Aural Triptych for Thursday

Fresco for Wednesday

Giotto, The Raising of Lazarus from the Arena Chapel, Padua, 1306.

I'm OK. You're OK.

Andrew Jackson, comic brute.

I forgot to read the news today, but I got to the bottom (ooof, no pun intended, really!) of James Buchanan's supposed gayness....

No More Dramas (Addendum)

Yesterday's come-down was inevitable, but brief. In fact, I've found that there's a quite easy answer to the problem of "what to do at 24 in order to be a happy grown-up"--look good. As warm and wholesome and earthy as the Zizney Reunion (see below) was, we are left with an overwhelming urge to simplify, to focus on the surfaces of things, people (us), our bodies. Drinking more water (and less booze), sleeping proper amounts, eating vitamins, brushing our hair, working out, applying masques and eye serums and sunscreen, wearing lipstick and (gasp) heels and perfume. These are the keys to our future happiness. The rest (work and school and SUCCESS) will follow suit. I'm sure of it. Yup.

So it's only fitting that I'm ready to deal with Lady GaGa, who I've been holding at arms length for months now. Pillow nodded to The Fame last year. And, though she always leads me to the finest pops (Hello Blackout!), I couldn't get into GaGa. She put me in mind of all of the bottle-serviced douchebags I used to know. And then I saw her in interviews. Such an idiot, putting on a weak, Anglo-y accent and spouting stuff about Bohemianism and New York and the Scene and drugs and garrets in not-so-proper or clever English.

I've recently become enamored of a few of the tracks. They sound quite good. They stick. But ain't she a mess? The record is all pure, unadulterated vapidity (except for the dead-on "Like It Rough"). If she was winkingly posing as the gnarliest coked-out party girl in NYC, binging in the face of the Recession and the "Death of Downtown," then she would be a total genius. Instead, she's putting on this pseudo-intellectual show (like any defensive, self-conscious loser from Sacred Heart would) and saying she's from the future? What? Lady GaGa's pitch is like one of those poster-boards scrawled with confused, tinny adjectives that gay fay-shun show producers place backstage to motivate the models, to instruct them in the seasonal inspiration/angle they're meant to describe by, you know, walking.

So, I'll take the songs, exactly the soundtrack I need for my new drive toward brainlessness and sheen, and ignore the hype. I've embedded a non-music video YouTube of "Paparazzi" that S-P-E-L-L-S out the silliness and incoherence of her lyrics and one of "Like It Rough," my fave. Enjoi. And take care of yourself.

Mayor Warbucks, Are You Going to Adopt Us?

Yesterday was all kinds of heavy symbolism for Auntie P and I'm losing my mind today just a tad, coming off yesterday's 10 hour workday and today which is going to find me on my feet long into the night thanks to the dreaded FiFi awards. I spent the last two nights tossing and turning and fretting about a future-determining meeting that I have no control over and at around 4 AM this morning I gave up on sleep and crept downstairs to borrow my neighbors hard copy of the Times and opened it up to this long anticipated and poorly written and miserably defeating Op-Ed.

I'm not quite sure how the onus of opposing our impossible-to-beat billionaire Mayor Munchkin fell on the shoulders of a SUNY educated member of the House who represents a solidly middle class district that stretches across Brooklyn and Queens but it's all over for Weiner now (who, by the by, evokes his plucky borough-kid roots much less eloquently than another prominent New Yorker did yesterday--but more on her later.) The point is, it's not just over for Weiner, it's over for all of us and most of all it's over for Bloomberg who is going to sail into his third term on a ship made out of silicon and trans-fat free pastries while flanked by iron clad battleships and submarines filled with gold bars. Giuliani, who is to blame for Bloomberg's entire existence in this city from back in his America's Mayor® days, has been suspiciously quiet as to his proteges ability to achieve a level of totalitarian power in this city that he only dreamed of and dreamed of often.

But this week also brought joy in Mudville, as yesterday we saw the President choose to nominate Sandra Sotomayor, decidedly one of the most deserving and experienced judges to be named to the highest court in the land in decades. Sotomayor is a symphony, she's lived a life out of a Dickens novel; as the New York Times put it yesterday in a fleeting moment of eloquence, "she is walking through a door she pushed open for herself."

Conservatives are letting a lot of shit fly in anticipation of her confirmation hearings, cause that's their job. Barring the inevitable inquiries into her taxes, her divorce, her childlessness, my personal favorite barb thus far is the uproar about a statement she once made that (I'm paraphrasing here) Latina women, with their richness of experience would more often make better decisions than white men, which is, like, duh. I mean starting with the leggings department obviously but has anyone who thinks that ever MET a Puerto Rican lady? My Puerto Rican roommate (who has never once been mistaken for Puerto Rican) shed a single tear yesterday at the news mostly, he confessed, because the idea of someone who thinks like his mother making important decisions overwhelmed him with confidence for the future of America.

