crunchette

pistachio ice cream cone

2011-11-30T20:56:00.001-08:00

At the alphabetized sub-gate at the behemoth thatis Houston Airport. A man descendsthe escalator with alarmingly angry face while holding a pistachio ice creamcone. He stares us all down,severely glowering, except the top of his lip is BRIGHT GREEN.

true story.

2011-11-22T13:52:00.001-08:00

Like slate.com podcasts, I am going to endorse like the proper consumer gnome that I am, stretching out my ten dollar skinny jeans while I prop my mac on my body fluff.
Because today I am loving Sugar Cookie Sleigh Ride Celestial Seasonings tea and Anderson Cooper.
(Good endorsements aren't good until they sound like abominable run-on sentences).
Remember the Sarah Silverman sketch about babybel cheese?
Replace cheese with SUGAR COOKIE SLEIGH RIDE CELESTIAL SEASONINGS TEA and you have me right now.

I mean, it's tea that tastes LIKE COOKIES. Cookies and Milk and hot liquid comfort ALL IN ONE.
I wish I could get paid for this entry.

Homemade Breakfast Cereal, Clam Macaroni, Egg Yolk Cookies

2011-11-06T12:37:00.000-08:00

Sunday is the day I frazzle away in the kitchen. I'm like, speedy attention deficit cooker, boiling water for pasta while shaping cookies/smashing garlic/hacking veggies while the oven preheats. Because I'm impatient and over ambitious and I hate waiting around. But then again, I end up spending a ridiculous amount of time cooking and NOT practicing

Anyway, I'm right now munching on my very own MADE FROM SCRATCH cold breakfast cereal!

That was fun, mostly because I HATE spending money on shit I can easily make at home. I adapted mine from this recipe: Healthy Cereal

(preheat oven to 300)

1 cup flour (I put in 1/3 cup of oat bran)

3 packets splenda

1/4 tsp baking powder

1/4 tsp salt

COPIOUS amts of cinnamon

splash of vanilla

1/2 cup almond milk

Mix dry ingredients together. Then add wet. Stir til combined. spread onto a greased baking sheet as thinly as possible (I used the back of a fork). Bake 20 minutes. Take it out, tear it up (it'll be soft. Don't burn your fingers). Return to oven for another 10. Check often. It might take longer.

I was really happy with the results! (as evidenced as it more than being half gone right now). And I liked how this recipes didn't need those unwieldy and annoying rolling pin thingamingies.

Anyway, the next thing I made was a pasta concoction. It was sort of a hodge podge very quick lazy experiment. I sauteed some garlic in soy sauce, dumped in a can of clams. (Give me clam recipes! I have too many clams thanks to an asian mother and costco). Then some spaghetti sauce. Then a bunch of macaroni. Yay. It was pretty good, but a little bland. I liked it better after a splash of balsamic vinegar.

I guess the hardest thing I made today were these egg yolk cookies, because I always have yolks left over and am somehow intimidated by making mayo.
I found this recipe: 365 days of baking
I made it with margarine, and without the butterfingers. And put some splenda in, because I didn't have enough sugar. As you can see, I didn't flatten mine enough and it's REALLY bulbous and ugly. But whatever - I'm no food stylist and I don't give a crap on lazy sundays.
Anyway, this cookie was okay. Not great. I just don't like that strong egg yolk flavor. It's just too overwhelming, and I don't associate it with sweetness. Is there a way to mask it more? I'm guessing it gives a nice density to the cookie, whose crumb I really liked, but I kept getting a little grossed out by that yolkiness.

2011-10-21T18:02:00.000-07:00

The Nytimes Magazine did a cute write up of Murakami.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/23/magazine/the-fierce-imagination-of-haruki-murakami.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&smid=fb-nytimes
One part struck me:
"When Murakami sat down to write his first novel, he struggled until he came up with an unorthodox solution: he wrote the book’s opening in English, then translated it back into Japanese. This, he says, is how he found his voice. "
Which is interesting and...clarifying? I've never written anything substantive in another language, but I would imagine doing so would be so straightforward yet innocent. Things can't be fussy or have excessive connotation. Which I think is in his writing - a practical directness that relies on specific images to explore the vague and unknown. A narrator slightly uncomfortable with words, (as one would be with another language), yet one who sees each one for what they are, instead of seeing language as tainted by cultural background.

