Food Food, Connecticut Style

For our two year anniversary Mike and I, after much debating and realizing our first choice of Buffalo NY might leave us trapped at the airport in mounds of snow, decided to go to Stamford CT overnight to sleep peacefully away from cats and various Bronx noises. It's only an hour from here and for 4.50 per person each way on metro north, you can't beat the travel cost. After living in large states for most of my life I really get a kick out of going to another state even though it's closer than I think.

We got a nice room at a nice hotel, which was conveniently located in the middle of a downtown area which was mostly restaurants and strangely, fur stores. After we dropped off our stuff we went out and got some lunch.

Restaurant #1: Buffalo Wild Wings. I know, I know. Chain restaurants aren't something to write about. But I happen to love that place. So does Mike. They have really good wings! And their Guinness is always fresh, and who doesn't love a beer with wings? Mike kept feeling funny about drinking in the afternoon, but it was 3:00 after all, not 12:00. Plus we were on vacation. Not interesting food writing, but tasty none the less.

Restaurant #2: We walked around after lunch, scoping out dinner locations that we had read about in the booklet in our hotel room. We don't know anyone in Stamford, other than fictional characters from "The Office" who are not actually people we know and not actually in Connecticut, so we didn't have any inside info on where to eat. While walking, we spotted empty canole shells in the window of some Italian-ish place. Mike and I love a canole, so after walking another block, to the end of the "downtown area", and past 2 fur stores, we went back and got 4 of them. They filled them while we waited, the sign of a proper canole, and we took them back to our room. Angels sang as we each ate one. Usually I can't eat more than a half of one at a time, but these were amazing. Not too sweet, no weird mini chocolate chips in the filling. Nothing like laying on a king size bed eating great canoles. And there were still 2 left.

Restaurant #3: Dinner. The ideal thing to have at night, especially to celebrate anniversaries. Generally one chooses a place known for good food, but as we didn't know what was good, we went with checking out the menu and seeing how crowded the place was. We walked past a Napa Valley wine country California cuisine type place, unfortunately attached to the hotel, which made it seem maybe a little off, although the menu looked good. Mike didn't think it looked good though, and as we have different tastes, I figured I would let him decide. There was a Spanish place across from the hotel that looked pretty promising, the menu looked good, and there were a lot of people inside, all seemingly enjoying themselves. I love Spanish food, at least what I've had of it. Anything containing chorizo gets and A+ in my book. So we decided to eat there.

Interior. Night. Restaurant: Barcelona.

After being seated, our very (unrealistically) enthusiastic waiter came up and asked us what we would like to drink. Neither of us had decided on a wine yet, as it had been about 2 minutes. When we said we didn't know yet, he came back at us with a "Have you been to this restaurant before?" I said no, I haven't. He said, "Do you know what tapas are?" I said yes, I do. I like them. He said, " Well let me tell you what they are. They are little plates of food that you usually order about 5 to 10 of, and share with your table." I said, I know, and we would like to look at the menu for a minute. He then started asking us what types of wine we like, and grabbed the bottle list from me and handed me the menu of wines by the glass, assuming we would not want to order a bottle, as we would have had he not been such an asshole. Or if I had still had the menu of wines by the bottle. It was obvious that he demanded an answer about wine asap, so we ordered what we wanted. About a minute later he came back with our wine and asked if we had decided. As he had previously described in great detail a few of the menu items, and seemed to be in such a hurry to take our order, we asked for the three things he had suggested and on top of that a tuna tartar and a calamari. Having rid ourselves of him once again, we attempted to enjoy our night. But wait! Tiny water glasses = guy filling water glasses constantly. CONSTANTLY. Not only was he at our table every time either one of us took a sip, but he felt as though he had to talk to us, in his ridiculously high pitched voice every time he poured more water. I'm not talking your usual male falsetto, I'm talking my impression of a 3 year old girl times 5 with a little creepy Michael Jackson in there, just for fun. If that wasn't enough, we were shoved next to a woman and her friend who can be defined by her comment to the friend, "Sorry I brought you to a place you're uncomfortable with. I guess I know this type of food better than you." Come on! Food isn't brain surgery! Order what sounds good and eat it! The mean woman's friend looked sad and shy and I felt bad for her. It's not like we were at some fancy 59th st. Columbus Circle $300+ per person place. We were at a Spanish restaurant in Stamford. Not so surprisingly they also offered a large plate of meat Argentinean style, which sounded great but not after downing a canole and some wings. Argentinean at a Spanish place? Sure, but if you're going to do something, stick with it. It's better to do one thing well than to spread yourself all over the place like some two-bit hussy. (Or Spanish restaurant).

The meal.

Our food came out, one or two plates at a time, which was the way it should be. That's about the only thing they did right. To define my meal at this place in one word, "salty". Like they dipped everything in a layer of salt before it came out. I had wings for lunch and didn't find them overly salty. To say the food was salty is an understatement. As someone who cooks food for a living, I am careful about salt. I usually salt less because if someone wants to pour salt on their food, that's their business. I don't want people having heart attacks in my restaurant. The only thing nearly edible was the tuna tartar, if you didn't eat it on the potato chips they provided for eating it with. It was actually perfectly tasty, by itself. There were enough capers in there that I had to avoid some of them. Salt Assault. Mike and I didn't get to talk much during our special anniversary dinner, but I agreed with him completely when he asked for our check before we were even done with our food.

Here's the compare and contrast segment of this blog:

Tonight, while still thinking about this "fine dining" experience, I looked up the reviews of  Barcelona to see if anyone else had the same opinion  as we did. Here they are, in order.

"Very cool inside, but a little loud"

This person said other things, about liking the food, etc. Now people rate restaurants based on temperature and volume?

This is my favorite:
"- chorizo w/ figs -- my fav., though the sausage was a little hard, but the taste is excellent."

Chorizo? Hard? Really? I didn't know that a cured sausage that is hard should be... HARD?

From the same reviewer...

tuna tartare -this was a disappointment compared to the various interpretations I've seen in NYC, also a bit bland.

It's Bland because you ate so much salty crap before you ate something that was actually not salty. And your NYC versions, probably better because they weren't so damn salty.

Just for fun, a girl who knows her sea creatures:

"The chef obviously understands the delicate precision in the timing needed to cook cephalopods like this."




