March 2006 Archives

Can you hear that collective sigh of pleasure? That would be New Yorkers, exhaling a long, dreary winter and breathing in the goddamn 65-degree, verifiable spring day outside. It feels good to bare my knees to the world once again and to be able to walk several feet at a time without wondering if I’m going to die from hypothermia right there in front of Duane Reade. My mind is too scattered to put together a good post, for you so we’ll work with a list. Everyone likes lists, right? Right!

Creepiest thing I’ve seen all week.

Most mind-sucking word game (librarians should kick some ass here).

Google image game. Fun, except when you know the answer is “Sigourney Weaver,” but can’t seem to spell that first name right.

Yoga is for everyone, even Sir Rascus and Commando Duke.

Abby sent me this link to a pasta beehive. Filled with meat.

I liked this little riddle, though I totally didn’t get it right.

Crazy Legs gave Krista a copy of his documentary that we’re going to watch this weekend. Keep your eye on Krista’s blog for an exciting story around obtaining the documentary. Key element: clear plastic heels.

Most inspirational "I'm getting healthy" post I've read in a long time. Good job, Ariel! And check out her gorgeous bento boxes, that I'm so very in awe of.

Lost was very good last night, yes? So good, I may slink back to Warm Glow and post all the tidbits that Real Girl has been emailing me all morning. Detailed maps, Nadia sightings, the whole bit. You may ask why Real Girl doesn’t just write those posts, and for that I have no answer except the one time I brought it up she got all disappointed and insisted that she would only be entertained if I glued it all together and posted it. Aw! But seriously, it’s all her work.

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In high school my friends and I used to obsess over dreams. We kept dream journals, crouched against bookshelves in The Tattered Cover and flipped through guides on dream symbolism and psychological meaning. We talked about making short films of the more bizarre dreams, and having the weirdest and most vivid dreams was something of a badge of honor. I listened carefully when my friends recounted theirs to me, trying to pick up bits of their subconscious, looking for unwitting revelations about their true intentions and feelings.

I also think I used to actually have interesting dreams. These days it’s pretty much, see a car crash on television, dream about a car crash; see Apprentices losing diamonds, dream about Apprentices losing diamonds. My dream repertoire has been reduced to a network television lineup. Sometimes it’s a little more complex and I’ll dream about blog friends I’ve never met, or just dream about blogging. Someday these will probably be verifiable DSM-VII symptoms of TOO MUCH MEDIA. Which wouldn’t be so bad if the treatment involved mandatory vacationing to whatever sprawling beach was currently being advertised on rush hour subway car signs.

All that said, before going to sleep, J and I will sometimes give each other something to dream about. Usually they are simply objects or locations that the other person has to work into their dream somehow (our success rate for actually doing so is hovering around 3%). What’s funny about this is that your tendency, as you’re drifting off to sleep yourself, is to name an object or location that would fit into your own current almost-dream state, so the other person’s suggestion almost always seems ridiculous. I usually go for suggestions involving brightly colored things, like wagons or balloons, whereas J tends to go for more mechanical or abstract things. Last night he gave me “built-in bookshelves.” This morning:

Me: What was up with “built-in bookshelves?” You can’t dream of built-in bookshelves.
J: Sure you can. Did you dream of them?
Me: No, of course not. How is that supposed to fit into your dream? It’s not tangible enough.
J: Sure it is! You’re always giving me some weird location or something.
Me: Like what? What’d I give you last night?
J: A golf course.
Me: But that’s easy! A golf course could be where the dream takes place, or it could be outside the window, or on television, or anything. Built-in bookcases is a hard thing to focus on. Did you dream about a golf course?
J: No.

Maybe we’d have better luck picking things from recent reality TV shows.

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It’s rare that I get the opportunity to read a book featuring people I actually know, so of course I was anxious to get my hands on the two books about competitive eating that are coming out in April. Luckily, one of them—Horseman of the Esophagus: Competitive Eating and the Big Fat American Dream by Jason Fagone—came through my office last week and I pounced on it; it was a fun sort of thrill to anticipate how the author would view people and the nature of competitive eating, especially being fairly new to the sport myself, and knowing there was a bit of controversy behind the writing of this book.