Sexism and Law and Order: Criminal Intent

2011-10-15T19:22:00.001-07:00

(Notice how the male partner is front and center, while Eames poses behind him, the steady support system of feminine reason.)

Well, I had to get something out of my ridiculous amount of netflix wastery.
It pains me to say it, but as I soak in the glut of my Lawand Order Criminal Intent binge, (notice the possessive and how motherly I amwith my escapes), I can’t help but notice how antiquated its images of genderare. I guess I should bebothered by it more? (Should,because all us of this generation feel guilty for how apathetic we are).

Even in the guise of spunky no-nonsense patter, detectivesEames and Wheeler are very much the typical female figures, as stereotyped byyears of television screen writing. While the male characters exemplified in Detective Goren, and later,Nichols, are portrayed with psychological depth and the wits to solve everysingle case, their female partners are relegated to making amused faces at the“crazy” antics of their brilliant male counterparts.

An age-old pairing. Men are the brain, and the women, the skeptics and sounding boards. The men are free to break therules, (See Goren’s refusals to cooperate, his frequent altercations withCaptain Ross, his break in of the prison psychiatric ward (season 7, ep 9-“Untethered”), or Nichols, who is unable to work with others or report to hissuperiors), while the women are the perfect cops with moral integrity,respectful of the rules and extremely hardworking in the more dogged, normativefashion.

Their storylines are the most offensive crimes, being thattheir life events are both typical and clumsily unimaginative ploys foraudience sympathy, extremely expected of a female supportive character. Eames is a grieving widow, her husband acop shot and explored in episode 1 of season 7. Wheeler is the abandoned child of a criminal father, whichis explored in season 6. BOTH Eames and Wheeler end up pregnant,Eames as a surrogate, and Wheeler in season 8. Wheeler is the typical duped woman, engaged in a whirlwindromance while she was overseas to a man who turns out had lied to her and usedher. It’s later revealed thatshe’s pregnant. Even hercharacter, restrained and admirably dignified, acts with the self-disciplinethat is expected of the idealized woman, never lashing out, (unless you counther interrogation of the similar victim in episode 6 of season 8, “AstoriaHelen”, and even then one could argue that it was because of the feminineaffinity she had to the victim, that the anger was directed more towardsherself). That self-internalizationand elegance is the male’s idealized vision of how a woman should act. A woman keeps her sorrow to herself, itis unbecoming for her to lose control, and she is admired for how she does notinflict her pain on others.

(A side note – both Kathryn Erbe and Julianne Nicholsan tookmaternity leaves, which is probably why pregnancy was written into theirstorylines. However, my pointstill stands; there could have been plenty of ways to not make a big deal outof the pregnancies. In fact,Nicholsan’s first maternity leave was left out of the storyline, and herabsence was just explained as her going overseas to teach American police proceduralto European law officers.)

Eames is strong, but confused. Episode 11 of season 8 focuses on her, and she showcasespunchy outbursts and the willingness to quarrel with Goren. But again, it is Goren who solves thecase, and she’s left with a puzzled and pained face for most of theepisode.

Thankfully, there are two aberrations to the chauvinisticscreen writing. One is the serialkiller Nicole Wallace, Detective Goren’s arch nemesis, who is not onlybrilliant and able to evade his quick mind, but also is transgressively bi-sexual(more lesbian?). She is alsopsychologically layered, not just the stock psychopath. Her rage comes out during intenseinterrogation scenes, yet she seems to always stay one step ahead of him. Admirably manipulative, and dazzling inher intricately planned murders (hardly any bloodshed-her MO is syringes,research into her victim’s weaknesses), she is a beautifully drawn predator.

Another departure from the mold is Detective Logan’s shortlived partner, Detective Falacci, substitutedin Season 7. She talks back toCaptain Ross, is often out of line, and taunts Logan for his subservience with“where’s the hot-head I thought I was working with?”. However, her portrayal is not shown in the sympathetic lightthat colors the antics of Goren and Nichols, or even Logan for that matter. She is annoying and shrill, like achild trying too hard to impress her elders.

