Saturday, February 25, 2006

I'm finally going to see them in Sayreville, NJ. Where is that? Don't know, but maybe there won't be as many NY music snobs there.

I'm watching The Aristocrats, which is hilarious and horrifying. So far, the mime, Bob Saget and Carrie Fisher have told the joke the best. And the Smothers brothers.

Friday, February 24, 2006

Sing, goddess of the wrath of...'The Iliad' by Michael Kors.

I haven't decided whether this is the best or the worst classical allusion I've ever seen.

Why the Iliad?
Maybe it's the epic lines? (Paeans will be sung to these shoes)
The timeless hero legend? (We catch up with one brave woman, in media res, as she spends one full day in these shoes: a morning commute, work (with no kicking off of shoes under her desk) out at night to play and down the rabbit hole, home to Brooklyn, on the train)
The clash of egos? (see above woman vs. Michael Kors, now that I've seen him on Project Runway, I have no doubt I can take him)

It's a beautiful poem, and a beautiful shoe. That's all we need to say.

Happy weekend!

Listening to: The sound of my stomach rumbling (forgot lunch in storm of thrift shopping) and The National. V. good.
Doing this weekend: The Met, again. Dinners and sedateness as opposed to last weekend's hungover haze with my sister.

Monday, February 20, 2006

and this...
(cw from top. Venus and Cupid (Lorenzo Lotto), Ariadne (de Chirico) and Mother and Child (Calatrava)

The Met was beautiful today, and today was a perfect day for it. We cruised (walked) down from the Met to 42nd street (where all good intentions and goodwill goes to die) on beautiful, sunny Fifth Ave. I bought an I love Paris (the city) calendar from the gift shop for a dollar, I figured Atget's photos will remind me that I have to go, and you can't beat spending 2 dollars (one for admission) for a full day of art. Ooh, not to be gross and celebrity stalkerish, but we saw Paul Rudd waiting at the front of the line at the Neue Gallerie (we wanted to get sachertorte, but the lineup was too long. I would have drank coffee though, sachertorte sound gross), and he was way cuter in person, with a Harry Potter scarf and taller. I saw him and said, "Hey, that looks like..." and my friend did a "Wow, that's Paul Rudd". I think he heard and was scared that we were going to rush him. If I didn't crawl into Alan Cummings' lap (spotted Thursday night at Orchid Lounge) I was not going to embarrass myself for Paul Rudd. Like that's true. This was VERY stalkerish, apologies. Back to highbrow. Here are a few of my favourite things from today.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

BCE place, Toronto

Magical day off tomorrow, going to see the Calatrava exhibit at the Met. Hoorah for George Washington's birthday.
Baby three-toed sloth smiles for the camera

My first blog written in my pyjamas. To commemorate a day of sushi, The Cutting Edge and my roommate from Japan taking a picture of me with bedhead and an NYPD sweatshirt so she'll remember new york forever....

listening to: sufjan stevens illinoise, courtesy of my sister.

Friday, February 10, 2006

For better or worse, I joined a bookclub. Not a joiner, I know, but our first book is The Namesake. What does it matter what a bunch of overeducated women think about this book when A Million Little Pieces of Shame is still #9 on Amazon? But, I did really like this book a lot: I stayed up all night to finish it when I read it for the first time about two years ago. A little contrived (father's love for Russian literature saved him from a train wreck) and a little cliched (protagonist succumbs and marries a Bengali girl, who leaves him for a French scholar. Who wouldn't leave whoever for a French scholar?) but descriptions of cooking for big family parties, sneaking booze and cigarettes, the gulf of misunderstanding separating Indian parent and 'desi' child which only highlights the love and tenderness in their relationship made this book a worthwhile read.

It's been a long time since I posted, I guess contented=more blogging, cranky=less. That doesn't really translate for the great writers of the world, though. Usually when there's more angst, there's more and better writing (and more bad writing, but I digress...) At any rate, rereading Jhumpa (not her good name, btw, but her pet name. I should publish under '
mole') made me miss my mother and father and then not, and miss good food, but the whole book is written with a sense of nostalgia, of moments melding into each other into the blur that is Gogol's 32-year old memory. I can't help but think of Marquez and the vivid prose of a nonagenarian (though Melancholy Whores was not his finest work) and how he treats memory and nostalgia and I think Lahiri has more to grow as a writer. Which is unfair, but whatever. She's gorgeous and young and a Pulitzer Prize winner, I can be jealous...