Archive for the ‘Things I Love That I Go to Inappropriate Lengths to Track Down’ Category

Cover Letter

April 18, 2012

April 18, 2012

Itinerant Daughter

c/o The Guggenheim Museum

1071 5th Avenue

New York, NY 10128

to: haltunen@hermitage.ru

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.

Best,

ID

Let’s Make This For Ourselves

April 17, 2012

… 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

55-65 rooms, depending on whom you ask.

Memorabilia

March 22, 2012

Sometimes people need reminders of things, and sometimes the things they need reminders of seem a little sick, to others.  Many people I know who have spent a lot of time in hospitals –– myself included –– have a fetishistic attraction to hospital paraphernalia, i.e. bracelets, scrubs, really thin, rough bedsheets, IV poles, etc. etc.  There’s a certain kind of coziness that comes with feeling so trapped and heavily monitored, perhaps, and when we’re adrift in the universe, going to our jobs, living our banal and yet terrifying lives, the idea of being strapped to a gurney seems rather enjoyable.  (Perhaps, in your spare time, try to connect this argument to the 90s club kid trend of wearing pacifiers around one’s neck.)  I have an interactive art piece in the works about this desire-for-incarceration phenomenon, but for now, here’s a genius bracelet from Cast of Vices, an LA-based jewelry maker who defines their work in the following paragraph:

“BORN FROM A DESIRE TO CREATE ARTIFACTS OUT OF OUR VICES, CAST OF VICES CELEBRATES THE INHERENT DESIGN AESTHETIC OF THESE SUBSTANCES WHILE AT THE SAME TIME CASTING A CRITICAL EYE ON POP CULTURE AND OUR OBESSION WITH SELF-MEDICATION AND ADDICTION.

WHEN OUR ROME FALLS THESE WILL BE OUR REMAINS: CIGARETTE BUTTS, PILLS, BOTTLE CAPS, AND COKE BAGS.”

I’m categorizing this under “Buy Me This!” but a friend of mine just asked me via email “out of curiosity” what color bracelet I like best, so don’t put it on your list of things to procure for me just yet –– I think I may be gifted one in the near future.

Found This Out After the Fact

March 19, 2012

This morning, about twelve hours after my return from New Square, my friend sent me this article, which confirmed our suspicions that the house-cum-fish-market where we ate was where the infamous “talking, prophesizing carp” incident took place.  I suppose it’s better I found this out today and not Friday, as I wouldn’t have been able to resist peppering Mrs. Kupperman with questions about the fish.

The Times article about the incident, which took place in 2003:

Miracle? Dream? Prank? Fish Talks, Town Buzzes

By COREY KILGANNON

Published: March 15, 2003

And so it came to pass that a talking carp, shouting in Hebrew, shattered the calm of the New Square Fish Market and created what many here are calling a miracle.

Of course, others are calling it a Purim trick, a loopy tale worthy of Isaac Bashevis Singer or just a whopping fish story concocted by a couple of meshugenehs.

Whatever one calls it, the tale of the talking fish has spread in recent weeks throughout this tight-knit Rockland County community, populated by about 7,000 members of the Skver sect of Hasidim, and throughout the Hasidic world, inspiring heated debate, Talmudic discussions and derisive jokes.

The story goes that a 20-pound carp about to be slaughtered and made into gefilte fish for Sabbath dinner began speaking in Hebrew, shouting apocalyptic warnings and claiming to be the troubled soul of a revered community elder who recently died.

Many people here believe that it was God revealing himself that day to two fish cutters in the fish market, Zalmen Rosen, a 57-year-old Hasid with 11 children, and his co-worker Luis Nivelo, a 30-year-old Ecuadorean immigrant.

Some people say the story is as credible as the Bible’s account of the burning bush. Others compare it to a U.F.O. sighting. But the story rapidly spread around the world from this town about 30 miles northwest of Manhattan, first through word of mouth, then through the Jewish press.