I love watching this show, which is why I’m surprised I'm not more bothered by howantiquated the portrayal of women are for the most part. I remember when I first startedwatching how bothered I was by Eames’ uselessness, and how much I wanted her tomake the big breaks. Perhapsthat’s why SVU is the more popular Law and Order spin-off, because MariskaHargitay’s character DOES solve crimes, doesn’t get knocked up or knockedoff-course by romance, and does seem to hold more power than her counterpart,Detective Stabler. However, I getannoyed by SVU. It tends to veeroff into silliness and manufactured drama. Too many weepy victims. Too many clumsy ploys for audience emotion. I like the brilliance of the protagonists of CriminalIntent, and its emphasis on psychology and analysis.

I think what bothers me most is that the women aren't allowed to be quirky. They don't ponder with strange ticks that try the patience of their superiors, they aren't allowed flashes of brilliance and entertaining AHA moments. They are bland, attractive, likable, but uncharismatic. But they do have perfect hair. (Especially Eames! Her hair is always AMAZING. How does she do it?)
Season 9 did try to give more female prominence, with a female captain and the very intelligent Serena Stevens. But her portrayal is still painted by the dull brush of male idealism. She's not funny, she's not weird, and she's not brilliant, like Jeff Goldblum's character. She still doesn't solve the crimes with the same strangely discerning eye like Nichols, and all she is really is very skilled eye candy. Even her backstory can't make her character compelling.
Anyway, Criminal Intent shouldn't go off the air. They should just make the Sherlock a female this time. Stupid poopyhead networks.

Man, this was poorly written. I’ll work it out later.

Sad Oreos

2011-10-10T23:13:00.000-07:00

So I was reading this rather redundant article and I was taken aback by this:
"On the subject of satisfying appetite, I consulted Raylene Reimer, a registered dietitian and associate professor of nutrition and metabolism at the University of Calgary. "Protein has the highest satiety factor of the three macronutrients, carbohydrates come second, and fat is hardly satiating at all," she said."

Every nutritionist I've seen, (which is 4), has told me that fat and protein BOTH satisfy hunger more than carbs. Fat being of the same power as protein TO ABOLISH THE STOMACH GROWLS.
Er.
But I tend to agree, only because if I eat something fatty, I want more of it. I'm certainly not "satiated". Yet...4 nutritionists. Versus this soundbite. WHAT TO BELIEVE?

Bartok Sonata

2011-10-09T18:36:00.000-07:00

I've been preparing for a competition, (which just happened today at Mt. Pleasant, MI). In doing so, I had brought back the Bartok Sonata, which I played last year in my Artist's Diploma recital at (unnamed institution).
None of this is interesting, except for the fact that I started this piece with Peter Frankl and am now working on it with Skelton, both Bartok masters in very different ways. Frankl just...IS Bartok. The writing is so in his blood that he just innately plays everything as it should be. Skelton, the consummate researcher, comes from the outside in, meticulously working through every detail in a fascinating fervor.
Which caused me to go over my old videos. (WHICH IS A VERY EYE-GOUGING PROCESS BUT THAT'S NEITHER HERE NOR THERE). In having the musical logic of Bartok finally articulated I saw with renewed clarity how erroneous my impetuous and ridiculously rushed performance was. So I made a new video during one of my useless practice sessions to see how intelligible the changes were. Yes, I'm very puffy and it's sloppy and I'm wearing my pajamas.

For fun-time-laugh-at-me-purposes, here is the sonata from last year.

but who watches the food network anymore anyway?

2011-10-08T19:45:00.000-07:00

giada de laurentis’s voice makes me want to choke a baby. every time she over enunciates an italian ingredient in that desperate “hey, i’m so authentic” way i thank god i’m not around adorable defenseless beings. she’s worse than the barefoot contessa in her smugness, because her words puddle into this smarmy “i’m so excited about this orgasmic food” kind of fakery. she has this downturn at the end of every one of her sentences, and this big toothy dead eyed smile that leers out at me from an alien bobblehead.

i want to like her! she’s hot! after all, i have a huge girl crush on nigella. but giada’s insecure need to be validated and her pink pretentiousness is so obvious is actually hurts me to hear her on tv. or internet. i mean, who owns a tv anymore anyway.

