Favorite bookstores that I cannot leave without buying something, justifying with "but this is such a great independently owned bookstore, if I don't get anything here today it might close!":
1. WORD (greenpoint)
2. St. Marks Bookstore (st. marks)
3. P.S. Books (dumbo)
4. Skylight Books (los feliz)
5. Borders Mt. Kisco (nostalgic reasons only; not a great bookstore)
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Lately I've been thinking about:
My senior year of college, first semester, I took an improv class to fulfill the "arts" requirement. The students - most of whom were bros looking for a fine arts class with no tangible work - slowly came to the realization, over the course of the class, of "why haven't I been doing this my whole life? I'm so talented at riffing about Steve Irwin's death during a serious scene about two badgers who have recently divorced!" The teacher was very encouraging, the exercises were therapeutic, and most people were very good at hiding rolling their eyes.
We had one project where we came into class as one of our parents and did improv games for a day as our mother or father would. The obvious standout was a guy who, as his mother, snippy, holding a Blackberry, and wearing a woman's scarf, indignantly stormed out about twenty minutes in and didn't return for the other hour and ten minutes of the class, and when I went to pee later I saw he was hanging out with his friends on the quad. He was praised for how seriously he committed. But. There was this guy who came in as his father, who is a reporter, and he just walked around the room with a notepad and pencil "acting observant" and furrowing his brow. He tried to look puzzled the whole time and asked a few questions, as a reporter would. At the time I found this vomitously cheesy, but for some reason I've got the image of his face, his eyes looking upward at the stupid tweed Irish cap he was wearing, for inspiration or clues, then "aha!"ing and scribbling on his notepad, in my head, and it now in retrospect seems really heartfelt.
Anyway, enough dad and improv stuff. Which is a better song overall, Heartbeats or Paper Planes?
My senior year of college, first semester, I took an improv class to fulfill the "arts" requirement. The students - most of whom were bros looking for a fine arts class with no tangible work - slowly came to the realization, over the course of the class, of "why haven't I been doing this my whole life? I'm so talented at riffing about Steve Irwin's death during a serious scene about two badgers who have recently divorced!" The teacher was very encouraging, the exercises were therapeutic, and most people were very good at hiding rolling their eyes.
We had one project where we came into class as one of our parents and did improv games for a day as our mother or father would. The obvious standout was a guy who, as his mother, snippy, holding a Blackberry, and wearing a woman's scarf, indignantly stormed out about twenty minutes in and didn't return for the other hour and ten minutes of the class, and when I went to pee later I saw he was hanging out with his friends on the quad. He was praised for how seriously he committed. But. There was this guy who came in as his father, who is a reporter, and he just walked around the room with a notepad and pencil "acting observant" and furrowing his brow. He tried to look puzzled the whole time and asked a few questions, as a reporter would. At the time I found this vomitously cheesy, but for some reason I've got the image of his face, his eyes looking upward at the stupid tweed Irish cap he was wearing, for inspiration or clues, then "aha!"ing and scribbling on his notepad, in my head, and it now in retrospect seems really heartfelt.
Anyway, enough dad and improv stuff. Which is a better song overall, Heartbeats or Paper Planes?
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Awful things to talk to acquaintences about:
1. Regional pride. Boston pride is appalling, New York City pride is mortifying, Portland pride is embarrassing. There are three places it is acceptable to have regional pride from: Pittsburgh, Washington D.C. (only kind of, though), and the state and cities of Virginia. Also falling under "regional pride" is discussions of what soda is called in your hometown.
2. Your ethnic background. "It's actually kind of crazy...on my mom's side I'm like, half Polish, but then Native American and German? But on my dad's side it's really crazy, like, all over Eastern Europe. When we came to Ellis Island..." Blah blah blah blah.
3. Any dreams that aren't mine. My dreams are devastating, fascinating, bleak, inspirational, etc., but stories about dreams longer than a one-line long summary are best left to your astrological sign-embossed ~Dream Diary~.
1. Regional pride. Boston pride is appalling, New York City pride is mortifying, Portland pride is embarrassing. There are three places it is acceptable to have regional pride from: Pittsburgh, Washington D.C. (only kind of, though), and the state and cities of Virginia. Also falling under "regional pride" is discussions of what soda is called in your hometown.
