My next batch of reading materials:

John Jeremiah Sullivan’s Pulphead

Dana Spiotta’s Stone Arabia

Aracelis Girmay’s Teeth

Adam Johnson’s The Orphan Master’s Son

A couple of these (Stone Arabia and Pulphead) are nominated for this year’s National Book Critics Circle Award. The reading is this March, to which I will happily drag CityBoy and afterwards enjoy a delicious dinner at Da Andrea (if I get my druthers).

Aracelis Girmay’s second book, Kingdom Animalia, is also nominated, and it turns out she’s a Santa Ana girl, just like me, which makes me positively proud and green with envy. If this first book is as good as I’ve heard, she can count on another purchase at the awards reading.

And who doesn’t want to read more about wacky North Korea? Since I can’t stand non-fiction or the news (most of the time), I get all my historical information from novels. I know, not always the most accurate, but infinitely more interesting. So I’m counting on Adam Johnson to enlighten me.

To the page, people!

The film series alone is worth the membership, since MoMA is host to several films a day, ranging from theme- or director-driven series to old remastered classics to this year’s Oscars contenders. It’s pretty insane.

Another major perk are these members-only previews, where you get to enjoy their latest and greatest art exhibits before they open to the general public. CityBoy and I have yet to actually make one of these previews, but getting the little postcard in the mail alerts us to cool new things that we might otherwise miss.

Case in point:

Diego Rivera: Murals for the The Museum of Modern Art

Running through May 2012, this exhibit draws on works from Rivera’s 1931 showing at MoMA, where he produced five “portable murals” on-site for the museum. This show includes his sketches and drawings for the works, as well as drawings for the now infamous murals at Rockefeller Center. 

You get up close and personal with some of his most famous images, including Agrarian Leader Zapata, which I’m sure every teenaged revolutionary has pinned up to their bedroom or dorm. This piece in particular is so fascinating because the museum has framed it so that you can see the back of the mural, as well as an X-ray of it, so you can see the inner framework.

Frozen Assets was a piece I’d never seen before and it speaks so clearly to our current times that it’s almost eerie.

Those anonymous sleeping bodies curled up underneath the angular and jutting city, with the faceless bankers counting up their riches below. It’s so creepy and disturbing.

If you can, see these murals in person. The scale of them, the weight of their subject matters, the tactile play of light and dark in the materials, is something that the art book or poster just doesn’t do justice.

          – After Richard Renaldi’s Touching Strangers photographs

If I ask, would you
lay your palm here,
calloused hand
to my shoulder blade,
the delicate armature, see
how my body hooks together
needle and eye?

Or finger
the pulse at my neck,
bird flower
beating its staccato
rhythm rat tat tat?

Cup the living cage
of my throat,
body’s breath,
the slipped passage
of corpuscles. Beneath:
My mother’s voice.
How, in the dark,
I startle awake.

classic

And while I have loved parts of the city, especially the (often) perfect months of May and October, those parts haven’t added up to enough to allow me to respond with a resounding “Yeah, I love it. It’s amazing.”

My commute crosstown to work each morning  is enough to make any sane non-New Yorker break out in a machine-gun-toting killing spree. Especially in the winter, when it’s 20 degrees out (okay, quiet already, you Midwesterners, I know it could be colder but you have to remember I grew up in Southern California and my peoples are a tropical peoples), and the wind makes that feel like 12 degrees, and you’ve taken great care in dressing so as to not allow one chink in your cold-fighting layers only to have something ride up or ride down, usually where you just can’t reach, and winter’s icy fingers jab you right in the back or hairline or across your presumably boot-bundled toes.

Sorry, I digress. But one of the main things that always, always delights me about New York is the plethora of art/culture offerings, especially for someone like me who is obsessed with the written word. There are book readings, discussions, panels, festivals, award ceremonies, performances – all highlighting that great and magical thing.

Someone asked me recently how I find out about all these great things, and, as I began to enumerate the various blogs and websites and e-newsletters that I troll, I realized that the shame of it all is that there is no easy way to find out about these things. Of course there’s the NY Times and the New Yorker and TimeOut, but they’re so spread out and sometimes hard to follow (I’m talking to you, TimeOut!).

And then there’s the added problem of worrying if this or that event is going to be any good. Worthwhile enough to justify leaving off your myriad responsibilities for the night and venture out into the cold. We depend so much on the word of a good friend who loved this movie or that book, and what if most of our friends are just like us and feel as though they’re just barely holding their necks out of the water?

So, after this very long-winded wind-up, here’s my Jho In The City-approved list of NYC Literati hot spots.

