Thanksgiving dinner is a perfect time to consider the ways that our food ties us to the world around us. One of the topics of conversation at our table was the vibrant urban farming movement in Detroit. As a city close to Scott’s heart, I know he feels sick to think of the Mad Max-esque state of things there. It gives me hope to think that in Detroit, a city with literally no supermarkets at all, communities are being proactive about growing their own fresh produce and are looking toward a sustainable lifestyle.
My favorite urban farmer is not in Detroit, though; she’s in Oakland. Her name is Novella Carpenter and her memoir Farm City is a must-read. I love what she has to say about Thanksgiving and eating meat in a conscious way. I’m looking forward to seeing Ghost Town Farm and to taking her chicken class one of these days.
But let’s get down to what you really want to know…
I got T-Bone’s snazzy little holiday outfit at a store in Valley Village called Sandbox Rebel. Sandbox Rebel is run by my friend Jodi Lee, who is as talented as she is gorgeous. She makes all the clothes herself and much of the fabric is recycled. Plus, she works with Project Okurase, which provides training and skills to vulnerable women and children in Ghana. Our clothes connect us to the world in a million ways, much like our food. This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the people around me who inspire me by modeling conscious living.
Who could say anything mean about that sweet little girl in the picture above? Now you know…
I got some bad press already! I feel so legit. I’m kind of excited about it. Check back in with me regarding my feelings toward bad press in about six months, when I may very well be bathing in it. But seriously, can you even give a bad review to a book that hasn’t come out yet? Aren’t there enough bad books that one can actually read before reviewing?
I found out about it because the author was kind enough to leave the link in a comment to my last blog entry. I’m kinda intimidated, because she writes for the illustrious NYU Local. Also scary is the fact that she uses the word really twice in one sentence, which must mean that she’s really not messing around.
While dissing my blog, she admits that Tariku is adorable, but then proceeds to make fun of his name (I know, classy). Clearly she didn’t read enough of the blog to realize that he was born in Africa, hence the African name and all that.
She’s right about the starfucking, though. Who can argue?
If, after reading my bad review, you feel the compulsive urge to pre-order the book, you can now do so on Amazon!
Better yet, buy it at your local indie bookstore on April 27th.
Junot Diaz writes here about becoming a writer. My favorite line:
By then I wasn’t even interested in a Great American Novel. I would have been elated with the eminently forgettable NJ novel.
I found this article by way of Sonya Chung (by way of Alexander Chee). The blog game of telephone. Actually, do kids even call that game telephone anymore? Do they call it facebook or something now?
Anyway, the gist of Diaz’s article made me go: Yes!, Yes!, that’s it exactly! Here is an excerpt:
I didn’t become a writer the first time I put pen to paper or when I finished my first book (easy) or my second one (hard). You see, in my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway. Wasn’t until that night when I was faced with all those lousy pages that I realized, really realized, what it was exactly that I am.
I actually wrote two eminently forgettable NJ novels before selling my memoir. One of them is coming out next January, so I hope it isn’t, in fact, eminently forgettable. But I remember the same moment in my life that Diaz describes in the article: the moment I knew I was a writer. It was the moment when I knew, really knew in my heart that my first novel was going to live in a drawer forever and I went to my kitchen table to write the next one.
You may think that a corset needn’t be a staple of a modern gal’s wardrobe, but I donned my new Dark Garden corset at the Weezer Palladium show and I had not one but two adorable little fashion bloggers ask to take my picture. Nothing like some good old fashioned suffering if you want to make a fashion splash. Actually, I love wearing corsets and don’t find them uncomfortable. The trick is that you have to get the real thing- well made, good fabric, real boning. They give you beautiful posture with no effort at all. Scott was already at the show and our sweet, hippie babysitter had to lace me into it. She tried to conceal her horror, but I could tell she thought I was personally setting the woman’s movement back like a century or so. The pic was taken by O, a photographer friend of the band.
Well, I guess my memoir, Some Girls, is done because I’m holding a galley copy in my hand. It’s a strange feeling to see it looking like an actual book, after all this time during which it’s been my little secret world.
There was a bit of back and forth about the cover. The first girl they chose was too thin and looked like she was wearing a shetal (yiddish for the wigs Orthodox women wear). Nothing upsets this Leo like bad hair. I think this girl looks strong and that her gaze is captivating. I’m really happy with the final product. The design folks at Plume did a beautiful job.
The Weez performed on an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba, T-Bone’s favorite show (and his only show). T is obsessed with the “Party in My Tummy” song, but not so obsessed that it makes him want to eat his vegetables. Here is a picture of the guys dressed like bugs and posing with the characters from the show. Ain’t that just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen? The pictures were taken by our own stalwart Karl Kotch.
We spent Halloween week in New York and it was T-Bone’s third trip there this year. If I never have to fly with a cranky 20 month old kid again it’ll be too soon, but once we were there we had some great moments. Grandma took us to the Museum of Natural History and T thought the whale hanging from the ceiling was the coolest airplane he’d ever seen.
I was devastated that we had to leave our Tim Burton-esque ‘hood and forego our usual spooky festivities, but I was glad to be able to smell autumn in Central Park and see the fiery foliage along the Palisades Parkway as we drove up to Woodstock to spend the holiday with my dear friend, Julie, and her beautiful family.
Julie and I have known each other since we stalked the Beastie Boys together in junior high and she has always had a little bit of fairy dust in her pockets at all times. It’s hard to explain. You just get the feeling that where Julie lives, there’s bound to be a rabbit hole out back that will drop you right into some magical alternate universe. She just sold her first children’s book and I was privileged enough to see an early version. It’s going to be massive.
When T and I got in the car to drive to Woodstock, I was positively vibrating with anxiety. Family drama, final edits, travel with a jet lagged Wild Thing baby…I felt about ready to fold. We left Julie’s house the next day and I was set right again. T ate caramel apples and partied with a marauding crew of kids in the afternoon and then we trick-or-treated in the rain, which he thought was the most hilarious thing ever.
T never did wear his lion costume. He stayed in his skeleton jammies all day. He seemed so happy that I didn’t want to screw it up.
Scott had to stay behind to play a show at the Hammerstein Ballroom. He had his own Halloween fun. He said the crowd was awesome and he’s always glad when he gets to wear his big stuffed insect costume.
The guys also played two nights of Letterman while we were there. And, Oh, the irony…. just before I went to sit in the Letterman green room, my fantastically courageous and brilliant friend Nell Scovell published this article in Vanity Fair about the unfriendly attitude toward women writers in late-night-tv and particularly the hostile work environment at (you guessed it) good ol’ Dave’s. It’s a fair and witty and solution-oriented article and I’m just so proud of that gal I could cry.