June 2007 Archives

"Ladies and gentlemen, please have your identifcation out! All keys, cell phones, bags and anything metal must go through the security scanner!

"If you are here for a marriage license, congratulations! Please have your money order ready!"

By the way, it costs $35 to get a marriage license at city hall.

Now that the weather's warmer, most women are opting for dresses. It's just one of myriad things I've noticed that's different between here and L.A., which got me to thinking about raiment again.

And then I spent too long staring at Cyd Charisse's amazing green skirt while she was mouthing and dancing in the boxing gym number from "It's Always Fair Weather."

When it comes to clothes, I like clean lines and subtle details. And better yet if what you're wearing makes your exit even more exciting than your entrance.

The outfit on the lady with the longest legs in show business had all that and great movement too. It got me wanting to sew. But since I've yet to pay a visit to the Make Workshop, Sew Fast Sew Easy or (longshot) the Parsons School of Design, I decided to wander the sales racks instead.

The clerk at the shop sized me up, ushered me into a dressing room and started shoving dress after dress at me. While she waited, she chatted with her coworker, making licentious claims about the music on the PA — her mix from home, apparently. New Yorkers seem to have no compunction about a lot of things.

But me?

A steady, heavy rain fell as I left the store. And here I was without an umbrella. I wouldn't have minded walking home, but I would've put on a very public wet T-shirt contest. Being a respectable gal, I ducked into the nearest subway station, swiped my Metrocard and paid for the privilege of walking underground and staying dryish.

They say this city fuels creativity....

During my usual morning browse of stuff on the Web, I came across a cute, though job-specific (as opposed to widely relatable) poem.

AFAIK, it hasn't been floating around in the ether, so I thought I'd give it a little nudge.

The Copy Editor's Lament By George Martin

I was sitting on the copydesk
just watching o'er the scene
when the dealer sent a juicy
story over to my screen.
It had power, sex and politics and violence - it was great;
and the headline on the dummy said:
- 6 column 48.

So I rearranged the commas
and I tidied up the lede
and I patched up all the typos
and gave it one more read.
I typed in all the coding
and prepared to write the hed
when a voice came from the news desk,
and this is what it said:

Keep reading...

I didn't quite make it to Jazz at Lincoln Center last night, but I got close.

The organization held an event at The Samsung Experience, sort of like a Bang & Olufsen, but colder, and only featuring Samsung-brand goods. There's a stage at the back and the Victor Goines Quintet was up there cookin'.

Coincidentally, one of the musicians is from my hometown and had taken lessons from my music teacher. I'd heard about him years ago, but I'd never seen or heard him play until last night.

Jazz has always fascinated me, though I don't know how it happened. I grew up in a household where there were only three kinds of music: folk, classical, and Elvis. But at some point I started listening to big band swing, and eventually, I learned to play. From then on, I was hooked.

Last night's performance was mostly songs from the East Coast-oriented Duke Ellington songbook: "Perdido," "Caravan," "Prelude to a Kiss" — all songs that I've played, heard or danced to at one time or another.

But the band threw in a rendition of a piece from New Orleans that I wasn't expecting — the 2001 arrangement of an Ellis Marsalis' classic, "Swingin' at the Haven."

I've never heard the piece live, but within the first three chords, a flood of memories came back: the initial discovery of this arrangement, my own half-baked attempts to figure out the chart, the commutes back and forth in the car when I'd listen to the piece over and over, trying to get in my ears.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find a clip online, however, the All For One Foundation has another version available, and it's the featured music on this post.

Last night, I was ready for wherever the boys were headed. And I realized how much I missed playing myself.

Gotta get a gig, man.

In Lower Manhattan, the Italian neighborhoods still have a lot of Italian food shops, despite the gentrification.

Today I was introduced to a couple of the local treats. You could tell the cannoli from Rocco's Pastry Shop were the real deal: the filling in the chocolate cannoli had the slightly tangy taste of mascarpone cheese.

The guy who shared them had a couple extra vanilla ones. I looked at them; he looked at me. But he didn't give me the "Godfather" line. All he said was, "Don't let 'em go to waste."

Meanwhile, some colleagues were noisily cracking away at pistachios.

"Buhzeeneenuts," they said.

Huh?

A woman pointed to a bag the shape of a slim pound of coffee. An Italian woman read the label: "Ah! Baht-TZEE-ni!"

