bongoroom 7.31.04

still in chicago. nathan is sitting on anita's floor. anita left for a wedding in milwaukee at an expensive resort. i am recovering from last night's badness-- a mexican dinenr that was not very good but the margaritas were strong. coupled with beers early, wine before dinner, and beers afterward, well...

let me paint a picture. at quenchers, at fullerton + weston, logan's suare area, kinda. hazy night, cool, humid. late, after we have left some cruddy bar called rock bottom's, downtown. i pass out for a minute on the table, can't drink anymore. i actually have a "need to puke" moment. step outside with anita who is going to get us a cab. i can't get in no cab, i'd paint the vehicle with my insides. sittin, staning, considering fingering my throat. a sad night, but i put it back together by the time we were to go back to where i am staying in wicker park.

so i decide to go to an after hours place called estelle's on damen and milwaukee. a winning idea; my new (pretty) friends bevin and cindy are feeling their oats and cindy fetches some fella to chat with bevin. there are a lot of pretty people in this area, little hipster-types but a little less scrappy than new york. these pretty people end up around us; i finish my water and go home, stopping to ask the woman in the prom dress what's up with that.

"i've been working manual labor for like two weeks," she shouts over the heavy metal, "so i felt i deserved it!"

so now you know.

great great great breakfast as the bongo room at noon.

nathan is going to sleep on anita's floor. we have to relax, hit millenium park, hit this afterwork bar, resume the dasdrinkinfest.

once the bacon cleared and the sun started to set, pico, nathan and anita went out to drink the best chicago had to offer.  details and a catch up on my trip later--

dude.  i am in chicago.  rockin' out with my cock out.  realizing i am a complete curmudgeon these days, and yet again, some things in me must change to match the people around me, the places i want to go, the person i want to be... more later, perhaps in detail and perhaps in DrunkVision©.   you know, for the kids.

Camp –or—Youth and Young Nudity 07.13.04

I am not at all joking about the title. At all. Guy Sammy and I ended up being the counselors/ caretakers for four 7-9 boys at this year’s Camp DeFambul—yes, the camp I’ve been talking about. We went up on Friday, stayed until Sunday and the long and short of it?

It wasn’t an unmitigated disaster but damn, there is some room for improvement.

This was the first year the camp’s founders, Tami and Tash, were not running the show. Instead, it was myself and a fellow named Mike, who have been with the camp for the past few years, and a woman named Jen who is new to NahWeYone (the organization that puts on the camp) but is responsible for social services within the organization. Being busy with school and work, myself and Mike both did a little less than we thought we should have… and a little less than we needed to.

It showed.

We were a little disorganized on the first day, a fact not helped with our other responsibilities—Mike and I both had a group of four 5-9 year olds. We both had help—thanks to Sammy and Arroz the Rice-A-Homie, judiciously recruited and man was that cat a godsend. Good ideas, good energy, and patience with boys who just wanted to play duck duck goose, run like madmen, get so and so back for what he said, and jump around.

Also, we were not helped by our hosts; though we have been at the same college campus for the two previous years, a sudden upheaval in the facilities departments and the departments responsible for coordinating with out-of-school camps really put a monkey wrench in the disco. And into getting in the dorms. And into getting us a lifeguard for swimming, and into getting us courts for basketball. You know all those little things we do every single year.

The positives? The kids had a good time. I yelled a lot at the talent show. My favorite camper, a boy named Nazi, was just the world’s cutest thing—self-sufficient, responsible, and very nice, all at age 7. There was a boy of 9 named Isaiah who seemed to think he was an adult—informing the other boys that he had a date to the dance, which was met with eeews and laughter. The security guys, thought not always there when we called, were often on time. And they gave it their all. The dance wasn’t very dirty, neither was the talent show. No one tried to sneak into a girl’s room at 2 AM.

It’s surprisingly funny how 7-9 year old boys all want to pull down each others’ pants as a form of embarrassment, and yet will walk around all naked like it’s nothing else. And the dancing like girls, the obviously not yet formed sense of gender roles, the curiosity about gay people, the fist fighting, the desire to run, and the screaming—well, that’s not so much fun.

We had some dedicated counselors, like one of my favorites Laura, who initiated water fights, kept the teens busy, and gave me hug when I didn’t even know I needed one. Which I did. And some that really could have taken some matters into their own autonomous hands, but it’s good they wanted to enforce rules stringently.

There will be a lot of conversation about what we’re going to do better. And hopefully many of my friends will meet these kids when I throw a big ass picnic in a week or two.

Right now, though, my back hurts for some unknown reason (carrying around multiple children all weekend without stretching?), I handed my last paper in late by five hours and hope my teacher will accept it, Eben’s taking me to a Phils game, and I am going to DC and Florida and Ann Arbor and Chicago, all in the next half month.

Despite the slight miseries of the weekend—including that moment where Jen, Mike, and myself stood on the dance floor, allotted to us, in the dark, trying to figure out who should have opened the DJ booth, with food service tables and containers and marble stands with no one else to move them but us, wondering what we did to deserve this, listening to a fire alarm that I suspect was pulled by Isaiah—hey, we’ve got to be malleable.

And we can’t help but do better next time.

Gaffe. 07.06.05

And yet nothing makes me laugh more than watching the NY Post obviously get it wrong, as they get it wrong on the daily. But more subtly than that.

Happy 5th 07.05.04

Hey I am in Boston *stop* and coming home in a day *stop* and I have two papers to write *puke* after which I will make my blog more interesting plus focused on the life of the wild thug *stop* word *end*

Stupid F***ing Me. 07-01-04

Well, I am typing this note on my brand new ibook, and I was stupid enough to think that my mp3 player would be compatible. Which it is not. So if you know someone who actually uses a PC (do I have any pc using friends? Of course not) and wants a 30 GB Nomad Zen MX mp3 player for $200, about 9 months old, installation CD included and cords and all that; or if you know someone who knows what I can do with it (resellers anyone?) that would be much obliged. Also, if anyone has a pc I can use to actually get my music off of the player onto cds that would be cool.

Dammit.

Stories About A Wedding 6.30.04

It's too early to wake up. The sun's barely risen. The streets are clean. It's too early for determined Manhattan singles to run in short shorts. It's too early to realize that it's Friday or that I haven't had breakfast or that I slept 4 hours. We take the F train and thankfully Brooklyn and DUMBO's cobblestoned streets come quickly. Soon we are in Karen's car trying to get Silver's I-Trip to lock in on a radio station and play some tunes that will invariably include Bob Dylan. Later, at a rest stop in Rockland county, or Duchess County, or somewhere else I don't frequent, as the world's tallest pan has a continued pay phone conversation, we agree that working batteries make the I-Trip work better.




Silver has brought bananas. Hence the picture. I have candy. Karen has directions. None of this gets us to our destination in under 6 hours. The Taconic is our driving playground under overcast to partly cloudy skies. In a Massachusetts town named Pittsfield, we circle and curse the midday traffic and the traffic lights. We smile at the town of Hoosick (Me sick? We sick? A town obviously established by an opportunistic doctor, Karen surmises). We make wrong turns in Bennington, VT. We make wrong turns in Manchester, VT. We tour the whole town with our wrong turns. We see the surrounding hillside. We find the beautiful Chalet Motel. There is a television and not much to do, a Friendly's in town that makes us feel like we're getting fat, and some rest.

We're here for the wedding of Big Guy (Andy) and Linner (Lindsay). We only know ourselves, Heather and Morgan, the bride and the groom. And the bride's family. It's okay. We're friendly and g-ddamnit, people like us.

The Friday evening barbecue is held at a country club tennis center. Heather's boyfriend Morgan and Silver and I drive over, thinking we're late; Heather and Karen have been over with Linner and her family, doing a wedding run-through (which apparently doesn't help-details later!). I still feel fat from Friendly's. I think it was the supersized apple pie sundae.

But there are hamburgers and sausages and brats and hot dogs dispensed from a cart. And a bowl of jelly jars for gifts. And the great Swede game of koob on the lawn, pictured. Played with the world's cutest little blonde kids.

The gnats advance on our position as the shadows get long, as the skies get dark, as the clouds bunch and drizzle on us. We outdo nature by going inside and drinking all the beer we can get our hands on with the BigGuy Tuscon Revue, Andy?s friends.

Linner?s sister in law, Alissa, is pictured presenting a wealth of cookie and ice cream goodness.

The morning after-the day of the wedding- is drizzling and overcast. There is a heavy fog over the mountains. Or hills-the Rockies are mountains. We?re a quarter mile high, last I saw, and that ain't no mountain.




The rooms of the beautiful Chalet Motel are filled with recovering tipplers. Some wake up to hunt down breakfast in town or to go shopping. Morgan is solid. He and I get bagels while Silver sleeps off his drunk. Which made him roll around all night. While I was in the same bed. I didn't sleep much.

