Saturday, February 27, 2010

The most important post I have ever posted.

It is Sunday morning.

You may be a little groggy or hungover from Saturday night. It may even be Sunday afternoon for my more licentious readers (That means you, Mom).
Perhaps you are letting your cereal soak up its milk to your desired crunchiness level, a small individualism we still maintain in this age of conformity.
Perhaps your loved one is trying to make you breakfast, but screws it up and you are googling a new place to go for brunch (but you guys will just settle on the old usual).
Perhaps you just ran a race in Brooklyn and you are waiting for the shower to warm up, so you figure, "Hey, why not skim 'the Blues?"
Perhaps it is Tuesday or Wednesday of next week and I should be less confident that people check Bliss Street Blues or my Facebook daily.

Anywhere you are...this is the best moment of your life. Here is a video by OK Go (music video MASTERS that treat 3-5 minute film snippets with the integrity they deserve.) MJ and I will admit that we are a little unorganized about this whole "wedding" thing. BUT we have agreed, and this is official-on-the-books-for-the-record, that THIS is basically what we want the wedding to look like:

(PS. THIS WAS RECORDED LIVE)

OK Go - This Too Shall Pass from OK Go on Vimeo.



Anytime the clouds sit low and your feeling like your caught knee deep in winter slush with no snowshoes, watch this video for an instant BURST of happiness, the kind of joy that BURSTS in your soul like Gushers circa 1995 (I swear they changed them after a certain year with a less gushy version. You fooled no one).

Friday, February 26, 2010

How does one pause during the party scene?


I have gone through Eggers phases, Shakespeare phases and Irving phases and etc. But I've never felt a kinship like Virginia Woolf. Last night I finished Dalloway. I read To The Lighthouse in Spain, Madrid. There is nothing I love better, really almost nothing, except reading a good novel in a foriegn country. There is a bubble that exists in the language barrier I suppose. A bubble is good place to read. In a bed with absolutely nothing to do. Being sick, being isolated. These are the best venues for reading, rather than the intermittent subway ride, the 15 minute wait for the doctor to come, the doctor doesn't come... but one could walk around Westside Market for half an hour. It is relaxing and they have the most samples in New York City. Save Union Square Whole Foods. But Westside is more relaxing, the samples are always the same. Someone's creative concoctions that took thought, years of practice and sampling. The opinions of others who meant something to said concoction maker. The many people who sampled, the overriding suggestion to ass more mayonnaise, more cheese, more sour cream, whatever adds substance and comfort and, over-all fat to the spreads with the rice cakes in Westside Market. You can see if they have it from the street. So there is less pressure to buy something, to commit to going in. But that is part of the fun, isn't it? I really think if Woolf was writing today on the Upper West Side, she would use Westside Market as a setting, or maybe just a place to walk around...sampling. Would VW sample?



Anyway Dalloway. The greatest thing to read in college. Screw that. The best thing to read right exactly now in this moment that I work in Upper East Side retail. The novel instructs us on the dimensions and fabrics of humanity that thread the conscious memory whether we are a person who black-cards a thousand dollars of athletic apparel, or sleeps in a hallway in East New York's finest forgotten housing, or shops for tickets, a way out, a travel abroad program, anything that mimics a disappearance with the glamour of a life truly lived. What is is about being somewhere new that eradicates purpose and obfuscates banality with the frosting of struggle? If there is even a light-breeze-ripple of pain in your soul, there is a character or at least a paragraph for you in Dalloway.

And Woolf does it. She forces the reader to see the shared memories of the soulless socialite, the PTSD soldier, the complacent revolutionary, etc. There is no difference when we are all perspective and no science, no understanding of matter and atoms. There is just a shared obsession with memory and anxiety over life's idiosyncrasies and the frequency with which we slip into their rivulets. They may differ from person to person, but it is obsession we all share, I myself am inebriated with it.



"Virginia, you have an obligation to your own sanity."
"There is no such obligation."

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Strescipies

I have multiple degrees of stress that express themselves as circular expressions of whatever tertiary anxieties my primary thoughts are surpressing. Basically my stress is an Inferno. At the core, which I suppose would be Round 4 of the Ninth circle, is catatonic, inebriating stress- sitting in bed all day staring at a shiny doorknob. Or like Bertha in the attic, a future that at times I consider so inevitable I often initiate writing it as a personal goal on applications and career assessments. A milder, more child appropriate stress would be the Fifth Circle of Cleanliness. (The one not-so-next-to Godliness) It usually follows as such: stress, sponge, blasting hot water that burns my hands from inside my gloves while the steam curles my hair and adds to the already flustered cheeks and sweat that acts as a secondary detergent on whatever pan I am scratching the shit out of with the rough side of the sponge. In these fits, there is no purpose for the soft side of the sponge.



