MotherSister Brooklyn

I am way behind in my periodicals reading, which is why I only just discovered this 2006 Believer piece on writers’ houses. Anne Trubek questions the value of the tourist circuit of writers’ houses — a refreshing inquiry, as most articles about them tend to be thinly disguised interiors porn, highlighting literary abodes that may as well belong to Vanderbilts or Dukes. (I wonder if you ever see the writer’s bathroom in these places? Would probably tell you all you needed to know.) Besides, I’d rather see Zadie Smith’s house, Charles Bukowski’s house, Haruki Murakami’s house — but I guess it only works if the writer is dead and stinking rich.

More interesting to peruse has been Jill Krementz’s The Writer’s Desk, a collection of photographs of writers, well, writing and talking about how they enter the headspace to produce. There’s Toni Morrison on a couch writing longhand on a legal pad, Veronica Chambers perched on her kitchen counter with a laptop, Dorothy West in front of her unabashedly messy, paper-strewn desk. Process-wise, while I’d like to be like my hero Joan Didion — coolly collected, as always, in a 1972 portrait sitting in front of a table with only a massive typewriter, a ready book of matches, and an elegant wastebasket at her bare feet — I suspect I’m more like Susan Sontag, captured in 1974 sitting at a long table covered with stacks of books, papers, notebooks, pens, mail, reviews, and a telephone. She says: “Getting started is partly stalling.” Indeed.

On reflection, there are three things I usually need to really settle down and drum out some writing. If I have these things, it doesn’t really matter where I am. They are:

• Forethought. I do a lot of advance thinking and research, forming and reconsidering sentences and even paragraphs in my mind before setting them down. I wrote entire term papers this way in college and grad school; I rarely revised anything and almost never regretted that. Even my blog posts are at least half formed before I get near my laptop.
• Food and water…but not too much. I can’t start writing on an empty stomach, but I do need a little edge of hunger and thirst to stay in the groove. A parched palate and a growling stomach drive me to finish the next sentence, the next paragraph, the next page. This slightly insane delayed gratification is the reason that anyone who interrupts me while I’m writing will probably have his/her head taken off. The combination of low blood sugar and broken concentration leaves me as agitated as an alley cat in heat.
• A fight with The Hub. I find it harder to settle down to work if we’re too friendly. Picking a fight with The Hub ensures that he will temporarily avoid crossing my path, which in turn ensures that I’ll have the solitude I need. Plus, I need to be a little pissed off about something when I write; I’m pugilistic that way.

The Scamp is a good-lookin’ little guy. We can barely get out the front door before people — women, men, young, old, rich, poor — are gushing ecstatically over his gorgeousness. And that’s before he breaks into a smile. The social impact of attractiveness has been well studied, from the heightened attention that cute babies receive from their own parents to the perception of greater intelligence, and we all hope (consciously or subconsciously) to reap the perceived benefits of beauty (the cosmetics and plastic surgery industries are big bucks for a reason, after all). The Hub worries that all of The Scamp’s handsome points have been used up in his infancy, that maybe he’ll be a dog of an adult. My worry about his adult attractiveness has a different edge: Will my brown baby boy be so adored when he’s a grown brown man?

After the Clifton Place shooting last week, someone diligently visited the police precinct to view a photo of the suspect and report a description on a local message board. The description this viewing produced went something like this: “black male,” “young,” “very short hair,” “thin face,” “well-defined top lip,” “frequently on a bike.” I wish this description hadn’t been posted at all. Why? Well, here’s a black male:

And here’s another black male:

Lookie, another black male:

Now that I’m done fanning myself, it seems safe to say that the suspect wasn’t Isaach de Bankolé, Gary Dourdan, or Boris Kodjoe. Was the Clifton Place shooter light-skinned, dark-skinned, or of medium skin tone? Long, thin, broad, stubby nose? Dark brown, light brown, hazel, blue, green eyes? Thick or thin lips? Curly hair, straight hair, kinky hair, shaved, dreaded? Square-jawed, heart-shaped face? I could go on, but you get my point: Black people are as multi-hued and multi-featured as anyone else. If you know this, then you know “black” is a near-useless descriptor, as useless as “white.” (Truly: Who is actually black? Who is actually white? Those words are just stand-ins for presumptions and stereotypes.) I can understand a victim being unable to conjure up more details, but not someone who actually viewed a photo (even a crap one) with the intent of reporting details.

