Morgan, Hemingway, and Me

The Morgan Library stands in midtown in NYC, a few blocks from Penn Station, which makes it one of the easiest museums to visit. Why I've never been there before remains a mystery wrapped in stupidity tinged with laziness. Hemingway's A Moveable Feast had me mesmerized as much as McLain's The Paris Wife had, only this time, it was Hemingway's own voice, and it was non-fiction. Then I came across the current exhibit at the Morgan Library -- Ernest Hemingway: Between Two Wars.

Serendipitous! I had to go! Of course, I found out about it two days before it was to close. I was free on a Friday. The Morgan has free admission on Friday nights from 7 to 9. Serendipitous again! I love free! I love libraries! I love Hemingway!

The Morgan Library's midtown location means a lovely evening walk to Madison. In my head, I repeated 1, 2, 3, Little Piggies Make 5 to make sure I knew how many more blocks to go.

Sidenote: 1st, 2nd, 3rd, Lexington, Park, Madison, 5th. Mind blown? I thought so.

No stranger to overheating after a brisk walk in a winter coat, I arrived at the Morgan quite warm. The winter evening was not a typical NYC winter evening. The temperature sat around a balmy 39 at sunset. Inside the museum, you have to check your coat or wear it. I opted to check it because the building generated its own balminess at what felt like a mild 807. I stripped off my scarf, gloves, and coat and stood on line to wait. Then a museum official person came over to me and two people behind me to take us up the stairs and around a corner to a second coat check. So there's your tip of the day--go to the second coat check.

Fancy room across from the second coat check

Of course, once I found the exhibit, there were people walking around holding their coats. The coat check is free. Follow the instructions! Some were following instructions, wearing their coats. These people also generated a quite unpleasant stench. Again, the thermometer read, I'm estimating, 807, so they dealt with that while wearing winter coats.

I found myself sweating at first, too, because, well, I'm prone to sweating, but also because my feet were all cozy in new winter boots that are probably the warmest boots I've ever owned.

Flashback to like two weeks ago, I'm meeting S in the city to see Sisters (incredibly funny movie!). As I'm walking to the theatre, I hear behind me some guy say, Eskimo boots! Eskimo boots! He didn't so much say it as exclaim it. I looked around. Then I looked down. Oh. I was Eskimo Boots. It was the first time I was wearing them, so it was the first time I noticed how brightly white they were. The woman he was with agreed with him: Eskimo boots! Yes, Eskimo boots! Sometimes I acknowledge this kind of thing. This time, I did not because they weren't actually talking to me. They were talking to each other, and then they were off ahead of me, crossing against the light, and then hollering things about other people they clearly did not know. Anyway, I suppose what also made them Eskimo boots that our lovely couple could not know was that they were really super warm, and I'd arrived at the theatre practically doing a strip tease.

So while oohing and ahhing at the first set of journals and letters of Hemingway and his friends, I focused on not passing out. Lots of crowding and bunching happened at first, but then people found their own groove of looking and reading, so it thinned out, and finally cooled down.

We were not allowed to take pictures. I took pictures. I did not get caught taking pictures. I'm guessing two reasons we could not take pictures. Either everything was copyrighted or they wanted everyone to buy the $35 book from the museum shop. Thank you no thank you. I'll take my on the sly blurry pics any day over that. I also spent much time scribbling down interesting tidbits from the letters, the pictures, and the explanations. Because I'm not an asshole, I'm not going to post pics from inside the exhibit here. In fact, I feel so bad about it that I'm deleting them right now. (No, I'm not).

I had about fifteen minutes left after seeing the exhibit before the museum closed, so I went to see some of the permanent rooms. The rotunda, the study, and the huge rooms of books are pretty and awesome and pretty awesome.

Gutenberg Bible

Phyllis Wheatley, the first published African-American poet

I checked out the museum store to see what Hemingway books they had. They seemed to have them all plus the aforementioned exhibit book of extraordinary cost. They also had this:

Because Hemingway lived in Paris and he drank a lot

Then it was time to go.  I allowed myself one corny moment on my way out.

The next time I go to the Morgan Library, Andy Warhol will be there. Can't friggin wait!

Whodunit? Don't Ask Me

No sign is complete without Eddie's raccoon stick (look to the left)

The year is 1922.  At the height of prohibition in Chicago, a mob war was brewing between the South Side Gangsters and the Northern Mob Outfit.  The two factions are planning to meet up at The Grand Gatsby Speakeasy to discuss the future of underground casinos...but not everyone may make it out alive. So don't be a pikah.  Stay outta the clink, get all dolled up, and come out for a night that's sure to be the cat's meow.

