Guest Collector: A Message From matthew K

Greetings Danger Seekers,

While our dear Stacia is away crushing the freedom fighters of Quintana Roo, she has foolishly left me, matthew K, in charge of her blog. Now I, normally a mild-mannered and modest person, have gone mad with power and have extended my domain to include Stacey's desk at work. This turned out to be a much more boring venture than originally expected. Sure abusing Stacey's limited power at the office was fun but years of group therapy left me questioning this hollow existence. What was I doing to help humanity? How would rifling through her desk drawers honor her fading memory? How could I broadcast her final words to the world? Incidentally, her final words to me were: I'll see you next week. Don't touch my stuff. How could I commemorate Stacey's gifts to the world without having to work hard or spend any money?

Three hours and one grant from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation later, I was finally able to open the Stacey L. Brook Memorial Living Museum and Gift Shop. Here visitors can come and see an exact recreation of Stacey's workspace circa 2006. Our team of speedily trained yet historically accurate reenactors will guide you through a day in the life of the people of Stacia. From basket weaving to butter churning to microwave cookery, our historians have paid painstaking attention to every last detail of this people's storied culture, which seems to have mysteriously disappeared in late December of 2006.

While information is sketchy at best, our archeologists have been able to piece together bits of first hand accounts scribbled on 3M brand Post-It Notes to create a more complete idea of the final days of the society. Near as we can figure, this society's solitary export was year-end "best of" lists. Ranging among every single mentionable subject, the most prolific listographers mapped the best and brightest of the year in simple, concise columns. However, the only lists we have been able to reconstruct completely show a very different side to this well-cataloged social order; Lists that herald culture's disenfranchised, forgotten and finally-got-around-to's. The mysterious author of these lists signed only with "your pal, matt."

Five Cool Things from 2006 that apparently no one liked but me
(In No Particular Order)

1. Stranger Than Fiction
2. Built to Spill's You In Reverse
3. The Strokes' First Impressions of Earth
4. Arrested Development's Third Season
5. F Minus

Five Cool Things I found in 2006 that I was later told came out last year or earlier
(In a Very Particular Order to be Revealed at a Later Date)

1. Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia
2. Areas of My Expertise
3. Spaced
4. Stereolab
5. Stacey

(I heard 2007 is going to be lame.)

From Sand, Surf and Sun

"The head bone's connected to the heart bone."
- Tom Robbins, Villa Incognito

Les Favorites d'Annee 2006

My year-end culture consumption round-up. Good frakking times.

Top Ten Albums 2006
1. Neko Case – Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
2. The Dresden Dolls – Yes, Virginia
3. Ghostface – Fishscale
4. Regina Spektor – Begin to Hope
5. Beyonce - BDay
6. Lily Allen – Alright, Still
7. Clipse – Hell Hath No Fury
8. T.I. - King
9. Justin Timberlake – Futuresex/Lovesounds
10. Thom Yorke – The Eraser

Honorable Mentions:
The Pipettes - We Are The Pipettes
Lupe Fiasco - Food and Liquor
Devotchka – Curse Your Little Heart EP
The Fiery Furnaces - Bitter Tea

Favorite albums consumed but not created in 2006
1. The Billy Nayer Show – Rabbit
2. Jose Gonzales – Veneer
3. The Pretenders –The Isle of View (Live)
4. Jens Lekman – Oh You’re So Silent Jens
5. Brian Eno – Another Green World
6. Francois Breut – Une Saison Volee
7. Nouvelle Vague - Self-Titled
8. Keren Ann - Not Going Anywhere
9. Cadence Weapon - Breaking Kayfabe
10. Kylie Minogue - Fever


Best Singles/Tracks 2006
1. "Ring The Alarm" - Beyonce
2. “Crazy” - Gnarls Barkley
3. “My Love” – Justin Timberlake
4. “Doctor Blind” – Emily Haines
5. “You’re My Flame” – Zero 7
6. "The Champ" - Ghostface
7. "No Friend of Mine" - Lily Allen
8. "Keys Open Doors" - Clipse
9. “Upgrade U” – Beyonce
10. “Strawberries” – Asobi Seksu
11. "Ain't No Other Man" - Christina A.
12. "I'm Talkin To You" - T.I.
13. "Launch Yourself" - Adem
14. "Get Myself Into It - The Rapture
15. “Go Baby Power Now” - Puffy AmiYumi
16. "Tell Me What You Want" - The Pipettes

Embarrassed to admit I loved:
“Call Me When You’re Sober” – Evanesence (Both the track and the video.)

Best Live Shows 2006
1. Amadou & Mariam @ Central Park Summerstage (July 16)
2. The Ditty Bops @ Spiegeltent
3. Regina Spektor @ Town Hall (Sept 27)
4. Radiohead @ The Theater at Madison Square Garden (June 13)
5. Devotchka @ Spiegeltent
6. The Billy Nayer Show @ The Knitting Factory (June 30)
7. Dresden Dolls @ Webster Hall (April 22)
8. Jens Lekman @ Bowery
9. Joanna Newsom/Neko Case @ McCarren Park Pool
10. Damsel & Fly @ Fat Baby (January)
11. Cadence Weapon @ The Knitting Factory
12. La Laque @ Mercury Lounge
13. Talib Kweli @ B.B. Kings (April 15)
14. Neko Case @ Webster Hall (April 7)
15. Metric @ Webster Hall ((March 10)
16. Bloc Party (yeah, I know) @ McCarren Park Pool
17. Nada Surf @ Webster Hall (March 8)
18. Belle & Sebastian/New Pornographers @ Nokia Theater Times Sq. (March 3)
19. Big Daddy Kane (opening for MF Doom) @ Nokia Theater Times Sq. (Jan 26)

Why did I pay good money to see:
1. Boyz 2 Men @B.B. Kings (July 15)
2. Madonna @ Madison Square Garden
(No seriously, why did I?)

