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Sunday, October 30, 2011

Marriage Plot

Bluebs handed me a tangible "Friday Read" last night after she came to a screening of the film. I have just started it, The Marriage Plot, one day or 18 hours of sleep later. The week has been brutal, with 4 hours of sleep here and an interrupted 7 there. Is that not good? I don't care really, I'm exhausted and I need my sleep if I'm going to be of any use this next week. I've got to say, as I grow older everything feels like it's shrinking. The days feel shorter, the world feels smaller, the importance of stuff becomes littler along with it, I have no patience for anything, for anyone; it reminds me of the Wanda Sykes "I don't give a fuck" bit in Sick and Tired (See 1:50 below). Anyway, off I go to read this book.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Face/Off : The Animal Edition

I like that Lauryn Gerstle happens to carry animal masks on a trip to the Thai restaurant.
We were like a match lit in a firework factory, us two, on Sunday...
Irish pubs, Thai restos, animal masks and photos galore.

Ah, the joy in matching with the doggy bag and the bill.... Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Shitty Food Made Edible Through Good Memories

As a victim of frequent jibe towards my predilection for junkier foods, I think it's due time I pause and tap into the part of me that longs for the Flamin' Hot Lays or barf-resembling diner dressing. While I would never actually buy a bottle of Thousand Island Dressing from the grocery store or even purchase a bag of any other Frito-Lay brand potato chip labeled as "flaming hot", I am so OK with ordering a house salad with Thousand Island dressing from Pann's or Norm's solely based on the power of nostalgia. In fact, I will only consider a house salad if it's at one of these two establishments. I am aware that this "salad" is really just shaved carrot, fuchsia confetti (cabbage perhaps?), a cherry tomato or if I am particularly lucky- two pieces of large iceberg lettuce leaf and a curiously coral dressing completing a just barely justifiable salad dish.

The list of food  I hold in this regard can be extended to Pixy Stix straws, BBQ ribs of the cheapest quality (depending on the sauce, if the sauce is good I'm game; it's that specific smokey BBQ sauce I can't resist- unless the meat is rubberlike and dangerously inedible I just can't pass on this option; on that note, I also welcome Tony Roma's or similar caliber shoestring onion rings) and Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, a pleasure I reserve for long road trips where my options are limited and memories of Happy Meal lunches on the indoor carousel of an Inglewood McDonald's sparkle silently within my subconscious.

While my palette has refined itself, over the years, with a collection of tastes carefully acquired by way of overcoming mild-trauma and just plain growing up as an avidly healthy and normal diner-outer have overtaken my tendency towards a more processed diet. Much like geological forces slowly shape the world around us, my taste has become a complex Grand Canyon and I am constantly finding seashells made out of frozen Gansitos, buñuelo and walnut Brownie Bites (the ones in the red and white bag that got discontinued!) on the floor of my metaphorical gastronomical gorge! This does not mean my parents fed me shit, by the way. My mother hand-made us breakfast, lunch and dinner- fresh food made with love- but hey, you eat out once or twice and fast food is had on Fridays and the children stay happy, the world keeps turning and my associations with such experiences are apparently fond and deep.

The things we do because of such memories! You make excuses (unknowingly). You let things slide. You forget your current, present-time standards and act from the heart and from the gut. In the mysterious place where this happens, I also store the lyrics to the cool song I heard maybe four times on the radio when I was 14 which I'm able to recall at any given time or place even though I can't remember the chorus to the new Lady Gaga song I hear everywhere you go. My mysterious ability to recall the phone number to the beloved Jino's Pizza (310-674-7400) also resides here, as does the foundation to maintain decade-long, special friendships despite age-acquired disparate traits- and of course, the ability to eat the aforementioned vomitous dressing.

With that said, Frito-Lays (perhaps this a great thing) altered their recipe for the "flamin' hot". It's spicier in a much drier way now, whereas in the 90s it was almost sweet. bFor this reason, and because of their hideously red rebranding, I don't pick these up as often as I used to when they were recontinued a couple of years ago. An abomination of similar proportions- the new McDonald's Apple Pie. I immediately stopped ordering them after they ditched the bubbly crust with filling that tasted oddly like Chinese Fried Wonton dough.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Braun vs. Muji

I am having dire wake up issues. Which clock do I order? Let's hope I don't forget to set it, eh?

Insomniac by Sylvia Plath
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011


It seems as though we're going back to the future, everybody!

*sings* My Dolooooooreeean...

Monday, October 17, 2011

Dinnertime for the Visiting Smeer and Squirrel

In celebration of my Smeer and Squireel's NY premiere of Zergut, we cooked up a feast consisting of amazing tuna sashimi with chili and lemon pepper garnish, potato gratin with fennel and herbed creme fraiche, chicken, sausage, skirt steak, grilled raddichio, and lots of yummy appetizers like speck wrapped figs with cheese shavings paired with a Lambrusco and candied oranges with cheese.

Here's some pickles with hummus....

Nothing beats amazing food with good friends... except maybe social justice, music, love and world peace.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The Shit

Dave Brubeck's Koto Song:

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Paintings in Proust

This will be the last Proust related post until I finish Guermantes Way, I assure you....

Check out this book by Eric Karpeles! Paintings in Proust is such an amazing resource even if you're not reading In Search of Lost Time. It's beyond a visual companion to the book, it's a treasure trove of fine art. It's also pretty much essential for anyone who's tagged along for the ride that is Marcel's journey. I happened upon the book at the Frick Collection and basically melted into it at once. The cover is a bit underwhelming, but you know what they say.... No, not that. I was going to say that the job of a book illustrator is to make the inside look like shit. And if the cover couldn't be amazing that means what was inside was too much for the designer to handle :)

About Me

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I'm an LA transplant now living in Brooklyn. I develop film projects by day, write at night, and have a dangerous predilection for vintage Robinson Golluber scarves- this blog serves as a tiny window to everything else I do when I'm not satisfying those first three passions. I'm trying to blog more and tweet less @annabelleqv. What about you?


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