Lately, I've meandered into what MJ may refer to as the best circle of stress EVER. The Third Circle of Gluttonous Amounts of Cooking. Since in these times, it is hard to write (OK it really isn't that bad. Time is always an issue, so keeping that as a control factor, with inspiration levels steady, my educated hypothesis is that reading Virginia Woolf makes it nearly impossible to write anything that doesn't look like Daphne's biweekly bile projections on my carpet. I am feeling insecure lately about writing as it is. I don't know why I put myself through reading Woolf. It's like going through fat phase and calling up that Olsen twin with all the pashminas and emotional baggage and saying, "Hey, do you want to hang out with my everyday, on the subway, before bed, in coffee shops?"













So here is what I have been up to...(Forgive me for naming the dishes. MJ and I started this trend for amusement and they usually come out sounding like names of Chinese resturants, i.e. Golden Sunrise ((MJ's BRILLIANT pineapple, golden raisin, almond and mushroom stirfry.)):

POST MASALA BHANGRA VEGGIE MASALA

Heat pan with sprinkled Olive oil.
Add garlic and chopped onion.
One can of chick peas.
One can diced tomatoes.
Steamed broccoli.
Mushrooms.
Add spices while it comes to a boil. Turmeric, Masala, coriander, cumin, whatever! Just do it Indian, just do it right. I usually coat the top. Then mix and taste.
Simmer until the broccoli is how you like it. Maybe 10 minutes.
Add sliced almonds in the last 5 minutes.
This dish gets better the next day.

CILANTRO WITH SOME TUNA
Take three cans of white tuna, drain them and put them in a big bowl.
Mix with a handful of fresh cilantro, a little bit more than seems appropriate.
Chop a little less than half a medium white onion.
One thick scallion stem.
One and a half carrots chopped into little pieces.
One big celery stem chopped thoroughly.
Hunky teaspoon of chopped garlic (I use a jar cause I like the juice.)
Dash or 3 of soy sauce.
Squeeze and entire lemon but first cut into 4ths and remove the pits.
Salt and lots of pepper to taste.
When it's all mixed and tasted, but take a chunk of Mayo, maybe a tablespoon, and mix it in there.

Test it out with a Wheat Thin, it's freaking awesome. Because of the excessive amount of chopping it takes approx 20-30 minutes. (While chopping, watch out for jumping carrot chunks, especially if you have a Beagle whose deepest stare anticipates the blissful moment you drop any morsel.) But! If you have a food processor then it will take ten, but know that you are an artful sellout with no cutlery skills. Oh and wear gloves, your hands won't soon forget the tuna, the scallion and onion.



GOOD TIMES DURING THE GREAT DEPRESSION
Preheat oven 400.
Start up some rice. I use long grain, wild rice organic crap, but use whatever rice makes you happy. While the rice is starting:
Cut a medium butternut squash in half (serrated bread knife is best), remove seeds, and place it cut side up on a pan.
I make a bunch of slits in the squash and place thin slices of butter on those slits.
Over the whole piece the thin slices end up covering 65% percent of the squash. Then I drizzle honey and sprinkle salt and brown sugar so it sticks to the honey.
Add cinnamon if you are feeling adventurous and sexy.
Bake in the oven for about 30-40 minutes. I usually see the edges start to brown and blacken. Then we are ready! Turn oven off.
Rice usually takes 45 minutes and in the last 6 minutes, steam up a veggie and throw it on top of the rice.
Usually only a half of the squash is necessary. The whole dish needs salt and pepper. Squeeze some lemon on the broccoli...always, no matter what dish.
I served this with a side salad containing leaf lettuce, half an avocado, a tomato, fresh cilantro, 1 celery stick, a chopped scallion, and chopped red onion. Squeeze some lime, salt and pepper and it doesn't need any other dressing. Salad tasted better the next day as a leftover!

