What I've Been Up To

Shtuff Fellow-ette's been a-Readin:

Under the Banner of Heaven, By Jon Krakauer. In Cold Blood stlye true-crime narrative mixed with sickly engrossing details about the ways of Mormon fundementalists, from the inbred horrors of Colorado City Az/Hillsdale Utah, to the raving lunatic who kidnapped Elizabeth Smart and took her as his second wife, so that he could "live the principle." Puts some context behind the soap-operaisms of Big Love.


44 Scotland Street, by Alexander McCall Smith. An ode to Armistead Maupin's fucktastic Tales of the City series (if you haven't read it, read it!) set in stuffy Edinburigh. Smith's characterization and sympathy are well in evidence here, but the unresolved story lines and unnecessary philosophical meanderings make me long for Precious Ramotsowe!


Empire Falls, by Richard Russo. I thought this book was a tour de force, a story of fractured, miserable small-town life post-industrial era, with jobs and dignity fled, and childhood rivalries playing out in the next generation. A really straightforward, but tragically deep, narrative with (do I hear it?) echoes of Middlemarch. Or maybe that's Middlesex?


The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. A ripping good yarn, and an examination of the tragedy, the layers of violence, that is modern Afghanistan. Perhaps some of the symbolism is too overt, the parallels too pat, but I couldn't put it down!

Bridge's Subway Adventures, Part Deux

Yo, so check it. It was the day of atonement. I hadn't had any food or coffee. I was standin' at my local subway stop, the 1-9-1, when in rolls this train. There are four honeys standing between me and that dirty-ass seat on the A train, which will take me to the house of the Lord to seek entry into that Book of Life.
They take their time getting on board. And suddenly the doors are closing on me, literally, frightening. Like the seasoned New Yorker I am, I push through. I curse, not loudly but with expressive lip-movement. I sit down, flushing with the rawness of the fact that I am mid-sin on Yom Kippur.
I hear giggling. Four of my new students are sitting across from me, having seen the whole thing. Fortunately, I salvage a modicum of dignity by applying dry sarcasm to the situation.
Doesn't this just seem destined to happen to moi?

***********
So the New York Times says reading the Torah makes you a good parent... I always thought being a good parent makes you a good parent. You learn something new every day.

Tuesday Bluesday

Yesterday I won the heart of one of my tutees by recognizing her reference to a Velvet Underground song, and regaling her with the time I saw Lou Reed at the Beacon in leather pants.

He was in leather pants, that is. And they were gorgeous. And my friends and I had snuck in a poland spring bottle that wasn't poland spring, making it all the better. But I didn't tell her that part.

I'm wondering if I should give up the tiny smidgen of pretense I have of being a good role model and just embrace being a "cool" teacher/tutor thoroughly, start bragging about my nonexistent tatoos and the nonexistent trail of brokenhearted exes/heroin habits in my past. And then offer my students some nonexistent weed. Thought, dear readers?

...But c'mon now folks, who can forget hearing their first Velvet Underground album? I mean, I'm not going to describe it here because I'm saving it for fiction/memoirs, but even more than the Beatles or Bob, that was a seminal moment. Let's just put it that way.

Lou, I love you!


PS I had another crazy early morning dream involving a kidnapped Chelsea Clinton, Mel Gibson, a car crash and financial ruin. But not necessarily in that order. Try to interpret that, Sigmund.

PPS Studio 60 on the sunset strip needs to make like Aaron Sorkin when he tokes up and CHILL THE FUCK OUT. Hello, it's a show about a COMEDY. But it's kind of seriously addictive.

Oh, Heavens.

I've always had somewhat sensitive skin, but this morning's topper was two massive red zits, nonexistent yesterday, on the tip and bridge of my nose, which already is somewhat prominent. I had a slice of pizza with an 11th-grade tutee yesterday, and I swear to GOD, that shit's contagious. Now I just look like a bloody alcoholic and I can't leave my home. On second thought, that's just cause I'm lazy.

In other equally really really important news, the life of someone working three part-time jobs while trying to finish a novel and advance her freelance career is less like a roller coaster and more like one of those jerky haunted-house kind of rides, where the mean people jumping out at you are the specters of your own doubts, regrets, and laziness(es).

