Ah, New Orleans: Part 3

When we last left our heroine, she was just about to meet Mike Kobrin, a trumpet player from NYC who recently relocated to New Orleans, and who was recommended to contact by my very great and close pal John, who always knows good people. The destination was 13, a great little bar/restaurant on Frenchman St. It happens to be one of the few places I encountered in the city that has food with actual vegetables in it, some of the dishes without meat! Not like I was ready to slow it down yet, but good to know it was there. A little late, but Mike found me at the mostly empty bar soon enough.

I think we had what can only be described as like at first sight. I didn't know what to expect, or even how old he would be since John is friends with old and young alike. But in walked, well, tall dark and handsome with a cute, scruffy beard, early 30s. We immediately got into a comfortable repartee. I think Mike was just as apprehensive about this strange chick from Brooklyn as I was of this whack trumpet-playing dude who left NYC to move here, and made himself an out just in case. But since we were already getting along well, decided to invite me to dinner so that I could accompany him to a little gig he was playing later. We opted for Coop's on Decatur, which I had been dying to try, heard it was one of the best cajun/creole places in the Quarter.

We sat at a corner table which was really two pressed together. We tried to separate them but were encouraged to leave them as is since it was easier for the staff to get around us that way. We ain't in NYC anymore, folks! Mike got a coronary sized portion of cajun pasta, which is crawfish and other seafood in a heavy, 10 alarm cream sauce. I opted for the cajun fried chicken, perfectly crisp and well seasoned, which came with a generous heap of moist, spicy, rabbit and sausage jambalaya and cole slaw, which I navigated around due to my fear of mayonnaise. I couldn't wait to tell Steph how great this place was. During the meal, we talked and laughed a lot, telling each other our stories and I kept thinking how amazingly well we connected considering how we had just met like half an hour ago. Of course I got to hear the story of how Mike and his current girlfriend got together. She is a childhood pal who professed her longtime crush after years of lives apart, and who lives in NYC, but he is trying to get to move to New Orleans. Throughout our time together, I never even learned her name. She is simply "my girlfriend." Possessive. Pronoun. His. Somewhere in NYC at the same moment, she was probably invoking the same possessive for "my boyfriend." My life is a cruel, cruel bitch.

Sadly, I am getting used to such sad realities, being single in my late 30s. The good guys, the ones I get along with and know how to talk to me, who don't go around quoting Seinfeld incessantly and show genuine kindness, appreciation and respect, are always taken. Or gay. Sigh. But I'm a good sport. And it was time to move on and keep enjoying my night regardless.

Next was a welcome tour deeper into the Garden District, still light out so I could see it in all its deep summer, lush glory. Big porches, balconies, intricate wrought iron embellishments, weeping willows, hanging gardens, lilac and lots of gas lanterns. It made me long for a swing, iced tea and firefly sightings, but we were late for the gig at Neutral Ground Coffee House.

We arrived as the band had already started cooking. There was a hot female pianist on an upright and another attractive backup singer who looked like a modern day fashion mag spread on hippie love children, a male lead singer/guitarist and another guitarist in rockabilly style. Mike took his place on a couch right in front of the band and I nervously sat opposite, but was quickly beckoned to sit next to him. It didn't take long for him to warm up and improv right along with classic covers such as "American Pie." They only played for another half hour or so since another band was due to play, but it was fun. I was glad I got to see Mike do his thing, and do it so well under the circumstances!

He had just signed a lease that day for a new 1/2 house pad nearby, so we drove by to check it out. Ample front porch, gaslights and lilac trees. Very niiiiice. The place had the added attraction of being just around the corner from a very cool local bar, the Bons Temps. We entered as a friend of Mike's jammed Southern jazz on the upright piano, there were free oysters (which I didn't trust, but others seemed not to care) heaped in plates at the corner of the bar and a big pool table. We got a couple of bourbons and Mike showed me the back bar, no A/C, but a great space for a band some other night. We hung out up front for a bit, then transferred our bourbons into to go plastic cups (one of the great features of the city) and went back to the car.

