America Ferrera: Countdown to Anorexia

Not that she should stop eating, but she will. I started thinking about this after reading all the hullabaloo over her recent Glamour cover on Glossed Over and Jezebel. People are making such a big deal about the fact that the cover was obviously Photoshopped; they whittled America down to a skinny lady. Not super skinny, but smaller than she is in person. Enough to notice, let's say.

Anyhow, it would be nice to think that someone other than Kate Winslet had the balls to stand up to the Hollywood standard of what skinny is, but history teaches us otherwise. America Ferrera seems like a nice, wholesome girl from a good family, but yeah, I predict anorexia/bulimia any day now. It seems too tough to be in a Hollywood environment and hear everyone say, "Oh, that's great, you're so curvy," knowing that they really mean, "Man, that sucks, you're totally huge." She's not, of course, but you know, Hollywood is warped, etc.

This all made me think of that girl Sara Rue (whose name I couldn't remember at first) and she starred on that show, Less than Perfect, which you may or may not remember. She was totally adorable on the show and then I guess after she started to lose all this weight and now I think she looks like Tracey Gold from Growing Pains back in her Karen Carpenter phase. I present as evidence:



OK, maybe not Karen Carpenter; I mean, she obviously looks pretty here and not sick, but maybe it's just the idea that she looks more like all the other H-wood gals now, like she lost her spunk or something. I forget the name of that show that Selma Blair was on when she was first starting out, but the same thing happened to her. She was probably like 125 pounds or something, and people made fun of her and called her huge, and then she got super skinny, too. Nicole Richie, of course, also -- and now it's hard to remember a time when she looked normal (even now, knocked up). I give it six months before we start seeing split-screens of America Ferrera before-and-afters in US Weekly with the headline, "Has She Gone Too Far?"

To the Very Mean People (Person?) Who Stole My Bike Seat on Sunday

Quite frankly, I didn't even know my brand-new bike seat could come off so easily. So there, I learned something new, I guess. But, c'mon! Are you serious? Stealing someone's bike seat in Williamsburg in broad daylight? What if I'd come out of the restaurant earlier and stolen a peak down North 9th and seen you unscrewing my seat? Have you no decency!

And frankly, I expect this sort of thing to happen in Long Island City, but in tony Williamsburg, what with its new crop of trust-fund babies and their condo-buying parents?

So, a little research reveals that the hood and its environs (namely, Bushwick) haven't been doing too well with crime lately. The Brooklyn Paper reports that the 90th precinct had 18 robberies in one of the last weeks of August, which I'm sure doesn't include all the unreported things like a bike seat being taken. And my bike seat being stolen doesn't seem like such a big deal when you read about this poor little gal:

A 10-year-old girl had her bicycle stolen from her as she rode near the corner of Division Avenue and Roebling Street on Aug. 18. Cops are hunting for a 13-year-old boy on a girls’ bike.

Dobry Den: The Slovak-Czech Varieties Store

I know that I spend a lot of time bitching about Long Island City, but every once in awhile, I discover something great in the neighborhood. The Slovak-Czech Varieties store has been there for at least a couple of years, but I finally managed to visit on Sunday afternoon. It's a wonderful little enclave with Czech glass, magazines, books, food, tea, and (best of all) children's toys.
If you've ever been to Prague, you know about those Czech wooden toys that you see all over the place. They're super cute, but being the kind of person who despises most knickknacks, I declined to purchase one when I was in Prague. I always sort of regretted it.
Thanks to the Slovak-Czech Varieties store, I got one on Sunday. I highly recommend it as a good place to browse for unusual gifts; the staff and customers are super friendly, too.

