Feist at Hammerstein Ballroom 4.29.2008

Over the past eight months or so, I've meant to see Feist three different times. I bought tickets for her show last fall at Town Hall, but then ended up not being able to go; said I was going to buy tickets to her performance in the McCarren Park Pool but never followed through and instead just sat on the lawn outside the pool, ate some cheese and crackers and drank probably a lot of wine; and, finally, I bought tickets at the urging of my friend Amy for her show at Hammerstein last night. After all this build up, I guess it should come as no surprise to me that I left last night's performance feeling mostly disappointed.

First of all, the venue was just too large to really be able to contain Feist's energy and not have it get lost in the vast crowd. She was, I think, pretty blown away that she'd managed to book two nights there, both of which sold out relatively quickly, and it was clear that she had never played a show quite like the one last night. Plus, the crowd was extremely lackluster. I've never been to a concert where, during some of the slower songs, I could actually hear with perfect clarity the conversations of all the concert-goers around me. It was only during her more popular songs -- "1, 2, 3, 4" and "I Feel It All" -- that the crowd seemed to raise its energy and focus their attention on the music rather than whatever socializing they were doing.

Still, there were some high points: namely the opening and closing songs. "When I Was a Young Girl" has never been one of my favorite songs of hers, and so I was really happy (probably too happy given the rest of the set) to hear her arrange it in such a way that made me really excited to listen to the song more regularly. I love finding a new found appreciation for a song after I've heard it live. The set ended with a pretty rocking version of "Sea Lion" that should have made everyone jump out of their seats and dance erratically, but because the crowd was so lame, most people just unenthusiastically clapped their hands.

It seems to me that the Apple-ization of Feist has only served to really damage her live show, since people have been drawn to her music by that one iPod song, and paid little attention to the rest of her discography. And it's a shame because Feist is a lovely musician and I find her music to be just so emotionally comforting to me. People are truly missing out on what she's best at by focusing on her more pop and catchy songs, and it's most certainly to the detriment of the rest of her fans who have to sit through a concert that people either walk out of or talk their way through.

I have no words

This video, taken from the video game Grand Theft Auto IV, which is on sale today, offends, disappoints and angers me to no end. Really, how is this okay? How has all the backlash about this game been focused entirely on the violence, but has never once addressed the blatant and disgusting misogyny that seems to run rampant. Why is it okay for this medium to perpetuate such intense disrespect for women, not to mention illegal behavior, gun violence and complete and utter moral misconduct. I don't know, I understand that people often give the media too much credit in terms of what its influence is over our culture and that the relationship there is complicated, and sure, there are movies and books and other sorts of things that also delve into moral corruption; however, this is a role-playing game. It is something that simulates real life experiences in a way that no other media outlet really can and seems to actually encourage this sort of behavior. It's really, actually horribly frightening to think that this is an entertaining way for men (and maybe even some women) to engage with women, simulated or not.

Girlfriends

Recently, there have been a lot of stories in the media about girl bullying, girl fights, online harassment leading to suicide, and the list goes on. It's all pretty upsetting, for sure, and it makes me think a lot about the ways that girls interact with each other, how competitive and mean they can be and how sometimes it's really hard to find girlfriends who you can really trust and who are very loyal. Not that I didn't know this before, but over the past few days, it's been made amazingly clear just how lucky I am to have girlfriends that I can rely on, who do want the absolute best for me and who love me and our friendship. My heart has been warmed by these ladies in the most wonderful ways and their compassion has, at times, moved me to tears. I guess what I'm trying to say is that sometimes, if you're very lucky, and seemingly against most odds, you can find the kinds of girlfriends that you know you cannot live without and who make your life better.