Originally titled Insatiable Appetites, the author hit some snags while doing research: the IFOCE viewed his angle as damaging and tried to keep the eaters from talking to him. Eaters, like Tim “Eater X” Janus, who had originally agreed to be interviewed by Fagone were told to stonewall him, and were put in the difficult position of having to decide who to trust. (The IFOCE being hostile towards the publication of this book probably has something to do with the competing book, Eat This Book by Ryan Nerz, being commissioned by them.) Ultimately, Fagone’s original views were softened as he got to know the sport and the competitors better, and the sport and competitors softened towards him.

I really wanted to like this book. It’s not so much that I DIDN’T like it, as much as I felt like he really missed something important at times. I’ve never met Dave “Coondog” O’Karma or Bill “El Wingador” Simmons, two eaters who Fagone focuses the most on, but I’m not sure they are the eaters around which to spin the story of competitive eating. Maybe they are the best eaters around which to spin FAGONE’S story of competitive eating, but I think you get different view from different eaters, and on a lot of counts Coondog and O’Karma have a lot in common. Different in all sorts of ways than Tim, who Fagone also features, though not as prominently. Different than Sonya, who only really gets passing mentions, different than Bertoletti, Joey Chestnut, Crazy Legs, and all sorts of other eater who have completely different stories to tell. To the extent that the eaters were worried that Fagone would try to fit what he experienced into what he set out to prove, they might find their fears realized.

That’s not to say there aren’t some great moments in the book. Getting the whole back story on two eaters I didn’t know that much about was really enlightening in a lot of ways. I loved getting a feel for the day to day, loved the behind the scenes action at Wing Bowl, loved getting a glimpse of how controversies and publicity stunts begin, and there were all kinds of blank spots I had about how the IFOCE is run that were filled in. Fagone didn’t shy away from asking some of the more delicate questions about how the body reacts to competitive eating. Well, maybe I should say he didn’t shy away from ANSWERING those questions. Asking was a different matter. There’s a whole scene where he goes to Japan to meet Kobayashi, spends six hours with him and realizes he doesn’t have anything worthwhile in his notes.

He spins this into a greater conclusion about Kobayashi upholding the mystery being the best thing the eater has going for him, the thing that everyone clings to. But honestly, I was a bit insulted by his journalism skills at times. Could he really not have asked Kobayashi about his training? Though a reasonable conclusion, is it really a fair one after he admits to having not found out anything about him? Fagone chose to put himself in the book; he’s a character, but one we don’t know much about. I found myself wanting him to choose between making himself a whole character—one with a past, a fiancé with a name, motivations and frustrations that the reader cares about and whose judgment they care about—or making himself more of a reporter and removing his emotions from the final book.

Either one would have made a stronger book, though I find myself wishing he had done the former. There was something missing from the pages. The reader doesn’t witness a lot of competitions, doesn’t get behind the scenes with some of the more colorful characters I’ve met, and the author doesn’t ask some important questions and, in the end, doesn’t give the impression that he much enjoyed himself during this year. Perhaps it’s just that the face of competitive eating changes so often that it’s hard to paint an accurate and current picture, or perhaps its that everyone has their own aspects and eaters they find fascinating, so the picture will always be overly subjective.

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After talking with a friend about a so-so date she had, where what she really wanted to be doing was going on a date with one of his friends, and how she now has to navigate the dating world of etiquette and acceptable language and time passage, it occurred to me that what she really needed was an agent. A dating agent. In fact, if everyone had a dating representative, think how easy all the transactions would be. I would keep a dossier on potential dates for my clients and negotiate appropriate dates and procedures for the evening. There could be an agreed up on payment structure (“Your client agrees to pay for dinner. If the evening extends to a bar/club/cafe afterward, my client agrees to buy the first round of drinks and/or dessert.”), negotiated physical contact, and set time frame. Contact and other personal information could be relayed through the agents, so some weirdo doesn’t have your IM name.

