the power of NOW vs. the power of GIN; some reflections on cynicism and idealism.

Every once in a while I wake up happy that the sun is shining on my face, the grass is growing beneath my feet and I’m overjoyed just to be alive. The other 364 days in the year I make a cup of dark and bitter coffee, light a cigarette, and just get on with it. Then I probably sit down and write an equally bitter and cynical email to someone—usually someone in New York—who gets it. Gets cynicism, that is. Contrary to what you may think, or how it may seem, I find this a very healthy and productive way to start a day. I figure if you spit life in the face first, no matter how much it throws it back at you as the day goes on, at least you’ll have the comfort of knowing you did it first. Its like saying “I told you so,” before the event. Quite the prophetic stroke of genius, I find.

***

You know when you go to those work things where they make you wear a name tag? And you know when you’re half way home and you realize you’re still wearing it? Today was one of those days. Seriously, when people are staring at you on the tube it really pays sometimes to stop and think twice as to why that is. There I am thinking they’re thinking I’m beautiful, intriguing, mesmerizing, while they’re thinking I’m so retarded I decided not only to name, but label, one of my breasts during some tedious conference call.

***

By around noon today things had already reached that point when I realized the only thing that could possibly turn them around was gin. No rocks. No dilutions. Just gin. So, as I strolled down Oxford Street (which in any bad day is nothing more than the perfect avenue to make it worse—die, tourists, die!), I began scrolling through my contacts thinking who might a) be available at that hour; b) be willing to drink gin or c) be coerced into watching me drink gin. Nope, nope, nope. Now I know why cellphone contact lists can be made up of individuals and groups, and now I know that I need to form me a new group: “Gin lovers, unemployed.” And just as I was beginning to give up on the idea and getting ready to do it on my lonesome, my phone rang. “Max Virgin” calling.

***

Now I’m not sure if Max really is a virgin, and as it turns out his name is not even actually Max, but he’s a personal trainer who works at a Virgin Active very close to where I was standing in that moment, and he’s a qualified masseur. Who cares what his name is. I don’t recall actually voicing a prayer in that moment, but as far as I was concerned, it was answered. Perfect timing, perfect location, perfect gin-slash-debauchery victim. “Hey!” I answered enthusiastically and cut to the chase, “where are you?” “Just left the gym was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee.” “Not coffee, gin, see you there in five minutes.” Things were looking up. I was envisioning a blissful afternoon with a personal trainer, a personal double gin, and call it coincidence if you like but we happened to be surrounded by hotels. Did I mention he’s a qualified masseur?

***

Turns out Max Virgin is also a qualified optimist, idealist, and buzzkill—a certified member of the Brady Bunch. He’s from that bizarre planet of individuals who believe that gin cannot better anything but merely worsen it, and so he sat me down somewhere in front of an orange juice and a fruit salad. After staring at the OJ rather miserably for quite some time, he in true personal trainer fashion cheered me on to having it, and I, did what we do, imagined it was gin and downed it. I think my imagination did quite a convincing job, for I then said, “I’m so glad you called me! I was just looking for someone to lunch with!” “Maybe I’m your guardian angel,” he responded. Erm, no honey, we’re sitting here having OJ and fruit salad, you’re my guardian killjoy. If you were massaging me and feeding me gin through a straw, maybe then you’d be my angel. Hell, you’d be my god.

***

What seemed like eternities later, when we had run out of fitness and sunshine talk…covered all the muscles and vitamins I could possibly stomach, I reverted to my grandmother’s old trick and asked him what book he was reading. It’s a good indicator this one. I find people usually have one of three answers. Either they’ll say something like Dan Brown, in which case I’ll proceed to give my views (read: slashing) of airport literature. Or they’ll name some obscure historical or classical piece to which I’ll attempt to respond in some intellectual fashion—“I knew a girl at school called Pandora once, never got to see her box though.” Or they’ll say they’re half way through Proust or Fleurs du mal, and I’ll say marry me. This third one hasn’t ever happened—its a pure figment of my imagination. But Mr. Virgin didn’t fit into any of these categories…instead, he said, “I’m reading a fantastic book called The Power of Now.” The Power of Now? Am I on candid camera? Could we be from more opposite planets? I mean I’m all for fitness and OJ (especially when its mixed with champagne), but seriously, did the gods just wake up this morning bored and send you to me for a chuckle?

