Book deal = desperate attempt at prolonging D-list fame

This memoir deal was announced on Publisher's Lunch this week:

Dustin Diamond's BEHIND THE BELL, with Alan Goldsher, a tell-all account of Diamond's life as Samuel "Screech" Powers on the set of the TV show "Saved by the Bell," including sexual escapades among cast members, drug use, and hardcore partying, to Patrick Mulligan at Gotham, in a pre-empt, by Jarred Weisfeld of Objective Entertainment (world).

I really, really, really don't want to know.

You found me! Welcome back!

Tomorrow we'll discuss how the plurality of you poll voters say you are tired of superhero movies. Were you not part of the nine billion people who went to see "The Dark Knight" opening weekend? Or were you like me, waiting all summer for that one movie, and now that you’ve seen it your thirst for heroic, caped, action flicks is quenched?

I’m already hankering for the subtle, intelligent dramas that light up the marquees during the fall movie season, jockeying for Oscar nominations. Or perhaps it’s just that I’d rather have an anvil dropped on my noggin than see “Pineapple Express.”

Working, working, working

And still trying to decide how annoying it is for this site to be invitation-only. Feedback is welcome. But know this: I'm not getting fired for you people!

:)

I kid.

Sort of.

I haven't even had time to read the Times online today and come up with stories to ridicule. Can you believe that? I did, however, sign up for a march for Marriage Equality. Check out my fund-raising page by clicking the little doohicky over in the sidebar. I will absolutely let you guys pay me to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge carrying a colorful umbrella!

Welcome to the exclusive club

After a minor security breach this afternoon, I took this site offline for a while, and am temporarily admitting only people I invite. I never meant this blog to be easy for people in my professional life to find , and I already feel like I have to watch what I say. But now, I know that several individuals found the site who I'd rather not have done so.
Anyway, for now, I know it's a pain, but you might have to sign in or something to read the hilarious and illuminating comments. (I know you don't come here for the posts themselves.)

Who knew information could be so easily accessed on the Internet?

Boo, freedom.

Hurrah!

In the perpetual “link my back and I’ll link yours” cycle of blogging, I’d be ever so pleased if you’d go over to The Literary Brothel and check out a list of book recommendations I wrote up recently. Comments, catcalls, and harassment are welcome, either here or there.

Aww...

Holy crap, already something to cheer me up. A guy I went to high school with became a minor celebrity over the weekend for rescuing a bear cub during a fire. Adam Deem was always a super-nice guy, and this is freaking adorable. (Incidentally we were in a play together in high school and his character was a crazed, gun-wielding teacher. I played nerdy “Elaine the Brain,” so he gets more credit for playing out of type.)

Local hero rescues bear cub

Firefighter rescues bear cub burned in Northern California wildfire

Bear cub rises from Shasta-Trinity's ashes

Rough start

It's Monday; I'm crabby and despairing. I changed my desktop image to this in an effort to have 13 by 9 inches of escape.


Xunantunich in Belize. Oh how I miss you.

These people actually exist.

Best Friends.

Reason No. 547 to hate "The Look Book" in New York Mag.

Friday at last.

Of course, I've been acting all week like it was the weekend, so maybe now's the time to slow down and do something domestic.

I'm thinking pie.

All you can do is go about your business

Never look at the local news. I just found out that a man was stabbed at 28th and Broadway this afternoon, there’s a building on lockdown because of a gunman at 37th and Madison, and there was a rifle shooting in the East Village this morning (where I’m headed after work). I’d almost rather not know about these things until they affect me directly.

Last week my new building had a drill. They aren’t “fire” drills anymore, they are “emergency” drills, which by the things they told us could be anything from the Empire State Building collapsing onto my building to the creature from “Cloverfield” attacking Midtown. Our emergency coordinator gave us helpful information such as that if the building is locked down and we go outside the lobby doors, we won’t be let back in because we might be “contaminated.” Reassuring this is not. I’m picturing zombies.

A question

Why is it that every busker with a brass instrument in this city plays the theme song from “The Godfather”?

Everything's novel outside the city

Isn’t it adorable when the New York Times, the most citified of city papers, discovers a rural phenomenon that’s been going on for decades and decides it’s a new trend?

This story, A Canvas of Wood, Chain Saws as Brushes, was teased by the Times this way: “As the popularity of chain-saw carvings increases, the man who claims he invented it is still carving strong after more than 50 years.”

So…you’re doing a story about chainsaw art. Because it’s suddenly popular. Because one guy in a touristy part of Maine is doing it. My guess is that a Times reporter was up there for vacation this summer, had never seen such a thing, and thought she’d pitch a story on it.

