The Science of Brownie-Baking

This was supposed to be a much more interesting post. Maurizia and I had made elaborate plans for today, to ensure my last Saturday of 24dom would rival any I'd had at 22 or 23. We'd get up early, bake special brownies, let the special brownies cool, eat the special brownies, and head down to Deitch Projects for the last day of the Science of Sleep exhibit--four rooms of sets from the movie, plus a bonus room of creepy shit Michel Gondry made after getting dumped.




The sugar high would kick in just as we got there. It was so perfect. Then a parent showed up, and we were forced to wait. And wait. And leave.




As this dude demonstrates, it would've been better with special sugar.

Party tonight! Apparently a lot of people are happy I've cheated death this long, and are coming out to say so. I'm sure the booze has nothing to do with it.

Grey's Grey's Grey's

Yes, I got over my Grey's Anatomy hate ages ago, thanks in no small part to Izzy's Lazy Susan (who the fuck owns a Lazy Susan? Particularly a small one designed specifically for cakes? That is fucking awesome, people), but it was the hair that suckered me.

According to my friend J The Matchmaker, "There hasn't been hair like that since Uncle Jesse."

Like, okay, J, good job with the matchmaker thing, but let's keep opinions of John Stamos's hair circa 1991 to ourselves, yes?

Which left me pondering Patrick Dempsey, The Aging Rakishly Doctor With Great Hair or The Big-Hearted Vet Played By Chris O'Donnell Who's Aging Pretty Well Himself dilemma that was last week so thrillingly put to Meredith in a manner that was so blatantly female porn. Plus she so deftly sidestepped the predicted Kelly Taylor "I choose myself" BS by choosing BOTH, which was brilllllliance.

But if I were her, who would I choose? The hair or the heart?

I mean...

Sheperd would never tape a soap opera for me, and I'm pretty sure Finn would with only kind and mild laughter. These things are important.

But it is really great hair...


I totally forget where I was going with this.

More Star Trek

Today's email:

Hello All,
If you are planning on helping out on the upcoming Star Trek auction and would like to wear a Star Trek costume, please email B----- L------ no later than September 26th with your sizing information, i.e. male/female.
Thank you!


I'm not doing it, but I can smell your envy. The businessmen and their inner dorks are emerging from offices everywhere.

Beam Me Down

What kind of auction has media tie-ins?

Oh right. 40 Years of Star Trek.

From today's email:

"We are exhibiting a selection of Star Trek in the Concourse now through October 3rd. We have three exhibits: the south end near Sea Grill, the center in front of Starbucks, and the north end near Rock Center Café. We have also worked with Rock Center Café to create specialty drinks throughout the viewing that include Romulanpolitan, Spokatini and Klingon Crush, among others."

I really can't wait for the exhibit to open. I really can't wait for the fans to arrive.

What Matt's Affection Style Says

I was flipping through Cosmopolitan (don't ask, I was bored), and what did I see?

Everyone's favorite squirrel, Matt Isbell!




Yes, you ladies and gays, you are jealous of that lucky model bitch in his embrace.




Or are you jealous of meeeeee?
(No, no, he was just a drinking buddy).

Craigslist: My Boon, My Bane

I found my old apartment in LA on Craigslist. It was the only place I looked at. It was a mile from the beach, it allowed pets, there were two patios, it had 30-foot ceilings. There was a gas fireplace. There was parking. There was a washer and dryer. When I blanched at a year-long lease, the landlord looked at me funny. Why would I ever leave?

So things aren't quite as simple in New York. To just give myself some options, and because pushing shipping instructions isn't exactly taxing my time, I've been perusing the List once again.

It's harder in New York.

More educational, too.

I HAVE LEARNED THAT NO MAN/WOMAN WHO TYPES IN ALL CAPS WILL EVER BE A ROOMMATE OF MINE.

I have learned that a number of men will offer rent in exchange for fellatio. Perplexingly, this rent is often advertised as "free."

I have learned that there are apparently neighborhoods like "East Williamsburg" and "South Park Slope" that suspiciously look like they are actually in Gowanus.





I think my weekend was good enough to make up for the current apartment headache. I am a lucky girl.

Pokes Apparently Much More Valuable Than Previously Thought

Yahoo might buy Facebook for $1 billion. The scandal last year was that Mark Zuckerberg would only sell for $2 billion, but I have a two-degree separation from the Facebook staff meeting where the $2 billion figure was discussed, and guess what!

They only wanted $1 billion in the first place. The $2 billion thingy? It was a LIE. A lie!

I know, I know, Business Swami Meghan, where was she when Amaranth needed her?

