The New York Press does Brooklyn and, according to Curbed it makes for "excellent Friday reading." And so does Curbed. Except they provide excellent urban reading Monday through Friday.

The second 30th High School Reunion Planning Meeting of the progressive Upper West Side high school (PUWSHS) that no longer exists went pretty well.  I guess. We’ve settled on a date. Sort of. And we’ve decided that it’s okay to bring spouses. There was some debate on this point but finally it was decided when TV PRODUCER said, "Let’s do it the PUWSHS way: If you want to bring your spouse bring them. If you don’t, don’t!"

You don’t get to be the executive producer of a major network TV show for nothing.

We discussed the continuing process of finding our fellow classmates. Here are the numbers: Of the 29 members of our class: 16 of us know about the reunion. Of those 16, 13 are planning to attend, and 3 are non-committal (though somewhat interested).

Sadly, one of our classmates died a few years ago. 3 were so weird we’re not sure it’s a good idea to invite them, and 9 are "missing in action."

Of the missing, much conversation centered on PROM QUEEN. I call her that even though we didn’t have a prom at PUWSHS: we were too progressive Upper West Side for that. But if we’d had a prom (and we did have lots of parties) she was the closest thing to a prom queen.

OPERA SINGER, a dear friend, has become an avid reunion detective and thought she’d tracked down the phone number of PROM QUEEN’s parent’s country house in the Southwest. CORPORATE LAWYER was also on the case and thought he’d found another contact number on Verizon.com.

At the meeting, SCREENWRITER and I rolled eyes and wondered why everyone was so intent on locating PROM QUEEN. She wasn’t much of a girl’s girl, if you know what I mean: she "went out with" (we didn’t say "date" back in the too-cool ’70’s) all the "cutest"  guys in our class and even to this day seems to have snagged their unflagging attention.

This morning, LIFE INSURANCE, from the class of ’75 got on-line and wrote, "You kids never ask the older students for help. Here’s Prom Queen’s CELL PHONE NUMBER." Just like that.

Whoa. That took my breath away. LIFE INSURANCE AND PROM QUEEN were an item back in the day. They were practically a high school institution until they weren’t.

"PROM QUEEN has been located," I said to SCREENWRITER on the phone mid-morning. She was, uncharacteristically, speechless. By noon, OPERA SINGER actually reached PROM QUEEN at her office. "Our
conversation was very odd, and it was clear she was uncomfortable," write OPERA SINGER. "Not everyone wants to go back in time

On Thursday January 19th at 8 p.m. Brooklyn Reading Works presents fiction writers, Paola Corso and Ann Marie Cunningham at The Old Stone House in JJ Byrne Park in Park Slope. Fifth Avenue between 3rd and 4th Streets. 718-288-4290. Refreshments and books available.

Paola Corso, author of Giovanna

A reader of OTBKB is now the proud owner of that Brooklyn Industries down jacket my sister and I bought for my father on final sale. Otto, pictured above, e-mailed me on Monday. Our correspondence went something like this:

OTTO; Is the Brooklyn Industries jacket still available. And what color is is.

OTBKB: Yes. It’s maroon-ish. Aubergine is what I think it’s called. It’s lovely really. Would you like to try it?

OTTO: I can stop by tonight – try it and pick it up.

 OTBKB: Sounds good.

OTTO: Good. I’ll pass by after 8:00 pm. What’s your cross avenue?

OTBKB: I can’t make it tonight, I have a meeting in Manhattan that is going to run late. How about tomorrow at my office?

OTTO: OK. that would work. I can drop by your office in the afternoon. I’ll probably go with my dog

OTBKB: Sorry for all the changes in plans. Where did you find out about the jacket? On Craig’s List or OTBKB?

OTTO: I read about the jacket on OTBKB. I forgot what color it is.

OTBKB: It’s aubergine. Otherwise known as maroon. It’s good looking (hey, I bought it for my Dad and he loved it).

OTTO: Parents love anything you give them. I still remember, last year, my mother being effusive with loving praise even as she was having trouble breathing from this 10 sizes too small. Ann Taylor sweater I’d given her. Contemporary sweaters don’t have a "mom" size. See you there. I’ll practice my photo look.

So after more than 10 emails, I met Otto, a web site designer who lives in the Gowanus with a pitbull, at my office. A lovely man, he showed up in a beautiful bright orange Ecuadorian sweater that he said he’d bought on on Seventh Avenue in front of Key Food. I worried that the jacket might not fit over the heavy sweater but Otto put it on and was happy with the fit. "I don’t think I’ll be zipping it up over this sweater. But that’s okay."

He asked if I had a mirror in my office and I took one off the wall and held it up so he could see himself in it. He decided very quickly that he wanted it and handed me $35 dollars in cash. Then he went upstairs with my husband and had his picture taken.

Thanks Otto and, as my grandmother would say: Wear it in good health.

The second 30th high school reunion planning meeting, of a progressive high school on Manhattan’s Upper West Side that no longer exists, is happening tonight.

It’s been in the works for months. Well, ever since the first planning meeting which was before Thanksgiving. In the interim more of my fellow graduates  have joined the group. It’s a growing movement, this 30th reunion planning. People have surfaced, the e-mail list has ballooned out to 20 people by now.

We’ll meet again at the home of our generous and prosperous classmate, who lives in an art-filled loft in the Gramercy Park area. It is sure to be a larger group this time. We’ll probably have a lot to share  about the friends and teachers we’ve unearthed.

The big question is: where to have the reunion. The school no longer exists though the building is now occupied by another school. We asked if we could use the school auditorium on a particular Saturday night in May but no go: it is booked.

So that will probably be item numerou uno on the agenda tonight. Also, how much will people be willing to pay to attend this event. Other topics may include: food, entertainment, guest list (do we invite other classes, etc.), are spouses invited, children? (Dang, you know someone’s going to want to/or have to bring their child).

There was talk of a reunion picnic on the Sunday after the reunion. But I think that’s out of favor for now.

