auf Wierdersehen!

Dear Readers,

I'm off to Berlin on Sunday for ten whole days. It's my first vacation in two years, and I'm very excited about it. In my mind, the Berlin I know is the Berlin of the movies. I think I'll have to realize that the war's been over for a while and that Berlin, like New York, is a city that constantly changes. If you have any last minute recommendations about where to go or what to eat, please let me know in the comments. I'll be back with a fat post and pictures!

auf Wierdersehen meine mieze!

xoxo

Fraulein Jessica

Snobber's Favorite Books

Last week, a friend of mine asked me if I had a list of my favorite books posted somewhere and I realized that I didn't! Not a real list, with explanations and such. So here, friends and readers, is a list of my top ten favorite books. Some are linked to prior ruminations of mine. Though my affections wax and wane, these ten are pretty solid choices, no matter what.

1. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Though To the Lighthouse and Orlando occasionally compete for the representation of my Woolf-obsession, Mrs. Dalloway is the novel I recommend for Woolf-virgins. She's at the height of her powers here in 1925 in this story about life, love, and the moments of being that define who we are.

2. Sophie's Choice by William Styron

If you ever wanted to read a Holocaust novel that's about anything but the Holocaust, Sophie's Choice is a great pick. If you're a downtrodden editorial assistant or aspiring writer, find solace in the character of Stingo. (This transference works even better if you are a South to North transplant). Though the romance in this novel borders on melodrama, it's descriptive moments of Brooklyn and love and sex are completely transcendent; Stryon's lyricism borders on book porn. This novel's first read is so enjoyable you will spend the rest of your life trying to duplicate it.

3. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

Probably the most beautiful book written in English by a non-native English speaker. Perhaps it's Nabokov's Russianness that turns his appreciation of the English language into our pure, unadulterated joy. And with a tricky subject manner, he still makes us love and despise these characters equally. When I talk to people who haven't read this novel I just think, what? What are you doing? You know nothing until you have read Lolita.

4. The Loser by Thomas Bernhard

Master of misanthropy, Bernhard's energy for hatred turns into an obsession with life through our failures and hopelessness in the face of fate. Our narrator recounts the suicide of his friend Wertheimer, who gave up at music school when he realized he couldn't compete with likes of Glenn Gould. Bernhard's endless repetition, his constant droning of sorrow and spitefulness becomes the chant of genius. You will want to read everything he's ever written. And you should.

5. Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger

I say with ease that this book changed my life and continues to change my life every single time I read it. Stumbling upon this thing when I'd just moved to New York and had no idea that Salinger had written anything else besides The Catcher in the Rye was a pure delight. His sheer brilliance at writing dialogue is, in my mind, unparalleled. His books are some of the only ones that can make me laugh out loud and weep like baby. Nine Stories comes in at a close second here, but Franny and Zooey is truly a religious experience.

6. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

After reading this book, the only thing I wanted to do with my life was write. I had no fucking idea that it was even possible to write books like this, and my whole body was jittery with excitement. Every single page of this thing is smart, moving, and stylish. If you are at all interested in the genesis of the nonfiction novel, or creative nonfiction, or if you're just into crime writing, oh holy Lord, get off your butt and get a copy of this book. In this same category I'd place Joan Didion's Slouching Towards Bethlehem and Janet Malcolm's excellent The Silent Woman.

7. I Love Dick by Chris Kraus

If you are a feminist, and you find yourself exasperated at trying to explain the difference in how art created by women is treated versus art created by men, then look no further for your BIBLE. This pseudo epistolary novel cum treatise on women's art and identity is so fucking good. It will incite a fire under your ass. The good kind. Her honesty and fierceness on sex, love, respect and never-ending struggle between the private and public make this a must-read.

8. Austerlitz by W. G. Sebald

Attempting to describe this book is like trying to describe the Mona Lisa. Why is it so transfixing? I could offer my own explanation, something to do with it's hypnotic rhythm and it's love of sorrow and nostalgia but, just, if you have the time and the energy, just. read. this.

9. Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon

Though I love his showier The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay almost equally, there is something so beautiful about this book that I return to it again and again, always finding something new in its pages. Grady is your typical washed up, pot-bellied, middle-aged novelist who's looking for something to quicken him - he finds it in James, a struggling student with serious issues, maybe a pathological liar. The two find themselves involved in a messy affair concerning Marilyn Monroe's fur-lined jacket she wore when she married Joe DiMaggio. The descriptions of James' writing versus Grady's writer's block are heartbreaking and beautifully written. The perfect winter book.

