Tender Gittles

Cheerwine Fever Descends On Me Brooklyn

2011-06-03T13:02:00.011-04:00

*I would like to preface this post by saying that having all but abandoned this blog for various reasons related chiefly to personal laziness, it's a testament to the sheer ecstatic delight brought on by the discovery that has inspired this missive.

So I'm minding my bidness, just popping into my local bodega-cum-overpriced grocery store. The purpose of the trip: to procure a run-of-the-mill style sodypop for my ailing boo. I approach the refrigerated case, hoping they'll have Mexi-coke in stock rather than the average HFCS-spiked garden variety. As I peruse the shelves, scanning them for unfiltered ginger-ale and yerba mate, I spy the unmistakable pinky-red Cheerwine logo. My heart skips a beat -- nay stops entirely. A feather could push me over. I've found the Promise Land. And it ain't flowing with milk and honey. It's flowing with sweet, fizzy, pink Cheerwine.

Let me explain for the uninitiated. Cheerwine is not, as the name may imply, an alcoholic beverage. It is a soda akin to -- but much much more delicious than -- Dr. Pepper. It was, until very recently (as in the last week or so) available in only a handful of places in the immediate vicinity of its home state of North Carolina.

I was first introduced to the wonder that is Cheerwine when I went to the Outer Banks of North Carolina with my best friend Ms. Adrian Amaro neé Rose in 2007. We drove from Virginia to the small beach town of Manteo for a week of sunbathing, eating Low Country Boil, bicycling, playing viciously competitive Scrabble and surveying the horizon for pirate ships. Our first stop? A little roadside market selling fresh produce (borang) and Cheerwine, which I'd been hankering to try ever since Miss Ad-sales alerted me to its transcendent awesomeness. We loaded up our baskets with the former, and grabbed a case of Cheerwine to take to the beach house. I cracked open a can immediately and let the pink, bubbly goodness roll around in my mouth. Like Coca-Cola, it was a perfect amalgam of familiar yet unidentifiable flavors, intoxicatingly sweet and perky, like a Southern belle all primped and ready for her deb ball.

For the remainder of our trip, we meted out our cans of Cheerwine with as much restraint as we could muster, rationing them carefully with the abstemious precision of Scrooge McDuck counting out his gold pieces. We allowed ourselves to splurge on a particularly hung-over morning during which nothing but Cheerwine could settle our embattled stomachs.

I came back to New York thirsty for more. Whenever Adrian went back to NC, I begged her to sneak a few cans in her bag for me. A summer romance with a Carolinan fellow two years ago found me smuggling cases back with me whenever I went to visit said gentleman. When the relaylay crashed and burned I found myself mourning less for the boy and more for the loss of my direct line to Cheerwine

Recently my girlfriend Stephanie, a grade A foodie, soda aficiondo and quasi-Southerner celebrated a birthday. I had recently discovered, to my horror, that she had never experienced the joy of Cheerwine. Inspired by a recent Serious Eats post extolling the virtues of this geographically bounded delicacy, I decided to visit the brand's website and see whether, by some miracle, there was a place in the New York area to find these treats. As of ten days ago there was not, despite rumors that Cheerwine would be planning to expand its reach as part of a celebration of its 100th birthday. I begrudgingly decided I'd have to special order it.

And then yesterday happened. Ladies and gentlemen, perhaps it's premature, but the massive amounts of sugar I've consumed since my discovery yesterday morning are arming me with a particularly devil-may-care attitude. Therefore I hereby declare this the Summer of Cheerwine. Only don't tell anyone, because if the mass hysteria catches, I'll be reduced to stockpiling and rationing and wind up on Hoarders and nobody wants that right? Let me revise that statement: I hereby declare this the Summer of Cheerwine. Shhh.

The Staff of Life, or What Do You Want On Your Tombstone?

2009-04-07T13:57:00.004-04:00

I'll be the first to say we live in tough times and being adaptable is key. So I can't say I blame a certain neighborhood shopkeeper for wanting to diversify. This particular purveyor, the owner of Grande Monuments, is an oooooooold-timer in my quasi-Italian, hipster-fied area of Brooklyn and his main business is the selling of tombstones, or "monuments" as the sign advertises. But now it seems he's expanded his wares to include ... wait for it ... bread. Apparently the death and dying business is slow? Or perhaps this shopkeep noticed his patrons getting peckish whilst perusing the adornments of their final resting places? Whatever the case, this strange juxtaposition of life-affirming bread and death-affirming gravestone seems at once totally ridiculous and strangely appropriate.

I've been eying said establishment for a couple weeks, torn about whether or not to risk further investigation. Much as I love bread and have no doubt that the sort sold in this funny little storefront would be delish (it hails from a reputable Italian bakery in Bensonhurst and is not, for better or worse, made onsite), the prospect of procuring such a comestible when its been rubbing spatial elbows with potential corpse placards makes me uneasy and a little nauseous. But on the recommendation of my local barista, who highly recommended the 'prosciutto' bread (quotation marks are reproduced per the sandwich board outside the shop), I peeked inside, and found that I was disturbing the shopowner's lunch. He was a short, squat, rheumy-eyed Italian fella who, when I openly marveled at the diversity of the wares on offer, merely replied, "We're trying everything." Fair enough.

The bread was displayed on an ornate silver stand in the shop window, and though the loaves seemed perfectly fine, I couldn't reconcile future eating enjoyment with the musty, fusty environs, Astroturf floor and tombstone-littered showroom. I asked about the olive bread, which is a weekend specialty, and promised to return, narrowly avoiding purchasing a guilt loaf. Before leaving, I noticed that the shop was also selling a pair of black suede Jessica Simpson-brand pumps. My gaze didn't escape our friendly shopkeep, who assured me they were of the best quality, being that they were endorsed by Britney Spears. You can't blame him for trying.

The Hot Dog of the Sea

2009-04-03T10:45:00.010-04:00

As a human being, I make sense of my world by comparing like with like. As a writer, this is especially helpful when critiquing, say, music or literature or food -- it's both comforting to me and, ideally, evocative to the lucky twelve or so people who actually read what I've written.

When I go out to dinner at a fancy sea food restaurant (oftener than you'd think given my monetary restrictions of late) I enjoy regaling my eating companions with my observation that the lauded lobster is essentially the cockroach of the sea. It helps if my foodmates are sensitive of stomach or adherent to the proscribed rules of dining etiquette. Cuz I'm a brat like that.

