Nancy Rommelmann

Happy New Year's Eve

A bountiful and healthy 2007 to all. Kisses.

Five Things You Don't Know About Me

Meme via Jackie:

1. My hip joints rotate "in" about 20-degrees more than normal. This makes “sitting in a comfortable cross-legged position” an oxymoron, and also, makes me halfway pigeon-toed.

2. I am at almost all times reading a book/listening to a course on tape on Nazi Germany.

3. Without any effort on my part, I know the lyrics to thousands of songs, so many, I feel like my brain is Co-op City, and behind every door is a song of my acquaintance. This, though I've purchased maybe six CDs in the past decade.

4. I have a crush on this man’s voice.

5. I am in the process of becoming a live organ donor for my mother, though when I write about it, I will never be able to beat, Here’s Looking at You, Kidney, the title of Virginia Postrel's article about donating a kidney to a friend. Oh, and because it seems tangential, and because I think the point of this meme is to embarrass oneself: at age ten, I faked a stomachache so convincingly, I was given an emergency appendectomy. When I finally admitted my ruse, twenty years later, my mother said I obviously misremembered; that I had been a very, very sick little girl. That I did not have any stomach pains after the surgery both my mother and I use to support our points.

Tagged: whoever feels like playing

Conversation Without End

No blogging, yes, I know. This mostly has to do my being on a story that requires I do lots and lots of interviews, which I tape, which then (oy!) need to be transcribed. Oh, and Ristretto is insane. And right, it's Christmas, and when my customers ask, brightly, "So, have you gotten all your shopping done?" I try to keep the terror out of my eyes and voice when I say, "I haven't even started. And would you like a copy of your receipt?" But I did today rectify the latter, which three clicks of the mouse and a stopover in two shops. Ho ho, and ho.

But not one to leave you all hanging, I thought I'd tell an old story. Old as in, maybe six years ago. I was in New York, and decided to hit the old Russian Baths on East 10th, which is coed, I think, twice a week. The rest of the time, it's full of Slavic men, sitting naked for hours in the shvitz. I paid my ten dollars and put on a bikini; this, not in some separate woman's locker room, but on the other side of the sheet from the men's lockers. For those unfamiliar with what a Russian bathhouse on New York's Lower East Side looks like, it's pretty much a dungeon, with steam. I took a few dips in the hot and cold pools, and proceeded to the sauna. The steam in here was as thick as cream cheese. Since seeing was out, I used my hands to find my way up the tiled steps and took a seat. I could hear men talking, heavy on the Yiddish, and a little glottal hocking. Finally, the steam cleared enough so I could see three or four men, several of them fat and extremely hairy, several young and less hairy. We made small talk, about what, who knows, I think the stock market; it was a bunch of New Yorkers talking. One man, the fattest, with a big hairy belly, asked if I wanted a massage, because they could do it.

I can feel some hesitancy on the part of some readers. A 30-something woman, alone, almost naked, in a closed-off room with a bunch of undressed men. What can I say? I said yes.

I was moved to the top tier, and told to lay on my stomach. One man put a cool wet washcloth over my face. Water was poured the length of me, and then I heard someone being told, "There," and caught a glimpse of a small, somewhat retarded looking young man, takign a seat near my head. Someone else pulled the washcloth back over my eyes. Hands started to rub the length of me, and then, I felt branches being brought down on my bare legs, my back, my ass. Not hard, just enough that the skin livens. I was told to turn over. There was more whipping and rubbing, and then a scrubbing with some sort of soap, and all the while, the boy near my head using his fingertips to drip cold water between my lips. I felt completely turned around; I could not feel up from down. All the while, the men talked amongst themselves in their normal voices, about food, about money, but when they talked to me, it was softly. I was the center of attention, but also, and in a lovely way, not. I was simply part of their day, a nice diversion.

Maybe 30 minutes later, I was helped to sit up. "Slowly, slowly," said the fat hairy man. And then we all steamed a little more, and I thanked them, and got up to leave.

"We hope you liked it," the man said. I told him, very much, but by that time, he'd already turned to his friend to continue their conversation without end.