SOL Y SOMBRISA
You should have half a b.squash and some rice left over. Here is what I did:
Peeled a gala apple, chopped it into thick slices and then chunks. Threw it in a small saucepan.
Covered it with water (I eyeballed it but the apples were sticking above it like 50 %.) Put the heat on. Then sprinkled honey, cinnamon, and a lot of brown sugar. Unfortunately I have no measurements for these. I let it boil then simmer.
While it is simmering, I took the left over rice and put it in a medium saucepan with a splash of water.
I added maybe two tablespoons of black beans, some mushrooms, garlic herb seasoning, salt and pepper. All to taste. I started out on medium heat but then just kept it at low...we don't want the rice to stick to the bottom of the saucepan.
Keep mixing the apples periodically until the brown sugary water begins to coagulate a little and the apples darken.
Cut up the left over squash into smaller chunks, almost mush like, and throw them in. Add salt and pepper and let all the juices and flavors absorb. The whole process I believe takes 20 minutes. Definitely not over half an hour. This is one of those meals that can be kept on the stove on a low low heat absorbing flavor while you peruse Facebook, catch up on our New Yorker articles, or say, write a blog post.
(About the title. I tend take on a severely Latina persona when I am cooking, maybe it's the Spanish translation Post-Its on all the kitchen utensils, maybe it's the strength of social stereotypes. I don't know.) Anyway, the brightness of the apple/squash dish beautifully contrasts the darker earth tones of the black bean/mushroom/rice. We have in one dish: things that grow on trees, on roots, on vines above the ground, under the ground, and in water. They all meet in our belly.

Sometimes there is nothing more relaxing than handling food. For some reason, the BEST stress relief is cutting celery. There should be a therapy program that involves chopping celery all day.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Real excerpts from watching Men's Figure Skating last night on my couch with my boyfriend (I'm sorry for this MJ)


"THAT is some beautiful skating."
"He is just a pleasure to watch."
"Yeah, the younger guys were just point-to-point. There is a fluidity here."





"Oh my god he deserved better than THAT. He just skated his heart out."
"We'll see where he's at in 2014."






"Oh he's just dead."
"He's just gettin' through it."
"He wants to to end."
"He wants to go home."










"Do the quad, do it for America." (This was said without satire or irony. I was being serious.)
And he went for the triple
"Awwww, come on. It's the Olympics for Christ's sake."
"The triple was clean. If he keeps it clean like that he'll be on that podium."






"He looks like a hitman."
"Or blonde Adrian Brody."

Monday, February 15, 2010

I just had ribs.

When I work everyday, OH man how the 'Blues suffers. And when I am so busy I can't nurture these binary codes that express my inner thoughts and tendencies, THAT is when I am inspired most.

It's late now, but I have to share the recent acknowledgment of how much I love this city:

Just one of those few days. Maybe it's because I am reading a good book. When I am reading a good book I walk around this city with the flush only shared by young girls in nascent affairs with dashing men. Or like getting new prescription lenses that for a few days actually surprise you every morning as you say, "By GOD! What a clear, sparkling world we live in." What book is this? Post to follow soon... I am trying to elongate the end of the book by taking subway rides with people and reading articles on the internet. Facebook. Etcetera. I have been celebrating Carnaval and Chinese New Year with people displaced and missing home. But I am home, and I'm a lucky dog.

Sunday I ran in the park, 9 miles with MJ. Every time I run I see someone I know. In this gargantuan city... I see someone I know. After a day of work, I went to Whole Foods got a bunch of snacks and snuck them into Lincoln Plaza Cinema to see Broken Embraces. Perfect Valentine's Day movie of heartache and love and Penelope Cruz's PHENOMENAL breasts. The movie has the best sex scene since 300; the lighting director must have a resume saturated with artsy porn. Remember when I ripped apart John Irving for being redundant in his work and metafictionalizing his life and career to the point of nausea? How on earth, then, did Almodovar do the same thing (repeated plot, references to film making, personalized stock characters, etc) and it be BRILLIANT?! The answer, I suspect, lies in Penelope Cruz's breasts.


Monday, after a full day of work of course, I traveled downtown to Yoga to the People and took the 6pm Vinyasa Flow, which is 60 minutes of people making ridiculous breathing noises that sound somewhere between people orgasiming, lifting file cabinets filled with divorce papers, and snoring (and I don't mean light-adorable-boyfriend snoring, or even Dad's-low rumble-of-a -nore, I mean deviated-septum-veteran-back-from-war snoring.) Yoga to the People, for a SUGGESTED donation of 5 dollars, gives a solid hour of intense, active yoga, a sense of community, and entertainment. I feel floaty and gumby for an hour afterward.