We made a pit stop at Mike's soon-to-be-former residence he was leaving for the lilac and gaslights. It's on a rough, abandoned block just outside the Quarter, but the interior is lovely. Big open slate kitchen and bathroom, jacuzzi, cool open shower (no doors or curtain, tres sexy) and pretty outdoor patio with lots of plants. If it weren't for the scary, desolate block, this would be prime real estate. And probably will be someday once the other houses get built up again. But still, it was another reminder of how far rent money stretches in places outside NYC. For the same price I couldn't even snag a dingy studio in Canarsie. I noticed that his place was nicely, but not TOO nicely decorated for a straight male's pad. Lots of Mexican touches, like little rugs and pottery, with a couple of photos on the wall. One was of a young black guy with big ears and a trumpet, obviously a jazz idol of Mike's. I asked who it was and he told me Lee Morgan. I knew who he was! Never seen a photo of him, but The Cooker has become one of my favorite jazz albums, I learned about it from a bartender friend in Brooklyn who was playing it in his bar one night, and I told that to Mike. Obviously impressed, as Lee Morgan is fairly obscure, he pointed at me and said, "YOU'RE alright." I beamed.

Back to Frenchman St. We pop into Cafe Negril, a reggae spot with lots of painted Bob Marley murals, where a band that Mike used to play with before they did away with a horn section, is just setting up. We met his bartender friend (sorry, name escapes me) and got another round of bourbons. Didn't stay long since the band wouldn't start soon, so went up the street with the ubiquitous plastic cup and stopped and listened outside a few other joints. I love Frenchman St. On one city block, you can be treated to live blues, jazz, funk, reggae, soul, you name it. And is that a tuba player on a bike??? I loved hearing the sounds wafting out to us on the humid streets. A new club, all wood floors and balconies, was getting set to open at the end of the block across from our original meeting spot, 13. We got past the doorman, a friend of Mike's and took a seat at a table near the window. No A/C on yet, and there was only one other table occupied farther in. A woman with blonde dreds with seated with three others and Mike pointed out this was Cassandra Wilson. Wow. I looooove her. Been a fan and CD collector since my pal Lisa introduced me to her music in the mid 90s. We got to see her live at Carnegie Hall once too. But I couldn't approach her here. She looked like she was having a nice, mellow time and I didn't think a fan interruption would be welcomed.

By now, the humidity and bourbon and sounds, the increasing lateness and fatigue and fact that I had essentially been drinking since noon (was that really the same day?) were washing over me and I knew the night needed to end soon. One more stop to hear the grooves from outside Negril, once the band got going, and they sounded fantastic, and then finally a fun blues band down the street, one more bourbon inside (momentum got the best of me) and finally a ride back to the hotel. A hearty hug from Mike (I'll take it) and into the Prytannia Park I went, happy to have seen the city at last and to get a break from the Cocktailians for a while. I ended up watching an infomercial for Dean Martin's variety show for twenty minutes, then passed out, dreaming of Frenchman St., Cassandra, sea monsters (it's a dream, remember?) and a new great friend.

Ah, New Orleans: Part 2

On Thursday, I took the Charles Ave. streetcar to the French Quarter, walked a bit and grabbed a bite at Cafe Beignet before my first class, How Good is Your Palate? Taught by Paul Pacult. For those who don't know, he is considered one of the great spirits authorities, and his quarterly Spirits Journal reviews new spirits and is considered to be the ultimate guide to liquor. It was an honor to take a class with him. It was the only class I actually paid out of pocket for, and so glad I did. We were greeted by what you see in the image on the left (10:30 am, folks!). Six spirits, unlabeled. Throughout the class, in a truly engaging and fun manner, he guided us on how to blind taste them by breaking it down into seven elements (would be lost in translation to share them here). He kept hammering home how it's a fact of life that women have better palates than men, though the men seemed to be the ones asking all the questions and making all the comments. Especially this Scottish bartender I sadly never learned the name of, who asked a lot of questions in every class I had with him. Mostly good ones. Very geeky. Anyway, I gave myself a big pat on the back as I was able to identify 4 out of 6 of them, both category and brand. Cheating a little since I knew they were all supplied by Pernod Ricard and that Paul is a big fan of two of them. The ones I got were Plymouth gin, Chivas Regal 18 Year, Glenlivet 15 YR (OK, I guessed 12, but STILL) and Redbreast 12 Yr. The ones that threw me were straight Absolut, which in blind tasting was somewhat chocolatey and so I thought it was flavored, and Martel Cordon Bleu (I knew it was cognac, just not sure which one. Some guy thought it was Calvados, so Paul was right about us chicks!).

