Susan Hwang

It’s that time of the month.  Yes, I’m irritable and angst filled and eating to distraction… because I’m writing a new song.  Sometimes, you have to turn into a horrible person just to get a song out.  I don’t know how other people do it, but that’s my, um, process.  And now I’m single.  But I have this new song to play tonight for Bushwick Book Club, and it’s inspired by Julia Child’s Mastering The Art of French Cooking.  Come see and hear what souffles and omelettes and butter inspire in performance tonight.  It’s making me hungry.

June 25th, 7pm at Barbes in Brooklyn

The Bushwick Book Club takes on its first cook book with a show of new original music in response to Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  It will be a literary/musical feast at our favorite Park Slope venue.

Performers:  Bob Holman (poet, founder Bowery Poetry Club), SPACE MEOW (Dool Chao, Adeline Thery), Susan Hwang, Leslie Graves (GOLD), Casey Holford, Jessie Kilguss, Sophie Malleret and Shannon Pelcher .  Hosted by BBC creator, Susan Hwang.

Wednesday, June 25th, 7pm
Barbes
376 9th St.New York, NY 11215
ph: 347-422-0248
Door: by donation

I saw this at the grocery yesterday.

People don’t have time to toast their own bread anymore.  This is what the world is coming to.  And a soul-less bear with dead eyes is selling it to you.  I don’t trust that bear.  It’s a cartoon zombie, and it might be what you turn into when you finally give in to pre-toasted bread.

Pre toasted bread.  Why don’t they just sell you pre-digested food.  Sliced excrement so you don’t have to make your own.  Look at the brand name “Bimbo.”  See, food for dummies.  No thanks..  I have enough problems without being turned into a cartoon zombie Bimbo.

Also, I was wondering if it means you’ve made it when you can make this face on city advertisements:

Some other examples:

I think it’s supposed to signal that the story is a comedy.  Or it could signal Armageddon or something, I don’t know.  It could be the face that lets the devil know you’re ripe for hell?  The face you make forever in hell.  Maybe something like that.

I got to my desk this morning.  That’s already success right there.  You get up, you grab what fits, you feed your cat and run out the door.  I got to my desk and I looked down and saw this:

Oh..  my ddong peh.  I thought I grabbed clothes that fit this morning, but I grabbed clothes that barely fit, and I seem to have a problem with clothes that stay fastened.  Part of why I’m alive is to wear clothes.  Shoes in particular.  You would think that I’d be better at the details.  Once, I walked into my bosses’ office at Goldman Sachs with my belt unbuckled (so professional).  Another time, my shirt was unbuttoned (same boss).  I once escorted an executive from a European office clear across the trading floor with my dress tucked into my underwear.  I’ve looked down while on the subway train and noticed my shirt dress was unbuttoned just so that my entire navel in addition to ddong peh was exposed.  Last week, carrying my accordion around town, I noticed I was getting funny looks.  I looked down and my shirt was wide open.  I’m a walking Seinfeld episode.

I have no conclusions about this except that apparently my intimidation with physical objects applies to my garments as well.  Listen, I sing songs.  What do I know about appearances.

My friend Steve gave me a wonderful gift recently.  He jury-rigged, macgyvered the door handles of my car with bits of whatnot and copious gorilla glue.  The driver’s side wouldn’t open from the outside, the passenger side from the inside.  Getting in and out of my car has only been increasingly acrobatic and stupid for the last 2 years.  Some of my friends are nice about it and say they enjoy the “quirkiness” of my vintage ’94 hoopty.  I would just grin and bear it and try not to fixate on the latest sign of decay.

When Steve sent me this picture of his handiwork, I was elated.  I told him so.  He asked if there was any sarcasm in that.  I was taken aback that he might think so.  Of course I was sincere.

Don’t you know, that most things in this world get worse, not better?  In particular, cars?  A mechanic told me once, “They’re not like human bodies. If you leave it alone, it’s not going to heal.  If you don’t fix it, it just gets worse.”

So the fact that Steve took the time and care and attention to do this was a huge gift that was not lost on me.  And yes, I understand about cycles and birth and death and rebirth, so I shouldn’t be so sad about things falling apart, but still, I appreciate that this focused application of gorilla glue means you’re willing to act against universal laws of decay and chaos.  It’s a form of love.  And I will take it.  Every time.  It’s a note my heart hears.  It’s a color that it knows.  The fixed door handles, unclogged drains, air conditioner put in, snow off my windshield, enter my heart as a sweet variety of pure love.

Thank you for defying the universal trend toward decay and chaos for me.  Thanks for making something work.  It’s one of the nicest gifts you can give a girl.

I get such a kick every time I pull on that little pig tail curly cue to get into the driver’s seat.  Ha!  Look at that!  It works!

My new roommies both skipped town for the holiday weekend.  I didn’t have any exotic Memorial Day plans, so I’d be home alone.  Luke said, “Behave.”    I’ve lots of experience in all kinds of behavior, so it was hard to decide what to go with.

I was worried that I would collapse into lonesomeness.  I’ve grown a little attached to my new family, but it turned out to be a perfect weekend.  I got to make up for all that alone time I’ve been starved for.  Lots of Chutney bonding time.  I got 3 new songs out of this weekend (the last one is a little dippy, but it’ll serve its purpose).  I rode my bike multiple times.

The morning after a night of depravity looks like this for me:

Yes, I brought the accordion, horn and ukulele down.  Yes, I forced my guests to play songs with me.  Yes, I played the trumpet even though I can’t play the trumpet.

Yes, those are root vegetables.

Yes, I used one of those twirly vegetable “noodle” makers.

No, those noodle makers are no good.  It’s kind of a piece of crap.  Not sturdy, not sharp, gets food stuck in them.  I don’t know why they make things that are crap.  I mean, I write crappy songs sometimes, but they’re songs.  They stop as soon as I shut up.  They collapse into thin air.  Physical crap like those crappy vegetable cutters take up space.  In our homes and then in the landfills.

I managed to take noodle-like shavings of carrots, parsnips, sweet potatoes and yucca and deep fry it all in coconut oil.  I had my head set on deep-frying experiments, so it was this, chicken wings and several accordions (not fried) that night.

2 accordion night is a good night.  2 accordions, plus fried tubers is called a house-warming.

I got a new motto out of that night:

Less crying, more frying!

I couldn’t resist the gratuitous Chutney and pyramids shot.  Those are orgonite pyramids made by the talented Michelle Hood.  You can find out more about those on her site: http://litethelight.bigcartel.com/