I have long hated most suspect descriptions for precisely this reason, and using them propagates confirmation bias. (Suspect is a young black male? Then all young black males are suspect.) Some media, like the Baltimore Sun (bless), won’t even publish vague descriptions.

Someday, The Scamp will be described as a young black male with very short hair and a thin face; you could argue that his top lip is well defined, too, a Cupid’s bow that I love to see puckered in concentration or to give me a kiss. He, like his dad, will probably enjoy riding his bike. I wonder if the same people who coo over how adorable he is at 19 months old will assume he’s as magical and innocent when they see him coming down the street at 19 years old.

Your ol’ MomSis had a birthday a couple of weeks ago, and as far as my ability to cope with my age goes, it is the best of times and the worst of times. By my reckoning as a child, 32 is the age when a woman reaches full flower: Think Dorothy Dandridge circa Carmen Jones (below) or Marlene Dietrich circa The Blonde Venus. It’s the age of my own mother when I began to recognize her as a fully separate, mysterious, unknowable entity. But in spite of all the ways that giving birth and raising my boy has elevated me, it has left me feeling a little physically battered and emotionally as if I’ve aged 18 years instead of 18 months. Maggie Gyllenhaal may be MILFing it up while her daughter’s still in diapers, but I’ve been tongue-tied when attempting to carry on conversations with women just 6 years younger than I am. Don’t be so quick to dismiss my hand-wringing; someone at The Onion knows what I’m talkin’ ’bout.

I don’t know that I can do anything about the burning AARP sensation I get when I talk to a 25-year-old now — except avoid sentences that begin with the words “Back in my day…” and conclude “you’ll feel differently when you’re a little older” — but physically, it’s time to do something besides serve as The Scamp’s balance beam. After penciling into my calendar the resumption of marital relations sometime in 2016 or when The Scamp goes to sleep-away camp (whichever comes first), I decided that the first order of business was a massage. In my postpartum fog, I missed a 90-minute rubdown at SoHo Sanctuary, the most valuable present I’ve ever wasted. Though I was tempted to try there again, with the encouragement of The Hub and a recommendation from a local listserv, I decided to keep it local and give Cynergy Spa the business.

You could almost miss Cynergy, which is in a brownstone just tucked into Fort Greene Place. I ran a little late for my appointment, but when I arrived, they didn’t tsk-tsk me; Tomoko, the masseuse, met me at the front door and swiftly led me to the treatment room. After I disrobed and settled myself face-down on the table, Tomoko proceeded to tenderize and flatten me like empanizado. She was professional and focused, which is the highest compliment I can think to pay a masseuse; she didn’t (a) chat me up, (b) quiz me about my tattoo, (c) ask me a million times if the pressure was okay, (d) do any weird whispery chanting over my head and end with “namaste,” or (e) offer me her card to contact her for private services. (Yes, all have happened to me during past massages, and yes, [e] was a male. With a ponytail.) She gave me the full 55 minutes, and I swear once she was done I looked about 55 years younger (or maybe the dim lighting in the treatment room helped give a more complimentary reflection in the mirror — whatever, I’ll take it). Tomoko delivered what I came for and sent me sauntering home on a lavender-scented cloud. Although I’m a bit of a cheapo when it comes to massages — I’m somehow still stuck on what I paid back in 1997 in San Diego, $30 for 60 minutes — my experience at Cynergy was worth every penny.

Mix together briny ocean breezes, a dash of citronella, and a faceful of The Scamp’s Sweet Pea-scented curls. Add one by one the faint roar of a seaplane, intermittent calls from a seagull standing sentry, and the steady rhythm of Atlantic Ocean waves splashing ashore. Sprinkle with some fine grains of white sand and grass and gravel from the daily nature walks. Wrap it in a corn maze and warm it with the late summer sun; when burnished brown, let it cool, misting it with a rolling night fog. Garnish with a smattering of mosquito bites. Serve with a New York System, freshly harvested and grilled butter-and-sugar corn, iced tea, and homemade apple pie.

MotherSister Matunuck (tm The Hub) is back in Brooklyn, y’all.