Then, of course, the best part would be that when you got to the end of the date and it was only so-so, you could be very forthright about that to your agent, who would shoot off a cordial phone call or letter to his agent ("Thanks for giving us the chance to consider Jean-Bernard, who was a fine date with outstanding manners and very lovely eyes. That said, unfortunately our client just didn't feel as romantically inclined by the end of the evening as we had hoped, so we will be unable to offer an extended dating contract at this time. We know Jean-Bernard will find a wonderful woman to share his life with and we thank you for his time. Best of luck!") before engaging Jean-Bernard’s friend’s agent and arranging a date the following weekend. Jean-Bernard’s agent would break the news to him quickly and gently, before talking to him about another range of possible upcoming dates.

Can you tell I just read The Little Lady Agency?

I just finished organizing a wonderful panel for 826NYC and realized it will be on the same night as Cringe, the old-journal-reading night I was very much looking forward to going to. I’m hoping I can sneak out a bit early, because I’m really excited about by sharing my deluded haze of middle school thought to smart people I’ve been dying to meet. Nothing quite like embarrassing yourself in front of a room full of strangers. In case any of you AREN’T up for that, but totally want to learn about publishing your novel, you should call 718-499-9884 for reservations to this great seminar:

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Thanks to everyone who helped Zoe out on that last Ultimate Blogger challenge. Unfortunately, she didn’t win immunity and was given the boot this morning, much to all our dismay. The upside being that she now has free time again to do things like eat and sleep and work, so there’s that. And of course, she brought us the wonderful collection of hideous clothes. When I was going through old photos to scan in, I came across this great one I took of Heather sometime in 5th grade.

We’ve been emailing back and forth trying to remember the back story to this photo and finally decided it was this: there was a cute guy named Jared in my Hebrew class that I decided to fix up with Heather. Because they had never met, we decided the best thing to do was get Heather all gussied up, take a picture, and present said picture to Jared, who would…what? Fall in love instantly? I’m not sure we got that far. We DID get as far as affixing a gigantic CU Buffalos pin to her purple belt, tying a bandana around her neck, and making sure her bow was properly askew.

Let me tell you a little about that bow. We, and especially Heather, were fairly crafty girls. She was the type to enjoy something store bought, then work very hard at creating a suitable homemade version. She did this with Lunchables, fried rice and sweet and sour sauce, hair scrunchies, hammer pants (as in MC). She had a little jelly bow that contained some sort of liquid inside, as many 80s and 90s Claire’s Boutique paraphernalia was wont to do. She figured she could pretty much duplicate the effect by pouring puffy paint into a plastic baggie, securing the opening, folding it appropriately, cinching it into a bow and attaching it to a stretchy headband. Voila! Instant fashion.

Anyway, despite the fact that I never gave the picture to Jared, (I believe I did something inexcusably dorky with it, like put it in a blue index card holder, filed under F for “friend.” Okay, that’s exactly what I did with it.) Heather and he ended up in an almost-dating situation years later in high school. So while my matchmaking skills may not be accurate, they are at least very persistant.

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Where has my head been these past few weeks? I’ve been neglecting some serious blog posting, though it’s not for lack of excitement in other areas of my life. Or reality television. I can’t believe we have to watch Jade whine about her short hair for another whole week or more. For real, I could care less if she was given the boot early. This spring, I have no patience for the contestant you love to hate. What I love is to get my instant gratification and see their smug faces in the elevator heading down to the street. Trump feels me.

We’ve already written the corned beef and cabbage trip to death, yet I still feel like I haven’t told you about it. There are so many small details that fall through the cracks when you’re trying to catch all the highlights (if you can even call 3,500 words “highlights). Anyway, as I suspected the road trip did me good. I’m beginning to think the old saying about time passing faster the older you get is true. In college, the 3 hour trip from Tacoma to Portland seemed like a torturously long stretch of time, the 24 hour trip from Denver to Tacoma a massive undertaking. Not to mention family drives to Tulsa when I was a kid. But these four hours each way flew by. My mind wandered, radio stations crackled in and out, naps were taken in the back seat, gas stations were stopped at, and it all felt very good. Perhaps this has something to do with the excitement of highway driving when you live a subway-bound life. Or of highway driving and small town stopping when you live an apartment-bound life. It feels good to stretch my legs and let my mind and body go elsewhere. The next big competition is crab cakes in Baltimore at the end of next month. Krista will be in China and J has to teach, but I’m slowly rounding up some ladies who might need an April road trip.