So anyway, here's what I was thinking. I know Bloomy's been beating on a white chick these days (who consequently is the head of the NY State Banking authority, the conflicts of interest never end) but I think it's time he stopped dating women he could easily abuse and looked up, say, Rosie Perez. A little bit of empathy, and maybe the next four years won't be so bad.

Zac Efron, will you still be famous when we're married?

Memorial Day Long Weekend. We (Pillow has arrived en La Nueva--our cable reality-inspiring [see: Crackpoint, the series] codependency has resumed!) moved apartments, saw 17 Again, and ate mushrooms in a perfect, man-made sycamore and cedar grove (that we now call Zizney/The Zizney/The Zizney Reunion/The Zizney Family Reunion) on the East side of Central Park.

First, Zac Efron is stunning. Stunning. When, at the romantic climax of 17 Again (an all around sort of perfect movie), our boy morphs back into a pilly, saggy, age-appropriate Matthew Perry one's heart sinks, one cries out in anguish, "where did he go, this beating heart of the film, this beating heart of my heart?!" And it's really endless isn't it?--our appetite for new and young and next and almost. It's pure thrills to see a breakout happening in realish time, and evidently, at 24, I'm just as susceptible to that combination of beauty, charisma, and publicity as I was at 4 or 9 or 15. For a brief moment, Pillow and I fought over the grown Disney prince. But, upon further consideration, I realized that he (a Jew) may not be so interested in dating Jewish. And it follows (from all I know of my generation of male Heebs) that after his fling with a fetishized/objectified Asian chick, he'll be ready to put a ring on a worshipped/feared blonde WASP chick (...and none better than our very own!). Semantics. Anyway, the air buzzed with Zac Efron as we strolled and trained from 3rd and 9th to our new nook in Flatbush.

It was still buzzing when we took our drug and cream cheese bagel sammiches to the Park around noon on Memorial proper. The grove (the third location we scouted for our triparoo) was a shifting patchwork of shade and sun, cool and warm velvet grass with a view of some incredibly beautiful and flat/picture-planey evergreens. Pillow noted a "Disney mist" that lay just above the clearing floor. I, having picked up a habit of attaching "z's" to things from our Petrova, called it a "Zizney mist." We laughed for about five minutes and were off. The synthesis of Disney and phychedelia has been central to my work on Britney Spears--Pillow expressed my own same thoughts at random, as usual. And there we were, full of Zac's pervasive/suasive image and mushrooms and sun and birds and our nice outfits and a high-keyed mist and so many families. We felt so kindly and courtly. We sat/lay beneath the largest sycamore flanked by a large local/French-speaking (?) Jewish clan, an extended, hearty, sporting Austrian family, and a pair of fancy-looking Brit twins, one of whom had a retired model wife and a new newborn in tow. Precious. Warm. International grandparents! A gem of a Zizney Family Reunion. Such good feelings, such feelings about the FUTURE (and the poetics of landscape design). The Zizney may well have been our conjoined lawns in Tuxedo years hence (where we'll smell and dig in the rich, dewy ground with our children). It was simply, where we belong.

But, of course, despite all of the bliss of yesterday, today has been a little tricky. We hallucinated a view of our cozy thirties and forties, et cetera, but not a way, not a path, not an answer for the here and now, the crisis-y quarter-life. HOW and WHEN will we arrive at this "Brigadoon" called Zizney? And will Zac Efron still be famous when we get there? Ugh.

Verses

"Take On Me"
a-ha (with ed. punctuation)
1985 (and 2009)

We're talking away.
I don't know what I'm to say.
I'll say it anyway.
Today's another day to find you shying away.
I'll be coming for your love, OK?

Take on me.
Take me on.
I'll be gone,
In a day or two.

So needless to say,
I'm odds and ends.
But that's me--stumbling away,
Slowly learning that life is OK.
Say after me:
It's no better to be safe than sorry.

Take on me.
Take me on.
I'll be gone,
In a day or two.

Oh the things that you say:
"Is it life or just a play-my-worries-away?"

You're all the things I've got to remember.
You're shying away.
I'll be coming for you anyway.

Take on me.
Take me on
I'll be gone,
In a day or two.

The V.I.P. Room

So we've always had this plan to go to a taping of The Tyra Banks Show, but I honestly kind of forgot about it. I'm currently sitting on the couch watching television - Tyra, obvi - waiting for my nails to dry, and a few minutes ago Able reminded me of our grand plan. After semi-hyperventilating from the just-like-new thought, I promptly logged on to Ty-Ty's website to reserve tickets. Sadly, the show is on hiatus until August; but I popped over to the FAQ's and found this beautiful insanity:

What do I wear?
Dress your best! We ask that everyone come in upscale, business, interview attire. Think classy. You'll look best on camera wearing solid colors. Those looking their best are always on camera, we have the right to deny anyone who does not follow guidelines.
PLEASE NOTE: NO EXTREME HAIRSTYLES and NO LOGOS OF ANY KIND.

