MotherSister Brooklyn

My new favorite agony aunts (of the sexual variety), unafraid to tackle any dirty question while baked out of their minds:

Pot Psychology.

(I don’t need to tell you this is NSFW, right?)

It’s been a trying time: The Scamp has started nursery school in central Fort Greene, and despite the warm and friendly environment, sweet classmates, and excellent teachers, he’s not going easy. If you don’t know firsthand, believe me when I tell you that there is nothing more gut-wrenching than walking out on your kid when he’s screeching in apparent terror and scratching at the air in your wake. And though my nerves would probably drive me straight to Frank’s, they’re not open at 9am, so my feet take me to Academy Restaurant instead.

I’ve been camping out in this diner all week, waiting for a “come get your kid” phone call; forcing myself to eat — even though I have no appetite — in order to justify my butt in the booth; amping up with coffee and finally putting my wrung-out emotions aside, digging into my work, currently a rewrite/update of a travel guidebook. When I first ducked into Academy on Monday, I had no needs other than a warm place to collect myself and pass an hour; now, I can’t imagine a better diner in the city and I don’t know why I didn’t start coming more often a long time ago.

In this gilded New York City of $2,000 one-bedroom apartments, $20 one-course brunches, and $2 one-way fares, it has been easy to undervalue the charms of the diner. After this week, I won’t again. I walk into Academy and I can seat myself immediately, whether in a booth by the window or at the counter. The no-nonsense, nicotine-stained waitresses bring a menu, take my order, bring my food, and drop my check easily and efficiently, without leaving me to wait for anything. I’m left in peace to sit staring out of the window, reading a New Yorker article on Michelle Obama, writing new restaurant reviews from my collected notes, checking my phone anxiously to make sure I haven’t missed the nursery school’s call. And the banter all around, words falling like confetti, every fragment of conversation an inspiration: Tommy Konstantakis with a wry word for everybody coming in and out; a young gringo who lays out his plan to move to Central America and live on the cheap with a full staff of hired help; a drummer on a break who pounds absently on a barstool with his sticks while waiting for his order; the middle-aged guys who point to Madonna as the beginning of the end of the age of sartorial grace (”The pants are falling off their butts now — of course they’re violent!”), but insist they’d vote for a woman politician (”Just not Hillary! And I told her, ‘You only like Obama because he’s black!’”).

And at a time when I feel almost paralyzed by multiple pathways that lead to I-don’t-know-where, and I second- and triple-guess nearly every choice I make from the time The Scamp jolts me awake (”Muh-MAH!”) in the morning till the time my mind finally wears its battery out and lets my eyes close too late at night, it’s comforting to know that “scrambled hard” means the egg will come scrambled hard; that asking for a decaf will get me a cup of instant Sanka, so I’d better buck up and drink up the real deal; and that I am alone together with a steady stream of working stiffs, artists, and those without a trust fund who just want a fill-up kind of meal and a smile for under $10 (or even $5) ‘cos that’s all they got to spare and they just want to make it through the day like anybody else. Some things are too good to change.

When most people think of surfing, skateboarding, and snowboarding, New York City is not usually the first image that comes to mind — but that’s because they just don’t know. They’re starting to find out, though: the Gray Lady recently took notice of a Brooklyn band of skaters, and new shops such as the Harlem-based Everything Must Go and Homage in Cobble Hill have started serving up gear. But one company that pulls board sports into a truly 21st-century reality (it’s all about the mix, y’all) is Brooklyn Surfer. Established just several years ago by Michael Green, a surfer/skater/snowboarder and “creative dude” in the ad business, Brooklyn Surfer is an apparel company and a conceptual brand; Green’s affiliate company, BSI Agency, has clients that include MTV, Sony, and Microsoft.

Michael is soon off to a trade show in Germany, followed by a few days to enjoy the powder in Vermont before returning to dig into the next season of Brooklyn Surfer products and concepts. He took a time out, though, to tell me how Brooklyn Surfer represents the true surfer of life.