I could go on for hours but I have realized that this is a Spanish place in Connecticut so it's really not worth it. I might not even be this angry about the whole thing if I hadn't woken up in my hotel room looking like the Michelin Man, my face so puffy from so much salt that my eyes were folding over on themselves and I had to walk all over the huge mall shopping for anything because there's no tax in Connecticut. Mike bought shoes. I watched through puffy eyes. We ate lunch at P.F. Changs. It was good. I got the Shanghai Street Noodles. They came with a wedge of lime, and the shrimp was cooked perfectly. If they had anything in Shanghai called Shanghai Street Noodles, I'm sure it wouldn't eat it. But anything was good after my sodium saturated Stamford Spanish shitty food fest. You're welcome for the alliteration.

The Bar in the Basement

Every year my family meets at Diamond Lake in southern Michigan for a family reunion. We rent a nice house that is modern and comfortable. But in the basement lurks something from another time. Down a flight of wooden stairs, below sagging ceiling panels, and filled with the aroma of millions of mold spores, is a bar straight outta 1975, complete with wood paneling and vinyl covered stools. It's my favorite part of the house. If I could transport any room in the world into my apartment, it very well could be that one. I've taken some of the best pictures in there. It's horribly lit, which somehow doesn't matter because the ceiling is so low that the lights are right above your head. Here are the pictures. I hope you enjoy them.

They remind me of one of my favorite movies, Bufflao '66. Maybe that's why I like these pictures so much.

Everyone knows Europeans don't tip.

It has become a game to me, trying to guess whether or not the Europeans will tip. It's a fact that in Europe you don't tip. But I'm pretty sure that these people read guide books before coming to NYC and I can't imagine the guide books don't mention that in America, we tip. I've been able to narrow it down by country, which countries tip and which don't. England tips, France is 50/50. Italy can either be very generous or very stingy. It has become very obvious to me in the last 10 minutes that Spaniards do NOT tip. I just had about 5 of them in here, demanding things left and right, wanting weird stuff, not speaking English, ordering things I had to cook for them. Ordering them in Spanish. And never smiling or saying thank you. They ordered 12 different things, and even though I was helping someone else when they came in, their leader just started telling me what he wanted. I got them what they wanted, and sat here and watched them make a mess of the table. When it was time for them to pay, the total was $23. That is really cheap for that much stuff in Manhattan. He gave me a 20 and $3 in quarters. He had a huge wad of cash. Did any of it go in my tip jar after I was their waitress, barrista, cook, busboy, and cashier? Heck no. They just walked out, probably on their way to Century 21 to spend all that money or to the Statue of Liberty or something. It made me so mad. Not that he didn't tip, because obviously I am used to Europeans who don't get that they're in America, even though they're all wearing stupid I heart NY shirts. It makes me mad that he kept pointing at things like I was some kind of idiot. He glared at me the entire time they were here. If you hate American so much, go back to Spain. I want to put a sign on my tip jar that reminds people that I'm not just taking their order. I'm also cooking their food and making their espresso and cleaning up after their messy children. It's the least they can do to recognise that and leave me a few dollars. If they just order coffee or something I don't expect anything. But food? Come on! Unfortunately there is no solution to my problem. Europeans aren't going to start tipping because I complain about it. Maybe a few of them will read this and realize what assholes they look like when they overlook this detail of American life.

And then there are the Bus People. Oh Bus People how I dislike you. Here in Chinatown there are lots of buses that will take you to Philly, DC, Boston, etc. for insanely low prices. Do you know who ride these buses? Really cheap people and really poor people. The Chinese business owners do something I wish we did. They have signs on their doors that say "NO BUS!" This translates to "If you're here because you're waiting for a bus, we don't want you in our store." The Bus People are the most demanding, low class people I have to deal with. On top of complaining about the prices, (which as I said before are really cheap for Manhattan) they throw a hissy fit if it takes me more than 2 minutes to make their stupid egg sandwich because the bus is leaving in one minute. If your bus is leaving in one minute, DON'T GO IN A RESTAURANT AND ORDER FOOD! Wait for your bus! Or order a muffin! I don't have to cook that. I've started asking Bus People how long they have and if they are in a hurry I will tell them to order something that doesn't involve heating a pan, melting butter, beating eggs, toasting something, or application of any condiment. I would rather they leave than give me attitude about the amount of time it takes to scramble eggs. And for Christ sake, don't order the waffles. You will miss your bus and I won't care.

I am a Link

I was googling myself (no, I'm not egotistical, I'm bored at work) and came across a website that had created a link to my blog about the horrible Moby Dick shirt! It says, "Blogger Erica Nicksin deems this "the most horrible" T-shirt ever." Wow! Now I have proof that people are actually reading what I write. Which could be good, or maybe it might make me nervous about what I'm writing, but either way my writing is not pointless. Now lots of people know that I thought a t-shirt was ugly. And not only is the link to this blog on the website, but the website is called powermobydick.com and has all things Moby Dick.

At first I worried that people would think I dislike Melville because I disliked the ugly shirt, but then I clicked on the link to my own blog and remembered that I have a picture of a whale at the top of my page and have numerous posts about Melville.

I'm at work right now so I can't do any in-depth writing, but this has caused a stirring in my brain and as I have been unusually witty lately I'll have to make the best of it. Maybe more people will read what I have to say, even if it's about things like shirts or pizza.

UPDATE: I am another link too!
Not quite sure what the website is, but interesting.

Food, Part 2

I thought I would share some of my favorite things to make for dinner, because who doesn't like food?

I was watching an episode of Anthony Bourdain and he was talking about how everyone should know how to roast a chicken. I had never actually roasted my own chicken, although I had eaten many. They're good. Whats not to like about a roasted chicken? And there was one piece of advice he gave which I think is the most important. You have to dry your chicken. After you wash it off, pat off all the water with a paper towel. Otherwise the skin wont get crispy. (I don't eat the skin because it has a lot of fat in it, but Mike and the cats like it so I have to do it right.) Plus it looks better that way. Another thing I do is to carefully detach the skin from the breast, making sure not to puncture it, and there you have a great place to put spices, garlic, or whatever you want. Because if you only season the skin, the flavor wont go through the skin and into the chicken. You'll just have really flavorful skin and bland chicken.