Half hour break, then Sugarcane Spirits Around the World. Panelists were consultant Angus Winchester, boutique spirits consultant Duggan McDonnell, my pal Lynnette Marrero who is formerly awesome bartender from Freeman's and Elettaria and now Zacapa brand ambassador (the main reason I wanted to take the class) and another acquaintance, Ben Jones, brand manager of Rhum Clement. Huge contrast to the professional manner of the last class. I'm no prude, but most of the guys were total potty mouths and seemed to be more interested in making double entendres for Lynnette to answer to than really teaching us about what we came for. We were also presented with three drinks: a lame and obvious caipirinha to represent cachaca, a sickly sweet Ti Punch (pronounced "paunch" and judging by its sugar content, lives up to its name) for Martinique rhum and straight Ron Zacapa, which is a dark aged rum from Guatemala that does indeed require no mixing, but still would have been nice in a cocktail since most of us have tasted it before. Not so worthwhile.

Decided to ditch the next class on Port drinks so Stephanie and I could take a walk and grab lunch at Napoleon House, very southernly hospitable and fun. We still had time to get a beer at Chart House before the last class. Stephanie told me about her class on the Molecular DNA of Classic Cocktails in which the class started by everyone being handed a balloon and a tack. I had class envy.

Last seminar of the day we had together with Jen, New Orleans Pharmacists. Not so exciting. A little dry, or maybe I was just getting tired. We did taste an approximation of Herbsaint cocktails from the early days and saw some fun images projected, but I could have taken or left it.

The evening's fun began with a huge party at the Presbytere, hosted by Diageo. 25 rock star bartenders making signature cocktails around a state museum after hours. Awesome. Very well laid out and a perfect way to learn about new places and meet who's mixing what. I was especially impressed that Dave Wondrich, who usually writes about cocktails but doesn't act as bartender, was one of the people slinging drinks (wasnt great, but didn't suck. He favors gin). Standouts were Steve Olson's made with Don Julio 1942, which could also be sampled neat if you asked nicely. Also Lynnette's El Nino with Ron Zacapa (I didn't say anything about her class but only I was glad to see her there), Jim Meehan's yummy tequila drink with figs. (Sorry, I'm pretty bad about remembering cocktail names unless they are truly memorable). This lovely bartender from the Teardrop Lounge in Portland, Oregon made a fab cocktail with our Raspberry LOFT (only available on the west coast as of press time), though at this point I only remember it tasted really good, not what it was. I didn't get to taste Charles Hardwick from Blue Owl's cocktail, as he was talking on his phone instead of mixing, which surprised people when I told them that, but so it is. I deliberately skipped PW's stuff. 'nuff said. Stephanie had a great coffee and tequila thing that I tasted, but I forget from where. Sorry.

Believe it or not, we had to leave this so we could catch a Spirited Dinner, one of many around the city that night, at August. Cooked by celebrity chef John Besh and hosted by Dave Wondrich, who I was amazed beat us there from the Presbytere, does he have access to teleportation? I was excited to eat there as we were getting quite the deal considering how pricey the place usually is. But my heart sank when I learned that every cocktail would have St. Germain Elderflower liqueur in it. Yes, each dinner, it turns out, had a featured spirit, hammering home the utter corporateness I was quickly learning would prevail. I like St. Germain alright, but it's very sweet and tends to give me a vicious headache if I have more than just a little. We also each had specially made bottles of something called 60/40, which was parts St. Germain and Averno Italian liqueur. We cracked one open to taste. Think coke, but more medicinal. Maybe OK added to something. Perhaps someday. I later learned that these were created to commemorate an after hour's party last year where these were the only things left to drink and were then mixed together with surprising results. Cocktail goggles, people!

