NYC Rant

According to The Brooklyn Eagle -- my fave local paper -- there just aren't any supermarkets around here! Unless you count the giant CostCo ....

"Worrisome indicators about the state of the borough’s health highlight serious systemic shortcomings. Conference literature sites a “Supermarket Need Index” created by the Department of City Planning, which determined that three million New Yorkers live in neighborhoods with a high need for grocery stores. In Brooklyn, those neighborhoods are Bushwick, Bed-Stuy, East New York and Sunset Park."

But I'd like to say, in our defense, that you can get NYC's best banh mi sandwich here. Suck on that, East New York!

Anyway, it's kind of true. Unfortunate, and true.

If I want decent fruit -- not good, but decent, mind you -- I have to walk to Rossman Farms at 25th and 4th. For the best meat, I go to Eagle Provisions on 17th Street (though I suppose if I want really fresh meat I could go to that live poultry place down by the strip clubs under the highway). Sometimes it would be nice not to have to walk 40 blocks for food, you know?

I could go to Hong Kong Supermarket or any one of the little mini-markets in Chinatown, but that's still at least a ten-to-fifteen block walk (and two avenues). And buying certain items in Chinatown -- like fish, for example -- can be daunting, because you can only point to what you want, and certain matters of etiquette are vague (um, are you going to kill the fish before I take it home?). I do like getting my five-pound bag of rice for $5, but carrying it home during the twenty-minute walk sucks balls.

It sounds like I'm bitching, and I probably am, but I'm kind of over Sunset Park right now. When I first moved here in the fall of '07, certain things about it were cute. The charm has totally worn off by now, leaving me a loud, bitter person. The longer I stay in NYC's most overrated borough, the more calcified and ossified the brittle shell becomes. Everything about the city in its present state gets on my nerves. More and more these days I hear a voice in my head saying, "The city's a toilet." The voice belongs to the "when are you going to come and see the ba-bee" woman from Seinfeld reruns. The city is no longer the big Seinfeld episode of my dreams. It's just a big ole toilet.

Whenever I get these "It's time to get out of here" moments, I know I desperately need something to renew my New Yorky-type love. Like random, heart-shaped fireworks, or a CHUD sighting. Failing that, I'd settle for seeing some of my neighbors get into a horrible, face-mangling accident. Like maybe getting hit by a Mister Softee truck.

Although I did have a wonderful moment recently. I yelled at this guy on the N train last weekend: "You can't get the 1 train from here! It's at 7th Avenue and we're at Union Square! You've been a New Yorker for 57 years and you don't know that? come on man!" And it was so satisfying. Transferring to the 1! Ha! ha! I snort in derision.

Bea Arthur

Beatrice Arthur, beloved by spinsters everywhere, passed away today.

I love this quote from her, circa 2008, in which Arthur "[recalls] with bemusement CBS executives asking about the new "girl." ... '[When I did All in the Family] I was already 50 years old. I had done so much off-Broadway, on Broadway, but they said, `Who is that girl? Let's give her her own series,' Arthur said."

Our good old, 5'9", gravel-voiced, razor-witted girl. I think Dorothy Zbornak would raise her eyebrows at that!

I like to think there's a special heaven for people who made really good TV shows, and that she's up there sharing G&Ts in a tiki bar with Estelle Getty right now.

Rain!

There is a fantastic deluge happening outside right now and I'm loving every minute of it. Also: The Damn Teens who hang out in the hallway? One of them opened the door for me whilst I struggled to maintain control of my umbrella and find my keys simultaneously. Now how am I supposed to hate them?

When those Little Punks start helping out an old lady like me, and it's raining in the most gorgeous lightningy thundery way so that I keep expecting Maria to start singing My Favorite Things, AND I have Girl Scout cookies, well it's hard to stay cranky. Also, Little Dorrit on Masterpiece Theatre? It'll be the reason I get nothing done this week: I have three episodes on my DVR. However, I've got a post brewing that should be fairly lovely, and should be ready for public consumption circa Thursday (hint: it involves "Ghosts" by Cesar Aira, which I'm on page 3 of and like already). That is all. Ta!

Fan Friday: Susan Boyle!

