R.I.P. I wonder sometimes why on earth I would ever read Nancy Mitford, or why I should even be willingly aware of rich people. This is why- every once in a while one of them makes use of herself for the better.
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I didn’t grow up eating it, but King Ranch Casserole (named for, but not orginated by, the manifest destiny/occupied South Texas dream, King Ranch) became a key part of my existence when I moved back to Texas. I make it for brunch on the weekends (it is, as many point out very similar to chilaquiles, thus a stepsister of migas), as a special occasion supper (after you’ve reached a position of comfort with the person; it is a casserole and everyone eats a lot of it), or when out of town as a par examplar guilty Texas meal. In Austin, Anne Simmons and I often had the Friday night King Ranch special ( a variation on the recipe with a chipotle cream sauce) at Threadgill’s, once even bringing dates by and challenging them to an informal King Ranch eating contest (We won, obvs.)
Not being above eating/making things with two cans of soup as main ingredients, I’ve made the standby recipe so far with no complaints. (My mother has offered a low fat recipe, to which I not-so-politely refused. Matt Martinez worked up a beef version that’s a little more scratchy) I’ve also threatened to make it for vegetarians with some sort of chicken substitute. But being of the mind that there’s many worse things to do than make a nice sauce, I’d been itching to take the cans (tomatoes don’t count) out of the recipe. The original recipe calls for boiling a whole chicken and picking the meat off the carcass, a time-consuming, unrewarding step if there ever was one. So use supermarket boneless/skinless instead, poach them, and you come out ahead.
Sure I think writing about food on a blog is bourgy and boring, but I saw an information need in that there were no recipes for “King Ranch no soup” that I could find on the net, and that this turned out well. It’s not like I put up a picture, either. You all know what a casserole looks like.
Does anyone else think that RP was copping an unmistakable Ross McElwhee tone last night on America at the Biggest Fucking Mess? And that his hopeful/doddering/bemused narration was uniquely scary (because I can’t say it was comparatively scary- because compared to everything else: on the sly prisons, all out civil war, etc- his talking wasn’t all that scary) ?
I am in Dallas; I have been here less than 24 hours and already talked to extended family members on the phone about thunderstorms and likely power outages, watched Cheaters and Blind Date (a program which I realize now contains no cues as to the cultural time and temperature- it could be 1996 or 2001 or last week, Roger Lodge looks the same, hot tubs look the same, no diff. ) and made snacks.
But my favorite thing about visiting my parents is catching up on St. Anthony Messenger, Texas Catholic, and the White Rocker (actual East Dallas newspaper- they do not have a web site). SAM and TC both feature CATHOLIC MOVIE REVIEWS, which are a specific genre of film review in which you learn if the movie is entertaining, if it’s socially responsible or immoral, and if the heathenism in it is so bad that you shouldn’t see it. They also itemize the offenses, so you get a terse little roundup. So here:
VENUS (O, R): Peter O’Toole was nominated for an Oscar for his portrayal of an aging actor and a dirty old man with unrequited lust for the great-niece of a friend. Uneven and sometimes disgusting tale with moments of brilliance; crude, problem sexuality and language.
That one was written by an actual nun.
Texas Catholic has an archive of them.
The guy they brought into do the library web site focus groups was this bearded middle-ager with an east Texas accent, a guatemalan shirt and Clarks, who spoke in this stoned dad/child therapist voice and made these real sly affirmative remarks, “that’s a very good point”, “well, you know, social animals all laugh”. I play this scene in my head where the two of us like, go to Cici’s Pizza, and he’s like “Hmm, this 3.99 buffet is both tasty and a real value”. And of course, there was this article in the NYT Home section , which Brittany pointed out how awesome this dude Albert Podell’s apartment sounds. I forget how much I actually like dudes sometimes!
The real fallacy of the apartment article wasn’t just that they missed the fact that Albert Podell is living the dream, but that they mention a hetero dude who fell in love with a girl because of her le creuset and antiques. YEAH RIGHT! I spend several hours a week looking at vintage enameled cast iron pieces on Ebay, and so I can say with authority that no dude is gonna love you for your $200 dutch oven. No dude is gonna love you (and by this, I mean, like Akon, “I wanna love you”) for your Kitchen Aid Mixer, either. (They will just get real pissy when you make them help you move, because that shit is heavy. And you in turn will get upset when they use your cookware to make mac n’ cheese and then use a too-abrasive scrubber to clean it.) Watching the food network and spending yourself into a hole buying fancy hausfrau shit (although enjoyable for its indulgence and the simple beauty of well-crafted objects) is behavior so repellent it makes being a cat lady look charming. If you do find yourself with a man who coos over your bourgeois domestic overspending, prepare for a life of no sex.
