Let this be a warning

... said the magpie to the morning,

Don't let this fading summer pass you by.

I am blogging again. Thanks for reminding me, JK.

Update soon.

haute vie

As much as I enjoy fashion for art's sake, I simply cannot separate my enjoyment of the work from my enjoyment of the personalities that create it. This is why artists' bios are so important. This is why there are "Director's Notes" in performance programs. And THIS is a quote from Karl Lagerfeld:

In response to the question, "If you could do anything in your life over again, what would it be?" Karl says, "I don't want to do anything over again, ever again. I want only to do what I haven't done. There's no 'again.' There's only the future. I hate the past -- especially my own past."

Now, we can read that statement in the context of the fashion world, where a year is an eternity and from which the phrase "so last season" has been co-opted as a slangy pejorative, or we can read it in the context of the everyday world, where I like to live most days.

One has the ring of a young child bored with her new toy, or an adolescent angry with a troubled high school career.

The other has an exciting tone of adventure and discovery, tempered by the aggregate wisdom of years of mistakes made and lessons learned.

I like 'em both. 

New York City dreaming...

I am craving the hot Brooklyn sunshine in the summer.

I want to walk from the L to Penny Licks and get myself a vegan ice cream cone.

I want to take extra allergy medicine so I can shop at Beacon's Closet without getting a headache.

I want to chew gum with Leah Evans.

I want to sit in the sunlit kitchen of Michelle Williams and drink Rice Dream and chai.

I want to wander among the red brick buildings.

I want to wear dresses with cut-off tights underneath.

I want to meet again "Tony from Queens" and "Little Mika" and listen to their stories on the street.

I want to drink free Patron shots in a cool bar and talk to the hip kids.

I want to loiter on the subway platform and listen to the old ladies.

I want to be in Brooklyn.

We all said hallelujah!

We don't want answers anyway.

I've been busy, so you get Halloween pics in January. Great friends and a great band made this the best Halloween I've had since about age eight. Also, the best costume I've had since my aunt used to make them from pictures I drew.

I made eight million costumes for this Halloween, to match the amount of parties. Funnnn.

Inspired by my new favorite movie "Les Enfants du Paradis" (thanks, Ross), I was un clown. You can't see the hat in this photo. No matter. It makes another appearance later. The bottom of the big white smock hit high on my thigh. Black thigh-high socks. Teal Mary Jane heels. It was good for dancing. That's Aly in the Tinkerbell costume. Paired with Aaronvb's Peter Pan, my cute-o-meter was off the charts. I wish I had a picture of Zoe, Lauren, and this other girl, who were earth, wind, and fire, respectively. Oh man. Off the charts.

Halloween part deux featured Matt in a bread hat. In the bathroom at Asterisk, we made the hat out of real French bread from the market, twine, and sheer engineering. Other partygoers were taking bites off of his head all night. But Matt wasn't, because gluten makes him unhappy. Which makes this costume even funnier. And more awkward.

Here's my little clown hat, repurposed for Ross' sad harlequin-y get-up. I did his makeup. While that guy has no eyeliner tolerance, fortunately, he has lots of patience. You can't see them in this photo, but there are really long fake eyelashes on him, too.

My surrealist peacock costume was Nadia's favorite, as you can see. Three peacock feathers in a French twist, with giant flowers in the back from Catwings Couture. Thanks, Chelle. The royal blue sequin cardigan was borrowed from Aja. The fishnets were inspired by Rachelle. You could say this was a Cherry Blossom Cabaret dedication costume. The combat boots were the funny part. When I wear flat shoes, I feel like I'm walking uphill.

 

Keep your eyes on right. Keep your eyes on right ahead. Happy Halloween, boy, was it.

Ev'ry morning, ev'ry evening, ain't we got fun?

... not much money, oh but honey, ain't we got fun?

God, I love that tune.

I found this lovely tidbit in its Wikipedia article: Of the era in which the song was written, George Orwell writes, it was a time "when people had not yet settled down to a lifetime of unemployment mitigated by endless cups of tea."

What delightful humor! Or, what hollow rejoinder to the post-war economic devastation. Both the song and the comment. Either, I do love me some tea.

I've been thinking on this theme, this living without heed for the banality of everyday existence. Subsistence. Whatever. Paying bills, paying rent, paying for food and water and gasoline. Hating it and paying up anyway. Working for money because the supermarket doesn't accept love. There's another lyric that pops to mind here, Ted Leo's "if you can't afford a broken nose, how can you afford to fight?"

Maybe I've just been partying too hard and spending money I don't have, until just recently. I just got a check from my insurance company that's to cover speech therapy that followed my vocal surgery. It's not the full amount, but it's a fat portion. Thanks, HMSA. I thought I'd have to pony up totally on my own, so it's kind of a windfall. I plan to exploit the temporary financial freedom this check grants me by purchasing Thai takeout for dinner tonight. Wild abandon, that's my way.

