Archive for: September, 2010

Kitchen Curtain

Posted: Sep 30 · Comments: 12

Question: What do you do when you have an old twin-sized duvet cover but no twin-sized bed?

Answer: You chop it up and make a curtain!

Even though it’s a veritable mecca for hipsters everywhere, once in a while Urban Outfitters does something I like. For example, the BDG V-Neck Tee. But more importantly, that awesome line of Alexander Girard textiles they sold for a while last year. You remember, don’t you? Well, I do. As soon as they went on sale, I snagged one of the Rain Cut-Out Duvet Covers, a pattern that Girard designed in the 1950s. iPone dorm picture for evidence (complete with the old nightstand before it was a desk! It’s like seeing a ghost.):

I loved that thing, but knew I probably wouldn’t have a twin bed for too long. It’s like I’m psychic. Up until now it was a cheery thing to break out for overnight guests who crash on the couch, but in my experience drunks don’t seem to care terribly much about their linens. So Eva and I went off to IKEA and bought a curtain rod.

I don’t really have a good how-to to offer since I didn’t do the greatest job, to be perfectly honest. This was my first experience with the magic of iron-on hem tape and I accidentally ended up making all of the hems pretty wide and stupid looking– my fault, not the tape’s. But regardless, I’d totally recommend the stuff since it does produce a very smooth hem and spares you from having to deal with things like needles and thread. This is good for people like me, who jam up sewing machines with admirable reliability and historically wrap up any sewing project  with a long nap and a good cry.

Aside from the unattractive hems, I’m really enjoying getting use out of this fabric again and the amount of color it injects into the kitchen.

I’m starting to like the way the kitchen’s coming together. I think the combo of the Orange Glo lamp, the curtain, the wall color, and the shiny chrome knobs is a winner. We actually chose the paint color because the chip looked like a lighter hue of that blue in the curtain, but it actually ended up being a little darker. So the self-mixed color is much closer to what I wanted all along (even though I still think it could be slightly greener). I usually don’t worry about matching shit like that, but I feel like retro kitchens are all about coordination and I’m finding it kind of endearing in there.

Colors are Hard.

Posted: Sep 28 · Comments: 20

There’s this thought I have sometimes. Painting’s not so bad, I tell myself. In fact, it’s kind of fun. It can be relaxing. Just put some music on the old iPod, change into those paint-splattered jeans, and you’re liable for a good time.

What I always seem to forget is that painting is awful. It’s boring, repetitive, messy, and just generally sucks. If somebody tells you they like painting, they’re lying and you shouldn’t trust them. I know– once the tape is down, the touch-ups are completed, and the perfume of volatile organic compounds drifts through the air like a fresh summer evening’s breeze, it’s nice. But I always forget the bummer-fest of getting there. Which is why, while cracking open a can of paint for Eva’s room, I piped up, “Hey, why don’t we just paint the kitchen too? I mean, while we’re at it.”

So off we went to the hardware store, where a color (Benjamin Moore’s “White Rain” in eggshell) was hastily selected and a gallon of paint was bought. I think of choosing paint colors as less of a question of basic ability and more as an acquired life skill, like drag racing or choosing the right jeans for your thighs. Sure, anyone can drive fast or buy a pair of pants, but only some people can do it with warranted self-confidence. It’s something you have to learn through a difficult process of trial and error. So I’m not going to beat myself up about doing this to my wall:

I could pass this off as that thing responsible people (liars) do where they paint samples before springing for the whole gallon, but I’m not going to do that. The only color I actually bought is the one on the far left. I painted one coat on one wall before deciding that it wasn’t something I could live with. It’s not a bad color for an asylum or an androgynous nursery, but it was a bad color for our kitchen. Not wanting to pay for a new gallon, I did something I never thought I’d have the guts or occasion to do: I started mixing. I put various proportions of white ceiling paint and wall paint into a bowl until something better emerged. That “something better” was the second to last color on the right. It’s about 2/3 white paint, 1/3 (not-so-)White Rain.

And after! I like it, I don’t love it. It’s not quite a baby blue (phew), but it’s sort of similar. A little bit greener (the darker hues on the White Rain paint chip are definitely of the green persuasion), and a little bit grey. I wanted something a little greener/greyer without crossing into minty or sage-y territory, but I’m not sure that color actually exists outside of my mind. Also, the Orange Glo light, when illuminated, lends the walls a much greyer tilt (this picture is just sunlight), so that’s something to consider as well. The trim is Benjamin Moore “Simply White” in semi-gloss, in case you were curious.