(In no particular order)

McNally Jackson

Consistently one of the best book places in New York. A great bookstore and cafe (grab a scone, you’ll thank me) that hosts some kind of reading or discussion almost every day of the week. I love that they feature fiction and poetry and non-fiction and literary magazines, so there’s no end to the interesting things you’ll find out about. I’ve discovered so many great books in this place, they deserve a medal.

The Center for Fiction

Billed as the only fiction-centered non-profit in the U.S., the Center for Fiction is a treasure trove for story lovers. They’re a library, quasi-artists’ colony, reading room, bookstore, and host to a tremendous variety of fiction-only events. It’s housed in a charming, old townhouse right in the middle of Midtown, walking distance to Grand Central Station. Their First Novel Prize always turns me on to some as yet undiscovered wonder, like Michelle Hoover’s The Quickening.

CityBoy and I usually treat ourselves to ramen at Menkui Tei or Menchanko-Tei, because who doesn’t want a big bowl of pork soup after hearing great fiction.

NYU’s Reading Series

This reading series, in particular their readings at the Lillian Vernon House, were my saving grace the first six months I lived in New York. And the reason for my great envy of NYU MFA students. They get their own friggin’ house! Where the visiting poets come and actually interact with them! And they have free beer and wine! They will get mobbed when the greats, like Sharon Olds, come and read, so get there early and be prepared to sit, cheek by jowl, with other aspiring writers, notepads in hand.

The New School

These guys host a ridiculous number of events and readings, some in big auditoriums and others in more intimate classrooms. Every year, they host the National Book Critics Circle Reading, which is a fantastic way of finding out about a big cross-section of great writers in one long and beautiful evening. Most of their events are free or a small contribution like $5-10.

I like to pair an evening reading here with dinner at Da Andrea, this fantastic Italian place within walking distance.

Tenement Talks at the Tenement Museum

Home to NYC-centered readings and events, the Tenement Museum is a great place to find out about New York’s long and gritty past and to indulge your inner historian. Their events tend to get crowded, since they’re packed into their little visitor’s center/bookstore/gift shop, and the crowd is always hilariously full of old school New Yorkers, who ask weird, long-winded questions and participate as vehemently as call-and-responders at your local Black church. It’s a great taste of old New York.

We once had dinner at The Ten Bells, a tiny tapas place nearby, where the barkeep satisfied my secret craving for super stinky cheese. CityBoy struggled with not ordering me to another table with my “foot cheese.”

Check ‘em out and see what you think. Hopefully at least one will surprise and delight you.

As the last of our extended family to leave the Philippines, my aunt has a treasure trove of old photos that most of us have never even seen. Even my mom was stumped by this photo, taken on the occasion of my third birthday.

I’m the one standing. My littler sister is in the straw hammock that served as our crib. I’m guessing that my father took this photo. He owned a photo shop in the Philippines and I can always detect a certain craftsmanship in his early photos, a delicate framing of the subject and background, that gives the photo a little more drama and tension than all the bad, too far away, or too blurry, or just blah photographs we’ve taken at family gatherings.

Notice the balloons printed with my nickname, Jeng-Jeng, which only this aunt still calls me by. I’ll be sharing some other old photos when the mood hits me, but this one is so fantastic, so special for its never having been handled and admired within my family, a cherished memento of a time that I no longer remember: our fabled, pre-immigrant past.

Back then, our neighbors were all cousins and siblings and parents of my parents. Everyone was someone’s Tita or Tito, Ninang or Ate. My older siblings left the house each morning to play all day wherever they wanted and came home only at dusk, to be hosed down outside in the yard before my mother would let them enter her clean kitchen. Where we all still look back, even if we don’t remember what we are missing.

]]> http://jhointhecity.wordpress.com/2012/01/15/flashback-jho-at-age-3/feed/ 0 jhointhecity IMG_0011_2 http://jhointhecity.wordpress.com/2012/01/15/enter-the-dragon-or-here-comes-2012/ http://jhointhecity.wordpress.com/2012/01/15/enter-the-dragon-or-here-comes-2012/#comments Sun, 15 Jan 2012 05:07:38 +0000 jhointhecity http://jhointhecity.wordpress.com/?p=930 ]]> Happy New Year, my peeps. 2012 is officially here (though I’m still sometimes writing ‘ll or, god forbid, ’09) and it is with quivering hearts that we look to another year, another page turned in the (hopefully) long (and not too boring) novel of our lives.

A new year always makes me a little anxious and angry. Inevitably, I haven’t accomplished as much as I’d hoped in the last 12 months, and the thought of resolutions and diets and spring cleaning makes me want to punch the next New-Year-New-You devotee. 

