My Anonymous Blog

Updates are a comin'

Sorry for the lack of updates.  I've been bopping about here and there and haven't had time to patch together my thoughts into a post ... soon ... soon!  For the three of you that read this regularly ... SOON!

The Week in Review: Roach Cocktails, Cramped Seats and Paris Proper

Matthew's mom's Paris garden is one of the most peaceful and pretty places in the world, I'm quite certain of it.

Ah, Paris.  It's so quiet at Matthew's mom's house (actually, the boyhood home Matthew grew up in) that I can hear my heart beating as I'm typing this post.  It's a large, winding apartment filled with precarious stairs and has an equally expansive garden (for an urban setting, anyway) that sits firmly in the center of a gated courtyard, entirely removed from the footsteps and traffic that buzzes just outside.  I'm happy to be here and even more pleased that it's silent.  Manhattan's buzz not only gets to me, but I'm convinced it's not good for me, being as easily distracted and unable to focus as I am and constantly being drawn away from whatever I'm doing to spend energy getting annoyed at city intrusions.  So, I'm feeling relatively calm now.

The trip here was pure fucking hell.  We left Manhattan in the middle of a record heat wave that left us sweaty, irritable messes as we stumbled down the elevator with the mutt in tow and made our way to JFK with looming dark clouds rumbling in the distance.  After arriving a bit on the early side, we sat with Ella until it was time to drop her off at security -- they don't allow her to be checked in much more than an hour before the scheduled flight, a fact we somehow always forget and arrive early with her anyway.  We eventually dropped her off, made our way through security and did the usual strip show of shoes, belts and laptops before plopping ourselves down near the gate and discovering that our flight was delayed by an hour.  I hate that, but at least there was a bar near the gate that we escaped to and temporarily ditched the immense groups of screaming children crowding our gate.  I had honestly never seen so many of them, and initially feared that they would all be on our flight, but thankfully most of them were headed to Casablanca ... I've never been, but have heard that it's not nearly as romantic as the movie (which I've never seen, believe it or not) and hardly worth a visit.  And based on the crying, screaming babies everywhere, I'm inclined to immediately agree.  Yikes.

Well, we pushed our way through the crowd to the bar, a typically crowded airport hangout, and even more so given the delays due to lightening storms and such.    I ordered a margarita that arrived dressed with Maraschino cherries and Matthew had a bloody mary.  About a third of the way through my drink, I noticed a medium sizes object in my drink caught between the side of the glass and crushed ice, and upon closer inspection I quickly realized it was a cockroach!  I couldn't believe it.  How could they not have noticed it?  After going up to the server, who was a very sweet Hispanic woman, she practically squealed at the sight of the six-legged insect floating motionless in my cocktail, grabbed it from my hand and immediately called a manager before bringing me a new drink ... which I inspected very, very carefully before the first sip.  The manager knocked off the price of my drink and took half off of M's.  As well she should have ... Eek!  I'm not squeamish about those kinds of things and it really didn't bother me that much, but I have several friends who would have considered bagging the whole trip and heading home after suffering the most embarrassing public outburst of the heebie jeebies ever seen, perhaps even going so far as to run through the airport while screeching, "The bugs!  Get them off me!" before being held for observation by airport security.

Roach-arita, anyone?

After finally boarding the plane and being stuffed into ridiculously cramped seats, we sat there for literally hours on the tarmac while the pilot kept us up-to-date on the weather, ground delays, blah blah blah ... it was such an up and down series of announcements, where he would tell us one minute that we were leaving immediately and the next would tack on another hour or two of sitting, that I found myself uncontrollably annoyed.  Between the screaming babies, lack of oxygen, coughing and sneezing passengers all around me, I finally just put on my headphones and went to sleep until the plane finally took off.  I felt for several stuffy, claustrophobic moments on the plane that I was being held captive while strapped into a tiny box in some P.O.W. camp.  The only upside is that there was a mildly scruffy and cute guy next to me, which in a way also added to my jangling nerves because I was fearful that, in my slumber on the plane, I would try to curl up to him instead of Matthew.  He seemed laid back enough that he wouldn't have cared, but still ... imagine the uncomfortable incident for a moment ...

