Piece by Piece

The space next to my office houses a lot of different art exhibits, but the most recent one was my favorite. It displayed the work of Sean Kenney, a Lego Certified professional. That's a thing.

Orchids at the entrance

Some of the sculptures were tiny.

Some, like this scale model of the Brooklyn Bride, were huge.

Visitors could create their own sculptures, too.

Some of the best by walk-ins.

Wall mural

Models photographed for a Lego alphabet book

According to the brochure, this xylophone really works and sounds terrible.

This model of Times Square had working lights and screens. The detail on the street was incredible, and included people sitting at tables under umbrellas, a double-decker tour bus, and the Naked Cowboy. 

Detail of the Les Miserables billboard - rather like an impressionist painting!

More Times Square - look at the McDonald's and the newspaper racks next to the cab!

Self-portrait of the artist

 To see more of his work, visit www.seankenney.com.

Mapling

I have a very clear memory of a scene in a novel I read as a child: Sometime in the 1800's or early 1900's, a character and his/her family are invited to a nearby farm to help their friends make maple sugar. The main character, a child, stays up most of the night running around in the snow with friends, standing by bonfires, and smelling the sweet, sticky scent of maple syrup as his/her father helps to feed the fires and keep it boiling away. I can't remember the book or even the name of the character, but it sounded like a pretty good time. This memory is probably what inspired this California girl to want to visit a maple farm someday, and now that I live on the East Coast I decided to jump on the chance over the weekend. It was, after all, Maple Week. (You did celebrate Maple Week, didn't you?) I found a farm only an hour away from the city, rented a car, and enlisted Ed who kindly told me it was a good idea and that he'd enjoy the trip. Was he being honest? I didn't care. I had a travel buddy and was ready to get my maple on.

 Sunday turned out to be one of the nicest days we've had so far in 2013. It was in the high 40s - imagine! - and there wasn't a snowflake in sight. Alas, as Ed and I drove upstate, things got colder. The sun shone just as brightly though, and I enjoyed dusting off my sunglasses and actually wearing them for the first time in (seriously) months. We arrived at Niese's Maple Farm after a pleasant drive and found parking not far from the entrance.

Ed makes a friend

I have to say that the experience, while very enjoyable, was somewhat disappointing. This is more due to my failure to research than anything; Niese's offerings are pretty limited. Ed and I dragged our feet as we wandered around to try to stretch out the visit, but even so we'd seen about all there was to see within 20 minutes. We could easily have accomplished this in 10. The farm consisted of a three-walled shed that housed a pancake buffet, a small picnic area, a muddy goat pen housing three of the largest goats I'd ever seen, a wood carving area in which a lumberjack-ish man was carving a bear out of a log with a chainsaw, a giant, caged rooster, a rabbit in a wet hutch, and a wooden shack that was half gift shop and half "sugar house." All of this was packed into a pretty small plot of land surrounded, as you'd imagine by trees. It was very pretty and the hired guitarist and crowds of kids running around gave the whole place a festive air. But it was small. 

The artist at work

The sugar house (behind the tractor)

We went into the crowded gift shop first to make inquiries and, since we were already in there, buy some goodies. We ended up with three pint bottles of Grade A Dark Amber syrup (one for us and two for gifts) and a maple candy, shaped like a leaf and made of pure sugar. Ed recalls loving them when he was younger, and when we at it later it melted in our mouths. The store also sold jams, preserves, jars of honey, baked goods, and lots of the cheesy country kitch that middle-aged women love to fill their homes with. We paid for our syrup and learned that we could visit the sugar house next door for more information.

A man whose overalls could barely contain his pot belly was holding court in the crowded space. It was hard to hear him over the live music outside, but as people filtered in and out we worked our way closer and got to hear more. The embroidered nametag on his coat said "Glenn." Ah, Glenn Niese, the lord of the manor! He didn't seem to have an established speech; he simply fielded questions as they came. This resulted in a rather disorganized flow of information.