From the lighted hubbub of St. Mark's to the strange desolation of Allen St. on the LES (A feeling that the neighborhood can't shake, despite its recent spate in ribald hipsters and over-all poshness. There is just something in the layout of the streets: wide yet absent of illuminating headlights. Bifurcating housing project islands named after the famous Jews that exodized their people into boroughs and cul-de-sacs, offering the current constituency two promises, the first: Yes, you will get out of here. The second: There will ALWAYS be another group to replace you). Anyway, Rockwood Music Hall stands as one of the coolest music venues I have ever been to. Small, with tables to make an effort towards a lounge atmosphere, the cozy space plays approximately 6 or 7 bands every weeknight for free. FREE.

We got there at 9 (I would have gotten there earlier if anyone had remotely told me about how awesome it is) to see an old friend of MJ's Joe Thompson. Joe is simultaneously from Northwestern Pennsylvania and the Heart of Darkness...wait I mean Texas. Heart of Texas. He had one of those voices that make you want to jump on stage and stop him in the middle of his set:

"Excuse me, but what are you doing here?"
"Tryin' to play my gee-tar for y'all"
"You realize you should be opening the CMAs?"
"There's many miles on life's highway."
"Schmoosin' with LeAnn and Faith!"
"We are all where we're at."
"Covering Patsy with Carrie!"
"Sometimes the wind blows against ya."

The steel guitar pedalist was phenomenal, and did NOT fit the common understanding of what a steel guitar pedalist should look like. He looked 16 and was wearing a Mets hat. I will be seeing Joe Thompson again. I hope on a bigger stage.



Kojo Mojido Sun must have been chosen to go next simply because of the hilarious juxtaposition. All black, (except for one ethnically ambiguous guitarist) hailing from Harlem, NY, the lead singer/keyboardist must have been over 350 and was wearing a t-shirt with a bedazzled skull-and-crossbones. Nice. His voice has the excessive smoothness of butter on velvet. Right before the set began he took a step back in what looked like a meditative self-collection, small benediction to God. When he breathed out I prepared for something divine. He leaned toward the mike, "I just had ribs."

From that moment on, I was inundated with the vibrations and harmonies of Soul Rock, the unique genre whose influences are more varied than the 5 dollar CD bin at Walmart. However one influence both MJ and I came up with was it sounded like something that could have been on the Hair soundtrack. When they finished their set, I almost asked him what church he attends on Sundays. I want Soul Rock in my life.



Quantcast

New York on a Monday night in the snow with my amazing friends and great music. This giant Rock of a city has definitely got some Soul.








Tuesday, February 9, 2010

snow day dreams



Tomorrow there may be snow. The possibility of a minor pause in the universe (or at least New York) where everyone softens, eases on responsibility, understands the fellow man, ("Well, the weather..."). Before the Brooklyn Bridge connected the borough's commuters to their downtown offices, the suits would travel by ferry. On foggy days, people were expected to be late. It was alright. It was foggy. We are all subject to weather. But if man can take a bunch of wires and have them carry the weight of New York for 70 years, become a international symbol of American ingenuity, and muse an infinite amount of poetry and art then man can be on time.

But on a snow day, New York is subject to the weather. Even if it is just 6 inches. Because if this city can proginate the motion picture industry, and host the thousands upon thousands of Broadway shows, Off, off, off broadway theater, avant garde performance, improve comedy, high school productions of Godspell...then this city can be dramatic over a couple of inches of snow.

So tomorrow, in the quiet of your classroom, or your job...When everyone is commenting on the empty chairs of those who didn't make it 'cause "well, the weather..." And when people around you are drawn to the window creating pensive silhouettes, and everyone is talking in a lower voice. Grab a hot chocolate and indulge in something beautiful.

Like Neruda:

Verbo

Voy a arrugar esta palabra,
voy a torcerla ,
sí,
es demasiado lisa,
es como si un gran perro o un gran río
le hubiera repasado lengua o agua
durante muchos años.

Quiero que en la palabra
se vea la aspereza,
la sal ferruginosa
la fuerza desdentada
de la tierra,
la sangre
de los que hablaron y de los que no hablaron.