Scottish spinster Susan Boyle! Her YouTube videos have been disabled for embedding, but here's a link that will do just as well. It's a testament to her utter adorableness that I, avid loather of all musical theatre, was a little thrilled by her performance. It's a testament to my own cynicism that I'm afraid it's all just a hoax dreamed up by the BBC ... but if she's a real person, then I love her. She's a heroine to smoldering spinsters everywhere!

Manhattan History

This week, the NYT is inviting readers to submit their questions about the history of Manhattan to Michelle and James Nevins. It's beat the geek time. Think of something good.

Dream Dialogue

Upon learning that I've been entered into an auto race:

"You want me to race that?"
"Yes."
"But I could die!"
"You have to. We've already printed the flyers."

Luckily I get out of this sticky situation. In my backpack, instead of the black jeans and leather jacket I am supposed to wear, I find a formal, floor-length floral print gown.

"I can't race in this."
"You're right. Call it off."

Qu'est-ce que c'est?

Kumar is working for the president? Kutner is dead? The world has really changed since I stopped DVR-ing "House."

Fightin' Crime (Pt. II)

This is interesting: did you know that the NYC Municipal Archives has the most comprehensive collection of court records pertaining to the administration of criminal justice in the English-speaking world? It's true. They have records and dockets going back to 1684 and indictment papers and case files for every felony arrest after 1790. If you don't think that's interesting, well, then you just don't know what's what.

PSA: Warner Archive

We've already got three of these in our household, and it will likely become an addiction.
So far, speedy shipping and decent quality transfers mean I can recommend this service to my fellow cinemaphile spinsters, and this Marion Davies movie intrigues me, since I've long been meaning to watch her comedies (my poor reaction time to various TCM airings has shut me out thus far). So get thee to the Warner Archive, now -- even if only to spend the better part of the morning procrastinating.

Fan Friday: Loretta Lynn

Just put down Loretta Lynn's autobiography, Coal Miner's Daughter, and let me tell you I only put it down because I came to the end of it. As I read, I kept yelling things out to whoever would listen, "Hey, did you know Loretta Lynn got married at 13? Did you know she had four kids by the time she was 18? Did you know she was part Native Indian? Did you know her husband's name is Doolittle? Did you know her sister's Crystal Gale? -- blah, blah, blah."

Needless to say, she's a fascinating lass, and although she often comes off as disingenuous in this book -- hey, it's an autobiography, you can write whatever the hell you want -- she's still totally sweet and hilarious. She gives props to Kitty Wells, talks about her friendship to Patsy Cline, and says she admires Dolly Parton. "Most of the women like me. They could see I was Loretta Lynn, a mother and wife and a daughter who had feelings just like other women. Sure, I wanted men to like me but the women were something special. They'd come around the bus after the show and they'd ask to talk to me. They felt I had the answer to their problems because my life was just like theirs." Of course, as much as she's got the sisterhood thing down, she's also more than ready, willing and able to punch a fellow gal in the face if you piss her off. That's my Loretta.

Another interesting fact: she was named after Loretta Young. Her mom plastered pictures of movie stars over her crib, and she liked Loretta Young and Claudette Colbert: "Lots of times I wonder if I would have made it in country music if I was named Claudette."

She started singing at 24, but she'd already been a housewife for a decade. No wonder she knows a thing or two. Interestingly enough, even though she wrote a bunch of her own songs, several of them were penned by Shel Silverstein, including "One's On The Way," which I didn't know. She wrote Fist City herself, though, and one of my personal favorites, "Don't Come Home A Drinkin' (With Lovin' On Your Mind)."

Anyway, if you get a chance, read Coal Miner's Daughter. I've been a fan for a decade and I still learned a bunch of fun new facts, so it's worth your time even if you already know a lot about her. Oh, and someone please get me her cookbook for my birthday:

Midinettes!

Learn more about William Wellman, Joan and James, and Maude Fulton -- my favorite latest discovery -- here. Although I'm thrilled to think of all those lovely William Wellman movies waiting in my DVR, it's the story of Maude Fulton that really grabbed my attention:

"Raised in the Kansas newspaper biz by her Dad, the editor of the local daily, she wrote a novel by the age of 15, “whose theme was ‘The Curse of Rum’”. She bounced from job to job, including singing pop songs at a department store, until she learned stenography and was hired by a railway office, where she likely soaked in the bravado of the train engineers that suffuses Other Men’s Women. Bored with office work, she soon lit out for the stage in NYC. She was performing in Mam’zelle Champagne on the roof of Madison Square Garden in 1906, when the millionaire Henry K. Thaw shot and killed architect Stanford White for fooling around with his young wife, Evelyn Nesbit (who was also romanced by John Barrymore). Thaw’s trial was the first to be dubbed 'The Trial of the Century.'"