Slovak-Czech Varieties, 10-59 Jackson Ave., Long Island City

Lorem Ipsum Apartment Hunting Update

For some reason I cannot remember to take pictures of viewed apartments. I'll tie a string round my finger from now on, promise.
Hell's Kitchen, 225 sq. ft. studio, $1400: With some brokers, it's like they maybe don't have too many friends or something. 'Cause even though I would rather work out our appointment over email, this guy insists we speak on the phone. For like a good 10 minutes. The apartment is on Ninth Avenue, but really it's in a building behind the building on Ninth Avenue. You walk through the first building hallway and then into a courtyard where everyone throws their trash, and then into your building. Apartment is incredibly small but cute; current tenant implies there might be a slight roach problem. Seems slightly sunlight-deprived. A no. Makes me slightly happy, since could admittedly not afford this much rent anyhow.
Park Slope real estate office No. 1: OK, I know what you're thinking, Park Slope?! You're not having a baby! Yes, but I promised myself I'd look outside of Manhattan, and besides, PS brokers have listings for places like Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens. And I was in the neighborhood. But this broker, like every broker I have ever met in Park Slope, implied that I could not afford to live in their precious little community and tried to send me to Kensington, which she described as "getting groovy." Like three times. I tell her that I have been meaning to go to Vox Pop but that I think Kensington might be too far of a daily commute.
Park Slope real estate office No. 2: Filled out form. Uneventful.
Craigslist: Have emailed at least 30 different postings; have heard back from maybe four or five. I might actually have to start calling people and talking to them on the phone. Ugh.

Jessica Simpson Gets Dumped (Again)

Poor Jess! First things don't work out with Nick Lachey. Then John "O-Face" Mayer dumps her. And now even the Conde Nast delivery guys have kicked her to the curb. Literally.
As I walked to brunch on Sunday morning, I noticed that these boxes of brand-spankin'-new September 2007 Self magazines with Simpson on the cover had been dumped about a block away. There were more than a dozen boxes with Self pouring out, and there were several more boxes with new issues of Conde Nast Traveler.
Did someone just get tired of their job and decide they didn't want to make anymore deliveries? And they dumped them on an abandoned block in LIC 'cause they thought no one would be the wiser? Or were they trying to make a metaphorical comment about the state of Ms. Simpson's love life? Perhaps we shall never know.

Apartment Hunting with Lorem Ipsum!

My apartment search has officially started, and I hope to post pictures and descriptions of some of the ridiculously overpriced dumps I am sure to see during my quest for a roof and four walls. I saw a studio on the Upper West Side (for only $1,200!) on Saturday, and yet, it too was no bueno. I forgot to take pictures (dammit), but vow to do so from now on.

Anyhow, to begin, I'd like to share an email that I received from a gentleman named Andrew. I had responded to Andrew's post for a Lower Manhattan studio for $1,100 (I know, I know, it seemed too good to be true, especially since the pictures he posted made the studio look all shiny and new). But a girl can try. I emailed him, and yesterday, I received this email back:

Hello,

I'm the owner of this apartment, I want to rent this because I have moved out from New York with my job. Now I'm living in London, UK, as I work here. I'm looking for a serios client. The lease could be 1-2 maximum 3 years, as long as I stay here in London.

This apartment is well maintained, and everything it's on place.

Pets are allowed but the floor has to be clean. Regarding parties I also have no problem, decent atmosphere needed.

Payment: Must be made one time per 3 months (4 rates x 3,300 usd per year).

Deposit: I must get paid one month in advance (1,100 usd). After that you will pay me once at the end of that 3 months, mentioned above.

To proceed, I need your final decision and that deposit wired here in London, because I'm depending on that. It will enable me to come back to New York for 2-3 days and make the contract and hand over the keys.

I'm surely convinced that this is a reasonable price and I need SERIOUS OFFERS ONLY !NO BROKERS, only peaceful and law-abiding tenants.

If you have any other questions...go ahead with them.

Thank you...

Andrew

Awesome! Sure, let me wire you a thousand bucks in London. And then you'll come out here and give me the keys afterward? Oh, OK, I totally believe you. Sounds great, "Andrew."