Learnedings

Okay, in addition to the estimated market value of Vulcan ears, I've been reading a bit

a) about Amaranth
b) of the OED Online

--proving to myself, further, a) that finance makes no sense. This dude at Amaranth helped the company lose $5 billion in a week? And it's still in business? What are these companies? What do they do? From pictures, these companies are desks, fattish dudes, four-screened computers, and bad carpet. Where are their gold bricks and/or contract killers? Five billion? Maybe it was a typo. Seriously, how do you piss away even one billion? That's a significant portion of a fighter jet! That's Cambodia! This guy lost the equivalent of the majority of Central Asia! I have no idea what I'm talking about! I actually do understand this more than I'm letting on; don't worry. It took a lot of reading on DealBreaker, but I think I got it. The exclamatory thoughts are just a product of decompartmentalization. Maybe this is what happens in Dana's book. I hang out with too many finance people. See what you've done to me, finance people? This time three months ago I would've thought DealBreaker a Sex and the City term and Amaranth a mere imaginary flower, reputed never to fade, but no, I must learn new things to keep up with the conversation.

The OED, though, now that's good stuff. I finally learned the differences between egomania, megalomania, and monomania. Egomania, by the by, is defined as "morbid egotism," and because a lesser-known definition of "morbid" is "of a flesh tint," calling someone an egomaniac could just mean that you think their subconscious is peach. Isn't that funny? I'm going to use that sometime. I bet it'll make people like me.

I just copped to reading the dictionary at work.

I think this post makes me look unbalanced.

I'm going to help this lady get her $45,000 flatware now.

I bet she married an energy trader.

Lobes Of Spock's Friend

I'm temping at this auction house, preparing for a big, big sale.

40 Years of Star Trek. It isn't until November but the pandemonium is already brewing.

Example: Vulcan ears (2). (Not Leonard Nimoy's).

Upper estimate: $1500. They are PIECES OF FOAM. They look like partially decomposed goldfish, like you went on vacation for a month and forgot to give Stephen and Steven their special pellets, and returned to find them belly-up and bloated. And they are two months rent. SWEET.




Ooh, I hear sirens outside. George W. Bush? Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? Could be anyone!

Fashion Day

CK "I Never Update My Blog" Swett works full-time where I'm temping, and invited me today to the Valentino sample sale.

$8000 gowns are still a bit out of my reach (although, all things considered, it's a bit of a steal), but then we passed the Atlas Apartments, sleeping space to the wonders of Project Runway!




Yes, in a totally unscripted and spontaneous moment, CK caught me unleashing my inner Andrae.

Week In Asian Stereotypes

Previously, on The Week In Asian Stereotypes:

Team Asia wins the first logic-based challenge on Survivor.


Breaking:

Thai military spokesman apologizes for any inconvenience caused by coup.



So smart! So polite!

If I were home I'd follow this with a picture of Dennis with boxers on his head.

I Think I Saw The President

It's UN Week, meaning 80% of New York streets are blocked off and the commuters are very cranky. Seriously, they've been keeping the blue barricades in piles on every corner, and the temptation to steal one is sore.

I think I saw the President, or rather looked in his direction through a blacked out limo window. I have no evidence it was actually him; it might have been a decoy motorcade, or a SafeRide for the twins. In any case, a bike cop almost ran me over on 6th Avenue to protect the free world, or for no reason at all.

My College, My Soul

Quote of the day, regarding Harvard and Princeton abandoning early admission:

Many of the presidents said one of their goals would be to instill in high school seniors a sense that which college they attended did not determine the course of the rest of their lives. “It’s not God’s judgment on your soul,” Dr. Weisbuch of Drew University said.

Tell that to Kent Place girls, buddy. I remember spreading two different applications across the lounge floor senior year, the "Early Decision" box checked on both.

"Which should I send?!" I polled. "Which should I send? It would be really nice to get in early, since if I apply to my whole list that's like 14 schools."

It bears noting that I was not alone.

Drinking Is More Than Just Fun

Binge drinkers, gather round: Dennis has brought important breaking news to my attention.

Drinkers earn 10 to 14 percent more money at their jobs than nondrinkers and men who drink socially, visiting a bar at least once a month, bring home an additional 7 percent in pay, according to a new Reason Foundation report by economists Bethany Peters, Ph.D., and Edward Stringham, Ph.D.

What about those who visit a bar more than once a month? Maybe it's a typo and they actually meant once a week.

O Bank Card, O Bank Card! Wherefore Art Thou Bank Card?

Deny thy owner and refuse thine cash,
Or, if thou'st been eaten, be but fill'd with joy,
For I cancelled you real fast.


From Shakespeare's Lost Verses, Hyperion 2007. ed. Harold Bloom.

FYI

For some reason, The Young and the Restless is just awesome today. There's drug-induced temporary epilepsy, a three-week pregnancy represented by a five-month bump, exes of exes getting it on, break-ins, and six-year-old Noah telling Phyllis not to bother being nice to him, since he's sure she and his daddy won't be married that long.

And karaoke! As a vengeance device!

Awesome.

Five Years

I tuned out all 9/11 coverage about five years ago, on, say, Sept. 15th. I lost all taste for cable news and buried myself in linguistics and Cold War cinema for three months.

Then I looked at my Times today.




The Black Riders, swooping into town. I can't help but think that the Bushes, somewhere, know that without this big mass death and advisers who were so adept and willing to exploit it, they'd be back in Texas. Good lord I hate them.

Then there are also pictures like these--




Which make me think about the thirteen cars that were left at the Chatham train station that night, because their owners never came back.

I suppose there are people worse than the Bushes.

Goings On

So... new things in my life...