Week updates:

The Cherry Blossom Cabaret always puts on a solid show for their bimonthly Speakeasy at Mercury Bar. This month's was a masquerade! Yay. I wore Diane von Furstenburg and cowboy boots. (Note: I'll blog about my weird and fabulous closet sometime soon. A bit embarrassingly, it no longer suits my income level. I built my collection during a richer time. So you could say I was dressed as me in 2004.) Catwings has been turning out these sweet hair candies that have proven damningly collectible. Check the gypsy hand and peacock feather combo! Sigh. What was that about spending money I don't have again?

Fortunately, there was a no-cover-before-10 "Pink Party" at the Loft on Sunday, where I noshed complimentary carrot sticks and mini cupcakes with Angie the Lesbian. Note how much I do love that gypsy hand accessory. It was a benefit for breast cancer awareness. Save the boobies. Also note our matching pink ribbon flair.

I took a few days off of the night scene to do work. What? Yes, work. So that I could afford to buy this beer at Anna Bananna's on Thursday, at the Eyes and Ears show. They're a Denver band that rocked my socks off.

OK, I lied. Ross bought me the beer. I'm destitute. I can't buy myself beer.

Nor can I usually buy myself lunch, but that worked out alright on Saturday afternoon. It was the Obama Bike Rally. Ara and Josh86 put it all together and made Kaka'ako Waterfront Park a democratic punk rock extravaganza. There was barbecuin' and Ross Jackson deejayin' and bands playin'... and the 5-0s trying to shut the event down because we didn't have a permit. Fortunately, they were all for Obama, or all for the BBQ chicken plates Ara made for them, and let us carry on. Which elicited this face from me. Woo.

Did I mention I'd had a job interview that morning at 7 AM? Good gravy, did my hair need a wash. I didn't even get a chance to nap before the Honolulu Theatre for Youth gala fundraiser at the Ko'olau Golf Club ballroom. It was another masquerade, and this time I was a peacock in blue cocktail-length Ralph Lauren. I arrived at the party with one lonely peacock feather in my French twist. Subtle, I thought. Classy. Somehow, though, I departed with seven. There were peacock feathers in all the centerpieces, you see, and there was much impish thievery that night. More feathers kept appearing atop my head, and I felt mysterious gentle forces prodding at my hair, to the sound of receding muffled giggles. Behold, I am a game.

And after that party, a quick drive back into downtown Honolulu for the thirtyninehotel 4 year anniversary fete. I'd pulled out most of the feathers by that time to avoid resembling a citizen of Whoville. The necklace in the picture is from dear Walter, my date for the HTY gala and favorite impulse-buyer. It's made of solid jasper stones and was up for bid at the gala's silent auction. I drunkenly suggested Walter purchase the necklace so we could cut it apart and play a game of marbles. We didn't have anything to cut it apart. Oh well. Thanks, Walter. I wore it to thirtyninehotel to great effect. BTW, I found out that night that it weighs about 15 lbs.

Last night was the Rocky Horror Picture Show at Bar35. I promoted the crap out of that event, hired actors from Manoa Valley Theatre, created decorations and party games, coerced Ross into running the sound. Thank you. Cyrina was my angel of strength and support. Eddie was my bartender of heart, and Kayla my cocktailer of spirit. Thank you, Mike and Ted, my attendees of experience, for calming me down the whole night.

I'll post pictures if anyone ever sends me any. I didn't have a camera. I never have a camera. It's better that way.

I love you.

You're like a rollercoaster

... it's the most unbelievable ride

I've been biking. Thanks, Ross, for fixing up a bike for me and teaching me to ride it and pestering me endlessly to do so and being really patient with my whining and ass-dragging.

How to ride bikes with Stephanie, as experienced by Ross:

1. Fix up a bike, because S won't do it herself.
2. Pester S for several days to ride it, because she won't ride it herself.
3. Take S to an empty parking lot in the middle of the night, because she won't ride in public in the daytime, and teach her to ride the thing, because she won't teach herself.
4. Pester S for another ride, because she won't suggest one herself. Include a food destination.
5. Re-inflate S's tires, adjust her brakes, and oil her chain for her, for guilting purposes, when pestering loses efficacy.
6. Guilt-pester S for another ride that includes a food destination, but this time do it when she's stressed out and hungry and in need of exercise because of her period. And make her go really, really far this time to maximize "I think I actually enjoy this" revelations.
7. Sit back and wait, because S now will finally have bicyconfidence.

