I'll tell you what it is. It's the lady at the New System bakery two blocks from my house not giving a shit. That's what it is. My reaction upon opening the tin foil was, "WhaaaaaaAAAAAAAAATT?" -- each "a" ascending by an octave and the "t" breathily puffed out with disbelief.
Is this how you treat a bagel? Non-toasted with a block slab of cold cream cheese in the center? Sacrilege, I say!
As for New System bakery - I'm not going to make some libelous statement against them over this offense. Truth be told, they make a cheap breakfast sandwich that blows my mind and incites enough pleasure within me to last for days...so I'll forgive them.
However, it is insane how many people abuse the bagel. I'm not saying that everyone needs to lovingly caress a finely toasted bagel with the smoothest room-temperature cream cheese. Though, if it's between that and the actions taken in the picture above - please use the former. Perhaps I am too sensitive about this issue. The bagel is, after all, my preferred daily breakfast. It combines two foods of the gods: bread and cheese. The combinations are endless. It's portable. It's warm. It's filling. I needn't go on.
Not everyone agrees with me on this, however. The ladies at the Dunkin Donuts in Rosedale, for instance, couldn't give a proverbial fig about my bagel. They've burned it, not toasted it, given me the wrong kind, etc. Worst of all, they continue to give me a little cup of cream cheese and a plastic knife so that I have to administer the topping myself. This is wrong to me on two accounts:
1) By making me spread the cream cheese onto the bagel myself, these ladies have negated the bagel's number one asset - its portability.
2) Remember when you were little and your mom poured your cereal or made you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Then you got a little older and you could do these things yourself, but they never ended up tasting quite like Mom's concoctions? Maybe Mom's estimated ratio was better or something, but there was this je ne sais pas that was (and always will be) missing from yours? That's how I feel when the ladies hand me my separate cream cheese. The fact that I've spent $3 and change on a bagel should GUARANTEE that I open it up to find already applied cream cheese.
I just thank the sweet Lord that the above did not happen with an onion bagel. The onion bagel is too sacred to mess with. If that had happened, I would've shoved that block of dairy up a place a block of dairy should never be shoved.
Those aren't my legs. Nor is that my faux oriental rug or my desk that looks like it doesn't exist in any realm other than a Sims furniture catalog.
But it is frickin' cold in this office, so I'm pleased to get this heat machine. I'm also a fan of the design. I like things that were made by someone in the 1970's who thought, "This looks so space-agey!"
The best thing about my space heater is what came with it. Inside the box were some velcro strips (to questionably mount somewhere - velcro doesn't seem like it'd hold this thing up) and some disinfectant wipes labeled "Alcohol Prep." The wipes are covered with Chinese symbols and the brand name is OYEAH.
Oh, yeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh. Reminds me of this oldie but goodie.
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Look at that beaut!
The two tomatoes are from my friend Vanessa and her boyfriend's incredibly fertile and generous vegetable garden. The rest of it is
8 oz of mozzarella
8 leaves of basil, torn up
2 tbsp of extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp of balsamic vinegar
1/4 salt
1/4 ground black pepper
It was pretty awesome walking up to the Giant knowing exactly what I was going to get. I had a mutha-fuckin' spring in my step and everything. I ended up eating only half of the salad, but that was alright because I wanted room for this guy:
Actually, mine looked better because I was looking at it through a glass Pyrex bowl. Alas, my camera is still at my parents' house. So, I pilfered this image from the Betty Crocker website.
Next stop - Quiche City. I don't know if I'm ready, but what this little expedition has taught me over everything is that I need to be more of a risk taker.
You know, cooking with heat and shit.
The Library of Congress' cataloging summary says, "Two boys must outsmart the neighborhood bullies before they can enjoy their new treasure, a pair of lensless motorcycle glasses."
Re-reading the book today, I've got to admit I have no idea why this was my absolute favorite book when I was growing up. There I was, an Irish-Catholic, strawberry blonde white girl from Carroll County, MD whose days were filled with horse-riding, tree-climbing, rolling down hills, and eating ice-cream cones. I'm not kidding. My childhood was the stuff of dreams. (I'm terrified my luck is going to run out any day now.) Yet I loved the shit out of this book, and what's more is that I was completely jealous of these kids, that dog, those goggles, and the junked up urban landscape.
Thinking about it now, I think it's just a credit to Keats' fine writing and gritty-but-charming illustrations.
Another "favorite" I recently revisited is the 1976 movie, "Network." I wouldn't say it's my absolute favorite (that spot is reserved for "The Odd Couple"), but it inspired me to write the review of which I'm most proud. It wasn't even a review for Verbicide, the magazine for which I used to concoct crappy little book reviews. It was just an email to my friend Zeno, but I think the fact that I wrote it only a couple of minutes after seeing the movie for the first time, the review is filled with the emotion and excitement from which I was still reeling.
Here goes:
"Father Christmas,
I came home from work tonight and settled down to my desk to work on Terry (Vanessa's brother)'s Christmas gift. The synopsis for "Let the Rivers Run" by Carly Simon is as follows: David Brent in smoky karaoke bar, questioning his life's status over a pint of lager. Coquettishly smiles at a bunch of female university students who wave him over for a try at the mic. Unsure of himself but willing to give it a shot, Brent starts to sing Simon's song. The bar's patrons slowly begin to gather around him, curious to the song's effects. Cut to an uproarious belting of the anthem with patrons joining in on the tune's life-affirming message. Not sure of ending but will include a side glance and head-toss from Brent.