Pastor Ted to Have Gayness Exorcised Out of Him

This is downright medieval. And example #6082 of Christian America's fervent and vile stupidity.

The Sassy Generation

The second draft of my memoir, Leaving Los Angeles, has been read by only two people: the author, and her friend Lizzy. I gave the latter the manuscript to read on the plane to Paris. This is the email I received from her, the morning she left.

I confess to staying up past my bedtime to finish said manuscript. Fell asleep with it next to me like a precious paper baby I didn't want out of my sight. Dreamt deeply about a boy I liked in 5th grade, one I did wrong by, and then woke up again early this morning before the light, before the chickens, with a pitter-patter of rain on my window, and finished reading it. All of it. So goddamn inspiring that words fail me. Thank you. That's all I can say right now.

I was of course touched, and then she flew away. When she returned, we had lunch and talked of various things; she also told me I was a good writer. I picked up the check.

I think asking someone why he or she liked your book is a terrible question. If you ask someone for notes, that's one thing. But this was simply a friend who asked to read the manuscript; why should she be put on the spot? Also, asking strikes me as unattractively needy.

But I am also in a position that I need to know why and if this book will sell. The writing is good, ya ya ya, but when you stand back, what do you see? What do you remember? I thought, the zeitgiest of Angeles, and maybe that's so. But that's not what struck Lizzy:

What I liked about your book (let's call it that because that's what it is) is that it did touch on this very special time for me and many of my friends - when we were young and rootless and had all kinds of amazing adventures. Then when we started to grow up and settle, we never settled for the mediocre. We continued to laugh through the chaos, dress up in vintage cocktail dresses and have parties on top of bridges (why not?), and still manage to have careers, families, and normal middle class trappings. Your book speaks to us, Nancy. It's a great story.

She later elaborated.

[Its appeal is to] The Sassy [Magazine] generation. Sassy with the infamous Curt Cobain and Courtney Love on Heroin photoshoot, Sassy with the make-under, Sassy that had Chloe Sevigny as an intern, Sassy that once interviewed me about lollopalooza when I was on tour with it as a production assistant (but never published me), Sassy with the cute band alert, Sassy with the first DIY fashion tips.

And Sassy that I used to write for, which Lizzy knew, because she'd read that "I'd became a contributing editor there in something like two weeks, and was writing so many pieces for them I needed three pen names, for steamy/squeamy “confessions” such as, “I Had an Affair With my Teacher,” as well as a monthly series called “Fifty Questions About _____,” for which I picked the topics. The last was “Fifty Questions About Masturbation,” which my editor thought a great public service but which the powers-that-be at Petersen, which published Guns & Ammo as well as Sassy, became apoplectic over. The piece never ran, the editor was fired, and I was soon out of a gig."

Lizzy wanted to know, what were the pen names?

 _____ _____ and Gina Longobardo. The first was what I used to tell the cops and others to whom I did want to give my real name when I was 14 and 15, ____ from a character in Piri Thomas's Down These Mean Streets, and _____ as in James. The second a boyfriend pulled out of thin air when I needed yet another Sassy pseudonym.

Lizzy had better ideas, which I include here so the world may see how big and brilliant the Sassy generation has grown.

Trina Coburn sounds like a Vassar, or better yet, Sarah Lawrence dropout who grew up in the horse country of Connecticut, briefly went to treatment for a cocaine/alcohol problem her second year of college and has been interning forever at Conde Nast in the home and gardening section, although she once had an article published in the Village Voice on how upper eastsiders are slumming in Alphabet City to score heroin ("From Central Park Preppies to Avenue C Addicts" - July 23, 1993). She also waitresses part time at Spring Street Natural in Soho. She shares a tiny apartment near Lexington and 28th with two cats and her boyfriend who is getting a Phd at Columbia in cultural studies and is in a band named the Proustian Parlor that sometimes opens for John Lurie and the Lounge Lizards at the Knitting Factory. Trina has also applied for graduate school at Columbia in journalism, although is considering the New School as a second choice.  Trina favors John Fleuvog boots paired with a cut-off kilt, thigh high tights over bright patterened tights, and large old men's mohair sweaters from the 1950s.

