==WATCH FATHER OF THE PRIDE AT 9 PM EDT==
From my dear friend Laura:
Hello, all.
Well, it's finally here. After about 16 months, 13 episodes, countless late nights and one tiger "accident" (Um, Roy fell down, the tiger was just helping him up...), "Father of the Pride" premieres tomorrow night on NBC at 9pm Eastern and Pacific. As most of you know, I'm the script coordinator on the show, which means I spend all of my time with the show's writers, and they've been great to me. As the episodes come out over the next couple of weeks, you'll even hear some jokes pitched by yours truly. And the alligator you'll see skating by in the opening credits? My idea.
So what is this show, in case you missed the promos they showed during the Olympics? "Father of the Pride" is a computer animated, beautiful-to-look-at family sitcom about a group of lions who live in Las Vegas and work for Siegfried and Roy. I might be biased, but I happen to think that the show is smart and funny, featuring, among other things, two hilarious German magicians/superheroes, and a lot of angry primates.
Trust me, when I first heard the idea, I thought "what the hell?" But the show has turned out to be great, and the episodes just get better and better as they go along. As well as our main cast members, we've got wonderful guest stars, including Andy Richter and Lisa Kudrow playing pandas in our first episode, Eddie Murphy as Donkey from "Shrek", Danny DeVito as a lobster who thinks he is a political prisoner, and David Spade as a stoned coyote desert guide. We've had a lot of fun here.
I hope you're all tune in and check it out - NBC is even going to be showing it commercial-free tomorrow night. They'll also be repeating it a few times this week for those of you who miss it tomorrow. I hope you enjoy the show. Let me know what you think!
Love, Laura
Monday, August 30, 2004
RNC-1 8.30.04
Somehow I still feel ill when I see black and asian Republicans joyfully clapping. Gives me that ol' Sambo feeling.
Somehow I still get excited when I see movies such as "Love, Actually" and how they have multiple black characters! With speaking roles!
The speech by Rudy Giuliani was impressive. That fathead might actually have touched on a way to look at the President favorably. I don't agree but out there, maybe even a town over, someone is thinking, I'm going to vote for Bush. You know, after they ignore the idea of sovereign nations, the fact that Rudy "feels" Saddam had weapons of mass destruction and that he is a weapon of mass destruction (i almost typed distrustion, must have been thinking ahead), and they ignore the whole false premise thing.
Somehow I still feel ill when I see black and asian Republicans joyfully clapping. Gives me that ol' Sambo feeling.
Somehow I still get excited when I see movies such as "Love, Actually" and how they have multiple black characters! With speaking roles!
The speech by Rudy Giuliani was impressive. That fathead might actually have touched on a way to look at the President favorably. I don't agree but out there, maybe even a town over, someone is thinking, I'm going to vote for Bush. You know, after they ignore the idea of sovereign nations, the fact that Rudy "feels" Saddam had weapons of mass destruction and that he is a weapon of mass destruction (i almost typed distrustion, must have been thinking ahead), and they ignore the whole false premise thing.
Friday, August 27, 2004
Pressure's On You, Lassie! 8.27.04
Check out Heather's blog, The Outpost. She's one of the funniest most pop-cultur-y people I know. I admire her greatly and if she doesn't fill her blog with quotable goodness I'm going down to the Illadelph and spanking some ass. Word.
Check out Heather's blog, The Outpost. She's one of the funniest most pop-cultur-y people I know. I admire her greatly and if she doesn't fill her blog with quotable goodness I'm going down to the Illadelph and spanking some ass. Word.
Since I Can't Speak German 8.27.04
I know you'll wonder why I was even interested in translating the site. Well, I don't need to apologize to you, you, or you, dammit! I just liked the German field hockey womens' game. Here is a profile I found on google of German field hockey player Tina Bachmann... translated to English. I point this out because I think this translator leaves a little to be desired... but it's funnier all garbled.
I know you'll wonder why I was even interested in translating the site. Well, I don't need to apologize to you, you, or you, dammit! I just liked the German field hockey womens' game. Here is a profile I found on google of German field hockey player Tina Bachmann... translated to English. I point this out because I think this translator leaves a little to be desired... but it's funnier all garbled.
Reverie 8.27.04
...from last night...