This is where the magic happens

I learned quite a bit about maple syrup, however, and liked Glenn, though was decidedly rough around the edges. He told us about drilling holes into trees using a battery-operated drill and inserting spiles (plastic things with points to go into the tree on one side and a spout on the other). Gone are the days of quaint buckets hanging from the trees; instead, plastic tubing goes from tree to tree and leads, eventually, to the sugar house. A tree must be at least 40 years old before it can be tapped. Some larger trees can accommodate more than one spile, but too many can harm the tree; a good sugarman doesn't want to take more than 10% of the tree's sap. When the weather freezes, then thaws, the sap moves in waves, causing (according to Glenn; Ed was skeptical of this figure) 32 pounds of pressure. This drives the sap through the spile and into the tube, and is so strong that the sap can even run uphill! Into the house the sap goes, where it is heated to a precise temperature in a big vat-this varies according to barometric pressure and must be tested constantly-to boil off 98% of the water. (Cords of wood are not necessary now that gas fuel is available.) That means that it takes 40 gallons of sap to produce one gallon of maple syrup! The fact that the sap only runs out of the trees this efficiently during a short period in early spring is the reason that maple sugar farms run nearly 24 hours a day during this time of year: This is their one shot at making enough syrup to earn them a year's worth of revenue. We also learned about the different grades of syrup. Contrary to what I assumed, lower grades do not mean lower quality, just darker color and more flavor. Some people really prefer B grade over A grade, and there didn't seem to be much difference in price.

Trees being tapped

Eventually, now experts on the maple trade, Ed and I slipped out to look for flowing sap. We didn't have far to go; trees along the perimeter of the visitor area were roped together with plastic tubing. Close examination showed, to my dismay, that nothing seemed to be happening. Apparently the day had been too warm for too many hours for the sap to keep running. But then, to my delight, we saw a bit of what looked like water inside one of the tubes! It was hard to believe that this clear liquid could really be maple sap, though. Wasn't sap dark and viscous? But then Ed spotted a small crack in the pipe with a droplet hanging from it. He wet his finger and then stuck it into his mouth and I followed suit. I was thrilled to discover a hint of sweetness on my tongue! I went back for several more drips before thoroughly convincing myself that this was the real thing.

The drop we tasted (hard to see - the camera kept focusing on the tree in the background).

Satisfied, Ed and I turned to leave. There was a hay ride, though we decided not to wait in line to ride in a bumpy cart pulled by two huge Clydesdales. Instead, we had lunch at a local barbecue joint and drove back to the city, smelling deliciously like hickory smoke. And we had pancakes for dinner, topped off with tasty, fresh maple syrup.

I'm hoping that someday I find myself living on a property with the right kind of maple tree, as I'd love to try this process on the stove for myself. Planting a maple tree for this purpose is out of the question, however; if I got one in the ground today, I wouldn't be able to insert a spile until I was 70!

My Brother The Devil

I get a lot of emails from the Sundance Institute. Mostly they go straight into the trash bin - do I really want to attend a reading in Chicago? - but last week I got one that caught my eye: There was going to be a free screening of a film in NYC that I'd wanted to see this January at the festival! Dad and I had both thought My Brother The Devil looked intriguing (in spite of its somewhat unwieldy title) but either couldn't get tickets or couldn't find a showing at a time that worked for us - can't remember which. So I was very pleased to head to the Dolby Screening Room on the East Side for a second chance. Often, Sundance is one's only chance to see some of these films, as many of them don't get picked up by distributors. Brother had, though, and the writer/director (Sally El Hosaini) and leading actor (James Floyd) were introduced by the president/CEO/something important from Paladin Films. Their intro was brief, and then the lights dimmed and I settled into my plush seat (far from Sundance both geographically and atmospherically, there were no folding chairs here) and settled in to watch the film.

