My First Impresson, or From the Window of a Bronco

The first time I ever saw Andy, it was from the front seat of a car (Annie's). I was visiting her, and we were headed to Wendy's for a late night jr. bacon cheeseburger (obviously). Annie saw Andy's Bronco, Vicky, on the drive over and followed her into the empty parking lot next to Arby's. Andy was on a similar sandwich themed mission.

Arby's was closed, and Andy leaned out the window of his truck, and discussed his options with Annie.

Picture it: A brisk Rexburg night, Andy in his white vintage Ford Bronco, leaning ever-so-casually out the window, cracking wise and looking cool.

It was a very impressive impression.

Annie, of course, persuaded him to join us at Wendy's, and ta da, we got on like a house on fire.

He disappeared from my life for a while there, but then made a reappearance. With a vengeance. And he's been impossible to shake ever since.

First Impression or, When I Last Saw You

My first memory of my pal, Annie Hurst Howington, is her coming in for a costume fitting for an ill-advised Activities Council activity. It may have involved The old Spori building, a potato bar, and unattractive 1920s dresses.

However, this was not an impression.

My first real memory of her is at Wendy's, sitting across a booth from me, in the sunlight on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of a freezing Rexburg winter.

My strongest first memory of her is Film Festival 2003(?). We had been friends for years at this point, but it's a powerful memory.

We had been up ALL NIGHT; Annie editing her opus, Dirk's Big Date, me, awake as moral support.

Morning came, and I met her in the parking lot of our house, she was in the driver's seat of her tiny SUV, Timmy. She looked showered and changed, but tired and wary. I felt showered and changed, too, but also punchy, and said, "It's shaping up to be a helluva day".

Annie laughed, and as we drove away, I felt, for a moment, the wide, epic, glorious possibility of our youth and friendship.

In the Sleepy Hollow of my Hand

In November of last year, by brother, James, came for a visit.
We did the usual things,
MoMA, Dessert Truck, general cavorting.

We also borrowed a car from some friends and drove up the Hudson.
We stopped in Sleepy Hollow.

My brother,
with his beautiful camera,
just about died when we got into that amazing town.

But this, friends, is not about James,
it's about me,
and these are my photos.

Is there anything as beautiful as an old cemetery,
on a quiet, overcast day in November?

The weather was cold.
Not yet bitter, but getting there, and we walked around for hours.
We split up, each of us going our own way,
finding the stones and monuments that interested us most.

This insignia is on every street sign in Sleepy Hollow.
It's a beautiful town.
The kind of town where Halloween movies take place:
beautiful houses,
majestic town buildings,
colorful leaves scuttling along sidewalks.

We kept driving up, north, and ended up in Livingston Manor,
which is also lovely and idyllic.
The high school has a clock tower that looks
exactly like the town hall from Back to the Future.
So striking is the resemblance that James actually stopped the car,
turned around, and drove back to examine closer.

Upon closer examination,
we found that the high school was having
a spaghetti dinner fundraiser that very night.
We considered going to it,
but decided to at least supplement it with real food.
We ended up at The Beagle,
and the waitress assured us that we had made the right decision.
She said she knew the women cooking the spaghetti,
and the Beagle was much better.

The following day we asked for a recommendation,
and were directed to Rolling River.
A restaurant waaaaaay off the beaten path,
and totally, totally worth it.

The weather was, by this point, bitterly cold,
and this place was warm and we sat by the fire.
We ate rich russian food
cooked by a brilliant chef in a tiny kitchen,
served to us by his bohemian wife.

There were at one point six of these apple tarts.
We took three of them, and then we took three more.

We wiped them out.

Best trip ever.

D is for Dancer

photo via James Jordan

Genius is childhood recaptured.

-Bauldlaire

This of course means I'd be a genius to buy a quilted jumpsuit.

(left to right: Silvia, Susanne, Sophie, Me, Allan, Nat)

Steps Should be Taken

I think, over many blog posts, I've made my feelings about
Harry Potter clear.
I love the books, I love the movies,
and I love the kids who play the characters
who mean so much to me.
And so, it is with a most concerned heart that I offer this advice:
Daniel Radcliffe, fire your stylist.
Seriously.
Whoever is making you dress like this is doing you no favors.

And then, hire whoever dresses you in the movies.
I mean, I know you're playing a character,
but at least you don't look like an overdressed vampire hobbit
(see topmost picture).

Yeah, much, much better.

From the desk of Liz Lemon

My friend Rachel says to always start with the big ticket news item.

In the photo above I'm sitting at Liz Lemon's desk.
I mean, to me, it's no big deal, but,
I don't know,
maybe you think it's a big deal, or whatever.
I don't know...

Annie and I are possibly waiting for Tracy Jordan to return to his dressing room.
We might have had some plot questions about "Who Dat Ninja?"

And here, I may or may not be sitting at Jack Donaghy's desk.

Possibly the best view in the city.
I think this is what Liz sees out her apartment window.