Little Wolf

My brother has long been a cutie pie in every stage of his life, but he was an Extra Super Deluxe Cutie Pie back in the day. Case in point:



OMG! Look at him in his home-sewn-by-Mom tie in the garden, with blurry big wheels in the background. Gaaaa!!! Cute overload!!!

Today is his birthday. Happy day of birth, my brudder! May many cold, delicious Hefferveisens be hoisted in your honor.

Sssssss

P and I went to San Francisco the week before last to visit this absurdly adorable family in their equal-in-absurdity-and-adorability new home. That's Marco, Desmond, and Evany of El Cerrito in a pumpkin patch, yo!



Of course, I have already started pelting these poor souls with homemade gifts. For this visit, P came up with the idea of a snake. A snake? Yes. P has fond memories of dragging a handmade snake of his own around when he was a young lad.



As a result, P had a very specific vision for this thing. He is still disgruntled that the striped bottom isn't slimmer, because the green was supposed to go further around the circumference of the snake. It also took him a while to get him to cross over to the corduroy side in terms of fabric choices.



I was happy with the decision to put a cat toy, a mouse with a distinctive rattle, in the tail. So it rattles AND it's like the snake ate a mouse, BOTH! Here's the snake in Desmond's future crib, where he's already become friends with a snake finger puppet.

And here's a closer pic of Desi Baroz. Don't overlook those little socks with sneaker-like laces. One day he is going to be hitting one of his robot toys with his old crib snake and a fuzzy old mouse toy is going to fall out of it and his mind is going to be blown.

More Halloween kudos

Behold the amazing Vandervloed clan of Seattle, who used everything from dried pasta and a vintage mannequin head to hairspray, fake fur, and frosty lipstick to bring their vision to life. Wait, did I forget to mention the fake barbed wire made out of yarn and pipe cleaners? Read all about their self-described macaroni mad max adventure here.



Further down the coast, in L.A., Evany's bosom buddy's kids showed impressive levels of ingenuity when it came to deciding what their costumes would be. How about Obelix, the Grim Reaper, and Joan of Arc?



Some people know how to have fun! And, clearly, how to make costumes. Muscles, striped pants, red-haired braids (and moustache)...a spooky scythe wielder, a passionate, fringe-booted martyr? Challenges not for the weary. Or the sewing averse.

Rock on, you crazy kids and parents!

I also thoroughly applaud ingenious quick solutions like throwing a cereal box on your head, as this married duo did. Frank and Patrick, goddammit, you make me wish I'd been there too, as Cheerios. Or Muesli. Ha ha ha.

The eternal question and his fiery friend

Brook sailed one out of the park and into outer space again this Halloween. As we've seen in the past, this is de rigueur for this woman. (As an aside, can you believe how much these tater tots have grown since last year? I salute all the historical aunties who came before me and coined the cheek-pinching cliche, "My, how you've grown!")



As a question mark, Henry was frequently asked what the ultimate question was. He'd answer, oh so correctly in my opinion, "It's 'Who am I?'." Burgeoning young fashionista Hazy designed her devil dress herself. Look how proud and "Step off, suckas!" she is in the photo above.



The other side of Brook's impressive craftsmanship of Hazy's Mephistophelian vision. Bwah ha ha ha.



Here they are out on the town, so you can see the three-dimensionality of Henry's costume. I love that little girl in the background who looks like she's confused over whether Hazy's wearing a costume or not. "Maybe little girl devils are REAL!"

Owl in box

Read all about it here.

Winter hat

This would be a perfect chapeau for me. I could even see myself wearing a linen-y version in the warmer months.



But I think Narciso just made them for his runway show out of recycled buckets or something. Harumph.

Invisible man

You might have already heard about this guy and seen his work, as I wouldn't be surprised if these images have been zinged around to everyone via email at lightning speed lately (Thanks, Judy!), and if when you saw them, you thought, "No way," "Must be Photoshop(R) or some kind of trick photography," "WTF?" and/or "I STILL think it's Photoshop." But no. This guy is the real thing.



