dogs & cougars.

on nbc, in two falls!

quel dommage.

Speaking of sondheim, another birdie of genius, this time of simplicity - the man can do it all - is the title song from anyone can whistle, called a farmer's pelvis. jk, it's called anyone can whistle.

i mention it b/c one night a few years ago, i was at a restaurant with a few friends, and we actually saw sondheim sitting at another table. now, ordinarily, esp. considering whom it was, i would have been the (resident) st*r-fucker obliged to go over and meet him. hell, id usually be the only one of my piers to even recognize him. but sasha g, every bit the sondheim fan i am, plus a talented, budding composer in her own right, was there too, so she had de facto dibs. (not for nuthin, btw, but de facto dibs would be a good name for a band or album.)

anyway, sasha approached sondheim's table (he was dining with another man), and before she could even get the words (paraphrasing) - 'im a huge fan of yours and an aspiring composer mysel' - he shooed her away from his table. he actually shooed! he waved her off with a hand. it was heartbreaking for me, which means it was prolly devastating for sash. though she is a bit more thick-skinned than i. who knows.

the point is, the next day, i wrote her a friendster testimonial to frame the experience. it's to the tune of anyone can whistle, so you should listen to it (track 6 here), before reading the following:

anyone can bristle
that's what you've learned
this time
every burger's gristle
at the end of his turn
sondheim
it's all so sorry
he shoulda seen your stah
not waved you off, over foie gras
he used to be a titan
back in his zone
expressive!
now he's just a slightin'
the heir to his throne
repressive!
what's hard
is that genius
can still just be a schmuck
i wish that he'd remembered
just starting out
needing some luck
needing that break
but now he's just the gristle
the left..over...steak

quote vingt: wordplay.

this post is dedicated to semantic sally.

as many of you know, i think stephen sondheim is an absolute genius, on par with the likes of shakespeare, donne, newton, dylan, picasso, woody and jordan.

in fact, if they're par, sometimes sondheim might even manage a birdie. ok, that's prolly not true, but i like the idea of it.

anyway, if he were to birdie, this would be one such time. it's a song from a show called anyone can whistle.

come play wiz me is a duet: a nurse pretending to be french, flirting with a doctor. the melody is catchy enough by itself, yet the lyrics are a batch of cold-bloodedly clever puns and plays on words. they stand on their own in writing, but if you want the complete experience, which i recommend, go here and listen to track 5. after you download the player (it's surprisingly, easy, quick, and hassle-free; else, i wouldnt endorse it), you get 25 free listens to anything. no money down!

anyway deux, this song always puts me in a jovial mood:

FAY:
Docteur, Docteur, vous êtes charmant,

HAPGOOD:
Mademoiselle, vous aussi.

FAY:
You like my hair, yes? My lips, yes?
Ze sway of my-How you say? - Of my hips, yes?
You wish to play wiz me?
Okay wiz me,
Come out and play wiz me.

HAPGOOD:
Mademoiselle, vous êtes jolie.

FAY:
Docteur, Docteur, si gentil.
You like my style, yes ? My brand, yes ?
Ze lay of my-How you say?-Of my land, yes ?
You want to play wiz me?
To stray wiz me,
Come out and play wiz me.

HAPGOOD:
Mademoiselle, vous êtes timide.

FAY :
Docteur, Docteur, you're so right.
I like your-How you say?-
Imperturbable perspicacity.
It isn't how you say, it's what you see!
We have ze lark, yes? Ze fling, yes?
Ze play is ze-How you say? -Is the thing, yes?
If you will play wiz me,
Mon cheri,
Though we may not agree
Today,
In time-
Mais oui! -
We may.

HAPGOOD:
I like your hair-

FAY:
Yes?

HAPGOOD:
Your lips-

FAY:
Yes?

HAPGOOD:
Ze sway of your-How you say? - Of your hips, yes?

FAY:
Yes?