"It's not close to here, but if you love nuts, you have to go. Buy them in bulk, but be prepared to spend a lot of money. They're worth it though."

"I have this little theory that the arts were invented because life didn't measure up to what it was supposed to be. If life were wonderful, we would all dance, we would all sing, we would all be poets, we would all paint. As it is, the arts are the hospitals for our souls, so they need to be of the best integrity."

—Suzanne Farrell, interviewed by Emily Fragos in Bomb

The pre-concert recital Thursday had a distinct moment when a piece of music I'd never heard before connected with me.

Only problem was I was so spellbound, I forgot where I was in the piece. (It was either the second or the third movement of Charles Ives' Piano Sonata No. 2, "Concord, Mass., 1840-60.")

Having spent years at music lessons myself, it was nice to be reminded of what could result from patient effort. I remembered what it was to study a piece of music, and how remarkable it could be to present a new interpretation of something.

While I was only an OK musician, at least I have a little background to know great from good. And this? This was phenomenal. I sat in my first tier "box" at Carnegie Hall trying not to get vertigo though what I heard was making me dizzy.

My mind kept hearing the word, "Wow! ... Wow! ... Wow!" with every new phrase and the execution of a lot of extraordinary technique. Here was a guy laying forth crystalline ideas with authority, tenderness and consideration, and for those moments alone, the concert — which was otherwise eh — was worth it.

Ran a 5K this morning along the Hudson River Park.

The weather — cool and overcast — was perfect for a race. A light rain fell between miles 1 and 2, and for a little while, I thought of the park I used to run in by the Pacific Ocean. But unlike the dirt and gravel path there, the ground under me, like the city, was concrete and unforgiving.

Seeing as how I haven't run in several weeks, I finished in a decent time. But when I got home, I knew: My running days are numbered.

Thought I'd take the laptop out for a little fresh air today. But instead of hanging out at the Donnell Library Center as first intended, I took a detour to Starbucks on my way to the NYPL Performing Arts Branch.

One fruit salad, a venti passion iced sweet and a sample of the Orange Creme Frappuccino later, out comes the iBook for some work on a MacSite post.

But the noise in here is deafening....

Go to the website, decide on a concert and buy a ticket.

A couple nights ago I had a long think about my stay in New York so far, and realized that I haven't been going to see as much live music as I used to. In L.A., not only were there plenty of opportunities to see everything from big orchestras to indie rock trios, I also listened to a lot of stuff on the radio in my car. Music was an integral part of my life.

Now, I've unplugged myself from my iPod. I no longer have a car, ergo no car stereo. And at home, though I have a radio and iTunes, I don't listen often because this is the only place that seems protected from the 24-hour commotion that characterizes the City That Never Sleeps.

But music was a constant in my life, one that I miss. So when I received an email announcing a concert by the Emerson String Quartet (lovingly referred to as "the Emersons" by fans) performing works by Beethoven, my absolute favorite classical music composer, I picked up the phone and ordered a ticket.

Before I hung up, the guy taking my call told me there was a pre-concert recital by none other than the very funny and masterful pianist Jeremy Denk. I've never heard Jeremy perform solo before, so this should be a treat.

Concert review at 11 (or so).

For some reason, I've always liked children's books. Maybe it's because I still feel like a kid most of the time. Maybe it's because some of my earliest emotions and memories are associated with reading and being read to.

In the past few weeks, I've been hanging around a lot of babies and tots. While fretting last week whether a book was an appropriate baby present, a friend — himself a parent — offered some sage insight: even if the child is too young to read herself, the parents will probably read to her.

And suddenly I felt more sure of my choice.

So this week's reading list is dedicated to young and young-at-heart readers everywhere.

On the nightstand:
• "Next Stop, Grand Central" by Maira Kalman
(Amazon|BN|Powell's)
A graphic designer I once knew introduced me to Maira Kalman's art. It was odd, angular and when put in book form, looked like still drawings were constantly in motion. And for some reason, I liked them.

I tucked the thought into the back of my mind for many months. Then one day while browsing through a Super Crown Bookstore I found myself facing a pile of Maira Kalman remainders.

Among the many titles was "Ohh-la-la (Max in Love)," "Max Goes to Hollywood, Baby" and "Chicken Soup, Boots." I bought all three. When the youth writing workshop 826LA opened in my part of town, I donated them to their reading library.