But at least I can sleep in!

Another Rainy Day...

Yesterday I had a series of public transportation disasters as only can happen in New York including: an inordinate wait for a train that jus din' come...

*a bus ride that included a wheelchair passenger, agonizingly lifted and lowered, lifted and lowered. And you want to be like, hey, I'm all for your rights, but you're also like, shit I'm so fucking late right now. You know what I'm talking about.

*an unplanned stop at the bus terminal to switch drivers, discuss said switch, and then for driver numero dos to "test out" the equipment, the seatbelt, etc. Safety first!

*rainy day slowness on both rail and caravan routes.

Anyhooch, the day was improved upon with a visit to my chic SoHo fiction-writing workshop. The class was smaller, more intimate, and more relaxed on round two, a relief and an inspiration.

Other random thoughts:

On Rock Star: Supernova, Dilana was robbed, mothafuckas...
Also, watching her performance has led to a huge surge in lipsynching in my apartment.

Proof that I am sometimes really a real-life Bridget Jones

We're not even going to talk about opening the fridge door at Mani Marketplace on W. 94th, and watching in slow mo as a half-gallon of lactaid tumbled off the shelf and coated the floor with its milky (but lactose-free and digestible!) contents.




No. But what we will talk about is the particle of dust that snuck its way up my nose in the bowels of the subway system, far beneath the intersection of 168, B'way, and St. Nicholas...ready to make my life hell.
I sneezed once, with a ferocity that surprised even me.
Twice.
"Bless you," someone muttered.
Three times.
I started to blush. But still, it wasn't a snotty, blechy kind of coldy sneezing fit. It was obviously a something's up there kind of sneezing fit.
Four times.
I was aiming right into the crook of my arm, looking away from everyone, smushed at the end of my bench and leaning into the empty space by the door, like the 'asponsible citizen I am.
Nonetheless, by 175th street, the elderly pair of real estate dealers, he in a bow-tie and stiff expression, glanced at me warily, and then...
without a HINT of subtlety or consideration for my poor nasal passages...
MOVED to the other end of the car. To avoid me and my nonexistent germs!
Six, seven, eight.
At this point some sympathetic older guy who didn't speak much english started making facial expressions which were a cross between understanding and hitting-upon. This did not comfort me.
We passed 184th, and I had now sneezed at least 15-20 times. I desperately considered getting out here and walking the extra five blocks home, but then there was the issue of the elevators... If i stood in one of them and this attack continued, I might alienate half my neighborhood.
22, 23, 24.
People were definitely staring at me.
At last, as we pulled into 190th, I dashed off my car, and as I was climbing up the stairs, I sneezed lucky sneeze number 31. "Bless you," said someone, for the first time since sneeze No. 2.
32, 33.
Then I had my own, hometown elevator to deal with; my final test. Would it be my waterloo, or would I contain it?
I breathed in deeply and concentrated, as the elevator rose, rose, from Bennett ave up to Ft. Washington. I itched and I twitched...
And I didn't sneeze! Not til I hit the street, and there, it was sort of a final honk of victory. My ordeal was over. Home was near. I had made it.


Moralz of the story: One mini-pack of tissues is never enough. Old real-estate agents with bow-ties are mean, selfish creatures. If at first you don't expel the dust from your nose; try, try, again.

Next time: The story of the hiccuping dude on the D out to Coney Island.

Things I Hate...

*skinny jeans (ugly)
*annoying women talking on subway about their tribulations (loud)
*hayfever (sneezy)
*Lance Armstrong (cad)
*laundry (un-done)

oh my saints... oh my stars

SO much to report, blogland. SO much to report.

First of all, in family news, mon frere, il a depart a L'Ecosse hier soir. C'est Dure!!!!! I miss him already even though we've gmail chatted three times today. Glasgow is putting its party hat on for him... slainte, brotha man! I'll be there soon, kilt on.

