city mouse

Friday Mousetrap

You're not working, are you?

Rats! "They sit there and look at you; they are not afraid" (Via)

Giant bunny! "The first time I saw it I thought to myself 'What the hell is that?'"

Gregarious roaches! "After much "consultation", through antenna probing, touching and more, the cockroaches divided themselves up perfectly."

Coyotes, oh my! Goodbye, beautiful Hal ... hello, LURID POST HEADLINE ...

UPDATE: The Smoking Gun has the final word on poor Hal. You may resume donations to your animal protection society of choice. (Via)

Speaking of libraries ...

... everyone's favorite magazine of limited usefulness, Time Out, this week profiled a Barnard College librarian, Jenna Freedman, responsible for amassing a sizeable zine collection -- 1,500 of them on the shelves, all of which are "written by females (or individuals who identify as such), with subjects ranging from political activism to punk rock." (I guess this means no Tourist Trap archives, alas).

The library has a slick Web site, including an extensive discussion on the blogs-vs.-zines question. (The title "Zines are Not Blogs" sorta gives away its stance). Says Freedman:

Definitions of the word “zine” vary tremendously, but they do tend to have these common characteristics:

1. Self-published and the publisher doesn’t answer to anyone
2. Small, self-distributed print run
3. Motivated by desire to express oneself rather than to make money
4. Outside the mainstream
5. Low budget

    

There is something deliciously tangible about a zine. If only one could transfer that fresh-from-Kinko's smell to the Internet. Also, it's much harder to draw online, illustration being one thing I always treasured about my friend Diana's zine in the 1990s (about which I actually wrote an ambitious Hebdige-ean analysis for a college seminar on "The Gothic Aesthetic" -- ah, those were the days). But I never can get too far into these ontological discussions about what "blogs" are, as opposed to "the MSM," as opposed to "zines," as opposed to "those great, long, lovingly crafted letters my friends and I used to swap until I got lazy and dropped the ball" (Country Mouse, I still owe you one).

Anyway, mostly I was just happy to see that these things are being archived.

Welcome

... to my little Internest. I'm still playing around with this and totally new to blog production, so tips, feedback and criticism are always appreciated.

thanks for visiting!

City Mouse

Every Day is Like Sunday

I liked these pictures from Greenpoint. That little bit of pole graffitti is funny because it's true! Or not. Actually, Greenpoint isn't so easy to define. I love it not only because my favorite person lives there, but because it pulls off the "third World Shit 'hole" [sic] vibe right alongside this great, baroque Old World thing, right alongside this hipster/stroller invasion thing, the whole package flavored by an absolute indifference to what outsiders may think. (And battling a corporate indifference to environmental cleanup, too, but that's another post). Also, kielbasy!

You either like the industrial-desolate beauty thing, or not, I guess. There's a picturesque area right at the northernmost tip, where Franklin Street ends, and a panoramic view of grey Manhattan arises, between stacks of giant container boxes, trucks, and sundry industrial detritus. I took these on a drizzly Sunday a few weekends ago. (They should get bigger if you click on them).

a  great building at the end  of Franklin -- those lovely, vulnerable glass bricks obviously make great target practice for someone ...

such a nice ampersand ...

is this the northernmost playground in Brooklyn? My Brooklyn geography is lacking.

anyway, if those swings faced the other direction, they'd enjoy this view:

I know, it's very "Photo 101," as K likes to observe when I attempt to get all arty with the Olympus. But I am fascinated by Box Street, near my new favorite cafe, which takes its name from this and the adjacent street.

 

Checking out

My New York public library visits tend to come in two flavors: thrilling and successful, or depressing and creepy. During the former, I show up armed with a list, pluck everything on the list easily from the shelves, and stumble across a few gems I'd forgotten I wanted to read, or never even heard of. The high I get from these visits is not unlike the one that accompanies a great shopping trip at a discount retailer (my sister, observing me in one such frenzy at the Seattle Nordstrom Rack, said my "shopping face" can be a bit unnerving -- OK, "scary" was her word).

I remember this acquisition-high from going to the library as a child -- I never got over the thrill of realizing that all this stuff you want is yours for the taking. Sure, you have to give it back eventually, but at the rate I plowed through books as a lonely kid, the book's purpose was served and spent after the last page was turned, and I was eager to send it back for a fresh batch. Anyway, the NYPL, while fraught with disappointments such as the cruel Sunday/Monday closings and some really down-at-heel facilities, often can be relied on to produce a pretty satisfying haul.

Then there are those sadder visits, such as the one I had today, on a quick lunchtime jaunt to the little downtown branch nearest my office. The "New Amsterdam" name has a certain charm to it, and while the branch is in sore need of an upgrade, I've smelled worse in the Manhattan system. On my way up Murray Street, clutching my list optimistically in my pocket, I passed a short man who gave me a cheery "hello." I replied with the cordial-yet-noncommittal nod and slight quickening of pace required in these situations.