Last year, I seem to remember talking about resolutions myself here, trying to distill them into a couple of punchy action verbs. Something about READ, WRITE, COOK, SEE, DO. I can picture myself air-boxing around the apartment, punctuating each jab with a hearty exhortation. YES. I. WILL. READ. I. WILL. DO. YES!

I feel like a jerk just thinking about it. Why do we torture ourselves with these promises? Why can’t we just get out of our own heads and get into the game, so to speak?

Apparently our giant mammalian brains have evolved mainly to help us feel more conflicted, more under-achieving, to give us the wherewithal to think about and bemoan our lame stuck-in-our-head-edness.

Or maybe it’s just me. It’s possible. CityBoy asks me all the time why I’m so negative, so angry, so hostile to my fellow creatures. Usually I arch a wry eyebrow and give him the “it’s your fault – you  made me come to New York” look. But I do wish I could embrace the new year a little more openly, be a little more hopeful and not so quick to point out the flaws in these supposed resolutions and mini-makeovers.

It’s not as though 2011 was a bad year. CityBoy and I accomplished a lot, including planning THE. BEST. WEDDING. EVER. in under six months. And we made it through with very few very angry moments. Lots of vigorous discussion and snarky backtalk (mostly from me). Lots of sarcasm and eye-rolling (me again). And lots of loveliness and joy.

We look pretty happy, right?

So I’m turning the page and getting into the action. Maybe I’ll take up a French class (I’ve always hated not being to even pronounce all the words in the fancy menus). Or find a new, more exciting job. Or even move coasts again.

Crazier things have happened.

Rock on in 2012, people. Let’s just rock on.

I’m as disturbed (and secretly exhilarated) by American excess, our multi-colored and advertising-drenched aisles of toothpastes and dental floss (whitening, tartar control, pro-enamel, sensitive gums, etc.), the unending shelves of cereal for the sugar junkies and health nuts alike, the thrumming rows of frozen vegetables, microwave meals and bagel pizzas.

But two ovens? Man, you won’t know how much you covet them until a day like today. And I’m not even cooking a turkey this year. Reheating a cooked one for several hours – yes. But starting from scratch – no. Nonetheless, Turkey Day requires copious preparation, the will of a field army general, and the absolute confidence to kick people the hell out of your kitchen (this means you, CityBoy, get your own damn kitchen).

Our motley assortment of serving dishes prepped and ready to go

So far, my Thanksgiving day cooking consist of:

Eggplant caponata (done and chilling in the fridge)

Sweet potato casserole (prepped and ready to go into the oven for 30 minutes)

Mashed potatoes

Roasted Brussel sprouts

Green beans pancetta

These last three will vie for oven and stove space with the aforementioned precooked but not yet warm and delicious turkey, which takes two hours to reheat in the oven.

Two hours? I’m thankful to my darling CityBoy for both ordering and picking up said bird, but now I’m thinking that next year, I may as well just make the damn thing. Or two big turkey breasts. I mean, two hours of reheating is totally enough time to roast two turkey breasts.

If I had two ovens, this would be a moot point. One oven becomes the turkey oven, and all the other fixings can share space in the multi-purpose oven. Brilliant.

One of these days I will have my two ovens. Until then, Thanksgiving here in the City in our teeny studio will be a balancing act of counter space and plates and mixing bowls and hot pans.

Until then, it’s timelines, scheduling and telling people to leave me the hell alone.

Oh, unless I need help. Then they need to get the hell over here, stat. [Insert image of me with a steaming pot of cubed potatoes that I need to drain without a) burning myself, b) dropping said pot, or c) dropping any said potato cubes into the sink.]

Happy Turkey Day, my peeps. Hope it is as fantastic and leftovers-laden as I’m hoping mine will be.

Peace out,

Jho

But back on topic, being the impressive planner that he is, CityBoy realized that last weekend was going to probably be one of the last nice weekends we’ll have for a long while (how depressing is that?), and he decided that he really wanted to get outside of the city for some Nature, with a capital N.

the Pergola Overlook

Which is how we ended up trekking out to Wave Hill, a gorgeous public garden and center set atop the cliffside in way upper Bronx. If you’re familiar with the area and/or have taken a MetroNorth or Amtrak train heading north from New York, you’ll remember seeing these amazing red cliffs from the train as you’ve speed along the Hudson. That’s where Wave Hill is. 

For the non-driving New Yorker, it’s a pretty spectacular place to visit that is still fairly close to the city (1/2 hour away) and easy to get to (if you are okay with a subway ride to a MetroNorth train to a Wave Hill shuttle). If you time it right and go on a Target Free Day, which we did, it’s even better.