I was talking to my mom today and she mentioned that she was going to be making gefilte fish for the upcoming Passover seder, and immediately I started to think about this inexplicably comforting Jewish delicacy, which I've explained to non-Jews as the HOT DOG of the sea. For the uninitiated, gefilte fish is workaday fish quenelle made from a savory hodgepodge of mild fish including, but not limited to, pike, whitefish and, if you want to get real shtetl about it, carp. (I recall a kids' book I enjoyed as a whippersnapper that was called The Carp In The Bathtub, about a Jewish family who brought a carp home from the market to make into gefilte fish and stored in the family bathtub -- so sanitary, those Orthos -- and formed an unfortunate attachment to the fish that made slaughtering it all the more delicate.)

But I digress. For my gentile friends, let me try to impart the particular charms of the modest gefilte. It is a salty, fishy, starchy bolus of grossness, traditionally served on Shabbat and other holidays. In our modern times, only the most industrious home cooks attempt to make it from scratch, not simply because of its labor-intensive components, but because it makes your kitchen, and indeed the rest of your house, stink of fish for days on end. Most folks are content to purchase ready-made gefiltes in jars proffered by Manichewitz, suspended in jellied broth (it just gets better doesn't it?). To further the culinary simile, I'd point out that much like the hot dog, the gefilte is traditionally served with horseradish, a pungent, spicy condiment that functions much like mustard to cut the overwhelmingly fishy flavour, all but numbing the tastebuds in the face of a particularly malodorous chunk of fish.

In perusing Wiki, I found an abbreviated history of the gefilte (Yiddish for "filled or stuffed"), which you might find interesting. Being that ethnic cuisine, particularly the stuff of the lower-class, seems to appeal inherently to foodies intent on reinventing it to suit their evolved palates (see ramen, dumplings, tacos and the aforementioned frankfurter), I hereby predict we'll soon see a haute take on the lowly gefilte. A low-brow morsel in need of a high-brow makeover with a perfectly blue collar back story and potential for a million re-interpretations, it's ripe for a shot of epicurean repackaging. Mark my words. The hot dog of the sea is coming to an overpriced menu near you.

Happy Anniversary, Negligence!

2009-02-17T17:18:00.005-05:00

Dang, it's been an effing year since I posted in this beeswax. Well I'm sad to say there's nothing uber-exciting for me to share. At least not that I'm willing to go into now. (I had a baby and moved to Papua New Guinea but other than that....) I'd simply like to mention a few things in passing.

If I were to have a rap group, it would be called Inkwyerin' Myndz. Trademark bitches.
I am in love with that phone commercial wherein a dude accidentally butt-dials his lady friend and said ladyfriend proceeds to have a feigned conversation with his butt. "Hi butt." In fact, I'm pretty sure I wrote that commercial in my sleep.
Wouldn't it be rad if you had like, a dream career? Like literally a career that you tended to (and excelled at, because it's a dream, see?) when you were sleeping? Like a high-powered somnambulist!
I'm trying to get to the bottom of why, despite my dutiful application of eyeliner and mascara, by 5 pm every day it's gone without a trace and I look like a twelve-year old.
Pop Rocks are vastly under-rated. So says Giada!

That is all.

Dumb Thoughts

2008-02-15T02:58:00.007-05:00

A few years ago when I was starry eyed and naive I read this book by fellow Czech Milan Kundera. It featured a character who felt that her identity was defined by the things that she surrounded herself with -- her pet cat, certain photographs, books, clothes, records that she accrued painstakingly -- all were deliberate clues about her inner life. Her sister's approach to her domestic trappings were completely different: she believed that the external was irrelevant and her essence was completely divorced from her physical belongings or surroundings.

I read this book approximately six years ago -- just when I first moved to New York. I found myself for the first time free to adorn my living space exactly how I wanted, without fear of reprimand from parents or school officials. An yet . . . . I kept thinking of the first sister. How her belongings seemed so important, how they were her way of figuring out who she was and where she fit in the world. I felt a bit superior to this notion that material objects could define me, that my identity was defined by an accumulation of THINGS, which, taken as a whole, would somehow communicate my essential being. I fully appropriated the second sister's philosophy: I looked down my nose at my friends who seemed so concerned with buying just the right albums, the right clothes, the right pictures or posters to plaster their rooms with. I felt like it was a weak, simplistic, fumbling attempt to create a ready-made personality. "I'm the kind of girl who listens to Sixties mod, reads Martin Amis, brushes my teeth with Tom's of Maine." It was lazy conformity.

For the first three years that I lived in New York, I made it a point to keep my walls bare and make sure books and cd's were not prominently displayed. I hated the idea that someone could just walk into my room and feel they got a sense of who I was merely by glancing at the trash I kept around.

It sounds pretentious and dumb. It was. After a time, the design aesthetic of my living space was not so much rooted in philosophical conviction as in laziness. I never bothered to frame or hang the lovely Frank Lloyd Wright wrapping paper my mother got me as a gift. I had no pictures of family or friends, no artwork, no band posters, nothing. My walls were completely blank, and they were ugly.

The one thing I saw fit to adorn my otherwise virginal wallspace with was a calendar. I've always had one handy. It's strange, but I'm obsessive about calendars. I feel that without some tangible way of marking time, I am completely out of touch. I feel lost, confused, totally out of touch.

These days, my walls don't fare much better than they did a few years back. But I've come to the conclusion that what I surround myself with isn't necessarily for show. It's not for others to judge me by. It's for me. I'm the one who spends the most time here, and it makes sense to have things that I like close by, whether it's aesthetic or practical. I have three decorative wall decals above my bed that add a splash of color to my white-walled room. My bookshelf functions not only as a place for my books but as a display case for odds and ends that I've acquired over the years -- my grandma's highschool graduation picture, a tin-can insect my mother gave me, a starfish my friend brought me from Florida, a plastic narwhal from an ex-boyfriend. Still, the calendar is central. It occupies a sacred space on my north-facing wall, all by itself, nothing else detracting from it. It's always been chosen carefully and has, in many ways, reflected my internal life at any given time. Last year, I chose one that featured Japanese woodcuts, hoping it would lend me calm and serenity with it's peaceful strokes of blue and pomegranate. The year before that it was a kitschy Dick and Jane calendar, whimsical and nostalgic and childish. And the year before that, it was Madeleine, the little French schoolgirl with the yellow hat. After the year is done, I take down each calendar and put it in a box for safe keeping. I don't know why. I'm fairly unsentimental about most things, and not at all a pack rat. But these I save. I guess it seems like otherwise I'd be throwing away the past.

