linguistically smitten

Going Back

2009-10-29T22:37:00.004-04:00

Via Dissent Magazine

It seems as though I might finally make it back to New Orleans…

My last attempt was thwarted by events truly biblical: a massive hurricane stormed through, big enough to send the entire city fleeing in memory of Katrina. Post that storm, once electricity and running water began popping like kernels of corn back onto the grid, another one followed along in its wake. I was tangled up in a mess of rerouted flights, seeking refuge with my parents while a lovely Italian couple subleased my apartment.

The entire process comes full-circle a year later, finding me in a similar place, restless and exhausted. I spend my entire day stringing words together, filling blank white spaces with just the right combination of letters to convey precise meanings. I pore over the thesaurus, know 100 different ways to say the same thing…I am a curator, rearranging and re-hanging properly until your exhibit looks just as you’d envisioned.

But in my own life, I am at a loss for words. My own tools fail me. I don’t have an answer for the hard questions you ask, can’t seem to engineer the proper formula of comforting and inspiring. My answers are clumsy and honest, second guessing and wishing I was equipped to offer some explanation, most especially to myself. I do not have the words to bring someone back when they leave, to assuage the ache of death, or to restore your faith.

I want to hide in a corner silently, watching. I want to shut my mouth for a week, stop the nervous, fast-talking that comes from trying to smooth over the silence. I want to not speak, just do. To pick up a hammer and drive some nails. I want to document obsessively in silence. I want to grow things, to build things, to make art for art’s sake. Not to keyword optimize or to meet a deadline or to submit for someone else’s approval, just for the sake of reminding the world that not everything has to have a blueprint. Sometimes you just rummage through the chaos and piece together something beautiful.

The Artists of Golden Belt

2009-07-06T23:15:00.005-04:00

In case you've been just a little bit out of the loop, the Golden Belt complex is teeming with artists. The exposed brick walls of Building 3 are practically convex from trying to contain all of its creativity. And it's spilled out into Building 6, where a multitude of new media creative artsy types screenprint and spin vinyl.

It's fun to be up in the mix, despite the fact that creativity comes at a cost. Namely, being kept awake these last few nights by the finishing touches that are being put onto Building 5. MindWorks will soon make its new home there, and since I'm up anyway, I thought I'd put it all into a blog post.

A few Third Friday's ago, labourlove gallery was showing off its brand new windowpanes with a showcase of some local work. My friend and I slipped inside, seduced by the colors filtering through the door frame, and a painting immediately caught my eye: it was Obama, eating an ice cream cone. I loved it. The crown jewel of the entire show.

We stumbled across the artist, one charmingly self-deprecating Kevin McGoff, who was much too invested in his Only Burger to give us all of his attention. He was, however, willing to discuss everything but his art (except obliquely) while simultaneously finishing dinner. His works were part candy postcards next to the haunting House of Leaves style mixed media photo pieces by Luke Miller Buchanan. They suggested that something was off, a world slightly askew, but it wasn't until we'd studied the pieces for dozens of minutes that we finally noticed it.

I drifted through J'Nai Willingham's Studio 925 later, immediately smitten with a red necklace and its matching earring counterparts. I think she must have seen it in my eye, because she didn't seem that surprised when I came back a few days later, insisting that I had to have it.

"Red is a powerful color. It commands attention," she said sagely, gently packaging her handmade work. I have a policy that if I find a piece that I can't stop thinking about, then it's probably a sign that I should own it.

This Friday night, sladesign will be presenting a fashion show of the most recent collection. I love these fabric confections because they are eccentric and bohemian, exactly the sort of thing I want to be caught in while walking barefoot through a backyard garden on an old New Hampshire estate. Those skirts give me daydreams of writing a novel on a sunny porch, my hair long and unruly as a Bumble & Bumble ad.

And what is art about beyond the daydreams it gives you?

Please Go See This...