And getting back to the cramped seats that Air France offers its coach passengers -- the difference between first, business, and coach class seats are so vast that I felt as if I was traveling in steerage on the Titanic.  If Air France weren't the only ones that handled dogs, we'd skip them altogether.  Plus, no matter how often we fly, they have yet to give us an upgrade.  What gives?  The saddest part of all is that even Ella, stewing somewhere in cargo in her stinky plastic container, had more room and comfort than we did.

So we eventually landed at the Paris airport, and immediately things turned around for the better.  Paris is beautiful (well, avoid the suburbs!), public transportation and airports are well thought out and designed.  Even the conveyor belts that the luggage is dropped onto has a certain, eye-pleasing quality -- instead of the squeaky, rusty systems that New York has installed in all of their airports, Paris has opted for a sleek, connecting series of bending black slats that seamlessly weave around multiple corners to accommodate the largest number of waiting travelers as possible.  Why does everything in New York City have to be so dumpy and dirty looking in comparison with just about every other city in the modern world?  The NY subways, airports, streets, parks ... everything is covered in grime, trash, graffiti ... I love New York, really I do, but I'd love it even more if it tried to be even half as clean, pretty and well-designed as Paris (again, avoid the suburbs!).

We arrived here to Sarath's (M's mom's wonderful, sweet and amazing caretaker of her Paris home) delicious version of Pasta with Pancetta (see my version and video HERE!), and a second after I had the first bite I knew I was in Paris and all was well in the world.  There are several people around me who make this recipe -- a very simple recipe -- the exact same way, but it's the small changes -- the way one cuts the onion, how thinly the pancetta is sliced -- that makes the dish sing, and Sarath has it down in a way that nobody else has been able to attain; it's delectably good!! 

One of the most spectacular things about Paris is not only how each building is lit up artificially at night in dramatic, gorgeous ways, but also how the natural light during the day interacts with the water and structures of the city.  I'm convinced that Paris can't be badly lit in any weather condition, although sunset is usually a winner for me if I had to pick.

Well, the past couple days in Paris have been spent walking around in mostly good weather.  We were stuck in the middle of a torrential downpour yesterday, but mostly it's been pretty good out for walking around.  June in Paris is typically cloudy and cool, and this one is no different...Paris is no Sun City...

I finally checked out the Grand Palais since its restoration several years back, being lured there to see Richard Serra's installation.  It's funny how I tend to envision the way I want things to look before seeing them -- I was picturing in my mind the installation piece he did for the Bilbao Guggenheim, a work of giant, labyrinthine-like steel structures that stand with no supports and fit beautifully into the vast space, allowing museum guests to weave in and around the installation and feel the "crush" of the work as each piece appears that it could almost come crashing down on a visitor.  Well, the Grand Palais installation didn't prove as successful for me.  I loved the five tall, thin slabs of steel "bacon" that towered precariously above onlookers, seemingly balancing and threatening to smoosh Parisian museum goers just as Serra's Guggenheim and other works have done ... but the space didn't work right for me.  There was just too much said space between each gynormous piece and I felt like something was missing.  The Grand Palais is an enormous space and I think, even though Serra's pieces were huge as well, there still could have been more of his sculptures to fill the space.  I wanted something I could walk around and feel as if I was going through a steel canyon of sorts.  Basically, I envisioned what his work should have looked like and ended up ruining the experience for myself.  Not completely ruined really, but I did expect more to experience and look at.

I thought for sure I was going to witness a mass smooshing of hyperactive children as they energetically pressed against Serra's latest smashing piece that ends its run at Paris' Grand Palais June 15th.

Barbara's flambéd chicken and laurel leaves was a delicioso success!