Erin and Craig joined us for this, and we were seated at a big table with 5 others who were very much into it, so that was fun. Opening cocktail was a gin/Elderflower punch. Next we were served "Louisiana Sushi" which, among others, included a scrumptious crawfish roll that was the standout of the evening. Served with Galvez Tonic cocktail, which was sadly forgettable. Next was a Vietnamese/Cajun fusion shrimp and okra, somewhat brothy dish (awesome), served with yet another cocktail that was indistinguishable from the last two. Then Mayhaw (huh?) glazed local lamb with a sweet corn risotta and summer truffle. Parts of the lamb were way too rare for me, but the parts that weren't were succulent and flavorful. Was disappointed that the "sweet corn" was baby corn, not cob, but yet the dish still succeeded. We had my favorite cocktail of the night with this, a Claret Cup, which was Bordeaux (I guessed it was Merlot based and not American, am I good or what?) with Elderflower and, kill me, more gin? and soda. But it worked. Dessert course was most disappointing. A warm berry tart that was no longer warm, but still OK, with buttermilk ice cream and for inexplicable reasons, a way too tart and gelatinous passion fruit berry salad. This was served with hands down the most disgusting cocktail I have ever ingested (saying a LOT): The Rogue. St. Germain again, cheap white rum, possibly not even Bacardi, and half and half. No garnish. Nothing. So basically, it was astringent, flowery snot. Dave was gone by then and I wonder if this was somehow batched on the fly and not what was intended?

We were all invited to the court house steps (gotta love NOLA decadence) for a St. Germain party, but I bowed out. Last thing I wanted was more of that. Already I was feeling the little alien trying to escape from between my eyes, which invades my head every time I drink more than two cocktails with that stuff. Steph and Jen went, from the sound of it later, think it was OK to skip. So third night in N'awlins and in bed by 11. What gives? Still, head. Pillow. Done.

Since I didn't have a morning class Friday, I had a good lie in and made my way to the Quarter on the streetcar, this time headed to Cafe Du Monde for beignets and chickory coffee. For once a tourist trap that lives up to its hype! Despite being cranked out by the hundreds each hour, they were perfectly warm, crisp, light and sugary and the coffee was gorgeously balanced. I still had at least an hour to kill before heading to ground zero for class, so I wandered around Jackson Square in the muggy heat, ducked into another coffee place for some A/C after 15 mins.

The noon class that I was most excited about was Drinks From the 1600s, led by cocktail historian Darcy S. O'Neill. A wonderful presentation using lots of visuals, mostly shots of paintings from the century, some with drunken monkeys in them, always a crowd pleaser. Most of the cocktails of the century were mixed as cures, not pleasurable drinks, with names like Plague Water, which was essentially Absinthe with ginger, sherry, vinegar and sage. Yup, we tried it. We learned of tips such as how to avoid getting drunk from drink by eating roasted goat lung or raw coleworts. We also had a way yummy cocktail called the Trappistine which was brandy, Benedictine (already in existence back then), Pernod Absinthe (to cover the anise and wormwood), dry vermouth, lemon balm tea infusion, rosewater, fresh mint and dash of bitters. Some more pictures, facts and a discussion of how coffee was protested by women as being the killer of the "grand kindness." Which explains a great deal.

Next class was a disappointing MESS. Cocktails of the Seven Seas. So many creative and fun ways to do this, but this was like watching an audience perspective's slideshow, not even a bootleg DVD, but SLIDESHOW, of one of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, but with maps and without Johnny Depp, which is kinda like porn dialogue without the sex. The moderator had it together but was a total snooze, and the other panelist, a bartender I know who works at a well known NYC steakhouse, was schnoggered and incapable of speaking, his ship had set sail long before we got there. Perhaps he should have eaten roasted goat lung or colewort for breakfast? We had only one cocktail, but at least it was good. The Voyager: Don Q rum, Benedictine, again, Velvet Falernum, lime juice, dash Angostura bitters. But not worth sitting through the other crap. Glad I didn't pay for it!

Got a text that Steph's class was canceled, so she was back at the Chart House with her friend Ryan, who had recently moved to town. I had just enough time to catch them before meeting up with Mike, John's friend who I was supposed to contact, mentioned in the previous post. The true taste of New Orleans was just about to come.

Ah, New Orleans: Part I

Disclaimer: Yes, I know it's been a while. But these next few postings should well make up for my silence. This bit will be in at least three parts, there is that much to say. It was only 5 1/2 days, but somehow I lived more during those days than I have in as many years. Enjoy. I sure did coming up with the material!