So in spite of the fact that it’s August and few people are answering their phones or replying to emails — even if they are in their offices — I’ve been juggling four different projects, a nap-striking Scamp, and physical therapy for my wrist (tenosynovitis, y’all — avoid at all costs), which is why I’ve been pokey with the posts for the past couple of weeks. But the MotherSister Posse is about to bail out of Brooklyn to spend a few days on a beach in Rhode Island, and this has me thinking about how and where black folks vacation.

When I was on staff as a travel guidebook editor, one of my obligatory biannual proposals was for a modest series of city guidebooks for black travelers. Such proposals require hard numbers pointing to proven successes; squishy intangibles and gut feelings don’t make a P&L work. But as Dale Grenier puts it in “Homegirl on the Range,” an essay published in Go Girl! The Black Woman’s Book of Travel & Adventure: “White travelers will never understand the complex dynamics that affect the travel experiences of their black brothers and sisters. Why? Because most white people can move about this land freely without anyone batting an eye or questioning (with a look, an action, or a remark) their right to be in any place at any time.” (Rebecca Solnit also touches on the challenges that blacks, women, and other groups have faced in roaming freely in her excellent book, Wanderlust: A History of Walking.) There are a few magazines and websites, but many black travelers I know still work their personal networks in deciding where to vacation and what to see and do while they’re visiting (even if they buy a guidebook as well). It’ll be interesting to see if any mainstream travel guidebook publisher ever ventures to capture this market.

There have been middle-class black vacation resorts like Idlewild, and, for the wealthy, there’s still Martha’s Vineyard and Sag Harbor, but I don’t really know of any beyond that. Movies like Matty Rich’s The Inkwell and books like Dorothy West’s The Wedding, Toni Morrison’s Love, and Jill Nelson’s Finding Martha’s Vineyard all offer windows into these havens, but I’m still waiting for a more contemporary, youthful take on existing communities. Would we buy a vacation home in one (real estate prices willing) and go there every year? I don’t know; I like keeping our options open. In the end, when deciding where to go this summer, we did what millions of other people do these days: started researching online and, on the basis of some alluring photographs, forked over some cash for a promise of a week’s respite in a cottage with a garden on a private beach, where The Scamp could run around naked underneath his superhero cape. There’s always the uncertainty of being a stranger in a strange land wherever you go, but I’m thinking the sand and the sun and the ocean will pay us no never mind.

A sunny Saturday morning in late spring. Fort Greene Park is abuzz with patrons at the weekly greenmarket, tennis players, people walking their dogs. I’m idly watching the scene while The Scamp sleeps next to me on a blanket. My eye is caught by a couple with a small baby — maybe a 3-monther — who claim a patch under a big tree near the very edge of the lawn. They park the chairs that they’ve brought along facing away from the center of the park, and after settling their infant between them, they whip out their coffees and newspapers and bury their faces in them. Their body language seems to say, “We’re in the park, but we’re not of the park, dahlings.” I realize I’m staring at them. Why am I staring at them? Because the way they occupied a piece of a very public space seems a little hostile, somehow.

A windy, cold, gray afternoon in late winter. I’ve just left Choice Market with one of their delicious salmon burgers in a bag hanging off the handle of The Scamp’s stroller. A few feet away from the entrance, standing against a low wall in front of a brownstone, is an older black woman who looks a little worse for the wear and possibly light of pocket. “Is the food there good?” she asks me as I pass. “Yes, very,” I reply. She nods, but something about her expression suggests to me that she won’t be stepping in to find out for herself. I get the distinct impression she doesn’t believe it’s her kind of place.

Why am I nattering on about this now? Well, it came to mind when I read “Is Gentrification Transforming the City’s Public Spaces?” in the New York Times today. Sewell Chan reports on an ASA panel that I wish I could’ve attended; they’re articulating questions that I’ve found myself feeling unsettled by but unable to fully unpack. It’s not news to anyone here that there’s a quiet tug-of-war going on in this neighborhood, but it’s still somewhat jarring when what seem like macro-level concepts elbow you in the ribs in small, everyday moments.

