Accidental

Wednesday morning, on the way to the subway, I stopped at the curb to check for oncoming traffic. While turned left, a man came quickly from my right and passed a bit too close to me. He essentially ran his shoulder into my jaw. Don't worry, it didn't hurt. But his white shirt brushed against my lips - and he transferred my purple lipstick on to it. He apologized, I apologized.

But he has a stain, and my face didn't even hurt.

So there.

Can Do

My parents recycle. They recycle newspapers, plastic, aluminum, and glass. When it comes to soda cans and bottles, they bring them back to the grocery store in order to redeem the 5 cent deposit. I applaud my parents - ok, let's be honest, my father's - good sense. He is fiscally responsible; he is environmentally aware.

But he could also consider returning the cans in a timely fashion.

When I was in elementary school, returning cans and bottles with my father was somewhat of an event. (Was this a weird activity for a 7 year old? Maybe.) Every six months or so, we would pack up the trunk of the car with several trash bags worth of soda cans and bottles and drive twenty minutes to the grocery store. I have memories of a ShopRite, a Food Emporium and perhaps a Grand Union.

Back then, most of the machines actually spit out nickels, dimes and quarters instead of a receipt, so we would wear belt bags (yes) to carry the change. If you didn't press the "money" button after every can, the machine would produce a quarter after five cans instead of handing you nickels. The store clerk would usually have to come empty the crushed cans and bottles from the machine at least once during these trips. And I would usually come home with $12 in quarters.

For those of you keeping score at home, that's 240 cans and bottles, more than the number of days in 6 months. My parents are diet soda fanatics and for a while, I think we only bought cans.

The funny thing is, I don't even remember drinking that much soda as a kid. I never buy it now, I never order it in restaurants. I think I may have selectively forgotten about it. Until this past weekend.

I was at home in the Bestchester for my mother's birthday and we decided to barbecue. We have an old, delicious charcoal grill. I was charged with setting it up and getting the fire going for dinner. I found the grill, the tools, the lighter fluid - everything - in the garage. But for the life of me, I could not locate the charcoal. My father insisted that it was in the garage, but I was stumped.

Finally, he came outside to help me. He was perplexed to note the large mountain of cans and bottles covering the floor. At some point, his leaning tower of Pisa of aluminum and plastic recyclables had collapsed, creating a landslide that covered the charcoal bag, among other things. Apparently, my father hasn't returned cans and bottles in *over a year.* I asked him if he was trying to make diamonds out of the charcoal, burying it under all that aluminum pressure.

He shrugged. I started the fire. Nothing changes. Dr. Pepper, anyone?

Blissed Out

As it is Friday, I thought it appropriate to write about leisure, relaxation, free time, and whatnot. Perhaps as soon as this evening, someone will turn to me, sitting outdoors, admiring fireflies, and sipping white zinfandel and say, "Audrey, I am blissed out."

I do not know what that means.

To be fair, I comprehend the words. Bliss is a noun that denotes supreme happiness; utter joy or contentment. (Did I just copy that definition from the dictionary? I did.) Bliss is also the name of a rather nice spa, the name of a TV teacher, a British music channel, and, you know, a million other appropriately named things.

But a verb? Excuse me? This is some puzzling slang.

It's clear that "blissed out" just means "being in a state of bliss." But somehow, it has lame, corporate connotations. Like an ad for a new summer soft drink. Or chapstick. Or a middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania water park. Or the slogan for an airport First Class lounge, or a self-help book title, of all horrors.

A quick Google search doesn't turn up much information regarding the origin of "blissed out." I am disappointed. Perhaps it's from a pop song, or it came out of a magazine somewhere. It remains unclear.

In conclusion, I veto the use of the phrase "blissed out." Please evacuate the Dave Matthews concert, and find something more interesting to say. Thank you.

That Smell!

I am following my nose, once again, to tell you about another exciting smell. This one isn't necessarily a good smell, but it's certainly not a bad smell. It's more of an evocative smell.

It is New-Building Smell. (Not to be confused with Burning-Down-Building Smell, which wafted all around my neighborhood last night.)

It is the smell of hope, the smell of dreams, the smell of historical conservation work. It is also the smell of a really nice view.

I was in London during the summer of 2004 the first time I identified this particular smell. I was doing archival research for my undergrad senior thesis at the National Art Library, which is happily housed within the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.