Quiero ver la sed
adentro de las sílabas:
quiero tocar el fuego
en el sonido:
quiero sentir la oscuridad
del grito. Quiero
palabras ásperas
como piedras vírgenes.



Verb


I’m going to wrinkle this word,
I’m going to twist it,
yes,
it is much too flat
it is as if a great dog or great river
had passed its tongue or water over it
during many years.

I want that in the word
the roughness is seen
the iron salt
The de-fanged strength
of the land,
the blood
of those who have spoken and those who have not spoken.

I want to see the thirst
Inside the syllables
I want to touch the fire
in the sound:
I want to feel the darkness
of the cry. I want
words as rough
as virgin rocks.


Translated by T.M. Lauth


Or this friend of MJ's Koury Angelo, a photographer I recently I have now be-fanned:






Friend his on Facebook to see more pictures of New Orleans and LA. The whole album is phenomenal.

I sometimes get lost for hours here. There is something calming about watching old silent films. Combined with a snow day may induce coma. Awesome. A snowma.

Happy Snow Day. Add another marshmellow. Cheers from the 'Blues.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

I need to make shorter posts.

AN AMAZING POST TODAY FOR YOUR SUNDAY DELIGHTS!

FILM! MUSIC! HIGH BROW LITERATURE! LINGUISTICS!

STORIES OF DEBAUCHERY!

THE WONDERS OF THE INTERNET!

& A PAINTED ELEPHANT!

We have a lot of ground to cover as evident from my introduction. I got a lot of positive response back about Gainsbourg, mostly: "Hey you forgot to write about...etc." It is true. I forgot to mention her amazing role in Todd Haynes' 2007 film (arguably about Bob Dylan), I'm Not There, a movie that I was afraid of admitting I loved, since one must hold back enthusiasm in order to maintain street cred on the hipster-intellectual circuit. Well I cried during the movie, downloaded the soundtrack and talked about it constantly. Learned them all on guitar. I remain on the fringe. Which is kind of a weird place. On the fringe of left of center. I'm either back in the middle, or crazy. Take a bite of your Sunday morning eggs and think about that.

Gainsbourg is also in Antichrist. I have heard the beginning of this movie is unbearable. I have seen the faces of people who have seen this movie, and to correlate with past claims, I will only go to a movie if it is a 3D extravaganza, preferably a feel-good cartoon...I mean animated film.

Most importantly, Gainsbourg is being featured in a film series, Charlotte Forever at the FIAF. I got free tickets from a loyal 'Blues fan (God that would be so much cooler if Emily and I didn't grow up together). This Tuesday I will be going to see Amoureuse, or Lover, where a young girl, Marie, becomes the "object of infatuation of an older man." I can't imagine relating to this film in any way. ;)

MUSIC: Midlake and Frightened Rabbit, two PHENOMENAL bands from Texas and Scotland respectively, duke it out for my affections.
Midlake walks away with its tail between its legs probably to the soundtrack of one of the band's mellow, morose, and yes, boring, songs. They haven't changed their sound, they have just taken it down a couple of notches, dangerous move for an already placid band. (This is coming from a girl who started a mini-religion out of The Trials of Van Occupanther.) Maybe I will find another, "Branches" on their upcoming album, The Courage of Others, but "Acts of Man" is like eating lamb without the shawarma:



Music press kits
Quantcast

And GLORIOUS in the other corner, with raised red gloves, and the Saltire waving brilliantly in the background, stands Frightened Rabbit. I don't need to write anything...just watch and listen, Grasshopper:


Frightened Rabbit on MUZU

MOVING ON...



John Irving's Last Night in Twisted River. A 500+ page fictionalized homage to all his past work. Car accidents, death of children, New England, awkward mistakes that lead to humorous tragedy, runners, cooks, physical deformity, meta-writing, large disparity in age with sexual relationships, there is so much more. A theme is ghosts, maybe Irving is being haunted by the Garps, Meanys, Annual Widows, Abortion doctors, and Circus Sons of the past. A better theme is the circular nature of literature that at the same time is constantly erasing the past. Irving faces his own mortality as a writer. As transient as the sediment at the bottom of the river. The loggers that work on the river and live in these small isolated New England communities are on the road to obsolescence, but the core of humanity will remain the same and only change over thousands of years. LIKE A RIVER. I GET IT. Or maybe he is just recycling these old ideas because he can. He is John Irving. He is like the Walmart of great authors. If you want an amazing read (great sex scenes): A Widow For One Year. Read it. On a plane. Headed toward Amsterdam. Nice.