It’s almost midnight already; and I remember what I like so much about being alone. Did some productive things in the morning, after watching the US Men’s Basketball team actually win a game (and their coach, Larry Brown get all cuss-y and incensed at the Spanish coach). I also got on the exercise bike and rode somewhere between 8-10 miles. The phone rang. I lost track. Also watched US Women’s soccer win their gold in semi-dramatic fashion, as my favorite New York Mets were getting blown out by that San Diego squad.
In the past few hours after my brother left to attend some cipher somewhere with some cat named Crazy-E, I:
• Mowed the lawn
• Removed the last of the fallen branches from the tree my father and I cut down
• Scratched my notable non-mosquito bug bites
• Listened to a great Pumpkinhead song
• Watched the Olympic field hockey gold medal game
• Ate a roast beef sandwich for dinner
• Put out the trash
• Picked a pepper
• Opened a Red Stripe (though I have quit drinking)
• Left some kids some messages about this weekend
• Started some notes on what will either be a short story or a “novel”
• Cleaned a few tables
• Set up my IPod on random
• Sliced off slivers of ginger, set hot water to boil. (I added some golden seal root to it in hopes of quelling my sniffle-nose. DO NOT follow my lead on that one)
• Read 80 pages of Symptomatic (listen to her here)
• Fell asleep
• Enjoyed the crickets outside
• Enjoyed the breeze
If not for Pixel I’d stay home tomorrow. For now, I think I will wake up at 6 or 7 and water the lawn, eat an apple, finish my book, take the life of leisure as it comes. Ooh! Rush comes up on random! Time to go.
Post Script: At some point I will talk about my relation to classic rock and why I really get that excited about it. Just the other day I was explaining it to Anna-Lu and I think it’s an interesting topic. And that’s all that matters.
...from last night...
It’s almost midnight already; and I remember what I like so much about being alone. Did some productive things in the morning, after watching the US Men’s Basketball team actually win a game (and their coach, Larry Brown get all cuss-y and incensed at the Spanish coach). I also got on the exercise bike and rode somewhere between 8-10 miles. The phone rang. I lost track. Also watched US Women’s soccer win their gold in semi-dramatic fashion, as my favorite New York Mets were getting blown out by that San Diego squad.
In the past few hours after my brother left to attend some cipher somewhere with some cat named Crazy-E, I:
• Mowed the lawn
• Removed the last of the fallen branches from the tree my father and I cut down
• Scratched my notable non-mosquito bug bites
• Listened to a great Pumpkinhead song
• Watched the Olympic field hockey gold medal game
• Ate a roast beef sandwich for dinner
• Put out the trash
• Picked a pepper
• Opened a Red Stripe (though I have quit drinking)
• Left some kids some messages about this weekend
• Started some notes on what will either be a short story or a “novel”
• Cleaned a few tables
• Set up my IPod on random
• Sliced off slivers of ginger, set hot water to boil. (I added some golden seal root to it in hopes of quelling my sniffle-nose. DO NOT follow my lead on that one)
• Read 80 pages of Symptomatic (listen to her here)
• Fell asleep
• Enjoyed the crickets outside
• Enjoyed the breeze
If not for Pixel I’d stay home tomorrow. For now, I think I will wake up at 6 or 7 and water the lawn, eat an apple, finish my book, take the life of leisure as it comes. Ooh! Rush comes up on random! Time to go.
Post Script: At some point I will talk about my relation to classic rock and why I really get that excited about it. Just the other day I was explaining it to Anna-Lu and I think it’s an interesting topic. And that’s all that matters.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Where The Poodle At? 8.26.04
Yesterday, while running, I realized a few things about my local park. My little sibling, Agua Dulce, at one point would talk about our neighborhood as “the hood,” you know, that place where gunshots pop off all night and crap games get broken up in front of project walkways by the muthaf**kin’ 5-oh, where the stairs smell like piss and there ain’t nothing but bodegas and churches and liquor stores on every corner. And the beauty salon so you can get your hair did, and the barbershop so you can get your fade and sides trimmed correct.
I never really thought of it as such, being four years older than he and not having gone to our local grade school, a home for hoodlums like the now famous Lloyd Banks of G-Unit fame. Additionally, I never learned that one should talk about one’s rap craeer and how “you’ll hear of us” to the insurance company that one owes money to. Nor have I had friends who just got out of jail. Except for Eben, of course. But something that struck me—just as cities have suburbs, and suburbs have ex-urbs, the hood has sub-hoods. And I seem to have been enveloped in one.