So tonight’s the night. I feel like a mess. Have been working like a maniac all day. I feel bloated and out-of-shape.  I need a haircut, highlights, a manicure.

Yeesh. Should I even go?

Actually, I’m not filled with as much fear and loathing as I was the last time. It doesn’t feel quite as scary, quite as threatening.

I did it once and it wasn’t THAT bad.

Wonder who’s going to show up….

So. Blogorrhea NYC, the blogwatcher on Gawker, who sometimes mentions OTBKB, caught wind of OTBKB’s La Bagel piece.

DONTCHA HATE FINAL SALE ITEMS OR DO YOU WANNA BUY A DOWN JACKET?

Case in point. For my dad’s birthday, my sister and I decided to buy him a Brooklyn Industries down jacket. We went to the Brooklyn Industries on Fifth Avenue at Union Street and looked around. We noticed in the back of the store a rack of marked-down Glacier Down jackets in aubergine, gray, and yellow marked down to $35.00 from $98.00. Just what we were looking for.

We knew it was risky to buy a final sale item for a gift but we figured what the hell. We liked the jacket, it was a good price and we’d cross just our fingers that it would fit. To be fair, the sales person made it VERY CLEAR THAT IT WAS A FINAL SALE ITEM. IT’S NOT RETURNABLE AND NOT EXCHANGABLE.

But since it was only $35, we figured, if it doesn’t fit or he hates it, we’d give it to Son or chalk it up to a shopping fiasco.

"To be honest," my sister now says, "we weren’t really thinking."

At The Garden Cafe on Saturday night where we celebrated my father’s birthday, Dad loved the jacket and tried it on. It seemed to fit but when he went to the restroom to see how it looked in the mirror, he decided that the next size might be a better fit.

"Surely you can exchange it for the next size?" my stepmother said. My sister and I looked at each other nervously. "Actually, we can’t," I explained. There was a moment of shocked silence. "But don’t worry about it we’ll get if for you in the next size." We were between a rock and a hard place. If we admitted how little the jacket cost we might seem cheap…

On the way over to Brooklyn Industries Sunday morning, my sister said: "You can handle this. I don’t think they’re going to let you exchange it for the next size. But I don’t to have a scene with the salesperson. " I knew she was probably right but I wanted to try to appeal to their humanity.

ha ha.

"I know this is against the rules," I said cheerfully to the woman behind the counter. "But I’d like to exchange this for an XL because I bought it for my dad and it was a little small." She then launched into the "WE TOLD YOU IT WAS A FINAL SALE SPEECH" and explained: "final sale means we’re trying to get the merchandise out of the store and to bring it back in defeats the purpose. We’re not the Gap or Banana Republic, you know," she added.

Anger was mounting inside of me.  I’m from the customer is always right school of thinking. Especially in a community like this. "I know you’re not the Gap or Banana Republic," I said. "That’s not the point. It’s more of a customer satisfaction issue. I just wish he could have the size he needs. But I understand," I said with all my resevoirs of restraint. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to move an inch on this matter.

Besides, they didn’t even have the jacket in XL.

TO MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT,  I picked out a slightly more expensive army green jacket for Dad (try 4x more expensive: $138.00). It wasn’t on sale and is returnable or exchangable for 14 days.

But now I appeal to readers of OTBKB. Does anyone need a  brand new, never worn aubergine  down jacket that looks something like this one except it doesn’t have a hood.  http://www.brooklynindustries.com/Glacier-Down-P353C50.aspx

It’s really nice and I can give it to you for $35.00. Email me at louisecrawford@gmail.com if you interested. SPECIAL BONUS: BUY IT HERE AND HUGH CRAWFORD WILL TAKE A PICTURE OF YOU IN THE JACKET AND WE WILL POST IT ON NO WORDS_DAILY PIX.

So today I gave my dad the army green down jacket – the EXPENSIVE ONE – and he loves it even more than the other one. He oughta. It cost 4x as much as the other one. It looked smashing on and he loves the hood.

DONE.

I put an ad on Craig’s List about the coat and I’ve already gotten two response. I responded to both of them and haven’t heard a thing. Friendofficemate said that she wanted it but then decided she didn’t like the way it fit on her.

So it’s back to the drawing board. IF there’s anyone out there that wants it, let me know. And remember the BONUS: a picture of YOU wearing the COAT by Hugh Crawford.

Kate, a reader of OTBKB, saw this on Craig’s List and sent it my way. It gave me a laugh. Thanks Kate.

I prefer the Lime over the Orange and recently bought what appears to be an Orange-heavy pack.  If you have a Lime Lifesaver, we can do an even swap.

Sorry, no Gummis.

* this is in or around Brooklyn, NY
no — it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Yesterday, one of the guys at La Bagel Delight learned that the store figures prominently in a scene in Paul Auster’s new novel, THE BROOKLYN FOLLIES.

"I just found out about in The Park Slope Paper," he said. "We really oughta get a copy of that book in here."

I asked him if it was true that a customer had once ordered a cinnamon Reagan bagel to which one of the guys responded: "I don’t have any cinnamon Reagans but I can give you a pumpernixon."

He said it happens all the time. "People ask for Pumpernixons and Sesame Street bagels. It happens all the time."

DAMN these standardized tests that have our third graders so nervous. Daughter’s teacher is pissed off, too.  "They’re so young. They’ve never taken tests before. They don’t even know how to fill in the bubbles," she told me. This very experienced and sensitive teacher really feels for her students.

And so do I. Daughter has been taking the whole thing very seriously. On Monday night she came home from school and said, "No homework because tomorrow’s THE TEST.  I have to get a good night’s sleep and eat a good breakfast."

We didn’t talk much about the test but we worked hard on the good night’s rest part. Daughter got into her footy pajamas at 7 pm and was in bed before 8.

"I’m not tired," she said less than five minutes later. By 9 p.m. she was FINALLY asleep. But that after I read her two picture books and three chapters of BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.

