It Rains In Paradise?! 06.26.03
Tonight I watched Paradise Hotel for the first time. Not simple because I am a reality television junkie. In fact, I have not been able to bring myself to watch any of this crap recently, preferring to stick to sport and movies and rediscovering this “written word” thing teachers always talked about.
But. A couple of days ago, my old friend J-Cap dropped some knowledge on me—our old classmate, Dave K, was on the show, I guess picked from a studio audience, to replace someone who got voted off. Or some crap—again, I haven’t been watching this crap.
Until now. We’re excited about this prospect because this isn’t just any goon from our high school—the school was fairly small, and Dave K was actually a friend of mine. He held the Sunset Park party where a couple of kids straight strode in there like they knew us and jacked some beer; later followed by the cops who were looking for two kids who’d done some illegal shadiness.
And Dave K was the man who, during the 1997-98 New Year’s (I think) got so tore that he had to go to the hospital but apparently walked out the next morning in scrubs and took the subway home.
Good guy, always been funny.
But not like this!
Yo, he cold steps into the show, filled with – let me backtrack. This is a reality TV show. So all the people are young, white, early to mid 20’s, white, and kind of toolish, the kids that who grew up in your suburb and spike and gloss their hair, rock tattoos, get into fistfights. Not the deepest end of the pool. Meanwhile, Dave K has lost some weight and is kinda dorky looking on television, all ears and nose. Obviously a smart guy, still a quick talker. As comfortable with himself as so many of our eye candy television populace seems to not be. He is so very not reality TV.
J-Cap pointed out that there are chat boards ripping him as a dork and ugly and I am proud of him for getting up and not playing the happy to be there doofus from the crowd. Instead, he is funny on a complete other level, maybe beyond what these kids can handle. It might actually be an interesting moment of reality TV again.
What happens when the vain bodybuilders that make up our guilty pleasure television are confronted by someone who does not cower before their beauty? Someone who seems to think having fun is by being funny? Someone who doesn’t take this whole “search for love on television” thing so seriously that he can’t ask these obvious exhibitionists about their sex lives? Rude? Guys, you put yourselves on television. As if, since you spiked your hair, added sheen, and live to work out, the rest of the world should drop to its knees?
My favorite was when he turns to the group and says, facetiously, “it RAINS in paradise?”
And on the chat boards, where respondents regularly use the words “dork” and “fag” and “loser,” we have this bit of decent from “Trooper 321,”: No he is not [ugly], his personality is interesting in the group but I'm not sure if you even thought about that...Dave is needed in that stupid group of brainless bodybuilders full of hypocrisy (I'm talking about the guys especially)...these guys are kids, that's what Charla said also...They are all so concerned about their looks it's ridiculous. Dave is just himself and that's to be appreciated in a program like this. He is real and makes the program fun to watch, the perfect contra-guy.
Thursday, June 26, 2003
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
Green Fields 06.25.03
So winter has left and the NYC is arcing up to almost 100 degrees. All the rains have lifted the grasses high. So I had the distinct mowing pleasure. And the pleasure of meeting the first four or five mosquitoes of summer. Those darting little f**kers. I might even think about using mosquito repellent. No wait, maybe it was six mosquitoes.
So winter has left and the NYC is arcing up to almost 100 degrees. All the rains have lifted the grasses high. So I had the distinct mowing pleasure. And the pleasure of meeting the first four or five mosquitoes of summer. Those darting little f**kers. I might even think about using mosquito repellent. No wait, maybe it was six mosquitoes.
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
The Saturday I Had 06.24.03
Since I am ass-backwards about telling the weekend in typed out words, I will tell you what I was thinking about on my way to the Mermaid Parade.
The Scene:
Racing back from Queens, going the long way to Brooklyn and the W train. The W is for Why? As in, why are you going local? Why are you avoiding the Manhattan Bridge? When we could be high above the East River with sights not as special as the ones from the Williamsburg Bridge, but special just the same. And when they clean it up, on the Brooklyn side, there is a back lit bit of subway art, recessed and guarded by stone/ concrete pillars, creating the effect of something rotating. I think it is a ball but it has been obscured by darkness and extensive graffiti in recent years.
Okay, you can only see it when you are coming in from Brooklyn but I thought I might mention it.
The Why train is difficult to get to from Eastern Queens. Long, and difficult. If I had a stone and a mountain I would have felt like Sisyphus. It is days like Saturday that make me rethink not having a cellular phone, and not having my license. Driving in the oncoming monsoon would have sucked but not as much as the interminable trip through the ancient BMT corridors, for a parade that I was not even sure was on.
All of that waiting, the guy with the long legs, the surgery enhanced beautiful Asian woman, the woman dolled up to go to the parade, the child who unbelievable bawled at top volume for an hour, was rewarded.
A subway junkie like myself remembers that he has not had much need (or balls) to take the lines that stroll through Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge and the other Southeast Brooklyn neighborhoods. It might be lingering fear from Yusef Hawkins’ incident 15 years ago (I was at camp when it went down and found out days late).
But this was my first time, and, knowing that the Why train comes above ground after 36th street was a reason to think this day was not to be a complete washout. Now, mind you—the day was a washout. Rain came down, again, Chicago/ St. Louis style, long, sideways, unforgiving, surprisingly physical like an Anthony Mason pick.
At a street with a number I couldn’t quite read through the fogged glass and the bucket loads of rain, I looked out to see a high school, some auto body shops, and rows upon rows of connected houses, vinyl siding in blues and greens—pastel, unassuming, standard. I felt like I was on my way to Ocean Beach, SF. And it felt good. Quiet, out of the bustle. Like being alive but not having to assert it with your good times and your yelling and your drunken hijinks and your skirt-chasing.
I also thought about what I might write in my blog, and I thought about writing notes. But I had Peter Gabriel’s “Up” on the MP3 player, and I was in a zone, watching four people talk to the obvious Mermaid veteran in her make-up and flagrant hat adorned with feathers, feathers likely to blow into the Atlantic when she reached Coney Island.
I also thought about answering Haylz’ comments from Friday, and I will with a simple I don’t really know how to be anyone else, and I won’t be anyone else on my blog. But I will lie about my dunking ability.
The Parade:
Yo, I cold missed that bitch. It looked relatively sucka-free, though, and Nascar Anna, Eben, Pixel, Gully, Soldati, Silver, Selvadurai, and Schnapp were all there. The Charmer and Sammy, of course, came good and late. So we walked about, ate, and went to the end of a pier; where God and wrath became one word, blasting us with rain, creating a Newfoundland-type squall, blowing crabs onto the wooden pier.