I’ve talked about it before, but just to be clear: I’m usually all about white paint and more modern colors, but the fugly 80s pink-ish floor, countertops, and cabinets sort of betray any possibility of the kitchen being cool and gorgeous. So the game plan in here is more 50s-60s-70s-mod-and-kitsch. Happy, fun, and sort of cute without being a kitschy mess. If you catch my drift.

And yes, I do have a step ladder hanging on two hooks in the kitchen. I know it’s not the most attractive thing, but I’m really short and our cabinets were built for giants– they go all the way up to our nine foot ceilings, and because it’s a small kitchen we can’t just pretend those top couple of shelves don’t exist. There’s really nowhere else to put it where it’s out of the way, so in plain sight it sits. How postmodern.

I also painted the ceiling, which looks way better, even though it just went from a poorly slapped-on coat of semi-gloss white to a smooth and expertly applied eggshell finish (BM’s off-the-rack “Super White”). It’s always shocking what a difference a fresh coat of paint can make, even if it’s just a variation of the same color.

The Orange Glo ceiling medallion got all caulked up and painted in the process. Also a big difference from before. I love that damn light.

P.S.- Sorry for the lame “after” pictures, but there’s a little (like, teensy) DIY on the other side of the room that I figured warranted its own post. Keep your eyes peeled for that in the next couple days!

Apartment
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Twenty-One.

Posted: Sep 27 · Comments: 17

Laura and I circa 1993

Twenty-one years ago today, the world was graced with the birth of my sister and I.

It’s times like this that I like to reflect on our childhood. Thanks to the modern miracle of Youtube, I recently rediscovered this very large piece of it. Which explains a lot. (Skip ahead to the 3:30 mark, when things really start to pick up. Or, even better, don’t.)

Happy birthday, lil’ sis. You’re every bit as fresh as Little Richard’s wig in this clip, and that’s the damn truth.

Life
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That’s What’s Up: Coney Island Beard and Mustache Competition

Posted: Sep 24 · Comments: 18

Partially as evidence that I actually leave the apartment (well, sometimes), partially to point out design-y stuff outside our cozy walls, and mostly just because I want to, I’d like to start writing occasional posts about some of the other things I enjoy besides the aroma of drying latex paint and the sweet melody of my electric screwdriver. To kick things off, I present to you the annual Coney Island Beard and Mustache Competition.

Aside from being one of my very favorite places in this fine city, Coney Island boasts a pretty cool mix of design elements. Colorful hand-painted signage everywhere, graffiti, extensive use of neon– it’s dazzling. It’s a haphazardly layered testament to 90 years of history, a constant contrast of old and new. At once charming and revolting, it never fails to warm my heart.

I sport neither a beard nor a mustache, but hold a great deal of respect for people who do. Growing one seems like a difficult and humiliating process, a true labor of love. It takes gumption. Which is why, once a year, it’s important to recognize and support these brave pioneers of facial foliage while drinking locally manufactured beer on the southern tip of Brooklyn.

This dude should have won, but he didn’t.

I was enchanted by this couple, and I wish their fetus the best of luck with its hair-growing aspirations.

As a show of support, we donned fake mustaches with the help of some eyeliner. Here I am, applying a trucker-style ‘stache to my friend Emily.

The judges were some of the characters from the daytime sideshow acts, including the sword swallower, an elderly gentleman who looked like Buffalo Bill and performs a lasso act, and, appropriately, the bearded woman. That’s our emcee, Donny Vomit, assisting the sword swallower.

The “Best Natural Mustache” (as opposed to styled mustache) came down to an extremely tense arm-wrestling competition. The guy on the right won, but it was close.

The assorted winners. In the back row: Best Natural Mustache, Best Natural Beard, Best Sideburns, Best Styled Beard, Best in Show. Front row: Best Styled Mustache, Best Bearded Woman, Best Fake Mustache, and Worst in Show. The awards were their red fezzes.

I didn’t want to show this. But since I had to see it, so do you. The show ended with the other emcee/sideshowman feeding a small rubber tube through his nose, out his mouth, and then feeding whisky into it through a syringe for people to take “shots” from. It was disturbing and I could have watched the procession of audience members all night. No, I did not participate, I was raised right.