I wanted to run. Get some of the badness out of my system. Feel a little cleaner, more athletic, less of a shlub. Emma, staying next door, who knows a number of my HS classmates, had made a running pledge. But she too was feeling the hangover. Me? I didn't feel it at all. I was anxious, sitting in a foreign bed, watching cartoons.

Did I mention Morgan is solid? He had comic books. I think he put it best when he told Heather or Karen that we were talking for a while and then he brought out some comics and we went silent and read. Good times.

The sun came out around 2 pm; Emma was energized and we ran. She led the way on a run we guess totaled 3 miles. I didn't feel the pain at all; she runs at an excellent pace. Made for distance. Plus she is good company. I think the drunks were impressed that we were being athletic while they were still seeking the hair of the dog. I went running again on Monday, 5 miles, using that pace-and that felt good.

Saturday evening, the wedding itself. At the Southern Vermont Arts Center, which, unbelievably, has sculptures all about the grounds. The skies have cleared up and the boys have cleaned up. The band is ready and warming up, the people are milling about. The groomsmen are in pink striped ties and the bridesmaids are in simple pink skirts and black tops.

What's to say? It's a wedding, secular, fun, filled with smiles and cute children and people taking pictures. But we missed Lindsay inside, who slipped and fell on her ass. Kind of like the time when she sprained (or was it broke?) her ankle walking-her heel broke then. But not this time. Everything else came off without a hitch. Ari told some jokes about Big Guy. It was very sweet.

I was at a table of people I didn't know, besides Linner's brother Steve. But it was good. I sat next to Small Brown (her name is Andy also, so she became Small Brown Andy vs. Big Ugly Andy, the groom) who doesn't eat for days but swims; there was Chris who Silver doesn't remember the name of; Alissa's brother Todd who was really chill; Sarah and I think Tim; some other folks who you don't know, Tiffany and I forget the other one's name.

But you put a bunch of drunk kids together, add a bouquet, some jazz standards by the band, cold weather, the Arizona kids (Ryan and Keith, especially) letting loose-Ryan on the dance floor with Tianna and Keith, just in general. I should take this moment to mention that Keith was described to me as the guy who says things that creep other people out. Like how much he enjoys me. That's cool, because I do the same thing; and Morgan was the one talking about the joys of manicures and pedicures. We all fit well together. Pictured: Keith and Kirsten, Andy's sister.




An example-Keith was talking to Ryan about how cute one of the bartenders was. She was cute in a goofy sort of way, brown hair, looked as if she was a bit hip. She wasn't half as cute as the small one with the straight brown hair, dark eyes... I don't have a movie reference, but it was closer to Natalie Cigliuti who was on Saved By The Bell, but shorter. Keith was afraid to kick it, to invite them for the afterparty at the Chalet. Mind you, I'm not sure that they were all of drinking age. But as they say, whatever happens in Vermont, stays in Vermont.

Keith dawdled, drank for courage. Then he was off; he took his opportunity and spoke some game, and she seemed receptive. He came back, happy. We began making plans. Gathering the extra wine and whiskey and whatever else we were drinking. I mentioned the beautiful Chalet Motel to some of the other kids working the event, as we all stood in the cold, watching Ryan spin Tianna around, as Ari and Linner's cousin made nice on the dance floor.

"Do you mind if kids come," the redheaded kid asked. By kids I am assuming 15-16yr old townies. So of course I said, "sure, as long as they don't like destroy stuff." I believe in promoting underage drinking and modeling alcohol responsibility at a young age. Keith and my favorite brown-eyed ladies were jumping into some hot vintage vehicle and we left them with a bottle and directions. Yeah, we congratulated ourselves. Back at the beautiful Chalet, there was more alcohol than this collection of individuals could remotely drink (as we found the next morning).

And the young ladies of Vermont never showed up. Keith and I were sad. Got over it quickly.

Only one noise complaint. We got our drink on and fell asleep late.

...

and by morning i will tell you all about the BEST. WEDDING. EVER.

well, it was hella good.

Here I-- UGGGGHHH! -- Come! 6.21.04

The girl in the pink has an OC ringtone!!!

Now I wish I had a cell phone...

A Lighter Shade of Smart 6.16.04

A few weeks back I started to point out to Gurnifer that young men on the streets of SoHo, on the streets of Brooklyn, on the streets of Queens were eagerly adding pink to their ensemble. Pink LA Dodgers hats on heads. Pink sneakers. Pink knee-length shirts.

I thought it was silly at the time, since pink is generally thought to be an expression of femininity. I thought perhaps that the homo-thugs were simply expressing themselves—“I’m hard and I get hard for men” and such.

But apparently, people really, really follow Cam’ron, the rapper with such memorable tracks as “Oh Boy,” which Sharma will agree is destined to make you stupider with each listen. Not only do they know his lyrics, his style is pervasive. On Good Morning America, a fashion commentator was talking to the four hosts, talking about pink being a hot color for men, in Trump’s ties, in hip-hop style.

And then host Tony Perkins: “like Cam’Ron.”

I never knew the power of the stupidest rap set ever reached “GMA,” and therefore, middle America; some hip twentysomething in St. Louis is probably thinking of wearing pink and looking up Cam’Ron’s bio online and finding lyrics like:

Come on home wit me, grandmothers is 30
One gram on that butter is 30
Sold grams wit my cousin birdy
School, cutting it early
Don't stutter motherfuckers you heard me
Come on home wit me, these are the facts
Steve Francis and Latifah got jacked
Mike Tyson punched Mitch Green in the face
Sauce snatched by the feds, weed was the case
And shit he still pleading his case
Come home wit me, hoes say "let's jones wit you"
But I wouldn't take them home wit you
Come home wit me, get stoned wit me
Get zoned wit me, the crome you see
Dip set come home wit me

And links to Juelz Santana and the rest of the Dip-dip-dip-dip-SET! a/k/a the Diplomats.

Disturbing. The stupidest man in rap is on his way to becoming a fashion phenomenon? And pink?! It’s not for homo-thugs anymore…

Plus:

Jadakiss on Regis and Kelly? What the hell is happening here?!

The Greatest President Like Ever Ever! 6.8.04

from the Guardian:

For better or worse - and, in my unfashionable view, it was for worse - Reagan and Thatcher made such an impact on their respective societies that their names were given to Reaganomics and Thatcherism.

The anti-government rhetoric of both leaders did a lot of damage to the very concept of public service. In front of cabinet ministers and officials, Mrs Thatcher used to rail against government as though she were an outsider from another planet, not at the head of it.

And the anti-government rhetoric of both was overdone. Of course, governments and officialdom have to be watched at every turn. But it is impossible to run large democratic societies without a considerable degree of government - the real point being that the emphasis should be on good government, not no government.

There was a fundamental flaw at the heart of Reagonomics, namely the idea - epitomised by the famous Laffer Curve - that tax cuts would pay for themselves via greater incentives.

The truth was that the supply side doctrine was a crude and intellectually shabby attempt to justify tax cuts for the rich. For those with incomes above $250,000 (£135,879) a year, taxes as a percentage of income came down from 48.6% to 38.9% between 1980 and 1984.

The way in which certain tax exemptions were removed actually led to a rise in the proportion of income paid in tax by the lowest income groups. In most of the eulogies for Reagan this week, all those cuts in government expenditure on food stamps, school lunches, welfare Medicaid and subsidised housing have been forgotten.

Read more...

Tracking 6.8.04

Six months of interviews with security consultants, former DARPA employees, privacy experts and contractors who worked on the TIA facility at 3701 Fairfax Drive in Arlington reveal a massive snooping operation that is capable of gathering – in real time – vast amounts of information on the day to day activities of ordinary Americans.

Going on a trip? TIA knows where you are going because your train, plane or hotel reservations are forwarded automatically to the DARPA computers. Driving? Every time you use a credit card to purchase gas, a record of that transaction is sent to TIA which can track your movements across town or across the country.

Read more...

Reunion 6.7.04

I’d like to start with a line told to me and my camp co-conspirator Mike, from an older lady with an urge to tell us everything that came to her mind—because this sort of thing often happens on the downtown-bound 3 train once one reaches the Upper West Side.

“Bananas, they look so innocent but they are really killers!”

The reunion was late that Saturday night, in a bar I’d never heard of on 23rd Street. I thought about changing clothes and didn’t; I thought about getting more cash and didn’t; I thought about leaving/ arriving early. Didn’t. Barely could get myself out of the door. I was tired and my trepidation was growing, slow like a balloon. What would these kids be like? Unlike some other schools I didn’t expect the group to be a self-selecting unit of ex-football jocks (we had no team) and sorority alumni and geeks who’ve made it big.

After all, we were all geeks. Even the slightly prettier ones or the more athletic ones. There was never a serious strong delineation or a poking fun at the smart; being stupid was certainly a cross to bear.

