School Is Starting and We're Not Who We Used To Be

So today is the first day of school. You can tell. The East Village has gone from mildly overcrowded to fucking ridiculous and everywhere are very, very excited, very, very young people. I know you're probably rolling your eyes right now (and this from a 25 year old, you're thinking), but really, these people look young. To me.

And then there are the outfits. No incoming NYU student is just wearing clothes. No, no. They've finally arrived, they're at NYU, in New York Fucking City, and they know that this is it, the chance to redefine themselves as the coolest, most accessorized people they know. They've got the hipster asscrack jeans and the ironic hats, they've got all their rings on and their shirts are carefully torn. They're still figuring out the best way to smoke their cigarettes and line their eyes. I live on a street with a lot of bars and last night, over the rattle of our failing AC, I could hear the howl of NYUUUUU! NYUUUUU! NYUUUUU! from some kid with a fake ID having the best night of his life.

I start class today, too, though with much less forethought and wardrobe preparation. I'm in Paule Marshall's Craft of Short Fiction class, but I have to say I'm a bit ambivalent about beginning what will likely be my last year of formal education. I was hoping to graduate with a novel, but then this summer changed my entire life and I can't even begin to guess where I'll be come May. What before was a clear cut path is now shadowed and weedy and I keep trying to remind myself of July's sharp, shocking lesson: plans, while nice things to have, are not magic spells. The universe brings people to you and takes them away, and it isn't until they're gone that you realize they've taken you with them.

Not Every Character Needs a Soulmate

I just got back from seeing Bourne Ultimatum for the second time. God, that movie's fun. I also saw Superbad recently, and though I normally hate comedies (not all comedies, not Bill Murray comedies), this one had me on the floor. And I realized today that both films are good for the same reason.

Its not that either one reinvents the wheel. Borne is an action movie. There's a muscley hero, shadowy government, young blonde, fight scenes, car chases, yada yada. And it's not like Superbad does anything Adam Sandler, American Pie, or Ben Stiller haven't already tortured us with. They couldn't have fit in any more cum jokes if they tried.

But both movies also avoid the usual pitfalls of action, comedy and, for that matter, most films: sentimentality. Bourne doesn't even kiss anyone this time around, never mind spending the whole ninety minutes rescuing some useless dye-job. And in Superbad, while the duo spends the whole movie in pursuit of sex, it's obvious that the writers were less interested in underaged tail than in awkward adolescent interaction. Most movies these days turn into thinly veiled romantic comedies as soon as the premise is established, so it's refreshing to see how good a movie can be when its plot serves some purpose other than getting the male lead laid.

Chelsea is Weird

I was walking west on 23rd St. the other day and saw seven blind people (two with dogs), three freakishly veiny bodybuilders (two men, one woman), and two people missing a combined total of two hands and thirteen fingers all waiting at the light to cross 6th Ave. They weren't together (well, two of the body builders may have been together, but the third seemed to take pains to distance himself from them).

Now, there is a residence for the blind on the block, as well as one of those super serious muscle gyms, but how do you explain the missing body parts? How do you explain us all waiting at the same light? I wish I could have corralled them into some daytime alcoholics' bar and bought a few beers.

I'm An International Superstar!

I got my first hit from Iran! Isn't that exciting?? They didn't stay long, and apparently they were looking for something called Best of Manga, but still! I'm thrilled! I had my fingers crossed that I'd hear from The Iraq, but Iran is just as good.

Such as.

Food I Eat, Part 2

Do you know about black and white cookies? I didn't, not until I moved to New York. And, like pandas, Obama, Bob Marley and me, they are excellent.

Your first black and white can be sort of surprising because you bite down expecting cookie and end up with cake. When done right, they are lovely, spongy things, almost like madeleines. The icing satisfies not one but two cravings and overlaps down the middle in a thick strip, chocolate and vanilla laid right on top of each other with a why-the-hell-not bravado.

The only problem with black and whites is that they can easily go bad. The homemade, local bakery kind get stale after a day, and the prepackaged bodega kind have the chemically aftertaste of Twinkies. The white icing can get too hard, the black icing can melt too easily. The baker can try to trick up the cake and throw in orange peel or some other impurity. There are just so many ways it can go wrong.

Luckily, I'm not alone in my quest for the perfect black and white. Jordan Cooper, of the Black and White Cookie Review, also struggles against poor black and white quality control. It was through him that I learned about The Black and White Cookie Company, a place in upstate New York that will ship you very delicious and even seasonally-themed black and whites for more money than you'd think.

Big ups Jordan. I can only hope that, someday, your respect and admiration for the mulatto baked good will be shared by all.

Food I Eat, Part 1

I love mac n cheese. You do too, I'm sure. We all do. Because it's delicious. So you can imagine my delight when I heard about an East Village restaurant that serves only mac n cheese. It's a brilliant idea, right? Especially because mac n cheese is often, and cruelly, designated as a side dish.

I stopped by. The place is called S'mac. A cute name, too cute really, but they only serve mac n cheese, so I forgave them. As promised, they had an extensive menu - lots of cheeses and meats and vegetables to choose from, bread crumbs or no, though they don't offer hot dogs, which was a disappointment. And their food was fine, nothing offensive about it or anything, but when I left I was unsatisfied. It wasn't until I went back that I figured out the problem. The reason S'mac is able to offer so many choices is also it's downfall: they have a bunch of prepared sauces that they just ladle over the noodles and mixings when you order. They make the whole thing in a skillet and throw it in the oven for five minutes, so it looks oven baked, but it's not. And I never knew this before, but oven baked is really the secret to good mac n cheese.

Luckily, I found this while wasting my life on the web. It's the top 25 mac n cheeses in New York. Though mac n cheese is a southern black food, and all these restaurants are located in the lily parts of Manhattan or the just-as-white-but-more-proud-of-themselves parts of Brooklyn. Plus, S'mac is #12 on their list, so these people at gridskipper might just be full of shit. But I'm gonna check a few of these places out myself. Those pictures are like porn.

75 Degrees and Breezy

Grief is hard because there's nothing to be done about it. Daily, I mean. It's a huge emotion that always takes precedence and when it comes you know that's what you're doing for the next hour or ten. It soaks the brain and expands. It dampens everything else.

No amount of sacrifice or spending will help. There's no one to call. You can't ask for the manager, you can't file an appeal. You can't even file a complaint. It's a rare thing to encounter something you can't complain about through bureaucratic channels.

It's a beautiful day in New York today and I couldn't care less.