. Once you start making the sake box jokes, you'll never stop. You will scream out things like:

"Wow, that's one tasty box!"

or

"Your box is wet, try not to spill."

or

"It's really best only to taste one box a night."

or

"I think our boxes are pretty comparable in quality."


You will take pictures of yourself indulging in your own box.



And your friends touching each other's boxes.



You will shoot an album cover for your new band, "Ham(ilton) and the Boxes."


From the forthcoming LP, Drink From The Corner

Your mouth will form the word "box" so many times, specific motor muscles will start to ache, and you will want to punch yourself in the face.

And then you'll just order another box.

Poetry Exchange: The Number One Stunna

Sent to me in response to yesterday's haikufest (the author wishes remain anonymous):

*DISCLAIMER*
The attached poem is not based on any real life experience on the author's part. When writing a poem for/about a female, it is generally a good idea for the piece to be complementary in nature. The alternative could spell disaster for those in any proximity to the subject. Also, when writing single rhyme scheme poems, one is limited to a certain number of words. Therefore, the writer must pick a theme that works and run with it. This poem is a cautionary tale. Enjoy.

Let me tell you about this stunner named Stacey Brook
Sure she’s easy on the eyes, but her wardrobe is what gets the second look
Say you meet her, you chat, dance, girl has you on the hook
Maybe you get friendly and even score a little “nookie-nook”
Bored, she changes roles and becomes the cook
You’re the salt shaker, and dude you just got shook
You might feel bitter or feel as if advantage was took
The girl ran off with your heart like a common two-bit crook
Moving on is tough, I haven’t found the answer in a book
Until I do, I’m the king, checkmated, by Stacey’s rooks

Major points for kissing ass and giving me way more credit than I deserve. Minus a few for a wordy second line, earned back in bonus points for "nookie-nook" and the salt shaker metaphor.

Try and top it kids. I welcome all contributions.

High-Coup: Taking Down the Man With Third-Grade Poetry

People express their job dissatisfaction through various outlets, some healthier than others. When I first started working for the Citi back in July '05, I was pretty miserable. The temp job was my first experience in a strict corporate environment and at first I found the atmosphere a bit stodgy, the people stiff, the work mundane. Eventually I came to love the Bonz, Ken Tailey, McMattress and the rest of the Citi crew. And I reveled in the hours of downtime, the likes of which I may never see again, by combing every New York City publication and gossip blog and hatching ideas like Experimental Fashion Friday. But in those first few weeks, before I started abusing my email account and reading Gawker shamelessly in front of portfolio managers, I nearly lost my mind among the suits and spreadsheets.

How did I cope? With Hai-freaking-kus. Yes, Haikus, the most simplistic poetic verse known to man, taught to me in elementary school and finally mastered in their application to the boring world of finance. At first I would simply text off-the-cuff verses to my boyfriend at the time, but after a while I began scrawling down pages and pages of spontaneous three-line poems in my notebook during work hours. I never really paid attention to the traditional
seasonal reference guideline, I just followed the basic five-seven-five syllable rule and let my random thoughts inform the subject matter. The majority of the poems dealt with my inability to comprehend my corporate surroundings. (I'll admit, I was very judgemental at first.) Some dealt with my insufferable boredom. Some were completely out-of-nowhere, and a handful were just plain dirty.

Below is a sampling of my poetic accomplishments. Ancient Japanese poets are rolling over in their graves right now. But at least they're not crunching numbers in pinstripes. Enjoy:


Oh ham, egg and cheese,
hope he doesn't break your yolk.
I like you messy.

Net interest margin?
Earning assests, average loans?
I failed statistics.

Some teachers sustain
healthy appetites for chalk.
What I learned in math.

When men wear work suits
hot, big, hairy animals
freeze out the women.

Next time, in fairness,
big boss man comes back to life
to work the mailroom.

Hall and Oates photo
Cubicles tell half stories
Oh lover of Floyd

It's four fifty-six.
Clock strikes five in four short ones.
In thirty I'm gone.

