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.
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
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.
Thursday, May 29, 2003
Friday, May 16, 2003
Feel the Seismic Shift. 05.16.03
I am taking a few days in Chicago. Ladies, I will be back soon. I promise, love. For serious. I would like peace in NYC while I am gone. And booty-chasing. Though I think the booty brigade is dead (let me hear the wink wink) (by wink wink I do not by any stretch of the imagination mean that it could possible go back underground like our favorite cartoon earthworm) (let me hear the nudge nudge) (run your hands through my brigade, move all to and fro, no more talking 'bout booty. this is the remix to raw muses, blowing up all your fuses, come stop rolling those eyes because you love to read through it).
Well, at least Gulshan got it.
I am taking a few days in Chicago. Ladies, I will be back soon. I promise, love. For serious. I would like peace in NYC while I am gone. And booty-chasing. Though I think the booty brigade is dead (let me hear the wink wink) (by wink wink I do not by any stretch of the imagination mean that it could possible go back underground like our favorite cartoon earthworm) (let me hear the nudge nudge) (run your hands through my brigade, move all to and fro, no more talking 'bout booty. this is the remix to raw muses, blowing up all your fuses, come stop rolling those eyes because you love to read through it).
Well, at least Gulshan got it.
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
I'm Crying. Really. 05.13.03
From EUR.
**Irv Gotti told MTV that Ja Rule is going on the
downlow. Ja, who's been in our heads continuously
since 1999, will supposedly be out of action until
sometime in 2004 (Thank you, Irv). It seems that
folks are just plain tired of hearing from old gravel voice,
especially his, er, singing. And, as the article points out,
the public has been showing mucho love for Ja's lyrical
foe, 50 Cent. Damn, it's enough to make ya wanna Holla!
From EUR.
**Irv Gotti told MTV that Ja Rule is going on the
downlow. Ja, who's been in our heads continuously
since 1999, will supposedly be out of action until
sometime in 2004 (Thank you, Irv). It seems that
folks are just plain tired of hearing from old gravel voice,
especially his, er, singing. And, as the article points out,
the public has been showing mucho love for Ja's lyrical
foe, 50 Cent. Damn, it's enough to make ya wanna Holla!
Postcards to A Lost Weekend I. 05.13.03
Happy birthday, Eben! You must be loved because your friends were bouncy like pogo sticks on your stoop. What more can a young man ask for? Obviously—bowling and Rhinegold’s Ale.
And this place deep in Brooklyn did not disappoint. Worth the price of admission, this alley was defended by serious bowling league cats, adorned with trophies, ceilinged with the removable pockboard tile. It’s so cool, I just lost control and used a word that don’t exist at all (ceilinged).
Arroz is very serious about his bowling. I can’t wait for his paunchy days where he and I will both belong to a league with Eben, who by that time will no doubt be suave and in the midst of a midlife crisis. We all know what that means—rides in the Ferrari! Homely strippers!
I digress. Nice to meet you, Megan and Adam; good to bowl with you Arroz, Eben, Nascar Anna, and Silver. Especially Silver, because I don’t know anyone else who can lose his balance on a bowl so badly that he falls back, stumbles against the ball return, then squares up only to collapse onto his side. Truly skilled, my friend, truly skilled.
But again, great to be out on the yuppie/ hipster/ imported-Brooklynite-free sections of Brooklyn. Our friends notwithstanding… but next time, it won’t be your birthday, Eben, and I won’t take it so easy on you. I will continue to sing Sugar Ray’s “When It’s Over.” Plus, ass-whuppin’ will commence.
Yours With a Tough-Sounding Snarl.
Happy birthday, Eben! You must be loved because your friends were bouncy like pogo sticks on your stoop. What more can a young man ask for? Obviously—bowling and Rhinegold’s Ale.
And this place deep in Brooklyn did not disappoint. Worth the price of admission, this alley was defended by serious bowling league cats, adorned with trophies, ceilinged with the removable pockboard tile. It’s so cool, I just lost control and used a word that don’t exist at all (ceilinged).
Arroz is very serious about his bowling. I can’t wait for his paunchy days where he and I will both belong to a league with Eben, who by that time will no doubt be suave and in the midst of a midlife crisis. We all know what that means—rides in the Ferrari! Homely strippers!
I digress. Nice to meet you, Megan and Adam; good to bowl with you Arroz, Eben, Nascar Anna, and Silver. Especially Silver, because I don’t know anyone else who can lose his balance on a bowl so badly that he falls back, stumbles against the ball return, then squares up only to collapse onto his side. Truly skilled, my friend, truly skilled.
But again, great to be out on the yuppie/ hipster/ imported-Brooklynite-free sections of Brooklyn. Our friends notwithstanding… but next time, it won’t be your birthday, Eben, and I won’t take it so easy on you. I will continue to sing Sugar Ray’s “When It’s Over.” Plus, ass-whuppin’ will commence.
Yours With a Tough-Sounding Snarl.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend II. 05.13.03
Oh, my head.
Rhinegold, you come back with a kick in the mornings, when I am laid out on my friend’s couch, reaching for a conveniently placed cup of water.
But, Rhinegold, buddy—what is this laying in front of us? A copy of Moneyball, the book about Billy Beane and his baseball genius featuring a section that might as well be called, “how I made Steve Phillips drop his pants and hand me one of his testes garnished with a lemon.” Ah, Steve Phillips. You have managed to sell the Mets’ player assets at “I need to win now!!” prices. Meaning New York received the pleasure of Billy Taylor and other such washed up players.
Thank you for making the New York Mets’ impatience into a piece of art. Not that Mr. Phillips is the only victim on the skewer. But he is there.
And I can’t stop reading about the man who mounts an occasional challenge to the Yankees' evil empire. Even though I need to leave and wash and go to Linner’s “it’s my birthday” barbecue. This is what Saturdays are made for—lazy ass reading and wondering what was the name of the beer truck that hit you.
Rhinegold, you play rough but I love ya.
Yours With Cottonmouth.
Oh, my head.
Rhinegold, you come back with a kick in the mornings, when I am laid out on my friend’s couch, reaching for a conveniently placed cup of water.
But, Rhinegold, buddy—what is this laying in front of us? A copy of Moneyball, the book about Billy Beane and his baseball genius featuring a section that might as well be called, “how I made Steve Phillips drop his pants and hand me one of his testes garnished with a lemon.” Ah, Steve Phillips. You have managed to sell the Mets’ player assets at “I need to win now!!” prices. Meaning New York received the pleasure of Billy Taylor and other such washed up players.
Thank you for making the New York Mets’ impatience into a piece of art. Not that Mr. Phillips is the only victim on the skewer. But he is there.
And I can’t stop reading about the man who mounts an occasional challenge to the Yankees' evil empire. Even though I need to leave and wash and go to Linner’s “it’s my birthday” barbecue. This is what Saturdays are made for—lazy ass reading and wondering what was the name of the beer truck that hit you.
Rhinegold, you play rough but I love ya.
Yours With Cottonmouth.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend III. 05.13.03
Oh my head. I should have walked the extra block to get a bagel or a scone. PS, no one ever sounds cool saying scone. Just try it. You didn’t sound very cool at all.
You are here with me, walking to Hoyt-Schemerhorn, stopping for the Daily News. Watching the magic man tap on his box and then open it to let loose a dove on the A train. And above ground, where we watch Brooklyn pass. On the bus where a woman’s bag crushes me to the side of the seat.
Thank You for Joining Me.
Oh my head. I should have walked the extra block to get a bagel or a scone. PS, no one ever sounds cool saying scone. Just try it. You didn’t sound very cool at all.
You are here with me, walking to Hoyt-Schemerhorn, stopping for the Daily News. Watching the magic man tap on his box and then open it to let loose a dove on the A train. And above ground, where we watch Brooklyn pass. On the bus where a woman’s bag crushes me to the side of the seat.
Thank You for Joining Me.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend IV. 05.13.03
I was not alone in the late-recovery. Silver had a little Rhinegold-slow on him. Nascar-Anna and Eben woke up at 2. Joined by Linner’s parents, brother, sister-in-law, a couple more friends, a cooler of beer, meat, there we all were, in the backyard.
Thinking of how to move from our trash-talking free-cussing selves to our highly pleasant parental approved selves. Remembering how to be bright-eyed and bushy tailed, how to be civil, and how to tell stories that do not involve “so I’m f*cking this girl.” For the uninitiated, yes, there is a joke and Silver will be happy to tell you.
Linner, thanks for having us over; your roommate was wherever little demons go on the weekends, and your boyfriend, Big Guy, is always a blast, and he makes sure we are fed. That’s cool. So was your tree-shrouded brick-floored backyard, your design portfolio (hope your interview went well), and your parents.
What was not cool, of course, was the fire coming out of the bottom of the fuel line of the grill’s propane tank. That could have ended poorly. The votive candle that caught afire was also kind of strange. Were you perhaps in a Firestarter-type of government program? Are you a mutant? Are we mean to you? Linner, don’t set your friends alight. Our hair smells funny in flames.
I know we didn’t talk enough on Saturday. I promise to go shopping with you and we will have an opportunity to chat—okay… I’m lying. But we will hang out and I will buy you a beer.
Torchingly Yours.
I was not alone in the late-recovery. Silver had a little Rhinegold-slow on him. Nascar-Anna and Eben woke up at 2. Joined by Linner’s parents, brother, sister-in-law, a couple more friends, a cooler of beer, meat, there we all were, in the backyard.
Thinking of how to move from our trash-talking free-cussing selves to our highly pleasant parental approved selves. Remembering how to be bright-eyed and bushy tailed, how to be civil, and how to tell stories that do not involve “so I’m f*cking this girl.” For the uninitiated, yes, there is a joke and Silver will be happy to tell you.
Linner, thanks for having us over; your roommate was wherever little demons go on the weekends, and your boyfriend, Big Guy, is always a blast, and he makes sure we are fed. That’s cool. So was your tree-shrouded brick-floored backyard, your design portfolio (hope your interview went well), and your parents.
What was not cool, of course, was the fire coming out of the bottom of the fuel line of the grill’s propane tank. That could have ended poorly. The votive candle that caught afire was also kind of strange. Were you perhaps in a Firestarter-type of government program? Are you a mutant? Are we mean to you? Linner, don’t set your friends alight. Our hair smells funny in flames.
I know we didn’t talk enough on Saturday. I promise to go shopping with you and we will have an opportunity to chat—okay… I’m lying. But we will hang out and I will buy you a beer.
Torchingly Yours.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend V. 05.13.03
Haylz, Marla, Gully. I know you might think that I missed our tentative pre-partying appointment because I thought putting Gully and Haylz together creates a chaotic environment wherein stars collapse in upon themselves, where pigs fly helicopters, where leprechauns demand their f*cking pot o’ gold as you're strolling through the projects.
But really, I was lazy and tired and went to uphold a promise to Anna who does not yet have a nickname. There was a gathering of NYU MBA’s at a bar whose name is of little consequence. There were shiny buttoned-down shirts, and low lights, and couches. Like so many other bars.
In the bar, there was Anna, some lame kids, and I thought long and hard about lying my way through the whole evening, because most interesting of all was the Mavericks/ Kings basketball game.
Gully knows, Gully knows about the occasional propensity for lying. You’re at a party, and some over-pompous ass is off and running about his or her cocaine use, or their art, or what they used to do back before the Lower East Side became gentrified, et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.
And you start to think, I can’t listen to any more of this. And you also think, but I would love to invent some tales and see if this blowhard is listening as you embellish your age, your experience, your travel, your bisexual experiences while you were high in Aspen…
The point of this all is that I played it straight. I meant to lie. I had accents at the ready. But then, I was confronted with some guy named Chris and then I was talking to the two women he came with. I think he helped them pick out their clothes. Or helped them shop for their matching sandals.
A perfect opportunity to lie, I know! And I found myself having a long-ish conversation with one of them—Danielle, perhaps?—and enjoying it. I must have been tired.
So, while you were working on your consumption, I:
*hung out with Anna,
*walked by a kid from my university (who informed me that my old DJ partner’s getting married in a few months),
*drank some more,
*dared a guy not to jump down onto the refrigerator truck directly below the balcony,
*chatted with some kids from our rival high school,
*and ran into another kid from the HS.
How was your weekend, Bangin’? Holler At Me.
Haylz, Marla, Gully. I know you might think that I missed our tentative pre-partying appointment because I thought putting Gully and Haylz together creates a chaotic environment wherein stars collapse in upon themselves, where pigs fly helicopters, where leprechauns demand their f*cking pot o’ gold as you're strolling through the projects.
But really, I was lazy and tired and went to uphold a promise to Anna who does not yet have a nickname. There was a gathering of NYU MBA’s at a bar whose name is of little consequence. There were shiny buttoned-down shirts, and low lights, and couches. Like so many other bars.
In the bar, there was Anna, some lame kids, and I thought long and hard about lying my way through the whole evening, because most interesting of all was the Mavericks/ Kings basketball game.
Gully knows, Gully knows about the occasional propensity for lying. You’re at a party, and some over-pompous ass is off and running about his or her cocaine use, or their art, or what they used to do back before the Lower East Side became gentrified, et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.
And you start to think, I can’t listen to any more of this. And you also think, but I would love to invent some tales and see if this blowhard is listening as you embellish your age, your experience, your travel, your bisexual experiences while you were high in Aspen…
The point of this all is that I played it straight. I meant to lie. I had accents at the ready. But then, I was confronted with some guy named Chris and then I was talking to the two women he came with. I think he helped them pick out their clothes. Or helped them shop for their matching sandals.
A perfect opportunity to lie, I know! And I found myself having a long-ish conversation with one of them—Danielle, perhaps?—and enjoying it. I must have been tired.
So, while you were working on your consumption, I:
*hung out with Anna,
*walked by a kid from my university (who informed me that my old DJ partner’s getting married in a few months),
*drank some more,
*dared a guy not to jump down onto the refrigerator truck directly below the balcony,
*chatted with some kids from our rival high school,
*and ran into another kid from the HS.