I suffered through the first two months of 2008 with no calendar whatever. I know it sounds silly but I felt totally disoriented without someplace to keep track of the days gone by. A place to ink in appointments or parties or birthdays. A way visualize the passing of time.

Finally today I purchased a silly calendar of retro-looking ladies saying cheeky things. I hung it on my north-facing wall, all by itself. I can see it from my bed as I fall asleep, assured of my temporal weight. Comforted by the knowledge that there's a tomorrow.

Brek Day One: The Power of Pizza

2008-02-01T12:06:00.000-05:00

There is quite possibly nothing more delicious for breakfast than cold pizza. Biting into coagulated cheese and icy tomato sauce atop a crust that is quickly coming to resemble cardboard might not be most peoples' definition of a stellar eating experience, but there are plenty of us with fond memories of a childhood in which pizza for breakfast was tantamount to a snow day. Cold pizza breakfasts were reason enough to forgo that last slice, so that you could wrap it in tin foil and open it up next morning like an edible Christmas present.

In New York, cold pizza left over from the night before is well and good, but it's certainly not the only option. Here in the outer boroughs, the pizzerias open bright and early. Lots of blue collar worker dudes getting off of their night shifts can be seen tucking into a Grandma slice at ten in the morning. For people like me who forgot to eat a proper dinner and went out drinking all night, the fact that one can procure a piping hot, fresh from the oven slice is priceless. God Bless Brooklyn, de facto pizza capital of the world.

This morning I staggered out of bed at ten-ish to feed a certain Bitsy Boo, and then cooled my heels until I thought I could run across the street to San Marco, my pizza joint of choice, without the proverbial egg on my face. I didn't need to be so ashamed -- the place was bumping at 10:48am, full of old-timers speaking Italian and drinking their espresso, hulking construction worker types face down in Sicilian slices, and an odd hipster or two reeking of last night's booze and cigarettes. I ordered a Neapolitan and a Sicilian, both steaming hot from the oven, grabbed a 20 oz. coke -- aka the elixir of the gods when one is feeling not 100% -- and beat a fast path back to my home where I made quick work of the doughy, slightly undercooked Sicilian first, jaws still not fully awake. By the time I had finished I literally had to rest my mouth. Then on to slice numero dos. Man, I gotta say, San Marco is the obvious choice for sheer proximity, but damned if they don't make some of the best pies in New York. The cheese is stringy and spongey and has a subtle beer aftertaste. The sauce is perfect, not too sweet, not too acidic, and the crust is crisp on the bottom but maleable and doughy on top.

A few swigs of my Coca Cola classic and I'm ready to face the day. Right after I wake up from this food coma.

I'm A Brek Gurl

2008-01-27T23:15:00.001-05:00

A few months back I encountered a gastro-crisis of sorts. See, I'd recently left my regular 9 to 5 job and because I was liberated from having a particular wake-up time, found myself arising from sleep at all hours, ranging from "morning" to "late morning" to "early afternoon." Ah, bliss. But I digress. I found that the irregular times at which I awoke created some confusion as to what I ought to eat first thing. Normally, I'm a big fan of breakfast and all of its attendant foodstuffs. Most regular days I'd have kicked things off with a yogurt or an omelet or a bagel egg and cheese for the days when I was a bitsy hung over. And of course there were also the times that sadly I skipped brek altogether and coasted onward to lunch, which provides a veritably endless array of food choices.

Now I was in a quandary: What if, say, I woke up at twelve or one but still wanted breakfast food? Certainly this is the premise that brunch was based on, but brunch is a special weekend meal. Even the leisure class doesn't indulge in brunch during the week. Ladies Who Brunch? No. I rest my case.

Even more troubling were the times when I arose BEFORE noon and found my meal options limited by the understanding that until noon, only breakfast foods were, loosely speaking, allowed. I mean of course I KNOW that I'm an adult and I could've eaten anything I damn well chose, but for some reason . . . for some strange reason, breakfast seemed to have these unspoken rules that are blindly followed. Perhaps that's why when the rules of breakfast are flouted, like say when you eat cold pizza for breakfast, or better yet, when you eat "breakfast for dinner," the act always seems like some delicious, naughty transgression.

Why are there so many rules and regulations regarding the breakfast meal? Is it because, as we're taught from the time we can swallow cream of wheat that it's 'the most important meal of the day'? Why does such staunchly protected ritual surround this meal, when all bets are off for lunch or dinner?

What really got me thinking is the fact that if you're more of a savory than a sweet person, the only options you have for breakfast are eggs and egg-based concoctions. Sure you could have toast or cheese grits or hash browns, but I'm talking the main even here. If you don't feel like eating an omelet or cream cheese on a bagel, what, really does that leave you?

It is my goal to inquire into the codified world of the breakfast meal -- to understand its rules and deviations, to explore the culturally and regionally specific foods that inhabit the breakfast spectrum, and to, whenever possible, document my own breakfast eating as a sort of social experiment. And also to make sense of the various and sundry morning and breakfast related idioms that pepper our every day speech. The early bird gets the worm, and half off the breakfast buffett at Big Boy.

I object.

2007-11-29T03:00:00.000-05:00

No. NO. In the spectrum of cheeses that I could possibly be based on my personality and preferences and et cetera, it is NOT POSSIBLE that I could be AMERICAN FRIGGIN CHEESE. I demand a recount.

Death By Cute

2007-11-07T02:22:00.000-05:00

Ummmm I sort of can't believe I've waited this long to announce just about the most exciting news since . . . the invention of pizza. That's right, I am a pet owner. Not just any pet, mind you. Some supreme being has seen fit to bestow upon me a tiny tigress beyond all reasonable levels of adorableness. Ladies and gents, meet Pippi Longstocking, Jr. Yes, she is named after my very favorite fictional (or is she?) character. And yes, she rules.