Annoying terms from NYMag's Sex Diaries

2011-10-05T18:15:00.001-07:00

I get really annoyed at the term heteroflexible. Not that I don’t agree with the principles. I do believe that sexuality is quite fluid and no one really is quite set in stone if they think about it. But a label for something that is trying to supersede labels? (For to be heteroflexible is to be heterosexual but to bend the boundaries given the situation, and thus have disdain for the very concept of boundaries).

The word reeks of trends, of someone trying too hard to fit in. Like, drunk girl at the party kind of lesbian. The “I know it’s cool and attractive and open-minded to not to be so straight” kind of society copycat.

I don’t know. I mean, I clearly don’t know what I’m talking about. But I do wish the word would just go away.

I have never read or watched Harry Potter

2011-09-28T08:22:00.000-07:00

But I can still appreciate this:

Another Game

2011-09-25T20:26:00.000-07:00

So I'm playing this new rather time-sucking game called "Have as many money free days as possible". As in, not spending any money.
See, I've always been embarrassingly cheap. Thrift store clothing and damaged goods at the grocery store kind of cheap. The kind of girl that might consider dumpster diving, and might just be stocking her splenda and sugar consumption from starbucks.
Because I feel ridiculously guilty whenever I spend money. Because I am an excessively needy person and buying shit is the most obvious sign of that, which means those sloppy greedy desires must be squashed.
I hardly ever go out to eat, never order take out, rarely ever get coffees or such. When I need to sit at a coffee shop to study, I ask for a free hot water and whip out my stash of tea bags from home. I clip coupons, I belong to online "savings" clubs, and waste WAY too much time figuring out how to save more money.
I am the worst kind of cheap. The mooch.
Anyway, I've been trying to spend less than 40$ on groceries/drink/entertainment/frivolity a week. On days that I don't spend any money whatsoever, I feel slightly and briefly virtuous. Amazing how that fleeting and foolhardy sense of self runs my day. I'm always counting, adding up, obsessing. If it's not one thing, it's another.
Penny pinching is better than some of my other obsessions I suppose. But it was intended to be a substitution, not an addition. I am getting NOTHING done.

dreams about spiders put me in a great mood

2011-09-25T09:50:00.000-07:00

Right.
But seriously, I was in a new apartment, beautiful rooms, a whole dining room full of expensive china that was imported from russia (odd, but whatever- it was like some sort of museum relic), and I thought, Oh boy, the basement must be awesome given how wonderful everything else is.

So I open the door, and immediately spy some sort of spindly thing in the corner of the stair. Oh, a spider. No big deal. I mean, yea, creepy creepy and must kill it, but it's not like the worst thing ever. I lunge at it and it bolts.
And then I see how big it is.
It's like, fucking HUGE. It must be wearing steel toed boots too, because as it scampered away, it made CLUNKING SOUNDS. like, this insect was SO big it made gallopy thunks as it sped down the stairs. Like a huge raccoon or something.
I've never been so glad to wake up before.

Because a real update would be foolhardy.

2011-09-23T20:34:00.000-07:00

Who's the dweeb that just worked out to Beethoven's 9th?
yup.
But in my defense, thirty minutes on the elliptical goes by hella fast with a full chorus, full symphony, and four soloists blasting.

In kitty-related news, in order to get my cat to stop nipping at my fragile and pockmarked ankles while I ran around the apartment, I bent down and picked her up, thus succumbing to the wash of cute overload that happens with such movements. She tolerated my hungry kisses during a very long cuddle.
I think I may be sending the wrong messages. Sophie bites ankles, then receives gooey kisses on top of her head?

Quickie

2011-09-06T20:29:00.001-07:00

because reflecting is for DWEEBS.

There is a very beautiful girl living above me. She has a puffy dog and her hair’s so blonde it’s white. She shines like a Lord of the Ring elf. She showed up today to ask if I had internet and I opened the door thinking who is this woodland Creature holding a giant bushel of fur? Then the fur barked.

Anyway, I don’t trust her. Very beautiful people are not to be trusted.

(kidding! )

(not.)

