My favorite cranky, sexy, ascot-wearing Englishman in literature and film.

Mmmmm curmudgeonly…

When I was about 11, I saw the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice for the first time. I think most kids my age would have been daunted by a six-installment period piece based on a Jane Austen novel, but at the time, I was really into Emma and Sense and Sensibility, so it only made sense to buckle down with the Bennetts and see what all the fuss was about. Like most human beings with a heart and a brain, I couldn’t help but love it. I read the book for a project in eighth grade, but after that, my obsession was strictly related to the screen (by the way, I really did like the Keira Knightley version that came out a couple of years ago, but come on — you can’t beat Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy, no matter how hard you try).

A couple of weeks ago, a co-worker mentioned that I need to read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, which I want to do, but it didn’t feel right unless I read the original again first. So I did. I know that the BBC miniseries was inspired by the book, which is upheld as one of the greatest pieces of literature in history, but… I found myself frequently asking, “WHY CAN’T THIS THING BE MORE LIKE THE MOVIE?!?!”

Siiiiiigh. Whaaaaatevs. I finished the book, and it was great, and my brain is now a useless, oversaturated sponge of Romantic-era diction. Time to pop in the DVD again.

Best Saturday ever.

Last weekend, I was supposed to go to the real-life Fred Flare store (located at Meserole and Leonard in Greenpoint) with a friend, but at the last moment, she couldn’t. I was faced with a big choice — should I stay at home and do what I normally do on Saturdays (sleep, eat, rinse, repeat) or venture out on my own to the land of monochromatic dots, Russian nesting doll USB thumb drives, Barbie record earrings and other such items that populated my adolescent imagination in suburban Missouri? I went for Plan B.

It was a little tempting not to buy out the entire store, but after some intense browsing, I walked away with this incredible fold-and-mail Nancy Drew stationery. I love a good, clean, naive-and-privileged-teenagers-living-in-the-1930s mystery just as much as the next guy, but what stands out the most in my memory about the series was the strict adherence to certain words, phrases and recurring themes. Nancy is always described as a “Titian blonde.” George always “loves her boyish name.” Bess is always “pleasantly plump.” Nancy and her pals seem to take enough time from their sleuthing at least once per mystery to have a “luncheon” of chicken salad sandwiches or deviled eggs or something. And sooner or later, some suspicious character shows up in a “dark sedan” to whisk away a clock or a puppet or a sapphire with a spider in the middle. In other words? It’s awesome. Haven’t written any letters on the stationery yet but hoping to soon.

I took a break from my travels throughout Greenpoint to grab a meal at one of my favorite places near my apartment, natural foods cafe Urban Rustic (see above). Nothing better than a classic turkey, bacon and swiss, a glass of ginger ale, my Greenpoint roadmap (courtesy of Fred Flare) and yes… a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice, which I just finished last week (more on that later)!

Between Fred Flare and Urban Rustic, however, I made an impromptu stop at the Greenpoint Public Library, where they were having a book sale. I picked up a copy of one of my favorite Shakespeare plays, Much Ado About Nothing, for one dollar, as well as… a Brooklyn library card! It felt good to tick a couple of things off the big list.

In which the train redeems itself.

It’s been a rough couple of weeks for the MTA. A suicide, a woman in labor, the frequent delays and complete shut-downs… Sometimes, I wish I still had Hondalezza Rice to usher me from home to work; of course, a car in the city has its own set of problems. But today en route to Shake Shack, I had the good fortune of landing in the same train car as these two confection-toting lovebirds. It sorta made me wish I was selling cotton candy from a rod with my boyfriend for a living.

To Whom It May Concern: The Italian Tourist Eating a Hamburger Next to Me, Sept. 2009

Excuse me. EXCUSE ME. Yes, hi. Sorry to bother you. I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been struggling with that for the past several minutes. And since we’re enjoying the same delicious entree — and the mere sight of your blasphemous dining habits is making me want to stab myself in the eyeball with this fork and fling it across the room — I thought I might be able to offer some help. I can tell you’re visiting from out of town, so don’t take this the wrong way. Just consider it free advice from one of the natives.

So, this is a hamburger. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your intelligence. Clearly, you already know that; otherwise, I wouldn’t have heard you enthusiastically order it in broken English when you sat down next to me in this overcrowded, overpriced culinary hotspot at the busiest time of the day. But following some careful observation, I’ve decided what might not be as obvious is how to eat it.

What tipped me off, you ask? Oh, just a few little things, really. The sound of you and your lunch companion presumably complaining in Italian, the angry clanking of silverware against china. The way that, when I lift my eyes from these onion rings I’ve been working on, I see you sawing away at the bun and a look of surprise light up your face when the lettuce slides onto your plate. Again.