The Pip is fond of sleeping, crawling up my leg, running into walls, eating pasta (seriously don't even think about heating up that leftover penne if you don't want to be attacked by my kitten), Sixties reggae, plastic drinking straws and pooping. In other words, she's a girl after my own heart -- except for the crawling up my leg thingy. Also, she is frequently seen winking, which makes her sort of resembles Thom Yorke.

The Pipstein, aka Bitsy Boo had a little bit of a buttular problem when first she graced us with her presence. This snafu rendered her JUST slightly less than perfect, but LISTEN -- we're working on it together as a family, so chill. I am fully confident that pretty soon she will be totally flawless and therefore officially the most awesome creature to have ever existed in the history of man or beast.

Friends, believe me when I say that I never considered myself a "cat person." (No, not like that.) But these days I find myself behaving like some kooky old cat lady who obsessively thinks, talks about and photographically documents her pet kitten. I mean it! But seriously, can you BLAME ME? Jesus H. -- she's sticking her tongue out at you in the above picture! She's a cheeky little cute sandwich of love! You cannot resist her charms! I dare you to try!

The End.

Hallo!Ween!

2007-11-05T13:02:00.000-05:00

This is what happens when you go where eagles dare. Be glad I did not kill your baby.

Glenn For President

2007-10-05T06:56:00.001-04:00

I don't know why, but lately I can't stop thinking about Glenn Danzig. The other day I was listening to him in the car and realized that much as I have enjoyed his rad and scary tuneage lo these many years, the man himself remains a mystery. I knew the basics:

He is really into Elvis
He is really into Marilyn Monroe
He is really into skulls
He is little
He is angry
His likeness has inspired a line of action figures

What I did not know is that he is a native New Jersey-an, which proves my theory about New Jersey, namely that people who live there are almost always rad for some reason. Also, I did not know until recently that he had a guest spot on my new favorite show, Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Additionally I did not know that his real name was not Glenn Danzig. There are probably some other things I'm forgetting. The bottom line is that he basically rules and I sort of want to make friends with him. Even though I doubt he is into making friends per se.

As an aside, I was informed by none other than Tiny Gines that contrary to my belief, Glenn's band Samhain (pronounces "Sah-way" fools) was not his first musical venture, but rather a brief and shining pitstop betwixt the Misfits and Danzig. Man, did I feel crunchy when she told me this.

Speaking of Samhain, this song rules.

In lieu of becoming bosom buds with Glenn, I've decided that I will honor him by being him for Halloween. And maybe for St. Patrick's Day too.

Cheese Plus One

2007-09-26T09:19:00.000-04:00

I went to the wine store yesterday and as I was leaving, a little post card advertising THE JOY OF CHEESE caught my eye. Turns out, it's this dude who hosts 10 course cheese tastings, complete with vino and chocolate and . . . . Oh sorry I just passed out. Where was I? Oh yeah. HEAVEN.

This dude, whose name is Martin Johnson, also hosts "Roving Cheese Parties," so I guess that means you can get him to come to your house for a private shindig. I bet this guy gets LAID. After all, the falling-in-love chemical that supposedly makes chocolate such the aphrodisiac? Cheese has ten times as much. F'reals. Roofies, pah. Gimme a nice Camembert or some string cheese and I'm yours, dudes.

Additionally I read about this rad thing wherein this guy hosts multi-course dinners pairing PERFUMES with foods to enhance the flava of the vittles. That RULES. Seriously. I want in on that. If there are two things I dig in a big way, they are scent and food. Imagine, you could be mowing on some nachos whilst sniffing . . . . hmmmm. Something smoky and spicy and sandy. Why say! What about Serge Lutens Ambre Sultan? Solid!

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, bitches.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2007-09-13T19:57:00.000-04:00

I am really proud of myself. No, it's not cause I'm unemployed, although that does make me pretty awesome. It's not because I only eat chips and not proper meals. It's not because I like sending and receiving nudie pics. It is because I think I might sorta be a New Yorker finally. And it is for this reason: I managed to leave New York this summer. Like, twice. For some reason, in the five years since I moved here, I NEVER EVER took trips out of the city over the summertime. I think part of me was afraid that if I did, I might not come back. Or maybe I was just gaytarded. Anyway, THIS SUMMER. Well, I did.

One such excursion was to the Outer Banks of North Cackalacka (sic), where I succeeded in riding a bike -- and swimming, and getting ridick tan. Like I look like I'm wearing a white bikini when I'm nakes! I went with one Tiny Gines, who was an excellent hostess. She and her cute mom and dad, who I now refer to as Mom and Dad, conspired to make me eat dessert after every meal. Also I visited the historical site where the Pirate BLACKBEARD was DECAPITATED by some dude, offshore, aboard the sloop, "RANGER."

I love nothing if not a pirate.

Currently I am on trip number two (TEEE and HEEE), which is out in the sticks of Long Island. I am dog sitting for a Dacshund by the name of TEDWARD. He has rank breath but is an expert cuddler. I must say, I'm starting to get really good at doing practically nothing all day long. And the nice thing about doing nothing all day long in the STICKS is that if you do it OUTSIDE, it sort of counts as doing something. For example, this morning I layed out in the sun and sunbathed wearing nothing but a thong (SCANDALOUS). I consider this to be sort of an activity because a) I was outside and b) I was practically naked, which requires a lot of energy expenditure to keep from feeling embarrassed.

I spent the day thusly, popping in and out of the outdoors, drinking low-sodium V-8 in order to get my vegetables, and intermittently watching various Food Network shows. I am currently burping a lot of V-8 and watching Grey Gardens and wishing that I could pull off the turban and drawn-on-eyebrows look. And thinking that if I end up in a falling-apart ramshackle house out on the Island of Long, it might not be so bad. As long as there are chips.

The point is, I'm a New Yorker because I got the eff out of New York. That is my fucking goddamned point. In case you were curious.

Worry Wart

2007-08-16T16:45:00.000-04:00

I have had a little wart on my right thumb for . . . . oh, going on two years now. I was reticent to get rid of it because not only did touching it comfort me when I was anxious, but it was cute. Strangely, as attached as I became to this little guy, I never came up with a name for it. I think we had an understanding that naming it might make it harder to part ways when the inevitable day of reckoning came.

Said day came on Tuesday when I was rifling through my bathroom cabinet and came upon the Compound W I'd bought a while ago for the purpose of bidding my buddy adieu. But due to my roommate's tendency to rearrange things, the little wart's life was spared for those intervening weeks.