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Breezing past a Buddhist monk on the street isn’t an everyday occurrence, which is why when I did so last spring on Clinton Avenue, I’m reasonably sure I threw an appreciative double-take in his direction. There was something immediately calming about the sight of his flowing red and yellow robe, and as I continued on my way, I put one (Buddhist monk) and one (postcards advertising local meditation classes) together and resolved to visit the Vajradhara Meditation Center.

Not that it was hard to find: Located in a brownstone at Adelphi Street and Greene Avenue, the 2-year-old center’s meditation shrine is visible from the street. I have a long-standing interest in Buddhism, but I hadn’t found a center nearby for regular meditation…until now, which is a particularly opportune moment to apply its teachings of compassion and patience to my life. Buddhist nun Kelsang Demo welcomed me in, and we spoke about Kadampa Buddhism, the local community’s support of the center, and how to make the time in a busy and tumultuous life for regular practice.

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I’m back in Brooklyn and in serious withdrawal. But not from the Florida sunshine. Oh no, my little cabbages. I’m in withdrawal from Chick-Fil-A.

I’m not going to waste space explaining why Chick-Fil-A is the best fast-food treat in the entire U.S. of A. Take it from Keith Shaw, or if you’re lucky enough to live near a Chick-Fil-A, run, don’t walk, and order up a combo. However, although New York City is the greatest city in our nation in many ways, it has one major flaw: A dearth of Chick-Fil-A. There is one tucked away on the N.Y.U. campus, apparently; I say “apparently” because the security guards refused to overlook the fact that I have no tie to the N.Y.U. community when I attempted to infiltrate the student union food court to get my hands on that nuggety goodness, so I have no proof that it actually exists.

Instead, I’m forced to get my fix whenever I’m in the other continental 47, and in Florida, I ate it nearly every day. Which for a person who doesn’t eat any other fast food is quite the shock to the system. So many nuggets, waffle fries, and god help me the best chocolate milkshake ever — even better than Dairy Queen. And now I’m back in Brooklyn and bereft. Whoever opens the first franchise in downtown Brooklyn is going to make a killing. Mark my words.

I don’t want to come across as ungrateful. It’s lovely that the USPS puts an eminent black person on a stamp every year or so. But the Black Heritage series stamps have been visually clunky — I think the chunky “BLACK HERITAGE” branding is part of the problem, but the photo/image selection hasn’t been compelling either.  (The Langston Hughes stamp feels better composed than most.) Better to be commemorated in a non-ethnicity-focused series, it seems, such as this Literary Heritage stamp of Zora Neale Hurston:

I’m rarely impressed by U.S. stamp designs, but I like this one and I’m glad I saved a couple before they stopped producing it. As I’m not terribly far from Eatonville this week, it seems like a good moment to praise Drew Struzan for creating a vibrant rendering of this daughter of Florida. If you don’t know much about Ms. Zora, I recommend Wrapped in Rainbows, Valerie Boyd’s biography of the fun-loving folklorist and novelist.

After the disappearance of my friend Claudia Kirschhoch during a press trip in Jamaica, I developed an aversion to flying. (I’ll spare you the psychological analysis.) I’m better about it now — with the help of Calms Forte — but I still try not to fly. I hate the hassle that air travel has become, especially with a small child in tow.

I adore train travel, however, and have often thought of permanently relocating to Europe for the sole reason of enjoying the benefits of the continental network. I’m still wide-eyed with amazement that I can board a train in London and emerge in Paris just a couple of hours later; it’s a journey I’d like to do over and over again. Railing it seems far less sexy and convenient in the United States outside of the northeastern corridor, and I haven’t been enticed to do an Aretha Franklin whenever I need to cross the country. But the discovery of The Man in Seat 61 has turned me right round. Mark Smith, a career railman in the UK, has created a fantastic resource for people who would gladly recapture the romance and the enjoyment of travel by trading planes for trains and ships. Whether it’s a trip across southern Canada, from London to Bologna, from Havana to Santiago de Cuba, or from New York to Orlando, Mark provides current routes, timetables, and prices — no mean feat, given the sometimes hopelessly confusing resources we’re usually stuck using.

Mark was game to answer a few questions not already addressed in his informative FAQ. Find out why transcontinental trains are better in the United States than in Europe and why taking a train is an ideal way to travel with children after the jump.

