A Passionate Shepherd to His ...?

I’m out this afternoon to retrieve a special guest from the airport. Have a lovely weekend, everyone! I shall leave you with this bit of weirdness:

Apparently a bored British farmer used carefully placed feed and really good sheepdogs to shape his herd into this seasonal sentiment. Wow.

From Cute Overload

Poll post-mortem

I don’t want to say you guys are wrong, but I can’t believe no one voted for “The Moment of Truth” as the most outrageously evil show on television. It is so obviously a ploy by the Dark Lord to destroy every relationship in America one by one.

On the other hand, perhaps the despicable morons who go on that show deserve what they get.

Not that I watch reality television. Nope.

Notice: current job not on this list

Things I wanted to be when I grew up (and why they didn’t work out):

· Wonder Woman. That outfit is entirely too constricting.

· Broadway actress/dancer/singer. I came to the realization around age 15 that I cannot act, dance, nor sing. The world is probably better for it.

· Teacher. I find children to be strange, terrifying little creatures.

· Interior decorator. Throw-pillow coordination was not offered as a major at my liberal arts research university.

· Botanist. Apparently this requires more in-depth scientific analysis than just liking to look at wildflowers.

· Professional cheerleader. I’m afraid of heights. You try balancing on one leg on a person’s shoulder.

· Photographer. A guidance counselor told me the only way to make money was shooting products like car tires for ads. No thanks!

· Writer. Hm. We’ll keep working on this one.

Things I should have wanted to be when I grew up (and why they haven’t worked out…yet):

· Hedge-fund manager. I believe this requires one to know what a hedge fund is, and to have retained math skills above a fourth-grade level.

· Prize-winning reality-show contestant. I like to think I have more pride than that. (Plus, I just never seem to get the advance info on the auditions!)

· Trust-fund baby. I don’t have the right last name for this.

· Connoisseur of peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches. If only. I’d be totally rich by now

· Cosmetic surgeon. Gross.

· That chick on the Travel Channel who goes around staying in swank hotels and eating delicious food in exotic counties while mugging for the camera. How in hell do you get a job like this? Sign me up!

· Trophy wife. My current significant other has no shelf space for trophies.

· Well-paid blogger. You never know!

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I haven't even read the Times yet!

Due to hardware problems, I could not get on my computer until nearly 11 a.m., forcing me to work on editing one of my westerns. I knew there was a reason I usually saved these for after lunch. One should not have to read about a man desperately holding his intestines from spilling out or being burned alive to a crispy-crisp until one has digested her morning banana.

Ick.

Wednesday Soapbox

One reason I try not to accept plastic grocery bags at the store:

A D’Agostino bag decorates the cherry tree in the secret garden.

If you haven’t already joined the ranks of the tote-bag-toting, read this: Polymers are Forever.

Plus, if you just say no, you’ll avoid that aggravating explosion of plastic bags every time you open the drawer or cupboard where you stash them.

Poor punctuation police

I live in New York. I know I’m going to be advertised at, aggressively and from every available surface. But if you’re going to harass me with a campaign, at least ensure it’s grammatically correct. Please, that’s all I ask of you.

The latest offender is the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall, which has taken out ad space on taxi cabs, phone booths, and subways with the following cryptic statements:

You suck Sarah Marshall
I’m so over you Sarah Marshall
My mom always hated you Sarah Marshall
You do look fat in those jeans Sarah Marshall

The missing comma before “Sarah Marshall” makes me cringe each time I don’t see it there. I’m pretty sure we’re still supposed to use a comma before a name in a direct address, and the line break doesn’t mean you can skip it. The above sentences don’t gain in punch by lacking this comma; they just lose in readability and sense.

Petty? Perhaps. But I try to hold the line on proper grammar and spelling, and this is not the only place I see the comma slipping away. I feel like I’m the only one who bothers to insert it in e-mail greetings (“Hi, Kevin,”). But I won’t be dissuaded from necessary comma insertion. You can’t take my comma away from me!

(P.S. Don’t try to be cute and point out any punctuation errors in this post. I am not a national marketing campaign.)

I went to Starbucks and all I got was this expensive buzz

Each day at 1 p.m. I face a crisis. Where oh where shall I spend my lunch hour? (Yes, I confront larger questions in my life but those aren’t fun to blog about.)

I hear tell of a company cafeteria on some other floor, but that sounds too akin to my college dining common, which reminds me how much flat Sprite and soggy pizza I consumed in 1997. Or I could eat at my desk like my cubemate, who uses the time to catch up on TMZ and Facebook. But for me the point of lunch hour is to get out from under fluorescent lights and away from the lovely people with whom I work.

