The Streets Is Watching 08.06.03
I am so cool. I run into people on the street all the time. I can’t help it. Supercool.
Example: last night, before I got very angry at the voice of ignorance and pomposity (the pompositude of ignorance?), I was walking around the E-Vill with Anna Y, looking for food, wandering between conversant couples. And I saw this kid Aviva, who works around the corner from me!
Thing is, I haven’t seen her in 6 years, when I met her at the Cornell flophouse of Descha/ Berserker Sam-Buca/ C-Lo/ et cetera. And what I met was a pretentious vegan who couldn’t play her drums. But she was nice. And here she is in the city! Of course, I haven’t talked to her. It’s a little silly to talk to people who barely know who you are, who might give you the “oh—hi!” smile, with cordial-but-cold “how are you DO-ing,” and “what are you DO-ing” and such.
I pointed her out to Anna and we kept on her way.
Or how about Liz whom I met at a party! I know her even less! Pointed her out, striding 8th street, kept walking, on my way.
Or Sharon from the WU, saw her on Saturday! Right in Gully’s hood, near the Girls of Two Boots (where is the calendar, ladies? Yum! It’s like Suicide Girls but glossy with staples!), standing outside, a sweetheart I haven’t seen since college. Gurnifer seems to know things about her. But I don’t know her that well either. Kept on walking.
But STILL. I see people I know on the street all the time! I can’t help it. I am so cool.
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Daytime Twilight 08.05.03
Wish my parents a happy anniversary. They’ve been at it for a long time.
Last weekend I saw “Giggly,” known in your newspaper as “Gigli” and pronounced as “boring hackneyed crap.” Ray-Ray couldn’t handle it and we saw The Secret Lives of Dentists in its place. Saw a woman who was all the bad qualities of Alanis Morissette with a guitar, and she played after Adam Greenberg, who was v. good with his pop vocal stylings and range. Made like 12 year olds in a diner with Gully and Soldati.
Curled up a lot and hoped my sinus headaches would go away.
And today I want to catch up so badly I can taste it. I want to give you visions and scenes and work on the other blog. But there’s no time. So I will leave you with this.
Coming out of a train on 34th and 6th Avenue. The skies, dark; the commuters, harried and pissed at all the delays. The streets, teeming. And there is a perhaps-young woman, holding on to a cigarette with a twitch.
She is missing some teeth or perhaps she just has a smile with gaps. Our subject has a few zits, and a sallow face. In an athletic-tight tank top/ sports bra hybrid, highlighting her ribs. Sandy brown hair, up. She is watching people get off the train, and has a hand over the white bandage placed around her elbow. Or her heroin holes. Maybe a methadone patient. Typical for the area. I walked a little faster, up the block to the office, escaping the freakshow.
Wish my parents a happy anniversary. They’ve been at it for a long time.
Last weekend I saw “Giggly,” known in your newspaper as “Gigli” and pronounced as “boring hackneyed crap.” Ray-Ray couldn’t handle it and we saw The Secret Lives of Dentists in its place. Saw a woman who was all the bad qualities of Alanis Morissette with a guitar, and she played after Adam Greenberg, who was v. good with his pop vocal stylings and range. Made like 12 year olds in a diner with Gully and Soldati.
Curled up a lot and hoped my sinus headaches would go away.
And today I want to catch up so badly I can taste it. I want to give you visions and scenes and work on the other blog. But there’s no time. So I will leave you with this.
Coming out of a train on 34th and 6th Avenue. The skies, dark; the commuters, harried and pissed at all the delays. The streets, teeming. And there is a perhaps-young woman, holding on to a cigarette with a twitch.
She is missing some teeth or perhaps she just has a smile with gaps. Our subject has a few zits, and a sallow face. In an athletic-tight tank top/ sports bra hybrid, highlighting her ribs. Sandy brown hair, up. She is watching people get off the train, and has a hand over the white bandage placed around her elbow. Or her heroin holes. Maybe a methadone patient. Typical for the area. I walked a little faster, up the block to the office, escaping the freakshow.
Friday, August 01, 2003
It's Da First Of Tha Month 08.01.03
Wake up wake up.
These are hot and heady times. Not in the world. By that I mean that I won’t talk about Liberia or the Iraqi occupation or the shadiness of file-swapping lawsuits. I won’t talk about my headache. I won’t talk about being single. I won’t talk about all the people I haven’t seen in months.
It’s pouring outside, and the thunder is smacking like a dominatrix from my perspective off of Lafayette Street. I’ll go back, though, to retrieve medical aids. And then I will do something silly. Go right back out. Hit a bar in silly ass “hip” Williamsburg. Maybe join the kids at the Ace bar. Get into semi-arguments and semi-flirts lounging on the back chairs. Unless, of course, I do not.
After moping about for a few days, curling up in bed, listening to maudlin music, mournfuil jazz, country, and for God’s sake, the Sea and Cake (what’s wrong with me? Is there medicine for that?) there is nothing like letting the monkey out. Preferably with someone who has engendered a certain level of disrespect. Someone who inspires your sarcasm, your wry smile, your raised eyebrow. Then you can insult them subtly and it becomes a game.
The fact that this is the activity that lifts my spirits like a boob job should not make you think any less of me. I mean, come on! I love you! Mostly because you’re reading me.
Wake up wake up.
These are hot and heady times. Not in the world. By that I mean that I won’t talk about Liberia or the Iraqi occupation or the shadiness of file-swapping lawsuits. I won’t talk about my headache. I won’t talk about being single. I won’t talk about all the people I haven’t seen in months.
It’s pouring outside, and the thunder is smacking like a dominatrix from my perspective off of Lafayette Street. I’ll go back, though, to retrieve medical aids. And then I will do something silly. Go right back out. Hit a bar in silly ass “hip” Williamsburg. Maybe join the kids at the Ace bar. Get into semi-arguments and semi-flirts lounging on the back chairs. Unless, of course, I do not.
After moping about for a few days, curling up in bed, listening to maudlin music, mournfuil jazz, country, and for God’s sake, the Sea and Cake (what’s wrong with me? Is there medicine for that?) there is nothing like letting the monkey out. Preferably with someone who has engendered a certain level of disrespect. Someone who inspires your sarcasm, your wry smile, your raised eyebrow. Then you can insult them subtly and it becomes a game.
The fact that this is the activity that lifts my spirits like a boob job should not make you think any less of me. I mean, come on! I love you! Mostly because you’re reading me.
Thursday, July 31, 2003
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Hot damn, Yo, Here We Go Again. 07.30.03
The one year anniversary of Pico Dulce's blog is upon us. Break out your finest meats and cheeses, fill your face with cake!
Read the August Road Trip.
Read a great day which includes Miss America 2002.
From my old Diaryland site:
Mid-Feb.
I spent the whole night lying. Lying loosely, lying freely, lying guarded, lying on the dance floor, lying about the art. I have never lied that much in my life. And I am not lying about that. I never would ahve thought to tell that many untruths. Not to my father. Not on a resume.
And there was no purpose for it. I had just met these people, designers, artists of some mediocre sort...
But I told people I had never met that I was a financial analyst. I told them I had been published in small obscure magazines. I told them I lived in windy Chicago for a couple of years trying to find myself. I graduated with an architetcure degreee-- so some young lady thinks. I ran track all four years of high school, specializing in hurdles. I had a coke habit in the late '80's. I stopped drinking Budweiser after I quit coke.
All bald-faced lies. Wrapping the body of a boy with a hat pulled down to obscure the eyes. Roaming the party in a black silk blouse of all things. Hey, it looked good. So I started conversations with a woman on line. So I talked to the painter of the pieces with the rectangles.
I was concocting an image and I was barely conscious of it. The paintbrush just started working once they couldn't see my eyes. The paintbrush could not stop with the sweeping strokes, once it was triggered by tales of hip activities and pompous mentions of places where they worked, how this was out of their "circle," how this Leonard Street location was "off the beaten path." I would relate (retaliate?) with a story of my own, each one taking on a monstrous Godzilla life of its own, swinging at power lines and finger-crushing any reality I could tell someone about--
I had become the image of a fast talking New Yorker, embellishments and all.
The one year anniversary of Pico Dulce's blog is upon us. Break out your finest meats and cheeses, fill your face with cake!
Read the August Road Trip.
Read a great day which includes Miss America 2002.
From my old Diaryland site:
Mid-Feb.
I spent the whole night lying. Lying loosely, lying freely, lying guarded, lying on the dance floor, lying about the art. I have never lied that much in my life. And I am not lying about that. I never would ahve thought to tell that many untruths. Not to my father. Not on a resume.
And there was no purpose for it. I had just met these people, designers, artists of some mediocre sort...
But I told people I had never met that I was a financial analyst. I told them I had been published in small obscure magazines. I told them I lived in windy Chicago for a couple of years trying to find myself. I graduated with an architetcure degreee-- so some young lady thinks. I ran track all four years of high school, specializing in hurdles. I had a coke habit in the late '80's. I stopped drinking Budweiser after I quit coke.
All bald-faced lies. Wrapping the body of a boy with a hat pulled down to obscure the eyes. Roaming the party in a black silk blouse of all things. Hey, it looked good. So I started conversations with a woman on line. So I talked to the painter of the pieces with the rectangles.
I was concocting an image and I was barely conscious of it. The paintbrush just started working once they couldn't see my eyes. The paintbrush could not stop with the sweeping strokes, once it was triggered by tales of hip activities and pompous mentions of places where they worked, how this was out of their "circle," how this Leonard Street location was "off the beaten path." I would relate (retaliate?) with a story of my own, each one taking on a monstrous Godzilla life of its own, swinging at power lines and finger-crushing any reality I could tell someone about--
I had become the image of a fast talking New Yorker, embellishments and all.
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Discount Summary 07.29.03
Since last Wednesday I have:
Had some terrible headaches. They are still around, hanging like the weeping willows or dour cypress trees or heavy fruit.
***
Threw the party of the month, with Gully. I meant to write a rhyme or ten about the event for Charming Rock Star Dave. But. I am lazy. So it’ll be summed up—
There were lots of people there and lots of people missin’.
A little bit of dancing and hardly nobody dissin’.
That’s crazy corny.
But the music was not loud enough. I roamed the crowd as did Gulshan, making small talk with the men and women making our event a success. A little booty was shaken and some emotions were stirred. There are pictures, yes, and I did wear all white.
Extra specials: Saw a number of people I haven’t seen in months or years (and they were as spectacular as always, (finally) met someone whom I have only talked to via the magic of the internet, watched some good people meet some other good people (but only one scene of flagrant making out on a bench), saw Gulshan’s posse + Soldati’s people (but shied away from the dance-off), and some people I hope to get to know much better in Dave S’ posse.
***
I played a last minute softball game with my former team, the co-ed Rogues. It was crunkin’ dog! Crushman and Silver were there, along with these kids I played with last year and the year previous: Viral, Doug Double, Kevin, Sally. That’s very exciting to you, isn’t it? I was happy. Like old times. We were joined by Crush’s friend Waka and a “ringer” named Diane who is actually 2.5 apples high.
Unlike old times, though, we whooped up on someone. Yes, they were down an outfielder, and dropped my easy pop-up. But running feels great. Hitting feels great. And man do I love to score. Side note: I adjusted my swing by watching Diane, who had learned to hit just hours before. But she was simple about it, bat around the shoulder, make contact, and she was on base every time.
***
I am almost done setting up the sports blog. But I am continually distracted by KFC’s commercials for crispy legs and thighs. Mmm, legs and thighs.
Since last Wednesday I have:
Had some terrible headaches. They are still around, hanging like the weeping willows or dour cypress trees or heavy fruit.
Threw the party of the month, with Gully. I meant to write a rhyme or ten about the event for Charming Rock Star Dave. But. I am lazy. So it’ll be summed up—
There were lots of people there and lots of people missin’.
A little bit of dancing and hardly nobody dissin’.
That’s crazy corny.
But the music was not loud enough. I roamed the crowd as did Gulshan, making small talk with the men and women making our event a success. A little booty was shaken and some emotions were stirred. There are pictures, yes, and I did wear all white.
Extra specials: Saw a number of people I haven’t seen in months or years (and they were as spectacular as always, (finally) met someone whom I have only talked to via the magic of the internet, watched some good people meet some other good people (but only one scene of flagrant making out on a bench), saw Gulshan’s posse + Soldati’s people (but shied away from the dance-off), and some people I hope to get to know much better in Dave S’ posse.
I played a last minute softball game with my former team, the co-ed Rogues. It was crunkin’ dog! Crushman and Silver were there, along with these kids I played with last year and the year previous: Viral, Doug Double, Kevin, Sally. That’s very exciting to you, isn’t it? I was happy. Like old times. We were joined by Crush’s friend Waka and a “ringer” named Diane who is actually 2.5 apples high.
Unlike old times, though, we whooped up on someone. Yes, they were down an outfielder, and dropped my easy pop-up. But running feels great. Hitting feels great. And man do I love to score. Side note: I adjusted my swing by watching Diane, who had learned to hit just hours before. But she was simple about it, bat around the shoulder, make contact, and she was on base every time.
I am almost done setting up the sports blog. But I am continually distracted by KFC’s commercials for crispy legs and thighs. Mmm, legs and thighs.
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
Mommy, Why is there fighting in Liberia? 07.23.03
from the BBC:
Africa's oldest republic was founded by freed American slaves, but in the past couple of decades it has been in an almost continuous state of civil war. President Charles Taylor himself led an armed rebellion during the 1980s and 1990s, before he won elections in 1997.
He has also been accused of destabilising neighbouring countries, especially Sierra Leone where he was said to have profited massively from supporting rebels operating in diamond mining areas.
However, thanks to the world's largest international peacekeeping operation, the fighting is now over in Sierra Leone, and one of Mr Taylor's main revenue sources has dried up.
Accused of operating like a warlord, he has also alienated political opponents and whole ethnic groups within the country.
Read more: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/2975834.stm
Also, on the American response, a/k/a, "Go, or else, what?" click here, the Economist.
from the BBC:
Africa's oldest republic was founded by freed American slaves, but in the past couple of decades it has been in an almost continuous state of civil war. President Charles Taylor himself led an armed rebellion during the 1980s and 1990s, before he won elections in 1997.
He has also been accused of destabilising neighbouring countries, especially Sierra Leone where he was said to have profited massively from supporting rebels operating in diamond mining areas.
However, thanks to the world's largest international peacekeeping operation, the fighting is now over in Sierra Leone, and one of Mr Taylor's main revenue sources has dried up.
Accused of operating like a warlord, he has also alienated political opponents and whole ethnic groups within the country.
Read more: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/2975834.stm
Also, on the American response, a/k/a, "Go, or else, what?" click here, the Economist.
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
Monday, July 21, 2003
The Dawn 07.22.03
Again, among the grime and tossed buckets of water, with sunlight ominous and advancing on the 3rd and 4th stories of aged brick buildings once used as tenements, once over storefronts and not bars. Teams of Latino men wheel shopping carts in metallic silver or plastic blue, decorated with blue and black and happy face bags pulsing with empty soda cans as they walk.
Morning falls on Manhattan. Outside of the Sidewalk Café, Sunday morning. And people on the street have finally stopped making out.
I will miss the two girls in bunny ears vehemently trying to prolong a night’s worth of outdoor kissing. They were very cute and it was very much like watching television. Late night. HBO. Skinimax. You know what I’m talking about.
But I am as always a little ambivalent about “we” when I say things like “we were at Ace Bar/ Karma/ 2A/ Lush Lounge/ the “Deck”/ Mona’s” et cetera; we often includes a set of drunks whose conversation devolves into belligerences and stumbles and all of that malarkey that looks great on television but is less fun when you are repeatedly moving someone out of harm’s way.
That having been said, the drunk tank on legs functioned well this weekend; Nate, JoGo, and Trixie were in town from out west of the NYC, and there was some reminiscence but more forward thinking good times. Simply friends separated by spaces and not time.
Trix with her laughter and how much she is used to dirty boy-talk, JoGo much the same as when I lived with him, and Nate…well, it takes a few hours to get reacclimated to someone who has insults ready to hurl faster than you can load them up
Also, Gully fell asleep again. It was 7 am, Sunday morning, from an all night affair, but still.
Haylz was a bit under the likker but not bad. And Marla… I will be able to tell my kids about the passionate times we shared. Jeanne (a/k/a J-Z?), all button nose adorable, Chris, Chris from the night before (girl, you are a trip), a white female named Khadijah (I’ll never get over that one), et cetera, et cetera.
And at the end of it all, myself-Gully-Nate-Jeanne are up, eating, talking with obvious logic lapses; Nate drinks two espressos to “go to bed;” I don’t make any sense; Jeanne is less rapid fire and simply a smile.
Across the street, one remaining couple lock lips like they can cure their momma’s cancer, like Skylab might fall on them if they stop, like it’ll get them both published in Harper’s and the New York Times.
We collect the tired Gully from his spot, with another sleeping partygoer near his horizontal head. Our waitress is sweet and uniquely pretty, we bid her adieu. I help Gully to his apartment, he gives me a pound, drifts to his couch, drifts to sleep. Sunday morning, 7 am. I collect myself, get the morning newspaper and ride the long way home.
Again, among the grime and tossed buckets of water, with sunlight ominous and advancing on the 3rd and 4th stories of aged brick buildings once used as tenements, once over storefronts and not bars. Teams of Latino men wheel shopping carts in metallic silver or plastic blue, decorated with blue and black and happy face bags pulsing with empty soda cans as they walk.
Morning falls on Manhattan. Outside of the Sidewalk Café, Sunday morning. And people on the street have finally stopped making out.