Lance Freeman is quoted in Chan’s article, which reminds me that I want to read his book on gentrification in Clinton Hill and Harlem, There Goes the Hood: Views of Gentrification from the Ground Up. Despite what the comments below Chan’s article might suggest, it’s not simply a racial issue (though, as with everything in America, it’s definitely a part of it), and Freeman’s book avoids reducing it to that, which makes me more interested in checking it out. The Atlantic Yards Report’s review is worth an eyeball if you’d like a quick summary.

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.

July ended on a thickly humid note, but temperatures were actually cooler than average in the city. Now they’re inching back up for August, and I’m in full-on summer eating mode.

I don’t munch much when it’s hot outside, and The Scamp is capricious and picky generally, so I’ve been fussing around to find easy eats — dishes that can be prepared in half an hour or less, while I keep an eye on the little one — that feel satisfying and light. So far, I have two winners. The first is quinoa salad: Cook the quinoa and mix it in a dressing of lime juice and zest, vegetable oil, unsalted butter, sugar, salt, and pepper; add some chopped tomato, scallions, cilantro, and black beans. The second is a one-pot salmon and brown rice dish: Poach a salmon filet in vegetable broth, set it aside, then cook some brown rice, shallot, parsley, lemon, water, and unsalted butter in the broth; after the rice is cooked, add the salmon and stir. Both reheat really well and work as a quick snack or a main.

I’ve been resisting the dark side, having traded Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie for Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches, but B&J’s have got me in their clutches again. They came calling first for The Hub, who succumbed to the Peanut Butter Cup. And now, I’ve gotten wind of this:

CelebStoner gave it what dear Willie prolly considers a high honor: It made the Munchies Alert.

I’m in trouble, y’all.

There have been some interesting articles on the death of compelling magazine cover design recently, but I wish someone would take up the torch for good book cover design. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems book jackets are truly terrible now, especially in the United States.

I’ve become much more deliberate about my book acquisitions for my personal library, more of a true book collector. I don’t want any old edition taking up valuable shelf space in my home, and I don’t want any old ugly edition, either. And yet, that’s what’s being churned out: Even esteemed hardcovers by name authors — what, Murakami can’t get no love?! — are being published with jackets that look better suited to your average $5.99 drugstore-rack pocketbook. An example?

I set out to purchase a copy of Christian Jungersen’s enticingly well-reviewed The Exception. This novel of considerable heft, which tackles man’s inhumanity to man head-on, is jacketed for U.S. sale thusly:

I mean, seriously. The plot has four women at its center, and there’s a crime involved — so of course there needs to be breathy, imperiled-looking women on the cover with blood-red slashes and stains. My goodness, who would pick it up otherwise? It’s so cheap, and so cheapening, that there was no way I was going to support the sales/marketing genius (and based on first-hand knowledge of the inner workings of book cover approval in your average NYC publishing house, believe me when I tell you that’s who is in charge) who rubber-stamped it. So I did what I’ve often found myself doing: searched for a U.K. edition, since historically they’ve maintained some sense of refinement, some respect for the reader’s intelligence. I was a little discouraged to see this paperback edition, though.

Does it need the “Office Politics Can Be Deadly” tagline? The bodies in chalkline? If I’m literary-minded enough to pick up this 500-plus-page book, does your design need to spell out a reductive summary for me like the 11 o’clock news? It’s just as well, as I’m trying not to buy paperbacks, but man! how the mighty have fallen. Et tu, my peeps in Ol’ Blighty? Anyway, this is what will be on my shelf in a couple of weeks:

Le sigh.

If you care about this stuff as much as I do, get lifted by visiting Book By Its Cover.

[ETA: It’s interesting to see the various worldwide covers for The Exception; the original Danish cover is to the far right on the shelf. The French cover is even worse than the U.S. cover, for crying out loud. Can’t wait to see what the Italians do with it; the good folks at Minimum Fax know from cover design, but it’s in Mondadori’s hands.]

I love Buttercup Bake Shop, Sugar Sweet Sunshine, and the rest of their cupcake-slingin’ ilk, but the to-go food trend I really wish would catch on is the crêperie. (For a place nicknamed “French Greene,” where you can’t throw a stone without hitting a French speaker, you’d think we’d have at least one amongst the bistros.) Gridskipper’s “New York Crêpe Escapes” maps a handful of places in the city to get your crêpe fix; I frequent two of them (Palacinka and Shade), but neither comes close to being as good as my favorite crêperie on the planet, A la Bonne Crêpe in Paris. Once I’m off the plane in that town, it’s one of the first three places I go, and I have the same thing every time: the Nordique, a crêpe with smoked salmon, lemon, and crème fraîche. Perfection.

