My student loan collection agency just sent me a happy birthday email. LIKE YOU CARE, NELNET.
Archive for April, 2012
When I saw today’s article in the Times about preschool fashion, I realized that my idea for a blog devoted solely to the sartorial habits and predilections of little tykes might soon be snatched up by someone less worthy out there, so here is, first, a declaration that THE IDEA IS MINE AND ALL MINE, and second, a little template for the blog (tentatively titled Well-Tailored Tots? Doctors Seuss and Marten? The Patent Leather Teething Ring? Lagerfeld’s Sandbox? I could go on like this for a while.) I suppose I don’t need to wax poetic on the popularity of Ari Seth Cohen’s Advanced Style and the desire felt by all to see fashion through a certain extreme prism (most often, the extremity is age.)
On the right: “Don’t spill juice on this coat. It’s very expensive.” ($1,570 to be exact.) On the left: And you thought only Cara Delevingne could model Burberry with such sass.
“My true passion is menswear, but I like to add little girly touches like Silly Bands and flowered hair accents.”
“My style icons are MIA, Leandra Medine, that kid from Slumdog Millionaire and all stars who eschew pants.”
“My outfit mirrors the hilarious absurdity of life.”
Be ready for April showers on the playground with springtime colors!
“I’m not ashamed to admit I wear these glasses for affect only.”
Outfit inspiration: 50% Kingston Rossdale, 50% LMFAO. Hair: 100% natural.
“Though she is less than a year old, Harper Seven Beckham is named ‘celebrity whose wardrobe you most covet’ by 76% of third graders.”
“Federal agents and police detectives on Monday ended their lengthy search of a SoHo basement for evidence in the 1979 disappearance of Etan Patz, with the New York Police Department’s chief spokesman saying “no obvious human remains” had been recovered.
“The building is along the route that Etan, 6, took on the day he disappeared. At the time, the basement housed the workshop of Othniel Miller, who has recently come under scrutiny in the case. A team of evidence recovery specialists from the F.B.I. and crime scene investigators with the Police Department began on Thursday to search along the walls of the basement and under its concrete floor, which was poured shortly after Etan’s disappearance.”
“The investigators have sent parts of a cinder block with what appeared to be a bloodstain to the F.B.I.’s laboratory in Quantico, Va., for further testing, but initial field tests on the cinder block came back negative for blood, said a law enforcement official who had been briefed on the investigation. It was unclear if that was the only material sent to the bureau’s lab.”
Now that the block is open to traffic (foot and car) again, of course you can see right down the stairs to the black door of 127B, and boy, is it creepy.
… though he’s still on our minds.
Apologies to anyone who has come here under the impression that I’m a news site. In this particular instance, I just happen to be close to the action, and my eyes are always open.
So… turns out that I did kinda sorta maybe break the story about the cops renewing the search for the body of Etan Patz, who disappeared while walking to his bus stop 33 years ago in SoHo, New York.
Of course, the first information I heard wasn’t entirely correct –– as far as we know, no one has confessed to the crime per se, but the latest is that cadaver dogs have responded in a way that make the police think that there may be remains in the basement of what used to be a gay/lesbian art gallery (?!) The scene right now is mobbed –– tourists clutching “Un Grand Week-End!” books, local ACE staff members, the chefs at the Calexico truck, the news crews for almost every major news station in New York, and little me, dashing out every so often to stand in the sun and try to get a glimpse of the action (this stance incites in me both great excitement and deep self-loathing.) Updates are coming in by the hour. It has been very difficult, in case you’re wondering, for anyone around my office to concentrate.
It’s important to note the language used by the FBI’s talking heads on Times website. In two separate statements, they stress that time is not a factor here, meaning they will continue to work however long until they get some definitive answers. I’m beginning to wonder what the scene will look like tomorrow, and the day after, and the days following. Will lay people continue to stand vigil at the barricades, or will they succumb to boredom? If nothing is found, it will resort to being an innocuous SoHo warehouse that now is home to one outpost of Lucky Jeans. (Not so lucky anymore?) If something is found, will it become the locus of grief? In less than a day’s time, a simple basement, to which likely no one gave thought before, has started to morphically resonate, to quote Laing.
My assistant returned from getting a bagel to excitedly tell me to drop everything.
“This is totally your jam.”
Apparently the FBI is at the Lucky Jeans down the street because –– as he learned from gossip in the bakery –– someone just confessed to murdering a child in 1968 and burying his/her body in the basement.
I’m on my way to investigate…
I think if I really went on with this, the list could be verrrrrrrrrry looooooooooong, but I’m in a shitty mood so y’all can do the work yourselves.
April 18, 2012
c/o The Guggenheim Museum
1071 5th Avenue
New York, NY 10128
Dear Ms. Maria Khaltunin,
I would like to enthusiastically apply for a job as cat wrangler at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia. Only recently did I learn of the formidable feline population at the Museum and of your efforts to care for them, and I would love to be a part of such a worthy endeavor. I have always loved cats, and creatures that dwell in unconventional structures. I have a pet cat of my own, Slash, who, no doubt, would be right at home in The Hermitage, even possibly becoming a ringleader of one of the many factions within the museum population (a benevolent leader, of course.) Aside from being a cat owner myself, I have worked in the past with autistic children and therefore am good interacting with small, unpredictable forces of energy. I am hardworking, intelligent, and greatly enjoy solitary work –– all things considered, I can see no position I am better suited for. I do not, as of this moment, live in Russia, nor do I speak any Russian, but I am willing to relocate for this job and greatly enjoy learning new languages. I have one friend high up in the Russian government, who would be glad to vouch for me.