I will miss the two girls in bunny ears vehemently trying to prolong a night’s worth of outdoor kissing. They were very cute and it was very much like watching television. Late night. HBO. Skinimax. You know what I’m talking about.
But I am as always a little ambivalent about “we” when I say things like “we were at Ace Bar/ Karma/ 2A/ Lush Lounge/ the “Deck”/ Mona’s” et cetera; we often includes a set of drunks whose conversation devolves into belligerences and stumbles and all of that malarkey that looks great on television but is less fun when you are repeatedly moving someone out of harm’s way.
That having been said, the drunk tank on legs functioned well this weekend; Nate, JoGo, and Trixie were in town from out west of the NYC, and there was some reminiscence but more forward thinking good times. Simply friends separated by spaces and not time.
Trix with her laughter and how much she is used to dirty boy-talk, JoGo much the same as when I lived with him, and Nate…well, it takes a few hours to get reacclimated to someone who has insults ready to hurl faster than you can load them up
Also, Gully fell asleep again. It was 7 am, Sunday morning, from an all night affair, but still.
Haylz was a bit under the likker but not bad. And Marla… I will be able to tell my kids about the passionate times we shared. Jeanne (a/k/a J-Z?), all button nose adorable, Chris, Chris from the night before (girl, you are a trip), a white female named Khadijah (I’ll never get over that one), et cetera, et cetera.
And at the end of it all, myself-Gully-Nate-Jeanne are up, eating, talking with obvious logic lapses; Nate drinks two espressos to “go to bed;” I don’t make any sense; Jeanne is less rapid fire and simply a smile.
Across the street, one remaining couple lock lips like they can cure their momma’s cancer, like Skylab might fall on them if they stop, like it’ll get them both published in Harper’s and the New York Times.
We collect the tired Gully from his spot, with another sleeping partygoer near his horizontal head. Our waitress is sweet and uniquely pretty, we bid her adieu. I help Gully to his apartment, he gives me a pound, drifts to his couch, drifts to sleep. Sunday morning, 7 am. I collect myself, get the morning newspaper and ride the long way home.
Thursday, July 17, 2003
Comb the Desert! 07.17.03
Try this, nothing perverted will come up.
Thanks to JLF.
Follow the steps below....
1) Go to Google.com;
2) type in (but don't hit return): "weapons of mass destruction";
3) Hit the "I'm feeling lucky" button, instead of the normal "Google search" button;
4) read the entire error message carefully
Try this, nothing perverted will come up.
Thanks to JLF.
Follow the steps below....
1) Go to Google.com;
2) type in (but don't hit return): "weapons of mass destruction";
3) Hit the "I'm feeling lucky" button, instead of the normal "Google search" button;
4) read the entire error message carefully
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
A (Vague And) Sensitive Moment 07.16.03
Good to know that when people do not react the way I would like them to, when they obviously have dropped me in importance, I can still do good things for them, introduce them to people, attempt to make them comfortable in places where they will soon move. I wonder if that is because I am a sucker or because I am simply better than them? I’ll take the latter.
Good to know that when people do not react the way I would like them to, when they obviously have dropped me in importance, I can still do good things for them, introduce them to people, attempt to make them comfortable in places where they will soon move. I wonder if that is because I am a sucker or because I am simply better than them? I’ll take the latter.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
Welcome to.... 07.14.03
the Charming One, now a weblogging dork at The.Blue.Box like myself and Pixel and New Top and more....
And Haylz is back in limited form at Bangin' Brooklyn.
the Charming One, now a weblogging dork at The.Blue.Box like myself and Pixel and New Top and more....
And Haylz is back in limited form at Bangin' Brooklyn.
As Cool Breezes Do. When Tipsy 07.14.03
Someone once asked me what I am like while drunk, knowing that some people are extra belligerent, or extra horny. Apparently I simply cannot help but gush over the stupidest things. Like people’s names. Or the happenstance of people coming together. I think I mean to be belligerent (rragh! You won’t like me when I’m angry!), or horny (baby, I’m ‘bout it ‘bout it), or to lie a lot (my snowy habits in the late ‘70’s almost made me broke). But I end up giving a lot of hugs and talking lovingly about comic books. I have got to correct my drunken tempo.
Also discovered this weekend: I am a little heel. Having decided to continue without a cellular phone (maybe if I had crazy bank and wanted to talk to people all the time, so badly that I simply cannot wait until I get home) also means that when friends are trying to find me, I become like “Waldo.”
Are kids still trying to find Waldo? Damn, they kinda simple these days. Waldo’s right there, dog.
Side note: thanks to A-Lice for introducing myself and Selvadurai to new friends. Thanks to De La Soul and K-Os for making the best of a sh!t Summerstage sound system. Thanks to the weather for cooperating, Desch for his apt, Destruction Sam for driving me home, C-Lo for rocking his fro in the B-K and not the medical wasteland of the B-X, Tyla (sp?) for more good food, Shor-Nuff (plus Maya + Barry) for bringing good folks, Army Julie for looking like Heather #1, Nascar Anna for our little “we should hang out” moment, Fuzzy Sweater and Jeremy, and Rachel and Alissa for indulging my affectionate effusiveness.
I’m sure there is more, but that’s all I can remember. Man did my head hurt on Sunday. No more mint juleps from Tyla.
Someone once asked me what I am like while drunk, knowing that some people are extra belligerent, or extra horny. Apparently I simply cannot help but gush over the stupidest things. Like people’s names. Or the happenstance of people coming together. I think I mean to be belligerent (rragh! You won’t like me when I’m angry!), or horny (baby, I’m ‘bout it ‘bout it), or to lie a lot (my snowy habits in the late ‘70’s almost made me broke). But I end up giving a lot of hugs and talking lovingly about comic books. I have got to correct my drunken tempo.
Also discovered this weekend: I am a little heel. Having decided to continue without a cellular phone (maybe if I had crazy bank and wanted to talk to people all the time, so badly that I simply cannot wait until I get home) also means that when friends are trying to find me, I become like “Waldo.”
Are kids still trying to find Waldo? Damn, they kinda simple these days. Waldo’s right there, dog.
Side note: thanks to A-Lice for introducing myself and Selvadurai to new friends. Thanks to De La Soul and K-Os for making the best of a sh!t Summerstage sound system. Thanks to the weather for cooperating, Desch for his apt, Destruction Sam for driving me home, C-Lo for rocking his fro in the B-K and not the medical wasteland of the B-X, Tyla (sp?) for more good food, Shor-Nuff (plus Maya + Barry) for bringing good folks, Army Julie for looking like Heather #1, Nascar Anna for our little “we should hang out” moment, Fuzzy Sweater and Jeremy, and Rachel and Alissa for indulging my affectionate effusiveness.
I’m sure there is more, but that’s all I can remember. Man did my head hurt on Sunday. No more mint juleps from Tyla.
Friday, July 11, 2003
All Cooled Down 07.11.03
Tonight may have to be a night to relax and not run through Manhattan. Last night I hit Patio's for Po-Po's b-day and that place was stack-up with heads. Too many, too many. But my favorite Hina was in the house and sobered and as adorably lesbian as always. We had our moments. Then I had to step out of that place.
That's all. Time to make some edits and back to Isaac Hayes singing about his chocolate salty balls.
De La Soul is tomorrow. Summerstrage. Hit that s**t like it's your last joint. If you're Ike, hit it like-- nah, I won't go there.
Tonight may have to be a night to relax and not run through Manhattan. Last night I hit Patio's for Po-Po's b-day and that place was stack-up with heads. Too many, too many. But my favorite Hina was in the house and sobered and as adorably lesbian as always. We had our moments. Then I had to step out of that place.
That's all. Time to make some edits and back to Isaac Hayes singing about his chocolate salty balls.
De La Soul is tomorrow. Summerstrage. Hit that s**t like it's your last joint. If you're Ike, hit it like-- nah, I won't go there.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
All Banged-Out 07.09.03
There will be no more bangbrooklyn web log. A moment of silence, please.
But hopefully Haylz will grace us again in a new form, like Megatron reconstructed into Galvatron; like the princess turning into She-Ra; like ths sprits of evil transforming the decayed form (of the web log. Not Haylz) into... *swelling music, pausing for lightshow* Mumm-Ra, the EVER- LIVIIIIIING!
There will be no more bangbrooklyn web log. A moment of silence, please.
But hopefully Haylz will grace us again in a new form, like Megatron reconstructed into Galvatron; like the princess turning into She-Ra; like ths sprits of evil transforming the decayed form (of the web log. Not Haylz) into... *swelling music, pausing for lightshow* Mumm-Ra, the EVER- LIVIIIIIING!
On my vacation I read…
The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
Field of Schemes: How the Great Stadium Swindle Turns Public Money into Private Profit
by Joanna Cagan, Neil De Mause
Jails, Hospitals, and Hip-Hop + Some People by Danny Hoch
On my vacation I listened to...
More 50 Cent than I thought I could
Joe Budden's Pump It Up
Ludacris' Act the Fool
Beyonce's Crazy In Love
Anything else because these songs are on a four-song rotation
Notes from the Trip That Won’t mean Nothing To You 07.09.03
I. Maryland, you are beautiful. Baltimore, look at all the industrial buildings, ripe for residential playgrounds! I never knew. Except for that a-hole in the Jag. And FedEx Field through the trees. And the Beltway and its traffic patterns. And the little shit in the Jetta. And drawbridges? Come on, dog.
The rap contest is fun, but being that it’s an hour long, being in one hour of DC area traffic is not the coolest thing since successful lawsuits against Big Tobacco. My father is asleep. My brother and I discuss the merits of Olympic Freeze-Tag.
II. Two things I have always wanted to do—set foot in Virginia (preferably on the campus of U. of Virginia but a restaurant just off the interstate will have to do) and make my own city, simply so I can name the streets and make a great radial subway system.
One goal down, one to go.
III. At a rest stop in North Carolina, North Cackalack, NC. Where there is nothing to see but the occasional fam and thickets of pines. And this passing Amish-like woman and her four ultra blonde children. Our AC has decided to lovingly leak onto the carpeting of the passenger side front seat.
“A defect,” my brother says, squeezing out the mat in a dirty cascade next to a white SUV, “we knew that from the last time it got repaired. It might happen again.”
Yeah, but I don’t remember that much fluid, Brother Dulce. The black people have gotten fatter and the white people are rocking crew cuts and tight JC Penney pants. The Asian people ain’t here. And at mile 21 from the South Carolines, I see why Pixel insisted I look out for the South of the Border signs:
Weather Forecast
Chili Today | Hot Tomale
Also,
You never Sausage a Place!
G-ddamnit I am fiending for a city.
IV. St Petersburg, Florida, in a descriptive list:
*Mobile home parks
+Used car dealerships
+The reddened man walking on the inside shoulder of a boulevard, over a bridge
+Pawn shops
+Truck parts for sale
+Coin laundry
+Low-price, low-lying motels, with a coat of southern grime
+Strip joints
+Ladies drink Free
+Car audio installed for you
+Payday loans
+Kyle, a v. serious Kirby Puckett look with the phone to his ear doing his quick bail-bonding
+We offer to buy ugly homes/ "Never Too Ugly"
+A man with four folding chairs at the end of Rte 19/ 34th Street.
V. No longer caught in expectations, now caught in the rain, watching it fall over a barn, over farmland in southwest Florida. Eating fried chicken and the lightning is close, close enough that one hit leaves a spark outside of our barn.
And the power goes with the flash.
Farther away, in this second rainstorm of the afternoon, lightning strikes ground and I can imagine it coursing through to the earth.
And there is Papa Dulce, cussin’ up a storm.
VI. Night. 4th of July. While Soldati is enjoying the bright lights and communal sweat of the NYC fireworks shows, I am alone, watching these exploding balloons in two towns, one to my distant front, one to my distant left, wishing slightly for the NYC show and the stars and happy faces that are conjured over the East River. But I look up in the waning light and look at the stars sparkling behind a striated sky. I wonder how the Seminole tribes got around, myself.
I hear a rustle in the grasses later, as I am realizing that no amount of repellant will scare off these bird-sized insects. The sound is quiet and it is late and I forget that I am in the country.
Until I see two pairs of bright yellow eyes curiously approaching. At least it wasn’t some Aryan Nation kids all hopped up on Lee Greenwood, Fox News, and fireworks. Just curious dogs with silent steps, bright eyes, that come around all the time.
Of course, I am afraid of dogs.
And I won’t lie, I yelled for my daddy.
VII. There is a lot to say about Papa and Brother Dulce from my personal book of coping. Things like how important it is to remember that there are expectations and reality and the two often do not meet. That sometimes expectations need to be adjusted. That laying blame is generally useless, that it is important to move on and come up with a set of next steps. But I ain’t saying anything.
VIII. And the trip back is long and winding and fraught with f**king morons cutting through traffic, curling in front of you, watching accidents on the other side and backing up seven miles of traffic. But at the end of the day, you’re home. And there ain’t no more bugs.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
Field of Schemes: How the Great Stadium Swindle Turns Public Money into Private Profit
by Joanna Cagan, Neil De Mause
Jails, Hospitals, and Hip-Hop + Some People by Danny Hoch
On my vacation I listened to...
More 50 Cent than I thought I could
Joe Budden's Pump It Up
Ludacris' Act the Fool
Beyonce's Crazy In Love
Anything else because these songs are on a four-song rotation
Notes from the Trip That Won’t mean Nothing To You 07.09.03
I. Maryland, you are beautiful. Baltimore, look at all the industrial buildings, ripe for residential playgrounds! I never knew. Except for that a-hole in the Jag. And FedEx Field through the trees. And the Beltway and its traffic patterns. And the little shit in the Jetta. And drawbridges? Come on, dog.
The rap contest is fun, but being that it’s an hour long, being in one hour of DC area traffic is not the coolest thing since successful lawsuits against Big Tobacco. My father is asleep. My brother and I discuss the merits of Olympic Freeze-Tag.
II. Two things I have always wanted to do—set foot in Virginia (preferably on the campus of U. of Virginia but a restaurant just off the interstate will have to do) and make my own city, simply so I can name the streets and make a great radial subway system.
One goal down, one to go.
III. At a rest stop in North Carolina, North Cackalack, NC. Where there is nothing to see but the occasional fam and thickets of pines. And this passing Amish-like woman and her four ultra blonde children. Our AC has decided to lovingly leak onto the carpeting of the passenger side front seat.
“A defect,” my brother says, squeezing out the mat in a dirty cascade next to a white SUV, “we knew that from the last time it got repaired. It might happen again.”
Yeah, but I don’t remember that much fluid, Brother Dulce. The black people have gotten fatter and the white people are rocking crew cuts and tight JC Penney pants. The Asian people ain’t here. And at mile 21 from the South Carolines, I see why Pixel insisted I look out for the South of the Border signs:
Chili Today | Hot Tomale
Also,
G-ddamnit I am fiending for a city.
IV. St Petersburg, Florida, in a descriptive list:
*Mobile home parks
+Used car dealerships
+The reddened man walking on the inside shoulder of a boulevard, over a bridge
+Pawn shops
+Truck parts for sale
+Coin laundry
+Low-price, low-lying motels, with a coat of southern grime
+Strip joints
+Ladies drink Free
+Car audio installed for you
+Payday loans
+Kyle, a v. serious Kirby Puckett look with the phone to his ear doing his quick bail-bonding
+We offer to buy ugly homes/ "Never Too Ugly"
+A man with four folding chairs at the end of Rte 19/ 34th Street.
V. No longer caught in expectations, now caught in the rain, watching it fall over a barn, over farmland in southwest Florida. Eating fried chicken and the lightning is close, close enough that one hit leaves a spark outside of our barn.
And the power goes with the flash.
Farther away, in this second rainstorm of the afternoon, lightning strikes ground and I can imagine it coursing through to the earth.
And there is Papa Dulce, cussin’ up a storm.
VI. Night. 4th of July. While Soldati is enjoying the bright lights and communal sweat of the NYC fireworks shows, I am alone, watching these exploding balloons in two towns, one to my distant front, one to my distant left, wishing slightly for the NYC show and the stars and happy faces that are conjured over the East River. But I look up in the waning light and look at the stars sparkling behind a striated sky. I wonder how the Seminole tribes got around, myself.
I hear a rustle in the grasses later, as I am realizing that no amount of repellant will scare off these bird-sized insects. The sound is quiet and it is late and I forget that I am in the country.
Until I see two pairs of bright yellow eyes curiously approaching. At least it wasn’t some Aryan Nation kids all hopped up on Lee Greenwood, Fox News, and fireworks. Just curious dogs with silent steps, bright eyes, that come around all the time.
Of course, I am afraid of dogs.
And I won’t lie, I yelled for my daddy.
VII. There is a lot to say about Papa and Brother Dulce from my personal book of coping. Things like how important it is to remember that there are expectations and reality and the two often do not meet. That sometimes expectations need to be adjusted. That laying blame is generally useless, that it is important to move on and come up with a set of next steps. But I ain’t saying anything.
VIII. And the trip back is long and winding and fraught with f**king morons cutting through traffic, curling in front of you, watching accidents on the other side and backing up seven miles of traffic. But at the end of the day, you’re home. And there ain’t no more bugs.
Saturday, July 05, 2003
Hello! This is not Pico. This is Pico's friend, Soldati. Surprise! I feel a little goofy writing a blog, especially as a guest blogger on someone else's site. It's kind of like a territorial pissing, as it were. I mean, what IS this blog phenomenon? It was nice for Pico to offer to ravage my blog cherry, it's flattering, because I enjoy Spicysweet's observations immensely, but this small town girl usually reserves her sometimes freaky, self-indulgent world view for the comfortable binded journal she buys from the discount shelves at Barnes and Noble (Yes, the huge bookstore conglomerate I feel guilty for buying from, but my corner bookstore doesn't carry discount journals!). BUT this is a challenge, and with honor, I accept. Thanks, Dulce.
