Mildred Pierce

Forget Mad Men. Let's watch Mildred Pierce.

(UPDATE: I just realized that I actually can't watch this without HBO. But I like that it exists.)

Massimo Grimaldi at Team Gallery

While Upper Manhattan is still on the cobra hunt (yeek!) we've been squirming for weeks down in Soho regarding Team Gallery's latest exhibition by Italian artist Massimo Grimaldi involving two live snakes.

The snakes apparently served as "a barrier between the viewer and the artworks and imbuing the dynamics of spectatorship with a sense of the forbidden," but in the end its just a cheap trick. The ol' shock factor, staking claim to live-snakes-mimicking-line-and-gesture before someone else dares to do the same.

The work was about as mesmerizing as a screen saver, but still lured me inside with it's promises of pomp and vigor. And next up? New York's original shock star-- Ms. Marilyn Minter.

(photos via)

Mad Men: Season 5

Well, finally. But seriously, a year?! AMC, get it together. Or hire me to sell ads for you.

In the meantime, and for the next YEAR, let's watch this scene again:

My Sandy

SOLID GOLD: An eight page NY Mag write up on Sandra Lee.

Have I ever told you about the time that I bought Sandy's (cleverly titled) memoir for $1 at Housing Works as a joke for my friend Alison, and then "accidentally" started reading it on the train ride to her apartment and then couldn't hand it over until I finished it three days later and suddenly started defending her meatloaf and infamous Kwanzaa cake in mixed company? Yeah, that happened.

Moving on! Let's now turn to one of my favorite essays of all time, to hear Anthony Bordain's experience with the lady in white:

I’m standing there by the boeuf bourgignonne station, sucking down martinis with my wife (they drink a LOT of martinis in the movie), minding my own business, having an innocent chat with some friends, when I notice someone has their hand on me. An icy, tendril of fear runs down my spine. I turn and find myself looking straight into the deceptively attractive and reasonable looking face of Sandra Lee.
To make matters worse–and more…..uncomfortable, she’s standing next to her boyfriend, Andrew Cuomo, the Attorney General of the State of New York.

Now, I’ve said some unkind things over the years about Sandra. Far too many and far too terrible things to ever apologize for. Plus, I pretty much meant every word. Once you’ve seen Sandra making Kwanzaa Cake on YouTube, there’s no backing down . My head is reeling with the thought that one phone call from Cuomo and my last twenty years of tax returns are getting audited . I’m paralyzed, wondering what the statute of limitations is on various things I may or may not have done twenty years ago. Sandra is talking. I know this cause her lips are moving and she’s saying–overtly anyway, nice things. Like “You’re a very naughty man,” and she’s chatting amiably with my wife. But one hand is picking over me like the meat buyer at Peter Luger selecting a rib section–like some demonic bird of prey is poking and prodding, deciding where the weakest, most tender point of entry is, giving, as I recall, a point by point review of her investigations to my wife–who ordinarily, I have to say, would have been across the table with a tomahawk chop elbow to the top of the skull by now, but who, like me, sits mesmerized and grinning insanely, frozen by the ..bizarrenessof the moment which seems to go on forever as Sandra’s hand wanders upward, tugs an ear lobe and asks if my ears are red yet. (They were.) Having had her way with me, she leaves the emptied husk of my carcass teetering at the table and moves on.

I felt like the victim of a drive-by shooting. “What just..happened?” I said with a weak, trembly voice. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the quiet but very thorough disembowelment that had just occurred. Nothing. It had looked, to anyone who’d care to notice, like any other cocktail party conversation–but I knew better. I had looked into those eyes. I’d seen. Oh, she was smiling all right, but I’m pretty damn sure you could have dragged a rusty butterknife across my carotid artery right there at the table and her expression would not have changed, maybe only the eyes, they’d roll over white as I geysered onto the chafing dishes.

As we say on the show all the time, “What have we learned today?”

I learned that were a nuclear weapon to fall on New York, I’m pretty sure that if no one else, Sandra Lee would survive to clamber out of the rubble. That if it came down to a fight over the last can of food, she would surely emerge the victor.

I learned that I am truly and deeply afraid of her. And I’m pretty sure she’s a Democrat.

And for some completely unrelated reason, the photos of Cuomo and Lee remind me SO MUCH of Botwin and Reyes (possibly because Cuomo so closely resembles Mr. Tijuana, but most likely because I've been watching way too many episodes of Weeds before bedtime but that's also beside the point.) Can't you just imagine a fantastic Sandra scandal in the future involving a hidden tunnel straight from her sunny upstate liquor cabinet right to the heart of the Columbian drug lords? One can dream.