Oh lordy, I totally, totally left you hanging, didn't I? I gave you that whole Chris Adrian spiel and never followed up. Well, wait no longer. Part One of The Children's Hospital is intense, poetic, and a total tease. I am simply scratching to get at the rest of it.

Okay, so that's dispensed with.

Elsewhere on the Front of Pretentious Literary Minds, Schmaury and I today spent a collective $380 on The Coast of Utopia tickets. I even went to Lincoln Center to get them, thereby avoiding an additional $66 in handling fees. Here's where I'd describe the theatrical event, but my understanding of the plot is kind of vague. It has something to do with Russian history, it's eight hours, and I'm sure there will be lots of intelligent puns. Have you ever wondered how Tom Stoppard might blog? Find out.

Gallery Trawling

Brie invited me out gallery hopping. If I've learned nothing else from Sex and the City, it's that art openings are crawling with rich douchebags just begging to buy you (or your friend and therefore you because that's just how y'all roll) sushi. I threw on a ratty t-shirt, $400 shoes*, and jumped right in.




All the cool kids were there.

There were pictures of dead pigs and fetal cows, oversize Polaroids of spotty losers rescanned and digitally printed.






Molly kind of explained how giant Polaroid cameras work, something I'd been pondering since seeing the 4'x7' Chuck Close collage prints. Apparently you don't have a huge version of the regular Polaroid with a button you have to jump on, as I'd previously assumed, but "kind of work inside the camera."

One guy peed all over the stairs.





And then someone bought us sushi.



*Original retail. I paid $29.

My Mattress

I purchased my bed in LA from the room's former occupant--mattress, box spring, frame, and feather mattress cover with marshmallow-like consistency that likened sleeping to curling up in a bowl of whipped cream. It was $100.

I like mattresses.

Anyway, I ran out of time when I moved and didn't sell the bed. I just dismantled it and left it in the garage, and Saint Roommate said she'd mail the featherbed.

She did so the other day, and let me know that shipping was $40. Also, Salvation Army wouldn't come and get my bed, but the dump would for another $25.

This is how I know I'm getting poor, because in the early Citibank days I would've been like, whatever, and sent off a check.

But Meghan can't go throwing money about willy-nilly, because she is currently unemployed at the level where she just spent the morning overcoming her people phobia to make alumni network cold calls, which if you know her at all you know was very difficult, but seriously, it's getting kind of embarrassing.

So I posted on Craigslist.

And sold the bed for $40, to a chick in LA with a truck.

I am crafty.

I am far too excited about this considering I net -$35

I need a job.

Very Exciting Development

Saint Roommate forwarded my mail to the Jersey house, and it included my McSweeny's Quarterly Concern, Issue 20.

It just so happens that a few months ago, with Quarterly Concern 18, I encountered the emerging writer Chris Adrian and grew quickly, in equal measures, obsessed and perplexed. He writes like an antisocial pastoid with bad glasses and light, prematurely thinning hair, who might sputter into his beer the one night his colleagues take pity and invite him out to the bar, fractioning the tab, scaring off the ladies, and effectively sealing his lifelong coin-collecting bachelor fate. It's fantastic. I can't get enough.

That part is par; more perplexing is that Chris Adrian published a story in The New Yorker and a novel with Random House in 1997, after his stint at Iowa and prior to starting medical school, because most people follow their MFAs with MDs, right? The 1997 Adrian was good-looking and in interviews easy and intelligent (I'm not wild about 1997 Adrian). The writing resembles the current work the way Hemingway relates to Whitman, which is to say, oh engineering types, very little. It all suggests a highly dramatic, sensorially delicious breakdown sometime in the last nine years between med school, a pediatrics residency, and his current Bostonian divinity school studies. Maybe even a drug-induced religious awakening!

I'm getting away from myself. I read "The Stepfather" and "A Better Angel" and loved them and have been salivating over the prospect of a whole entire book of Chris Adrian's totally ethereal yet grounded ramblings for months. And today, when I opened the 20th issue of McSweeney's Quarterly Concern, I found Part One of The Children's Hospital, Chris Adrian's book to be released in October, taped to the back.

Yesssss.

Confirmation

I know some of you were very upset by last week's reporting on the Sudden Decline Of Jared Leto's Beauty (which has been happening for quite some time; it's like that line in the The Sun Also Rises when Jake explains he went bankrupt gradually and then suddenly. I mean, did you see Panic Room? No? He had cornrows and a disfiguring burn. These are signs). But, perhaps you thought I was lying. After all, I proffered no photographic evidence, or even a firsthand account, of his eyeliner and general greasiness, and denial is a powerful drug.

Deny THIS.



via GFY

He looks like a cast member from the current Sweeney Todd revival, which I saw last night and thought thoroughly excellent, if probably confusing to someone who hadn't, say, memorized the original cast recording and seen a VHS of the 1979 Hal Prince West End production and was therefore able to extrapolate that the little white box symbolized the specialized barber's chair with the lever that drops its victims directly into the bakehouse, as I had.

But however much I loved the show, some people belong in a gothic Victorian London, and some people don't. You, Mr. Leto, are not among the former.