Let's talk fireworks. . . Aren't they beautiful? I never grow tired of exploding mushrooms in the sky. To people who grew up in New York, seeing the colors obstructing the Manhattan Skyline must seem redundant, but to little old me, it's magical; Beer/mojito/margarita goggles help too, and 100 degrees with 80% humidity, seem to add to the acidic charm of psychadellic wonderment.
Where I come from, Idaho, land of wide-open ranges, the Arian Nation, NRA proponants, Republicans, Mormons, and a few freaks like me and my friends, the 4th of July is a BIG deal! Why, you ask? Because of the pomp and circumstance, and the naive assumption that we are the "last, true Americans." It's true! Ever since I can remember, we have had the "Melaleuca Freedom Celebration." Melaleuca is this company that makes binaca like products (y'all know what binaca is, right?) Anyway, thousands of white people converge on Idaho Falls, Idaho (preferably around the falls, by the virtuous Mormon Temple). Droves of young and old couples, with lots of expendable income, come riding in on their motor cycles, clad in Abercrombie and Sears florescent moo-moos (Is that how you spell moo-moo?) No, no Hell's Angels there! Just people who think it's cool to own a honda-cycle with compartments attached to its sides!
They park and, like lemmings, "gather at the river." Then, it begins. What you ask? Why. .. the "Melaleuca Freedom Celebration Tribute to America Music," of course! You can buy it at any gas station or arts and crafts store North of Salt Lake and South of Spokane, and you best be sure that you have the most updated version, or you will REALLY be embarrassed if they happen to change a track or add an extended dance mix of "God Bless the USA," but you still have Travis Tritt's version from two years ago! But, no worries, they pump it out over loud speakers that rupture spleens, so you WILL get your dose of patriotism, Goddammit! Oh, excuse the curse. . .
But. . . then you lay back on the cool, dank grass, in the arms of the man you love, or the friend you just want to hold onto, and watch as this brilliance unfolds in the sky. Then you look around at the thousands of others captivated by the magic, flashes of light divulging their features. Some are crying, some are smiling, ALL are singing along with the words. Mothers and fathers rest their children on their shoulders, they giggle only the giggles that children can giggle. And all of a sudden, the "Melaleuca Freedom Celebration" doesn't seem so silly anymore, and you buy the tape and secretly play it when you're miles away from home.
Needlesstosay, the 4th of July, with all of its familiar spectacle, sarcasm aside, is pretty magical. We are allowed to be distracted for a while. . .
Let's talk fireworks. . . Aren't they beautiful? I never grow tired of exploding mushrooms in the sky. To people who grew up in New York, seeing the colors obstructing the Manhattan Skyline must seem redundant, but to little old me, it's magical; Beer/mojito/margarita goggles help too, and 100 degrees with 80% humidity, seem to add to the acidic charm of psychadellic wonderment.
Where I come from, Idaho, land of wide-open ranges, the Arian Nation, NRA proponants, Republicans, Mormons, and a few freaks like me and my friends, the 4th of July is a BIG deal! Why, you ask? Because of the pomp and circumstance, and the naive assumption that we are the "last, true Americans." It's true! Ever since I can remember, we have had the "Melaleuca Freedom Celebration." Melaleuca is this company that makes binaca like products (y'all know what binaca is, right?) Anyway, thousands of white people converge on Idaho Falls, Idaho (preferably around the falls, by the virtuous Mormon Temple). Droves of young and old couples, with lots of expendable income, come riding in on their motor cycles, clad in Abercrombie and Sears florescent moo-moos (Is that how you spell moo-moo?) No, no Hell's Angels there! Just people who think it's cool to own a honda-cycle with compartments attached to its sides!
They park and, like lemmings, "gather at the river." Then, it begins. What you ask? Why. .. the "Melaleuca Freedom Celebration Tribute to America Music," of course! You can buy it at any gas station or arts and crafts store North of Salt Lake and South of Spokane, and you best be sure that you have the most updated version, or you will REALLY be embarrassed if they happen to change a track or add an extended dance mix of "God Bless the USA," but you still have Travis Tritt's version from two years ago! But, no worries, they pump it out over loud speakers that rupture spleens, so you WILL get your dose of patriotism, Goddammit! Oh, excuse the curse. . .
But. . . then you lay back on the cool, dank grass, in the arms of the man you love, or the friend you just want to hold onto, and watch as this brilliance unfolds in the sky. Then you look around at the thousands of others captivated by the magic, flashes of light divulging their features. Some are crying, some are smiling, ALL are singing along with the words. Mothers and fathers rest their children on their shoulders, they giggle only the giggles that children can giggle. And all of a sudden, the "Melaleuca Freedom Celebration" doesn't seem so silly anymore, and you buy the tape and secretly play it when you're miles away from home.
Needlesstosay, the 4th of July, with all of its familiar spectacle, sarcasm aside, is pretty magical. We are allowed to be distracted for a while. . .
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
Shorts (Because I ain’t posted no kind of love in a while) 07.02.03
* I am overjoyed because that lemon the Mets traded for from Cleveland has been traded to the White Sox. I specifically mean Robbie Alomar and that duck will probably hit .300 in the Windy City. But at least he’s not booting balls and nonchalantly hitting .260 at Shea.
*I had this whole thing about rap music and why I do kind of hate it—having to do it how people take it seriously, like rap can cure cancer, narrow economic inequalities, send people to Pluto, and bring back your saintly great-Grandmother. I don’t remember the whole argument and even though I could recreate it, that would be a long post. I reserve it for a later date. And I think I wrote some of it in an email to Dia L.
*But I will say that while rap music is fun and a reflection of our times, the interests that put out the music pander to the violence and rebellion side of culture—which always sells. It’s okay to take it seriously. But it is sad to know that some people have internalized this as a way of life, with nothing and no one to counter the fallacies of respect and revenge, along with the fallacies of how one can improve one’s bank account.
*Additionally, it is really annoying to hear your campers have this interchange:
-What’s your name?
-BONECRUSHER.
-What you represent?
-A-T-L.
Five times in four minutes.
*Camp De Fambul was v. good. My boys were chill and mostly behaved, posturing as 16-18 yr olds will. They had a good time. There was Harlem Shaking and discussions on leadership; Talks about bigotry and basketball; and they all switched gear daily, so four kids wore the Atlanta Hawks cap, they switched the “Original Celtics” jerseys, et cetera. Now, some of the girls done lost they minds and got into a claw fight (with no Vaseline?); and we had a couple of boys who were… “energetic.”
The best was Crystal and her Yonkers girls. They do not have roots in Sierra Leone or western Africa, like most of the kids from the camp, but they came just the same. Crystal is 14, and kind of mature and smart. And a little bizarre; a bunch of us took a walk where she kept talking. She started with how the castle on Manhattanville’s campus looked like a Scooby-Doo setting, and then broke down all the parts of that; continued into A & E shows about the macabre and death.
Of course me and Sammy loved her. She was hilarious. Apparently she gets along with kids too—she has her little posse and the boys love her. Crystal smiled incessantly, told bad jokes, dragged people out on the dance floor… jockeyed for attention… was working hard on her British accent and asking Selvadurai to speak, so she could imitate his.
*I got the pics back from the Chicago wedding and I looked back in my blog to try and remember everyone’s name. But when I returned from Chicago I was tired and had nothing more to say. So I didn’t chronicle it. Which sucks because I have a picture of the very beautiful B-ball Jamie (I think), along with pics from me-J.Hayes-Nate from US Cellular Field a/k/a US Cell Block as the natives call it, and shots of Malfait in Indian garb on the horse, shots of old friends Walnut and Joshu, and shots of Jessie Lynn and Feiser.
So I will tell a story, a month and a half late. Read on.
* I am overjoyed because that lemon the Mets traded for from Cleveland has been traded to the White Sox. I specifically mean Robbie Alomar and that duck will probably hit .300 in the Windy City. But at least he’s not booting balls and nonchalantly hitting .260 at Shea.
*I had this whole thing about rap music and why I do kind of hate it—having to do it how people take it seriously, like rap can cure cancer, narrow economic inequalities, send people to Pluto, and bring back your saintly great-Grandmother. I don’t remember the whole argument and even though I could recreate it, that would be a long post. I reserve it for a later date. And I think I wrote some of it in an email to Dia L.
*But I will say that while rap music is fun and a reflection of our times, the interests that put out the music pander to the violence and rebellion side of culture—which always sells. It’s okay to take it seriously. But it is sad to know that some people have internalized this as a way of life, with nothing and no one to counter the fallacies of respect and revenge, along with the fallacies of how one can improve one’s bank account.
*Additionally, it is really annoying to hear your campers have this interchange:
-What’s your name?
-BONECRUSHER.
-What you represent?
-A-T-L.
Five times in four minutes.
*Camp De Fambul was v. good. My boys were chill and mostly behaved, posturing as 16-18 yr olds will. They had a good time. There was Harlem Shaking and discussions on leadership; Talks about bigotry and basketball; and they all switched gear daily, so four kids wore the Atlanta Hawks cap, they switched the “Original Celtics” jerseys, et cetera. Now, some of the girls done lost they minds and got into a claw fight (with no Vaseline?); and we had a couple of boys who were… “energetic.”
The best was Crystal and her Yonkers girls. They do not have roots in Sierra Leone or western Africa, like most of the kids from the camp, but they came just the same. Crystal is 14, and kind of mature and smart. And a little bizarre; a bunch of us took a walk where she kept talking. She started with how the castle on Manhattanville’s campus looked like a Scooby-Doo setting, and then broke down all the parts of that; continued into A & E shows about the macabre and death.
Of course me and Sammy loved her. She was hilarious. Apparently she gets along with kids too—she has her little posse and the boys love her. Crystal smiled incessantly, told bad jokes, dragged people out on the dance floor… jockeyed for attention… was working hard on her British accent and asking Selvadurai to speak, so she could imitate his.
*I got the pics back from the Chicago wedding and I looked back in my blog to try and remember everyone’s name. But when I returned from Chicago I was tired and had nothing more to say. So I didn’t chronicle it. Which sucks because I have a picture of the very beautiful B-ball Jamie (I think), along with pics from me-J.Hayes-Nate from US Cellular Field a/k/a US Cell Block as the natives call it, and shots of Malfait in Indian garb on the horse, shots of old friends Walnut and Joshu, and shots of Jessie Lynn and Feiser.
So I will tell a story, a month and a half late. Read on.
Stories of Chicago, the Weekend of 17-May 07.02.03
Malfait’s wedding was beautiful, stunning; Priti was as beautiful as always. We drank, we ate Indian food, we were having a party, y’all.
Now, B-ball Jamie, I met at the reception talking about the Midwest and sports. Specifically, how the WU women’s team whooped up on Knox College, where she played forward or center. Yes, she is like 6-feet tall. And really disarmingly pretty and smart and at med school with Priti. She is also married to guy whose name might be Jared. I don’t know, he is big, I don’t care, he’s a dude. I’m straight up with it. He was nice.
Anyway, the reception is ending. I call for a party in the room next door to mine—Ali and Feiser were loking to sleep. Perlick and myself were looking to keep our drunk up. The next door is Tamin, who is always game to keep going.
So I’m like who wants to go to the Jewel (grocery store) next door?
No response.
So I’m like who wants to go to the Jewel next door?
I get Glazer. An exuberant young fellow who works some people’s nerves. He’s one of those guys who you think cannot be genuine. It’s the voice that sounds like he is trying to sell you advertising, or the skinny guy selling you financial services. But he and I go to the Jewel—
And realize we’re in Skokie Illinois. They don’t sell beer after midnight. Glazer of course starts to haggle, and argue. He offers the checkout guy $30 for the case “I know you’ve got in the car,” as Glazer puts it. Glazer is in a blue suit with a purple shirt and a purple tie, I am wearing tan and white, we look like such drunken interlopers.
And that’s okay, because we’re drunken interlopers running and yelling across a parking lot in a Skokie strip mall, across from the hotel, cursing this bum-f**k town, wondering how we ever survived our four-year exile to the Midwest the first time around.
And we’re the drunken interlopers who are schmoozing with the front-desk guy and calling for a cab in the middle of the night to take us to some drinking.
Our driver’s name was Alex. In that 30 minutes or so, we learned he was originally from St. Petersburg, Russia, and had lived in the states for 5 years and enjoyed it.
What took us a half hour, and $25 dollars?
We had no idea where we were going. One CVS and two 7-Eleven’s later we are at this restaurant that we figure must sell loose beers. Except it’s a Mexican place, run by, I am pretty sure, Mexicans. I don’t know, I am ignorant and I didn’t ask. What I do know is that I thought I was having a conversation with the waitress but really, we didn’t understand each other a lick. I’d had a lot to drink and was empowered by having the schmoozing Glazer next to me.
Luckily, the brown skinned cowboy stepped in, unbidden, and translated. It took me a minute to figure out what was happening. They didn’t have any beer. I thanked the cowboy, Glazer was frustrated.
One important, forgotten detail; in the cab, waiting for us, were B-ball Jamie and Nebraska Scott (I think that was his name). We were rousing people in the lobby to go with us. Jamie’s husband wasn’t so happy but she and I had spent the past hour and a half conversing so I asked her to come along. Scott, I think, I met when he and Malfait’s friends came from Nebraska to our WILD festival sophomore year; I kept falling over them on the floor that time, and it pissed me off.
So we go back to the car. Alex points out a bar across the way—he’s having a good time with us, I think, and we’re asking questions and just having a good wholesome All-American let’s get drunk time. We are looping back to the CVS, across the parking lot from the bar. Scott and I go in and drop some coin on loose beers, placed in a cardboard box. Around us are what look like Northwestern students or high schoolers, I’m not sure. They are loud and they make me feel old, so we take our booty back to the car.
And I turn to Jamie, long legs hanging out of the car, peeking out of her black dress, and I’m like, “where is that f**king Glazer?”
The sight of him busting tail from the CVS like he done stole something from Joseph Stalin’s porn collection was a sight to behold. Glazer is a slim guy but everyone who has met him simply cannot imagine him running. He is all arms and legs and just looks silly. I’m used to him stationary, drinking everything in sight. I busted out laughing.
“I had to get barbecue chips,” he huffs, “for Anne.” (For those in the know, yes, Anne, Sapna, and Jen and the “Krypies,” Fein, Edlevi, Flem, Tamin, Luke, and Larry were at the wedding.)
In the car, we’re finding our way back at top speeds on empty road, just headlights on lanes of asphalt. I actually turned to Jamie and told her I wanted to clone her and bring her back to NYC with me. I’d had a lot to drink. If I didn’t mention that.
But the interlopers returned with beer; Jamie was returned to her husband; Malfait made me do shots of Maker’s; we got kicked out of the room for being too loud; I slept in my own room and had a vicious vicious hangover. I couldn’t eat tacos until 6 pm, and that’s why I came to the Chi. We did have a great moment the next AM at the IHOP, the WU kids from the wedding and Feiser—who had Luke staring at her ass the whole reception long. But he was sobering now and not being creepy, and we went our separate ways with well-wishes and smiles, as Priti begins her residency and her marriage to Malfait.
Malfait’s wedding was beautiful, stunning; Priti was as beautiful as always. We drank, we ate Indian food, we were having a party, y’all.
Now, B-ball Jamie, I met at the reception talking about the Midwest and sports. Specifically, how the WU women’s team whooped up on Knox College, where she played forward or center. Yes, she is like 6-feet tall. And really disarmingly pretty and smart and at med school with Priti. She is also married to guy whose name might be Jared. I don’t know, he is big, I don’t care, he’s a dude. I’m straight up with it. He was nice.
Anyway, the reception is ending. I call for a party in the room next door to mine—Ali and Feiser were loking to sleep. Perlick and myself were looking to keep our drunk up. The next door is Tamin, who is always game to keep going.
So I’m like who wants to go to the Jewel (grocery store) next door?
No response.
So I’m like who wants to go to the Jewel next door?
I get Glazer. An exuberant young fellow who works some people’s nerves. He’s one of those guys who you think cannot be genuine. It’s the voice that sounds like he is trying to sell you advertising, or the skinny guy selling you financial services. But he and I go to the Jewel—
And realize we’re in Skokie Illinois. They don’t sell beer after midnight. Glazer of course starts to haggle, and argue. He offers the checkout guy $30 for the case “I know you’ve got in the car,” as Glazer puts it. Glazer is in a blue suit with a purple shirt and a purple tie, I am wearing tan and white, we look like such drunken interlopers.
And that’s okay, because we’re drunken interlopers running and yelling across a parking lot in a Skokie strip mall, across from the hotel, cursing this bum-f**k town, wondering how we ever survived our four-year exile to the Midwest the first time around.
And we’re the drunken interlopers who are schmoozing with the front-desk guy and calling for a cab in the middle of the night to take us to some drinking.
Our driver’s name was Alex. In that 30 minutes or so, we learned he was originally from St. Petersburg, Russia, and had lived in the states for 5 years and enjoyed it.
What took us a half hour, and $25 dollars?
We had no idea where we were going. One CVS and two 7-Eleven’s later we are at this restaurant that we figure must sell loose beers. Except it’s a Mexican place, run by, I am pretty sure, Mexicans. I don’t know, I am ignorant and I didn’t ask. What I do know is that I thought I was having a conversation with the waitress but really, we didn’t understand each other a lick. I’d had a lot to drink and was empowered by having the schmoozing Glazer next to me.
Luckily, the brown skinned cowboy stepped in, unbidden, and translated. It took me a minute to figure out what was happening. They didn’t have any beer. I thanked the cowboy, Glazer was frustrated.