Nothing you can do
after failing the drug test
but light up a doob.

Confiscate my note
Read it in front of the class
All dirty haikus

Wasted life at work
Adding to the big green wad
No time for strippers

Prior to email
Had to talk to coworkers
Eighteen times a day

Tough when in common
all you have with coworkers
is Katie and Tom.

Albert Einstein, bah!
Cole slaw on turkey: GENIUS!
Fuck you, café wrap.

How many wires?
Building stuffed with computers.
Who sets this shit up?

Swim through humid air
Today all the amoebas
Get to work on time

Push a cubicle
Watch the dominoes sucker!
Office hazard deaths

At five twenty-two
Roseanne Barr on the treadmill
moves faster than time.


And a limerick for good measure:

At the heart of esteemed Citicorp,
sat a girl who found finance a bore.
If in work was enthused
as she was with haikus
she would be making money galore.

Things I Learned Today:

1. The LIRR never runs on time when you need it to. (This was really more of a confirmation than an epiphany.)

2. Falling asleep on the train is a terrible idea, unless you can guarantee coffee consumption exactly thirty seconds after reaching Penn Station. (Tip: It is very difficult to make this happen if you are running late. See lesson 1.)

3. Fed Exing a package is ridiculously easy. Until you fuck it up.

4. I hate making mistakes.

5. I hate missing deadlines more. (Even when said deadlines are semi-negotiable.)

6. In my lifetime, I will make many more mistakes and maybe even miss other deadlines.

7. Forty minutes alone in a room with a laptop, Zero 7 and a bag of M&M's will alleviate the funk brought on by all of the above.

Thank you Ticketmaster.

Dear Ticketmaster,

Thank you sincerely for notifying me today, Mon 9/11 at 12:25pm, that tickets are on sale for the New Yorker Festival. Although the tickets went on sale last Thursday at noon, with the celeb-sprinkled events selling out in less than twenty minutes, it is comforting to see the mass notification email arrive four days after the on-sale date, giving those who do their research and stay on top of New York happenings full advantage in attending these coveted events. Not that this even helped me all that much this year.

So much for catching a glimpse of Ed Norton or Steve Martin. See you at the global warming panel! (No seriously, I will be there. Tickets still available.)

Much love,
Miss Stacia

Give Me The Green Light

If you receive emails from me today harboring a few extra periods or out of place consonants, don't blame it on my cheating in eighth grade keyboarding class, blame it on Beyonce for crafting one of the most bumpin songs I've ever heard in my life. The new album is a real booty-shaker - there are at least five SOLID singles in there (see "Green Light," "Upgrade U" and "Freakum Dress" for evidence) - but "Ring the Alarm" is the killer. I wish the office would let me strut around with my 1980's-era headphones on all day so I could dip and bounce to Lady B's enraged catcall while fetching the good peeps their tape stock. But alas, my shimmies and siren-inspired gyrations most likey won't fly in the corpo atmosphere, so I must be content shaking my shoulders and punching out emails, two fingers at a time, to "I'll be damned if I see another chick in your arms!!!" Unfortunately I can't quite keep up with B's rants about chinchilla coats and houses off the coast on keyboard percussion without compromising spelling and grammatical accuracy. Such is the sacrifice I am willing to make to ring it in here in tghe dub roomn..

The Ditty Bops @ Spiegeltent, South Street Seaport - 8/30/06

Fans of cabaret-inspired bands are plain spoiled rotten. Constant stimulation and fanfare is the name of the game for a certain breed of band that counts Humanwine, the Dresden Dolls, and the Ditty Bops among its ilk, the latter of whom played Spiegeltent at South Street Seaport tonight.