And so began the great murder mystery dinner party that S had gifted to me at least five years ago.  After years in the making, my house transformed into a speakeasy owned by Hal Sapone aka Eddie, called The Grand Gatsby (no, not The Great Gatsby.  That's Fitzgerald's speakeasy).

What speakeasy is complete without a little decoration?

The premise of the night was that everyone would be assigned a character, everyone would received a name tag, some notepaper for crime solving, and instructions and hints for the night to interact with each other.  Each course of food (cocktails and apps, main course, and dessert) came with not only these clues but also games.  These games were to be graded, and so I found myself grading.  Even at parties, I'm grading.

Everything everyone needs to solve a mystery. 

Main course

Dessert

Grading

"Fruit"

More grading

Gatsby and casino

Quizzing

The house filled with chatter and laughing and shrieks (and smoke -- we aired that out quick) and then the lights flickered and someone wound up dead.  Then we all figured out which way was north and had to diagram the murder scene.  Actually, this did not happen.  At first, I didn't even know why everyone kept asking which way was north because I was so busy grading and fanning out the smoke, that I was behind in my game play, which is also why whenever anyone said any clues to me, I responded with an "Okay!" and then went back to them ten minutes later with the actual response I was supposed to give.  The papers for the accusations had a spot to diagram the crime scene, but no one really did that.  Everyone did guess, though, and then we had to reveal whatever our final round clues stated.

Turns out, I knew nothing.  There were some fun twists.  I found out the next day that there was some more murdering that was supposed to happen but someone doesn't read instructions (meaning Eddie) so the final murdery stuff didn't happen.  That was fine.  We'd had enough mystery for one night. Who won?  S and S! Who lost? Everyone else. 

Revelations from a right-hand man

Clearly innocent faces

Crime boss and some other guy's dame

The singer and the baseball player/jazz musician who are also great cooks

Our grandmother is so proud.

Mess with them

Again, makin our family proud

Some final findings

The next day, my house looked like a horde of strippers had rolled around in it.  Glitter, spangles, fringe, and sequins  were everywhere.  I kept up the signs until I'd scooped up the last of the sparkly stuff and then returned to modern-day everyday living.  Except for the sign outside on the house.  That stayed up for at least a week.  I'd cut out the letters freehand and was dang proud; plus, a speakeasy ain't such a bad idea.

A History Of The Mud Flap Girl, or What Kitsch Means To Me

Kitschy means something that is retro-cultish-trinket-like. According to a simple Bing search, it's low-brow art that appeals to the masses. I like my definition better, but I have no qualms with being called low-brow. It's also a German derivative, and so am I, so it works. I love many things kitsch.

My jewelry style is mostly kitsch. I have a necklace that has an oval two-sided piece; one side has a drawing of a girl's head with a crown and says Fun Queen, and the other side says, Drinking and laughing...that was all they did. A different necklace is a silver version of a 45 adapter. You know, those yellow plastic thingies that you use to play a 45 on a record player when you don't have the large circle plastic thingie to put on the player. Usually, people ask me if I'm old enough to know what it is. If I didn't know what it was, why would I be wearing it? Still, it's nice to be mistaken for young. One of my prized possessions is a pin-up girl ring that I got in Hawaii. I wanted to buy the whole box of them, but I bought just the one.

My other prized piece of kitsch is my mudflap girl necklace. It looks like this:

Most times I wear it, I get a reaction. I like the necklace more than I like the reaction, but I don't mind the reaction. Obviously, if you wear something like that, you're going to get one. It's a conversation starter. I wore it to a bridal shower once, and one of the girls leaned over during the meal and said, I love your necklace!, and then all the other girls at the table were like, I was thinking the same thing! So it gets me into conversation in places where I'm socially awkward.

Sometimes women think it's a girl in a yoga pose. These are women who know I do yoga, so they just assume that's what's going on. I guess she could be doing yoga if she were in a studio that had one of those large fans they use in music videos to blow her hair back. 

Once, during my stupid single life, I was going out with friends to meet up with some guy who had asked me to visit while he was guest bartending.  I suppose this was his way of having a pre-date.  Or his way of having a date without having to pay, and in fact, having me pay him in tips.  Oh, and his parents were there.  Which I found out when I walked in with my group of friends and he said, my parents are at the other end of the bar.  If my memory serves correctly, they were here from Canada.  Why do I remember these things?

Anyway, we were all hanging out with him occasionally coming over to talk to us.  He indicated my necklace and was like, Who's she?  I was like, she's a mudflap girl--she's kind of iconic.  He'd never heard of one.  Maybe that's because he was Canadian.  Holy Shit.  If his parents were from Canada, he probably was Canadian.  I have nothing against Canadians; I just never realized I knew one.