If you have a string, tie the legs together. The dark meat cooks faster than the white, and by compacting it into a smaller area, you're going to have a more evenly cooked chicken. You also have to flip the wings underneath so they don't burn. And always remember to remove the bag of weird chicken parts from inside the chicken. Feed those to your cat.

For spices, I use a mix of Old Bay and some brand name chicken seasoning because that's what I have in the cabinet. If you've never used Old Bay, get some. It's really great in hamburgers too.

After you've done all those things to your chicken, and you've preheated your oven to 350, go online and look up how long to roast your chicken by weight. I'm not going to type every cooking time on here. It's easier for you to just look it up. I usually add on about 20 minutes to whatever the websites say because I'm afraid of undercooked chicken and I don't have a meat thermometer.

I always put my chicken on a cookie sheet (with a rim) covered in foil. The lower the sides on your cooking dish, the more evenly cooked and crispier your chicken will be. Lots of websites will tell you to baste your chicken, which I have done, but I've also not done it and it came out fine.

Once your chicken is in the oven, go watch TV or stalk people on facebook for a while. I usually watch the travel channel and have a beer, or stand in the kitchen for no reason. Then, in a few hours, your chicken will be done. The house will smell good, and whoever you cooked for will appreciate the hard work and hours of preparation that went into this meal. You don't have to tell them how easy it was.

A tasty chicken looks even better on some retro

Bjorn Christensen Rosti Mepal Dinnerware

My other favorite thing to make is pizza. I like ordering it too, but home made pizza is great because you can put whatever you want on it and you don't have to tip someone to bring it to you. My dad started a tradition around Christmas called pizza night. Everyone makes a small pizza with whatever toppings they want, and then he cooks them on a pizza stone on the grill. It's a lot of fun, and it's interesting to see what other people will come up with. Last year even Ivy, from the Cramps joined us for pizza night. (Cool, huh?)

Ivy made a lovely vegetarian pizza

My new favorite pizza that I make is red onion and chorizo. I love chorizo maybe even more than bacon. It's good with anything. It comes in different forms depending on what ethnic group you happen to live near. In Tucson I always found it in the ground form, like hamburger meat. Out here its in tube form, and more like salami. I like them both. If you use the ground kind, drain it after you cook it. There is a ton of fat. You don't have to cook the tube form, but I do, and I break it up into small pieces.

The crust is up to you. Personally, I just buy the frozen dough because I've only got about 4 square feet of counter space and I have really bad luck with getting dough to rise. If you want to make your own dough, you're on your own. Frozen dough is pretty good. Just don't buy that Boboli crap.

Now cut up a small red onion into thin pieces, and cook your chorizo so it's ready to go on your pizza.

I've tried different ways of stretching the dough into pizza shape, and I think rolling it is the easiest, but I don't currently have a rolling pin. so hands work well. And if it looks funny just call it rustic. That's what everyone on food network does. And they all pretend that they're the first to think of it. I put some olive oil on my cookie sheet and get the dough as stretched out as much as I can. Then I put on some tomato sauce, and some sliced mozzarella. I don't grate it but you can. Then, I put on the chorizo and onions. (Do I even need to be telling you how to make a pizza? It's pretty obvious.)

Put it into a 450 degree oven or whatever your dough package tells you, and wait about 15 minutes. If the cheese in the middle isn't melted yet, wait a little longer. Then take it out. There you have it. And you can get all the ingredients, enough for two pizzas, for about ten dollars. That's the same price as those horrible five dollar pizzas from Little Cesar's. And you can have an awesome pizza that looks like this.

Mine is square because I have a square pan. If you have a round pan, make it round. Make it a heart for Valentines day. Do whatever you want. Just try making dinner. It's fun and it tastes better than eating at restaurants all the time.

Monday Monday

I wish I had.

Today is not my day.

I went to deposit my paycheck, which I was hoping to use some of for groceries. They usually let 100 or so go through, but not this time. I'm guessing it's because my card was stolen recently and now they think I'm trying to pull some fraudy crap. I'm not, I just wanted groceries and my money. So I left the bank, after getting no help from the "I could care less about anyone" teller. While walking down the lovely Jerome Ave, I stepped on a mirror and it broke. First of all, why is there a tiny mirror laying on the sidewalk, and why did I have to step on it? I'm usually don't believe in these kind of things, but it happened at the exact moment that I was complaining about my lack of money over the phone. Not only did it break, but it stuck into my shoe. Some woman said, "Are you OK?!" I think she thought it went in my foot. I was on the phone so I pretended not to hear her.

I continued my walk to the grocery store where I got what I could with the cash I had, and the cashier started chasing me out of the store. I thought, "oh, now what." She put someones yogurt in my bag. Thank God she didn't think I was trying to steal someones yogurt. I was worried with my luck so far, she would. So I walked home.

On the front stairs of my building was a turtle shell. From a dead turtle. The last time I found something dead in my path was a really horrible day that I don't want to go into. I had found a dead bird on my car and the rest of the day involved someone (not me) in jail and lots of drama that I didn't deserve.

So I'm home now, and I'm going to stay here. I was here all day waiting for a package that was supposed to be delivered but has not come yet. So there's another thing that isn't going my way.

So happy Monday everyone. Remember, you can't trust that day.

Bowling Green and Battery Park

If you read yesterdays post about Bowling Green park, I said I would be going there today to remember the historical events that happened 234 years ago. I went, and sat there, among lots of tourists who had no way of knowing that today was important for any other reason than that they got to take a crowded boat to the Statue of Liberty. I tried to get into my "reflecting on historic moments" mindset, but it just wouldn't happen. During the day it is just too full of people and noise to really reflect on anything other than the fact that I really don't like tourists. I'm sure I would like them if they were in their own cities, but for the most part they have no idea that they are missing out on lots of interesting places and things that are right in front of them. To emphasize this, I took a picture:

In the foreground is one of my favorite things in NY, the fence surrounding Bowling Green. Like I said in my last post, it was installed in 1773. It is still there. But do the tourists find it at all interesting? I'm sure some do, but most of them want to look at the ugly bull statue as you can see by the group of people standing around it in the background. And it's amusing that there is a British flag flying alongside the American flag. Considering the reason I went there today was to remember when Washington's troops tore down a statue of the King of England.