How was your weekend, Bangin’? Holler At Me.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend VII. 05.13.03
Dear Helen H:
Great to see you at Bubby’s with your kid tonight. You looked tired and natural but better than you did in Pay It Forward. That is so superficial of me. And it’s Mother’s Day too. I am a heel. Please forgive me, Helen.
We had a conversation—Arroz, his sis Kiri, little Leanna, Riz, Naomi, and Jess—about how you would be the perfect celebrity to see—still a cool moment/ event but not so spectacular that anyone loses their shit and embarrasses everyone.
Bubby’s was filled with children to distract us from thinking of staring at you. Ah, the children and the balloons that invariably slipped out of their little fingers and into the whirl of the ceiling fans. I hope you had a better time that we did… to be detailed in another postcard.
Yours in Slight Admiration.
Dear Helen H:
Great to see you at Bubby’s with your kid tonight. You looked tired and natural but better than you did in Pay It Forward. That is so superficial of me. And it’s Mother’s Day too. I am a heel. Please forgive me, Helen.
We had a conversation—Arroz, his sis Kiri, little Leanna, Riz, Naomi, and Jess—about how you would be the perfect celebrity to see—still a cool moment/ event but not so spectacular that anyone loses their shit and embarrasses everyone.
Bubby’s was filled with children to distract us from thinking of staring at you. Ah, the children and the balloons that invariably slipped out of their little fingers and into the whirl of the ceiling fans. I hope you had a better time that we did… to be detailed in another postcard.
Yours in Slight Admiration.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend VIII. 05.13.03
To: Bubby’s.
From: My disappointed ass.
Bubby, America is about meat and blowing stuff up. And your chili is not about either. I want it deported. The mac and cheese did not mack for me. I added an indiscriminate amount of hot sauce to give it some kick. I spent the rest of the evening dabbing my upper lip and under-nose for some illusory hot sauce remnant.
Try that in the mirror, by the way. You’ll look like a moron too.
But, Bubby. The food lacked a little kick. Except for the hush puppies, which we could have eaten for days. Damn, those were good. We should have made them dinner. Naomi didn’t mind. She’s a fan of eating. I mind. I’m finicky and do not have Naomi’s heightened sensibilities. So I complain.
Bubby, one more thing—the strawberry shortcake had ice cream instead of… cream? And it looked hastily considered, hastily slapped together. But nothing like the key lime pie, which lacked lime.
I appreciate your restaurant, and would appreciate it more if you addressed these issues. Thank you for your time.
My Savory Regards.
To: Bubby’s.
From: My disappointed ass.
Bubby, America is about meat and blowing stuff up. And your chili is not about either. I want it deported. The mac and cheese did not mack for me. I added an indiscriminate amount of hot sauce to give it some kick. I spent the rest of the evening dabbing my upper lip and under-nose for some illusory hot sauce remnant.
Try that in the mirror, by the way. You’ll look like a moron too.
But, Bubby. The food lacked a little kick. Except for the hush puppies, which we could have eaten for days. Damn, those were good. We should have made them dinner. Naomi didn’t mind. She’s a fan of eating. I mind. I’m finicky and do not have Naomi’s heightened sensibilities. So I complain.
Bubby, one more thing—the strawberry shortcake had ice cream instead of… cream? And it looked hastily considered, hastily slapped together. But nothing like the key lime pie, which lacked lime.
I appreciate your restaurant, and would appreciate it more if you addressed these issues. Thank you for your time.
My Savory Regards.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend IX. 05.13.03
Arroz the Rice-A-Homie is the bestest. He wouldn’t tell me the surprise for weeks, but told me to leave May 11th open for… a surprise. We walked through the mists of Hudson Street and past Canal up to Spring and cut left, finding ourselves at the end of a small line at the rock club Don Hill’s.
Where the poster states that tonight is one of two shows by a cavalcade of unheard of terrible funk-o-metal bands. Headlined by King’s X and your band, Fishbone.
Some of my friends probably get excited over the name Fishbone. I have seen you once myself, on the Mississippi Riverfront in Memphis, Tennessee. I’ll tell you that tale one day if you haven’t heard it. It’s one of my favorites. And Fishbone, you were okay there, on a crappy soundsystem and a crowd maybe a little old for their antics. Parliament Funkadelic was the headliner, if you’ll remember.
But back here in New York, I hopped on one foot in glee. And not just over y’all, Fishbone.
I listened to a lot of heavy metal as a high schooler. Yeah, I did it. One of the bands I liked was King’s X, a progressive metal band of positive Christian men who mess with time signatures and harmonize about love and probably grew up listening to Rush and Voivod.
Arroz didn’t know that. He knows that Fishbone is a blast in and of themselves. In fact, in the sweaty no-fan confines of Don Hill’s, where water is an essential and my stink isn’t bad compared to the ambiance of the club, with John Waters’ absolutely filthy Pink Flamingos on two TV screens, you rocked hard.
The kids were stage diving from Party at Ground Zero throughout the set, surfing the crowd and yelling out loud. Angelo Moore, you of course got into the act, singing while floating on a wave of hands. But, Angelo. I am glad I came to your show. But watch the feet. You kicked Kiri in the head. Don’t kick the Kiri, don’t break her nose. She’s gonna be famous one day. She’ll need that nose. And her brother’s really big and won’t cotton to such behavior. You did see her with the cup of ice to her face, right?
Also, Norwood. I love your anti-rat-tail, or your last remaining dred, or your antenna to the funk aliens with the frozen Godzilla farts. But, as a fan, I must tell you—showering is your friend. When walking through a crowd, we can smell your musky waft. Please, next time—don’t opt for the oils, opt for the soap.
I wish I could also tell Riz to NOT spit water at me. Granted, I dribbled a little on her shoulder, but a full-on fire hydrant spit was not the way to go. The guy behind me certainly didn’t enjoy it.
When the skankin’ was done, and everyone was smiling, well after Arroz and I wailed along to Sunless Saturday, the rest of the kids left. It was late, they were tired. So was I.
But not too tired to stay for King’s X.
And I saw you in the corner, Neal Davis from high school. Man, these kids are everywhere! No matter. King’s X whipped out blues cords and a funk beat for their new songs. And they did fine, embellishing some of their crappier songs and making them pleasant.
Then they took it back to 1989-91. Damn, it was good. Like the first real key lime pie of the summer. Norwood, I saw you appreciating them between fan conversations, hanging out in the back, quietly accepting on-stage appreciation from King’s X. Very cool.
Fishbone—as the crowd said, you are Red Hot.
Skankingly Yours.
Arroz the Rice-A-Homie is the bestest. He wouldn’t tell me the surprise for weeks, but told me to leave May 11th open for… a surprise. We walked through the mists of Hudson Street and past Canal up to Spring and cut left, finding ourselves at the end of a small line at the rock club Don Hill’s.
Where the poster states that tonight is one of two shows by a cavalcade of unheard of terrible funk-o-metal bands. Headlined by King’s X and your band, Fishbone.
Some of my friends probably get excited over the name Fishbone. I have seen you once myself, on the Mississippi Riverfront in Memphis, Tennessee. I’ll tell you that tale one day if you haven’t heard it. It’s one of my favorites. And Fishbone, you were okay there, on a crappy soundsystem and a crowd maybe a little old for their antics. Parliament Funkadelic was the headliner, if you’ll remember.
But back here in New York, I hopped on one foot in glee. And not just over y’all, Fishbone.
I listened to a lot of heavy metal as a high schooler. Yeah, I did it. One of the bands I liked was King’s X, a progressive metal band of positive Christian men who mess with time signatures and harmonize about love and probably grew up listening to Rush and Voivod.
Arroz didn’t know that. He knows that Fishbone is a blast in and of themselves. In fact, in the sweaty no-fan confines of Don Hill’s, where water is an essential and my stink isn’t bad compared to the ambiance of the club, with John Waters’ absolutely filthy Pink Flamingos on two TV screens, you rocked hard.
The kids were stage diving from Party at Ground Zero throughout the set, surfing the crowd and yelling out loud. Angelo Moore, you of course got into the act, singing while floating on a wave of hands. But, Angelo. I am glad I came to your show. But watch the feet. You kicked Kiri in the head. Don’t kick the Kiri, don’t break her nose. She’s gonna be famous one day. She’ll need that nose. And her brother’s really big and won’t cotton to such behavior. You did see her with the cup of ice to her face, right?
Also, Norwood. I love your anti-rat-tail, or your last remaining dred, or your antenna to the funk aliens with the frozen Godzilla farts. But, as a fan, I must tell you—showering is your friend. When walking through a crowd, we can smell your musky waft. Please, next time—don’t opt for the oils, opt for the soap.
I wish I could also tell Riz to NOT spit water at me. Granted, I dribbled a little on her shoulder, but a full-on fire hydrant spit was not the way to go. The guy behind me certainly didn’t enjoy it.
When the skankin’ was done, and everyone was smiling, well after Arroz and I wailed along to Sunless Saturday, the rest of the kids left. It was late, they were tired. So was I.
But not too tired to stay for King’s X.
And I saw you in the corner, Neal Davis from high school. Man, these kids are everywhere! No matter. King’s X whipped out blues cords and a funk beat for their new songs. And they did fine, embellishing some of their crappier songs and making them pleasant.
Then they took it back to 1989-91. Damn, it was good. Like the first real key lime pie of the summer. Norwood, I saw you appreciating them between fan conversations, hanging out in the back, quietly accepting on-stage appreciation from King’s X. Very cool.
Fishbone—as the crowd said, you are Red Hot.
Skankingly Yours.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend X. 05.13.03
It is times like these when living at the end of the earth leaves a little to be desired, with my feet sore from standing and swaying, when I have not slept in my bed since Thursday night, when it is almost 4 AM and I walk home instead of taking a ridiculously overpriced car service.
There are about ten other people in cars, walking, standing, along my path, and I always wonder what they are doing out under the cover of night.
Probably the same thing as me.
The trees are coming in, finally, making some dark paths even darker but in a relaxing sort of way, adding a pleasant obscuring to the streetlamps and creating images and shadows enough to make my heart race, but not enough to strike late night fear into my heart.
The air smells wet and feels warm with each breeze. And though I would like to sleep for a good long time, I also want to sit out on the front steps and recline.
I see the cats who have taken residence on a car in my driveway, gesture for them—you don’t have to find a home, but you got to get the f*ck up outta this driveway—and put key in lock, realizing that the whole sit and recline fantasy? F- that dog, I am crazy tired.
Good Night, Neighborhood.
It is times like these when living at the end of the earth leaves a little to be desired, with my feet sore from standing and swaying, when I have not slept in my bed since Thursday night, when it is almost 4 AM and I walk home instead of taking a ridiculously overpriced car service.
There are about ten other people in cars, walking, standing, along my path, and I always wonder what they are doing out under the cover of night.
Probably the same thing as me.
The trees are coming in, finally, making some dark paths even darker but in a relaxing sort of way, adding a pleasant obscuring to the streetlamps and creating images and shadows enough to make my heart race, but not enough to strike late night fear into my heart.
The air smells wet and feels warm with each breeze. And though I would like to sleep for a good long time, I also want to sit out on the front steps and recline.
I see the cats who have taken residence on a car in my driveway, gesture for them—you don’t have to find a home, but you got to get the f*ck up outta this driveway—and put key in lock, realizing that the whole sit and recline fantasy? F- that dog, I am crazy tired.
Good Night, Neighborhood.
Thursday, May 08, 2003
What's In A Name? 05.08.03
According to the Kalabrian Philosophy:
Your name of Pico creates a quick, clever mind capable of grasping and assimilating new ideas. You are rather studious, mentally challenging each new idea before accepting it. Because you learn so quickly you have little patience with those whose mental processes are somewhat slower, and you could become supercilious or somewhat "know it all" in your attitude. This characteristic could make you rather unpopular with your associates. Although you are very knowledgeable and intelligent, you often find spontaneous verbal expression difficult. You crave friendship, understanding, love, and affection about your reserved manner appears forbidding to others. You can give expression to your personal thoughts and feelings most fluently through the written word.
You have a sensitive nature--sensitive to your environment and particularly sensitive to how your deeper and more serious interests are regarded by others. Your feelings are very easily hurt and to protect yourself you withdraw within the realms of your own private thoughts and shut out the rest of the world. Moods, which are your worst enemy, result. Your sensitivity and lack of verbal expression frustrate and limit the satisfaction in life to be gained from your responsible and capable nature. Health problems arise due to worry and a sensitivity in the respiratory area which could lead to problems with the heart, lungs, or bronchial organs.
Hit that link above and search for your name; I bet you will have a sensitivity in the respiratory area too.
According to the Kalabrian Philosophy:
Your name of Pico creates a quick, clever mind capable of grasping and assimilating new ideas. You are rather studious, mentally challenging each new idea before accepting it. Because you learn so quickly you have little patience with those whose mental processes are somewhat slower, and you could become supercilious or somewhat "know it all" in your attitude. This characteristic could make you rather unpopular with your associates. Although you are very knowledgeable and intelligent, you often find spontaneous verbal expression difficult. You crave friendship, understanding, love, and affection about your reserved manner appears forbidding to others. You can give expression to your personal thoughts and feelings most fluently through the written word.
You have a sensitive nature--sensitive to your environment and particularly sensitive to how your deeper and more serious interests are regarded by others. Your feelings are very easily hurt and to protect yourself you withdraw within the realms of your own private thoughts and shut out the rest of the world. Moods, which are your worst enemy, result. Your sensitivity and lack of verbal expression frustrate and limit the satisfaction in life to be gained from your responsible and capable nature. Health problems arise due to worry and a sensitivity in the respiratory area which could lead to problems with the heart, lungs, or bronchial organs.
Hit that link above and search for your name; I bet you will have a sensitivity in the respiratory area too.
Wednesday, May 07, 2003
Blowcrastination 05.07.03
This is excellent. I have one more final. It’s a paper. All I have to do is finish a paper. Instead, I am rediscovering other people’s blogs.
I am noting that I never wrote about my party homie Larry Eustachy like I had planned to. He’s the man who can coach basketball and then party with nubile 18-yr olds. Yeah, Eustachy’s my hero.
I am noting that I have not yet said anything about Bob Ryan’s retarded ass comments about Jason Kidd’s wife.