***

A few moments later, when I asked him to tell me a little bit more about The Power of Now, I found myself standing in the middle of Hyde Park doing an “exercise.” I was instructed to close my eyes and listen to the silence. Apparently the idea is that if you tell your mind to look for silence in a noisy place, it will so actively try to seek it out that it will stop thinking about whatever else its thinking about. Here’s the thing though little Brady. I’m not sure that I want my mind to stop thinking. Its kind of what I hope to earn a living from one day. So why don’t you just stop thinking and propose that we check into the Dorchester, get tanked on Tanqueray and go play in the steam room? That’s what I call the power of now.

That’s how we cynics do idealism.

my blackberry kicked my iPhone's ASH; SIX reasons to switch to (and love) blackberry

1. (In case the title doesn’t give this one away…) It doesn’t autocorrect all the words that you type. So you can write (and swear) in any language, slang or grammar you like and there aint no phone gonna tell you that what you meant to say was “tucker.” Come to think of it…the iPhone is a severe infringement upon the freedom of speech. I wanna say it like I wanna say it DAWG. And no, I did not mean dawn. TUCKER!

2. I love that you can’t press anything by accident. Like you can scroll around and all…but to actually choose something, you have to consciously, purposefully and boldly—get it?, click on a button. You don’t have to constantly gauge the pressure of your fingertips and worry whether they will be interpreted as a drag, scroll, enlarge, or TAP! The iPhone just doesn’t get that…like you know…the difference between “ex-boyfriend” and “mom.” I’m trying to call mom damnit. Mom! Stop dialing…stop dialing…yes, I’m pressing the “end call” button, not caressing it, STOP DIALLLLLLLLING!

3. I lovelovelove that the messages you receive don’t pop up under a giant name in bold on the main screen. Instead – it’s a discreet little red star. Red star could mean…it’s mom wondering if you put socks on this morning…red star could be your boyfriend wondering if you still want to watch Inception tonight (erm, no)…red star could mean “the wife’s gone, come over.” The iPhone just doesn’t understand that there’s some information that needs to stay tucked away in the little black book. Blackberry, smartberry. Goooood wiiiitttlllle bewwwy...

4. Just the word is so much sexier. Blackberry. Buh-lack-be-rry. It sounds like it could be the caption to picture no. 76 of the kamasutra. Or perhaps as code for something naughty—like, hey the kids are busy playing, should we go blackberry in the next room? It sounds like something someone could potentially lick off of…anyway, you get the point. The word is sexy, its sensual, its interesting. It rolls off the tongue in all sorts of arousing and slippery ways. iPhone on the other hand? Blah. What kind of word is that? It sounds like…drone…loan…moan…BooooooorinG! iMOAN indeed. And not in the good way.

5. And on the topic of what it calls itself. Isn’t the whole i-thing a bit egotistical?   Psshhh…the blackberry is so cool it doesn’t even need to make reference to itself. (I’m sure a good yo-mama joke could be made out of this…but its not coming to me…something like, yo mama’s so embarrassed to be yo mama she calls herself iMAMA. No never mind, moving on...)

6. Actually I think I prefer the Blackberry because it’s like a man. There’s no better way to explain it. The iPhone is a woman…its like all pretty and made-up and stuff, but its also temperamental…sometimes you open an application, are about to read some exciting notification someone posted on your Facebook wall…and whoop! The application is closed. Sorry…I’m moody. Not happening right now. The blackberry is steady. It’s like…you want Facebook? I’ll give you Facebook. Just push my button. And play with it as long as you like…

with love, from barclays

"I'm living so far beyond my income that we may almost be said to be living apart."