But I kept "Next Stop, Grand Central," Kalman's survey of the people who ride New York's subway.

Preview the book at Maira Kalman's website.



• "Follow the Line" by Laura Ljungkvist
(Amazon|BN|Powell's)
The New York Times Sunday Book Review had a warm review of the book, which was published late last year. "Follow the Line" reminds me of "Harold and the Purple Crayon," one of my favorites when I was in grade school.

After playing around on the website and paging through a copy at the bookstore, I decided this was the right pick for my friends. I hope it will be a favorite of theirs.



• "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" by Laura Joffe Numeroff
(Amazon|BN|Powell's)
826LA had asked me to read to young kids one weekend soon after they opened. The director said they didn't have books, so I'd have to bring my own. And could I come up with a theme within my selections so we could do an art project after the reading?

Ack!

My theme became "one thing leads to another," and this story, which follows a boy's thoughts about what would happen if he gave a mouse a cookie, fit perfectly.



• "Kikker in de kou" ("Frog in Winter") by Max Velthuijs, translated by Transworld Publishers Limited
(Amazon|BN|Powell's)
I went to Belgium a few years ago with a rudimentary grasp of Dutch. To help myself along, I went to the local boekhandel and browsed the children's section for something to read. Author-illustrator Max Velthuijs' spare but heartfelt drawings and simple stories of Kikker, or Frog, and his friends won me over.

I didn't realize at the time that I'd fallen for an icon of European children's literature — the book "Frog is a Hero" was part of Britain's national curriculum for a time — but the language was simple enough that I caught on right away.

Dank u wel, Max Velthuijs!

The English translations are probably more appropriate for the youngest of readers. Older kids might be a little bored by the plainness of the stories. But then again, I'm a big kid and I really like the books....

I'm not sure when it began, but at some point I started buying museum memberships. I liked the idea of supporting the betterment of a city's cultural life -- even if it was a place I'd never visited.

Over the years I've joined art museums like LACMA, MOCA, the Walker Art Center and SFMOMA.

I've donated to others as well: the USS Constitution Museum, the Milwaukee Public Museum and the Smithsonian Institution.

I've thought about spreading the love to Seattle, which has a fantastic art museum and a much-celebrated public library; and Boston, which used to be home to the Computer Museum (now integrated in the city's Museum of Science as the Computer Clubhouse).

So on a visit to the Guggenheim Museum last year, I bought a membership. The distinctive flower pot-like building was shrouded in scaffolding, but I've seen enough photos to be enchanted.

Since I moved to New York, I haven't been. But I found a compelling reason in New York magazine's "Agenda" newsletter:

Alarmed by the obsolescence of celluloid film, Hugo Boss prizewinner Tacita Dean visited a Kodak factory in France on the eve of its closing. Kodak, her 45-minute film, lovingly documents the miles of machinery cranking out luminous sheets of her chosen medium. But it’s the watery four-minute loop of Noir et Blanc, shot on her precious remaining five rolls of 16mm black and white, that’s the most moving elegy; it transmits a preternatural sense of loss.

It sounded great. Unfortunately, it wasn't. Oh well. The show ends June 6.

For the curious, read about the Hugo Boss Prize, awarded annually by that Hugo Boss.

Tonight friends welcomed their daughter into the covenant that has bonded the people of Abraham and Sarah to God for thousands of years.

It was the first time I've ever attended any sort of Jewish temple service, but there was a strange familiarity to it.

Partly, it was the people: many were friends and parents of friends I'd met years ago when the happy couple with the baby first married.

Partly, it was the readings from the "Gates of Prayer," a good portion of which were in Hebrew. The sounds of "Baruch hata adonai..." reminded me of seders and latke parties I've been happy to be a part of.

Partly it was the post-service social afterward — coffee, fruit, and more desserts than you could shake a stick at, including a cheesecake a man said was "to die for." (It was pretty good.)

But mostly, it was that sense that all around me was a desire for connection to something greater than ourselves — a divine spirit, a community, an unbroken line of history that will continue for generations.

Seems like people can't get enough of Leonard Cohen's 1984 ditty, "Hallelujah."

If you can't either, check out the variations on a theme on My Old Kentucky Blog.