I am noting that I have not gone back and started inserting insane fictional bits in my other blog.
Angel’s coming to a season (maybe forever?) end and I have not noted anything about that.
Or Rey Sanchez’ haircut follies.
Soon, my sweets, soon.
What I need is the accompaniment of Ja Rule and his innumerable duets to give me pop as I write. Or a freaking snickers bar. Or maybe I should have slept in my own bed last night. But that Gulshan is too convincing! So is beer. And the prospect of multiple possibly nubile art ladies in a bar, ready to let loose after a long semester of art creation... with a little creative act or three in athletically adventurous positions...
Though I and Gulshan were reminded that the first rule of the booty brigade might really be "don't talk about the booty brigade." It's hard to tell someone about the concept and then follow with, "so how 'bout it? I'll even buy you a drink if I have to and shit." Props to the Holiday Bird for coming out for a little lunching in Bryant Park, our feet in the green (but our shoes on, as per the security guard's instructions), our mouths busy with chatter and chew, our eyes strafing the grounds for boy/girl candy.
This is excellent. I have one more final. It’s a paper. All I have to do is finish a paper. Instead, I am rediscovering other people’s blogs.
I am noting that I never wrote about my party homie Larry Eustachy like I had planned to. He’s the man who can coach basketball and then party with nubile 18-yr olds. Yeah, Eustachy’s my hero.
I am noting that I have not yet said anything about Bob Ryan’s retarded ass comments about Jason Kidd’s wife.
I am noting that I have not gone back and started inserting insane fictional bits in my other blog.
Angel’s coming to a season (maybe forever?) end and I have not noted anything about that.
Or Rey Sanchez’ haircut follies.
Soon, my sweets, soon.
What I need is the accompaniment of Ja Rule and his innumerable duets to give me pop as I write. Or a freaking snickers bar. Or maybe I should have slept in my own bed last night. But that Gulshan is too convincing! So is beer. And the prospect of multiple possibly nubile art ladies in a bar, ready to let loose after a long semester of art creation... with a little creative act or three in athletically adventurous positions...
Though I and Gulshan were reminded that the first rule of the booty brigade might really be "don't talk about the booty brigade." It's hard to tell someone about the concept and then follow with, "so how 'bout it? I'll even buy you a drink if I have to and shit." Props to the Holiday Bird for coming out for a little lunching in Bryant Park, our feet in the green (but our shoes on, as per the security guard's instructions), our mouths busy with chatter and chew, our eyes strafing the grounds for boy/girl candy.
Poemtry 05.07.03
Thanks to Affordable Justice for popping this on his site. It's a poem generator. To try it, click this jammie.
One generated for Pico Dulce's blog--
muses codfish ] ; cops try to his licence,
to players to say that
proper budonkadonk
to Drinkland. My rims
done slaving over
Persian food.
choices. i ain’t shitting you,
have fallen asleep
at , New show
Mr.
Raycroft over
them skittish.
Thanks to Affordable Justice for popping this on his site. It's a poem generator. To try it, click this jammie.
One generated for Pico Dulce's blog--
muses codfish ] ; cops try to his licence,
to players to say that
proper budonkadonk
to Drinkland. My rims
done slaving over
Persian food.
choices. i ain’t shitting you,
have fallen asleep
at , New show
Mr.
Raycroft over
them skittish.
Tuesday, May 06, 2003
Quick-E 05.06.03
Check it out-- Pixel is finally done slaving over her boyfriend's site. he should like, take her to a Hollywood opening or something! BTW, look for the picture with Carrie-Anne Moss, it's special.
Check it out-- Pixel is finally done slaving over her boyfriend's site. he should like, take her to a Hollywood opening or something! BTW, look for the picture with Carrie-Anne Moss, it's special.
Monday, May 05, 2003
Six Responses From Hayley 05.05.03
Fill in your own questions. I am lazy.
Halyz says: when else would you get to sing "piece of me?"
to answer your questions:
1. scale of 1-10, 3-4. and it only gets that much because i was wasted. and because there was ass exposure in the street.
2. hoboken is a quaint little place, but there are too many drunk fraternity guys and sorority girls. if i had to live in jersey, i would choose hoboken. but i will never live in jersey.
3. if i could change one thing, i would not have fallen asleep at schnapp's, but rather whipped out some stimulants, gone back to manhattan to a bar, and gotten laid.
4. i remember thinking that one of the designs on the wall looks like my tattoo, i remember schnapp told me there were bananas and i found chocolate chips and was mad that he had "lied" to me about my snack food choices. i remember tossing mini chips into my mouth. i remember being woken up.
5. not mr. softee. i'm thinking mini oreos.
6. i thought she was really pale.
7. i learned to do a bridge from yoga class. i am most impressed that i can reach my head back onto the ground when i am in the bridge. i did it because i want other people to oooh and ah. i'd like to say that that's the first time i whipped out the bridge, but it is not.
Fill in your own questions. I am lazy.
Halyz says: when else would you get to sing "piece of me?"
to answer your questions:
1. scale of 1-10, 3-4. and it only gets that much because i was wasted. and because there was ass exposure in the street.
2. hoboken is a quaint little place, but there are too many drunk fraternity guys and sorority girls. if i had to live in jersey, i would choose hoboken. but i will never live in jersey.
3. if i could change one thing, i would not have fallen asleep at schnapp's, but rather whipped out some stimulants, gone back to manhattan to a bar, and gotten laid.
4. i remember thinking that one of the designs on the wall looks like my tattoo, i remember schnapp told me there were bananas and i found chocolate chips and was mad that he had "lied" to me about my snack food choices. i remember tossing mini chips into my mouth. i remember being woken up.
5. not mr. softee. i'm thinking mini oreos.
6. i thought she was really pale.
7. i learned to do a bridge from yoga class. i am most impressed that i can reach my head back onto the ground when i am in the bridge. i did it because i want other people to oooh and ah. i'd like to say that that's the first time i whipped out the bridge, but it is not.
The Smut Ambassador 05.05.03
My time with Hayley was something to behold with beer goggles firmly on. So was the sight of us screaming the lyrics to 18 and Life as we stumbled past the bars of Ho-broken as the little sorority chickens and fraternity puppies watched us pass. And watched Haylz flash. And watched Gulshan try to convince various ladies to accompany us into the city.
We did it all, yelled off of roofs (rooves?), made time with the nice people of the ACLU, I talked sports until Marla was ready to deck me…
And what I came away with was this—even though Haylz will do a bridge for our pleasure, I refuse to hang out with her and Gulshan together until they can play civil and not fondle each other until one ends up upset or annoyed. That’s just me.
On the other hand… it was kind of funny. And it’s not so bad, nobody fell off of Devon’s balcony. No one was photographed with a Bacardi O3 in hand. And no one decided to stay in Ho-broken because it seemed happening and adventurous.
My time with Hayley was something to behold with beer goggles firmly on. So was the sight of us screaming the lyrics to 18 and Life as we stumbled past the bars of Ho-broken as the little sorority chickens and fraternity puppies watched us pass. And watched Haylz flash. And watched Gulshan try to convince various ladies to accompany us into the city.
We did it all, yelled off of roofs (rooves?), made time with the nice people of the ACLU, I talked sports until Marla was ready to deck me…
And what I came away with was this—even though Haylz will do a bridge for our pleasure, I refuse to hang out with her and Gulshan together until they can play civil and not fondle each other until one ends up upset or annoyed. That’s just me.
On the other hand… it was kind of funny. And it’s not so bad, nobody fell off of Devon’s balcony. No one was photographed with a Bacardi O3 in hand. And no one decided to stay in Ho-broken because it seemed happening and adventurous.
Thursday, May 01, 2003
Ozzy 05.01.03
Ozzy might sing in the kitchen: "I'm rocking out with Haylz eating Gravy Train!" A night of debauchery with Bangin' Brooklyn is coming and I will give you the real inside scoop into her debaucherous life. What makes her tick. The most embarrassing thing she's ever done. Is there love in the Bangin' world? What's next for our sexual stuntwoman?
Coming after this weekend's hangover. And be thankful I didn't lead you to this site, the first thing that pops up when you search "Gravy Train" on Google.
Ozzy might sing in the kitchen: "I'm rocking out with Haylz eating Gravy Train!" A night of debauchery with Bangin' Brooklyn is coming and I will give you the real inside scoop into her debaucherous life. What makes her tick. The most embarrassing thing she's ever done. Is there love in the Bangin' world? What's next for our sexual stuntwoman?
Coming after this weekend's hangover. And be thankful I didn't lead you to this site, the first thing that pops up when you search "Gravy Train" on Google.
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
True Tomato Panic 04.29.03.
Hells yeah. This weekend, Pico went a searchin’ for that proper budonkadonk to join the brigade. I wish I could tell you that’s true, because it’s better than some of the truth:
Pico’s been doing research and not for his master’s in bedroom philosophies or budonkadonk. But in between reading more about Bill + Hillary’s Health Security Act than Pico cares to, Pico also—
Watched the NFL Draft. Y’all know I’m a sports fan so wipe that look of your faces. Caught up with the marrieds Matt + Angie and Mr. Raycroft over beers that double as weight training accoutrements. Sam Cowart and some of the other Jets showed up and I ain’t shitting you, Joe Namath was in the house;
took hot pictures with New Top and Pixel. The scene was the Pixel pad and some bar near Baraza which is barely worth mentioning, except that it was humid with fraternity men and desperation;
Took a walk with Gully and Nicole through the festival/ DJ set-up in Tompkins Square Park. Nicole commented that the park was filled with dirty people. Either because they’re young/ sweaty/ raver-types/ tattooed/ smoking. Or some other reason. Pico said, “yeeeah,” in a voice deep to send trills up your spine;
Drank one nasty tasting margarita that nevertheless put me down.
Hells yeah. This weekend, Pico went a searchin’ for that proper budonkadonk to join the brigade. I wish I could tell you that’s true, because it’s better than some of the truth:
Pico’s been doing research and not for his master’s in bedroom philosophies or budonkadonk. But in between reading more about Bill + Hillary’s Health Security Act than Pico cares to, Pico also—
Watched the NFL Draft. Y’all know I’m a sports fan so wipe that look of your faces. Caught up with the marrieds Matt + Angie and Mr. Raycroft over beers that double as weight training accoutrements. Sam Cowart and some of the other Jets showed up and I ain’t shitting you, Joe Namath was in the house;
took hot pictures with New Top and Pixel. The scene was the Pixel pad and some bar near Baraza which is barely worth mentioning, except that it was humid with fraternity men and desperation;
Took a walk with Gully and Nicole through the festival/ DJ set-up in Tompkins Square Park. Nicole commented that the park was filled with dirty people. Either because they’re young/ sweaty/ raver-types/ tattooed/ smoking. Or some other reason. Pico said, “yeeeah,” in a voice deep to send trills up your spine;
Drank one nasty tasting margarita that nevertheless put me down.
Thursday, April 24, 2003
Toronto Panic 04.24.03
Major league baseball asks its players to be careful in Toronto; fears of a SARS outbreak has them skittish. Some of the suggestions to players visiting the Blue Jays in the Skydome include:
* Do not lick the bathroom stalls in the local hospital, even if it is part of your good luck routine.
* When confronted with large crowds of people trying to take your picture or touch you or otherwise be a fan, punch one firmly in the nose. Stand over them and let everyone know you are willing to punch more people.
* Do not go into the stands for a beer between innings. Even if Molson is more golden delicious than that Miller Genuine Draft or Bud Light swill in the American ballparks.
* There are rumors of Weapons of Mass Destruction in the CN Tower. Pull it down and cheer, for Canada now is free!
* Do not see the hookers. We mean it this time.
* If a ground ball comes at you in the Skydome, jump out of the way and wave your hands like a terrified toddler.
* Beat Ken Huckaby. He hurt Derek Je-tah's sacred shoulder.
* In the case of a player contracting SARS, they will be traded to said Blue Jays; the rumor that the Blue Jays are sending the virus airborne through the vents when the Yankees are in town is unsubstantiated.
Major league baseball asks its players to be careful in Toronto; fears of a SARS outbreak has them skittish. Some of the suggestions to players visiting the Blue Jays in the Skydome include:
* Do not lick the bathroom stalls in the local hospital, even if it is part of your good luck routine.
* When confronted with large crowds of people trying to take your picture or touch you or otherwise be a fan, punch one firmly in the nose. Stand over them and let everyone know you are willing to punch more people.
* Do not go into the stands for a beer between innings. Even if Molson is more golden delicious than that Miller Genuine Draft or Bud Light swill in the American ballparks.
* There are rumors of Weapons of Mass Destruction in the CN Tower. Pull it down and cheer, for Canada now is free!
* Do not see the hookers. We mean it this time.
* If a ground ball comes at you in the Skydome, jump out of the way and wave your hands like a terrified toddler.
* Beat Ken Huckaby. He hurt Derek Je-tah's sacred shoulder.
* In the case of a player contracting SARS, they will be traded to said Blue Jays; the rumor that the Blue Jays are sending the virus airborne through the vents when the Yankees are in town is unsubstantiated.
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
P.P.S 04.23.03
Friendster has me reverting to the 12 year old girl I once was.
While I'm at it, the phrase that pays for the month is "sucka-free." Thanks to Arroz. I hope to maintain this blog-web as a sucka-free stage. Fresh! For The naughty ought-trey, you non-suckas!
Friendster has me reverting to the 12 year old girl I once was.
While I'm at it, the phrase that pays for the month is "sucka-free." Thanks to Arroz. I hope to maintain this blog-web as a sucka-free stage. Fresh! For The naughty ought-trey, you non-suckas!
Pee-Yay 04.23.03
I had a whole post about Monica Lewinsky and Fox' new show Mr. Personality;
I was going to open a debate about the booty brigade and whether we should just open it to everyone;
But Jenna sent me this article and I thought it was interesting, a little detail about the fundamental political argument going on these days. So I put it up instead. This is an article about the Senator from Pennsylvania, Rick Santorum. And his very conservative values. I wonder, where is the Democratic/ leftist/ liberal counter to this guy?