Any other day, I’d be downright enchanted that you’re holding your fork in your left hand and a knife in your right, daintily whittling at whatever’s in front of you. But right now, all I can think of is how much more difficult you’re making this than it needs to be. That, and the amount of boiling hot hamburger grease you’re splattering onto what would have been my own peaceful dining experience had you, your wife and your 17 Hollister bags decided to eat elsewhere.

Let me acquaint you with some highly privileged information: Hamburgers, like babies, are meant to be held, not prodded. Put down your fork and knife, wrap your hands around that symphony of meat, condiment and bun, and go in for the kill. So what if a little mustard starts dripping down your chin? Or you can’t wash the scent of red onion from your hands for hours? The only way to tame the beast is to take out out the middlemen, as it were, and go at it with your bare hands.

What was that? “Doesn’t it get messy?” Only if you’re doing it right, pal. It’s all part of the experience. You know how they say, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do”? No? That’s too bad. Seeing as you’re from there, you should know what that means better than anybody.

Bottom line? Using a fork and knife to eat a hamburger is the American equivalent of using a rolling pin to eat spaghetti. Not only does it defy logic, it’s an insult to the cow that hamburger came from and every red-blooded American in this restaurant. You don’t see me going over to your country and putting a red clown nose on Michelangelo’s David, do you?

I don’t ask for much, guy. I never complain when you stand completely still on the sidewalk reading your transit map while the rest of us who know where we’re going try to get there on time. And the body odor? You might as well be a taco stand for all I care.

But some things are sacred. Do yourself, me and every other horrified New Yorker in this place a favor and ditch the utensils. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Weight Watchers meeting to get to.

My log has something to tell you.

Twin Peaks’ token “You-seem-crazy-but-you-might-be-more-with-it-than-the-rest-of-us-combined” log-toting resident, Margaret Lanterman

Hey, I hope you don’t hold it against me that I didn’t do the obligatory “OMG I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S ALREADY FALL” post. There are enough diatribes on the changing leaves and pumpkins and stuff floating around the Interwebz without my contribution. And let’s face it. If I decided to even scratch the surface on a topic like autumn in New York (’sup, Richard Gere?), it would be so amazing that they would have to give me the Pulitzer Prize, and I wouldn’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. It’s just not me.

Phew.

So, since you asked,  after some painstakingly careful consideration, I’ve decided to be The Log Lady for Halloween.

Pssssssych. What I meant to say was it took only about one millisecond between seeing Twin Peaks for the first time three months ago and realizing that she would only be the best Halloween costume. Ev. ER. And I don’t even celebrate Halloween.

You might be wondering how a fairweather Halloweenie as myself could feel so strongly about this particular idea. Well, I’m glad you asked.

Log Lady print, $19, seasprayblue.

My curiosity about David Lynch and his work was piqued about three or four years ago when I saw this clip from Eraserhead. If I had any doubts about Lynch’s directorial quirks (what’s with that girl’s cheeks?!), they were put to bed when I looked up the movie on Wikipedia and read the synopsis. It would be a couple more years before I was brave enough to watch Blue Velvet (which I mainly did because of the reference in The Squid and the Whale), and that movie-viewing experience was met with, er, mixed reviews (from me, not the “real” critics).

But even then, there was something appealing about Lynch’s work. Blue Velvet, which is easily one of the most disturbing movies I’ve ever seen in my life, has a happy ending (although it takes a copious amount of Dennis Hopper’s amyl nitrate to get there). I was interested to see how Lynch’s disturbed routes to clarity played out elsewhere, and when a co-worker caught wind, she shoved the Collector’s Edition of early ’90s prime time TV show Twin Peaks into my hands.

“Diane, I’m holding in my hand a box of small chocolate bunnies.” — F.B.I. Agent / Consummate Bad-Ass Dale Cooper

Twin Peaks, which ran for only two seasons, focuses on the death of a Pacific Northwest town’s beloved teenage beauty queen and the search for her killer. The investigation is headed up by F.B.I. agent Dale Cooper, an intelligent but affable out-of-towner who forms a warm working partnership with Twin Peaks Sheriff Harry S. Truman (yes, you read that correctly) and his men.

Cooper and Truman = 2 good 2 b 4 gotten

Between frequent stops for cherry pie (“Twin Peaks: Where pies come to die!”) and coffee at the local diner, Cooper begins to gather the increasingly bizarre details surrounding Laura Palmer’s death, and the viewer learns she’s not the only Twin Peaks resident with something to hide.

Just two normal American parents, grieving the gruesome murder of their eldest daughter. Somebody pass the caviar!

Margaret Lanterman, known around town as The Log Lady, is exactly what she sounds like — a lady carrying a log. But this log isn’t your average wood pile fodder. This seemingly innocent stump has clairvoyant powers so intense that only a middle-aged, bespectacled widow like Margaret Lanterman can channel them. Don’t let her absent-minded pitch gum-chewing (and spitting, much to diner owner Norma’s dismay) fool you — the Log Lady is a force to be reckoned with.