From the Telegraph UK: "35-year-old Liu Bolin, from Shandong, China, manages to camouflage himself in any surroundings, no matter how difficult they might be.



Liu works on a single photo for up to 10 hours at a time, to make sure he gets it just right, but he achieves the right effect: sometimes passers-by don’t even realize he is there until he moves.



The talented Liu Bolin says his art is a protest against the actions of the Government, who shut down his art studio in 2005 and persecutes artists. It’s about not fitting into modern society. Despite problems with Chinese authorities, Liu’s works are appreciated at an international level."

Go ahead, Google(TM) his name. You'll see a lot more jaw-dropping images.



I think they're kind of creepy. But in a great way. I mean, imagine if you walked by and this guy, above, stepped away from that wall? Wouldn't you think part of the wall had suddenly decided to go wherever you were going? I'm all for anthropomorphic nuttiness, but I'd definitely be running down the street screaming my head off if that happened to me. (And then I'd be totally humbled and embarrassed later, when I realized my gaffe. "Oh man! That was that crazy artist dude!")



This last one is just bananas.

Get them green tomatoes

Last Friday P sent me a link about green tomatoes that were at the Union Square farmers' market, were only in season for a week, and were AMAZING! INCREDIBLE! STUPENDOUS!

So I hotfooted it over there and found this one booth run by a crazy couple. The woman was completely blotto drunk seeming (who knows? perhaps she'd been slurring her words, unable to count money, and making nonsensical jokes since birth). Her husband was wandering around quietly behind her, stacking vegetable crates, etc., a totally sober enabler guy. They had two of the crazy kind of dog pictured running in circles around each other and barking, until the husband finally put them on leashes. But that didn't stop one of the dogs from leaping at the green tomatoes repeatedly for awhile (pictured).

They did taste interesting. But I don't know. When this week rolls around next year, will I have "PURCHASE WEIRD VERDANT TOMATOES!" on my calendar? I doubt it. (P might, though.)

A couple days later I happened to eat a really delicious red grape. I surmised that red grapes must be in season, and after a little research, discovered that Concord grapes were indeed in season! So I bought a big bunch of them from the 10th Street and 2nd Avenue farmers' market. But I soon realized that I must have had a different kind of grape, because Concord grapes aren't really for random munching. So I didn't know what to do with them. I ended up convincing Paul to help me make a Concord grape-based recipe, which resulted in a weird dinner that tasted like sausages, brussel sprouts, and potatoes in grape jelly sauce. I would have posted a picture of this meal, but I find the photographic evidence disturbing.

I think when it comes to food, I am much more of a "bring me a plate of something delicious" kind of person than a "I shall discover and seek out my dinner" one. And it's always good to learn something new about yourself.

Neil's obituaries

From The New York Times

NASH -- Cornelius C.

Neil Nash, 48, died on September 9 after years of a heroic battle with brain cancer. Neil's legacy is one of kindness and inspiration in the face of his battle. For the past 16 years Neil fought and triumphed over numerous run-ins with the disease, constantly turning the medical community on its head while keeping his own. Neil was a real New Yorker and lived in Manhattan most of his life. He loved the city and was often the very embodiment of its struggles and triumphs. As a close friend states, "A big part New York City's beauty is that it often feels so fragile and so grand at the same time. Neil Nash was the same; he was always grand and epic even during the hardest times." For the last 10 years he was an acclaimed project manager who oversaw a wide array of projects in New York and throughout the U.S. Neil helped manage several large institutional restoration projects after hurricane Katrina, as well as building high-end residential projects throughout New York City and a prominent soup kitchen and social services agency in Brooklyn. A statement from close friends reads, "No matter what Neil was going through personally he always maintained an optimism and willingness to help others, laugh out loud, and be the most stylish guy in the room. His sense of humor, rigorous honesty, and openness always made Neil a magnet for great conversations and connection with everyone he encountered." Cornelius is mourned by his wife Martha Brophy, his children Jedidiah and Campbell, his sister Juliana Nash Stenerson, his mother, Juliana vanderVloed Nash, and a huge family and circle of friends too numerous to mention.