2009-06-09T16:26:00.002-04:00

My Milk Toof

I think it's brilliant...

eye.candy

2009-04-07T22:59:00.005-04:00

I am aware that this blog is called "linguistically smitten" and not "eye candy addict," but to be honest, where would words be without design? And vice versa? I've always believed that the auspicious marriage of the two mediums would be a mighty reckoning force. That's what I wished for, anyway...

And when I'm cranking out sentences on the assembly line of my keyboard, I need two things: music and pictures. So I continue to amass an ever-growing list of sites where I can feed my eyes and rest my fingers in the moments when the word feast runs famine.

I Love You More Than ________

Sweeter than conversational hearts at Valentine’s Day, this was created by Paperwhite Studio as a user-driven art project that turned into the most tender declarations of love. The real kind, not the Hallmark kind. Getting one of these would be so so much better than a card.

The Dieline

Packaging design blog. Because sometimes, the only thing that makes you want to buy something is the packaging. In my next life I’m coming back as a chocolate bar wrapper.

My Love For You Is a Stampede of Horses

I find this blog extremely appealing, which surprises me. It’s quite a bit more whimsical than my typical taste, but sometimes you need to opt in for the strawberry shortcake.

Elysium burns

Big, chunky letters, and delicate little scripts. Yum, time for lunch.

Hydro74

They designed deco My Little Ponies. Enough said.

Now you'll be distracted at work and unproductive. You're welcome!

Hamburger Nation

2009-02-23T00:53:00.002-05:00

I'm not much of a burger girl, frankly. I've never been much for red meat, a hold-over from my years of vegetarianism and being poor growing up. Red meat really isn’t on the menu when you’re on food stamps. I pretty much stuck with white meat and soy protein sources, that is, until I found DuMont Burger.

DuMont Burger was a little teeny tiny burger joint in my Brooklyn neighborhood that I watched grow from a hole-in-the-wall to an entity that took up two storefronts, no small feat on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg. That’s some pricey real estate. I can’t exactly remember how I stumbled upon DuMont Burger, but I do remember many a winter night spent dialing them up for delivery, waiting anxiously for the underfed musician delivery guy to show up on his bike. I always tipped a little extra.

DuMont Burgers were miraculous. If you were really, truly a friend of mine, then I showed my devotion by taking you to DuMont. Every single person I dated was introduced to DuMont, me tugging on their hands anxiously, like “WAIT until you taste these burgers...” Unless they were vegans. Because that would have been awkward.

DuMont didn’t do anything but burgers and the normal habiliments therin, and I’m convinced the specialization is what made them so good. That and the fact that they stayed open until 2am, and after a cold night out drinking and trekking around, nothin’ says lovin’ like a juicy burger in your stomach.

When I left Brooklyn, I mourned the loss of my DuMont burgers as much as I lamented the end of endive salads at Fiore. Those people knew me by name, and used to jokingly call themselves my dealers. Which would be funny, except that I ate one every day for about 3 months. That makes it a little closer to true.

I never thought I’d find another burger to love as much as my DuMont burgers, but lo and behold, just when I was convinced I’d be back to white meat for good, I found Char-Grill in Raleigh.

Something I noticed right away is that they start making your burger after you order it, instead of pulling it from one of those mini tanning beds where it’s been sunning itself all afternoon. Then they actually flame broil it, cooking in those old school diner caps and sort of hopping around to the retro tunes playing in the background. I typically spend ten minutes humming along to Buddy Holly and staring at the photos on the wall of my dream car: a ’66 Mustang, you know, before they changed the body style.

The burgers are juicy and traditional, tasting just like I’m sure they did back in 1958. There are no fancy condiments or spicy pickled garnishes. Just a burger with lettuce and tomato, which I always get with a chocolate shake after my archery lesson across the street. The Char-Grill tagline is “Simpler Times, Simpler Choices,” and I think, thanks for making it so easy on me, Char-Grill...