10. Atonement by Ian McEwan

If I could relive the first time I ever read the chapter when Cecila drops that goddamned vase into that goddamned fountain, I'd be a happy woman. Atonement has practically everything you could want from a novel and so much more. The sheer horror of this book, how quickly it turns from beautiful to horrible and yet somehow remains gorgeous throughout - it's McEwan's masterpiece and I don't think he'll ever be able to top it. Even if you aren't that jazzed about the plot (which I think is fantastic) McEwan's sentences are some of the best in English letters today.

Catching Up

Shameless Self-Promotion:

Since we last spoke, I wrote a little ditty for one of my favorite sites, The Awl, on how to cast a film adaptation of Les Miz so it will be as successful as Twilight. It was great fun working with Natasha Vargas-Cooper, who edited the series on musicals and is the author of the new book Mad Men Unbuttoned.

Later, I romped over to This Recording with a piece on Spielberg's oft-overlooked masterpiece, Jaws, in honor of shark week. Check it out for more on Richard Dreyfuss' surprising attractiveness in 1975 and Moby Dick analogies.

Today I made my debut at The Rumpus, an incredibly smart culture focused site, with a review of Jeffrey Meyers' The Genius and the Goddess. You may remember my mentioning the book a few posts ago. Though the book intends to be about the marriage of Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe, the finished product is really more of an unflattering, even offensive biography of Marilyn. I've pointed out the issues I had with Meyers' approach.

My professional website now includes a "News" section so you can keep up with the latest, if you are so inclined.

Promotion of others:

In non-Jessica related news, I really enjoyed reading Laura Shapiro's piece on Shirley Jackson at Slate. I also loved her sketches of Hill House that were posted on Writer's Houses.

Richard Morgan's piece on being a freelance writer at The Awl really encompasses everything and more about one of the most difficult, oftentimes obnoxious jobs ever. The section where he describes pitching an idea and having it rejected only to find it on the site several weeks later written by the editor who rejected it is something I think all writers have encountered. I felt this piece. Hard.

Chelsea Biondolillo compared her MFA rejections with famous rejections throughout history at McSweeney's.

Coming Up:

- There are quite a few more book reviews in the works, and an academic paper which I hope you will enjoy.
- For ten days in September I'll be in Berlin, so if anyone has suggestions or recommendations on Berlin-related things, please let me know.
- Soon I hope I will be a proud owner of an iPhone, which means more posting and more images on the blog.
- Exciting professional news to be shared.
- Dying to read Tom McCarthy's C. - will someone send me a copy? Pretty please?
- Currently reading Hans Kielson's Comedy in a Minor Key. Francine Prose called him a genius in the Sunday Book Review and she's probably right.
- Also dying for the new Bernhard, My Prizes. You may remember my Bernhardian worship which began a few years back with The Loser.
- Very, very excited to see the film adaptation of Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go. I wrote about the new Sci-Fi a ways back here on the blog.

I AM STILL WRITING MY BOOK PROPOSAL WHICH IS TAKING FOREVER. WORDS OF ENCOURAGMENT AND/OR FREE DRINKS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED.

Hello. And thanks for reading.

The Summer of Literary ADD

A list of books I have begun and not finished this summer, thus far:
Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel
A Time of Gifts, by Patrick Leigh Fermor
The Man Who Loved Children, by Christina Stead
The Devil in the White City, by Erik Larson
Paris Trance, by Geoff Dyer
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, by William L. Shirer
The Dud Avacado, by Elaine Dundy
Bomber County, by Daniel Swift
I Was Told There'd be Cake, by Sloane Crosley
Stranger than Fiction, by Chuck Palahniuk

Of those, I will finish:
The Man Who Loved Children
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich
Possibly The Dud Avacado

One book I read this summer and loved:
Molly Fox's Birthday, by Dierdre Madden

One book I devoured like there was no tomorrow, then felt terrible: Columbine, by Dave Cullen

The book I have been waiting to read for several months that is finally arriving tomorrow because I had to order it overnight from Amazon because I simply cannot wait any longer: The Genius and the Goddess: Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe, by Jeffrey Meyers

Two books I am so excited about I might explode: My Prizes: An Accounting, by Thomas Bernhard, and C, by Tom McCarthy

P.S. Dear Marilyn, how the hell did you do this to your hair?

Madison Square Gaga

This is Madison Square Garden last Tuesday night a few minutes before Lady Gaga took the stage. As you can see, there are just a few people there. I bought my tickets several months ago, and the two following shows on Wednesday and Thursday were also sold-out. The premise of the show is a Wizard of Oz like journey, where Gaga and her dancer friends are trying to make their way to the "Monster Ball." Along the way, they are met with many obstacles, including the F Train (quite possibly the worst subway line in New York), darkness, a twister, and a giant piranha that eats Gaga during "Paparazzi" and spits her back up. If you are a lover of spectacle, I don't need to tell you how much you should plunk down the cash and just go see this tour.