Please, people. This roadside art is ubiquitous at least throughout the Northwest, and probably across the country. You can’t drive 15 miles in any forested area of California or Oregon without seeing a collection of wooden bears rearing up on their hind legs. When I was a kid, there was always some local guy touching off a shower of sawdust and woodchips while carving a mountain man or grizzly in a store’s parking lot.

But now the New York Times has brought it to the upper crust, and they can chortle over the story with their morning bagels and lox. Isn’t that cute? Maybe we should get one, dear.

(Photo of Firewood Farms in Half Moon Bay, Calif.)

It’s a Baledger-athon!

Two days after seeing Christian Bale and Heath Ledger act the hell out of “Batman: The Dark Knight,” I watched them both in “I’m Not There,” the trippy pseudo-biopic of Bob Dylan. As the Joker, Heath (we’re on a first name basis because I walked past his house the day he died before he was discovered) gave one of the best performances I’ve ever seen. Mesmerizing, start to finish. As a Dylanesque character, he was also great but his manner of speech kept harking back to his closed-mouth drawl in “Brokeback Mountain.” Bale, on the other hand, was stellar as a politically irate Dylan, and his embodiment of that character in his mannerisms and vocal delivery was incredible.

What’s the point here? I’m fascinated by non-Americans doing American accents. And I’m thrilled by those who can do not just a bland, vaguely British one (Kate Winslet), but those who can immediately catch the subtleties of any of a wide range of American speaking styles. Christian Bale is freakish in his prowess at this. Yes, Cate Blanchett also played a Dylan character, but she didn’t blow me away. (Neither did her terrible cartoon-Russian accent in “Indiana Jones.”)

I’ve heard that Christian Bale always does his press for a movie in the accent he used in the movie. What dedication! He’s such a chameleon, vocally, that I’d like to see him spend ten minutes with my friend Robert and see if he can do a suburban Philly accent. Or pick up the hybrid Northern and Southern California tones of my friend Eric. But the great thing is that Bale is not an impersonator like Rich Little or Dana Carvey. When taking on an accent he crawls into the soul that produces words in that way, and shines out from inside that character.

Plus, he’s dreamy.

(Photo of Christian Bale as "Jack" in "I'm Not There." P.S. This movie was weird and fascinating and you should all see it.)

I'm walkin' he-ah!

Back when I roamed the paths of UCSB, my friends and I developed strategies for avoiding the “clipboard people.” You know the ones—they wanted you to sign something for CalPIRG or Surfrider or to save I.V. Beer Company from becoming a lecture hall. They plopped themselves in the middle of walkways and tried to ensnare you with tractor beams of cheerfulness. We quickly learned to avoid eye contact, look at our watches, and brush briskly by on our way to class or the beach.

For some reason I thought I would no longer need these evasive maneuvers once I left the politically charged halls of academia. I was wrong. When I worked in the West Village there would often be a couple volunteers from an LGBT group on Sixth Avenue. “Do you have a minute for gay rights?” Well, yes I do, but I’ve already given money and signed whatever petition that is you’re holding.

But Midtown is simply crawling with these people. You can’t go a block during lunch without being assaulted by chipper college kids on summer break with bright-colored T-shirts for, I don’t know, wind power, Obama ’08, save Darfur, free Willy, what have you. I’m not saying these aren’t worthy causes. And I have actually worked as a clipboard person myself so I know how hard and demoralizing it is. (I collected signatures in the rain in Boston to defeat a ban on gay marriage.) But that doesn’t mean I don’t resent getting stopped in my tracks every three minutes by someone who makes me feel like a bad person for having somewhere to get to. Some guy today was so relentless I almost smacked him with the back of my too-busy-to-sign-your-petition hand.

Do-gooders are cheek by jowl in Midtown with skinny young women whose job it is to hand out menus for delis and dudes trying to get you to take their rap demo CDs. Can’t a person just take a stroll to H&M during lunch without being hassled? I suppose not.

(Incidentally, this very issue prompted my friend Andy to design a fantastic wearable response.)

"But there are bugs in the garden, dahling!"

I am all for locally grown produce and CSAs. But this is disgusting.

A Locally Grown Diet With Fuss but No Muss

People, the soil will not hurt you. Get off your plush cushions, stick your hands down in the dirt, and see how good it feels. Honestly. I am beyond irritated by the concept of yuppies who can't be bothered to water their own cucumbers and pick their own tomatoes. What has the world come to? Bougie people need serfs to harvest for them?

At the same time, I suppose it's not that different from hiring day laborers to mow their lawns or turning a blind eye to the working conditions of immigrants in the agricultural fields. But this is just really the epitome of laziness. The idea of being so disconnected from nature frightens me. They don't know what a rewarding experience they are missing.