The two men say they have each gotten hundreds of phone calls from Jews all over the world.

”Ah, enough already about the fish,” Mr. Rosen said today at the shop, as he skinned a large carp. ”I wish I never said anything about it. I’m getting so many calls every day, I’ve stopped answering. Israel, London, Miami, Brooklyn. They all want to hear about the talking fish.”

Here then is the story, according to the two men, the only witnesses. Mr. Rosen, whose family owns the store, and Mr. Nivelo, who has worked at the shop for seven years, say that on Jan. 28 at 4 p.m. they were carving up carp.

Mr. Nivelo, who is not Jewish, lifted a live carp out of a box of iced-down fish and was about to club it in the head.

But the fish began speaking in Hebrew, according to the two men. Mr. Nivelo does not understand Hebrew, but the shock of a fish speaking any language, he said, forced him against the wall and down to the slimy wooden packing crates that cover the floor.

He looked around to see if the voice had come from the slop sink, the other room or the shop’s cat. Then he ran into the front of the store screaming, ”The fish is talking!” and pulled Mr. Rosen away from the phone.

”I screamed, ‘It’s the devil! The devil is here!’ ” he recalled. ”But Zalmen said to me, ‘You crazy, you a meshugeneh.’ ”

But Mr. Rosen said that when he approached the fish he heard it uttering warnings and commands in Hebrew.

”It said ‘Tzaruch shemirah‘ and ‘Hasof bah,’ ” he said, ”which essentially means that everyone needs to account for themselves because the end is near.”

The fish commanded Mr. Rosen to pray and to study the Torah and identified itself as the soul of a local Hasidic man who died last year, childless. The man often bought carp at the shop for the Sabbath meals of poorer village residents.

Mr. Rosen panicked and tried to kill the fish with a machete-size knife. But the fish bucked so wildly that Mr. Rosen wound up cutting his own thumb and was taken to the hospital by ambulance. The fish flopped off the counter and back into the carp box and was butchered by Mr. Nivelo and sold.

The story has been told and retold, and many Jews believe that the talking fish was a rare shimmer of God’s spirit. Some call it a warning about the dangers of the impending war in Iraq.

”Two men do not dream the same dream,” said Abraham Spitz, a New Square resident who stopped by the store this week. ”It is very rare that God reminds people he exists in this modern world. But when he does, you cannot ignore it.”

Others consider it as fictional as Tony Soprano’s talking-fish dream in an episode of the ”The Sopranos.”

”Listen to what I’m telling you: Only children take this seriously,” said Rabbi C. Meyer of the New Square Beth Din of Kashrus, which administers kosher-food rules. ”This is like a U.F.O. story. I don’t care if it is the talk of the town.”

Whether hoax or historic event, it jibes with the belief of some Hasidic sects that righteous people can be reincarnated as fish.

Unnatural occurrences play a part in the mystical beliefs of members of the Skver sect. On the other hand, some skeptics note that the Jewish festival of Purim, which starts Monday night, is marked by merriment and pranks, which might be a less elevated explanation for the story.

Some community members are calling the two men an enlightened pair chosen to receive the message. Others have said that Mr. Nivelo may have been selected because he is not Jewish.

”If this was a story concocted by a bunch of Jewish guys, it might be suspect, but this Luis, or whatever his name is, he has no idea what this means,” said Matisyahu Wolfberg, a local lawyer.

”If people say God talks to them, we recommend a psychiatrist, but this is different,” said Mr. Wolfberg, sitting in his office with his black hat resting atop his computer terminal.

”This is one of those historical times when God reveals himself for a reason. It has sent spiritual shock waves throughout the Jewish community worldwide and will be talked about throughout the ages.”

Zev Brenner, who last week broadcast a show about the fish on ”Talk Line,” his talk radio show on Jewish issues, on WMCA-AM (570) and WSNR-AM (620), said that the story has fascinated the religious community worldwide.