This past weekend I was engaging in lots of hand-holding, and started to feel the slightest bit self-conscious about my friend the wart, so I suppose that might have been part of what contributed to the decision to say bye bye. Like with most things, I am feeling disproportionately sentimental about ending this chapter of my life and am thinking back on all the things me and my wart have been through together over the course of these many months and years.

Then again, this last eighteen months or so have been kind of shitty. Maybe it was the wart that was putting a pox on my life? Maybe it is the wart's fault that I was a victim of identity theft, broke my shoulder, dated a turd-head and kept on getting UTI's?? Hmmm, the plot thickens.

It's been three days, and currently the wart has been reduced to a soggy white lump with little teeny holes in it that make me think of a honey comb. Gross/awesome. It remains to be seen whether its permanent departure will banish bad things from my life. Here's hoping.

Shalom my little wart. May you find peace and happiness in skin malady heaven.

An Open Letter To Michael Cera

2007-08-09T16:52:00.000-04:00

Dear Michael Cera,

I know that you don't know me. I know that you are a movie star. I know that of late you have become an object of lust for a growing number of females who appreciate your deadpan comic sensibilities and lanky frame. I think I heard somewhere that you have a girlfriend. I think I heard somewhere else that she was Asian, which makes me question your heterosexuality a little bit. Also, I realize that you are nineteen years old, which makes us nearly a decade apart age-wise, and makes me feel like a bit of a pedophile.

Nonetheless, I would like for you to be my boyfriend. I don't even necessarily want to shag you, though maybe I'd feel like it once we started spending quality time together, or if I had more than one vodka-soda beverage. Mostly I would like to hang out and possibly play checkers and hold hands in a cute, chaste, middle-schoolish way. I would like for you to tell me jokes and for me to tell you jokes back and for us to live in harmony together, appreciating indie rock and shopping for cardigan sweaters. Perhaps I could make you open-faced sandwiches owing to your dental problem which prevents you from opening your mouth very wide in order to accommodate a large-sized sandwich. Maybe I could have my dad look at it, since he is a dentist!

I wonder, do you like dancing to balalaika music?

It's possible that I would even be willing to move to Canada with you. I'm ready for a change of scenery anyhow. I bet it's nice up there in the fall.

Love,

Gittles

Kids These Days

2007-07-31T19:22:00.000-04:00

Just for the fuck of it, I decided to flip on the tube today with the intention of finding out what the 'kids' are listening to. Never mind that the 'kids' don't actually watch television on television anymore. They watch it on OUTER SPACE!

So whilst taking a break from my arduous sunbathing regimen, I painted my toenails and flipped between MTV2 and Fuse during their respective "you pick 'em" blocks and discovered the following:

That new Fiddy joint is HOTTTT. How hot? Let's just say I made it my new homepage song on Myspace! There! I said it! Seriously though? Dude uses the word 'stanky' in a rap. That wins eight thousand pimp points in my . . . uh . . . Official Pimp Book.
Is it me or do all of MIMS' beats sound remarkably the same? Is that like saying that all Asians look alike? Is he trying to be post-modern? Is he trying to make some sort of searing social commentary on the soulless behemoth that is commercial rap by proving that you can remake the same song two times consecutively and still be super famous? Ok then.
That song "Beautiful Girls" by Sean Kingston? The one that talks about how this chick is too hot for his chubby, Rerun-lookin' ass and it makes him feel like offing himself? It makes me feel like offing myself.

Does this make me 'out of touch'? Old and curmudgeonly? Or just in possession of discerning and excellent taste? I'm voting for option three.

Shitness

2007-07-30T18:13:00.000-04:00

*Disclaimer: Mom and Dad, if you are reading this, stop.
So today, in an effort to rouse myself from the 'doldrums,' and also because I'm too broke to afford booze, I resorted to getting high on 'life,' specifically endorphins. Ugh, the word alone is enough to make me want to take a goddamned nap. But I figure if I already paid the $90 monthly fee for the damned membership, that money's as good as spent.

I donned my fucking gay workout clothes, which are essentially my pajamas plus sneakers, and got my fat ass to the stupid gym. Are you sensing the undercurrent of rage in this post? Well congratufuckinglations! You're a genius.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. So there I am at the gym, surrounded by hateful healthmongers who are very nearly sweating on me. I plug in my earphones and switch my tv to the Food Network so that I can watch food while I burn lard off my body. The volume isn't working. This is a bad sign. I give up on hearing Giada DiLaurentiis wax on about stuffed shells -- she's got an annoying-ass voice anyhow, how she's always saying everything's so 'crisp' and 'crunchy' -- and start in on my Fergie workout.

Half an hour later, I'm schvitzing like a chazer. I jump off and do my stretches, and wait for the eighty-five-pound ano who's thought to bring her infant child to the gym with her to finish up on the leg-lifty thing. She's too busy making kissy faces at the kid and being all "I HAVE to work off this baby weight!" So I give up and bounce. I am still in a foul mood, perhaps because in my fruitless effort to avoid sweating, I've neglected to get my heart rate up enough to get the little endorphin fuckers flowing. So I decide to treat myself to a shot of wheatgrass, which sometimes has the effect of coke if you drink it on any empty stomach. I'm just coming out of the health food store, having choked down the vile, bilous liquor, when I run LITERALLY right in to my friendly neighborhood drug dealer. Ah, cruel irony! Just when I am beginning to feel all healthy and virtuous, the universe is there to remind me that I'm nothing of the sort.

After some idle chit-chat, I make it home and immediately start to feel the urge to purge. I am not sure if my body is in revolt from the unusually high energy expenditure or simply pissed off I made it drink the equivalent of 2 pounds of leafy green vegetables. Either way, I'm feeling distinctly urpy, and decide that the only real way to remedy the sitch is to bury my face in a plate of seasoned waffle fries, washed down with a 20 oz. coca cola classic. Take that, fitness.

So in sum, my ill-advised attempt to be healthy has, at every turn, been met with reminders of why I'm not cut out for that sort of lifestyle. To paraphrase Fran Lebowitz, I'm better off just chain-smoking and plotting revenge.

Parents Just Don't Understand (Gender-Specific Apparel)

2007-07-27T17:03:00.000-04:00

My mom has this cute habit of calling me every time something mildly amusing happens at home in Indiana. Sometimes our ideas of amusing diverge, but even those times are cute in their own way just cause of the breadth of un-thrilling things she deems worthy of a phone call. I think I've just figured out where I get my easy-to-entertain gene.