Now, there are still couples walking their poodles. Lots of poodles. It was strange. Some larger and well-kept dogs. Black people, Latino people, Indian people. A women’s softball game, some people running, kids waiting for football practice. Tennis courts active with players. All countered by the occasional smell of weed smoke (light this afternoon), the sauntering kids in football and basketball jerseys, yelling on the basketball courts, the guy in the laminated van (like the ones radio station street teams drive) trying to sell me his CD, “Hood Politics” with a picture of him “intelligently” reading a book with some glasses that don’t fit, and of course the asshole.
The asshole is riding a dirt bike on paths, had been doing so for a while. If one comes to a fork to split, we’re on the other side of the fork, where the paths come together. I am trying to pass a slower runner on my right. I see the biker and think, at that speed he’s bound to go straight. But oh no. That isn’t adventurous for this jackass, who cuts a 35º turn straight into my path. I jumped out of the way.
Effin’ knuckleheads. We ain’t the hood but stupid elements still infiltrate. That’s the name of my new album. S.E.S.I. Wait, if I add the N-word, then I can call my album S.E.N.S.I. If I put that joint on a Carolina bounce beat, add some dancehall touches, it’s gonna sell like half-price Ipod minis.
Post Script:
*Check out NeverEcho’s blog.
*Check out Rini’s work editing Two Lines.
Yesterday, while running, I realized a few things about my local park. My little sibling, Agua Dulce, at one point would talk about our neighborhood as “the hood,” you know, that place where gunshots pop off all night and crap games get broken up in front of project walkways by the muthaf**kin’ 5-oh, where the stairs smell like piss and there ain’t nothing but bodegas and churches and liquor stores on every corner. And the beauty salon so you can get your hair did, and the barbershop so you can get your fade and sides trimmed correct.
I never really thought of it as such, being four years older than he and not having gone to our local grade school, a home for hoodlums like the now famous Lloyd Banks of G-Unit fame. Additionally, I never learned that one should talk about one’s rap craeer and how “you’ll hear of us” to the insurance company that one owes money to. Nor have I had friends who just got out of jail. Except for Eben, of course. But something that struck me—just as cities have suburbs, and suburbs have ex-urbs, the hood has sub-hoods. And I seem to have been enveloped in one.
Now, there are still couples walking their poodles. Lots of poodles. It was strange. Some larger and well-kept dogs. Black people, Latino people, Indian people. A women’s softball game, some people running, kids waiting for football practice. Tennis courts active with players. All countered by the occasional smell of weed smoke (light this afternoon), the sauntering kids in football and basketball jerseys, yelling on the basketball courts, the guy in the laminated van (like the ones radio station street teams drive) trying to sell me his CD, “Hood Politics” with a picture of him “intelligently” reading a book with some glasses that don’t fit, and of course the asshole.
The asshole is riding a dirt bike on paths, had been doing so for a while. If one comes to a fork to split, we’re on the other side of the fork, where the paths come together. I am trying to pass a slower runner on my right. I see the biker and think, at that speed he’s bound to go straight. But oh no. That isn’t adventurous for this jackass, who cuts a 35º turn straight into my path. I jumped out of the way.
Effin’ knuckleheads. We ain’t the hood but stupid elements still infiltrate. That’s the name of my new album. S.E.S.I. Wait, if I add the N-word, then I can call my album S.E.N.S.I. If I put that joint on a Carolina bounce beat, add some dancehall touches, it’s gonna sell like half-price Ipod minis.
Post Script:
*Check out NeverEcho’s blog.
*Check out Rini’s work editing Two Lines.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
New Top = Kotter 8.25.04
I don't have no kind of nothing to say. Welcome back New Topography, read her blog. She's much funnier than I am.
I don't have no kind of nothing to say. Welcome back New Topography, read her blog. She's much funnier than I am.
Monday, August 23, 2004
Pico in San Frisky, 2 years ago 8.23.04
Wherein your hero is:
Scared of Dogs.
Check out this month, featuring why I hate Cr-Oakland, a horrible Mets doubleheader, Candy-licking in Chicago, and a tourist excursion. I promise it’s entertaining.