Every morning, I woke up to tea and toast served from little toast racks in a basement dining hall overlooking a sunken garden. I was staying in a University of London dormitory on Edgeware Road with my friend, the Private Eye. Obviously, it was nothing fancy, but it was London - automatic charm.

I would take the Circle line from Edgeware road to South Kensington. I was spoiled - walking around South Kensington during a London summer is like stepping into the opening pages of Peter Pan. The Victoria and Albert Museum is just around the bend from the tube exit. One of its entrances is situated up a few stairs, on top of a gentle hill so that it looks like the building just inhaled a deep breath of air off of Hyde Park. It breathes.

Once inside the museum, I wandered through a few galleries and up a set of stairs to get to the library. Like most museums dating from the nineteenth century, the V&A museum is comprised of several era's buildings, now connected.

In order to get to the bathroom, I would to walk down a corridor past one of the older wings that was in the process of being remodeled. The corridor was painted a deep, undersea green and it was lit only by shafts of daylight coming from skylights at either end. In the middle of the corridor, there was a little window overlooking the old wing.

The old wing had a high ceiling with metal supports that evoked the Crystal Palace. If I stood on my tiptoes and peered through the little window, I could see tarps thrown over sculptures, plaster dust littering the floor, various tools, paint cans, and crates strewn about. I never happened to spy any people at work there - it was as if the art and artifacts were reassembling themselves into a magnificent new exhibit.

But that smell - the paint and plaster - it goes with art. It goes with architecture and design. I smell it when I walk by the construction of the new Bank of America tower at One Bryant Park. I smell it at the newly completed, new 7 World Trade Center.

This is the smell of innovation. This is the smell of a vista. This is the smell of intellectual light.

Or maybe I'm just getting high off of the paint fumes.

Alliterative Apartment Achievements

On this sweltering, sweaty Monday, instead of haiku, I am going to bring you something else entirely. Back in April, a couple of my friends started sending crazy alliterative text messages over Dodgeball. I did not actually author any of these bits of prose, but I helped come up with a few of them. All names except mine have been abbreviated to protect the wordsmiths.

From a bar in April -

MT. ! Audrey is awesome and aggregating alcohol ably.

MT. ! D. is done, ditching da dapper, (enduring dastardly dissing on Dodgeball)

And then, from my party this past weekend. Clearly, I provided the inspiration by hosting.

MT. ! w/ Appetizers for Audrey's Awesome Apt

MT. ! A. & Audrey are alluring attired and achingly awaiting accompaniment!

RB. ! A. and Audrey audaciously await alluring allusions? Awesome!

t ! amazing! Alas, I'm attending an alternate assembly.

t ! alliteration abounds!

RB. ! Alternate arrangements allude alliterative angst. Alas!

(The alliteration deteriorated after that one.)

What has Become of Chinese Food?

Maybe I just live in a box.

I'm the first to admit it. I don't have any idea of what's *really* going on in culinary New York. I do not read the papers, the magazines, the blogs. I cannot go to all of the "it" restaurants. I only watch "Unwrapped" on the Food Network when I'm lazy and I only watch "Top Chef" when I'm on the elliptical at the gym (weird, but true).

About a month ago, I went for dinner with my friend who I've termed Research Science and two other high school luminaries. There had been a delightful, fancy-but-cheap-for-lunch Chinese restaurant in our town that closed, and we sought to recreate the dining experience in all its pink-table-clothed, fish-tanked, free soup-or-soda-with-lunch glamour and glory. We cut gym class to take extended lunches go to this restaurant senior year. It - and we - were that fabulous.

I was charged with finding a similar restaurant for this mini reunion. I was also given the bounds of 23rd street and Houston (which I truly believe negatively impacted our dining experience.)

We went to the Cottage on Irving for Chinese, which unfortunately, I wouldn't really recommend to anyone. I'm sure it's fine for takeout and delivery but not for a sit-down dinner. Cottage has plenty of space in a rather nice wood paneled setting. But I can't imagine that it's ever full - except perhaps late nights after Irving Plaza shows? We had a lot of difficulty communicating with the waiter. They didn't have the good crispy noodles (just the ones that come in packages) and the scallion pancakes were too doughy. The food arrived quickly, but one of the appetizers and one of the rice orders were wrong. My food was fine, but it was nothing special.