My CV is attached.
Also, please do check out the YouTube Video, “Henri 2: Paw de Deux,” which has been making the rounds here in the States.
MH: in other blogosphere news
burn victim mormon blogger had her 5th kid
that is not funny
… minus a few details.
The Holidays at Millbrook, 1966
Thanksgiving day dawned clear. I got up later than usual (8:30 or so) and made it down to the kitchen, grimly resolved to eat a breakfast, DO NO COOKING, and leave again for a leisurely day at home. After cooking all three Millbrook meals for some 50 people for over a month, I had had it with the spacious and picturesque kitchen, and the eternal Beatles on the kitchen phonograph.
When I got to the “main house” I found that Kumar, our Hindu poet friend, had already arrived from New York with hashish and gossip, and many other people were converging from Massachusetts, Washington and farther afield. The parking lot behind the big house, with its great gouges and holes –– from the legendary trip when Timothy & Co. had decided to get rid of all the pavement in the world, starting in their own back yard and heading down the Taconic State Parkway –– was full to capacity with everything from old pickup trucks to a solitary silver Porsche, and the house was filling rapidly. It was clearly necessary to do some cooking –– none had been started yet –– and I had a sinking feeling that I wasn’t going to escape, after all.
Sure enough, Alan had volunteered to cook one of the four huge turkeys, and he conned me into “starting” it for him. Naturally, I looked up from the first motions to find him gone, and wound up cooking the turkey, and several gallons of cranberry sauce, and a cauldron of candied yams, while Alan made off for parts unknown. It was a soft, warm day, doors and windows were open, velvet draperies blowing and wind; goats, dogs and children all wandering in and out.
There was a football game before lunch on the lawn in front of the main house. Timothy loves football, baseball, softball –– has a big rah-rah streak which some find very lovable –– and is constantly pressing his guests into some strenuous sport-like activity, which leaves them usually with sprained backs and sore leg muscles and sour dispositions –– until the next round of drinks, food, meditation, or grass sets them up again. The more ornamental girls gathered round to cheer. The rest of us went on with the cooking.
I noticed that Alan had managed to escape the football game as well as the turkey. Found out later that he had retired to sweep the back porch of the pseudo-Swiss chalet that he and I lived in with the children –– the really charming little building of wood and stone, known to Millbrook inmates as “the bowling alley (it had indeed been built, with its myriad stone balconies and three-inch-thick shingles, as a bowling alley and billiard room for the first owner.) Whenever things get to be too much for Alan, he sweeps.
He showed up for lunch, though, which was baked Virginia ham, split pea soup, beer and other goodies set out on the front porch of the main house, and in the main dining room. The kids wheeled their tricycles up and down the porch while we ate, looking out over the sweep of the lawn turning brown from the recent frosts. Alexander, my three-year-old, drank a half a can of beer and fell out on a mattress in the main dining room and slept till dinnertime.
The light came in, and faded, and I was still in the kitchen. A familiar feeling. Around 5:30, Jean McCreedy, Tim’s secretary, came in and offered to candy the yams in my stead if I wanted to rest before dinner. I went back up to the bowling alley dead tired, to change clothes.
DeeDee Doyle was up there, reading and reminiscing. DeeDee was a California speed freak and old friend, who had sought refuge with us a few days before, when her old man had gone a little too berserk, even for her. She was wanting “something pretty to wear,” and so we pulled gowns and capes and old shawls out of the closet and spread them about, and I put Bob Dylan on the phonograph.
DeeDee picked a costume, complete down to rhinestone pins and necklace, and put up her hair while she told me how years ago she had given Dylan a book of Michael McClure’s, and how it had turned him on. Dylan later bought McClure an auto harp which changed his style for a while: he sang his poetry readings, wrote songs, grew his hair. Dylan had wanted her to live with him, “but I chose to go with Bad Bruce,” said DeeDee a little sadly, making up her eyes.
I pulled on a coral gown and black velvet cape, braided some pearls into my hair, stuffed all the remaining clothes back into the closet, and returned to the main house to go to the john. (The bowling alley had no toilet facilities –– no running water at all, in fact –– nor any heat, except for a very small fireplace, more decorative than functional, which, during the winter ahead, usually managed to heat the huge room we lived in to about 40 or 50 degrees.)
At the main house I found Bali Ram. Bali is a Nepalese temple dancer. He had come to the States a few years before with Bill Haines, who was then arranging tours for groups of eastern dancers, musicians, etc. Bill was now head of the Sri Ram Ashram, a motley crew who occupied the second floor of the Millbrook main house at this time. The Ashram had 28 members, mostly young longhairs, to whom Tim had recently given asylum when they were thrown out of their former home, the Ananda Ashram in Monroe by the staid older members of that organization. The older members owned the land, and controlled the board of directors; the younger members had come to work the garden and pass the summer. They decided to stay and squatted, more or less, till the arrival of a large number of police and private detectives made it unfeasible for them to remain. The Sri Ram Ashram boasted several colorful and talented members. There was Jean-Pierre Merle, grandson of Raymond Duncan, and third-generation vegetarian; a skilled painter, sandalmaker, potter, and flute player, a slight young man who looked positively frail till you saw him in action. There was Tambimuttu, the Indian-British poet with a strong English accent, a friend of Auden & c., founder of the little magazine of the ’50s, Poetry London-New York. And there was Bali.
*Part two tomorrow