Best on the Big Screen 2006:
1. Red (Kieslowski)
2. The Departed
3. Repulsion (Polanski)
4. Little Miss Sunshine
5. Dave Chappelle's Block Party
6. The Science of Sleep
7. Little Children
8. Casino Royale

Weirdest shit I saw all year:
Drawing Restraint 9 (I still heart you Bjork.)

Gingerbread House-Making Challenge!

Over the past year or so The Food Network has managed to completely infiltrate my soul, but although my obsessive intake of Iron Chef America, Alton Brown's Good Eats and Bobby Flay Throwdown stokes my adventurous eating habits and inner food critic, these programs usually do little to awaken my long-dormant chef/culinary creativist.

The one show that really pushes me to the brink of pots and pans is the "Challenge" series, where professional pastry chefs battle each other in the construction of sugar sculptures and themed cakes and pastries. Edible arts and crafts are right up my alley and when I caught a Gingerbread Challenge on television a few weeks ago I started to build hope around the gingerbread house as a project I could tackle, even in my tiny, near-kitchenless apartment.

But what fun is building the gingerbread house without the "challenge" of kicking all your friends' asses in a friendly competition? Hence, the gestation of Miss Stacia and Jay-Z's First (Annual??!!) Gingerbread House-Making Challenge!

We hosted the competition Sunday afternoon at Jay Z's apartment where Jaz provided some scrumptious brunch for our competitors, and I provided most of the building supplies.



All of the white icing once found on the UWS now resides here.


We decided to go the graham cracker route because, let's face it, seven people can't cook real gingerbread with only one oven and besides, I'm no Betty Crocker to begin with. The full set of rules decided upon by Miss Jay-Z were laid out as follows:

1.Contestants can start building their houses as soon as they arrive.

2.Each individual (or team) is responsible for acquiring their own basic materials (graham crackers and or actual gingerbread if you're brave, icing, candy, etc.), but we will provide emergency supplies, utensils and sweets for additional flair. Giving some thought to what you want to build before Sunday (so you can pick up the necessary components) is especially advised.

3a.Judging will commence at 5:45pm.

3b.Because we believe in fairness above all else, Stacey Brook will serve as both judge and contestant.

4.Points will be awarded for: creativity, execution, resemblance of house to various New York City structures, flirting with Jasmine, bringing beer/other drink, helping clean up the apartment, cooking Stacey and Jasmine dinner, etc.

5.Points will be deducted for: blah-ness of structure, the lameness of non-participation, leaving a mess.


Most of our guests arrived pretty close to starting time at 2pm, and got right down to work.


The Harvard Gingerbread House-Making Club. Pass the protractor.

The first person finished was ma soeur, the lovely and talented Miss Raquel, who sort of cheated by using an OJ carton as her base, but who had one of the loveliest-looking end products because of it. Definitely the closest to the traditional holiday-style confectionary houses, Raquel's little cottage was lined in licorice and surrounded by a blue icing and M&M moat. The edible abode could have certainly been the demise of Hansel and Gretel.


Love the ironically appropriate box copy.

Jay-Faust was the next to finish, although not be her own volition. Weak infrastructure eventually caused the collapse of her graham cracker Flatiron Building, a sad defeat for the 1999 High School East Holiday Bûche Champion.


"Voulez vous bûcher avec moi?"

The other contestants completed their gingerbread (graham cracker) masterpieces soon after, and included Eric’s homage to,
umm, Eric:



A “brothel in the red light district”:



And a house made almost completely out of gingerbread men, which I thought was the coolest idea ever, hence my disqualifying its creator from the winner's circle:



I was pretty much the last one to finish. From the beginning I had my heart set on making a "Jewgerbread House." I bought silver and blue M&M’s in Times Square (at 9 dollars a pound at the M&M store, mind you. Holy ish.) for proper decorative accent, and planned a special signifying detail for the front of my piece, but I wasn’t exactly sure how to go about the construction of the building itself until I got down on the floor an played with my grahams. And then the epiphany hit:


You can’t go wrong with six corners.

I am something of a perfectionist, and it took me almost three hours to build, ice and decorate this sucker, but once I finished I was quite pleased. Especially when it came time to add my major accenting detail:


Unroll for edible Torah Portion.

Once the last chocolate button was secured in place, I stood up and took about ninety seconds to deliberate before declaring myself the official winner of the 2006 Gingerbread Challenge!


Six months of shaky waitressing helped prepare me for this moment.

Jay-Z you owe me a clock radio (our awesome grand prize).

The award winning sculpture now sits on my desk at work, accepting praise and piquing the curiosity of all who pass by. I wonder how long the Jewgerbread house will last. I wonder if I could shellac the whole thing and send it to my grandmother in Florida. Would it make it there in one piece? Would grandma's friends in the senior citizen's community try to consume my waterproofed, culinary work of art?

Will someone from Ace of Cakes please hire my ass already?

The Underappreciated Eating Establishment Series: Tad's Steaks

Back in her Cornell days, Mama Jones’ boyfriend used to take her here.

“If you were lucky someone took you to Tad’s,” she told me.

According to the good woman, a meal for one person cost $3. And I thought my dates were cheap.