In any event, today she left me a message that made me simultaneously laugh out loud and make me suspicious as to what exactly goes on at home when my parents have no one to rein them in from their inherent nuttiness.

I requested that my mom buy me this sick shirt from the sexy Libertine line that Target is featuring right now. After she got it, she hung it up with some of my dad's button-downs so he wouldn't forget to bring it with him when he comes out to NYC for a visit next week. She was sitting on the couch lounging as she's wont to do ('nother genetic trait that's been passed down to yours truly) when she heard my dad yell, "What the hell is THIS?"

As you might imagine, she was even more startled when she saw him in the doorway with my shirt halfway on, puzzled as to how he was supposed to wear it.

In addition to being about a foot shorter than my dad, I am also a girl. This particular shirt, as you might be able to tell from the picture above, is clearly not a unisex item of clothing. If the puffed sleeves and big girly bow wasn't a tip-off, you'd think the candy-striped fabric might have clued him in to this fact. Alas. My dad is officially a cross-dresser. And possibly senile!

And yet the only thing I'm really concerned about is whether he stretched the goddamned thing out trying to put it on.

Codename: CoffeeBoob

2007-07-23T12:53:00.001-04:00

I officially have a problem, and it is called Gimme! Coffee.

Gimme! Coffee is what I would like to consider my local coffee shop. It is located a mere four-ish blocks from my house, serves up the most insanely good, strong coffee and espresso drinks I've encountered, and is never not teeming with hot, tatted-up rocker boys. Why just last week I encountered not one but TWO of my recent crushes ordering themselves up some iced Americano's (the preferred coffee beverage of hot dudes everywhere).

As an aside, I'd like to point out that it's not always ideal to run into your crushes at the coffee joint, because you are usually in one of two extreme states of being. By you I mean me. Either I am comatose and sub-lingual with squinty eyes that resemble those of a newborn baby rodent or I am on my second cuppa, which likely means I'm crazed and sweating and behaving like a junkie in need of her fix.

Which brings me to this problem I mentioned above. I am addicted. ADDICTED. Yes, I am aware that caffeine is a drug. Yes, I'm aware that people become addicted to it. But when I say addicted, what I mean is . . . .

Picture it: Brooklyn, New York on a rainy misty morning in late July. Yours truly is struggling down the street carrying not one but two large cups of soy latte, both with extra shots. Because each "single" shot is a triple ristretto (um, yeah), this means that each cup I hold in my little hand contains what amounts to SIX shots of espresso. I have resorted to buying TWO LARGE COFFEE DRINKS because I NEED TO KEEP UP MY BUZZ. I am preparing to consume TWELVE SHOTS OF MUTHER FUCKING ESPRESSO.

I secretly hope that the counter people think I have, like, a friend or a boyfriend for whom I've been kind enough to brave the crap weather in the name of a cuppa joe. Because no one -- NO ONE -- in her right mind would need to consume that much coffee by herself in immediate succession, let alone insist on procuring it in the midst of a fucking thunderstorm. Certainly no one in her right mind would think it necessary to don rubber boots and trip down the street carrying two large cups of coffee whilst trying to also manage her wind-ravaged umbrella and attempting to make sure her dress doesn't fly up and flash the pizza shop across the street, all the while trying like a maniac to simultaneously sip from one cup, then another (so as to not make one cup feel inferior to the other!). And so on, down the street.

Needless to say folks, I arrived at my apartment a few minutes ago with the front half of me drenched from improper use of umbrella, and I had coffee and soy foam on my nose, chin and boob area. Junkie. I kid you not.

And here I sit, sucking down cup numero uno, already thinking about cup #2. And wondering how much time I could realistically let pass before arousing suspicion or concern amongst the baristas when I go in and order another cuppa. Perhaps I should estimate when the shift changes?

These are the crazed thoughts I'm having right now.

Well at least I'm in good company: Rumor was that Balzac drank like 80 cups of java a day. He even wrote a treatise called "The Pleasures and Pains of Coffee."

Oh, and then he died of caffeine-related health problems! Whoops!

I Was A Teen-Aged Hair-Don't

2007-07-20T13:25:00.001-04:00

Lots of us can attest to having had poor judgment as teenagers. One in a series of misbegotten decisions I made between the ages of roughly fourteen and nineteen involved the travesty of attempting white-girl dreadlocks.

Now don't misunderstand. I was by no means a hippie. There was a fleeting moment between middle- and high school when it was touch and go . . . I really liked those jangly bell anklets that the hippie girls wore and I once went to a Grateful Dead concert -- albeit just the parking lot, where all manner of vendor sold yummy veggie pitas, tie-dyed t-shirts and nitrous balloons. But at some point or other, I came to a fork in the road: Would it be pot and Phish or whiskey and mosh pits? At the urging of my bestest friend Sarah, who was already sporting spiked dog collars and heavy black eyeliner and obsessing over Crass b-sides -- despite the fact that she lived in the biggest mansion on the East side -- I chose the latter.

For me, as for most kids who did not actually grow up on the streets of London or New York in the late Seventies, "being punk" was merely a sartorial exercise, much as we professed to believe in anarchy and, like, veganism and not bathing. And so it was that Sarah and I began to experiment with all of the various and sundry punk styles we could think up. Manic Panic hair dye was used liberally. Accessorizing with safety pins became de rigeur. Wearing owl-like eye makeup was non-negotiable. We were very pleased with ourselves. Our parents not so much.

I can't recall exactly when I discovered that the dreadlocks that the pretty, earthy hippie girls at school rocked functioned doubly as an acceptable punk hairstyle, but I think I came to the realization with equal parts surprise and relief. Up to then, I'd resigned myself to being the most white-bread punk rock acolyte of our little social circle. Sarah shaved her head, Joe got a tattoo, J.R. had a mohawk, held in place with Crest toothpaste. I told myself I was content to represent the more sedate end of the style spectrum, but in truth I was scared I'd end up looking like an idiot, or worse, a poseur.

But dreadlocks. That I could manage. A few weeks into my sophomore year I floated the idea to Sarah, who was enthusiastic. I quickly set about researching ways to give myself the desired look, and was told by more than one stanky punk with whom I associated that dreadlocks required a long-term sabbatical from hair-washing. I was not down with that.