Second of all, in career news... I decided firmly that my non-acceptance to a certain verrrryyy prestigious magazine internship was a sign from the cosmos (a spiritual atheist's superstition) that I should, well, to quote what Astrophil (aka Sir Philip Sidney)'s muse said to him, "Fool, look in thy heart and write!"
So I bared my teeth. I applied up to tutor privileged youngsters, with a very professional, nice-seeming organization. I applied up to teach grammar on saturdays to underprivileged youngsters. I signed up to help my parenting magazine put out a teen issue (I'm to be the "deputy editor"), and I spent a butload of money (considering my current situation) enrolling in a fiction workshop to help speed my novel (now approaching 40 thousand words) towards something resembling completion. I vowed I would finish the book, because all these commitments together would still leave me time to write every morning.

And then I got a phone call offering me the original job. Apparently, I was the numero uno runner up.

I was excited, I was flattered...and, dear reader, I turned it down!

(Gnarls Barkley playing in background... does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazeee? Possibleee. [NB: I used to think this line was either "eyes so blue" or "eyes of blue", but I've been corrected]...)

Karmically, I just couldn't do it. It's not even as much about committing to the three jobs, although that matters, as it is what I promised to myself. I told myself fhat I would take my fiction, my dream, and massage it until ittoo, got rejected, and I settled into pragmatism--or I landed a contract and a movie deal, and people compared me negatively to Marisha Van Pessl and Curtis Sittenfeld, but teenage girls bought my books in droves and had crushes on my dreamy hero so I didn't care about the snotty reviewers.

So that's what I'm doing. And should that fail, I will re-apply to internshipland.
*****************************

Third of All, in Education News:

Completely shameless self-promotion: emails from a few students after hearing I've left teaching to try to write for magazines.

______________________________

Hi Ms. [Fellow-ette] How are you? I miss you so much. You are realy a good teacher.
I feel so bad when i hear you are not teach. Today when i waik through my english class i look in your class i so another teacher. This year my english teacher is Ms.[redacted]. I love you so much and i want to be in your class. I pass the math regents.

Your love [Student A, who is ESL]

______________________________

Hey ms.[fellow-ette],

I hope all goes well for you with the magazine. I was hoping that you
were going to return this year to teach juniors:) but i'll keep in touch though....
I actually have Mrs. [redacted] for english this year, she seems alright....
Once again, [very talkative student] happens to be in my class :( lol
Since Junior year is my most important year, im going to make it
my best year:) .........
well i guess i'll talk to you later,
[student B, who clearly got her elementary ed in the suburbs]

______________

good luck with your new job i hope you do very well with that career path
i will stay in touch
you are a wonderful teacher

[very succinct student C]

_________________

damn, that's sad.... a great [school name] loss there is... good luck to u.... i'll see what u write on ur magazines..... hope that is no cosmo mag XD

[student D, who loves ellipses]

___________________

ok thank you ms.[f] anyways good luck to you and yea i will and yea i am going to tell you everything hopefully everything goes fine, by the way is junior year hard?and take care much love.....[student E, who hates punctuation]

_________________

first day:

it was cool untill it started to rain and I got my new sneakers wet.... me and [very hyperactive student] went to eat at wendies and we were cracking up on the old times.... ALSO he did some ghetto shit XD.... he went to get a metro card from the machine WITH COINS!.... a long line was made.... one coin fell... we made some people angry and the lady on the cabin was yelling at him with the MIC. it was FUNNEY!
Att: [student D again, reporting on first day of school]

PS: WE miss u and [very hyperactive student] says for u to write him

_____________________

it's amazing how these kids, who all hated me at times, let the good times supercede the bad in their memory! And so does their teacher (she tries, anyway).

Lastly, read

Capsule Reviews of Books I Read Pre-, During, and Post-vacation

The World According to Garp, by John Irving

This was, I hate to admit it, my big reading accomplishment of the summer. The first 300 pages consisted of me putting the book down at intervals and conemplating hurling it off various Prince Edward Island cliffs. Then people started dying, pathetically and gruesomely, and losing various limbs and other appendages, and it actually became touching and moving and sad. But there was too much unnecessary dismembering and extramarital affairs for my liking, and for the effort and plot twists, I'd take Dickens or Eliot any day.