My friend Carolina’s parents had their first date at Tad’s, and she quoted an estimated $7 as the price of feeding an individual 12 ounces of flame-broiled stizzeak and a slew of carb-concentrated sides, which seemed a bit more realistic. Carolina has been to Tad’s many times with her folks and claims the prices have skyrocketed since her father wooed her mother over a 1/4 inch thick prime cut and a demi-bottle of rosé.

For me, the main appeal of the Tad’s experience was the potential to eat a red meat lunch for under ten dollars (and live long enough to justify a remedying jaunt to Del Frisco's to wash away the memories of steaks served fast food stylee). Sadly, the times of the bargain meal are truly at an end and unless we’re talking 25 cent Chinatown dumplings or Nicky’s Vietnamese Sandwiches ($3.95 a pop) you're throwing down bones to eat out in this town. If you’re bringing your chick to Tad’s be prepared to throw down a twenty-spot, and then some.

My coworker Frederico and I have been talking about hitting up Tad's since he drunkenly touted its awesomeness at a work birthday party many months ago. After much procrastination we finally set last Friday as the date to chow down and ambled into Tads’ 34th street establishment in the late afternoon of the last and laziest day of the work week.

When we hit the storefront around 2pm the place was still bustling. Frederico and I spent our first ten minutes in Tad's taking in our surroundings as we stood on line, discussing cuts of meat. Both of us ended up ordering the same cut off the menu that was displayed above us in a series of numbered pictures arranged completely without regard to logical numerical order.


Because 7 comes before 4.

After calling out our orders for Tad’s “Traditional Cut Prime Sirloin” to the line chef, we watched her cut two thin, pink, slimy steaks out of their vacuum packaging and slap them to the grill with a sizzle. I ordered my meat medium for the first time in my life. I live for dripping, tender, bloody steak, but I also like living in the absence of severe abdominal pain, thus my taste buds and intestines opted to forge a compromise.

When my meat, a foot long, 6 inches wide and the width of a single subject notebook, came off the grill it landed on a shallow, ten pound ceramic plate that was immediately doused in gravy, no questions asked. A baked potato joined the party and another ladleful of liquid, this time melted butter, was poured onto the overflowing dish. Onions were added by request (and recommended by Caroline) and the plate was finally handed off to it’s future consumer with liquid spillage over the sides of the ceramic an inevitability.

Once the steak plates were resting peacefully on our trays, Frederico and I pushed past the massive wall of beverages - fruit juice flanking cheap bottles of white wine, beer shouldering half-carafes of vinos, red and blush.


A king's selection.

But the real kicker for me was the thirty pre-poured glasses of assorted wine, each capped with a single piece of protective saran wrap.


Sealed for safety!

Frederico and I nudged our trays beyond the alcohol to the cashier where we were rung up for our biftek.

The “Traditional Cut,” which seemed to be the special or at least most popular cut, was $10.99 including a baked potato, a monster piece of slightly undercooked garlic bread and a salad. Charges were accrued for all extras, of course, including:

Sour cream - $ .69
Onions - $ .69
Aquafina - $ 2.00
TOMATOES - $ .69

The tomato charge really got to me. Without tomatoes, salad is food for bunny rabbits. Frederico noted that he doesn't even really LIKE tomatoes, but ended up eating two-thirds of a dollar since he didn't realize we were charged for the acidic fruit until we examined our receipts at the table.

We were brought to our cozy little spot in the Sizzler-esque dining room by the maitre d who, by the way, was at least seventy-years-old and really has no purpose in a restaurant that serves their food cafeteria style. Tad's should just abolish the maitre d position and use his salary to gift their customers with complementary tomatoes.

By the time we actually got down to eating I was motherloving starving. And the food was actually decent. The steak was a little tough, but definitely not unmanageable, and the super-thin gravy lent a flavorful, necessary juice to the super-thin meat. The portions were extraordinary – I swear my steak was the size of your average Frisbee – and even Miss Stacia’s ever-expanding stomach couldn’t house it all. The highlight of the meal for me was the potato, perhaps because it’s typical American mentality these days to deny ourselves the straight-up carbs, but I really do think it was the butter that made the tater so delectable. It turns out that drenching baked potatoes in butter sauce is really the most efficient way to coat your spuds in the salt and fat you truly crave.

And globs of sour cream don’t hurt either.

All-in-all, steak and potato for lunch was a nice way to change up the routine, but at fifteen bucks when you’re expecting to spend ten, it was kind of a rip. For eight more dollars I’ve got a choice cut filet with a fancy vegetable at an established eatery with a wine list and a hostess and chairs that don’t put my ass to sleep. But I won’t have the references to parental romances budding in the seventies, and plates dripping with juices, and flames licking thirty steaks simultaneously, and wine covered in cellophane, and sometimes the ability to revel in those things makes it worth occasionally going for the medium instead of the rare.

Miss Stacia on Ice

(Brought to you by Monday's Company Holiday Party at Central Park's Wollman Rink)

I was skating so much I missed the party. I didn't think I would enjoy it as much as I did, but after what had to have been ten skateless years, I took to that ice like a lezzie to the poonan. I dove right in and for two-and-a-half hours, I barely came up for air.

What started as a relaxed recreational activity quickly became an obsessively athletic pursuit as I sped around the rink in an attempt to perfect my form and make up for missing my workout in the AM. I even learned to skate backwards a bit, weaving my uncomfortably restrained ankles in and out of tiny, propelling figure-eights through a coned-off instruction area in the center of the rink. Sadly, my commitment to sport prevented me from properly socializing and taking advantage of the open bar with the work peeps, but luckily one of my many media-savvy coworkers recorded the highlights of the event and cut a quick video that gives a pretty entertaining overview of what the dub room players were up to from rinktime right through the Irish pub after party.

