Amber & Geography Lessons

I bet that when you think of what lies to the north of you, if you are in the U.S. (and Google Analytics tells us many of you are not-- Hello, one person in Thailand!), you think of Canada.  And then maybe your imagination stops there, reflecting on the value of the loonie and how they still read up there.  But, maybe you are forgetting that even further north than Canada is The Arctic!  And maybe they have great brunch places there.  On what's left of the ice.

Likewise, even farther north than where I live is Inwood.

(On that map, I am way way down below the bridge.  Sooo far south.)

That's right, people who think I live in the Bronx, there is a whole neighborhood above me, complete with another 40 or so blocks of Manhattan.  And an amazing brunch place.

And, somewhat ironically, maybe you learn about this brunch place from your friends who live downtown, because maybe it takes someone from Oklahoma to plan a trip to The Arctic.  For brunch.

And maybe it's an international expedition with a friend from Sweden, a place further north than even Inwood, but so far north that it's like you crossed the north pole and came out on the other side.

And maybe you liked your reuben so much that you will definitely go back sometime soon, but maybe not today because the weather conditions are too severe for an expedition to the north.

I mean, look at those menacing flurries.  And that Feels Like.

Amber & Juicy, Alright

So, Juicy Couture is the latest high-profile Fifth Avenue tourist shopping destination to be invaded by bed bugs.  And our friends over at Racked had this amazing photographic evidence.

There's a joke there about how bedbugs suck blood and it says JUICY on the butt of those annoying sweatpants, but I am too busy being smug about the whole thing to articulate it.

Also, here is an informative video about bed bugs and their reproductive cycle that kept me awake for at least one night.

I don't know which would be worse: having bed bugs or having to wear those awful fuzzy track pants.

Amber & 3 A.M.

Why is it that, lately, my cats are so completely awake and mewingly insistent that I, too, start my day at 3 a.m.?

Could it be the afternoon naps they take on the sofa?

Or the fact that some  of them never seem to leave the red donut all day long?

Or perhaps some of them spend the day conserving their mews for the witching, pre-dawn hours?

It's a plot, I tell you.  And thanks to Nick for running daytime recon on their activities.

Amber & Musical Surprises

So, I was suprised when iTunes announced that, after the Soothing Cat Music album selections and the Ocean Waves background sounds, this is my favorite song ever.



(I absolutely do not think those are the right lyrics.)

I had expected maybe some Kate Bush?  Or "Pictures of You," or that M.I.A. song that I had on repeat for like two days?



Now, it is true that I do add that song to almost every playlist. And that when it comes on, I can't not sing along.  I just can't help myself, even if I look like a crazy person on the A train.  So, yes, I guess it is my favorite?  But it's also true that I never, ever recorded myself singing it.



So really, can my love for the song be THAT deep?

Amber & Top Foods Challenge: Day Three

A must-have: coffee from the Mud Truck.

 

Hot or cold, but definitely from the truck-- no need for a café in my opinion.  How do they get those rich chocolately undertones in there?  And definitely not from the cheap rip-off Love Truck.

Not fancy, not really a meal, but a requirement for any trip.

Amber & Heed My Warnings

I think folks are starting to take my warnings about the coming ape (and monkey) revolution seriously.  There was this post over at Gizmodo.  Jimmy, ever watchful for signs of the rebellion, pointed me to it.

Little did I know that their first move would be into journalism.  The political gets personal.  Or something like that. (You know, because I am such a serious journalist?)

(Jimmy also points out that the behavior where you look into the viewfinder after each shot is called "chimping.")

Jimmy also sends us this cautionary reminder.

Amber & Auto-Tune

I had no idea what auto-tune was until Nick showed me this where science meets yoga.

And then this incredibly important story broke.



It doesn't seem like a wholly bad thing to me.  Although Pickles is now hiding under the bed.

Amber & Pants Head

Can you help me understand this?

My fellow commuter seems to be wearing a pair of leather shorts on his head.  You can't tell from the angle I had to use to be covert, but there are actually two "legs" of hair on the top of his head.  Now, I want to be very clear: I am not mocking.  I was actually fascinated and a little confused.  Are they really shorts?  Is this a known hair thing?  Doesn't it make the top of your head hot like the time CRD wore his leather pants to my Tropical Holiday Party in 1996?

As someone who often has Bad Hair Days, I really respect the creativity of this gentleman.

Would that I had pants for my head!

Also?  He was reading The Atlantic.