Tara Road, by Maeve Binchy

A complete gem of a book, sweet and knowing and wise and full of that irish lilt and yarn-spinning. I thought it was an excellent portrait of the changing economy of Ireland, the way we cope with tragedy, and the funny ways life has of healing us. As a portrait of tragic death and extramarital affairs, I'd honestly say that although not done in the same tour-de-force way as J.I, I was more affected and absorbed by Binchy's more conventional, gentle, fairy tale.

Five Little Pigs (aka murder in retrospect) by Agatha Christie

The Dame at her best. A hot-tempered artists, his long-suffering wife, his coterie of friends, his mistress, his art... and Hercule Poirot. Hot stuff.

The Blue Castle, by L.M. Montgomery

Lucy Maudlin's only book written for an adult audience: it has a hint of scandalous gothic thriller a la Louisa May Alcott pre-Little Women, a strong dose of irreverent humor, some romance, and the rapturous descriptions of nature we know and love in our Lucy Maud.

Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea, Anne of the Island, by L.M. Montgomery

The best re-re-re-re-re-read ever, excepting the Emily books.

The Happy Prince (story) and the Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde

The first's a sweet, sad, sentimental, parable
The second we all know-- witty, surreal, morally dubious, and terribly clever. And I'm only halfway done because I've seen it put on as a play and I can't bring myself to move forward.

The Sunday Philosophy Club, Friends Lovers, Chocolate, and The Right Attitude to Rain (fothcoming, thanks for the Galley swvl) by A. McCall Smith

Isabel Dalhousie is a Scottish philosopher-ess, and the descriptions of Edinburgh, the moral quandaries therein, and the man-eating delicatessen owner, Cat, are all fantastic, clever, tender and amusing... a worthy euro-peer to Mma Ramotsowe...

September's comin round the mountain...

I have no regrets about not being tied in knots over the prospect of school starting again this year... no dread about lesson planning, no anxiousness about my CUNY grades or profs, and no horror of anticipation and dread at the thought of my ex-classroom, "the cave", a massive-lecture-hall sized former home-ec classroom, which was picked by pigeons as their nesting ground, mice as their scampering ground, and electric switches as their turning-off ground.

But I really miss my students. I miss their company, their hilarity, their curiosity, and their scrutiny of my clothes. I wish a hundred times a day that my sense of humor last year was what it is now. But of course, I needed these months off to re-nurture it.

I went to the post office today to mail The Metamorphosis to a former student of mine who needs to read it for honors. I am throughly freaked out at the prospect of two or three kids--or maybe even ten, swinging by my room to say hi, and not finding me there, so I'm going to send them an email next week warning them. And then it will be time for me to move on.

back from canada...

T






























There's nothing worse, methinks, than returning from a vacation somewhere wild and infinitely gorgeous, to New York on a rainy sunday. New York has a beauty all its own, of course, and it's my home and I adore it. But when it rains, and one has just returned from a place where the rain would make everything soft and misty and enchanted, to a place where rain is dreary and washes garbage down the street... well. You see what I mean.

Canada was excellent. From the gentle curves of Prince Edward Island, to the treeless, angry red cliffs and turbulent seas of the North Atlantic hittng the Isles Madeleine, all was frais and belle: beaches woods, and amazing seafood. Being in Francopone Canada was bizarre and amusing; ah, for those quebecois accents and the outpost of real culture in the wild.

And lastly, visiting Green Gables, tourist trap though its become, inspired my entire family to reread the place's namesake book and to my annoyance/secret pleasure, nickname me "Anne" when I get too chatty. It's inspired me to re-read the series literally for the fifth or sixth time if not more, which is saying a lot considering that it's eight books long and I've jist finished two. But and every word, every scene, is like an old friend. So having Anne with me has eased my return to urban life, and coming home to my wonderful amie and the excitement of moving and starting anew is also a plaisir. Adieu, readers.

The sentimental,

F.E.

les photos....the sea in its infinite moods...

mmmm.... Drano!