Gentrification Kind of a Bitch, Generally Unsatisfying in the End

Cynthia Ozick wrote one of my favorite essays, "The Synthetic Sublime," in which she marvels at the way that New York manages to reinvent itself every few years. Gritty neighborhoods are transformed into hip neighborhoods, a downtown strip is renovated until it's rendered unrecognizable, an empty lot sprouts new condos, a building is destroyed by fire; our landmarks are constantly changing.

New York neighborhoods are always shedding their past lives to become something new, and Williamsburg's "shedding" is really starting to piss me off. I find myself, rather than embracing the neighborhood I came to know and love, being beyond annoyed at it. I spent Sunday afternoon there, getting my hair cut and selling clothes at Buffalo Exchange and drinking beers and reading a book in the garden at the always pleasant Soft Spot.

And what bothered me so much? Who knows...a snaky line of hipsters waiting to see Blonde Redhead, too, too many, it was sad, somehow, all that waiting. A trio of obnoxious assholes thrusting ironic T-shirts into the air like flags at Buffalo Exchange. The new cafes (even a sweets shop!) that make it look like the Hamptons. Me, annoyed at a Williamsburg where Galapagos and Northsix, among others, got forced out. I remember an acquaintance saying once that he didn't want to live in Williamsburg anymore cause it was like a college town.

I disagreed then, but yesterday it seemed a college town to me, and I found something uncontrollably and inexplicably frustrating about it. I ran into three people I knew within a matter of five minutes (go State College!) and maybe I'm annoyed in the same way that the old-timers who sit outside on their stoops must have been annoyed at me and all the people who got there before me. But I at least tried to be friendly and smile sweetly and say, "Good morning" or "Good night."

But these people! It sucks when a neighborhood becomes less of a place to live and more of a place to be seen. That's how I feel about it right now, but I hope that I find something to change my mind.

This conversation below isn't it. From 11222 via New York Shitty:

Earnest young wanna-be-yuppie type with phone glued to ear:
"Yeah, so I think I'm going to go in on this real estate thing...well, I know I've never done it before, but I think it's a really good idea...I just didn't see anything I liked in Williamsburg... well, this Greenpoint, it's definitely up-and-coming...of course, there are no *guarantees*, but, this place, there's like absolutely nowhere to go out, something has to change...it's got this really weird neighborhood-y vibe to it, you should see some of the people who live there..."

Overheard Cell Phone Conversation

Dear Mother Jones, I Love You, But Stop

Dear Mother Jones:
You know I think you're great and all, but you've become like an overbearing boyfriend with these email blasts you insist on sending me like every freaking day, and it's really kind of getting tiresome. If I want to read your online content, I know it's there now and I don't need 80 reminders a week to go to your Web site.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Reader

UPDATE: I have gotten at least two more newsletters since this post, but duh, there's an unsubscribe option. Genius.

Someone Missed a Crucial Day of Journalism 101 Freshman Year

Hi, Los Angeles newscaster, Mirthala Salinas! How's it going? What's that? Not so good? How come? You just got suspended from your job without pay for two months? That's awful! What happened? Really? You reported on the breakup of L.A. mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and his wife and you got in trouble for it? That doesn't sound right! Oh, seriously? You're screwing Villaraigosa? And you're the reason for the breakup? And you failed to note that conflict of interest? Huh, yeah, that was a really bad idea, Mirthala.

Newscaster Suspended Over Affair

The Border Between Astoria and LIC Is Referred to as ASSLIC? This Makes Perfect Sense

I am really glad to be moving in the fall.

Kunt City

You Can Practically Hear the Sound of Elle Magazine Choking As I Write This

Today in the Styles section, the NY Times is mean to Elle:

"THE most glamorous thing about the offices of Elle magazine is that they have an excellent view of Condé Nast, eight blocks to the south, where Vogue and GQ and Vanity Fair exist in movie-set-worthy splendor and Town Cars idle in perpetuity," the story begins.