Wherein your hero is:
Scared of Dogs.
Check out this month, featuring why I hate Cr-Oakland, a horrible Mets doubleheader, Candy-licking in Chicago, and a tourist excursion. I promise it’s entertaining.
The Scents of Silence 8.23.04
In my hands I hold the world’s stinkiest cap. It’s ungendered and named Stinky-Cap. It is an old St. Louis Rams cap—old as in from the 1998-99 season, when I temped for the NFL for a couple of weeks. It’s blue and sits low on the head. And it has years of softball and running and general use under its bill.
I suppose I should get rid of Stinky-Cap; just the other day I tried to wash it and it came out stinkier than before. That is of course because I didn’t put it in the dryer, and perhaps it was damp for longer than it should have been. I plan on rewashing it; but I have worn it once or twice since, hoping passerby will attribute the smell to the hardworking, sweat covered fella underneath the cap.
My cap is a good cap, even has a hint of the sweat line frat boys get under their “Cocks” or whichever hats, you know, the white ones with red lettering, frayed at the edge of the bill, a yellow shoreline built up over the years. Stinky-Cap accompanied me on my 3.75 mile run this morning, shading me from sunlight and prying eyes.
My cap is my trusty assistant for coming tennis excursions with young ladies such as Tusi’s little friend and the one of the many Erins still in New York and one day with that curly haired Ochs kid. Because tennis with young ladies is an excellent way to… embarrass myself and make them laugh, which is a normalizing occurrence for me.
I’d play with young men but Eben has his blacktop hockey and I don’t know anyone besides Joel in Cali who gets into playing tennis.
Stinky-Cap is now tossed on top of an unused sleeping bag, airing out, with a hint of Febreeze to de-funkify its life for tomorrow’s tennis excursion with my father, where, like he did when I was 12, he will yell at me to turn my body and to finish and to stop trying to kill the ball and to hit deeper and to calm down. Ah, sweet memories of hiding the middle finger behind the racket. Only Stinky-Cap and I will be able to see.
In my hands I hold the world’s stinkiest cap. It’s ungendered and named Stinky-Cap. It is an old St. Louis Rams cap—old as in from the 1998-99 season, when I temped for the NFL for a couple of weeks. It’s blue and sits low on the head. And it has years of softball and running and general use under its bill.
I suppose I should get rid of Stinky-Cap; just the other day I tried to wash it and it came out stinkier than before. That is of course because I didn’t put it in the dryer, and perhaps it was damp for longer than it should have been. I plan on rewashing it; but I have worn it once or twice since, hoping passerby will attribute the smell to the hardworking, sweat covered fella underneath the cap.
My cap is a good cap, even has a hint of the sweat line frat boys get under their “Cocks” or whichever hats, you know, the white ones with red lettering, frayed at the edge of the bill, a yellow shoreline built up over the years. Stinky-Cap accompanied me on my 3.75 mile run this morning, shading me from sunlight and prying eyes.
My cap is my trusty assistant for coming tennis excursions with young ladies such as Tusi’s little friend and the one of the many Erins still in New York and one day with that curly haired Ochs kid. Because tennis with young ladies is an excellent way to… embarrass myself and make them laugh, which is a normalizing occurrence for me.
I’d play with young men but Eben has his blacktop hockey and I don’t know anyone besides Joel in Cali who gets into playing tennis.
Stinky-Cap is now tossed on top of an unused sleeping bag, airing out, with a hint of Febreeze to de-funkify its life for tomorrow’s tennis excursion with my father, where, like he did when I was 12, he will yell at me to turn my body and to finish and to stop trying to kill the ball and to hit deeper and to calm down. Ah, sweet memories of hiding the middle finger behind the racket. Only Stinky-Cap and I will be able to see.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
The Inactive Life 8.22.04
While I love the HBO show Entourage , and the Showtime movie This Girl's Life about a porn star and her new beau named Kip played by Kip Pardue; and while I love reading the newspaper and my new library books (one on the history of race mixing from WWII until now between black and white Americans-- Marge, it's research for our seduction of Ann Coulter -- action figure available here), I must say that sitting on my ass was a little bit much. After talking to Anna-lu for a while about the importance/ learning one can get from going abroad (and how I feel that my experience is different, growing up with people of many cultures here in New York vs. in a homogenous suburb. I had that conversation with little Marnocha a lot back in the day), we spoke about the possible pratfalls of biking to Rockaway Beach from my home on almost Long Island, as Gurnifer and I had planned to consider doing.