Fast asleep, she looked so adorable and young in those footy pajamas with the reindeer design. Too young to be taking a god-damn bubble test that will determine her promotion to fourth grade.

Tuesday morning, Daughter wanted scrambled eggs. By the time she was ready to eat, they were a tad cold.

"Heat them up, please," she said. "They said we should have a GOOD breakfast!"

This morning we dispensed with the scrambled eggs and were out of the house before 8 a.m.

"I really want you to have a toasted bagel with cream cheese at the Mojo. Remember you need to have a good breakfast," I told her walking up Third Street toward Seventh Avenue.

"Just because they said that doesn’t mean we have to," Daughter said, ever the one questioning authority.

"You know why they say to have a good breakfast? Because your brain works better when there’s food in your stomach. It’s hard to think when you’re hungry." I explained.

"Don’t you think you can think VERY CLEARLY when you’re SCARED TO DEATH that you’re going to FAIL THE TEST." Daughter said.

Daugter ate a rainbow sprinkled Krispy Kreme donut at the Mojo. My girl. She doesn’t have anything to worry about at all.

Now we know that Husband is indispensible.

He left for California on Saturday morning. On Monday morning, Son got dressed according to his school’s dress code: in black khakis, a white button-down shirt, lace-up shoes. He was about to leave when…

"My tie. Dad’s not here to tie my tie," he said.

Panic set in. We’d completely forgotten about the tie. Husband has been meaning to show Son how to tie it since September but both of them were loathe to give up their bonding moment every weekday morning. Or so it seemed.

"I’ll get in trouble if I don’t wear my tie," Teen Spirit said. "I can’t go to school."
"Not so fast young man," I said. "I’ll call Ed." I dialed the number of our neighbor downstairs but there was no answer. I tried again to no avail. Then I did a quick accounting of our other male neighbors. Most of them leave very early in the morning…

Then I called my sister. "Do you know how to tie a tie?" I asked.
"Nope," she said.

Then I remembered that Daughter knows how to tie a tie. She’s watched Husband do it so many times for Son that she figured it out.

"I don’t remember how to do it," she said in a manner that made me think she was either telling the truth or trying to sabotage her brother.

"Well, I guess I can’t go to school," Son said.

Unfortunately, I was in a big rush: had to be in the city at 8:30 a.m. My hands were tied, so to speak.

"Can’t you ask the school administrator or one of your friends?" I asked. Son looked pained. Clearly, he didn’t want to share with his school friends or the school administration that he can’t tie a tie.

"Do what you think is right," I said running out the door with Daughter.

"Okay. And I’ll spend the morning learning how to tie a tie. I’ll google it on the computer and figure it out." he waved cheerfuly.

When I got home that afternoon, Son had, indeed, figured out how to tie a tie. There were ten ties tied hanging on various pieces of furniture in the living room.

Ten ties ready to go. He won’t have to miss any more school this week.

I was surprised to learn that Tom and Honey, two characters in Paul Auster’s new book BROOKLYN FOLLIES, move into an apartment not unlike mine.

From page 281: "In March of 2001, they moved into a co-op on Third Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues; an airy light-filled place on the fourth floor with a sizable living room in front, a modest kitchen and dining room in the center, and a narrow hallway, tht led to three small bedroom in the back (one of which Tom converted into a study)."

Our apartment is notable for its sizable living room AND dining room. I guess you could call the kitchen modest. And yes, a narrow hallway leads to three small bedrooms in the back. They are very small. We never thought we’d last here this long. We didn’t think a teenager would fit in one of those bedrooms. But he does. Quite nicely, I might add.

Husband had a computer-filled office in one of the bedrooms before Daughter was born. But then he had to vacate it and he got a job in the city. Then he did photography in the living room. Now he’s got a job in the city again.

It took days and days for Husband to pack up that office. It was amazing how much in the way of equipment, wires, electronic devices, magazines, and manuals he fit into that office.

Now it’s Daughter’s room, filled with all kinds of tchotckes, a huge Fisher Price dollhouse found on the street the day after Christmas, books, stuffed animals and American Girl dolls in various poses on the window sill.

There are at least ten identical limestone apartment buildings on Third Street. Some have the kitchen near the front, some in the back. Some have three small bedrooms. Or two slightly larger bedrooms. Still, there are approximately 80 apartments that are practically the same between Sixth and Seventh Avenue.

I wonder which building Auster was talking about. 

Daughter’s friend Sarah had a piano recital on Sunday at the Castle Living Residence on Prospect Park West at Union Street. It turned out we knew quite a few other kids who were in the recital, either playing piano or flute.

Old age homes make me nervous. Always have. I grew up down the street from something called "The Riverview Willard," a really depressing old age home on West 86th Street, where the ancient-looking residents would sit out on the street in wheelchairs, on benches, and folding chairs, looking terribly bored, unhealthy, and sad.

That was back in the 1970’s and things have changed quite a bit. The Castle Living Residence has a lovely lobby with a doorman; more like a luxury apartment building. A sign in the elevator said: Yoga in the morning, the children’s recital at 2 p.m. and "North" a Rob Reiner movie that evening.

By the time we got to the social room on the fifth floor, there were barely any seats left. Priority, of course, went to the dozens of residents who had come out for the show. Then there was the big crowd of parents, siblings, grandparents and friends of the performers.

Standing Room Only.

With 14 performers and a a long program, I nervously expected the show to last hours. But piano/flute teacher Helen Richman is well-organized and clearly knows what she’s doing. The recital ran  smoothly and quickly, starting with a simple but impressive etude played by a 4-year-old followed by a double-threat flutist/pianist in baggy red tights and an adorable plaid party dress with a sash.

A dramatic rendition of the "Star Wars" theme came soon after, as did versions of "Ode to Joy," the "Dreidel song," "When the Saints Go Marching In," "Greensleeves" and more.

An impressive trio of pre-teen flutists made beautiful sounds with their flutes —  something that is not very easy to do.

