Sandy’s Upside: Finally some good news
Martha’s offices remain dark. All around the world, the sane breathe a sigh of relief.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Why, oh why, do you continue to subscribe to Martha’s missives given that you neither follow her advice nor drink the Kool-Aid she ladles out from the tasteful punchbowl in her lofty perch atop the domestic goddess pantheon?”
Thank you for asking.
In response to your question, I have to say I’m not sure. The most obvious answer is that Martha’s busybody newsletters, narcissistic epistles, endless TV shows and rat-ass crazy magazine provide easy fodder for a slattern such as myself. They, in effect, help me position myself as the anti-Martha and define my world, albeit in negative terms — no crafts, no fiddly recipes and most importantly, no fucking Halloween parties. As I may have mentioned, the woman makes my ass ache.
“What do you mean we don’t charge for email subscriptions!?”
Via wikipedia.
Perhaps it’s the illicit thrill of getting something for nothing from Martha’s mighty Omnimedia empire that keeps me from hitting the unsubscribe button. I neither buy the mag, nor shop at K-Mart, nor order online, and still I get her product delivered, as if by magic and for free, to my shabby little inbox on a fairly regular basis. I worked in marketing long enough to see that this represents a poor return on advertising investment, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy being a drag on the queen’s bottom line.
Both answers are plausible, but it may be that the real truth is a bit darker and more sinister. Mayhap, there’s an element of Stockholm Syndrome about my relationship with Mrs. Stewart. Certainly the specter of the jailhouse hangs over her empire, even now. Yes, I loathe her and despise her fun-destroying, make-work approach to doing everything from changing a roll of toilet paper to making a ham sandwich and decorating the inside of your junk drawer, but somehow it delights me that she still encourages me to participate, to buy her line of crap if you will. In the words of Cheap Trick, “(Hey Martha) I want you to want ME.”
I don’t know, I guess the main reason I stay on the mailing list is probably that the ratchet-jawed old so and so is just fun to mock. In any case, I’ll be sure to let you know when the lights come back on. Hopefully there’s still time to salvage Thanksgiving.
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Hey folks, in all seriousness, Hurricane Sandy has devastated many lives and communities here in New York, and though the lights are slowly coming back on, it will be a very long time before this city and its people are whole again. I guarantee that anything you can do — a donation, a prayer or a message of support — will be most appreciated.
The best music you’ve never heard #3
Support your local bar band
Some guys in Hamburg.
Courtesy Michael Ochs Archives / Getty Images
Back in the day, Mr. Slattern used to play rockabilly guitar in all manner of disreputable bars in and around the city, and I won’t lie, I spent many happy hours on bar stools in those same venues tossing back cocktails and bopping the blues with his various bands, combos and ensembles. Before he moved on to other instruments and styles, my better (and more musical) half played with lots of ridiculously talented folks, such as front man, novelist and Han Solo lookalike Steve Szilagyi, the lovely Edith Frost, New Orleans’ own Lenny Zenith, and Phil Hummer when he was backed by the Roadhouse Romeos. Though Steve has traded his guitar for a pen, the rest are still producing great music, and I cannot urge you strongly enough to investigate their websites and acquire their CDs.
Not convinced? Check out Phil Hummer. This video was shot in 1997 (not 77 as indicated) and features Mr. Slattern on guitar, which is why I chose it over more recent video of Phil and his current band, the White Falcons, though they are certainly churning out some mighty fine music down there in Nashville.
All these folks are worth listening to, as are thousands of musicians out gigging in your local bars, auditoriums and streets. There’s a world of live music just waiting to be discovered. Get out and give it a listen, why don’t ya’?
Happy Birthday, Mr. S!
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Hell in a hand basket (Halloween my way)
Holy Mother of God, is it Halloween again? Already? How I could have missed this given the flurry of Martha Stewart Halloween hints that clutter up my email this time of year is a mystery. Perhaps it’s because this is the first year the little Slattern has not been home for the holiday, and as such the first year I have not had to make or even think about costumes. Anyways…in recognition of this, my least favorite holiday, I give you…drum roll please…last year’s post. Don’t be disappointed. It was a corker.
Martha without her makeup. Told ya’.
I hate Halloween. The costume hysteria, the sugar meltdown, the sugar coma, the instant weight gain, the toilet paper in the trees, the stink of scorched pumpkin innards, and that’s before we even begin to deal with the children.
Then there’s the expectation that this, or something very like it, will somehow come into play. Yeah, sure. Imagine a bag of cold oatmeal in a thong and handcuffs for a preview of the appeal of that. Finally, factor in a bunch of cranked up kids and you’ve got a recipe for instant Armageddon, folks.
So how do I cope with it year after soul-destroying year? I think you know, but in case you don’t here’s my strategy. Do with it what you will.
