Thursday, May 24, 2007


It turns out that I am mousy-looking, thin, and crass! Yeah, STEAK DINNER! You're going to be inside me!

Is it tacky to link to one's own previous blog entry while at the same time tooting one's own horn? I don't know the answer because I am a meathead.

Speaking of meat! It will be a Strip Steak, cooked medium rare. I'd love to dig into a Luger's Porterhouse, but this good news doesn't quite make that cut. Side of creamed spinach, french fries well-done. Trying to drink less so maybe a Dr. Brown's Black Cherry to wash it down. Oh boy!

Monday, May 21, 2007


I'm thinking of her song today because of a phone call and the The Times' Sunday Magazine. This post has so much backstory I don't know where to begin!

There was an article about The City Bakery. I read it. And I remembered intermittently working there, years ago, as a cater-waiter. I worked come pretty glamorous parties, and I remember enjoying the atmosphere, but cater-waitering was very hard work, both physically and emotionally. I carried a lot of heavy shit up and down stairs, succeeded and failed at holding trays of long-stem glassware, sweat and slipped in the kitchen retrieving set-up materials, mugs and saucers, replacement ramekins, and also served celebrities, the wealthy, and New York City's cultural elite mini-brioche Coach Farm cheddar burgers, cauliflower pakoras with cilantro cumin dipping sauce, and at least three dozen more varieties of outrageously delicious finger foods, my voice a lilting loop of "grilled shrimp with yogurt-lime cream?" or "Niman-Ranch bacon BLT on biscuits?" Back then, I answered questions with a question ("What is that?" "It is this?"), and I desperately wanted to be enjoying the parties instead of working them, although working them did have its advantages: I saw Salma Hayek devour some lambchops in a drop-dead-sexy way while her boyfriend at the time, Ed Norton, scowled and refused all food. Total sign that they were Not Meant To Be! I also witnessed, completely astonished, one of Jennifer Lopez's "handlers" feed her chicken with his bare hands because I guess she didn't want to touch her own food with her own bare hands. Total sign that she is Bonkers!

In any case, those two years that I worked intermittently as a cater-waiter made me more ambitious than I'm comfortable admitting. Being on the working side of the passed hors d'oeuvres tray was a great motivator in my never wanting to be on the working side of the passed hors d'oeuvres tray ever again. And I have been lucky enough, since, to enjoy the other side. And it feels good, because I remember when it felt bad. Sides: there are two. And you need Both.

And here is where I relate it to love, because That Is What I Do. Sigh.

Today I got a phone call from someone extremely close to me, and its purpose was to tell me that the caller had broken up with his girlfriend of six years, a woman who I have come to feel extremely close to. He is broken-hearted, of course. He is beyond broken-hearted. Ah, it breaks MY heart! And I have never been in a relationship six-years-long, and I have never been in a relationship where I was certain, beyond any doubt, that the person was my future, would be my companion for the rest of my life. But I have been in love and know the joy it brings. And I have been loved and not loved back equally, and I know how painful that is. And I have been in love and had it not returned and that is The Fucking Worst. Hoo boy it stinks so bad, does evolution require it if not then why does unrequited love exist do we need this broken-hearted feeling for species survival can we get NASA on that stat?

But we all get a turn. For six years I watched today's broken-hearted man live on the side of love that made him feel amazing. Then, poof! he's on the other side.

I like to think we all have it coming; the good side, the bad side, and then, hopefully, the good side again. I remember holding a tray and offering hors d'oeuvres. I answered questions with questions and went home alone and exhausted. I have also put on a pretty dress and gone to the party, and I tasted the food that was offered to me. With my own hands, thank you very much.

I guess the point of this whole thing is that sometimes we're hungry and sometimes we're fed. Maybe I know nothing, or I'm just a sad romantic (it's possible that the two aren't mutually exclusive), but I think it's this: as long as nobody starves and nobody chokes, we're all going to be okay.