Babycakes NYC

Okay! Further delaying the inevitable! Let's talk about cookies!

I first read of Erin McKenna on the Awl a few weeks ago, completely impressed with her savvy business model and jealous of her cute haircut. Babycakes is a 100% vegan, gluten free, wheat free, sugar free, most-allergen-free bakery on the Lower East Side, just a short jaunt from my office. I don't have any allergies, but I do like a fresh idea (well, it's been open for years, I'm late on this train) and am a sucker for pink icing.

So a few days later I slipped over to Babycakes on my lunch break and tried a cookie sandwich. Holy balls, people. TRY A COOKIE SANDWICH. I've been back twice since my initial visit, shoving them into the slightly skeptical fists of my friends and coworkers, then watching their reactions with an anticipation not unlike Doc Brown with his flux capacitor, coconut oil in place of plutonium.

But don't let the vegan-gluten-whatever stuff fool you, these are neither healthy nor bland. They aren't the least bit dry, and they are hands down my favorite treat in all of New York City. Even Alison agrees, and she's a tough crowd on baked goods. Okay, I don't have a whole lot else to say on the subject, but I just felt the need to share.

And now... a video.

BabyCakes NYC: Frosting Party! from BabyCakes NYC on Vimeo.

Jane Eyre

I know it's been well over a week since writing anything on this ol' bloggy, though not for lack of content. I've written about once sentence about this, and this place, and this, and this. But lately, whenever I sit down to write something for this lovely space, I remind myself that I still haven't thought of a single word for a much more topical purpose-- my Maid of Honor speech, due for a wedding two days from now.

And each time I sit down to write that, I inevitably end up in a cornmaze of a google chase that somehow lands me at YouTube, watching the Bridesmaids trailer ten times over before flat out giving up on grounds of absolutely NO HOPE of ever being as funny or awesome as Kristin Wiig. Might as well just resign!, I decide before collapsing into bed face first, exhausted from the very thought of my weekend ahead.

ANYWAY.

I saw Jane Eyre last week. The NEW Jane Eyre, the film noir Jane Eyre starring that awesome young actress from The Kids are All Right and the bad Alice movie. My friend Lo and I saw it together at the Sunshine's matinee performance with all the old people, candy in hand, eager for the dark drama ahead. We spent much of the movie melting over the Byronic Mr. Rochester, his good hair, and his impressive skill of forcing people to talk to him before berating them for it. SWOON.

Lauren kept nudging my arm, wide eyed and giddy over the overt absurdities-- A beaten orphan! A secret wife! A handy fire! A blind lover!-- but we loved every swooping second. She was smart, that Brontë sister, albeit perhaps a bit repressed? (It's why we like it!) Jane is a deeply developed story, Lo pointed out to me, despite the, uh, wife-through-a-hidden-doorway trick, in a time when women were writing little more than cotton candy.

And directed by the stripped-and-stark Cary Fukunaga, this Jane held its own outside of the chic-y nineteenth century dramas to which we've become accustomed. His version enters a new category of lady-films cut without grace or petaled romance. It's Brontë-meets-Plath, if you will. (Well, that might be stretching it-- there is still a dashing-blind-man-who-survives-the-handy-fire in the ending.) Brontë-meets-Ibsen. Happy?

Now, onto the next.

Great Artists

(Honestly, I'm not one hundred percent sure what Picasso was getting at in the quote above, but I like the cheeky sentiment so let's go with it.)

A few links for you after what I might consider to have been a very perfect weekend:

THIS has me in stitches. Seriously, so funny.

The Hairpin has been awfully sharp these days. Well done, ladies.

I've said it before and I'll say it again--- Ninth Street Espresso is the best coffee in New York City. THE BEST. Kate and I happily spent Sunday afternoon at the 10th St location over steaming mugs of cafe au lait (true story-- I used to think it was "cafe olé". Like Spanish coffee or something. SERIOUSLY. Don't tell anyone.) Yeah, it's all the way over on Avenue C, but in addition to the best coffee, they also have the best trees over there. Worth it.

Andrew Bird played a lovely little show with a mix of other performers at City Winery on Friday Night. A clip here.

She makes me laugh.

So does he.

Have you all heard of the Iranian custom of Taaroffing? It's so fascinating! Great piece on TAL, listen here.

That's all! Enjoy.