On Catching On Late

Because I can no longer watch, I am now Reading the Sopranos, edited by David Lavery. It's a collection of critical essays about the show, written by academics in Film Studies and contributors to journals of TV and Film Studies, etc. My favorite essays so far have been "What Has Carmela Ever Done for Feminism? Carmela Soprano and the Post-Feminist Dilemma," by Janet McCabe and Kim Akass, (answer: inconclusive); and "From Columbus to Gary Cooper: Mourning the Lost White Father in The Sopranos," by Christopher Kocela, a very moving exploration of Tony's search for American role-models who can justify his lifestyle and give credence to the man he has become.

I needed to buy this book, I realized, not because I'm really dying to hear these academics' perspectives, but because I need a dialogue about the show, whose heyday has long past. Last month I watched the last episode, rewinding about eight times to figure out what really happened to Tony, and then desperately searching on the Internet for commentary, even falling for Youtube videos titled "The Real Ending to the Sopranos," which reproduced the last six minutes or so of the series, but replaced the black-out with an image of Earth exploding in outer-space. The moral of the story is that I discovered criticism's real function: an extension of the joy of art itself, a way to postpone the end of the experience of reading or watching art.

And what of my catching on a little late to the phenomenon that is The Sopranos? In the age of Netflix, one wonders if there is any longer such a thing as a heyday, an event of its time, and if you can truly miss out. When I was eleven reading Jane Eyre, I was commended for my precocity; twenty-three, obsessing over The Sopranos nearly a decade after the show's pilot, am I viewed as someone who missed the boat? The reality is, nobody says nothing; instead, I am left alone in my room to watch the discs, one after the other as they arrive based on my contract with Netflix, the enabler.

Chris-to-pher Mol-ti-san-ti

What would you say if I named my first-born Christopher Moltisanti? It's just something about the name itself that haunts me. The "Chr" that scrapes into a hiss; the "pher" that lapses into a grr; Moltisanti that sounds like a saint in molten effigy. (Kind of like the mafia initiation ritual, in which the initiate's finger is pricked and the blood smeared on the image of a saint, which is then burned.) And the alternating open and closed vowels of "Molt" i "San" "ti," if delivered slowly and arduously, sound like a carving in ancient rock.

What's your Favorite Thoroughfare?

When I slow up to wind a right at this weather vane of street signs, I know I'm going home.



For Tony, it's taking the New Jersey Turnpike until the exit for Elizabeth, NJ. For me, it's swinging from Napoleon to S. Broad.

The Sopranos Episode They Never Wrote

Did you hear?

The mafia is on facebook.

WWTD? (What Would Tony Do?)

The Mardi Gras Jitters

The other night I had a dream that combined the spirit of Mardi Gras with the fitful mood of hurricane time. I was holed up in what seemed like turn-of-the-century immigrant tenement housing, and a family-owned business, a pork store or something--with the cast of the Sopranos. I was myself but also fulfilled Meadow's role in the family--the daughter. The building had two stories, with some kind of balcony overlooking neutral ground that resembles the one on Orleans Avenue in Mid-City, though in the dream we were supposedly located on Esplanade Avenue. There was a storm coming, but everyone's behavior was a weird hybrid of excited carnival-goers and citizens wary of a hurricane. For example, everybody was riding out the storm. They had set up couches and beds and dining room tables on the neutral ground, sort of in the same fashion folks do to wait for Endymion. Some of the family would sleep out on the neutral ground. But throughout the dream, we were very afraid, and made sure we were always together. I always would turn to "Christopher Moltisanti," my cousin, to make sure the door was properly bolted. We had a couple dogs that would escape every now and then and I'd have to chase them down. But we were also afraid of people coming for us--looters, in a way. There was a lot of waiting around ;we'd sit on the balcony and look out over the avenue, waiting for something. There was also a junkie alligator hanging around the corner, shooting up. At one point Christopher stole his stash, but said he wouldn't use it, because what with its former user being an animal, he might catch worms. And there were ghosts of characters who'd died on the show, acting like living people, because they were still alive to certain members, something told me.

I don't see the dream as foreboding, so much as just an anxiety dream. But it's interesting the way my mind fused all these elements of New Orleans together--the nervous anticipation of the chaos of carnival with the fear of the unpredictability of a hurricane; wild creatures loose, personified to be no different from crazy, unhinged humans; and the trapped feeling of a family living in the slums, with no option but to stick together. New Orleans, beneath all its levity, will always have the underlying potential for nightmare scenarios.

Soprano's Meat Market

I fell for the gimmick.



How does one take pictures without a)looking like an asshole b) getting hit by a car?


One dog goes one way, one dog goes the other way...



Where da cold cuts 'n shit?

But wait...am I a hipster?

So, I've been rocking the thrift store scene down here, and feeling at once lucky and guilty. I get all these great deals, and sure I don't have a lot of money, but thrift stores are not supposed to be cheap thrills for stylish urbanites; they're supposed to offer relief to struggling lower class families. Not to mention I'm getting addicted, and I feel like some superficial stay at home mom who spends her days running errands, buying herself things to convince herself her life isn't empty. (hey, at least I'm blogging about it? You don't see Carmela Soprano blogging about her plight...of course if she did she'd probably cause her entire family to get wacked...)

Am I a hipster? Because I bought black skinny jeans at Buffalo Exchange for 15 dollars? Well, no, because skinny jeans are just the style right now, and if you have a womanly body, then skinny jeans accentuate it, whereas if you are an emaciated coke hole, they make you look like an awkward prepubescent boy.

If I had known about these deals down here, I could have given the Manhattanites at college a run for their money. Dammit!!!

I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was still in college...

Winter is here, and I'm excited about boots, jeans, hoodies, cardigans, tights, etc. Does this make me a bad person?

But seriously, New Orleans is an extremely affordable city. These are my favorite thrift stores:

On the Other Hand, 8204 Oak Street: Exclusive resale boutique on Oak Street. Currently having a fifty percent off sale. Got great shoes for four dollars. Good array of pants. Were playing Cake the other day. You can trade in clothes for fifty percent store credit(no cash).

Thrift City, 601 Terry Parkway: On the westbank!!! Excellent for overalls. Bout to head over for some long overalls, now that the weather is changing.

Buffalo Exchange, 3312 Magazine: Available in nearly every big city. Hip styles, good prices. You can trade in clothes for 30% in cash of the sale price, or 30% in store credit. I went to town on Buffalo Exchange the other day, bought a purse, wedges, three blouses, and three pants.

Funky Monkey, 3127 Magazine: Though the employees all have attitude problems, this is a good place too! Got a Miller High Life Girl pirate-style hat that is just perfect!!! Good costumes, good regular clothes. You can also trade in clothes here for store credit or cash.

Red, White and Blue, 6001 Jefferson Highway: Make the trek down River Road, all the way past Clearview and the Huey P. Long Bridge, to the mecca of thrift stores. Color-coded, aisle after aisle of surprises.

Bloomin' Deals, 4645 Freret Street: Gotta love the clever name. Has a nice 50's-era vibe, as does the rest of Freret Street.

So I guess everything is about the economy. You smile if you get a good deal, you want to break shit when you can't make your mortgage payments. Hey, gas at Ideal Discount on Orleans Ave. and N. Hagan St. in Mid-City is $2.49 a gallon, unleaded regular. WHOO!

The history books will document the way you are feeling right now. Nothing, my friend, is petty. (The one lesson a blogger can teach you...)