We spent last night at Henry & Barbara's fabulous Paris pad.  It has a real New Yorky feel to it, which is fitting because it sits in a hip neighborhood that reminds me so much of the Village.  Barbara cooked a wonderful dinner that started with an orange dish of onion, black pepper, fennel orange segments tossed in olive oil and a bit of salt that was surprisingly refreshing and delicious.  We had a roast chicken that was  flambéd with laurel leaves before serving that was succulent and flavorful and finished with panna cotta and fresh strawberries.

This morning I woke with a craving for my favorite Parisian pastry ... almond croissants from Pierre Herme.  So off we went with the mutt to pick up a few goodies from there, but surprisingly, and I'm hoping this was a just fluke, something wasn't quite right with my almond croissant.  I never thought I'd be having to type this about the pastry master of the universe, but they were a bit flat and was drowned by too much almond cream filling.  Such a shame, as the taste of a truly perfect one makes me want to shout out and dance in the streets.  No, really.  I'm trying again tomorrow.

In the Kitchen with Nate : Pasta with Pancetta Sauce

Pasta with Pancetta Sauce

Ingredients:

4 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
1 large onion, chopped finely
2 slices of a good quality pancetta, cut about 1/4 inch each and then diced finely
3 cups imported Italian plum tomatoes, drained and squeezed of juices and coarsely chopped (use only the Pomodori variety of tomato if you can)
ground hot chili peppers (use as much or as little as you'd like, but start with the least amount so you can correct if necessary)
Salt
About 1/4 cup freshly grated pecorino cheese and 1/2 cup freshly grated parmesan
1 pound of pasta (use whatever shape you'd like, but I prefer either a thick rigatone or penne cut)

DIRECTIONS:

1. Put the butter and olive oil in a skilled over medium heat.  Once heated, add the onion and sauté until the onion is just golden, but not browned.  Add the pancetta and cook for a few minutes until it has rendered some of its fat.  Add the tomatoes and stir, reducing heat to a simmer.  While simmering, add salt to taste and ground hot pepper and continue cooking for about 20 minutes, until the sauce has gelled nicely.  Add cheese to sauce.

2.  Toss the sauce with cooked pasta and serve in large pasta bowls, sprinkling each serving generously with more grated cheese.

** This recipe is based on one found in the incomparable Italian cuisine cookbook, ESSENTIALS OF CLASSIC ITALIAN COOKING, by Marcella Hazan.  Buy it on Amazon HERE!

Weekend in Review: August: Osage County, Gym Bar, Sex and the City Movie & Other Stuff

I'm on a health kick.  They come and go and rarely last much past getting even semi-in-shape, but I'm trying to get there once again.  Summer usually brings it on, with the rising temps and skimpier clothes that reveal chunky legs and a Buddha belly and the proliferation of incredibly attractive guys walking the streets that somehow clicks my willingness to spend more time in the gym, eat right and do my sit-ups into overdrive.  This year, I've never been so inspired.  Plus, gray beard hairs have started poking through at an alarming rate recently.  And not that exercising can cure that, mind you, but if the rest of me feels good, I won't feel entirely like a grandpa.  Not that I'll ever be a grandpa or even a dad in the real sense of the word, obviously, but I'm not yet ready to feel like one.

My uber healthy friend Will arrived with bags of organic produce and meat in tow last night to make dinner, and admittedly I was nervous at first, anticipating bland piles of veggies and tough lamb burgers, but it turned out wonderfully and made me realize that I should be eating more vegetables, particularly steamed carrots with olive oil and sea salt. 

After dinner, I was talked into buying a ticket and joining Will, my friend Brian and a friend of theirs for a performance of the middle-class southern family dramedy, AUGUST: OSAGE COUNTY on Broadway.  I initially said no -- it's a 3-1/2 hour play and I'm usually more receptive to musicals, but went along in the end anyway.  And I'm so glad that I did, because it was fabulous!!  The entire cast was spot-on, funny and believable, particularly the two female leads, Amy Morton and Deanna Dunagan.  The latter, who played the feisty patriarch of the family and was dying of mouth cancer, reminded me so much of my Great Grandma Pauline, who was equally as outspoken and ornery as the character in the play was, particularly in her final days as she herself was dying of lung cancer that eventually spread to her brain.  She was a heavy chain smoker, had a quick temper and I have many early memories of her chasing me angrily around her house with a cigarette in one hand and a fly swatter in the other while cursing, "God dammit, Nathan, you leave your fucking brother and sister alone!  Come here!  Come here, you little brat!"  She rarely caught up to me and her anger dissipated as fast as it was brought on, but she always reported my high jinks to my mother when she returned, and my mother could catch up to me, unfortunately.