So I spent most of last week in New Orleans for Tales of the Cocktail, which is a huge industry convention for all things spirits-based and what to mix them with. The days are filled with tastings as well as seminars, and the evenings are all about the parties. I was there as the unofficial third mistress of LOFT liqueur (see last post), and was partially sponsored by them to do this, but also to obviously meet new people in the industry and hopefully plant the seeds to grow much needed job fruit.

All the events center around the French Quarter and specifically, the Hotel Monteleone, which I will from here on out refer to as "ground zero." I was not staying there, but rather in the Prytannia Park Hotel, just inside the Garden District about 15 minutes away. At first I considered my choice to do this, both for monetary reasons as well as having a place to escape to from the Cocktalians and the tourists, a bad one since it was a little inconvenient and meant that I didn't have the option to freshen up before the evening's events. So most days, after walking around in the steam bath (each day it was in the mid 90s in like 90% humidity, and rained HARD in the afternoon for about 10 minutes, that kind of rain can actually bruise a person!), I wasn't exactly fresh, but then no one else was all that much either. By day two I had very much come to appreciate my decision. It was good to get away and the people who run the hotel are sweethearts, even if it wasn't exactly the lap of luxury like the Monteleone or the bargain of a $50 a night stay at the more streamlined Marriott.

I arrived Tuesday afternoon, along with LOFT vice-mistress, Sabrina. After settling in at our respective residences (the mistresses were staying at ground zero), we all met in the Carousel Bar at the hotel, named thus because it revolves, but kinda quickly. Which makes it impossible to order a drink if it's crowded because the bartenders are essentially in the same places, but if you don't have a seat, you are forced to keep walking around to maintain the same space where you found a way in to the bar itself, till they notice you are thirsty, and continue to earn your drink, elbowing around the crowd, as you wait for it. Anyway, the first round of cocktalians were already there, and drinking. LOTS. I noticed quickly most of these people were not going to even attempt to pace themselves. Great. Oh, that first drink? Sazerac. When in Rome.

We had to find a vegetarian friendly spot for Lisa, and luckily, my good friend John has a pal there I could consult (more on that later). In New Orleans, that's not such a big easy, as vegetables are mainly incidental ingredients used to thicken the butter, seafood and pork. But he recommended a great African place about 10 blocks from the hotel called Bennachin. We had to wait for it outside in the heat, but well worth it.

After dinner and a sultry night time stroll back down Royal, we went to our first party, sponsored by Benedictine, at Latrobe's. Amid the glitz and human statues, all the bartenders were wearing monk's robes and had to take and deliver drink orders in mannerisms that I guess were intended to be "pious," which meant a lot of exaggerated bowing and hand sweeps. Of course there were only 3 cocktails to choose from and they were all sickly sweet, but people drank them anyway. It was pretty dang loud. DJ monk was spinning lots of Michael Jackson and assorted 80s and 90s dance tunes as we all tried to gather for our first schmoozing opportunity. The only cool schtick was a "spirits reading" where we were then given a goblet that would befit our chosen prophecy and place in society. I, of course, was a peasant. But I love the wooden goblet I got to keep. After making the rounds once, we all decided to leave to rest up for the next day.

Day two, the mistresses and I had to work a Fresh Market event in the tasting room all day, focusing on organic liquor brands. We were disappointed to learn that we would not be serving our featured cocktail, peach puree with lavender liqueur, ginger and mint (yeah, not so much, but I didn't say it out loud) all day. But instead, each featured brand would only get two hours, but we had to represent all day anyway. Which meant we had to stand around and constantly explain that, while pouring out our flavors neat to anyone who wanted to sample them. However, it was under these circumstances that I initially met the most people. I ended up skipping two of the seminars I was to attend that day so I could keep greeting the crowds.