Girl Scout Cookiness

2009-02-05T07:16:00.004-05:00

I used to be a Girl Scout.

Stop laughing, it’s true. Troop 407, to be exact. I was a Brownie, and I joined because a lot of my friends were a part of the Girl Scouts. You can still see evidence of my Girl Scout upbringing in the fact that I remain “always prepared.” In my bag are enough random supplies to get me and another person off a deserted island, or survive a day in New York City. Whichever.

Naturally, my favorite part of being a Girl Scout was selling cookies. Mainly because, when cookie season rolled around, people’s eyes lit up when they saw you coming. They knew that inside your little canvass bag was an order sheet, and that order sheet held the key to bliss.

Girl Scout cookies come one time of year only, which I think is probably the most genius business and marketing move the GS of A’s ever made: it prevents market saturation. There will always be a demand for your product because a) you are the only ones who sell them, and b) you restrict the supply. Brilliant. You thought those girls just sold cookies? Oh no, they are shrewd businesswomen.

Nowadays, I am the person that waits eagerly to cross paths with a Girl Scout and get her cookie fix. Last year I bought so many boxes that my tiny Brooklyn freezer was stuffed with Thin Mints and Samoas; no room for anything else. For months. This year, the Girl Scouts of Nassau County must have sensed this passionate love that I have for their cookies, because those little angels sent me a box of their brand new cookies, Dulce de Leches, to try.

The press release (yes, that’s right, the Girl Scouts are PR savvy, too) says that the Dulces are “inspired by the classic confections of Latin America.” If by Latin America, they mean deliciousness, then yes, I’ll agree. The main cookie is crunchy, but not as much so as a fully-baked chocolate chip cookie. They’re similar to a shortbread cookie, kind of crunchy/crumbly all at once. My favorite part of each cookie were the little caramel chips that were nestled inside, breaking up the crunchy-crumbliness with chewy, so as far as texture goes, the Dulce de Leche’s have it all.

On the top of the cookie is a latticework of sweet, creamy stripes which really give the cookie its flavor. If you like your cookies sweet (*raises hand*), then this is the penultimate Girl Scout confection for you. If you prefer mild, biscuit-like cookies, then I recommend sticking with the time-tested Shortbread cookies to lay next to your cup of coffee.

While I was busy housing the entire box of yummy Dulce de Leche’s, I had a chance to click over to the Girl Scouts of Nassau County’s website. Now, this would have truly been helpful for me while I was living in NYC, so I didn’t have to go trolling around sketchy Craig’s List looking for Girl Scout cookies: you can type in your zip code and the website will show you the cookie booth closest to you. If there isn’t one, the GSNC can hook you up with the council nearest to you, so that you can call them up pathetically and pick up your cookie fix from Union Square or whatever. Not that I’ve personally done that…

For the rest of the country, visit GirlScoutCookies.org, where you can also find help locating your Girl Scout cookie fix, not to mention hit the Girls up on social networking sites, where you can express your cult following love for the Dulces, Thin Mints, or Samoas.

Now, I’m curious. Got any Girl Scout cookie stories?

Resolved.

2009-01-02T15:16:00.004-05:00

A week or so ago, I was doing research for a blog post on keeping resolutions for the new year, when I stumbled across this gorgeous Tumblr blog:

New Resolution

It struck me. Such a simple concept, just words and colors, but somehow so profound. I am an avid lover of words, and after such a long time spent dating a graphic designer, I have a healthy appreciation for a sans-serif font paired with careful color combinations. A few of my favorites...

I can't say that I've ever really been one for resolutions. When I was younger I used to make them, but gradually they were sort of replaced by my habit of surrounding myself with people whose characteristics I admired and wanted to emulate: my BFF's chronic positive outlook, my sister's ability to ask for what she needs, my co-worker's gift for getting the squeaky wheel oiled.

These days, I end my year with a round-up in my journal: what I loved, what broke my heart, places I visited, my favorite accomplishments...It's a way to see how far I've come and where, if the year takes me, I'd like to wind up.