Funny, but true. The Elle offices do have an accounting firm/government building feel to them. And to the north there is a lovely view of the Hearst Tower, which is even lovelier inside, and it makes you frown because you are reminded that you do not work there.

Hachette is kind of a shaky, precarious place to work. Like you feel you could be shut down any second. Trust your intuition on that one; you will be.

Even Elle, Hachette's prima donna child, has gotten screwed lately: "In Elle’s transition to a post-Gilles Bensimon era, it has been plagued by reports of budget cuts, canceled trips for editors to the couture shows in Paris and reduced access to car services. Twenty of its 59 editorial staff members and freelancers on the masthead have departed this year..."

Isn't Nina Garcia still there? Why hasn't she left yet? And it's kinda like, if you're Hachette, why would you screw with Elle, your best known magazine? Seriously, if Elle goes away, what have you got left? Car and Driver? That's depressing.

I would like to end with this quote from the story:

"“Vogue represents the ideal of fashion,” said Italo Zucchelli, the men’s designer for Calvin Klein. “Elle is for real people. It does its job, but I never read it.”

Ouch.

Elle Has a Little Work Done

I Prefer Sunday Crosswords to Sunday DJs, But Maybe That's Just Me

Not-so-good idea: Williamsburg's new diner (24 hours!) pairs its Sunday brunch with drinks (good) and DJs (heh?). Isn't the point of Sunday brunch to relax and get Saturday night out of your system?
Rock Brunch

Awesome idea: A group is pushing to turn Williamsburg's abandoned Domino Sugar Factory into "New York's answer to the Tate Modern in London." Alas, plans for residential conversion are already underway, making it unlikely that Williamsburg will get its own waterfront museum.
An Alternate Proposal for Domino Sugar Factory

Questionable idea: My lease is up in two months (I am dumping LIC) and I'm trying to decide where I might head next. I have considered Bushwick as an alternative to some of Brooklyn's pricier neighborhoods, but this comment on BushwickBK really makes it sound no better than LIC:

"I would love to hang out in Bushwick more, but there’s…nothing to do most of the time. Really. Now don’t jump on me for saying it, but I’m a single girl without roommates. I’ve gotten friends to come play croquet in the park with me once. There’s no local bar near me. (Yay for a bar on Starr St.) There aren’t a lot of events in the neighborhood. (No free movies, few concerts that I know of.)"

Yikes. At least LIC has P.S.1.
More Bushwick Rumors

Somewhere, Al Gore Is Gently Weeping

The whole point of Anya Hindmarch's "I'm Not a Plastic Bag" campaign was to save plastic bags from being used. Somewhere between 500 billion and 1 trillion of plastic bags go to landfills each year, and it's nice to think that someone might walk into Whole Foods, buy one of Ms. Hindmarch's bags for 15 bucks, and use it to carry his groceries home (shown, right), thereby saving a plastic bag.
Hindmarch's bags, as her Web site notes, have sold out in the United States. Is this because the U.S. is finally jumping on the Gore bandwagon and becoming a bastion of environmental responsibility?! Nope, no, of course not. It's because we love fashion!
I've seen many girls in New York carrying the sold out bag -- as a purse. No one is using it for groceries, no one is logging anything as much as a bottle of wine or a magazine in it.
Then, today, my co-worker reported that he actually saw a picture of irony walking down 23rd Street this morning: A girl wearing an "I'm Not a Plastic Bag" purse on her shoulder while carrying a plastic bag.
Was the offender too dumb to note the irony? I would have at least been smart enough to stash the plastic bag in my Anya Hindmarch bag, thereby escaping such uninvited scrutiny.

