I spent the day celebrating the birth of our nation by taking a long walk, stopping for an iced coffee while sweating all over the counter of a local food purveyor, and then organizing every square centimeter of my kitchen, which is thankfully very small (this is the first time I've ever said those three words together about my kitchen).
I found a million things to recycle (old cords and random cables, dead batteries, useless flashlights, empty tape dispensers), and finally tossed the billion recipes I printed from the internet or tore out of magazines over the years. These have been sitting mostly untouched in binders and notebooks, except for the lucky few I reach for again and again, which I then scanned with my phone for future ease of use and portability. I know my weak points. Never, ever print anything.
So this is one of those: the recipe for these cheese mushroom canapés was emailed to me on 9/15/00 by a guy I worked with for a couple of months at a prepress vendor in Madison, WI, called Digital Color. He brought them to a baby shower for our coworker Tami, and they have been the most popular hors d'oeuvre at my house at Christmastime ever since. They are delicious both hot out of the oven and cold out of the refrigerator the morning after, although they never last that long. You absolutely should make them if you are entertaining people you like, or your family. I suppose I could go to the trouble of typing it all out for you, but where's the fun in that? Please enjoy this 17-year-old email instead.
CLICK TO ENLARGE
Sadly I have to end this terrific post by admitting that I saved the printout, too. I try to take a hard line when it comes to hoarding objects for purely sentimental reasons, but this is precious to me. Clearly it has seen some things along the way, as have I, and is both battered and better for it (as am I).
I bought tickets to tour the 9/11 Museum and One World Trade Center this morning, but the museum was such an overwhelming experience that I could only wander around aimlessly afterward. You look at the photographs again and watch the videos and hear the stories and see what's left behind, and then you walk out onto these streets and you can't even imagine. I don't wonder that most New Yorkers stay away: if I had been here that day I would never go back. But all I kept thinking through the whole tour was "be a better person." It was staggering.
It's hard to know how to respond to all the commotion around the memorial itself, though, which is composed of deep cascading pools laid into the footprint of each tower. There are signs up along the perimeter reminding people it's a space for reflection, but the mood there...wasn't that. It was mostly tourists, as expected, and people treated it like another tourist attraction: posing for family photos and selfies, chasing kids around, laughing, and it's surrounded by shopping malls and train stations and a million horns honking, but maybe that's all a piece of what makes it sacred. It's a living place of remembrance dug deep into the bones of the city.
Three scenes from this morning.
1. At the post office: the federal government employees were not-quite-ready when I arrived at 8:00 a.m., although the USPS website clearly states that opening time is 6:00 a.m. and there was a small queue already forming inside. When the lady behind the bulletproof glass finally stepped up to her desk and rang the buzzer for station 2, the elderly woman with the cane standing at the front of the line took more than three seconds to respond, at which point the elderly man who was fifth or sixth in the line started hollering, "TWO! TWO! TWO!" until she began to move. Nobody commented on this. We all went about our business.
2. After the post office: I stopped at Lenwich for a bacon-egg-&-cheese-on-a-roll and an iced coffee (sugared to the F*@&!!!! degree), which is my standard Saturday summer routine, and then I headed back up Columbus to pick up my laundry (ditto). Approaching 85th St., I heard a commotion coming from further up Columbus, a man cursing to the air at the top of his lungs, which meant someone emotionally or mentally troubled or drunk or maybe just high on life was headed my way. Usually when this happens I cross the street, but instead I turned up 85th, figuring I'd wait until he passed, since people in this state are typically harmless but you never know. I got about an eighth of the way up the block and stopped next to a car, and when I turned back around I watched him pick up a heavy metal trash can from the sidewalk, lift it over his head, dump out the contents, and toss it out into the street. Then he continued down Columbus, still shouting, and I headed back the way I'd come. As I neared the corner, I watched two elderly, gray-haired ladies, strangers crossing from opposite sides of the street, silently stoop down to pick up that trash can and set it back on the sidewalk. They didn't say anything to each other, and we all went about our business.