2. Your ethnic background. "It's actually kind of crazy...on my mom's side I'm like, half Polish, but then Native American and German? But on my dad's side it's really crazy, like, all over Eastern Europe. When we came to Ellis Island..." Blah blah blah blah.
3. Any dreams that aren't mine. My dreams are devastating, fascinating, bleak, inspirational, etc., but stories about dreams longer than a one-line long summary are best left to your astrological sign-embossed ~Dream Diary~.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Although it is but November 18th I can officially grant Atlanta Fox News (via Zan's linkshare) with providing the best piece of web-journalism of 2009.
I would officially like to grant a contributor to Mr. Beller's Neighborhood with providing the worst piece of web-journalism of 2009.
Other best-of accolades include cauliflower (Best Vegetable I Didn't Know I Liked Until 2009), Martha Stewart (Best Television Personality of 2009), and a tie between a Judy Blume Diary (via William Morris book closet) and a Virginia Slims "little black book" (via Emily's costume workshop) (Best Vintage Unused Finds of 2009).
I would officially like to grant a contributor to Mr. Beller's Neighborhood with providing the worst piece of web-journalism of 2009.
Other best-of accolades include cauliflower (Best Vegetable I Didn't Know I Liked Until 2009), Martha Stewart (Best Television Personality of 2009), and a tie between a Judy Blume Diary (via William Morris book closet) and a Virginia Slims "little black book" (via Emily's costume workshop) (Best Vintage Unused Finds of 2009).
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Fuck dude I just went to WORD today and Penguin has rereleased DA FLYEST SHIT. Check out their new velvet hardcovers and Damien Hirst-illustrated Origin of Species, DAYUMMMM. Maybe I am a "regular" there because every time I nerd out over how this publishing house is #1 PIMP
I want to be a "regular" somewhere or have a "regular" order.
3. Guy who bought porn at Sam Goody and would always say "Oh boy-oh-boy-oh-boy-oh-boy!"
2. Angry couple at Chums, the Dairy King and Queene, a very special pair of regulars because they were loners who came into Chums to order disgusting amounts of dairy seperately, and then fell in love and ordered together. The Dairy King would always order for them: "Grilled cheese, one pizza bagel, an order of mozzarella sticks, a cappuccino, and a nice, tall, glass of milk." A nice tall glass of milk indignantly closed every order. They were jerks.
1. Best regular of all time, Rivers at Kims, who would stagger to the counter in a Hawaiian shirt with a randomly selected foreign rew release and say the same thing every time: "the name's Rivers, and I'm payin for it."
These people have made such a strong impression on me as a Woman Behind the Counter that I want have this somewhere with someone. To be someone they roll their eyes at, but who secretly means a lot in their predictability and support. Does anyone have any suggestions of places to become a "regular"? Is any sane person under the age of 25 a "regular" anywhere?
3. Guy who bought porn at Sam Goody and would always say "Oh boy-oh-boy-oh-boy-oh-boy!"
2. Angry couple at Chums, the Dairy King and Queene, a very special pair of regulars because they were loners who came into Chums to order disgusting amounts of dairy seperately, and then fell in love and ordered together. The Dairy King would always order for them: "Grilled cheese, one pizza bagel, an order of mozzarella sticks, a cappuccino, and a nice, tall, glass of milk." A nice tall glass of milk indignantly closed every order. They were jerks.
1. Best regular of all time, Rivers at Kims, who would stagger to the counter in a Hawaiian shirt with a randomly selected foreign rew release and say the same thing every time: "the name's Rivers, and I'm payin for it."
These people have made such a strong impression on me as a Woman Behind the Counter that I want have this somewhere with someone. To be someone they roll their eyes at, but who secretly means a lot in their predictability and support. Does anyone have any suggestions of places to become a "regular"? Is any sane person under the age of 25 a "regular" anywhere?