I walked up to the bar wondering how on earth I was going to start the conversation, thinking that I hate the common standbys, “isn’t this awkward,” “you look great,” “oh my God you look so different!” But in front of the bar was Tina (who never graduated and is the class’ advocate for repeated baby-making with one’s partner) and Paradise Hotel’s Dave (and his goofy girlfriend who thinks I’m fun), some other fellows, and my friend Grace who I’ve lost touch with, who has the same “f**k it” perspective I have, and is also into public policy kind of things.

Turns out the reunion was pretty fun. Not some sort of revelatory “I’ve made it” or “I’m better than you” kind of jam. But good clean fun. One of the hosts and I chatted a bit, probably more than she and I did in high school. Some awkward moments, but nothing too bad; even made goofy and nice with a Boston resident who I always thought was pretty nice.

Of course there are those people you don’t talk to and can’t see a reason to; though some of them come up to you, drunk, and engage you in conversation (and an interesting “you know, people often hook up at this sort of thing” conversation. Let me compliment myself and say it was a come on, even though I know it wasn’t).

And there is always one blowhard. Diane—the Boston resident—and I had a little giggle at him. He was exactly as I expected. Slick, greasy, right in place in a bridge-n-tunnel kind of bar, the kind of place you expect to hear “ohmyGAWD” repeatedly. He and I were cool in HS and I wouldn’t have minded talking to him, but he wanted to be slick and roll with his very tanned very slick girlfriend (who was really sweet from our conversation).

All the men got bald and they also got fat.

Priscilla (who has a few lines in the movie “Kids”—I believe one of them, as she’s sitting across from Chloe Sevigny, is “I just love F**King”) noted that I am bigger than I was. Reconnected with a couple of kids. Saw the friends I already see. Missed out on talking to a few folks; conversed with one fellow I think is an out and out assbag, but it was cool.

I’d give the reunion, on a 5 apple scale, 3 and a half apples. 4 for you sentimentalists.

And happy late birthday, Silver and Christina.

Buck Town 6.3.04

Today was the day of the NahWeYone fundraiser for the camp I’ll be putting together in a month.

I had cancelled lunch with Gurnifer. Ironed some black linen pants. A brown dress shirt (thanks, Selvadurai’s fruity closet!). Buffed the shoes from scuffed to black. Went to the NYU library to find a reserved course packet in vain—the construction/ rehab of the library means that the reserve items are in a smaller space, with fewer terminals dedicated to locating said items; and said terminals were being monopolized by two slow lazy people, drifting through records and articles and gobbledygook on chemistry, running their pen up and down sheets on the monitor’s left, circling, staring, as if those two line bibliographies had the solution to their research.

Left. Walked north. Walked 14th Street in search of a party supply store—who knew these kind of places were so difficult to find? It was about 80° and 3.30, about the time I said I would be at 103rd. Sweating, my bag, heavy on my back. And there is a crowd across 14th Street, peering in a window, shooting photographs. Being that the awning had some reference to stripping or nudity, I thought I’d get a free show.

The interior of the place was black and the crowd wasn’t thick but substantial enough that I had to work my way into a view. They were excited, but I couldn’t see any titty. There were two cops outside the place—one NYPD, one from the city of “Everett.” I’ve never heard of such a city.

The lights were flashing and I tried to smile and pretend I knew what was going on, as I cupped my hands around my eyes. And what I saw was out of Law & Order, not out of Nice Rack 8.

There was a man, face-up, stream of blood coming out of his mouth, eyes wide open, stiff like a mannequin, cop over him checking his pulse, crowd going “yo, I think he dead,” on the edge of a pole-dancing stage, in a room decked out in deep red.

I still don’t believe it was real; why wouldn’t the police cordon the place off? Still… that’s a little sick.

In case you were wondering I was still the first person up at 103rd to set up for the fundraiser. It was good times but I had to leave early of Conflict Management class.

To Recap 6.02.04

Michael is fruity.

This weekend people came to New York—it was Memorial Day, I guess that’s what happens. So I saw dear old roommate Pavel on Sunday who is still oblivious to the fact that women find him charming. I think he’s got some powerful ass pheremones. Maybe it's the Russian accent? I wanted him to stud-strut his ass on over to the three women in matching designed shirts and find out what they were about. Their shirts had long red sleeves and blue torsos, slim to the body— with different writing… one had

Paris, May 2004

One had

London, May 2004

We couldn’t see the third, me and Pavel’s friends.

And the young ladies sitting with us weren’t adventurous enough to simply ask for our collective curiosity at first; Pavel wasn’t in the mood for it. If I could have gotten out from the corner of the table, I would have stood up, walked over, and engaged these visiting, slim, and perhaps a little homely in that oh-so-cute way women in conversation. It would have been much like when Alex and Joel and I met Suzanne McManus in Art Bar that one fateful night in… uh… I forget. Let’s say 1999. Side note, Alex—I bet they had low self-esteem. Ripe for the picking. Yeah, I said it.

They were obviously new to New York and all new people should be shown the requisite "good time" by welcomers such as myself and Pavel, right? Right? Just waiting for a couple of charming fellows to show them the bright lights and the glitz of New York. "Oh look... here's your hotel room..."

Anyway, one of our women stood and went to the door, ostensibly to… look at the street? She had no cover for her walk to the front and back but she did it anyway.

The third shirt was just New York, May 2004. Yaaawn.

****

Saturday left me gasping for air as I tried to keep up, running Prospect Park with Gurnifer. That young lass is a gazelle. It didn’t help that I had a few beers before running, on the grass with Gurnifer, Schneider, Matt Funk, Craig, Alice, and Sara. I have learned my lesson. Drink and ride, don’t drink and run.

Also, we played lots and lots of hearts with the travel cards Alice brought; the cards are smaller than Silver’s—uh, glasses.

****

Monday I found Jen Richmond taking a post consumption deep breath underneath an awning at Saks Fifth Avenue, cheeky as always, standing out of danger of the rain (she says she won’t but I know she’d melt). It was the afternoon but the tourists still looked too stupid or too blonde. But they got out of our way, we didn’t have to beat anyone up.

We went to Lombardi’s where Matt’s ex-co worker Shannon was ready to eat and helped myself and Rizalia sing Wilson Phillips’ moving hit “Hold On.” And that’s even less cool than Tears for Fears. But at least Carnie and crew have a new album coming out. Alex came good and late. We went to Schneider/ Rizalia’s and watched Jessica Alba in “Honey” which is surpisingly worse than you’d think—go rent “You Got Served” – and tried to learn the dance move with the DVD (it was an extra). Then we watched Francois Ozon once more extol the redemptive and freeing virtues of not-quite-asked for ass sex and evil women in Criminal Lovers.

That’s a weekend for you. Pixel, sorry I couldn’t come bowling.

New! With Photos! 5.27.04


photo blogging staves off boredom; here is the Oregon Boy Scout Raid radio show, as photographed by Co-Rox. Me with the dreds.

10 Years Later. 5.26.04

In two weeks there will be a meeting for NahWeYone's Camp DeFambul (3-day camp for Sierra Leoneans and other members of the African diaspora. That just rolls off of my tongue now), getting our volunteers together and ramping up for the coming camp. There is also a fundraiser for the camp; and if you or any of your friends want to volunteer some money, attend the fundraiser (African foods and entertainments) let me know and I will hook you up with the charitable opportunity.

Also in two weeks is the high school reunion. Pompous kids will descend upon Manhattan and blather on about how they’re doctors and lawyers and how they started dot-coms (this article is covered by an ex-NY Times correspondent who also graduated with me) or how they wrote Avenue Q (okay, that guy is a year older) or how they’re in Iraq covering the war, front page, Washington Post or how they wrote a thriller starring Kip Pardue and Tara Reid.

Grrreat. I didn’t love those kids when I was in the hallways with them. Here’s my whiny moment. I wish I was from some buttf**k town in the middle of the US where people would be simply impressed by the fact that I made it to New York. I suppose this is yet another call to get off of my ass… that whole graduate school thing is just a front. I’m still aimless. And a hater.

Whiny moment’s over. I was going to enlist someone to be my illicit lover and date but now that Selvadurai’s gone I don’t know anyone fruity enough. There is always the “hire a hooker” idea, or the “hire a friend to be a hooker” idea. Anyone? Feel like being a hooker?

This reunion might actually be inspirational or something.

Come And Get Me In My Sleep 5.25.04

I have been blog lazy. Everyone has a blog now. Every political whoo-hah. Every geeky nerd. Now that myself and Pixel and Gully and Mikebot and New Top et cetera are like everyone else, it’s hard to motivate and talk about the nothing going on in my life. After all, what is it I do these days? Go to school. Neglect to work on my “manuscript.” Watch my little brother be a moron. Listen to G-Unit.

I could tell you how last night I walked into St Mark’s Book Shop with ten minutes to spare and was impressed by a Rudolph Wurlitzer book that was available on the cheap. It had a lecherous description of the protagonist watching a young braless woman bending over.

Or about how rappers generally haven’t addressed 9/11 or Iraq in song. Except for talib Kweli as one of my classmates pointed out.