The Log Lady doesn’t show up much in the series, except for, oh, I don’t know, the occasional MIND-BLOWING INSIGHT into Cooper’s investigation, but when the series was canceled and syndicated on Bravo, Lynch recorded an introduction to every episode featuring The Log Lady.

“This cherry pie is a miracle”

It might seem strange that Lynch afforded so much attention to such a minor character, but as it turns out, the idea of The Log Lady had been in existence for at least a decade before Lynch brought her to the small screen. Catherine Coulson, the actress who portrays The Log Lady, was married to Jack Nance, the lead in Eraserhead. Lynch and Coulson met on the Eraserhead set, and Lynch eventually told Coulson he had a recurring vision of her carrying a log. Coulson and Nance divorced in 1976, but Lynch remained close to both and cast them in Twin Peaks as The Log Lady and Pete Martell respectively (how’s that for bringing this post full-circle?).

If you’ve seen Twin Peaks before, or if you’re just watching it for the first time, I recommend The Log Lady intros. Some of them are rambling, and all of them are weird, but you gain insight into The Log Lady that original Twin Peaks viewers weren’t fortunate enough to come by.

For more information on the elusive Twin Peaks character and my Halloween muse, click here.

Log patch, $1.50, granarchy.

Damn Good Coffee cross stitch, $18, thegreatnorthern.

Laura Palmer earrings, $10, thegreatnorthern.

The Owls Are Not What They Seem T-shirt, $20, BRANDED.

Supercuts = SUPER LAME.

Yesterday, I decided to get my hair cut for the first time since moving to New York. I often imagined my first haircutting experience here taking place in some upscale salon, the kind where girls with names like Tiffany would massage my scalp with peppermint oil and wield their shears with innate, Edward Scissorhands-like expertise.

Instead, I shuffled into a Supercuts on the Upper West Side and put my fate into the hands of a nameless Indian woman of many smiles and few words — a combination that, in my limited time in this great city, has almost always proven deadly.

Apparently the words “just a trim” got lost in translation, because I ended up looking like a cross between Lyle Lovett and a Mexican gang member. I couldn’t decide whether to go the Sinead O’Connor route and shave my head or buy diamond studs and a red bandana. Several tears (yes, apparently I am that vain) and almost 12 hours later, I think the cut’s starting to “grow on me,” as it were (har har). A post-haircut wash made me less Lyle Lovett and more Lloyd Christmas; now, I think I might be reaching Audrey Hepburn — and that’s not a bad place to be, right?

JUST BLOGGIN’ :P

Sorry I’ve been so, well, not here.

I’ve been busy hanging out with this cutie.

The guy.

Not the dog.

But if you do happen to live in the Upper East Side and walk into the pet shop where this little crumpet of a puppy is living and fall in love with its soft fur and its crinkly muzzle and its sweet eyeballs (one is light gray-brown, and the other one is light blue) and decide to take her home, you better take care of her, because otherwise, I’ll hunt you down with a baseball bat and BASH YA BRAINS OUT, SON.

IN THE COMING DAYS: WHAT TO EXPECT FROM THE MAY DAY PROJECT!

• [Still] Looks Like a Sky For Shoeing Horses Under: TMDP weighs in on Eskimo Snow, Why?’s sequel to last year’s Alopecia, and tries to pretend like she didn’t not get tickets to tonight’s (now last night’s) sold-out show at Le Poisson Rouge.

• Williamsgreen? Burgpoint? Greenwick?: I don’t live in Harlem anymore, but I’m not 100 percent sure where I live in Brooklyn. All I know is that it rules.

• “My log has something to tell you.”: I’ll give you one guess what I’m going to be for Halloween this year.

• I’ve Been Reading You Shall Know Our Velocity for About Eight Years Now: … And I’m getting close to being done, so I need some reading recommendations,  back-to-school style. Help a sista out.

North of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Two days ago, I moved to New York City to be near my boyfriend. That’s him, right after we got in what would turn out to be the first of many arguments about my then-new iPhone in Muji Soho. One of my favorite things about him is that he has a tendency to still look this adorable even when he’s irritated. It’s one of his greatest strengths.

So yeah, I left Little Rock. If you were dating someone that adorable from 1,200 miles away, wouldn’t you move, too?

The whole reason I went to Hot Springs a month ago today was because even then, as I walked in the 100-degree heat for three hours searching for a drink of water — the very substance for which the town was named and made famous but was, somewhat ironically, difficult to find — I knew that my time in Arkansas was limited. I wanted to cross at least one major thing off the master list having to do with Arkansas before I, you know, left Arkansas for a long time.