And after all of those words, words, words-- I watched women's basketball in the Olympics, and television (and read a little) until Entourage came on. And the show was worth it-- visceral, makes me think I am too old to enjoy that part of Los Angeles-- the parties, the star chasing. And it made me think that if I should follow a Western fantasy, I should consider San Diego and Seattle and maybe even the dreaded and self-loving San Francisco.
And I sat on my ass all. Evening. Long.
While I love the HBO show Entourage , and the Showtime movie This Girl's Life about a porn star and her new beau named Kip played by Kip Pardue; and while I love reading the newspaper and my new library books (one on the history of race mixing from WWII until now between black and white Americans-- Marge, it's research for our seduction of Ann Coulter -- action figure available here), I must say that sitting on my ass was a little bit much. After talking to Anna-lu for a while about the importance/ learning one can get from going abroad (and how I feel that my experience is different, growing up with people of many cultures here in New York vs. in a homogenous suburb. I had that conversation with little Marnocha a lot back in the day), we spoke about the possible pratfalls of biking to Rockaway Beach from my home on almost Long Island, as Gurnifer and I had planned to consider doing.
And after all of those words, words, words-- I watched women's basketball in the Olympics, and television (and read a little) until Entourage came on. And the show was worth it-- visceral, makes me think I am too old to enjoy that part of Los Angeles-- the parties, the star chasing. And it made me think that if I should follow a Western fantasy, I should consider San Diego and Seattle and maybe even the dreaded and self-loving San Francisco.
And I sat on my ass all. Evening. Long.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Olympia 8.21.04
I still get that nauseous feeling when I hear swimmers take your marks in the Olympics. Or in any swimming pool. I think about getting my ass beat, about faltering in the water, about cramps, about failure, about failure, about never being able to go back, about my best being good enough.
Boy, am I glad I quit swimming!
I still get that nauseous feeling when I hear swimmers take your marks in the Olympics. Or in any swimming pool. I think about getting my ass beat, about faltering in the water, about cramps, about failure, about failure, about never being able to go back, about my best being good enough.
Boy, am I glad I quit swimming!
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Two Star Hotel 8.19.04
Admit it, Pico. You slept a lot of the day away. In part because you were playing tennis and softball yesterday and somehow all the running and poor form conspired to lay you out on your ass. That and the bad spelling of the letter you read, and the not eating/ some writing fest—you’re pretty beat.
This is a good time to admit that you are thinking very seriously about making a break from the New York when you graduate your program. Yes, Pico will graduate. But will he leave? Probably not. Two years ago, Pico talked about leaving when he started his blog (but not within the confines of the web-log). And now, having made a few more acquaintances but little headway in the PLAN FOR A SECURE FUTURE, perhaps a new locale is necessary.
These are all words. Y’all will believe it when it happens, and only then, and rightfully so—I have lots of ideas but most of them don’t come to fruition. Which is a reason to slap this on webspace—so myself or an assclown like me can point out that I said these words and ask “why ain’t you left yet?”
After the fistfight (which I plan on winning. Dirty.) I will ponder those words and put that question to good use, to power a break from NYC, to start a new beginning.
But first, an old episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit is on!
Admit it, Pico. You slept a lot of the day away. In part because you were playing tennis and softball yesterday and somehow all the running and poor form conspired to lay you out on your ass. That and the bad spelling of the letter you read, and the not eating/ some writing fest—you’re pretty beat.
This is a good time to admit that you are thinking very seriously about making a break from the New York when you graduate your program. Yes, Pico will graduate. But will he leave? Probably not. Two years ago, Pico talked about leaving when he started his blog (but not within the confines of the web-log). And now, having made a few more acquaintances but little headway in the PLAN FOR A SECURE FUTURE, perhaps a new locale is necessary.
These are all words. Y’all will believe it when it happens, and only then, and rightfully so—I have lots of ideas but most of them don’t come to fruition. Which is a reason to slap this on webspace—so myself or an assclown like me can point out that I said these words and ask “why ain’t you left yet?”
After the fistfight (which I plan on winning. Dirty.) I will ponder those words and put that question to good use, to power a break from NYC, to start a new beginning.