Here are some other things that have changed. I posted this painting yesterday and took a picture today that is in the same place more or less. What a difference. I can't complain that it's different but it's interesting to see what has changed. Here is another one, which shows that most of Battery Park is landfill.

Herman Melville wrote of this area in Moby Dick;

"Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there."

I looked at them. They were all waiting in lines for things. There was a man wearing an umbrella hat playing steel drums and another man holding a radio playing music and expecting tips. And hundreds of people selling photos of famous New York attractions, or caricatures or Jonas Brothers pictures. I sat and watched people until it got too hot and I went back to Bowling Green and sat in the shade for a while till it was time to go. I watched a whole group of tourists walk through the park, not even noticing the plaque out front telling about the fence and the park. They walked directly to the bull.

I could go on for days about comparing the bull to the statue of the King that was torn down 234 years ago today, and say things about the government and the economy but I already typed it all and read it and I sounded too preachy so I deleted it. You're welcome.

So I'll leave you all with a Melville fact. He worked at the Customs House for years, which is directly across from Bowling Green. I bet he used to sit there on his lunch break. Here is a picture of the building, which is now a Native American museum.

There were no stinky nerds wearing 18th century military dress. I was the only stinky nerd. I had a nice day walking around and I hope the next time I go there it will be 3 a.m. which is my favorite time to hang out in the financial district. Because I'm the only one there. And maybe some ghosts.

Happy July 9th everyone.

The History of Tomorrow

I am an over-zealous blogger today. But it's too hot to do anything else.

Tomorrow I'm going to take myself on a field trip to my favorite park. I'm going to sit in the park and think about history because I'm a nerd. Let me tell you why. (Why I'm going to the park, not why I'm a nerd. That's a secret.)

The park I'm going to is called Bowling Green. It's the oldest park in New York and probably the smallest. You may know it because it has that really ugly statue of the Wall Street Bull which I visited a while back at 3a.m. for a quick ride:

Here is some background on the park, with a little help from Wikipedia. It is the original site of the Dutch fort of New Amsterdam and it served as cattle market between 1638 and 1647 and parade ground. In 1675, the Common Council designated the "plaine afore the forte" for an annual market of "graine, cattle and other produce of the country". In 1677 the city's first public well was dug in front of the old fort at Bowling Green. In 1733, the Common Council leased a portion of the parade grounds to three prominent neighboring landlords for a peppercorn a year, upon their promise to create a park that would be "the delight of the Inhabitants of the City" and add to its "Beauty and Ornament"; the improvements were to include a "bowling green" with "walks therein". The surrounding streets were not paved with cobblestones until 1744.

I really like the part about how it was leased for a peppercorn a year. I'm guessing they really didn't need the peppercorn, it was more of a formality. Kind of like the commercials where they tell you to lease a car and only put a penny down.

Anyhoo, the park was the delight of the inhabitants of the city, where they would go and push hoops around with sticks and other early American forms of entertainment. Maybe some of them would sit in the park and drink their flagons of ale and view the 4,000 pound gilded lead statue of King George III which had been erected in August 1770.

People didn't like this statue very much. In 1773 the city had to pass anti-graffiti laws and installed a cast-iron fence, (which is still there today and my favorite part of the park.)

Then on July 9, 1776, after the Declaration of Independence was read to Washington's troops at the current site of City Hall, (which is about a 5-10 minute walk away) the local Sons of Liberty rushed down Broadway to Bowling Green, where they knocked over the statue. and ripped off the cast-iron crowns that topped sections of the surrounding fence as well. Here my friend Wiki helps me with the description.

According to folklore, the statue was chopped up and shipped to a Connecticut foundry to be made into 42,088 patriot bullets-at 20 bullets per pound (2,104.4 pounds). The statue's head was to have been paraded about town on pike-staffs-but was recovered by Loyalists and sent to England. Six pieces of the lead statue are preserved in the New-York Historical Society; one in the Museum of the City of New York as well as two in Connecticut (estimated total of 260/270 pounds); The event has been depicted over the years in several works of art, including an 1854 painting by William Walcutt and a 1859 painting by Johannes Adam Simon Oertel.

So tomorrow, July 9th 2010 I'm going to go sit in that park and think about what happened there 234 years ago. Surprisingly (or not?) the parks department has no event planned to commemorate this anniversary, which is apparently less important than events such as "Hip Hop Kids Secret Agent 23 Skidoo" (???) and Swedish Cottage Marionette Theatre. If anyone reading this post would like to join me in my sitting and thinking about history, you're more than welcome. If my printer wasn't out of ink I was going to make little pamphlets to hand out so other people know why it's an important day.

I was wondering if anyone else would go there tomorrow because of the anniversary and I imagine that if anyone does, it will be really nerdy people dressed in 18th century military uniform and I will have to avoid them and their body odor. And whatever concoction of Old English and New York accent they come up with to sound "authentic" (which is always about as unauthentic as you can get if my experience of historic role-players serves me correctly.)

I'll post what happens tomorrow when I get home. Hopefully sans stinky nerds.

Why can't we all just get along?

I decided to check out meetup.com because I have no one to hang out with and I thought maybe I could find a group near me that would have some people with similar interests so I could make some friends. I hoped maybe there was something for people who liked nature, since we have a huge park here that is mostly woods, or maybe something for couples so Mike and I could make some new friends. Apparently not.

Now as you may know, I'm not racist. I don't care what race people are. If they act stupid it's not because of their race, it's because they are stupid. So don't get mad when you read me complaining about this.

I would say 80% of the meetup groups are for specific races only. I'm not just imagining that, because they have names like, "P.S. African- American & Latino Literati Salon", "MCCC - Married Christian Couples of Color", "Black,Thirty-Something, and Fabulous!", "The N.Y. People Of Color Genealogy Meetup Group", "Black Women of A Certain Age, NY Vicinity", "The African-American & Latino Literary Salon Meetup Group", "Arabs and Jews friendship", "BLACKANOMICS - NEW YORK", "New York City Brazilians and Brazilian Culture Meetup", "NYC Modern Orthodox Jewish Singles Club 30's-50's", "NYC Puerto Rican Culture", and on and on. A majority of the others are religious, which I guess is a little better because you choose what religion you are, so I could technically become Jewish and go to the Arabs and Jews friendship group. But I'm not going to.