PLEASE DO NOT WEAR:
Shorts
Capri/Gaucho Pants
T-shirts
Ripped Jeans
Sequins
Hats
Busy Patterns
White/White Tops/White Jeans
Jogging Suits/ Velour pants
Tank Tops
Uggs Boots
Flip Flops (walking around the city in uncomfortable shoes can be a task. Some change their shoes once they arrive to the taping. Please keep in mind ALL bags MUST be able to fit under your seat. We are not responsible for the storing of your items, PLEASE NO BACK PACKS OR LARGE PURSES OF ANY KIND CAN BE ADMITTED.)
Sneakers

No white? No busy patterns? Really? It makes me teary that I couldn't go to a taping of Tyra in one of my going-to-The Peacock-at-ULA-in-1994 shirts. But not teary enough to not go, DUH!

Too Darn Hot

P.M.C., who has set off with his love for their new (oh-my-goodness) home in Lebanon (a French colonial fantasy, among other things), began to peel away the layers of my Anglophilia several years ago. He was feeling uncertain about the island, and I trusted his judgement implicitly (being that he spends much more time/has some ancestors over there). And I could agree that London's profile as playland for the megamega-rich and Euro-trashy was smelling unsavory, smelling wholly unlike, say, a Wodehouse story.

When it comes to Jeeves and Wooster, my Anglophilia knows no bounds (or peeling), responds to no shifts or trends or irritating demi-aristos with weak chins and Mystic Tans. Wodehouse's Britain is one lodged in the era between the Wars in the most essential (and pleasing) way—the din of the Great War at the players' backs wholly ignored for the sake of Fred and Estelle lightness. His stories of town and country, club and breakfast-table are touched with the high style of that moment, the quick, comic, fast, freshness of (new) Modernity. Yet they are also stilted and wholesome, like a film set of a Swiss resort or the jam aisle at Fortnum and Mason—devoid of war, poverty, illness, and sex. The curious (and necessary) *absence of sex* in Bertie Wooster's accounts of bachelorhood is addressed in an odd, smart little Post post from yesterday.

Carry on.

Whenever Pops sends me something from The Forward I end up getting furious about one of the damn ads--

I mean really, what is this caca?!

I'm OK. You're OK.

Sometimes I really really miss them.

Good Morn-ting

I bought this grief with my coffee. Papa Able gets upset when he sees police details holding guard outside of our's and others' synagogues on the High Holidays. But evidently it's necessary. My Grandmother lives in Riverdale...and suddenly I don't think wire-taps are such a bad idea. Uh-oh.

Boricua, Moreno

It's summer in New York so let's talk about Puerto Ricans. Lisa, Lisa you out there?

Badblog

Unlike some snarky smugs, I have no problem with Jared Kushner. Instead, I have a crush on him (obvi). But Max Negatory Nancy over at IvyGate (IvyGate?!) has chosen to belittle his new project. JEALOUS.

The Recentness of Beyoncé Sculpture

On Saturday, we bought sneakers. Pillow, Petrova, and Able ambled (practically skipped) down Fulton Mall. Pet knew the best place (blasting Hot 97). In the space of ten minutes we had each spotted, tried, and purchased our (discounted) favorite pairs. Heaven.

On Sunday, Pillow and I talked about Beyoncé. You see, Pillow had bought House of Deréon high-tops. And I was reading this. And then we started playing the catalogue. And I downloaded two Sasha Fierce (damn that terrible hairdressery title) tracks. "Halo" (which Alpha dropped here first). And "Ego." And I'm serious. I've heard the pair of them about 300 times.

"Halo" kills me with the synth and the sentimentality. It's a discoed spiritual, as I listened to it on the train Monday morning I felt the whole chronology of religious music at my back (or really just Bach). And I thought, "Beyoncé is the truth. I want to hear this song on repeat. And Pillow bought those shoes. And who knew I needed religion so badly."

"Ego" is equally addictive, an anthem of swagger that comes in neat, strutting, aesthetic waves. The lyric poses her (and his?) ego as penis,"It's too biiig./It won't fiiit." Beyoncé's adventures in gender dissolution and mocking critics and marriage to HOVA! And it all sounds so damn good.

No Thanks, I'm Good

Best Thing Going (For Wednesday)

Such an acronym.

Folk Art for Wednesday

This is happening.

Self Actual

So they're advertising this movie called Post-Grad on Pandora (like out loud).