This year, I'm resolving to have more fun. I've got the "work hard" part down, so now I'm concentrating on perfecting the "play hard." I want to read some, travel more, write copiously, and maybe chase a little paper.

Who knows? Maybe 2009 will be the year of the Bull.

Do You Know What It Means...

2008-12-12T00:04:00.002-05:00

Sitting in my apartment, I can stare out into the night through massive windows. There are train tracks that run right by my place, and I love the sound the train makes as it goes by. It reminds me of summers in the Lowcountry of South Carolina, visiting my great-grandmother. It soaks me in nostalgia for slow Southern towns: sad, damaged, and beautiful.

Today, I am missing New Orleans. The one that got away, the would-be love of my life. I heard the mournful call of that train’s whistle and I knew it was headed to The Crescent City, heartbreak in tow. My heart fills with love when I think of the tenacity of that city. Abandoned and broken, forsaken and neglected, she still manages to project royalty, even in the tattered remnants of her FEMA gown and shredded levees.

In September, I tried to go to her. Bought work gloves as a symbol of my commitment to take on her grit and her grime. I wanted the skin on my back to be bronzed in the radiance of the NOLA sun, to take walks with the ghosts on the edge of The French Quarter, keep close counsel with the spirit guides. It was my Mecca, a pilgrimage for heart, mind, and body. I wanted to donate myself to the reincarnation, however small the bridges I might build.

But hurricanes took back the rest of what they left behind, leaving me stranded and continuing to write my love letters to New Orleans.

Maybe she dodges me with the artful coyness of a true muse, my continued devotion deepening with each taste of her quixotic delights. She is an old soul, practiced in the fine art of keeping hearts. Some people never leave her, not even in death, and they can be felt throughout the streets, down ivy-ed alleyways, between the mausoleums.

It snowed in New Orleans today, which is like saying the Midwestern cornfields sprouted roots of gold. What is the world coming to?

Photo from: blog.nola.com

Golden Belt

2008-11-30T12:34:00.004-05:00

I love my loft. I do. It's an old space, with concrete floors and exposed brick...and these amazing wooden ceilings with long, old nails sticking out and hinges for pulleys and ropes. I like to sit on the couch and wonder what happened in that exact spot 50 or 60 years ago. It's got good juju, as my Mama would say.

The neighborhood surrounding it is interesting, too. An old, converted hosiery factory across the street, with railroad tracks running by both. I love the sound of the train. It's a more forlorn sound than the anxious honks and grating squeal of the NYC subway, which I miss. It's somehow more refined, hearkening back to slower days, when good things took time.

I was curious, so I dug around...wanted to see what Golden Belt looked like prior to its current incarnation. All of the images I found are courtesy of an amazing blog called Endangered Durham, which is a brilliant read and has the full run-down on the fascinating history of Golden Belt.

Just a bit after construction, 1910

1959

1981

You can check out the current personality of Golden Belt here. I'm happy to say its new life suits it, and me, quite nicely.

Jack of Diamonds

2008-11-16T13:11:00.001-05:00

The other day, as I was climbing down from the cab of my parent’s massive Toyota Tacoma (more like I had to lower a rope and repel down), I noticed something lying on the ground.

It was a playing card. A Jack of Diamonds, to be exact.

Now, this may not seem noteworthy to you, but there were a couple of reasons why I paid attention. First of all, there were no other cards to be found in the vicinity. It wasn’t as though someone had dumped a deck and they’d scattered about, there was only this lone Jack, face up. And, you know, cards aren’t really the type of thing you find lying around parking lots in Durham. Pabst cans, an old Indy Weekly, Kay Hagen signs, yes…Jack of Diamonds, no.