Mo and Rash

It was not at all what I expected, but I really loved it and highly recommend it. It's a story about a pair of brothers, Rashid and Mohammed (Rash and Mo) who live in a rough part of London called Hackney. Typical of the Brits, their neighborhood is called an estate, though on this side of the pond we'd call it the projects. Mo desperately wants to be like Rash, a tough guy who runs with a local gang and sells drugs. On can't help but like Rash, though. He's a nice guy (in once scene he sneaks his mother's wallet out of her purse to secretly place money into it instead of taking money out) and seems pretty smart. Rash attempts to keep Mo out of the gang, but Mo wants in desperately. Then a feud with a rival gang gets ugly, unleashing a series of sometimes predictable and sometimes completely surprising events. I won't give anything else about the plot away, because I think just about everyone should see this movie. In the beginning, the thick accents and crazy slang were difficult to understand, but I got into the rhythm of the dialogue pretty quickly and had no trouble once I was about ten minutes into the film. The acting was superb, and the interesting relationship between the two brothers and their parents, as well as the setting and a few other twists prevented this from feeling like a typical gangland movie. The best part, though, was the cinematography. I'd like to watch this film again and pay attention to the shooting when I'm not sucked into the plot, but engrossed as I was, I loved the editing, camera angles, and use of color. I wasn't the only one impressed either; there were plenty of questions and admiring comments in the post-show Q and A about the shooting, and the film also won Sundance's award for best cinematography. (El Hosaini says she likes Gus Van Sant's work and loved the shooting in The Fighter and Tree of Life as well.)

The film was too good to walk out of even for a few minutes, which was really a pity as I'd drunk a cup of coffee and quite a bit of water before heading to the theater. The second the end credits began to roll,  therefore, I seized my purse and made a quick dash to the exit, causing me to almost knock over the El Hosaini and Floyd as they entered the theater. Flustered by surprise and distracted by thoughts about my bladder, I blurted out something breathless about the film being phenomenal and continued my sprint. I heard a bemused, British "thank you" coming from behind me. 

El Hosaini with the stars of her film

I made it back to my seat in plenty of time for the Q and A, which was fascinating, though I think I'd have had plenty of food for thought if I'd just seen a picture of the director and actor speaking to the audience. El Hosaini was an almost dumpy, very pleasant and clean-cut woman with glasses and a pink scarf. She looked to be in her 30's and did not have a single face tattoo - hardly the sort of person who'd write a convincing script about hardened gansters. Floyd, who'd played Rash in the movie, wore a baby blue scarf and glasses and his longish haircut made him look much younger. It also made him look like the sort of person I could beat in an arm wrestling match, whereas I'd have been scared to look cross-eyed at his character in the film. We learned that El Hosaini, a former Hackney resident herself, spent six years working on the script for the film, attending several Sundance script workshops along the way. In contrast, the film took only 28 days to shoot, a ratio she likened (using Floyd's analogy) to a boxer who trains and trains for a big match but then has to be ready for the unpredictability of the ring. Because of her low budget (650,000 pounds, which is nothing to sneeze at but isn't much for a film), they had to use natural light wherever possible instead of hauling in lots of expensive equipment for illumination, and they had to work around the London riots, which were going on all around them during the shoot. She also saved money by hiring locals for many of the roles, a decision that was more artistic than financial. Mo (played by Fady Elsayed), a fantastic screen presence, had never acted before in his life and was spotted by a scout at a local mall when El Hosaini wasn't happy with the applicants she'd seen for the role. He was hired two days before filming began. Floyd was one of the only professional actors in the film. As a method actor, he lived on the estate for five months with the local youths before shooting began. In fact, Elsayed did not meet the real James Floyd until shooting wrapped; he interacted only with Floyd in the role of Rash. Elsayed said he wasn't so sure he liked him at first because Floyd, as Rash, kept putting him in headlocks and roughhousing with him the way an older brother would. I was amazed to hear that most of the characters in the film were not actors; El Hosaini must have done a brilliant job of preparing them. They were professional and believable, and I hardly felt that there was a camera between us in some scenes. 

I'd assumed that much of the dialogue was improvised, but, amazingly, Floyd said that virtually every word, even the long diatribes made up entirely of fast, nearly incomprehensible slang, were scripted. Apparently during her research on the estate, El Hosaini struck up a friendship with a young man who ended up playing the character of Repo in the film, and he served as a sort of script consultant. She said learning the slang was much like learning a second language, and she sent draft after draft of the script to this guy who ripped it to shreds until it sounded authentic. 