Gina Longobardo sounds like she went to City College and an adjunct professor (in a feminist writing class Gina signed up for on a whim), who also teaches at NYU took her under her wing and got her a job writing copy at an ad agency. Before that she attended a Catholic School in Hoboken and would kick your ass in a heartbeat on a Saturday night in an Irish bar in the East Village if she caught you looking at her boyfriend, although she was also the first to give you a tissue and a cigarette in the bathroom if you were crying because your date got drunk and puked outside of the Pyramid Club on Houston during a Fleshtones show. Gina shops for clothing in New Jersey because there is no sales tax, but occasionally goes to Canal street for clubbing outfits, and she really likes high-heels.

James Kim

James Kim has been found. He died trying to bring help to his family. He left a trail of clothes for searchers. It should not have ended this way.

The Show with Zefrank

You know how a few years ago, everyone was going, "Oh, man, did you see last night's episode of the The Sopranos? That was incredible. I love this show, it's the best show ever," and you sort of went, "Uh, I don't have HBO," and then you finally got HBO a year and a half later, but it was cool, because while everyone else had already seen all the episodes of The Sopranos (or, as might be the case in your own personal paradigm, 24 and The Shield), being slow on the uptake meant you had scads and scads of hours of this stuff to watch via Netflix, which you subscribed to, you know, like three months ago.

I sort of feel this way about Zefrank, which I discovered last night, during a roundtable meeting with the Social Media Club, which I found out about yesterday afternoon, and where I was in all likelihood the lumpiest attendee when it comes to 2.0 and RSS and Wikis; hey, I don't even know what that stuff means! I might as well be sitting here chiseling words into stone tablets! And yet, SMC founders Chris Heuer and Alex Williams were the pictures of tolerance and wit; hey, they're here to help, and when Chris asked, so, anything to share or ask or offer? I said, well, I'd like to learn to podcast, and no sooner had I, than John Anthony Hartman tossed me his card. I can't even remember all the things he mentioned he's been part of in the evolution that is New Media, but suffice to say, this is like having Dr. J teach me how to play b-ball.

What I did hear three people mention last night was The Show with Zefrank, whose daily short videos Din and I started watching last night in bed. It's genius. Apparently, the shows began March 17 (Din's birthday, btw) and will continue for one year. Which means, while I am as usual late to the game, I now get to gorge and play catch up.

Thanks to Jackie for hooking me up.

I ♥ Aron Nels Steinke

Because he asks if he can create some advertising for Ristretto, and I say cool, but first, I need some gift certificates, and this is what he does:

I tell him, if I start that newspaper, he is my first hire. He shakes my hand.
Aron is also the cartoonist behind the Xeric Award-winning comic books Big Plans No. 1 and No. 2.

"To put it mildly, it was a bad day to live on Earth."

I am not in the habit of linking articles Reuters/Yahoo! News stories, but this one, about how all the dinosaurs were wiped out 65 million years ago by "a haymaker that nobody saw coming," a haymaker in the form of a six-mile wide asteroid, is pretty awesome. Also interesting is that, while all the dinosaurs perished in one fell swoop, smaller mammals made it through, "allowing these warm-blooded, furry little creatures to eventually dominate the land." Sort of like what's happening to  newspapers in the new millennium.

No, no, kidding! I love newspapers! I write for newspapers, though not often local ones. Idid, however, have coffee yesterday with one of the best newspaper writers in town. Matt Davis is recently in Portland, from London, and on staff at the Mercury. We fell to discussing which publications in Portland work, which don't, and what the city, on the cusp, as it is, of going cosmopolitan, might give rise to. I asked him, what sort of publication he would like to see grow here. Would it be along the lines of  The New Yorker? The New York Observer?

"Well," he said. "I'd quite like to see the New York Times."

Ha! Me, too. When I later mentioned as much to Din, he gave me a look that asked, when are you going to start it? Um, a paper with an international staff and worldwide circulation?

"You don't need international reporting," he said. "You just need great writing."

We could do that...

"You will do that," he said, throwing the conditional back at me. "Aim high, baby."