On top of that, I come from possibly one of the most superstitious families under the heathen sun. I throw salt over my shoulder, knock wood like I have OCD, and whenever I meet someone new, I have to train them not to split poles. Because if you split a pole, you have to say “bread and butter,” while the other person responds “come to supper.” I don’t know why, it’s just what you do if you ain’t tryin’ to bring down the wrath of the Universe upon your head.

Any road, I look at this Jack and think, “Hm. This clearly belongs to me,” so I snatch it up and stick it in my wallet.

Later on, I am telling the story to one of my best friends, who rummages around in her memory and dredges out some information about how each card in the deck corresponds to a birth date. Apparently the deck is based on an ancient system similar to Tarot, go fig, which makes perfect sense. I did a little research, and here’s what I discovered about my little Jack:

~ It corresponds to the birthdays Jan.16, Feb. 14, March 12, April 10, May 8, June 6, July 4th, and Aug. 2nd.

~ The 4 suites of cards also represent the 4 seasons and 4 elements in astrology, so Diamonds – Earth – Fall . This is totally appropriate considering that I, as a Taurus, am an Earth sign and it just happens to be Fall…

~ The Diamond suites is characterized by:

“Practical, down-to-earth, analytical, materialistic, resourceful. Diamonds are the suit of the physical, material world. They assess the world around them on the level of the five senses. They can be overly attached to money and to possessions. In order to find value in life, they look at things, people, and situations in terms of how useful they are.”

~ And Jacks are:

“Jacks are youthful, charming, mischievous, romantic, witty, and creative. They have unusually clever minds, and some can be given to using their ingeniousness to "get their way". They have good people skills, much enthusiasm, and multiple talents (think "jack of all trades"). However, they may try to get out of taking responsibility for their lives and they can lack clear goals.”

Hm. Clearly this is not referring to me, because I have to be one of the most overly-responsible and goal-oriented people you have the agita-inducing pleasure to meet.

And so the mystery continues…

Obama.

2008-11-06T22:38:00.001-05:00

I think I feel compelled to blog about election night because it was a first for me.

I voted in both the 2000 & ’04 elections, which turned my formative civic duties into a lesson about the nature of fairness in government. I remember watching the scrabbling, the vote stealing, the chaos of ’00 and wondering what kind of country would let such a shit show suffice for an election. In ’04, we were just crushed. It was like a punch to the gut and a realization that we had to endure four more years of an administration that stood in solid opposition to everything we believed. I cried on the concrete steps up to my shitty apartment and watched my more reckless friends express their feelings through vandalization.

But this time…this time I marked my ballot for a man in whom I so strongly believe. A man who opened his mouth and spoke straight to my unflagging hope, and to the broken hearts of millions of Americans. A man who rose above the clamor, the dirt, the lies, and brought clarity to a vision that had gone out of focus: Yes We Can.

When he speaks, I listen. I don’t expect the man to be a Messiah, but I know greatness when I see it. And that is what I want representing my country, not an emasculated and idiotic Texan gunslinger.

On election night, we all piled into the center of downtown Durham. It was rainy and muddy, so we hid out in The Pinhook for a while, drinking beer out of plastic cups and checking our Blackberries and iPhones for updates. Anna managed to find an Obama volunteer from San Francisco who we chattered with the whole evening, pondering the possibility of North Carolina going blue. And at a certain point, the crowd outside got louder, watching a live feed on a giant inflatable screen.

We moved outside, boots sinking into the municipal mud just in time to see CNN declare that the McCain campaign “didn’t see a path to victory.” By the time they announced Obama the winner, we were arm and arm under the misting rain, dancing, hugging, laughing, cheering…Tears were shed, strangers were hugged, and the country had begun stitching up the wounds, inking tentative treaties with hand shakes.

I watched Obama’s speech wrapped in the arms of one of my best friends, a tear slipping down my cheek when he repeated his famous mantra. It broke the fever of discontent and cynicism incubated in the ranks of my generation for the past eight years. And that night was the first night that we could say, without rancor, without irony, that we were proud to be Americans.