HAPGOOD:
Come up and play wiz me.

FAY:
Come out and play wiz me.

BOTH:
Come on and play wiz me.

FAY:
Docteur, Docteur, let's play, Docteur...

HAPGOOD:
Mademoiselle, you're not well!
But I like your style-

FAY:
Yes?

HAPGOOD:
Your brand-

FAY:
Yes?

HAPGOOD:
Ze lay of your-qu'est-ce que c'est?-Of your land-

FAY:
Yes?

HAPGOOD:
I like your-How you say?-
Unmistakable authenticity!
It isn't how you say, it's what I see!

BOTH:
We have ze lark, yes? Ze fling, yes?
Ze play is ze-How you say?-Is the thing, yes?
If you will play wiz me,
Mon cheri,
Though we may not agree
Today,
In time-
Mais oui! -

HAPGOOD:
We may.

FAY:
Maybe-

HAPGOOD:
Bébé-

FAY:
Mais oui! -

BOTH:
We may!

quote 19.

Have a good weekend, and dont get busted.

-mr. krinsky, my 9th grade global studies teacher

ceci n'est pas une post.

say it aint so, but it is, sadly, i know.

Some people have asked me whether or not i was gonna comment on the dog fighting controversy surrounding mike vick, whom i interviewed in may - esp. seeing as how that was something i was quite proud of at the time.

(in case you dont know, in addition to charges that vick was a major operator in a dog fighting ring, the feds have also indicted him on charges of 'violence against dogs which did not perform well including executions by electrocution, hanging, and shooting.' (from wikipedia)

id like to come up with a way to somehow defend vick, as some have done, by saying things like he grew up with this as part of his culture, and how can you expect him to jettison something that was ingrained in him, just because he's a professional athlete. and truth be told, when i just went over his wikipedia biography, and was reminded that he was born to a mother who was 16 and a father who was 17, that did give me pause. i did think for second, 'this man OBVIOUSLY grew up disadvantaged enough that im in no position to judge him, a la my plinkosophy.'

but no, i cant not do it. if anything, having met and talked to him, im in a unique position to say that yes, he seemed fairly thoughtful, and no, he certainly did not seem world-beaten enough to not know any better. i mean, the charges against him are downright horrific.

this is not giving a woman a std, giving fans the finger, or smuggling pot through an airport, all of which he's been alleged to have done - or in the case of the finger, has def. done - in the past.

i can see gray areas in all of those incidents.

but the prevailing wisdom is that if the feds indict you on something, they have you cold, and conventional wisdom says that without knowing the specifics, vick is obviously guilty of some kind of grotesque animal cruelty.

(yes, this is a country of 'innocent until proven guilty,' but in this case, with the apparent preponderance of evidence against him, that mantra doesnt seem like a reason to suspend judgment against vick.)

so yeah, i have to say, sadly - cuz he's a mozart, athletically - mike vick now disgusts me. not only do i hope he never plays another down in the nfl again, but i think i hope he goes to prison.

what a shame.

no sh*t, stylie minogue.

Some - some, mind you, not all - nyc subway turnstyles still warn you that they dont accept tokens for passage through their steel tentacles.

now, considering that a) the julia turnstiles dont even have slots for tokens anymore, b) tokens havent even been sold since 2003 and c) the last tokens that were sold were only worth $1.50 - 50¢ short of the current fare - whom exactly are they warning?

are they worried that some dude's gonna wake up from a five-year coma, jump upright in bed, and wail, 'i cant wait to use all those tokens i saved up!'

the lcd screen might as well read no coins, poker chips, oreos, cheetos, or waffle fries.

and i really dont know why i went junk food-centric with those last three.

the brady interview.