From The East Hampton Star

Cornelius Campbell Nash, 48

Surrounded by family and friends, Cornelius C. Nash died at home in New York City on Sept. 9. Mr. Nash, who was 48, had been diagnosed with brain cancer in 1993.

“Being a father” was his most heartfelt achievement, his family said. Jedadiah and Campbell C. Nash are his 9-year-old son and 7-year-old daughter.

He is also survived by his wife, Martha Brophy of New York City, his sister, Juliana Nash Stenerson of Amagansett, his mother, Juliana van der Vloed Nash of New York City and Amagansett, and by a niece and a nephew.

Although he was a consummate New Yorker, Mr. Nash had spent summers in Amagansett since his early teens and “loved Indian Wells Beach more than anything.” As an adolescent he enjoyed surfing and “hanging out with his herd of friends” there.

Around that time he helped his parents renovate Moose Brown’s old house next to the American Legion Hall on Montauk Highway, which they had bought in 1976. He also spent a couple of years in Miami Beach, where he worked as a partner in a fine-cabinetry company.

Mr. Nash went on to become a project manager for D.B.I., overseeing a wide array of endeavors in New York City and throughout the United States. He helped manage large institutional restoration projects after Hurricane Katrina and worked on luxury residential projects in New York City.

He had also been an event planner for James McNabb Associates; his last job with that company involved doing work during the 1992 Olympic Games in Barcelona, Spain.

He was born on May 1, 1961, in New York City. His father was James C. Nash, who died in 1998. He attended Stuy­vesant High School in Manhattan as well as the University of Rhode Island, where he was on the crew team, and the City University of New York at Hunter College.

He and Martha Brophy were married on Oct. 17, 1992, the year before his cancer, a pineal blastoma, was diagnosed. His doctor did not expect him to live even a few months, but his condition was stabilized for 10 years.

“Neil was like a tall oak — sturdy, strong, upright, resilient,” his family said, as well as “intelligent, rational, egalitarian.”

Funeral arrangements were private. Donations have been suggested to the pediatric brain tumor unit at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, P.O. Box 27106, New York 10087-7106.

Thanks, Neilwaukee.

Merril Markoe's Quick Draw McGraw

Merrill Markoe is such a genius. She responded on her blog to the whole David Letterman thing, which, I don't know if you've watched the clip of him turning his creepy tale of extortion and lechery into a ba-dum-dum comedy routine and had the same HUH? and EUW reaction I did, is "As you can imagine, this is a very emotional moment for me because Dave promised me many times that I was the only woman he would ever cheat on." (She had a decade-long relationship with him, and they created the original "Late Night with David Letterman" together.)

I thought that was really funny and must be very accurate. But also, she posted this little piece of artistry that she made: "it's that German expressionist episode you may not remember. Not everyone knows that Peter Lorre did a guest spot on Quick Draw McGraw." Enjoy.

Hey there

Postcards from Neil

The last time I saw Neil, he asked me if I remembered the postcards. I said of course, of course, of course. He sent me great ones when he was down in Florida. They were all old, vintage cards and if they weren't as beautiful as a work of art, they were hilarious.



What, you've never seen Mrs. Maude Black's sausage tree before?



Look at this girl and her come-hither look + oranges approach. I've been admiring her outfit for over 20 years, now.



And hey, Neil V: The back of this sea turtles one says, in part, "If you see my cousin Neil, ask him to tell you about the time we were chasing a sea turtle down in St. Thomas." I never did ask you about that. Do tell. (Also, looking forward to seeing you next weekend.)

Neil Nash

I met Neil at a party at the Orbach house on 21st street back in the 80s. I'm pretty sure it was to celebrate Martha and Tony Orbach's impending wedding. Neil interrupted a conversation I was having near the pool table on the second floor and I thought he was kind of obnoxious, possibly funny, and very handsome, and therefore perplexing. The party was smoky and crowded and we crossed paths a few more times during it, but never in a way that made me think he wasn't, perhaps, full of bluster.