2008-11-02T10:13:00.000-05:00

Hm.

Guess I made a pretty good decision, then...

America's Most Recession-Proof Cities

Last Look: Brooklyn

2008-10-31T10:20:00.001-04:00

2008-10-28T00:20:00.002-04:00

I never wanted to be one of those people that used their blog as a platform to write about stuff they should probably keep to themselves. Like about their relationship with their cats. And yet, here I am, about to launch into a blog post dedicated almost entirely to cat-watching. Please confuse it with some ironic hipster fad. Because cats are the new dogs.

I never fully realize my odd cat-related interactions until someone else is around to point them out. Me and the cats, we hang, and so what that my little guy is so beefy that the first thing that comes out of people’s mouths when they see him is “Whoa. That’s a big cat.” He’s big boned, not fat. He comes from peasant stock. He continues to humiliate me by bleating crazily to be fed anytime anyone walks in the general vicinity of his food, as if to insinuate “I’m not fat! My stomach is distended from malnutrition!”

My she-cat has terrifyingly huge eyes that follow you creepily, as though she were some sort of obsessed teen fan stalker. She’s more than a little neurotic, having developed a fixation on her laser pointer, and my mom tortures her by saying, “Moxie, where’s your la-zer?” in a sing-songy voice. This leads to imploring meows, and her little head frantically darting back and forth as she looks for the object of her affection on the carpet somewhere. To no avail. My mom giggles.

I’ve got about another 20 years until this behavior qualifies me for the freak show “cat lady” moniker, right?

2008-10-20T16:31:00.003-04:00

These days when I'm suffering from insomnia, worrying about something ridiculous, like if I have enough boxes to pack up all my stuff, I have developed a worrisome habit. I browse the How-To section on YouTube.

It started with a casual comment from one of my friends about how you can curl your hair using a straightening iron. Forgive me for being so literal, but why curl your hair with a straightening iron when you could just use a curling iron? I had to be enlightened and YouTube seemed the obvious place to turn.

From there I was introduced to a young prodigy by the name of xTeener. Now, I have no idea how old xTeener is, because she's got that age ambiguous look of someone that could be anywhere from 15 to 23. I think the makeup helps with that as well. But she is a makeup guru, and apparently everyone else on YouTube thinks so, too, because she's got tens of thousands of subscribers.

I'm not exactly sure how you become a teenage makeup guru. I mean, Eric Clapton taught himself to play guitar, so maybe she just messed around in her room until she figured out what worked. Whatever it was, it's impressive. I used some of her tips the other day, and got mad compliments. I did, however, refrain from confessing that a teenager on YouTube taught me how. Ruins the street cred.

I kind of hope some makeup manufacturer contacts her and gives her tons of free shit. I bet she does more to boost their sales than having Kate Moss roll around looking like a stringy stray cat in their commercials.

2008-10-16T10:07:00.003-04:00

Okay, politics totally aside for a minute, what the hell is up with McCain's face? He has this chronically smug expression on his face, which I know he means to look self-assured, but he's missing the mark.

Every performer knows the importance of practicing their facial expressions in front of a mirror, so that when they get onstage, the expressions add to the performance rather than making people believe you suffer from some sort of aphasia. Because that's just awkward.

And last time I checked, it wasn't really appropriate to roll your eyes at a Presidential candidate, unless they're running for the president of 7th grade Student Council. In which case, bring on the eye-rolls and the free Tootsie Roll Pops, and I ain't seen no hard candy in my mailbox yet.

Charm City

2008-10-08T17:48:00.002-04:00

I spent this past weekend in Baltimore, which is a city I have never visited, although one of my closest friends lives there. I always wanted to roadtrip it down thataway, but this time my cash flow necessitated a trip on the Chinatown bus.

So be it.

Nonetheless, Baltimore claims, among it’s many nicknames, the darling moniker “Charm City,” (the less flattering nicknames “Mob Town” and “Crabtown” don’t convey the same sense of whimsy). I set out on a mission to find out exactly why Baltimore, out of all the cities in the country, had been dubbed “Charm City.”

