My Winter reading list.

I have one whole month to read anything I want which gives me a strange sense of freedom. Here's the list of books I'm hoping to get to:

1. The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolano
2. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
3. The Master by Colm Toibin
4. The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht
5. Pulphead by John Jeremiah Sullivan
6. The latest issues of Granta & Ploughshares

I'm only missing two of the books, thanks to the awesome street vendors on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg. Hopefully the library will come through with the other two. Like to read? Let's connect on Goodreads.

Breaking into Etsy.

Last week I lamented to a few friends about how I wasn't invited to any holiday parties. No real job means no company holiday parties to dress up for, and I guess I'm still settling in to a whole new city and making new friends. I know, cry me a river, it's not exactly a big problem to complain about.

But then there was Thursday. I started the evening at the 42nd Street library, with Wells Tower and John Jeremiah Sullivan, to talk about Pulphead, Sullivan's new collection of essays. The room was packed with hipsters in heavy plastic framed eyeglasses, beards and cardigans. As Sullivan sipped on a small glass of whiskey the two authors, who had never met, even though they live in the same city, quickly dispensed with small talk. Wells started by saying something very funny like, when I read the galleys to your book I wanted to throw up with jealousy. I loved hearing such an admission from an author I admire, even more satisfying to know that writers of all levels feel the same type of envy slash insecurity. In an answer about how he puts together his profiles, Sullivan replied that when he gets home from a long reporting trip he tries to re-inhabit the experience, saying that he can't just look at his notes, "my notebook is full, but I'm distanced from it." I was grateful to Wells for digging into questions about the nuts and bolts of Sullivans craft. You'd think a well-respected writer wouldn't ask such touristy questions. They even talked about John McPhee, a long time favorite of mine, turns out he's also a favorite of Sullivans. He mentioned an interview he read of McPhee's, about how the writer organizes the immense amount of research he pulls together to write his stories. I can't find it online, but looks like you can order it here.

As the interview came to a close, I turned to Blyth to ask what we should do for dinner, slightly daunted by the thought of another restaurant quest in Midtown. "Well, we can go to the Etsy holiday party." Did she just say holiday party? And off we went, taking the F train from Bryant Park to York Street in Dumbo. Seeya Midtown.

Taking the elevator up to the 5th floor we were silent. I wondered if the party would be fun. If there would be food. If there would be any single guys. Walking into the unlocked office we saw a smattering of folks dressed up in cocktail attire. In the kitchen there were a few empty bags of pretzels and plastic tubs of red vines. No music, just some talking. "This can't be it," I said to Blyth. "Yeah, no way this is it," she replied. Making our way back out the doors we walked towards two people entering a freight elevator. "Hey, where's the party?" we said. "Follow us," they said. I felt a little Alice in Wonderlandish following them into the big rectangular box.

The elevator doors opened onto a cavernous, bare, cement room. No furniture, just candy-colored dresses, boys in argyle, a photo booth and a tall tree with wrapped presents piled underneath. We threw our coats onto chairs in a darkened corner and made a straight line for the food. The Brooklyn meets Etsy menu did not disappoint: fancy hot dogs, wasabi potato salad (tangy with a nice crunch of celery), purple cabbage cole slaw, mini cupcakes and cheap wine. Thankfully after "dinner" we ran into the friends that had invited Blyth and we no longer looked like party crashers.

The music was so loud we almost couldn't talk, but it was good. The DJ was spinning perfect shake your booty hits: the kind of music that seduces you onto the dance floor. Poison came on, by Bel Biv DeVo, and we took one look at each other, "Should we go dance?" Blyth asked. "Yes." Dropping our purses we moved to the edge of the dance floor and began to bend, shake and move. The holiday party photographer took our picture and I wondered if I could get a copy.

As the night progressed, faces becoming more familiar, sweat covered brows becoming more normal and a dance circle formed (the sign of all good parties). Blyth turned and handed me a paperback she had picked up off a table. It was a biography of Dennis Quaid published in 1988. (You can find it on Amazon, there's one new copy for $256 or several used for .42 cents.) The cover claims that it's "the first inside look at America's Newest Hearthrob." Smiling at the find I stuffed it into my back pocket and kept dancing.

When the DJ threw on the song Shout I knew it was time to go and, saying our sweaty goodbyes, we wandered out of the circle. It was definitely one of the best holiday parties I've been to (thank you Etsy), and it was a perfect way to get rid of my holiday blues. Blyth walked with me over to the York Street station, we hugged goodbye and me and my new book about Dennis Quaid took the F train home.

Celebs, they're just like (us) me.