One statement she made was particularly resonant to me: El Hosaini said she visualized the brothers' relationship as being sort of like a double helix, like a strand of DNA. This is appropriate because they're related, of course, but she envisioned them as sort of spiraling around each other. When the script was finished, she and one of her colleagues actually graphed the emotional states of each brother at each moment throughout the film and found that almost without fail, when Rash was on a high, Mo was low, and vice versa. They ended up balancing each other perfectly throughout the film, and El Hosaini achieved this balance almost subconsciously. To me, this is the sign of good writing: important trends and connections happen organically and only later does a writer look back and realize what he/she's created. I had a lit teacher in college who talked that way about symbolism. Some authors, she said, seem to mix in symbols the way you'd dump chocolate chips into cookie dough, whereas others' use of symbolism seems to grow from the work itself so that it's an intrinsic part of the structure, and without it everything else would fall apart. 

Although I imagine few of you will have the opportunity to experience this film the way I did, I can't recommend it highly enough. It's showing around New York City now, so check theaters near you or look for it on Netflix. If you don't like it, I'll let you beat me at arm wrestling. 

Off-the-Couch Race

(Disclaimer: I am not in any of the pictures below - I copied them from Google. Don't waste time looking for me. Ed was a wonderful support crew, but he was not a photographer.) 

I've been a bit burned out on running since the "marathon" in November. All those months of hitting the same running trails over and over again added up to make me pretty blasé about the prospect of going out there yet again. I've been taking an interval class at the gym, but the workouts are short and fast instead of long. This is perhaps why I like it, but it was doing little to prepare me for the upcoming NYC Half-Marathon. 

See how these fans are dressed? It was that cold.

 This is one of the most fun races of the year, and it has extra significance to me because it's the race that got me back into running regularly when I first did it a few years ago. It's very tough to get into, but Ed and I both entered the lottery last year. In January, we found out that I'd gotten in and he hadn't. Having a race looming ahead is usually all the motivation I need to get training, but it didn't happen that way this year. I put it off and put it off, attending my sprinting class but not really putting in any distance. Finally, two weeks before the race, I did in a ten-mile run. Because I spent the next weekend skiing, that would end up being the longest, and last, training run for me.

The starting corral

Sunday morning, Ed, bless him, got up at 5:30 with me. I groaned as he read me the forecast: It would be 27 degrees when the gun went off at 7:30. I actually like running in the cold, but waiting for a race to start in the cold is another matter. We headed to Central Park and Ed waited with me next to the starting corrals which were filling with runners. We were supposed to go into the corrals by 7:00, but I didn't manage to do it until 7:10 because I didn't want to take off my down coat. (I even did a warm-up jog wearing it, fur hood bouncing all the way.) Finally, though, I could put it off any longer and reluctantly handed my coat to Ed and joined my fellow runners. I was shivering within moments but felt lucky that I had Ed to take my coat at the last minute; others had to check their baggage all the way on the other side of the park and then make their way over to the corrals without outer layers. Oh, and you know how the super-fast runners in these races are always wearing shorts and singlets when everyone else behind them is bundled up? Do not be fooled - the rest of us are not wimps. Ed saw a bunch of them piling out of a heated trailer minutes before the race began! Cream puffs.


We stood around for 20 minutes until, finally, the race began. The course makes a counter-clockwise loop around Central Park (6 miles), then turns onto 7th Avenue. We headed south to 42nd Street (right through Times Square!) where we turned west until we hit the Hudson River. Then there was one more turn, south, so that we were headed toward the tip of Manhattan. The last bit of the race is a stretch through a long tunnel, and the finish line is near Battery Park. Not only did we run through Central Park and Times Square, we ran through the theater district and by the Freedom Tower and the 9/11 memorial, and ended up with a view of the Statue of Liberty. Pretty cool sights, plus I got the added thrill of running down the middle of the West Side Highway, a move that can only be repeated once a year if one is interested in living to blog about it later.