One important, forgotten detail; in the cab, waiting for us, were B-ball Jamie and Nebraska Scott (I think that was his name). We were rousing people in the lobby to go with us. Jamie’s husband wasn’t so happy but she and I had spent the past hour and a half conversing so I asked her to come along. Scott, I think, I met when he and Malfait’s friends came from Nebraska to our WILD festival sophomore year; I kept falling over them on the floor that time, and it pissed me off.
So we go back to the car. Alex points out a bar across the way—he’s having a good time with us, I think, and we’re asking questions and just having a good wholesome All-American let’s get drunk time. We are looping back to the CVS, across the parking lot from the bar. Scott and I go in and drop some coin on loose beers, placed in a cardboard box. Around us are what look like Northwestern students or high schoolers, I’m not sure. They are loud and they make me feel old, so we take our booty back to the car.
And I turn to Jamie, long legs hanging out of the car, peeking out of her black dress, and I’m like, “where is that f**king Glazer?”
The sight of him busting tail from the CVS like he done stole something from Joseph Stalin’s porn collection was a sight to behold. Glazer is a slim guy but everyone who has met him simply cannot imagine him running. He is all arms and legs and just looks silly. I’m used to him stationary, drinking everything in sight. I busted out laughing.
“I had to get barbecue chips,” he huffs, “for Anne.” (For those in the know, yes, Anne, Sapna, and Jen and the “Krypies,” Fein, Edlevi, Flem, Tamin, Luke, and Larry were at the wedding.)
In the car, we’re finding our way back at top speeds on empty road, just headlights on lanes of asphalt. I actually turned to Jamie and told her I wanted to clone her and bring her back to NYC with me. I’d had a lot to drink. If I didn’t mention that.
But the interlopers returned with beer; Jamie was returned to her husband; Malfait made me do shots of Maker’s; we got kicked out of the room for being too loud; I slept in my own room and had a vicious vicious hangover. I couldn’t eat tacos until 6 pm, and that’s why I came to the Chi. We did have a great moment the next AM at the IHOP, the WU kids from the wedding and Feiser—who had Luke staring at her ass the whole reception long. But he was sobering now and not being creepy, and we went our separate ways with well-wishes and smiles, as Priti begins her residency and her marriage to Malfait.
Thursday, June 26, 2003
It Rains In Paradise?! 06.26.03
Tonight I watched Paradise Hotel for the first time. Not simple because I am a reality television junkie. In fact, I have not been able to bring myself to watch any of this crap recently, preferring to stick to sport and movies and rediscovering this “written word” thing teachers always talked about.
But. A couple of days ago, my old friend J-Cap dropped some knowledge on me—our old classmate, Dave K, was on the show, I guess picked from a studio audience, to replace someone who got voted off. Or some crap—again, I haven’t been watching this crap.
Until now. We’re excited about this prospect because this isn’t just any goon from our high school—the school was fairly small, and Dave K was actually a friend of mine. He held the Sunset Park party where a couple of kids straight strode in there like they knew us and jacked some beer; later followed by the cops who were looking for two kids who’d done some illegal shadiness.
And Dave K was the man who, during the 1997-98 New Year’s (I think) got so tore that he had to go to the hospital but apparently walked out the next morning in scrubs and took the subway home.
Good guy, always been funny.
But not like this!
Yo, he cold steps into the show, filled with – let me backtrack. This is a reality TV show. So all the people are young, white, early to mid 20’s, white, and kind of toolish, the kids that who grew up in your suburb and spike and gloss their hair, rock tattoos, get into fistfights. Not the deepest end of the pool. Meanwhile, Dave K has lost some weight and is kinda dorky looking on television, all ears and nose. Obviously a smart guy, still a quick talker. As comfortable with himself as so many of our eye candy television populace seems to not be. He is so very not reality TV.
J-Cap pointed out that there are chat boards ripping him as a dork and ugly and I am proud of him for getting up and not playing the happy to be there doofus from the crowd. Instead, he is funny on a complete other level, maybe beyond what these kids can handle. It might actually be an interesting moment of reality TV again.
What happens when the vain bodybuilders that make up our guilty pleasure television are confronted by someone who does not cower before their beauty? Someone who seems to think having fun is by being funny? Someone who doesn’t take this whole “search for love on television” thing so seriously that he can’t ask these obvious exhibitionists about their sex lives? Rude? Guys, you put yourselves on television. As if, since you spiked your hair, added sheen, and live to work out, the rest of the world should drop to its knees?
My favorite was when he turns to the group and says, facetiously, “it RAINS in paradise?”
And on the chat boards, where respondents regularly use the words “dork” and “fag” and “loser,” we have this bit of decent from “Trooper 321,”: No he is not [ugly], his personality is interesting in the group but I'm not sure if you even thought about that...Dave is needed in that stupid group of brainless bodybuilders full of hypocrisy (I'm talking about the guys especially)...these guys are kids, that's what Charla said also...They are all so concerned about their looks it's ridiculous. Dave is just himself and that's to be appreciated in a program like this. He is real and makes the program fun to watch, the perfect contra-guy.
Tonight I watched Paradise Hotel for the first time. Not simple because I am a reality television junkie. In fact, I have not been able to bring myself to watch any of this crap recently, preferring to stick to sport and movies and rediscovering this “written word” thing teachers always talked about.
But. A couple of days ago, my old friend J-Cap dropped some knowledge on me—our old classmate, Dave K, was on the show, I guess picked from a studio audience, to replace someone who got voted off. Or some crap—again, I haven’t been watching this crap.
Until now. We’re excited about this prospect because this isn’t just any goon from our high school—the school was fairly small, and Dave K was actually a friend of mine. He held the Sunset Park party where a couple of kids straight strode in there like they knew us and jacked some beer; later followed by the cops who were looking for two kids who’d done some illegal shadiness.
And Dave K was the man who, during the 1997-98 New Year’s (I think) got so tore that he had to go to the hospital but apparently walked out the next morning in scrubs and took the subway home.
Good guy, always been funny.
But not like this!
Yo, he cold steps into the show, filled with – let me backtrack. This is a reality TV show. So all the people are young, white, early to mid 20’s, white, and kind of toolish, the kids that who grew up in your suburb and spike and gloss their hair, rock tattoos, get into fistfights. Not the deepest end of the pool. Meanwhile, Dave K has lost some weight and is kinda dorky looking on television, all ears and nose. Obviously a smart guy, still a quick talker. As comfortable with himself as so many of our eye candy television populace seems to not be. He is so very not reality TV.
J-Cap pointed out that there are chat boards ripping him as a dork and ugly and I am proud of him for getting up and not playing the happy to be there doofus from the crowd. Instead, he is funny on a complete other level, maybe beyond what these kids can handle. It might actually be an interesting moment of reality TV again.
What happens when the vain bodybuilders that make up our guilty pleasure television are confronted by someone who does not cower before their beauty? Someone who seems to think having fun is by being funny? Someone who doesn’t take this whole “search for love on television” thing so seriously that he can’t ask these obvious exhibitionists about their sex lives? Rude? Guys, you put yourselves on television. As if, since you spiked your hair, added sheen, and live to work out, the rest of the world should drop to its knees?
My favorite was when he turns to the group and says, facetiously, “it RAINS in paradise?”
And on the chat boards, where respondents regularly use the words “dork” and “fag” and “loser,” we have this bit of decent from “Trooper 321,”: No he is not [ugly], his personality is interesting in the group but I'm not sure if you even thought about that...Dave is needed in that stupid group of brainless bodybuilders full of hypocrisy (I'm talking about the guys especially)...these guys are kids, that's what Charla said also...They are all so concerned about their looks it's ridiculous. Dave is just himself and that's to be appreciated in a program like this. He is real and makes the program fun to watch, the perfect contra-guy.
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
Green Fields 06.25.03
So winter has left and the NYC is arcing up to almost 100 degrees. All the rains have lifted the grasses high. So I had the distinct mowing pleasure. And the pleasure of meeting the first four or five mosquitoes of summer. Those darting little f**kers. I might even think about using mosquito repellent. No wait, maybe it was six mosquitoes.
So winter has left and the NYC is arcing up to almost 100 degrees. All the rains have lifted the grasses high. So I had the distinct mowing pleasure. And the pleasure of meeting the first four or five mosquitoes of summer. Those darting little f**kers. I might even think about using mosquito repellent. No wait, maybe it was six mosquitoes.
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
The Saturday I Had 06.24.03
Since I am ass-backwards about telling the weekend in typed out words, I will tell you what I was thinking about on my way to the Mermaid Parade.
The Scene:
Racing back from Queens, going the long way to Brooklyn and the W train. The W is for Why? As in, why are you going local? Why are you avoiding the Manhattan Bridge? When we could be high above the East River with sights not as special as the ones from the Williamsburg Bridge, but special just the same. And when they clean it up, on the Brooklyn side, there is a back lit bit of subway art, recessed and guarded by stone/ concrete pillars, creating the effect of something rotating. I think it is a ball but it has been obscured by darkness and extensive graffiti in recent years.
Okay, you can only see it when you are coming in from Brooklyn but I thought I might mention it.
The Why train is difficult to get to from Eastern Queens. Long, and difficult. If I had a stone and a mountain I would have felt like Sisyphus. It is days like Saturday that make me rethink not having a cellular phone, and not having my license. Driving in the oncoming monsoon would have sucked but not as much as the interminable trip through the ancient BMT corridors, for a parade that I was not even sure was on.
All of that waiting, the guy with the long legs, the surgery enhanced beautiful Asian woman, the woman dolled up to go to the parade, the child who unbelievable bawled at top volume for an hour, was rewarded.
A subway junkie like myself remembers that he has not had much need (or balls) to take the lines that stroll through Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge and the other Southeast Brooklyn neighborhoods. It might be lingering fear from Yusef Hawkins’ incident 15 years ago (I was at camp when it went down and found out days late).
But this was my first time, and, knowing that the Why train comes above ground after 36th street was a reason to think this day was not to be a complete washout. Now, mind you—the day was a washout. Rain came down, again, Chicago/ St. Louis style, long, sideways, unforgiving, surprisingly physical like an Anthony Mason pick.
At a street with a number I couldn’t quite read through the fogged glass and the bucket loads of rain, I looked out to see a high school, some auto body shops, and rows upon rows of connected houses, vinyl siding in blues and greens—pastel, unassuming, standard. I felt like I was on my way to Ocean Beach, SF. And it felt good. Quiet, out of the bustle. Like being alive but not having to assert it with your good times and your yelling and your drunken hijinks and your skirt-chasing.
I also thought about what I might write in my blog, and I thought about writing notes. But I had Peter Gabriel’s “Up” on the MP3 player, and I was in a zone, watching four people talk to the obvious Mermaid veteran in her make-up and flagrant hat adorned with feathers, feathers likely to blow into the Atlantic when she reached Coney Island.
I also thought about answering Haylz’ comments from Friday, and I will with a simple I don’t really know how to be anyone else, and I won’t be anyone else on my blog. But I will lie about my dunking ability.
The Parade:
Yo, I cold missed that bitch. It looked relatively sucka-free, though, and Nascar Anna, Eben, Pixel, Gully, Soldati, Silver, Selvadurai, and Schnapp were all there. The Charmer and Sammy, of course, came good and late. So we walked about, ate, and went to the end of a pier; where God and wrath became one word, blasting us with rain, creating a Newfoundland-type squall, blowing crabs onto the wooden pier.
We huddled with our very large umbrellas, and the Charmer began to tremble underneath Poseidon’s airborne might. Or something, man, he looked like a wet dog. Soldati took excellent pictures of the men in yellow parkas, dutifully casting their lines out to the near sea, and the guy doing the same but taking a liquid release break.
We stood and skidded and entertained the train car on the Why train back, went our separate ways to towel off and borrow clothes from each other.
The Aftermath:
In the next post. Also, Gully had a tree, a man sized tree, and a guy calling him jackass.
Since I am ass-backwards about telling the weekend in typed out words, I will tell you what I was thinking about on my way to the Mermaid Parade.
The Scene:
Racing back from Queens, going the long way to Brooklyn and the W train. The W is for Why? As in, why are you going local? Why are you avoiding the Manhattan Bridge? When we could be high above the East River with sights not as special as the ones from the Williamsburg Bridge, but special just the same. And when they clean it up, on the Brooklyn side, there is a back lit bit of subway art, recessed and guarded by stone/ concrete pillars, creating the effect of something rotating. I think it is a ball but it has been obscured by darkness and extensive graffiti in recent years.
Okay, you can only see it when you are coming in from Brooklyn but I thought I might mention it.
The Why train is difficult to get to from Eastern Queens. Long, and difficult. If I had a stone and a mountain I would have felt like Sisyphus. It is days like Saturday that make me rethink not having a cellular phone, and not having my license. Driving in the oncoming monsoon would have sucked but not as much as the interminable trip through the ancient BMT corridors, for a parade that I was not even sure was on.
All of that waiting, the guy with the long legs, the surgery enhanced beautiful Asian woman, the woman dolled up to go to the parade, the child who unbelievable bawled at top volume for an hour, was rewarded.
A subway junkie like myself remembers that he has not had much need (or balls) to take the lines that stroll through Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge and the other Southeast Brooklyn neighborhoods. It might be lingering fear from Yusef Hawkins’ incident 15 years ago (I was at camp when it went down and found out days late).
But this was my first time, and, knowing that the Why train comes above ground after 36th street was a reason to think this day was not to be a complete washout. Now, mind you—the day was a washout. Rain came down, again, Chicago/ St. Louis style, long, sideways, unforgiving, surprisingly physical like an Anthony Mason pick.
At a street with a number I couldn’t quite read through the fogged glass and the bucket loads of rain, I looked out to see a high school, some auto body shops, and rows upon rows of connected houses, vinyl siding in blues and greens—pastel, unassuming, standard. I felt like I was on my way to Ocean Beach, SF. And it felt good. Quiet, out of the bustle. Like being alive but not having to assert it with your good times and your yelling and your drunken hijinks and your skirt-chasing.
I also thought about what I might write in my blog, and I thought about writing notes. But I had Peter Gabriel’s “Up” on the MP3 player, and I was in a zone, watching four people talk to the obvious Mermaid veteran in her make-up and flagrant hat adorned with feathers, feathers likely to blow into the Atlantic when she reached Coney Island.
I also thought about answering Haylz’ comments from Friday, and I will with a simple I don’t really know how to be anyone else, and I won’t be anyone else on my blog. But I will lie about my dunking ability.
The Parade:
Yo, I cold missed that bitch. It looked relatively sucka-free, though, and Nascar Anna, Eben, Pixel, Gully, Soldati, Silver, Selvadurai, and Schnapp were all there. The Charmer and Sammy, of course, came good and late. So we walked about, ate, and went to the end of a pier; where God and wrath became one word, blasting us with rain, creating a Newfoundland-type squall, blowing crabs onto the wooden pier.
We huddled with our very large umbrellas, and the Charmer began to tremble underneath Poseidon’s airborne might. Or something, man, he looked like a wet dog. Soldati took excellent pictures of the men in yellow parkas, dutifully casting their lines out to the near sea, and the guy doing the same but taking a liquid release break.
We stood and skidded and entertained the train car on the Why train back, went our separate ways to towel off and borrow clothes from each other.
The Aftermath:
In the next post. Also, Gully had a tree, a man sized tree, and a guy calling him jackass.
On Saturday Night... 06.24.03
J-Rich and Rizza reverted to some kind of form, tossing a drink on one, water on the other. We were in the middle of Ace Bar. Selvadurai and Silver and Eben playing pool. I was maybe at the time talking to Noelle, 31, from Jamaica, QNS then Westchester, talking her out of putting her pointy shoes up Eben's ass because I felt his pain ("but a beer over his head? That's good when he gets cheeky," I said). Someone was pinching my ass. I was adjusting my headband and happy to not be a wallflower on this day. Sammy and I even got into a quick almost-kciking confrontation and no one got hurt.
And there is J-Rich, standing up as if she's peed herself, hands waving as if she can make them dry with a couple of sharp movements. Rizza, laughing, shocked, laughing, leaning back in the booth because, well, she's a little tore. We, in control of the back of the bar.
A good visit, J-Rich. Next up, in a month-- Nate and J-Feis.
This weekend-- me and Selvadurai versus 30 kids in a camp. We're so ready.
J-Rich and Rizza reverted to some kind of form, tossing a drink on one, water on the other. We were in the middle of Ace Bar. Selvadurai and Silver and Eben playing pool. I was maybe at the time talking to Noelle, 31, from Jamaica, QNS then Westchester, talking her out of putting her pointy shoes up Eben's ass because I felt his pain ("but a beer over his head? That's good when he gets cheeky," I said). Someone was pinching my ass. I was adjusting my headband and happy to not be a wallflower on this day. Sammy and I even got into a quick almost-kciking confrontation and no one got hurt.
And there is J-Rich, standing up as if she's peed herself, hands waving as if she can make them dry with a couple of sharp movements. Rizza, laughing, shocked, laughing, leaning back in the booth because, well, she's a little tore. We, in control of the back of the bar.
A good visit, J-Rich. Next up, in a month-- Nate and J-Feis.
This weekend-- me and Selvadurai versus 30 kids in a camp. We're so ready.
Monday, June 23, 2003
Walking Away 06.23.03
This is not about a love ballad featuring a conglomerate of your favorite heavy metal artists, this is about how much I am going to Armando Benitez’ house, to offer him place tickets to Kansas City or Cleveland or somewhere I won’t have to see him pitch again. Because a major leaguer should not walk four batters in a row. Especially when he is a closer and his team has scratched and f**king clawed to win their game against the personification of baseball evil, the New York Yank-Deez.