Once inside, my mood was dampened by the orangeish fluorescent lights and the utter mess of some of the tables, but I soldiered on. First book on the list -- no dice. Second -- nope. Third -- this is not your day. Fourth -- give it up, will you? Having struck out entirely, I set out for the Old Reliables, those authors with a vast body of work I haven't yet plumbed the depths of, but who can usually be counted on to produce something satisfying. The Graham Greene section was bare. Approaching the TC Boyle section required maneuvering around a tall seated man who seemed occupied with nothing but producing a full-body backward stretch from his chair that would bring him into physical contact with passing female patrons. And once I passed this challenge, no Boyle to be found.

Scanning the new nonfiction section for a fresh discovery, my mood turned ever more glum -- will there be a day when I'll need to come to the library in search of that "Coping with Breast Cancer" book? How about "So You Want a Baby and He Doesn't"? And in the fiction new releases -- how is it that I'm fooled, every time, into thinking that a mammoth novel by one STEVE MARTINI is a surprise new release by actor, writer, and art collector Steve Martin? I begin to question my own critical faculties. If you're dim enough to make that kind of mistake, I think, you'll never publish a book -- and what's the point of it all anyway, it'll just end up among these lonely stacks, covered in smudged, yellowing cellophane ... look at the rows, hundreds upon hundreds of phone calls to Mom announcing that the novel's finally been published, all the proud updates to college alumni newsletters ... who are all these people?

I made my way to the alphabetized fiction aisle one last time, scanning quickly, hoping inspiration would strike. Ha Jin! I thought -- he's just what I need now, a writer I love whose work I haven't kept up with. But then the old question -- H or J? Again muttering to myself about my intellectual shortcomings (for this is a question I've been nerdy enough to look up in the past, but forgot the answer to), I struck out in the H section and approached the Js. Just then, a figure materialized to my left -- the same short man who'd greeted me on Murray Street! Standing inappropriately closely, he greeted me with another, more familiar, "hi!" I looked at the shelf directly in front of me, grabbed the first book within reach, and fled with no cordial nod.

Approaching the checkout desk, I glanced down at the hefty (or at least big for Jin -- or is it Ha?) novel in my hand: The Crazed. I'm looking forward to reading it.

UPDATE: Great, now I can add guilt to my library visits! I knew I was missing something. Via Maud

A Moment of Silence ...

...please, for that rarest of events: They (whoever "They" are) have taken something great, and made it even greater. New Yorkers, do you know how rarely this occurs in your city? On planet Earth, for that matter? I mean, amenities. The resplendent, already award-winning Bryant Park Bathrooms, to be precise, remodeled to the tune of $200,000. Per the NYT:

"Look, it's a just a restroom," said Daniel A. Biederman, executive director of the Bryant Park Restoration Corporation.

But as the grandest of the park system's 600 bathrooms, "it is an inspiration for us," Mr. Benepe said. Its renovation was completed not by his department, but rather by the nonprofit restoration corporation that operates the park for the city. "It sets the gold standard for park comfort stations."

The Baths of Caracalla it is not, but the new interior has grand 10-foot coffered ceilings, mosaic tiles, a crown molding of painted wood, illumination from brushed stainless-steel wall sconces, indirect cove lighting, a wainscoting of mosaic vines and flowers, mirrors framed in cherry wood and, yes, sinks and a baby-changing table capped with Bianco Verde marble from India.

Your baby's tender hindquarters deserve nothing but the finest Italian marble.

(on a sort of unrelated note, I can't read the word "wainscoting" without recalling my time spent as a literary editor in Countrymouseville, where once I had the privilege of reading a short-fiction submission that used the phrase "Wayne's coating" to describe an interior. Beautiful.

Cooking Right

At first I thought maybe I wanted to be a food blogger. Food blogs, unlike the musings of a mouse, serve an actual purpose in life, the "service journalism" of the Internets, I guess. But service requires work, and I have quite enough of that, thank you, so I'll let other people be useful for me.

I harbor secret fantasies of being a foodie, but never can seem to muster the energy to pull it off. And long ago, I realized that my aversion to onions and any meat that may be described as "gamey" or "offal" would hinder me in my ambition to become the next Frank Bruni. And as for deconstructing Frank Bruni, I must step aside and bow to the mastery of this gal, who is responsible for the majority of the laughing-fits-poorly-disguised-as-coughing-fits issuing from my cubicle at work.

I'm also in awe of this blog, which has the most elegant pictures and recipes I might actually want to make some day (it would help if I had an actual counter on which to perform this person's insanely organized prep work, but oh well). I plan to get to this right after I tackle this year-long pile of Cooking Lights gathering dust on my living room floor.

When I do tackle my next Cooking Light recipe, in a year or so, I guess, I'll be sure to keep these helpful tips in mind. As the writer notes, the trick to CL is to "quintuple the amount of any foodstuff that you look forward to ingesting." He continues:

I stumbled across the secret one evening while making a recipe that called for "1/8 cup cheddar cheese," a quantity as wildly improbable as "17 ounces of black pepper." "One cup" is the fundamental, atomic unit of shredded cheese -- did the editors of Cooking Light think we would not know this?

Anyway, CL's recipes are pretty good looking lately, though I never could get past the editors' preference for "fat-free mayonnaise," which ranks just below onions and just above pigeon in my list of Foods That Should Not Exist.