- e.e.cummings

When you get a letter from your bank that begins with the words “it would appear that the activity on your account is…” you are bound to complete the sentence yourself a hundred times before you get to the end. What. The activity on my account is…

a) suspicious?

b) abnormal

c) physically and humanly impossible

d) too busy

e) inconsistent with my earnings

f) more focused on spending than saving

g) more focused on wants than needs

h) suggestive of an illegal profession

i) suggestive of alcoholism

j) too caffeine-oriented

k) not consistent with standard activities of a uk resident

l) suggestive of suspicious allegiances and duties toward the french economy

***

You may then imagine that what follows this is something like:

To avoid investigation or prosecution, please explain why:

a) you receive money on a regular basis from an older man in a foreign country

b) you buy books about new york, make hotel reservations in paris, and buy plane tickets to italy

c) you only shop at waitrose

d) you keep buying umbrellas

e) you change your billing address every 5½ weeks

f) you buy boxes, labels and markers once a month

g) (further, why) you have never considered storage?

h) you never go to the atm and pay for everything with your card

i) you don’t just buy a monthly oyster card?

In addition, please explain how:

a) you manage to spend four hours in selfridges making a purchase every 27 minutes

b) you succeed in covering the entire borough of chelsea and kensington before 9.30am

c) you envision carrying on in this manner. That is, start saving, bitch.

***

And so, you begin imagining how you might reply...

Dear Sir/Madam, in response to your recent queries:

a) i speedwalk with a creditcard in my pocket.

b) i don’t like coins.

c) please extend my sincerest apologies and gratitude to your staff for the suffering they have incurred processing my numerous card transactions.

d) selfridges is the only place in the world where i can spend four hours without experiencing a single craving for nicotine. i therefore consider this an indispensible duty towards my health.

e) i am forgetful when it comes to umbrellas. i mean, i don’t like them.

f) i do on the other hand, like champagne and coffee.

g) the older a man in a foreign country is my father. not, my pimp.

h) oh, and waitrose? waitrose is the best.

i) i know, but whole foods is too far away.

j) paris has better boutiques than london.

k) i miss new york.

l) and italy? believe me, i’m trying, i just can’t seem to get enough.

m) as for boxes and frequent moving…i’ll let you in on a little secret. love (like the labels on those boxes read) is fragile.

n) on the topic of the oyster. i will i will i will. next month.

o) with regards to saving, the solution is simple, and it seems, entirely in your hands. do not allow any withdrawals from my savings account. in other words, make it your job, bitch.

***

So, all of this is bound to go through your head upon reading the first line. At least its what went through mine. But when I carried on reading, I learnt that their concerns had little to do with Paris or Selfridges, and were more focused on that three-letter word that ends with x. Much to my dismay, not the one that begins with an s. The letter was about tax. I don’t speak bureaucracy very well, but I think what it was trying to say was: “you earn interest on your savings, and you need to pay tax on this interest, which you don’t. you may be exempt from paying this tax if you fall under one of the 476 categories on the following page. If you do indeed fall under one of these categories, then you need to fill out the attached 837 forms to prove it.”

Turns out I am indeed exempt, and so need to fill out the forms. What I’d rather do however, is send this:

Dear Mr. B,

Thank you very much for your recent letter ref: 3452872333 regarding the tax on my savings. I greatly appreciate your heartfelt concerns, and I sincerely apologize for my negligence on the matter. I would however like to pose a question. As you yourself noted, my saving tendencies are not very strong, and are only getting worse. Which is to say I have never had much in savings, and will soon have nothing at all. So, do we really need to go through all this bullshit, I mean bureaucracy, for the, what, 17 pence in interest my “savings” have earned? What’s the tax on that, like, a penny? Tell you what. You hate paperwork, I hate paperwork…paperwork, is the real bitch here. So why don’t we just avoid all this exemption business and I’ll happily pay the tax. In fact, I’ll pay double, make that two whole pennies. And…d’ya mind just charging that to my card?

Thanks doll.

enough is more! basta pasta, the sequel.