Here's an excerpt; here is a link to the whole article, from the Washington Post.
"If the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual (gay) sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything," the Pennsylvania lawmaker said in a recent interview, fuming over a landmark gay rights case before the high court that pits a Texas sodomy law against equality and privacy rights.
"All of those things are antithetical to a healthy, stable, traditional family," Santorum said. "And that's sort of where we are in today's world, unfortunately. It all comes from, I would argue, this right to privacy that doesn't exist, in my opinion, in the United States Constitution."
It's this kind of strong ideology plus ambition that has propelled Santorum, 44, through the ranks of the Senate Republican leadership at what his GOP colleagues describe as a meteoric pace. After fewer than 10 years in the Senate, Santorum is No. 3 in the GOP leadership, serving as the party's conference chairman.
I had a whole post about Monica Lewinsky and Fox' new show Mr. Personality;
I was going to open a debate about the booty brigade and whether we should just open it to everyone;
But Jenna sent me this article and I thought it was interesting, a little detail about the fundamental political argument going on these days. So I put it up instead. This is an article about the Senator from Pennsylvania, Rick Santorum. And his very conservative values. I wonder, where is the Democratic/ leftist/ liberal counter to this guy?
Here's an excerpt; here is a link to the whole article, from the Washington Post.
"If the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual (gay) sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything," the Pennsylvania lawmaker said in a recent interview, fuming over a landmark gay rights case before the high court that pits a Texas sodomy law against equality and privacy rights.
"All of those things are antithetical to a healthy, stable, traditional family," Santorum said. "And that's sort of where we are in today's world, unfortunately. It all comes from, I would argue, this right to privacy that doesn't exist, in my opinion, in the United States Constitution."
It's this kind of strong ideology plus ambition that has propelled Santorum, 44, through the ranks of the Senate Republican leadership at what his GOP colleagues describe as a meteoric pace. After fewer than 10 years in the Senate, Santorum is No. 3 in the GOP leadership, serving as the party's conference chairman.
Monday, April 21, 2003
Soap 04.21.03
* Will Brown-Boy contact the booty brigade?
*Can Pico escape his papers and get an alcoholic drink?
*Will Pico be able to one day shave without leaving bumpy remnants?
*Now that the US has found an Iraqi scientist to supposedly corroborate the existence of "WMD" a/k/a Weapons of Mass Destruction, and a possible move of said WMD to Syria, will G-Dub the National Shrub lay waste to the Syrian countryside?
* Will Brown-Boy contact the booty brigade?
*Can Pico escape his papers and get an alcoholic drink?
*Will Pico be able to one day shave without leaving bumpy remnants?
*Now that the US has found an Iraqi scientist to supposedly corroborate the existence of "WMD" a/k/a Weapons of Mass Destruction, and a possible move of said WMD to Syria, will G-Dub the National Shrub lay waste to the Syrian countryside?
Friday, April 18, 2003
Never Too Much 04.18.03
Soul crooner Luther Vandross suffered a stroke:
LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - R&B singer-songwriter Luther Vandross, who has battled weight and health problems for years, has suffered a stroke just days before his 52nd birthday, his record label said on Thursday.
Vandross, a five-time Grammy winner who launched a successful comeback two years ago, was undergoing medical treatment after being stricken on Wednesday, J Records said in a statement.
"Vandross is under medical care, and his family and friends are hopeful for a speedy recovery," Carmen Romano, the entertainer's business manager, said in the statement.
His whereabouts were not disclosed, and officials at New York-based J Records were not immediately available for comment.
Famed for his silky, soulful crooning as well as for his songwriting and production prowess, Vandross turns 52 on Sunday. Since launching his solo career in 1981 after a successful stint as a back-up vocalist for the likes of David Bowie and Bette Midler, he has sold more than 20 million records worldwide.
"There are vocalists, and then there's Luther," Motown singer-songwriter Smokey Robinson told Rolling Stone magazine in 1990. "Luther's in a class by himself."
for more of the Reuters article, click here.
Soul crooner Luther Vandross suffered a stroke:
LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - R&B singer-songwriter Luther Vandross, who has battled weight and health problems for years, has suffered a stroke just days before his 52nd birthday, his record label said on Thursday.
Vandross, a five-time Grammy winner who launched a successful comeback two years ago, was undergoing medical treatment after being stricken on Wednesday, J Records said in a statement.
"Vandross is under medical care, and his family and friends are hopeful for a speedy recovery," Carmen Romano, the entertainer's business manager, said in the statement.
His whereabouts were not disclosed, and officials at New York-based J Records were not immediately available for comment.
Famed for his silky, soulful crooning as well as for his songwriting and production prowess, Vandross turns 52 on Sunday. Since launching his solo career in 1981 after a successful stint as a back-up vocalist for the likes of David Bowie and Bette Midler, he has sold more than 20 million records worldwide.
"There are vocalists, and then there's Luther," Motown singer-songwriter Smokey Robinson told Rolling Stone magazine in 1990. "Luther's in a class by himself."
for more of the Reuters article, click here.
More Than Meets This Guy 04.18.03
If you haven't heard yet, Optimus Prime is providing fire protection in Iraq. This was just brought to my attention. I never freaking knew! Who didn't tell me about this one? Here is a link to his blog.
An article:
CUYAHOGA FALLS -- A member of Ohio's 5694th National Guard Unit in Mansfield legally changed his name to a Transformers toy. Optimus Prime is heading out to the Middle East with his guard unit on Wednesday to provide fire protection for airfields under combat. "On Sunday, we were awarded as the best firefighting unit in the Army National Guard in the entire country," said Prime. "That was a big moment for us."
Prime took his name from the leader of the Autobots Transformers, which were popular toys and a children's cartoon in the 1980s. He legally changed his name on his 30th birthday and now it's on everything from his driver's licence, to his military ID, to his uniform.
"They razzed me for three months to no end," said Prime. "They really dug into me about it."
"I got a letter from a general at the Pentagon when the name change went through and he says it was great to have the employ of the commander of the Autobots in the National Guard."
Prime says the toy actually filled a void in his life when it came out. "My dad passed away the year before and I didn't have anybody really around, so I really latched onto him when i was a kid," he said.
At least he wasn't into the wack-ass GoBots.
If you haven't heard yet, Optimus Prime is providing fire protection in Iraq. This was just brought to my attention. I never freaking knew! Who didn't tell me about this one? Here is a link to his blog.
An article:
CUYAHOGA FALLS -- A member of Ohio's 5694th National Guard Unit in Mansfield legally changed his name to a Transformers toy. Optimus Prime is heading out to the Middle East with his guard unit on Wednesday to provide fire protection for airfields under combat. "On Sunday, we were awarded as the best firefighting unit in the Army National Guard in the entire country," said Prime. "That was a big moment for us."
Prime took his name from the leader of the Autobots Transformers, which were popular toys and a children's cartoon in the 1980s. He legally changed his name on his 30th birthday and now it's on everything from his driver's licence, to his military ID, to his uniform.
"They razzed me for three months to no end," said Prime. "They really dug into me about it."
"I got a letter from a general at the Pentagon when the name change went through and he says it was great to have the employ of the commander of the Autobots in the National Guard."
Prime says the toy actually filled a void in his life when it came out. "My dad passed away the year before and I didn't have anybody really around, so I really latched onto him when i was a kid," he said.
At least he wasn't into the wack-ass GoBots.
Thursday, April 17, 2003
Passing 04.17.03
The holy season is upon us. Passover, Holy Thursday, all rolled into one religious ball. I've never been a big fan of Passover. Since seventh grade, it's when I realize that without my Jewish friends, I have… uh… video games? Selvadurai? And so Eben is off with his parents and Silver is probably the same, et cetera, et cetera.
That's okay, I've got Holy Thursday, also known as Maundy Thursday. I should find out why that is, since I don't know what "Maundy" means, but I remember the word.
FYI: this is what I get from the Webster's New World dictionary:
Maundy Thursday
[[ME maunde, ceremony of washing the feet of the poor < OFr mand= < LL(Ec) mandatum, commandment of God < L (see MANDATE): from use of mandatum at the beginning of the prayer for washing the feet, commemorating Jesus' washing of the disciples' feet: see John 13:5, 34]] the Thursday before Easter
Maundy = ceremony/ commemoration. AKA the last supper. Good. I will commemorate the last supper by dining with my dear friend ATB (not the DJ, the lady from Cleveland) and breaking bread over Persian food. See, Iran is near Iraq, where the Tigris and Euphrates meet for tea, and near enough to Jerusalem's Christian holy sites.
A little rationalization goes a long way. Almost across a subcontinent.
The holy season is upon us. Passover, Holy Thursday, all rolled into one religious ball. I've never been a big fan of Passover. Since seventh grade, it's when I realize that without my Jewish friends, I have… uh… video games? Selvadurai? And so Eben is off with his parents and Silver is probably the same, et cetera, et cetera.
That's okay, I've got Holy Thursday, also known as Maundy Thursday. I should find out why that is, since I don't know what "Maundy" means, but I remember the word.
FYI: this is what I get from the Webster's New World dictionary:
Maundy Thursday
[[ME maunde, ceremony of washing the feet of the poor < OFr mand= < LL(Ec) mandatum, commandment of God < L (see MANDATE): from use of mandatum at the beginning of the prayer for washing the feet, commemorating Jesus' washing of the disciples' feet: see John 13:5, 34]] the Thursday before Easter
Maundy = ceremony/ commemoration. AKA the last supper. Good. I will commemorate the last supper by dining with my dear friend ATB (not the DJ, the lady from Cleveland) and breaking bread over Persian food. See, Iran is near Iraq, where the Tigris and Euphrates meet for tea, and near enough to Jerusalem's Christian holy sites.
A little rationalization goes a long way. Almost across a subcontinent.
Drankland 04.17.03
Last night Marla and I walked our asses to Drinkland. My friend Leah P was going to be there; called some of her teeming horde of homies. Our reason for being there: her boyfriend, Keenan, dutifully on the 1's and 2's, accompanied by his sister Alanna.
The bar was emptier and less smoky than I remember. That would be because of Passover and the smoking ban. But the ceilings still had the painted white and black set of same-width concentric rings, the back room and the front side room still had that all-white Clockwork Orange feel.
Leah's sister Lanie P showed in all of her glory, draped in black, hair trailing, yelling across two people to express her affection. Alanna and I had a long discussion about the Luniz and Tupac. I left early, but not before I think I heard Alanna state that she had recently graduated high school. This being a little quirky, since I had just been feeling the pattern stitched into the thigh of her pants. Uh, if you know what I mean.
Last night Marla and I walked our asses to Drinkland. My friend Leah P was going to be there; called some of her teeming horde of homies. Our reason for being there: her boyfriend, Keenan, dutifully on the 1's and 2's, accompanied by his sister Alanna.
The bar was emptier and less smoky than I remember. That would be because of Passover and the smoking ban. But the ceilings still had the painted white and black set of same-width concentric rings, the back room and the front side room still had that all-white Clockwork Orange feel.
Leah's sister Lanie P showed in all of her glory, draped in black, hair trailing, yelling across two people to express her affection. Alanna and I had a long discussion about the Luniz and Tupac. I left early, but not before I think I heard Alanna state that she had recently graduated high school. This being a little quirky, since I had just been feeling the pattern stitched into the thigh of her pants. Uh, if you know what I mean.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
Sirocco 04.16.03
So I just had an interview and the only thing that comes to mind is that the woman who interviewed me is kind of hot. In a Marg Helgenberger from CSI sort of way.
Now you can wonder what the hell is wrong with me, as you wonder how to take advantage of the summery heat.
So I just had an interview and the only thing that comes to mind is that the woman who interviewed me is kind of hot. In a Marg Helgenberger from CSI sort of way.
Now you can wonder what the hell is wrong with me, as you wonder how to take advantage of the summery heat.
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
Lawn 04.15.03
I can see Mr Softee swerving to avoid the Range Rover that just came around the corner. I don't know how the ice cream man wasn't warned. I could feel the beats from the Range Rover for the last half-minute.
Kids drift home from classes, flies buzz lazily over the grasses and thinned out front shrubs. Which means that I'm gonna be yelling at some punk ass kids in a week's time like a crotchety old man, and I'll have to mow that high pile green fucker we call a front lawn.
I can see Mr Softee swerving to avoid the Range Rover that just came around the corner. I don't know how the ice cream man wasn't warned. I could feel the beats from the Range Rover for the last half-minute.
Kids drift home from classes, flies buzz lazily over the grasses and thinned out front shrubs. Which means that I'm gonna be yelling at some punk ass kids in a week's time like a crotchety old man, and I'll have to mow that high pile green fucker we call a front lawn.
Illadelphonic (Tax Holiday) 04.15.03
Impressive how other American cities don't look very much like New York City at all-- or at least, the image of New York City. Missing: the Manhattan skyscrapers, the Manhattan people, the Manhattan commerce, and these aren't explained away simply by issues of scale. Philadelphia is less than 100 miles away and it's straight-up different.
The buildings lining Roosevelt Blvd/ Rte. 1 were of St. Louis or Cleveland style-- two story buildings in red brick, falling into dilapidation. Space, grass, distance between a set of homes and the empty lots. Flamed-out windows, brownfields. But old, and you could see how they were gorgeous once, lining the street with brick and promise. The road was four lane, with a four-lane wide grassy island between the Penn Turnpike direction and the city direction.
Sidewalks cracked. Amercian flags in shaggy front lawns. "We support our troops" scrawled in white on the front of used cars and slapped up on billboards. Lawn chairs already set out to take advantage of the warm weather. Groups of four boys at a time, wasting time and smoking cigarettes. Women with two-toned hair walking in nursing outfits.
Brotherly love was mad friendly, though-- as evidenced by the obvious street interactions, in conversations, in stores. Three guys yelled at us to back out of a driveway once traffic was out of our blind spot. People freely offering aid to Riz as she looked for napkins after a cheesesteak bite. A pair of women discussed the merits of Velveeta on macaroni. Older men held in their laughter as we proved ourselves to be cheesesteak tourists.