Friday, November 13, 2009
"Your One Beauty!:" Little Women, Sex and the City, and Foucault's Repressive Hypothesis
In The History of Sexuality (1976), Michel Foucault writes about the "repressive hypothesis" - that, in human desire to become fully liberated and the masters of sexuality, their overbearing discourse and need to tell about it has actually made us more subject to it than ever. This example of duped self-owning can perhaps best be seen in two works about nauseatingly zesty women written over two centuries apart: the March sisters (Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy) of Little Women (Louisa May Alcott) and the "fashionistas" of HBO's Sex and the City (Miranda, Carrie, Charlotte, and Samantha). While all of these women openly discuss their liberation, one cannot help but notice their slavery to the heteronormative white male regime. And above all: none of these women can really grasp how truly annoying they are because of this.
Carrie Bradshaw/Jo March are writers: by nature, they reveal all, and think their lives are the braver for it. Carrie writes orgasm after orgasm and metaphor after metaphor, and Jo writes demure romances and vampire stories (which, updated on scale to today's standards, are probably similarly soft-core). Carrie/Jo assume all the stylized zest that comes with being a "writer:" having witty reparte with men, claiming their genius, wearing progressive clothing, and being incredibly selfish. And yet, they trick themselves into denying how backwards they really are! Carrie, by writing about sex, is obsessed with it. She tells all day, and is utterly controlled by men and their opinions of her. Jo is, simply put, a hypocrite. While she is a teacher in a male profession and writes her memoirs and urges her sisters to be strong - especially in the film version - she does not achieve true happiness until she is married to Friederich Bhaer, and, when she inherits money, she opens a school...for boys. Jo is "so the Carrie" - with all her big words about changing the regime, she only works to further it. The more these women talk about their control, the more it slips away.
The other sisters, too, fall neatly in line. Meg and Miranda are fussy and goal-oriented and work hard as a governess and a lawyer to save; but the louder Miranda speaks her liberation ("You two are crazy to get married. Marriage ruins everything," loudly promoting her vibrator), but she is the first to become ensnared in a marriage, and punished from a fun lifestyle with pregnancy and her husband's infidelity. Meg resists her suitors but then suddenly finds herself with twins and a redheaded bore of a husband. This is what being sarcastic and practical and voicing your aspiration yields: proof of lack thereof. The more they claim to like being old maids, the more they silently freak out and ultimately settle to solve their husbandless crises.
Amy and Charlotte are young, foolish, pretty, and fanciful. They loudly profess their spoiled natures and their desires to be a lady in a way that is similar to a sexual repressive discourse: as they discuss their aspirations of delicacy and admirations of nice things, they admit their utter lack of charm. Amy, to be a sophisticate and a show-off, steals citrus fruit, proving herself an utter rube; Charlotte claims to be worldly but still treats all gay men as novelties and accessories. Charlotte works in an art gallery and discusses art all day without producing it herself, and Amy produces maudlin landscapes for consumption in tea parties and other domestic atmospheres. They are also extremely reliant on men, although they insist otherwise. While Amy talks about travel and art, she quickly rushes into a marriage with drunk Laurie with little urging. While Charlotte pretends to be a fierce and independent city girl, she also rushes to intense relationships and marriage with any man she meets; many of whom are far below her standards (one is bald and Jewish, and she is punished for not marrying a normative Gentile with - gasp - an adopted Asian baby).
And finally, there are Beth and Samantha - both characters of much derision, but, I would argue, the only characters with any sense of irony about how fucking awful their cohorts and existences are (for which they are rewarded with consumption and cancer). Beth is a wimp and does not pretend to be lively or vivacious like her other siblings do. She knows her place is to gather rolls and sew. She does not talk about her freedoms or her goals, and thus retains some shred of likeability, and goes to heaven for it. Samantha Jones is a joke, a drag queen, and entirely one-dimensional - but unlike the other Sex and the City girls, she competely realizes this and winks to the camera. Her delivery is camp, unlike Carrie's earnest "if men were pairs of shoes..." monologues. She is Mae West among Doris Days. She is loathesome and when she talks about sex she admits she is entirely its subject and controlled by it. When Samantha coos a painful pun you wince, but it's just because of the bad script writing, not because, like the other three girls, she is living a lie. When Beth dies, you're sad, not because the character dies in such a sappy way, but because that's one less character to buffer yourself from the others; repressed even by the the standard of the 1800's.