Types of Mothers

According to a new book, there are, apparently, only five types of mothers:

• The Perfectionist Mother- whose family must look perfect in every way
• The Unpredictable Mother- whose ups and downs can create lifelong anxiety and depression in her son or daughter
• The “Me First” Mother- whose children come second or last
• The “Best Friend” Mother- who’s now in vogue but can wreak havoc
• The Complete Mother- who provides guidance and shows compassion to her child

The press release makes it clear that the author is aware that most mothers are somehow a combination of all five of these types, and that, ultimately, the great impact of this is that a mother's behavior deeply shapes that of their child or children. My first reaction to this book is, well, duh. I don't think I need a book to explain to me that the primary reasons I have the issues I do with relationships and self worth are because my mother has set this precedent and has done very little to help set me on the right path. I've been working for years to undo the damage that her mothering style has done to me, but to little avail, and I really don't think that reading about any of this will further enlighten me. Perhaps it would prepare me to be a better mother down the road, but for now I'm calling complete and utter shenanigans on this book. I mean, it's totally one thing to recognize that your unhealthy patterns of behavior are rooted in this relationship, but it's quite another to try to mend that. It doesn't seem like this book will be very perscriptive, which, I think is what people need more than having someone point out that their flaws are not "their fault." I understand that there is some truth to the idea that knowledge is power and acceptance is the first stage of recovery, but, still, I wonder if that damage can ever really be undone?

Leo Daily Extended Forecast for April 23, 2008

Even though it's basically stupid and totally pointless, I really enjoy reading my horoscope on a near daily basis. Here's what mine says for today:

Something has ignited your wanderlust -- whether it's a book or an article you just read, a foreign film you just saw, or a travel poster you glimpsed on a coworker's wall. You need to feed your passion for travel today. Planning your next vacation is a great way to spend whatever free time you have. Surf around and check out different travel websites. Find out more about the one or two places you've always wanted to visit. You'll get a big rush out of learning more about what to do when or if you go there.

As it turns out, I’ve got a lot of free time today and, because when I’m going through a period of distress my fight or flight instincts really kick it into high gear, I’m looking into the quickest and cheapest way that I can just get the fuck away for a little while. It’s always odd for me when my horoscope really does seem to match up with what I’m feeling on any given day and, sometimes, it makes me feel irrationally hopeful about things. It makes me feel as though I should spend less time analyzing in such intense detail every single aspect of my life and that I should just sit back and let life unfold around me. This feeling, I know, is silly. Of course I know that I can’t be entirely passive and just expect for good things to happen to me, but it’s nice, on days like today, when everything feels so out of my own control, to think that things really will, somehow, work themselves out in the end. Until then, I’ll keep looking up flights to the South or some other exotic locale with the hope that I’ll be able to make a short escape and hope that when I return I’ll be ready to face up to certain difficulties and really take charge.

Gossip Girl: Not the "best. show. ever." but still pretty good

Last night marked the return of the CW's high school drama Gossip Girl, and I couldn't have been more thrilled. I love this show. I love it because it reminds me of so many days of yore when I would watch Beverley Hills 90210 with my father and step family, and because it succeeds in taking me back to a time when I watched people on television who seemed so much older than me, the drama in their lives nearly unbelievable but oh so fascinating. High school dramas, in a weird way, are a way in which I mark my own growth -- here I am at a prom, a prom much like the one Donna Martin went to when she got drunk and nearly couldn't graduate, or, there those high schoolers go, graduating and freaking out about getting older -- and there's nothing to me that's more interesting than pondering both where I'm going and where I've been in terms of maturation and personal development. Also, I love Gossip Girl because, unlike, say, The O.C. or Degrassi: The Next Generation (both shows that I also really enjoy), it is New York-centric and I feel that I can appreciate the show in a familiar way because everything -- from the steps of the MET to the Wiliamsburg Bridge -- is a part of my daily life.

Of course, I went into my viewing of the new episode with this New York article in mind, which had nearly convinced me -- since it's been so long since the last episode and because time has a strange way of making me remember things more fondly than I probably should -- that Gossip Girl really is the best. show. ever. But, nay, it is not. For all of the things that I love about this show, there are a number of things that I dislike -- Blake Lively's character (who I have the most severe hair envy of), Serena, continues to get ever more annoying and one-dimensional, and each episode is self-contained -- the conflict introduced and carried on through the episode is always neatly wrapped up by then end, and often in entirely unbelievable ways. Plus, there are all of these reasons the show is lacking, which are pointed out on Gawker.