What's He Building in There?

Dear Across-the-Hall Neighbor, With Whom I Share a Wall that Runs the Length of My Apartment, Along With the Same Cheap, Creaky Wooden Floors:

I’ve seen you naked, front and back, and I don’t even know your name.

Among Manhattan neighborhoods, the one we live in is not particularly notable for violence, loud noises, or crazed behavior, aside from that usually associated with beery sports bars or plastic surgeons' offices. So what the hell is going on in there?

When you moved in several months ago, I figured I’d give you a few days to settle in before welcoming you to our quiet, unassuming building on a quiet, unassuming east side street. Certainly, I was familiar with neighbor noise before your arrival – the previous tenants of 2D included a woman with a loud, high-pitched sneeze (which I thought was rather affected), and the couple had their usual share of tiffs and visitors, but nothing out of the ordinary. Between the two of us, I figured that I, a single woman, was the louder one, and I listened for their departure before enjoying certain music at a normal volume, or even allowing my guests to debate controversial subjects in a raised tone. I didn’t realize how lucky I’d been to have them until they were gone.

But before I got the chance to haul out the welcome wagon for you, something happened to sour our relationship. One night, late for a weekday, loud thumps and violent booms shook the walls and floors. It went on and on. An annoyed, escalating exchange involving a man and a woman could be heard. What sounded like giant pieces of furniture slammed our adjoining wall. I cringed as a high-maintenance out-of-town friend I was hosting wondered indignantly what was up. “Oh, they’re just getting settled in,” I stammered, easing her mind not one bit. I figured now wouldn’t be the best time for a neighborly visit, and I went to bed, tossing and turning, but relieved, at least, that my high-maintenance guest insists on wearing earplugs to bed.

Oh, 2D, it’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday, and your slamming door has made me jump again. What the hell? Of course, that late-night furniture party was just an introduction. You may not be aware that our most memorable meeting occurred a couple weeks later, when again I was hosting guests for dinner. By then I’d grown accustomed to the BOOM-stomp-BOOM that seems to be the hallmark of your crossing a room. I knew to expect raised voices (but always tantalizingly muted, so I never could get the gist of the argument). But when I heard your front door fling open, I couldn’t resist – I had to peek out the peephole in my door, to put a face to the stomp, at any rate.

What I saw was not pretty: You, the male occupant of 2D, a short, hairy, balding man with skin the color of overused Silly Putty, naked, legs spread to prop open the door, flinging something (I couldn’t process exactly what) heavy, piece by piece, into the common hallway. I had no words to describe this vision, and by the time I’d broken my crazy-old-lady-peeping stance to wave my guests over, you’d slammed the door and were gone.

So, okay, I take all the blame for what happened next – hearing the door fling open yet again, I instinctively rushed to the peephole and assumed the crazy-old-lady stance, only to be rewarded by a full rear view as you gathered your unidentified objects from the hall and threw them back inside. I was almost too embarrassed to tell my guests what I’d seen – I should’ve known better than to go for that second peep.

But still, 2D, the image haunted me, and not in a pleasant way. I met your girlfriend in the hall a few weeks later. She seemed cheery and pleasant, if a bit dim. She was mainly concerned with learning about the building’s roof access (there is none) and backyard access (ditto, pretty apparent if you look out your back window at the fenced private patios below). Her level of familiarity with the building seemed rather sketchy, considering the fact that I know you purchased your unit for a ridiculous sum (let me know if you figure out where that $800 monthly maintenance you’re paying is going to, or if it will ever be extended to roach disposal in the laundry room). But the odd smirk she gave when she referred to you as “my … boyfriend” led me to believe all was not rosy between you, and frankly, having seen what she’s up against, I felt a bit sorry for her.

The most amusing part of our conversation was when she started yammering about how noisy the building is. “Have you noticed this omigod!” is how she put it, I believe. Indeed, poor dear, I have. But I squandered the opportunity to ask her about the stomping, the slamming, the yelling, because – well, I have no good excuse. I’m horrible at confrontation and deserve to be exiled back to Country Mouse-ville for it.

Anyway, 2D, it’s late, and your travels back and forth across the length of your apartment aren’t easing up. What’s the rush? Your place is not all that big (though it should be, for what you paid, so maybe you like to pretend you’re jogging down an uncrowded beach in front of the waterfront home you could have purchased with that money in some quiet town?). The stomping, the slamming, the booming. K theorizes you may have bathroom issues that necessitate urgent trips to the facilities. But I’ve visited Mexico several times, and even I have never experienced such urgency. And then there’s the slamming and shaking of the walls, along with the odd caveman yelling outburst – on Saturday afternoon, a bout of this was actually followed up by a stereo blasting John Denver’s “Annie’s Song.” As if your naked flinging session wasn’t enough.

Oh, 2D, you fill up my senses. I hope you find the serenity your life seems to lack, or find a cure for your bathroom issues, or land that coveted role in the touring production of “Stomp.” Mostly, I hope that you happen to go away on vacation the week my mom comes to town.

Sincerely,

 
Jumpy City Mouse