Nothing special. That statement sums up my dining experience and makes me wonder about the future of Chinese food in New York.

I've had a difficult time with Chinese restaurants in the past few years. There seem to be three kinds of Chinese restaurants downtown (uptown I imagine I might find restaurants more reminiscent of my suburban memories).

1. Steam table, pre-prepared food. Like steam table food of all varieties, it's not made to order, it's very greasy, and it's generally of the worst quality.

2. Primarily take out. Not a nice sit down setting, but the food is passable if a bit predictable. There are certainly culinary standouts of this variety, but they're not worth going out of your way to find.

3. Excessively fancy versions of the same food, though usually of higher quality and with some attention to detail (Chinatown Brasserie is a prime example).

The places in Chinatown don't fit into these categories, of course, but I'm never sure where to go there anyhow.

I don't understand why there aren't fun, funky, mid priced Chinese places. They're all Thai and pan-Asian. I suppose Chinese food was all the rage many years ago and perhaps it's just not trendy anymore.

I have heard that there's a Grand Sichuan down on St. Marks though - I ate at the midtown west location one New Years and it was divine. I shall hold out hope.

Well!

As per usual, instead of trying to figure out my job, my apartment, my health insurance, my life - I'm having another fabulous party. Expect cheese. Also, expect the triumphant return of Haiku Haiku Mondays, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

Oh, heck. I can't wait another minute. Let's have some haiku RIGHT NOW. If nothing else, LowConcept is occasionally about instant gratification.

Amateur Night

Best things in life - free?

If so, then the worst things are

Door charge, a long line.

Subway Surprise

Long R train ride prize:

In deepest, darkest, Brooklyn.

Nicest apartment

30 Days

Due to vacation,

A mid-month Metrocard death.

I am so confused.

Attack of the Interns

We have a new intern at work! He's very smart and we're happy to have him. I'm thrilled, because I interned at three different offices during the summers in college. And now, I have my own intern. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride no more! Figuratively speaking.

Technically, he's going to work on a few projects that we've been meaning to finish and perhaps conduct some research for my group. He's not a coffee-fetching intern. But I have other ideas.

I want him to write my blog. Oh yes.

As you've seen these past few months, I've been busy. I used to be able to blog daily, lately it's trickled down to three times a week, to once, to not even that. And I know you miss me.

There's one slight problem - today he fell asleep during a meeting, then at his desk, then he went home sick.

Perhaps I'll have him work up to blogging by talking to some of my friends on Google Chat. Mac the Knife has already volunteered.

Any other takers, leave your mark. Don't miss out on this amazing opportunity!

Point and Shoot

Or, "Wasting Michael Steinhardt's Money."

First off, you should meet our trusty bus driver. He scaled mountains, eased us down cliffs and transversed Israel the scenic way.

The trip began with a visit to the old city of Tzfat, birthplace of Jewish mystic thought known as Kabbalah. There, political posters come to life.

I am of the opinion that just as all the crazies from around the country emigrate to New York City to "find themselves," all of the wackos of the world run to Israel.

While I was up in the north, I paused to speak with some shrapnel sculptures near the Syrian border.

They wanted to get drinks at the coffee shop, Coffee Anan (say it out loud) on top of the mountain, but I didn't have time.

...Because I was on my way to Jerusalem, a city comprised of a lot of very large rocks, and some smaller ones.

Here's me walking away, wandering from the Western Wailing Wall.

And yes, I am in fact wearing what might be termed a dishrag on my head.

The next day, we gazed backwards into the abyss of history at Yad Vashem, the national Holocaust Memorial and Museum. This glaring white screen actually projected a film collage of Jewish life across Europe before the Third Reich rose to power.

And then it was back to the hotel to wash up for the evening.

...using the strangest hairdryer I have ever seen.

Later, we climbed Mount Massada to see the sun rise over the desert.

This side of the mountain produced a perfectly-delayed echo. The desert speaks volumes about why three of the world's major religions emerged from its sands.

Gratuitous Nature Imagery:

And then we rode camels. You know what they look like.

At last, but all too soon, it was time to go home. A friend and I had the unfortunate accident of being impregnated by luggage on our way to the airport.

I suppose we should skip the cigarettes in the duty-free shop.