Arroz drove us about. The three of us may have felt a touch heftier. Especially after the soft serve at the ice cream stand. But then we saw lots of tight pants stretched by fat asses. Philadelphia is supposedly the fattest city in the U.S.of A., after all; our eyeballing didn't disappoint.
For the mullet lovers, there were mullets to be seen, plus an old picture of Darren (the Last Mullet Standing) Daulton in D'Alessandro's. The same guy with the hanging belly seemed to be on every corner, wiping his brow, waiting for the bus.
We did see a lone runner on the street. And the whole city is not a roly-poly waddle fest. There was a jacked guy, in fact, at a gas station. Unfortunately, he was blasting the Big Tymers' Hood Rich in his car as he sauntered in for… whatever. Bad because he left his little boy in the car, windows down, and the kid looked very scared as the car shook with sub-woofing vengeance.
We returned through the wilds of New Jersey, and over the Goethals Bridge, into Shaolin traffic, soundtracked by the soft sounds of Riz' snoring.
Gurnifer, I couldn't bring you back a cheesesteak-- it wouldn't be right. And my bag would be greased through and too delicious for the neighborhood pets.
Impressive how other American cities don't look very much like New York City at all-- or at least, the image of New York City. Missing: the Manhattan skyscrapers, the Manhattan people, the Manhattan commerce, and these aren't explained away simply by issues of scale. Philadelphia is less than 100 miles away and it's straight-up different.
The buildings lining Roosevelt Blvd/ Rte. 1 were of St. Louis or Cleveland style-- two story buildings in red brick, falling into dilapidation. Space, grass, distance between a set of homes and the empty lots. Flamed-out windows, brownfields. But old, and you could see how they were gorgeous once, lining the street with brick and promise. The road was four lane, with a four-lane wide grassy island between the Penn Turnpike direction and the city direction.
Sidewalks cracked. Amercian flags in shaggy front lawns. "We support our troops" scrawled in white on the front of used cars and slapped up on billboards. Lawn chairs already set out to take advantage of the warm weather. Groups of four boys at a time, wasting time and smoking cigarettes. Women with two-toned hair walking in nursing outfits.
Brotherly love was mad friendly, though-- as evidenced by the obvious street interactions, in conversations, in stores. Three guys yelled at us to back out of a driveway once traffic was out of our blind spot. People freely offering aid to Riz as she looked for napkins after a cheesesteak bite. A pair of women discussed the merits of Velveeta on macaroni. Older men held in their laughter as we proved ourselves to be cheesesteak tourists.
Arroz drove us about. The three of us may have felt a touch heftier. Especially after the soft serve at the ice cream stand. But then we saw lots of tight pants stretched by fat asses. Philadelphia is supposedly the fattest city in the U.S.of A., after all; our eyeballing didn't disappoint.
For the mullet lovers, there were mullets to be seen, plus an old picture of Darren (the Last Mullet Standing) Daulton in D'Alessandro's. The same guy with the hanging belly seemed to be on every corner, wiping his brow, waiting for the bus.
We did see a lone runner on the street. And the whole city is not a roly-poly waddle fest. There was a jacked guy, in fact, at a gas station. Unfortunately, he was blasting the Big Tymers' Hood Rich in his car as he sauntered in for… whatever. Bad because he left his little boy in the car, windows down, and the kid looked very scared as the car shook with sub-woofing vengeance.
We returned through the wilds of New Jersey, and over the Goethals Bridge, into Shaolin traffic, soundtracked by the soft sounds of Riz' snoring.
Gurnifer, I couldn't bring you back a cheesesteak-- it wouldn't be right. And my bag would be greased through and too delicious for the neighborhood pets.
Monday, April 14, 2003
Sunday, April 13, 2003
--Shopping-- 04.13.03
Last night I watched TLC's "What Not to Wear" (which should be a click-n-vote website à la Hot or Not), a show where a person is told that they dress inappropriately and are instructed on how to get their dress code right. That alone must be hard to take, but when one of the fashion analysts looks like a member of Styx rocking a Triple Five Soul shirt, I know I would be a little offended. Especially after he tells me about my soft and fatty spots. Shit, I'd be insulted.
Like women probably are by these Budwesier ads where we get to see the difference in how men and women think. Or how American Muslims are insulted by war coverage.
And it's not that insulting-- they give you $5000 shopping money.
Last night I watched TLC's "What Not to Wear" (which should be a click-n-vote website à la Hot or Not), a show where a person is told that they dress inappropriately and are instructed on how to get their dress code right. That alone must be hard to take, but when one of the fashion analysts looks like a member of Styx rocking a Triple Five Soul shirt, I know I would be a little offended. Especially after he tells me about my soft and fatty spots. Shit, I'd be insulted.
Like women probably are by these Budwesier ads where we get to see the difference in how men and women think. Or how American Muslims are insulted by war coverage.
And it's not that insulting-- they give you $5000 shopping money.
--Thanks-- 04.13.03
I meant to stick with the lighthearted coverage and the booty brigade. Because the booty brigade is a cultural revolution. More than simply being about booty, it is about a new way of thinking. The brigade gives you a focus, a something to believe in.
Also, I'd like to thank--
Talia for mentioning the show; Pixel for dancing all silly-like (must be the new Rhinegold beer shirt); the guy who laid down on his back in the gutter (which doubles as a bus stop lane) for being a ridiculous dirty caricature of NYC; and you for understanding.
I meant to stick with the lighthearted coverage and the booty brigade. Because the booty brigade is a cultural revolution. More than simply being about booty, it is about a new way of thinking. The brigade gives you a focus, a something to believe in.
Also, I'd like to thank--
Talia for mentioning the show; Pixel for dancing all silly-like (must be the new Rhinegold beer shirt); the guy who laid down on his back in the gutter (which doubles as a bus stop lane) for being a ridiculous dirty caricature of NYC; and you for understanding.
Saturday, April 12, 2003
The Scope and The Taste 04.12.03
The taste:
Friday. I was at a desk, fighting sleep. By fighting sleep, I mean thinking long and hard about booty. There's something about being in one spot, in one office, with certain people you've been thinking about giving all the angles to. And you have no idea if they know or they notice. Or if they want it too. Or if that matters.
Or are you supposed to sell yourself to them? When is it hopeless? When is the connection made? When do you know to get a little randy with the language and touchy with the affection? When should you take your hand from your sweaty and furrowed brow?
But I thought about the booty brigade, and I looked at the booty itself, glorious and round; and I was like, hells yeah, licked my lips, thought about Eddie Murphy's hit compared to Bruce Willis' late 80's foray into music, and went back to work.
And no matter what happens, no matter where we wake up, or how we go to bed, no matter if Pixel tells her boyfriend Larry that she's going out, I know the booty brigade is foremost a movement about movement. We still need rules (less important) and a catchphrase (you know you want something to shout in NYC bars).
We need rhetoric and method for remaining far from maudlin about our pipe laying prospects. See, that's why I am in the booty brigade. Too much g-m thinking.
The scope:
I know the rules of the booty brigade. We make the rules and we break the rules. Forget the rules. Like Danny Glover, we're too old for this shit. The booty brigade is about a flow of people. The booty brigade is a movement. The booty brigade is about saying our piece. The booty brigade is about the fact that Jerry Rice/ Paul Pierce/ Eric Wynalda join Kobe Bryant in asking us not to have a flat game.
To answer the questions-- Marla, you live with Haylz. You can get secondhand booty. I know what goes on in that apartment. I can hear the sounds from Queens. With my special Powerpuff brand satellite audio equipment. I mean, come on. Just warm it in the microwave.
We can start new chapters of the booty brigade in other cities, of course. I don't want to hold people back from getting the sweet touch of love-- I'm not your chastity belt. But we'll need stories, pictures, along with creative ideas for activities. A loose organization, relating informal stories, spreading the word, introducing folks to folks, while reporting to central governing body. This can happen. Yes, we will welcome visitors to the booty brigade.
We will keep our heads up and realize that booty is not the be all and end all, even of the booty brigade. But damn, it is time to openly talk about how we would rather be naked. Say it. Say it. Say it.
The taste:
Friday. I was at a desk, fighting sleep. By fighting sleep, I mean thinking long and hard about booty. There's something about being in one spot, in one office, with certain people you've been thinking about giving all the angles to. And you have no idea if they know or they notice. Or if they want it too. Or if that matters.
Or are you supposed to sell yourself to them? When is it hopeless? When is the connection made? When do you know to get a little randy with the language and touchy with the affection? When should you take your hand from your sweaty and furrowed brow?
But I thought about the booty brigade, and I looked at the booty itself, glorious and round; and I was like, hells yeah, licked my lips, thought about Eddie Murphy's hit compared to Bruce Willis' late 80's foray into music, and went back to work.
And no matter what happens, no matter where we wake up, or how we go to bed, no matter if Pixel tells her boyfriend Larry that she's going out, I know the booty brigade is foremost a movement about movement. We still need rules (less important) and a catchphrase (you know you want something to shout in NYC bars).
We need rhetoric and method for remaining far from maudlin about our pipe laying prospects. See, that's why I am in the booty brigade. Too much g-m thinking.
The scope:
I know the rules of the booty brigade. We make the rules and we break the rules. Forget the rules. Like Danny Glover, we're too old for this shit. The booty brigade is about a flow of people. The booty brigade is a movement. The booty brigade is about saying our piece. The booty brigade is about the fact that Jerry Rice/ Paul Pierce/ Eric Wynalda join Kobe Bryant in asking us not to have a flat game.
To answer the questions-- Marla, you live with Haylz. You can get secondhand booty. I know what goes on in that apartment. I can hear the sounds from Queens. With my special Powerpuff brand satellite audio equipment. I mean, come on. Just warm it in the microwave.
We can start new chapters of the booty brigade in other cities, of course. I don't want to hold people back from getting the sweet touch of love-- I'm not your chastity belt. But we'll need stories, pictures, along with creative ideas for activities. A loose organization, relating informal stories, spreading the word, introducing folks to folks, while reporting to central governing body. This can happen. Yes, we will welcome visitors to the booty brigade.
We will keep our heads up and realize that booty is not the be all and end all, even of the booty brigade. But damn, it is time to openly talk about how we would rather be naked. Say it. Say it. Say it.
Friday, April 11, 2003
Party All The Time! 04.11.03
Aren't you excited? Yes, the rain is falling, dousing, spitting on us here in New York City. It is cold, and damp, and your clothes stick to your skin. Your umbrella turns inside out, your socks squish with your steps. That's fine. Because for those of us who are tired, for those of us who are itching, this is a good sign. Of course not if you are itching from the gonorrhea or the crabbies. Rain won't do anything for you.
I'm talking to the bootycrew. But this is high time that those of us in the booty brigade stop thinking about "why no booty?" and start letting the monkey out. Simply stop thinking and start grabbing biscuits like we were the lost members of Digital Underground, armed with sex packets. Simply stop making sense and start making sex. Ain't no half-steppin'. You heard?
Haylz, the ruling council has decided. You get too much booty to join the brigade. I mean, way too much booty. This isn't a booty enhancement club. This is like a booty training wheels clubhouse.
By the way-- we need a logo and a catchphrase, kids.
Aren't you excited? Yes, the rain is falling, dousing, spitting on us here in New York City. It is cold, and damp, and your clothes stick to your skin. Your umbrella turns inside out, your socks squish with your steps. That's fine. Because for those of us who are tired, for those of us who are itching, this is a good sign. Of course not if you are itching from the gonorrhea or the crabbies. Rain won't do anything for you.
I'm talking to the bootycrew. But this is high time that those of us in the booty brigade stop thinking about "why no booty?" and start letting the monkey out. Simply stop thinking and start grabbing biscuits like we were the lost members of Digital Underground, armed with sex packets. Simply stop making sense and start making sex. Ain't no half-steppin'. You heard?
Haylz, the ruling council has decided. You get too much booty to join the brigade. I mean, way too much booty. This isn't a booty enhancement club. This is like a booty training wheels clubhouse.
By the way-- we need a logo and a catchphrase, kids.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
Emerging Markets 04.10.03
My eyes dart back in forth in search of targets. I lick my lips in anticipation, prepare my hottest breath. I'm on a mission to set these blasted thermometers right even if I have to give them one-on-one love.
Meanwhile, as I look for thermometers I "didn't mean to turn on" like Robert Palmer:
Gully has his mind on the smoke ban and the smoke ban on his mind;
Haylz is recounting classic tales of yore;
Pixel is having waking dreams and drooling on her shoe tops;
New Top is straying from her rap career and trying to lay back.
That's one I can help with. Laying back, being easy. If there is a master of lay back, it is the character who resides in my head. This same character, some of you ladies know him. He is responsible for… the voice.
When I introduce this voice, I do wish I could get Bernie Mac to reprise his joke about giving your woman…"the Dick" in the middle of her conversation with someone she just has to talk to. The idea being that, why would she answer the phone? Oh? Well, when she is midsentence, a dick provider gives a solid thrust, turning "how are you" to "ho---oo---oooooh!"
Instead of "the Dick," Mr. Mac will say "the Voice." But. See, I can't describe the voice. You can only experience it. But imagine Barry White dipped in chocolate mousse with a taste of LL and Taye Diggs, running slowly down and up your leg, and at the same time, running a finger deep down your spine, lingering in all the right spots. He ain't easygoing but if you murmur just right, the going might be as easy as you want it, or don't want it.
Yeah, I'm wet too!
My eyes dart back in forth in search of targets. I lick my lips in anticipation, prepare my hottest breath. I'm on a mission to set these blasted thermometers right even if I have to give them one-on-one love.
Meanwhile, as I look for thermometers I "didn't mean to turn on" like Robert Palmer:
Gully has his mind on the smoke ban and the smoke ban on his mind;
Haylz is recounting classic tales of yore;
Pixel is having waking dreams and drooling on her shoe tops;
New Top is straying from her rap career and trying to lay back.
That's one I can help with. Laying back, being easy. If there is a master of lay back, it is the character who resides in my head. This same character, some of you ladies know him. He is responsible for… the voice.