Amber & Desire

Sigmund's astral body chuckled with contentment yesterday as I learned an important lesson about the nature of desire.  It all started with an afternoon sweet treat craving and an ad for a Frappuccino on a cup holder that I played with on my desk during a conference call.

Now, it's no secret that I have long been a fan of Starbucks's product, highly-available coffee.  Given my love for the brewed bean purveyor, you might be surprised to learn that I had never tried a Frappuccino.  They just seemed so expensive (I get the misto although I really prefer a cappuccino mostly because it costs about a dollar less) and more like a dessert than a beverage, really.  I've had the ice coffee, of course, and the weird Vivanno blended smoothie drink, too. But, until yesterday afternoon when I succumbed to my yearning, I had never had the Frappuccino.

Well, desire sure is the yearning for a fundamentally lost object, Sigmund.  I'd even go a step further and say it's a yearning for something that one cannot have, that may never have existed.  The Frappuccino?  Crappuccino, people.  Not only wasn't it as good as it was in my imagination, but it was just plain pukey.  It didn't taste anything like coffee, was way, way too sweet, and had a certain waxy thickness about its texture that seemed highly unnatural.  Gross, gross, gross.

Some things we think we want, with all our hearts, are only wanted because they can't be had.  Some things look like delicious sweet treats and we might fantasize about them as afternoon snacks, but in reality those frozen coffee drinks might have been serial womanizers who have horrible, violent tempers who are are registered Republicans.

Ah, desire.  First it's red and then it's blue.  And every time I see a Frappuccino, it reminds me of you.

What flower expresses the kisses, the kisses?

Amber & Hair Wisdom

A wise person encouraged me to wash my hair less often, only they never warned me that doing so would make my hair behave in wild, loopy, random ways that I never expected.  I share my solution with you:  headbands.

Sure, my hair still is insane and out of control, but now I'm like, "What?  Crazy hair?  Sure.  But I have a headband."  It's like how someone I know explained Lady Gaga distracts us with outfits to make us forget she has no talent.

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 & Patty & Bun

You know I love ramen.  After acupuncture, I can't think of anything better to eat on a cold winter's night.

(Photos of ramen and Kirk by James)

Except maybe soba noodles.

But an hour and a half to two hours wait?  You've got to be absolutely insane to even suggest it.

Instead, I tried Patty & Bun which is conveniently located to the A train.  It gets mixed reviews at various foodie sites, but I thought it was a solid burger on a really interesting bun.  And, even though the waitress had never heard of a whiskey toddy, she did her best and it came out pretty well.  Of course, there weren't many other diners which made me concerned for the welfare of the establishment.

So maybe do me, my empty stomach on the commute home from downtown, and yourself a favor and try it out?  You know you LOVE burgers.  (Well, not you, Alison, but they did have a veggie burger which looked pretty good too.)

Of course, I am going to try to go for ramen next week.  Just before the tour bus unloads.

Amber & Jimmy Boots

Once in a discussion about Love, Loss, and What I Wore, the pictorial autobiography of Ilene Beckerman tuned turned Broadway play by Nora and Delia Ephron, I denied having strong memories associated with Outfits.  This was, in fact, a bald-faced lie.

Case in point: these boots.

I got these boots once with James.  We were having dinner at Kelly & Ping in SoHo on a cold night, maybe way back in 1998?  There was some big space of time which we were trying to fill between dinner and I think a movie, although the evening's plans are a bit muddled in my memory.  (But, maybe some one will say something that rhymes and I can amend this post.)  It was freezing out and ridiculously windy, but it had been pretty mild that morning and I wasn't appropriately attired.  We went to Patagonia and I bought a long john top and bottom set which I put on in the store, right over the shirt and tights I was already wearing.  Then, we went into Fluevog just to look around and waste some more time, although James's feet don't like Fluevogs.

And I saw these boots on sale for $99.  I had to borrow cash from James to buy them, and, although I liked them at the time, a big part of the decision was based on being able to wear them out of the store into the cold.

And it's been a match made in heaven ever since.  I love these boots.  They are comfy; they are warm.  They survived Madison, Wisconsin.  They survived the giant puddle on the corner of 168th.  They are cute enough to wear with skirts, but have that brilliant big metal zipper on the side to give them a certain motorcycle toughness.  Like this:

Amber & Lessons Learned

Before Thanksgiving, I had to take a course in anti-harassment training.  In it, a bearded supervisor with really developed shoulder muscles feels bad for "Dawn," who is a dead-ringer for Gwyneth Paltrow.

He just tries to make her feel better.

Is that so wrong?

YES.  YES, IT IS.

