I found out why I'm still single!

Here are some explanations, according to the upcoming Plume release, Why You're Still Single: Things Your Friends Would Tell You If You Promised Not to Get Mad, by Evan Marc Katz and Linda Holmes:

• I am the "men are pigs" woman, which means that I'm boring and unhappy and the good men don't want me.

• Or else I've demanded the right to set arbitrary rules.

• Or else I can never tell when he doesn't want to talk and I just yammer away.


I skimmed this book and it seems to be going for an "irreverant" and "feminist" tone, but mightn't this just be a cynical ploy to win over a more skeptical demographic? It's still a book about why you're single and what you can change about yourself to not be single. This quasi-feminist cash-in stance seems to be a growing subcategory in the vast, ever-expending "FIND A HUSBAND NOW" section of the bookstore. (i.e., Face It, You Weren't That Into Him Either by Ian Kerner). For nearly any specialized "why am I single" title you could come up with, the thinking must go in publishing, there will be a readership who it applies to.
And that readership will be female.

The aging face of indie rock

I went to the March 18th Stereolab show at Town Hall, and though I've seen them play at least five times now, I hadn't seen them in about five years. The most striking impression I got was that the audience seemed decidedly older than when I'd last seen Stereolab, defintely seemed a lot less 20s, a lot more 30s, and more than a few couples looked like they would be going home to babysitters.

See this guy reading the New York Times? This was at the show. Just as you should be removed from the premises if you're causing a violent ruckus (unless it's like a stupid hardcore show in which case that's what you came for), you also should be thrown out of the rock show if you are reading the New York Times there. I know it's indie rock and all, where as far as dancing goes you're lucky if people are doing the head-nod, but come on, this guy was like a black-hole vortex of adulthood threatening to suck us all into his world of mortgages and 401Ks.

I like to disinclude myself from this demo, since I'm still just as broke and just as far from baby responsibilities as I was in my 20s, although I was quite psyched that this was a sit-down theater. (My back's not so great lately, but it is from a recent sledding accident, so those two factors should cancel each other out.) Still, all in the crowd remained seated during the first song, and it's not because they were toooootally baked, dude.

Happily Laetitia urged us to stand, in her Frenchie accent that makes everything sound cute no matter what, so all became more rockin', and she did her surprisingly Dawn Wienerdog-esque stiff dance. Now I could dance a bit, but I was relieved to have chairs to put my coat & bag on; was able to space out watching the hypnotic Partidge Family intro-esque projected color graphics, and didn't wish for anything to enhance my spacing-out; reminisced with Karin about shows I barely remember and how many zillions of times we listened to Emporer Tomato Ketchup in college, but we still immaturely laughed at the little keyboardist guy jammin' out hard and the young teen next to us with his dad getting in the zone with his awkward very slight dancing. And when it was over, I took out the earplugs from my always-ringing ears and felt happy to head home before 11, but I'd had a ridiculous night out the night before (St. Patricks Day, you know). All in all, somewhere between Emporer Tomato Ketchup and 401K, I'm pretty content in this somewhat-grownup limbo.

Better than Cats

Sometimes, no matter how crapola things might be, you happen upon a scene like this, and your heart is warmed. The photo is too washed out with light in the front, but in the foreground a gray cat is giving an orange cat a bath as the two bask in the Sunday afternoon sun in an Atlantic Avenue antique shop window. Looming behind them menacingly yet whimsically is a stuffed lion, fiercely posed but robbed completely of any remaining dignity by the Minnie Pearl hat some jokester placed on its head. This little triad somehow made me love both humankind and felinekind.

P.S. I'm not a cat lady. I'm not!