I adopted brady from the aspca around february, '02. the people there estimated that she was between one and two years of age, making her roughly six or seven now (i could have had her age 'tested,' but it was like an extra $200; who needs that?). some five years, four apartments, one agonizing three-day disappearance and countless hairballs later, i dont really feel like she's my pet. it's more like she's my roommate. she speaks and acts bizarre a lot, she hangs out with people in the living room, she constantly makes me open and shut my door, she usually sleeps at my feet, she...she's just brady. she's family. maybe this does make her sound exactly like a pet, but i guess i always assumed that most people look at their pets as these cute - but lesser - beings of servitude. perhaps i was being presumptuous. who knows. the point is, i look at brady as my equal, and i recently sat down to talk with her as one.


blue basilica: first of all, what does ‘meow’ mean?
brady: (she stands on her hind legs and makes mocking quote marks with her front paws) first of all, it’s not ‘meow.’ it’s ‘raeow.’ so typical of you humans. you just decide how you want to pronounce something, regardless of how the natives say it. like, you say ‘brooshetta,’ but in italian, it’s ‘broosketta.’
bb: you’ve never eaten anything but cat food, right? just so we’re clear.
b: this is true. of course, you’ve never offered me anything else.
bb: every time i’m eating something, you come over and make a big deal about sniffing it, but you don’t attempt to eat it. ever.
b: next question.
bb: so what does ‘raeow’ mean?
b: look, i have a weak stomach, okay?
bb: you wanted to move on.
b: you’re right.
bb: for the third time, what does ‘raeow’ mean?
b: like ‘shalom,’ or ‘om,’ it means many things. really, it depends on the inflection. the most common translations would be ‘im hungry' or 'how are you?' but it can also mean 'what’s the spread in the game tonight?' and 'every breath you take makes my stomach turn.'
bb: oh c’mon. why would you say that?
b: nothing against you. it’s just that my ancestors are the kings of the jungle and whatnot. sometimes servitude to humans can be sickening.
bb: how do you serve me?
b: your role as a pet owner endears you to human females.
bb: some of them prefer dogs, you know.
b: yeah, but you don’t respect that. dogs don’t belong in the city.
bb: so you admit you are comfortable in an apartment? you dont need to be outside at all?
b: nah, all things considered, your apartments have not been too bad. though there are always lots of bails of cat hair around. i could do without that.
bb: you're joking, right?
b: yeeaaah, joking.
bb: i really hope you were joking.
b: next question.
bb: what music do you like?
b: well, of course anything by cat stevens. although ironically, i prefer harry chapin’s version of cats in the cradle.
bb: that’s not exactly ironic. people often misuse that word. cats too, i guess.
b: raeow. that meant shut it. anyway, my favorite song is ministry’s cover of lay lady lay.
bb: ewww-ee! i feel like you just did your thing in your litter box, with that answer.
b: im a big metal fan. something you dont know about me. from before you knew me.
bb: ive always wondered about those formative years. what happened?
b: you know, i dont like to talk about it too much, even though it's a fairly typical story. i was born in an alley, as part of a litter of four. born in actual litter, actually. so that wasnt so nice. mom died during childbirth. three older brothers, they sold me for some old fishing line. of course i cant much blame them for that - that stuff's mad fun to tangle with, and it smells like fish! anyway, i was on the streets, alone. fell in with a bad crowd. became addicted to cheap catnib.
bb: you mean catnip?
b: no, catnib. that's catnip cut with harmful fillers, like twigs, orange peel, methamphetamine. that stuff made me jumpy.
bb: that actually explains a lot.
b: you actually explain a lot.
bb: well, i can. that's true.
b: okay, now it's out there. now you know.
bb: hey - in light of your jumpiness, what’s with all the perching on precarious surfaces? you seem to like lamping it on the thinnest planes in the living room. For instance, sometimes you’ll spread out on the couch. but more often, you seem to prefer the thin top of the armchair (pictured).


