New Definition #7

by carole jardins, delighted

SUMMER: Dahlias + Lemon Italian ices.

Still Life, by carole jardins

slice o' life

staff o' life

life n' death

habitat, by carole jardins

Yet Another Peeve

by be.aaron, peeved slow-foodie

I’ve been enjoying my weekly box of fruits +veggies from Urban Organic– but  the delicate skin of the zucchini, pears, apples, eggplants are consistently marred by adhesive labels which identify them as organic. The labels are decidely not organic and really, really annoying to remove.

Scary-Fun, R.I.P.

by betsy aaron

In Memorium

Back-to-School Spiel

by be.aaron, copywriter extraordinaire

It’s official: the September edition of Vogue hits newsstands today, it’s time to embrace the back-to-school mode of behavior. I have ordered my supplies from Staples: a dozen extra-long yellow legal pads, a dozen uni-ball Vision fine points in black, a dozen post-its, two reams of recycled inkjet printer paper, my newly discovered and now favorite pencils, pictured above, the Faber-Castell jumbo grip, designed for kids but kind to adults who grip too tightly.

But the supply side of consumerism does not end there. I have to stock up for my dog — fifteen pounds of Taste of the Wild (roasted fowl flavor because she’s a bird dog, a three month supply of biodegradable poop bags- she uses three per day), replenish my wine “cellar,” my spice rack (Dual Imports on 1st Ave. + 5th St.) — all acts of procrastination because what I really need to assess is: what shoes, coat, trousers, bag–all big ticket items–will become my must-haves?

I have a client who has a client who has many clients who have some connection to fashion, so having the four pound tome with almost seven hundred pages of advertorials at my fingertips will come in handy. But without so much as a glance at it, I can predict that gray is the new black– I’ve already used this line in a spot and billed for it– and that I can get away with last season’s ankle boots, not that I want to.

Back-to-school behavior is ingrained in us when we are young and our olfactory senses are most impressionable: remember that new shoe smell? Even the shoebox is redolent. When I was finally allowed to own a pair of Bass Weejuns, de rigeur for seventh grade, and previously verboten because they didn’t have the requisite arch support for my flat feet, I placed the box next to my bed so the scent of glue and leather would permeate my dreams.

I have always loved supplies. In grade school, I coveted the teachers’ boxes of chalk. In college, it was the blue essay books in which I spewed forth (the beginning of spieling?) in order to ace Philosophy 101. As an adult, I’ve always kept a stash of notebooks within grabbing distance, my faves are the ones I find while traveling. I believe that certain notebooks are imbued with magical powers that facilitate the flow of writing, while others have bad juju. For client meetings, I always use Moleskins, which sounds like a prophylactic device. So far, no bad juju.

Since I dutifully recycle, I will put the Sept. Vogue to good use by repeatedly lifting it overhead for weight resistance and then dumping it on my mother who will enjoy it, though she lives in Southern California and her fashion needs are limited by the dictates of one season that lasts all year. The reality of being 83 and inhabiting a shrinking body that is ignored by purveyors of fashion will not diminish the magazine’s entertainment value because for her, and for everyone who exists beyond its force field, fashion is a fantasy.

A few days ago, I turned the a.c. off; last night, I slept without using the overhead fan. The approach of a new season is in the air and with it comes the excitement of possibility, of things beyond imagination.

I watched the curtains blow in and out and I thought of Maurice Sendak, an insomniac, and author of In The Night Kitchen, who wrote about watching his curtains blow. His book weighs in at well under one pound and will enchant forever.

Nothin’ Doin’

by Carole Jardins, Guest Editor/cultural anthropologist,horticulturalist/photo journalist

I am fortunate to live in a neighborhood that has funeral homes which, according to those-in-the know, have never held a funeral. Around the corner from me, there is a shoe-shine shop that is sometimes open but never has customers and a few blocks away there’s an an ice-cream parlor which lists tantalizing flavors in its window but once inside, you’ll notice there’s no product to scoop. It sounds like a ghost town but it’s populated by delightful old people and happy young families. My occupation is to walk the streets each day and enjoy life here.

The copywriter extraordinaire is off, doin’ nothin’.

Miraculous

by Carole Jardins, Guest Editor/cultural anthropologist/horticulturalist/photo journalist

Bathing Beauty

Bouquet of Beauteous Garden Words

chez carole jardins

by be.aaron, copywriter extraordinaire and conceptual gardener

For those of you who, like me, imagine the joy of working in the garden but prefer to loll about in the a.c. of your hut instead…

dahlia

allee

pergola

gazebo

espalier

bougainvillea

rudbeckia

hollyhocks

wisteria