It stars Alexis Bledel (who will always be Rory Gilmore to us, a girl who felt like a real agemate, a sympatica, the young star of the WB's much-loved mothers-and-daughters television saga, Gilmore Girls, the wonderful show [may it forever be in syndication] which was shuttered in its seventh season as Bledel's Rory was leaving Yale and making some really bunk "post-grad" cherr-sez, like not marrying a fictional version of A.G. Sulzberger [who is both a Jew and called A.G.!]). And I'm glad, because I like Alexis Bledel, and I like to see her working. But, as one might expect, her character in this Post-Grad seems an awful lot like Rory or that chick she played in The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants or really her (the actress)--very pretty, kind, humble, smart, occasionally compromised on account of being pretty but maintaining her general air of lily-whiteness. And somehow it never bothered me, until...you know what I'm saying.

I graduated a year ago last weekend. Since then, I've watched Reality Bites (for the trillionth tiempo),which NEVER disappoints (though it makes me feel like I ought to have stayed in Memphis and shacked up with a broody slacker—inherently disappointing!). And I rented Kicking and Screaming, which, Chris Eigeman aside, sucks (Oh G-d how I hate Noah Baumbach!). And I've caught The Devil Wears Prada on the tay-vay a (ahem) couple of times, which is cool because Stanley Tucci and Simon Baker and Meryl Streep and Adrian Grenier and it's pretty innocuous.

And a movie that's actually called Post-Grad. I'll totes go see it, but it will induce a certain kind of dull sadness, a creepy, antiseptic hospital feeling, a glummm. Because graduating from college is trauma. And (G-d strike me down for mentioning this too often) the Recession is more trauma (trauma on trauma!). And, easy as it might have been with all of that youth and credit and time and apathy, college caused for one hell of a letdown/crack-up/hangover once it ditched us into this damn city just when we probably ought to have been returning to nature and during the Recession (ha) at a grey crossroads of limitation and indecision. And that's not what this Alexis Bledel vehicle is about. It's about the same old bait and switch, the here's a movie that is somewhat supposed to be about you and your demographic and here's a heroine who feels like a little bit of a loser and here's her life being overtaken by a love triangle and OH solved, sublimated (with a few laughs along the way). Whatever.

Bizarro Jerry

Quick update before the holiday weekend: my boss is wearing a hoop skirt made out of a dogs playing poker tapestry.

Video Killed the Radio Star

Today I gave in and joined Twitter for about twenty seconds. I did this because I'd heard that Fran Drescher was a frequent Twitterer and the idea of getting little missives sent to my iPhone from The Nanny smelled like fine living.

So I signed up, I picked a name, I accidentally sent an email to everyone in my inbox to follow me on Twitter, and I eagerly went over to Fran's page to see what she had to say.

Verdict: Twitter will kill your idols. While there were some lovely updates (she had dinner with Mr. Sheffield last week, she bought motorcycle boots on QVC) there was also a garbage pile of Deepak Chopra quotes and Chinese proverbs and entirely too much oversharing about her "undefined romance" with a mystery man she only refers to as "the BF."

So in short, Twitter made me cry today. And I bet it makes a lot of people cry every day who misinterpret things other people say because life is an epic and not a series of 15 word or whatever the fuck they castrate you at on that site farts.

Airbrush Very Festive

The Rado Ceramica collection (miles ahead of that tired, JAPpy J12!--which, admittedly, blew mi mente in 2003). Note boundlessly chic website...

I'm OK. You're OK.

Placebo's new album drops 9 June 2009. Around that same time (in one way or another), a lot of people that have been dragging down at least half of the A&P staff will vanish into obscurity. From what I've heard of the album (which we've so gently touched on), it appears frontman Brian Molko has been in the same boat as us. Let us take his constructivism to heart. Summer anthems aplenty here, peoples.

What Happen

Love In This Club

Mayor Wharton.

"Looks like it's gonna be another one of them hot summers."

Verses

THE CRASS MENAGERIE

PELT-MAD BILLIONAIRE IN YACHTS OF TROUBLE

Which one of you #$%%**s took the last doughnut?

Verses

This week-ish, 3/4 of A&P are moving into a new apartment. And it's been a little hectic, and, if you can believe it, I JUST FOUND OUT ABOUT PAULA ABDUL (FINALLY) ADMITTING TO A PAST (HA) PAINKILLER ADDICTION! In honor of Paula and her fatty morphine patches, a poem:

"HEY PAULA"
Paul & Paula
(1963)

Hey hey Paula, I wanna marry you.
Hey hey Paula, no one else could ever do.
I've been waiting so long for school to be through,
Paula, I can wait no more for you,
my love, my love.

Hey Paul, I've been waiting for you.
Hey hey Paul, I wanna marry you too.
If you love me true, if you love me still,
our love will always be real,
my love, my love.

True love means planning our life for two,
being together the whole day through.
True love means waiting and hoping that soon
wishes we made, will come true,
my love, my love.