I’m kind of starting to regret writing the BASTA PASTA blog. I haven't stopped receiving text messages and calls from friends and family that begin with the words, “you won’t believe what happened” and end, in one way or another, with the word “Italian.” Either they just met an Italian, or they’re eating Italian, or they saw something that in someway vaguely relates to something Italian. I’ve become sort some of customer service hotline: “call us toll-free to rate your Italian experience!” Take it easy kids, it was just a little blog not a season of Italian Idol. What I mean to say is, dear friends and family, I greatly appreciate that you read my blog, and even more that you enjoy it. But you really don’t have to tell me every time you have a plate of meatballs.

That’s the thing though: “Basta” doesn’t mean enough. It means “more, please.” As in when you say, “BASTA PASTA!” what you’re asking for is more spaghetti. We know that already. What I didn’t know is that when you write a blog called BASTA PASTA, what you’re asking for is...MORE ROCCO. (Again, technically, its not what you’re asking for, but it is whatcha gonna get).

Yep. I bumped into Rocco again. (Why I ever thought I couldn’t blog everyday is a mystery to me—there’s just so much material out there! Or maybe just so much Rocco?) “AnjaRELLLLLLAAAAA” he screamed from across the street. I’d just gotten the hang of not turning around to hooting cars and whistles damnit…now I have to start not turning around to my name?

“Where have you been!” he exclaimed as he ran across. What, like in the last 48 hours? Wherever I’ve been Rocco, I’ve been thanking God that its nowhere you’ve been.

“I’ve been waiting for you in front of your office everyday between 10 and 11!”

I really wish I could translate the expression this put on my face into words, but I can’t. Instead: !?

Wait that’s not enough.

!!!!!???????????????????

There. That’s better.

First of all, Rocco, that’s not my office (yet), I was just in there on that day for an interview. Second of all, doofus, if it were my office, I hardly doubt I’d be leaving it everyday at 10am. And third of all, I thought we agreed on “maybe bumping into each other again” and correct me if I’m wrong, but waiting, in front of “my” office, everyday, does not qualify as “bumping in.” I think the more appropriate term here would be…what’s that word again? Oh, right. Stalking. (Then again, who am I to talk about the meaning of words. I foolishly believed enough meant enough).

***

“Where are you going…the gym?”

"Yes."

“That one over there?”

“Yes.” (Are we done here?)

(Nope). “What a coincidence!” he said.

Considering you’re a stalker, pumpkin, I really don’t think the word “coincidence” should be part of your vocabulary. When it comes to me on the other hand, damn straight. My life is one big coincidence. One. Big. (ROC)COINCIDENCE.

“My friend just told me I should join that gym yesterday!” he continued. “And now…” and with one long look at every inch of my lycra he concluded, “now I definitely will join!”

***

Great. Just to recap, so far, I need to:

a) stop turning around when somebody calls my name in the street

b) stop going to the gym

c) stop wearing lycra

d) MOVE.

(I knew it! I knew my apartment was too good to be true. Perfect location, perfect size, perfect price. I’d been wondering since I moved in, where’s the catch? Rocco. Rocco is the catch. You know, like the weeds in your beautiful garden).

Oh, and one more thing:

e) if “my office” calls me to come back in for another interview, I’m going to have to say, “sure, but can you do me a favor? wouldya mind just checking if Rocco’s outside…?”

Or maybe I should just work at the gym? I could run some sort of referral service…and hey! I could call it BASTA PASTA! Basta pasta more stairmasta!

***

“So can I have your number?”

“Whaddaya need my number for!?” Don’t we see each other enough?

“Because-eh…..because-eh……I want to take you to the BEST ITALIAN RESTAURANT IN TOWN!”

I know I shouldn’t be thinking Benigni…but that, the way he said that, as though he were addressing the Gods, that, was so, Benigni. Then again, maybe I should be the one addressing the Gods: “Hi there, don’t mean to interrupt, but maybe my request wasn’t clear enough the first time:

BASTA FUCKING PASTAAAAAAAAAA!!!

KAAAAPPPPIIIIIISSSSHHHHHH?"

No wait, basta doesn’t mean enough. What I should say, is:

“Please sir, may I have some more?”