But there haven’t been many activities—my single male friends are all gone. That Selvadurai kid (holler across the water, fool!), that Gully kid down in the District. Sixo, I await your arrival. In the interim, I am on a mission to make new friends without girlfriends, and I might even hang out with my non-single friends. Why do I have such a “single or not” perspective? I don’t know. Probably to create something to write about.

FF 5.13.04

Last night I was coming home on the train, tired and in need of dinner, and I was thinking about why I have not written very much in the blog recently. I thought about my recent moods and the perennial lack of focus and direction; I thought about all the resumes I looked through in the early afternoon that showed me how much more other people have done with their time; I thought about another summer with my impossibly irresponsible and inconsiderate little sibling; I thought about being lonely and I thought about listening to too much Death Cab.

But all of that has the pronoun “I” all over it. And instead I will share the other thing I have recently been thinking of:

Who is going to star in the new Fantastic Four movie? Here are some rumors. And here is a script review. And here is a history of the squad.

We need the smart and scientifically obsessed Reed Richards; the doting wife, updated for the new century, Sue Storm/ Richards; the hot rod obsessed teenager and perhaps playboy, Johnny Storm; and the ex-football player now become brooding and powerful, “It’s Clobberin’ Time!” yelling Thing.

Suggestions? I will come back to this one; I have some ideas… like Naomi Watts as Sue Richards. Too serious. Julia Stiles? I think she secretly loves science but never knew it before Reed, or she's often awed by him, as many other people are, and that’s why she is often quiet and in the background; that she’s just a quiet young woman coming into her own. Her brother often doesn’t think of others but quietly loves the idea of gossip columnists following him (how about Ethan Embry? Paul Walker is listed as a possibility. He’s vapid enough). Reed perhaps has a strong belief in American ideals, but these also include a right to freedom of exploration, which explains why he gets three unqualified people to go into a spaceship with him (maybe in the update, they’re going to Mars? Or to another dimension?). And Ben Grimm is brooding even as a college football player (I imagine him as a defensive lineman or linebacker) and thinks the world is out to get him when he becomes, well, and inhuman Thing. Michael Chiklis is a possibility—don’t you love the internet rumor mill?!

Word. Think on it.

But... 5.11.04

But if Lynndie England and the rest of the prison wardens of Iraq were simply following orders, why were they taking momentos? Just wondering. Did they play football at Mepham (Broom In Da Ass) High, where kids are trained in hazing?

Also... 5.10.04

Donald Rumsfeld's Photoblog, courtesy of Low Culture. Open in private.

Of interest...

There is chatter in Pakistani intelligence circles that the US has let the Pakistanis know that the optimal time for bagging 'high value' al Qaida suspects in the untamed Afghan-Pakistani border lands is the last ten days of July, 2004.

From Talking Points Memo.

Consideration is Key 5.4.04

how to walk in new york, from the morning news.

Sitting on a Time Bomb 4.16.04

Last night I had the pleasure of seeing the Rice-A-Homie’s apartment, and meeting some of the people he worked with on Michael Showalter’s film “The Baxter,” as a production coordinator. Now if only I could remember their names… but we had good conversation between all the free drinks we could handle at the Knitting Factory.

Craig Wedren, ex-of Shudder to Think, did the score (as he did for School of Rock and The Secret Lives of Dentists) and was to make an appearance. I didn’t see him, which may be just as well. A few years ago, when she still lived in NYC, Rini and I went to see him play solo, and she convinced me to walk up to him and say hello, as he was wrapping wires and coming down from his set. The conversation went like this, you can guess the roles:

- um, hi.
- Hello.
- Um, uh, I really liked your… set? It was… good. I like your music, you’re my favorite band.
- Uh-huh. Well. Thanks.
- Are you guys like working together anymore?
- No, we’re on hiatus, we’ll probably do something in the future. Now I’m in New York, working on some soundtracks in my apartment.
- Um, yeah. Wow. Cool. Uh, um, thanks. Keep up the good work, um…!

I am SO not-very-cool.

I have been listening to an inordinate amount of Tears For Fears. While I get my head on straight (Sowing the Seeds of Love is not helping), find a bake sale against Bush in your area;

Or come play Whiffle Ball this Sunday, Central Park, Great Lawn, 2 pm, Shakespeare statue (thanks Kate + Ellen).

Next week I will tell you why my 10-year HS reunion is beginning to creep me out.

After the Humpday 4.15.04

The taxes are in, I woke up late, and damn I been lazy. I am going to go out and peoplewatch, then join Mr. Rice-a-Homie this evening. Word.

April Showers 4.13.04

This time of year is donation season—the part of the year when non-profits have functions, when research groups for various diseases have their walks and runs. It’s a time to be public, to get out there and press the flesh, to mingle, to get along with people. This is also the time of year that sparks ridiculous ideas like the upcoming whiffle ball "game," which will likely be followed by softball, dodgeball, bicycling, Frisbee, and koob.

Which can only mean one thing—time to get back into some semblance of shape. Not the shape I was in high school, where between snorting packets of Lik-M-Aid and putting the f-word before every noun, I would race people around the Brick Prison block with my shirt off in 30 degree weather. I mean the shape when I’m not so winded going up Pixel’s walkup, or the shape where I can toss a football without hurting myself, the shape where I can go to the beach and only be a touch embarrassed.

Well, I’ve been working on the forearms so far. Using the patented Marge technique.

Janet’s Boobie Pageant. 4.12.04

Hopefully, this means that Janet Jackson’s being synonymous with “wardrobe malfunction” or “exposed titty” or “whoo-hah! You think the kids saw that?” is finally over. I flipped on the television—I was home on Saturday night stretching out my Reyes-like hamstrings—and there Ms. Jackson (‘cause I’m nasty) was, doing a solid Condoleeza Rice impression on Saturday Night Live, addressing it, putting it to rest.

I suppose Chris Kattan and Tracy Morgan and Simon Cowell were all there to give her a little respite, since she was also the musical guest. She played two songs/ dance routines. Not sure if she was singing through them, but they were not very good, more of a progression into the wispy voiced bouncy lounge-europop thing she dropped a little of on the Velvet Rope.

Yes, I am a fan.

But this music was more Britney than Janet, more Aaliyah than Motown. More disappointing than thrilling. I wonder if one day there will be great debates—which music was limper, more technology demolished: pop of the 80’s (using Falco’s Rock Me Amadeus, for example) or pop of the Naughty Oughts/ the Dub Zero’s/ the Decade of Oh’s.

If you have a better nickname for the decade, please. Be my guest. Comments are below.

Subservient Chicken? 4.09.04

Ok, this is wierd. But surprisingly not perverse.

Circus 4.09.04

Watching the eyes of the children who got on the A train at 34th Street, with their push pops and their sparkling and glittering globes, the happy parents gripping bags of popcorn, the little Latina girl and the little black girls laughing about something, even though they don’t seem to speak the same language…

Hey, maybe the circus isn’t so bad after all.

Department of the Interior Terrorist 4.08.04

Daniel Levitas, quoted in a Christian Science Monitor story, put it this way: "Excuse me, a chemical weapon was found in the home state of George Bush. I'm not saying the Justice Department deliberately decided to downplay the story because they thought it might be embarrassing to the US government if weapons of mass destruction were found in America before they were found in Iraq. But I am saying it was a mistake not to give this higher profile."

A mistake because if we're going to defend this country, we'd better focus on where dangers actually lurk and celebrate methods that have proved successful. Yet the Attorney General has established Justice Department policies -- affecting the FBI as well -- that prohibit investigating citizens on the basis of their arms purchases, no matter how excessive.

Read more here. And exactly what are we supposed to do to protect ourselves from mass murderers? Besides occupying the state of Texas and bringing them Freedom, Democracy, and Oil Speculators?

Mythbusting 4.08.04

1. I did not get my Hudswinger caught in a threshing machine. I am still here.

2. I went to DC last weekend. The ride down blew wine-dipped chunks; the Eastern Travel (or whatever Chinatown bus line I took) was:

· caught in traffic;

· hot;

· let a woman off on the side of the highway in the dark (she asked for it. I mean, really, she asked for it);

· sl-l-low;

· shut off on New York Avenue in DC. 6 hours later, I finally ran into Gully.

3. I wasn’t being interrogated. I saw Death Cab For Cutie and they were awesome, though they were opening for some assbag named Ben Kweller whom everyone seems to know. I guess he’s gotten that MTV time, not the coveted OC time that Death Cab received on the ride to Tijuana, when Seth told summer not to insult the Death Cab (while playing the song A Movie Script Ending, which was the second song they played at the 9.30 club after The New Year). They also played another favorite of mine, Company Calls, and also Line of Best Fit, and a song about LA which was the only one I did not know. The show was in the first place I have seen in a long time that I would call “da hood,” and my sibling Agua Dulce would love to walk around there and see how DC kids act hard.

