Missy | May 20, 2007


Brooklyn Bridge on a windy day.

Alastair Macaulay, who last year was named chief dance critic for the New York Times and whose writing I’ve generally enjoyed up until now, has officially revealed himself to be a fuddy duddy. I saw the Doug Varone piece at BAM on Friday and I’m scratching my head to figure out what piece Macaulay thinks he saw, what sort of ballet-colored lenses he was looking through, and why he felt it necessary to essentially insult the dancers. (Just who, pray tell, was “out of shape”?)

What I like about Varone’s dances and dancers, aside from the range of age and body-type, is that they are all well-trained and athletic, but technique is not showcased by the choreography in any deliberate or offhand way. I’m so sick of watching technique for technique’s sake with little infusion of any personality. (I’m thinking of Stephen Petronio and Karol Armitage specifically, two recent examples of tedium in my mind. Please, no more overuse of variations on the pench

Missy | May 16, 2007


Ladder to heaven. My roof, Brooklyn

I’ve started shooting and processing film. Awwww yeeeahhh. More here.

Missy | May 12, 2007


Hammock, Fort Greene Park, Brooklyn

It’s been an exciting week. First, an Instalanche has lit a fire under my bottom to keep on with regular posting.

In case you missed the Brooklyn Blogfest on Thursday, the local NBC channel covered it, as did the New York Times. Funny, because the topic of the evening was largely a critique of traditional media. Many thanks and gushing admiration to Louise for making this event happen. And thanks to Eleanor for keeping me hip to the happening (along with her unexpected shout-out to this site during her Blogfest presentation). UPDATE: Eleanor’s interview with me is now up on her site. Many thanks to her; it’s a rare experience to get to read about yourself through someone else’s perspective.

Meanwhile, amid the recent gust of cultural goings-on in the Listen Missy world, I saw the play Frost/Nixon on Wednesday. It’s a solid work, executed at a clip for nearly 2 intermission-less hours, but I recognize what it is about writer Peter Morgan that kind of bugs me. He writes a historical fiction that is compelling enough to make us feel sympathetic toward the increasingly irrelevant (Queen Elizabeth II in The Queen) and the dishonorable (Richard Nixon, here). But I think that’s just it: he practically begs for that sympathy, because otherwise the whole effort would fail. Fortunately, he is backed by nuanced or powerhouse acting. And don’t get me wrong: I don’t dislike his work; in fact, it’s an unusual perspective on pieces of history that many of us have already lived through, rather than a rash editorialization or distortion of facts (although I seriously doubt that Prince Philip is the boob he was portrayed to be). In any event, while I believe Liev is this year’s gimme for the Best Actor Tony Award, Liev thinks it’s Frank Langella.

Also this week I had an ant infestation to deal with. But! I have swiftly conquered it and I want to share with you how I did it. Thursday morning I spotted one ant in the shower and brushed another one from my sleeve when I got to work. I ‘m told these were among the location scouts, the reconnaissance team who report back to headquarters with the go-ahead to invade. And so they did; when I got home they were everywhere and yet part of a highly-organized formation from the cable cable entry point over to the kitchen. I was due back out the door so I prayed the internet would save me in a pinch. And it did: Baby Powder. Thanks to an on-hand supply of Gold Bond, I sprinkled around their path and the entry point. Within 24 hours, most all had disappeared, apparently having lost their way. I vacuumed and followed up with well-placed ant spray; 48 hours after their first appearance, they are totally gone, save for one or two stragglers here or there. This method probably won’t work for you if you’ve got critters you actually want around and who might be prone to licking the floor.

Finally, this week I’ve moved backwards in the progression of photography technology and made my first attempt at shooting film and developing it myself. I put only one photo on Flickr because I was more interested in getting a roll out rather than carefully shooting pictures. There are some issues I don’t yet know how to fix, but I’m very happy so far.

UPDATE: Congratulations to Will, who has been guest blogging at The Economist. And you probably already knew about Matthew Yglesias’ move to The Atlantic Online.

Missy | May 9, 2007


Everybody takes photos of this wall. Outside the F/G subway entrance at Bergen & Smith Streets, Brooklyn.

I’ve long thought that subway lines have theme songs, although I haven’t yet gotten them all figured out. I regularly ride a number of lines and they each have their own personality, not just in terms of the kinds of people who ride them–although that’s part of it–but in the train’s general demeanor. Like how the 4/5 at Borough Hall is always reliable although sensitive to crowding if I arrive in the morning 5 minutes in either direction of my usual time, that the 2/3 is like the 4/5’s bratty younger brother, always dirtier and never coming when you call. The G? Hell, forget the G if you actually need to be anywhere on time. If you’re not beholden to the clock, it’s fine, but if you’ve got a class at Mark Morris or a movie or a performance at BAM and you arrive at the station at 7:00 for a 7:30 curtain and the train doesn’t show until 7:25 and you could have walked there faster and ever since you’ve just decided the B63 will do you better, well, the G is the stupid, flakey hippie you can’t help but like a little bit. The F, like the L, hangs with the hipper people, is always crowded and, if you need to catch it during rush hour, good luck to you and don’t be surprised if you’re forced to wait it out, like sitting along the bleacher benches at the school dance in the gym before you get your turn at an awkward slow dance.

And then there’s the A train! You’d think that an express train that bypasses the entire Upper West Side and gets you where you need to go quickly would have more of a commuter train feel, but you’d be wrong. There’s a working class melancholy about the A. And there are comic books and portable video games, Forever 21 bags, a refreshing lack of zombies scrolling and poking at their blackberries, and the dude who has the audacity to pull out a wad of bills–twenties and even a few hundreds–to rearrange them and shove them back in his pocket as people try to hide incredulous looks, knowing that no one would dare mess with him. And the eyes are all downcast, the mouths straight across, heads all bobbing in unison with the sway of the train. The A train definitely has a theme song.

Lambchop, “Paperback Bible”. [Stream courtesy of Merge]

Missy | May 6, 2007


Chinese Pavilion by Frank Stella, on the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art

Oh gosh, has it been a whole month? What happened? I’ll tell you what happened: spring. Plus films, bands, dance, and plays. I’ve also been measuring the creep of time by the placement of one of my bookshelves. I may have spoken in the past about the slant of my apartment’s floors–show me a Brooklyn apartment that doesn’t slant in some way, I say–and that I had to put a small rug under my desk chair because I was tired of continually rolling away from my desk. What’s more, a bottom-weighted four-foot bookshelf appears to move, glacier-like, away from the wall. You think I’m kidding, but the other day I wondered how on earth the bookshelf-wall chasm had reached the point where I could conceivably lodge my head in there.

The 2nd annual Brooklyn Blogfest is happening Thursday. I’ll be volunteering in some capacity so if you’re going, look for me. And if you’ve never heard of me, well, Hi!

The Barbara Stanwyck series at BAM is wrapping up. Unfortunately, I made it to only a couple of screenings (the Tribeca Film Festival has also been happening) but fortunately one of those screenings was Howard Hawks’ Ball of Fire, which I had never before seen. (And because of it, I am now acutely aware of how often I split my infinitives.) In celebration of Barbara Stanwyck and infinitive-splitting, I point you to YouTube and “Drum Boogie”, featuring Gene Krupa and his orchestra and Barbara Stanwyck’s legs. Normally I would be put off by lanky, awkward dancing, but Stanwyck puts it out there with such aplomb. Watch it all the way through the end of the clip, which is the best part. Boogie!