When I introduce this voice, I do wish I could get Bernie Mac to reprise his joke about giving your woman…"the Dick" in the middle of her conversation with someone she just has to talk to. The idea being that, why would she answer the phone? Oh? Well, when she is midsentence, a dick provider gives a solid thrust, turning "how are you" to "ho---oo---oooooh!"
Instead of "the Dick," Mr. Mac will say "the Voice." But. See, I can't describe the voice. You can only experience it. But imagine Barry White dipped in chocolate mousse with a taste of LL and Taye Diggs, running slowly down and up your leg, and at the same time, running a finger deep down your spine, lingering in all the right spots. He ain't easygoing but if you murmur just right, the going might be as easy as you want it, or don't want it.
Yeah, I'm wet too!
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
"We Are Americans! (Don't Blow Us Up!!!!)" 04.09.03
Hey look, ma, the sand n***az are looting! And they're punching pictures of that Saddam guy! I hope he's all blowed up! Then we'll be safe from… you know, sand, and patriotic country songs!
But I am at least buoyed by the idea that the news showed an Iraqi youth plainly stating in English, "f*ck Bush," and that a town in Jersey is putting up black and purple ribbons up instead of yellow, to point out the loss of life incurred during the war.
Then I hear Clint Black singing about being a high tech G.I. Joe.
Later, maybe I'll get you a link and I'll discuss less war, more hatred of my fellow man. Or of specific people.
Hey look, ma, the sand n***az are looting! And they're punching pictures of that Saddam guy! I hope he's all blowed up! Then we'll be safe from… you know, sand, and patriotic country songs!
But I am at least buoyed by the idea that the news showed an Iraqi youth plainly stating in English, "f*ck Bush," and that a town in Jersey is putting up black and purple ribbons up instead of yellow, to point out the loss of life incurred during the war.
Then I hear Clint Black singing about being a high tech G.I. Joe.
Later, maybe I'll get you a link and I'll discuss less war, more hatred of my fellow man. Or of specific people.
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
Friday, April 04, 2003
Smoke-Free Thursday 04.04.03
I would like to go off on how cool it is to see a classy purebreed raise its leg and pee on bricks like any other canine, or talk about "what's wrong with Barnard women? Why do they incessantly argue, yet happen to be impossibly wrong on a consistent basis?" Instead, I will insert this-- Ms. Pixel, I apologize for speaking sacrilege out of turn, but I like the smoke-free bar so far.
I would like to go off on how cool it is to see a classy purebreed raise its leg and pee on bricks like any other canine, or talk about "what's wrong with Barnard women? Why do they incessantly argue, yet happen to be impossibly wrong on a consistent basis?" Instead, I will insert this-- Ms. Pixel, I apologize for speaking sacrilege out of turn, but I like the smoke-free bar so far.
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
April Ain't No Kind of Fool 04.01.03
+ I think I love, hate, love, hate St. John's basketball. Ho-oly s**t, I love St. John's!!!!!!!
+ I think being on the subway with five baby-faced men in fatigues with assault rifles the size of my neck to ankle is a bit disturbing. Even with Redman bumping in my headphones.
+ When did Bum Fights, as seen on Monday's Boston Public, ABC's Dragnet, and Law & Order: Criminal Intent this season, become a crucial social issue? I've never even heard of such a thing, and I read all the scandal rags. Oh, crap. Here they are.
+ Is Sweet Lou Piniella a genius? Not only did he get the woeful Devil Rays a come-from-behind victory, but now, they're playing the Red Sox hard? And Rey Ordonez hits a home run? Drives in 4 RBI? What did Lou do? That's like me hitting a home run off of major league pitchers.
+ Right now, I'm baking cookies. And you ain't. How 'bout them raisins??
+ I think I love, hate, love, hate St. John's basketball. Ho-oly s**t, I love St. John's!!!!!!!
+ I think being on the subway with five baby-faced men in fatigues with assault rifles the size of my neck to ankle is a bit disturbing. Even with Redman bumping in my headphones.
+ When did Bum Fights, as seen on Monday's Boston Public, ABC's Dragnet, and Law & Order: Criminal Intent this season, become a crucial social issue? I've never even heard of such a thing, and I read all the scandal rags. Oh, crap. Here they are.
+ Is Sweet Lou Piniella a genius? Not only did he get the woeful Devil Rays a come-from-behind victory, but now, they're playing the Red Sox hard? And Rey Ordonez hits a home run? Drives in 4 RBI? What did Lou do? That's like me hitting a home run off of major league pitchers.
+ Right now, I'm baking cookies. And you ain't. How 'bout them raisins??
Dance, Little Sister, Dance! 04.01.03
[--aprilfoolsday--]
In case you didn't get to see Serena Williams' comments at the end of her victory in last week's Nasdaq 100 tennis tournament, a recap. Sweaty, tired, and answering a question about how she feels about the United States being at war (because we need opinions from the most spoiled and sheltered athletes-- tennis stars who are removed from junior high for training), she replied in a bad French accent: "Well, we don't want to play in the war, we want to make clothes. We don't want the war."
I guess such off-color comments are hard to divine meaning from, especially when they come from the intellectual hotbed of Key Biscayne, Florida, but the words certainly felt ignorant. Mostly because of the accent. The very bad accent. The mocking sound of the accent. Kind of reminds me of one of the reasons I don't like Robin Williams-- his "ghetto" accent while I think "rapping"--because yo, yo? I guess it rhymes-- on a promotional commercial for the movie Toys back in 1992.
And a reason I don't like Ellen Degeneres-- a seriously unfunny joke wherein she ends up being chased by bees, and these "brothers," who had been doing some anachronistic cooning, then get around her in a circle and she's flailing at the bees. See, they think she's dancing, and they're like, go Ellen, go Ellen. Wokka, wokka!
Ha, fucking ha. Guess I don't cotton to cooning and mockery. I'm just a humorless curmudgeon sometimes.
[--aprilfoolsday--]
In case you didn't get to see Serena Williams' comments at the end of her victory in last week's Nasdaq 100 tennis tournament, a recap. Sweaty, tired, and answering a question about how she feels about the United States being at war (because we need opinions from the most spoiled and sheltered athletes-- tennis stars who are removed from junior high for training), she replied in a bad French accent: "Well, we don't want to play in the war, we want to make clothes. We don't want the war."
I guess such off-color comments are hard to divine meaning from, especially when they come from the intellectual hotbed of Key Biscayne, Florida, but the words certainly felt ignorant. Mostly because of the accent. The very bad accent. The mocking sound of the accent. Kind of reminds me of one of the reasons I don't like Robin Williams-- his "ghetto" accent while I think "rapping"--because yo, yo? I guess it rhymes-- on a promotional commercial for the movie Toys back in 1992.
And a reason I don't like Ellen Degeneres-- a seriously unfunny joke wherein she ends up being chased by bees, and these "brothers," who had been doing some anachronistic cooning, then get around her in a circle and she's flailing at the bees. See, they think she's dancing, and they're like, go Ellen, go Ellen. Wokka, wokka!
Ha, fucking ha. Guess I don't cotton to cooning and mockery. I'm just a humorless curmudgeon sometimes.
Monday, March 31, 2003
In The Wake of A Three Run Homer 03.31.03
It's opening day for teams outside of the Angels + Rangers, who played last night. In response, in 30-degree weather, with 20-degree windchills, in front of a packed house desperately hoping for a good and competitive team for their $20 + dollar tickets, the Mets have laid a mother-f***ing egg. From the free agent Tom Glavine, to the possible fifth starter Mike Bascik, to the me-sized Scott Strickland, to guys who can't make throws without bouncing them--
I can't believe I came home early to see this shit. I mean, this s**t.
Ah, the joys of baseball season.
It's opening day for teams outside of the Angels + Rangers, who played last night. In response, in 30-degree weather, with 20-degree windchills, in front of a packed house desperately hoping for a good and competitive team for their $20 + dollar tickets, the Mets have laid a mother-f***ing egg. From the free agent Tom Glavine, to the possible fifth starter Mike Bascik, to the me-sized Scott Strickland, to guys who can't make throws without bouncing them--
I can't believe I came home early to see this shit. I mean, this s**t.
Ah, the joys of baseball season.
This Guy Is Pretty Good. 03.31.03
This guy is much better than I talking about the foibles of war and exposing some hypocrisies. Hell, it might be his job. His name is Roger Ailes and I admit to totally jacking his blog's style. He is going into the newspapers + magazines column, please keep reading him.
This guy is much better than I talking about the foibles of war and exposing some hypocrisies. Hell, it might be his job. His name is Roger Ailes and I admit to totally jacking his blog's style. He is going into the newspapers + magazines column, please keep reading him.
Friday, March 28, 2003
A Rush Of Argument to the Head. 03.28.03
While we wish for our troops to return from the "pre-emptive" strike our elected governing body has sent them to execute, and while we talk to like-minded people about how shitty this is, remember that we have the power to effect change. That we have the power to spread the word that whether war is right or wrong, there is a problem with completely stepping around protocol and diplomacy.
And this might mean that our short-sighted attempt to "protect our nation" (they were looking at me wrong, so I smoked their ass!) or "free Iraq" (hey, they'll really like occupation, poverty, and our corporate Western styles) may lead us to long-term negative outcomes.
Now, take this (or whatever your opinion is) and think about the converse, the opposition. Think about what arguments can be made for going to war, for avoiding diplomacy. Have a little healthy self-doubt.
Now, take that process and instead of talking to the protester next to you (though brining attention to protests is good work and part of the true American Way), find someone who wholly disagrees with you. Somewhere, you will come across this person. Engage them in conversation, not in argument; get them to lay out their premises and nod your head respectfully as you learn their side of the story.
When they are done, don't rip them a new asshole. Unless you have to. Point out that this is healthy debate, and our government is working hard to take healthy debate and doubt out of the equation; refuses to listen to its own populace or the rest of the world (except for Britain. Why ARE they involved in this?); and that this disables our ability to work with the rest of the world in many other arenas-- including the safety of Americans abroad, the willingness of other countries to keep an eye out for terrorist endeavors, et cetera.
Okay, go!
While we wish for our troops to return from the "pre-emptive" strike our elected governing body has sent them to execute, and while we talk to like-minded people about how shitty this is, remember that we have the power to effect change. That we have the power to spread the word that whether war is right or wrong, there is a problem with completely stepping around protocol and diplomacy.
And this might mean that our short-sighted attempt to "protect our nation" (they were looking at me wrong, so I smoked their ass!) or "free Iraq" (hey, they'll really like occupation, poverty, and our corporate Western styles) may lead us to long-term negative outcomes.
Now, take this (or whatever your opinion is) and think about the converse, the opposition. Think about what arguments can be made for going to war, for avoiding diplomacy. Have a little healthy self-doubt.
Now, take that process and instead of talking to the protester next to you (though brining attention to protests is good work and part of the true American Way), find someone who wholly disagrees with you. Somewhere, you will come across this person. Engage them in conversation, not in argument; get them to lay out their premises and nod your head respectfully as you learn their side of the story.
When they are done, don't rip them a new asshole. Unless you have to. Point out that this is healthy debate, and our government is working hard to take healthy debate and doubt out of the equation; refuses to listen to its own populace or the rest of the world (except for Britain. Why ARE they involved in this?); and that this disables our ability to work with the rest of the world in many other arenas-- including the safety of Americans abroad, the willingness of other countries to keep an eye out for terrorist endeavors, et cetera.
Okay, go!
An Adrian Brody Note. 03.28.03
From the Electronic Urban Report:
Best Actor winner Adrien Brody has more than one act conquered. The star who brought home the Oscar last Sunday for his role as a Jewish pianist who eluded the Nazis in Roman Polanski’s “The Pianist,” is more than an accomplished actor. He is also an aspiring hip-hop producer.
E! reports that the thespian has been “moonlighting” as a hip-hop producer named A. Ranger. The New York Post even claims that impresarios like P. Diddy and Jay-Z have even considered Brody to be pretty good. And Brody friend, DJ Stretch Armstrong describes Brody’s works more like trip-hop. Well what do you know. Guess Eminem wasn’t the only hip-hopper to snag an Oscar this year.
From the Electronic Urban Report:
Best Actor winner Adrien Brody has more than one act conquered. The star who brought home the Oscar last Sunday for his role as a Jewish pianist who eluded the Nazis in Roman Polanski’s “The Pianist,” is more than an accomplished actor. He is also an aspiring hip-hop producer.
E! reports that the thespian has been “moonlighting” as a hip-hop producer named A. Ranger. The New York Post even claims that impresarios like P. Diddy and Jay-Z have even considered Brody to be pretty good. And Brody friend, DJ Stretch Armstrong describes Brody’s works more like trip-hop. Well what do you know. Guess Eminem wasn’t the only hip-hopper to snag an Oscar this year.
Thursday, March 27, 2003
Pico Asks... 03.27.03
Have you taken your neighbor over your knee and burped them today? Have you turned to someone you'd really like to make time with and said "how about I go down on you for like half an hour, or until you scream my name?" Have you stepped into the sunlight and thought, it's high time I go chasing a bird around the park, calling it by a name I make up?
Have you taken your neighbor over your knee and burped them today? Have you turned to someone you'd really like to make time with and said "how about I go down on you for like half an hour, or until you scream my name?" Have you stepped into the sunlight and thought, it's high time I go chasing a bird around the park, calling it by a name I make up?
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
Private Eyes Are Watching You 03.26.03
(from monday evening)
Sometimes they had all the soul of a skyscraper. And when bands rehash their hits, they often forget the pop hooks and incorporate their supposed musical talent, in an effort to remind you that they are trained musicians and not monkeys with a catchy hook + chorus.
But Hall and Oates live, with call in requests at John Jay College? Hotness. One of those requests is from Carly Simon on a houseboat in the Atlantic? Sweet! Thank you A&E, for collecting a roomful of dorks in their mid-30's and thanks to me for being the same complete dork.
Because then they whip out Me and Mrs. Jones - not the Counting Crows song, the Billy Paul original, also covered by Marvin Gaye - and they get all into their Philly sound and their Apollo soul and break it on down. I go on the record, some if it was awesome.
(from monday evening)
Sometimes they had all the soul of a skyscraper. And when bands rehash their hits, they often forget the pop hooks and incorporate their supposed musical talent, in an effort to remind you that they are trained musicians and not monkeys with a catchy hook + chorus.