Maybe the Only Two English Degrees That Ever Paid Off

Inside my recent issue of Conde Nast Traveler, I noticed a pull-out advertisement (complete with excerpts) for a new book, The Conde Nast Traveler Book of Unforgettable Journeys. The pull-out guide contained a nifty preview to four or five of the writers who contributed to the anthology, including Nicole Krauss. I have always been a huge fan of her husband, Jonathan Safran Foer. Who seems like a nice guy. Not spoiled. Despite that $6.7 million-you've-got-to-be-kidding-me brownstone in Park Slope. V. Woolf said one needs a room of her own, not a fucking palace. Anyhow, I digress. Below, a sentence from Ms. Krauss' excerpt about Japan:

"We have come to Japan in part because we've had the brilliant idea of turning the patch of nothingness behind our Brooklyn house into a Japanese garden—only we don't know how."

Don't most people just buy a book for that? Like this one? Ah, to be a Krauss-Safran-Foer...

Rule of Thumb: Don't Assume a Woman's Pregnant Unless She's Crowning

So yesterday I get on the bus after work and I step up and slide in my card and the driver says, "Oh! Having a baby, huh?" I didn't quite know how to answer this since, no, I am not having a baby, so I just frowned and said, "No, not a baby; maybe I'm just fat."
I took one of those single seats next to the window and took some time to reconsider my dress choice for the day. Sure I had tied a large yellow belt around my waist so that the gold dress kind of poofed out below it, but still! Come on!
I might not be a Nicole Richie, but in the grand scheme of things, I'm not a big person. A Kate Winslet, perhaps, a Drew Barrymore in her less svelte stages, Lily Allen even. I eye other people getting on the bus: Some have obvious, huge tummies -- hefty muffin tops bubble over too-tight jeans and satin shirts showcase big, big bulges, surely much bigger than my stomach, but the driver doesn't say anything to these women!
So then I run some errands and get on the train to go home and I'm standing, holding onto a pole and my bags and then, a girl. actually. gets. up! And, eyeing my stomach area, she tells me to sit down. And I'm like, no I'm OK, thanks. And then her boyfriend says, Oh, C'mon.
I kind of go along with it: "I'm just going one stop, but thank you for being so sweet."
So, can I blame this on the tent-dress trend? Or am I doomed to spend eternity looking like I swallowed a beach ball, even though I am not with child?

How I Spent My Summer Vacation (Away from Blogging)

So you might have noticed that I've had one whopping post in the last, oh, three months or so. Here are some things I did instead of blogging (although I kinda missed it):
1. I got a new dog (right, center).
2. I read this and this and this. And I tried to read Don Quixote, but felt he just kept having the same adventure over and over and I grew kind of tired of his inability to realize that he is just a guy, not some great knight, and really wished Sancho would stand up for himself more, and waited for the story to give me some kind of jolt, but it didn't, so I gave up.
3. I waited outside Warsaw in Greenpoint for an hour until some kind soul sold me a Wilco ticket. This time could have been better spent, but the show was nice.
4. I visited my mother.
5. I saw Ratatouille and then a few days later found a mouse in my apartment.
6. Purchased humane mouse trap online. Mouse apparently was as disappointed in my neighborhood as I am, because she left and never came back.
7. Readings, work, drinking, etc.

Woo-Hoo, Gay Republicans

NY Mag makes an inadvertent suggestion with its headline placement.