But first, an old episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit is on!
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Summer’s End, A Proposition. 8.17.04
“the world don’t spin without you, I’m amazed you’re standing still.” –Jimmy Eat World.
The summer has been mostly blog free, and not just for me, for my blogging compatriots. Gigs and gigs of internet space that we should have claimed as our own are taken up by Ann Coulter’s no-conversation invective, candidate’s blogs, pop culture, goofy humor, games to play at work, and who can forget the porn.
And that’s cool by me. Personally, I am excited for a time, a week and a half coming, where the rest of my family will vacate the premises and it will be quiet, peaceful—no bitching about the house being built in Florida, no bitching about bills, no detached and passive aggressive conversation about what to do with Agua Dulce, no more hissing teeth and oh Lords.
This would be a fine time of course to have a girlfriend (or a weekend fling) but I think that is a near impossibility. But if you’re volunteering, I take nekkid pictures as resumés. And dirty talk as cover letters. In between doing some small home repairs and perhaps attempting a repair that will involve spackle, paint and a whole lot of prayer, you can receive “the business” from Pico. Hopefully I can get some testimonials letting you know “I’m good for it,” because that’s my official motto. That and “like, how ‘bout it?”
Apply early, Pico has rolling consideration.
“the world don’t spin without you, I’m amazed you’re standing still.” –Jimmy Eat World.
The summer has been mostly blog free, and not just for me, for my blogging compatriots. Gigs and gigs of internet space that we should have claimed as our own are taken up by Ann Coulter’s no-conversation invective, candidate’s blogs, pop culture, goofy humor, games to play at work, and who can forget the porn.
And that’s cool by me. Personally, I am excited for a time, a week and a half coming, where the rest of my family will vacate the premises and it will be quiet, peaceful—no bitching about the house being built in Florida, no bitching about bills, no detached and passive aggressive conversation about what to do with Agua Dulce, no more hissing teeth and oh Lords.
This would be a fine time of course to have a girlfriend (or a weekend fling) but I think that is a near impossibility. But if you’re volunteering, I take nekkid pictures as resumés. And dirty talk as cover letters. In between doing some small home repairs and perhaps attempting a repair that will involve spackle, paint and a whole lot of prayer, you can receive “the business” from Pico. Hopefully I can get some testimonials letting you know “I’m good for it,” because that’s my official motto. That and “like, how ‘bout it?”
Apply early, Pico has rolling consideration.
Back Dipping Zipper Ripping Advennture. 8.17.04
In some words, the weekend consisted of two friends in town. In the left corner, athletic and as pretty as ever, sharp and principled, now living in Orange County, CA, the inestimable Tusi. And in the right corner, from St. Louis (aka the Lou), flashing her tits across the country and her sharp wit at anyone who gets in her way, the incomparable J-Rich and her chill as hell friend Val.
Tusi and I took in the Yuppie West Side and all the old haunts from my youth with Shevi and Elle. Which are no longer there—Café Lalo is still displaying film stills from You Got Mail, Drip and the charming coffeeshop down the street no longer exists, having been replaced by construction, a “malt shoppe,” and some standard wanna be too-clean pub that belongs in Chicago or Boston or midtown. Also removed was the sh*tty club Indigo, the home of embarrassed eye covering and a couple of youthful indiscretions. God, 1998 was a poor year for me. I know what you’re thinking and no the other years haven’t been much better.
Thursday, Tusi and I sat on the Central Park grass and were taken for coffee/ pre-dinner with her cousin Beiruz (sp?) and her friend Lillie who is cooler than Vanilla Ice, cool enough that I do believe she’ll take up some future column width in this blog. Depending on how much time she spends with her boy and how ridiculous she gets.
Friday I stumbled out of bed to meet Jen and her friend Val, plus Shashi. Good stuff. Ambled uptown into some drama none of it involving me. Thinking about it makes me want to take a dump. That has to be an important psychological reaction, one that I always obey. I found myself faced with two choices. Crappy bar with awful music or crappy bar with awful people and hot bathrooms.