Until I saw him again, soon after, at the Orbach wedding and he said something like "Remember me?" and I said something like, "Sure, you're that rude guy," and he shot back something like "Who, me? I'm not rude, I'm extremely charming, and anyway, I'm not that into ska music." (Remember "rude boys" and "rude girls"?)

Here we are chatting each other up at the wedding.


"I'm 17." "No, you're not." "Yes, I am."

Neil was, indeed, very charming. I was crushed when he revealed he'd recently moved from NYC to Miami to start a business with a high school friend. I was starting NYU in the fall and the cost of tuition and perhaps some minor layer of intelligence prevented me from chasing after him and pitching a tent outside his Floridian apartment complex. There was no mistaking the sudden pandemonium of an exciting new romance. He sent me a bouquet of pumpkins in October. We wrote each other goofy and impassioned letters and had marathon, middle-of-the-night phone calls. Some of the things that would play in my head over and over all through college, long after we'd broken up, were all the times we reunited on streets, on my stoop, wherever, after weeks of not seeing each other. It was always operatic to me, but not just because I cared about him so much. It was also because Neil himself was so operatic: passionate, intense, unpredictable.... As if the way to show up was, naturally, to drive his truck halfway up onto the sidewalk and jump out, leaving the door open and Tom Petty's Free Fallin' blaring on the car radio. Then, too, there were times like when we arranged to meet at a party in SoHo and, shortly after he walked in the door, he got into a fight with my sister's European semi-boyfriend Dirk, which almost broke up the soiree. Dirk did have an irritating quality about him. But it wasn't worth fighting about.

I realized Neil and all the stories about him running around the city and upstate were kind of legendary to some people (whether they involved beating someone up or not). But to me, he was always gentle and sweet, and funny. He was always recommending books: "Have you ever read Nathaniel West's Miss Lonleyhearts? It's really great, but really dark," "I'm finally reading Moby Dick. It's about a whale," (Ha ha). "I was never crazy about Saul Bellow, but oh my god, Henderson the Rain King!" I read an article about novelist Harry Crews and his book Car, about a man who tries to eat his entire Ford Maverick from bumper to bumper, and told Neil about it. I very much enjoyed taking credit for this, as Neil became a huge fan, and ate up all of Crews' books. We both loved the remake of Breathless with Richard Gere we'd seen on TV, even though it was extremely cheesy. And when we had our first argument, he bellowed, "What we have here is a failure of communication!" Then, he couldn't believe I didn't know what he was referencing, so he bought me a copy of the book (better known as a movie) Cool Hand Luke. Christmas had long since past, but he inscribed it "To my grinch," because I was often grumpy and pessimistic about the fact that he lived so far away.

Here he is in his Florida shop with two of its residents.


What woman in her right mind could avoid the gaze? Of those two cats?

He inspired my first full-length play, The Impossibility of Romantic Relationships in the Final Minutes of the 20th Century, and ducked in one night at the last minute to see it — a great production with Maddie Corman, Josh Hamilton, and Ethan Hawke. He was always so supportive and vehement about my work. "You better keep writing, or else!" he'd say.

We stayed in contact long after we split up. He always seemed to call me right before I went out on a date with someone new, or right after I came home from one, and of course, he loved that.

He took this shot when we drove out to Amagansett for a couple days.

A natural dreamboat and one of his many catches.

But I'm talking about an old version of Neil here, a more-than-a-couple-decades-ago Neil. We fell out of touch after he married Martha, a tall, beautiful, wise-crackingly funny drink of water who I knew was perfect for him. And when I ran into him over the years, it was no surprise he'd become a dad and stayed home to take care of his and Martha's beautiful kids. The one thing everyone knew in the absolute was that Neil wanted children. I'll never forget when I stupidly mused one time about there not being another term for "Mr. Mom." "DAD!!" he said, to my well-deserved embarrassment.