Boo.

Photo of Trevor Paque at work in San Francisco in a garden his company planted in a client’s backyard. By Peter DaSilva for The New York Times.

Monday again?

Backyard barbecue*, bowling, Batman, blissing out with comedies and a picnic in our air-conditioned living room—thanks to everyone who made this insanely hot weekend so great!

Now, back to the grind. I mean, back to the rewarding experience of supporting ourselves with interesting and stimulating work

(*photos to come later tonight)

What’s the deal with that?

Can I just mention one little urban habit that has been striking me as interesting for the past two years? In these office buildings where everyone takes the elevator (hey, we’d take the stairs if the doors weren’t all locked except in emergency), it seems to be the norm that men wait for women to exit or enter the elevator car before they do.

Now, I don’t often have male strangers hold open other kinds of doors for me. That courtesy has passed the way of the fedora. Yet every day, at this and at my old office building, I realize I’m supposed to blaze forth into the elevator while some man holds his arm there to keep the doors from closing, and I’m expected to jaunt out when the doors open even if there are men standing in front of me. The only men who don’t follow this unspoken code of conduct are the FedEx and DHL delivery guys, who have their own agenda.

Does anyone else see this phenomenon at their buildings? How do you feel about it? I know us post-feminists are never really sure if we should be honored or offended by men treating us differently, but I mostly just hate when I’m caught off guard by it, daydreaming and not realizing someone ahead of me is waiting for me to get my butt in gear and board the elevator before he does. Maybe it’s one of these New York things that people aren’t supposed to question, like keeping to the right as you go up subway station stairs.

But apparently chivalry is not dead, at least not in high-rise conveyances.

No love

Yeah, yeah, white people like “The Wire,” and my intense love of the show is nothing unique. We all love it. Everyone I know loves it. You know who doesn’t love it? The Academy of Television Arts & Sciences. Emmy nominations were announced today and despite “The Wire” ending a glorious and groundbreaking five-season run this year, the show received a piddly one nomination, for writing. “John Adams” got 23 nominations. Give me a break! It’s Paul Giamatti in poufy clothes! I am incensed. And I’m sending my man Wee-Bey out after y’all.

(In other news, NPH was nominated for best supporting actor in a comedy, so all is not lost.)

Black in Bryant

Why has Michael Ian Black not aged at all in the past 15 years? Creepy. He was out giving a reading in Bryant Park yesterday afternoon and I hoofed it over there because he makes me laugh. (Don't know MIB? Download some episodes of "Stella," rent "Wet, Hot, American Summer," buy his new comedy CD, or turn on VH1. I applaud him for being proud of his work on "I Love the ___'s." Although I think he just likes the paycheck.) His new book, My Custom Van: And 50 Other Mind-Blowing Essays that Will Blow Your Mind All Over Your Face, features the dry, absurd, slightly adolescent humor we all love. And when you get bored at work, check out his very funny blog, on which he has called out first David Sedaris and now the obnoxious Tucker Max (I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell) in order to gin up publicity.

By the way, Black, who is 36 and appeals to what some might call a hipster crowd, does not in fact consider himself a hipster. But look at those shoes! Chocolate brown Pumas with lime green stripes?! Don't kid yourself, Michael.

P.S. I promise I am not a shill. I just think there's so very much bad comedy out there these days that people I like deserve attention.

So worldly

In the past month, From Peppermint Creek has had visitors from Brazil, Spain, The Netherlands, and Canada, as well as the U.S. of A.

Brazil, really? We are conquering the globe!

(Although I think the Brazil thing was a mistake. They were only here for like a minute.) Bom dia, Criciuma!

On a personal note

Oregon is very far away from New York.

You should check out these photos my brother Steven just posted from the Fourth of July weekend when he and my other brother, Dennis, visited my dad at his house near Yachats on the Oregon coast.

July 6th at my dad’s house and beaches

My dad has lived in that house since I was in high school, and I used to spend time there on vacations. He has completed a huge renovation of the house and backyard and now it’s a perfectly charming beach home. I’m so jealous they all got to spend time there together. I miss my family very much and I wish it were possible to see them more than a couple of days every other year or so.

Take that, Mitt Romney!

Massachusetts is about to repeal an old law that effectively bans out-of-state gay and lesbian couples from marrying in the state.

A 1913 Law Dies to Better Serve Gay Marriages

Hurrah!

Who wants to move back up there and start a same-sex wedding planning business?