I so want to be like Maude Fulton!

Afternoon Tea and Dressing For Dinner

Dear Spinsters,

This Friday I would like to talk about luxury. There are plenty of things that can make you feel luxurious regardless of how broke you are. In these troubled times (as we are so fond of saying now) it is imperative that we never let ourselves feel stretched or destitute. Though we may have very little, materially speaking, our genteel poverty must be marked by a specifically spinsterish ability to raise ourselves above mere accidents of circumstance, hold our heads high and revel in all life's beautiful feasts, though we may have them only in smallish bites.

One of these things is afternoon tea. It can be a mug of Lipton, microwaved, but it is still a ritual. Between four and four-thirty, I make it a habit to sit down and enjoy silence, peace, and nice cup of tea. I may be sitting at a wooden table I found in someone's abandoned apartment with a table cloth from Century 21 housewares, but I have a fetching white china teacup with a blue rim, and nobody knows I get my Liptons in boxes of 100 for $3.99. (For the record, I do take the time to boil my water stove-top. Ruggles would be proud.) Sometimes a literal cup of tea isn't advisable -- for the caffeine-sensitive spinster -- but it is imperative that you have a little treat to fend of world-weariness and drudgery. Preferably with something sweet. (If you are on a diet, I am afraid I am not speaking to you in this post, for we cannot ever really be friends. If you are eating Activia and portions of something labeled "100 calories," you are the female equivalent of a douchebag, sorry.) Afternoon tea is more than a mere snack: it's what separates us from the animals, and no lady should live without it.

"Those Bond No.9 samples smell good!"

Dressing for dinner ought to occur, at least on weekend (if you are employed) just after tea. It should be a long-ish ritual, not rushed, and should demarcate the mundane (day) from the delightful (night). Without it, you've just got one long day. Not only does it prepare you to look your best, but it imparts a subtle, deliciously luxurious feeling -- there's that word again -- and sets you up quite nicely for the cocktails and dinner (and further cocktails) that I hope are making up the rest of your evening. Even if your evening wear consists of an army jacket and combat boots, always take the time to properly apply your eyeliner. Life's just too short for you to walk out of the house looking plain.

Life's also too short to feel deprived and impoverished, so always take your time and have a nice cup of tea every afternoon ... and remember that you've got the exact same stuff in your cup that Betty Windsor drinks, and drinking it from a golden chalice wouldn't make it taste any better.

Sincerely
Your Beloved Aunt

Fightin' Crime

I'm off to fight crime today. With a real-life detective and everything. I hope he's exactly like Inspector Maigret!

Three more years of Chuy!

Thank god -- Chelsea Lately is on the air for another three years. Where else could we get round tables of this quality? You know, with the fat guy and the gay guy and that girl who isn't funny? God, that's quality programming. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to the Golden Girls. Dorothy, Rose and Blanche are dressed like caddies, stalking Bob Hope.

Branigans

In case you can't read that, the caption says: "Sturges the director tells Sturges the writer what he thinks of his script." Just another cute thing I found in my Preston Sturges book that I thought I'd share, because it delights me.

That's all. Carry on.

Ladies make the best scenarists

This article about Dana Fox, Diablo Cody, Liz Meriwether and Lorene Scafaria in today's NYT makes me want to assemble a dream team of screenwriter-girlfriends to hold my purses during premieres. (I wonder if Karen McCullah Lutz and Kirsten Smith would let be be on their team ... or maybe just run errands for them.) The article goes into Cody's writing process a little bit -- you know, beyond the rhyming dictionary -- and she admits to crying up to four times in a working day.