”I’ve gotten calls from all over asking ‘Did you hear about the fish?’ ” he said. ”You can imagine, a talking fish has got people buzzing. This is going to be talked about for a long time to come, unless it’s somehow verified as a hoax, which is hard to imagine, since the proof has been eaten up.”

Mr. Brenner said that the story is so well known that it has inspired a whole new genre of wedding jokes for Jewish comedians.

”The station had an advertiser, a gefilte fish manufacturer, who considered changing his slogan to ‘Our fish speaks for itself,’ but decided people would be offended,” he said.

As for Mr. Nivelo, a practicing Christian, he still believes the babbling carp was the devil. His wife told him he was crazy, and his 6-year-old daughter even laughs at him.

”I don’t believe any of this Jewish stuff,” he said. ”But I heard that fish talk.”

He said that Spanish-speaking rabbis have been calling his home every day and night asking him to recount the story.

”It’s just a big headache for me,” he added. ”I pull my phone out of the wall at night. I don’t sleep and I’ve lost weight.”

Mr. Rosen said that he spoke to his wife, who was visiting Israel, and that she had already heard the story from someone else.

”My phone doesn’t stop ringing,” Mr. Rosen said. ”Always interruptions, people coming in and taking their picture with me.”

He paused and turned to Mr. Nivelo, who was cutting salmon for a customer.

”No, too big,” he said. ”She wants appetizer.”

—-

 

The only appropriate follow up question, I think, is: who ate the fish?

 

FOILED AGAIN

March 12, 2012

So I sent Vice Magazine a pretty brilliant pitch about Ibogaine, the drug used to treat heroin addiction (mostly) copied here for your enjoyment (not all of this is true, BTW:)

You at Vice Magazine are the only fuckers brave enough to publish pieces of a little genre I like to call “drug tourism,” so of course I came straight to you when I formed the positively brilliant idea for an essay on Ibogaine, the naturally-occurring hallucinogen with psychedelic and dissociative properties that is used in a few countries to treat opium addiction.  And yes, a good chunk of that technical explanation came straight from Wikipedia.

Your knowledge of Ibogaine could be quite vast, so please forgive me if I sound like a condescending Timothy Leary for a paragraph or so.  Ibogaine is mainly used in African aging rituals –– African bar mitzvahs are much cooler than American ones –– and was brought to Europe in the late 19th century.  In the 1960s in the US, after rumors of Ibogaine’s side effects spread, scientific researcher (and former druggie) Howard Lotsof began to study its use in the treatment of those with substance abuse problems.  It remains legal in Canada and Mexico but not in the United States because, as everyone knows, the US is always the loser in that department.

A person who takes Ibogaine –– usually ingested intravenously or orally –– will experience intense and vivid hallucinations for up to twelve hours, along with lack of mobility, nausea and maybe a little vomming.  People who have used Ibogaine have reported they’ve seen, “Adam and Eve,” “hands going over the top of my head and cradling my brain, “little toy spaceships!,” “the image of a women walking with a rainbow streaming out of her body, every color representing an emotion,” “beautiful faces… scintillating again red and green blowing kisses, winking, and mouthing words I could not hear,” and “earth and its molecules combining to create other molecules,” among other things.  The hallucination stage is followed by a stage of serious introspection and quiet self-evaluation that usually lasts about a day or two.  One man who underwent Ibogaine treatment, interviewed in the 2007 documentary Facing the Habit, said that an African chief once told him that Ibogaine “is God’s way of telling you that you are His.”  And as a white person full of undeserved existential angst, to me, this sounds like the most amazing medicine.  So I offer myself up to you and to the drug-consuming public at large as a guinea pig of sorts: I will take Ibogaine, trip face AND balls, see snakes emerging from Jesus’ eye sockets and my mother give birth to baby elephants, wake up, ponder my Self and the World, and then report back to you.