I know I didn’t go to Hahvard or anything…

I get so tired of East Coast intellectuals having no clue about world-class universities west of the Appalachians. This resentment was already stirred up in my mind after a recent conversation I had with some friends about the Ivy League, where we tried to name all the schools in this obnoxiously elitist demarcation. We couldn’t do it and you know what? I don’t care. I don’t see Brown alums trying to memorize the ten University of California campuses.

Which brings me to last night when I read this in the first line of a review of a book by William Davies King in The New Yorker:

King, a professor at Santa Barbara, has spent decades collecting things that nobody else would want…

Dear New Yorker: There is no such college as “Santa Barbara.” Just as there is no such school as “California.” The University of California at Santa Barbara is a school. Or even UC Berkeley. Or UCSB. We have many ways of writing our names that include the full and proper university titles.

Minor gripe? Yes. But this lack of knowledge and attention is a symptom of a larger social snobbery and insularity that perpetually annoys me about this town.

All-Star Parade happening in Midtown (apparently).

Why does nobody tell me there will be a million people gathered a few blocks away from me to watch a parade?

Fans Greet All Stars Along 18-Block Red Carpet

Why do I have to walk out and wonder why there are helicopters hovering overhead (which usually means nothing good)?

Maybe I should put down my book and watch the local news sometime. But come on, how 'bout a citywide memo: "Really neat thing happening during lunchtime," or "Avoid! Avoid! Many more pedestrians than even usual!" or something?

Photo of one of the MLB statues all over town by WallyG on Flickr.

Memo from Carrie's imaginary assistant

Carolyn has some work to do--highly important, no-kidding-around work, but she promises she will carve out time to write and post interesting items soon. Very soon! So much going on in the world to talk about! Check back! There will be more exclamation points!

Whose idea was it for the weekend to be over?

Cloudy, icky Monday.

Blech.

Why am I linking to another NY Times story?

Because I’m lazy. And I’m working. And my Oregon friends will appreciate the ending.

Longer Walk for Lattes? Starbucks Plan Resonates

A few things:

- Andy Lin pointed out to me in my first week here that you could wave from one Starbucks at Astor Place to the other. But one has outdoor seating where you can watch the parade of annoying and colorful NYU undergrads pass by to St. Marks.

- Yes, it’s crazy that there are no other coffee chains here. I miss Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf! Their vanilla lattes are divine.

- It’s been a major complaint of mine that the Northeast lacks the kind of independent coffeehouses I so loved on the West Coast. I’m talking funky, art-laden, armchair-filled places where they carefully craft delicious espresso beverages. I’m glad the article says Starbucks intends to shut down some its California stores particularly; they don’t need Harbucks there anyway.

Since moving here, I’ve pretty much given up on coffee. When the swill at Dunkin’ Donuts and the overpriced, burned goo at Starbucks are your only options, you become a tea drinker real fast.

Photo of one of the Astor Place Starbucks by Scott Beale on Laughing Squid.

This made me laugh.

An surprisingly amusing story on a high-fashion boutique in the NY Times Style section included this sentence:

“I first tried a black, shapeless cowl-neck shroud in silk jersey ($575), something I thought Tilda Swinton might wear triumphantly to the funeral of someone she had killed.”

Incidentally, the only reason I was interested in reading about the new Jil Sander store in the first place is not because I’m in the market for a $2,000 dress but because it took over space from an endearingly musty old library-ladder manufacturer that The Times profiled last month:

Ladders of Memory

While the story on the Jil Sander experience is entertaining, there is no way I’m entering a store like that where five pieces of clothing are hung miles away from each other with great care. The fewer items you are selling, the more they cost.

Jil Sander photo: Greg Scaffidi for The New York Times
Ladder company photo: Ruth Fremson/The New York Times

Memo

Dear Pedestrians on Midtown sidewalks:

Keep moving.

Your friend,

Carolyn

Strawberry everything!

Oh, man. One more thing I miss about California—the opportunity to see a community put one fruit or vegetable on a pedestal to amazing or ill-conceived results.

Orchards and Farms May Vanish, but Their Festivals Survive

What are your favorites, West Coast folk? Goleta had a Lemon Festival that was very nice—lemon chicken! lemon meringue pie!— but I mostly liked that it gave me a chance to visit the historic Stowe House where I could imagine myself an elegant, turn-of-the-century ranch wife. Less appealing was the Carpinteria Avocado Festival, known for its rather bland ice cream and the gigantic vat of guacamole stirred by local high-school cheerleaders. I’ve never had a chance to visit Gilroy’s Garlic Festival or Stockton’s asparagus celebration (because that sounds terrible) and I always wondered how anyone had fun at the Tracy Dry Bean Festival. I had a boss who judged the entries at the Salsa Festival in O-nard, which sounds brave, but the only food event I went to there was the California Strawberry Festival, at which I saw Taylor Dayne perform. (“Love Will Lead You Back!”)