Wave Hill House is unfortunately closed for renovations right now, but there is still plenty to check out on a warm-ish fall afternoon. There are overlooks and woodland trails and gardens.

the Wild Garden

A visitor center with requisite gift shop, where you will try (unsuccessfully) to not murder the children who can’t keep their hands off the wind chime displays. Lots of amazing plants that you’ve never seen before and that your mother would die for a cutting of (hi Mom).

i was desperate for one of these leaves but CityBoy threatened to call the garden police

The food choices leave a lot to be desired. While Wave Hill House and the Cafe inside are closed, they have set up a food truck outside the Gallery. Being a suave urbanite, I assumed food truck = gourmet tacos, pulled pork sandwiches or fancy banh mi. Unfortunately what they have is a truck out of which they serve pre-made sandwiches. They’re not totally gross, and they are reasonably priced (at least for New York), but you’re better off packing a lunch, if you think of it, and just getting drinks there.

But if you go soon, you will get to experience Hive Culture: Captivated by the Honeybee, this super cool exhibit they have in the Glyndor Gallery all about bees. There’s cool photography, mixed media, sculpture and even a one-woman show/film mimicking bee movements which is really creepy.

But the thing I became obsessed with, and took a ton of photos of, was Andrea Lilienthal’s Swarm. I mean, look at this thing.

holy bee swarm, Batman!

It’s made of hundreds of pussywillow catkins attached together with wire.

imagine tying a million flies together

And the shadows it cast as it spun slowly in the room were amazing. I told CityBoy he could get it for me as a(nother) wedding present.

i'm in love. seriously.

So, get up to Wave Hill. Not this weekend, because they’ve been battered by this crazy pre-Halloween snowfall that we just got. But soon. Or just obsess over Swarm.

I know I am.

Rock on, people.

Jho

McJ's gorgeous storefront

I’m not sure how they do it, something to do with Sarah McNally  having worked in publishing and it being the It Bookstore of NYC that is not a Barnes and Noble, but they always have the top writers reading from the top books the Internet is all aTwitter over.

This past week was no exception. I love a Colson Whitehead reading. His books sometimes give me troubles (my brain is too literal and Early-British-novel-loving – I want a good, long story without too many bells and whistles of the surreal or avant garde variety), but the last one, Sag Harbor, was lovely. It helps that we’re close in age, so his reference points are (mostly) my reference points.

But the main draw of a Colson Whitehead reading is . . . Colson Whitehead. Both times I’ve heard him read, he’s prepared a short funny essay or opener or what-have-you to read, about his early beginnings as a writer and what drew him to the field. I know, this sounds really dry and too “worked” but Colson is funny. Droll. Unafraid to make fun of himself or look silly. I wish I had a newer iPhone so that I could have caught on video him playing Donna Summer’s Macarthur Park on his iPad for the audience. The song is just so strange and nonsensical and made more so by Colson singing along in falsetto. I can’t picture Joshua Ferris or Jonathan Franzen doing the same.

Here’s Colson listening intently to his iPad:

"Someone left the cake out in the rain..."

His latest book, Zone One, is about zombies. Yes, I said “zombies.” In New York City.

I know, you’re thinking, Really? Zombies? Again.But think about it. Zombies. In Manhattan. New York freakin’ City. That actually makes sense (way more than Austen’s England). I feel like a zombie about 90% of the time here, forced to roam Manhattan aimlessly, trying all day to find the thing that I would have found at my local Southern California Target in 5 minutes. And I have the strongest cravings to kill (though not always to eat) my fellow New Yorkers, neighbors and strangers alike. Plus the city makes the best backdrop for a horror story that I know of. Everybody’s already at Def Con One just trying to get groceries.

I haven’t started reading it yet, but lots of reviewers have talked a lot about how Colson’s taken the genre literary. As a big horror and sci-fi fan, he took offense to that idea and downplayed any talk that he was riding the “zombie” trend. He just was compelled to write a book about zombies. I love that his main form of research was his biannual screening of Dawn of the Dead.

I’ll have to let you know once I dive into the book. I’m still trying to finish A.S. Byatt’s mammoth The Children’s Book, which is ah-may-zing. I don’t know how that woman’s head isn’t 1000% larger than the average person or hasn’t exploded from all the research she’s had to absorb and make her own. I still couldn’t say what the book’s “about,” other than this large English family and their extended circle of family and friends at the cusp of the “old” world of Victorian England and the “new” potentially explosive turn of the century. It’s gone places I would not have imagined, and the last 300 pages (keep in mind I’m reading this on my Nook and have no idea about physical pages) have been positively gripping.

And next month at McJ? The Four Way Books Annual Reading. I cannot wait for that.

Keep on reading, my friends.

Jho