I thought I could write this but I am a little upset. Perhaps I shall go out and enjoy the sudden summer warmth. But, again, what happened to spring? Did we do something wrong, O Lord? Is this a leveling for the pleasant post 9-11-01 weather we had last winter?
This is not about a love ballad featuring a conglomerate of your favorite heavy metal artists, this is about how much I am going to Armando Benitez’ house, to offer him place tickets to Kansas City or Cleveland or somewhere I won’t have to see him pitch again. Because a major leaguer should not walk four batters in a row. Especially when he is a closer and his team has scratched and f**king clawed to win their game against the personification of baseball evil, the New York Yank-Deez.
I thought I could write this but I am a little upset. Perhaps I shall go out and enjoy the sudden summer warmth. But, again, what happened to spring? Did we do something wrong, O Lord? Is this a leveling for the pleasant post 9-11-01 weather we had last winter?
Saturday, June 21, 2003
Bed-A-Bye 06.21.03
Woke up this morning in a different bed, watching the rain hit the window, wondering whether I should make the attempt, go to the Mermaid Parade. It is fricking nasty out there. But then again, that’s simply the first impression. It’s really not that bad, a little wet, but nothing coming down.
But y’all want to know about the different bed. Well. Last night Arroz sprang the surprise of the year on his girl, Rizza, flying out our friend J-Rich, completely unbeknownst to the Riz. So you know—we all know Riz through J-Rich, and J-Rich goes way back with her like child seats. We fetched Rich from the airport and out to wher Riz works in saintly Long Island. And Rizza let out a scream the likes of which has not been heard on the north shore since the Kennedys were frolicking in Connecticut and the nuns were watching in the telescope from Cold Spring Harbor, doing biological research—but I digress. Y’all want me to get back to where I awoke.
We sang, we danced, we ate, we drank, we came up with the cure for the common cold, we rassled. Affordable Justice is in town, a record release party for the Recoys. So we popped up there and once Arroz and Justice started spinning their set, the fine ladies behind the Greenpoint bar shut ‘em down. Eh.
This would be a good time to comment on being in a place where all the boys + girls are from Ohio/ Arizona/ Illinois/ Kentucky/ New Jersey, with greased down hair and slim clothing that highlights their lack of a good feeding, and how I try not to go to those places, feeling out of place, not interested in the goings-on. But y’all want to know about the different bed.
Then we went to the palatial penthouse estate of Mr. Charming and Sammy, picking up brews, chips, chocolate along the way—and proceeded to act like college kids. In a grow’d up apartment. The crew was myself/ Selvadurai/ Sammy/ Charming/ Arroz/ Eben/ Pixel, and we took it back to the old school. Though Sammy and I didn’t kick each other once in the evening, Selvadurai didn’t go to college with us, I wasn’t coming in from some fraternity house, Eben wasn’t off doing art, Charming wasn't out being a rock star, and Pixel wasn't but a speck in her daddy’s—but I digress.
My fave was the comment about the Helen Keller moment, truly truly classy.
The war of attrition and the upcoming mermaid parade led to Pixel’s car, Arroz’ whip (by that I mean car. I don’t want anyone confused out there. You with me?), Selvadurai and Eben going back to wherever they came from, and I ended up in the guest room. Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeping. And thinking, wow, I could just sleep, instead of going home (turns out I didn’t even have to do that. Capital.) and I could have enjoyed the stupid dream that I was having that involved Gully and some vintage cars we were trying to get out of a garage.
I guess you expected something smutty. Well, I will say this—dear Pixel has a great “just woke up” voice. All gravelly and sweet. Hells yeah. Plus, watching videos at Sammy + Charming’s introduced me to the new Beyoncé video. I have no idea how the song goes. But that was a religious experience. I have to go wipe the drool.
Woke up this morning in a different bed, watching the rain hit the window, wondering whether I should make the attempt, go to the Mermaid Parade. It is fricking nasty out there. But then again, that’s simply the first impression. It’s really not that bad, a little wet, but nothing coming down.
But y’all want to know about the different bed. Well. Last night Arroz sprang the surprise of the year on his girl, Rizza, flying out our friend J-Rich, completely unbeknownst to the Riz. So you know—we all know Riz through J-Rich, and J-Rich goes way back with her like child seats. We fetched Rich from the airport and out to wher Riz works in saintly Long Island. And Rizza let out a scream the likes of which has not been heard on the north shore since the Kennedys were frolicking in Connecticut and the nuns were watching in the telescope from Cold Spring Harbor, doing biological research—but I digress. Y’all want me to get back to where I awoke.
We sang, we danced, we ate, we drank, we came up with the cure for the common cold, we rassled. Affordable Justice is in town, a record release party for the Recoys. So we popped up there and once Arroz and Justice started spinning their set, the fine ladies behind the Greenpoint bar shut ‘em down. Eh.
This would be a good time to comment on being in a place where all the boys + girls are from Ohio/ Arizona/ Illinois/ Kentucky/ New Jersey, with greased down hair and slim clothing that highlights their lack of a good feeding, and how I try not to go to those places, feeling out of place, not interested in the goings-on. But y’all want to know about the different bed.
Then we went to the palatial penthouse estate of Mr. Charming and Sammy, picking up brews, chips, chocolate along the way—and proceeded to act like college kids. In a grow’d up apartment. The crew was myself/ Selvadurai/ Sammy/ Charming/ Arroz/ Eben/ Pixel, and we took it back to the old school. Though Sammy and I didn’t kick each other once in the evening, Selvadurai didn’t go to college with us, I wasn’t coming in from some fraternity house, Eben wasn’t off doing art, Charming wasn't out being a rock star, and Pixel wasn't but a speck in her daddy’s—but I digress.
My fave was the comment about the Helen Keller moment, truly truly classy.
The war of attrition and the upcoming mermaid parade led to Pixel’s car, Arroz’ whip (by that I mean car. I don’t want anyone confused out there. You with me?), Selvadurai and Eben going back to wherever they came from, and I ended up in the guest room. Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeping. And thinking, wow, I could just sleep, instead of going home (turns out I didn’t even have to do that. Capital.) and I could have enjoyed the stupid dream that I was having that involved Gully and some vintage cars we were trying to get out of a garage.
I guess you expected something smutty. Well, I will say this—dear Pixel has a great “just woke up” voice. All gravelly and sweet. Hells yeah. Plus, watching videos at Sammy + Charming’s introduced me to the new Beyoncé video. I have no idea how the song goes. But that was a religious experience. I have to go wipe the drool.
Thursday, June 19, 2003
Etheridge 06.19.03
After handing Gurnifer some writing to review/ edit, and eating the hugest “slice” of apple pie I have ever seen (I want to see the over that produced that slab of fresh-baked goodness), I had the pleasure of a beer with Anna Y., and the extreme pleasure of standing outside of Pixel’s apartment, beginning a serenade of Melissa Etheridge’s hit, “Come to My Window.” Loudly, out of tune; but I didn’t see if the kids at the local bar were horrified. (What’s going on at the beginning of her Flash intro?)
Two asides. I also pulled a Pixel when my ass missed her chair. There was crash and calamity and laughter and my ass bruised on the ground and my arm scraped. Second, I completely whiffed on Mr. Conroy’s going away gathering. I am a heel.
After handing Gurnifer some writing to review/ edit, and eating the hugest “slice” of apple pie I have ever seen (I want to see the over that produced that slab of fresh-baked goodness), I had the pleasure of a beer with Anna Y., and the extreme pleasure of standing outside of Pixel’s apartment, beginning a serenade of Melissa Etheridge’s hit, “Come to My Window.” Loudly, out of tune; but I didn’t see if the kids at the local bar were horrified. (What’s going on at the beginning of her Flash intro?)
Two asides. I also pulled a Pixel when my ass missed her chair. There was crash and calamity and laughter and my ass bruised on the ground and my arm scraped. Second, I completely whiffed on Mr. Conroy’s going away gathering. I am a heel.
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
Vigging in Da Crates 06.18.03
I will say this—Ruby has an excellent, almost elephantine memory, and she possesses the graceful fluidity of a gazelle. This is of course more apparent when she is DJ’ing at the Vig Bar vs. when she is partying at the Vig Bar; she can pirouette from behind the booth and into a seat with a laugh, spirit away after some quick words and then return.
A good time because all things came together last night. I played awful (as opposed to horrendous) softball. I botched a grounder in short center, made two over throws that led to two runs, and made a snap throw that was on line but too weak to nail the runner coming home. All that countered by a solid outfield assist to second, a backing up catch, and a hard single aimed at the pitcher’s kneecap. And though we got mercy’d out (11-0, called in the 4th inning) I had a surprisingly okay power display when we practiced batting afterwards.
I went by Gully’s and he was having heated foreplay with his new iPod. And down to the Vig Bar where Ruby spins the rock and roll Tuesday nights. That’s not a shameless plug. We caught Mr. Raycroft trying to leave, something about “sleep.”
Ha. No sleep for him, or Nicky Marie either, who stopped by to say good by or good night. It was kind of like being tucked in to sleep, really. I'm going to invite Nicky Marie over to read bedtime stories.
Best of all, I took a cab 10 blocks (my hamstrings hurt. I was really late. Shove off.) and upon cab entry, I saw a fleck of green that turned out to be a $5 dollar bill on the real, as the Luniz would say. Free cab ride!
*Shameless Plug*
Monday night, June 30th, at the Verlaine 110 Rivington Street, Ruby will be spinning the rock and roll.
Go.
*End Shameless Plug*
I will say this—Ruby has an excellent, almost elephantine memory, and she possesses the graceful fluidity of a gazelle. This is of course more apparent when she is DJ’ing at the Vig Bar vs. when she is partying at the Vig Bar; she can pirouette from behind the booth and into a seat with a laugh, spirit away after some quick words and then return.
A good time because all things came together last night. I played awful (as opposed to horrendous) softball. I botched a grounder in short center, made two over throws that led to two runs, and made a snap throw that was on line but too weak to nail the runner coming home. All that countered by a solid outfield assist to second, a backing up catch, and a hard single aimed at the pitcher’s kneecap. And though we got mercy’d out (11-0, called in the 4th inning) I had a surprisingly okay power display when we practiced batting afterwards.
I went by Gully’s and he was having heated foreplay with his new iPod. And down to the Vig Bar where Ruby spins the rock and roll Tuesday nights. That’s not a shameless plug. We caught Mr. Raycroft trying to leave, something about “sleep.”
Ha. No sleep for him, or Nicky Marie either, who stopped by to say good by or good night. It was kind of like being tucked in to sleep, really. I'm going to invite Nicky Marie over to read bedtime stories.
Best of all, I took a cab 10 blocks (my hamstrings hurt. I was really late. Shove off.) and upon cab entry, I saw a fleck of green that turned out to be a $5 dollar bill on the real, as the Luniz would say. Free cab ride!
*Shameless Plug*
Monday night, June 30th, at the Verlaine 110 Rivington Street, Ruby will be spinning the rock and roll.
Go.
*End Shameless Plug*
Popular Blog*Chanics 06.18.03
I thought I would have to come online and write about how depressed and mopey I felt, about how there was a reason I keep quitting drinking, because at times it makes me depressed and mopey and all that maudlin stuff I choose not to tell you about;
Or about how traffic reports on the radio are the most useless, simply because they are a half hour behind or more. Meaning that when you are stuck on the Williamsburg Bridge or on the BQE you receive no advice from the radio voices, who make traffic sound like the end of the world; and there you are, watching a single line of lights for an hour.
But I awoke, watched the rain pour down the gutters (again), filling the streets of neighborhoods which are converted marshlands. And I thought about what is really important.
Popularity. I want to be pop’lar, like Haylz. I don’t mean hey you on the street popular, or Up In Da Club popular. I mean internet popular. People mention Bangbrooklyn on their sites, people she don’e even know get into protracted arguments with her. What is that? I want this kind of attention! Look at me!!!
Okay, okay, I know. I will need to make a change in the web log. I will have to keep my posts to the hot button topics of today’s internet browsers. Google, Excite, send me your spiders. I’m about to drop some filth.
Shit, how do I do this? Uhm, porn! Sex! Titty! Clit!
Am I popular yet?
What if I stick cocaine up my cakehole and transport it to Bolivia—I guess that’s a reversal of fortune, right? How about to a hot club with house music? But if I talk about oral sex, maybe—okay, so once in college I was like going down on this girl and—wait. Am I popular yet? I don’t REALLY want to tell this story.
What about… I have a good one about how this one co-ed decked me in college. Or a one-night stand? Do you wanna hear that one? Dag nabbit. I can’t even get myself to tell these tales. Maybe I will never be popular. Sniff! I am too reserved to tell you such things.
I am going home to practice lying. A lot. Because when I can tell you tales, make you believe I rock hard like my friend… the internet will LOVE me!
Plus I will have more Friendsters.
I thought I would have to come online and write about how depressed and mopey I felt, about how there was a reason I keep quitting drinking, because at times it makes me depressed and mopey and all that maudlin stuff I choose not to tell you about;
Or about how traffic reports on the radio are the most useless, simply because they are a half hour behind or more. Meaning that when you are stuck on the Williamsburg Bridge or on the BQE you receive no advice from the radio voices, who make traffic sound like the end of the world; and there you are, watching a single line of lights for an hour.
But I awoke, watched the rain pour down the gutters (again), filling the streets of neighborhoods which are converted marshlands. And I thought about what is really important.
Popularity. I want to be pop’lar, like Haylz. I don’t mean hey you on the street popular, or Up In Da Club popular. I mean internet popular. People mention Bangbrooklyn on their sites, people she don’e even know get into protracted arguments with her. What is that? I want this kind of attention! Look at me!!!
Okay, okay, I know. I will need to make a change in the web log. I will have to keep my posts to the hot button topics of today’s internet browsers. Google, Excite, send me your spiders. I’m about to drop some filth.
Shit, how do I do this? Uhm, porn! Sex! Titty! Clit!
Am I popular yet?
What if I stick cocaine up my cakehole and transport it to Bolivia—I guess that’s a reversal of fortune, right? How about to a hot club with house music? But if I talk about oral sex, maybe—okay, so once in college I was like going down on this girl and—wait. Am I popular yet? I don’t REALLY want to tell this story.
What about… I have a good one about how this one co-ed decked me in college. Or a one-night stand? Do you wanna hear that one? Dag nabbit. I can’t even get myself to tell these tales. Maybe I will never be popular. Sniff! I am too reserved to tell you such things.
I am going home to practice lying. A lot. Because when I can tell you tales, make you believe I rock hard like my friend… the internet will LOVE me!
Plus I will have more Friendsters.
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Out In Siberia 06.17.03
Note that Siberia has the graffiti’d and painted black look that draws in all the aging rock and roll women and men from around the city. The end of the earth let’s party and debauch it away warehouse fantasyland every rock bar/ club wishes to become. But the new Siberia does it well! And across from Port Authority—how filthy can it get? You know where you are? You’re in the jungle baby, you’re gonna rock.
Hot damn. I am coming back here.
I went to see my long-lost friend KRP—by long lost I mean she last saw me when I had hair which must have been at least a year and a quarter ago. She’s got a pretty good voice, weaving up to that folky high register Joni Mitchell kept hitting.
KRP weaved good song-stories in the basement of the hidden bar, working herself into a semi-comfortable position on a sliding seat; worked her guitar adequately, especially considering that she’s still learning how to play; and created a vibe that’s half rainy-Saturday NPR and your cute friend’s slightly bitter quips + asides.
And a guy adds to the ambiance by spilling most of his beer on the concrete floor, sticking his foot in lovingly, and spreading the mess around like a failed mop.
Note that Siberia has the graffiti’d and painted black look that draws in all the aging rock and roll women and men from around the city. The end of the earth let’s party and debauch it away warehouse fantasyland every rock bar/ club wishes to become. But the new Siberia does it well! And across from Port Authority—how filthy can it get? You know where you are? You’re in the jungle baby, you’re gonna rock.
Hot damn. I am coming back here.
I went to see my long-lost friend KRP—by long lost I mean she last saw me when I had hair which must have been at least a year and a quarter ago. She’s got a pretty good voice, weaving up to that folky high register Joni Mitchell kept hitting.
KRP weaved good song-stories in the basement of the hidden bar, working herself into a semi-comfortable position on a sliding seat; worked her guitar adequately, especially considering that she’s still learning how to play; and created a vibe that’s half rainy-Saturday NPR and your cute friend’s slightly bitter quips + asides.
And a guy adds to the ambiance by spilling most of his beer on the concrete floor, sticking his foot in lovingly, and spreading the mess around like a failed mop.
Monday, June 16, 2003
Architecture Fans! 06.16.03
Take a look at the new Soldier's Field, home of the Chicago Bears. It's a true piece of ugly.
Take a look at the new Soldier's Field, home of the Chicago Bears. It's a true piece of ugly.
Well, The Thing About This Weekend Is… 06.16.03
A lot of breastesses were grabbed. It was like a theme for the weekend. I couldn’t understand it. Every conversation slid, completely unbidden, into the land of mammary and there I would be, ready to take an adorable picture with my friend on her birthday and she thinks it would be a funnier pic with two hands providing extra lift. Or, bored at a party on a rooftop, we discuss firmness and there I am, going where no Pico has gone before. And thinking, you know what else is grabbable… but then, I didn’t grab no kind of biscuits.
I might have appreciated it more if I was a 16-year old. What am I saying—I have the mind of a 16-yr old, I loved it. Here's a recap. But I forgot to lie, Gully, sorry.
Friday night.
At the heart of the weekend was a day-long jaunt through promises and somewhere in the middle, hanging out with some of those people I hardly seem to see. As always (for the Two-Kay-Trey) I left on Friday evening to the rhythm of rain. I think it was supposed to be a full moon but the only thing full was the pond in the park.