3. After the laundry: On my way back to my apartment, I passed a man and a small boy wearing helmets and standing next to their scooters on a narrow patch of sidewalk narrowed further by construction on a multi-million-dollar townhouse. At first I thought they were waiting for someone to come out of the house, but as I squeezed by them I heard the man say to the boy, "That's so we can all share the sidewalk."
p.s. I read a blog post yesterday by a recent visitor to New York, who spent a day being a tourist and doing touristy things, and it was a lovely post by someone who appreciates what the city is from the perspective of a tourist, but who seemed baffled that anyone would choose to live here, and it ended with something like "I love Manhattan, but it just isn't for me." This is the kind of statement people make all the time, for no apparent reason and in response to no enticement, about a lot of different places but particularly in reference to New York City, and my reaction, as always, was "Thank god."
I love this picture. I love all behind-the-scenes set photos but especially this one. "Just lay there and look morose and sexy while bearded and naked from the waist up," is what I hope the direction was for this particular shot.
p.s. I hate to say it, but this is maybe...too buff, Y/N? Yet there's something about Justin Theroux that's indescribably goofy. When I figure out what this is, I will let you know. In the meantime, tip a hat: he's actually really good to dogs.
This movie is so delightful! It's sweet and warm and truly, deeply funny. I would call it the best comedy I've seen in years, but I can't even remember the last time I saw a really funny comedy. Maybe "Spy," which was a billion summers ago and not about real people (sorry, spy wannabes, your time is still not now). This one is lifted by a stellar cast and a generous point of view, and Chicago. The main character is also a stand-up comedian who isn't a secret depressive alcoholic rage maniac or the teller of dick jokes, which is always welcome, by me. And it's for grownups! Grownups who like quick wit and smart banter and the bonus genius pairing of Ray Romano and Holly Hunter.
p.s. What I love best about Kumail Nanjiani is how much he loves his wife, his family, and Hugh Grant.
When I first moved to Illinois and made hardly any money, my definition of luxury was the Embassy Suites in Lombard, which you can see from I-88 on your way from Naperville to Oak Brook or Chicago or wherever. There is nothing fancy at all about this hotel, but it's narrow and tall and it has a high domed green roof and the rooms form a ring around the perimeter of a hollow center lined with windows, which is lit up at night in a way that looks glamorous from the road, at least to me. I remember driving past that hotel year after year and thinking, someday I'll come back to this place from somewhere far away and that's where I'll stay, and I'll finally know what it's like to look out from the inside. That's where I stay now, when I visit, and what you can see is I-88, and a shopping mall, and a Chick-fil-A, and some low-lying office buildings, and the last time I stayed there, in May, I saw a car lit on fire on the side of the road.
The definition of luxury is different for everybody, but lately I've come to define it as small tokens of ease: tools or objects that make life better or more pleasurable in infinite, often unremarkable ways. So my idea of luxury these days is:
- SPF 50
- A car with air conditioning
- Air conditioning
- A car (no "small" token, but still)
- Spare rolls of toilet paper in the closet
- Spare rolls of paper towels in the cupboard
- A spare set of sheets in the closet
Furthest, fairest things, stars, free of our humbug,
each his own, the longer known the more alone,
wrapt in emphatic fire roaring out to a black flue.
Each spark trills on a tone beyond chronological compass,
yet in a sextant’s bubble present and firm
places a surveyor’s stone or steadies a tiller.
Then is Now. The star you steer by is gone,
its tremulous thread spun in the hurricane
spider floss on my cheek; light from the zenith
spun when the slowworm lay in her lap
fifty years ago.
— Basil Bunting (via Anecdotal Evidence)
I'll go to my grave hearing Patti Levin shout "Kevin!" This video title spells it "Kyevan" but I think it's more like "Kh-yev-uhn"—no fewer than three syllables, at least towards the end.
"Aw, you're on goddamn fire!"
She's so good! I'd almost say they were my favorite couple on the show but I love Nora & Kevin too much to ever make that claim.
This was taken right before or right after we tossed my Uncle Gary's ashes into a stream, cupful by cupful, hand by hand. It was a beautiful day. We remembered him well, there in the sunshine, surrounded by trees and flowers and birds and the sound of that water, and it felt like a holy thing, at least in the way I understand such things to be: not trapped in a dark place surrounded by strangers, no solemn hymns, no talk of heaven or higher beings, just a simple passage marked by family with kind words and laughter. That's a good life, I think, and not a bad way to leave it.
One of the New York Times’ favorite hobbies is batting down dumb things Chris Christie says about New York City, usually by pointing out that he’s from New Jersey, but also by highlighting the very specific nature of what it means to actually live in New York City.