As Gaga went through practically all of her discography, she spoke about how much she loved New York and that even though she had been through hard times (drugs, bad boyfriends) she never gave up, and neither should we. She told us never to let anyone tell us we weren't worth it. She told us to put our paws in the air and to celebrate ourselves and to celebrate freedom. While these are all vague, general incitements to the power of indiviuality, I can't think of a better role model for the group of girls sitting behind me who probably ranged from 15 to 25 in terms of age. I could hear them singing the lyrics with Gaga, and I was pleased.

The sheer force of Gaga is impressive; if you're a hater and don't understand why she's so popular, I encourage you to watch her perform live, under a battlement of heavy clothing and heels so high they are practically stilts, Gaga dances, sings, and yells like a fiend from Hell, somehow never falling down from exhaustion or losing her voice. Her strength and her confidence is simply unparalelled. It is overwhelming and inspiriational.

Gaga herself was emotional. Playing three sold out nights at MSG is no small feat, and she knew it. She shined her disco-stick on the audience saying "let me get a loook at you." Her voice broke with tears. During "Bad Romance," when Gaga jumped, the entire auditorium was set in a blaze of light, almost like lightning had struck - she was stuck in mid-air during this moment, almost as if she were ascending to heaven. It's a snapshot I'll never forget.

Mean Girls

Women (and men, perhaps) of the blogosphere, do you ever find it more difficult to cultivate friendships with women than you do with men? I do.

The reasons are mostly obvious, the most apparent being women are more competitive with each other for men, jobs, accolades, looks, wealth, etc. Do you agree?

I will freely admit that I am violently competitive and have been since the day I was born. Playing sports in middle school and acting in high school really helped me to work through my competitive nature, but since college (where I mostly hid out and allowed my self-esteem to be destroyed by an arrogant ignoramous) I've found there's really no where for my competitiveness to go - no filter, no scapegoat.

Am I too abrasive, too raw, and judgmental? (Is it me?) I try my best not to be a bitch. I am opinionated and wouldn't have it any other way. There are just some women no matter how hard I try that will feel compelled to cut me down, make me feel uncomfortable, and tell me my behavior is inappropriate. I don't really feel that anyone (with minor exceptions - my mom, my boyfriend) should be able to tell me that I'm out of line. What do you think? Do you allow your friends to chide you on what they consider to be crude behavior?

In the company of men I am simply more myself, and not so obsessed with seeming "fair," or "appropriate," and not nearly as competitive. Please don't get me wrong: I really like women. I find them to be intelligent, emotional, beautiful creatures and I am blessed that I have friendships with a few women--and these ladies I trust. But it's not easy to find that kind of a connection. Not easy at all.

Alejandro, and more.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Lady Gaga's long-awaited video, Alejandro:

Gaga looks like Evita Peron meets page-boy meets Madonna. The Fascist streak in this video is fairly appropriate to my reading material right now. I just started The Rise and Fall of The Third Reich and it's absolutely fascinating.

• In un-related news, my column at Bookslut is up. This month's is on Henry James' The Turn of the Screw. The issue also contains a delightful piece about stalking Dave Eggers, and a review of Justin Cronin's new epic vampire novel.

• My friend Peter will be on Jeopardy tonight if you want to tune in at 7pm EST!

I have been wildly allergic to everything lately, and I have five million thousand reviews to write, so I apologize in advance if there is radio silence on the blog. You know I still love you.

Sweets through the Bittersweet

Yesterday my review of Kate Moses' Cakewalk went up at The Millions. I hope you'll read the review and the book, a memoir of Kate's childhood and her difficult relationship with her parents. At the end of each chapter she includes a recipe, from a sweet featured in the chapter. Though the recipes are a nice addition (and delicious, I might add - I made her peanut butter cookies) what really rings solid and true about this book is Moses' struggle to come to terms with her parents' marriage and her mother in particular.

I know I have always expected my family to be loving - and I'm very lucky that most of my relatives are supportive. However over the last year I've had to accept that simply because I share DNA with someone doesn't mean they will be a positive, supportive presence in my life. After years of emotional abuse, I've just stepped away. I'm open to the idea that things could change, but I don't expect them to.

Moses' book made me realize that the people who truly love us love us for who we are, flaws and all. Those are the people we want to keep around - they want to see us succeed, see us happy, see us live in the city we love, make a life with the person of our choosing, and encourage us towards fulfillment. This message seems like it should be commonplace, but in looking back at my life I have allowed myself to spend too much time with hurtful, negative people who are intent on tearing me down and seeing me fail. I'm done with those people, and I'm ready to appreciate those in my life who make me feel good about who I am - or who I'll become.

So pick up a copy of Kate's book. She's a fantastic writer - you may have heard of her last book, Wintering, about Sylvia Plath's last weeks. Read a few chapters, bake a cake for that person who loves you for who you are - there are plenty of recipes to choose from.