So it got me thinking again, as I have in the past, about this phenomenon of every race except for white people being allowed to discriminate against other people. Usually white. And here is my point: If white people had groups named "White, Thirty-something and Fabulous!" we would get the crap beat out of us and be called white supremacists or Nazis. My favorite is "Whiteanomics - New York". What would that even mean? What does Blackanomics mean? Why are other races allowed to discriminate against white people? The first time I thought about this was while watching BET. Was I not supposed to be watching it? One may argue that every other channel is mostly white people, which is the case. I agree that there aren't really too many people on TV who aren't white. But it's not because white people don't want them to be. What would happen if white people made a channel only showing shows made by white people, with white actors, and wouldn't let anyone else on the shows? Again, they would be criticized or worse. Whats with this deliberate segregation? For so long, people of different races and colors wanted to be equal. And now that we all have the same rights, we have started separating ourselves, but in a different way.

If we are not supposed to discriminate against people, why are people still doing it? In this case that I'm bringing up, it's reversed, and I'm glad that we can all use the same drinking fountains and doors and bathrooms and go to the same schools. I have never even thought about race as much as I have since looking at these meetup groups. It bothers me that I am. I just don't understand why, a girl such as myself who would enjoy the company of these 30 something and fabulous women, would not be allowed to because of my skin color. Maybe they're just stickin' it to me. I certainly wouldn't join a group that only allowed white people.

I do understand that there is still discrimination in many areas of the United States and that is sad. But this is New York. Probably the most diverse city in the United States, if not the world. Everyone who came here is from somewhere else. Here are the stats:

White (non-Hispanic) 35%

Black 28%
Hispanic (any race) 27%
Asian 10%

As compared to the entire U.S:

White (non-Hispanic) 67%

Black 12%
Hispanic (any race) 11%
Asian 4%

If there is any city where people are equal, it should be New York. Our percentages are very close, and out living proximity is even closer. I'm pretty sure in my building alone there are people from at least 10 different countries, probably more.

Where am I going with this? Don't ask me. It's kind of a question that can't be answered. Not by me at least. I don't know why it's OK for anyone to discriminate against anyone else. White against Black, Black against White against Hispanic against Jewish against Arab etc. Whats the point? Let me and Wikipedia break it down for you into some bad-ass science:

In humans, melanin is the primary determinant of human skin color and also found in hair, the pigmented tissue underlying the iris, the medulla and zona reticularis of the adrenal gland, the stria vascularis of the inner ear, and in pigment-bearing neurons within areas of the brain stem, such as the locus coeruleus and the substantia nigra.


Dermal melanin is produced by melanocytes, which are found in the stratum basale of the epidermis. Although human beings generally possess a similar concentration of melanocytes in their skin, the melanocytes in some individuals and ethnic groups more frequently or less frequently express the melanin-producing genes, thereby conferring a greater or lesser concentration of skin melanin.

And that is how it all began. Sure, we're from different parts of the world and we all have different ways of doing things, different music, dancing, holidays, religions, and beliefs. But that's just because people are different. When we all began our long journey from what is now Eastern Africa, we all looked the same. Hairy and naked. It was only because of our environments that our skin colors changed, but as the groups separated, so did their beliefs and ways of doing things. I know this is a very simple explanation of millions of years, and that there is no way of ever fully understanding another person even if you accept them completely.
 
If we can't get along completely, here is what I propose: You know how some very well known black comedians make fun of white people? I think that is hilarious. We are a pretty ridiculous group of people. We take ourselves too seriously. We never really let loose. We can't dance very well. We're awkward. These comedians also make fun of black people. They make fun of everyone indiscriminately. I say, instead of everyone inwardly thinking about the things they don't like about other people, why don't we just make fun of them in a friendly joking manner? If you can laugh at yourself, this could be a great way to make new friends and not worry about offending anyone. I'm not a fan of political correctness. It makes for lame conversation, not very funny jokes, and a lot of inhibited feelings that could otherwise be brought out and resolved. I propose that we all start making fun of each other. Why not?

Seeing as I've already gone on way too long about this, I'll leave you with a picture that will remind everyone that we're all ridiculous and there's nothing wrong with laughing at yourself or anyone else who does something funny. Even if they're making fun of how you talk or what you look like.

Lessons of Literature

After living in Tucson for so long, living in New York is like being thrown into some strange carnival with different food smells, different music, and lots of strange people walking around. I like to watch people and I got to do a lot of that over the last week. I was also reading Herman Melville's biography because I'm a little obsessed with him and I had lots of time on the train to lose myself in words and personal reflection. There was one part that really struck me. It was about Ishmael meeting his soon-to-be best pal, till death do they part, and I had been thinking about how we perceive other people and how they might see us. When Ishmael first meets Queequeg, he is shocked by his appearance. Face tattoos have and always will be something I think of when questioning the character of a person. In Queequegs case, it was a custom of his tribe and not some idiotic youth fuelled rebellion against parents who hate face tattoos. Ishmael at first is afraid of him because of the strange rituals he has, and the ways in which he does things that are not the way ol' Ishy would do them. Of course, we are all human (maybe) so there is always something we have in common, but initially I tend to be wary of anyone I don't know or anyone whose character seems superior or assholey. Or has face tattoos.

In my own recent experience with other cultures that I have not been familiarized with, I've noticed a strange phenomenon among older Chinese men. I was in chinatown for 40 hours last week staring out a window. Sometimes I would stand outside. In those few minutes I would spend outside, countless older Chinese men would blatantly stare at me, even keeping their head turned toward me once they had passed. And this wasn't a "check-out". It was like they were sending me evil eyeball rays of hatred. Had I offended them in some way? I was dressed in business attire, so it couldn't have been my clothes. Did they think I was one of the young Americans living in the overpriced luxury apartment building towering over their neighborhood? I don't know. I wouldn't blame them for not wanting their neighborhood becoming something other than it is. But I didn't quite understand the evil death ray eyes. And as strange as it is, I don't have any friends from farther east than Moscow so I can't ask what I did wrong.

Melville comparison:
Fortunately for Ishy, Queequeg is a very nice guy. They have to sleep in the same bed so it's a good thing. One part of Moby Dick that really made me think was when Qq and Ishy are sitting by the fire, and they have been in each others company for only about a day, this happens:

"If there yet lurked any ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan's breast, this pleasant, genial smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and left us cronies. He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; and when out smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country's phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be. In a countryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have seemed far too premature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage those old rules would not apply."