Normal conversation here, as most New Yorkers know, consists of a garbled public address message that “downtown local trains are making express stops on the local track; for bypassed stations take the uptown express train making local stops on the express track,” followed by unprintable language, followed by someone yelling, “What time is it?” and his friends yelling “It’s show time!” followed by someone saying, “Are you getting a signal?
It goes on for quite a while, and is full of gold:
In Highbridge Park in Upper Manhattan, Ira and Karen Simon, who moved to the city four years ago, said a normal New York City conversation was often one struck up with strangers.
“We go out of our way to act as an ambassador of the city,” Ms. Simon, 66, a retired teacher, said. Her husband, a retired principal, added, “And then we demand loyalty from them!
And weird gold, uttered by sages:
Andrew Vladeck, 39, who performs as a singing cowboy under the name Hopalong Andrew, said that a “normal New York City conversation,” if such a thing existed, was an attempt to connect — about “a late train, an odd person, an odd smell” — and was characterized by “speaking clearly and directly.”
“It’s not speaking in innuendo or a vague manner,” Mr. Vladeck said.
Of Mr. Trump’s remarks, Mr. Vladeck said, “That wasn’t a New York conversation,” but “more like an Atlantic City conversation, if you get my drift.
This piece is of course accompanied by a photo of Hopalong Andrew, and you should see it.
I will miss this show so goddamn much. In the end, the only mystery was how do you live your life knowing with 100% certainty that you will lose every single person you love. And the best solution it had was this: you reach out a hand.
I've thought about this a lot lately, the defining characteristic of my favorite cultural and life endeavors, and I finally figured out that it's "generosity." A generosity of spirit and humor, an openness to asking questions that have not one but a thousand different answers, with each of those answers based on a personal experience, and each relying on a simple shared acceptance of understanding. What can you do but ask someone to trust that what you've experienced in this life is real? How can you express love or communion or faith or courage in any way but "yes"?
p.s. Neil Diamond was "the bomb," as they say in 2008. There was an overlong (and frankly unwelcome) bird interlude somewhere in the middle, staged to a video loop of swooping pigeons 'neath azure skies, along with some number I'd never heard before about a bunch of random people whose only connection to each other was that they were "done too soon." This was essentially a worse version of "You Didn't Start the Fire," itself one of the worst songs in the history of the world, only Neil's list included, for some reason, John Wilkes Booth.
Now "done too soon" is the sort of nonsense tautology that could apply to literally every person who has ever walked the earth (you seldom hear "he lived exactly the right number of years" when somebody croaks), except for someone like Hitler or Idi Amin or, of course, John Wilkes Booth. It wouldn't even occur to me that this was debatable. At first I thought perhaps I misheard a lyric, but there was JWB's face in the corresponding montage video, which actually made it worse.
And then I wondered why nobody has ever pointed this out to Neil. It made me concerned for him a little, that he hadn't realized what he was putting down in song was strange and unwise, and that nobody around him thought to mention it. In the end I guess I don't care about it all that much, except for being a thousand percent sure I don't need to hear any of those songs ever again.
Me shouting to Groucho during the bird segment: "This is like a Christopher Cross video."
Groucho shouting back to me circa John Wilkes Booth: "This must have been a low point in his career."
Here's where our faces tell the story of joy, followed by concern and confusion:
I realize I sound pretty harsh, but there was an entire row of very drunk forty-something folk sitting right behind us who were enthusiastic about Neil Diamond in all the wrong ways, and even though Groucho and The Old Man and I were appropriately behaved, it sort of colored my enjoyment of the whole affair. The lesson here is okay, have your fun, but also don't use that fun in an oppressive and encroaching way—through kicks in the back of the head and non-stop chatter and the repeated middle-aged screeching of the made-up word "beautimous"—to fuck it up for others. I can't even believe I have to type that out loud, but there you have it. 2017.
He did sing all my faves, though, and wrapped it up with "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show," which I hope we can all agree is a pure and unfettered force for good in the world.
Rock on! Enjoy your diamonds while you can! etc.