I make do locally with Le Gamin’s smoked salmon crêpe. I think they’re crazy expensive (as is Noo Na, their sister Korean restaurant across from their Prospect Heights location on Vanderbilt Avenue), but they deliver to southern Clinton Hill…and it’s cheaper than a plane ticket to Paris.

The past couple of weeks have been a bit hard on the ol’ ego. I bypassed an on-ramp (read: turned down an unsolicited job offer) to continue to hang out with The Scamp and freelance; my reward has been a special show of toddler appreciation, as The Scamp is expressing his negativism hourly with a scream so high-pitched it makes our Tribble tremble. Added to that, The Hub’s jet-setting to and fro a Major European Capital and fitting in social engagements between business meetings. (Upon hearing about this trip, my brother — who knows me ever-so-well — chuckled and said, “Jealous, huh?”) Suddenly, a year after leaving my own jet-setting job, I’m understanding why some women simply can’t do the primary caregiver thing.*

I wasn’t happy about leaving my last job, which I loved — my 45-hour weeks flew by, the travel fed my need for a regular change of scenery — but wasn’t flexible for someone with any ongoing personal responsibilities. (Pamela Stone’s new book, Opting Out?, goes a long way to sum up the situation in which I found myself.) One of my former colleagues expressed disappointment that I was quitting, since “so few of us” — translation: blacks, and black women especially — find ourselves in any visible position of authority. But forced to choose between dedication to my job — a job that could’ve dumped me out at any time — and dedication to my son, there was no contest. It’s not a decision I regret, but it isn’t without its complexities, one of which is residual anger that I had to make it in the first place.

I adore The Scamp, and I’m lucky to have the choice to be his full-time teacher, yadda yadda, poignant disclaimer here, humble acknowledgment of luxury of choice, blah blah. Yeah, I know. That’s why I decided to do it; that’s why I thank my stars when I open my eyes every morning and lay my head down at night. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m still as ambitious and competitive (with myself) as I was before The Scamp arrived, and I have to find positive channels for that, especially as he grows into his own life. As I’ve discovered, it’s not just a matter of taking a time-out for a couple of years — I need to totally reconceptualize my professional goals. And finding time to do that between freelance assignments and a toddler demanding attention every minute he’s awake (from about 6:30am to 9 or 10pm, save a 45-min. nap) ain’t easy.

On the good days, I shrug off the “You’re not the nanny!” double-takes, think about joining Mocha Moms and MomsRising, bake cookies, coordinate a playgroup, whistle while I work. On the bad days, I pop Tylenol and Calms Forte, wander around muttering “I coulda been a contenda,” and curl up in the fetal position in The Scamp’s crib while he trips the Tribble. Mostly I try to remember that I may yet have it all — just not all at once.

*(Can’t bear the term “stay-at-home parent.” I can’t think of a more claustrophobic way to put it.)

When I was 10 years old, I had the third love fling of my brief life with Eddie Murphy (the first two lucky studs were Scott Baio and Michael Jackson — and then there was Prince, but that’s an ongoing thing so I won’t count it here). Whereas the first two love affairs involved watching “Joanie Loves Chachi” and Foxes, then staring at the video for “Can You Feel It?” and sighing at the cover of Thriller (especially the shot with the tiger cubs — ladies, you know what I’m talkin’ ’bout), my involvement with Edward Regan Murphy was far more adult: regular viewings of the R-rated Trading Places, Beverly Hills Cop, and 48 Hrs.; an autographed photo as a thank-you for sincere birthday wishes; and keeping a folder of designs for his palatial mansion in Jersey.

That last bit, my friends, is how you know that Mr. Murphy had penetrated my id. You see, moving around incessantly as a child bred a little obsession with houses. I loved seeing house plans reviewed and chosen, foundations laid; walking through the shell and imagining the finished rooms, comparing flooring options and fixtures. I poured through my father’s plan books, critiquing this layout or that, settling on one and then carefully combing through furniture catalogs, clipping out what I liked and keeping everything in a folder I called home. One tidy, settled home, planned, constructed, and decorated by me and me alone. To be shared with Eddie or, y’know, whomever.