A kindly neighborhood bus driver saw me running to the stop, slowed down, and then punched the gas as I was almost at the designated stop. Huffing, reaching, yelling, “you f**king ASSHOLE!” (I try not to curse at the top of my lungs out in the suburbs. Churchy people always get pissed and think the neighborhood’s slipping to a slum.) The bus right behind had a driver who asked me, “did he just pass you?” And I said, yeah, but he was nice enough to slow down before he did.
It’s all good because Nicky Marie got the same treatment; as she reached the G-train, the conductor gave her the subway Heisman and shut the doors in her face. We’re two peas in a pod, me and my good-natured, well-composed friend. With the booty and the smile.
What else is there to say? Selvadurai and Silver came and saw the same crowd of ass-clowns I did, unwilling to let people through with their Jersey asses and lame button-downs. Silver stayed home, Sammy joined, made fun of my seemingly “lame” friends before she had talked to them. I love that. You can trust someone who never quite mastered the arts of tact and diplomacy. And she was pleasantly surprised, at least by Raycroft because he’s one of the best guys I know.
There was dancing, breastesses, lots of pictures, and as we left in a cab (we only took it to the Bklyn Bridge—it was wall to wall cars, not moving), we got to see many Upper-East Siders/ Jerseyites/ Shipmate-fodder yuppies up against building walls of the closing bars, making out or trying to make out with the lame girls they’d picked up in those glossy nightspots. Trying to nudge their drunk asses home.
Saturday Afternoon.
Selvadurai’s hurting. I don’t have the directions. We’re about to make magic happen by guesswork. We have a meeting for NahWeYone , who holds a yearly camp for kids, focused on refugees/ immigrants from Sierra Leone but with many other kids in the fold from many other places (Africa, the West Indies/ Carribbean, Harlem). We did it last year, thanks to Kelly and then thanks to Selvadurai who passed the info on to me.
And it’s hot, steamy, on the Upper East and we’re late, guessing, calling Alex. Until I guessed right. Or remembered the email right. Either way, I have to say, I am inspired. So inspired I think I volunteered to help out with one too many things! Wait for two weeks, I’ll tell you all about this year’s camp.
Saturday night.
The only things worth talking about here are
1. Good to see Ray-Ray.
2. Amused by the Lynyrd Skynyrd fan Ray-Ray and the poor man's Jude Law lookalike have as a downstairs roommate. More amused that he was hitting on that Rachel girl real hard. Ha, ha!
Sunday.
I love my man Jose Reyes already. Roger Cedeno cannot catch a bouncing ground ball? And the SA Spurs might be nice guys and basketball world champions but that won’t stop me from calling them ass-clowns.
Ass-clowns!
A lot of breastesses were grabbed. It was like a theme for the weekend. I couldn’t understand it. Every conversation slid, completely unbidden, into the land of mammary and there I would be, ready to take an adorable picture with my friend on her birthday and she thinks it would be a funnier pic with two hands providing extra lift. Or, bored at a party on a rooftop, we discuss firmness and there I am, going where no Pico has gone before. And thinking, you know what else is grabbable… but then, I didn’t grab no kind of biscuits.
I might have appreciated it more if I was a 16-year old. What am I saying—I have the mind of a 16-yr old, I loved it. Here's a recap. But I forgot to lie, Gully, sorry.
Friday night.
At the heart of the weekend was a day-long jaunt through promises and somewhere in the middle, hanging out with some of those people I hardly seem to see. As always (for the Two-Kay-Trey) I left on Friday evening to the rhythm of rain. I think it was supposed to be a full moon but the only thing full was the pond in the park.
A kindly neighborhood bus driver saw me running to the stop, slowed down, and then punched the gas as I was almost at the designated stop. Huffing, reaching, yelling, “you f**king ASSHOLE!” (I try not to curse at the top of my lungs out in the suburbs. Churchy people always get pissed and think the neighborhood’s slipping to a slum.) The bus right behind had a driver who asked me, “did he just pass you?” And I said, yeah, but he was nice enough to slow down before he did.
It’s all good because Nicky Marie got the same treatment; as she reached the G-train, the conductor gave her the subway Heisman and shut the doors in her face. We’re two peas in a pod, me and my good-natured, well-composed friend. With the booty and the smile.
What else is there to say? Selvadurai and Silver came and saw the same crowd of ass-clowns I did, unwilling to let people through with their Jersey asses and lame button-downs. Silver stayed home, Sammy joined, made fun of my seemingly “lame” friends before she had talked to them. I love that. You can trust someone who never quite mastered the arts of tact and diplomacy. And she was pleasantly surprised, at least by Raycroft because he’s one of the best guys I know.
There was dancing, breastesses, lots of pictures, and as we left in a cab (we only took it to the Bklyn Bridge—it was wall to wall cars, not moving), we got to see many Upper-East Siders/ Jerseyites/ Shipmate-fodder yuppies up against building walls of the closing bars, making out or trying to make out with the lame girls they’d picked up in those glossy nightspots. Trying to nudge their drunk asses home.
Saturday Afternoon.
Selvadurai’s hurting. I don’t have the directions. We’re about to make magic happen by guesswork. We have a meeting for NahWeYone , who holds a yearly camp for kids, focused on refugees/ immigrants from Sierra Leone but with many other kids in the fold from many other places (Africa, the West Indies/ Carribbean, Harlem). We did it last year, thanks to Kelly and then thanks to Selvadurai who passed the info on to me.
And it’s hot, steamy, on the Upper East and we’re late, guessing, calling Alex. Until I guessed right. Or remembered the email right. Either way, I have to say, I am inspired. So inspired I think I volunteered to help out with one too many things! Wait for two weeks, I’ll tell you all about this year’s camp.
Saturday night.
The only things worth talking about here are
1. Good to see Ray-Ray.
2. Amused by the Lynyrd Skynyrd fan Ray-Ray and the poor man's Jude Law lookalike have as a downstairs roommate. More amused that he was hitting on that Rachel girl real hard. Ha, ha!
Sunday.
I love my man Jose Reyes already. Roger Cedeno cannot catch a bouncing ground ball? And the SA Spurs might be nice guys and basketball world champions but that won’t stop me from calling them ass-clowns.
Ass-clowns!
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Send A Chill Up Your Spine Like An Eskimo 06.10.03
While on the bus, next to a woman whose cell-phone conversation with her two or so men penetrated my headphones (I was listening to Camp Lo and Nice N’ Smooth’s Hip-Hop Junkies), whose voluminous thighs reverberating with her emphatic smacks on knee, I thought long and hard about writing the most boring blog I could, because I am curmudgeonly like that.
Nothing magical happened today. Besides of course my new sunglasses. I could lie to you, which was my other thought for a blog, or speculate on the coming weekend or include the Shiv like she’d like me to, or rave about how the Knickers are apparently once again looking to take players who are three apples high, or stiff no-talent American centers, but I need to make some edits to a story. Rest up, little ones.
Also, the summer preview will be modified, with some additions from Gurnifer.
While on the bus, next to a woman whose cell-phone conversation with her two or so men penetrated my headphones (I was listening to Camp Lo and Nice N’ Smooth’s Hip-Hop Junkies), whose voluminous thighs reverberating with her emphatic smacks on knee, I thought long and hard about writing the most boring blog I could, because I am curmudgeonly like that.
Nothing magical happened today. Besides of course my new sunglasses. I could lie to you, which was my other thought for a blog, or speculate on the coming weekend or include the Shiv like she’d like me to, or rave about how the Knickers are apparently once again looking to take players who are three apples high, or stiff no-talent American centers, but I need to make some edits to a story. Rest up, little ones.
Also, the summer preview will be modified, with some additions from Gurnifer.
Monday, June 09, 2003
The Fast Summer Preview 06.09.03
Inside Central Park, 81st Street (Westside entrance)/ 79th Street (eastside entrance) Summerstage 6/14/03-8/28/03. Of the mostly free shows, Note; Jimmy Cliff (8/10/03); Sonny Rollins (8/9/03); Zadie Smith (7/24); Chaka Khan + Indira Khan (7/5). Tip: It gets hott. Bring water. Arrive early. You might even prefer to miss the visuals and listen to the music on the lawn outside, watching for famous people walking through Central. “Accidentally” toss your Frisbee at them. Please avoid the nose.
Inside Central Park, 81st Street (Westside entrance)/ 79th Street (eastside entrance), Shakespeare in the Park at the Delacorte Theatre. Henry 5 starring Leiv Schreiber. From 6/24/03-8/9/03. Check the dates. Tip: Pick up your tickets at 1, Joe’s Public Theatre. No more than 2/ person. They play in the rain, and sunset at the Delacorte, esp. after a summer shower, is a sight to behold.
At either West Side Hwy/ 14th Street (Pier 54, Wednesdays) or West Side Hwy/ N. Moore Street (pier 25, Fridays), Hudson River Park’s Riverflicks from 7/9/03-8/29/03. Note: Casablanca (7/11/03); Pee Wee’s Big Adventure (7/23/03); Spaceballs (8/1); the Unforgiven (8/6); Chicken Run (8/8); and Field of Dreams (8/29). Tip: It’s by the water. Blanket, jacket, drinks, condoms.
At 42nd Street + 6 Avenue, in the shadow of the NY Public Library. HBO Bryant Park Summer Film Festival, 6/23/03-8/25/03. Mondays at sunset, rain or shine… mostly. Tuesday if it’s pouring. Note: Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid (6/23); Planet of the Apes (7/7); A Raisin in the Sun (7/14); Romeo & Juliet (8/11); 2001: A Space Odyssey (8/25). Tip: Supposedly the lawn opens at 5. Have a friend there at 4.30. Bring an identifying “thing” (four red balloons, a dog, the ugliest retro Houston Astros jersey you can find) so your posse can find you on the blanket you so lovingly brought. And bring drinks. Enough to share with me.
At Coney Island (right now, only the W goes direct, but the other trains that go down there have shuttle buses), Stillwell or 10th Streets, by Astroland. The Siren Festival, Saturday, July 19th, 2003 12:00-9:00 pm. This is a nod to the indie rock kids. I don’t go to this. But kids like Modest Mouse and Northern State and Idlewild.
At Coney Island, on Surf Avenue between West 10th Street and West 15th Street. The Mermaid Parade, Saturday June 21st, 2003. Note: Great costumes, classic cars, gratuitous Poseidon-approved nudity. Tip: It’s always effing hot. Bring water, easy clothes (you might get sprayed by friendly firemen), don’t be hung over. Don’t expect to eat right after, the place is swamped. The boardwalk/ beach is also packed. And your cellular phone won’t work very well.
At Coney Island, Surf Avenue & W. 19th Street. Brooklyn Cyclones Minor league baseball, Mets Single-A farm team, Home games 6/23-8/31. Note: 8/26 – mini ballpark model giveaway. 8/30, Mets Hot wheels. 8/6 Koozies. I just wanted to say that. Tip: Buy tickets beforehand. They might even be sold out already. Talk to friends, buy day-of. Eat onion rings. Enjoy the views from the stadium. Switch seats a lot.
Also:
At Jackson Avenue + 46th Street (near 23/ Ely/ Court Square stop on E, V, G trains, near 45th Rd - Courthouse Square on the 7 train). PS1 - Comntemporary Art Center and home of Saturday parties. Tip: I can't tell you any. It's always too crowded and I am late. I will make it in this year, so I include Note: get there early. I don't know how early that is. check back here.
At Prospect Park Bandshell, Prospect Park West + 9th Street (near 7th Avenue F-train station, Brooklyn). Celebrate Brooklyn, 6/12/03-8/17/03. Movies, music, Café Tacuba (8/9), and Jody Watley (8/2). Tip: Hang out in the Park Early. Look for your cool friends that you haven't seen in years. They will be there.
Various Locations. Metropolitan Opera dates: 6/16/03, Central Park Great Lawn-- other dates in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Staten Island, Queens, New Haven, New Jersey. Free, bring a blanket and something obnoxious to whisper; find you kind of like the opera when you're not in a suit.
Great Lawn, Central Park (81/ 79 street entrances as for Summerstage and Delacorte Theatre) 7/7/03, 7/10/03; Prospect Park 7/8/03. New York Philharmonic Concerts in the Park. Free, bring a blanket, and stop asking when Jonny Lives is coming on, they're not playing this show. It's Tchaikovsky and other classical selections, brought back down to the populace for our enjoyment under the stars.
*Thanks to Gurnifer for the new selections, you're a prize.
Inside Central Park, 81st Street (Westside entrance)/ 79th Street (eastside entrance) Summerstage 6/14/03-8/28/03. Of the mostly free shows, Note; Jimmy Cliff (8/10/03); Sonny Rollins (8/9/03); Zadie Smith (7/24); Chaka Khan + Indira Khan (7/5). Tip: It gets hott. Bring water. Arrive early. You might even prefer to miss the visuals and listen to the music on the lawn outside, watching for famous people walking through Central. “Accidentally” toss your Frisbee at them. Please avoid the nose.
Inside Central Park, 81st Street (Westside entrance)/ 79th Street (eastside entrance), Shakespeare in the Park at the Delacorte Theatre. Henry 5 starring Leiv Schreiber. From 6/24/03-8/9/03. Check the dates. Tip: Pick up your tickets at 1, Joe’s Public Theatre. No more than 2/ person. They play in the rain, and sunset at the Delacorte, esp. after a summer shower, is a sight to behold.
At either West Side Hwy/ 14th Street (Pier 54, Wednesdays) or West Side Hwy/ N. Moore Street (pier 25, Fridays), Hudson River Park’s Riverflicks from 7/9/03-8/29/03. Note: Casablanca (7/11/03); Pee Wee’s Big Adventure (7/23/03); Spaceballs (8/1); the Unforgiven (8/6); Chicken Run (8/8); and Field of Dreams (8/29). Tip: It’s by the water. Blanket, jacket, drinks, condoms.
At 42nd Street + 6 Avenue, in the shadow of the NY Public Library. HBO Bryant Park Summer Film Festival, 6/23/03-8/25/03. Mondays at sunset, rain or shine… mostly. Tuesday if it’s pouring. Note: Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid (6/23); Planet of the Apes (7/7); A Raisin in the Sun (7/14); Romeo & Juliet (8/11); 2001: A Space Odyssey (8/25). Tip: Supposedly the lawn opens at 5. Have a friend there at 4.30. Bring an identifying “thing” (four red balloons, a dog, the ugliest retro Houston Astros jersey you can find) so your posse can find you on the blanket you so lovingly brought. And bring drinks. Enough to share with me.
At Coney Island (right now, only the W goes direct, but the other trains that go down there have shuttle buses), Stillwell or 10th Streets, by Astroland. The Siren Festival, Saturday, July 19th, 2003 12:00-9:00 pm. This is a nod to the indie rock kids. I don’t go to this. But kids like Modest Mouse and Northern State and Idlewild.
At Coney Island, on Surf Avenue between West 10th Street and West 15th Street. The Mermaid Parade, Saturday June 21st, 2003. Note: Great costumes, classic cars, gratuitous Poseidon-approved nudity. Tip: It’s always effing hot. Bring water, easy clothes (you might get sprayed by friendly firemen), don’t be hung over. Don’t expect to eat right after, the place is swamped. The boardwalk/ beach is also packed. And your cellular phone won’t work very well.
At Coney Island, Surf Avenue & W. 19th Street. Brooklyn Cyclones Minor league baseball, Mets Single-A farm team, Home games 6/23-8/31. Note: 8/26 – mini ballpark model giveaway. 8/30, Mets Hot wheels. 8/6 Koozies. I just wanted to say that. Tip: Buy tickets beforehand. They might even be sold out already. Talk to friends, buy day-of. Eat onion rings. Enjoy the views from the stadium. Switch seats a lot.
Also:
At Jackson Avenue + 46th Street (near 23/ Ely/ Court Square stop on E, V, G trains, near 45th Rd - Courthouse Square on the 7 train). PS1 - Comntemporary Art Center and home of Saturday parties. Tip: I can't tell you any. It's always too crowded and I am late. I will make it in this year, so I include Note: get there early. I don't know how early that is. check back here.
At Prospect Park Bandshell, Prospect Park West + 9th Street (near 7th Avenue F-train station, Brooklyn). Celebrate Brooklyn, 6/12/03-8/17/03. Movies, music, Café Tacuba (8/9), and Jody Watley (8/2). Tip: Hang out in the Park Early. Look for your cool friends that you haven't seen in years. They will be there.
Various Locations. Metropolitan Opera dates: 6/16/03, Central Park Great Lawn-- other dates in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Staten Island, Queens, New Haven, New Jersey. Free, bring a blanket and something obnoxious to whisper; find you kind of like the opera when you're not in a suit.
Great Lawn, Central Park (81/ 79 street entrances as for Summerstage and Delacorte Theatre) 7/7/03, 7/10/03; Prospect Park 7/8/03. New York Philharmonic Concerts in the Park. Free, bring a blanket, and stop asking when Jonny Lives is coming on, they're not playing this show. It's Tchaikovsky and other classical selections, brought back down to the populace for our enjoyment under the stars.
*Thanks to Gurnifer for the new selections, you're a prize.
Sunday, June 08, 2003
Summation of a Weekend (Note, Strikethrough, Saturday) 06.08.03
Through advancing rain and into the subway, only to find out long Gully and I have to double back to catch the W/N—whichever. Just better if we had been informed at a point in our ride where we could have altered our path to the slightly remote reaches of Northern Queens;
While there we have a long discussion about the ass, male and female. The flower girls are in the house and affectionate; the evening has the flavor of reunion. With Swarthmore kids getting their sweat and stank on in the darkened room beside.