This past year, my friend and Neil's cousin Dawn invited me up to see her brother Neil V's show in Kingston and Neil was there. We ended up hanging out a few times and yakking on the phone with some frequency since then. I'd seen him a few times over the years and knew his old, street-fighting temper had long since simmered down. But it struck me as so paradoxical this time, how much he'd changed and grown and yet he was still the same, exact person I'd known. He was just so much more brave. I'd never thought of Neil as weak — lord, no! — but I never imagined how strong he could be, even as his body grew weaker.

I walked around his neighborhood with him one day and he stopped to chat with everyone we passed (he seemed to know everyone in his neighborhood) to promise them he wasn't messing around behind Martha's back (Ha ha).

I called him one day this past spring and he happened to be at the chiropractor's. "What's the one thing no one can live without?" he asked. For some reason, I didn't know that day. In disgust, he put his chiropractor on the phone, who reiterated: "You really don't know what no one can live without?" "No," I said. "Water?" "LOVE!!!" They both finally yelled.

He knew more than anyone how passionate, lucky, and full of love his life had been; he always talked about it, despite the pain and deep annoyances he and his family were dealing with. I'm glad he doesn't have to fight anymore.

But it still completely sucks that he's gone.

Manchasm

This video really starts kicking when the cat shows up. (I know, I never thought "cat" would be one of the most-used words on this blog, either.)

The comfort of Mclusky

My friend and old flame Neil Nash gave up the ghost yesterday early in the morning. His cousin has an appropriately story-filled post about it over on Neilwaukee. I'm going to dig around in some old photos and, in my next post, give you guys (some of whom knew him) a bit of a blast from the past hopefully.

In the meantime here's a band you might like, especially if you feel like punching and kicking things. The first one is of the single-image You Tube variety, so please don't be disappointed by the lack of synchronized dancers, and the second one is an actual Mclusky video.

The chorus of this song can stick in your head and drive you nuts, so watch out!



This video features a bowling pin.



P is responsible for introducing me to such noise. The first song I heard of theirs is the very mellow and brilliant Fuck this Band, but I can't find a copy of it anywhere across the whole world wide web. It's been a long time since I fell so madly in love with a band. I love you, Mclusky!

I guess I should also mention that this band isn't around anymore but the lead singer started a new band called Future of the Left that's presumably very good.

Boooo

I loved this building. I loved it, dammit!



And I loved what some of the Cooper students posted in the windows just before it was demolished. See it? I miss the old NY. My sentiments exactly. I know, the old New York was full of abandoned buildings and weed- and garbage-strewn vacant lots, dark, empty avenues and crime stats were bad, real bad...but it was awesome.



Cooper erased the words in the windows, which struck me as very spoilsport-y of them. Especially since they were going to knock the whole thing down within days anyway.



This is the crazy thing shadowing our lives now. It's huge, it looks like it was attacked by a hook-handed pirate, and from what I hear, it's more a display of ego on the architect's part than useful for the students and faculty of Cooper Union.

Boooo.

Goat box, heh heh

OK, wrapping up my visit to the Pacific Northwest:

Focus your eyeballs on this particular gem. I purchased it from a super cool outfit called Bossy's Feltworks, which has a table at a weekly Saturday farmer's market. The eponymous sheep Bossy is "the matron of the Lum flock" according to the Bossy site and she apparently loves apples, which I suppose is not surprising. If I met her, I'd probably feel a little starstruck.



The woman who made this would probably pish-posh about me considering this an awesome work of art, but I do, and not only because I admire the craftsmanship. I also can't imagine ever getting tired of staring at it. I mean, couldn't you marvel over this tableau forever, wondering who these goats are and what they're doing? Are they friends, one talking the other off a literal ledge? Romantically involved in a Romeo-and-Juliet situation? A couple brothers just horsing around? Maybe the brown one has a lumber business and the gray goat is being future-minded and has come to stock up a little bit for the upcoming winter.



And here's a license plate I'd have, if I had a car, and felt the need to express myself via my license plate.

Fear! Architecture! Oysters! Family! Alpacas!

Walking and driving around Seattle for a couple days was really fun.