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I harbor a secret desire to be a letterpress printer. Hatch Show Print is a major player in my college town, and I’ve turned to them to mark major milestones in my life, with wedding invitations and birth announcements. But only recently have I started to pay closer attention to the book arts. I’ve joined the Center for Book Arts, and I attended the recent NY Art Book Fair (picking up a Scream at the Librarian chapbook by Booklyn), but there’s quite a lot more I’d like to learn about the craft.

A compelling place to start would be We, Too, Are Book Artists, a recent well-received exhibition of work by black book artists at the Minnesota Center for Book Artists. The show was curated by Amos Paul Kennedy Jr., a letterpress printer and now the Barbara Bishop Endowed Chair in Art at Longwood University in Farmville, Virginia. Mr. Kennedy, who is also in demand at a new book center in Gordo, Alabama and in Cameri, Italy, was asked to curate the exhibition by Jeff Rathermel, the MCBA’s Artistic Director. Mr. Kennedy says, “The work [included in the show] was as varied as the artist[s],” who included Kara Walker, Ellen Gallagher, and Carrie Mae Weems, visual artists not necessarily known for book building. “It went the full spectrum of book arts. Most of the work was personal.” For finding artists to participate, Mr. Kennedy credits Ruth E. Edwards as “a lifesaver. She has been working with black book artists for years.”

There’s no indication of whether the exhibition will travel; naturally, I’m hoping it will come to the New York area. Edwards’ organization, Books in Black, has also mounted a traveling exhibit of works focused on black inventors (it’s currently in Boca Raton, Florida); in the past, Edwards has also curated shows at the Center for Book Arts and the Brooklyn Public Library. I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled for what she does next.

It’s all well and good that Dear Abby has clarified her position on gay, lesbian, and bisexual people’s rights to love and commit to whomever they want, but I think the future of advice-giving rests with Dear Tionna, Gawker’s new Brooklyn-born advice columnist. Today’s nugget: “Jobs Treat Their Employees A Certain Way Because They Don’t Need You.”

Enough with your $150/hour therapist. Get more life guidance — including “Most women say they will take love over success but bump that” and “Stop the hate and get the cake”– here and in her self-published book.

Lest you think I only keep disproportionate tally of customer service sins, allow me to publicly envelope Bergen Bagels and Zaytoons in a warm embrace and squeeze them tightly against my pillowy bosom. I’ve been a weekly (sometimes twice or thrice a week) customer of both since they opened locations on Myrtle Avenue, and they practically never let the MotherSister Posse down. A nasty head cold and the sultry heat have left me with barely enough energy to hit speed dial, so both crews have come to my rescue today, with service so characteristically stellar that I’m moved to broadcast my loyalty on the internets. Three reasons:

1. The food is delicious and an excellent value. I am completely addicted to Zaytoons’ fatoosh salad (which went weird for a bit but is back in top form), babaganoush, and chocolate mousse cake, but it’s impossible to go wrong with anything on the menu. I don’t claim to be a major bagel connoisseur, but as far as I’m concerned, nobody beats Bergen’s bagels and cream cheese. If we’ve been out of town, our first meals are from Zaytoons and Bergen — that’s how we settle back into Brooklyn.
2. They don’t make excuses. When something goes wrong with an order — which rarely happens, but considering how often we call for delivery, it’s bound to sometime — they fix it. No argument, no “we’ll make it up to you next time you order from us.” Simple apology, a redelivery — done. Refreshing, that.
3. They value regular customers. The boys at Bergen know me by voice, the guys at Zaytoons know me by address, and they can practically complete my orders for me, graciously allowing for whimsical detours from our usuals now and then. I could be deluding myself, but the delivery guys seem happy to see us. When the staff across the board are consistently pleasant to deal with, you know management is on top of things.

Extra bonus points to Bergen for what I think is an excellent “hold-the-line” message: a Pavlovian description of the hot, fresh bagel action you’re craving, so matter-of-factly and unrepentantly delivered that it makes it hard to hang up even if you’re on hold for 5 minutes — which never happens, because they care.