But I did attend one seminar that day, The Art of Banging Out Cocktails like a Maniac, led by bar owners/tenders Philip Duff of Bols and Bar 74 in Amsterdam (though he is Irish) and Dushan Zaric (originally from Belgrade) of Employees Only and Macao Trading Co. What a way to start! Philip and Dushan, neither of whom I have previously met, gave a meaningful, hilarious talk about essentially cutting the bullshit and just making good drinks, enough to turn a bigger profit for your bar business. Stop talking about the colors of Jerry Thomas' ties and adjusting your stupid bowler hat and make the damn drinks. Have your work station well prepared, use good but not too expensive ingredients and learn to judge how many of them, especially the perishable ones, you really need based on sales, which will vary throughout the week. Oh, and no matter what, they're BARTENDERS. Not mixologists. Not bar chefs. But bartenders. Main job is to make drinks and make sure people are having a good time while earning money. This was heartening, a couple of weeks after having drinks at a new, trendy and expensive cocktail establishment in the East Village (this one focusing on one main spirit from South America, I will say no more) where John and I were treated like thirsty vermin by totally unfriendly and pretentious staff. It depressed me, made me think the art of bartending was going the way of the newspaper. I also enjoyed little asides from Philip, like when he accidentally dropped the mic and chalked that up to an overdeveloped right hand... from making "too many presentations!" And that a bartender must be a swan. I.e. "...paddle like a bastard below, but be graceful up top." They also made a short film about a typical prep day at Employees Only. It put me in a great mood. Over by 6:00, ready for a real night out.

Since I didn't have tickets to that evening's Plymouth gin event (my main complaint about Tales, incidentally, is that after everyone has shelled out all that dough, the parties were ticketed and somewhat tough to get into even if you came with important people), I met up with my best gal pal Stephanie Moreno, spirits buyer and floor manager at Astor Wines, (where I worked for two years and got my real entre into the spirits world) who had just arrived, along with Jen Smith, the program director at Astor Center. They were staying with a former co-worker, Erin Toomey, who had just moved to town with her hubby Craig, who's in the Coast Guard. We went round the corner to the Chart House on Chartres St (pronounced "charters" as I was corrected into saying). An awesome local joint, that like everything, was a bit rough around the edges but so much fun. My first bottle of Abita while in town. Great bartender. Yep, friendly, makes people feel special, sense of humor and quick. This became our local throughout the trip.

The three ladies and I went to Cochon for dinner, a place my parents had said they didn't take a shine to (that was years ago), but that everyone else seemed to give high praise. Well, everyone was right! Amazing meal. We pigged out in every sense. Charcuteries, fried pigs ears that came with a rum mustard sauce I could utterly mainline, home made boudin (fried), fried alligator in cajun sauce, chicken liver crostinis with another yummy sauce. For dinner I had a rabbit stew with dumplings and also very much enjoyed my tastes of everyone else's entree, which ranged from beautifully prepared fish to an oyster and bacon poboy. We shared a gorgeous blueberry lemon custard tart with buttermilk ice cream and this AMAZING chocolate and chickory pudding, as well as some cocktails, my favorite being rye with Clear Creek loganberry liqueur and lemon. In attendance throughout the restaurant were main cocktail historian Dave Wondrich and bartender Jim Meehan, who was eventually named best bartender for his work at PDT at the closing awards dinner, which I didn't get to attend. We were all so full, no way there would be more drinking, so we all retired. Not so for the other cocktalians around the city, as I later learned. Oy.

New Orleans is a great compliment to my self esteem. Not only am I incredibly thin compared to most locals, but I am the picture of moderation compared to many of my drinks colleagues.

The next day, the real Tales of the Cocktail began to be told. More on that later.

The Treatment

Whoo boy. I am really hoping I haven't seriously damaged my hair this time.

I let them talk me into it. I'm a total sucker for vanity projects. My hair usually hangs perfectly in dry weather. Tamed and shiny as though reporting for white glove inspection at army basic training. But I dread every summer rainy and/or humid day knowing that no matter how valiant my efforts, no matter how much supposed smoothing product and spray I weigh my hair down with, in 30 seconds every strand will seemingly split in threes and stick out in all directions like Medusa, but with electric eels instead of snakes. Hats make it worse. Adornments, like barrettes, do little to distract. Rachel, one of the stylists at my salon who has known me and my unruly Jewfro for years, and who shares my moist weather miseries and has worn her hair in a short crop for 2 years, came up to me at my last haircut with a shiny longer bob and said this treatment changed her life and I should do it too.

