Mary Gets Tired, Writes About It

One or two of you readers has poked and prodded me recently. “WTF” you said, “Where did you go?”

I was here all along! Just busy, is all. This bee has been a-buzzing in myriad ways.

For instance!

I’ve had several bouts with The Two-Martini Curse, thereby falling asleep at Continental Midtown, L’Etage, Deuce, my house, your house, the movie house, etc. I can’t help it that I’m both worn out AND a lover of gin.

I’ve been doing my job, writing headlines and paragraphs and blogger things about all things Philly. If you really cared to find them, you could. (But here’s a good one, we worked hard, spend money in Philly please.)

Star Wars hit me in grand fashion. I’ve been to the exhibit at the Franklin Institute 2x, the first time getting touchy feely with Darth, and the second time telling a Stormtrooper to shove off. The end result of my Star Wars experience was watching 5 of the films over 2.5 days spent sick at home. Nowdays, Chewbacca is the only thing about SW I’m not sick of (mostly because he looks like my beloved dog Amos, RIP).

Sports is next. I’m about to enter full-on Phillies mode, which is some blend of sentimental, obnoxious, calculating, drunk, and full-of-hot-dogs. Traditionally I also pick up a South Philly accent after 6 p.m. So I’ve been exhausting myself with anticipation.

Also. “To Jimmy Rollins,” says Carlos Beltran, “We are the team to beat.” Pfft. PFFT. Is all I have to say to that.

Exciting! Things to think about!

I’ve also been bowling, going to black tie affairs, COOKING (see: taco assembly line, left), and reading books whose pages number in the thousands. I’m friggin tired! Sooory!

So hopefully (I guess?) you’ll be hearing from me more often. Three cheers for Pish de Luxe getting out of bed.


Mary’s Best Day

Today was my first of 40 consecutive days and nights without ice cream, Swedish Fish, Fruity Pebbles and the like. This is a small sacrifice I make, in my infinite aptitude for hypocrisy, in the name of the Lord-fellow (could be worse — Papa vO gives up scotch. Merciful heavens!). You’d think that that would cast a cloud on the day, making it a “bad day.” Instead, today, Feb. 6, was my “best day.”

I woke up at 6:50 a.m., said my goodbyes to JB for the day, did my pre-work bit. Stepped out into the Philly air, nearly 60 degrees. Walked the 2.3 miles to work, passing the Art Museum, several smarmy fellows in grey suits and a few cute bulldogs on the way.

Work was normal — wrote about a few restaurants I can’t afford, tweaked a newsletter, got hit on by the salad bar dudes. Had the pleasant surprise of having not one but TWO soups that sidled right up my alley. Which to get? French Onion? Tuscan Minestrone? I walked back and forth between the two for 5 minutes, then finally decided to get both. Big score #1.

Got back to my desk, ate the French Onion, put the Tuscan Minestrone in the fridge for tomorrow. Who needs Nutella when you have Tuscany in a styrofoam bowl?

Buzz from Erin D., big-time friend since age 14. “Great news for you” says Erin. Hoping it has to do with free drinks? Free dog? “Got you a Cat Power ticket for Friday” “Oh my goodness” yes I was interested, fate for Friday sealed, big score #2.

Did work-like things, finished a few projects, productive meeting, banter aplenty.

Took trolley home, smelled like Chik-Fil-A, hot as a scrotum. Got out 2 miles early, walked home in t-shirt, passing several ash-marked foreheads.

Drank a free bottle of wine with Lan. Erin, the ticket-provider, stopped by with mango ice cream. “Oh just have some,” she said.

“No way DeCou,” I said, “I can’t eat that shit til March 23rd.”

“But it’s mango” said a drunk Lesley, “it’s okay to have mango.”

Irregardless. Successfully passed day 1 without incident. Listened to Aerosmith. Best day.

DON’T Fight the Power!

Part Mick Jagger, part Gladys Knight and part Edie Sedgwick. Who could that be?


I’m nutty about Miss Power, otherwise known as Chan Marshall — who, I guess I should tell you, is an indie/soul singer often spotlighted for her on-stage bouts of hysteria. I think she’s tops. For the past 6-odd years I’ve even considered getting a “Cat Power” tattoo in lightning bolt lettering. [Restrained due to concerns that it may render me a cat lady someday, or maybe just a regretful lady someday.]

But at present, my love for Cat Power’s sultry, SoCo-addled vocals is irrepressible. At her craziest she’s a sobbing, boozing mess. At her most clear-headed she’s a direct descendant of Dusty Springfield.

And now she’s released a [second] collection of covers, called “Jukebox,” in which she puts a lounge lizard spin on Frank Sinatra, Janis Joplin, James Brown, the whole bit. At the risk of waxing sacrilegious, I’d say she more than makes the cuts her own.

And here she goes:

Here are a few snippets from Jukebox (the two penned by Power): “Metal Heart” is the ultimate afghan/cardigan-wearing, subtly angry lady’s ode to heathen, presumably hipster boys. And “Song to Bobby” is what sounds like a love song to Bob Dylan — and funnily enough, it also sounds like it could have been track 15 on Blonde on Blonde.

But alas, I am gushing. Have a listen-like!

(Photo by Richard Avedon for The New Yorker)