kidchamp dot net: cautionary tales

08.31.05

i have a soft spot for inxs. for reasons now buried in the sands of time, my fourth grade boyfriend and i would sit for hours listening to kick (especially "guns in the sky"). i excavated my tape for the first time in years on (what i later learned was) the night michael hutchence died, which spooked me enough that i hid my cure albums for a week, just in case. though joe and i figured a reality show based on replacing him would be rather ghoulish, in practice it's both respectful and horribly addictive. an accomplished house band cancels the weird karaoke effect that soured so many american idol performances, and the contestants themselves are (mostly) older, seasoned performers. brooke "i replaced demi" burke is ryan seacrest's vapid analogue, but she's much easier on the eyes; dave navarro, in turn, is so very preferable to paula abdul that he should replace her as a general proposition. with the exception of j.d., a canadian former elvis impersonator who acts like creed's scott stapp and began a queen song by whispering "shh, shh...we are the champions," i think any one of the remaining singers could cut a respectable album with the band.* attention network execs: take a good look at rock star - inxs and adjust your reality projects accordingly.

*but IMHO, suzie or mig - even though, or perhaps especially because, he's in a band called mignition - should win.

08.27.05

101 in 1001: 031 visit the cloisters [completed 08.27.05]
the halls of stairs at the museum entrance had a heavy cinnamon-cedar smell. i asked the docent at the ticket counter about it; "we've got a few flowers up here," she said, gesturing at vials of anise. "there's also a ghost in that hallway who has great perfume." though the buildings themselves were erected in the '30s, most of the cloisters' doors and archways (and a few larger pieces) were trucked over from europe and incorporated in the architecture. the collection is itsy-bitsy compared to the gargantuan met's, of course, but quasi-functional galleries are far more interesting than your average flea market-style museum spreads. my amateurish photo set is up on flickr; the cloisters' loo, in which fellow touristas went medieval (shame, ladies!), is not pictured.

08.26.05

101 in 1001: 005 sell handmade (by me) goods at a craft show [in progress]
pack your bags for ohio, beanie koi: i got an acceptance note today for plush rush (online and) at acme art company's holidaze this christmas. the profit margin is low-to-nonexistent here, given the terms of submission: i'm sending 3 pieces, paying for shipping, and forking over 40% of their purchase prices if they sell. that said, they'll get some nice online exposure, i'll have commercial experience to flaunt in future pitches, and (most importantly) i have a time-sensitive reason to figure out presentation and pricing. hang tags are a given, but i'm on the fence about going complicated-cutesy (take-out boxes, inflated pet store fishie bags, something else?). have a look at the three travelers (a, b, c) - what fripperies could make you want to buy them? how much should i ask for each one?

08.23.05

despite valiant web efforts, no announcements on the 101 in 1001 front today. i thought of killing two birds with one stone and seeing elvis costello lecture and sing next month, but i don't have the $50 to spare. joe and i will be in arizona and california over the holiday weekend; maybe i'll do some heavy lifting out there. on that note, i've been shopping around for a new gym so i can get a few of those 100 workouts under my belt. the copy chief and i toured new york health & racquet, where the highly paid beautiful people take yo-tox classes and the saunas are lined with eucalyptus; the sales dude wildly overestimated my interest in luxury. "anyone can get a car," oozed he, "but people like us want the lamborghini." literally and figuratively, my reaction is the same: i can't even drive stick. i've been screening his calls and will check out the bally across the street next week.

as i write, i'm hunkered down between the roots of a tree in central park. when i look up, i see this:

we like new york.

08.22.05

new addition to the column at top right, as i've hopped on the 101 in 1001 bandwagon; briefly, the idea is to create a list of tasks to be completed over the course of a few years. my tasks range from gimmes (visiting a psychic, closing gaps in my reading list) to pie-in-the-sky stuff (visiting iceland, a bunch of publishing hurdles) and long-term craft projects; i think i'm pleased with the mix. progress will be cross-referenced in blog entries, ex

101 in 1001: 082 become an ordained minister [completed 08.19.05]
this was a total gimme, but hey, a girl's got to start somewhere. i applied to the universal life church in modesto on the strength of a link from modern bride; i wasn't particularly concerned about accidentally joining a cult, but references never hurt. per the confirmation of ordination, i can perform all rites and ceremonies of the church (except circumcision) and am "entitled to all privileges and courtesies normally offered to members of the clergy." i'm totally going on a blessing spree at lunch today.

08.10.05

jake was right; there are bagels in new york you just can't get anywhere else.

08.08.05

readers, i have failed. i sprinted out of work on friday, hoping to put together a wee photo essay on the general lee's appearance at the 56th street hooters, but rain was dissolving the group shot by the time i was within range. i got a picture of jumpsuited dukes of hazzard promo guys and an accidental two-second movie of a hooters girl with fat arms (ha!) running for cover, both nixed with a slip of the thumb on friday evening; sincerest apologies. in lieu of boobies, my favorite snippets from pauline kael's new yorker film reviews (june 1983 - july 1985):

(on footloose)
Footloose is what they're not.