We huddled with our very large umbrellas, and the Charmer began to tremble underneath Poseidon’s airborne might. Or something, man, he looked like a wet dog. Soldati took excellent pictures of the men in yellow parkas, dutifully casting their lines out to the near sea, and the guy doing the same but taking a liquid release break.
We stood and skidded and entertained the train car on the Why train back, went our separate ways to towel off and borrow clothes from each other.
The Aftermath:
In the next post. Also, Gully had a tree, a man sized tree, and a guy calling him jackass.
Since I am ass-backwards about telling the weekend in typed out words, I will tell you what I was thinking about on my way to the Mermaid Parade.
The Scene:
Racing back from Queens, going the long way to Brooklyn and the W train. The W is for Why? As in, why are you going local? Why are you avoiding the Manhattan Bridge? When we could be high above the East River with sights not as special as the ones from the Williamsburg Bridge, but special just the same. And when they clean it up, on the Brooklyn side, there is a back lit bit of subway art, recessed and guarded by stone/ concrete pillars, creating the effect of something rotating. I think it is a ball but it has been obscured by darkness and extensive graffiti in recent years.
Okay, you can only see it when you are coming in from Brooklyn but I thought I might mention it.
The Why train is difficult to get to from Eastern Queens. Long, and difficult. If I had a stone and a mountain I would have felt like Sisyphus. It is days like Saturday that make me rethink not having a cellular phone, and not having my license. Driving in the oncoming monsoon would have sucked but not as much as the interminable trip through the ancient BMT corridors, for a parade that I was not even sure was on.
All of that waiting, the guy with the long legs, the surgery enhanced beautiful Asian woman, the woman dolled up to go to the parade, the child who unbelievable bawled at top volume for an hour, was rewarded.
A subway junkie like myself remembers that he has not had much need (or balls) to take the lines that stroll through Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge and the other Southeast Brooklyn neighborhoods. It might be lingering fear from Yusef Hawkins’ incident 15 years ago (I was at camp when it went down and found out days late).
But this was my first time, and, knowing that the Why train comes above ground after 36th street was a reason to think this day was not to be a complete washout. Now, mind you—the day was a washout. Rain came down, again, Chicago/ St. Louis style, long, sideways, unforgiving, surprisingly physical like an Anthony Mason pick.
At a street with a number I couldn’t quite read through the fogged glass and the bucket loads of rain, I looked out to see a high school, some auto body shops, and rows upon rows of connected houses, vinyl siding in blues and greens—pastel, unassuming, standard. I felt like I was on my way to Ocean Beach, SF. And it felt good. Quiet, out of the bustle. Like being alive but not having to assert it with your good times and your yelling and your drunken hijinks and your skirt-chasing.
I also thought about what I might write in my blog, and I thought about writing notes. But I had Peter Gabriel’s “Up” on the MP3 player, and I was in a zone, watching four people talk to the obvious Mermaid veteran in her make-up and flagrant hat adorned with feathers, feathers likely to blow into the Atlantic when she reached Coney Island.
I also thought about answering Haylz’ comments from Friday, and I will with a simple I don’t really know how to be anyone else, and I won’t be anyone else on my blog. But I will lie about my dunking ability.
The Parade:
Yo, I cold missed that bitch. It looked relatively sucka-free, though, and Nascar Anna, Eben, Pixel, Gully, Soldati, Silver, Selvadurai, and Schnapp were all there. The Charmer and Sammy, of course, came good and late. So we walked about, ate, and went to the end of a pier; where God and wrath became one word, blasting us with rain, creating a Newfoundland-type squall, blowing crabs onto the wooden pier.
We huddled with our very large umbrellas, and the Charmer began to tremble underneath Poseidon’s airborne might. Or something, man, he looked like a wet dog. Soldati took excellent pictures of the men in yellow parkas, dutifully casting their lines out to the near sea, and the guy doing the same but taking a liquid release break.
We stood and skidded and entertained the train car on the Why train back, went our separate ways to towel off and borrow clothes from each other.
The Aftermath:
In the next post. Also, Gully had a tree, a man sized tree, and a guy calling him jackass.
On Saturday Night... 06.24.03
J-Rich and Rizza reverted to some kind of form, tossing a drink on one, water on the other. We were in the middle of Ace Bar. Selvadurai and Silver and Eben playing pool. I was maybe at the time talking to Noelle, 31, from Jamaica, QNS then Westchester, talking her out of putting her pointy shoes up Eben's ass because I felt his pain ("but a beer over his head? That's good when he gets cheeky," I said). Someone was pinching my ass. I was adjusting my headband and happy to not be a wallflower on this day. Sammy and I even got into a quick almost-kciking confrontation and no one got hurt.
And there is J-Rich, standing up as if she's peed herself, hands waving as if she can make them dry with a couple of sharp movements. Rizza, laughing, shocked, laughing, leaning back in the booth because, well, she's a little tore. We, in control of the back of the bar.
A good visit, J-Rich. Next up, in a month-- Nate and J-Feis.
This weekend-- me and Selvadurai versus 30 kids in a camp. We're so ready.
J-Rich and Rizza reverted to some kind of form, tossing a drink on one, water on the other. We were in the middle of Ace Bar. Selvadurai and Silver and Eben playing pool. I was maybe at the time talking to Noelle, 31, from Jamaica, QNS then Westchester, talking her out of putting her pointy shoes up Eben's ass because I felt his pain ("but a beer over his head? That's good when he gets cheeky," I said). Someone was pinching my ass. I was adjusting my headband and happy to not be a wallflower on this day. Sammy and I even got into a quick almost-kciking confrontation and no one got hurt.
And there is J-Rich, standing up as if she's peed herself, hands waving as if she can make them dry with a couple of sharp movements. Rizza, laughing, shocked, laughing, leaning back in the booth because, well, she's a little tore. We, in control of the back of the bar.
A good visit, J-Rich. Next up, in a month-- Nate and J-Feis.
This weekend-- me and Selvadurai versus 30 kids in a camp. We're so ready.
Monday, June 23, 2003
Walking Away 06.23.03
This is not about a love ballad featuring a conglomerate of your favorite heavy metal artists, this is about how much I am going to Armando Benitez’ house, to offer him place tickets to Kansas City or Cleveland or somewhere I won’t have to see him pitch again. Because a major leaguer should not walk four batters in a row. Especially when he is a closer and his team has scratched and f**king clawed to win their game against the personification of baseball evil, the New York Yank-Deez.
I thought I could write this but I am a little upset. Perhaps I shall go out and enjoy the sudden summer warmth. But, again, what happened to spring? Did we do something wrong, O Lord? Is this a leveling for the pleasant post 9-11-01 weather we had last winter?
