YOU ARE HELLO, I AM GOODBYE

My pieces are filed, my plants are watered, my socks are packed: We're heading to the west coast for a bit. I am not great at vacations -- I like working, I like my house, I like my buddies, I like sitting around in my pajamas drinking coffee out of my Morris mug, watching people walk up and down the block -- but I am very much looking forward to taking a break from all that. Back soon, goons!

FREE RIDE

One of the things I really enjoy about writing concert previews for the Times is that it requires me to listen to loads of music I would otherwise ignore, like Asher Roth and Nickelback. Have you guys heard this Nickelback single? It's like a Hallmark card. Spoken in grunge. I can't believe it even exists!

ON JAMAICA AVENUE, THAT'S WHERE I'M AT, WHERE YOU AT

I spent an hour this morning touching up the white oil paint on our kitchen cabinets, and then I spent two hours trying to get the insane smell of turpentine off my paws so that I could type record reviews without gagging. What's going on with oil paint? Why is it instantly tacky but never dry? Why does nonstop rain make me want to do things like touch up the white oil paint on our kitchen cabinets? Why did I listen to the Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell song so many times?

It sure has been raining a lot: 36 consecutive days, per my old man's unscientific calculation, although I think there were some brief reprieves buried in there. I am pro-rain, as a rule, but things are getting soggy, New York.

Top Chef Masters is terrible but I cannot stop watching it. In fact, if I could arrange to watch Wylie Dufresne saying "Fuck" over and over, on a constant, never-ending loop, I probably would.

DON DRAPER

Dinner does not evolve organically in my home -- I would guess that by 11 AM, I have already been asked/asked "Hey, what are we doing for dinner?" 2-3 times, as if "dinner" is some kind of beacon guiding us through our days -- and I have lost perspective on whether or not this is normal or one of those weird domestic feedback loops that plague married people.

I have been thinking a lot about American domesticity lately. Maybe because we're entering our third month as homeowners, and maybe because I have developed a weird late-night addiction to HGTV, which is easily the most ridiculous television channel of all time.

Also, this discussion, per Susan Orlean's Twitter (!!), is strange and fascinating. I don't have kids, so maybe I'm less qualified to participate, but I do remember, when I was finishing It Still Moves, feeling vaguely and fleetingly guilty about ignoring most everyone around me. But mostly I remember feeling good and crazy and scared. I have never felt guilty about eschewing any domestic expectations. I have never felt guilty about not buying milk.

A FIGHTER BY HIS TRADE

I'm working on a long piece for eMusic about Simon and Garfunkel (the site recently acquired Sony's entire back catalogue), and it's been fun, if for no other reason than I now have justification for listening to "America" 45 times in a row. In doing a bit of preliminary research, I started looking up the Rolling Stone reviews of some of the mid-60s records, and holy shit, they're pretty great. To wit, re: Bookends: "This record is worth getting, if only for the cover, which captures the amazing resemblance of Simon and Garfunkel to Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, respectively." That's rock criticism! Also, through the miracle of science, pretty much every Simon and Garfunkel record ever made has "The Sound of Silence" on it.

I interviewed Ed from Grizzly Bear this morning, for Pitchfork. He was a real treat. Man, I have fallen in love with that record; "Two Weeks" is just about the prettiest thing I've heard this year, except for my husband saying "I got you a cookie from Momofuku Milk Bar."

Two nights ago I made a double-batch of Mark Bittman's braised lentils using what I later discovered was a sour bottle of red wine. It was devastating. These are some real bourgeois troubles. I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead.

Speaking of bourgeois troubles, Bret and I joined the Cobble Hill CSA, and we picked up our first load of vegetables this week. Here's what we got: a bag of burdock, a bunch of leeks, oregano, a ridiculous amount of kale, asparagus, and dried black beans. To my disappointment, these things cannot be combined to make Fig Newmans. From now on, I'll be the girl in Cobble Hill Park on Tuesday nights, looking up "burdock" in How To Cook Everything.

I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN

You know how sometimes you repeat a word too many times, and it loses its meaning entirely and becomes a nonsensical string of syllables? Sometimes, that happens with 1500 word newspaper articles. Sometimes I read something so many times -- I become so entangled with its internal logic -- that I can no longer reliably determine if it makes any sense at all.

This morning I had to move the car for street-cleaning (I have a system), and it felt like a welcome break. Look at this, a tactile accomplishment! The car is on the other side of the street!

At the gym yesterday, I learned that Kenneth from 30 Rock has a starring role in the video for Mariah Carey's "Touch My Body." I like the bit where she sings "You Tuuuube!" with melisma. With feeling.

YES, I OWN THAT BABY PAINTING NOW.

I'LL BE THE BOY IN THE CORDUROY PANTS

It's Memorial Day weekend, pals! I've decided it begins, unofficially, tonight, when I see old Bonnie Prince Billy at the Apollo. The last time I saw him was at Joe's Pub with Hazel Dickens, who is one of my all-time favorite singers, and it was stupendous! I'm prepping by singing Tom Petty songs and eating chips. I have a terrible singing voice but I sound awesome singing Tom Petty songs. Truth.