Thankfully I chose the bathrooms. Got my dance on. Saw L’il G-Ball and her pants dropping boyfriend. Missed seeing Serge the cock lifter. Rocked out with my cock out. Best moment, looking out and seeing Riz/ Jen/ Val/ Arroz/ Shashi across the street from bOb’s and covered in sweat, girl Sammy across the street, looking for us. 3 AM. Slept in Jen + Val’s hotel room. Word. Thanks, ladies.
Saturday I tried to sleep the day away and found myself back in the city at night with nothing to do. L’il Haylz confirms my suspicions—very few chill places to dance to the house music (though she was in Miami… I should have brought her number and called her dancing ass). So Jen, Val and I went bowling. Because the ‘Lou girls looove that over dancing. But it was pouring and none of us was up for a walkaround the neighborhood, peeking in this place and that, trying to find the right vibe and the dance music.
Stayed at the hotel again, took the ‘Lou girls to the battery and up to Chambers, met with Riz and Arroz at Lombardi’s. I realized I’d been running into people I knew all weekend—Kandle and Rachelle on Saturday night, January from high school on Friday night, Shevi’s mom Manette on Friday afternoon, Lauren from Camp DeFambul on Sunday afternoon, some c*nt from Pi Phi Sunday afternoon—yeah, I said it.
That’s your recap. Chicago will come, if only for my need to chronicle all of the Chicago trips.
Side note—thanks, Misanthrope Anna, for meeting me for a few hours and the MetroCard. Thanks to Joel for swinging by one more night for a couple of beers. Thanks to Heather and Mike for being really silly and for trying out for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. And to Jason P. for popping up at NYU this morning.
In some words, the weekend consisted of two friends in town. In the left corner, athletic and as pretty as ever, sharp and principled, now living in Orange County, CA, the inestimable Tusi. And in the right corner, from St. Louis (aka the Lou), flashing her tits across the country and her sharp wit at anyone who gets in her way, the incomparable J-Rich and her chill as hell friend Val.
Tusi and I took in the Yuppie West Side and all the old haunts from my youth with Shevi and Elle. Which are no longer there—Café Lalo is still displaying film stills from You Got Mail, Drip and the charming coffeeshop down the street no longer exists, having been replaced by construction, a “malt shoppe,” and some standard wanna be too-clean pub that belongs in Chicago or Boston or midtown. Also removed was the sh*tty club Indigo, the home of embarrassed eye covering and a couple of youthful indiscretions. God, 1998 was a poor year for me. I know what you’re thinking and no the other years haven’t been much better.
Thursday, Tusi and I sat on the Central Park grass and were taken for coffee/ pre-dinner with her cousin Beiruz (sp?) and her friend Lillie who is cooler than Vanilla Ice, cool enough that I do believe she’ll take up some future column width in this blog. Depending on how much time she spends with her boy and how ridiculous she gets.
Friday I stumbled out of bed to meet Jen and her friend Val, plus Shashi. Good stuff. Ambled uptown into some drama none of it involving me. Thinking about it makes me want to take a dump. That has to be an important psychological reaction, one that I always obey. I found myself faced with two choices. Crappy bar with awful music or crappy bar with awful people and hot bathrooms.
Thankfully I chose the bathrooms. Got my dance on. Saw L’il G-Ball and her pants dropping boyfriend. Missed seeing Serge the cock lifter. Rocked out with my cock out. Best moment, looking out and seeing Riz/ Jen/ Val/ Arroz/ Shashi across the street from bOb’s and covered in sweat, girl Sammy across the street, looking for us. 3 AM. Slept in Jen + Val’s hotel room. Word. Thanks, ladies.
Saturday I tried to sleep the day away and found myself back in the city at night with nothing to do. L’il Haylz confirms my suspicions—very few chill places to dance to the house music (though she was in Miami… I should have brought her number and called her dancing ass). So Jen, Val and I went bowling. Because the ‘Lou girls looove that over dancing. But it was pouring and none of us was up for a walkaround the neighborhood, peeking in this place and that, trying to find the right vibe and the dance music.
Stayed at the hotel again, took the ‘Lou girls to the battery and up to Chambers, met with Riz and Arroz at Lombardi’s. I realized I’d been running into people I knew all weekend—Kandle and Rachelle on Saturday night, January from high school on Friday night, Shevi’s mom Manette on Friday afternoon, Lauren from Camp DeFambul on Sunday afternoon, some c*nt from Pi Phi Sunday afternoon—yeah, I said it.
