Amber & Closed By Court Order

Last week, Hip Hop Wear, the clothing wholesaler downstairs from my office, was closed by the fuzz for "sale of trademark counterfiet merchandise."  I imagine this means they were busted selling suits by Fobo, jackets by Rockawere, and Winged Victory of Samothrace sneakers.

This is not terribly sad for me; I was not emotionally invested in Hip Hop Wear, and I am sure another wholesaler will take the space soon enough.  Maybe one of those wig sellers which could be super fun.  (Who wants in on a wholesale wig order?)

Really, it just made me Remember.  Back in the twentieth century, I came back from a trip to Alaska to find that both drug-front bodegas downstairs from my Avenue B home had been closed by the Man.  Again, this wasn't sad.  It was surprising and the harbinger of things to come in the East Village, including $22 entrées and The Boxcar Lounge.

Of course, I don't really miss the East Village hipsters in my current hood, although we have plenty of our own brand of fashion divas who collect in gurgling pools on the side walks.

But, I do miss sitting at the bar in the Lakeside Lounge next to Sam Rockwell while doing my laundry and realizing, not counting his giant hair, we are about the same height.  Even though he clearly has significantly better dance moves.



And that of course, reminds me of how much I love Crispin Glover.  Yes, he is creepy and seems to have crazy head ALL THE TIME.  But that nose is so amazing.  I wish I had written this love song for Crispin Glover's jaw bones.



Or that I was in an all-black-haired girl rock band.

Amber & Ducks Mate for Life

If nothing else, I am consistent in my adorations.  See for example, pickles.  (Not Pickles.  About him I can be very fickle especially when he puts the fleece wand on my face at 4 am and then sits on my chest and mews.)  This especially true of my crushes, which I hold onto like Eva Marie Saint clinging to Cary Grant and the eyeball on Mt. Everest (thanks to Steve, who knows the difference between Mt. Rushmore and Mt. Everest).

Speaking of Cary Grant, I am incredibly loyal to my actor crushes. Once I love you on-screen, you can do just about anything, take any bad role, grow old, change your hair and guest star on NCIS, and I will continue to love you diegetically, aesthetically, and dreamily.  Only maybe I will blog about you a little less.  Take, for example, Johnny Depp.

Sigh.  If you've known me for any length of time (or ever had tequila with me), it's likely you know the root story of my love for Johnny.  If you haven't been that lucky (or were just Googling "puff coats"):  In 1987, I watched the premiere of 21 Jump Street, and started to sob--not because the show's tackling of trouble youth was especially effecting, but because Johnny was so damn pretty.  And, I knew I could never have him.  Ah, desire. First it's red, and then it's blue. And everytime I see an iceberg, Johnny, it reminds me of you.

I've seen everything Johnny has made, even Sweeney Todd, even though "seen" there really means squinted at out of one corner of my eye while the window on my laptop was only about two inches wide.  (I don't like scary movies.)  You can make that third lousy pirate film, Johnny, and I will go see it--in the theater!  And I will like it because you are pretty in a white flouncy shirt with bad teeth.  So take that.

The latest test of my love is the Alice in Wonderland posters in the subway.

Now, I love Alice in Wonderland.  (It even inspired my first born laptop name.)  And I love fake eyelashes. And I totally am all about dyed red hair, and hats, and tea, and madness.  But that poster just scares me!  And, I don't think it's a coincidence that I dreamt that I had a weird gap between my teeth last night.  I even tried to avoid the poster by taking a different entrance to the A after Awesome Club, but then I had to sit across from one on the train for 161 blocks!

But, Johnny, I will go see your latest endeavor in the theater, even if it proves to be your scariest role yet.  Because, Johnny, I would pay to watch you breathe.  And my love is nothing if not eternal and hopeless.

Amber & Things That Aren't Sciences

In the first phase of my effort to become Carol Channing, Project Smile, I went to the dentist for the first time since DC last week.

The good news is that I had no new cavities, although we know that may or may not be true since dentistry is not a science.  The even better news is that my old medical crush, Dr. Clauss, DDS, is aging as gracefully as ever.  And the best news is that I don't have to have those anxiety dreams where I go and Dr. Clauss tells me all of my teeth need to come out and it's going to cost six million dollars.

The bad news is that from having to stretch my wee dainty already winter-chapped mouth open wide enough for him to fit his man hands in there to see how much damage I am doing to my molars by grinding, I got a small cut in the side of my mouth which has turned into a cold sore.

(Yes, I am part of the 80% of the US population who gets cold sores--although other web sources seem to suggest 80% of us have been exposed and only 15-30% of us actually get cold sores.  Anyway, I am one of those people.  Stop reading my blog if you are horrified at this point.  Go ahead, close that window and mutter "leper" under your breath.)

Yes, it is true that I was running a fever of 102° over the weekend and maybe my immune system was a little compromised.  So, it's not really all because I went to the dentist.

But assigning causality for my health conditions is even less of a science than dentistry.

Anyway, it only hurts when I make my Carol Channing smile.

Amber & Farley

Last night, my standing Tuesday fun, Awesome Club, was cancelled for lack of any Murders She Wrote.  Instead, CRD and I held an impromptu meeting of Farley Granger Club.

I have a feeling there will be a comprehensive post about Farley's really interesting biography, Include Me Out, once Shorty finishes reading it, so I won't spoil any of the fun anecdotes about working with Hitch or how Rope is all about "it."

We watched Rope last night, drank wine, and ate soba noodles.  Farley is fantastic in the film.  His breathing out acts most other actors.  Like in this scene with John Dall.



I plan to get this excited every time I answer the phone in 2010.

I also plan to wear my hair like John Dall's, whose face shape reminds me of Jonathon Young who plays Tesla (Kevin's archnemisis) on the really mediocre Sanctuary.

Actually, my real plan is to look more like my idol and fellow white-passer Carol Channing.

I think that will involve alot of dye and a comb-over.  And smiling with my bottom teeth.