More rain, we speed back to the train with Tulip, to Halyz/ Marla’s party, notable mostly for a long time talking like teenagers, spread on the kitchen floor like chunky peanut butter or a day’s strewn clothing; and the phrase “she was not what the French would call pretty,” beautifully delivered by Roni.
Through advancing rain and into the subway, only to find out long Gully and I have to double back to catch the W/N—whichever. Just better if we had been informed at a point in our ride where we could have altered our path to the slightly remote reaches of Northern Queens;
While there we have a long discussion about the ass, male and female. The flower girls are in the house and affectionate; the evening has the flavor of reunion. With Swarthmore kids getting their sweat and stank on in the darkened room beside.
More rain, we speed back to the train with Tulip, to Halyz/ Marla’s party, notable mostly for a long time talking like teenagers, spread on the kitchen floor like chunky peanut butter or a day’s strewn clothing; and the phrase “she was not what the French would call pretty,” beautifully delivered by Roni.
In Our Time of Library 06.08.03
--A Letter from Gurnifer to Shev--
hi shev,
i'm here with [Pico] in the main library's main reading room. i can't believe i haven't been here in so long, maybe a year, because it really is one of the most beautiful places in new york. it's perpetually gray these past many days, but i'm trying to embrace the gray and the rain, because it leaves beautiful things in its wake, like grass that's no longer green or even bright but fluorescent. so the grass is kind of our new sun, i guess, for it's unbelievable bright and strains the eyes, but you just want to keep staring at it forever, just as when the sun does finally appear for a brief day, and it hurts our now unaccustomed eyes.
my best to you and i hope all's well out west....i wish [Pico] and i could fly there this minute, but for now, here's an e-hug!
--A Letter from Gurnifer to Shev--
hi shev,
i'm here with [Pico] in the main library's main reading room. i can't believe i haven't been here in so long, maybe a year, because it really is one of the most beautiful places in new york. it's perpetually gray these past many days, but i'm trying to embrace the gray and the rain, because it leaves beautiful things in its wake, like grass that's no longer green or even bright but fluorescent. so the grass is kind of our new sun, i guess, for it's unbelievable bright and strains the eyes, but you just want to keep staring at it forever, just as when the sun does finally appear for a brief day, and it hurts our now unaccustomed eyes.
my best to you and i hope all's well out west....i wish [Pico] and i could fly there this minute, but for now, here's an e-hug!
Thursday, June 05, 2003
The Gift of Geek 06.05.03
Pixel inspired me to think back upon my life and drift through the fog and reconnect with my youth. Why do I listen?
Because I once tried to convince people to call me Scott. In part b/c I loved my friend Ryan Scott’s name (but even in ’86-‘87 I didn't think the mullet was cool) and because I thought the X-Men's Cyclops was badass.
Then I tried to convince people to call me Nighthawk. I even made a nameplate in metal shop with “Nighthawk” on it. When I got to my summer program, it was the nerdier, smaller, fatter kid who called himself Matrix who was ostracized, though.
What that tale proves is that, along with the pictorial reminders from my old friend J-Cap, beneath this calculated, well-shaven, sculpted mass of cool, is a dork that even the nerdiest of people can have a good laugh at.
Okay. Stop laughing.
Pixel inspired me to think back upon my life and drift through the fog and reconnect with my youth. Why do I listen?
Because I once tried to convince people to call me Scott. In part b/c I loved my friend Ryan Scott’s name (but even in ’86-‘87 I didn't think the mullet was cool) and because I thought the X-Men's Cyclops was badass.
Then I tried to convince people to call me Nighthawk. I even made a nameplate in metal shop with “Nighthawk” on it. When I got to my summer program, it was the nerdier, smaller, fatter kid who called himself Matrix who was ostracized, though.
What that tale proves is that, along with the pictorial reminders from my old friend J-Cap, beneath this calculated, well-shaven, sculpted mass of cool, is a dork that even the nerdiest of people can have a good laugh at.
Okay. Stop laughing.
Monday, June 02, 2003
A Warning Shot Across the Bow of June 06.02.03
I could rave on about the weekend, crashing over at my friend's place, looking at pictures from when I was in 8th grade (and yet looked like I was 7 yrs old and tiny). Instead, this is a note for Pixel.
My new favorite cereal is... Fiber One. Damn my family's health kick and that delicious bowl of fruit that goes so well with my old man cereal.
I could rave on about the weekend, crashing over at my friend's place, looking at pictures from when I was in 8th grade (and yet looked like I was 7 yrs old and tiny). Instead, this is a note for Pixel.
My new favorite cereal is... Fiber One. Damn my family's health kick and that delicious bowl of fruit that goes so well with my old man cereal.
Thursday, May 29, 2003
Friday, May 16, 2003
Feel the Seismic Shift. 05.16.03
I am taking a few days in Chicago. Ladies, I will be back soon. I promise, love. For serious. I would like peace in NYC while I am gone. And booty-chasing. Though I think the booty brigade is dead (let me hear the wink wink) (by wink wink I do not by any stretch of the imagination mean that it could possible go back underground like our favorite cartoon earthworm) (let me hear the nudge nudge) (run your hands through my brigade, move all to and fro, no more talking 'bout booty. this is the remix to raw muses, blowing up all your fuses, come stop rolling those eyes because you love to read through it).
Well, at least Gulshan got it.
I am taking a few days in Chicago. Ladies, I will be back soon. I promise, love. For serious. I would like peace in NYC while I am gone. And booty-chasing. Though I think the booty brigade is dead (let me hear the wink wink) (by wink wink I do not by any stretch of the imagination mean that it could possible go back underground like our favorite cartoon earthworm) (let me hear the nudge nudge) (run your hands through my brigade, move all to and fro, no more talking 'bout booty. this is the remix to raw muses, blowing up all your fuses, come stop rolling those eyes because you love to read through it).
Well, at least Gulshan got it.
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
I'm Crying. Really. 05.13.03
From EUR.
**Irv Gotti told MTV that Ja Rule is going on the
downlow. Ja, who's been in our heads continuously
since 1999, will supposedly be out of action until
sometime in 2004 (Thank you, Irv). It seems that
folks are just plain tired of hearing from old gravel voice,
especially his, er, singing. And, as the article points out,
the public has been showing mucho love for Ja's lyrical
foe, 50 Cent. Damn, it's enough to make ya wanna Holla!
From EUR.
**Irv Gotti told MTV that Ja Rule is going on the
downlow. Ja, who's been in our heads continuously
since 1999, will supposedly be out of action until
sometime in 2004 (Thank you, Irv). It seems that
folks are just plain tired of hearing from old gravel voice,
especially his, er, singing. And, as the article points out,
the public has been showing mucho love for Ja's lyrical
foe, 50 Cent. Damn, it's enough to make ya wanna Holla!
Postcards to A Lost Weekend I. 05.13.03
Happy birthday, Eben! You must be loved because your friends were bouncy like pogo sticks on your stoop. What more can a young man ask for? Obviously—bowling and Rhinegold’s Ale.
And this place deep in Brooklyn did not disappoint. Worth the price of admission, this alley was defended by serious bowling league cats, adorned with trophies, ceilinged with the removable pockboard tile. It’s so cool, I just lost control and used a word that don’t exist at all (ceilinged).
Arroz is very serious about his bowling. I can’t wait for his paunchy days where he and I will both belong to a league with Eben, who by that time will no doubt be suave and in the midst of a midlife crisis. We all know what that means—rides in the Ferrari! Homely strippers!
I digress. Nice to meet you, Megan and Adam; good to bowl with you Arroz, Eben, Nascar Anna, and Silver. Especially Silver, because I don’t know anyone else who can lose his balance on a bowl so badly that he falls back, stumbles against the ball return, then squares up only to collapse onto his side. Truly skilled, my friend, truly skilled.
But again, great to be out on the yuppie/ hipster/ imported-Brooklynite-free sections of Brooklyn. Our friends notwithstanding… but next time, it won’t be your birthday, Eben, and I won’t take it so easy on you. I will continue to sing Sugar Ray’s “When It’s Over.” Plus, ass-whuppin’ will commence.
Yours With a Tough-Sounding Snarl.
Happy birthday, Eben! You must be loved because your friends were bouncy like pogo sticks on your stoop. What more can a young man ask for? Obviously—bowling and Rhinegold’s Ale.
And this place deep in Brooklyn did not disappoint. Worth the price of admission, this alley was defended by serious bowling league cats, adorned with trophies, ceilinged with the removable pockboard tile. It’s so cool, I just lost control and used a word that don’t exist at all (ceilinged).
Arroz is very serious about his bowling. I can’t wait for his paunchy days where he and I will both belong to a league with Eben, who by that time will no doubt be suave and in the midst of a midlife crisis. We all know what that means—rides in the Ferrari! Homely strippers!
I digress. Nice to meet you, Megan and Adam; good to bowl with you Arroz, Eben, Nascar Anna, and Silver. Especially Silver, because I don’t know anyone else who can lose his balance on a bowl so badly that he falls back, stumbles against the ball return, then squares up only to collapse onto his side. Truly skilled, my friend, truly skilled.
But again, great to be out on the yuppie/ hipster/ imported-Brooklynite-free sections of Brooklyn. Our friends notwithstanding… but next time, it won’t be your birthday, Eben, and I won’t take it so easy on you. I will continue to sing Sugar Ray’s “When It’s Over.” Plus, ass-whuppin’ will commence.
Yours With a Tough-Sounding Snarl.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend II. 05.13.03
Oh, my head.
Rhinegold, you come back with a kick in the mornings, when I am laid out on my friend’s couch, reaching for a conveniently placed cup of water.
But, Rhinegold, buddy—what is this laying in front of us? A copy of Moneyball, the book about Billy Beane and his baseball genius featuring a section that might as well be called, “how I made Steve Phillips drop his pants and hand me one of his testes garnished with a lemon.” Ah, Steve Phillips. You have managed to sell the Mets’ player assets at “I need to win now!!” prices. Meaning New York received the pleasure of Billy Taylor and other such washed up players.
Thank you for making the New York Mets’ impatience into a piece of art. Not that Mr. Phillips is the only victim on the skewer. But he is there.
And I can’t stop reading about the man who mounts an occasional challenge to the Yankees' evil empire. Even though I need to leave and wash and go to Linner’s “it’s my birthday” barbecue. This is what Saturdays are made for—lazy ass reading and wondering what was the name of the beer truck that hit you.
Rhinegold, you play rough but I love ya.
Yours With Cottonmouth.
Oh, my head.
Rhinegold, you come back with a kick in the mornings, when I am laid out on my friend’s couch, reaching for a conveniently placed cup of water.
But, Rhinegold, buddy—what is this laying in front of us? A copy of Moneyball, the book about Billy Beane and his baseball genius featuring a section that might as well be called, “how I made Steve Phillips drop his pants and hand me one of his testes garnished with a lemon.” Ah, Steve Phillips. You have managed to sell the Mets’ player assets at “I need to win now!!” prices. Meaning New York received the pleasure of Billy Taylor and other such washed up players.
Thank you for making the New York Mets’ impatience into a piece of art. Not that Mr. Phillips is the only victim on the skewer. But he is there.
And I can’t stop reading about the man who mounts an occasional challenge to the Yankees' evil empire. Even though I need to leave and wash and go to Linner’s “it’s my birthday” barbecue. This is what Saturdays are made for—lazy ass reading and wondering what was the name of the beer truck that hit you.
Rhinegold, you play rough but I love ya.
Yours With Cottonmouth.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend III. 05.13.03
Oh my head. I should have walked the extra block to get a bagel or a scone. PS, no one ever sounds cool saying scone. Just try it. You didn’t sound very cool at all.
You are here with me, walking to Hoyt-Schemerhorn, stopping for the Daily News. Watching the magic man tap on his box and then open it to let loose a dove on the A train. And above ground, where we watch Brooklyn pass. On the bus where a woman’s bag crushes me to the side of the seat.
Thank You for Joining Me.
Oh my head. I should have walked the extra block to get a bagel or a scone. PS, no one ever sounds cool saying scone. Just try it. You didn’t sound very cool at all.
You are here with me, walking to Hoyt-Schemerhorn, stopping for the Daily News. Watching the magic man tap on his box and then open it to let loose a dove on the A train. And above ground, where we watch Brooklyn pass. On the bus where a woman’s bag crushes me to the side of the seat.
Thank You for Joining Me.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend IV. 05.13.03
I was not alone in the late-recovery. Silver had a little Rhinegold-slow on him. Nascar-Anna and Eben woke up at 2. Joined by Linner’s parents, brother, sister-in-law, a couple more friends, a cooler of beer, meat, there we all were, in the backyard.
Thinking of how to move from our trash-talking free-cussing selves to our highly pleasant parental approved selves. Remembering how to be bright-eyed and bushy tailed, how to be civil, and how to tell stories that do not involve “so I’m f*cking this girl.” For the uninitiated, yes, there is a joke and Silver will be happy to tell you.
Linner, thanks for having us over; your roommate was wherever little demons go on the weekends, and your boyfriend, Big Guy, is always a blast, and he makes sure we are fed. That’s cool. So was your tree-shrouded brick-floored backyard, your design portfolio (hope your interview went well), and your parents.
What was not cool, of course, was the fire coming out of the bottom of the fuel line of the grill’s propane tank. That could have ended poorly. The votive candle that caught afire was also kind of strange. Were you perhaps in a Firestarter-type of government program? Are you a mutant? Are we mean to you? Linner, don’t set your friends alight. Our hair smells funny in flames.
I know we didn’t talk enough on Saturday. I promise to go shopping with you and we will have an opportunity to chat—okay… I’m lying. But we will hang out and I will buy you a beer.
Torchingly Yours.
I was not alone in the late-recovery. Silver had a little Rhinegold-slow on him. Nascar-Anna and Eben woke up at 2. Joined by Linner’s parents, brother, sister-in-law, a couple more friends, a cooler of beer, meat, there we all were, in the backyard.
Thinking of how to move from our trash-talking free-cussing selves to our highly pleasant parental approved selves. Remembering how to be bright-eyed and bushy tailed, how to be civil, and how to tell stories that do not involve “so I’m f*cking this girl.” For the uninitiated, yes, there is a joke and Silver will be happy to tell you.
Linner, thanks for having us over; your roommate was wherever little demons go on the weekends, and your boyfriend, Big Guy, is always a blast, and he makes sure we are fed. That’s cool. So was your tree-shrouded brick-floored backyard, your design portfolio (hope your interview went well), and your parents.
What was not cool, of course, was the fire coming out of the bottom of the fuel line of the grill’s propane tank. That could have ended poorly. The votive candle that caught afire was also kind of strange. Were you perhaps in a Firestarter-type of government program? Are you a mutant? Are we mean to you? Linner, don’t set your friends alight. Our hair smells funny in flames.
I know we didn’t talk enough on Saturday. I promise to go shopping with you and we will have an opportunity to chat—okay… I’m lying. But we will hang out and I will buy you a beer.
Torchingly Yours.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend V. 05.13.03
Haylz, Marla, Gully. I know you might think that I missed our tentative pre-partying appointment because I thought putting Gully and Haylz together creates a chaotic environment wherein stars collapse in upon themselves, where pigs fly helicopters, where leprechauns demand their f*cking pot o’ gold as you're strolling through the projects.
But really, I was lazy and tired and went to uphold a promise to Anna who does not yet have a nickname. There was a gathering of NYU MBA’s at a bar whose name is of little consequence. There were shiny buttoned-down shirts, and low lights, and couches. Like so many other bars.
In the bar, there was Anna, some lame kids, and I thought long and hard about lying my way through the whole evening, because most interesting of all was the Mavericks/ Kings basketball game.
Gully knows, Gully knows about the occasional propensity for lying. You’re at a party, and some over-pompous ass is off and running about his or her cocaine use, or their art, or what they used to do back before the Lower East Side became gentrified, et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.
And you start to think, I can’t listen to any more of this. And you also think, but I would love to invent some tales and see if this blowhard is listening as you embellish your age, your experience, your travel, your bisexual experiences while you were high in Aspen…
The point of this all is that I played it straight. I meant to lie. I had accents at the ready. But then, I was confronted with some guy named Chris and then I was talking to the two women he came with. I think he helped them pick out their clothes. Or helped them shop for their matching sandals.
A perfect opportunity to lie, I know! And I found myself having a long-ish conversation with one of them—Danielle, perhaps?—and enjoying it. I must have been tired.
So, while you were working on your consumption, I:
*hung out with Anna,
*walked by a kid from my university (who informed me that my old DJ partner’s getting married in a few months),
*drank some more,
*dared a guy not to jump down onto the refrigerator truck directly below the balcony,
*chatted with some kids from our rival high school,
*and ran into another kid from the HS.
How was your weekend, Bangin’? Holler At Me.
Haylz, Marla, Gully. I know you might think that I missed our tentative pre-partying appointment because I thought putting Gully and Haylz together creates a chaotic environment wherein stars collapse in upon themselves, where pigs fly helicopters, where leprechauns demand their f*cking pot o’ gold as you're strolling through the projects.
But really, I was lazy and tired and went to uphold a promise to Anna who does not yet have a nickname. There was a gathering of NYU MBA’s at a bar whose name is of little consequence. There were shiny buttoned-down shirts, and low lights, and couches. Like so many other bars.
In the bar, there was Anna, some lame kids, and I thought long and hard about lying my way through the whole evening, because most interesting of all was the Mavericks/ Kings basketball game.
Gully knows, Gully knows about the occasional propensity for lying. You’re at a party, and some over-pompous ass is off and running about his or her cocaine use, or their art, or what they used to do back before the Lower East Side became gentrified, et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.