Anyway, instead of working on the thing I saw that tempting little red envelope from you-know-where. It was "Network," that Sidney Lumet film. I finished watching it literally minutes ago. I had to get on here and write something about it or I would burst. Normally, I would write about it in my sad little diary but that would keep me from recommending it to someone with the full blush of excitement that I have in me right now. It may be one of the best films that has ever been made and it is certainly one of the best films I have ever seen. It was nominated for the best picture Oscar in 1976. Why it did not win is a complete mystery to me. Do you know what won that year? "Rocky" Believe it. I actually like "Rocky"…I'm not going to lie…but its appeal as a parable for masculine achievement and the whole "laying everything on the line" moral evades me. Maybe I'm heartless.
So, "Network." Man, I wish I could just say this stuff rather than write it because I don't think you can understand how affected I have just been by this. First off, Lumet directed. I really can't think of a good movie he's done since "Network," but I'm not really thinking too hard about it. Obviously he did"12 Angry Men," which the adjective "phenomenal" maybe too paltry for. Same thing goes for "Dog Day Afternoon." My God, those are good. In "Network," Lumet has these amazing shots of the Titans of Broadcasting buildings such as ABC, NBC, CBS, etc. I love his shots of actors doing their monologues. If I were an actor on his set and he said, "Um, I don't know. Just pace. A lot." I'd probably question his taste. But this shit works! Beatrice Straight, who I had really never heard of before or after but I've never been good with names, deserved her Oscar for best supporting actress like I don't know what. Saying all of this, I realize it sounds like "Network" is an actor's picture. It's not. The writing is insane. Do you know why I like Henry Miller so much? I always tell people he's my favorite writer but I just realized I've never told anyone why I like him. He has this incomparable way of writing EPIC TRUTHS as if they're as easy to find as tripping over your own shoelace. I'm trying to form what I want to say about it and I'm also trying to go to bed but sometimes writing is like shitting or giving birth and I don't know which one this is but it's the relief of release. Miller puts these age-old human battles in the everyday context, you know? Paying the rent or squabbling with the grocer becomes this ideological warfare. (Hamsun's a little like that too, that's probably what got me into him.) It's so Romantic, though! Things still mean something. Little things mean something. A handshake means something. A stare. An idea, even if it's just an idea. I'm not going to start listing because this is already way too long and it's going to be going for a while so just strap in, cowboy. You can end it now and click it into your environmentally friendly recycle bin, but you're going to be missing out on this expulsion of artistic sentiment and discovery in real-time. Moving on…there are a handful of writers that capture Miller's spirit and I've never seen one of them write for a film.
The fellow's name is Paddy Chayefsky. You can tell this old chap has internal struggle essentialized within him from the get-go. Even his name is an ambiguous ethnic quarrel. The fact that he wrote this for the screen does not lessen the script's impact. Ridiculous. You must see it.
Okay, performances. Peter Finch is famously remembered for his performance in this when he appears at the TV studio, soaked through with rain and muttering like some zealot. And then, there he is. Sitting behind his little wooden desk, in front of those arbitrary clocks, pathetically wearing his pajamas and a trench coat.
"So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell 'I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!'"And there IT is. Everything I had ever known about this movie was in that little moment that you see when 20th Century Fox is extolling the virtues of its last 25 years as a tour de force in movie-making. And Finch is good, don't get me wrong. Better than good. But no one ever told me about Ned Beatty's equallypowerful speech and abso-fuckin-lutely scary presence. No one told me that Beatrice Straight would break my heart and earn my respect in her decidedly short appearance on film.
I can't stand William Holden. I don't know why, but I never have. I can't defend myself on this point, so I won't even try. His performance was good. Not great. Granted, he did get some of the best protagonist's lines I've ever heard. Whatever.
Dunaway was Dunaway. Maybe if I was a better film-lover, I could tell her role in this apart from her other roles. To me, she always plays the same character. Headstrong woman, beautifully seductive, desperately pleading eyes. Her character's relationship with Holden is creepy to the point of uncomfortableness and during their love scenes when her character is supposed to be annoying and his character is supposed to be thinking "Let's just get this over with," I don't think they were acting. Duvall is great.
This movie is hilarious, Zeno. I'm writing your name because I really want you to know I'm still with you in this essay, man. I haven't just gone off and started ranting for the sake of ranting. Also, surprisingly enough, I'm not drunk. Not even a drop tonight. I did have Mountain Dew, which I haven't had in months which may account for my slight headache.
Back on track now – hilarity. Satire. Comedy. Comedy in the sense that you laugh to keep yourself from crying. I'm not going to say you're going to laugh out loud. I didn't. I didn't cry either. You do both, inside yourself, because it's so hard to know what to make of the absurdity that takes place. Not just absurdity, but known absurdity. Absurdity we are all involved with and aware of but can't stop the production of.
I'm pretty spent at this point. I don't know what else to say other than you have to watch it. HAVE to. I want to talk about it with someone.
-Baby New Year"
Pretty flippin' long. The moral is to read Ezra Keats and see "Network."
As soon as possible.