The audience, many of whom were in wheelchairs, with walkers, or canes, listened attentively. Some sang along. Two dozed. One snoored.

What impressed me most was the poise and ease of the performers. Helen had obviously tutored them in the art of the gracious bow.

After the performance, the performers gave out handmade snowflake and harp ornaments to all members of the audience.

And then there were hot pink and bright blue frosted cupcakes, fruit punch, rice krispy treats and homemade chocolate chip cookies.

The event reminded me of something I experienced or dreamed of: the small town piano recital. Maybe it was the baggy red tights or the fruit punch mix of orange juice and ginger ale; the nervous performers clutching their flutes, their sheet music; the loud clapping of the parents, relieved that their child had survived with no mistakes too glaring, too humiliating (for the child, of course).

Being in the Castle Living Residence, seeing the elderly people living the way they do: it brought up a mix of disbelief, fear, denial, a "not me" kind of distance.

But I sat with it for the duration of the recital. Watching young children make music, tooting their flutes, pressing piano keys while observing those at the other end of their lives. Bitter. Sweet. Mostly sweet.

I really do get the sense that Commerce Bank is trying VERY hard to make up for the fact that everyone is pissed off at them.

Thanks to Aaron Naparstek and others who fought the original drive-thru design and sucessfully got the bank to reconsider, the bank is now just a banal glass and glitz Florida-style bank (or what I imagine a Florida-style bank to be).

How do you spell non-contextual architecture?

As one Fifth Avenue resident said, " Too bad they didn’t do a nice, apporpriate facade that would have blended in with the Avenue."

But what would they have done with all the glass and glitz?

They must know that everyone is pissed off. The scowling, growling, "I can’t believe this place" looks from passersby might be a tip off.

Also, they being so darn nice. Giving out nice blue pens, lollipops, free savings accounts for kids, toasters.

Maybe it is a nice bank. A useful bank. On Sunday, Daughter and I used their Penny Arcade coin-counting machine. The bank manager, an attractive young woman in super high heels,  helped us, even standing over us and hitting the "Go" button with her long, polished nails as we poured our El Pico can of coins into the slot. BRIGHT RED NAILS.

I love the Penny Arcade. And I love that the place is open 24/7 (what’s the deal? do they ever close? Can you open an account at 3 am on a Saturday night?). There’s this big glitzy conference room and I can’t help but wonder what’s gonna go on in there.

The bank does have an old-fashioned, "when banks had tellers" feeling to it. It’s decidedly not about ATM access. And that’s really new in an old sort of way. They called me today because I put my name on a list for a Safe Deposit Box.

:"The keys came in today, Miss Crawford. Come in anytime, we’re here."

So do we love them or do we hate them? I’m leaning toward liking the bank and resenting the building.  And really disliking the corporation for even thinking that Park Slope needed a drive-thru.

Yet, the fact that they were willing to modify their plan says a lot.

But the fact that they even wanted to do it in the first place is pretty awful.

–Did they even bother to learn the architectural history of this neighborhood?

–Did they bother to admire the Slope’s fine turn-of-the-century architecture?

–Did they really think we drive cars around here (I guess people do but we’re walkers god-damnit – walkers).

The whole thing is as weird-minded as that bank manager in her high heels thinking we needed to be watched over like that while we counted our pennies.

Hey guys,  FIFTH AVENUE is an incredible example of an early 20th century American shopping streets. It’s STILL a lot like that tinted photographic mural on YOUR wall (of turn-of-the- century 7th Avenue).

Fifth Avenue’s old/new balance is changing. Now, the new is out-numbering the old. It’s mostly new shops now. But you gotta love the way the old shops are hanging on: The Pork Shop, the Dance Clothing Store, Shoe Problems, Ask Joe. Next door to Joe’s, the social club, has been rented, I hear, by Steve Buscemi and the guy from The Sopranos, so that place will live on too (it’s okay to clean it up, but keep the aura, guys).

So Commerce Bank, you’ve made quite a splash bringing your big, Florida-style bank to Brooklyn. What were you thinking? Really, what were you thinking?

The Noguchi lanterns in the front  of the new Fifth Avenue restaurant, Perch, were, for me, the deal makers. I just love those kind of round Japanese paper lanterns.

The new cafeandsomuchmore, which is between Fifth and Sixth Streets, is lovely to look at and a pleasant place to be. In front there are tables, roomy enough for strollers, high chairs, and leggy people. In other words, the built-in banquettes are comfy.

The middle of the shop is the cafe, kitchen, and counter by day, bar by night. That’s right, in the morning, Perch has the GREAT COFFEE neon going. And in the evening, it says: COCKTAILS.

In the back of the restaurant, a light filled area with more Noguchi lamps and a stylish couch for sitting. Plus the place has wireless Internet access.

Perch is owned by a husband and wife team, who live on Fifth Avenue near 9th Street with two kids under five. They knew that Fifth Avenue needed a child-friendly cafe with good, healthy food. "All of our friends were desperate for a place like this," says Dierdre Jones, the owner, a former jewelry designer, whose husband, a mill worker, designed and built all the built-ins  in the restauarant.

One gets the sense that they’ve created just the kind of place they wanted and needed there to be on Fifth: a place you can go to in the mornings, for brunch, for lunch, and for dinner and  drinks in the evenings.

Not just a restaurant, a way of life: you eat, you compute, you admire gorgeous square paintings by Amy Rubell, you meet friends, maybe you have some coffee or dessert. Cinamon toast for the kids. That’ll work just about any time of day.

For a couple of people who’ve never been in the restaurant business before, they’ve created what I would call a sucessful hybrid cafe/restaurant. It’s self-service: order at the counter and take a red plastic number to your table. The service is speedy, the food is great and you leave a tip in the glass "Karma Boomerang" tip jar.

Easy. Good looking. Tasteful. A nice place to be .Just what the Avenue needed.

Husband is off to California for a week and even Opal, our beautiful white dwarf rabbit with the black stripe on her back seems a little unhinged by his leave taking. She’s in the corner of her cage right now doing her vibrating huddle not quite sure why all the lights are on at 4:30 in the morning.

