It never ceases to amaze me how perfectly cheap, shoddily made accessories make their way up the social hierarchy and become Hot Items. Consider the chinese sandal – those abominable slip ons with the mesh and the flowers and beads and things (they’re not that bad, actually, I just hate things that aren’t flip flops and don’t grip my ankle/heel.): Last summer, these “shoes” priced anywhere from $1.50 – $3 in Chinatown, where they were worn by everyone and, being cheap, became evocative of a lower socio-economic class. Then, apparently, word got out and by the time I got back to my campus in the Fall, the local overpriced boutique were selling them for between $15 and 20. Which is competitively priced for the J.Crew set (where standard flip are priced around $17) but ridiculous for returning New Yorkers who’d bought them by the dozen. Somewhere along the way, very cheap became very chic – someplace beyond “shabby chic” and the novelty of vintage shopping. But of course, the richers wouldn’t buy the stuff off the discount vendors which means that, in essence, they’re buying the SAME CRAP (because how much can you improve on a mesh sandal?) made by more savvy shops.

I feel like I can see the same thing happening with these pleather bags. You’ve probably seen them – they’re being peddled all over 7th Avenue and have these straps that look like laces. They’re not necessarily attractive, but they do have a good shape (read: a shape that looks lumpy, so that stuffing it full of odds and ends won’t destroy the basic form of the bag) and can hold alot. So when you see this bag on the OC, remember that you heard it here first.

Salient Alanna fact – I don’t trust grits. When I was younger, I mistook a box of grits for a box of Cream of Wheat. Or maybe I was just stupid and didn’t realize that Cream of Wheat rarely comes in that cylindrical container. Anyway, after heroically making the grits, I triumphantly poured the contents of the pot into my bowl and added milk. And sugar. And sugar. And sugar. Whatever was taking over my bowl and rapidly becoming a solid, inedible mess, it refused sweeten. Since then, I’ve launched a private war on grits. And uh, that Al Green thing just settled it.

Furthermore, it seems useless. My bag has never been searched – and I have a Strand bag! One of those $5.95 ones that you could stuff anything into; bodies chopped to bits, semiautomatic weapons, pipe bombs …. Is it because I’m the wrong kind of brown person? I’m the wrong shade, hailing from the wrong continent?

This may be the first time in my life that I can actually exploit my race to get out of lines faster, avoid the police and generally create mischief made all the more mischevious because I don’t fit the profile of a perp!

…

What’s the IRA up to these days?

I actually meant to write about how strange it is, being on this side of the wall. I spend the AM on the A train, trying not to burst into dance (what can i say, Ellen + those iPod commercials got it right – I put in the aforementioned headphones and I’m all Gene Kelly with the, “Gotta Dance!”), while simultaneously observing all the other people on my train, in my car, trying not to burst into dance. The white headphones are all over the car – they’re like that fish that early Christians used to draw in the sand; yes, I iPod, do you iPod too?

Its kind of the same thing with cigarettes; some coworkers have gotten me in the habit of a ciggy break (or two) during the day and while we’re out there, we see various and sundry members of our building hanging out under the scaffolding, puffing away. Not that we talk to them – its enough that they’re there, we see them, and we all realize that we’re being socially unacceptable, together.

It is because the L train is so friggin great that they’ve decided to fuck with it, using it as the testing grounds for conductorless service. I guess its a natural choice, but I’m still not happy – the L train, unavailable on weekends, means only two things; a sweltering walk across an often smelly avenue or (ew) adventures on the M14. I haven’t once been on this bus without the pleaure of at least one colicky baby.

But as much as I have complained, I really can’t. Is it just me, or are trains running better than ever? And hey, shouldn’t we not be sad that the L is (momentarily suspended-slash) over, but happy that its happened?

I have no mind to write anything lasting, but use the link. The writing’s smart, the listings are spot on and the site is wildly easy to navigate. AND, its free – in print or online. What a town.

Passed an unexpectedly fun evening at the Russian Vodka Room which was listed by New York Magazine (aka :: my Bible) as one of the best Russian Drinking Spots. This reference to RVR, like all the rest, will caution potential visitors from going into Russian Samovar across the street. Not once but twice I read warnings against this kind of mistake, cautioning that upon your entrance, the patrons of Samovar will coldly ask you whether you in fact mean to be across the street. My friend Jessi arrived early and made this mistake – hilarity ensued. (”I thought ‘Samovar’ meant ‘Vodka’ in Russian!” she wailed.)

The main thing to know about RVR is that they have vodka; lots of it and most of it homemade/flavoured. A look around the bar room showed glass cisterns, filled with vodka + cranberries, vodka + peach & apricot, vodka + dill & black pepper — very traditional, I would assume. If nothing else, way aesthetically pleasing. The price was also right – $21 will get you a carafe with about 5shots, $58 will get you about 15. And the majority of our party agreed that the vodka was tasty — almost TOO tasty to be ‘just vodka.’

So please, don’t be dissuaded by the large piano, almost invisible waitstaff or the prospect of downing shots of vodka for hours. You shouldn’t get a New York stamp on your passport until you go somewhere that culturally unnerves you; if you’re missing that stamp, this is your place.

Today’s bombings in London took me completely off guard, because they were almost too expected. I found myself meeting a lot of new people recently – largely non-New Yorkers – and telling my 9/11 story, over and over. Sometimes I wonder if our lives are actually being written by some second-rate novelist with a penchant for foreshadowing and double-entendre.

As my friend fretted to me from Mexico, I remembered a conversation I had this week with one such friend. I said something along the lines of: I’ve been in the thick of this — I was a short walk from the towers when they fell; my mother worked in 2 World Trade; a friend of mine lost his father, a chef at Windows on the World; I was relocated for three weeks when my school was turned into a triage — and this is still not my war, this is still not my cause.

I think of one friend, a lovely and talented singer-songwriter who recently returned to England and another friend who just got back from Cambridge. I’d be willing to bet that this is not their war, either. And so maybe my numbness is just the opening stages of anticipation:: I’m tingling to see the smug mugs of Bush and Blair, brimming with “We told you so”; I’m anxious to learn which of our civil liberties will come under attack in this round of the Western World v. “Islamic Fundamentalism”; I am atwitter to hear the enraged and violent threats of my normally reasonable, peaceable friends, reduced to hate by way of fear. I just can’t wait.

But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited about my sparsely attended on roads and rails this morning.

I remember a conversation I had about a year ago up at school, where a girl from Philly declared how rare it was to see actual interracial couples on the street, holding paws. Mixed-racers were beyond the pale but if you were all one thing, you should stick to people who are all the same one thing as yourself. Now, I didn’t really believe that about Philly but I’ve never felt that way about our city. But recently, its just been an outpouring of love all over the place – blacks, browns, oranges, greens, purples, yellows, peaches, pears, all talking and laughing and being happy together.

Another generation or three, and we could be a whole island of Polynesian-looking, multi-ethnics. Let’s drink to that!