AGW spent the last hour pouring liquid chemicals down her bathtub drain ...then scrubbing out the the tub, in honor of it being three weeks until move-out time (again). Bien sur, fellow-ette and her copain are moving on up... to Ft. Washington avenue, a mere three blocks from the gorgeousness that is Ft. Tryon Park. True, the rent, low by NY standards, probably (definitely) means we'll be living beyond our means for a while, but hey... no more roaches, no more jehovah's witnesses knocking on our doors, no more crazy neighbors who stuff the chute full of trash, and no more elevators breaking in the middle of every heatwave.
Yes, it's been an eventful summer. And to counterbalance the current madness, the future prospect of living equidistant from FTP and Frank's, home of truly delicious muffins and iced coffee, is enough to make a life-long New Yorker raise a half-eyebrow in pleasure.

Amazing things I've discovered during my downtime this last week or so:

1. The texan governor's race is a hoot. I'm going Kinky.
   
2. The mysterious, Eastern voice behind several emerging bhangra-ton (for lack of a better term) hits turns out to be another "other."*
3. Celebrity split-up, round 1 billion: somebody I was with recently called this tragedy. Who was it? (But seriously, those Hawn/Hudson women need some empowerment 101)
   
4. Even fascist countries acknowledge global warming.
5. My own version of Gawker Stalker/entire summer edition: , on 194th and broadway, a very very small Jodie Foster and somewhat less tiny Neil Jordan, filming their new movie. Also, robert Downey Jr.'s wife, a producer. At the Film Forum: Ethan Hawke, buying popcorn. On 80th and Columbus: a dour-looking defeated Joe Lieberman. (insert victorious laugh here)
   

I'm leaving these parts in a few days for the glory of our neighbor up north (Oh, Canada!) with ma and pa and brother, where we will dine on mussels and build our muscles via biking, hiking, and bodysurfing. I hope my dwindling readership enjoys these last, golden days of summer, and is able to function unimpeded by the neuroses that accompany the anticipation of Autumn (if you're feeling depressed about going back to school/work/moving, etc....just think: corduroy!).

xoxoxo.
<3>
f.ette


*meant with due irony

Sorbet is good.

There's been a long, long hiatus from my active participation in this blog. I know you've been pining for a little bit of my trademark haterade-drinkin, wit-spewin, system-bringing-down- bloggin'.

But it's hard out there for an imp (ish online persona).

First of all, I'm not really fellow-ette any longer, and I'm not going to lie that that's giving my blogging a bit of a struggle finding a vrais identity. Should I sign my posts "semi-unemployed-but-still-on-payroll-ette"? It doesn't quite roll off the tongue. Neither do I wish to be "journalista," yet/ever because...eww.

(Incidentally, though, for readers who gallivant on the upper east side... check out the chartreause drop-boxes containing this mag to see a little of fellow-ette's work/selling-out. I know there's a semi-full one on 72d and lex... the one on 79th and 3rd got emptied today.)

______________________________________

Other Updates.

• For reviews of Miami Vice, which I attended here in WaHi with Shook, Twist, and Swivvle click here (and follow the links, biatch).
• To read about the charming Scottish author who's been charming me on my subway rides, click heah. Viva Mma Ramotswe!
• Check out a hot hot hot new video, thanks to my EW-reviewin' life companion...
• To exult over the ouster of that shonda, Joe Lieberman, just breathe in the sweet sweet aroma of justice.

_____________________________________

And in conclusion...
Still hung up on edjumication? Read this e-mail from a fellow just -uit fellow-ette, which mysteriously made its way to AGW:

I just got the new "NYCTF Bulletin" and it is plastered with stuff for new teachers and it made me really MAD so I just needed to vent... For example, I noticed that it says that your NYC Board of Ed. mentor will visit you TWO TIMES PER WEEK, with one observation and one meeting. My mentor, who by the way was worthless and who I also heard makes a lot of money, visited me AT MOST once per month, and didn't even start observing me until second semester. In fact, my [CUNY college A] mentor who came once a month observed me more than she did. Honestly, if I had had even one person who gave a damn how I did and how I was doing, my first semester would have been so much better. Instead, I got hired so that I could be fired in a year, my school treated me like shit, observations were threats rather than designed to help, and literally no one cared. I got observed ONCE by my principal, and driven out with the threat of a "U" for the year, so I would be kicked out of the program. I guess getting this newsletter reminded me of how I felt a year ago -- like I was nervous but really CARED and wanted to do it and do a good job -- and the year just sucked all of it out of me. I'm just so mad that they set people up for failure and threaten people with paying back money if they quit. Or that they pretend to care and actually just want to get a person in the classroom and scare you enough to stay there. It makes me so mad all over again, even though I'm not even doing it anymore! I want to write an editorial or letter or something about all of this. [Elite College A] RECOMMENDS this program. [Elite College B] probably does too. It's so absurd. The program is just a huge sham. Or something

Just so my readers remember why this all started.