Poor Opal. She’s very attached to Husband.

Husband’s cell phone alarm clock woke us all up. It plays this silly song that we’ve come to call the Clown School Song. "We are graduates of Clown School. We ride out little cars in circles…" Husband was making up some words this morning.

None of us are used to having Husband out of the house for even a day, let alone a whole week. And with the new job and all, Husband vacates his Aeron desk chair and ventures into the big city on a daily basis now.

So he just left in the middle of the night to catch an early Jet Blue flight out of Kennedy Airport. He will spend the week with family in Northern California. Since we didn’t make it out there this Christmas, there is family business and pleasure to attend to.

The apartment feels too big without him. Not to mention our bed: though lord knows I don’t mind stretching out without worry of kicking him.

I’m still wondering how we’ll get the Christmas tree to the Mulch Fest in Prospect Park without him. It’s on the sidewalk in front of the building now.

And God forbid the fancy lightbulb in the dining room light fixture goes out (it’s been flashing). Last night was a flurry of packing and H. didn’t get around to everything he was planning to do. He did, however, manage to leave me with a large selection of No Words_Daily Pix by Hugh Crawford choices and that’s the important thing.

We’re just not used to having him out of Brooklyn for long periods of time. It’ll be a strain on everyone. Opal. Son, daughter. Even the little mouse who’s taken up residence behind the stove will miss Husband I’m sure.

So I got a copy of "Brooklyn Follies." I paid for it: full price at Seventh Avenue Books. As I was paying, Tom the owner said, "I have a little secret for you." He then directed me back to the table where the books were displayed and said to take one of the bottom three books. "Those are signed." Then as a joke: "That’ll be $48.00," he said.  "Oh really" I said, playing along.

But I got it. A signed copy of the new book. Tom, Ping, the other owner of the store, and I looked at the cover. It’s a panorama photograph of the the corner of Second Street and Seventh Avenue. There are various people in the intersection. I recognized two of them. One is a real estate agent who sometimes wears straw hats. I’ve seen her for years. The other is a very nice woman I know from a writing workshop at Writer’s Voice. I wonder if she knows that she’s on the cover (she probably signed a release or something).

Of course she knows: the picture looks very posed.

I think it’s really cool that she’s on the cover. She’s a writer and one of her stories is being published in a literary magazine. She’s also an avid reader of OTBKB. If you are reading this please let me know the name of the magazine and tell us the circumstances of you being on the cover. If anyone knows anyone else on the cover please share with the rest of us.

Read the book? Not yet. Been too busy deconstructing the cover.

Check out Gersh Kuntzman’s piece on the front page of  The Brooklyn Papers about Paul Auster’s new book, "The Brooklyn Follies." The book, which is reviewed by Walter Kirn in this Sunday’s New York Times’ Book Review, features many familiar Park Slope characters, including "Beautiful Perfect Mother" or BPM.

The character’s name is Nancy Mazzucchelli who lives in a brownstone in these parts. But I have my own list of BPM;s as I am sure you do.

FROM A REVIEW ON BOOKLIST: Auster meditates on the theme of sanctuary in American literature, from
Hawthorne to Poe to Thoreau, infusing the novel’s picaresque with
touches of romanticism, Southern gothic and utopian yearning. But the
book’s presiding spirit is Brooklyn’s first bard, Walt Whitman, as
Auster embraces the borough’s multitudes

Park Slope friend and resident, David Konigsberg, has paintings, including Crossing, White Flats, (pictured left) in Grand Allusions, a group show opening this Saturday December 7th (TONIGHT) at The Painting Center, 52 Green Street in Soho. Reception 5-7 PM

David Konigsberg, is an OTBKB favorite, so get on over there and check it out.  Maybe buy one.

So it’s the after-Christmas breather. Parents are, for the most part, happy to have their kids back in school and/or back on their regular routines…happy (or not) to get back to what they were doing before the vacation…

But don’t get too relaxed! Next week the  public elementary school kids have to take the standardized English Language Arts Tests. Tuesday January 10 is Day 1 of NYS ELA test for grades 3, 4, and 5. Wednesday January 11 is Day 2 of NYS ELA test for grades 3, 4 and 5. Thursday January 12 is Day 3 of NYS ELA for GRADE 4 ONL Y

For the third graders, this is the test that will determine promotion to 4th grade. And for the 4th graders, this is the test that is used for admission to middle school.

The stakes are high and there’s a whole lotta stressin’ going on.

On Thursday morning (that’s TODAY), there’ will be lecture for parents that may be very helpful. It’s the second parent meeting in the series "What’s a Parent to Do?" Presenter Mary Courtney, PhD, clinical child psychologist, will offer useful advice on "Big Worries, Little Worries — How to Help Your Child with Stress." Just in time to quiet the willies around the NYS ELA tests  next week. Auditorium. 8:30 a.m.

*Did you know that the person who first said: "Don’t get me started" was Teddy Roosevelt?

It’s always noteworthy when fellow Brooklyn Bloggers are mentioned in traditional media. This week, there’s a Talk of the Town piece in the New Yorker about Brownstoner.  A Brooklyn Life was mentioned in the New York Times in a column about P.J. Hanley’s bar on Court Street. During the transit strike, there was a an article in the NY Times about Express Train.

On Brownstoner this week: Hugh Crawford has a stunning photo essay on Sunset Park. There are also photo essays by other photographers on Vinegar Hill and Crown Heights.

Beautiful.

Considering it was the first morning in more than two weeks that Son couldn’t sleep until noon, getting him up and off to high school went very well. In fact, he was dressed, fed, and out the door by 7:30 a.m. Amazing.

Daughter was a little harder to rouse; she had trouble sleeping last night. Clearly, she had a harder re-adjustment to her school night schedule after so many late holiday nights.