Keep an eye out for one of my three grand falls (I averaged about one hearty spill an hour) and see if you can get a glimpse at the Spanish dancer/lacy "goth child" skating costume I put together for the occasion. I was going for Pretty Pretty Ice Princess...Of The Night.

Oh and one more thing. It's not a burp, I swear:

Theme Song

An anthem for women who are wired to repeat their mistakes:

Dresden Dolls - Bad Habit

Taking Inventory

Although I've passed my local Tower Records a number of times since the liquidation announcement, I haven't had the heart to take my final tour of Broadway and 61st's familiar two-floor establishment until this afternoon. I am one of the few music fans who still enjoys buying physical CDs (although even I will admit that after I scan the liner notes once and load the music to my computer, the discs land on a stack of a hundred others, collecting dust), but there isn't a place to shop for music in my immediate hood. There is a fairly large and comprehensive branch of Kim's on the West side in the 100s, but I am almost always traveling downtown from my abode in the 80s, and the Tower skirting the northern edge of Lincoln Center has always been the most convenient outlet for satisfying my music needs. The store's catalog was never deep enough to quell every obscure itch, or indie rock craving, but my Tower proudly offered up "Fishscale" at 9am sharp the Tuesday of its release, and that's good enough for me.

Somewhere in the middle of a recent hip-hop post, Tom Briehan offered up some observations about the closing Tower stores, comparing them to graveyards and talking about the entertaining resigned relaxedness of the remaining Tower employees. Thinking about these reflections as I approached my NYC** Tower I was finally curious enough to go inside. Also, the condemnation sign in the window reading "Last 10 Days" assured me that although there were bound to be a few tempting items left for purchase, I wouldn't be walking into a probable spending spree (at discount, but still...).

**Note: There is a Tower on LI that has always been my record store, and it's going to tear me up to return home and see that corner storefront gutted.

A couple of today's Tower Records discount deals:

1. Every rap album costs $1.
2. Every CD is 60% off.

As a result:

1. There is not a single recognizable rap album left on the shelf (I dare you to try and find one.).
2. It's pretty slim pickins in the rock and pop department. Think “Glitter.”

I spent about twenty minutes walking up and down the rock and pop aisles, searching for records I had been meaning to listen to, essentials that were missing from my collection, or anything super-random to try blind for 5 bucks. A lot of the discs that were left were of bands I didn't recognize. Some newer bands with start-up followings had CD's left on the shelves as well. There were no Beatles albums - I'm sure those were the first to fly off the shelves. There were, however, about twenty copies of Blind Melon. Tower's liquidation sale is a popularity/longevity test for all acts in the music industry. If you've really made it (by industry standards), your CDs are gone by now.

I did manage to find a few things to buy as did my lady Lilly, who had great luck in the World section. I imagine pawing through the Foreign Film section upstairs would have proven fruitful as well, but after my thorough scouring of the first floor I was satisfied with my selection, having salvaged four newish albums for the bargain price of 30 dollars. Lilly copped 3 for 10. Ridiculous. My new acquisitions included:

1. Serena Maneesh - Self-titled (Heard a shiteload about this band and their awesome live show, but never got around to 'em. They're loud! And Norwegian!)
2. Grandaddy - Just Like the Fambly Cat (I heart this band, who happen to be the inspiration for one of my all-time favorite rock concert posters. I don’t know how I wasn’t aware they dropped a new album this year. Issue resolved.)
3. Matthew Friedberger – Winter Women/Holy Ghost Language School (A double-disc. Probably would have stayed on my “To Buy” list for a while if it wasn’t so discounted, since I just this month got around to Bitter Tea. Was $19 before discount. Matt’s the expensive sibling.)
4. Puffy Ami Yumi - Splurge (My wild card, and an awesome one at that. Two Japanese chicks who have their own cartoon show and make bubbly rock and pop tunes. After reading a little about the album tonight I was reminded that the group was formed via a major label machine and everything they do is marketed with a ferocity meant to trigger Hello Kitty-style saturation. Inexplicably, I find this to be sort of endearing. Puffy – the group added the “Ami Yumi” when they released in the US to prevent confusion with Puffys of the Diddy variety – have a bunch of big names guesting on this album (Jon Spencer, Butch Walker) and I can’t imagine I will feel anything but love and butterflies and animated kisses for these girls. Also, I have to go to Tokyo, STAT.)

Some other things I noted while perusing the emaciated CD racks (also on sale for $39.95, I believe) at the Tower on Broadway:

Album I half-expected to be around and would definitely have purchased if it had been available: Rod Stewart's Greatest Hits. (Sadly, Lincoln Center is rife with Fans of Rod.)

Disc I was amazed to see still sitting on the shelf: A lone copy of Radiohead - OK Computer.

Which was especially pathetic considering: All copies of Paris Hilton’s album were gone.


So Tower dies in ten days. A chain store I can actually support bites the freaking dust.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting now in the 4th, yes 4th, Starbucks I attempted to work in this evening, the first three -

1. In the Barnes and Nobles on Broadway at 82nd Street
2. At the corner of Broadway and 80th
3. On Columbus at 78th

- being so densely populated, future table occupation seemed like a distant, tall, skim, foam-covered dream. But since there is a Starbucks every two blocks in this city, I have for the last three hours occupied a piece of prime real estate in the Starbucks on Broadway and 75th at the largest table in the place, right next to the front window, a power outlet conveniently within reach.

If only Tower Records had thought to put in some for-pay wi-fi. I totally would have toted my laptop to the record store before camping out for hours among sweatered teddy bears, cheesy Christmas compilations and the odor of burnt, drip coffee.