This is not about a love ballad featuring a conglomerate of your favorite heavy metal artists, this is about how much I am going to Armando Benitez’ house, to offer him place tickets to Kansas City or Cleveland or somewhere I won’t have to see him pitch again. Because a major leaguer should not walk four batters in a row. Especially when he is a closer and his team has scratched and f**king clawed to win their game against the personification of baseball evil, the New York Yank-Deez.
I thought I could write this but I am a little upset. Perhaps I shall go out and enjoy the sudden summer warmth. But, again, what happened to spring? Did we do something wrong, O Lord? Is this a leveling for the pleasant post 9-11-01 weather we had last winter?
Saturday, June 21, 2003
Bed-A-Bye 06.21.03
Woke up this morning in a different bed, watching the rain hit the window, wondering whether I should make the attempt, go to the Mermaid Parade. It is fricking nasty out there. But then again, that’s simply the first impression. It’s really not that bad, a little wet, but nothing coming down.
But y’all want to know about the different bed. Well. Last night Arroz sprang the surprise of the year on his girl, Rizza, flying out our friend J-Rich, completely unbeknownst to the Riz. So you know—we all know Riz through J-Rich, and J-Rich goes way back with her like child seats. We fetched Rich from the airport and out to wher Riz works in saintly Long Island. And Rizza let out a scream the likes of which has not been heard on the north shore since the Kennedys were frolicking in Connecticut and the nuns were watching in the telescope from Cold Spring Harbor, doing biological research—but I digress. Y’all want me to get back to where I awoke.
We sang, we danced, we ate, we drank, we came up with the cure for the common cold, we rassled. Affordable Justice is in town, a record release party for the Recoys. So we popped up there and once Arroz and Justice started spinning their set, the fine ladies behind the Greenpoint bar shut ‘em down. Eh.
This would be a good time to comment on being in a place where all the boys + girls are from Ohio/ Arizona/ Illinois/ Kentucky/ New Jersey, with greased down hair and slim clothing that highlights their lack of a good feeding, and how I try not to go to those places, feeling out of place, not interested in the goings-on. But y’all want to know about the different bed.
Then we went to the palatial penthouse estate of Mr. Charming and Sammy, picking up brews, chips, chocolate along the way—and proceeded to act like college kids. In a grow’d up apartment. The crew was myself/ Selvadurai/ Sammy/ Charming/ Arroz/ Eben/ Pixel, and we took it back to the old school. Though Sammy and I didn’t kick each other once in the evening, Selvadurai didn’t go to college with us, I wasn’t coming in from some fraternity house, Eben wasn’t off doing art, Charming wasn't out being a rock star, and Pixel wasn't but a speck in her daddy’s—but I digress.
My fave was the comment about the Helen Keller moment, truly truly classy.
The war of attrition and the upcoming mermaid parade led to Pixel’s car, Arroz’ whip (by that I mean car. I don’t want anyone confused out there. You with me?), Selvadurai and Eben going back to wherever they came from, and I ended up in the guest room. Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeping. And thinking, wow, I could just sleep, instead of going home (turns out I didn’t even have to do that. Capital.) and I could have enjoyed the stupid dream that I was having that involved Gully and some vintage cars we were trying to get out of a garage.
I guess you expected something smutty. Well, I will say this—dear Pixel has a great “just woke up” voice. All gravelly and sweet. Hells yeah. Plus, watching videos at Sammy + Charming’s introduced me to the new Beyoncé video. I have no idea how the song goes. But that was a religious experience. I have to go wipe the drool.
Woke up this morning in a different bed, watching the rain hit the window, wondering whether I should make the attempt, go to the Mermaid Parade. It is fricking nasty out there. But then again, that’s simply the first impression. It’s really not that bad, a little wet, but nothing coming down.
But y’all want to know about the different bed. Well. Last night Arroz sprang the surprise of the year on his girl, Rizza, flying out our friend J-Rich, completely unbeknownst to the Riz. So you know—we all know Riz through J-Rich, and J-Rich goes way back with her like child seats. We fetched Rich from the airport and out to wher Riz works in saintly Long Island. And Rizza let out a scream the likes of which has not been heard on the north shore since the Kennedys were frolicking in Connecticut and the nuns were watching in the telescope from Cold Spring Harbor, doing biological research—but I digress. Y’all want me to get back to where I awoke.
We sang, we danced, we ate, we drank, we came up with the cure for the common cold, we rassled. Affordable Justice is in town, a record release party for the Recoys. So we popped up there and once Arroz and Justice started spinning their set, the fine ladies behind the Greenpoint bar shut ‘em down. Eh.
This would be a good time to comment on being in a place where all the boys + girls are from Ohio/ Arizona/ Illinois/ Kentucky/ New Jersey, with greased down hair and slim clothing that highlights their lack of a good feeding, and how I try not to go to those places, feeling out of place, not interested in the goings-on. But y’all want to know about the different bed.
Then we went to the palatial penthouse estate of Mr. Charming and Sammy, picking up brews, chips, chocolate along the way—and proceeded to act like college kids. In a grow’d up apartment. The crew was myself/ Selvadurai/ Sammy/ Charming/ Arroz/ Eben/ Pixel, and we took it back to the old school. Though Sammy and I didn’t kick each other once in the evening, Selvadurai didn’t go to college with us, I wasn’t coming in from some fraternity house, Eben wasn’t off doing art, Charming wasn't out being a rock star, and Pixel wasn't but a speck in her daddy’s—but I digress.
My fave was the comment about the Helen Keller moment, truly truly classy.
The war of attrition and the upcoming mermaid parade led to Pixel’s car, Arroz’ whip (by that I mean car. I don’t want anyone confused out there. You with me?), Selvadurai and Eben going back to wherever they came from, and I ended up in the guest room. Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeping. And thinking, wow, I could just sleep, instead of going home (turns out I didn’t even have to do that. Capital.) and I could have enjoyed the stupid dream that I was having that involved Gully and some vintage cars we were trying to get out of a garage.
I guess you expected something smutty. Well, I will say this—dear Pixel has a great “just woke up” voice. All gravelly and sweet. Hells yeah. Plus, watching videos at Sammy + Charming’s introduced me to the new Beyoncé video. I have no idea how the song goes. But that was a religious experience. I have to go wipe the drool.
Thursday, June 19, 2003
Etheridge 06.19.03
After handing Gurnifer some writing to review/ edit, and eating the hugest “slice” of apple pie I have ever seen (I want to see the over that produced that slab of fresh-baked goodness), I had the pleasure of a beer with Anna Y., and the extreme pleasure of standing outside of Pixel’s apartment, beginning a serenade of Melissa Etheridge’s hit, “Come to My Window.” Loudly, out of tune; but I didn’t see if the kids at the local bar were horrified. (What’s going on at the beginning of her Flash intro?)