Maybe rural areas of New York put on food fairs, but if so I haven’t heard about them and I don’t have a car to get out there anyway. I can buy discount fruit from the pushcart street vendor down at the corner and pretend I’m not surrounded by high-rises. Lift my chin, imagine the sun on my face and a whiff of moist, agricultural air (not all the appetizing, really), and look forward to the day when I’ll be lucky enough to attend the Indio Date Festival.

Goleta fire news getting better

The Santa Barbara Independent has been running fantastic coverage of the Gap Fire, mostly thanks to the reporting and photography of Ray Ford. I know Ray—he’s a Santa Barbara hiking legend, intrepid explorer, manager of the volunteer trails association to which I belonged, and writer of all the best trailguides.

He took these photos yesterday up near West Camino Cielo near Lizard’s Mouth. As I said earlier, this whole area used to be my favorite place to escape my life down on the coast, recline upon the sandstones, and receive nourishment and perspective.




I am saddened by the moonscape look of things, but not so much as I would be if it were a beloved forest that had been blackened. The land is pretty stark up there already, mostly dry, thorny chaparral. The sandstones will survive, I believe. It’s not their first fire. And I hope that someday I can go back up there to see the damage and the eventual renewal.

Today’s story in the Indy.

Gap Fire stirs memories

I’ve been fascinated all weekend by the Gap Fire raging behind Goleta, Calif., my old home. Igniting on Tuesday, the fire has grown to almost 9,000 acres and continues to be the state’s No. 1 firefighting priority, according to the governor. While not a large blaze comparatively, and being one of almost 2,000 separate fires consuming land in California over the past two weeks, the Gap Fire is scary for its proximity to so many homes. (View above of fire from Stearns Wharf in Santa Barbara.)

And for me, it feels strange to be removed from a disaster striking a community I knew intimately for eight years.

The mandatory evacuation orders come to within a mile of two different apartments I lived in.



The fire began at the top of the ridge of mountains overlooking Goleta, Isla Vista, Ellwood, and UCSB, starting right at a spot called Lizard’s Mouth where I spent many hours hiking, reading, and daydreaming. (Photos below.)









Pretty much all the hills and canyons below this point have been burned, or are burning still.





In looking up the local news, it’s so eerie to see the names of roads, newscasters, and locations that have already become vague to me in my four years’ absence.

I just hope the weather starts cooperating and the firefighters can get a handle on this epic (to Santa Barbarans) blaze.



Good L.A. Times story: http://www.latimes.com/news/printedition/front/la-me-fires6-2008jul06,0,6152509.story

Photos from the L.A. Times, NY Times, various people on Flickr, and SB Hiking websites

Chim chim-in-ey, chim chim cher-ee!

Another "no sh**, Sherlock" story from the New York Times. Did you know that people sometimes have parties on their rooftops? With food and drink and everything? Incroyable!

For the Drama of Rooftop Dining, the City Is a Backdrop

Much more interesting to me is this story from 1908 about a heat wave forcing even the well-to-do to sleep on their roofs, a custom the tenement-dwellers of the time (like my great-grandparents) had developed out of necessity, not novelty. Somehow this article mentions the treatment of Armenians by the Turks alongside mention of roof gardens on "the" Park Slope.

Now on those same rooftops we serve rosé and Kalamata olive paté, and other gourmet foodstuffs requiring l'accent aigu, with a much higher skyline as backdrop.

C'est la vie.

Photo by Joe Fornabaio for The New York Times.

Preliminary observations from Midtown:

• Tourists really like to shop near the Empire State Building in the same chain stores they have at home.

• A Bank of America on every block! A chicken in every pot!

• I really need to pick my favorite salad/sandwich/pizza/sushi bar deli place so the servers can get to know my preferences. Seems every worker up here has their place, and their orders down pat. I used to resent these types of white-collar-worker cafes until I realized they are just a new version of the old luncheonettes or lunch counters that New York office workers frequented in the mid-twentieth century. Makes me feel like I’m the recipient of a tradition.

• I count 10 Starbucks locations within a five minute walk of my office, including one in the first floor of my building! I don’t go to Starbucks as a rule, but now I know I can spend far too much on a latte without risking the elements.

• My building is way cool because it’s set at a 45-degree angle to the Manhattan street grid. Of course, it apparently replaced some neat old armory, but what can you do.

(My building and the East River from the Empire State Building.)

Photos by wallyg and Arve Johnsen on Flickr.