A combination of sassy saloon jazz, plucky folk and vaudeville showmanship, The Ditty Bops were a perfect fit for the antique dramatics of the Spiegeltent setting. The “tent of mirrors” is over 80 years old, one of under a dozen traveling cabaret performance houses left in the world. Fanned out on the north edge of the Seaport’s famous boardwalk amidst strings of festive carnival lights, the self-sufficient structure brought an air of welcome festivity to Manhattan’s edge, shrouding a clan of impossibly eager fans in slim rectangles of stained color and aged wooden support beams showcasing endless panels of reflective glass. The Bops’ starlet duo, Amanda Barrett and Abby DeWald, who bicycled for nine hours straight in the pouring rain to make the New York tour date (they have cycled to EVERY show on this summer’s tour – 4,502.75 miles, thus far) were no doubt grateful for the magnificence of their temporary shelter.

The girls wasted no time pulling out the tricks, sending their Master of Ceremonies in on stilts for introductions. Amanda, on mandolin, sported a cop uniform, complete with signature hat, and Abby, on guitar, donned the jailbird ensemble. The duo breezed through numbers from their latest release Moon Over the Freeway, with an upright bass, piano, accordion, and host of Amanda-operated (literal) bells and whistles supplementing the angelic harmonies and invigorated strums. The set list included, among the new gems, two covers by Bops-endorsed group, The Boswell Sisters. Old favorite “Sister Kate” inspired an audience member to hop on stage, inciting jealousy in all those who weren’t wearing gold fringe to better “shake it like a bowl of jelly on a plate.” Audience participation, which often serves up snooze or cringe-worthy moments at live shows, provided many of the night’s highlights. The three volunteers called upon to sing “Wishful Thinking” to The Ditty Bops’ accompaniment, grabbed hold of the cheerful tune, even nailing some of the unpracticed harmonies. When asked to tell a story during the interlude of “a song about an obsessive love,” a balding, self-proclaimed Dungeons and Dragons geek in a priest collar (yes, that’s right) riffed about following two girls who rode their bikes across the country: “I’m not an athlete,” he delivered rhythmically. “I rode hard. It was at the 9th power, if you know D&D.”

The band was as playful as the fans, intermittently pulling from a trunk of props for visual and dramatic aids. Eye patches and skull-adorned hats came out for pirate-inspired chanteys. Juggling pins and playing cards were exchanged in soundtracked duels. Balloons were popped, used to create static electricity, and even inhaled for their helium, to hilarious effect, before harmonies.

Towards the close of the set, the MC creeped on stage to hastily apply black and white makeup to the girl’s faces before they stripped down to skeleton-screened t-shirts and shorts to play one of the band’s more ominous numbers. Now dressed in Halloween garb and harboring surprises still, The Bops followed with a song featuring a guest musician from New York, recruited through the band’s website to play the SAW (In case you’re wondering, you play the saw with a bow, and it sounds a lot like the ooooooooooo oooooooo’s you hear from ghosts in a cheesy haunted house).

The band closed the night with an encore set of two of their more traditional Ditty Bop numbers, the first featuring spectacularly racy lyrics like, “I ain’t the electrician, I ain’t the electrician’s son, but I will wire your box until the real electrician comes,” and raunchy variations on this formula (think “I ain’t the carpenter, I ain’t the garbage man”).

The last number, a simple, darling, hip-shaker, turned the fans’ attention back to the catchy simplicity of the recordings that brought them to Spiegeltent in the first place. The Bops write and sing great tunes. The rest is just icing on the big top.

Questions from my future readers

As I was scanning my sitemeter this morning, I noticed a visitor whose referring URL was a Google search of the words "is eating bacon raw dangerous." Another Google search for "ladies crotch grabbing" also pointed a new reader to Collections Are Dangerous early this AM.

These are the issues that bring random people to Miss Stacia's forum these days. Hope I deliver what you folks are looking for.

And for my Japanophiles...

Eat: Dressed up noodles

Attend: The Japanese New Music Festival

Read: Murakami and Murakami

Listen to: Asobi Seksu

Pour les Francophiles parmi nous:

Trouvez: "Paris, Je T'Aime"

Voyez : Mon chère Devery

Lisez: Marguerite Duras

Ecoutez à: Françoise Hardy