But Hall and Oates live, with call in requests at John Jay College? Hotness. One of those requests is from Carly Simon on a houseboat in the Atlantic? Sweet! Thank you A&E, for collecting a roomful of dorks in their mid-30's and thanks to me for being the same complete dork.
Because then they whip out Me and Mrs. Jones - not the Counting Crows song, the Billy Paul original, also covered by Marvin Gaye - and they get all into their Philly sound and their Apollo soul and break it on down. I go on the record, some if it was awesome.
Monday, March 24, 2003
Round of Dirty Thirty-Two 03.23.03
Up above New York State, an hour or so away, lies Mohegan Sun, a mecca for weekend gamblers and Michael Jordan Steakhouse lovers. My friends will plan out trips to pile in a car and lose their money. A good time is had by all, they get drunk, relate stories, play roto baseball in the backseat of the car, catch up;
Down the Jersey turnpike is Atlantic City, famous for its boardwalk but more importantly for its bevy of gambling opportunities-- the Las Vegas of the East Coast. Except darker and smaller and shadier and perhaps with more hair gel and gold-chain tricksters. And out there, with the sea breezes drifting in, people drop coins for anything from slots to blackjack;
I don't bet.
This weekend I realized why. Drop just a ten spot on the NCAA tournament, and I found the highs and lows of basketball games making my stomach churn like Clooney and Wahlberg were riding my seas. Especially since I was perfectly right for the first five or six games. I was freaking Nostradamus. I was a goddamned oracle. I sayeth'd the sooth. Whoo-hah, do I love being right.
And then I was ridiculously wrong, over and over again. That's the last time I listen to the pundits about Mississippi State. U Penn, U tried. Notre Dame, I'm coming to South Bend and laying down a "terror attack," which will consist of my pointing and yelling. That's all. Homeland Security, please don't hurt me. I've read your suggestions.
Fo' sheezy, do I hate being wrong.
Up above New York State, an hour or so away, lies Mohegan Sun, a mecca for weekend gamblers and Michael Jordan Steakhouse lovers. My friends will plan out trips to pile in a car and lose their money. A good time is had by all, they get drunk, relate stories, play roto baseball in the backseat of the car, catch up;
Down the Jersey turnpike is Atlantic City, famous for its boardwalk but more importantly for its bevy of gambling opportunities-- the Las Vegas of the East Coast. Except darker and smaller and shadier and perhaps with more hair gel and gold-chain tricksters. And out there, with the sea breezes drifting in, people drop coins for anything from slots to blackjack;
I don't bet.
This weekend I realized why. Drop just a ten spot on the NCAA tournament, and I found the highs and lows of basketball games making my stomach churn like Clooney and Wahlberg were riding my seas. Especially since I was perfectly right for the first five or six games. I was freaking Nostradamus. I was a goddamned oracle. I sayeth'd the sooth. Whoo-hah, do I love being right.
And then I was ridiculously wrong, over and over again. That's the last time I listen to the pundits about Mississippi State. U Penn, U tried. Notre Dame, I'm coming to South Bend and laying down a "terror attack," which will consist of my pointing and yelling. That's all. Homeland Security, please don't hurt me. I've read your suggestions.
Fo' sheezy, do I hate being wrong.
Thursday, March 20, 2003
While You Avoid War Coverage… 03.20.03
My little brother is an aspiring rapper. Like so many other people in New York. I’ve met some of his fellow rappers, a red-headed kid from Cambridge, MA; another white kid from Cambridge; some Latino kid who may or may not be Latino from Hartford. Last night he told me about a fellow named Aztec, a white kid from St. John’s University (yes, people really go to that school) who is signed to the Ruff Ryders label, home to DMX and Beanie Siegel-- whom he ripped in a freestyle battle, supposedly.
A couple of weeks ago, as Mariella was regaling myself, Gully, and Soldati (along with the rest of the I-Bar) with song, a young man was pointed out to us. A young rapper signed to Eminem’s label, Shady Records, who’s supposed to be “blaze,” as the kids say.
My question, is, of course, are there any black rappers out there? Can you hear me?
No? Then I have found my calling. I’m founding a rap group with New Topography, we’re gonna smack fire out your ass. And change the world with our wordplay about gunplay and how nice we are. And I don’t mean nice as in pleasant, dog.
My little brother is an aspiring rapper. Like so many other people in New York. I’ve met some of his fellow rappers, a red-headed kid from Cambridge, MA; another white kid from Cambridge; some Latino kid who may or may not be Latino from Hartford. Last night he told me about a fellow named Aztec, a white kid from St. John’s University (yes, people really go to that school) who is signed to the Ruff Ryders label, home to DMX and Beanie Siegel-- whom he ripped in a freestyle battle, supposedly.
A couple of weeks ago, as Mariella was regaling myself, Gully, and Soldati (along with the rest of the I-Bar) with song, a young man was pointed out to us. A young rapper signed to Eminem’s label, Shady Records, who’s supposed to be “blaze,” as the kids say.
My question, is, of course, are there any black rappers out there? Can you hear me?
No? Then I have found my calling. I’m founding a rap group with New Topography, we’re gonna smack fire out your ass. And change the world with our wordplay about gunplay and how nice we are. And I don’t mean nice as in pleasant, dog.
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
International Law 03.19.03
from Reuters/ Yahoo News
BERLIN (Reuters) - President Bush and his allies are unlikely to face trial for war crimes although many nations and legal experts say a strike on Iraq without an explicit U.N. mandate breaches international law.
While judicial means to enforce international law are limited, the political costs of a war that is perceived as illegal could be high for all concerned and could set a dangerous precedent for other conflicts, lawyers say.
The U.N. Charter says: "All members shall refrain ... from the threat or use of force against the territorial integrity or political independence of any state." It says force may only be used in self-defense or if approved by the Security Council.
Many leading legal experts have rejected attempts by Washington and London to justify a war with Iraq without a new resolution explicitly authorizing force.
"There is a danger that the ban on the use of force, which I see as one of the most significant cultural achievements of the last century, will become history again," said Michael Bothe, chairman of the German Society for International Law.
Washington and London have argued that U.N. resolution 1441 passed unanimously last year -- demanding Iraq disarm or face "serious consequences" -- gives sufficient legal cover.
Amid criticism that 1441 does not explicitly authorize war, they have also argued that military action is legitimized by two other resolutions passed before and after the 1991 Gulf War (news - web sites), although Russia has fiercely rejected this argument.
Bush has also said that a war would be a legitimate "pre-emptive" act of self-defense against any future attack.
The U.N. Charter says self-defense is only justified "if an armed attack occurs." When Israel tried to justify its 1981 strike on Iraq's Osirak nuclear reactor as an act of pre-emptive self-defense, the Security Council unanimously condemned it.
Bothe said the attempt by Washington and its allies to justify an attack showed the political power of international law despite the paucity of formal legal devices to enforce it.
"There is unlikely to be a court case," he said. "Those responsible won't be jailed but they can be made uncomfortable."
[--click on the link for more--]
from Reuters/ Yahoo News
BERLIN (Reuters) - President Bush and his allies are unlikely to face trial for war crimes although many nations and legal experts say a strike on Iraq without an explicit U.N. mandate breaches international law.
While judicial means to enforce international law are limited, the political costs of a war that is perceived as illegal could be high for all concerned and could set a dangerous precedent for other conflicts, lawyers say.
The U.N. Charter says: "All members shall refrain ... from the threat or use of force against the territorial integrity or political independence of any state." It says force may only be used in self-defense or if approved by the Security Council.
Many leading legal experts have rejected attempts by Washington and London to justify a war with Iraq without a new resolution explicitly authorizing force.
"There is a danger that the ban on the use of force, which I see as one of the most significant cultural achievements of the last century, will become history again," said Michael Bothe, chairman of the German Society for International Law.
Washington and London have argued that U.N. resolution 1441 passed unanimously last year -- demanding Iraq disarm or face "serious consequences" -- gives sufficient legal cover.
Amid criticism that 1441 does not explicitly authorize war, they have also argued that military action is legitimized by two other resolutions passed before and after the 1991 Gulf War (news - web sites), although Russia has fiercely rejected this argument.
Bush has also said that a war would be a legitimate "pre-emptive" act of self-defense against any future attack.
The U.N. Charter says self-defense is only justified "if an armed attack occurs." When Israel tried to justify its 1981 strike on Iraq's Osirak nuclear reactor as an act of pre-emptive self-defense, the Security Council unanimously condemned it.
Bothe said the attempt by Washington and its allies to justify an attack showed the political power of international law despite the paucity of formal legal devices to enforce it.
"There is unlikely to be a court case," he said. "Those responsible won't be jailed but they can be made uncomfortable."
[--click on the link for more--]
Vignettes 03.19.03
---Did anyone notice, by the way, that our national Shrub had a little trouble when he told the Iraqi people not to burn their oil wells, because they are a source of -pause- Iraqi income? As if he wanted to put in “because they will stabilize our gas prices?” Plus, how long will this “war” a/k/a unfounded aggression go on? Give me your best estimates. Then, how long will the US occupation of Iraq go on? Best estimates on that one also. FOX will be running a news ticker and interactive polls; Joe Buck and Cris Collinsworth and Troy Aikman will be giving us play by play and nonsensical anecdotes.
---What did Lisa Rinna do to get famous? Besides get those fake-ass lips.
---I will not get up in Nevada Smith’s and sing Hall & Oates. Before my sixth beer. See, I’m more mature these days. My ass is under control. Plus, no matter how much someone butchers “Say It Isn’t So,” I will remain seated. But, thanks for coming out, Karen, Selvadurai, Steph, Silver, Dani, Diana. Also, thanks to Dani and Diana for filling out NCAA Tournament brackets for me. Your picks are ridiculous and probably more correct than any conventional wisdom.
---Go UNC Asheville! Congrats on winning the play-in game, and now you have a chance to be run off the court by future NBA players! Doooope. Still, what a great opportunity-- a pair of small schools that no one would normally watch get a little prime-time love, play a very good over time game filled with score changes, clutch shots, and players linking arms on the bench for luck. You played a tough-ass schedule and you’ll put up a good fight.
For five minutes on the clock. It’s tournament season.
---Yes, I am going to drink Bacardi. Because it’s my birthday.
---Did anyone notice, by the way, that our national Shrub had a little trouble when he told the Iraqi people not to burn their oil wells, because they are a source of -pause- Iraqi income? As if he wanted to put in “because they will stabilize our gas prices?” Plus, how long will this “war” a/k/a unfounded aggression go on? Give me your best estimates. Then, how long will the US occupation of Iraq go on? Best estimates on that one also. FOX will be running a news ticker and interactive polls; Joe Buck and Cris Collinsworth and Troy Aikman will be giving us play by play and nonsensical anecdotes.
---What did Lisa Rinna do to get famous? Besides get those fake-ass lips.
---I will not get up in Nevada Smith’s and sing Hall & Oates. Before my sixth beer. See, I’m more mature these days. My ass is under control. Plus, no matter how much someone butchers “Say It Isn’t So,” I will remain seated. But, thanks for coming out, Karen, Selvadurai, Steph, Silver, Dani, Diana. Also, thanks to Dani and Diana for filling out NCAA Tournament brackets for me. Your picks are ridiculous and probably more correct than any conventional wisdom.
---Go UNC Asheville! Congrats on winning the play-in game, and now you have a chance to be run off the court by future NBA players! Doooope. Still, what a great opportunity-- a pair of small schools that no one would normally watch get a little prime-time love, play a very good over time game filled with score changes, clutch shots, and players linking arms on the bench for luck. You played a tough-ass schedule and you’ll put up a good fight.
For five minutes on the clock. It’s tournament season.
---Yes, I am going to drink Bacardi. Because it’s my birthday.
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
Rocket Sized Rifts 03.18.03
That Bush fella is creepy. Creepy in how convincing or convinced he is. Not just in the “let’s go to war” sense, but the Presidential Shrub really feels that he knows something that the rest of the world does not have the gumption to admit. Maybe that imperialist concept is “the brown people need a controlling hand,” and perhaps the French and Germans are trying to live that sequence of their imperialist history down.
I couldn’t say. I’m tired of this shit, it’s spring break, I have a novel to edit and a midterm coming up; and all of the efforts to put the brakes on a destructive war aggression (war crime? Except it’s not crime when you control the letter of the international law) are futile.
Fuck it, I’m gonna drink beer, cheer for UNC-Asheville, and pray for my safety and the safety of my loved ones.
That Bush fella is creepy. Creepy in how convincing or convinced he is. Not just in the “let’s go to war” sense, but the Presidential Shrub really feels that he knows something that the rest of the world does not have the gumption to admit. Maybe that imperialist concept is “the brown people need a controlling hand,” and perhaps the French and Germans are trying to live that sequence of their imperialist history down.
I couldn’t say. I’m tired of this shit, it’s spring break, I have a novel to edit and a midterm coming up; and all of the efforts to put the brakes on a destructive war aggression (war crime? Except it’s not crime when you control the letter of the international law) are futile.
Fuck it, I’m gonna drink beer, cheer for UNC-Asheville, and pray for my safety and the safety of my loved ones.
Monday, March 17, 2003
After the Party is the Hotel Lobby 03.17.03
So, here’s the thing-- I won’t sum up this party. I feel the need to “protect the innocent.” Except I will say that I hope that everyone was okay; there was dancing; I ended up flashing my underwear; and people fell sideways to the floor. So I guess that the party was some kind of rousing thundering puke inducing success.
I spent my five waking hours on Sunday on my back watching basketball and learning about the teams that got into the NCAA tournament, and shaking one small fist at the selection committee which gave Boston College the selection dill.
I am also glad the David Bianculli of the NY Daily News saw what I saw when he turned on All-American Girl, a show with less direction than Baywatch:
As on "American Idol," the judges get more screen time than the contestants; Gerri Halliwell seems to be channeling the spirit of Paula Abdul, perhaps secretly aware that were she and the four other former Spice Girls to enter a talent competition, few would make it out alive.