White-knuckled

As a kid, I loved flying. I still love the liminal space of an airport - you're neither here nor there, in some in-between world, where one can talk on the phone and read magazines and think about life. But now flying scares the hell out of me. The last three flights I've taken have been turbulent and bumpy. Last night especially - there had been "strong winds" at LaGuardia and every time the pilot tried to descend, we hit turbulence.

How are we ever going to get down? Will I get off this plane alive? How crazy is it to get in a giant metal tube and propel oneself across the country? Please God, I thought, if you let me get off this plane, I promise I'll stop worrying so much, I'll stop flipping out about other people, stop reading so much stop thinking so much. Just let me live.

It's Monday morning. I'm alive, I'm at work. I had to let three L trains go by this morning. I open my Google reader to find criticism on a piece I wrote. I'm not an academic! I don't have the time nor the funding to sit in the library all day! (Believe me, I wish I did). I'm broke, etc. God dammit, and here we go. First world problems, right?

I wish I could stop thinking and just start living.

Summer Reading

It's practically May, and you know what that means: it's practically summer. Time for long lazy afternoons in the park, reading in the sun. I've been running around (out of town) but I'm looking forward to the summer months when I can finally get some reading done. Here are a few books I'm excited about reading:

Miss Lonelyhearts (and The Day of the Locust) by Nathanael West
An Education, A Memoir by Lynn Barber (the basis for the film)
A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg (author of food blog Orangette)
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
Summer Cooking by Elizabeth David
Memento Mori by Muriel Spark
and, if I like that, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark
and if I like both of those, the new biography of Madame Spark
Home Cooking by Laurie Colwin

I've been doing a lot of food writing and reading over the past month. I hope to have something up for you all to read about the genre very soon. I just finished Judith Moore's collection of personal essays on the intersection of life and food, Never Eat Your Heart Out. It was fantastic; I highly, highly recommend it. (It's out of print but you can find it without a problem on aLibris)

I also do a fair amount of re-reading in the summer. My favorites:

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
The Unabridged Diaries of Sylvia Plath
Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan
Slouching Towards Bethlehem

Come to think of it, I pretty much re-read these books all year.

What are your summer reads and recommendations?

Adventures in Babysitting

Hi friends. I wrote this essay about babysitting for This Recording.

I hope you enjoy it, and as always, thanks for reading.

On Travel

Since I was young, I have always loved to travel. Whether it was a long eight hour drive down to Florida to see my Grandpa, or a quick weekend to D.C. or Philly, or even just a jaunt to a small town in the middle of nowhere in Georgia, I love to travel. Traveling reminds me of when I was young, when I was a student and I had no serious cares in the world, aside from your usual teenage dramas and first heartbreaks. Honestly, while I love living in New York and I love my people here, I'm still trying to figure out what kind of career I need to pay the bills and to keep me sustained and fulfilled in an emotional sense. It's really difficult. If I had my way, I would write full-time. Traveling, even if it's a brief getaway, makes me feel like I'm seventeen again, with my journal and my books, settling in for a long train ride, ready for newness, ready for anything.

When I was eighteen, my mom and I tagged along on a University of Alabama study abroad program called "In the Footsteps of Virginia Woolf," the best trip I've ever taken in my life thusfar. We traveled all over England, to London, to Kent, to Sussex and finally to Cornwall, and when I stood on our hotel balcony I could see the pulsing light of Woolf's lighthouse. I got to watch my mom's face light up with joy while we walked through Vita Sackville West's garden at Sissinghurst. I saw Woolf's original manuscript of Orlando, handwritten in purple ink, that she gave to Vita, installed at Knole.

I've visited Andalusia, Flannery O'Connor's home in Milledgeville, Georgia, where she lived her entire life and wrote there - I saw her typewriter and her crutches.

I've held Sylvia Plath's childhood valentines to her mother in my hands. I've also held two feet of her hair, braided, in my bare hands at the Lilly Library in Bloomington, Indiana.

I've walked through ancient cemeteries in the UK, kissed the Blarney stone (after some intense anti-bacterial wiping) and taken down epitaphs from decrepit tombstones in Massachusetts. I've danced with Frenchmen and Spaniards in Madrid, even though I barely speak French and speak absolutely no Spanish. I lit a candle for my Grandmother in Notre Dame. I walked through the house where Nathaniel Hawthorne was born, and the house on which he based The House of Seven Gables. I dropped my favorite childhood necklace into the bay in Sausilito.

While standing in the Monk's House garden, where Virginia and Leonard Woolf's ashes are buried next to each other, I watched a big black cat cross through in the blinding sunlight.

For me, traveling is about forging a physical connection with places and people, particularly of the literary and historic persuasion. There's nothing I love more than the idea of a trip to Sleepy Hollow, or a visit to Amherst, to see Emily Dickinson's house. Being there situates you closer to the work, to the writer. I think literary excursions are the most romantic excursions.