How, you may ask, do I expect to get my hands on Ibogaine?  The reason that Ibogaine is a popular treatment for heroin addiction is because it is a rapid detoxer and thus minimizes significantly the physical distress caused by opium withdrawal.  However, it has also been used to treat alcoholism, pot “addiction,” cocaine dependence and depression.  The first two diagnoses I can only tentatively claim, but for the last I can get a bona fide doctor’s note verifying my past tribulations.  If I go this route, I may be able to get a former pothead from Vancouver, who now runs an Ibogaine treatment center in British Columbia, to admit me to the clinic.  This is if I even need to resort to a little truth-stretching.  Fact is that people sometimes take Ibogaine for purposes of “psycho-therapeutic insight and inspiration,” which is something that I (and almost everyone) could legitimately use.  My thesis is that Ibogaine acts as a sort of psychological and emotional dermabrasion –– like a condensed Biggest Loser-style fitness boot camp for the brain –– and that some day in the future perfect, melancholy housewives and disaffected middle-aged businessmen with paunches will travel to Mexico to get a dose of this X-TREME hallucinogen not unlike how nowadays these same people go to Canyon Ranch to subsist on wheat germ, take colonics and exercise until they go tingly in the legs and dizzy in the mind.  We’ve always known that some narcotics produce the same high feeling as many “natural” human actions –– eating too much, deep breathing exercises, skydiving and other risk-taking activities –– so why not just cut to the chase and get all your civilization-related discontents taken care of in one technicolored go?  This kind of trip is something that maybe can be facilitated by a few treatment centers (the names of which I will selfishly withhold for now) that have on record given people Ibogaine to facilitate psychological exploration, or also by Claudio Naranjo, the psychologist who first experimented with Ibogaine use for “spiritual” purposes and is still alive.  I plan to investigate all these outlets.

And you, my dears –– all I need from you is a plane ticket, a little food, and a little space in the mag (or a lot of space, whatevs.)  I’m a WASP by birth, and there’s no such thing as an age rite of passage in my culture, unless you count a minor bout with bulimia.  Help me fill this gaping hole in my soul, and you just may get a good article out of it.

————

And within MINUTES, the editor responded and said:

Hi —,

Thanks for the email. We just covered this story in Mexico.

Feel free to pitch some other ideas.

Best,


Why am I always ONE STEP BEHIND?!  Such a bummer!  So now I have to think of another idea for an article for Vice (because I have an in now) but I think all the wacky drugs out there have been discovered.

What I’m Doing Over the Weekend

March 9, 2012

… a la a lot of nauseatingly cute lifestyle blogs that focus on pics taken on iPhones, recipes for organic homemade pinatas, and other examples-of-why-the-blogger-is-better-than-you-are.  (A curious many of said blogs, I’ve realized as of late, are written by Mormons?)

DISCLAIMER: I may actually do none of this shit and instead sit on my ass and think about pizza.

Saturday:

Wake up

Take much-needed shower

Eat an enormous brunch, preferably involving eggs

Go visit the Armory Show (see below)

To quote Frank McCourt, "Tis."

Play, and win, at ping pong

Convince boyfriend to go out for a nice Mediterranean dinner

” ” to dance at the local dive, described by one reviewer as “Cleveland circa 1973″

” ” to give me piggyback home

Sleep

Sunday:

Wake up

Eat bagels

See boyfriend off

Mope about boyfriend’s departure

Read, with a strange glee, The Leftovers, which is about inconsolable loss, cults, and broken marriages

Decide which of two sad movies will be better to combat Sunday Blues: the one described as “tightly structured” and “compelling” or the one described as “a terrifying, delirious exercise.”

Finish letter to Marina Abramovic (mum’s the word on this, for the moment.)

Finish The Leftovers

Sleep

Have nightmares.

This Weekend

February 25, 2012

Not just a CLASS on squatting, but a SYMPOSIUM on it!  My brother once told me about these people he’d heard of who were squatting in a mansion in Paris.  I’d rather squat than rent.  My other house is a tenement.