So, outside I go. And this is fine during the summer months when a plethora of outdoor benches are open to me, with varying levels of panhandlyness. But during the long, long cold time, the choices get slim. I usually bring my own food, so I just need a place to sit and read. Necessary: warm and relatively clean; desired: quiet and cheap, or free if I can swing it.

Dunkin’ Donuts is good because they don’t notice if you sneak in and sit without buying anything, as long as you don’t fall asleep. But they blast an adult contemporary radio station, and Duncan Sheik tends to distract. Our local buffet bar/delis are possible, but so is the chance of running into work people there. Plus they reek of mac n’ cheese and sushi—not an appetizing combo.

Which brings me to today, when the chill chased me into one of two new Starbucks locations in the neighborhood. Plusses: clean and quiet (playing soft music, objectionable only for being so unobjectionable). Minus: I had to buy something. I’ve been off coffee for a couple years and perhaps I forgot how much the stuff costs. But seriously, folks, $3.47 for a cappuccino! A “tall” cappuccino, which means one shot of espresso and lots of cheap milk foam. (Of course I evidenced my lengthy absence from the chain by asking for a “small” cappuccino. Silly me.)

I sat and woefully considered the state of my pocketbook, with a crisp $5 bill now reduced to measly change and this steaming cup of not-really-needed caffeine in front of me. How do people go there every day? And how does Starbucks get away with charging so much? I started to resent every customer who came in, those who could afford to bleed out cash in exchange for burnt-tasting coffee and cookie-cutter ambiance. $3.47 for one beverage!

And then I remembered I’ve been known to spend $14 on a martini. End of judgment for the day.

Lunchtime atop a Skyscraper by Charles C. Ebbets
Starbucks cup by OpenAperture on Flickr

Signs of Spring #9

I’ve spotted ice cream trucks on various occasions over the past two weeks. Am I ready for soft-serve when I’m still wearing a wool coat? Not really. Am I prepared for hearing their incessant, repetitive jingle? Never.

But a good sign nonetheless.

From the Easter Brunch Bonanza

There’s nothing cuter than men in the kitchen.

More pictures to come if I feel like it. I somehow neglected to take any pictures of the food, which was delicious and plentiful. Thanks, Deborah, for having us!

Update 10:50 a.m.: Okay, I’m too tired to write something brilliant this morning, so here are more photos:

Jane is very excited to be sharing a couch with her current and recent roommates.

Meanwhile Jessa is trying to hide from her paparazzi.

This is when I realized Sam has beautiful hair.

They’ll sit together, but in no way will Deborah and Dave acknowledge each other.

In the lovely afternoon light.

Talky talky!

It’s unclear to me what’s happening here.

Aren’t photos of people sitting around thrilling? I assure you the conversation was stellar.

Friday Grab Bag

· How does all of New York City agree on secret holidays and not tell me? Sure, today is Good Friday and Purim, but that doesn’t explain why the subways were ghost trains and half the workers in my building are gone. There’s an unspoken consensus on certain days that are acceptable for taking off to see friends in Philly or going to the house in Westchester, and I’m always the last to know. Does this mean reservations at Babbo are easier to get today? Thank goodness.

· I keep hearing the phrase “jump the shark” and nodding along as if I have any idea what this means. But apparently it refers to an episode of “Happy Days” when the Fonz jumped a shark on water skis. It denotes when a TV show has passed its peak and perhaps tried crazy changes to its storyline in an effort to retain viewers. Don’t know that we needed a term for that, but at least now I’m on board.

· I’ve decided I have an uncanny ability to estimate the time of day. Seriously, you know you play this game with yourself: “Huh, I wonder what time it is. Before I look at my watch, let me guess. 10:45? Spot on!” My guess is correct 95% of the time to within five minutes. Latent genius? Probably it’s just that I’m surrounded by clocks all day and night (on my computer, my phone, in the subways…) and am subconsciously always keeping track. Creepy.

· I might be a latecomer to this, but today I found the website Stuff White People Like and now I can’t stop reading it. Some Canadian dude started it in January and as of yesterday he has a book deal with Random House. It will make you laugh in delightful recognition and cringe as it hits too close to home. You are not unique!

On standing still at concerts: “When white people go to concerts at smaller venues, what to do they do? They stand still! Remember, at a concert everyone is watching you just waiting for you to try to start dancing. Then they will make fun of you. The result is Belle and Sebastian concerts that essentially looks more like a disorganized line of people than a music event.”

On dinner parties: “The ultimate goal is to do a better job than the couple at the last dinner party, and attempt to make everyone jealous and sort of dislike you.”