I'm particularly envious of the aforementioned Seattle library designed by Rem Koolhaas. You can take the elevator to the highest floor of the building, the 10th, and walk down in a spiral, noticing how on each floor people are enjoying the space: reading, hanging out, listening to their headphones. One guy was working on a compelling-looking needlepoint art project. Somewhere around the 5th floor the stairway turns into a super saturated, bright red realm that's like a big open mouth. Kids who grow up using this library are going to remember this aspect of it, boy!



Here I am wondering why more architecture isn't as fun, inventive, and useful as Rem Koolhaas'.



Then we took off for the island to visit my sister and the kids. We brought them all presents, including some Japanese eraser characters with removable heads. Don't these guys look like I stopped them in the middle of their adventure so I could take their picture?



From what I could tell, Hazy is always in the midst of an art project. She created this mixed media masterpiece one afternoon while we were there.



We also visited some recently shaved alpacas one afternoon. Alpacas just throw themselves on the ground and fall asleep in a heap, like the one there in the middle ground.



For most of the visit we stayed at a hippie-zen-yoga-hot tubby resort on a gorgeous waterfront location. It felt, in a great way, like summer camp for grownups. A music festival was going on during the last 2 days of our visit and all these music lovers from Seattle (a place teeming with music lovers) showed up and pitched tents on the grass in front of our cabin and in the woods around us.



We sat on our porch and I squeezed (3 small drops on each!) lemon on the 500th big batch of oysters P had just shucked for us. I probably don't need to tell you oysters are where it's at.

Hooray for getting out of town!

Spacey needle

P and I spent a quick couple days in Seattle before heading off to Orcas island last weekend. I have never drunk so much espresso or eaten so many fresh oysters in all my life. I had to pull P away from ogling all the organic vegetables in the Pike Place market and he had to pull me away from swooning over the awesome Rem Koolhaas-designed public library and damn, I am a new fan of Mirror Pond pale ale on tap, the most delicious beer ever in my opinion. I have a feeling I'll be posting more about this trip so stay tuned if you're so inclined.

Rained-on fox

Last resort

I'm thinking about making myself a bathing suit. There's some really ugly, how-do-you-expect-me-to-swim-and-get-a-decent-tan-in-this crap out there. All I've seen are crazy get-ups that would fly right off your body if you dove into a pool or wave, or Olympic swimmer-type costumes not meant for regular humans.



But this notion has cornered me into a realm of the sewing world not meant for the faint-hearted. Fabrics with two- and four-way stretch. The inevitable visit to Spandex House. The reality that making this thing myself instead of buying something off a rack probably heightens the possibility of it flying off my body at an inappropriate moment.



But the patterns I've come across give me hope. Older patterns are so much cooler than their modern counterparts.



Well, hello. And I can use the leftover fabric to make a matching jacket, headscarf, and sarong. Won't I look jaunty by the water. I'm just kidding. I'll probably just make a jacket. And a headscarf.



Did you know Brooke Shields and Diana Ross used to shill bathing suit patterns?

Neither did I! And look at Diana, she has a ruffle on her butt!

Mad hatter

***Warning: this post is going to be unbelievably yawn-inspiring for some of you. Read at your own risk!***

I went a little nuts making hats recently. This one was inspired by a bad, stupid sunburn I got from a beach trip a couple weeks ago. I won't be fooled again!





I used a pattern from this book (Thanks, Lotta) and some excellent 80s Marimekko fabric (Thanks, Frank) that's subtly speckled, as if the colors were spray painted on (so subtle I don't think you can even tell what the heck I'm talking about from these pics).

I also made more of Judy Danz's reversible chemo hats. Can you dig it. Here's one made from vintage Liberty fabric with some more of the Kaffe Fasset fabric on the flip side.





Here's a stripey blue one with some cool blue Kaffe Fasset fabric on the flip side.





This one has green flowers and navy blue on the flip. And how about that crazy fabric-and-knitwear designing, Buddha-and-batik loving Kaffe?



This one has some more of his fabric on one side, and some turquoise stuff on the inside. If you ask me, none of these Fasset prints should have gone out of print. I love them. But you know the crazy fabric business. Fabric lines zip by hither and thither and then poof! Gone!