b: oh, that’s easy. you see, cats are like the ancient greeks. we believe in the perfect balance of mind and body for optimal health of both. so when im sitting in a place that you think is risky, it’s usually perfectly comfortable for me. and i know that if my body is maintaining a strict balance, my mind won’t stay far behind.
bb: what do you have to worry about?
b: you know, just because i sit in your apartment all day doesn’t mean i dont have a social conscience. i worry about things like healthcare, fossil fuel emissions.
bb: really?
b: as if! you crack me up, (bean).
bb: you know, you got a lotta lip on you! i didnt realize you were so sarcastic.
b: look who im living with here. and might i add, im sarcatsic.
bb: i like, i like. gimme that chin! (she rubs her chin and jaw into my scratching fingers, as is her wont.)
b: oh, yeah, that's the stuff.
bb: occasionally, youll hiss at someone. though never me. why do you do this?
b: im just keepin' it real.
bb: what the hell does that mean?
b: i have no idea.

quote 18.

Really, you have to see the scene for the quote to assume its full hilarity, but it's still good enough to post. from fargo:

Marge: And what about the other fella?
Hooker #2: He was a little older. Looked like the Marlboro man.
Marge: Yah?
Hooker #2: Yah. Maybe I'm sayin' that cause he smoked Marlboros.
Marge: Uh-huh.
Hooker #2: A subconscious-type thing.
Marge: Yah, that can happen.
Hooker #2: Yah.

gmail dyslaughsia.

Bean (x.xx@gmail.com)
To: Palm L.O. Hedcatt (y.yy@gmail.com)
Fri, Jul 20, 2007 at 2:25 PM

gimme a cool after dinner?

Palm L.O. Hedcatt (y.yy@gmail.com)
To: Bean (x.xx@gmail.com)
Fri, Jul 20, 2007 at 2:27 PM

I'll give you a cool right now...you are as cool as they get.

~

id say i made a freudian slip, yet it still wouldnt make much sense. but that response there - that's what friends are for.

i spy - vol. 6: toto. (or, yet another reason i believe in god.)

Some people might find this post morbid, and maybe it inherently is, but that's not the crux of it. so please bear with me after looking at the following photos.

gertrude (gerry) brin, 1946 (32 years old)

gerry brin, 2007 (deceased 2002; the ashes are kept in a vase in my grandfather's living room)

how can one possibly wrap one's mind around the fact that these two shots are of, essentially, the same physical specimen? (dont get technical on me about the differences jaime - you know what i mean.) in betweeen these two photos, my grandmother charmed countless men at cocktail parties, gave birth to and raised my dad, created window displays at saks fifth avenue, coordinated fashion shows at lord & taylor (where she was once joan rivers's boss, i might add), and was a loving, devoted wife to my grandfather for over 50 years.

when i was little, and baseball cards were all the rage, toto would run to all corners of the city looking for rarities that i wanted. she taught me how to play tennis - first against against a wall in st. vartan park, then with my grandfather, in central park (where shed bring the best ham and swiss sandwiches for us to eat afterwards). the woman had a true one-handed backhand, and when i say one-handed backhanded, i mean she didnt grab the racket with her left hand on her upswing - as most people do - at all.

when i stayed over at my grandparents' place, she always insisted on cleaning my feet; shed drag me to the tub, where shed scrub my toes with a little brush that tickled like hell. then shed tuck me into bed, and tell me stories about ice skating on a frozen lake champlain as a girl.

she was always the most elegant woman wherever she went. and not because she dressed fancily; she just dressed well. she was most fond of wearing beige, and my dad actually nicknamed her 'beige.'

she had my grandfather dye her hair blonde until the end. and even past 80, she didnt look at all odd with blonde hair. that's the kind of simple elegance she possessed.

she put a single red dot of nail polish on most of her smaller personal belongings - her keys, her change purse, her tennis racket case - to identify them as hers. when i first saw her ashes, five years ago, i joked that if we poured them out, wed find a little red dot in the pile.