I'm working on a handful of articles concurrently, and it makes for a curious soundtrack: Grizzly Bear, Simon and Garfunkel, Charley Patton, Ma Rainey, Dave Matthews Band. Strange bedfellows, indeed.

FLUXBUG

Everyone should go buy their Fluxblog t-shirt now before it's too late! I got the one with the kids and the tree, and I will be rocking it all summer long.

This morning the exterminator came and sprayed our apartment because two nights ago there was a waterbug (I will not say "American Cockroach") crawling around in the kitchen sink and I lost my fucking mind. I did retain enough mental acuity to find the bottle of Home Defense in the closet (thanks, Dad) and to unload about half a gallon of bug spray onto its face, which means the waterbug did not survive. I couldn't deal with the carcass so it sat there for awhile before I manned up and grabbed it using 45 paper towels. Dude, bugs. Anyway, the exterminator was badass and talked about Star Trek (the series, not the film) the entire time. He liked my Elvis Pez dispenser. He sat down on the couch and told me a long story about the Metro North railroad. When I asked if the bugs would be gone forever, he said "Amanda, I will do my best." Eat shit, bugs!

IT KEEPS GETTING BETTER

Is everyone reading the New York Times Magazine's cover story on Suze Orman? Which part is the best part? It's hard to say.

Maybe:
"Fonner took her to a hot-dog stand and watched — everyone in the vicinity watched — as Orman devoured six hot dogs."

Or:
"That was when I learned that money is obviously more important than life itself."

Girlfriend!

Unrelated, but if anyone knows of a reliable, affordable transcription service in NYC, holler. I've got approximately 1 million hours worth of interview tapes that I could use some help with.

BUSTED STUFF

Does anyone know if space shuttle launches are still televised? How do I set my Tivo for this kind of thing? From now on, I will refer to my 29th year as "astronaut year." I cannot stop reading about outer space and the people floating around in space shuttles. Triple thanks to Sam, who pointed this out on Friday night -- it's like Vogue for people who are into astronauts! Ordered!

My summer concert preview was in the Times on Sunday. It only took me 300 hours. Also, I am working on reviewing the new Dave Matthews Band record for the Onion. You're welcome!

I JUST WANT FOUR WALLS AND A DOOR

Being old and cantankerous, as it were, I am feeling particularly grumbly about the death of all media. It's so lame. I miss being sixteen and reading record reviews in Spin and driving to the only passable record store in Westchester (Exile on Main Street, R.I.P.) and buying records, heretofore unheard, and then going nuts on the drive home. When Bret and I first moved in together, the first major purchase we collaborated on was a Boltz CD rack, which we filled pretty quickly; I've been considering investing in an expansion unit, but really, it seems a little silly. I have no romantic connection to CDs, but when I want to play Maps or My Girls for my maybe-future-progeny, how is that going to work? Am I going to blow dust off an old external hard drive and we huddle around the computer? Also, magazines are bad now.

All of this hasn't seemed to stunt the flow of promotional material into my home. I am thinking about orchestrating some kind of CD-candy exchange, wherein you bring me a roll of Smarties, and I give you a promo CD you will not like. Thanks to whoever sent Gary Lewis and the Playboys: The Complete Liberty Singles, though. It is super awesome. Also, that Phoenix record is pretty good.

TRANSFORMING MILK INTO MILK

The Celestial Monochord killing it, per usual. I love this piece. Old Harry Smith. Old Ginsberg. Old Hotel Breslin.

I also loved this piece. Old Neck Wound.

You guys, my husband will not stop buying CDs at Starbucks. First it was Neko Case, and now it's Bob Dylan. It's like, is he being ironic, in an ironic throwback to ironic 2002? No, he's just buying CDs at Starbucks.

TEENAGE SUPERSTARS

Last weekend, Bret and I flew to Richmond to eat huevos rancheros at Kuba Kuba and also to see Richard and Kelly get married. I drank my first through fifth Coke Zeros and made it all the way through my Frank O'Hara poem without crying and B played "Close to You" on guitar and everyone was so, so happy. A stupendous wedding! Then I watched four episodes of Law and Order: Criminial Intent on the airplane and ate Blue Chips. (Incidentally, while driving our rented Chevy Aveo back to the Richmond airport we took a wrong turn into the Phillip Morris compound, which is now called "Altria" and has a funny little logo comprised of small colored boxes, which I found both hilarious and sorta disgusting; B hollered "Cig-rets!" until we were escorted out.)

All I've been listening to lately is Sub Pop's fancy new deluxe edition of "Enter the Vaselines," which is all the Vaselines' EPs and LP, now in a very pretty package. It reminds me of being thirteen and going swimming, although it is hardly that innocent.

ADD IT UP, SEE WHAT YOU'VE GOT

Summer is coming, you guys. It is only April, and I am already having claustrophobic summer-dread. I spent yesterday afternoon looking up recipes for peppermint bark and making Christmas lists. Summer makes me want to stay inside reading Frank O'Hara poems and painting my toenails black. Summer makes everyone pink and foul-smelling. I'm working on a feature for the Times about summer festivals, and it's only making things worse -- thinking about kids sitting in fields for 14 hours, using Port-o-Potties, listening to Ben Harper! Dear God!