Amber & Turning and Facing the Strange (Changes)

When you are enmeshed in your own drama, you seldom think that the rest of the world is undergoing its own changes and challenges. But then, your own controversy subsides, or your flank feels a little less ouchy, and you venture out into the world and discover that the universe waits for no Amber.

Imagine my surprise when I came into the office today to discover we had a bike rack!

That's my bike, the second one in from the right, suspended there.  Some of those other bikes belong to Hope, our former officemate, and I have no idea whose the fourth one is.  How organized and space-saving.  Why, I can actually get to the window now without playing one of those parking puzzle games.

Much of the box clutter has disappeared from the corners as well.  The coat rack has been moved to a new convenient location near the door.  I'm not sure who is responsible for this flurry of restructuring and organizing, but I bet it was Kevin.  But maybe with help from Emma the Architect, seen here with her world-rocking graph paper.

One thing that has not gone away, though is this fascinating and mysterious handbag.

The handle is made from pink ribbon, but the bag itself is made of-- brace yourself-- white, uninflated balloons.  For a long time, when it was hanging from the coat rack, I thought it was a bathing cap.  But now that I know it's a handbag, I am kind of in love with it.  But maybe that's just the flank pain clouding my fashion judgment.

Amber & the Uncanny

This morning, I was greeted by a pleasant e-mail message from Nick.  In it, he conversationally mentioned that he had a dream last night about walruses and penguins going to church.  Nothing so unusual about that, right?

But, when I got to the office, Kevin was looking through some mail samples and pointed out this incredible piece of direct mail.

That's right.  Homelitics is the magazine devoted to making sure you preach "compelling sermons... every week..." to penguins!

Amber & Due to An Earlier Incident

Just when I thought the MTA had gifted you with all the celebrity, confusing service and squishedness you could handle for a weekend, I rode the train on a Saturday.  Silly rabbit.

The purpose of my journey was to pick up my first CSA winter share of the season and then celebrate the season in fellowship with Diana and Kevin.  To begin my trek, I walked down to 168th Street since it was posted in my stop that the train wasn't going north of there this weekend (which turned out to be false-- at least on my way home).

At 168th Street, there was a bulldozer driving up and down the train platform and then crossing over a make-shift bridge and unloading boulders onto a weird flat train.  This was an ominous start to what turned out to be a two hour ride (including no D service below 34th Street and a stalled A on the F line at Second Avenue).  That is the little bulldozer thing whizzing by on that train unloading thing at seemingly unsafe speeds while I waited for the downtown A.

Then, on the way home from a delightful day (which included beef stew and persimmon pudding), I went to Brooklyn.  There was no D service running from Grand Street, so I walked to the F at Delancey.  But then, there was no uptown F.  So, I had to take the F to Jay Street in Brooklyn to transfer to the uptown A which was running on the F track into Manhattan.  (Maybe you should get out a subway map just to follow along to see what an incredibly indirect route this really was.)

At Jay Street, though, I was rewarded by celebrity in the form of the Kristen Schaal who plays "Mel" on Flight of the Conchords and is a very funny Daily Show commentator.

(I chose the photo with the bird, Diana, since you liked that birdy page in Elle.)

This is Woody and me doing our impression of Kristen and her boyfriend making smoochie on the platform.

Anywhow, then the train came, and Kristen, her boyfriend, and I all got on.  Things were going swell, although mostly local, until 103rd Street when, as the conductor described it, "Something just hit our train."  Note the train did not do the hitting.  Anyhow, we sat on the train with the doors closed until a train crew arrived to check to make sure we hadn't run anyone over or a terrorist hadn't thrown a sticky bomb (I'm picturing a Wacky WallWalker with a dirty bomb in its backpack?) at us.


Once they opened the doors, there was a mass exodus.  But, as the lady next to me said, "How else would I get home?  The bus?  Puhleeze."  We even had one very angry fellow patron yell at us, "What are you bitches doing?  The train is broked.  Get your asses off."  Our decision to wait it out upset him.  But, another train wouldn't come since we were in its way.  And I just am not aggressive to fight an entire train's worth of folks for a spot on an uptown bus.  And who wants to go 70 blocks on a bus?  Puh-leeze.

Anyway, we started moving again after they determined that it was a soda can tossed off the platform at the incoming train.  And then we went express!  Whoooo!

So, two hours and 14 minutes later, I am home.  Still?  The persimmon pudding and the company of friends were worth the over four hours total time spent on trains underground.

Amber & Giants

By popular demand, here is a close up of the giant earrings. They're HUGE.