I’m also on pins and needles about Zoe and Ultimate Blogger. We’ll know soon enough, but either way the game is over soon. I’m exhausted! Who knew not being a contestant could be stressful?

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Here is a picture of me and my friend Heather sometime in the 4th-5th grade era. If there's anything we loved more than taking pictures of ourselves it was getting prettied up in sweet outfits and THEN taking pictures of ourselves. So the future could behold our stellar fashion sense and marvel at our ability to pair a cropped, hot pink shirt featuring cats playing piano with black biker shorts. Or a black and white polka dot, two-piece outfit with built-in leggings (on loan to Heather for the photo shoot). Yes!

We all have a few, er, regrettable clothing choices in our past, and now's your chance to describe them AND help out a fellow blogger.

Zoe has made to one of the top three slots left in the Ultimate Blogger competition, even winning immunity during the last challenge. We're so very proud! She's in the home stretch and she needs your help. This last immunity challenge is the most important; winning it would guaruntee her a place as one of the final two contestants.

For the challenge, they've got to recruit as many people as possible to enter a short content on a specific site: http://www.urbanhonking.com/zoe/.

She's asking for short descriptions or stories about people's AWESOMELY BAD OUTFITS, betting on the high hilarity level, and the misery-loves-company aspect.
As an added bonus, if you check out the site, you'll get a peek at Zoe's fabulous Bat Mitzvah dress, circa 1989. Hot stuff!

So help a friend out visit the site. Then pass this along or post it on your blog. Release those bad outfits to the world!

Her deadline is THIS TUESDAY MARCH 21 at 3PM EST.

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Plating the corned beef and cabbage

We're back from Boston and working on the article. The trip was a whirlwind but lots of fun. Here's a tip: if the hotel is cheap, it might be because it is in the middle of nowhere. Next to train tracks. And an airport. But that's okay; the snoring kinda drowned out the noise.

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If you were grossed out by meatball and grilled cheese eating competitions, you’re probably not going to be a huge fan of our next venture: corned beef and cabbage. In fact, I’m not even sure I’M a big fan. Cabbage is some, uh, gassy food. Also the competition is at 10:30 in the morning for some ungodly reason, so if you were thinking that you might be hesitant to go to such a show at a reasonable, stomach-ready-for-the-day time, consider going first thing in the morning. But I just can’t turn down an opportunity to see the eating athleticism in action. Attending these competitions is like watching Olympic athletes vie for the gold. Yes, there are less triple salchows and more potential vomiting, but focused minds and trained bodies nonetheless. Greasy, burping bodies.

I have some friends in Boston, so it was lucky this competition was able to coincide with a visit. It’s coinciding with St. Patrick’s Day, too, and if you are everyone I’ve mentioned this to, you’ll also feel the urge to say, “St. Patrick’s Day in BOSTON? Are you crazy?” Apparently, it’s a phrase people can’t help uttering, a biological response like when the doctor tests your reflexes by hitting your knee, so I forgive them the overstated sentiment. Unless, of course, they know something I don’t? I do live in New York. I have been to my fair share of raucous green beer swilling pub-crawls. And Willow spent one St. Patty’s day in Ireland and she said it wasn’t nearly as crazy as it was here when she was working in an Irish Pub. Could the Irishness of Boston really put New York’s enthusiasm to shame?

I’m the one driving the car up tonight, and I have a fully arsenal of IDs and credit cards to get me through the transaction of renting the car. My last name on my drivers license no longer matches the one on my credit cards, so I have my passport to prove I’m me. But I may hit a snag there, because my passport/credit card name has me living in Brooklyn and the rental company has some weird hidden clause about being able to charge Brooklyn residents $50 more a day. So I also have my Denver license an old credit card on hand in case I need to do a quick switch.

Then it’s four hours of road trip time, which I always look forward to. I think some of the best times I’ve had in New York have involved escaping by car to go somewhere else. And if competitive eating has brought me two so far, I have that much more to owe the sport.