Walking Daughter to school this morning in the rain and then walking to my office, I could tell it wasn’t an easy morning for anyone. Damp and dreary, it was a day to stay under the comforter in bed, a day to sip tea and watch "General Hospital" on television.

Or finish Nicole Kraus’ "History of Love" or start "The Story of Pi" which a neighbor left on my door step.

I actually considered staying home. It’s the first time in so long that Husband hasn’t been parked in the living room/office at his computer working on photographs. He’s working in town now. Manhattan. What a change for all of us.

2006 is off to a nice start. I am superstitious about the early days of January. Last year, I had a terrible earache and laryngitis and my kids were sick. I thought maybe it didn’t bode well for the new year but 2005 was a good year for all of us.

In January 2001, I had a premonition in the first week of January that it was going to be a terrible year and it was, for the most part, a terrible year – personally, for the city, for the country, for the world.

But 2006 is off to a fairly uneventful start which is a good thing. And there was something so special about this holiday week: I think it had something to do with those Mondays. Little gift days. Unexpected, quiet, no banks, no mail. Some people went to work but we didn’t. I think the Mondays were nicest of all.

I meditated this morning to the sound of a wilderness river. There were songbirds, small rapids and crickets intermingled with telephone rings, office chairs on wood floors, and the voices of from the other offices on this hallway.  It put me in a good mood: sitting by the river, in my office, at the start of the year.

Breathe in, Breathe out. Take it slow. Happy New Year.

OTBKB PRESENTS THE BEST OF BROOKLYN BLOGGING 2005: 

Best Brooklyn Photo Blog by a Photographer Who is My Husband
No Words_Daily Pix by Hugh Crawford

Best Brooklyn Photo Blogs by Photographers I’m NOT Married to
Joe’s NYC   Satan’s Laundromat Digital Brooklyn  Express Train

Best Brooklyn Dream Blog
Sleeping Bunnies

Best Brooklyn Blog with a live 24-hour Cat Web-cam
Lost and Frowned

Best Brooklyn Blog with an Unhealthy Obsession with Real Estate:
Brownstoner

Best Non-Brooklyn Blog with an Unhealthy Obsession with Real Estate:
Curbed

Best Brooklyn Blog with a Healthy Obsession with Bird Watching
The City Birder

Best Brooklyn Blog Named After a Subway Line
F Train

Best Brooklyn Blog by a Recently Engaged Blogger
Callalillie

Best Brooklyn Blog by Blogger in Williamsburg
zeebahtronic

Best Brooklyn Community Blog
The Daily Heights

Best Brooklyn Blog by a Writer with Many Interests Including Immigration
Park Slope Writer

Park Slope’s Best Community Blog
The Daily Slope

Best Brooklyn Blog by A Mother Waiting to Adopt a Child
Mama in Waiting

Best Blog by Person who Actually Came to Brooklyn to Meet OTBKB
Travels in Booland

Best Blog by Mother of Person Who Actually came to Brooklyn to Meet OTBKB
Cousin Lucy’s Spoon

Best Blog by a Former Resident of Prospect Heights
Oswegatchie

Best Art Blog by a Former Resident of Prospect Heights
The Daily Vapor

Best Blog by a Person who Frequently Visits Brooklyn
Laments of the Unfinished

Best Non-Brooklyn Blog by a Blogger From Stuttgart
Udge Wink

Best Name for a Brooklyn Blog
The Dope on the Slope

Best Brooklyn Blog Named for a Bus Line
b61 Productions

Best Brooklyn Blog by Person in Carroll Gardens
A Brooklyn Life

Best Brooklyn Store Blog
Rare Device

Best Brookly Blog by a Woman Selected by New York Magazine as One of 27 People Who Should be Justly Famous by 2010
Design Sponge

Best Brooklyn Blog by a Practioner of Honku
Aaron Naparstek

Best Brooklyn Mostly Music Blog by a Vegan
Brooklyn Vegan

Best Brooklyn Knitting Blog with a Great Logo
unfurnished Brooklyn

Best Brooklyn Blog Collection of Rants and Raves About NYC Restaurants with Lots of Links to OTher Food Blogs
Mona’s Apple

Best Applications for the Bloggers of the World
Blogger and Typepad

Brooklyn blogger, Callalillie, has the dope on where the new Whole Foods is going up in Park Slope. She even has sketches!! Check it out. Y’know that old mansion (or whatever that is) on the corner of Third Avenue and Third Street…

On New Year’s Eve, Brooklyn Borough Hall will show off the capabilities of the their new high- tech lighting system. The night’s show, "Fantasy," described by a spokesperson as "a choregraphed dance of different colored lights." Read all about it in last week’s City Section.

Liberty Heights Tap Room in Red Hook is having a Family New Year’s bash with Cool and Unusual Punishment. Food, non-alcoholic drinks and teen bands. The fun starts at 8:30…

And of course, the 24th annual fireworks display in Prospect
Park. Best locations for viewing the fireworks include anywhere in
Grand Army Plaza, inside the park on the West Drive, and along Prospect
Park West and nearby side streets. Just before midnight. Also, Deja Blu
(10-piece big band) plays at 11 pm.

Great way to Run in the New Year: Slope Sports and Brooklyn’s
Road Runners Club host a healthy way to ring in the new year. Start and
finish line at the Grand Army Plaza entrance of Prospect Park.
Post-race party at Burrito Bar and Kitchen. $20 entry fee. 11:15 pm.
Walkers welcome.

New Year’s Eve is meant to be memorable night but I don’t remember that many of mine. I wish I could google them. 1984 New Years Me What did I do? We rely on Google now for so much. Why not that?

There’s pressure to make it a great night but it’s usually just another night. What’s the big deal? (But it is a big deal.) Happy New Year. A kiss. A roomful of kisses. Asleep. Awake. Another year…

And yet. And yet, some of these nights I remember sort of. Or can reconstruct from one or two images…

1969, I was only 11 years old and my father let my sister, a friend, and me have sips of champagne. It was the end of the sixties and we thought we were drunk listening to Janis Joplin records waiting for the ball to drop on television.