And I can't help but wonder if the New York magazine piece might in some way really ruin the whole show. Will it unrealistically raise people's expectations? You know, draw them in with its high cultural praise only to have people leave feeling disappointed and duped. Is the whole piece somehow one big publicity opportunity arranged by Josh Schwartz or any other person deeply connected to the success of the show? It's hard to tell, but what is clear to me is that this piece is giving the show more credit than even I think it deserves. It is not the best show on television currently or ever, and it is not breaking any sort of crazy important media ground. Still, it is good and worth watching if you have any sort of tolerance for shows of its nature; and I will continue to look forward to what outlandish plot lines will develop and how the characters will either continue to rise or continue to fall flat. It's the perfect way for me to end a Monday, which is a day, at least for me, that is generally full of self-doubt and professional meaninglessness, and it's comforting to sit back and watch a bunch of faux high schoolers run around dealing with a drama that I know I'll never have to face.

Abortion as art

I'll be the first to admit that I have a confusing relationship with conceptual art. In general, I tend to avoid it because I find that it can be too polarizing -- much like politics, conceptual art tends to leave people feeling totally offended, or entirely delighted with very little room in between for any emotion other than pure apathy -- and I often don't feel particularly compelled to involve myself in whatever dialogue is being attempted. But, this. I just can't help having a pretty serious reaction to it.

Okay. So much like what is suggested on Jezebel, it definitely seems that Shvarts is suffering from whatever upper-middle class angst causes young adults to want to rebel and make a people cringe with their drastic breaks from the norm. Well, success. But my issue with her is much deeper than the fact that, despite her claims, she seems to be doing this for the "shock value." No, my issue here is entirely political. On the one hand, I can see the statement that she is trying to make and what she's trying to flesh out with this piece, and it's interesting to think about the relationship between art and the body and using the body as art, but when an artist attempts to try to work out this connection by means that are so morally and politically questionable it does become spectacle and is uncomfortable and self-defeating.

I'm very adamantly pro-choice, and recognize that while this is a woman's right that (thankfully) remains protected it is, nonetheless, seemingly always hotly contested and at risk of being revoked. A dialogue about this issue has been in full effect since Roe v. Wade and so I think it's silly that this student believes that her art is furthering this dialogue in any sort of meaningful way. If nothing else, she seems to be slapping women who have to face the decision to abort in the face, and, perhaps more importantly, she seems to be over-simplifying the issue. While I've not, personally, been in a situation where I've had to deal with making that choice, I do know women who have and none of them have walked away from that decision without having been somehow deeply effected by it. How do you reconcile their experiences with the triteness of Shvarts' acts? It's this question, this aspect of her art that is so offensive to me and seems to prove the fact that she is doing all of this for the attention and controversy that it will provoke.

My freshman year of college I met an art student who had used menstrual blood as paint for each and every piece she submitted as part of her portfolio. For her, the blood as medium was an artistic statement that was so fully about her body and about her body being female that it I couldn't help but be a little bit moved. Of course, I didn't "get" any of the images she showed me and my friends, but I was impressed that she had been able to find a way to make something so generally discarded and revered as unpleasant something that seemed light and beautiful, and all with something that was so entirely her. This, I feel, is maybe what Shvarts was actually attempting -- to ask what it means to be a female, to be an artist, and to have a body that can be an artistic medium in and of itself. It'll be interesting to see how this unfolds, to see if her professors speak out either in support or criticism of her, and to see how feminist organizations will interpret her art. For now, I can only sit back with my own thoughts and be a little bit sad about the whole thing.

UPDATE: Looks like this whole thing is just very confusing to everyone.