It made me wish that people were less what we have become. We don't trust anyone, and to die for someone would be out of the question. It's hard to make friends, especially ones you can trust, who would help you even if it was inconvenient for them. Those who would are friends who have been around for years, not only a few days.

There is nothing I can do to make people change, but if everyone would care about their fellow humans to even a tiny degree, the world would be better. I'm not trying to be miss America with some world peace crap. I just wish that more people would consider other people when doing the things they do.

I guess I will never know why people in chinatown stare at me or why people in my neighborhood want to steal my wallet, but I know that when I get the chance, I always treat people with respect. I smile at people who look at me, and give leftovers to homeless people who would probably rather I give them beer. And I've done that too. I'm too nice. But, if I want people to treat each other well, I have to make an example. So I will continue to care about people. Let's all take an example from Qq and be friends with people. Just don't get any face tattoos.

Quiet and why I currently appreciate it.

It is very quiet right now. I don't think I have ever appreciated the quiet as much as I do since moving to NY. Quiet in Tucson was still just a little noisy, especially where I lived, right next to a train track. I don't mind train noise though, but here there is noise. Noise you wouldn't believe. Since spending a few days in the ol' Manhattan I've had noise overload without even noticing it. Mostly honking, yelling, cars, sirens, kids screaming, etc. It makes me glad for once that I live up here, at the very end of the city. It's loud during the day, but at night it's quiet. There aren't any drunk young people yelling because young people who move to NY don't move to the Bronx. That's cool with me.

I've been working at the front desk of an upscale apartment building in Chinatown that is mostly filled with people my age. The men wear suits and the women look like they want to be models but I'm pretty sure their dads pay their rent. They can't be models. Some of the people are really nice. One couple just moved in today and brought me a cupcake because I was nice to them. Isn't that my job? Well, I was nicer to them than the fake models. The fake models treat me like some kind of lower life form so I treat them like what they are. Fake models. I let them think I'm dumb and they're in charge. It feels good to know that my apartment is five times larger than theirs and we pay five times less. I don't really care about their apartment, but I like to think about things I would tell them if I weren't being payed to be nice to them. I try to make small talk with them and I don't know if they think they're too good to talk to me, or if they don't understand what I'm saying. Maybe their over-priced clothing has some kind of intelligence deterrent.

The connection between these things is that I'm really glad to not have to listen to anything or smile at people who think they are better than me. I like the quiet. It's really nice to enjoy it after hours of hearing people thank me for pushing a button to let them into their own apartment building. Apparently people who pay for over-priced apartments don't know how to use keys. If they want to get in the front door and I'm not there, they have a little thing they wave in front of the lock that unlocks it. Keys are so 2009.

So I'm going to go to bed since it's 2 a.m. and enjoy the quiet. I've got a lot of things I want to write about but they'll have to wait till I'm not tired.

This is how I have to act at work.

Sweet Emulsion, or My "Career"

That's me

This day is much like previous days in my past. I once again have secured a job as a screen printer. I wanted to reminisce about those previous jobs that got me where I am today, because I'm pretty sure those were more fun than this one will be, and I thought by writing about them I might remember why the heck I keep getting printing jobs. Well, I know why I keep getting printing jobs. It's the only trade I have experience in. Sometimes I wonder how my life would have turned out if I hadn't walked through that alley on my way to get some ice cream back in 12th grade... (Here is where you picture the wavy/fuzzy dream sequence fade between present and past.)

Los Angeles, CA

My friend Jani and I were walking through an alley that runs between Etiwanda Ave. and the intersection of Reseda and Oxnard in, like, the Valley and stuff. We were going to Baskin Robbins to get ice cream. On our way there I pointed out a screen printing shop my friend Ryan had shown me. I didn't know what screen printing was, but it was called Angry Girl which I thought was pretty awesome. On our way back, (being the friendly person I am) I went in to ask what this screen printing thing was all about. And that is when I met Michelle. I thought she was just about the coolest person I had ever met. She let me come in and explained the basics to me. Then she told me to come back and she would show me how to do it. So I did. Michelle and I would hang out while she printed, we would paint banners together, and I would clean screens for her. I don't even remember printing anything. Maybe I did. But it was so much fun just to be there. I would have been there for free, but Michelle would even pay me for helping her, which was amazing for me, a teenager who got to hang out with her friend and drink her beer. We are still really good friends. In fact just last night we talked for over an hour and made up funny words. Now that's what and employee/employer relationship should be! (If you're in L.A. order you shirts from Michelle!)

                                                                      Tucson, AZ
After high school I moved back to Tucson, where I had found a job in the one week I had visited before getting all my stuff from L.A. It was at a place called JAMS, which was a horrible name for a business. I started working there, and soon (in about an hour) realized that this place was not going to work. It was run by the sons of some guy who used to own it, I guess he retired or something. They paid by the piece. That means that I got about 20 cents for every shirt I printed. Or something like that. I didn't even stick around long enough to get my paycheck. I let them keep it. All $20 of it. They went out of business right after that.

                                                               Tucson, part 2
After going to school for a while I decided I didn't want to anymore. My classes were full of idiots and I thought I was going to do better in the workforce. After a semi-crappy job at a kennel, I got a horrible job at a toy store, "Mrs. Tiggy-Winkles", which was the only time I have ever been fired. They said I wasn't perky enough. That's because I was trying to pay my rent, unlike all the sorority girls who worked there. Plus I don't like other people's spoiled kids screaming in my ears. So the day I got fired I went to Taco Bell. There I ran into a guy I had met previously while applying for a printing job at a place called Galaxy Graphics. His name was Matt. He told me he still had my resume and I should come in the next day and talk to the owner. So I did. And I got the job. (Of course).