It's called a Keratin treatment, not to be confused with the Brazilian one which has formaldehyde in it. This one supposedly doesn't (though smells like it does). It costs $200. Or roughly half my weekly unemployment wages. A lot to cough up. But what if this means my July trip to New Orleans won't be spent looking like Frizzy Lizzy (or since this is a cocktail convention, Bushy Lush Lush). What if I can finally just wash and go and spare myself the constant schvitzing after the hair dryer for 3 whole months? What if I can do things like spontaneous go out for brunch and cross the Brooklyn Bridge in a rain storm without an umbrella, so I don't look like a wuss? Maybe this is wise investment. Maybe this should be the ultimate birthday gift to myself. No more shameful summer hair days. I can be shorn free.

So last Sunday, June 21st, the day after my birthday. I underwent. The Treatment, plus a kicky new haircut. The challenge is that you can't wash your hair, or even really let it come in contact with moisture in any form for 3 whole days while this shit sets. And it stinks. It smells like Pepe Le Pew finally had his way with the cat. On your head.

So Rachel did the treatment, left it in, dried it, rinsed it, and flat ironed it to set. Stinky, but beaming and hopeful I set off for the afternoon before meeting my parents for dinner. Of course I spent the whole rest of the afternoon trying to dodge sideways downpours and sweating profusely for my efforts. But the do seemed to stay in place despite the elements. Did it work? I went to bed believing it had. Careful not to mess it up too much, I was mindful of my night movements so I could wake up like fucking Snow White with pretty, soft hair and singing woodland creatures.

But oh no! My new fringe bangs were a disaster and everything was bunched up and hanging wrong. Now Rachel said I could use a dry shampoo and blow it again. And I was very careful not to get it wet in the shower, tucking it under both a scarf AND a cap. Yet I couldn't make it lie right and just resigned myself to living with whatever I could arrange on my head for the next two days. By day three I was at the Brooklyn Cyclones baseball game in Coney Island during an exciting game under constant threat of thunder showers. Between the wind, humidity and sea air, I looked pretty much like I always used to, (zzzzappp!) but I kept my cool and optomism. I had crossed the rubicon. In a mere eight hours I could finally wash my hair.

Which smelled like it was actually farting as I washed it, that crap is so nasty. But no fear, right? it's raining, but I'll just give it a light dry and prance outside like everyone else. Right?

Wrong. Layers starting to stick up and OUT. Bangs frizzing and bunching. I had to work a spirits event with LOFT liqueurs and be all smiles and cleavage, but inside I was miserable. Plus the photographer kept coming to our table! With nowhere for me to hide! I'm probably known behind my back as that Chubby Organic Cordial Lady With The Frizzy Hair.

Next day was worse. All that time, money and energy and my rebellious locks refused to be tamed. I was defeated. I called the salon to see if there was anything that could be done and came in for a consult the next day. The only resolution they could offer was a free conditioning treatment and to re-do the Keratin again. Don't worry, it's safe. Your hair *shouldn't* break off.

So now. In a world. Where Jews are defenseless against humidity, where moisture prevailed and The Treatment was beaten. I came back for Round 2. It's dry out today at least and I got home without incident. But I'm scared. Little broken hairs are sticking up. The stink is stronger than ever. The color seems stripped off and my scalp is numb. It's straight, but at what cost? Stay tuned...

That's Really Super, Super Girl

Well, it's my birthday.

I used to be one of those people who got really into celebrating my own big day. I would make sure I could get all my friends together in one place, make sure there was a fantastic dinner and a cake (or at the very least something good made of chocolate), no dishes to do, no whining, everything totally Amanda-centric. Raise a toast. Queen for one day and all that. I don't even mind getting older. Really. I actually find it kind of interesting. It's like, "Wow, is that a gray hair? Huh. Imagine that?" Honestly, doesn't bother me.

Somehow this year I feel like all the air has gone out of it. Yeah. It hasn't exactly been the best of times. I lost my job in December. I lost my uterus in February. Job prospects have been bleak and there is a likelihood of yet more new vocational training in my near future. And there hasn't been a steady man in my life for years. But that isn't exactly it. The uterus thing, especially, has been somewhat of a blessing in disguise. No more periods and lord knows I don't have the patience to navigate a stroller with a hollering, snot-crusted thing in it in the subway. And the job? Anyone who knows me knows how much I love wine and hate THEM. No, that isn't it. Men? I'm not exactly relationship material right now.