But alas...

On another sad liquidation note, one of my favorite UWS boutiques, Lord of the Fleas, is closing at the end of the month. LOTF was one of those lifesaver joints where you could get a plain black tank top (that you would wear under EVERYTHING) for twelve bucks, any time of the year. It was also home to funky, completely affordable dresses, jewelry and other accessories that would really dig you out of a hole when, say, you decide you hate everything in your closet and have nothing to wear the day before your company holiday party.

Please afford me this tangent to say that I am not by any means ungrateful or unappreciative of my employer's holiday party planning efforts, HOWEVER -

Tomorrow's holiday party is at Wollman Rink in Central Park. The company is setting up a tent outside of the rink and serving food that "will not be hamburgers and hot dogs." And of course, my coworkers and I will have the option to hit the ice, although I have a feeling some of my cohorts will refuse to allow me to exercise the option NOT to fall flat on my ass in front of all the people I see on a daily basis.

I don't particularly enjoy ice skating, and I'm not super-thrilled about spending three hours in a tent, but what really disappoints me about this setup is mostly the limits placed on my holiday party ensemble by the party location and activity. Since this jam is outside, I have to dress for the weather to a certain extent. And avoid heels just in case we are standing on grass or "dirt" as one coworker predicted. Also, I have to dress for maximum mobility so I have a fighting chance at remaining erect on the rink. This sadly means I can't wear my original outfit as planned:




So I'm reverting to my backup ensemble, which better suits the circumstances:




At least I don't have to give up the glitter.

Since Lord of the Fleas, having been in close-out mode for the last few weeks, was fresh out of matching gold leg warmers, I settled on snagging a gentleman-inspired, brushed blue leather vest to inject new life into my wardrobe. Not quite ice worthy (well, perhaps if worn by Rudy Galindo with some shiny, ball-hugging leggings), but for 22 bucks, a killer find and fashionable parting purchase from an underappreciated UWS gem. I’m sad to see the place go down.

When it all comes down to it, some businesses really do need our dollars and continual support.

So go to Tower Records. Try to find a hip-hop album in that massive stack of one-dollar wackness, and if nothing appeals to you, take your buck to the deli next door and put it towards a forty. Go out to the sidewalk and let some liquor spill to the ground for the death of an era. Then plug in your iPod, click on Ghostface, and move on.

Just pretend it's October.

I've been dragging my feet on this Halloween post, mainly because I wasn't completely satisfied with my Halloween costume this year. I actually ended up breaking one of my cardinal Halloween rules and donned two different costumes, one on Halloween itself, and one for a party the weekend before. The costume tale is a massive one to tackle, so let's start with the main costume. The costume that required the usual number of active brainstorm sessions (50?), internet research hours (about 3) physical construction hours (1-2), full costume dress-rehearsals (1), and trips to Ricky's (3).

It was during a phone-storming session with my best lady Lill that it hit me to dress as "The Pop Art Marilyn Monroe." The vision swept over me as I was pawing through a Taschen art book on my couch while Miss L suggested I "go as a Lichtenstein or something." I somehow connected my ownership of a purple halter dress to the book and Lill's comment and landed at the intentionally off-register, wild-pallated print of Marilyn. About an hour later I realized I could have simply consulted my shower curtain for the notion.


Moley, moley, moley.

It actually wasn't very hard to pull this costume together, and I'm still kind of in love with the idea but I had a few major qualms with the way it turned out.

1. I am not a makeup artist and this costume is all about precise makeup application. The lovely Julia McMattress lent me a gorgeous Kevin Aucoin book that showed me, step by step, how to achieve Marilyn's signature look and I still couldn't get it quite right. I needed a thicker, deeper blue on my eyes. Matte, not shiny. A truer red on my lips. I wanted to find a way to reflect the black of the screenprinting in my facial features, but after the stress of spraying the wig (getting to that soon) I opted not to mess with the face too much. I do think my results were also stunted by the uncompromising fact that,

2. I look nothing like Marilyn Monroe. I don't look anything like Peggy Bundy either, but true resemblance mattered much less in last year’s costume. The spandex, the leopard, the eighties belt, the peep-toes, the HAIR - all very much gave away my persona (as did my constant whine of "Oh Al!"). The challenge of dressing as the Marilyn screenprint is that the face IS the entire costume. The hair definitely triggered the association, but a more heart-shaped face would have helped.


Just block out my mug.

Taking my god-given bone structure into account, I decided next year I'm dressing as Barbra Streisand. That's one I can pull off. I may even try and get together a group of cartilage-wielding ladies to represent Babs through the ages with me. There will be Funny Girl Barbra, Hello Dolly! Barbra, Yentl Barbra (That'll be a fun one. Shot not.), Oh-so-close-to-retirement-nope, nope-I'm-back Barbra... My grandmother will plotz.


I preserved the bump and hook for you Babs.

But back to my gripes...

3. Wig=Major pain in the ass. Especially a short wig soaked in two cans of spray paint (one yellow, one black), stretched over a foot and a half of thick, straightened Jew-fro. This sucker just did not want to stay on and pulling it down covered my hands in an ever-present, Sunday-Times-style grime. Smudging the face was also of concern throughout the night. Too high maintenance, even for Miss Stacia.

4. I chickened out. Part of the original plan was to apply Andy Warhol's signature to my Marilyn dress, a coveted summer gown I purchased at an UWS flea market last year, with Crayola washable marker. When I put the costume on for a test run and was only moderately sold on the overall effect, I opted not to risk the ruin of a beloved garment for the sake of added authenticity points. This is quite unlike me. But I opted to sign Warhol's name (quite skillfully, i must add) to a paper card instead and pinned it to my purple frock for identification. The majority of the effect was lost though. If I am the artwork, Warhol would have signed ME. Oh bitter compromise!