Two asides. I also pulled a Pixel when my ass missed her chair. There was crash and calamity and laughter and my ass bruised on the ground and my arm scraped. Second, I completely whiffed on Mr. Conroy’s going away gathering. I am a heel.
After handing Gurnifer some writing to review/ edit, and eating the hugest “slice” of apple pie I have ever seen (I want to see the over that produced that slab of fresh-baked goodness), I had the pleasure of a beer with Anna Y., and the extreme pleasure of standing outside of Pixel’s apartment, beginning a serenade of Melissa Etheridge’s hit, “Come to My Window.” Loudly, out of tune; but I didn’t see if the kids at the local bar were horrified. (What’s going on at the beginning of her Flash intro?)
Two asides. I also pulled a Pixel when my ass missed her chair. There was crash and calamity and laughter and my ass bruised on the ground and my arm scraped. Second, I completely whiffed on Mr. Conroy’s going away gathering. I am a heel.
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
Vigging in Da Crates 06.18.03
I will say this—Ruby has an excellent, almost elephantine memory, and she possesses the graceful fluidity of a gazelle. This is of course more apparent when she is DJ’ing at the Vig Bar vs. when she is partying at the Vig Bar; she can pirouette from behind the booth and into a seat with a laugh, spirit away after some quick words and then return.
A good time because all things came together last night. I played awful (as opposed to horrendous) softball. I botched a grounder in short center, made two over throws that led to two runs, and made a snap throw that was on line but too weak to nail the runner coming home. All that countered by a solid outfield assist to second, a backing up catch, and a hard single aimed at the pitcher’s kneecap. And though we got mercy’d out (11-0, called in the 4th inning) I had a surprisingly okay power display when we practiced batting afterwards.
I went by Gully’s and he was having heated foreplay with his new iPod. And down to the Vig Bar where Ruby spins the rock and roll Tuesday nights. That’s not a shameless plug. We caught Mr. Raycroft trying to leave, something about “sleep.”
Ha. No sleep for him, or Nicky Marie either, who stopped by to say good by or good night. It was kind of like being tucked in to sleep, really. I'm going to invite Nicky Marie over to read bedtime stories.
Best of all, I took a cab 10 blocks (my hamstrings hurt. I was really late. Shove off.) and upon cab entry, I saw a fleck of green that turned out to be a $5 dollar bill on the real, as the Luniz would say. Free cab ride!
*Shameless Plug*
Monday night, June 30th, at the Verlaine 110 Rivington Street, Ruby will be spinning the rock and roll.
Go.
*End Shameless Plug*
I will say this—Ruby has an excellent, almost elephantine memory, and she possesses the graceful fluidity of a gazelle. This is of course more apparent when she is DJ’ing at the Vig Bar vs. when she is partying at the Vig Bar; she can pirouette from behind the booth and into a seat with a laugh, spirit away after some quick words and then return.
A good time because all things came together last night. I played awful (as opposed to horrendous) softball. I botched a grounder in short center, made two over throws that led to two runs, and made a snap throw that was on line but too weak to nail the runner coming home. All that countered by a solid outfield assist to second, a backing up catch, and a hard single aimed at the pitcher’s kneecap. And though we got mercy’d out (11-0, called in the 4th inning) I had a surprisingly okay power display when we practiced batting afterwards.
I went by Gully’s and he was having heated foreplay with his new iPod. And down to the Vig Bar where Ruby spins the rock and roll Tuesday nights. That’s not a shameless plug. We caught Mr. Raycroft trying to leave, something about “sleep.”
Ha. No sleep for him, or Nicky Marie either, who stopped by to say good by or good night. It was kind of like being tucked in to sleep, really. I'm going to invite Nicky Marie over to read bedtime stories.
Best of all, I took a cab 10 blocks (my hamstrings hurt. I was really late. Shove off.) and upon cab entry, I saw a fleck of green that turned out to be a $5 dollar bill on the real, as the Luniz would say. Free cab ride!
*Shameless Plug*
Monday night, June 30th, at the Verlaine 110 Rivington Street, Ruby will be spinning the rock and roll.
Go.
*End Shameless Plug*
Popular Blog*Chanics 06.18.03
I thought I would have to come online and write about how depressed and mopey I felt, about how there was a reason I keep quitting drinking, because at times it makes me depressed and mopey and all that maudlin stuff I choose not to tell you about;
Or about how traffic reports on the radio are the most useless, simply because they are a half hour behind or more. Meaning that when you are stuck on the Williamsburg Bridge or on the BQE you receive no advice from the radio voices, who make traffic sound like the end of the world; and there you are, watching a single line of lights for an hour.
But I awoke, watched the rain pour down the gutters (again), filling the streets of neighborhoods which are converted marshlands. And I thought about what is really important.
Popularity. I want to be pop’lar, like Haylz. I don’t mean hey you on the street popular, or Up In Da Club popular. I mean internet popular. People mention Bangbrooklyn on their sites, people she don’e even know get into protracted arguments with her. What is that? I want this kind of attention! Look at me!!!
Okay, okay, I know. I will need to make a change in the web log. I will have to keep my posts to the hot button topics of today’s internet browsers. Google, Excite, send me your spiders. I’m about to drop some filth.
Shit, how do I do this? Uhm, porn! Sex! Titty! Clit!
Am I popular yet?
What if I stick cocaine up my cakehole and transport it to Bolivia—I guess that’s a reversal of fortune, right? How about to a hot club with house music? But if I talk about oral sex, maybe—okay, so once in college I was like going down on this girl and—wait. Am I popular yet? I don’t REALLY want to tell this story.
What about… I have a good one about how this one co-ed decked me in college. Or a one-night stand? Do you wanna hear that one? Dag nabbit. I can’t even get myself to tell these tales. Maybe I will never be popular. Sniff! I am too reserved to tell you such things.
I am going home to practice lying. A lot. Because when I can tell you tales, make you believe I rock hard like my friend… the internet will LOVE me!
Plus I will have more Friendsters.
I thought I would have to come online and write about how depressed and mopey I felt, about how there was a reason I keep quitting drinking, because at times it makes me depressed and mopey and all that maudlin stuff I choose not to tell you about;
Or about how traffic reports on the radio are the most useless, simply because they are a half hour behind or more. Meaning that when you are stuck on the Williamsburg Bridge or on the BQE you receive no advice from the radio voices, who make traffic sound like the end of the world; and there you are, watching a single line of lights for an hour.
But I awoke, watched the rain pour down the gutters (again), filling the streets of neighborhoods which are converted marshlands. And I thought about what is really important.
Popularity. I want to be pop’lar, like Haylz. I don’t mean hey you on the street popular, or Up In Da Club popular. I mean internet popular. People mention Bangbrooklyn on their sites, people she don’e even know get into protracted arguments with her. What is that? I want this kind of attention! Look at me!!!