XXXXX FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 24 XXXXX

Squatting Europe Collective

For the first time ever, a group of activist researchers from the European squatting movement are gathering in New York City. They will make public appearances to speak about the decades-old movement of squatting and building occupations in their respective countries. The tradition of political squatting is moving from the shadows into the light. With the world-wide rise of the Occupy movement, the deep reservoir of experience within the movements of political squatting have become suddenly significant.

 

Generations of activists have participated in occupations of vacant buildings in Europe, beginning in the 1970s. The best known early success was the famous free city of Christiania in Copenhagen. But every major city in Europe has experienced some version of politicized squatting, most recently in the form of social centers.

Various times, locations, and events. Check website for complete listings.

Continues through MONDAY

sites.google.com/site/housemagicbfc/sqek-nyc-feb-12-schedule

AHHHHH

February 10, 2012

Okay so I know I’ve been annoying you with stupid thoughtlets and re-tweeted re-blogged regurgitated bullshit, but SERIOUSLY GUYS THIS WAS TOO GOOD TO PASS UP!!!

OMMMMMMMMMMMG STOP IT!!!!!

Summation

November 17, 2011

It has been brought to my attention that a whole three people are following my progress in Paris via this blog, so I figured I would try to give a more substantial update as I’ve been quite delinquent thus far.  In lieu of giving a skeletal overview, I’m going to describe to you my last day and a half.

First, I wake up in the piano room surrounded by books and get ready to open the store.  Then I walk to get a cheese crepe (the new breakfast of champions) and decide to stroll down the Seine to the D’Orsay.  I decide to take a few pictures of the Pont des Art, which is where we used to hang out and drink wine from the bottle about five years ago, to admire its new ‘do:

Locks of love all over the Pont des Art!

Then I get to the D’Orsay and decide I’ve already been there and the line is way too long and my little feet are freezing in my loafers and so I decide to walk across the Seine and browse the windows of the ridiculously fancy shops on the Rue Saint Honore.  After a peek inside Goyard, Claudie Pierlot and Colette, I briefly contemplate suicide by drowning but decide instead to buy a coffee at Starbucks (give me a break, they have free Internet and the coffee there is better here than it is at Starbucks in America.)  Then I think that since I’m on the Rue du Rivoli I could walk to the artists’ cooperative at 59, so I do that, all the while feeling that due to the cold, sort of wet ground that the soles of my shoes are almost perceptibly molding to the shapes of my feet.  I get to 59 and wander through the artists’ studios as fortunately they were open.  Less fortunately the work was a little… mmm, childish?  Don’t get me wrong, I dig children, but the art itself wasn’t very sophisticated.  The only pieces I liked were by a guy named Balyc, whose smaller works (not like the one below) remind me of electrocardiograms.

Then I wandered across the street into an H&M and contemplated buying a pair of platform sneaker-y looking things lined with wool but decided I should save my money for more crepes.  (Did I mention also I bought an overpriced tiny bracelet at Colette?  Probably not –– left that one out because yes, I’m ashamed I got it simply because I heart that store and not at all because I thought it was really that spectacular.)  Hopped on the Metro to go to the Musee Gustave Moreau and got a TICKET on the Metro for 40 EUROS!  Merde!  Finally made it to the museum, where I got in for free (snuck in?  I have no idea what happened.)  I went with the expressed purpose of sketching but there was a group of teenage art students whose silhouettes and classical physiques intimidated me.  Nevertheless, I managed to get out two naked people, an eye, and a holy figure of some sort.  After that I stomped out of the Musee, furiously insisting to myself that I would never again ride the metro in Paris, JAMAIS.  Unfortunately I walked so long in not really the right direction (not really the WRONG direction, either, just an unproductive one) and, hungry, tired, and cold, caved and bought a pack of ten tickets.  Came back to my beloved bookshop, so warm and cozy, and decided to grab a demi-baguette and go over to Notre Dame, which I can see from this window, for evening mass.  There was the tiniest old French woman dressed all in black sitting a few rows behind me who began all the hymns in an almost shrill voice about a bar ahead of time and pretty off key.  She was all by herself, and I don’t know if it was my awe at the ridiculously high ceilings or the incense burning my eyes or the fact that this little old lady probably came to mass every day all alone and then went home all alone, but I welled up a bit!  (Seriously!)  Then I came back to the store because I was about to fall asleep on my feet and took a nap before my shift in my favorite velvet chair:

This is my chair but whenever I sleep in it my foot or my hand goes numb.

Woke up JUST in time for my shift, during which I did a lot of shelving and stickering and drooled over all the new arrivals (particularly one book entitled Atlas of Remote Islands: 50 Islands I Have Never Set Foot On and Never Will by Judith Schalansky –– hint, hint.  This book reminds me that as a child one of my hobbies was to make up islands, draw elaborate road maps in them and assign addresses to all my friends, the schools, the stores and, like a good Connecticut girl, the private country clubs.)  (I think I will have to sneak downstairs and make a wish list later –– there are too many glorious texts here!)

After my two hour shift, we closed up the shop, and I was the sucker stuck without the key which meant I was locked up inside.  I finished off some wine we had lying around and then poked around the world wide web, as they call it, and also the library.  For those of you interested in the sartorial aspect of things, I should mention that my hair was in Heidi braids over my head and I was wearing blue monogrammed flannel pajamas.  Finally the two other “Tumbleweeds” came home and I got tired but instead of going to sleep I stayed up into the wee hours reading Shaw’s Saint Joan, which is probably why I overslept this morning.

Today I am giving myself the day off from sightseeing to devote myself entirely to S & Co.  I did my shift this morning, then had my requisite cheese crepe (three days in a row –– there honestly is meth in those things, because nothing else is that addictive) and then came back and offered to help with a transcription project.  Lucky for me, they happen to be just beginning a book project about the history of the store and are rummaging through old articles and books about the legendary patriarch of this place, George Whitman, maybe-grandson-maybe-nephew of Walt, lover of all “angelic” ladies, and host of weekly tea parties, who is currently hidden upstairs in the attic essentially on his deathbed.  His daughter Sylvia, who looks perhaps more cherubic than I do, now runs the store, and while I technically was supposed to be interviewed by her before moving in, I’ve been here three nights now and today was the first time I saw her.  I have an immediate girl crush.

So right now that’s what I’m doing.  I even get to do work that’s quasi editorial as they’re letting me pick out some quotes and anecdotes of my own choosing.  This is sort of not that smart of them as they don’t really know me, but luckily for them I’m a sharp tack.  My favorite quote from this book about the store’s tumbleweeds thus far?  “[George’s] favorites are girls with long hair and short skirts who have a tragic sense of life and a magical sensitivity to people.”  Mais bien sur!

Tonight the Beaujolais comes out!  PARTY IN THE STREETS!  I’m forming a coalition to Occupy Notre Dame, and we will do while slugging wine and spouting Rimbaud in true Parisian style.

If you have any suggestions for activities for me or songs to put on my “while I transcribe” playlist, please email them to itinerantdaughterandson@gmail.com.  Merci beaucoup!

Back to work!

Work Blog

November 3, 2011

My company is starting a new blog, so they’ve asked everyone answer a cute little questionnaire about what books they like and such.  They kind of don’t know what they’re dealing with, though, when they ask me questions and preface them by saying “bonus points if there is a funny/interesting story behind it.”

Q: What is your favorite word?

A: “Auspicious.”  There is, in fact, a story behind it, which features a prominent Hindu guru, a meditating two year old, some “special” brownies and a speech about the movie TRANSFORMERS, but it’s way too long to get into here.

Ganapati Om.