If I remember correctly, Oliver Twist never got some more.

don't SMOKE and SWIM; contemplations on VICE and VIRTUE

This picture is actually a card that somebody once gave me. Somebody that obviously knows me very well. For those of you who don’t, I’ll say this: I speed-walk, I swim, I work out, I dance, and on most days, all of the above. As of this Sunday, I will also be a certified instructor in ZumbaFitness, which, to borrow the card’s words, might simply be called “high intensity speed aerobics.” But to use the rest of the card’s words, I should add that I am also a certified, and champion, (chain) smoker. So make what you wish of my virtue, but please allow me my vice.

And seriously, don’t smoke and swim. I tried. It doesn’t work.

HAVEYOUHEARD?...of orthorexia? Apparently it’s a type of eating disorder, “characterized by a focus on eating healthy foods.” Basically the idea is something like this: When we speak of health, or healthy eating, in all its multifarious dimensions, we could quite possibly find something “unhealthy” in just about anything. Anything that tastes good, that is. So, if you’re going to go down the gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, preservative-free, cholesterol-free, joy-free route…where it ultimately leads you, is to a destination that is essentially food-free. And for someone who has an eating disorder, that is, doesn’t want to eat, for whatever reason, this is the perfect excuse. Rather than saying “I don’t want that cheeseburger because I’m fat and that burger will make me fatter,” they can say, “I don’t want that cheeseburger because that cheeseburger has ketchup on it and that ketchup has E-6734 in it.” Or, “I don’t want that cheeseburger because my doctor told me to avoid gluten, or dairy…or pleasure.” Then, they pop a dietary supplement pill and proceed to glare yearningly at the fries. This is why, I imagine, all dietary supplements come with the warning: “Food supplements must not be used as a substitute for a varied and balanced diet and a healthy lifestyle.” I don’t speak doctor very well, but I think what this means is, “Nice try, but you can’t live on pills, doofus.”

***

So, first things first, don’t worry mom, I don’t have it. The reason I begin with orthorexia, is partly because I’m going to write about health, healthy eating, and one health food store in particular. But the other reason I thought an eating disorder might be a good place to start is because eating disorders are all about contradictions—starve, then binge (binge-eating), or binge then throw up (bulimia), or lose weight but feel fatter (anorexia). And though I don’t and have never suffered from any of these, being a speed-walking, swimming and super-fit smoker…let's face it, I’m all about the contradictions.

***

Perhaps the first contradiction in all of this is that I am an absolute epicurean, if not hedonist, when it comes to food. Suffice it to say that if I could choose to be reincarnated as anything in the whole wide world, I would probably ask to come back as a stick of butter. So, the idea of health food stores, (as with the idea of eating disorders), is quite alien to me, if not one I chuck under that general umbrella of “bullshit.” And yet, I have lately become a health food fanatic. Actually, I’m not so much a fanatic of the food itself, but more of the shop that I get it from, and even that’s a bit of a stretch because I’m actually just a fanatic of the lady who works there.

***

Note: I don’t think my obsessive trips to Health Craze should be read as any indication of orthorexia. Rather, I see them as wholly symptomatic of a whole other disorder (or vice) that I admittedly and guiltily suffer from—shopaholism. Turns out it doesn’t matter whether its stilettos or supplements. It’s all about the Benjamins. Incidentally, it was Benjamin Franklin who once said, “Search others for their virtues, thy self for thy vices.” And I see a lot of virtue in that Benji, but what to do when you are my vice?

***

It all started late one Sunday night. (The lady was still working at 9.30pm on a Sunday!—read: virtue). I walked in there…described my symptoms, and with a quick look at my tongue and a short “hmmm,” she concluded: “No grapes, no orange juice, no raw tomatoes.” Considering I pretty much lived on these three things, and so they quite probably were the cause of all my problems, I figured she was on to something. It was love at first prescription. “No beer, no wine,” she continued. It has hate at second. I was tempted to foolishly ask, “does that include champagne?” but knowing well and full that this “no” would break my heart, I slyly avoided it. “Spirits are OK though,” she then added. Annnndddd….we’re back in the game! (Also, I listened very carefully, and at no point in time did she say “no cigarettes,” so it was love at lack of prescription too.)