Candles that smell like Flan and Happy Plinking at the Piano

2011-09-03T22:23:00.000-07:00

its funny how being so plugged in actually makes us more dead.

we lost our power at around 7:15, due to some massive shit fit the weather was throwing. suddenly having no internet, my gnawing mouth, agape in front of the screen, had no choice but to turn away and close my lab top. My original plan was to finish my dinner, and then practice for a couple of hours. As is usually the case after eating my meager dinner, I was in no mood to actually work, and contemplated just taking a nap until the power went back on. After all, I wouldn’t be able to see the keys.

For some reason though, I stuck to my plan. I lit up the only candle I had, which was one of those lovely IKEA things that smell like dessert (and really wasn’t something you wanted to just fucking SMELL and not EAT-what kind of stupid substitute IS that, it just makes you want caramel baked goods more, like those retarded commercials for “zero calorie chocolate” in the form of fucking bathsoap, i mean really, who actually takes a shower bathed in chocolate cake musk and thinks, “that’s it, i won’t have cravings anymore, the mere WAFT of it suffices”) and decided to see how much of the keys I really actually needed to see.

And when I put the candle on the shelf behind me, the amber circle of light just enough to make everything toasted, I found that it was enough. Actually, it was kind of…lovely. Slightly wavering, hushed, intimate. And I felt such pleasure at playing in this tiny concentrated space, because it was just me, alone and protected in my cave, the storm roiling around outside. I played the 4th chopin prelude, just relishing every half step. I mean, excuse me for sounded demented, but GOD, I loved just this playing, because I wasn’t aware of anything else except expressing. Kind of like when you inadvertently shut your eyes while you’re performing and all your being is just that moment? I didn’t realize how long it had been that I had truly played that way during my practice. I was always thinking ahead, anxious, stressed, remembering THIS and THAT and running to my computer to polish off another email or getting distracted by my INCREDIBLE THIRST or INCREDIBLE FATIGUE or ready to fall asleep or melt into my seat.

Anyway, it was so nice. I moved on to the 1st prelude. I just felt like playing, feeling my physical self, having the arms solidly sink into keys and getting this grounded sense of an integral melody. I stumbled through some old Bach. And then, started Beethoven 4th, because that opening just makes me so happy.

Well, it’s now after 9 pm and the power’s still not on. I’m not playing anymore, even though I had such a good time, because I don’t want to disturb the neighbors and I’m getting slightly concerned over the outage. I guess I’ll take a nap and maybe, miraculously, the power will be on by the time I’m up.

So what if I'm the wrong gender

2011-08-27T08:46:00.000-07:00

I hadn’t been by myself for the past month, causing me not to realize the great emptiness of not having a favorite tv show to go to. But now that I'm back to my old routine, I've started searching again for some sort of slickly produced landscape that my easily discontented mind could find amusing. I don’t know what’s sadder, the fact that I’ve switched my dependency from the manufactured drama in good books to the horribly scripted dramas of netflix, or the fact that when I'm alone I need an escape in order to fall asleep.

Solitude had initially caused me to make the dubious decision of starting RuPaul’s Drag Race. In the blank moment before bed I picked the funniest thing I could find. Nothing’s more enjoyable than a gorgeous man in pumps, which isn’t laughable in itself, but drag queens are fabulous performers, with whip smart quips and impeccable timing, and create absolutely amazing transformations. They're great company when you don't feel like talking.

But all of a sudden I realized I didn’t want to watch something like that by myself! I wanted company, I wanted opinions. And who else could possibly appreciate the sequined bitchiness of RuPaul and fellow catwalk prancers? Well of course, my fabulous flute playing friend R. We started watching these shows during our daily gym sessions (“gym” applied loosely at Yellowbarn because what it entailed of were broken down spin bikes in a small middle school gymnasium with basketball hoops designed for midgets), and while we “sweat” we would wail or clap, depending on how well our favorite queen, the asian Jujube, would do.

Anyway, the point of this post was to talk about this dream I had in which I was RuPaul, (a highly likely scenario, of course), and that _’s mother was the one transforming me with her extensive makeup skills. She had done this thing of wrapping my hair, corn rolled into some sort of elaborate ringy snake, with black hose to create this asymmetrical tower, and then given me a couture outfit consisting of black latex, military inspired buckles, and fierce black spikes.

It was amazing. I was experiencing first hand the allure of hiding behind makeup and fashion, where people were awed by the fabulous creature on stage, and where my real self, small, shriveled, and insecure, was completely buried under the extroverted brassness of this shiny black creature.