Moving is exhausting

Well, it's official. After so much ridiculous agita the past month -- from looking at any number of hopelessly hideous apartments all the way from South 3 to Ditmars, to being constantly bombarded with phone calls from brokers trying to rent out our quaint abode on Manhattan Ave, and ending at the overwhelming task of packing up every single possession and moving it across boroughs -- Caroline and I have finally done it. We've arrived in Astoria, and last night we slept in our new apartment, began adjusting to the quirks of a pre-war building (uneven floors, noisy radiators), and this morning I made my new commute to work. Even though I was only in my last apartment for two years, it was hard to leave it behind, and all day Saturday I felt a certain amount of nervousness that I might not be as happy in my new digs, that something would just be missing and I would feel a nagging longing for Greenpoint that might never go away. I still feel that way a very little bit, but I know it's because we're still unsettled, that we've got many improvements to make and because our apartment -- and this is the first time I've ever heard anyone complain about something like this -- is just too big for us to fill right away. But I am looking forward to the day when it all comes together and I can come home from work, hang my coat in our hall closet, cook a nice meal in our kitschy kitchen and then enjoy some reading in our plant and book-filled solarium. It's going to be a lovely home and I'll be excited to start entertaining guests as soon as I can. Your invitations are TK.

Dooce

Yesterday, I spent the better part of the afternoon trying to figure out what, exactly, made the mommy-blogger website, Dooce, so fascinating that it's considered the 59th most popular blog on the Interwebs. See, when the boss is away the mice will play, and my coworker Betsy turned me on to this Wall Street Journal article that nearly made me fall out of my chair. We emailed back and forth about how unfathomable it is that this woman and her husband financially support their daughter and two (very cute) dogs by running just one little ole blog, and about how we just couldn't seem to find what was so interesting about the things she has to say. Sure, she has a pretty fierce attitude, she's a former Mormon, she was in a mental hospital for a certain amount of time, and she's actually pretty attractive, but is that really enough to generate over $40,000 a day in ad revenue? And, if it is, check me in to a mental institute because I would love, love, love to be able to just chill at home with some loving dogs and write mean things about life, or, you know, do something more productive like volunteer work (seriously, I'm sure there's some good writing material to be had in volunteer work) or shopping, or cooking a million delicious dishes.

Basically, the bottom line here is that I don't understand people and how they choose to spend their time. The only thing remotely interesting about the site is when she posts reader comments, which seem to only affirm the fact that people, in general, have lives so uninteresting that they have to immerse themselves in the lives of others. And, the saddest part about all this is that I think that I have to categorize myself this way, what with my fascination with celebrity culture and my unhealthy obsession with reality television. Not to say that I think that my life is at all uninteresting and, to be honest, I spend way less time these days reading gossip blogs and watching television than I once did, but, still, it sort of scares me to think that these really are things that I enjoy during my "down" time when I've come home from work and don't want to think about anything pragmatic at all, or when I feel particularly sad or stressed out and just want to numb myself to these feelings. Maybe that's how I can justify this sort of behavior, because, in lieu of using drugs or alcohol (though sometimes these things do come into play) to self-medicate, I choose to shut off most every single working part of my brain by partaking in these activities. And, I'd like to think that even though this isn't the most healthy of behavior, it sure is a lot more healthy than some other alternatives. Yes? No? Oh, who can tell.

Anyway, here are a few gems from people that I actually am better than because at least I don't waste more of my time writing comments on Dooce (or, really, any blog that isn't written by a friend):

I have no interest in popular things, and find that people who like popular things are lame. But I was so bored one day that I had no choice but to click over and read your website. I guess it wasn't that bad, but why do you think it is so interesting to balance things on your dog's head? It is not interesting. In fact, it's dumb. And stupid. I've never been so bored looking at a photo of a dog in my life.

Leta (her daughter) has inherited a very large forehead from you. You shouldn't pull her hair back so far as it only accentuates the 5-head. Letting her hair down is far more flattering and might keep kids from picking on her about it when she gets older.