I felt pretty warm by the time I hit mile 2, though I had to stop for a bathroom break and lost a few minutes. (Curse you, pre-race cranberry juice!) My feet, however, did not thaw out until mile 5! Running on numb toes is very strange. I resolved to hit the water/Gatorade tables every 3 miles and settled into a comfortable pace. I felt pretty good until about mile 10, which is right around when I would have started to feel really tired even if I'd trained - though, of course, I'd have reached mile 10 a lot earlier if that had been the case. At mile 6, I slowed to grab a cup of water and tilted it back. And back. And...back. Nothing happened. Sure I'd seen water in the cup when I grabbed it, I peered inside. Solid ice. The water had completely frozen. I pointed this out to the volunteer at the table, and she and I started examining more cups, searching frantically for one that was not solid. At last, I found one that broke up into icy slivers when I compressed the cup in my hand and made do with that. At least it was...refreshing.

Running through the theater district

Luckily, there was a lot of distraction along the course to keep my thoughts away from my protesting body. There were the usual fans and supporters, and their numbers were bolstered by all the people who managed to be in midtown early in the morning who stopped to cheer us on (or be really annoyed that they couldn't cross the street). There was also musical entertainment in the form of blues and rock bands, individual musicians playing guitars or steel drums, DJs pumping loud beats, one traditional Irish dance group, and my personal favorite, a duet formed by a pink penguin on a xylophone accompanied by a pink gorilla playing the upright base. Since the race was on St. Patrick's Day, there was lots of wearin' o' the green and some green tutus, tights covered with shamrocks, etc. I wore green myself, but I should confess that my winter running jacket is green throughout the season and not just on St. Paddy's Day. And Ed popped up halfway through the race and then again near the end to cheer for me. It was nice of him to bother, considering I had no plans to be impressive.

Around mile 11, I started to feel sharp pains in my left achilles tendon. Oh boy... I pulled over to rub it for a second, and a middle-aged man behind me immediately yelled, "Come on, love! You're so close - you can do it!" as he jogged past. A bit of stretching and prodding seemed to help some, and I made it the rest of the way with more pangs but without major incident. I was immensely relieved to see the finish line, and I crossed it at (I think) 1:54. A far cry from my PR of 1:42, but still not too shabby for someone who's done a single productive training run in the last four months. (My official time is slower than that, but that's because the official time does not take into account the line I had to stand in at the port-a-potty.)

I collected a medal, a disposable thermal heat sheet, and a recovery bag containing water, Gatorade, an apple, and pretzels and then managed to find Ed in the throng. I'm sore today, but really not too bad, incredibly. All in all, it was a really fun race, and I hope I get in again next year. If I do, I just may train for it.

A Chilly, Sporty Weekend

I love winter sports. Skiing, ice skating, and snowshoeing are all my idea of a good time, and I look forward to improving my cross country skiing skills someday. I also love running in winter - the air feels fresher and although I start out chilly I'm toasty warm as soon as my heart rate speeds up. I learned this weekend that some sports are best left for the summer months, however.

Ed and I had decided that we'd go on a bike ride if Saturday's weather was good. Ed was very excited about this and practically dragged me out of bed on Saturday morning. After picking up some essentials at our nearby bike supply store, we set out around noon. The morning had been sunny, if chilly, but now it was overcast. This was my first excursion on Dale, my new road bike. I had never clipped in before, and so navigating the new pedals during mounts and dismounts was tough, particularly taking traffic into account. Luckily, there were only a few blocks between us and a dedicated bike path, and I made it there unscathed, if very jumpy. We rode slowly along the bike path. My fingers were cold and the brakes seemed tough to reach, so I was very nervous about getting going too fast for fear I wouldn't be able to stop quickly. The wheels were so thin that every slight move of the handlebars produced and alarming wobble. I remember thinking that it had been silly to bring a water bottle because I wouldn't have the coordination to retrieve it from its spot in the bracket in a million years. I kept having to tell myself to release my death grip on the handlebars, as my hands and arms were exhausted within minutes due to tightly clenched muscles. But we rode without incident, if slowly, to the turnoff for Central Park. Here is where things got sticky.