I think my boss is on to me.

Amber & Eyeballed

Imagine my surprise when I was watching Gossip Girl and Kim Gordon arrived to marry the mom and dad on the show! (I don't imagine you're surprised I watched GG-- I've been sick long enough to watch everything on the Internet, including the entire The IT Crowd series on Netflix Watch Instantly--more on that later.)  I remember there being some back-story about how the dad was a rock star and the mom was a groupie, but I was still shocked to see them put their money where their mouths were in the form of appearance fees for Mrs. Rock-N-Roll Family herself.  Back in the day, we used to see them packing up the Volvo wagon for the weekend, just like regular parents, only with skinnier jeans.

I was not surprised when the full band appeared to play the reception, after all they have that album from this past June and I bet a tour to go with it.

But I WAS surprised when Mark Ibold turned out to be the bassist in the band.  When did that happen?

You may remember I have a special long-term relationship with Mr. Eyeballed.  We used to live in the same neighborhood, and I would see him around all the time.  Once, I even helped him figure out how to use the peanut butter making machine at Commodities.  And then he used to tend bar all the time at Great Jones when James and I would have brumch there.

How we've fallen out of touch for me not to even know he had joined Sonic Youth!

Amber & Hallucicopters & Vulnerable Vultures

I have had a terrible, terrible TMJ-triggered headache since I sat down on the D train uptown after work on Friday evening. By the time I got to 125th Street to change to the A, I was seeing floaters and experiencing phonophobia. And then, when I got off the train in the 175th Street Station and took a breath of that fresh east side exit stairwell, the nausea began. Friday night and Saturday were pretty much a blur of trying to nap, alternating cold and hot compresses, jaw clenching remedy, lion pose and chest stretches. But then, last night at 2 am, I was awoken by the sound of helicopters right outside my window and a searchlight flooding in my window.


Now, it's completely true that, over the course of the weekend, my system was treated to a cocktail of 1 part anti-spasm Cyclobenzaprine, several parts muscle-relaxant, anti-spasticity aid Zanaflex, one part anti-inflammatory Diclofenac, and a dash of just about every over-the-counter pain pill that didn't contraindicate the blend and a spritz of peppermint oil for a wholistic flavor. And, its absolutely true that Wikipedia claims that...

Tizanidine use has been associated with hallucinations. Visual hallucinations and delusions have been reported in 5 of 170 patients (3%) in two North American controlled clinical studies.

But that's totally lacking citation. And, I confirmed the reality of the helicopter, which made rounds from 2 am until about 8, with tweets from both GoGetter122 and 5starr_Chick (you really have to scroll down; 5starr_Chick in particular is a tweety little bird). And there was this unanswered question on Yahoo! Answers, providing no explanation but assuring me that I wasn't imagining a helicopter in some drastic self-punishing hallucination. After all, what is worse for a migraine than a loud helicopter and a search light?

Really, the side effects I most worry about from the fistfulls of pills I have been popping (which are just now seeming like maybe they are starting to work a little bit, maybe? knock wood very quietly? please?) are vulture extinction, rabies, disruption to Zoroastrian Parsi cultural practices, and the ruin of Wisconsin brunch. No, really I swear I'm only a little doped right now and the persistent pain is pretty grounding. Wikipedia, my frenemy, tells me...

Use of diclofenac in animals has been reported to have led to a sharp decline in the vulture population in the Indian subcontinent, 95% decline in 2004, 99.9% decline as of 2008. The mechanism is probably renal failure, a known side-effect of diclofenac. Vultures eat the carcasses of livestock that have been administered veterinary diclofenac, and are poisoned by the accumulated chemical. At a meeting of the National Wildlife Board in March 2005, the Government of India announced that it intended to phase out the veterinary use of diclofenac.... "The loss of tens of millions of vultures over the last decade has had major ecological consequences across the Indian subcontinent that pose a potential threat to human health. In many places, populations of feral dogs... have increased sharply from the disappearance of Gyps vultures as the main scavenger of wild and domestic ungulate carcasses. Associated with the rise in dog numbers is an increased risk of rabies" and casualties of almost 50,000 people.

The loss of vultures has had a social impact on the Indian Zoroastrian Parsi community, who traditionally use vultures to dispose of human corpses in Towers of Silence, but are now compelled to seek alternate methods of disposal.

Diclofenac was shown also to cause harm to freshwater fish species such as rainbow trout.

See how horrible my headache is?

I'm sorry, Mr. Vulture. I feel really bad about putting my head pain first.