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I gather a lot of you were summarily disgusted with the sandwich I was so enamored with, so let’s just move along to more crowd-pleasing treats, like chocolate fountains.

We whipped this bad boy out for a small gathering we had over the weekend to celebrate J officially turning into an old man. (Actually he didn’t turn into an old man until today: happy birthday, sweetie! Since I’m five years younger than him, I get to make old man jokes for the rest of our lives; isn’t that a great perk?) Anyway, I’m astounded at the remarkable speed with which the chocolate fountain went from being a slightly expensive, gourmet thing you had delivered to a party and manned by a professional chocolate fountaineer to a thing that’s “As Seen on Television” and given to you by an aunt at Christmas. We have theories about this particular fountain, namely that it’s base, which proclaims it an “Old Fashioned Fondue Fountain” is really a leftover crockpot circa 1973, redesigned slightly to accommodate a few extra parts that allow it to spew warm cheese and chocolate. Oh yes, it can do cheese, too. The book that accompanies the fountain also suggests trying barbeque sauce. A cascading waterfall of BARBEQUE SAUCE. I’ll allow you a few moments to fully ponder your disgust.

All better?

Birthday celebrations are appropriately picking up again today and I’m preparing a lovely dinner, which will be taken with wine and the lovely flicker of American Idol. Our neighbor sang “Happy Birthday” to J last night. Well, not so much our “neighbor” as a stray cat. And not so much “sang” as screamed in heat all. night. long. I like to think the birthday wish was still intentioned, though.

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I am so ready for this spring weather. It's pushing 60 outside today, and my insides are dying of happiness. I feel like I've been in a dazed coma for the past couple of months and I'm finally waking up at the first sign of decent weather. I could SO skip somewhere right now.

I've been keeping busy following the crazed Ultimate Blogger competition. I wish that everyone had all the dirty insider info I have, because I have no one to dish to other than the one contestant who is my source for insider info. My subconscious is so upset about this that it's giving me very detailed dreams involving the dynamics of the game, including appearances by lots of people I've never actually met.

My mom mentioned something on the phone to me last weekend about how Jewish people sweep to the middle of the floor. Apparently she read or heard somewhere that people of Jewish descent sweep piles of debris towards the middle of a room, while others sweep towards the door or trashcan. There was much discussion about What Does That Mean and I never quite got the source of this whole thing. But she claims that despite the weirdness of it, she noticed she (Jewish) does sweep towards the middle of the room while my dad and the house cleaners (non-Jewish) don't. She insisted I try it out on J, and we reached the same conclusion. Of course, this whole thing is so outrageously ludicrous that I had to find another sample. You know what's fun? Going to your friend's house and saying, "Here, sweep up this room; I want to see something." Anyway, Krista apparently is Jewish at heart, as she also moves the broom centerwise. We instructed her how to do it otherwise if the Nazi's ever came by.

I was reading about Disney's Pop Century Resort over on Slashfood, and I don't know what's wrong with me, but this fluffernutter sandwich looks delicious to me.

It's like Dr. Seuss himself cooked it up!

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Beth had gotten me very intrigued about Cringe, a night of reading from old journals at a local bar. I was very journally in my youth, and knew there was a big box of journals—ranging from when I was 8 and going all the way through high school—packed away at my parents’ house. I cajoled my mom into sending me a couple from my prime middle school years, but before she could get around to it, my dad caught wind of the request and bundled up the whole huge box and sent it eastward, where it reached me yesterday. I got home from work and dove right into a great big, papery mess of my boy-crush adolescence.

I mean, I remember liking boys and having crushes and writing notes about them, but if this box was your only evidence of my grade school existence, it would reveal a life lived on the brink of obsession. To be fair, I know that by the secretive and personal nature of journals and notes, they are a somewhat skewed perspective of one’s life, especially if one is a hormone-crazed, boy-crushing, note-passing, 6th grader. But holy bejeebus there’s a lot of talk about boys. My favorite part of it is charting the progression of the crushes as they are recorded in the journals. There will be a series of infatuated scrawls and intricate details of conversations with a particular person, only for the crush to be completely over by the time you turn the page. There is also this spectacular announcement quality to the entries, as though proclaiming that NOW I have a NEW crush and his name is GRANT was an especially newsworthy event, subject to unbiased reporting and straight-shooting coverage.