To get to the park from the path, we had to ride up a small hill, then along busy 72nd Street. I couldn't remember which gear shifters made things easier vs. harder, so I had to experiment a bit going up the hill and, of course, got it wrong the first time. Experimentation was compounded by the fact that the fingers of Ed's gloves extended about an inch past my own fingertips and kept getting stuck in the shifters. I panicked, lost velocity, nearly rode into a bed of ivy and started to tip. Twisting one's foot is the way to get it out of a clip pedal, and by pure accident this move happened to be my instinct as I was falling. So I managed to sort of catch myself about halfway down instead of landing on the pavement. I walked the bike up the rest of the hill, feeling shaken. This feeling escalated as we rode onto 72nd. Suddenly, we were dodging cars, dogs, pedestrians, potholes, and other bikers. I felt surrounded on all sides and had visions of mowing over some poor, unsuspecting old lady because I couldn't stop in time. Ed told me to ride very close to him, and he put himself between me and traffic, but I was still petrified that someone parked on the shoulder would throw open a driver-side door and wipe me out. Right next to the park, we came to a red light and I pulled my left foot out of the pedal in preparation to set it on the pavement and promptly leaned to the right instead. Foot stuck in the right pedal, there was no way to catch myself. I crashed into a taxi and landed on the pavement. The driver and passengers were very nice and concerned about my welfare, and there was no harm done to the cab, the bike, or me. I walked the bike across the street and remounted, feeling increasingly shaky.

The plan was to do a lap around the park and go back home. I was getting colder, and we started off on a series of slight downhills that felt very fast to me, unsure as I was about my brakes. The wind, something I don't typically contend with when I'm running as I'm going more slowly, was unbelievably cold. As snowflakes started to fall, it hit me that Ed and I had planned to ride if the weather was nice but had failed to confirm that this would be the case. Doh. A few minutes later, I pulled over to warm my hands, which were thoroughly numb. I couldn't stop shivering, and was actually rather pleased when I remounted my bike to see that my handlebars were pointing in a different direction from my front wheel. Easy enough to fix if one has the right tools, but we didn't, and so I was delighted when Ed said that we'd have to head to a nearby bike shop for a fix and more layers for me. Getting to the shop was harrowing, as it involved riding through more traffic, but the blast of warm air that hit me as we walked in was bliss. It stopped feeling warm after a few minutes, though, and I craved a space heater. After standing in the shop for 20 minutes, wearing a new jacket and sipping a coffee Ed had brought me, I was still shivering. My bike had been fixed, but Ed put me in a cab anyway and sent me home, finishing the ride on his own. He returned to find me in a hot bath, watching my toes change from white back to pink.

I am not completely soured on cycling, but I need to practice my mounts and dismounts a lot more before trying to ride in New York, and either buy the right clothes or else not go out again on snowy days.

In contrast to this experience, I ran a 5K on Sunday morning, then an additional 7 miles homeward. It was about 28 degrees when I started and had warmed up to 34 by the time I finished. I was pretty chilly when the race began but perfectly comfortable and happy within half a mile and then all the way home. This race is a fun one, as there are local bands playing everything from the Beatles to the blues to drum line routines situated about every quarter mile. Bundled up runners jogged around me merrily, all of us blowing out clouds of steam and cheerfully wiping watering eyes and running noses. Give me winter running any day. But as far as I'm concerned, the cyclists can have the bike lane to themselves between November and April.

SHERMAN ALEXIE!!! (and Lorrie Moore, too)

After buying tickets to see Sherman Alexie a few months ago, I went on a bit of a binge. I'd devoured his famous The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian several years before, and now scoured the library's catalog and put holds on everything I could find. I ended up reading another young adult novel called Flight, which I enjoyed very much though it was no True Diary, and two short story collections all in a row. I find his writing clever, tender, and insightful, and I was excited to hear him speak, as the interviews I've read have been fascinating. I was so taken with the idea of seeing Alexie that I scarcely noticed Lorrie Moore's name on the ticket as well. The only reason she registered at all was that I'd seen one of her books while browsing through a bookstore ages before and thought it looked interesting. Well, this would be a good opportunity to read it, I reasoned.