Anyway again, he said I should ask other people to see if it's really something people would know.  All of my friends, of course, immediately said, Yes that's a mudflap girl. Sure, everyone knows that.  Then he nudged the guy sitting next to me and asked him.  I turned so he could see it, and then he answered loud enough for the entire Nautical Mile of bars to hear, That there is a sign of white trash!

Canada's face dropped and turned red.  I laughed hysterically and then mocked that I was offended.  The guy who said it was a sign of white trash seemed to be missing teeth.

Yes, that's irony.  English Professor Moment.  Take it in.

Canada then skittered down to talk to his parents and then came back and apologized.  I really wasn't offended.  Because she's kitschy.  Which means low-brow.  Which means me.

And that was the last time I saw that guy anyway.  Because he was a loser.

I guess that since kitschy isn't for everyone, not everyone knows what a mudflap girl is.  Well, she's called a mudflap girl because she appears on the mudflaps of big-rig trucks.  It started as a trucker thing, but then expanded to be one of those iconic kitchsy ideas that showed up on t-shirts, hats, and other things you can buy for five bucks at a souvenir store.

I recently wore my mudflap girl to work.  I’ve worn it to work a few times since I’ve owned it.  It’s not something I wear a lot because I don’t want to be that woman who wears the girl around her neck.  It can easily become a negative, so I know to pick and choose my moments.  

I was sitting in a meeting in a cramped up room, listening to people talk about books and writing and testing.  Then from next to me, I heard a short gasp.  It’s not the first time I’ve heard that gasp. I knew my colleague had noticed my necklace. 

So while this testing discussion is going on, he leaned over and whispered, I love that necklace! 

I answered in a hush, thank you! So do I!

Then he stage-whispered, Are you gay?

I hush-answered, No.

He responded that it would be a great necklace for a gay woman, so I said, Yes, it definitely would.
Then we went back to listening to the discussion about the testing.

When I arrived at my Creative Writing class a few hours later, they were all on their phones ignoring each other.  They rarely do that.  Usually, they are talking to each other about their day, their other classes, an assignment, something going on in their lives.  So I said, guys, put your phones down and interact.  They put their phones down but did not interact.  Figuring it was a slow day for coming up with something to say, I sat down and said, So today someone asked me if I was gay.  There were eight of them in the room, and all eight burst out laughing, two of them practically in tears.  They were all shouting things at once: Who? How? Don’t they know you have a husband?

Apparently not.  I gave them one guess.  One guy finally realized, Oh it’s your necklace.  I asked them, do you know who she is?  

This class never gets any of my references.  They have not seen any movie I’ve mentioned.  They don’t know any television shows.  They don’t know songs.  They don’t know books.  They don’t know current events.  They don’t know history.  They don’t know recent history.  I’m not saying they aren’t intelligent or talented or well-rounded.  I’m just saying they run their lives in bubbles different from mine.  So this question was a shot in the dark.  They answered with a kind of, well, I think I might have seen it before but I don’t really know…. And this answer is better than the normal, No I’ve never heard of it.

I began to explain by telling them that I like kitsch.  

“What’s that?”

And so the definition unraveled.  One girl suggested that kitsch is like tchotchke, and that was not helpful considering the rest of them were not up on their Yiddish.

So I called it retro-cultish-iconic.  That?  They understood.  They liked my mudflap girl.  And so do I.  It’s the best little piece of kitsch I have.

Quick Fall From Fashion Grace

Today, I wore this to work.

No one raved about my skirt.  No one really said anything about anything I was wearing.  No one said they liked my hair.  No one said they liked my earrings. No one really acknowledged me as a person aside from the students who looked at me as I taught them, and even then, I was more The Professor than a human being.  A rather huge difference from yesterday's ego high.  Yup, totally peaked too soon.

Fashion Peaked Too Soon

Today, I wore this outfit to work.  Look at me, lookin all professional on the first day of the semester.

I've always loved this skirt. A friend of mine gave it to me a few years ago, but I've never worn it because it didn't fit right. I finally took it to a seamstress to get it fitted.  It went back in my closet, forgotten for two more years, until today. 

I walked into my building and BAM, someone loved my skirt.  Then I walked down the hall and OOH, someone loved my skirt.  Then I was in my office with the door wide open, and a woman knocked and asked me to call maintence because someone had "gotten sick" in the bathroom and there was "danger of slipping because it's all over the floor." Oh, and then, "ooh, what a pretty skirt."  Someone said it was so pretty and then asked if I made it.  Hahahhaha!  Well, someone made it, but not me.  Even one of my students who had not yet met me said, Hey I like that skirt. 