I worked there for about a year. It was pretty good. The owners of the place were an interesting couple, Jim at one point smacked my butt in front of his wife Theresa and she just about killed him. So did I. Theresa had a mullet. Jim looked like he stuffed about 3 pairs of socks in his pants. We finally learned that it was not socks, though it wasn't wiener either. It must have been hard for him to ride a bike. We always had a great time making fun of them. Finally, they moved to Nebraska for some reason and we were on our own. We played darts, had some beers from the drive-thru liquor store on the end of our building, and really had a decent time. As it turns out, one of the printers, Fat Matt, was one of the owners of JAMS, but had foreseen its demise and got the heck out of there. As for Matt, the guy who I had run into at Taco Bell, I ended up working with in the future, at Laffs Comedy Club. Tucson is full of coincidence. I quit that job at Galaxy and went back to school.
                                                              Tucson, part 3
After going to school for another few years, I again grew tired of it and got a job at a crappy coffee place, Coffee X Change. I worked there for about 2 weeks but I really couldn't stand the manager, who thought he was hot shit because he was the manager of a crappy coffee place. I was living on the couch of my friend Alan, who worked at Laffs. I went in there to hang out and started talking to one of the managers, Ken. It turns out that he used to print too, and we got to talking about jobs. He hired me to work at Laffs, and my friend Michelle who also worked there, called the crappy coffee shop, pretended to be me, and quit. I worked at Laffs, with previously mentioned Matt, Ken, the previous printer, and lots of other people who in general were pretty awesome. Unfortunately, it paid next to nothing but I worked there for almost 2 years. Then one day I got a call from Aladdin Graphics. I had filled out an application there about the same time I applied at "crappy coffee shop" 2 years before. I didn't put a date on my application, so it never got thrown out. They had even changed locations. So I went in, and once again, I was a printer.

I started out there also getting paid next to nothing, but when Bryan, the other printer, decided to move to PA, I was the only printer. We went through lots of people there, mostly because Troy would hire young guys who had no work ethic. It was always fun though, and eventually I was pretty much in control of everything in the back of the shop. The owner Troy is a damn good salesman, so we were generally pretty busy. I liked it there, and I would probably still be there if I hadn't moved. (Is that a good thing?) There were very few days when I woke up and didn't want to go to work. I should have been making more (You know that Troy! I was too nice to say anything). I still feel like the people who work there are part of my family or something, which is pretty sweet. We had good times. (If you're in Tucson and you need shirts, order them from Aladdin. It's really the best place in town, and that's coming from someone who had to work there, so you know it's true.)

And then I met Mike, the attractive Audiologist from NY. Love at first sight, blah blah blah. We moved to NY.
                                                                 Brooklyn NY
I applied to the few places I could find that were hiring, but my experience was less than great. I went to an interview at a place in Brooklyn, and this guy had no clue what he was doing. I guess he got some book from the 70's about screen printing and decided to open his own shop. It was awful. He wanted to hire me part time at his awful shop. Ha ha ha. Nope. I went to an interview at a place which turned out to not even be a shop, but this guys art studio where he taught printing classes to Williamsburg hipsters. He wanted me to help him advertise for free. Again, ha ha ha nope. Eventually I got a horrible job selling tickets to a comedy club, which lasted about 3 months. Until today, I haven't had a job.

                                                               Bronx, NY
 And now I do. The place has like 20 employees, which is something I've never experienced. It's packed with boxes of shirts and presses. God help me if there is a fire. It's about 100 degrees in there, which is normal. And once again, with the exception of Angry Girl, I'm the only girl. I start tomorrow. Once again I will wake up early, put on my old ink covered clothes, and smell the sweet emulsion*.

*Emulsion is a photosensitive substance used in screen printing that hardens when subjected to ultraviolet light. To prepare a screen for printing, it is coated with liquid photo emulsion and allowed to dry. Opaque, monochromatic artwork (known as a stencil) is transferred onto a transparent medium such as glass or film which is placed over the emulsed screen. Ultraviolet light is shone on the screen causing the emulsion to become hard and insoluble, except in areas that are covered by the opaque artwork. The entire screen is then washed in water or solvent, allowing any emulsion not hardened by the light to rinse away, leaving a representation of the artwork on the screen.

Other Blogs and The People Who Write Them.

I like to look at the blogs of people I don't know. There are days worth of entertainment to be had, just by clicking "next blog". I'm sure there are blogs on just about every topic, but as any reader of blogs probably notices, most of them are written by mothers about their families. About how little Brendan made the team or how Makenzye (or other ugly girl name) made a poopy today. Most of these blogs also include some kind of scrap-booking reference or lots of butterflies and sparkly things. And almost all of them quote the bible, or talk about how the kids are "blessings", or have some kind of thing about being thankful.
Examples from some real live mom blogs!

"This morning muffins and fruit were on the menu for breakfast. Sawyer was still sleeping and Caroline wanted to help. So she pulled up and chair and was a great assistant. I still can't believe that she is closer to 2 than 1. Time has gone sooooooooo quickly."

And another:

"A few times a year, I get to enjoy a weekend of scrapping away from the craziness of home. Don't get me wrong, I love my family. I just can't scrap with them around. So . . . . I pack up my few carload of supplies and head out. This past weekend I finished 29 pages while enjoying friendships renewed, eating what someone other than I made for dinner, and listening to great Christian music."

"Scrapbooking"

Awww, how touching. I guess I might not get it since I'm not a mom and I'm not a religious person. My only complaint about blogs like those, are that these women probably had interests other than children and scrapbooking at some point. Where did their interests go? When they were 20 were they scrapbooking and talking about babies? I would encourage them to remember those things they used to like. They might be more interesting to read about. Like my friend Robyn. She is a mom and she has the best blog on the net. She writes about interesting topics and has great opinions. So I've got nothing against moms who blog. I just don't like reading about blessings. Blah. Babies come from an egg and a sperm. Not the magical glowing finger of God touching your uterus or something.

And then there are the people who have no idea what they're talking about, and I have no idea what they're talking about. Here is a shining example from a blog I found today. Try to get through it. Good luck:

"There's pros and cons for everything. We can't really have everything perfect. We'll just have to accept facts. Just like objects, if you like it, you'll learn to accept the cons of it. No matter you really accept it, or you're just fooling yourself to accept it. One thing for sure is, you'll still accept it no matter what way. But aren't there just some things that you just can't accept ? No matter how hard you try, you still see that "con" more than the "pro". There's just some things that we can never accept because..... that's how it is. And no matter how you fool yourself to accept it, you'll still not like the cons. It's just how life is. Either you truly accept it, or you don't. NEVER try to fool yourself in accepting something you can never accept. In the end, it will just be hurts and wounds. There's the big different from accepting yes and no. Like and Dislike. Though it's just that one tiny line that differentiates it. Just like cars. The car-car is a transportation. But a sports-car is a car for racing, speeding. Different, but their still cars. Is there any different with male and females ? Duh. But their all humans."