4. A fellow on the other side of the wraparound balcony was really rocking out, like he might lean too far, fall over into Ben Gibbard’s goofy dancing lumberjack short wearing self. The woman next to me was hitting on me. Stop poking fun, Gully, she was totally checking me out with the removed (saliva stick-on?) tattoo and all black outfit and herky-jerky rock club over-30 veteran vibe.

5. Pancakes were made. Hellboy was watched. Suburban Virginia was disturbing and even common signs such as Dunkin Donuts were altered and subverted to the style of Vienna’s low-roofed commercial strips. I ran into Alex Papa who some of you might remember me hanging out with three years ago. There was the Amphora, there was Adams Morgan, there were tools.

6. The ride back was spectacular. Our driver used exit lanes and rest stop entries + exits to speed up our trip; he took 195 and we blew by even less notable parts of New Jersey, but with a speed uncommon for Sundays; the sky was blue and the bus rattled its way back to the Turnpike and then to the Lincoln Tunnel and to 42nd Street. Home again, jiggity-jog.

Rock Out With My Cock Out 4.3.04

I am in the District of Columbia with Gully, after an interminable 6 hour bus ride featuring the bus shutting off, stops on the side of the road, singing collegiates drinking beer, and heat, so much heat. I have never been happier to set foot on asphalt and concrete.

I'm here to see Death Cab For Cutie and I'm only a little embarrassed and a little thrilled. But if i I come home with a 17 year old girl who loves the OC and secretly thinks Avril isn't so bad, please please slap me.

As is my style, I have also met an old friend, Al-Papa from the HS, on the street in Adam's Morgan's Toolapalooza, and hopefull we will hang out. Okay, I should go eat now.

ps, Gully is the bestest fort letting me stay here! But he has an apartment that looks onto children playing. Effin' pervert.

Letter to Cracker Flats Matt 4.1.04

Yo, Matt, check this out—Shootyz Groove/ Yaggfu Front/ Mic Geronimo reunion tour!

Haha! April fools!

Golden D'Oh 3.31.04

Normally, I would say that Paul Hornung is using his freedom of speech a little loosely; that there is a difference between propaganda (let’s say from our current government) and open expression, and an additional difference between those and hateful, mean-spirited language that only opens old wounds. I don’t believe in the power of racially-charged or separatist terms, and really, Hornung should go on about how Notre Dame needs to lower standards to get ANY athletes.

Additionally, there have been black athletes at Notre Dame. Anyone I remember from their squads the past three years has been black, with the exception of transfer Matt LoVecchio. That having been said, I don’t think his statement, taken at face value, and not in context of the rest of his interview, is the worst thing anyone has said.

Hang Out With My Wang Out 3.31.04

I could talk about how I don't have so much to say, how I haven't been going out, taking you through attempts to re-energize myself, to get back to writing, to find a job, but that's entirely too revelatory. Also, I am distracted by Janet Jackson and Jermaine Dupri's impending nuptials. Isn't he midget sized? Smaller than Prince? Man, there is hope for ALL of us. I'm going to stop watching Blind Date and hit on very hot women now.

Tool Disclosure 3.29.04

What I failed to mention is that after Selvadurai and I left the glowing theatre crowd that watched Bombay Dreams with us (who left using those theatre-fan standbys, “fabulous,” “wonderful performance” and such), we took the subway downtown. The F was not running to 2nd Avenue, where we were to meet Starla and her merry women. It was 11 pm and we decided to walk through the drunken jungle of the Village, NYU students interspersed with a little bridge and a little tunnel and a lot of hair gel.

The best part was the fellows behind us, about half a block behind from MacDougal Street to Broadway. One was large and loud and cursed like a teenager. The second was small and Napoleonic and cursed like Stifler. He was about three apples high, the usual blue pique-knit oxford, the usual Dockers, the usual paunch. Prime moments include him banging on a taxi’s hood, in the middle of the street with the light against him, yelling about how he was born in this country; some combination of cock and ass and more cock and bitch that was actually offensive to my ears; and the yelling of “can a n***a get a table dance.” Over and over again.

Guesses: He’s secretly the writer of this confused article defending a full range of speech. Perhaps he also enjoys Details Magazine, the publication responsible for this winner of a picture. But that's simply a loose guess.

Slimpy 3.28.03

There is nothing like seeing your boy on a raised platform, banging a drum, within drooling distance of 8 nubile young brown women in skimpy outfits. Also, the show, Bombay Dreams—great energy. Fun to watch. Go see it. Suzun and Samantha and Dave all pointed out that I do not update my blog enough. I will try to do better. it’s been a long winter, and I am still digging for my motivation. So this week, we will follow the life of a thug, perhaps.

Spanking 3.25.03

New links in bold, and a new section to boot. Check out the links; Beautiful Stuff will entertain you for days. I swear. Links to lit/ criticism, a good writer, and some funny stuff. To boot. I already used that one. I am SO unoriginal, like, God.

I have to stop watching the OC. Pixel, did you tape it? I missed the first 17 minutes.

Plus: pictures from Gulshan + Pico's party.

Plus:play Babble online. It's like the great Boggle.

Plus: For your politics and sarcasm.

The Drool Just Keeps On Coming. 3.25.03

Gulshan, I know you are a Scarlett Johanssen fan. Now, I am too.

Any Gunplay Will Be Answered 3.24.03

Today I saw my first episode of HBO’s new show Deadwood. It follows what one might think an HBO drama about the old west would. There is a lot of dust on people, references to whiskey, wild moustaches, an opening featuring a man who is “helped” in his hanging execution by a sheriff who yanks the cord to expedite the process, and whore who gets beat twice; the man who does it is shot through the head, a metal dipstick stuck through it, his body tossed in a pig sty. You know, just for good measure.

There is a fellow with a great Irish accent that sounds almost Jamaican, swindling the “goose looking man in the shiny suit.”

The old west might have been dirty but this is actually unpleasant. Perhaps true to life? The attitudes are rude and the drunks are plentiful, people fight in the streets, people carry on with torches in their hands. Now, I am no old west scholar; but I do wonder about the use of modern profanity (and of course, the change in accents). “Shit” is a fecal leaving. “Son of a bitch” is a colorful description of a person. “Cocksucker,” maybe. But the constant and unrelenting use of the word “fuck?”

Well, here is an etymology of the word here.

Letter to Misanthrope. 3.18.03

How is the UK? Are you spelling more things in the British way yet? Have you referred to something using “queen,” as in “the queen’s English,” and such?

This will be short. I am taking a short trip and will be back tomorrow to watch college basketball. I know. You’re excited. But that’s how it rolls here. On the way up to this computer lab I was reminded once again that tourists are very annoying. All of Michigan seems to have descended upon Canal Street, now that it’s in the 40’s and sunny and the snow is melting—yes we got another snow.

But there they are, in Michigan hats and shirts, standing, gawking at bling, thinking about NYC t-shirts, moving even slower than the notoriously slow denizens of Chinatown. I am listening to The Streets as I walk by and I want to punch them. Or eliminate them. They are younger and on the subway, older and looking at restaurants. Why do people want to live in Manhattan? It’s filled with interlopers. Oh. Those are interlopers too. (Brown Boy, when you come to New York, please be considerate, don’t take up the whole sidewalk—we don’t have that much real estate. Thank you.)

Hey, I got to run. Be well. Keep reading. I will leave you with this—this has been a hustlin’ ass city the past couple of days, the best being the panhandler followed by the kids selling candy for their basketball team’s jerseys followed by a woman with a gorgeous gospel voice singing and preaching for way too long in front of the fella wearing a yarmulke (sp?).

“Lock stock and two fat f**ks backin’ ‘em up.” – The Streets

Picks. 3.16.04

And I make them public, check 'em out.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year 3.15.03

it's time for the office pool, fool. check out some team profiles. later this week, there will be some picks and ideas on the other blog.

Protest? 3.13.04

This afternoon in front of the U.N. there will be a protest against the terrorists (whoever they are. We don't yet know) who blew up the train in Madrid.

Who are these people protesting? What is a protest going to do? Someone who likes to protest, please tell me what effect it has. Registers outrage? I think most human beings understand the outrage (though the Daily News cover calling the attack Spain's September 11th is a bit much. It's their March 11th); and is there something that could have been reasonably done to prevent this? Was there a warning that was ignored? Have the politicians (Spainiards are getting set to elect a Prime Minister) somehow encouraged this kind of activity? Was there slack vigilance? No? Then what is this protest going to consist of?

Tonight, I'm Gonna Have Myself A Real Good Time 3.13.04

Last night I was conned into travelling to Brooklyn, conned by the promise of art galleries and the sisters Dunsmuir, conned by an early evening--

So it goes. Selvadurai/ Samantha/ myself ended up at the Last Exit, where I promptly ran into a kid named Nicole from my grad school and all of her curly hair, and another young lady named Katherine, who reminded me that I have been so bad about staying in touch with Michelle and Courtney from HS that Courtney's @#$&%^!! married already. At least I knew that one was coming; finding out Laurie (who introduced me to Schneider and vice-versa, on a warm summer's eve in 1996 before he entered our fine University) had also married was a complete shock. So it goes.