5. "Where's Andy?"
When I originally conceived the costume idea I thought it would be exciting to travel with an Andy Warhol by my side to aid the reference and up the ante. Andy and his Pop Art Marilyn would have kicked some major costume contest ass. I also loved the idea of playing muse for a night. Why the fuck not? I had my eye on a fellow to suit up in silver locks and he fell through in more ways than one, but that's the way it goes, eh. Again, next year it's Babs. She's served as inspiration for one of the most hilarious Southpark episodes of all time (Muse enough for me!) and I'm pretty sure she's what 70 now (?) and probably frigid, so she most likely won't notice if she doesn't have a companion by her side on Halloween night. Although, people who need people are the...No, no, fuck that.

6. Trend bitterness strikes. About three days before Halloween the Times ran an article on the return of Andy Warhol's presence in the public consciousness. Some designer at Lord & Taylor or Saks dressed up the store's window displays with Warhol theme, Warhol tote bags started appearing at shops in the Village. My decision to dress as Warhol's Marilyn had absolutely nothing to do with the article or the supposed return of Warhol worship, and this really is a minor and petty gripe, but I still felt like New York Times blew my load.

I must admit that in spite of all this post-holiday bitching, Pop Art Marilyn actually did go over pretty well. I strutted my electric blond to a party in the Billyburg the Saturday before Halloween and aside from a few scattered misses ("Madonna!," "Medusa!"), most people appreciated the Warhol nod.

But partially due to the overall discomfort of the costume and mostly due to the inappropriateness of the halter top in a corporate environment, I opted not to dress as Marilyn on Halloween Tuesday. There was no way I was going to work sans costume though. I toyed with the idea of doing a modified Bjork (less leg), but quickly rejected the recycling option and immediately experienced an uncharacteristic fit of costume construction spontaneity.

(Looking in my closet)
"I need to wear this tutu to work. Yes."

And that pretty much sealed it. I just wanted to be a Pretty Pretty Princess (That's TWO "pretties."). I purchased a tiara and a wand and rocked the pink high-top converse a la four-year-old ballerina, and had a fucking BLAST in the office. I danced and pranced and leapt and spun and granted motherfucking wishes, oh yes I did.


Please ignore Pretty Pretty Princess' black socks. Wednesday is laundry day. But feel free to compliment her Pretty Pretty pumpkin hand tattoo.

After work, Carolina, DazRazzle, J Faust and I headed down to the Halloween parade. We were blessed with impossibly practical Halloween weather, a 60-degree night, perfect for parading. I had collected a smattering of both horror stories and endorsements of the parade from my coworkers over the course of the day, but the ladies and I found the experience to be overwhelmingly positive. The parade is Candyland for a costume fanatic like moi, and my walk amidst this traveling freak show constituted some of my favorite hours of 2006.

As for costume specifics, the robots were cool...



and Salt n Pepa nearly killed me when I saw them.



But for some reason, the old school video game costumes came out on top. A few that really nailed it:

The Super Mario Crew


Mr. and Ms. Pacman


Tetris


The Tetris guys were awesome because they hobbled along in those stifling, unwieldy cardboard boxes, but stopped to assemble themselves for photo ops every few blocks (and they fit together quite nicely).

The only costume more photo-ready/friendly than Tetris was the toast. By far my favorite costume of the parade, maybe of all time - two dudes dressed like pieces of BREAD.


The toast of the town.
These guys are the jam.
The ladies and I came up with more when we first saw these fellas, but I done gone forgot 'em.

The toast guys are fucking geniuses because every person in the whole goddamn parade wanted their photo taken between two pieces of talking bread. Every sexy policewoman, every slutty firefighter (and you know the streets were overflowing with NY's half-clad bravest and finest) wanted to be part of a Halloween sammich.

I was no exception.


Pretty Pretty Princess Sandwich!

Nor was J Faust, who dressed as Olive from Little Miss Sunshine, complete with fully functional strip gear and authentic 3rd-grade glasses.


I'm in love with this photo. I want to eat it.

It should also be noted that the toast guys were completely goofy, not creepy as they well could have been. I doubt they realized how well the gag would go over. They seemed thrilled just to be in middle of it all.

I found myself sort of wishing I had worn my flashier costume to the parade, which was a runway for golden wigs, sexy dresses and high concept costumes. But the converse worked out well for me in the long run, seeing as how the ladies and I traversed at least 50 blocks, probably more, before night's end.

A few of the other random Halloween highlights included Carolina (that dirty Jeter-lover) sporting my Red Sox hat for her "Red Sox fan at a Yankee Game" ensemble:


The lady looks great in red.

And Daz's unexpected costume validation in the form of a Lady Sovereign promotional cutout plastered to a random parade barricade.


Well, your album DID drop on Halloween, Lady S.

Screw my obsessive-compulsive nature and perfectionist tendencies. Fooey on authenticity and precise replication. All hail creative costuming, walking artwork and cultural homages. Celebrate tutus and prancing and magic and "pushing it," and having two princesses but no Yoshi, and making giant sandwiches out of old ladies and ninja turtles and bongs and half-naked drill sergeants. And next year when the 31st of October approaches, stick with me peeps, and don't let anybody rain on your parade.

Miss Stacia, age 24.

**Thanks to Shani for the lovely birthday portraits!

Twenty-four in 5-7-5.

