looking forward:

If you happen to read the Sartorialist, you will understand my giddy anticipation of arriving in Florence. That blog will have you believing that Florence is crawling with nothing but nattily-dressed men and women of all ages, kitted out in impeccable haberdashery and most endearing knitwear. No amount of cloth sacrificed to the manpri will depress me as the hope of a man as dashing as this fellow lounging about the next corner will linger. I'm hoping to get at least a crash-course in analog photography before I leave and shilling around in piazzas, being That Foreign Creepster taking pictures of all the little old gentlemen in their straw boaters.

Also, these make me wish most desperately for outsize man's feet. Purple suede with tassels? Who could resist!?

srsly?

I am fully aware that the three people who read this blog care nothing about baseball. That being said, Farnsworth for Pudge? Really? I'm still in a state of shock. 2005 was the last time Farnsworth pitched for Detroit; he became infamous for his role in a benches-clearing brawl with Kansas City. Then there was 'Farny,' the little man who lives inside his head and advises him on his pitches. but but but... DAVE! MIKE! MR. LEYLAND, SIR?!!?!!??? You traded for pr0FF3ss0r_F4rnsw0rth?

Anyways, Brandon Inge, Web Gem-producing, 9-hole home run-hitting, who-the-fuck-is-Miguel Cabrera upstanding citizen of the world will always be 3B for the Tigers in my heart. Even if that heart is firmly living in 2006. This is what happens when you trade away Mike Rabelo for Fonzie Bear and Rick Ankiel v1.0.

no homo

This week, I turned into a gay man. First, I saw Mamma Mia! Tonight, I just finished watching The Birdcage. I'm not just a gay man. I'm a gay man with a Christine Baranski fetish.

durrr

http://bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/07/29/facebook-shuts-down-scrabulous/index.html?hp

well, that blows.

Russia

Today on the elevator at work, a Russian (or former Soviet state) woman complimented me on the dress I was (and still am, rest assured) wearing, calling it "Cute. No no no, not cute. Sexy!" To put things in perspective, I am wearing a floor-length teal maxi dress. From all the stories, and first-hand observations of those on the Brighton Beach-bound Q train, former Soviet state women are a wholly intimidating lot. To receive such a compliment is, for what it's worth, highly gratifying.

I predicted that today would be a good day, upon receiving yesterday's mail. The New Yorker came a day earlier than usual (!) and with it came a letter from Carly, swathed in an envelope designed to look like a topographical map of Connecticut. Crazy. Mail comes in a very predictable cycle this summer. Usually, the New Yorker arrives on Tuesday, Time Out New York on Thursdays and Netflix DVDs two days after I send the previous one in, like clockwork. Thus, the surprise of letters and packages and postcards always seems to serve as little welcome hiccups in the cycle.

summer in brooklyn, living with my mom

Starting last summer, back in Ann Arbor, my mom and I starting going on 'mom dates'; generally outings to see movies or to go shopping. My dearest friend Rory Pavach takes sole credit for the 'mom date' lexicography. It all started when the movie Once was released - a classic mother-and-daughter sort of event. My mother and I went to go see it, so did Rory and her mom. My friend E.B. (of e.b. in p.b., to your right) went to see it with her mother. This summer's quintessential mom date movie is of course, Mamma Mia! (refer to A.O. Scott and Anthony Lane on why the exclamation point is an absolutely necessary inclusion) which my mother and I saw last week at the local Park Slope cinema. Time for full disclosure: I was raised on this stuff. Like, I knew the lyrics to Abba Gold by the age of ten. In all honesty, it's still one of my favorite albums. Probably in my top fifteen, if not my top ten. My family made the pilgrimage to Toronto to see the show within a year of its opening. I've seen nearly every film that prominently featured the Swedish visionaries. Which is to say I've seen and loved both and Muriel's Wedding and The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. My heart is filled with a deep and steadfast love for Abba that rivals any drag queen worth her salt. And I loved the movie, in all its gloriously awful grandeur. Even Pierce Brosnan's singing. Even the cannonball. So do yourself a favor this summer. Grab your mom and watch this movie in all its frothy, saccharine splendor. I dare you not to sing along (quietly, of course).

Yet another reason to love Tracyanne Campbell and Camera Obscura, the twee-est: their cover of Abba's "Super Trouper," the b-side off 2007's Tears for Affairs single. Also, excellent album art:

hello.

So I take the plunge. This blog is called "Eventually Italy" because I was originally to start a standard college-student-abroad operation until I got way too bored this summer and said 'fuck it, I want to start blogging now.' In the interim, the blog will feature thoughts on music, food, books, pop culture, life crises; standard fare with a side of paralyzing self-doubt.