Alas, after asking around, no one could produce a satisfactory answer. So I turned to the endless bounty that is the internet, and here’s what I find:

“Located on the East Coast of the United States, between New York City and Washington, D.C., Baltimore has been nicknamed "Charm City" for its many attractions and friendly residents. One of America's oldest cities, Baltimore is known for its rich ethnic and maritime heritage, sense of history and fine food.”

*yawn*

“During the 1970’s, in an effort to promote Baltimore, the city developed an advertising campaign called "CHARM CITY". Visitors to Baltimore were given a charm bracelet and encouraged to purchase charms at the many Baltimore area attractions. As a result, Baltimore became known as the "Charm City", a nickname still used to this day.”

Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about! I wish they still did that. I would have bought a charm of a Glock to remind me of the party we went to in scary West Baltimore (where, incidentally, The Wire is filmed), a crab charm to pay homage to the little guy I ripped apart with my bare hands (quaintly known as “crab picking”), and a pink flamingo in honor of John Waters and the obsession Baltimoreans seem to have with his creations.

Now that would have been one hell of a charm bracelet.

Cereal Nostalgia

2008-10-01T10:45:00.004-04:00

I cannot take one more freakin' minute of all of this doomsday news coverage. Not only is it incessant, but they have stopped even trying to make it tolerable by finishing up with some human interest story or something. They just stick with the crazy.

No thank you.

New York City is full of crazy people. I do not need some plasticine, overly made-up news anchor to help whip the crazies into a state of total bedlam and panic. Thus, my blog entry is an attempt to opt out. I'm sure there are thousands of bloggers who are clacking away about the state of the union. But it ain't me, babe.

I, instead, have decided to follow a random train of thought that chugged into my head a few days ago. When I was little, we used to shop at some discount grocery store for poor people, and my mother would buy us this cereal we loved called King Vitamin. I knew it was poor people food because 1) I never saw it on the shelves of a "real" grocery store, and 2) the awkward Japanese throwing star shape of it was difficult to eat and tore up the roof of your mouth. Clearly there had been no consumer taste-tests on King Vitamin.

Recently, I set out to search for it online, and came up with only one website that could help me stock up. I might also point out that at $4.47 a box, it is now about 4 times more expensive than it ever was on the shelves of the Grocery Outlet, even when adjusting for inflation. Looks like KV is moving on up in the world.

I also noticed that his image underwent something of a makeover. The photo of the box above is the one I remember fighting my sisters for (we used to argue over who got to "read the box," as though it were some sort of novel). This King Vitamin was one I could relate to, as he seemed to be wearing some sort of white feather boa. Something to which I, in my nascent state of drag queen-dom, could totally relate.

I bet King Vitamin would know what to do about the economy. He seems like the kind of guy who has his priorities in order.

Window Shopping

2008-09-29T01:10:00.002-04:00

I am laying on my back, one arm tucked behind my head.

“Whatever happened to romance?” I ask Max, my fingers pulling up a few strands of hair, letting them glide over my nails and fall quietly back onto my neck. I like the softness, the faint scent of the same shampoo I always use.

He looks up slightly from his videologic ministrations, ears perked as though he’s just heard a sound he cannot quite recognize. His brain chews gently on this question for a moment, and I know him well enough to hear it working. Nibbling gently like a bunny.

“People are selfish,” he says without a hint of rancor. “They are selfish and involved in what they are doing.”

So says Max.

I cannot even bring myself to admit the embarrassingly mundane romantic fantasies I entertain. They are so cliché and pedestrian sometimes, made even more humiliating by the fact that I have never experienced them. I was grateful for the wedding of a few weeks ago, where there was actually some slow-dancing to speak of. I thought it would remedy the daydreaming about my emerald green cocktail dress, flashing like an Amazon night bloom under the glow of lanterns on a roof deck. High heels sway me back and forth, moved by the sound of Miles Davis and warmed by the arms clasped round my waist. It is a clear summer night, of course.