This little obsession resulted in a determination to build a house of my own someday. Today the Times has an article on architect-designed house plans gone digital, which is one more time suck I don’t need but will thoroughly enjoy. I’ve also wanted to learn more about vernacular architecture, especially as it relates to black American history; in this time of real-estate frenzy, it’s nice to focus on the humanity of the basic need for shelter.

[Image of shotgun shack from here.]

A quiet, overcast Fourth of July, with only the occasional waft of grill smoke as a reminder of the holiday. Appropriate, somehow. I just realized that I don’t care for the 4th, and haven’t since I was shooting off bottle rockets and checking for chiggers on my great-grandparents’ farm in the Old Country. (And that was a long time ago.) But this year in particular, it’s a little hard, with a president so unconcerned about public opinion that his Independence Day gift to the electorate was to practically pardon I. Lewis Libby. Home of the free, land of the brave.

The Scamp and I spent much of the day listening to WKCR’s annual Louis Armstrong Birthday Extravaganza (to be repeated on August 4, his real birthday, in addition to the day he thought was his birthday), and one of his versions of “Ain’t Misbehavin’” got me thinking about about fine art of song interpretation (I was mentally comparing it to Billie Holiday’s go, which I just listened to a couple of days ago). My favorite remakes aren’t just the ones that are better than the originals — say, Ryan Adams’ “Wonderwall” (Oasis), Camille’s “In a Manner of Speaking” (Tuxedomoon), Michael Andrews’ “Mad World” (Tears for Fears) — but also the ones that tease out other levels and don’t necessarily best the originals, just deliver something different and equally amazing. Here, I’m thinking of Courtney Love’s “Pale Blue Eyes” (Velvet Underground), Roberta Flack’s “That’s No Way to Say Goodbye” (Leonard Cohen), or Nirvana’s “The Man Who Sold the World” (David Bowie). There are songwriters whose works are often better performed by someone else — like Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and occasionally David Bowie — and those whose works seem like they should almost always come from their own mouths — like Joni Mitchell, Prince, and also David Bowie (I can’t imagine anyone ever delivering a better “Ashes to Ashes”). But is it a bigger testament to the greatness of a song or the talent of the deliverer when it can be made brand new all over again?

There go the fireworks. One last tidbit, for those who like to curl up with a little fiction at the end of the day: My friend Hilary Davidson has published a sweet little short story, “Anniversary,” in Thuglit #17. The devil is in the details. (”Small minds are much distressed by little things.” - La Rochefoucauld)

[Photo of Charles Mingus and the flag from Music & the Civil Rights Movement.]

Being environmentally correct seems to be all the rage here lately, from a neighborhood level (with the new Green Greene initiative) to an individual consumer level. On the local parents’ listserv, there was a spate of postings a couple of weeks ago about green products; someone is apparently thinking of opening a shop with that focus. The replies were generally name-checks of existing places nearby, but one person went directly to the point: She would definitely shop at this hypothetical new store, she said, if the products weren’t “outrageously expensive.”

The new luxury sector? Products that purport to be organic and environmentally friendly. No news that — everyone knows that organic foods are pricier than conventional (they don’t call it Whole Paycheck for nothing). But as recent articles in The Indypendent and the New York Times point out, green consumerism offers a way to feel morally correct about your egregious shopping. Don’t get me wrong: I had a frisson of joy when I discovered Ecover in the mid-’90s while living in the U.K. And if you need to buy paint, why not try to get the low- or no-VOC kind? But if you think you need that $240 Reware Bag (pictured above) from 3R Living so that you can recharge your disposable electronics on the beach, well, you know what they say about fools and money…Or, at least, don’t kid yourself about the overall impact of what you’re buying. (A point well made by Alex Steffan, in his rebuttal to the NYTimes trendpiece.)

Retailers are obviously in love with the premiums they can charge for organic and green products, and there are clear socioeconomic differences in who’s buying this stuff and who’s not. I took for granted how relatively affordable a variety of healthy foods were when I lived in California; here, The Hub’s eyes pop at our weekly grocery tally. Looks like these tips for buying organic on the cheap will come in handy; I’m also checking out this “Organic Thrifty Food Plan Challenge.”