Okay, okay, I know. I will need to make a change in the web log. I will have to keep my posts to the hot button topics of today’s internet browsers. Google, Excite, send me your spiders. I’m about to drop some filth.
Shit, how do I do this? Uhm, porn! Sex! Titty! Clit!
Am I popular yet?
What if I stick cocaine up my cakehole and transport it to Bolivia—I guess that’s a reversal of fortune, right? How about to a hot club with house music? But if I talk about oral sex, maybe—okay, so once in college I was like going down on this girl and—wait. Am I popular yet? I don’t REALLY want to tell this story.
What about… I have a good one about how this one co-ed decked me in college. Or a one-night stand? Do you wanna hear that one? Dag nabbit. I can’t even get myself to tell these tales. Maybe I will never be popular. Sniff! I am too reserved to tell you such things.
I am going home to practice lying. A lot. Because when I can tell you tales, make you believe I rock hard like my friend… the internet will LOVE me!
Plus I will have more Friendsters.
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Out In Siberia 06.17.03
Note that Siberia has the graffiti’d and painted black look that draws in all the aging rock and roll women and men from around the city. The end of the earth let’s party and debauch it away warehouse fantasyland every rock bar/ club wishes to become. But the new Siberia does it well! And across from Port Authority—how filthy can it get? You know where you are? You’re in the jungle baby, you’re gonna rock.
Hot damn. I am coming back here.
I went to see my long-lost friend KRP—by long lost I mean she last saw me when I had hair which must have been at least a year and a quarter ago. She’s got a pretty good voice, weaving up to that folky high register Joni Mitchell kept hitting.
KRP weaved good song-stories in the basement of the hidden bar, working herself into a semi-comfortable position on a sliding seat; worked her guitar adequately, especially considering that she’s still learning how to play; and created a vibe that’s half rainy-Saturday NPR and your cute friend’s slightly bitter quips + asides.
And a guy adds to the ambiance by spilling most of his beer on the concrete floor, sticking his foot in lovingly, and spreading the mess around like a failed mop.
Note that Siberia has the graffiti’d and painted black look that draws in all the aging rock and roll women and men from around the city. The end of the earth let’s party and debauch it away warehouse fantasyland every rock bar/ club wishes to become. But the new Siberia does it well! And across from Port Authority—how filthy can it get? You know where you are? You’re in the jungle baby, you’re gonna rock.
Hot damn. I am coming back here.
I went to see my long-lost friend KRP—by long lost I mean she last saw me when I had hair which must have been at least a year and a quarter ago. She’s got a pretty good voice, weaving up to that folky high register Joni Mitchell kept hitting.
KRP weaved good song-stories in the basement of the hidden bar, working herself into a semi-comfortable position on a sliding seat; worked her guitar adequately, especially considering that she’s still learning how to play; and created a vibe that’s half rainy-Saturday NPR and your cute friend’s slightly bitter quips + asides.
And a guy adds to the ambiance by spilling most of his beer on the concrete floor, sticking his foot in lovingly, and spreading the mess around like a failed mop.
Monday, June 16, 2003
Architecture Fans! 06.16.03
Take a look at the new Soldier's Field, home of the Chicago Bears. It's a true piece of ugly.
Take a look at the new Soldier's Field, home of the Chicago Bears. It's a true piece of ugly.
Well, The Thing About This Weekend Is… 06.16.03
A lot of breastesses were grabbed. It was like a theme for the weekend. I couldn’t understand it. Every conversation slid, completely unbidden, into the land of mammary and there I would be, ready to take an adorable picture with my friend on her birthday and she thinks it would be a funnier pic with two hands providing extra lift. Or, bored at a party on a rooftop, we discuss firmness and there I am, going where no Pico has gone before. And thinking, you know what else is grabbable… but then, I didn’t grab no kind of biscuits.
I might have appreciated it more if I was a 16-year old. What am I saying—I have the mind of a 16-yr old, I loved it. Here's a recap. But I forgot to lie, Gully, sorry.
Friday night.
At the heart of the weekend was a day-long jaunt through promises and somewhere in the middle, hanging out with some of those people I hardly seem to see. As always (for the Two-Kay-Trey) I left on Friday evening to the rhythm of rain. I think it was supposed to be a full moon but the only thing full was the pond in the park.
A kindly neighborhood bus driver saw me running to the stop, slowed down, and then punched the gas as I was almost at the designated stop. Huffing, reaching, yelling, “you f**king ASSHOLE!” (I try not to curse at the top of my lungs out in the suburbs. Churchy people always get pissed and think the neighborhood’s slipping to a slum.) The bus right behind had a driver who asked me, “did he just pass you?” And I said, yeah, but he was nice enough to slow down before he did.
It’s all good because Nicky Marie got the same treatment; as she reached the G-train, the conductor gave her the subway Heisman and shut the doors in her face. We’re two peas in a pod, me and my good-natured, well-composed friend. With the booty and the smile.
What else is there to say? Selvadurai and Silver came and saw the same crowd of ass-clowns I did, unwilling to let people through with their Jersey asses and lame button-downs. Silver stayed home, Sammy joined, made fun of my seemingly “lame” friends before she had talked to them. I love that. You can trust someone who never quite mastered the arts of tact and diplomacy. And she was pleasantly surprised, at least by Raycroft because he’s one of the best guys I know.
There was dancing, breastesses, lots of pictures, and as we left in a cab (we only took it to the Bklyn Bridge—it was wall to wall cars, not moving), we got to see many Upper-East Siders/ Jerseyites/ Shipmate-fodder yuppies up against building walls of the closing bars, making out or trying to make out with the lame girls they’d picked up in those glossy nightspots. Trying to nudge their drunk asses home.
Saturday Afternoon.
Selvadurai’s hurting. I don’t have the directions. We’re about to make magic happen by guesswork. We have a meeting for NahWeYone , who holds a yearly camp for kids, focused on refugees/ immigrants from Sierra Leone but with many other kids in the fold from many other places (Africa, the West Indies/ Carribbean, Harlem). We did it last year, thanks to Kelly and then thanks to Selvadurai who passed the info on to me.
And it’s hot, steamy, on the Upper East and we’re late, guessing, calling Alex. Until I guessed right. Or remembered the email right. Either way, I have to say, I am inspired. So inspired I think I volunteered to help out with one too many things! Wait for two weeks, I’ll tell you all about this year’s camp.
Saturday night.
The only things worth talking about here are
1. Good to see Ray-Ray.
2. Amused by the Lynyrd Skynyrd fan Ray-Ray and the poor man's Jude Law lookalike have as a downstairs roommate. More amused that he was hitting on that Rachel girl real hard. Ha, ha!
Sunday.