<Superficial blog post alert>
I've been meaning to start a list of all of my celeb sightings, before I forget them! Here goes:

Chuck Close, on W. 12th Street (with his wife, I think and their dog).
Naomi Watts, with her two very blond kids, in the park on Spring Street in Soho.
Gary Shteyngart, sitting next to me on a bench in Tomkins Square.
Morgan Freeman, in a car on Rivington Street, filming a movie.
Alan Rickman, walking on Broadway in Soho. I heard his voice first, of course, then confirmed with a glance followed by a double take.
Thurston Moore, at La Colombe in Soho
Andrew Shue (Melrose Place!) walking on Spring Street
Daniel Day Lewis, walking in SoHo on Prince Street
Kyra Sedgewick, in my Bar Method class
Blake Lively, Penn Badgley & Chase Crawford, filming an episode of Gossip Girl, one block from my apartment!
Dylan McDermott, in Soho at midnight
Lisa Bonet, on Prince Street in Soho (Wearing silver lipstick, a jingle jangley vest and walking with a tall, gorgeous man I wanted to steal.)
David Byrne, sitting in front of me at a show at the NYPL
Gabriel Byrne, walking & smoking, late at night in Soho on West Broadway
Elvis Costello, maybe–I'm 70% sure, getting soup at the Whole Food on Houston
Josh Charles (The Good Wife) buying household whathaveyou at Bed, Bath & Beyond on 6th Ave
Katie Couric, in the bathroom at Jean Georges
Hope Davis, walking in Soho
John Malkovich, walking in Soho
Matthew Modine, in the audience at a Times Talk interview with Gary Oldman
Parker Posey, with her fluffy white dog at O Cafe, 6th Ave and W 12th
Roseanna Arquette, in my Bar Method class

Have I forgotten anyone?

A little slice of Japan. In Midtown.

Tuesday evening I attended Live at the NYPL to hear three musicians turned novelists: Steve Earle, Josh Ritter and Wesley Stace, better known as John Wesley Harding. Sitting in the second row I was close enough to see what their shoes looked like and what they were drinking. Josh drank water. Wesley drank wine and Steve alternated between a Diet Coke and water. The three men are as different musically as their writing is, or rather seems to be. I haven't read any of their novels yet, maybe over Winter break? I'm always interested in how people write, how they actually tackle a daunting task like stringing together enough words to fill up a novel. They talked about their transition from writing songs to writing books, which I hadn't really thought about till that night. A song, they all concurred, was a bit like a mini-novel. These guys just decided it was time to take a song a little further.

Are you ready for the reading list?
Steve Earle I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive
Wesley Stace Charles Jessold, Considered as a Murderer
Josh Ritter's Bright's Passage

After the event my friend Blyth and I went off in search of dinner possibilities. In Midtown Manhattan that's no easy feat. You have to be sure to avoid Times Square, steer clear of tourist traps and sidestep the trashy happy hour bar scenes. What are two healthy, downward dog leaning girls from California supposed to do? One push of an app and I found dozens of Japanese restaurants nearby. Pointing to my top choice I showed the screen to Blyth. "Um, that's like the most expensive Japanese restaurant in the city," she said. With a crinkle of my nose and a "Hmmm," she followed it up with this little tidbit, "They actually measure the inside of your mouth to determine how big to make the sushi." Measuring my mouth? When can we go?

Wandering in the rain, up Park Avenue, down Madison, over 46th, down 45th, no luck hooking the first fish. Moving to the next one on the list we made our way, successfully, over to Hatsuhana on East 48th Street. Walking in the door we were greeted by an Asian man with a walkee-talkee. "Two for dinner," I said. With a radio message up to an invisible man, we were quickly escorted upstairs and shown to a table, not too far from a long, nice looking sushi counter.

You ever look at a menu and wish that you were still a kid and someone else would order for you? I do. All the time. Sadly I would have to work my way through the six pages of plastic, hoping for the best. Ten minutes later, Blyth and I were still turning the pages back and forth, weighing the options of getting a mysterious "chef's choice" dinner or going out on our own. Finally, orders in, wine in front of us, we could relax.

Twisting around in my chair I took a closer look at the chefs. There were five men behind the sushi desk, all eager to be put to work cupping rice and slicing fish. The man closest to me had a headband on along with Dad glasses. You know the kind: black plastic frames–oblong ovally things that looked more at home in a polaroid. He wore his glasses connected to his head, with a Croakie which made me imagine them playing basketball, in some king of Harlem Globetrotters vs Men of Sushi face-off. If only.

The food arrived and it was delicious. Nothing earth shattering, just very good. Fresh fish, nice portions and well put together. My only complaint was their hand roll. It looked like a lost roll from someone else's plate. Not the hand rolls I'm used to in Califonia. But that's ok, I can handle change.

Shame: An exercise in voyeurism.