Tonight's ride, Ross' mansion to Beretania Street to Thai garage (Bangkok Chef), was a beautiful journey at about 7:30 PM. Light traffic, light breeze, moderate pace. Clear sky. I'm getting the hang of finding the appropriate gear. It's not as difficult as driving a standard-transmission car, so that's good. I hit the McCully bridge hard. Yesss. When we got to the food place, I was warm and kind of sweaty, but not winded and I could hold a conversation the whole ride. I'm not in as bad shape as I feared. Whew. Thanks, dance class (The Dance Space). King Street to make it back to Ross' place, where my bike lives. Another beautiful ride, made it over the McCully bridge again even with a belly full of curry and bamboo shoots and rice, but I wussed out on the Metcalf hill and had to walk it over the ultra steep part. One day... one day soon...

I've also been beach-ing. Thank you, Ryan Miyash, for dragging my sorry butt to Waimea Bay and for buying me Matsumoto shave ice and playing awesome car tunes.

Ryan Miyash has a wonderful resolution: GO TO THE BEACH ONCE A WEEK MINIMUM. I think I'd better adopt that. It's a dedicated time to relax -- one simply can't stay all the way stressed out at the beach in Hawai'i, it's just not possible -- and it's a time to appreciate the splendor of living in tropical paradise. Sure, I live here and it's hard work to make it and that's why I can't enjoy Hawai'i as much as the visitors do, but I can make an effort to get out and revel in the beauty a lot more than I have been.

Life's a beach. No, really. There are loudmouth uglies in too-small beachwear, there are cigarette butts, there are jellyfish. But, there is warm sun, clear blue sky, crystal water and weightless oblivion.

Life is also a bike ride. There are ups, there are downs, there are potholes, there are assholes. But there are also cool nights with the city sparkling around you, and you are singing into the wind at 30 miles an hour.

More.

Easiest Miso Soup Ever

There's a recession. A worldwide economic crisis, even. Yesterday, the Dow sagged below 10,000 and is down another 500 points today. I have both credit card debt and what used to be a large investment portfolio. I work in two industries, education and the arts. I have no full-time job; I teach and write grants for a living. Financially and professionally, this is not a good time.

And so, I'm feeling poor. And feeling poor makes me hungry. And feeling hungry and poor makes me feel pathetic. When I'm feeling poor-hungry-pathetic, I think of soup. This is appropriate for three reasons:

1. Soup is cheap.
2. Soup is satisfying.
3. Soup is comforting.

This means that soup, being cheap-satisfying-comforting, is the functional opposite of poor-hungry-pathetic. And that's a damn good reason for me to think of, and subsequently make, soup.

My favorite soups are the easy soups, and this miso soup version absolutely wins the Lazy Chef award for Simple and Somehow Still Amazing. My grandmother taught me a much more involved version of this soup; I will note these additions in italics.

Fifth-Generation Japanese Lazy College Student Turned Starving Artist-Educator in Worldwide Economic Crisis Miso Soup

• Make 8 cups water nice and hot, but not quite boiling.
• Dump in 1 packet dashi-no-moto.
• Dump in 1/4 cup miso paste, doesn't matter if it's red or white or yellow or whatever. Just use the one you have on hand. Add more to taste. I usually throw in an extra tablespoon or so, 'cause I like it kinda strong.
• Slice up some white or yellow onion thin as tissue and throw in half a handful.
• Slice up some green onion and throw in half a handful.
• Peel daikon and slice thin. Cut into bite-size pieces. Dump in.
• Cube a whole brick of tofu and dump it all in. I like the soft kind, but I have to add it close to the end of the cooking process and remember not to stir too much or I end up with soft tofu confetti all up in my otherwise lovely soup.
• Boil several araimo (AKA dasheen) for 5 - 10 min. Skins should then peel off easily. Add them to the pot near the end of the cooking process, so they don't dissolve. 
• Turn the heat down so there isn't any violent bubbling. Gently crack 4 eggs into the soup, laying them in so they stay mostly intact.
• When the daikon is translucent and the eggs are cooked through the way you like them, your soup is done.
• Garnish with more green onion and some sliced kamaboko too, if that's your thing.

I keep sliced white/yellow onion and sometimes sliced kamaboko in little Ziploc baggies in my fridge. I keep sliced green onion in the freezer. I use them for throwing into saimin and somen salad, but they make miso soup prep almost unnecessary.

Some additions to try: 

• fresh garlic, crushed and minced
  
• freshly cracked black pepper
• cubed carrots
• cooked rice, after serving

Grandma's version of this soup is much more ambitious, but it truly makes the soup a meal. I remember requesting this (and only this) for one of the birthday dinners my family threw for me. At the time, I was living in the dorm at UH Manoa, going to college full-time, working two jobs, and rehearsing at the theatre every night. I was starving for food that tasted of the slow comfort of Grandma's house in my childhood. This soup is totally that.

Recession be damned. I'm thrifty-satisfied-comforted.