October 27: Buy candy I think the kids will like, but which really is what I like: Snickers miniatures, Twizzlers, Heath bars, peanut butter cups, et al.
October 28: Emerge from sugar coma long enough to destroy the evidence and trash any remaining food items.
October 29: Replace consumed candy with items I do not like (Charlestown Chew, Laffy Taffy, pixie stix). Eat those anyway, because by now the sugar monkey on my back has become a gorilla and the beast must be fed.
October 30: Join Weight Watchers, Overeaters Anonymous or similar. Plan a gym visit. Begin green tea detox and abandon it three hours later.
October 31
4 pm: Run out to corner store in a panic to replace candy currently stored on my ass or passing through my digestive tract. Find only reject items, such as Good ‘N Plenty, Mary Janes, Red Hots. Buy anyway along with a large bottle of pink grapefruit juice.
5 pm: Dump all reject candy into a large bowl and set on front steps. Too shameful to hand out in person. Turn out all the lights. Retreat to the back of the house with the grapefruit juice and a large bottle of vodka and wait it out with a Real Housewives of New Jersey marathon. By the time the trick or treaters have finished their retaliatory toilet papering and egging for the crap candy, I’m too fat to clean it up and too drunk to care.
November 1: Back to Betty Ford.
Sports for Girls
C’mon ladies, grab a Lazy Boy and a brew. It’s fun!
I love sports generally, and Boston sports in particular. Not playing so much, but watching them live and on TV. Give me a handy pack, a bag of Lays and a tub of onion dip and I am good to go for an entire Sunday. Put me on the first base line a Fenway, and I’ll sit right there blissed out on peanuts and watery Coors, screaming at the umpires and participating in the wave for nine full innings. I’ve never actually been to Foxboro, but I have my dreams, most of which involve Wes Welker, the Real Housewives of South Boston and mocking chants of “Hey Rex, suck my toes.” I have been to the Boston Garden, but my memories of the occasions are, not surprisingly, a bit hazy. I’ll even listen to sports radio on a long drive, though Mr Slattern, whose brain is larger and somewhat more evolved than mine I’ll admit, prefers me to confine these binges to solo trips. Given the blue-ness of the air and my propensity for enraged commentary, especially when listening to that soppy fool Michael Kay, it is, I suppose understandable.
In any case, as I was saying, I am a fan, and as such am puzzled by the general lack of enthusiasm evidenced by a significant number of my gender. Why anyone in her right mind would watch Sleepless in Seattle at all, let alone instead of a playoff game, is a complete mystery to me. I can only conclude that the Estrogen Disinformation Network is winning the propaganda war, and this will not stand. There is way too much fun to be had on the Sunday sofa, so I’m taking it upon myself to drag my uninformed sisters to the party.
Why I like sports (and you should, too)
There’s drama.
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There’s comedy.
Courtesy Bump Shack.
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There is even the occasional miracle.
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You might just spot a Kardashian in the stands (if you go in for that kind of thing).
Khloe and Lammy via celebuzz.com
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You get your heroes and villains all in one place.
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Team jerseys finally come in figure flattering styles.
Available from the great guys at Surviving Grady. Click the photo to buy a shirt!
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Wearing a cap means you don’t have to wash your hair.
Courtesy leanna-ellis.blogspot.com
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Then of course there’s Tom Brady.
Photo Jim Rogash/Getty Images, via ABC News.
And for the single gals out there who think all the good ones are either taken, gay or hiding, let me offer up this little piece of advice. Get yourselves to a sports bar on a Sunday afternoon, order up a brew (not a diet coke or a glass of white wine) and wait for the party to start. Trust me on this one. You will not be lacking for attention.
What’ve you got to lose?
The best music you’ve (maybe) never heard #2
Support your local mandolin genius: Chris Thile
Now I know what you’re thinking: Mandolin GENIUS? C’mon, that’s really reaching. Piano genius, certainly. Guitar virtuoso, perhaps, but the lowly mandolin? Nah.
Well the folks at the MacArthur genius board of standards do not agree, and this year they awarded one of the much coveted, extremely elusive “genius grants” to Chris Thile, grown-up musical prodigy and collaborator to such middling talents as Yo Yo Ma, Béla Fleck and Dolly Parton. He plays classical music and bluegrass, and every genre in between with amazing skill. Still not convinced? Have a look at this, then.
Though not musical myself, I have it on good authority that what you just witnessed is completely freakin’ impossible, but there he is, sitting around the apartment in his yellow socks, picking a Bach prelude on his mandolin!
For those of you looking for more accessible musical offerings, give Maestro Thile’s bluegrass and acoustic music a try, under the band names Nickel Creek or the Punch Brothers. I’m also partial to the Goat Rodeo recordings, from which I’ll share the following, my favorite song from the record. And yes, that IS Yo Yo Ma playing the cello.
Want more obscure music recommendations? Try this.
Kitchen Slattern 