It was a good day for the ego.

Now I kind of wanna wear the skirt, like, all the time.  I don't mean frequently, once a week.  I mean pretty much every day.  The reaction was just overload goodness. 

However, looking ahead, I could see it quickly going from "what a great skirt" to "what a raggedy skirt."  It's got a lot of square sequins on it, and they tend to fall off, so it could go downhill pretty quickly.  I have a baggie of extras that came with the skirt, but a baggie of seamstresses did not come with it, and I don't see myself jumping into the sewing realm beginning with sequins.

Also?  I'd quickly go from "the woman with the fantastic skirt" to "the weird woman who always wears the same skirt."  No one wants that.  Whenever the week starts, I think back to the last week and figure out what I wore on what days so I don't repeat my outfits with my different classes.  Students can be brutal, so I do my best to avoid giving them ammo.  Wearing the skirt every day would give them sufficient ammo for the next decade of professor gossip lore.

The decision to wear this skirt is turning into the worst decision ever, which we all should have seen coming since we all know I make bad decisions.  You see, as much as I'd like to think of myself as a professional woman with a professional wardrobe who wears outfits like these all the time, I'm too lazy to be that person.  Plus, when the Fall really sets in, this gal ain't wearing a skirt.  Once the cold weather hits, fashion is not an option.  Walking across the wide open campus in the rain, snow, or even freezing wind calls for cords and snow boots and anything else that's warm.  I am not sewing square sequins onto my longjohns and thermals.  It's just not going to happen.

So in two weeks when I'm in jeans and sneakers, I'll just hold up this picture in class and and remind them, See?  I used to look like a real professional person.  Which is kind of like saying, See?  See what you do to me and my desire to impress you people?  And I suppose that's kind of what it's all about--making a good first impression to demand respect.  And after that, eh, if I look like a student, I look like a student.  I don't mind blending in if it means I get to pretend I'm 22.

Plastic Is The New Black

Eddie got tickets to a Jets game from a season ticket holder, which meant a fun night of free for a preseason game.  Are we Jets fans?  No.  Are we fans of free?  Ummm, what kind of question is that?

We got there about fifteen minutes before kickoff.  That was enough time to walk from the car to the stadium through the maze of tailgaters.  When we got to the entrance, I was told I couldn't enter because my bag was too big.  The guy pointed to a small pink square painted on the table the size of a box of playing cards and said, You can't have a bag bigger than that.  He directed me towards a mobile plastic bag trailer to get a plastic bag to transfer all my stuff into.

Eddie and I walked up to the lady with the bags and she gave us two because it looked like I had a lot of stuff.  I didn't have a lot of stuff.  I had my hoodie crammed into the top of my bag.  All of my stuff could have fit into one plastic bag, let alone two, but we walked back to the car so I was guaranteed to not have any issues.  She'd suggested we go back and put my bag in there anyway.   She also told us that if we go to any stadium for any game in any state, they all had the same rules.  It's an NFL thing. 

It's all the rage.

We were getting a workout.  I also wound up using the porter pottie near our parking space because I'd been planning to go once we got into the stadium.  Thankfully, it was the cleanest porter pottie I'd ever seen. 

Once more, back across the parking lot, the team intros had already begun and play was underway.  We would have made exact timing had it not been for the bag incident.  The bag security waved me through with a look of, yes I know you have a plastic bag now.  Then we were wanded, both of us.  Girls never get wanded, but now they do. New NFL rules.  Then after the want, someone else checked my bag again.  Being that it was plastic, she was able to look at everything in it all at once.  To offset the rounds of poking and prodding, everyone, everyone, was really really really nice.  They all said to enjoy the game, have a great time, have a nice night.  Everyone seemed genuinely happy.  Hmm, how bout that?

We found our seats.  They were great seats.

The game was fun.  There were some immediate touchdowns, which were fun to cheer for.  Then right at the end of the first half, I understood why Jets fans get so frustrated, having several scoring opportunities combined with a quarterback who doesn't know how to watch the clock.  Later on, they won the game, but the frustration lingered like a bad aftertaste.

We left before the end of the game because we'd basically experienced everything we'd needed to, including a halftime show of not only the Jets cheer squad but like a hundred little girls cheering with them on the field.  Ah, that brought me back to my own cheering days....wearing a skirt in freezing weather....I don't miss it.  I'll take being in the stands over that any day.

Don't be jealous of my designer plastic purse.