For the first act, I had a decent seat in the orchestra level with no obstruction in front of me -- this is almost unheard of and I'm constantly having to battle tall men, big hair and the occasional Sunday hat by swaying back and forth and contorting myself in such a way that I can see the action onstage, often leaving the show with a sore back and neck and in need of a chiropractor.  For the second and third acts, I moved to an empty space behind my friends in the first mezzanine, which turned out to be a much better overhead view of the set and actors anyway.

The play is going to make a fabulous movie if the producers and screenplay writer(s) play their cards right.  It needs to be chopped down to size, but I hope they leave all of the juicy lines in somehow.  I kept comparing the work to STEEL MAGNOLIAS, both because of its southern locale and the fact that the many main roles are primarily female-driven and filled out with riotous dialog, depth and emotion.  But it's a lot deeper than Magnolias ever even dared to be, and therefore will have to retain much of its length if it has any chance of keeping the feeling and connection of the characters intact.  We spent the second intermission (there were three acts, two breaks) casting Meryl Streep in Morton's character and Shirley MacLaine as the dying mother, filled out with several hip leading ladies of today in the younger roles ... Ellen Page, Scarlett Johansson, Anne Hathaway ... it could be extremely exciting and I'm already rooting for it to start filming!

I give AUGUST: OSAGE COUNTY an A- and am positive it will take home the Tony Award for Best Play next Sunday night.

After the show, I was scheduled to pop into a party in the East Village, but instead walked down to Chelsea and had a drink at Gym Bar.  I hadn't been out in FOREVER.  It was an odd experience... the rows of guys just standing about, groups of guys that must have barely been legal or (more likely) were flashing fake ids to the bouncer upon entry ... the usual scene, really, that I left behind at the end of my twenties.  And although I was initially uncomfortable, now that the one drink experience has sunk in a bit there's a part of me that misses it.  Not Gym Bar -- I had never been there and it's not quite my crowd -- but the more laid back gay bars in the East Village where I spent many nights hanging out with friends ... like Phoenix.  Maybe I'll give it another shot.

This is a rambling post.  My apologies ... I'm feeling a bit anxious and thinking of everything that needs to be done in the next couple of days...

So, tonight I finally saw SEX AND THE CITY: THE MOVIE!!  I loved it overall.  Having spent years stalking the filming locations in Manhattan, sometimes in the pouring rain watching SJP and company do their scenes and lines over and over and over again, I couldn't wait for the movie, which brought all of those good memories rushing back.  I cried a few times, honestly.  No, really!  Not at the movie in general, but at the times gone by and my trampled youth that is now rushing full throttle toward the grave. 

While I was happy to see the foursome hamming it up in several juicy scenes, I was less than thrilled to see that they morphed Samantha's gleefully slutty and sexy persona into a crazy, bloated New York Cat Lady (only Samantha buys a dog in the movie).  What a tragedy.  She was given some decent lines, but nothing as thrilling or graphic as we saw in the series.  And that's too bad.  Boo! 

Another thumbs down goes to Miranda, formerly one of my favorite and the most believable of the four, but in the movie comes off as an angry lesbian.  I hope she's not an angry lesbian in real life, because in interviews she comes off as quite sweet and pleasant, but her nasty scenes in the movie made me dislike her, a real shame because I was quite fond of her character in the regular series.  The little girl of Charlotte also annoyed me when she didn't answer the cell phone when Big called.  And that just fueled my longtime theory that little girls and lesbians ruin everything!