Toaster Forgetfulness

2011-08-26T10:05:00.000-07:00

My mom does this thing where she toasts a delicious hunk of bread for breakfast or lunch, and just forgets about it, usually leaving it in the oven for the whole day.
It drives me absolutely crazy.
Because it's there, clicking away, spinning out fumes of sweet buttery carby-ness, taunting my empty stomach with its promise of satisfaction, but I can't eat it because who knows, she'll come out in the next minute to grab it. And every time I walk past the toaster, I see it there, forlorn and quickly fading from hot fresh toastedness to something cold and dessicated. And because I witnessed its potential, HOW DELICIOUS IT COULD HAVE BEEN, seeing it die kind of feels like being serrated; it's such a waste! No matter how often I remind her, she'll always forget.
Yesterday it was indian naan. Today it's caraway studded brioche. The day before - a nutty multigrain loaf.
BLERG

Why Female Action Stars need a Sandwich

2011-08-25T16:13:00.000-07:00

Somebody has finally remarked about the TEENY TINY suspension of disbelief that occurs when we watch a frail twigette supposedly kick the living shit out of someone twice as big as them. (Ahem, Salt...)
I love me some female action heroes. Ever since Terminator II and Linda Hamilton's grim-faced pull ups, I've obsessed over every gun-toting blazen eyed black-clad bad ass out there. But what I do not agree with is anything that promotes and hence normalizes an unrealistic and unhealthily skinny body. Female action stars are a chance for women to be admired for their strength, for a chance to see muscle as HOT, and when I see that they are becoming increasingly thinner, I get anxious that women are losing their chance to broadcast the awesomeness of a strong and athletic body.
And yes, the article has some problems with being pretty offensively worded, but I think the intention was right.

NY's Mag and
a slightly obvious illustration

What I've been doing for the past six weeks

2011-08-14T12:46:00.000-07:00

I went into Yellowbarn a bit woozy. Had a bit of that pre-shit fluttery feeling because while it may have been my third time there, my confidence had been sapped from my atrocious audition, the fact that a 4 year gap lay between my last time and this, and the awareness that I was a lazy fuck who was given less rep than any of the others. So yea, I was all drivel-y and insecure and may have cowered in the corner in a puddly mess before realizing that (a), I am being a brat that needs a fucking pacifier, (b), is that my pms? and (c) WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU WAKE THE FUCK UP and be fucking grateful for the incredible opportunity of being allowed here.

And it became one of the best summers of my life. Not only was it like practicing in paradise, with pianos peeking through the lush woods, but everyone got along, which really is a rare thing in a music festival. There’s something about the way Yellowbarn is formed that makes it relatively drama free. The faculty hangs out with the participants, like actually hangs out, like shoots the shit with us in practice rooms, get drunk with us at bars, get drunk with us in lounges, get drunk and plays spin around the table ping pong, gets drunk and diddles around on bongo drums, you get the idea. Most of the students are of the older set, and everyone respects each other’s musicianship. I can’t even think of one bad word that could be said about another participant’s playing, and even if there were, there wouldn’t have been a desire to say anything because the sense of community was so strong. Almost everyone went to every concert, the support was just so consistent and effusive, and the playing by all the performers around me was truly inspiring

So, many glowing events occured in which recapping makes me (rather boringly) a gushy piece of gorgonzola. But I mean, cmon. I was just so honored, getting the opportunity to play Schubert Grand Duo with Frankl, getting to work with Mark Hill and Tina Dahl, getting to work with the composer Philippe Hersant, getting to end the entire concert season with George Crumb’s Music for a Summer Evening. What a perfect way to drift off into the ether of summer stasis, those last barely heard notes undulating after the ecstatic outbursts of the fifth movement. It was my first experience with Crumb, and his otherwordly textures and sonorities just put me in this unbreakable daze.

So yeah. I’m totally going through withdrawal now. I mean, we were spoiled as fuck there. Incredible food, freshly baked bread every day, head sized crispy cookies that were more gooey chocolate than dough, blueberries that popped syrup. Sure we rehearsed 8-10 hours everyday, but it was 8 − 10 hours of music we loved to play. What more could a musician ask for?