But tonight, like Queen said, I am going to have myself a real good time. I hope to see lots of short plaid skirts dancing in what little space they can carve out. Welcome back to the city, Gulshan, for one night only.

W.W.DJ.D 3.10.04

On my way home from class, a woman sitting next to me propositioned me with an offer to attend her church. She asked if I had a place to worship, offered me a pamphlet. I told her I did (though I haven’t been back there in years). As she wished me a good day and walked to the front of the bus, my mp3 player delivered this response:

Big titty b***h/ they think they is the s**t/ bring yo’ a** here/ and ride on this d**k/ ride, ride, ride, ride, ride, ride/ let me bang!

There are better and more appropriate responses, but I liked that one. DJ Assault? That boy needs the Lord in his life.

The Future, My Boy? Plastics 3.09.04

I am finally in my bed, with my laptop in hand, a Fundamentals of Municipal Bonds book at my side. Nascar, I bet you and Eben think I don’t do any work. Triiiick! It’s 2.03 in the AM and I am going to tell you a little bit about recycling in my neighborhood before I go to sleep.

Now, for weeks we have been trying to get a blue 30-gallon container of plastic recyclable goodies out on the sidewalk so the fine people at NYC’s Department of Sanitation can pick it up. Yet every time we do it in a logical sense—the Tuesday morning we are used to—it remains, through the day, into the next, neglected. Filling. Too high now for the can to properly close. Don’t tell anyone… but I have taken to throwing some recyclables in with the regular trash. Shh. I know where you e-mail.

For my part, I really should have tried to call someone at Sanitation or at 311 and be like, “when is this pickup, snatch?” But like Tom Petty said, the waiting is the hardest part. So hard, so daunting, I’d rather not do waste that time, so to speak.

I had watched a little bit of Gonzaga’s conference final for inspiration and information, in part because I am going back to work on the sports web log (and the short story web log too), and in part because procrastination has been the business for a couple of… years… like I am doing now. But in a fit of pasta-stuck-in-tummy, I stayed awake and made some notes for my paper, skimmed undone reading, and heard the familiar whirring drone down the block—

And it’s too late for anything to make that much noise besides—

SANITATION.

Out of my pajama pants and into a pair of worn Banana Republic chinos, an embarrassing fact only offset by the fact that these pants are four years old, faded, and back in their original heap over my chair. The hoodie covered my top. Old socks. Track-style Pumas. And out with tonight’s garbage, too.

The truck was revving up and about to tear past 7 houses who had not yet put out their recycling. The air was crisp and not as cold as I expected. My heart was up and going. The mist fell on the grass. The driveway, deeper beige and the concrete sidewalks, gray with wetness.

I saw them about to race past and I raced the truck to a spot on the edge of our property. Held them with a hand and a yell just loud enough to notice. And back to the side of the house, hustling a can full of juice and milk containers, glass pasta bottles, various containers, with a little stink on them. In the hustle my ankle turned a little—the pumas are not the best for ankle support and I have ankles like a chicken. But it was all gravy; I stood and watched as the pile of plastic met its second-to-last resting place, mashed into a mass, left side of the recycling truck. Relishing the cold air. A spontaneous sprint well done.

Codicils 3.08.04

· The moment I’ve been waiting for: finally the end of Melrose Place, in reruns, on the Style network. I am almost embarrassed to say that I have attempted to watch every episode of Melrose Place. I am not really sure why. I think I wanted to track how the show went from a respectable attempt at drama to the worst in heavy syrup. I could go on and on with actual analysis, how bad Jamie Luner was, the ridiculous misuse of Rena Sofer; but for months now, I have been praying for it to end. After Sydney gets run over by her old roommate’s escaped convict father on her wedding day, and Sydney’s husband commits suicide on the side of the road, the shark had officially been jumped.

· I wonder if J-Lo’s new perfume smells like ass? Or does it smell like the Bronx? Is there a difference?

· I’m starting a war on people who don’t get the sarcasm. You know who you are.

· How did y’all like the Hours? I just started the movie and my gosh, it’s kind of… unexciting. It’s improving but damn. That’s a slow ass beginning. Maybe this is why I never read any Virginia Woolf.

I'd Like To Thank The Academy and Deez Nuts. 3.01.04

Welcome to March and someone tell that PA- groundhog his prognostication skills just aren't thorough. Punk. And since the mewling and the blubbering and the crying is over, I guess the Academy Awards are finally over. Hey, Silver, did my favorite movie win any awards?

Deliciously Stupid Song Of The Day 2.25.04

Ratt's In Your Direction.

abusing you all across the country
said i feel hot coals, yeah.

By far those are the smartest lyrics in that song. Not so cool that it was followed up by The Postal Service's Such Great Heights-- ITunes, I like discordant and jarring as much as the next guy...

Passonate 2.24.04

So who's with me to see Mel Gibson's new movie? We'll start a religious pie fight. Here is one review.

No Title 2.21.04

Note: After watching Bringing Down the House, I realize that we certainly have a hard time talking about much of anything—racism in this case—without sweeping, broad stereotypes; or perhaps we are all generalizations and condescensions.

Note: The silliest fashion trend—winter knit hats with summer cap brims. So stupid it’s gangsta.

Note: I feel old again; after drinks on the Upper West with Hollycat (who convinced us to make it up there?) Selvadurai/ Dave/ the Fighting Samantha convinced me to see the great Roni Size at Avalon, which was once known as the underage dance mecca Limelight. There was the spike-haired tool, drunk as hell behind us, talking to himself:

Roni Size!
DJ Die!
N-U-T!
B-N-T!
D-S-L!

Or whatever he was saying; and there we were, freezing, waiting to get into a place that I only went to when my only ID was a school ID. The show was live and the place looks pretty cool, though there is something strange about noting places where my friends took lots of codeine; where I hooked up with some girl; where Descha and Tony were kicking it to some women who would have nothing to do with us.

And ohhh, my bunions. My hammertoes! My insole! Dancing in boots and when out of shape is humbling; used to be that Samantha and myself could keep going and going and going. Damned age.

Hey, Where Is The Money Going? 2.18.04

If the government isn't going to pay for the bst equipment with the ridiculous appropriations our Congress is giving for the war effort, the NRA should consider spending some of that lobbying money and convention cash on protecting our red-blooded troops. Or perhaps the government could ask our corporate tax-avoiders to pony up some scrill? Just an idea. Read here.

The Price of Boston 2.18.04

Boston, that jealous city north of us in NYC, covered in ice and fat people in SUV’s was graced by my presence this weekend. I would continue about what I ate each day and my times with Seabiscuit Anna and a moment with Gabi, but what’s really important—besides a person I missed—are the two bits of entertainment we caught.

A Winter’s Tale was put on by Brandeis’ performing arts crew. The sets were tight, two stories of metal doors, with the image of bare trees etched out of the frosting on the glass. Backups painted for wintry gloom in Europe and desert heat in Africa.

That was the good. The bad included the play reimagined as the friendship between a European and an African monarch—cool concept—and opened a frenetic second half with kids doing some cockamamie version of African dance. Words won’t describe it but if you drop you jaw and look confused, like when your neighbor’s SUV knocks on your door to tell you to stop changing naked with the blinds open, you’ll get the same impact. I was wondering why none of the people had a better tan. And what was with the snakes coming out of the men’s pants.

Truly amazing, the acting. Limp, unconvincing, and Autolycus was played by the very fruity Andrew Fitzpatrick. Any of you WU kids remember him? The boy who went around telling everyone how he and the chancellor’s son got nakedly acquainted? Apparently he is up there at Brandeis, over-the-top as always. And then he did a pop song, set to Shakespearean lyrics. Think a stripped down budget-ass *NSync. Then think of having not slept in a day and watching this play drag on like a LOX freestyle. It’s long to begin with and falls apart in the end—it’s obvious that either Billy Shakespeare was playing a joke on theatre or he got really lazy… or drunk. My eyes were drifting down and I wanted it to end, to end, to end.

Also of note is that the Perfect Score features Darius Miles… and fired St. John’s coach Mike Jarvis. More on that in the other blog, soon, but of humorous note: Darius’ character (the well-named Desmond Rose) has to get his grades up to get into St. John’s. Oh, I laughed about that one.

Two Turntables and No Conscience 2.10.04

You know that feeling you get when you hear a song so unbelievably wack you can’t imagine someone sat in their studio, poring over beats and mixing music, and though it was a good idea? The song that has to be explained by excessive stupidity and bribes?

If you can download it look for a remix of Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal” with overlays by Mobb Deep (from Shook Ones) and The Wu-Tang (from The Mystery of Chessboxing). I promise. You’ll be impressed.