MOVING ON...

Sad news. Boa Sr died. Boa was about 85 years, nobody is sure. The people of her home in the Andaman Islands off the coast of India are in mourning. With her dies the Bo language. The linguists are already making a huge deal over this because the ancient Andaman languages and people are at the origins of humanity and language itself and now we have lost a vital piece of this pre-Neolithic culture. Boa was forced to learn Hindi, which she didn't catch onto so well. Therefore after the death of her parents, she spent the rest of her life alone inside her own head. This is why themes like isolation have to be fictionalized into the Scarlett Johanssons of Lost in Translation. And authors like Irving have to write fiction about fiction about fiction in order to get to the heart of being rendered obsolete. The real life story of Boa is so goddamn tragic, I can't handle it. Can I make that a career? "Hey, my name is Lizzie, I'm a Languange-saver." No. A Savior of Languages. Better.

"Boa lived in a concrete and tin hut provided by the government and survived on state food rations and a pension of about 500 rupees (£6.80) a month." (Daily Mail) There is another tribe, the Sentinelese, who have ban contact with the outside world. You may remember them from that meem picture that went around a while ago of tribal people shooting arrows at a helicopter. I would post the picture, but they deserve some bloody dignity.

Here is what a lost language sounds like:


MOVING ON...

I just felt so overwhelmingly sad, I think I might forgo the tales of debauchery. OK in a nutshell: Dad's birthday last Thursday. We went to The Ginger Man on 36th and 5th, a special place in my life. Great view of the Empire State. MJ met us there for dinner and barley wine. Then we went over to BB Kings to see Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Amazing concert. Their voices were so perfectly harmonious, they sounded pre-recorded. MJ said it best, "It strips away all your cares and worries." Of course, here it is:



Last night Emily and Will and Joe hosted a wine-tasting party with 12 amazing wines, and a group of smart, schnazzy, well-dressed people living it up in Inwood. There was stuffed mushrooms made with sherry, kick-ass smoked Parmesan, veggie tempura with a wine batter, homemade fennel seed rolls, and chocolate brownie cake with a port-dressing. Some of those wines were so great and I can't remember a single one. Perhaps one was called, Legado, from Argentina? Well, I do know that MJ was dancing like crazy to Lady Gaga by the end of the night. We are all paying for our bacchanalian revelry today.

OK someone help me out with that wine list. I'll try to post the videos, if I can get a camera chord.





Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Meta-blogging

I blog my random thoughts on the 'Blues.

I blog my workouts on Socialworkout.com.

I have 518 photos on Facebook (and that doesn't include the ones from college I deleted).

I record my opinions, my thoughts, my biological functions (running log), people know where I am, who I identify myself as, what I am thinking and feeling at certain moments.

Somehow, I maintain a lot of privacy. Maybe I will write a book to expose all of that too.

In such an absurdly positive way I don't think it detracts from my soul, the way American Indians thought photographs depleted the soul. Rather, I am Geronimo in the Cadillac:



After this picture, I feel no need to explain the parallel between me blogging and the opportunistic sell-out step that many Native Americans took in order to survive the rape of their culture, and the less-talked-about ease with which they embraced new fun technology, like guns, while never relinquishing their traditions like fringe leather. If you ever want a fun day that will spin your head around, go to any Native American "function"/"Pow-wow." You're not American if you haven't checked it out. Buy some moccs. Let's just say I have been to the original Pueblo in Taos of the Tiwa natives. One of them sold me an anklet. He was from Jersey. I think there is a blog post about that somewhere in the archives.

I read this article Lauren gave me on the best blogs on the Internet. Probably the Voice I guess. Anyway, they are all community based. Forgotten New York, Queenscrap, Brooklyn Vegan (wow I just made that last one up because I was too lazy to find the article, but it actually exists...of course it does. http://www.brooklynvegan.com/). All of these focused on some little aspect and all the full time work of the blogger. What do they have that the 'Blues doesn't? Focus? Consistency? Relevance that to their constituency. Little old Bliss Street Blues is anathema to success, but I am committed to my hodgepodge. Besides my last post was about the French. If that doesn't draw in readers, I don't know what will.

One day, the 'Blues will blossom into its own URL. One day if her author can lay off the drink and get some focus.

Nice.

Here is a Time article on the best blogs of 2009.