Sitting in the dark movie theatre, watching the overly easy on the eyes actor, Michael Fassbender, I felt a bit like I had accidentally entered an art-house porn, if such a thing exists. The movie Shame, starts with Fassbender in bed, getting out of bed (nude), going to the bathroom, peeing (we see him from behind), hiring a call girl, paying her, getting back into bed and then noises of them having sex. The movie continues in this unrelenting pursuit of sex and watching sex with brief periods of wearing clothes, sitting on the subway (staring at women) and going into an office to do some unnamed high-tech work that doesn't involve a computer. A third of the way into the film we meet Sissy, naked in the shower. Played by Carey Mulligan, Sissy is his self-abusive, messed up little sister. She doesn't lighten the mood one bit and by the end you're just begging to get out of there. To get out of their destructive world. To not watch those two interact for one more second.

There were two things I liked about this movie: the first I've already mentioned. Fassbender is extremely attractive, with a body that could have inspired Michelangelo's David. The second thing is the moody and sultry New York, as directed by artist Steve McQueen. I can watch both of these subjects for hours. What I didn't like was the lack of story. We started in one place and, for the most part, ended up in that same place two hours later. Perhaps we didn't, maybe I'm staying too on the surface here, but since all the dialogue was trapped in Fassbender's head we'll never know.

Leaving the theatre, I overheard several conversations along these lines:
"Wow, I didn't expect it to be, like, all about sex."
"Yeah, I know. It's the only thing that happened."
"It was kind of uncomfortable watching all that sex."
"Um, so did anything happen in there?"

Next time I think I'll go see The Muppets.

Things I Wish I Had Packed.

When I closed up my San Francisco apartment I had five years of stuff to collate. I had to decide what to bring with me for two years in New York and I had to decide what to put into storage. An unenviable task for sure. Now, four and a half months later, I think I have a good idea of where I want wrong. So, here goes, a list of things I wish I had brought with me:

1. All of my cooking spices (my apartment has none). I brought with me one single jar of seasoning, my favorite salt, I call it bacon salt. There's no real bacon inside but the smokey flavor makes you think it's there. I've since bought cayenne and salt but man, those little shakers are missed.

2. My red Le Creuset teapot (my apartment has none). I'm tired of heating up water, one mug at a time.

3. My blankets and sheets. Oh how I miss my high-thread count sheets from Frette. The selection at Bed, Bath & Beyond does not compare.

4. My plants. I know I couldn't have brought them, but I miss them. I wonder if they miss me?

5. A plastic kitchen thing that chops up a hard-boiled egg perfectly for egg salad. The fork and knife method is nowhere near as fun.

Five things I wish I had brought. Not too bad. Stay tuned for more.

Celebrating Poet Paul Violi.

I walked into the medium-sized room, with dozens of red chairs facing West 13th Street. Looking around, I wondered who I might see. Fellow students but more importantly poets. Real live I-get-paid-to-write poets. We were here for a tribute to Paul Violi, poet and professor at The New School. Until that night I was unfamiliar with his work. But after two hours of listening to his poems, read by big names in the poetry world, I was smitten. Smitten with his laugh out loud humor and dexterity with language. How many poets can get you to laugh out loud? He certainly had a way with the mundane, twisting and turning it, into something else.

Sitting in that room, listening to the voices of writers I had only read, I felt like I was invited into the inner circle of a writers club. It was a heady club: Poet Laureate Billy Collins, Charles North, novelist Paul Auster, Star Black, Ron Padgett, David Lehman, Robert Polito, George Green, David Shapiro, Robert Hershon and on and on and on. (Take time to go through those names, they all link to a bit of their work.)

What a night.
What a tribute.
Here's a link to the NY Times story.

I'll end with a poem:


Appeal to the Grammarians
by Paul Violi

We, the naturally hopeful,
Need a simple sign
For the myriad ways we're capsized.
We who love precise language
Need a finer way to convey
Disappointment and perplexity.
For speechlessness and all its inflections,
For up-ended expectations,
For every time we're ambushed
By trivial or stupefying irony,
For pure incredulity, we need
The inverted exclamation point.
For the dropped smile, the limp handshake,
For whoever has just unwrapped a dumb gift
Or taken the first sip of a flat beer,
Or felt love or pond ice
Give way underfoot, we deserve it.
We need it for the air pocket, the scratch shot,
The child whose ball doesn't bounce back,
The flat tire at journey's outset,
The odyssey that ends up in Weehawken.
But mainly because I need it—here and now
As I sit outside the Caffe Reggio
Staring at my espresso and cannoli
After this middle-aged couple
Came strolling by and he suddenly
Veered and sneezed all over my table
And she said to him, "See, that's why
I don't like to eat outside."