Thanks fellow fellow-ette, for letting your words leak to AGW's readership.


xoxoxox.

/the artist formerly known as fellow-ette.

____________________________

...Oh and Peee ESSSS, the reason for the post title is because I'm eating sorbet right now. Sharon's sorbet, mixed berry, and it's seriously yum. Go, Sharon.

Hot Child in the City

It's been so humid in the citay that one could cut the proverbial air with a proverbial knife. So I've been dealing with hizzeat by being as cool as I possibly can. It all started with 'ritas and aps on the west side with J-Dawg my bestest bud from HS, and we followed it up with hip-hopping on the lower east, former home of the squalid tenements and sweatshops of our immigrant ancestors, where we hit hotspots Pianos, Schiller's, and some French place that was so authentic, it even had its own Tabac.

Unfortunately, the combination of vin blanc, more plebian booze, and horrifying weather ensured that I had a headache and nausea and was out of commish for the nextish day. Nonetheless I rode out with dad and bro (and clutching stomach to hold on to its contents) to the hottest of suburban destinations, north-central jersey, to chill at the uber-greasy truck stop Pal's Cabin with a renowned architect and grandpa. Then on to Newark, to surprise mom with a pick-up-- she was coming, coming, back back from Cali Cali.
But then the apocolypse, in guise of a torrential thunder and lighting storm, arrived, grounding my mom in Hartford of all places (no offense, M. Twist), and sending eddies of rainwater into the baggage claim area at Newark (or Liberty for you hopeless patriots). So we turned 'round. But the food in the airport was gone, and things looked pretty grim. Lesson for today's world: bring luna bars, agua, and reading material wherever you go.

Saturday night we kicked it in the 10040 with J-dawg and Yo It's... Sunday was Columbus Circle/hell's kitch with a cameo from Twist, and I got new running shoes. They were not Nikes (fuck Nike).

Oh, and the weather finally de-humidified and is dry and delightful. And Entourage made me squirm (booo, Eric).

So that's my keepin' it cool narrative. The end.

roaches killed today: 2
good apartments snatched up this weekend while I was dallying: 2 (but it's cool, yo)
delicious brunches I enjoyed in the 'heights with free muffins, soy cheese omelette option and fresh squeezed Oj- but absolutely no line whatsoever:-1
Number of responses when you google my name and john tierney's together: 1

Where should I live?

Want to help me out?

Browse
here,
here,
or maybe

here
or
HERE.


a slightly disgruntled former teach.

Oh, procrasturbating

AGW is going through a crisis of inaction. After a delightful weekend in Brewster, tha cape, with MommaVoz and a hot immigrant bitch, she came back to the sweltering city with her subconscious determined not. to. work. That's not good when you're ostensibly a self-motivated freelancer. But it's not like I've been sitting doing nothing. I've been tooling around with what was once a "long piece of fiction" but has as of today crossed the 20,000 word mark and become a novel-in-progress. This is nothing new for me. I have several novels-in-progress that are very much not in progress, but this one has made it pretty far, and I'm hoping to do something with it, even if that means just sending it around to my friends, Earl of Rochester style.

Or publishing it in its entirety HERE, on AGW, first.

J/K mah peoples. I would never subject me or you to that.

So on the subject for which this blog was originally created, I wrote a letter to the editor responding to John Tierney the prick, who was in turn responding to a brilliant story in the WSJ. The gist of my letter, which won't be published because it was too long, was: test scores prove that kids can learn regardless of environment. But environment determines whether or not kids will pursue education. So public schools need more, not less money. And why white assholes in suits like tierney don't get that is because they're self-satisfied bigots.