I mean, I think a lot about gender and how people adapt it to play their societal roles. But what does it mean when I sincerely wish to become a male senior citizen several times a day?
Y’all know that I have a troublesome yet passionate relationship with the NYer Style issue- as evidenced in my long contemplation of the DVF woman article from last year, and the way that the Prada profile changed my life! Last week’s spring Style ish did not disappoint! Or rather it did, in a resounding way. Profile of Lagerfeld: awesome.
(Picture of KL doing a spider dance in his crazy apartment: mindblowing!)
But then you have Dana Goodyear, the literary Sofia Coppola, hot off the heels of that bratty shit with the Poetry Foundation, profiling the guy from Decades, thus unwelcomely ripping open the world of high end vintage. “I found twenty trunks of Chanel in a musty attic! ha ha!” And then even though the innerworkings of Houston now make me sick, I always enjoy any magazine article that quotes, mentions, or alludes to Becca Cason Thrash, the only Houston socialite I’d give the time of day to- fucking hot at over 50 without looking like a space alien, quoted as saying “If I had to live in a trailer, it’d be the cutest, chicest trailer you ever saw!” Sure, she’s a Republican, but not nearly the unapologetic mastermind that Lynn Wyatt is, not to mention the fact that LW’s son was that guy they caught sucking Fergie’s toes that one time- how sick! But anyway, who cares? The Decades guy’s life sounds envious and awful at the same time.
Then there’s yet another Texas-joint in the issue, Patricia Marx’s tee-hee-Texas-is-so-gauche special edition of Critical Shopper. Who is this lady, and how do I get her job? Cause seriously, even though she hit the nail on the head with high end roadie cups (no explanatory link here, but let me say briefly that it’s not just a Texas rap thing- rich white people in Texas are for real obsessed with having trademark styrofoam cups, for either diet DP or for booze) hegemonic reviews of fashion are pointless, and it’s stupid to talk about how there are like, maaaybe 2,000 ladies in Dallas and Houston who can afford to shop at Neiman’s, and then not point out that the like 6 million who can’t manage to look almost as insane. My sister and I like to talk about the “Texas Bitch”, and that spirit transcends all race and class lines. She could have stopped at Sharpstown or Redbird Malls, EASY. Cause it’s also not like it’s only creepy blonde ladies shopping at Neiman’s. A large part of what makes the Houston Galleria so great it that it’s shopping disneyland for richy latin american nationals, duh.
All this the week that Ray Nasher dies. Did you know that I’ve been to the Nasher residence and ridden in Mrs. Nasher’s caddy? Freakish turn of events, and I still turned out this way.
When I can’t sleep, I’ll navigate cities where I used to live in my head, reassuring myself that like the shitty side streets I’ve lived on still exist. Morning and afternoon rush hours, you will find me barrelling through the Third Ward either on my bike, whilst unashamedly listening to Discharge (this is the only thrill of being an old lady), in my boyfriend’s car, groaning at the Writer’s Almanac, or on the Houston Metropolitan Bus, evesdropping. I’m not saying I have a reciprocal relationship with the neighborhood, but I would at least call it familiar.
On Saturday I was riding my bike to work while the Get Your Money Right Summit was about to happen at TSU. Of course I lost all sense of decorum and wove recklessly through light traffic, gawking and hoping to get a glimpse at Ciara. A lady chastised me from her car, “You can’t ride like that around here. It’s dangerous.” Thus leaving me to vacillate between acting snotty at someone telling me to practice bike safety, or to get meek for being reprimanded for being a stupid white person. Why is are bicycles the ultimate stupid white person accessory? See Gentrifying Asshole Dude in Do the Right Thing for a good example.
On PBS this week, Third Ward, TX, a documentary by the UT film professor who’s also at the head of East Austin Stories. It was mostly Project Row Houses with a little of the Flower Man thrown in, to make the argument of still-standing poverty as outsider art. No acknowledgement that poverty is no joke, no mention of the fact that the neighborhood rotted for decades sitting in the shadows of a self-described “major research university”, whose inventive use of eminent domain continually displaced residents and kept the neighborhood isolated. That the white filmmaker was from Austin gave him a pass from the implications of being a white person in Houston. (Moreso, the cameo from a condo developer probably delivered the point that so few in Houston who have the economic wherewithal would make such a documentary.)
Also seen this week: Frontline (same boring News-as- News series), Shadya, a borderline weepy about an Israeli Arab girl karate champion, Heading South (sex as colonialism), and despite better judgment, a half dozen episodes of Big Love on on-demand. Chloe and M-K Place as mother and daughter crack me up, even though Chloe’s making a point of not even pretending to act; Jeanne Tripplehorn’s ridic sensuality is evident as ever, while the entire thing, I promise, appalls me.