On the Sunday New York Times: “They then proceed to read each section of the paper, stopping periodically to tell their partner about the interesting news they have just seen. ‘Looks like another civil war might break out in Africa.’ ‘Did you see that the Met is doing Tristan and Isolde?’”

It was all a lie, folks.

Spring has been cancelled, as evidenced by this morning’s 20-degree temps in the Arctic wind. When will we learn not to count our chickens before they are hatched all gooey and alien-looking?

Freshman no longer

Happy 29th birthday to Steve Sanderson, with whom I first passed gossipy notes in Mr. Sadler’s geometry class 15 years ago, and with whom I now gallivant around Manhattan whenever I get the chance. Lucky sap is in Hawaii right now, and might not see this. But that’s okay—we’ll always have Paris! (Someday.)

Here’s Steve looking like a rock star, and jumping off a cliff like an idiot.

Happy Spring!

I feel compelled to mention it’s the first day of spring according to the sun’s position, if not our local weather. Don’t think this stops me from harassing you with indications of warm weather and the return of foliage and wildlife. This isn’t California, where grass springs up in December and spring is kaput by May. We have a long way to go before I’m wearing flip-flops.

For a comment on spring's approach that's far more eloquent than anything I have written, click here.

Signs of Spring #8

Grumpiness abated! The rain paused for my lunchtime ramble and the air was soft and relatively warm (50 degrees!). So now let’s look at yesterday’s harbingers of the season in the secret garden.

While the shrubs and trees in the garden are still largely bare, there were two camellia flowers blooming amid the buds. Thrilling.

Also, someone has placed pussy willows and pansies in the urn near the front gate.

Compare that to the urn on Jan. 31, when it had droopy holly twigs from Christmastime.

Notice how the rest of the background has not changed, though, as winter holds on. Yes, those of you not living in NYC, this is how desperate we (I) get for intimations of springtime. “A little bit of yellow color planted in an urn. Wehoo!”

City rain makes me curmudgeonly

In the country, I loved a good rainstorm. I delighted in walking in the rain along rural roads, fascinated by the new-formed rivulets, rivers, and cataracts on the hillsides. It was satisfying to see the ditches I’d helped my mom dig working to keep the water off our gravel road, and to see the oak trees and grasses turn a slick green.

In the city, I find the rain to be miserable.

You see the resignation on everyone’s faces that this is going to be a difficult day. You learn the hard way to stand back from the curb or get splashed with gritty, gray-black road water. And you become encumbered with one more item to juggle when getting out your MetroCard for the train: the umbrella.

Which brings me to:

Rules for Using an Umbrella in the City

1. On the sidewalk, be a conscientious and considerate umbrella-wielder. Raise it up to pass if there’s no room. If you’re on a block covered by scaffolding, by all means, put the umbrella away for the duration.

2. Do not hold the umbrella so low that you cannot see where you are going, as this will inevitably lead to me getting poked in the eye.

3. Never, ever use a gigantic golf umbrella. People who think this is acceptable on jam-packed city sidewalks should be beaten with their striped Callaways.

4. For the love of God, do not stop on the stairs coming out of the subway station to open your umbrella. Some of us have places to go and would rather get wet for two seconds going up the stairs than stand here waiting for you to get a move on. Ditto for entering the station. Close your umbrella before you get to the crowded confines of the stairs, so you don’t have to dilly-dally on them.

5. Take notice of where your umbrella is dangling on the subway; I don’t need your sopping wet umbrella squished up against my back at 8:30 in the morning.

6. If you’re my cubemate at work, please cease leaving your umbrella open in front of our desks all day to dry, as I will trip over it again and again.

Maybe I’m just grumpy, but I do feel that if we all work together this rainier-than-usual spring will be much happier for all. Not as enjoyable as a nice Murphys downpour, but what can you do?


Photo by Joseph De Sciose/Jupiter Images

From atop a silo of absurdity

Last week I joined the legions who’ve read Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma, and I’m not sure I’ll ever look at a slab of beef or an ear of corn the same again. I suggest that anyone who’s at all interested in food, the environment, or the economy read this book, thereby sparing me the task of distilling its complexities in this small space.

The upshot for me was that I want to endeavor to eat more foods whose ingredients I recognize and whose origins I know. (I say this while I’m snacking on an apple from 3,000 miles away.) This idea of eating more locally and simply is of course all the rage now. The New Oxford American Dictionary named “locavore” the word of the year for 2007. And while I agree with the ideals of this movement, I do find it disconcerting that we needed to coin a newfangled term to describe what is essentially the way civilization grew and ate its own food for thousands of years.