This contest is absurd. It's bad television, except in the one segment where it was so blatantly sexist and demeaning it was almost amusing. Making the young women wear bikinis, then scamper through an obstacle course that had them swimming, crawling on their bellies and running through a field of tires was jiggle TV at its most absurd and dehumanizing.
Post-Script: Dave, Sam, the musical gifts were dope.
So, here’s the thing-- I won’t sum up this party. I feel the need to “protect the innocent.” Except I will say that I hope that everyone was okay; there was dancing; I ended up flashing my underwear; and people fell sideways to the floor. So I guess that the party was some kind of rousing thundering puke inducing success.
I spent my five waking hours on Sunday on my back watching basketball and learning about the teams that got into the NCAA tournament, and shaking one small fist at the selection committee which gave Boston College the selection dill.
I am also glad the David Bianculli of the NY Daily News saw what I saw when he turned on All-American Girl, a show with less direction than Baywatch:
As on "American Idol," the judges get more screen time than the contestants; Gerri Halliwell seems to be channeling the spirit of Paula Abdul, perhaps secretly aware that were she and the four other former Spice Girls to enter a talent competition, few would make it out alive.
This contest is absurd. It's bad television, except in the one segment where it was so blatantly sexist and demeaning it was almost amusing. Making the young women wear bikinis, then scamper through an obstacle course that had them swimming, crawling on their bellies and running through a field of tires was jiggle TV at its most absurd and dehumanizing.
Post-Script: Dave, Sam, the musical gifts were dope.
Saturday, March 15, 2003
The Joyface Invasion 03.15.03
The mother grabbin' Ides of March. The hotsteppin' day of the party. The night Gully + myself put kids in a packed situation, turn the music on, lube it up with beers and hard drinks, and watch the chaos. I think we're addicted to the motion of a party; we could have had a pleasant dinner, or just had a few beers with a few friends. Instead we've invited people we haven't seen in a year, cleared out his apartment, and got ready to throw the early contender for bash of the year-- I'll tell you how this jammie goes.
The playlist will include some of tonight's hits... including the Isley Brothers and Frankie Beverly.
I write this while drinking a Cranberry Apple Raspberry beverage, which we will nickname "CrApby."
The mother grabbin' Ides of March. The hotsteppin' day of the party. The night Gully + myself put kids in a packed situation, turn the music on, lube it up with beers and hard drinks, and watch the chaos. I think we're addicted to the motion of a party; we could have had a pleasant dinner, or just had a few beers with a few friends. Instead we've invited people we haven't seen in a year, cleared out his apartment, and got ready to throw the early contender for bash of the year-- I'll tell you how this jammie goes.
The playlist will include some of tonight's hits... including the Isley Brothers and Frankie Beverly.
I write this while drinking a Cranberry Apple Raspberry beverage, which we will nickname "CrApby."
Friday, March 14, 2003
City Council 03.14.03
Now, this shit makes me sick (It should be the cartoon from today’s NY Post). And this is a simple reminder of how we have mixed our brown protagonists in the zealous push to a quick and televisable war.
Before this continues-- why March 17th? Doesn’t Bush like basketball? Why must you do this during the NCAA tournament? How about in May when the fun of opening day baseball has worn off, but before the NBA playoffs get really interesting? Why not in January and February, when we’re bored? This is obviously an attack to distract us, so we can time this bad boy whenever we like. So, how about we put it off until after Oklahoma wins the national championship?
Back to that aforementioned shit. So, this cartoon intimates that airplane suicide bombers have something salient to do with Iraq-- the slippery assertion that no one has actually proved. That Iraq is poised for aggressive action. That Iraq was behind that. That if we don’t do something, the crazy brown Allah freaks are gonna get the drop on us. Okay. Sure.
Liberal or not, wouldn’t one think that the non-governmental district/ city that was victimized by the attacks would have a strong urge to see those who did it punished? Or is it assumed that we, like Elizabeth Smart, that New York is drugged out and brainwashed to identify with our attackers?
Or that, even worse, that representative government thing sometimes means that the voice of the “people” is sometimes heard?
Now, this shit makes me sick (It should be the cartoon from today’s NY Post). And this is a simple reminder of how we have mixed our brown protagonists in the zealous push to a quick and televisable war.
Before this continues-- why March 17th? Doesn’t Bush like basketball? Why must you do this during the NCAA tournament? How about in May when the fun of opening day baseball has worn off, but before the NBA playoffs get really interesting? Why not in January and February, when we’re bored? This is obviously an attack to distract us, so we can time this bad boy whenever we like. So, how about we put it off until after Oklahoma wins the national championship?
Back to that aforementioned shit. So, this cartoon intimates that airplane suicide bombers have something salient to do with Iraq-- the slippery assertion that no one has actually proved. That Iraq is poised for aggressive action. That Iraq was behind that. That if we don’t do something, the crazy brown Allah freaks are gonna get the drop on us. Okay. Sure.
Liberal or not, wouldn’t one think that the non-governmental district/ city that was victimized by the attacks would have a strong urge to see those who did it punished? Or is it assumed that we, like Elizabeth Smart, that New York is drugged out and brainwashed to identify with our attackers?
Or that, even worse, that representative government thing sometimes means that the voice of the “people” is sometimes heard?
Sleep to Dream 03.14.03
Like the one song I learned in grade school on the recorder, someone has shaken my dreamland tree and down comes lovely dreams for me, sleep baby sleep. Or maybe there are apples in my dreamland tree. I wake up with the feeling of being bonked in the head by manifestations of Newton’s Law. And always, I rouse myself a little confused, a little tired from running through my own mind all day.
Two days ago I dreamt that I was some sort of protector of people’s little sisters. Not just their little sisters-- the little sisters they never knew they had. And there I am adventuring about with a rifle and comfortable clothes, the kind you can jump over storage boxes down at the docks with. There were accidents, guile, trickery, and I think I posed at the window like Malcolm X looking out, rifle in hand.
Last night, I dreamt that I was in my high school. Which had added on three or four floors and became a complex with a multi-floor library; many dank hallways for “maintenance” except they looked like they were hallways for “drug deals, murder, and the collection of brackish muck”; a huge auditorium that President Clinton came to, started to speak and then left from. The kids, one of whom looked distinctly like the kid from Star Trek: Voyager and now Reba, asked me about my college and I told them about the bedtime stories we used to get as one of the most charming draws. They knew that doesn’t happen anymore. (does it? I don’t even know.)
There was a café on the sixth floor, untended, with bathrooms the size of cabinets. But I tried anyway. A not-so-kindly grizzled maintenance man suggested the fifth, a floor covered in kindergarteners and kindergarten words and teachers in anachronistically formal teaching dresses. Hallways were empty and all the classrooms were busy with learning.
No escape!
I woke up with words scrolling across my vision. This sleep thing has got to go.
Like the one song I learned in grade school on the recorder, someone has shaken my dreamland tree and down comes lovely dreams for me, sleep baby sleep. Or maybe there are apples in my dreamland tree. I wake up with the feeling of being bonked in the head by manifestations of Newton’s Law. And always, I rouse myself a little confused, a little tired from running through my own mind all day.
Two days ago I dreamt that I was some sort of protector of people’s little sisters. Not just their little sisters-- the little sisters they never knew they had. And there I am adventuring about with a rifle and comfortable clothes, the kind you can jump over storage boxes down at the docks with. There were accidents, guile, trickery, and I think I posed at the window like Malcolm X looking out, rifle in hand.
Last night, I dreamt that I was in my high school. Which had added on three or four floors and became a complex with a multi-floor library; many dank hallways for “maintenance” except they looked like they were hallways for “drug deals, murder, and the collection of brackish muck”; a huge auditorium that President Clinton came to, started to speak and then left from. The kids, one of whom looked distinctly like the kid from Star Trek: Voyager and now Reba, asked me about my college and I told them about the bedtime stories we used to get as one of the most charming draws. They knew that doesn’t happen anymore. (does it? I don’t even know.)
There was a café on the sixth floor, untended, with bathrooms the size of cabinets. But I tried anyway. A not-so-kindly grizzled maintenance man suggested the fifth, a floor covered in kindergarteners and kindergarten words and teachers in anachronistically formal teaching dresses. Hallways were empty and all the classrooms were busy with learning.
No escape!
I woke up with words scrolling across my vision. This sleep thing has got to go.
Thursday, March 13, 2003
Wednesday, March 12, 2003
ALL AMERICAN GIRL 03.12.03
What the fuck is this All-American Girl shit? I enjoy a parade of slim scantily clad young ass the same as the next hornball but come on-- at a certain point this shit is RIDICULOUS.
Is this a beauty pageant? Why are they in bikinis? More importantly, why are they in bikinis, wet and squirming from the pool to a climbing net and then down underneath foot-high netting over a rubber floor to then bounce up, and I do mean bounce, to take underhand basketball shots?
Why are the judges John (Best Damn Sports Show, Period) Salley, a former backup NBA center, now sports show host; Suzanne (Who the fuck is this woman?) De Passe (apparently a producer and black. Must have been a few generations back.); and Geri (Whatever Spice she was) Halliwell and her pink cheeks. By the way, Geri is still British. Picking this All-American girl. Just saying. I might have found television I won’t watch. And it’s from the creators of American Idol too. Maybe that’s why the bile’s in my throat.
Maybe now I'll learn to just watch the commercials on the other channels instead of surfing.
What the fuck is this All-American Girl shit? I enjoy a parade of slim scantily clad young ass the same as the next hornball but come on-- at a certain point this shit is RIDICULOUS.
Is this a beauty pageant? Why are they in bikinis? More importantly, why are they in bikinis, wet and squirming from the pool to a climbing net and then down underneath foot-high netting over a rubber floor to then bounce up, and I do mean bounce, to take underhand basketball shots?
Why are the judges John (Best Damn Sports Show, Period) Salley, a former backup NBA center, now sports show host; Suzanne (Who the fuck is this woman?) De Passe (apparently a producer and black. Must have been a few generations back.); and Geri (Whatever Spice she was) Halliwell and her pink cheeks. By the way, Geri is still British. Picking this All-American girl. Just saying. I might have found television I won’t watch. And it’s from the creators of American Idol too. Maybe that’s why the bile’s in my throat.
Maybe now I'll learn to just watch the commercials on the other channels instead of surfing.
Sunday, March 09, 2003
AssWhoria Purgatory 03.09.03
I don’t love Queens to death. But to quote Funkdoobiest, “I got to live here.” Yeah, I know I don’t HAVE to live here, you sarcastic lamb fucker, I heard you in the back. Love it or not, this is home.
I have respect for Queens. And even though I don’t believe in astrology (yes, bartender, I am a Pisces), and though my vehicle doesn’t have running lights (or 20-inch rims or dice hanging like nuts from my rearview), and though I don’t listen to the Calling or Linkin Park (… regularly…), I won’t disrespect people who do to their faces. Or loudly. Or by looking at them in that voyeuristic it’s-so-quaint manner that we decry in educated white documentary filmmakers whose subject matter is a third-world ghetto.
Now, here is the thing. On top of that, I hate dinner. I’ve thought about that long and hard. Dinner is silly. I don’t much like it. Dinner at home is questionable enough; I like to eat by my lonely since even when I’m not talking I eat like a snail makes nookie. I like breakfast, I like sweets, but I hate wasting time eating. Just not something I do.
In comparison, going out to eat could be fun. Also could be hellish. Trapped at a table listening to someone yammer when you’d rather, I don’t know, watch television, read a book, leave. Talking usually means I end up the last one eating. Not to mention that there is nothing more depressing than being stuck on the end of the earth in a restaurant with unused karaoke (yet the videos are playing) and finding yourself get tired, tired…
Good, got that one out without getting really snippy, saying things I won’t mean another day. Such as how much I hate to hear able-bodied people bitch about walking when it was their choice. Then I could look back upon those statements and use them as evidence of the crabby future man-spinster I am becoming. Razzle-frazzit!
I don’t love Queens to death. But to quote Funkdoobiest, “I got to live here.” Yeah, I know I don’t HAVE to live here, you sarcastic lamb fucker, I heard you in the back. Love it or not, this is home.
I have respect for Queens. And even though I don’t believe in astrology (yes, bartender, I am a Pisces), and though my vehicle doesn’t have running lights (or 20-inch rims or dice hanging like nuts from my rearview), and though I don’t listen to the Calling or Linkin Park (… regularly…), I won’t disrespect people who do to their faces. Or loudly. Or by looking at them in that voyeuristic it’s-so-quaint manner that we decry in educated white documentary filmmakers whose subject matter is a third-world ghetto.
Now, here is the thing. On top of that, I hate dinner. I’ve thought about that long and hard. Dinner is silly. I don’t much like it. Dinner at home is questionable enough; I like to eat by my lonely since even when I’m not talking I eat like a snail makes nookie. I like breakfast, I like sweets, but I hate wasting time eating. Just not something I do.
In comparison, going out to eat could be fun. Also could be hellish. Trapped at a table listening to someone yammer when you’d rather, I don’t know, watch television, read a book, leave. Talking usually means I end up the last one eating. Not to mention that there is nothing more depressing than being stuck on the end of the earth in a restaurant with unused karaoke (yet the videos are playing) and finding yourself get tired, tired…
Good, got that one out without getting really snippy, saying things I won’t mean another day. Such as how much I hate to hear able-bodied people bitch about walking when it was their choice. Then I could look back upon those statements and use them as evidence of the crabby future man-spinster I am becoming. Razzle-frazzit!
Asswhoria Heavenly 03.09.03
After the long ride across Queens, a pleasant surprise-- I run into an ex-classmate, Kat. Kat is short for something much longer. And most of the time I’d like to call her Ekie or Eka but most people find it violating when their name is truncated in illogical ways. But I run into Kat and that’s a thrill, she’s a really nice person. Plus, like me, is a Queens native.
After the long ride across Queens, a pleasant surprise-- I run into an ex-classmate, Kat. Kat is short for something much longer. And most of the time I’d like to call her Ekie or Eka but most people find it violating when their name is truncated in illogical ways. But I run into Kat and that’s a thrill, she’s a really nice person. Plus, like me, is a Queens native.
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