I don’t expect every 24/7 to be romanced, Hollywoodized moments dripping off every interaction ‘round the clock. I’m so practical, so pragmatic. I can’t help but hold my breath for those moments when I am caught helplessly off guard by some grand gesture.

I know what kind of romance I am supposed to be finding in this city. I walk gingerly down 5th Avenue, staring into the window at Tiffany’s with Wynton Marsalis playing on my iPod. This is my romantic compromise, because I can neither afford to step foot in that store, nor can I buy a place at Jazz at Lincoln Center to watch the real Wynton coax ecstasies from his brass muse. So I have gotten as close to it as I can. But that isn’t romance. That is the ache of longing.

Botanical Paperworks

2008-09-26T15:56:00.004-04:00

I love it when people have these tender, genius ideas, and then they do what it takes to make them happen. It's inspiring. And I know that it's so horrible cliche to be inspired, but I don't care.

When we were at the wedding last weekend, Jills & Jakey gave out these little favors to all of us with a sweet little line or two written about love growing. They're handmade papers with seeds in them, so that you can plant them and watch them grow. That is, if you can negotiate yourself onto your harrowing, rickety fire escape, find some potting soil provider in the most industrial part of Brooklyn, and then diligently protect your little seed pods from the acidy, smoggy downpours. Oh, and try not to feel too forlorn if your little love garden doesn't grow. And certainly don't look at it as a metaphor for your own love life. No...don't.

They have all kinds of interesting cards and favors and such, so check out their website here, and support eco entrepreneurs.

2008-09-24T13:47:00.001-04:00

I will never be jaded about weddings.

The world is full of reasons to doubt, destructive forces that wrench us from our dreams, clamor to make our lives meaningless. Love is an act of bravery; a conscientious objection to the idea that life is a solitary, tragic affair.

And I will always be willing to stand up for that kind of bravery.

2008-09-19T00:40:00.001-04:00

Brooklyn's been my home for 3, 4 years now. After awhile it starts not to matter, with the days and weeks speeding by, endless hours logged working the grind.

Back into Brooklyn via the BQE, I take in the towering high rises and the cityscape of Manhattan set in relief against a setting sun. I recognize the angles and slopes, like the familiar face of someone who used to have my love. And just like the memory of an old love, I can't find those misplaced feelings that this scene used to arouse in me.

I used to watch the ink of possibility dripping between the letters of every city morning, and now I just miss the way those Carolina sunsets seem to know me so well. The romance of anonymity worn down to the heartache of loneliness.

I watched the sunset over the wings of my plane. Sinking rapidly into the stretched line of the horizon, mission accomplished, over and out. But even after it was gone, it left fiery streaks of red and orange smeared across the sky, like footprints of a better love.

My heart is a safe place for all of this. I know it is.

Bridge's

2008-09-17T09:00:00.002-04:00

My parents' favorite BBQ joint in Shelby, NC...

2008-09-16T09:16:00.003-04:00

My mother has this saying that when things are really bad, you should laugh about it, otherwise you'll just end up crying. That quaint Southernism comes to mind when I think about returning to New York City at its current threat level of "shit show."

The slowness of the South isn't what I'm gravitating towards. Things are rarely slow anywhere, and it's always a luxury to fuck off to the beach for a day. It's just that here I can actually find quiet, which is nothing but an accidental hallucination on the streets of Brooklyn. Sometimes you think you've caught a glimpse of it, walking home alone late into the night, and then it's shattered by the chaos, the heat, the sheer desperation of a life constantly verging on manic.

When I'm laughing, Tina Fey's usually there. This time is no different.

The Quiet

2008-09-12T00:01:00.000-04:00

The peaceful cemetery at St. John in the Wilderness Episcopal church...