How far we’ve come when the basic becomes the exotic.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

While I resent Saint Patrick himself, who helped vanquish perfectly good and lovely pagan spiritual beliefs, I live in a two-Irish-surnames household, so I have to celebrate this holiday. Which I did by making ham and potatoes for dinner. Cooked cabbage is gross and corned beef takes too long to cook. No green beer for me, thanks. What a terrible idea that is.

Signs of Sprummer(?) #7

That’s it! Call off winter.

Never mind that we’re several days out from the vernal equinox and a month away from the average date of last frost in New York City. Old Navy has declared this season over. I went in search of a trench coat—I’m almost ready to downgrade from my heavy wool—only to find the store filled with frilly white sundresses and garish floral-print tube tops.

We’ve apparently skipped spring altogether and gone straight to summer. Oh, if it weren’t for you, Big Corporate Retail America, I’d never know what season it was. Happy summer, everybody!


(Actual shorts this season at Old Navy. Plus dress that's cute but not appealing when it's still 40 degrees out.)

Happy Friday! On Mars.

I wanted to be all cute and say “Happy Friday!” by posting a picture of Friday in Robinson Crusoe. But all the images are so egregiously offensive to my postcolonial sensibilities that I just could not bring myself. Seriously, Google image it.

This is way cooler, anyway.

"Orange is the new green."

Here’s all I will say about this morning’s Forced Extravaganza of Company Spirit (i.e. our annual employee meeting near Times Square): you only wish your corporation’s name was also a mascot. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen your CEO with a giant dancing penguin.

Signs of Spring #6

Update 2:30 p.m.: In the barrenness of the secret garden, I managed to find two more plants blooming today. A few blossoms on an autumn cherry bravely showed their faces in the 40-degree weather…

And this guy, which looked like a forsythia but whose flowers have one too many petals, was a burst of bright yellow amid the gloom.


1. I keep hearing geese flying overhead while I’m reading quietly at home. I never get to the window in time to see them, but I suspect they must be Canada geese. Yay! Welcome back, birdies! Maybe they can fight off the highly annoying parrots that perch in our backyard ailanthus tree come spring.

2. I noticed this morning that the windows of the Irish pub on my walk to work are filled with foil shamrocks in preparation for next week’s marginally nationalistic binge-drinking day. Slainte!

3. At Home Depot the other day the Burpee people were stocking this year’s new display of seeds. Germination, here I come!

I voted for this guy!

Things I learned from Eliot Spitzer:

Don’t be a hypocrite.

‘Nuff said. Now let's get on with our lives.

You tell her!

Obama rejects being Clinton's No. 2

“With all due respect. I won twice as many states as Senator Clinton. I've won
more of the popular vote than Senator Clinton. I have more delegates than
Senator Clinton. So, I don't know how somebody who's in second place is offering
vice presidency to the person who's in first place,’ he said.”

Nicely made point, Barack. Take that, Hil! So much for your latest sneaky psychological tactic.

Your supreme intelligence can help alleviate hunger

You might have already discovered this site (and if so, why didn’t you tell me?), but I read about it in the Times over the weekend and I think it’s my new favorite toy.

FreeRice.com is a vocabulary quiz that adjusts to your level of difficulty and distributes real, actual rice through the UN World Food Program. It was started by one lonely and inventive guy.

Try it! You’ll never play Scrabulous again. Plus, you’ll ward off Alzheimer’s and feed starving people. Whee!

Story in the Times

Give that photog a raise!*

Coolest front-page news photo I’ve seen in a long time.

A lawyer fled from tear gas fired by the police on Sunday during a protest in Islamabad, Pakistan. Emilio Morenatti/Associated Press

Story here.

* Yes, newspaper folk really call them "photogs." Shut up.

Pretty pictures

I try not to talk about my job here, for confidentiality (i.e. not getting fired) reasons, and because I get enough of work at work.

But! I wanted to humbly show off the covers for the first three books I worked on after I took over the Westerns here. (There’s about an 11-month lag time between cover conferencing and publication, and these are being published this March, April, and May, respectively.) It’s fun to see an artist and art department flesh out an idea I had from reading the manuscript. I’m particularly proud of how these three came out.

No comments necessary, just thought I’d share. Oh, and I know none of you have a frame of reference for the covers of mass-market westerns, but believe me, a lot of them are very, very bad. Not ours, of course.

Way to ruin it for the rest of us

I’m too busy with work—crazy, I know! It’s a rush of Friday motivation!—to post something substantial. But let’s just all take a moment to glare in the direction of Florida, which cannot stop being the state that screws things up for important national elections. Michigan, you’re not getting any love from me, either.

Invalid votes keep Clinton, Obama stuck