In The History of Sexuality (1976), Michel Foucault writes about the "repressive hypothesis" - that, in human desire to become fully liberated and the masters of sexuality, their overbearing discourse and need to tell about it has actually made us more subject to it than ever. This example of duped self-owning can perhaps best be seen in two works about nauseatingly zesty women written over two centuries apart: the March sisters (Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy) of Little Women (Louisa May Alcott) and the "fashionistas" of HBO's Sex and the City (Miranda, Carrie, Charlotte, and Samantha). While all of these women openly discuss their liberation, one cannot help but notice their slavery to the heteronormative white male regime. And above all: none of these women can really grasp how truly annoying they are because of this.
Carrie Bradshaw/Jo March are writers: by nature, they reveal all, and think their lives are the braver for it. Carrie writes orgasm after orgasm and metaphor after metaphor, and Jo writes demure romances and vampire stories (which, updated on scale to today's standards, are probably similarly soft-core). Carrie/Jo assume all the stylized zest that comes with being a "writer:" having witty reparte with men, claiming their genius, wearing progressive clothing, and being incredibly selfish. And yet, they trick themselves into denying how backwards they really are! Carrie, by writing about sex, is obsessed with it. She tells all day, and is utterly controlled by men and their opinions of her. Jo is, simply put, a hypocrite. While she is a teacher in a male profession and writes her memoirs and urges her sisters to be strong - especially in the film version - she does not achieve true happiness until she is married to Friederich Bhaer, and, when she inherits money, she opens a school...for boys. Jo is "so the Carrie" - with all her big words about changing the regime, she only works to further it. The more these women talk about their control, the more it slips away.
The other sisters, too, fall neatly in line. Meg and Miranda are fussy and goal-oriented and work hard as a governess and a lawyer to save; but the louder Miranda speaks her liberation ("You two are crazy to get married. Marriage ruins everything," loudly promoting her vibrator), but she is the first to become ensnared in a marriage, and punished from a fun lifestyle with pregnancy and her husband's infidelity. Meg resists her suitors but then suddenly finds herself with twins and a redheaded bore of a husband. This is what being sarcastic and practical and voicing your aspiration yields: proof of lack thereof. The more they claim to like being old maids, the more they silently freak out and ultimately settle to solve their husbandless crises.
Amy and Charlotte are young, foolish, pretty, and fanciful. They loudly profess their spoiled natures and their desires to be a lady in a way that is similar to a sexual repressive discourse: as they discuss their aspirations of delicacy and admirations of nice things, they admit their utter lack of charm. Amy, to be a sophisticate and a show-off, steals citrus fruit, proving herself an utter rube; Charlotte claims to be worldly but still treats all gay men as novelties and accessories. Charlotte works in an art gallery and discusses art all day without producing it herself, and Amy produces maudlin landscapes for consumption in tea parties and other domestic atmospheres. They are also extremely reliant on men, although they insist otherwise. While Amy talks about travel and art, she quickly rushes into a marriage with drunk Laurie with little urging. While Charlotte pretends to be a fierce and independent city girl, she also rushes to intense relationships and marriage with any man she meets; many of whom are far below her standards (one is bald and Jewish, and she is punished for not marrying a normative Gentile with - gasp - an adopted Asian baby).
And finally, there are Beth and Samantha - both characters of much derision, but, I would argue, the only characters with any sense of irony about how fucking awful their cohorts and existences are (for which they are rewarded with consumption and cancer). Beth is a wimp and does not pretend to be lively or vivacious like her other siblings do. She knows her place is to gather rolls and sew. She does not talk about her freedoms or her goals, and thus retains some shred of likeability, and goes to heaven for it. Samantha Jones is a joke, a drag queen, and entirely one-dimensional - but unlike the other Sex and the City girls, she competely realizes this and winks to the camera. Her delivery is camp, unlike Carrie's earnest "if men were pairs of shoes..." monologues. She is Mae West among Doris Days. She is loathesome and when she talks about sex she admits she is entirely its subject and controlled by it. When Samantha coos a painful pun you wince, but it's just because of the bad script writing, not because, like the other three girls, she is living a lie. When Beth dies, you're sad, not because the character dies in such a sappy way, but because that's one less character to buffer yourself from the others; repressed even by the the standard of the 1800's.
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