Well, I did say I went a little nuts hat-wise. I started out making just one hat for a friend going through chemo, and then decided to make one for her daughter, too, so they could wear them together if they liked. I'll donate the others somewhere...the Beth Israel Cancer Center in Union Square probably.

And yes, I am a big fan of Pernod. This particular bottle of Pernod turned out to be a big fan of these hats, too, generously offering to model them. Thank you, bottle of Pernod.



I will never be sun burnt again. I will also probably bump into a few lampposts on the way to the beach and plow over some seagulls accidentally when I get there but I will not end up sun burnt.

A lively visit down South

News flash! New Orleans is a crazy city!



You can tell from this pic that I am a bit suspicious of this whole drinking-on-the-street thing and expect to be surrounded by cops any moment, the way I would be in NYC.

I went down to meet up with P, who was there for the annual convention Tales of the Cocktail, a week of events like seminars, parties, competitions, and general debauchery for people who are serious about cocktails. And guess what? There are a lot of people who are very serious about that very subject, and from what I could tell, they were all very happy to see each other.

Here are a couple OTHER things that caught my attention. I guess sometimes it's convenient to park one's crutches as one would one's bicycle?



And here's an outfit you could buy for your kid in the 40s for Mardi Gras; it came in the little box that's pictured with it, cost a buck fifty, and included this fly little dress and shrug, a mask, and tiara. Dang!



This and tons of other impressive costumes and parade paraphernalia are at the very much worth visiting permanent Mardi Gras exhibit at the Louisiana State Museum.

Incidentally, it's relatively cheap to fly to New Orleans from NYC, and you can get cushy accommodations for cheap — for obvious reasons, New Orleans wants and needs your tourism dollars. Don't hesitate to get your butt down there if you're at all inclined, ya hear?

A very smart young lady and some silly pigeons

My talented and funny friend Lisa's talented and funny daughter Siena graduated from fifth grade this year with flying colors, and Friday night was the throwdown party to celebrate that fact. I decided to draw her a card, pictured here. But what to draw?

Well, it turns out there's a building SOMEWHERE in New York called the Siena, spelled exactly the way Siena spells her name. And when I went to look at it so I could draw it accurately, eight pigeons immediately snapped to and spelled out how they felt about Siena's spectacular report card. Then I looked closer at the building and noticed that the tenant on the top floor was either very excited about Siena's latest milestone too, or was just enthusiastic about fifth grade graduates in general. Whatever the case, I felt very lucky that events conspired in such a way and that I was able to capture at least some of the excitement.

Oh what a night

P and I spent an evening at the new Standard hotel in the meatpacking district this week. I was curious about the building as it stands over the newly open highline park and OK, from an architectural perspective at least, its not as super ugly and out of place as, say, the purplish Hotel Gansevoort on Hudson, which would look better in Miami or at the other end of a wrecking ball. Not that there aren't a lot of disconcerting things in that neighborhood these days already, especially for an old broad like myself who, I guess, relates more to the now-absent racks of hanging cow carcasses by day and streetwalkin' trannies by night than $400 haircuts and "Jeffrey."



But strangely, I felt right at home crashing for free in one of the Standard's deluxe rooms. (We were there as part of a press event for an intriguing new sleep product.) Here's the mysterious P getting to know the door hardware of our room.



It was a foggy night after a thoroughly rainy day and from our window it looked as if the top half of the Empire State Building disappeared.



But it was back the next morning. Phew!



I highly recommend taking advantage of anything that helps shake up your everyday perspective. It was fun being a tourist in my hometown, if only for a tiny blip of time.

What to do when you get tired of staring at your Vermeers

Perhaps you already saw one of the few articles published recently about the bowling alley in the basement of the Frick mansion.



But if you haven't, check it owt! This is exactly what I've always suspected are hidden in these grand old museums and former homes. I've long wondered why we can't see the art AND the private rooms the old timey rich folks. (I know, because in most cases they've been turned into the museums' offices. Bor-rang.)