And while there are still so many places to go and so many things to see, as I recount these past travels I feel a bit better about sitting inside being stuck at a desk on a gorgeous spring day. You know, I feel lucky.

In Which Cooking is an Analogy to Life Itself

I've just finished reading Cathy Erway's The Art of Eating In - you may recognize Cathy not from the name of her book but rather the name of her blog "Not Eating Out in New York." Cathy made a promise to herself and her readers that she would not eat in restaurants in New York, cooking all her meals at home, for two years. The book is a recounts her culinary struggles and triumphs. Gimmicky yes. Inspiring, also yes. For instance: last night I was out until 11pm, and I hadn't eaten dinner. Normally I would've rushed into some restaurant, totally ravenous, spent about $40 on booze and food, and gone home feeling guilty for my overindulgence. Thanks to Cathy's influence, I went straight home and looked at what I had in the cupboards. Some whole wheat pasta, parmesan cheese. Quickly, I whipped up some delicious cheese and pepper pasta and was totally satisfied, without spending a cent, without overeating.

Until this past year, I looked at cooking with disdain and apprehension. Cooking was for people with too much time on their hands, for housewives, or naturally talented chefs. But after doing some experimentation, I quickly learned that cooking at home can be healthier in that you control the ingredients, and certainly it's cheaper. In Erway's book she calculates she spends $20 on groceries one week (this is obscenely off - I spend about $60, but then, I'm cooking for two) for eating in. In a week where she eats-out every meal, she spends $221!

I do a fair amount of cooking at home now that I live with my boyfriend. Before cohabitation, as a single gal cooking for myself was a bit of a downer. Combine the social aspect with a kitchen in Park Slope that looked like something out of Taxi Driver, and there wasn't much of an incentive. I ate a lot of veggie burgers, cheerios and tater tots. Most of my meals I spent eating out, spending time with friends, or on dates. I was always jealous of my roommate and her boyfriend, who made intensely delicious dinners (usually on Sundays). The smell from the kitchen was devastating. And sadly, they never really offered to share. Understandable - groceries cost money. But I would have gladly chipped in.

This year, I hosted a Thanksgiving dinner at my house and 12 people attended. Everyone brought a dish (or even two) so thank goodness for that. But I was in charge of the turkey, and I was absolutely terrified. If you haven't ever cooked a large bird, I recommend doing so. It will teach you a great deal about yourself. Slaving over a turkey for six hours was agonizing: constantly basting, ensuring that the bird won't be overdone, and giving yourself a facial every ten minutes from the heat wave of the oven. Watching my friend Sue, who is a culinary master, carve the thing once it was done was like watching someone slaughter my first born child. At one point, I had to leave the room. To make matters worse, herding 12 people into sitting down at the table is near to impossible. And the bird was getting cold. All my work for naught! As Madeline Kahn says in Clue, "Flames, at the side of my face. Flames."


I lost all politeness and composure, barking orders for people to sit the fuck down, shut up, and eat. My boyfriend was embarrassed and ashamed of my behavior. But how could he understand? He had been helpful, yes, cleaning the apartment and going out to buy snacks from Chinatown. But these sort of errands in no way equal the massive amount of pressure combined from cooking the main dish and hostessing. I don't think he will ever fully forgive me for "losing it" at Thanksgiving. I tried to apologize to my guests, citing frustration and fatigue. Who knows if they even heard me over the clinking of silverware.

What Thanksgiving (and subsequent dinners) have taught me is that no matter how upset you get, for whatever reason: whether it's culinary, professional, or personal, you cannot allow your emotions to get the best of you. You must keep a stiff upper lip in public, and if you want to explode or rampage in private, go right ahead. (The gym, too, can be a wonderful safe haven for working out stress and anger issues). But the dinner table, in the company of guests (even if it's just your partner) is never the place to engage in combat with yourself. If you're type A, like I am, you must approach life in the same way: always striving for perfection. Well, it's more about the process, isn't it, than the end product? We should all just enjoy the "doing." Who cares if your place-mats don't match?

Tell 'em how you feel girls

My apologies for the delay on the blog - I headed home to Georgia to wish my mom a Happy Birthday in person and to see my brother who's home from Tokyo on his winter break. I'm back in New York now, back at work, getting adjusting to the full-time job schedule and writing my book in my spare time.

I've been thinking a lot about women lately - specifically women's bodies. Christina Hendricks (Joan on Mad Men) has been in the news lately after Cathy Horyn from the New York Times called her "not pretty" and a "big girl." Later the Times also admitted to stretching their photo of Hendricks arriving at the Golden Globes. Pretty despicable behavior from a reputable news source. Christina is the cover girl for New York magazine's fashion issue - and in it she says she's tired of all the talk about her weight.