An Article:

Paul Krugman on Jobs.

Q-Tip: Hollywood's Cool? 2.03.04

from the EUR:

Hip-hop star Q-Tip has become popular among
the Hollywood types. The rapper, who apparently will
be releasing a new solo album this year, is currently
dating 40-year old actress Tatum O'Neal ("Bad News
Bears"). Q-Tip has also dated Nicole Kidman, Janet
Jackson and rapper Angie Martinez.

Play on, playa.

John Kerry: No Wimpy Dukakis. 2.03.04

from the Atlantic Monthly:

Indeed, Mr Kerry stands a chance not just of deflecting the wimp charge but of hurling it back at his detractors. Both George Bush and Dick Cheney somehow managed to avoid serving in Vietnam. Paul Wolfowitz spent the war storming the groves of academia rather than the canals of the Mekong delta. Indeed, it is hard to think of any neo-conservative who has put on his country's uniform other than in his dreams. Mr Kerry can legitimately argue that, as someone who has been at the sharp end of battle, he would have thought more carefully than these “chicken hawks” before launching a pre-emptive war. He gets some of his loudest applause on the stump when he says that he knows “something about aircraft carriers for real”.

Read more.

Dork Factor 10 2.03.04

Happily, Pixel has turned me on to Que Sera Sera, whom Gully met at New Year's. This definitely cements her dork factor and I have added a link to her blog to the side. Get to reading!

Also, hear people read William Blake's London.

Token Sucker! (from the NY Times) 2.03.04

Of 25,382 repairs in December, 16,936 involved the bill-handling unit. About 45 percent of these - or 30 percent of all repairs - were caused by tampering. The tamperer's goal is to break the machine so that riders will be forced to use the services of a person who just happens to be waiting nearby with a handful of unlimited-ride day passes offering to swipe people through for $2.

"They start a transaction," said Antonio Suarez, chief officer of automated fare collection equipment maintenance for the transit agency. "Instead of money, they introduce a card or a foreign object."

"What these guys will do is they will purchase multiples of those cards and just switch them as they're swiping people through and charge them two bucks apiece," said Paul J. Browne, the chief spokesman for the New York City Police Department.

The scam was in full view on a recent afternoon at the station at 125th Streeet and Lexington Avenue, where a group of men jostled to swipe riders through the turnstiles. All three MetroCard machines in the station were out of commission.

Officials say the scam represents an evolution of the extinct art of "token sucking," in which a person would clog the token slot with a matchbook or even glue. After the stymied rider walked away, the token sucker would clamp his lips over the receptacle and suck the token out, then turn around and resell it. The scam produced repair headaches similar to those the transit agency is experiencing with MetroCard. Repair crews used to fix turnstiles at a clip of about 250 a day, about 60 percent of them because of paper stuffed in the token slots.

Some of the swipers of today, as they are nicknamed, have stumbled upon a MetroCard quirk in which someone can bend a discarded card a certain way, then swipe it through a card reader three times quickly and somehow end up with a $2 credit.

[--stupid token wrecking f**kers.--]

from Maureen Dowd, NYTimes 2.1.04

Saddam, [Condeleeza Rice] told Matt Lauer, had secretively refused to account for missing stockpiles of botulinum toxin and anthrax, even though he knew he would face serious consequences: "I don't know how you could have come to any other conclusion but that he had weapons of mass destruction."

A conservative, ice-skating Brahms aficionada from Birmingham had assumed that a homicidal, grenade-fishing Sinatra aficionado from Tikrit reasoned just like her.

Bush officials, awash in the vice president's Hobbesian gloom, deduced that Saddam would not hide if he had nothing to hide. Even after all their talk about a Bernard Lewis clash of civilizations and a battle of good versus evil, they still projected a Western mind-set on Saddam.

Ms. Rice argued that the U.S. was right to conclude that Saddam had W.M.D. and attack him because the dictator was not behaving rationally. But why did she think someone President Bush deemed "a madman" would behave rationally?

Cheney & Company were so consumed with puffing the intelligence to try to connect Saddam with 9/11, Al Qaeda and nuclear material, they failed to challenge basic assumptions....

Even Paul Wolfowitz observed last May that it was important not to assume that foes like Saddam "will be rational according to our definition of what is rational." Interviewed by Sam Tanenhaus for Vanity Fair, Mr. Wolfowitz said bad intelligence came from mirror imaging — assuming people would behave like us: "The kind of mistake that, in a sense, I think we made implicitly in assuming that anyone who was intelligent enough to fly an airplane wouldn't commit suicide with it."

Read more here.

From the EUR: 1.30.04

MOS DEF GETS THE LEAD
Rapper extraordinaire lands role.

*Mos Def is balancing his rap career
with a successful acting career that has
put him on Broadway as well as the
big screen.
Now, Def has been chosen to star
as "Ford Prefect" in Spyglass Entertainment's
"The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy."
The film will be directed by Garth
Jennings and Nick Goldsmith,
and will start filming in April.
"The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy"
is based upon the acclaimed novel by
Douglas Adams, which depicts a British
man who is perplexed when he's saved
from the destruction of Earth by his
best friend, who turns out to be an alien.
***********************************************************

HOT BOYZ RAPPER CHARGED IN SHOOTING
'Turk' arrested in Memphis

*Some rappers really do live the thug life.
Such is the case of Tab Virgil Jr., a 22-year-old
rapper who performs with the Hot Boyz rap crew
under the name "Turk."
The New Orleans rapper has been charged
in Memphis with attempted first-degree murder
in the shooting that wounded two Shelby County
deputies serving a search warrant earlier this week.
Sheriff’s officials said that Tab Jr. of Metarie,
La., is being held on a $1 million bond in the
Shelby County Jail.
SWAT deputy Jason Pagenkopf, 31, a 10-year
veteran with more than four years on the sheriff’s
special weapons team, was shot in the neck
while serving the search warrant at the
Hickory Pointe apartments.
SWAT deputy Chris Harris, 29, a six-year
veteran was struck in the mouth, hip and leg.
The suspect is also wanted in Louisiana for
violation of probation, officials said.
The two wounded deputies were part of a team
of 12 officers who went to the apartment to search
for heroin. They did not find any of that illegal drug,
but did find a small amount of marijuana and
drug paraphernalia, sheriff’s officials said.

Take A Whiff 1.28.04

This is the kind of letter that keeps me reading Savage Love. Misanthrope Anna, I blame your dirty influence.

[--explicit content beneath--]

You and your readers have been talking about poo-eating for a long time now. I would like to offer up an alternative that I think is kind of neat. Take a standard condom, fill it with peanut butter, twist the bottom, and insert into your ass (making sure to not let go). When the moment is right, untwist the bottom, release, bear down, and POO! Well, OK, not quite, but it certainly provides an alternative that might satisfy both the poo eater and also his bacterially minded sex partner. Let me know what you think. —I Can't Believe It's Not Poo

Try not laughing.

Cookie Crisp 1.28.04

Ben Cohen of Ben and Jerry's wants you to consider new ways of distributing our federal income, and describes it with cookies. Pass on to your war-loving friends, makes a good point about those poor sand people we keep blowing up.

http://www.e-tractions.com/truemajority/run/oreo?ep=BWUZtTMzMjEzg%2FBcO%2Fts

Puritanical 1.28.04

Last night I asked Silver this question:

After the first horrenous winter, knowing that it doesn't snow like this in England, and it's not this kind of miserable, why didn't the Puritans who landed in the Plymouth Rock area just pack up and go south?

Silver replied with a couple of good points:

1. then they would have been the people who went to Jamestown.
2. because.
3. they saw every challenge as a challenge from God-- in other words, it was time for the Puritans to step up and bring it like it never been brought'ed.

I also added that it probably would have cost a lot to repair their ships and depart, or go over land.

Think about this concept. What is they never landed there? What if Boston never bacame the early center for revolutionary-era population/ commerce/ dissention/ philosophy? What if the fledgeling colonies were centered around Norfolk, Virginia?

Then again, maybe slavery wouldn't have been abolished, or perhaps American colonists wouldn't have been so ornery. Maybe we'd talk about the new north now, relish the snow, play sports in skimpier uniforms, not have candlepin bowling, and maybe the red sox and the patriots wouldn't have that wacky inferiority complex. Come on, come up with more "what if the nation started out more south-centered" ideas yourself.

Thanks for the Memories, Captain Kangaroo. 1.23.04

I was never much of a Sesame Street fan; in fact, I really didn't watch that much television until I got to sitcoms (more episodes of Who's the Boss than is considered healthy) and primetime dramas (Remington Steele? The A-Team?) and the news. I really loved Captain Kangaroo. Like wake up on my own at 7 AM love. I'd talk about the Little Prince cartoon that I believe preceded Kangaroo (and the dreck that came afterwards, as I realized I gave up sleep and had nothing to do) but you'd look at me with a stink eye, and I want to give you the link to Captain Kangaroo's obit.