**********

That aside, I've been reading up a storm, one of the reasons I think I've been inspired to write so much. Here are my (parenthetical) instantaneous reviews:

Fun Books (or as snobs would say, "Summer Reading")

Academy X (about my Alma Mater) by Andrew Trees
The Devil Wears Prada (boring and poorly written but it hooks ya) by Lauren Weisberger
Circle of Friends (seriously made me feel like I was back in Ireland, ohmigod soooooo good) by Maeve Binchy

Depressing books (or as snobs would say, "Real Books.")

In Cold Blood (siiiick, as my brother would say) by Truman Capote
Wide Sargasso Sea (also siiick, Jane Eyre in Reverse and modernist), by Jean Rhys
The Unbearable Lightness of Being (A lot of references to sex and shit for a book with "lightness" in the title. But the style of the translation is haunting and sticks with you.) by some Czech dude. Milan Kundera. word. Thanks, pasty.

Aight, that' s all folken. Til tomorrow, or the next time I'm bored/procrastinating.

La cucaracha

Ahh, new york. There's nothing like it. Among the critters we've gotten friendly with up here is the old fashioned roach (no, not that kind of roach, shook) , thanks to the heat and general creakiness of the building. Fortunately, ours are fairly tiny, not like the massive waterbugs from hell that used to crawl out of the drains in Harvard's oldest and most respected "House" dormitories.
I don't know why I'm writing about these fellas (and how I've gotten super at tracking them down, killing them, and smokin' em out) except to gross out any jappy readers out there. Because if you're not shaking your manicure in disgust and saying "Ewww!' and then turning on those heels and guiltily coming back for more, I'm not satisfied.

Also, note to moms: There aren't that many, okay?

Item 2:

So the story I've been working on for my little family magazine that could is about finding the perfect nanny. After interviewing an intense number of intense mothers, I started thinking about my own students and how that aggressive parental zeal was lacking in their lives. After all, working class parents don't have time or money to do the kinds of insane things the bourgeoise and or wealthy do for their kids-- but ironically (and this is why I hate capitalism) their kids need it more. Without tutoring, and nannies, and college counselors, rich kids would still be bright and literate and set up for success.

Item 3:
This is the foundation I want to start to rectify the imbalance described above:

_________

You are invited to a benefit for...
The Nest is Never Empty Foundation

Pairing empty nest manhattan parents with public high school students in the Bronx to give them:

• cultural excursions, to museums, films, and parks
• Tutoring-- to sign these kids up with tutors, literacy coaches, Kaplan, regents prep people, or what have you...
• College counseling-- from finding four-year schools, to helping with applications, to haggling for financial aid...
• Mentoring-- to check up on students' homework, social lives and emotional lives.

_________________________

Now in no way would these empty-nest boomers be replacement parents. Rather, they would use their formidable system-beating skills to help guide the families of students who weren't picked for specialized high schools, prep-for-prep, or other life-changing alternatives as young kids, but who could aim just a little higher if they had the right guide. Getting these kids into SUNYs instead of CUNYS, for instance, would be a huge accomplishment. And the insane energy so many NY parents devote to their kids would go somewhere useful, instead of to refilling their Xanax prescription or retiring to play golf.

Now, George Soros, are you reading this? Sponsor me!

Washington Heights = Paradise

Birds, not bandits, lurk outside my home...

Okay, so last night I kept my hard-working boyfriend awake for half an hour with a dash of insane paranoia about someone being outside our window, and I'm sorry, but I'm not far from wrong.
Because this morning, after he unbedgrudginingly trotted off to work, I woke up again (weak, and weary) to an insistent tap-tap-tapping at that very window--blearily, I assumed it was either a pigeon, squirrel, or rapist (from the night's Plutonian shore), and glared at it from across the room. But then I noticed its bright hue, stumbled for my glasses, and lo and behold, 'twas a blue jay. And it was still rapping, very authoritatively, at our window. Because we're so near the park (Ft. Tryon park, that is), we get all sorts of winged critters-- blue jays, non-pigeony doves, starlings and gorgeous red cardinals.

Quoth the Blue Jay: Nevermore!