Of course, it wasn’t all one-sided. I found a twist on a classic will-you-go-out-with-me-check-yes-or-no note. As you opened it, there were warnings:

Then the kicker:

Do you love the personified boxes? The no box is so sad! Apparently I called him, because we did “go out.” I believe for about two days.

Aside from boys, other hobbies evidenced in these journals and notes include: fights; apologizing, party planning; ruminating on the future; pronouncing the boring nature of school; recording important songs, dates, and schedules; deciding who was best friends; and writing really terrible poetry.

I don’t have the guts yet to look into my high school journals.

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Heather tagged me with this meme that's been a'floatin around. I know they are supposed to enlighten everyone to nuanced quirks about myself, but I'm afraid I'm only revealing how truly boring I am. Like how I'm supposed to feel excited when I fill up a Cosi punch card, but instead end up thinking, "I can' believe I've spent $80 on salads."

Four places you have lived:
1. Denver, Co
2. Tacoma, WA
3. Brooklyn, NY
4. ummm….I think that’s it. Yeah, that’s it.

Four TV shows you love to watch:

1. Lost [new recap here!]
2. The Apprentice
3. ANTM
4. Project Runway

Four places you have been on vacation:
1. San Francisco/Napa Valley, CA
2. Phoenicia, NY
3. Teacapan, Mexico
4. British Isles

Four websites I visit daily:
1. overheard in new york
2. Sally
3. Corie
4. Beth (because them three update lots)

Bonus: Here is a fabulous new website that Heather and her friends started and I can tell it will be a favorite: Miserable Mondays. Send in your miseries.

Four of my favorite foods:
1. veggie Chinese
2. veggie diner food
3. hot apple pie/crisp with vanilla ice cream
4. the last bowl of cereal in a box

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. sunning myself by a pool
2. a barbeque
3. a spa
4. I might cry I want to go on vacation so bad. Somewhere with sun. Anywhere.

Four Friends that have been tagged that I think will respond:
1. Oh, I hate this part. Listen, if you’re reading this and have been waiting for someone to tag you, consider yourself tagged. Do it! Go to your blog and answer all the questions and then let me know you did it and I will go read it and we will be very friendly and communal.
2. Unless you don’t want to, that’s fine, too.
3 Or if you’ve already been tagged.
4. Whatever, popular people.

Four Five Hobbies you enjoy:
1. reading
2. blogging
3. attending competitive eating competitions
4. yoga
5. baking [margarita bar recipe here!]

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When Taylor Hicks kept going on and on about his “toboggan”—as in “I have to wear my toboggan or else I get recognized!”—I seriously thought he might have that disorder where you get your brain thinks one thing and your mouth says another, and your loved ones have to gently figure out what you’re talking about when you say you want to arrange the antelope. But then I thought that would be an awfully cruel joke of Fox to air such things without proper editing, and while “awfully cruel” isn’t really outside the description of Fox reality shows, I had to assume some people say “toboggan” when they mean “hat.”

Sometimes, especially in the dead of summer, you know not to get on a certain subway car because it is completely empty while the rest of the train is full. This means your fellow travelers have done the research for you and determined this train car unfit for habitation (i.e. no air conditioning, dead bum). But other times, it’s just a crap shoot. You can’t always tell when you clamor on a train that when you sit down, you will be across from a couple unabashedly chowing down on a huge fried chicken feast, complete with shared French fries and dipping sauces. You won’t know prior to sitting down that how utterly disgusting the smell of fried food is inside an enclosed subway, and how nauseating it is to be in the line of vision of those consuming said fried foods until it is too late. When this happens, I play a game. I pretend that what really happened is I had climbed onto a train and instead of fried food, it reeked of really raunchy BO. The kind that seems like it is actually eating away your flesh simply by existing. It was SO bad, I had gone back in time and got on another subway car, only to find it smelled like KFC and, deciding it wasn’t worth another trip back in time, I let it go. It’s all relative in New York.

Also, I SO scooped Salon on the Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret pad/belt thing. By like TWO years. Ha.

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