Early 1970’s: I remember watching  Veronica Lake in "I Married a Witch," in the TV room of a camp-friend’s house in Roslyn, Long Island, waiting until midnight so that, finally, we could go to bed.

In high school, there was a party at the elegant home of a classmate on Central Park West. Later there was pizza at Tom’s Pizza on Columbus Avenue, "This Will Be" by Natalie Cole on the jukebox.

Another year — also high school — "Day for Night" by Truffaut at the Carnegie Hall Cinema and later a hockey game at Madison Square Garden (is it possible there was a hockey game on New Year’s Eve?). The midnight moment at a restaurant, also on Columbus Avenue, and then drinks with some friends in a bar (could we get drinks in a bar?).

During college, New Year’s Eve at "Alice’s Restaurant" in the Berkshires (or a restaurant owned by that Alice) with my mother and sister. Ran into a friend of mine from elementary school who had, inexplicably, become an airplane pilot. We went cross-country skiing the next day for the only time in my life.

In 1979, a childhood friend who’d married a Palestinian man had a party in her Los Angeles apartment. There was a belly dancer and middle-eastern food. At midnight, everyone hooted and yelled and danced a circle around the belly dancer, while drinking paper cups of champagne.

New Year’s 1980, I was in the social room of an Israeli kibbutz feeling exhilarated — being so far from home and feeling sad — being so far from home in a room full of people I barely knew dancing to Madonna Blondie, Bruce Springsteen, Beatles’ and Israeli rock ‘n roll.

Another year, I attended a party in an artsy townhouse on East 11th Street. After midnight,  the party guests walked down to Tribeca and party-hopped from one weird and unwelcoming loft party to another; it was a freezing cold night.

1986: I met David Duchovny — this was before he was the star of "The X-Files," before he was even a professional actor — at the apartment of a friend, who knew him from Yale. I’d just cut my hair short for the first time and
was feeling very festive, very chic. We talked for a while, our fathers were friends in college and we’d met as young children. I don’t remember much else about the party.

1987 was my first New Year’s on Husband’s family farm in Northern California. We attended a party given by a local chapter of the American University Women’s Association held in someone’s home and played a party word game invented by Husband’s grandmother.

In 1988, we’d spent a beautiful day at the Arboretum in San Francisco and drove home after dark. Sitting in the car in the garage of Husband’s childhood home, Husband asked me to marry him. We just sat there stunned, excited, unsure what the hell we were doing. That was New Year’s eve, I think. Maybe the day after. We didn’t tell anyone until we were back in New York.

Another year we went to a dinner theater in Stockton and saw the play:
"A My Name is Alice." Some years we played scrabble, Monopoly. One year
we watched "Like Water for Chocolate" and fell asleep before it was
over, well before midnight.

There were other New Year’s Eves. Obviously. When Son was six months old we were too tired to do anything more than eat dinner and go to bed. Google: 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995 New Year’s Eve, what did we do?

1996, we stayed in New York because I was pregnant with daughter and went to see "The People Vs. Larry Fink" on West 23rd Street and ate dinner at the Empire Diner.

1997: Daughter was just 10 months but would be walking within weeks…

In the millennial year, Husband’s family gathered on the farm for a lamb feast prepared by Husband and an enormous Jeroboam of champagne bought in Napa Valley for the occasion. We watched the rest of the world’s elaborate festivities on television and waited for something terrible to happen (Y2k). Father, Sister, Mother: everyone called from New York to wish us a happy new year at 9 p.m. – California time. We’d bought fireworks at a firehouse in Salida, a nearby town, and at midnight shot them off in the backyard which was decorated with lumanaria. The children lit sparklers and spelled their names in the air.

New Year’s Eve dinner on the farm in 2001: Son told "Guy Walks Into A Bar" jokes that had everyone in hysterics, he was only 10. We’d flown nervously cross-country as it was just months after 9/11 and we were still limping (emotionally) barely recovered, full of stories of what had gone on…

2002, 2003: late dinners, rented movies, sparklers in the backyard.

2004: it was just days after the Tsunami, the house was cold, we were all getting sick, what a depressing New Year’s. After mid-night, Son and I watched "Garden State" on his iBook, it had just come out on DVD and was, at that moment, his favorite movie of all time.

I loved it too.

Just days before
Christmas when I was 8 or 9, I stood on a chair in a coat
closet and found one of my Christmas presents: a pair of pink patent
leather Mary Janes from Saks Fifth Avenue. They were EXACTLY what I wanted.

Mintues later,  my mother found me in the closet and grabbed the shoebox away: that was exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

On Christmas Day, there were no pink shoes. None. My parents did, however, give me the shoes a few days later.

Lesson learned.

That
story has become something of a cautionary tale around our apartment. If I try to get hints from Husband about my birthday or Mother’s Day gift
he says: "Pink shoes, pink shoes. Remember the pink shoes." Same for Son and Daugther when they ask about their Chrismakah or birthday presents: "Pink
shoes," we’ll say. "Pink shoes;"

And yet as a cautionary
tale, "Pink Shoes" just doesn’t cut it.  Instead, I still get angry at my  parents who felt they had to punish me for something
so innocent, so human. "Pink Shoes" is not a cautionary tale at all but
a poignant reminder of a terrible punishment for the delight
at finding the gift I so desired.

Shiny, pink, glowing with
potential: it was impossible not to hold those shoes in my admiring
little hands. Even if it was just days before Christmas.

That said, I was really pissed when Daughter told me that she found the Felicity DVD I’d hidden in the laundry hamper. She also found a bunch of her stocking stuffers. "You’re just a terrible hider," she said. "You’re so bad at it."

That pissed me off even more. It’s not enough to give her gifts but I’ve got to be a great hider, too? Give me a break. Our closets are stuffed to bursting with clothing, coats and all the hand-me-downs we get from friends with older girls.

Finding a place in the apartment to hide gifts is, well, excruciatingly time consuming…

Pink Shoes. Pink Shoes. Doesn’t anyone remember the story about pink shoes?