Okay, you're thinking, she's lost it! She used to blog about do-rag sporting, Cam' ron loving teenagers and psychotic school administrators, and now she's blathering about BIRDS. What has happened to our snarky, spunky, angry fellow-ette? The answer is... summer has happened, bitches, and if you're so desperate for sordid tales, go buy a Zane novel and don't bother me. I like hangin' out with the birdies.

In other news:

-Fellow-ette partied this weekend with the ultra-orthodox yehudim and engaged in a spirited, weekend-long discussion/debate with swvl about the relative cultishness of various "cults" from hasidim to Jews for Jesus to the moonies.

-We feted briefly with a group of wealthy new york tweens, a group just as exclusive and closed-minded as the above.

-We bought crocs and oh how we love em.

-Speaking of footgear, Fellow-ette is starting to run again and needs new sneakers: advice?

-Fellow-ette got accepted into NYU's Draper program, a cool, part-time master's program that she is currently debating attending. Thoughts?

-France lost the world cup which sucks (though the Italians are dishy), Entourage last night was actually funny and Vince is maturing, and oh, yeah, the world is going to shit. And that is why I'm not touching current events with a ten foot blog-pole.

/Over and out.

Tick-Tock

Ten minutes 'till the second interview of my newly-discovered journalism career (this is the one rescheduled after mucho phone tag on Weds). I have figured out how to get my wireless headset thingamagig working with a cordless phone (but not my ghetto-ass cell), and despite its awesomeness, I still have a hard time mastering a professional voice on the phone. My homies M. Twist, Shook and Swvl are all my inspiration for their excellent reporting skills and their "business voices"-- tho no one beats M. Twist's grown up voice-- and I aim to reach their level.

Anyhooch, it's funny trying to be all assured and businesslike when I have not reported a story in over three years, and even when I did, I was on the student beat because my lack of a serious tone enabled students to trust and spill their guts to me, while administrators were a wall I could never crack.
But perhaps my disarming humility is a plus ; )

But it's all good. For as Shook says, "our bylines are spreading up and down the northeast corridor like kudzu." So mazel tov, and shabbat shalom. Tonight I'm going to an Oneg Shabbat with some seriously religious cousins of my main squeeze, and I promised him I would refrain from making any "God is dead" type comments until we got home.

Real Time... the life of a journo

I'm in the midst of the part of the features-writing process I hate the most; the call and call-back stage. After a week of playing phone tag with his PR rep, I had all but given up on ever making contact with my interview subject. But just as I, clad in spandex and ready to hit the gym, was preparing to make one more futile call before i did so, she called me back of her own volition.

"So he can do the interview today," said the PR rep, "but I have to go to a funeral."
"Sorry," I muttered.
"So here's his cell-phone number."
"Okay," said I, "do you have his assistant's number in case I need to reach her."
"As I said," she said dutifully giving me the 310-number I requested, "I'd be happy to do the go-between today but I have a FUNERAL." (I wondered if she'd heard my sorry from before. )
"Okay, I said, then I'll call his assistant and call him."
"She's not in her office,' she replied. "It's in LA.'
"Oh. Then I'll call him." (Now feeling like the pea-sized amateur I am.)

So before calling the cellphone number given to me, I put together the nifty recording sytem I'd blown 100 bucks on last week. I connected the phone to a pair of headphones, a digital recorder, and a recorder-phone-headphone connector, and voila!

...Except absolutely none of it worked. I think it might be because I dropped my phone in the toilet (again) a few weeks back... when you live in a studio where the bathroom door is the only door you can actually close, it's bound to happen folks.

Hopefully I'll get to do the interview the ole' fashioned way, with a phone cradled lovingly in my shoulder blade and fingers flying across the proverbial keyboard. But only time will tell. More deeets to come later.

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Meanwhile, readers, I hope your holiday was as nice as mine. I attended two hip indie rock concerts, one inside at night, one oustide during the sweltering afternoon. I went for a swim, had a yummy barbecue dinner (thanks, pops), spent some time overlookin' the hudson, watched a nest of baby birds, and spent some time with yo it's... and swvl wandering Ft. Washington avenue, where we observed four different sets of fireworks in varying locales from our hilltop position. Then, urchin-like, we perched outside someone's building and ate us some muffins. Word. Happy fucking independence day.