That’s your recap. Chicago will come, if only for my need to chronicle all of the Chicago trips.
Side note—thanks, Misanthrope Anna, for meeting me for a few hours and the MetroCard. Thanks to Joel for swinging by one more night for a couple of beers. Thanks to Heather and Mike for being really silly and for trying out for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. And to Jason P. for popping up at NYU this morning.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Chesterfield ’93 8.11.04
Happy birthday, Pixel!
Obviously, the weather deities like you too and gave you crazy weather. Hard rains! Biblical floods!
That having been said, I am goddamned sick of baling.
It’s almost 7 pm and about three hours ago I discovered my basement under about 2-3 inches of water. More in some spots. Which is impressive, considering that it rains, and our back-door drain had been clogged in the past, but no longer. I have never seem this much water, just lounging in my basement, lolling between bikes and under the VCR, around the couch, into the laundry room, lifting loose papers and pennies like kids at the beach.
My back hurts. My mother and I made some headway, she sweeping waves my way, me balking first with a bucket, and then with the wet-vac we’d bought years ago which has a crack in its base. I used duct tape to patch it up but it didn’t work so well.
Now, I think I will get back to sloshing through the flood, picking up Agua Dulce’s freestyles and Velo Dulce’s bike parts and tossing them as I go, sifting through wet (ruined?) clothes, wondering if it is safe to plug the television back in so I can watch Law & Order while I bale.
Pictures from the trip still to come.
Happy birthday, Pixel!
Obviously, the weather deities like you too and gave you crazy weather. Hard rains! Biblical floods!
That having been said, I am goddamned sick of baling.
It’s almost 7 pm and about three hours ago I discovered my basement under about 2-3 inches of water. More in some spots. Which is impressive, considering that it rains, and our back-door drain had been clogged in the past, but no longer. I have never seem this much water, just lounging in my basement, lolling between bikes and under the VCR, around the couch, into the laundry room, lifting loose papers and pennies like kids at the beach.
My back hurts. My mother and I made some headway, she sweeping waves my way, me balking first with a bucket, and then with the wet-vac we’d bought years ago which has a crack in its base. I used duct tape to patch it up but it didn’t work so well.
Now, I think I will get back to sloshing through the flood, picking up Agua Dulce’s freestyles and Velo Dulce’s bike parts and tossing them as I go, sifting through wet (ruined?) clothes, wondering if it is safe to plug the television back in so I can watch Law & Order while I bale.
Pictures from the trip still to come.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
The Great Divide 8.10.04
We’re coming to ages where we start to separate in the things we do;
And I wonder sometimes what it is okay and not okay to say. Example; as always I am lacking motivation, lacking strong wants, but I think that’s just me. And other people feel the same way; wrong for New York, wrong for this world and such.
But, I should still do a recap of my trip and post some pictures. In the interim I am watching television, restarting my running regimen (only 2 + miles today—running with the IPod just did not work), eating Teddy Grahams, watching some decent movies ( The Shape of Things, Once Upon A Time In Mexico, Secretary, half of Master & Commander), and watching lots of the Little League World Series.
We’re coming to ages where we start to separate in the things we do;
And I wonder sometimes what it is okay and not okay to say. Example; as always I am lacking motivation, lacking strong wants, but I think that’s just me. And other people feel the same way; wrong for New York, wrong for this world and such.
But, I should still do a recap of my trip and post some pictures. In the interim I am watching television, restarting my running regimen (only 2 + miles today—running with the IPod just did not work), eating Teddy Grahams, watching some decent movies ( The Shape of Things, Once Upon A Time In Mexico, Secretary, half of Master & Commander), and watching lots of the Little League World Series.
Friday, August 06, 2004
Preserving Intellectual Capacity 8.6.04
[--With Poor Grammar, Run-On Sentences, and Spurious Arguments--]
Please read about James' Hart platform for Congress, Slum Denizens, and the only man alive who actively uses the slur "coolie."
[--With Poor Grammar, Run-On Sentences, and Spurious Arguments--]
Please read about James' Hart platform for Congress, Slum Denizens, and the only man alive who actively uses the slur "coolie."
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
The Return
| There is a lot to say about the trip but I have places to go-- but here is a picture of me passed out in Chicago. Enjoy... |  chicago 17 Originally uploaded by picodulce. |
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