I love my man Jose Reyes already. Roger Cedeno cannot catch a bouncing ground ball? And the SA Spurs might be nice guys and basketball world champions but that won’t stop me from calling them ass-clowns.
Ass-clowns!
A lot of breastesses were grabbed. It was like a theme for the weekend. I couldn’t understand it. Every conversation slid, completely unbidden, into the land of mammary and there I would be, ready to take an adorable picture with my friend on her birthday and she thinks it would be a funnier pic with two hands providing extra lift. Or, bored at a party on a rooftop, we discuss firmness and there I am, going where no Pico has gone before. And thinking, you know what else is grabbable… but then, I didn’t grab no kind of biscuits.
I might have appreciated it more if I was a 16-year old. What am I saying—I have the mind of a 16-yr old, I loved it. Here's a recap. But I forgot to lie, Gully, sorry.
Friday night.
At the heart of the weekend was a day-long jaunt through promises and somewhere in the middle, hanging out with some of those people I hardly seem to see. As always (for the Two-Kay-Trey) I left on Friday evening to the rhythm of rain. I think it was supposed to be a full moon but the only thing full was the pond in the park.
A kindly neighborhood bus driver saw me running to the stop, slowed down, and then punched the gas as I was almost at the designated stop. Huffing, reaching, yelling, “you f**king ASSHOLE!” (I try not to curse at the top of my lungs out in the suburbs. Churchy people always get pissed and think the neighborhood’s slipping to a slum.) The bus right behind had a driver who asked me, “did he just pass you?” And I said, yeah, but he was nice enough to slow down before he did.
It’s all good because Nicky Marie got the same treatment; as she reached the G-train, the conductor gave her the subway Heisman and shut the doors in her face. We’re two peas in a pod, me and my good-natured, well-composed friend. With the booty and the smile.
What else is there to say? Selvadurai and Silver came and saw the same crowd of ass-clowns I did, unwilling to let people through with their Jersey asses and lame button-downs. Silver stayed home, Sammy joined, made fun of my seemingly “lame” friends before she had talked to them. I love that. You can trust someone who never quite mastered the arts of tact and diplomacy. And she was pleasantly surprised, at least by Raycroft because he’s one of the best guys I know.
There was dancing, breastesses, lots of pictures, and as we left in a cab (we only took it to the Bklyn Bridge—it was wall to wall cars, not moving), we got to see many Upper-East Siders/ Jerseyites/ Shipmate-fodder yuppies up against building walls of the closing bars, making out or trying to make out with the lame girls they’d picked up in those glossy nightspots. Trying to nudge their drunk asses home.
Saturday Afternoon.
Selvadurai’s hurting. I don’t have the directions. We’re about to make magic happen by guesswork. We have a meeting for NahWeYone , who holds a yearly camp for kids, focused on refugees/ immigrants from Sierra Leone but with many other kids in the fold from many other places (Africa, the West Indies/ Carribbean, Harlem). We did it last year, thanks to Kelly and then thanks to Selvadurai who passed the info on to me.
And it’s hot, steamy, on the Upper East and we’re late, guessing, calling Alex. Until I guessed right. Or remembered the email right. Either way, I have to say, I am inspired. So inspired I think I volunteered to help out with one too many things! Wait for two weeks, I’ll tell you all about this year’s camp.
Saturday night.
The only things worth talking about here are
1. Good to see Ray-Ray.
2. Amused by the Lynyrd Skynyrd fan Ray-Ray and the poor man's Jude Law lookalike have as a downstairs roommate. More amused that he was hitting on that Rachel girl real hard. Ha, ha!
Sunday.
I love my man Jose Reyes already. Roger Cedeno cannot catch a bouncing ground ball? And the SA Spurs might be nice guys and basketball world champions but that won’t stop me from calling them ass-clowns.
Ass-clowns!
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Send A Chill Up Your Spine Like An Eskimo 06.10.03
While on the bus, next to a woman whose cell-phone conversation with her two or so men penetrated my headphones (I was listening to Camp Lo and Nice N’ Smooth’s Hip-Hop Junkies), whose voluminous thighs reverberating with her emphatic smacks on knee, I thought long and hard about writing the most boring blog I could, because I am curmudgeonly like that.
Nothing magical happened today. Besides of course my new sunglasses. I could lie to you, which was my other thought for a blog, or speculate on the coming weekend or include the Shiv like she’d like me to, or rave about how the Knickers are apparently once again looking to take players who are three apples high, or stiff no-talent American centers, but I need to make some edits to a story. Rest up, little ones.
Also, the summer preview will be modified, with some additions from Gurnifer.
While on the bus, next to a woman whose cell-phone conversation with her two or so men penetrated my headphones (I was listening to Camp Lo and Nice N’ Smooth’s Hip-Hop Junkies), whose voluminous thighs reverberating with her emphatic smacks on knee, I thought long and hard about writing the most boring blog I could, because I am curmudgeonly like that.
Nothing magical happened today. Besides of course my new sunglasses. I could lie to you, which was my other thought for a blog, or speculate on the coming weekend or include the Shiv like she’d like me to, or rave about how the Knickers are apparently once again looking to take players who are three apples high, or stiff no-talent American centers, but I need to make some edits to a story. Rest up, little ones.
Also, the summer preview will be modified, with some additions from Gurnifer.
Monday, June 09, 2003
The Fast Summer Preview 06.09.03
Inside Central Park, 81st Street (Westside entrance)/ 79th Street (eastside entrance) Summerstage 6/14/03-8/28/03. Of the mostly free shows, Note; Jimmy Cliff (8/10/03); Sonny Rollins (8/9/03); Zadie Smith (7/24); Chaka Khan + Indira Khan (7/5). Tip: It gets hott. Bring water. Arrive early. You might even prefer to miss the visuals and listen to the music on the lawn outside, watching for famous people walking through Central. “Accidentally” toss your Frisbee at them. Please avoid the nose.
Inside Central Park, 81st Street (Westside entrance)/ 79th Street (eastside entrance), Shakespeare in the Park at the Delacorte Theatre. Henry 5 starring Leiv Schreiber. From 6/24/03-8/9/03. Check the dates. Tip: Pick up your tickets at 1, Joe’s Public Theatre. No more than 2/ person. They play in the rain, and sunset at the Delacorte, esp. after a summer shower, is a sight to behold.
At either West Side Hwy/ 14th Street (Pier 54, Wednesdays) or West Side Hwy/ N. Moore Street (pier 25, Fridays), Hudson River Park’s Riverflicks from 7/9/03-8/29/03. Note: Casablanca (7/11/03); Pee Wee’s Big Adventure (7/23/03); Spaceballs (8/1); the Unforgiven (8/6); Chicken Run (8/8); and Field of Dreams (8/29). Tip: It’s by the water. Blanket, jacket, drinks, condoms.