Gawker hates on Brooklyn Kickball

Let me preface this post by saying this: I love Gawker. It's sort of mean, but in the snarky funny way that I can never get enough of. Plus, you have to live in New York to really appreciate the site and I like things that make me feel as though I'm part of something that is even remotely exclusive. This morning, however, I cringed when I saw this post about the Brooklyn Kickball scene in McCarren Park. Just look at those tags: douchebags, shut up, etc. Oh man.

Even though I'm beyond glad that I managed to escape being photographically captured on the Brooklyn Kickball website, I'm not entirely ashamed to say that I was totally a part of that whole scene last summer, and really very much enjoyed every Sunday afternoon/evening that I spent walking between the park and the Turkey's Nest, my 32 oz. Styrofoam cup of either beer, margarita or mimosa in hand. I only actually played a handful of games and never once made it onto a base, rather I considered myself to be "lawn candy," the group of kind folks who cared more about gossip and drinking than about kicking balls and getting sweaty. Often, I, along with other lawn candiers, would play with two of the cutest hipster kids that ever were, Lucy and Bunny, and it was great fun running around barefoot playing "Green Goblin" or making water balloons and throwing them at The Commish. Later in the night, once the little ones had gone home and I was about three mimosas deep, my friend, Tiffany, and I would revert to our cheerleading roots and make up barely understandable cheers for the teams that our friends were playing on. There was, of course, all sorts of crazy drama, but on the whole it was, truly, a very solidly good time. Though Mondays, man how they hurt.

Still, I can see how this whole scene might look utterly ridiculous to outsiders, and I have to admit that there were many nights when I would hear people fighting about scoring or calls by the umps and would roll my eyes thinking it was beyond dumb that anyone should care that much about a sport that is usually only played in elementary school gyms. And the KickBall (the end of the season dance), I guess, does seem sort of silly; though had Gawker known that the main selling points to getting kickballers to the event were Polaroid prom photos and all the free Sparks you could drink, I'm sure they would have had even more of a heyday.

I haven't yet decided exactly how active I want to be in kickball this year, and I know that's because I'll be living and Astoria, but I also feel as though it's because I've done a certain amount of maturing over the past six months. I don't like coming to work insanely hungover, I don't want to meet a ton of hipster guys to hook up with or date, and all the people that I do really care about from the scene I see fairly regularly anyways. It's hard, though, to resist the lights over the field, the $3.50 big buds from the Nest, and the general sense of feeling like you're a part of something that is rarely experienced by other people.

Oh, and yes, the foot tattoo is very real, indeed.

Note: Thanks to Captain Continental who brought these two links to my attention. Guess all that work I actually did between 9-5 yesterday prevented me from seeing The Commish's ridiculous letter to the Nest. Granted, I have no understanding of the politics behind kickball running smoothly, but this just seems outrageous. Unless, of course, it manages to bring the grill back to the field.

Magic in a box: Vita Coco

For the first time in a long, long while, I got really just way too drunk on a school night. After cooking a really nice meal for my friends Joe and Tiffany, two bottles of wine turned into finishing off a bottle of vodka and then doing a shot of Jager. Sure, it was fun at the time, but this morning was the absolute pits. All I did was complain to Caroline about how much I hate myself for poisoning my body to that degree and vowing that I'll never do it again. The first few hours of work (once I finally rolled in over an hour late, oops) were pretty miserable, too, but then my ever helpful and totally lovely friend, (Tall) Steph, enlightened me to the cure for all of my pain and suffering: coconut water. Apparently, her boss swears by it as far as hangover cures are concerned, and our friend, Jodie, also praised its healing effects. Plus, Bear Grylls says that if you're stranded in a desert and are dehydrated, one little sip of coconut water will revitalize you and save your life. Sold. Immediately, I rushed over to Food Emporium and bought two boxes. And what do you know! But, just so everyone is aware, coconut water is not the most delicious of beverages. It sort of tastes like salty chalk and, given my state of being, I felt as though it might have the complete opposite (and entirely unwelcome) effect that it was meant to have. But, at last, I'm feeling good enough to joke around and actually get some good, solid work done. More importantly, I'm now (finally) feeling totally up for trivia night at the Baggot Inn and I'm certain that this means a win is in the cards for Lameburger and the Weaksauces tonight. Granted, this euphoric feeling of recovery might be because the hangover has simply run its course, but I fully intend to drink this stuff straight away the next time I wake up feeling like I actually want to die and will hope that it works its magic more fully and immediately then.