In addition to the list of nos, she gave me a handful of bottles saying…“take these once a day, and these twice…and, dear…try being a bit selfish.” (Somehow my tongue, or face, or something had also told her that I “care too much for other people and not enough for myself”). But, how often should I do that, I wondered. Instead of asking out loud however, I figured I’d just take the lack of specification to mean that it would be ok to overdose. So while I may not be orthorexic, I do see where they’re going with the whole “use health as an excuse” thing. Not for burgers though, but something like: sorry, I can’t be in this relationship anymore, my doctor told me to be selfish. Being selfish, it turns out, does wonders for your health.

***

Anyhow, this morning, I ran out of one of my supplements, so I ran out to get some more. I left in such a hurry that upon returning home I discovered that I hadn’t even made my bed! Now, that may mean nothing to you, but I think the only other time in my life that I didn’t make my bed was one morning in New York when I stumbled out of a room at the Waldorf and couldn’t figure out how I got there or what my name was…but I think its fair to say I had greater concerns than making the bed. Besides, there’s housekeeping for that. I did however, manage to grab the most adorable little Waldorf Astoria jar of gummie bears on my way out. If I recall correctly, I think I ate every single one of them on the way home and while you may be thinking “bulimia nervosa” I think it was more a case of “WTF-happened-last-night-nervosa,” or “dude-where’s-my-car-nervosa,” if you will. But moving on swiftly. That was all clearly, before my health fanatic era. Or perhaps I should say…hence, the health fanatic era. (In case you were wondering, I still have the jar, and I still hope that one day it'll function as some Proustian memento and help me figure that night out).

***

Anyhow. I got to the shop at 9.17 this morning, which according to the sign on the door, meant that it should have been open already. But it wasn’t. And as getting my fix was more important than anything else that needed doing, I decided to just wait. (Ah, the things we do for our dealers). Considering I was in my health fanatic uniform of trainers and top-to-toe lycra, I thought it all the more fitting that I stood there, as some sort of advertisement—a real, flesh and blood mannequin, you might say. Shop here, wear lycra, look like THIS!

But that commercial went from good to bad in less than a minute, when I did what we smokers do to pass the time and lit a cigarette. As Moliere said, “I prefer an interesting vice to a virtue that bores.” Which is to say, while patience is a virtue, smoking is more fun. Especially when you’re waiting. Incidentally, whenever I’ve stood at a bus stop with my dad, he’s said, “Let’s light a cigarette. That always makes the bus come.” My mother on the other hand, would say something along the lines of, “You’re going to have to throw it away when the bus comes anyway, so why don’t you just try not having one? Think of it as your first step towards stopping smoking...” Perhaps I should blame my contradictory upbringing for my contradictory attitudes towards health?

***

And while I’m totally with dad on that one, this morning, it didn’t work. Or maybe “health shop lady” is not the same as “bus.” I lit up and lit up, but to no avail. Eventually I gave up on both virtue and vice (patience and smoking) and speed-walked away (to the pool, actually). But while I was waiting, I did read through the countless newspaper articles stuck in her window…and what I discovered was that the same lady who had told me to “be a bit selfish” was the one of the most selfless people I knew. She has run this shop for over twenty years, sleeping only 4 (or no!) hours a night! Her sleepless nights are spent reading up on some new product she is thinking about stocking. Now, if that’s not virtue, I don’t know what is. So…where was she? Had she too, finally sacrificed her selfless and virtuous duty to pay a bit more attention to herself? Good for her, I thought. Sleep, like selfishness, is healthy too. Turns out, when it comes to health (and happiness too for that matter, for they are oh-so-linked), it isn’t always clear what’s a virtue, and what, a vice. It’s more a question of sacrifice. Sometimes we have to sacrifice what’s “selfless” for what’s “selfish;” or instead of a burger, to order the fish; sometimes we must smoke while we wait, and swim when we get fed up. That's what it means to be selfish: we have to decide for ourselves, which is virtue, which is vice, and which of the two is "healthier," "happier," or simply, best. That is, at least until we figure out how to smoke and swim at the same time.