so my question is - how is it possible that this wonderful woman could live this life, so full of love and style and the other intangibles that make life, and now sit inanimate in a vase on the floor?

what is it that imbued the molecules that are now ashes with the flesh and spirit that was toto?

i dont think we can ever know. at once, it seems like the only question we should be asking, and yet we must immediately resign ourselves to the fact that we'll never have an answer.

and that's ok. we should just be grateful that it happens.

some unknowable magic happens. and i call that magic god. i dont know if god is a male, or has a white beard (id guess not). i dont know - pardon the expression - what the hell god is. but god flowed through toto for 89 years, and has been flowing through me for 28, and hopefully will continue to flow through moi for a good deal longer.

that's my god. and im sticking to it.

ps - i like how toto and i have the same eyebrow move goin on in these two photos; we were truly kindred:

thanks to steak& for photoshopping this for me

never try to shorten your woven belt yourself.

This is actually just a reminder for myself.

i spy - vol. 5: the cutesy pics.

Im not trying to make this blog all maudlin and junk, but i have to admit, im a sucker for little kids and cats. and it's so easy just posting pics!

ethan deluca, ijd's nephew. pretty darn cute:

some cat in some deli. id like to think this feline was in charge of guarding the poland spring bottles - that he wasnt just sittin' there. i mean, he does look like he's taking whatever it is he's doing pretty seriously.

quote 17.

It's a one time thing. it just happens a lot.

-suzanne vega, cracking

edizioni.

This is the blog of a woman ive been dealing with for bene.

a native of rome now living in new england, she makes stationery and books and such, all by hand. her business website is here.

i feel like a bit of a charlatan (a charlatanette?) doing a design post, but after writing a blurb about her new line of invitations, i found that i was in my boxers. her work had honestly charmed the pants off me. and she just let me know about her blog - not even knowing i blog - and i know a portion of my minute readership is into design...so whoomp here i am, giving her the 'ol blue basilica shout-out.

some of angela's work is a collaborative effort with a woman living in rome, with whom she grew up in the same apartment building! i have no idea if that sentence makes grammatical sense, but i had a tough enough time articulating it for the mag - im not gonna spend all day with that again! anyway, pretty cool; you grow up next to someone, then years later you're designing stuff with her despite the ocean between you.

very interesting how people are in large part products of their era. these two women grew up just in time - the internets being a crucial component of their collaboration. they could never have imagined doing this work while talking to each other on their cups and strings back in the day.

and i have thusly turned this into a mundane philosophy post as well. that's more like it.

it's tripe. but it's MY tripe.

if youre really really bored...
(click on images for them to show up in new windows! [im still proud of myself for figuring out how to do this])

quote 16 - words of wisdom,to be sure.

I dont enjoy getting wasted as often as i used to. i feel that i need to have my ducks in a row to enjoy it [getting wasted]. and the older i get, the more ducks i have.

-d. david rutimann

true, true.

dad again.

i spy - vol. 4 & quote 15 (quote of the year).

dispenser located at end of jetway, just before entrance to plane to las vegas


FEMALE PASSENGER
is that a candy machine?

MALE PASSENGER (UNRELATED)
no, they're ear plugs. if you want, you could try chewing on one.

i spy - vol. 3: reading the weekend signs.

every once in a while in my neighborhood, this truck - 'the original mike's sharpening service' - appears. it comprises two guys who drive to knife-using businesses and offer their services; there are all sorts of sharpening machines and tools in the truck (actually, they take up virtually the entire cabin). i've always loved this truck, because it makes me feel like im living in a village from a forgotten era. you know, a town where people didnt have amorphous jobs; everyone was a craftsman or artisan of some kind, and you just walked around buying vegetables from the vegetable guy, and tapestries from carole king, and then you had the blacksmith fix your horse's shoes. at least, that's what it seems like from the movies.

now who's the one on camera, sign?

have a nice day, brought to you by the 11th hole.