I’d like to think that one day, I’ll be able to climb to the top of Pinnacle Mountain without having a heart attack, or that I’ll be able to go to the Clinton Museum and roam through it for as long as I want. But since New York City is filled with literally hundreds of exponentially more interesting and exciting prospective 101 in 1001 challenges than Little Rock ever was, I’ve decided to cross a few of those off my list and replace them with something else. I don’t know what yet, but I’m thinking about it. I’ve gotten even further from having 101 challenges than ever before as a result, but meeeeh… this is my blog and my thing and I’ve still got a year-and-a-half ’til it ends, and I’m going to do it any damn way I please. Got it? Good.

Moving.

It went well,
You didn’t have to do it all by yourself.
Some friends came over and helped,
a hand truck, a friend with a van,
and you’re moving out again.
Remembering when you first came,
it’s crazy these streets look the same,
they looked different when they were strange.
And it’s always weird to erase
every personal trace
from a place you called home for a while
and see all that you own in a pile.
A place that had become a friend,
to return it to how it had been,
to be friends with whomever moves in.

And you stick around
after all the boxes are down
the fridge is empty- just one ice tray,
and you swept and mopped more today
than the entire time that you stayed.
It’s a shame you now have to leave,
the place is actually nice when it’s clean.
It wasn’t hard mopping the floor,
why didn’t you ever do that before?
Now the van is down on the corner,
and you’ve done everything that you’re gonna.
There’s some pennies and dust on that shelf,
but the landlord can clean it herself,
and you’re not sure, but you’re going to claim
the blinds were busted like that when you came.

Man, so existential in that room,
so existential with that broom.
Cause the room looks the same
except there’s no life left,
and you start thinking about death.
When you die, will it be the same?
No more thoughts decorating your brain?
An empty space for the world to reclaim?
You’re on the verge of thinking something deep,
then you hear the van give the beep,
then you take one last look around to make sure,
then you take one last walk out the door,
and you’ll never again see the angle
of the street you saw from that window.
You take the key out of your pocket,
you close the front door and you lock it,
drop the key back through the slot,
sure hope there’s nothing you forgot.

— Jeffrey Lewis

Hot Springs.

In one of the men’s (!) changing rooms at the Fordyce Bathhouse in Hot Springs, Ark.

I don’t know how well-known Hot Springs is outside of Arkansas, but around here, it’s a big deal. I’ve lived in central Arkansas for two years, so two weeks ago, I thought it was high time to check out Hot Springs for myself.

A brief history (everything hereafter is culled completely from what I remember from the signs at the park and my own personal observations/opinions): 

 

Just some dudes wrapped in sheets, some other dudes sitting in steam chambers and still other dudes just along for the ride (image taken from www.moodyscollectibles.com)

Generations ago, the indigenous tribes surrounding what would become Hot Springs believed the area’s eponymous springs had healing properties, and in the 1800s, somebody (read: Whitey) decided to exploit the springs’ reputed powers for financial gain. Wealthy people — some seeking medical cures, some looking for a little R and R and some simply concerned with participating in the latest fad among elite society — flocked from across the country to patronize the establishments on Bath House Row.

 

Sitz bath thing (I guess?), steam chamber and private bathing stall at the Fordyce.

In addition to getting the requisite scrub-down in porcelain tubs filled with spring water, bathhouse patrons sat in one-person steam chambers, endured mercury-filled Sitz baths (a popular “treatment” for syphilis) and exercised using the most cutting-edge gymnastics and therapeutic equipment of the time. Bonus for the immobile: The Hubbard Tub!

 

Apparently, uncontrolled urinating, talking and wall-kicking (?) fits were/are a popular side-effect of taking the waters.

In the mid-1900s, when people started to get wise to the fact that soaking your diseased nether regions in toxic liquid isn’t so much a cure-all as a surefire way to poison yourself, the bath houses’ popularity took a hit. Most of the bath houses are closed today, but at Hot Springs National Park (located on Central Avenue in downtown Hot Springs), visitors can stroll down Bath House Row and — if you’re feeling adventurous — “take in the waters” the traditional way at Buckstaff Baths or in a more modern setting at the recently reopened Quapaw Baths.

My trip to Hot Springs had less to do with bathing and more to do with tromping up and down Central Avenue in 100-degree heat, but I still managed to have a good time.

Things I Saw/Did/Ate in Hot Springs
• Had a drink in the lobby of the Arlington Hotel
• Walked into the Wax Museum and immediately walked out when I realized it was $15
• Idled in front of the Mountain Valley Spring Water headquarters for a full minute before deciding I could get hydrated elsewhere for substantially less cash/ceremony
• Bought three postcards that I still haven’t sent
• Went into about 14 crystal/gemstone/rock collectors’ shops; saw an amethyst that weighed more than I do
• Rubbed elbows with Hot Springs’ finest, sweatiest natives (and visitors!)