In the case of the Frick game room, according to the Times, which has a great panorama of the lanes, the public isn't allowed in because there's only a single narrow staircase leading down to it and blah blah safety, fire hazard yak yak. I guess I'm going to have to befriend a Frick employee who will then feel a terrible stab of betrayal when they realize my interest in them was only about gaining entry to the ancient bowling alley but by then I'll realize I'm really fond of the Frick employee actually and will have to win their trust and affection back before the end of the movie.



I wonder what nutty rooms that grumpy old assassination-inspirin' industrialist had in Eagle Rock, his summer estate. We'll never know, sadly, as this wee 'lil manse was razed 40 years ago.

Talk about stopping traffic

My sister lives in a beautiful place where an everyday occurrence might include having to pause while some colorful plumage makes its way across the street.

Sure, as P reminded me, there are peacocks strutting around New York City, too. Up at St. John the Divine, to be specific.

But it's not the same, man. It's not the same!

I wonder what the peacock was thinking as he/she walked away. I'm soooo over people staring at me. Or crap, I forgot to pick up the dry cleaning.

Stretching class

Two cat posts in a row. Interesting. Well, all the time spent at my desk lately writing has allowed me to observe cat behavior in my apartment more closely.



I had no idea Olive and Beatrix were taking advantage of the new stretching book I bought recently. I'm sorry the image is so dark, it's due to some serious stealth photography. I'm impressed by Olive holding her stretch for longer than several long minutes. Good for you, Olive. Beatrix was resting on the book after practicing some ambitious stretches of her own.

Have you ever heard of Stretching by Bob and Jean Anderson? It's been out since the 70s and has great, clear line drawings by Jean that show you exactly what ya gotta do. Here's an image I got from Amazon; most of the pages are more spare than this, just the drawings and no text, which I love.

Prolific cat

Beatrix was exhausted after working hard on the rewrite of her new play. (She's highly competitive and is clearly competing with me, silly cat.)

Crazy humans

wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo

Frank sent me this video yesterday and I was like, wow, yeah, look at those crazy guys. But I think my dull reaction is because I've been knocked flat with a nasty cold all week. I've had a passionate interest in nothing other than tea and my tissue box. But I must be getting better, because I woke up this morning and thought WAIT A MINUTE. WERE THOSE GUYS...well, just watch the video. You'll see what I mean. (And yes, this is real. No joke. Real.)

Also, I forgot to mention, the reading of my new play went great. I lucked out and got a great cast, thanks in no small part to Sonya's slick handiwork (thank you, S!). The very next day, the wonderful actress who read the lead for me, Birgit Huppuch, won an Obie. How cool is that? Congrats, Birgit!

A really cool pile of trash

Aw, man. I wish I had been in L.A. when this show was up so I could have seen it. Now that's some creative sewing.

A day in the park

I've been busy. Busy, I tell you!



I finished a first draft of my new play a little while ago and then dove into a bunch of sewing projects while I bided my time until its first reading, which is bang! coming up this week. Hooray! Hearing talented actors read aloud, for the first time, something I've been working on for the past few years is a trippy, giddy, frightening, and all sorts of other hard-to-describe feelings, thing. YIKES, in other words. My writing has always been the most important thing in the world to me, so big and onerous that no sewing machine, fabric, nor innumerable colored pencils could quash my passion for it. (Passion being a word defined as 1. the state or capacity of being acted on by external agents or forces, 2. an outbreak of anger, and 3. suffering as well as 4. ardor and 5. enthusiasm, don'tcha know.)



So it was with great relief that I could distract myself from my upcoming reading with a drawing project given to me by none other than a dude with the initials DPE IV. The assignment was to draw something, anything, for an assigned date, in my case May 2, on May 2. It's for an arty datebook that will be published without a year distinction, so anyone can use it, anytime. So I drew this scene on May 2 and sent it off last night. I meant to also work in a pogo-sticking dog but ran out of time. And I was horrified to realize I left a tail off one of the cats, until P told me the running cat is obviously a tailless Manx cat, many of whom have particularly round heads. Well, of course.