Miss Stacia loves haikus. Miss Stacia also loves parties. Miss Stacia loves kicking off parties with party-related haikus. Example, her 24th birthday invitation:

Nineteen eighty-two,
November the seventeenth,
doc said to mom, "PUSH!"

Yup, Miss Stacey's turning twenty-freakin-four. Come hang at Lolita Bar to celebrate!!!

The Deets:
When: Friday, Nov. 17th, 9PM
Where: Lolita Bar
Directions, yo!: http://www.lolitabar.net/directions/
Please reply in haiku form.

xoxo-
Stacey

I honestly did not expect anyone to report back with carefully crafted verses of their own, but apparently I'm not the only one who loves to break life down into three lines of simplistic syllabic consistency.

I received clever alerts:
The link did not work.
I don't know how to get there.
I'd still like to come.

Timely event-driven commentary:
Britney dumped K-fed
Dems win big: time to party
for Stacey, Dems, K-Fed
(forgiving the 5-7-6 structure on this one)

And straight-up RSVPs:
Be there with bells on
Ed and I will shake out butts
L.I.R.R. Home

i am so there, jew
this Friday will be fun
like pulling your teeth

Some were tagged with helpful supplementary info:
I hope to see you*
Almost a quarter century**
Are you a werewolf?

*tonight
**must be pronounced "sen-try" to work within the traditional syllabic structure of the haiku.

Some incorporated the traditional seasonal reference:
Let drinks flow into
Brook for another year. Too
bad I can't be there

And many took the opportunity to reflect upon age/birthdays:
Shit!! In 82 -
Saw Van Halen! Not quite birth,
but EYES dilated

let's get real silly
and drink to the fact that you
are not thirty yet

Twenty four is cool.
Thirty is even better.
Make the best of it.

Others were simply, well, fun:
Yes, it will be fun.
Oh yeah, that will be darn fun.
Seriously fun.

There were even a few notable responses that veered from the 5-7-5, my favorite being:
I'm born 5 minutes after midnight and I used to call my mother at midnight and scream into the phone :" Push Mami push...I'm almost out!"...

But most opted for the haiku, the rest of which I give to you now, in no particular order:

For my Cherry Chew
I would walk five hundred miles
But three thousand? Fuck.

Belated response
Positive, do not condemn
Two-four giddyup!

you can call me daz
if they play beyonce k
i will shake my ass

Twenty-four how fun!
A party with hats and drinks
Can I come naked?

On one Friday Night
We will all lift our glasses
And drink to Stacey!

Oh Stacey, My Love!
New Zealand is where I'll Be.
How I will miss you :(

my dear stacey brook,
so excited for your day,
but late i will be...

i do, with great joy
and anticipation, accept
your invitation

I would love to go,
but I'm up in Buffalo,
Happy Birthday, yo!

Though I would love to
and not miss out on the fun
Ben Folds beckons me.

Lolita bar - hmm
Why - It sounds quite familiar
Yes! I will be there!

Raise a glass for me
As tomorrow proves no good
I'm on Mommy time

Thanks for the invite,
Happy Twenty-Fourth Birthday,
I would love to come!

The present for you
A vibrator is your wish
Get the batteries

Birthday cheer to you
Good thing you’re not twenty two
Shish bam Bah Bah Roo

Wow and whoop-dee do
It is party time for sure
Jen and Dan will show

So sorry I am
Live to far to celebrate
You are in my heart

concert to attend
my heart fills with regret
Stacey's birthday, oh!

my name is the jones
if the beer flow like wine im sold
see you there bitches

Dear Miss Stacey Brook,
Happy Almost Twenty Four!
Love, Your Friend Jasmine

Your birthday's approach
I see a drunken evening
In my crystal ball

Celebrating you
Having to much Alcohol
forehead on the Bar

And one last one from Miss Stacia to the peeps:
Two-four at the bar -
less about the haikus
and more about Jager.


Okay, alright, no more frakkin haikus. Let’s do this thing.

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

The Underappreciated Eating Establishment Series: Red Lobster

If you're one of the many people who has been hounding me to post about my Red Lobster experience for almost four months now, I must apologize. It took me this long to digest the (roughly) four pounds of shellfish I ate that night, and I'm just now starting to feel like myself again.

I could not believe how many people jumped to join me at my Red Lobster de-virginization. I mean LEAPT at the chance to eat heaps of food from a category that, even in top quality, can be responsible for the most vicious food poisoning ever to wash through your entrails. But somehow a group nine deep (including Jay-Z, Big Mo and K-Pun) came to inhabit a long dais of bargain seafood at the center of the universe: Times freaking Square.

Of the nine diners, my girl Jules, her boyfriend DC and I were the only Red Lobster novices. Jules, one of the original contributors during the gestation of the Underappreciated Eating Establishment Series' mission, had passed on rumors of the existence of mouthwatering "cheesy biscuits," Red Lobster's stab at the addictive, unlimited dinner roll. When we finally rounded up the crew and sat down to dinner we were starving, and those little popovers started disappearing at lightning speed. Jules and DC gave the warm, flaky bread nuggets rave reviews, as did the rest of the table, who claimed to have embraced cheesy biscuit comas in the past. But I was less than impressed, wanting an even warmer and fluffier conduit for a tangier, more obvious cheesiness. I'm also not that big into biscuits, so it could be my bias talking here, but the saltine simplicity of the Olive Garden breadstick is still the yeast to beat.

For the main course, almost the entire table opted for "The Ultimate Feast," a combo platter of fried shrimp, shrimp scampi, crab legs and a lobster tail, served with a potato in the form of your choice.


Sebastian has seen better days.