She was born a wealthy Upper East Sider, pale and plain next to the likes of her contemporaries Pam Grier, Goldie Hawn, and even Diane Keaton. She wasn’t an ass-kicking goddess or a funnyman’s muse. Still, I find myself unable to turn away from a vintage Jill Clayburgh movie. I wish I could simply point you to some authoritative film critic to explain her appeal. But until Cintra Wilson gets around to writing one of her laudatory essays on underappreciated actors about La Clayburgh, you’re going to have to make do with me.

You see, time was when Jill Clayburgh apparently couldn’t lose. In an era when white chicks were bustin’ out all over — Linda Ronstadt was demanding to know when she would be loved and Karen Durbin was writing about being a woman alone and Gloria Steinem was bringing the sexy to women’s lib — Jill Clayburgh somehow became an everywoman’s icon of intelligent independence in complicated circumstances. She was a pulmonary vein to the pop-culture heart of the 1970s in America. The first seasons of The Rockford Files and Saturday Night Live? Jill was there. Co-starring with Burt Reynolds, Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder, and Geraldine Page? BTDT. BFFs with Jennifer Salt and Meryl Streep? Jill covered her bases. Pacino’s girlfriend? Check — in his Godfather / Godfather II years, no less. And like many other things that seemed to run off the ramp at the exit for the 1980s — including Lennonesque political engagement, high-quality Ryan’s Hope episodes, flares, and Stevie Nicks’ intact septum — the only traces of Jill Clayburgh’s careening career after 1982 seem to be tire tracks and the faint whiff of burnt rubber.

Shame that. The dame has chops, if not the best taste in scripts recently, though she has guested on high-quality TV shows lately (including Nip/Tuck and Law & Order). A recent showing of It’s My Turn is waiting for me on the DVR — Jill’s caught between Charles Grodin and a young Michael Douglas! — but if you have time for only one Clayburgh movie, make it 1978’s An Unmarried Woman, for which she was nominated for an Oscar, a Golden Globe, and a BAFTA and won Best Actress at the Cannes Film Festival. It’s a time capsule of a tale: A woman dumped by her husband and regrouping in her giant New York City apartment with her teenage daughter and a sexy SoHo artist lover who threatens her delicate newfound freedom. The tagline is classic: “She laughs, she cries, she feels angry, she feels lonely, she feels guilty, she makes breakfast, she makes love, she makes do, she is strong, she is weak, she is brave, she is scared, she is… an unmarried woman.” Spritz on some Enjoli, drape yourself in an oversized “I Can’t Believe I Ate the Whole Thing!” t-shirt and bootie socks, pop up some Jiffy Pop popcorn, crash on your couch, and let Jill show you how she did it.

The Scamp loves music, loves to dance, and he’s never been shy about letting me know it. In utero, Sam Cooke could set his feet and elbows a-stirring like nothing else. I’ve been fond of playing what The Hub refers to as “rot-gut music” for him — Leadbelly, Bo Diddley, Howlin’ Wolf — as well as the dusty road heroes, Johnny Cash and Hank Williams (”Jambalaya” is, predictably enough, a favorite, the source of my tendency to call The Scamp my “ma-chazz-a-mayo”). The Scamp’s tastes are eclectic, from Dean Martin to Public Enemy (preferably on vinyl). Recently, he has become totally addicted to a 7″ in my collection: “Go Honda Go” by Jackie & the Cedrics.

And I do mean hooked: The Scamp plays it again and again (as well as the B-side, “Velocity Stacks”), hugging his blue teddy bear and rocking passionately from side to side, even giving it his extra-special nod of the head and deep crouch (that’s how you know he’s really in the groove). I’m afraid he’s going to wear the record out; that 45 — purchased in 1994 — is nearly impossible to replace, as Jackie & the Cedrics are an underground phenomenon in the States, being a Japanese ’50s-style garage band and all. They clearly have a loyal following in Japan, though, judging by the swooning ladies in this video. After scoring three new 45s from Brooklyn-based Norton Records, I had to find out if I could hope to take The Scamp to a live Jackie & the Cedrics show sometime in the near future.