We finished the weekend with dinner at Duke's, a grungy, East Villagy-looking restaurant near Union Square that serves mainly standard burger / fries / diner type fare and has never truly satisfied me (Matthew loves it, so we keep comin' back), but tonight I ordered the mac and cheese and was pleasantly surprised by how good it was.  I've had better in the city, but would actually go back specifically for theirs.  Order the "small" version, which isn't small in the least, and start with a house salad. 

While I can't say much for the rest of the food at Duke's, the mac and cheese gets a B+ from me.

Duke's
99 East 19th Street
New York, NY 10016

Phone: 212-949-5400
Hours: Sunday - Wednesday 12NOON - 11PM; Thursday NOON - MIDNIGHT; Friday & Saturday NOON - 1AM

Tumor Boy ... or not.

So, my morning started off nicely.  I bounced out of bed and walked to Union Square surrounded by the warmth of perfect late springy weather -- bright sun, a cool breeze, the faint smell of blossoms detected in the air through the clouds of exhaust.  I was on my way to get the results from Monday's MRI: I'm completely normal - no tumors here.  I suspected as much, although now that all the testing is finally over following months of battling to get the tests approved from what must the shittiest private insurance company in operation, I'm left wondering why I'm so clumsy to begin with? 

Following the dreaded broken ankle incident in London early last year, I continued to have a series of spills in various locations around the globe of varying severity.  (The most glaringly embarrassing of which involved a completely nude tumble onto wet marble steps while climbing out of a hot tub in Barcelona that ended with me rolling around on the floor in agony for several minutes, surrounded by hotel guests and still sans clothing ... but I'm still not quite ready to tell the rest of that story ... all in good time.)  Well, the increased clumsiness has caused me to take extra care when walking anywhere so that I don't go crashing to the ground (and I do -- I can't just stumble and catch myself, I have to hit the ground with a thud).  This year I've adopted two titanium hiking sticks when I'm on the trails or walking on cobblestone streets or anywhere slick.  They've added a great deal of support and confidence to my steps and I feel much better when I have them on hikes.  Matthew refers to me as the "four-legged creature" as I'm working my way over rocky terrain or down steep inclines and poking the sticks snugly into the ground before each step. 

But as much as I'd like to think that this clumsiness is something new, the fact is that I've always been this way, as my dear friend Katherine pointed out to me on the phone the other day.  I've always had scrapes and bruises and broken bones.  Before last year's right ankle was broken going into a Starbucks to check email, I snapped the left one ten years prior while jumping off a boat in Seattle and landing incorrectly onto a wet dock.

And it's not just clumsy ... I'm also incredibly forgetful.  Ask Matthew how skilled I am at getting his grocery lists correct ... ever.  I try and try to get what's on his list, but somehow, even with it in my hand, end up grabbing the wrong item or brand or omitting it altogether.

Now that I'm officially completely "normal" in the brain department, my only explanation for my terrible coordination is a self-diagnosis of mild retardation, and I'm sticking to it.  Let the drooling begin!  And I can finally have that handicapped sticker I've been eyeing all these years!  Now if only I knew how to drive.  Well, it's all part of my retarded act.

What?  Retarded isn't PC?  Well, now that I'm retarded I can say anything I want.

My friend Will thinks that my clumsy absentmindedness is due to my body's inability to process sugars properly.  Given the extreme amounts of sugars I've been putting into my body on a daily basis, I'm inclined to agree with him and might even consider paying a visit to his hippie doctor to see if I can solve the matter without cutting out all of the sweets -- I love sugar too much to give it up entirely.  On the flip side, if it helps me to act and feel less retarded, I'm all for it.  But as it stands now, given my special person status, my friends might be able to count all time spent with me as community service if they were to ever find themselves in a court-ordered predicament. Da-hurdy-hardy-hur-huuuurrrrrrrrrrr (tard laugh) ... drool ...

I'm sorry.  This is just awful, tacky, tasteless of me.  Bad, Nathan.  Shame on me.

My crowning tard moment of the day was when I misjudged the temperature in the apartment and the icing melted shortly after I finished putting together this four layer chocolate cake, sending the middle layers slipping and cracking apart onto the counter top.  I was so angry that I left it there and went to the gym to cool off for a bit.  I should have turned on the air conditioning.