Luckily I had other resources. After surveying every one of the black girls in my geometry class, I found that dreadlocks could be achieved simply with the application of a mysterious and magical beauty product known as Murray's Bee's Wax. Joy!

That very weekend, Sarah and I hit up Sally's Beauty Supply, procured the Murray's and got to work in Sarah's bathroom.

I must remind you that these were the days before Google. We could not simply enter search terms and get a detailed how-to on dreadlocks. We also didn't have the presence of mind to ask for instructions on how to create them, beyond merely attaining and applying the Murray's. So we improvised. We began slathering the balm onto medium sections of my hair and twisting them into coils. After getting through about half of my head, we noticed that the effect was not quite what we were after. The hair was too smooth, not nappy or ratty enough: it looked more like a series of cornrows than the artfully mussed locks I dreamed about. We tried in vain to tease them into fuzzy ropes, to no avail. We determined that we'd used too much product and not enough elbow grease to physically rough up the hair, so I set about washing out the Murray's, optimistic that we could start over and get it right the second time.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Murray's Bee's Wax, the "bee's wax" is a bit of a misnomer. The shit is essentially dressed-up Vaseline. You see where this is going. I washed and dried my hair, and quickly discovered that it had almost no effect. Every strand was essentially coated in petroleum jelly, rendering the water and the suds completely innocuous. Moisture began to bead on my head as on a duck's feathers. I shampooed again. Nothing. Again. And again. And again.

Oh. Fuck.

I came to the grim realization that I had completely screwed up my hair with a sense of humor undercut by the terrifiying knowledge that I'd be forced to go to school the next day with hair so slicked in grease that I resembled an animal dredged up after the Exxon-Valdez oil spill. I trudged home from Sarah's and ransacked the utility closet at my house for any cleaning product I thought I could safely use on my head, hell-bent on finding something -- anything -- that would at the very least make my hair marginally less disgusting.

No fucking dice. Monday rolled around and I tried foolishly to camouflage my hair's unfortunate condition. I pulled it back in a loose pony tail and hoped people would simply think it was still wet from the shower. I divulged to my friends the truth of what happened, and spent the week attempting a low profile in the hallways, rushing home as soon as the 3 o'clock bell rang to begin the hours-long process of washing, drying and rewashing my pathetic strands.

Halfway through the week, fate reared its comparatively ugly head: As I was walking home from school, a red Honda Prelude pulled up beside me, and Anthony Panzica leaned across the driver's seat and yelled "Want a ride?"

Dear god why? Why now? Why must the hottest guy in the junior class, whom I'd ogled from afar , notice me and offer me a ride home on a day when I looked like a drowned rat?

"Sure, thanks."

The half-mile drive was painfully silent. I considered telling him the whole sad story of my hair, to at the very least offer an explanation for my freakish 'do. But I couldn't get up the nerve. As he sped away from my driveway, I shook my fist and cursed the heavens Scarlett O'Hara style.

And so the week wore on. My parents laughed and shook their heads. I laid my oily head on my towel-protected pillow at night and winced, replaying every humiliating encounter I'd suffered that day.

After a full week with no demonstrable change in my hair's condition, it dawned on me that perhaps I should get some professional help. I consulted the wretched Murray's Bee's Wax label and found a 1-800 customer service number. Why hadn't I sought their help earlier? Because I was retarded, that's why.

The first thing the Murray's rep said to me after I 'd described the issue was, "Are you Caucasian?" I shit you not. It was at that point that I finally realized the error of my ways: I was not black! My hair was not the texture of a black person's! Yes. I am a master of the obvious.

The lady chuckled to herself and laid out the steps whereby I could begin the process of getting my hair back to its natural state.* I hung up and got to work immediately. Within an hour, my hair was all but normal.

In the twelve-odd years since I experienced this hair fiasco, I have approached each haircut and color and style with trepidation. I admire the people who embrace follicular experiments without fear. But outlandish hairstyles simply ain't for me. I learned that the hard way.

*In the unlikely even that you find yourself in my position, you must literally melt the Murray's off your hair, using a hair-dryer and a comb to methodically diffuse the grease. Don't say I never warned you.

GROOOOOSSSS

2007-07-18T13:56:00.000-04:00

It's just past noon and already today is shaping up to be one of the all-time record holders in terms of yuckiness. Specifically, sweating. Let me share my feelings with you on this topic: I HATE IT. I HATE SWEATING more than just about everything in the world. Yes, more than rosemary, yippee dogs, close talkers, anorexics, fabric stores and fascists. Well maybe not more than fascists, but it's neck and neck.

The dumb thing is it's not really even that effing hot out. It's merely thick and humid and pea soup-ish. I happened to be wearing my spectacles today and kept on having to remove them in order to wipe off the condensation on the lenses. And have I mentioned my OCD when it comes to facial sweating? I rarely if ever leave home without a supply of facial moist towelettes. I am aware that this makes me something of a freak and that for someone who is currently in financial dire straits, it does not follow that I ought to be spending five to seven dollars biweekly on the fancy, sensitive-skin variety of towelette. But whatever, eff you.

On this particular day of days, I was on my way to see Dr. X* for an annual physical and was running late, so I was unable to go through the normal ritual of making sure I had packed at least two towelettes in addition to my various lip balms, sunglasses, reading material, keys, wallet and cetera. WHAT A DAY TO FORGO THE TOWELETTE CHECK! I was dripping, I tell you! What started as a girlish glow, a glisten even, became a full-fledged schvitz bonanza. It was unpleasant.

In case you're worried about my health, Dr. X seems to think all systems are go, except for the fact that I smoke a little -- JUST A LITTLE!! -- and abhor exercise. I freely admitted this to the doc, because there's really no point in lying to him, even though I want him to love me forever. (See asterisk.) This admonition regarding cigz and exercise could very well have categorized every single doctor's visit since I was twelve, being that I have historically abhorred exercise (even when I was going through my adolescent quasi-ano phase) and have being puffing the fags since '91. I made sure to tell the doc that I DO do all my own walking, which I thought ought to count for something. I mentioned my recent sleep trouble, which hasn't been all that troublesome what with my blessed Ambien by my side, and he retorted with that same "exercise would help that" line. Pah, I said. Also, I don't like sweating. Really. Truly. Don't.

