RIP Edgar Allen Poe, again. And again. And again.

Apparently nobody showed up at Poe's original funeral, so today, on the 160th anniversary of his death, Baltimore is holding two more.

Coincidentally, I sat in on a lecture by Michael Chabon up at Columbia University a few days ago, titled "I was Edgar Allen Poe" -- as a child, Chabon obsessed over the idea of being the reincarnation of Poe. I learned quite a few things during the talk -- that Chabon is a pretty funny guy, that singer Jeff Buckley did a recording of the ballad Ulalume, and that Poe is considered the first (well-known) person ever to try to make a living solely by writing. And so it follows, from a BBC News article today, that Poe "died an impoverished lunatic at the age of 40. His tombstone was destroyed. An enemy wrote his obituary and damaged his reputation for decades."

P.S. Asked if he had any mantras for when he hit obstacles while trying to write, Chabon answered with several, including: "This is it, this is the one that's going to kill me," "I'm not up to this" and "Help."

Clutter=Frugality=Virtue=NY MOMA. So there.

"My mother's idea is, 'If something is not broken, but we should use again, we can. If we waste them, maybe in the future-future, we have nothing.'" -Artist Song Dong, "Waste Not" exhibition at the MOMA in New York.



So don't give me funny looks when I have the compulsion to save those pink or green biodegradable spoons from Yogurtland. One could argue I'm not only participating in upholding traditional Chinese values, but an exercise in modern conceptual art as well.



Plus, I'm not the only hoarder. From burpandslurp.files.wordpress.com:

366 days, today.

This is an installation for Urban Play Amsterdam (2008) from Stefan Sagmeister's "Things I Have Learned in My Life So Far project." It took eight days, over 100 volunteers and 250,000 Eurocents. Less than a day after it was completed, a local started taking the pennies, and the police, in an effort to "preserve" the artwork, swept up the remaining coins for protective custody.

Addendum.

Egg Tarts and Country Squires

I love this story about the Phoenix Bakery's strawberry cakes in Chinatown, Los Angeles. My friend Betty wrote it, and while she was reporting it a couple of weeks ago, I got a chance to join her and spark a few of my childhood memories. Namely, death-matching with my older sisters in the back seat of the car, parked in the bank lot on Broadway while my parents food shopped. My mom insists we were never left alone, but who's paying attention when you're being tickle-tortured on the floor mat of a Ford Country Squire station wagon? The best memory: Pink boxes carefully tied with string and filled with egg tarts, sesame balls, yellow-sponge and taro cakes.

Surfing at the End of the World

Photography by Jason Green

7 a.m. Woke up, got out of bed, rode my bike to the LIRR and three hours later, double-overhead at the end of the world.

Epic 8.23.09

Wheelers

I was riding up Bergen Street a few weeks ago when these appeared in the horizon. They weaved up and around in fluid, synchronous flocks, sometimes splitting up into groups, sometimes coming all together. That's when a fellow biker pulled up along side me and spontaneously began telling me about this old guy who stands up on his roof, waving his arms around.

"So he just stands up there and conducts the pigeons?"

"Yeah."

And it just gets better and better.