My friend Maya and I wore our mustaches all the way home because they suited us so nicely. Which kind of goes without saying.

Life
Tagged:

Chairtalk

Posted: Sep 21 · Comments: 54

I know it’s unbecoming to gloat, so I guess I’ll just say that there’s still a place in the world where people abandon Eames shell chairs on the curb. This magical wonderland is called Brooklyn. And I’ll add that if I were you, I’d leave me nasty, name-calling comments, too. I won’t take it personally. Because look what I found:

Fear not, there's a satisfying "after" below.

When I say found, I mean found. Like in the trash. Like for free. In my E! True Hollywood Story, “This Magic Moment” by The Drifters will be cued now. Sure, it’s grungy, but that’s my thing.

This proves a privately long-held belief that I need to be around my friend Juliet ALL THE TIME. I always find the goods when we’re together– she also bore witness to the $35 Bertoia wire chair, the purchase of the $20 Orange Glo kitchen lamp, and was staying with me when I brought home the knock-off Breuer Cesca chair (and don’t forget the cute mid-century dresser that I temporarily stored for her after we found that on the curb too). Consequently, she thinks I have a problem, and this seemed like the appropriate moment to confront it head-on. I think the words “filth” and “hoarder tendencies” were used and “bedbugs” may or may not have been mentioned. Begrudgingly, I walked away.

But like any good scavenger, I was fixated on it. Sure I didn’t really need it, but I sure as hell wanted it. I could take it on the subway, it wouldn’t be the first time. It would clean up beautifully, and afterwards I’d occupy long hours admiring my handiwork. We’d made it about three blocks before moderate grumbles turned into manically spewed rationalizations and justifications. “But it might be a while before we have dining chairs. And I want to have people over. And where are they going to sit? Or now that I think about it, maybe I’ll sell it! That’s it, I’ll clean it up, sell it on Ebay, and use the money for things we do need! It’s easy and I already have all the supplies!” Of course I’m not selling it, but I would have said anything. My sanity is a fragile thing, and it needed me to bring home this chair as much as the chair needed my extensive DIY abilities.

Ultimately, this was about my independence. If I were to let a friend, however great and well-intentioned that friend may be, talk me out of a free Eames shell chair, could I ever respect myself again? Would I ever sleep peacefully, knowing what I’d done? This was PEER PRESSURE, people, and I don’t play that.

“You know, I read that they just found this woman dead in her apartment in New York,” Juliet said as if she’d tuned me out, like when you rush to change the channel in favor of something less annoying. “She was a hoarder and it took them two weeks to find her and dig her out. In her apartment! Can you believe that?”

“What did they do with her stuff?”

“You’re going back for it, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll wait on the stoop. You do realize you’re crazy, right?”

Maybe it’s true. But when the men in white coats come, at least I’ll have fab furniture to cling to as they dig me out of my mess.

When I brought it home, even the other Eames chair was against it.

I followed all the same restoration steps that The Brick House and Chairfag told me to follow when I did this the first time (minus prying off and re-gluing the shock mounts). Most of that grime came off with a little scrubbing, the scuffs and gauges were fixed with some Mr. Clean Magic Eraser action, and a little wet sanding and a coat of Penetrol finished the job. It’s super easy. And just look at her!

I’m not really sure what was going on with the old base, but I guess it somehow got very bent out of shape and somebody tried to keep it from collapsing with packing tape (I mean, come on, at least spring for some duct tape). Luckily, I hadn’t gotten around to deciding what to do with the old h-base from my other chair, and the shockmounts were already narrow-mount on this one, so it seemed like a super easy swap! Right?

Well, things didn’t quite work out the way I planned- the shock mounts are this close to being properly aligned, but I couldn’t get the holes to line up for all four screws. For a few days I dreaded the thought of prying all the mounts off, re-sanding the entire back (since this was after the Penetrol dried, I didn’t think to check any of this beforehand), and reapplying them with epoxy and redoing the Penetrol. But then I just said “fuck it, good enough.” Since it’s resting on the mount anyway, I don’t think this is presenting any risk to the chair or those who sit in it. Oh, and I harvested one of the glides from the old broken base to replace the missing one on the less-old h-base, in case you were wondering. Anyway, she’s feeling pretty good about herself.

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