I think the average writing day for me goes a bit like this: coffee, reading, breakfast, procrastinating, elevenses, pacing around room with tape recorder and heart palpitations, lunch, a nice walk, some Actual Writing, afternoon tea, more Actual Writing, this time with talking aloud as my characters, cocktails, a light supper, a movie, any movie, just something to get me out of the house, a late dinner, and nightcap. No tears, but much cracking myself up at jokes which later prove to be unfunny. Note also the ratio of six parts eating to two parts writing.

Now I'm just sitting here thinking who I'd like on my dream team, and I can only conclude that first and foremost it would have to be Liz Lemon.

The Witches of Eastwick

Just finished The Witches of Eastwick -- I'll read anything with a witch in it -- and found is surprisingly tender. Surprising because I saw the movie first, which has that violent black magic blowout at the end. The book is much more low-key, much more about a time in three womens' lives when they have this friendship, and how that dynamic changes when a newcomer intervenes. All friendships are subject to the wax and wane of the natural course of time, and this perhaps is what invests the books with a certain sadness. Interlacing the story with good old fashioned New Englandy imagery, and adding a layer of supernatural metaphor (their casual magic is "real" in the narrative, but come on, it's a metaphor) is a clever stroke. And finishing the story with an ode to witches, water, New England, and things past is the swiftest, most uncomplicated route to my heart.

"The witches are gone, vanished; we were just an interval in their lives, and they in ours.
But ... rumors of the days when they were solid among us, gorgeous and doing evil, have flavored the name of the town in the mouths of others, and for those of us who live here have left something oblong and invisible and exciting we do not understand. We meet it turning the corner where Hemlock meets Oak; it is there when we walk the beach in off-season and the Atlantic in its blackness mirrors the dense packed gray of the clouds: a scandal, life like smoke rising twisted into legend."

Have I reviewed The Witch of Blackbird Pond yet? Perhaps I should, though I warn you I was disappointed by a recent reading. I remember liking it as a child, and then being dismayed when I read it this past Christmas to find out that it was mostly about the Connecticut Charter.

White Pages

Screenplays have gotten shorter in the past half-century or so. A modern screenplay averages 100 pages in length, and a sign of good writing now is leaving plenty of "white on the page."

It wasn't always so. In the '40s, as talking pictures began to hit their stride, screenplays were rather lengthy and wordy, or at least they would seem to be by today's standards (I don't have any screenplays from the earliest talkies, but I might update this later if I get my hands on one).

This Preston Sturges script for The Lady Eve clocks in at 200 pages. Now, it's a shooting script, so it contains scene directions and other things which wouldn't be in a spec script, or even an earlier draft. But it's still fairly representative:


The sluglines look different, but otherwise the formatting is still basically the same. The major difference one notices when reading a Sturges script is how detailed the scene descriptions are.

In Chinatown, we see something much closer to what we're used to. Again, this appears to be a shooting script, so some of the scene description is allowable in a way that it wouldn't be in a spec, but still, it's very, very detailed: In case it's too small to see, the paragraph says, "Gittes stares at her. He's been charged with anger and when Evelyn says this it explodes. He hits her full in the face. Evelyn stares back at him. The blow has forced tears from her eyes, but she makes no move, not even to defend herself."

In a contemporary script, 40-Year-Old Virgin, we have scene description in its current incarnation :
This is what is now considered an acceptable amount of prose on a page.

I'm not sure I have an opinion one way or another -- I'm a skimmer rather than a reader myself, so I actually enjoy not having to read a lot of description -- but I just find it interesting to chart the evolution. There's a fine line between overwriting and trying to get a prose style to convey your story ideas, and the line seems to be getting finer and finer, as we strive to use the fewest words possible. It kind reminds me of the old joke, "Brevity is ... wit."

I Miss Shamrock Shakes

I'm not crazy about St. Patrick's Day. Too many drunk weirdos for my taste. But I love Shamrock Shakes. When I was little, I used to get a free shake on P-Day because of my green eyes. Does anyone else remember this? Shamrock Shake giveaways for green-eyed people? Did my parents make this up to make me feel "special?" Anyhoo, apparently you can find the elusive elixir in Buffalo and Ireland but not, sadly, in New York City. I might just go to the store and get some mint chocolate chip ice cream instead, but it won't be the same.

Black Orchids?

Play Nero Wolfe and check out some rare orchids at the Brazilian Orchid Show at the New York Botanical Garden. Definitely worth the trip to the Bronx ...