For some reason, I subscribe to Daily Candy Dallas, whch offers the specious promise of Carrie Bradshaw consumerism/quips for the Dallas set. I know there must be a prevailing culture of Dallas ladies with delusions, expensive jeans, and social lives, but I can only think of the trashy girls I went to school with, who all have babies now, and the bourgie ones, who live in Brooklyn.
Seattle was the same, familiarly alienating, half feeling relieved to not be in Houston, half feeling like a throwaway teenager. The house where I stayed was classic NW college style, with a perpetually dirty french press, futons, multiple copies of The Ethical Slut. The academic stuff went suprisingly well, aside from hobbling around in unfortunate croc ferragamo pumps and walking around in circles. Corny pickups were attempted at college bars, and the birth of the best stranger-chat line, “What’s your favorite lesbian occupation?” (correct answers include: Karate teacher, Cowgirl, Coast Guard Operator)
We saw The Emperor’s Naked Army Marches on at the Grand Illusion, everyone else in the theater was solo and middle-aged, true to NW winter movie watching suit. Dude in the movie, accompanied by his loyal and accepting wife, is engaged in a self perpetuating streak of trying to shame everyone else for their gruesome acts in WWII. It showcased Japanese old-person accommodation, because even as he goes around accusing others and assaulting them, he’s greeted with apologies for poor in-home welcomes. The next day I got to hear the news about people I used to know- who’s ruining their lives now, who is in jail for ecoterrorism, who’s settling normal. I’m scared of regression as well as being in the midst of people I used to be like and having no frame of reference.
In a bit of unbeforeseen NW tourism, we rode the ferry to Bainbridge Island (the toll operator thought I was 12) and hit up the Bloedel Reserve, half ungodly beautiful greenery, half western new-money self-perpetuation. I kept telling N to stop “harshing my mellow”.
If you find this blog in a google search for “Tristan Wilds Myspace” (that’s Michael from the Wire, fogies), please accept my direction to this Wire myspace clearinghouse. Here you will find not only Tristan’s profile, but Felicia Pearson (Snoop)‘ s profile, Nathan Corbett (Donut)’s profile (he’s set to private, but he added me as a friend!), et al. My favorite, (the ruling facors being “personality”, “content”, and “realness”) is Tyrell Baker (Little Kevin). He kinda cheats with this picture of him (“Pimpin’ Pink” isn’t even something I can say out loud in mixed company) and his Granny.
My former classmate Norah Jones was on 60 Minutes last week, and Katie Couric asked her, “Do you identify as Indian?” NJ was like, “Urr, I grew up in Dallas…”
One of the reasons why punk has always been so defeatingly other to me is that it is so much easier, as a girl, as someone from a part of America with such an undefined narrative, to read my life into celebrity culture. As I was heading out of adolescence, all these girls, who were my age, who were from surburban Dallas or Houston or Louisiana, were becoming celebrities- I knew where they were from, I knew people who went to school with them, they were like the girls I went to school with.
Even with irregular TV watching and a fair amount of indifference, I’ve watched these girls grow up, get married, screw up, and forge, these adult lives that are from the outside, not completely different than those that girls I know are living. Watching them is like watching Freeway 2- this crazy world sucks.
If you were a kid in the 80s, and the grownups you knew had messy lives, expressions like “one day at a time”, and “keep it simple, stupid” leaked into your lexicon, clueing your piano teachers and friends’ parents as to how screwed up your family life was. But as a result, AA/NA rhetoric is really comforting to hear sometimes.
We are doing EVERYTHING in our power to get help for Britney and all in our power to NOT pad the bottom or move the bottom, so when she does indeed hit rock bottom, she’ll stand up and walk away from this whole fiasco a new, confident, changed, career driven Britney like we all knew and loved.
There’s just so much you can do to help a person—I don’t dare want to be an enabler, and I cannot love her enough for the both of us. I cannot convince her in ANY way to love herself. All I can do is be a friend, someone that loved her for MANY years unconditionally, and PRAY. That, I have decided is the most and best I can do for my friend. I cannot save her from herself, nor can I commit her to any type of treatment program against her wishes and will. I am throwing my hands up and realizing that I am helpless over another—ANYONE!
Speaking of Freeway 2, I had a dream last night that I was hanging out with Natasha Lyonne, who had just gotten out of rehab and was bitching about being in with Laura Linney, thus making a couple of funny tales of the city jokes.
See ya on the other side!