The "infamous" Golden Globes dress
fuck you Cathy Horyn I'd like to see you pull this off

Supermodel Lara Stone (one of my personal favorites) recently told the press "People tell me I'm fat, but when I look in the mirror, that's not what I see." No shit! Lara's maybe one of the most gorgeous women on the planet, a throw-back to Bardot, a size four (!!!!) with one of the tightest, hottest bods and the most beautiful boobs in the fashion industry. But because of the pressure on her to lose weight, she developed an addiction to pills and alcohol. Now, thankfully, she's healthy and sober.

If this is fat, I fucking give up

I, too, have struggled with my weight, just like every woman does. I gained quite a bit in college because I had really unhealthy eating habits (a pint of ice cream practically every night - and I never thought twice about eating fried food and Taco Bell) I never exercised and I was depressed because I was in a toxic relationship. Now, I try to stay away from fast food, I've sworn off soda completely and I avoid fried foods (but I still eat french fries - a girl has to live man). Aside from the obvious goal of just being healthy, I want to feel good in my own body. I want to feel comfortable no matter what I'm wearing. I love clothes and I love fashion and I need for my clothes to fit properly. I try to get to the gym as much as I can, but by no means am I a compulsive exerciser. It's hard to find the time. But I'll be the first to admit living in New York has put much more pressure on me to lose weight and to be thin.

Lady Gaga has a song on her new album called "Dancer in the Dark," about a girl who feels good about herself until her boyfriend tells her she's a "mess"

Some girls won’t dance to the beat of the track
She won’t walk away
But she won’t look back
She looks good
But her boyfriend says
she’s a mess She’s a mess She’s a mess
Now the girl is stressed
She’s a mess . . .

Baby loves to dance in the dark
‘Cuz when he’s lookin’ She falls apart
Baby loves to dance in the dark (Tellem’, girls) . . .

Marilyn
Judy
Sylvia
Tellem’ how you feel girls!

Work your blonde (Jean) Benet Ramsey
We’ll haunt like liberace
Find your freedom in the music
Find your jesus
Find your kubrick
You will never fall apart Diana, you’re still in our hearts
Never let you fall apart
Together we’ll dance in the dark

Now, okay. Just reading these lyrics you may think "huh?" Has Jessica lost her mind? But, seriously. I want to say, thank you, Gaga, for writing an electro dance song that's about body image. I think this is an incredible feat - and on top of it, she's managed to reference (the female icons) and encourage a sense of female community - "together we'll dance in the dark." On top of it all, Dance in the Dark is a genius pop song, appropriate for dancing.

Gaga wants you to love yourself

Gaga knows what's it's like to be insulted for her looks - a google search will turn up "Gaga . . . Butterface . . . Hermaphrodite." Her entire gig is about individuality and wearing / doing whatever makes you happy - not to attract a man, but rather to push the envelope of what's considered sexual - isn't confidence and happiness the most attractive thing after all?

Christina Hendricks isn't the first gorgeous woman with big, beautiful breasts and hips. Not only that, Hendricks has the most beautiful complexion I've ever seen - and green eyes and red hair to top it all off. Sure, she's a different shape than the female starts we're used to seeing - and I think that's great. People come in all different sizes. Some are healthy, some aren't. The emphasis on weight, the pressure that women undergo every day to be thin whether they're in the spotlight or not, continues to be a lethal issue. It is literally a battle of life and death. So I'd like to encourage everyone, especially women, to stand behind each other, to defend each other, love your bodies and take good care of them. They belong to you. The minute you let someone else tell you what to do with your body, you're in the danger zone.

Fruits of Labor Linkage

Charlotte Gainsbourg is the nicest, chicest person in the world; check out my interview with her as proof.

I reviewed Joshua Ferris' new novel, The Unnamed, for Time Out New York.

Finally, I got all boy-crazy at This Recording.

In further news, I just finished We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson, thus cementing her as one of my favorite authors of all time.

2010!

J.D. Salinger is dead

This morning it snowed, and with the afternoon came the news that J.D. Salinger had died.

Now, let's be honest with ourselves. Those of us who really love Salinger don't love him for The Catcher in the Rye. We love him for his masterpiece: Franny and Zooey. If you don't understand that sentence, then please read this fantastic essay by Janet Malcolm.

Salinger was old. He was 91 and had sequestered himself off from public life, moving out to a secluded house in New Hampshire thirty years ago. It's no great tragedy or surprise that he's dead. But I will miss knowing he's there, just camped out in his house.

I love Franny and Zooey with all my heart. I don't love it openly, although I have listed the book on my facebook for nearly three years. My love affair with Franny and Zooey is not a public affair because people tend to shoot Salinger down for being too pretentious, too self-referential, too-white, too-something. I don't care; I'm white, and the problems presented in Franny and Zooey may be first world problems. This argument seems flawed. I don't read novels because of what "world" they belong to. I read them because they're good.