People always ask me when I visit "Chicago" if I actually want to go "into Chicago" and I almost always say of course not. I prefer to leave one large city and immerse myself deep in the burbs of another: it reminds me of many happy former and hopefully future days. Sure the burbs (and America!) are filled with chain stores and strip malls and teens, but there are also good people and wide lawns and cool neighborhoods and tasty tacos and pizza and beer. Obviously, hating on the suburbs or thinking there's only one legitimate place to live a fulfilled life says more about the person doing the hating than it does about any geolocation in question, IMHO. OOO. YMMV! Your life is yours, dummies, live it wherever you want.
So I got to do many of my favorite things in the suburbs this weekend:
- Stay in a big hotel room overlooking both a shopping mall and a major expressway
- Lie on a hotel room bed for hours drinking free room coffee and enjoying hotel wifi while watching Fixer Upper & Friends & Search Party on an enormous flatscreen TV before meeting my actual friends for actual meals
- Drive around the suburbs for hours in a rental car with the air conditioning AND the radio cranked up way past the point of logic and comfort
- Purchase a lot of goods I probably don't need but probably won't regret, either, although I just read and loved this whole article about how every single thing you buy is future garbage. I spent my money wisely on quality items/future garbage that will see me through many summers and storms, and most of it was on sale. I'm not really a bargain shopper but this is America! and bargains never hurt.
- See actual friends!
- Eat in restaurants 3x+ a day
- Eat tacos
- Shop at Target
- Drive thru multiple drive-thrus
- See Neil Diamond!
I drove past no fewer than six of my former apartments Saturday morning while listening to XRT and knocking back a tall Starbucks Cold Brew (which isn't half bad!). Then I met CV for tacos at one of my favorite joints, and we each had two carne asada tacos and Diet Coke and shared the medium guacamole, and it was glorious. A family of four came in while we there and one of the little girls ordered her carne asada tacos with just carne asada, no fixin's, which was a bold move for a child who instantly became my hero, and my heartlight faxed hers a silent salute of respect. CV, who is equally bold but in different ways, ordered hers with onion and cilantro/no sour cream and I ordered mine with everything. We all made choices and walked away winners.
Here's a tally of things I've abandoned in hotel rooms over the years, deliberately:
- Bridesmaid dresses
- Ill-fitting shoes
- Useless, too-small luggage
- Crushed hats
I realize this is shabby behavior, but I can't feel guilty about everything. Sorry I'm not always the world's best person. I did buy a new hat at Nordstrom (America!'s greatest department store) this weekend: it wasn't cheap but it's woven with SPF 50 AND I can wear it with my glasses on (it's harder to find a brim that accommodates both ears and frames than you might think). HOWEVER, even though this hat strenuously advertises itself as packable, my mom is going to have to ship it to me next weekend, and now I'll hear for the next thousand years how expensive it is to mail a box. Sometimes I suspect that I am her albatross, but we both made our choices and walked away winners.
Year after year, taped to my wall, this Polaroid fades away... Maybe it's sad but that's life! We are no Dorian Gray(s) nor would we wish to be. Better to age into bitter old crones enjoying tacos and new shoes and sweet Ryan Gosling pix once in a blue moon.
- I've been sick for two weeks.
- I will never be well.
- Buy stock in Kleenex.
- Buy stock in Dayquil.
- Life is not good.
- Life is the worst.
- But I streamed all of season 2 "Master of None."
- = many thumbs up.
- & I fly to Chicago on Friday.
- To see friends & family.
- & Neil Diamond.
- Life is okay!
Old spirit, in and beyond me,
keep, and extend me. Amid strangers,
friends, great trees and big seas breaking,
let love move me. Let me hear the whole music,
see clear, reach deep. Open me to find due words,
that I may shape them to ploughshares of my own making.
After such luck, however late, give me to give to
the oldest dance....Then to good sleep,
and—if it happens—glad waking.
— Philip Booth
Can you imagine?
In the meantime, their friendship grew through one of Sondheim’s favorite mediums, games. Natasha Richardson and Liam Neeson hosted holiday parties that included charades, in which Streep participated. Mia Farrow brought Sondheim to one.
“I play a different kind of charades than Meryl does,” he said. “I play running charades, in which there are two teams in relay. She likes to play the kind of charades where her team makes up all the things and our team acts them out and they giggle at what assholes we are as we’re doing it.”
Streep replied, “His version is too complicated to do when you’re drunk.”
From D. T. Max at The New Yorker: Stephen Sondheim and Meryl Streep Side by Side at the PEN Gala