Adventures in Cooking

My roommate and I are preparing to move apartments next weekend and, as a result, I've sort of been on a cooking kick, trying to use up things in our pantry (flour, sugar, etc.), as well as goods that will spoil if we attempt to relocate them (buttermilk, eggs, etc.). Generally, I'm usually pretty happy with the things that I make and, because I really enjoy doing things for other people, I like to cook for/in front of friends and guests. Lately, though, things have just been turning out all wrong and I think that I've finally figured out why.

This past Sunday, I had my friends Lindsay and Katelyn over for brunch and, after having watched my friend Angela make some delicious and flaky buttermilk biscuits the week before, wanted nothing more than to make some Lee Bros. biscuits, some breakfast potatoes and some poached eggs. The biscuits were a pretty big disappointment, at least for me. They didn't really rise as much as I would've liked and, even after being kept warm in a bowl and dish towel, got sort of hard after a short period of time. Then, last night, I decided to make some cranberry almond muffins using this recipe which I was a little skeptical of since there were no comments to affirm the tastiness of the finished product. My skepticism was confirmed as I was mixing up the dough and it turned into just that: a biscuit-like dough. When I've made muffins in the past, the mix has been a little thick, but not so thick that it seemed bread-y. As a result the muffins were especially dense and full, not light and airy like I'd prefer. This, I think was partly the fault of the recipe (too many dry ingredients), but I think that it's also the fault of the butter I've been using.

See, last Sunday when I was making the biscuits, I realized that I was short on butter and so I ran to the bodega across the street -- the one that smells like a horrible mix between cat urine and cleaning solutions -- to pick some up. I should have known that anything with the name "Hotel Butter" would end up making everything I cook slightly off and the flavor not quite up to the Radiocain standard. Plus, I only realized last night that it's salted butter, not unsalted, and I think this has just made everything horribly disappointing. The way it melted last night was a little bit weird and clumpy. I don't think that it was spoiled and I don't think that eating any of the baked goods I made with it will have any sort of adverse affect on my stomach, but I think that it just wasn't properly stored/maintained and had been sitting around for a really long time and wasn't fresh. Maybe I'm wrong about this and my cooking has just started to fall short, but I certainly hope not.

Still, a very important lesson has been learned: it's never okay to buy butter from the bodega you don't even feel comfortable buying paper products at, and you should never skimp on the ingredients you cook with, since it will certainly affect flavor and texture.

You are so homeless and so lame

Coming off of yesterday's musings on deal breakers, I have to assume the the statement I'm about to make could, in fact, be a potential deal breaker for current and future relationships: I'm Stephanie and I love, love, love bad reality television. Like, can't get enough of it. There, I've said it. Now, I feel justified in writing the following...

The Hills is, bar none, one of my most indulgent and favorite MTV reality shows. It's a spin-off from Laguna Beach, which I first became obsessed with while home on some sort of collegiate break and completely bored out of my head with both my family and all the social happenings in HHI. The lives of the spoiled, completely unaware teenagers was an interesting escape and afforded me the opportunity to be entirely amused by a group of complete strangers. Now, The Hills is back for its third season and, after just two week's worth of Lauren/Brody drama and Heidi/Spencer immaturity and pure ridiculousness, I feel as though I'm all caught up on the lives of my favorite LA Scenesters and cannot wait to see what inanity will unfold in the coming episodes. Sure, it's most certainly scripted, most of the drama is not real, and the people on the show come across as completely vapid and (mostly) insincere, but it never ever fails to be entertaining and even, sometimes, a little bit inspiring. Even the New York Times agrees.

Note: Deal breaker, indeed! Huffington Post columnist Ben Heller says that the fact that his wife watches The Hills makes him love her a little bit less.