At 42nd Street + 6 Avenue, in the shadow of the NY Public Library. HBO Bryant Park Summer Film Festival, 6/23/03-8/25/03. Mondays at sunset, rain or shine… mostly. Tuesday if it’s pouring. Note: Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid (6/23); Planet of the Apes (7/7); A Raisin in the Sun (7/14); Romeo & Juliet (8/11); 2001: A Space Odyssey (8/25). Tip: Supposedly the lawn opens at 5. Have a friend there at 4.30. Bring an identifying “thing” (four red balloons, a dog, the ugliest retro Houston Astros jersey you can find) so your posse can find you on the blanket you so lovingly brought. And bring drinks. Enough to share with me.
At Coney Island (right now, only the W goes direct, but the other trains that go down there have shuttle buses), Stillwell or 10th Streets, by Astroland. The Siren Festival, Saturday, July 19th, 2003 12:00-9:00 pm. This is a nod to the indie rock kids. I don’t go to this. But kids like Modest Mouse and Northern State and Idlewild.
At Coney Island, on Surf Avenue between West 10th Street and West 15th Street. The Mermaid Parade, Saturday June 21st, 2003. Note: Great costumes, classic cars, gratuitous Poseidon-approved nudity. Tip: It’s always effing hot. Bring water, easy clothes (you might get sprayed by friendly firemen), don’t be hung over. Don’t expect to eat right after, the place is swamped. The boardwalk/ beach is also packed. And your cellular phone won’t work very well.
At Coney Island, Surf Avenue & W. 19th Street. Brooklyn Cyclones Minor league baseball, Mets Single-A farm team, Home games 6/23-8/31. Note: 8/26 – mini ballpark model giveaway. 8/30, Mets Hot wheels. 8/6 Koozies. I just wanted to say that. Tip: Buy tickets beforehand. They might even be sold out already. Talk to friends, buy day-of. Eat onion rings. Enjoy the views from the stadium. Switch seats a lot.
Also:
At Jackson Avenue + 46th Street (near 23/ Ely/ Court Square stop on E, V, G trains, near 45th Rd - Courthouse Square on the 7 train). PS1 - Comntemporary Art Center and home of Saturday parties. Tip: I can't tell you any. It's always too crowded and I am late. I will make it in this year, so I include Note: get there early. I don't know how early that is. check back here.
At Prospect Park Bandshell, Prospect Park West + 9th Street (near 7th Avenue F-train station, Brooklyn). Celebrate Brooklyn, 6/12/03-8/17/03. Movies, music, Café Tacuba (8/9), and Jody Watley (8/2). Tip: Hang out in the Park Early. Look for your cool friends that you haven't seen in years. They will be there.
Various Locations. Metropolitan Opera dates: 6/16/03, Central Park Great Lawn-- other dates in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Staten Island, Queens, New Haven, New Jersey. Free, bring a blanket and something obnoxious to whisper; find you kind of like the opera when you're not in a suit.
Great Lawn, Central Park (81/ 79 street entrances as for Summerstage and Delacorte Theatre) 7/7/03, 7/10/03; Prospect Park 7/8/03. New York Philharmonic Concerts in the Park. Free, bring a blanket, and stop asking when Jonny Lives is coming on, they're not playing this show. It's Tchaikovsky and other classical selections, brought back down to the populace for our enjoyment under the stars.
*Thanks to Gurnifer for the new selections, you're a prize.
Inside Central Park, 81st Street (Westside entrance)/ 79th Street (eastside entrance) Summerstage 6/14/03-8/28/03. Of the mostly free shows, Note; Jimmy Cliff (8/10/03); Sonny Rollins (8/9/03); Zadie Smith (7/24); Chaka Khan + Indira Khan (7/5). Tip: It gets hott. Bring water. Arrive early. You might even prefer to miss the visuals and listen to the music on the lawn outside, watching for famous people walking through Central. “Accidentally” toss your Frisbee at them. Please avoid the nose.
Inside Central Park, 81st Street (Westside entrance)/ 79th Street (eastside entrance), Shakespeare in the Park at the Delacorte Theatre. Henry 5 starring Leiv Schreiber. From 6/24/03-8/9/03. Check the dates. Tip: Pick up your tickets at 1, Joe’s Public Theatre. No more than 2/ person. They play in the rain, and sunset at the Delacorte, esp. after a summer shower, is a sight to behold.
At either West Side Hwy/ 14th Street (Pier 54, Wednesdays) or West Side Hwy/ N. Moore Street (pier 25, Fridays), Hudson River Park’s Riverflicks from 7/9/03-8/29/03. Note: Casablanca (7/11/03); Pee Wee’s Big Adventure (7/23/03); Spaceballs (8/1); the Unforgiven (8/6); Chicken Run (8/8); and Field of Dreams (8/29). Tip: It’s by the water. Blanket, jacket, drinks, condoms.
At 42nd Street + 6 Avenue, in the shadow of the NY Public Library. HBO Bryant Park Summer Film Festival, 6/23/03-8/25/03. Mondays at sunset, rain or shine… mostly. Tuesday if it’s pouring. Note: Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid (6/23); Planet of the Apes (7/7); A Raisin in the Sun (7/14); Romeo & Juliet (8/11); 2001: A Space Odyssey (8/25). Tip: Supposedly the lawn opens at 5. Have a friend there at 4.30. Bring an identifying “thing” (four red balloons, a dog, the ugliest retro Houston Astros jersey you can find) so your posse can find you on the blanket you so lovingly brought. And bring drinks. Enough to share with me.
At Coney Island (right now, only the W goes direct, but the other trains that go down there have shuttle buses), Stillwell or 10th Streets, by Astroland. The Siren Festival, Saturday, July 19th, 2003 12:00-9:00 pm. This is a nod to the indie rock kids. I don’t go to this. But kids like Modest Mouse and Northern State and Idlewild.
At Coney Island, on Surf Avenue between West 10th Street and West 15th Street. The Mermaid Parade, Saturday June 21st, 2003. Note: Great costumes, classic cars, gratuitous Poseidon-approved nudity. Tip: It’s always effing hot. Bring water, easy clothes (you might get sprayed by friendly firemen), don’t be hung over. Don’t expect to eat right after, the place is swamped. The boardwalk/ beach is also packed. And your cellular phone won’t work very well.
At Coney Island, Surf Avenue & W. 19th Street. Brooklyn Cyclones Minor league baseball, Mets Single-A farm team, Home games 6/23-8/31. Note: 8/26 – mini ballpark model giveaway. 8/30, Mets Hot wheels. 8/6 Koozies. I just wanted to say that. Tip: Buy tickets beforehand. They might even be sold out already. Talk to friends, buy day-of. Eat onion rings. Enjoy the views from the stadium. Switch seats a lot.