Are you sensing a theme here?

By the time I had trekked up to Union Square, having by then consumed two large coffees -- the equivalent of roughly six espresso shots (more on this later) -- I was actually seeing little speckles of sweat form on my chest like some lady with menopause or a fat guy with high blood pressure. No. NO. MOIST TOWELETTES WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I NEED YOU?? If I'd been in a really OCD mood, I'd have stopped at the nearest Wal-Greens to purchase my Oil of Olay babies, but I was trying extra hard to be abstemious and plus I was on a mission: to visit Barnes and Noble (or Narns and Bobble as I like to call it -- aren't I silly?? But seriously it sounds way better that way) to purchase just about every magazine ever published. For research. RESEARCH I TELL YOU!

Ugh. I was so sweaty that even in the oppressive air conditioning of B&N I couldn't regain my cool. I was actually forced to mob my brow with my just-laundered but still unsatisfactorily sanitary cardigan, which then made me paranoid that I would have little pieces of brown lint all over my face and people would think I had gotten in a poo fight with a Bonobo monkey.

After buying the entire fucking magazine section, I left with every intention of retreating to my little apartment with my little air conditioner and my stack o' mags.

BUT ALAS. As I exited I realized that I was face to face with the Union Square Market, and since I've been trying to force myself to eat fruits and vegetables more, I could not very well pass up the opportunity to peruse and purchase some of the agrarian bounty of the season. Mind you I was still sweating but making a ferocious effort to tell myself I was not concerned about the ocean of perspiration gathering in the little ditches below my specs.

Well in case you care, I bought some cherries. And some cheese. Not cheez. Cheese. So much for the leafy greens I aspired to. By the time I'd gotten my quarter-pound of raw milk havarti I was so thoroughly wet (get your mind out of the gutter!) that I couldn't bring myself to stop by the heirloom tomato stand, let alone peruse the purslaine (sic). I walked quickly towards the subway, praying that the L train would not require a long wait and that I'd soon be heading towards my marginally cool apartment where I could disrobe and aim the AC directly at my little face.

No such luck. A full ten minutes of near-hysteria ensued. I resorted to removing my glasses entirely in order to reap the full effects of the woefully weak fans, which made me even more disoriented. Those ten minutes were the grossest in recent memory.

For those of you who are wondering, I made it home in one piece. I am typing this in the comfort of my cute, cool, orange-blossom scented room. I do not plan on leaving until the disgusting humidity outside lifts. Or until I feel like getting drunk. Whichever comes first.

*Dr. X is my physician and crush object. He is sexually ambiguous enough to not make me nervous when he palpates my boobs, but is big and burly and strong and has a kind face and I daydream about hugging him. Ah, Dr. X -- I gladly put my life in your hands!

Ode To Cheez

2007-07-18T00:01:00.000-04:00

Have you guys devoted any serious time to the weird and wonderful world of faux cheese? No? Well you OUGHT. Not only is it a fascinating feat of scientific progress and textural aesthetics, it is scrumptious. It is one in a long list of highly specific things that make my loins quiver, and that is an accomplishment in and of itself.

Of course, there are all manner of fake cheeses on Mothership Earth, and these cheeses, or cheezes rather, are much like humans in that some are better than others. Some please and delight while others offend the senses and generally make me want to Ralph Nader.

Let's consider the mother of all cheezes: Cheez Whiz. Who invented this incredible culinary masterpiece? Why the Wizard of Cheez of course! That beneficent magician of processed, mucus-like goodness first bequeathed his discovery unto Kraft, which proceeded to unveil the thenceforth indispensable kitchen staple in the red-letter year of 1953.*

Historically speaking, Velveeta was Cheez Whiz's predecessor, created and brought to the cheez-loving public in the year 1927 -- the height of the Great Depression! Ah the socio-economic implications wrought by this food discovery. In two words: Who cares?

My thoroughly uninformed but nonetheless correct opinion is that despite a longer career and undisputed status as the superior accompaniment to chips and Rotel, the V-train is inferrior to Cheez Whiz in the category of "thick, viscous" liquid cheezes.

One must, I suppose, touch on the strange and culturally relevant innovation known as E-Z Cheez. Despite it's name, E-Z Cheez bears little or no relation to the departed West Coast rapper and former member of N.W.A Easy E. But it is doubtless a portrait and product of its time (the Eighties of course) : a fluffy, vapid cheese imposter barely contained in a "futuristic" spray can. I confess that I was caught on more than one occasion swirling the stuff directly onto my tongue the way Sheena E. might have foamed up her coiffure. But I was but a child. I lived and learned.

I will always have a special place in my heart for Merkts Cheddar-Port Wine Cheese Food, which I consider to be part of the old-guard. This is faux cheese for the upwardly mobile. This would not be out of place at a fancy cocktail party, served with Triscuit (or "thrice-baked") crackers. I especially enjoy the mottled alien color in which this Cadillac of cheezes arrives. The borderline offensive pink hue that is supposed to represent the "port" within the screaming orange "cheddar" is particularly enticing. My Grandma Patsy ave shalom used to serve Merkts at social gatherings. She was also a master of Tapioca pudding and Chicken Diane, but that is for another story. The point is, she was a classy lady and she gave Merkts the thumbs up. So who are YOU to judge? Nobody is who.

Nowadays I take my faux cheez where I can get it: Perhaps it comes in the form of a wimpy, milky sauce on my Annies Organic shells. Maybe I get it in powder form (much preferred these days) on my daily quota of Cheezy Poofs (brand name withheld). Occasionally I break down and order chili con queso at whatever sub-stellar Mexican chain restaurant I happen to be dining at, though I passed up the opportunity to do so yesterday during an impromptu trip to On the Border in beautiful Huntington, Long Island for reasons I'm still grappling with. I suspect it had to do with my attempt to be abstemious in light of the knowledge that I would later that evening be indulging in another of my great loves -- to be explored at a later date -- the humble potato.

Friends, the world of fake cheese is wide and I am but one "womynn" (as our militant feminist friends say) with little to no ambition when it comes to thinking deeply about something for longer than 40 minutes. So here is where I'll leave you:

A great philosopher onces said: The cheese stands alone.

Another great philosopher said: If you Cheez-It, they will come.

Think about it. I haven't.

*I have fabricated a portion of this statement.