At Least I've Had a Tetanus Shot Recently

Last night before walking into Piano’s, my friend, who had grown up on the LES, wryly noted that the bar is where her family used to buy pianos. Put plainly, Piano’s on a Friday night blows. You will keep bumping into douchebags, girls in flimsy tops will run into you and spill your glass of wine, and when you are searching for your friends on a faux dance floor you will step on something sharp that you cannot see and still will not know what it was when you wake up the next afternoon to discover blood on your foot.
Piano’s is a great place to go for a reading, like One Story’s excellent monthly series, on a Friday around 6 or 7. Friday around 1 or 2 is different. We would have gone somewhere else, but my friend’s friend from out of town was there. Which seemed to be a trend, out-of-towners at Piano’s. I was waiting for the bathroom downstairs. There was a huge line behind me. There was a bathroom that no one was going in, so I opened the door to see why. The floor was really wet and nasty, not completely flooded, but when you already have blood on your foot, you don’t want it to be wet, too. So I said to the guy behind me, “You can go if you want, I’ll wait for another.” And he said, “What’s the matter?” I explained. “You don’t want to go in because it’s wet?” He chuckled at me. So I waited for another restroom, went in there, and then I heard the douchebag leaving the “wet” bathroom and asking the guy behind him, all sarcastic and shit, “You sure you wanna go in there? It’s wet!” Then they both had a good chuckle. “That’s just par for the course!” one said. “What do you expect in New York?” the other said. The only people who say things like “What do you expect in New York?” are people who do not live in New York and have an image of the city as this drug-infested, crime-ridden, pre-Giuliani cesspool.
Call me crazy, but I don’t expect to be cut with glass and use flooded toilets when I go out. But maybe I’m just a snob.

How to Set up a MySpace Account in 13 Easy Steps

#1. Take an ironic picture of yourself. It is best if you are looking off to the side, all spacey-eyed, or wearing a Halloween costume. Even better, if you are a hardcore Democrat, use George Bush’s picture. If all the above fail, use a childhood photograph, pre-third grade. Half-naked as an adult also works, especially if you are female or a gay male.
#2. Post photograph.
#3. Come up with a crafty slogan. This should be something that shows off how witty and clever you are. Example: “Someone told me MySpace was for losers, so I decided to join.” Or, if you’re not the self-deprecating type, come up with some word salad that will beg the question: What does that mean?! Example: “George Michael ate my Jolly Rangers!!!” As a last resort, use some pseudo-intellectual bullshit that no one will remember from sophomore year of college ’cause they were too stoned (think rare Baudelaire verses, which work particularly well for the ladies, but not so much for the men).
#4. Post slogan.
#5. Write some witty banter about yourself for the “About Me” section. Wrong: “I was born in Chicago and am currently a patent attorney who enjoys watching movies, reading Stephen King novels and dining out.” Right: “I hate mayonnaise. I hate people who don’t know that the right side of the escalator is for standing, the left side for walking. Ketchup is my favorite condiment. I don’t understand math. Or science. I have a weird birthmark under my left breast. I always give money to subway musicians with accordions.”
#6. Post witty banter under “About Me” section.
#7. Post any dorky quizzes you have taken. The dorkier, the better.
#8. Download humiliating pictures of yourself from digital camera.
#9. Post humiliating photos under the additional pics link. Somewhere our culture got the idea that if we showcase our embarrassments, they cease to be embarrassing and merely become fodder for amusement. This is nowhere better evidenced than on MySpace.
#10. Under the “Here For” part, say friends or networking, but never dating. Your “friends” will snicker that you should have joined Match.com instead.
#11. Obtain as many friends as possible. Unlike in real life, it is OK to associate with people you hate on MySpace. Remember, they add to your friend total (see Tip #12).
#12. Do not put the people you hate on your main page, unless they are incredibly attractive or have impressively ironic photos (see Tip #1). If you cannot manage to obtain more than 250 friends, delete your MySpace page, or people will think no one likes you.
#13. Post comments on all your friends’ pages. With any luck, 75 percent of them will reply with comments on your page, and it will therefore appear that people are interesting in talking to you. If you do not do this, someone will invariably post that, “No one ever leaves you any comments!” Which everyone knows is MySpace death. Then you will be forced to resign your MySpace page and you will lose your home and job, wife and children, and you will be driven underground to live in sewer tunnels.
Good luck!

Where All the Depressed People Near Union Square Go After Work

Trade Joe's wine shop on 14th Street. Just look at the line that stretches to the back of the store, circa 6 p.m. on a Wednesday. Clearly we have no one to go to a bar with. Or, more realistically, we just realize that a bottle of three-buck Chuck is a more cost-efficient way of dealing with our depression. And cheaper than Zoloft. Sad, very sad.