Here is a list of some of the "ordinary" things that were so special in 2005 (in no particular order).

–A baby named Sonya (Ducky)

–Great family

–Great friends

–Great neighbors

–A great therapist

–Daughter and Sonya together

–FINISHING the Brooklyn Half-Marathon

–Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn (started Feb. 1, 2005)

–Writing the weekly Smartmom column for The Brooklyn Papers

–Getting published

—BKLYN Magazine

–Husband’s NEW JOB

—Husband’s PHOTOGRAPHY (No Words_Daily Pix)

–Hearing Cool and Unusual Punishment at the Liberty Heights Tap Room for the first time

–Daughter’s puppy calendar/research project she worked so hard on

–Hearing Cool and Unusual again and again

–Teens for New Orleans benefit concert at the Old Stone House

–Husband’s Birthday at the Old Stone House with friends, family, and Cool and Unusual Punishment

–Amy, Elizabeth and Todd coming all the way from California for the big party

–The Gates

–February in Central Park

–MY OFFICE

—Valentine’s Day Portraits at Fou Le Chakra

—Brooklyn Reading Works at Fou Le Chakra

—Brooklyn Reading Works at the Old Stone House

–The people who gave us work and/or helped us find work

–Our week in Sag Harbor

–Ice skating on Thanksgiving

–My birthday dinner at Chez Panisse

–the Diane Arbus birthday cake Jollybe Bakery made for Husband

–Christmas and Hanukkah in Brooklyn for the first time in a long time.

–Daughter’s second and third grade teachers at PS 321

–Bay Ridge Prep

–Planning our 30th high school reunion

–Sonya’s first steps (walking on December 27th)

–Running in Prospect Park

–Meditation

–Husband’s chicken curry with almonds and dried cranberry

–The new wall dividing the living room into a work space/family space

–Kim Maier’s stewardship of The Old Stone House

–"The Other Woman" (Directed by Margarete Von Trotta, screenplay by Pamela Katz) at the Museum of Modern Art; Nancy Graham’s poems and stories in Chronogram, Prima Materia, and elsewhere; "A Widow’s Walk" by Marian Fontana; David Konigsberg’s paintings at the Alan Shephard Gallery; Toby Fox’s Elizabeth Bishop paper and Bunny Thoughts; Roxanna Velandria’s drawings; "Flightplan" at the Zigfield with Florian Balhaus and friends, Emily Berger’s show of paintings at the Painting Center, Charlotte Maier ‘s scene with Steve Martin n "The Pink Panther," Henry Lowengard’s show of prints at the Esopus Public Library, Fofolle’s clothing

–Henry L. GETS A JOB

–The Squid and the Whale

—So many said-to-be-great 2005 movies yet to see

–Reading "Heir to the Glimmering World" by Cynthia Ozick

–ROSE: our babysitterandsomuchmore

–Writer’s group

––Life Space Coaching with Deborah Ager

–Therapy

–"Coming Home to Your Heart" retreat in the Berkshires

–Park Slope

–Zoloft

I wrote this on New Year’s Eve 2004 just days after the Tsunami. 2005 saw its share of tragedy, too: the war, Hurricaine Katrina, the London bombing, there was more. Some thoughts from last year…

The last day of 2004 and we’re well rid of that one. It was a year,
alright, quite a year. Natural disaster, human suffering of unfathomable proportions, war,
political disaster, tragedy, human cruelty…

And yet daily life
goes on. The clock ticks, the internet connection hums, the children
need lunch, there is work to be done. The dailiness of things keeps us
going when nothing else does. It’s the ordinary things that pull us
through.

There’s a lot of talk right now about the absence of
God, the existence of God in the first place, the reality that bad
things happen to good people often, unremittingly, all the time, a lot.
Too much.

There are a lot of people who are very angry at
their God right now. And there are many whose belief in their God will
pull them through. Those without a belief in God are also in a quandry.
No matter what kind of God or no-God you’ve got, you’re probably
struggling to understand the breadth of this tragedy.

There is
also the unpleasant feeling of uselessness. At this distance, other
than contributing money, there is nothing to do but watch and cry. With
this comes a kind of survivor’s guilt – guilt for the fact that our
lives are (thankfully) untouched by this kind of pain and suffering.
Guilt for our abundance, guilt for the superficiality of what ails us
right now.

And then there’s the fear, a deep, penetrating one:
what happens if and when our lives are touched by such terribleness.
What would we do?

When bad things happen, Fred Rogers, that
dapper genuis of children’s television, used to say, "Look for the
good." Even in the worst of times, he’d say, there is good to be found.

In this case, one has only to look at the faces of the
survivors who are burying the dead, beginning to clean up, helping one
another heal. Good people the world over are also flocking there to
help: Doctors Without Borders, the International Red Cross, and other
local and international organziations are pitching in. There is good to
be found.

For the moment, the world’s focus is on this tragedy
— everyone is grieving for the missing, praying for the survivors, and
trying to help in some small way.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if
this shared moment could change the course of history? Wouldn’t it be
amazing if the world came together and recognized the importance of
daily life, the power of the ordinary, the simple things that everyone
holds dear?

Wouldn’t that be amazing?

I found this list and article on a new site (for me) called: Lifestyle Filter. The bloggers, who live in Brooklyn, made OTBKB a Blog of the Day, for which I am quite flattered.

"In this post-feminist world," writes Los Angeles Times staff writer, Carina Chocano, there are 54 films that got it right. The also wrote an accompanying piced called Fettered by a Stereotype that takes aim at the term "chick flick."  Here are the 54 films she thinks get it right:

1930s-1940s

"Private Lives" (Sidney Franklin, 1931, VHS only): A newly remarried
woman winds up in the hotel room adjacent to her newly remarried ex
during her honeymoon.

"Stage Door" (Gregory La Cava, 1937): A young woman fulfills her dream of becoming an actress.

"Holiday" (George Cukor, 1938