Seeing as I was likely switched at birth with an Irish Catholic family (I don't buy that whole going into labor in line for Woody Allen's Bananas thing for one second, Dave and Carlotta. Nice try), I think this year I feel guilty about really whooping it up. I feel guilty making my friends pay for a big dinner and cocktails (and the vast quantity of them I seem capable of drinking) when I can't return the favor. Since December, my good friends (you guys really are amazing) have been lavishing me with dinners out and yummy drinks and my parents have had to pick up the tab every time we go out. There's not a whole lot I can do to match that. By now I wanted to have a big party and pay for everyone to come. By now I want to grab the check for my dad's Father's Day dinner at a fancy restaurant. And I can't. Unemployment has been my kryptonite. I've lost my super powers. I guess I didn't know what they were today until it hit me today. I was Benevolence Girl. I was the Charity Chick. Or Maybe even Hospitality Hussy.

It was a cool uniform to wear too. I wish I could still fit into it.

Self-Imposed Prisoner of Baltic Street

Oy, oy, oy. I am not feeling like myself at all. Last night I was supposed to hang out with friends in the hood, finally try that Lucali's pizza everyone's been going so nuts over, and see Robyn Hitchcock play within walking distance (granted a long walk. In the rain.) of my house. But after a week of essentially doing nothing, a wave of fatigue and sadness got the best of me and I skipped the whole thing and sat home and watched the Prisoner of Second Avenue.

Not exactly the thing to lift one's spirits six months into unemployment. Takes place in 1975, yup, height of NYC's worst recession before, well, now. Jack Lemmon is losing his shit. Everything makes him "nervous." There's a heat wave. He narrowly misses the bus, then runs to catch it but doesn't have the exact .35 (!) to stay on. He flags down a cab, hoping for a quick ride and some A/C relief, only to discover that a young, pocky Murray F. Abraham can only have it on up front. He arrives at work to discover half the staff laid off and a bill for yesterday's lunch. At home, the A/C only works on extremely cold settings, but he'll take it over the alternative, his next door neighbors' very faint partying disturbs him just THAT much, and gorgeous wife Anne Bancroft (who manages to be beautiful and chic no matter what New York accent she has to put on over it), who has the patience of a Saint Patricks Day bartender, can't get him to calm down, helplessy watching him yell and bang the easily cracking sheetrock wall down. He eventually loses the job, they get robbed of everything including the liquor and all his suits and his upstairs neighbor dumps a pale of ice cold water on him during a particularly awful rant on their tiny terrace. Months go by, Anne Bancroft gets a stressful job with long hours (but AWESOME pencil skirts), he fails to find one himself (Job, I mean, no pencil skirts for Jack Lemmon in this flick), and it's not until he "accidentally" mugs Sylvester Stallone in Central Park that he gets his mojo back.

What have I learned from this? Robyn Hitchcock played Waterloo Sunset, one of my very favorite songs EVER and I missed it 'cos I couldn't get my head out of my ass. Maybe I need a pencil skirt to get a job. And I am not looking forward to NYC's next heatwave and $2.25 bus and subway fare.

Stallone's in his 60s now. I can take him. Well, maybe...

Flopper Flapper

Yes, I know, I know. My posts stand neglected. Bad on me.

So a lot has happened since my last post.

I put up an etsy store for my jewelry, finally. winenshine.etsy.com. I'm pretty proud of how well I've managed the page so far. I even tapped into what I thought were forgotten photoshop skills and made my own cyber banner. Only one sale so far, though. But lots of appreciative traffic, so hope that leads to something.

I've also had one job interview. For a job I didn't get (but let's face it, didn't want that badly either). I welcomed the practice, anyway.

Life has been very solitary this week. I went out almost every night last week and spent like a pre-crash Wall Streeter. I have this sick internal mechanism, and I think I get this from my overspending dad, that kicks into gear whenever funds get dangerously low, as they are now. The less I have, the more pricy nights out or ridiculous shit I find to buy. I seriously almost bought a Psycho shower curtain. And my bathtub has doors!!!

But I do understand now why they call it a Depression. I just want to sit around and do nothing all day, maybe draw some lines on the backs of my legs where my stockings should be.