Yes, some things "will just be hurts and wounds". Yes, the car-car is a transportation. But I don't really know why we need to read about accepting. What are we accepting? A car-car? I don't think she ever told us. This blog is unacceptable. I can't accept it. I also can't accept "they're" grammar. I will give her an exception though, because "their all humans". Duh.




I'm posting the below photo just in case the girl who wrote that "acceptance speech" comes across my blog.

The Man, The Myth, The Tenderoni

I wrote this about Mike back in the summer of '08. It's a fake Rolling Stone article that displays my amazing writing skill. Enjoy!

It's unclear exactly when and how Mike Tavs became the quintessential Renaissance man we know today, but by 2007 when he moved from his native New York to Arizona, he'd created an entirely new genre of music based on an interesting amalgamation of folk and hip hop. Within this genre, still unnamed and generally unclassifiable, he has created works which span from an entire album about pizza (Anal Folk) to works by his latest group the BackYard Association (BYA) with intriguing songs such as the top 20 hit "Fart on My Dick". It has been an interesting transformation, to say the least, for this city boy transplanted to the generally fruitless desert southwest in an attempt at his career in audiology. While he still practices his trade, his true passion is making the music that his patients may not be able to hear, and probably wouldn't want to.
Rolling Stone met with Dr. Tavs at his home in downtown Tucson to delve into his intelligent and somewhat perverse mind that we love so very much.

I met him outside his modest home that sits behind a rental car facility along a busy, sometimes seedy street leading directly into downtown, which is "convenient because I can walk places", says Tavs. I ask him what kinds of places he goes within walking distance and his reply, "I don't really go out much." It seems that Tavs, or "The Dignifier" as he likes to be called, would rather spend an evening in his back yard with his neighbors. "That's where we came up with the name BackYard Association. We all hang out back there together." He takes me out to see where, as he says, "the magic happens". Apparently magic of many kinds happens here, it is also where he met Erica Nicksin, quite literally the girl next door and as it turns out, one of the members of BYA. "Shes perfect for me. We are each others Tenderoni", he says. We return to his duplex and go inside. His cat (named Soda, referencing a Seinfeld episode) tries to run out and he catches her. Inside, his decor is most definable as "Bachelor pad". There is a couch, a coffee table, a desk, and T.V. "I don't really need more than this. I spend most of my time on the computer listening to music or talking to friends back in New York." He sits at his folding chair in front of the desk. I see that he has iTunes open on the computer and ask him what he was listening to last. This apparently was a very exciting topic for Tavs as one can tell from his answer...

"The last CD I listened to was composed by John Cage and two Blue Whales. It captured the whales emitting sounds of love, antipathy, fortitude, and melting pots of emotion only possible in America. John Cage added to the sonic blast that is whale passion with aptly accompanying emotive key work." Mike pauses briefly, "Oh man, I just realized that made me sound like a total fag. However, it's a record that stirs deep, profound emotions that make the Red Sea look like a shallow jerk off." (He gestures with his hand describing his thought).It is through this kind of intense love for music that Tavs excels in all aspects of his artistic career. Even at a young age, he was not an easy person to fully understand. He has gone from one extreme to the next, spanning every gamut in between. Truth be told, Tavenieres' personal transition from a trouble-making teen to a responsible adult was not as difficult as one may think. In high school he was about as bad as they come, but he knew he had to have an education which led him to his field in audiology. When first asked what his job is, Tavs usually replies, "I make old people hear." It is an interesting choice in profession to say the least; it defines his life in many ways. He loves music. He lives music. And without hearing, he would have nothing.

While his passion lies within sounds and song, he never lets that hold him back from what the future may hold. "A true artist", as Tavs says, "Is always on the brink of creation or destruction. The only way anything will come of life is whether or not you decide to let it happen. Much like pregnancy."
I ask him what he thinks will come of his life, and being the man of intense forethought and insight that he is, he answers,

"My future is something that many people view in awe. I don't view my future since it has not occurred yet. I was told by more than one God that I will continue to end suffering in America and in hell through my music." One can only wonder if he is joking."I am building an outfit to help me achieve this- it will have at least 4 pockets in both the pant and shirt/jacket portions. It becomes obvious that he is joking. Or maybe not..."I would like to incorporate music with life. I want sedimentary rock somehow involved in my music. I want a little persons sounds on the record. I want the spirit of the Jamestown settlers to jump out of the speakers and do the sex to your broad while all you can think is, '"God damn this is a great song."' If it can be done, Mike T. can do it.

Any man who can refer to himself in the Third person is to be admired if he can do it with great finesse. It is more than believable that Tavs is capable of capturing the soul of his forefathers as well as the hip hop scene that arose from his city of origin not so long ago. He is like the Phoenix, rising from his own ashes and recreating himself over and over again, and yet remaining somewhat the same through it all. I ask Tavs where he sees himself in time to come.

"In three years I see myself as a man within a forest- a very handsome Pisan. In five years I see the same except the Apocalypse will be closer so I'll be stocking up on canned items and night-lights. I'll probably have come closer to understanding why I'm on Mother Earth and what my purpose is. In ten years, I'll remember that shit and think, '"Why did I ever waste my time thinking of that hippie crap.?"' I'll still be making music, but without instruments or my voice. I'll reach into your heart and leave my human juices swimming in your aorta as I have since my first album, "I Grew Up Crestfallen", dropped in 2001 AC.

I was then told that I have a good set of lips. Through the haze of unknown futures, changing facial hair, and extreme music transformations, I decided to ask Mike Tavs one last question. At this point, who knows what the question actually was. The answer though, speaks to no one and yet everyone.

"Before we end this and you know we do the Mike T. in the back, I want to speak on the problem of haters. You know, yeah, I looks mad good and I'm psychic and you most likely are not, but I don't see myself as that different. Please, get off the message boards and create your own body of work. I beg the public, stop being inferior and create art. Like when the Easter bunny arose from the grave, you to can raise yourself from the shackles of mediocrity.

'Nuff said.