And another thing about not having a tumor -- I'm a little disappointed in a way.  I mean, I could have had a "harmless" one in an area they could have removed it from easily, like pulling the cork from a bottle of wine or something, and taken my time in scheduling the surgery -- because I could have gone off on every mudda fuckah (I'm sooooo black) that even mildly annoyed me my whole life and blamed it on the tumor.

"FUCKER!  Oh, sorry -- It's the tumor talking, just the tumor.  Sorry!!!  I can't help it!! But you're still an asshole! Oh my god, I'm so sorry!  And a giant prick!"

Stuff

Believe it or not, this is one day's worth of lost hair.  It looks like a poodle spontaneously combusted in the apartment.

Ella's fur is freaking out -- I've never seen her shed this much at once.  My feeling is that it's due to the prolonged trip to the chilly North Shore of Lake Superior, where she was forced into regrowing her winter coat after recently shedding it in New York. And now that we're back home, her body is doing a double-take once again and trying to shed the fur quickly in light of now summer temperatures and high humidity.  It really is comical how much fur she's losing.  I've been sweeping it up and throwing it out as fast as I can, but she always seems to have more to share with us, the poor couch and every other surface she can stick a bit of herself to.  NOTE TO ELLA:  We're all for sharing pieces of ourselves with others, but enough already!  Friends are having fun with the fur overload: One of them told me to save the sheddings as a souvenir, while another told me to give it to a pets with cancer charity.

Can I just say randomly that I LOVE Kathy Griffin? Well, it's true.  She makes me laugh harder than any performer working today, and I don't care what list she's on -- D, B, F or, as I'd put her in, AAA.  She's the funniest, most brutally honest comedienne out there and is completely unafraid to say anything about anyone in the most gut-busting hilarious way possible..  We just watched a mini-marathon of her stand-up routines on Bravo, and while I'd seen most of them before, I laughed even harder this time around.  Such a hoot.

The view that drives me to keep the tension on the elliptical up and my feet pumping fast.

As I've told you, I've been diligently heading to the gym nearly every day.  I've been going to the midtown location, both because of the gorgeous city views from my elliptical machine and the equally energy-boosting sights of the "straight" midtown office jocks lifting weights on their lunch hour.  Oh, what?!  Don't judge -- I need all the inspiration I can get to regain my former muscled, manly physique and marathon cardio level.  Okay, that's such a lie -- I've never been muscled or manly and I'll just be happy to not get winded after climbing a flight of four stairs.

Me Want Cookies

I got a little carried away on the eating front over the past few weeks spent in the northern Minnesota woods gobbling up everything in sight and have been dieting and gyming it the past few days since returning.  It sucks.  Totally sucks.  Not only does it suck because I'm hungry and want to cram every last morsel of the pecan brownies I made this afternoon with the always fabulous Shuli Saucy down my bloated throat, but it also sucks because I want to pop every bag of extra buttered popcorn and sit on the couch eating them one after the other while catching up on recorded shows.  I have no self-control and am destined to one day be the thousand pound man removed from his home via a crane after being saved by Jerry Springer on live television.

Fenced In

<<<< I'd rather be here.

You know, I tried to get a reading from Mister MRI Guy to catch a hint of anything right or wrong he might have been watching on his dozen screens as I was stuffed inside the claustrophobic, clangy, buzzy, cylindrical contraption for an hour this afternoon, but he had poker face so absolutely down and perfected that it was impossible to tell, and so I'll wait for the results at my next appointment.  I'm sure it's nothing -- I've been having some minor balance issues that most likely are tied to my carb-heavy diet of baked goods and sweets, so it's nothing ... probably nothing ... totally nothing.  Still, being a hypochondriac, I can't help but envision death, deathbeds and a poorly planned memorial service with all the wrong music,  attendees I never would have let in and cheap, tasteless snacks.  What an odd day filled with deep, dark thoughts.

More tomorrow..