Also:
At Jackson Avenue + 46th Street (near 23/ Ely/ Court Square stop on E, V, G trains, near 45th Rd - Courthouse Square on the 7 train). PS1 - Comntemporary Art Center and home of Saturday parties. Tip: I can't tell you any. It's always too crowded and I am late. I will make it in this year, so I include Note: get there early. I don't know how early that is. check back here.
At Prospect Park Bandshell, Prospect Park West + 9th Street (near 7th Avenue F-train station, Brooklyn). Celebrate Brooklyn, 6/12/03-8/17/03. Movies, music, Café Tacuba (8/9), and Jody Watley (8/2). Tip: Hang out in the Park Early. Look for your cool friends that you haven't seen in years. They will be there.
Various Locations. Metropolitan Opera dates: 6/16/03, Central Park Great Lawn-- other dates in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Staten Island, Queens, New Haven, New Jersey. Free, bring a blanket and something obnoxious to whisper; find you kind of like the opera when you're not in a suit.
Great Lawn, Central Park (81/ 79 street entrances as for Summerstage and Delacorte Theatre) 7/7/03, 7/10/03; Prospect Park 7/8/03. New York Philharmonic Concerts in the Park. Free, bring a blanket, and stop asking when Jonny Lives is coming on, they're not playing this show. It's Tchaikovsky and other classical selections, brought back down to the populace for our enjoyment under the stars.
*Thanks to Gurnifer for the new selections, you're a prize.
Sunday, June 08, 2003
Summation of a Weekend (Note, Strikethrough, Saturday) 06.08.03
Through advancing rain and into the subway, only to find out long Gully and I have to double back to catch the W/N—whichever. Just better if we had been informed at a point in our ride where we could have altered our path to the slightly remote reaches of Northern Queens;
While there we have a long discussion about the ass, male and female. The flower girls are in the house and affectionate; the evening has the flavor of reunion. With Swarthmore kids getting their sweat and stank on in the darkened room beside.
More rain, we speed back to the train with Tulip, to Halyz/ Marla’s party, notable mostly for a long time talking like teenagers, spread on the kitchen floor like chunky peanut butter or a day’s strewn clothing; and the phrase “she was not what the French would call pretty,” beautifully delivered by Roni.
Through advancing rain and into the subway, only to find out long Gully and I have to double back to catch the W/N—whichever. Just better if we had been informed at a point in our ride where we could have altered our path to the slightly remote reaches of Northern Queens;
While there we have a long discussion about the ass, male and female. The flower girls are in the house and affectionate; the evening has the flavor of reunion. With Swarthmore kids getting their sweat and stank on in the darkened room beside.
More rain, we speed back to the train with Tulip, to Halyz/ Marla’s party, notable mostly for a long time talking like teenagers, spread on the kitchen floor like chunky peanut butter or a day’s strewn clothing; and the phrase “she was not what the French would call pretty,” beautifully delivered by Roni.
In Our Time of Library 06.08.03
--A Letter from Gurnifer to Shev--
hi shev,
i'm here with [Pico] in the main library's main reading room. i can't believe i haven't been here in so long, maybe a year, because it really is one of the most beautiful places in new york. it's perpetually gray these past many days, but i'm trying to embrace the gray and the rain, because it leaves beautiful things in its wake, like grass that's no longer green or even bright but fluorescent. so the grass is kind of our new sun, i guess, for it's unbelievable bright and strains the eyes, but you just want to keep staring at it forever, just as when the sun does finally appear for a brief day, and it hurts our now unaccustomed eyes.
my best to you and i hope all's well out west....i wish [Pico] and i could fly there this minute, but for now, here's an e-hug!
--A Letter from Gurnifer to Shev--
hi shev,
i'm here with [Pico] in the main library's main reading room. i can't believe i haven't been here in so long, maybe a year, because it really is one of the most beautiful places in new york. it's perpetually gray these past many days, but i'm trying to embrace the gray and the rain, because it leaves beautiful things in its wake, like grass that's no longer green or even bright but fluorescent. so the grass is kind of our new sun, i guess, for it's unbelievable bright and strains the eyes, but you just want to keep staring at it forever, just as when the sun does finally appear for a brief day, and it hurts our now unaccustomed eyes.
my best to you and i hope all's well out west....i wish [Pico] and i could fly there this minute, but for now, here's an e-hug!
Thursday, June 05, 2003
The Gift of Geek 06.05.03
Pixel inspired me to think back upon my life and drift through the fog and reconnect with my youth. Why do I listen?
Because I once tried to convince people to call me Scott. In part b/c I loved my friend Ryan Scott’s name (but even in ’86-‘87 I didn't think the mullet was cool) and because I thought the X-Men's Cyclops was badass.
Then I tried to convince people to call me Nighthawk. I even made a nameplate in metal shop with “Nighthawk” on it. When I got to my summer program, it was the nerdier, smaller, fatter kid who called himself Matrix who was ostracized, though.
What that tale proves is that, along with the pictorial reminders from my old friend J-Cap, beneath this calculated, well-shaven, sculpted mass of cool, is a dork that even the nerdiest of people can have a good laugh at.
Okay. Stop laughing.
Pixel inspired me to think back upon my life and drift through the fog and reconnect with my youth. Why do I listen?
Because I once tried to convince people to call me Scott. In part b/c I loved my friend Ryan Scott’s name (but even in ’86-‘87 I didn't think the mullet was cool) and because I thought the X-Men's Cyclops was badass.
Then I tried to convince people to call me Nighthawk. I even made a nameplate in metal shop with “Nighthawk” on it. When I got to my summer program, it was the nerdier, smaller, fatter kid who called himself Matrix who was ostracized, though.
What that tale proves is that, along with the pictorial reminders from my old friend J-Cap, beneath this calculated, well-shaven, sculpted mass of cool, is a dork that even the nerdiest of people can have a good laugh at.
Okay. Stop laughing.
Monday, June 02, 2003
A Warning Shot Across the Bow of June 06.02.03
I could rave on about the weekend, crashing over at my friend's place, looking at pictures from when I was in 8th grade (and yet looked like I was 7 yrs old and tiny). Instead, this is a note for Pixel.
My new favorite cereal is... Fiber One. Damn my family's health kick and that delicious bowl of fruit that goes so well with my old man cereal.
I could rave on about the weekend, crashing over at my friend's place, looking at pictures from when I was in 8th grade (and yet looked like I was 7 yrs old and tiny). Instead, this is a note for Pixel.
My new favorite cereal is... Fiber One. Damn my family's health kick and that delicious bowl of fruit that goes so well with my old man cereal.
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