Salinger, to me, is one of the greatest masters of dialogue. When I listen to Zooey and his mom argue in the bathroom, it's like overhearing a real conversation. I can literally smell the cigarette smoke. The humor and sarcasm of these voices is exhilarating. I like to read Nine Stories on the train and when I'm forced to get out of the subway I'm always caught with a lump in my throat from needing to laugh and to cry at the same time.

I am constantly moved by the situation in Franny and Zooey because it reminds me of the way my brother and I interact, how we share tragedies by being related and attempt to buffer it off each other, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. While I haven't called Nicholas from another room pretending to be another sibling (that would be hard because it's only the two of us) I have called him, e-mailed him, and made gestures that siblings make in order to tell one's brother: I'm here, and I was there, I've been through it too, we're in this together.

And yes, like Eli Cash wants to be a Tenenbaum I think we all secretly want to be part of the Glass family, whether we admit it or not: part of their intelligence, their sheer obnoxiousness, their wealth, their neurotic quirks . . . the list goes on. Reading Franny and Zooey in Georgia I thought, oh what caricatures these people are. Upon moving to New York I realized they are anything but caricatures. People like this exist. I interact with them every day.

Salinger's ex-girlfriend said she knew of two unpublished novels he kept under lock and key, and a reporter who somehow managed to gain access to his house a long time ago wrote that there was an entire room filled with manuscripts. Salinger, as we all know, was notoriously private and hadn't published anything since 1965. God knows what might come out of that house - and who knows if anyone will be able to secure the rights to publish it.

When I need to get off my ass I turn to Franny and Zooey. Zooey's speech to Franny about the Fat Lady is a little heavy-handed, but all in all I pretty much agree with almost everything he says. And while Salinger's work may have been about the wages of alienation, he ended up creating some pretty incredible characters that lots of people relate to. No wonder he was so freaked-out and had to retreat to the woods. I think everyone's a little phony; it's unavoidable (and some, certainly, more than others). Whatever. These books, they jump and glisten, they're alive, and incredibly entertaining to read. I never get tired of them.

So cheers, Salinger.
You may have not liked us but we sure liked you.

Fuck you, 2009.

This image was taken from the lovely Escape to New York.

In January 2009 I got laid off.

On January 12, 2009, I started a new job, thinking it was a miracle.

It wasn't.

For six months, I worked at a desk for ten hours, with no lunch break, in fact, no breaks whatsoever. It was terrible. If I had to go to the bathroom, I had to ask someone to watch the phone. Very frequently my request was denied.


Day after day, I scoured the internet for a better job. I didn't find one.

Some mornings, walking to the L train, I wept.

On June 19, 2009, I got laid off. Again.

This time, it wasn't so easy to find a job. I applied and received unemployment benefits.

I went on countless interviews, most of them I was "overqualified" for, them being editorial assistant jobs, a job I had already worked for nearly three years. One potential employer actually told me, "I'm a bitch. I'll make life hard for you. Do you still want this job?"

On my way out of the interview, I cried.

Another potential employer mocked me in an interview for a misuse of boldface. FUCK YOU, bitch. How do you like that use of boldface?


I didn't get jobs because I didn't have enough journalism experience. I didn't get them because the boss decided to hire her friend's niece. I didn't get them because there weren't any. Literally. One day after I found out I didn't get a job I wanted, the entire department was laid-off. Canceled. Destroyed.

I went to a temping agency because I was desperate. They offered me the most wildly inappropriate jobs, not consistent with my skills set, nor meeting the minimum 40% of my previous gross wages. One time, they offered me to interview for one of those jobs. I turned them down. They reported me to the government. I lost my unemployment benefits, and now I owe the government money. If you are unemployed, please feel free to e-mail about this. I would never want this to happen to anyone else. You need to know your rights.

One afternoon, I realized I had forgotten to send in my Cobra payment. They discontinued my health insurance. The payment was one day late. I had to beg to be reinstated.

My former boss refused to act as a positive reference on my job interviews in the worst economic recession since The Great Depression.

Again, I cried.


Throughout all of this, my mom, my boyfriend, and my friends offered an intense amount of support, talking to me on the phone, paying for my meals, taking me out for a drink, patting me on the back and telling me how they weren't worried. That I'd find something. My boyfriend bore the brunt of my frustration, my depressive moods, my anger at the situation. He's an absolute saint, and no matter what happens, I will never forget his ultimate kindness and support through what was the darkest period in my life to date. If anyone ever doubts his supreme goodness, I will cut a bitch.