These mammoth platters of shellfish were hoisted out, four at a time, by the strongest waitress alive, and were granted to the members of our party at just over thirty bucks a pop, a deal that pleased and made me nervous at the same time. DC elected to order the televised promotion special of the month, 35 shrimp any style, which he bumped up to a mammoth 45 for a couple extra dollars. (N.B. It is noted on Red Lobster's website that all prices in the Times Square and Hawaii locations are higher than advertised. Figures.) T-Money, who is allergic to shellfish**, opted for one of the few non-seafood, dishes on the menu, which was a chicken pasta, covered in what else but alfredo sauce.

In my opinion the shrimp were pretty measly, missing the robust fleshiness required for scooping up cocktail sauce or marinara. But they were lying limp in a garlic butter sauce or crusted with breading on my plate, which hid their inferior quality well enough. I also thought the lobster tail was a little on the tangy side (although it could have all been in my head), but MAN were those crab legs sweet. I would go back to that place for the crab legs alone. The crab lags and maybe the drinks.

Now, I'm not ordinarily a fan of the frozen beverage, but when you're waiting for a group of nine to pull together at the bar, you're bound to peruse the special drinks menu. On a whim I opted to start the night with a pilsner full of Bahama Mama, a strawberry-injected pina colada. Nine dollars for ten ounces of crushed ice, two ounces of sugared food coloring and half an ounce of actual liquor. The Long Island Iced Tea that followed my tropical slurpee seemed to do more of the trick in bringing on the buzz. I typically fear the Long Island Iced Tea, as it combines just about every liquor I refuse to drink alone, tastes nothing like iced tea, and is named after a place that conjures memories of drunken adolescent behavior I am less than eager to revisit. But Big Mo seemed to be pleased with his first cocktail (he often starts his nights with the magic tea), so I decided to take a chance. The drink was the perfect cap to my seafood orgy, putting me in a coma that effectively numbed the pain of digestion. Strong Island represent.

Now, Mo sucked down his first concoction in no time and was ready for his second round long before the waitress brought our bounty of crustaceans to the table. It was on his second trip to the bar that the guy, in a bold vote of confidence in his manhood, decided to order a six gallon martini glass full of frozen strawberry daiquiri.


It takes a big man to order a drink that pink.

A warning to men who are tempted to pull a similar stunt in the future: As with the sporting of a pink mens shirt, don’t try to pull off drinking a massive, conspicuously girly drink if you don’t have a set of fucking bowling balls between your legs. Especially when the Red Lobster marketing team decides to call your tub of rose-colored slushie “The Lobsterita.” It's the most ridiculous name possible, the child of a brainstorming session in which everyone was on crack. It’s a name you love to hate to love. It’s the drink equivalent of worst band name ever. It’s fucking genius.

I don’t know if the Lobsterita tasted any good, and can’t remember if Big Mo even came close to finishing it, but I do remember the drink making frequent appearances in my overnight shellfish-induced hallucinations. (Morning-after discussions with DC confirmed that both of us awoke in discomfort in the wee hours, myself with visions and nightmares, DC "to drink a gallon of water.") The following Monday, none of my coworkers reported middle-of-night disturbances, although Big Mo made it clear Red Lobster would live on through the next week and beyond, interjecting shouts of "Lobsterita!" at random points during the day. For quite some time the drink was adopted into dub room vernacular to imply a number of things:

1. I need a drink. (In a desperate tone, with a look of exhaustion: "Lobsteriiiiiitaaaa.")
2. Fuck that. (Chris Tucker stylee: "Lobsterita motherfucker!")
3. Hand me that dub? (Pointing to the tape: "Lobsterita?")

This all-purpose exclamation has since exited our daily vocabulary, but as I finally put a cap on this long-awaited installment of UEE: Red Lobster, I feel it is only appropriate to blurt out, if one last time (a la Benicio Del Toro in The Usual Suspects): LOSTERFUCKINGRITACOCKSUCKERMOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!!


**Jay-Z is also allergic to shellfish, which is why she ordered shrimp, lobster, and crab legs for dinner. I'm actually pretty sure she ate the last half of MY lobster tail as well. It's okay, she looks HOT in hives.

The Tigress knows all.

Partially in celebration of another excellent Neko show under the belt, partially in homage to the most heavily rotated Caseian creations, as of late:

That Teenage Feeling
I Wish I Was The Moon

Listen to the woman.

Hungover, I could take on that skinny hot dog champ, I swear.

Last night I stayed up until 5am dancing to doo-wop and early MJ in a sweaty, smoky east village basement with a bunch of NYU freshman (Jay-Z, I don’t know HOW you convinced me to go you-know-where). This morning I awoke to the nausea invoked by three vodka tonics, a Jager shot (not my idea), a Corona and an infinite number of Stellas and Brooklyn Lagers. For the first three hours of bleating consciousness, I could barely think about downing the water required for recovery, not even touching upon the idea of food until about 2pm. But once the impulse hit me, I shifted into my usual hungover garbage disposal mode, working through the following in a matter of hours:

1. 6 steamed pork dumplings
2. 1 order chicken w/ broccoli
3. 1 pint white rice
4. medium tomato cheddar soup (best shit EVER) from Hale and Hearty
5. lots o' bread (w/soup)
6. 1 slice key lime pie
7. more-than-tastes of Jay-Z’s fruit and chocolate tortes
8. 1 spinach pie
9. 1 hummus and pita sandwich with cucumber and tomato

Cocoa Krispies are a good bet for later, and I’m pretty sure I’ve already consumed the adequate calories to last three days without food. How am I still hungry? Have to flip. The. Switch.

"Revenge of the Bookeaters" at the Beacon Theater, 8/23/06

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.

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.