I contacted Rockin’ Jelly Bean, the group’s bassist, who is also a talented illustrator and has collaborated with Pharrell Williams and Nigo. (Note: If you don’t like drawings of naked women, bypass the link. NSFW. Robert Crumb comes to mind.) Along with guitarist Rockin’ Enocky and drummer Jackie T-Bird, RJB is a veteran at driving the kids wild. He very kindly agreed to answer a few questions about Jackie & the Cedrics; get the scoop after the jump.

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When I attended the University of Leeds during the mid-90s, the city didn’t have much to recommend it; it was just beginning to tout itself as the London of northern England (ehrmm…hmm…ooohkay). But I discovered a place that I adored, a refuge when I needed to calm myself and think (which was often, in those days): a forest-in-the-city known as Meanwood Valley. A perfect journey was to cross Otley Road and meander slowly through the reserve with one of my flatmates, winding up in Headingley and having a spinach croissant and hot chocolate at the Dare Cafe, with Nina Simone or Van Morrison on the speakers. I got to know the rambler within (probably inherited from my maternal grandfather, who was known to roam the family’s 100+ acres restlessly at all hours of the day or night); it was the one gift from my English sojourn that keeps on giving to this very day.

Rambling is an activity that I’ve hoped to share with The Scamp, and I’ve already begun with a treasure right here in Clinton Hill: the Pratt Institute Sculpture Park.

The Sculpture Park, the largest in New York City (believe it or not) is spread across the campus’ 25 acres and features a revolving array of about 50 sculptures (by artists including Robert Indiana and Richard Serra), curated by David Weinrib. The park was established 8 years ago, but somehow I didn’t fully appreciate it until I started walking through the campus regularly with The Scamp.

It has become our preferred meandering grounds; The Scamp practically bolts out of his stroller as we approach the entrance and cries out in protest when I strap him back in to leave. He has his favorite sculptures to visit, and he’d happily spend all day bird watching, flower gazing, and chasing after the squirrels who for some mysterious reason don’t want to stop to chat faccia-a-faccia. (It almost breaks my heart when The Scamp calls out an earnest “Hi!” and those distrustful squirrels turn tail and race up a tree.) I love to listen to the birdsong, feel the summer breezes, and gaze at the art. This one, by Susan Griswold, is my favorite lately.

The Sculpture Park will be a featured participant in the OpenHouseNewYork weekend in early October, but try not to wait that long to check it out if you haven’t already. I’d been planning trips to the Socrates Sculpture Park and Storm King — and we’ll still do those — but I feel incredibly lucky to have this little oasis of art and nature practically in my backyard.

So I stopped by Gallery Hanahou to pick up my beloved Assunta, and besides interviewing Kana and Gabe, I got a sneak preview of “Summer Sanctuary,” which opens tomorrow. Koko Nakano, Executive Creative Agent and Vice President of CWC International, guided me through the works, which were created specially for the show’s theme of imaginary summer escapes.

The illustrators include Chris Long, who uses Technicolor tones in his tropical scenes; Lotie, whose ink drawings feature nature teeming and rampant; Yuka Katagiri, who weaves intricate lines that seem to undulate as you study them; APAK!, a husband-and-wife team whose universe I’d love to escape to on a hot July day; and Marcus Oakley, whose works for the show include an irresistible owl. They’re all really great, but I think my personal favorites were Team Macho’s collage-like imagery (pictured above) and IMAKETHINGS’s killer skateboard decks (pictured below).

Tokyo-based CWC has been repping illustrators in New York since 1999, and it’s exciting to see Gallery Hanahou highlight an art that’s comparatively underappreciated in the U.S. Try to make it to the “Summer Sanctuary” opening reception tomorrow, July 19, from 6 to 9pm; rsvp to info@galleryhanahou.com. If you can’t make the opening, stop by before August 31 for a visual break from the steamy city.

Pictured from left to right: Gabriel Smith, Anna Hrachovec, Makiko Sasanuma, Koko Nakano, and Kana Togashi. Gallery Hanahou is at 611 Broadway, Ste. 730 (tel. 646/486-6586). Open Monday through Friday from noon to 6pm, Saturday by appointment only.