I listened as Richard Hell started to quote Proust

until his voice cracked, he began to cry (?!), covered that possible indiscretion with a laugh, and jumped to the last paragraph of the last chapter of his forthcoming autobiography, vowing to cut the quote. He's right. I don't think he needs it.

His reading yesterday took place in the sunshine sucking basement of Cake Shop and somehow made me forget about the smell of beer, booze, and shame covered with chlorinated, yet dirty mop water that can only be experienced in a bar in the middle of the day. The book sounds angry and honest and wonderful. He's as pissed as ever at Tom Verlaine and seems to me to be the personification of Richard Katz in Franzen's "Freedom". It's probably pretty punk rock to hold a grudge, but it's definitely pretty poetic to write a whole book about it 5000 years later conflating only a moderately dimmed rage, a bucket load of insight, and the kind of love made possible by a healthy dose of hate. Gosh, I can't wait.

I bought "Blank Generation" in high school at the local record store, City Lights (RIP). Record stores run by too cool, grizzly, middle-aged dudes in Creepers are supposed to be intimidating, but it was actually the frozen yogurt place next door that was run by assholes (even though it's decor was strictly teddy bears) that was the real fear inducer. I guess I should be thankful that I grew up in a place where it was easier to ask for music recommendations than extra sprinkles.

I feel kind of proud that I knew and loved Richard Hell before I knew and loved (let's be honest, loved and love more) Television. I didn't have anyone cool in my life helping me out, but providentially, I found this paperback book of punk rock sheet music at a thrift store and used it to further my obsession with anything punk rock and new wave and basically not central Pennsylvania (except for that other genre I was equally fascinated with at the time that was quintessentially Pennsylvanian and small town and terrible--I'll call it emo-straight-edge-sometimes-Christian-discordant-whining--but that's another story).

One of the few CDs I still have around...I guess because my cat likes it.

It's funny how this book was like a blue print to the ultimate mix tape. I learned the piano via the Suzuki method, so it's not like the bars meant much to me, but if this book was my bible, these tracks were the Letters to Corinthians…if those letters were full of tips and musical lineages to look up, download, and sometimes buy...were they? If so, I get it. Anyway:

Richard Hell ended his reading with the sentence, "This isn't a book about a person through time, it's a book about time as lived through a person." Or something like that. I thought that was nice.

I bought saddle shoes.

I've wanted to visit Muffy's Saddle Shoes in Vernonia, Oregon for quite some time. Yesterday, I finally begged and pleaded and was able to hitch a ride with a couple of lesser saddle shoe enthusiasts--though I think it may be safe to call them FORMER lesser saddle shoe enthusiasts now...I mean, check out this classic cuteness:

Muffy and her husband Alan are hard to track down. They do most of their business online, but have a storefront that boasts having the largest inventory of new (Muffy's line) and vintage saddle shoes in the WORLD. Being so fancy, they don't have to keep regular business hours. Good thing there was a phone number taped to the door. When I arrived, all I had to do was give Alan a call and he and Muffy were there within three minutes to open the store up and allow me to prance around, navigating the sizes and stiffness of these classic school girl staples. Turns out I'm a 6D or a 6.5D. That's right. They recognize that feet aren't just all length and no girth. Geniuses? Maybe. Oldey time? Yes'm.

After much debate and rationalizing how much wear I actually got out of the classic black and white motif of my never-leave-home-without-them, gigantic bouncing souled, jr. high Doc Martens, I was convinced to go a bit more practical with a pair of soap and navy ones.

Oh Look! My old Friendster profile pic with my jr. high Doc Marten saddles
and high school prom dress!

I really really wanted the white and green, but alas, they didn't have my size in stock and I wasn't about to ruin the adventure of hunting this place down and poking through their stockpile of stuff by returning to Brooklyn empty handed and an empty promise of ordering them online. Booooring.

I'm a lot of things, but generally not a buzz kill.

They did have a boatload of stuff though including Reese Witherspoon's saddles from Pleasantville, a pair of Marilyn Monroe's, and a whole discombobulated mess of stuff that I rooted through when they weren't looking. I found that they are also interested in scratchy 50s sweaters and cheerleading uniforms and they even have a pair of Payless imposter pink and white saddles that I also had in my youth.

I would have to say that the best part of meeting Muffy and Alan and being allowed into their kooky obsession and yellowed showroom was when they told me the story about how their admiration for each others' saddle shoes brought them together across a crowded room. I would have thought it was their middle parts and long gray hair, but, they were telling me a story that took place in the past.  They're awesome and in love...with saddle shoes.

What a life, what an obsession, what a tough pair of shoes to break in...and weird ass picture of my foot.

 I think it'll be worth it.

I met a new cat and there was a bright light and then he was gone.

Go figure. 

I woke up with chocolate on my face and a lot of Juliana Hatfield songs downloaded.

I sent my grandma a birthday present.

Daminka, my polka-loving, 4'11 grandma, turns 88 tomorrow. I found her the most perfect gift at the most perfect hardware store in the city (Convenience Hardware at 26th and 9th Ave).* Perfect because, not only do they have glue and keys and hammers, they have at least 3000 hand-painted Russian nesting dolls that are ALL DIFFERENT. This time, I snagged one that features a lady who keeps getting smaller and smaller, but manages to switch out the kind of cat that she's holding. This summer I bought one that features different girls getting smaller and smaller until a tiny orange tiger blasts you in the face. Amazing.

When I asked the man at the hardware store where they came from, he said, "Oh, a little place you've probably never heard of. ...RUSSIA." He's right. Never heard of it, but just the same, I can really appreciate their people's sense of detail and interest in surprise.

Lady One

Lady Two

Lady Three

Lady Four

LADY FIVE!!!!! She's SOOO SMALL!!

Here is my cat's paw for comparing purposes. 

Team.

I was so excited about these dolls that I almost didn't send them. I almost ate them. Really. I mean, then I'd be a nesting doll too! Right? This seems to beg the question: Can you become a nesting doll just because you have a small doll inside of you? Or are you only a nesting doll if someone cuts you open and finds one? Hmmm.

Honestly, I don't know what my deal is with small things. Sometimes I love them so much I think I may seize. The good news is, small things are more cost effective than big or even normal sized things. Cost of these dolls? 12 dollars. Cost of real-sized people? Holding different cats? A lot.

*Don't worry. This post won't spoil anything. My grandma doesn't know about the internet. She also doesn't know that ambrosia salad isn't really salad.