I read Moore's acclaimed A Gate at the Stairs while I was home for Christmas, meaning that I got through it much more quickly than I usually finish novels these days. My rapid pace was due, not to absorption in the story, but to a desire to be done with the damn thing so I could start something I liked better. I continue to wonder what everyone else sees in this book that I'm missing. It sold widely and was a finalist for both the PEN/Faulkner Award and the Orange Prize, but I found the story dark without redeeming qualities and heartily disliked its apathetic, dull protagonist.

Our intrepid Symphony Space host B.D. Wong kicked of the evening by warning the audience that if they planned to shock everyone with their own nudity like last time, they should let him know so he could help them at least spread their message a bit more effectively, then made the apt and humorous observation that a radio show was a poor venue for sudden bouts of toplessness designed to shake the public to its core. Those of us who had been in attendance two weeks before laughed with the pride of insiders. He then introduced Alexie and Moore, who have apparently known each other for a long time and are both very fond of Wong. They were clearly very comfortable with each other and seemed somewhat amused by the prospect of jointly hosting an evening in front of an eager audience. Alexie launched into a series of one-liners the moment his feet (shod in rather striking two-tone dress shoes) hit the stage. He wore a grey suit with a plain sweater vest and tie, and his hair was a bit shaggy. I liked him immediately. His round face beamed in a friendly, open way, and he defied every stereotype I've heard (and sometimes seen confirmed) about authors who are better with their keyboards than they are with people. I'd like to play board games with this guy. Moore has long, straight, dark hair and dark framed glasses. She wore a black skirt, black sweater, black tights, and black boots. She, too, was funny, but in a quirky way that seemed almost a bit awkward. I decided I'd be less excited about having her for game night.

First, we were treated to two performances of Alexie's stories, one by Cynthia Nixon and one by Amber Tamblyn. I'd read both stories and enjoyed hearing them immensely. Alexie and Moore had both exited the stage to come sit at the very edge of the front row during the readings, and I enjoyed sneaking peeks at Alexie's face when Nixon or Tamblyn said something especially funny or poignant. He smiled beatifically and thanked each actress after they'd finished. Moore, apparently, has a reputation for being quite a funny writer, and while I didn't see it in Gate, her humor was clearly apparent in her story "The Juniper Tree" which will appear in a story collection she plans to release next year. The story was still dark and the protagonist still (in my opinion) quite unlikable, but actress Jill Eikenberry was hysterical and even performed one character's ludicrous song with perfect deadpan solemnity. Alexie threw his head back and roared at points, and even Moore, who has no doubt read this thing a thousand times, seemed unable to hold it in.

"For Beth, Here at Symphony Space"

The final event of the evening was a conversation between the two authors who perched rather awkwardly on stools (note to self: if invited to partake in a discussion at Symphony Space, wear pants) and looked at each other a bit sheepishly. It was clear that neither of them had prepared any remarks or questions, and the fact that the two have a standing friendship dashed any chance there may have been of a serious literary discussion taking place. I did learn that while Moore is a very slow "book-a-decade" type and works on one project at a time, Alexie always has numerous projects going at once (so that, he explained, if he gets stuck on one he can just move to another, which means he's constantly starting things and never finishing them and has a number of outstanding books for which he's already been paid advances). I also learned that Moore's first published work was a piece she sent to a writing contest at Seventeen Magazine. It won first prize, and because it was the first thing Moore had ever attempted to have published, she was filled with confidence and proceeded to send the magazine everything else she wrote for the next year or two. They never got back to her. Both shared lots of rejection stories, one of which involved a letter to Alexie from a publication (The New Yorker?) that mistakenly included the editors' unadulterated opinions about his story, i.e. the ones he wasn't supposed to know about. One of the editors wondered why Alexie had a career. Ouch. You always hear about how even great authors get rejected constantly, but it was nice to hear them describing this first-hand.

I made a crack about how long the title of his book was and how little space that left him for signings. My message reads, "For Beth, for shaming me about the space available."

For the first time, I was not nervous to approach an author for an autograph - Alexie because he seemed so personable and Moore because I wasn't that blown away by her. Alexie joked with me, and Moore observed that I had a British edition of the book (I did?) and we talked briefly about the cover. I will definitely be on the lookout for additional opportunities to see Alexie. I think I'll save my money when it comes to Moore, however. New York is an expensive place.