Another month went by. I started freelancing. Writing. Editing. Things felt better. I was working. And I was doing work that I actually enjoyed. It finally struck me, that perhaps all of this had happened to show me that what I really wanted to do was write. To freelance as much as possible and make the life I wanted for myself. It was a stunning conclusion. But I still needed a job.

I just want to give everyone an early shout-out and thanks for all the comments and support on this blog - I had an excellent day yesterday and should have good news to share with you all very soon. I'm so happy 2009 will end on a great note. The boy and I got our first tree together yesterday - it's maybe the most beautiful Frasier Fur I've ever seen.

Hope you all are happy and looking forward to the holidays!

Santa Baby 2009

What yours truly wants for Christmas . . .





















I'm dying for the complete series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The big box set is pretty pricey, but apparently people on EBay are selling season 1-7 separately for a deal.

Multichain necklaces and bracelets.



















Or, a more dainty long gold chain, like this one from Erica Weiner.

A cast-iron casserole dish from Le Creuset or somewhere less expensive so I can make Boeuf Bourguignon.
















Long Purple Leather Gloves (thanks, Prince!)


















A weekend trip to Sleepy Hollow, N.Y.
















A lifetime supply of Falling in Love by Philosophy.




















Inglourious Basterds, DVD.

















More running pants, like these from Puma: spandex, this length.














A set of 15lb barbells.






















If someone can find me the Orin, the necklace from The Neverending Story, then wow.
















This dog.















Vintage Leather Briefcase like this one.















Anthropologie's novel scents collection.













Biography of Mary Shelley





















Continuation of my New Yorker subscription.























Tickets to see Lady GAGA.

Hi There!

Hey y'all, I apologize for the delay in post-age again. I launched my lit magazine, we had a little party, it was lots of fun. I've been doing a lot of interviewing and writing and the blog has taken a hit because of it! I apologize. Anyway, I hope you writers out there will think of submitting something for the next issue of Candor which will pub in March (the deadline is the end of February). Check out info here if you're interested.

Since I left you, I saw Paranormal Activity, Twilight: New Moon, and The Fantastic Mr. Fox. I hope to see Up in the Air, The Messenger, and The Lovely Bones next week.

I'm currently reading Changing My Mind, the occasional essays of Zadie Smith. They are fantastic.


Last Monday I ventured uptown to see the Tim Burton retrospective at MoMa. A few words:

Walking through the exhibit, which, contrary to what reviewers have said, is incredibly complex and thorough; it covers Burton's career from his grade-school homemade movies up to Sweeney Todd. Maybe you aren't a Burton fan. Maybe you lived under a rock during the late 80s and 90s, or maybe you were too mature, or too little to appreciate his films. But I was the perfect age - and these things defined my childhood. I don't think I ever thought it was possible for someone to articulate isolation and pure unadulterated awkwardness like Edward's - and never in my life had I seen a man wear so much makeup and remain as soul-crushingly handsome as Johnny Depp in that film.

Beetlegeuse, to a large extent, still defines my sense of humor, and my interests, when it comes to movies, books, and theater. Hell, I write a column about ghosts and zombies and other dead stuff. And I love it. Winona Ryder became my absolute IDEAL GIRL TO BE. She still is, in a lot of ways. I think lots of us ladies still feel a kinship with Winona. Watching her movies today all I can think of is that voice! It's like a forty year old half Englishwoman in a thirteen year old's body!

I can still sing The Nightmare Before Christmas the entire way through, and no, I am not ashamed. I remember getting Nightmare Before Christmas dolls when I was little for Christmas, and my brother and I lining them up on the carpet before we watched the movie, ready to sing along. It's one of my fondest childhood memories.

And of course, then there's Batman. I think, for most people my age, and maybe everyone ever, Jack Nicholson will always be the Joker - even though Health did an incredible job, I look at Jack Nicholson and I see that purple suit and that green hair. Not to mention Kim Baisinger and Jerry Hall were maybe the first women that made me want want long blonde hair and big high heels! And in Batman Returns, what a beautiful Gotham, a winter-y landscape, a portrait of lust and violence. Michelle Pfeiffer: enough said. Michael Keaton is still my favorite Batman. He's the most sensitive, the most emotive of all of them, the least ridiculous - and he still has the best lips.

While Burton's later efforts aren't quite as unique or successful (Planet of the Apes, Big Fish, Willy Wonka, Sweeney Todd), I feel this has more to do with the change in how people make movies, with uber special effects and weak plotlines, and Burton's human and he's trying to adapt and stay relevant at the same time. It's a difficult task.

These movies not only defined my childhood, they define who I am as a human being. I can't say that about many directors or many films, and I'm proud to say that about Tim Burton. I have a kinship with him. If you're at all interested in the genesis of an auteur who for many people his work is as personal as it gets, I recommend you head to MoMa sometime before the exhibit closes in April.