(on risky business)
There's a stale cuteness in the idea; it's like a George Bernard Shaw play rewritten for a cast of ducks and geese.

(on al pacino's tony in scarface)
He's a pig rooting around in money and cocaine, and, as things go wrong, he snorts more and more. (This could be a summary of how some movies are made now.)

(on against all odds)
God, how I have come to hate car chases.

(on prince in purple rain)
He's a cutie when he dances.

08.04.05

as evidenced by my weekend of ovary smut, i have no problem with girlie trash. i find it nice, as a matter of fact - as long as it doesn't think it's something else. lauren weisberger's everyone worth knowing, for example, tries to pass itself off as a defense of the romance novel; no. jane austen stumped for the novel-novel (a "work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language") quite pleasantly in northanger abbey ; weisberger, on the other hand, sends her heroine to a weekly meeting of harlequin junkies who must be on to something good because, in all other respects, they're so damn hip. honey, no. we're also expected to believe in Big Romance because bette's final affair resembles one - but weisberger is too lazy to flesh out her analogies ("it was, i had to admit, a sex scene straight out of a harlequin"), and the 'real' courtship is too skimpy to serve her purpose. then there's the issue of satire, the reason i decided to read the thing in the first place; weisberger leads the reader to believe she's gonna nail the PR/events industry. there's no denying that she knows the scene; i met most of the types she describes, minus the coke binges and bungalow 8 fixations, in my year as a press-schmoozer. that said, bette never really realizes that publicists are Evil; she simply objects to real work, evil or otherwise. worst of all, the book just isn't funny. i hate you, lauren weisberger.

the encyclopedia of exes, on the other hand, is a pleasant surprise; i expected vapid short stories to match the gimmicky premise (26 male writers riff on breakups - alphabetically!) and got a reasonably tight anthology. lethem's "five" (originally "five fucks" in wall of the sky, wall of the eye) is a solid highbrow excuse for picking the book up in the first place, and panio "never heard of him" gianopoulos wins my heart with "murmur," a piece whose love affair ends with the narrator petting a cat that has a serious spinal injury. the bad news? we're reviewing everyone worth knowing, and the encyclopedia of exes got tossed and forgotten on the free table. the good news? i picked it up, so you can borrow it and get happy. i love you, injured cat.

08.03.05

thanatette (6:00:04 PM): what will you name your wine fridge? and do you plan to drink enough white wine to justify it?
thanatette (6:00:21 PM): most importantly, can we have a stevie nicks dress-up night?
Unideli (6:00:47 PM): 1. i will name her claire.
Unideli (6:00:52 PM): 2. it's for red wine, you dolt.
Unideli (6:00:55 PM): 3. yes.

08.02.05

i stitched up another beanie koi. mmm, beanie koi.

08.01.05

i will spare you most of the details of my intensely girlie weekend; food photos are over at flickr, and i'll dry heave over lauren "devil wears prada" weisberger's latest tragedy at a later date. let us summarize with movie cinquains.

wimbledon:

tennis
is not the stuff
of high romance, but i
wouldn't kick paul bettany out
of bed.

the wedding planner:

treacly
and utterly
satisfying. i cried
when yicky j-lo got her man.
help me.

mean girls:

better
by far than what
i've come to expect from
SNL alums. only two
fart jokes!

ms. gaw asked for a list of my favorite ten poems. sadistic girl! that's harder than choosing a favorite child, and i'm a baby-hating dink. here's an attempt, though i would note that i excluded all pieces i've already excerpted or otherwise pimped. in no particular order,

quarantine, eavan boland
the dover bitch, anthony hecht
the taste of rain, jack kerouac
a supermarket in california, allen ginsberg
with mercy for the greedy, anne sexton
do not go gentle into that good night, dylan thomas
a cloud in trousers, vladimir mayakovsky
song, seamus heaney
you're, sylvia plath
this, osip mandelstam

most of those are brief and/or maudlin and/or abrasive, which shouldn't surprise anyone who suffered through poetry 92 with me. go team go!

{champ status log, via twitter}

and you will know us by the stuff we've read (the recent dozen, plus a few stragglers):

faithful place (tana french) :: super sad true love story (gary shteyngart) :: the drowned library (paul kerschen) :: travels in siberia (ian frazier) :: death be not proud (john gunther) :: the magician king (lev grossman) :: mockingjay (suzanne collins) :: catching fire (suzanne collins) :: the hunger games (suzanne collins) :: the silver swan (benjamin black) :: life (keith richards) :: the magicians (lev grossman) :: the pale king (david foster wallace) :: villette (charlotte brontë) :: homer's odyssey (gwen cooper) :: christine falls (benjamin black) :: cloud atlas (david mitchell) :: ghostwritten (david mitchell) :: a visit from the goon squad (jennifer egan) :: neon angel: a memoir of a runaway (cherie currie with tony o'neill) :: the ask (sam lipsyte) :: coco chanel (justine picardie)