Season 1.22.04

This is the time of year that all the NYU kids actually go to class, instead of being hung over and high and dyeing their hair or being standoffish and "cool." And while it is great to see so much young pulchritude (and MST Karaoke, they're still cute at that age), the yammering and the standing in my way and the dawdling on cellulars I can do without.

John Kerry? 1.20.04

Is neither electable nor inspiring. I thought we hated Clintonesque wafflers.

My Heart Is With Bush... 1.19.04

As people around the city commit themselves to a day of service in honor of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Iowans are getting ready to raise a joyful sound for their favorite democratic candidate. Besides the inherent silliness of the caucus and the polling around it, besides the questionable representation we get from the state of Iowa, I'd like to point out that while scanning the newspapers I noted that someone wrote that this is the closest, most unpredictable caucus since 1988.

Damned Republican newspapers! That's not a banner year at all. Remember Willie Horton? And Dukakis in the tank? And Gary Hart denying his affair? "My heart is with Bush but my bush is with Hart," as the joke went. Taking Gary Hart's electability with it.

The Ice Of Boston 1.16.04

I never knew that all of my blogging options do not come up on Macs. I am in Boston with Freak-Out Anna, it's cold, it's sunny, and it's early, kids. Something more intelligent to say? Well...someday, when the weather gets warmer, we will all bask in the joy of-- wait, that's not very intelligent at all. You get intelligence later. Maybe after I see L'il Gabs, a/k/a MC Gab-B.

Goddamn Try Something New Liberals!!! 1.13.04

I wonder why the NY Post’s opinion section is so damned angry all the time. I am looking specifically at an opinion piece from yesterday’s paper on Joel Stern, the chancellor of schools and his anti-preference for the use of phonics (Stern wants a more progressive approach to reading, less drilling and rote repetition).

I bring this up not because I have an opinion on teaching methods or the No Child Left Behind Act; not because, quietly hidden on the next page is a one column, third of a page “article” about how Hilary Clinton was talking about a proposal added to a spending bill recently passed in the House, that allows some workers to be tabbed as supervisory workers and then disqualified for overtime pay, including policemen and firefighters and nurses; but because these Post characters are so very angry. How about commenting on the merits of another person’s ideas? How about assimilating ideas? How about not polarizing people, ideas, political parties?

That doesn’t make for a good newspaper, I suppose. Just a responsible one.

From Reuters 1.12.04

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - The U.S. government is moving forward on a computerized system containing background information on air travelers despite resistance from airlines and privacy advocates, The Washington Post reported on Monday.

The government will require airlines and air travel booking companies to let officials see passenger records, the newspaper said. Passengers through U.S. airports would be scored with a number and a color that ranks their perceived threat to the aircraft they are traveling on, the paper said.

A separate program is due to be launched this year that would give frequent fliers quicker passage through security checks if they volunteer personal information to the government, the newspaper said.

Privacy and consumer advocates say the programs could be discriminatory because some passengers would be screened more carefully than others.

The two programs would supplement the fingerprinting and photographing of travelers arriving in the United States that was launched last week.

Biscuits and Gravy 1.12.04

Y'all are mad jealous. I missed New Top on saturday, it's true. But I made it to Eben's on Sunday for football. Mostly because Nascar Anna promised to make biscuits and gravy.

And that was the most deliciously fattening breakfast of the year. Thanks to Nascar Anna and Nascar Amanda (whose concern about Joe Gibbs only goes as far as how well his Nascar team will do without him) and Eben and the wonders of grease and coffee and eggs. We almost bad-lucked Eben's Eagles into a loss... maybe I should have stayed until the end.

On Bush's Immigration Plan 1.08.04

Here is a note from NahWeYone on the Immigration plan:

Immigration Q&A

Allan Wernick, an immigration lawyer whose column appears Thursdays in the Daily News, offers some answers to questions raised by President Bush's immigration initiative:

Q. Is Bush proposing an amnesty for all undocumented immigrants?

A. No. The Bush plan provides only temporary status for immigrant workers, with no path to permanent residence or U.S. citizenship. To get permanent residence, temporary workers will need to qualify under one of the existing methods - family relations, the green-card lottery or the
difficult employer-based sponsorship program.

Q. Who will qualify under the Bush plan?

A. To get temporary worker status, you must be sponsored by an employer. Temporary status will likely be available initially for three years with possible extensions. Temporary workers must pay taxes and contribute to Social Security accounts. And they will qualify for Social Security retirement benefits.

Q. Once I get temporary status, will I be able to change jobs? What happens if I get fired?

A. You'll probably be able to change jobs, but you'll need to be sponsored by the new employer. A similar proposal pending in Congress allows a temporary worker to be here no more than 45 days without working.

Q. If I'm here unlawfully, can I qualify?

A. Yes. Having entered unlawfully won't make you ineligible.

Q. Under the Bush plan, will my spouse and children be able to be with me in the U.S.?

A. Yes. But to work, they'll likely need to qualify for the permit separately.

Q. If I get temporary work permission, will I be able to travel out of the U.S.?

A. Yes.

Q. Will the Bush plan help at all in my efforts to get permanent residence?

A. Perhaps. Advocates are hoping that undocumented immigrants granted the new status will be freed from the current bars to permanent residence for those who are here unlawfully. Also, Bush supports an increase in the number of visas available each year. That could help clear up the long backlogs in some visa categories.

Q. Will the bars for criminal activity still apply?

A. Count on it.

What To Nickname the New Year? 1.08.04

I'm partial to the Deuce Dub Quad myself. The Boondocks weighs in.

Though They Spelled Lexington Steele's Name Wrong... 1.08.04

From the EUR:

METHOD MAN GIVES UP THE GOODS
Rapper bears all for hip-hop porno mag.

*Ladies look out! Method Man is bearing it all … in an interview in a new Hip-Hop porn magazine. Method graces the cover of the premiere issue of "Fish 'N' Grits." The magazine describes itself as "where music meets porn."

Sohh.com says the magazine features black and Latino porn stars alongside rappers graphically discussing their fetishes and most unusual sexual experiences. In the premier issue, adult porn star "Solveig" questions Method Man on fetishes and oral sex among other sexual practices. Inside, Kanye West, Lil Jon and The Eastsideboyz, The Clipse, Bone Crusher, Too Short and the FUBU founders all share their own naughty tales.

Method is running hot right now with an upcoming Fox sitcom and a role alongside Eddie Griffin and Anthony Anderson in "My Baby Daddy." The publishers for "Fish 'N' Grits" are Sharif Profit, Camille Burgos and Joe Fatal. "Fish 'N' Grits" has a current circulation of 100,000 units in 5 cities including New York, LA and Atlanta. Upcoming issues will feature Redman, Treach, Snoop Dogg, porn star India, Mystikal, OutKast and Lil' Kim with Lexington Steal.

The Fish 'N' Grits' with Method Man issue is on newsstands now.

Let Me At Them Republicans! 1.07.04

I don't have a whole lot yet to say this morning, and I have some business to take care of. It's bone ass cold and I have to take a walk outside? Bullhockey.

While I am gone, read this nytimes article on John Edwards, presidential candidate. I like what this man is saying about the two Americas, about the class difference that is often shoved under the political carpet... but he was a personal injury lawyer? An ambulance chaser? I don't know about that....

Luck 1.06.04

Thanks to Selvadurai for sending me this on the science of luck, from the BBC.

They are skilled at creating and noticing chance opportunities, make lucky decisions by listening to their intuition, create self-fulfilling prophesies via positive expectations, and adopt a resilient attitude that transforms bad luck into good.• Listen to your gut instincts - they are normally right• Be open to new experiences and breaking your normal routine• Spend a few moments each day remembering things that went well• Visualise yourself being lucky before an important meeting or telephone call. Luck is very often a self-fulfilling prophecy

Southerners Suffer Too 1.05.04

Somewhere in Iowa, our Democratic hopefuls are scribbling notes and meeting with their campaign folks, thinking about how best to lay the smack down on the other 6-8 folks who also think they can beat Bush. Kind of like Will Smith thought he could beat Mike Tyson.

Hearing the Democrats argue and bicker and “attack Howard Dean” is depressing. All of this talk from Kerry, from Dean, from Lieberman (he’s still running?) shows flashes of men who simply want to win, not present their ideas in the hope that the best ideas will win. Silly us. The ideas don’t win; campaigns do. We know that after 2000, because the National Shrub didn’t weigh Americans down with too many ideas. Though he didn’t win, he came close enough to take office.

As the Democrats pick at Howard Dean, as is a politician’s style, they also talk about their viability as a candidate. “My military service” appeals to the Southerners, Kerry says. “Southerners are suffering too,” says Dean. The Democrats are reaching for votes of people who don’t understand them, talking about them as if they were from another country, not part of our nation. That is not a good sign.

i'll tell you this much
new year's was very very cool
but i have lost the words
in my teeth
i've bought a toothpick
i'll get them back