And you start to think, I can’t listen to any more of this. And you also think, but I would love to invent some tales and see if this blowhard is listening as you embellish your age, your experience, your travel, your bisexual experiences while you were high in Aspen…
The point of this all is that I played it straight. I meant to lie. I had accents at the ready. But then, I was confronted with some guy named Chris and then I was talking to the two women he came with. I think he helped them pick out their clothes. Or helped them shop for their matching sandals.
A perfect opportunity to lie, I know! And I found myself having a long-ish conversation with one of them—Danielle, perhaps?—and enjoying it. I must have been tired.
So, while you were working on your consumption, I:
*hung out with Anna,
*walked by a kid from my university (who informed me that my old DJ partner’s getting married in a few months),
*drank some more,
*dared a guy not to jump down onto the refrigerator truck directly below the balcony,
*chatted with some kids from our rival high school,
*and ran into another kid from the HS.
How was your weekend, Bangin’? Holler At Me.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend VII. 05.13.03
Dear Helen H:
Great to see you at Bubby’s with your kid tonight. You looked tired and natural but better than you did in Pay It Forward. That is so superficial of me. And it’s Mother’s Day too. I am a heel. Please forgive me, Helen.
We had a conversation—Arroz, his sis Kiri, little Leanna, Riz, Naomi, and Jess—about how you would be the perfect celebrity to see—still a cool moment/ event but not so spectacular that anyone loses their shit and embarrasses everyone.
Bubby’s was filled with children to distract us from thinking of staring at you. Ah, the children and the balloons that invariably slipped out of their little fingers and into the whirl of the ceiling fans. I hope you had a better time that we did… to be detailed in another postcard.
Yours in Slight Admiration.
Dear Helen H:
Great to see you at Bubby’s with your kid tonight. You looked tired and natural but better than you did in Pay It Forward. That is so superficial of me. And it’s Mother’s Day too. I am a heel. Please forgive me, Helen.
We had a conversation—Arroz, his sis Kiri, little Leanna, Riz, Naomi, and Jess—about how you would be the perfect celebrity to see—still a cool moment/ event but not so spectacular that anyone loses their shit and embarrasses everyone.
Bubby’s was filled with children to distract us from thinking of staring at you. Ah, the children and the balloons that invariably slipped out of their little fingers and into the whirl of the ceiling fans. I hope you had a better time that we did… to be detailed in another postcard.
Yours in Slight Admiration.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend VIII. 05.13.03
To: Bubby’s.
From: My disappointed ass.
Bubby, America is about meat and blowing stuff up. And your chili is not about either. I want it deported. The mac and cheese did not mack for me. I added an indiscriminate amount of hot sauce to give it some kick. I spent the rest of the evening dabbing my upper lip and under-nose for some illusory hot sauce remnant.
Try that in the mirror, by the way. You’ll look like a moron too.
But, Bubby. The food lacked a little kick. Except for the hush puppies, which we could have eaten for days. Damn, those were good. We should have made them dinner. Naomi didn’t mind. She’s a fan of eating. I mind. I’m finicky and do not have Naomi’s heightened sensibilities. So I complain.
Bubby, one more thing—the strawberry shortcake had ice cream instead of… cream? And it looked hastily considered, hastily slapped together. But nothing like the key lime pie, which lacked lime.
I appreciate your restaurant, and would appreciate it more if you addressed these issues. Thank you for your time.
My Savory Regards.
To: Bubby’s.
From: My disappointed ass.
Bubby, America is about meat and blowing stuff up. And your chili is not about either. I want it deported. The mac and cheese did not mack for me. I added an indiscriminate amount of hot sauce to give it some kick. I spent the rest of the evening dabbing my upper lip and under-nose for some illusory hot sauce remnant.
Try that in the mirror, by the way. You’ll look like a moron too.
But, Bubby. The food lacked a little kick. Except for the hush puppies, which we could have eaten for days. Damn, those were good. We should have made them dinner. Naomi didn’t mind. She’s a fan of eating. I mind. I’m finicky and do not have Naomi’s heightened sensibilities. So I complain.
Bubby, one more thing—the strawberry shortcake had ice cream instead of… cream? And it looked hastily considered, hastily slapped together. But nothing like the key lime pie, which lacked lime.
I appreciate your restaurant, and would appreciate it more if you addressed these issues. Thank you for your time.
My Savory Regards.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend IX. 05.13.03
Arroz the Rice-A-Homie is the bestest. He wouldn’t tell me the surprise for weeks, but told me to leave May 11th open for… a surprise. We walked through the mists of Hudson Street and past Canal up to Spring and cut left, finding ourselves at the end of a small line at the rock club Don Hill’s.
Where the poster states that tonight is one of two shows by a cavalcade of unheard of terrible funk-o-metal bands. Headlined by King’s X and your band, Fishbone.
Some of my friends probably get excited over the name Fishbone. I have seen you once myself, on the Mississippi Riverfront in Memphis, Tennessee. I’ll tell you that tale one day if you haven’t heard it. It’s one of my favorites. And Fishbone, you were okay there, on a crappy soundsystem and a crowd maybe a little old for their antics. Parliament Funkadelic was the headliner, if you’ll remember.
But back here in New York, I hopped on one foot in glee. And not just over y’all, Fishbone.
I listened to a lot of heavy metal as a high schooler. Yeah, I did it. One of the bands I liked was King’s X, a progressive metal band of positive Christian men who mess with time signatures and harmonize about love and probably grew up listening to Rush and Voivod.
Arroz didn’t know that. He knows that Fishbone is a blast in and of themselves. In fact, in the sweaty no-fan confines of Don Hill’s, where water is an essential and my stink isn’t bad compared to the ambiance of the club, with John Waters’ absolutely filthy Pink Flamingos on two TV screens, you rocked hard.
The kids were stage diving from Party at Ground Zero throughout the set, surfing the crowd and yelling out loud. Angelo Moore, you of course got into the act, singing while floating on a wave of hands. But, Angelo. I am glad I came to your show. But watch the feet. You kicked Kiri in the head. Don’t kick the Kiri, don’t break her nose. She’s gonna be famous one day. She’ll need that nose. And her brother’s really big and won’t cotton to such behavior. You did see her with the cup of ice to her face, right?
Also, Norwood. I love your anti-rat-tail, or your last remaining dred, or your antenna to the funk aliens with the frozen Godzilla farts. But, as a fan, I must tell you—showering is your friend. When walking through a crowd, we can smell your musky waft. Please, next time—don’t opt for the oils, opt for the soap.
I wish I could also tell Riz to NOT spit water at me. Granted, I dribbled a little on her shoulder, but a full-on fire hydrant spit was not the way to go. The guy behind me certainly didn’t enjoy it.
When the skankin’ was done, and everyone was smiling, well after Arroz and I wailed along to Sunless Saturday, the rest of the kids left. It was late, they were tired. So was I.
But not too tired to stay for King’s X.
And I saw you in the corner, Neal Davis from high school. Man, these kids are everywhere! No matter. King’s X whipped out blues cords and a funk beat for their new songs. And they did fine, embellishing some of their crappier songs and making them pleasant.
Then they took it back to 1989-91. Damn, it was good. Like the first real key lime pie of the summer. Norwood, I saw you appreciating them between fan conversations, hanging out in the back, quietly accepting on-stage appreciation from King’s X. Very cool.
Fishbone—as the crowd said, you are Red Hot.
Skankingly Yours.
Arroz the Rice-A-Homie is the bestest. He wouldn’t tell me the surprise for weeks, but told me to leave May 11th open for… a surprise. We walked through the mists of Hudson Street and past Canal up to Spring and cut left, finding ourselves at the end of a small line at the rock club Don Hill’s.
Where the poster states that tonight is one of two shows by a cavalcade of unheard of terrible funk-o-metal bands. Headlined by King’s X and your band, Fishbone.
Some of my friends probably get excited over the name Fishbone. I have seen you once myself, on the Mississippi Riverfront in Memphis, Tennessee. I’ll tell you that tale one day if you haven’t heard it. It’s one of my favorites. And Fishbone, you were okay there, on a crappy soundsystem and a crowd maybe a little old for their antics. Parliament Funkadelic was the headliner, if you’ll remember.
But back here in New York, I hopped on one foot in glee. And not just over y’all, Fishbone.
I listened to a lot of heavy metal as a high schooler. Yeah, I did it. One of the bands I liked was King’s X, a progressive metal band of positive Christian men who mess with time signatures and harmonize about love and probably grew up listening to Rush and Voivod.
Arroz didn’t know that. He knows that Fishbone is a blast in and of themselves. In fact, in the sweaty no-fan confines of Don Hill’s, where water is an essential and my stink isn’t bad compared to the ambiance of the club, with John Waters’ absolutely filthy Pink Flamingos on two TV screens, you rocked hard.
The kids were stage diving from Party at Ground Zero throughout the set, surfing the crowd and yelling out loud. Angelo Moore, you of course got into the act, singing while floating on a wave of hands. But, Angelo. I am glad I came to your show. But watch the feet. You kicked Kiri in the head. Don’t kick the Kiri, don’t break her nose. She’s gonna be famous one day. She’ll need that nose. And her brother’s really big and won’t cotton to such behavior. You did see her with the cup of ice to her face, right?
Also, Norwood. I love your anti-rat-tail, or your last remaining dred, or your antenna to the funk aliens with the frozen Godzilla farts. But, as a fan, I must tell you—showering is your friend. When walking through a crowd, we can smell your musky waft. Please, next time—don’t opt for the oils, opt for the soap.
I wish I could also tell Riz to NOT spit water at me. Granted, I dribbled a little on her shoulder, but a full-on fire hydrant spit was not the way to go. The guy behind me certainly didn’t enjoy it.
When the skankin’ was done, and everyone was smiling, well after Arroz and I wailed along to Sunless Saturday, the rest of the kids left. It was late, they were tired. So was I.
But not too tired to stay for King’s X.
And I saw you in the corner, Neal Davis from high school. Man, these kids are everywhere! No matter. King’s X whipped out blues cords and a funk beat for their new songs. And they did fine, embellishing some of their crappier songs and making them pleasant.
Then they took it back to 1989-91. Damn, it was good. Like the first real key lime pie of the summer. Norwood, I saw you appreciating them between fan conversations, hanging out in the back, quietly accepting on-stage appreciation from King’s X. Very cool.
Fishbone—as the crowd said, you are Red Hot.
Skankingly Yours.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend X. 05.13.03
It is times like these when living at the end of the earth leaves a little to be desired, with my feet sore from standing and swaying, when I have not slept in my bed since Thursday night, when it is almost 4 AM and I walk home instead of taking a ridiculously overpriced car service.
There are about ten other people in cars, walking, standing, along my path, and I always wonder what they are doing out under the cover of night.
Probably the same thing as me.
The trees are coming in, finally, making some dark paths even darker but in a relaxing sort of way, adding a pleasant obscuring to the streetlamps and creating images and shadows enough to make my heart race, but not enough to strike late night fear into my heart.
The air smells wet and feels warm with each breeze. And though I would like to sleep for a good long time, I also want to sit out on the front steps and recline.
I see the cats who have taken residence on a car in my driveway, gesture for them—you don’t have to find a home, but you got to get the f*ck up outta this driveway—and put key in lock, realizing that the whole sit and recline fantasy? F- that dog, I am crazy tired.
Good Night, Neighborhood.
It is times like these when living at the end of the earth leaves a little to be desired, with my feet sore from standing and swaying, when I have not slept in my bed since Thursday night, when it is almost 4 AM and I walk home instead of taking a ridiculously overpriced car service.
There are about ten other people in cars, walking, standing, along my path, and I always wonder what they are doing out under the cover of night.
Probably the same thing as me.
The trees are coming in, finally, making some dark paths even darker but in a relaxing sort of way, adding a pleasant obscuring to the streetlamps and creating images and shadows enough to make my heart race, but not enough to strike late night fear into my heart.
The air smells wet and feels warm with each breeze. And though I would like to sleep for a good long time, I also want to sit out on the front steps and recline.
I see the cats who have taken residence on a car in my driveway, gesture for them—you don’t have to find a home, but you got to get the f*ck up outta this driveway—and put key in lock, realizing that the whole sit and recline fantasy? F- that dog, I am crazy tired.
Good Night, Neighborhood.
Thursday, May 08, 2003
What's In A Name? 05.08.03
According to the Kalabrian Philosophy:
Your name of Pico creates a quick, clever mind capable of grasping and assimilating new ideas. You are rather studious, mentally challenging each new idea before accepting it. Because you learn so quickly you have little patience with those whose mental processes are somewhat slower, and you could become supercilious or somewhat "know it all" in your attitude. This characteristic could make you rather unpopular with your associates. Although you are very knowledgeable and intelligent, you often find spontaneous verbal expression difficult. You crave friendship, understanding, love, and affection about your reserved manner appears forbidding to others. You can give expression to your personal thoughts and feelings most fluently through the written word.
You have a sensitive nature--sensitive to your environment and particularly sensitive to how your deeper and more serious interests are regarded by others. Your feelings are very easily hurt and to protect yourself you withdraw within the realms of your own private thoughts and shut out the rest of the world. Moods, which are your worst enemy, result. Your sensitivity and lack of verbal expression frustrate and limit the satisfaction in life to be gained from your responsible and capable nature. Health problems arise due to worry and a sensitivity in the respiratory area which could lead to problems with the heart, lungs, or bronchial organs.
Hit that link above and search for your name; I bet you will have a sensitivity in the respiratory area too.
According to the Kalabrian Philosophy:
Your name of Pico creates a quick, clever mind capable of grasping and assimilating new ideas. You are rather studious, mentally challenging each new idea before accepting it. Because you learn so quickly you have little patience with those whose mental processes are somewhat slower, and you could become supercilious or somewhat "know it all" in your attitude. This characteristic could make you rather unpopular with your associates. Although you are very knowledgeable and intelligent, you often find spontaneous verbal expression difficult. You crave friendship, understanding, love, and affection about your reserved manner appears forbidding to others. You can give expression to your personal thoughts and feelings most fluently through the written word.
You have a sensitive nature--sensitive to your environment and particularly sensitive to how your deeper and more serious interests are regarded by others. Your feelings are very easily hurt and to protect yourself you withdraw within the realms of your own private thoughts and shut out the rest of the world. Moods, which are your worst enemy, result. Your sensitivity and lack of verbal expression frustrate and limit the satisfaction in life to be gained from your responsible and capable nature. Health problems arise due to worry and a sensitivity in the respiratory area which could lead to problems with the heart, lungs, or bronchial organs.
Hit that link above and search for your name; I bet you will have a sensitivity in the respiratory area too.
Wednesday, May 07, 2003
Blowcrastination 05.07.03
This is excellent. I have one more final. It’s a paper. All I have to do is finish a paper. Instead, I am rediscovering other people’s blogs.
I am noting that I never wrote about my party homie Larry Eustachy like I had planned to. He’s the man who can coach basketball and then party with nubile 18-yr olds. Yeah, Eustachy’s my hero.
I am noting that I have not yet said anything about Bob Ryan’s retarded ass comments about Jason Kidd’s wife.
I am noting that I have not gone back and started inserting insane fictional bits in my other blog.
Angel’s coming to a season (maybe forever?) end and I have not noted anything about that.
Or Rey Sanchez’ haircut follies.
Soon, my sweets, soon.
What I need is the accompaniment of Ja Rule and his innumerable duets to give me pop as I write. Or a freaking snickers bar. Or maybe I should have slept in my own bed last night. But that Gulshan is too convincing! So is beer. And the prospect of multiple possibly nubile art ladies in a bar, ready to let loose after a long semester of art creation... with a little creative act or three in athletically adventurous positions...
Though I and Gulshan were reminded that the first rule of the booty brigade might really be "don't talk about the booty brigade." It's hard to tell someone about the concept and then follow with, "so how 'bout it? I'll even buy you a drink if I have to and shit." Props to the Holiday Bird for coming out for a little lunching in Bryant Park, our feet in the green (but our shoes on, as per the security guard's instructions), our mouths busy with chatter and chew, our eyes strafing the grounds for boy/girl candy.
This is excellent. I have one more final. It’s a paper. All I have to do is finish a paper. Instead, I am rediscovering other people’s blogs.
I am noting that I never wrote about my party homie Larry Eustachy like I had planned to. He’s the man who can coach basketball and then party with nubile 18-yr olds. Yeah, Eustachy’s my hero.
I am noting that I have not yet said anything about Bob Ryan’s retarded ass comments about Jason Kidd’s wife.
I am noting that I have not gone back and started inserting insane fictional bits in my other blog.
Angel’s coming to a season (maybe forever?) end and I have not noted anything about that.
Or Rey Sanchez’ haircut follies.
Soon, my sweets, soon.
What I need is the accompaniment of Ja Rule and his innumerable duets to give me pop as I write. Or a freaking snickers bar. Or maybe I should have slept in my own bed last night. But that Gulshan is too convincing! So is beer. And the prospect of multiple possibly nubile art ladies in a bar, ready to let loose after a long semester of art creation... with a little creative act or three in athletically adventurous positions...
Though I and Gulshan were reminded that the first rule of the booty brigade might really be "don't talk about the booty brigade." It's hard to tell someone about the concept and then follow with, "so how 'bout it? I'll even buy you a drink if I have to and shit." Props to the Holiday Bird for coming out for a little lunching in Bryant Park, our feet in the green (but our shoes on, as per the security guard's instructions), our mouths busy with chatter and chew, our eyes strafing the grounds for boy/girl candy.
Poemtry 05.07.03
Thanks to Affordable Justice for popping this on his site. It's a poem generator. To try it, click this jammie.
One generated for Pico Dulce's blog--
muses codfish ] ; cops try to his licence,
to players to say that
proper budonkadonk
to Drinkland. My rims
done slaving over
Persian food.
choices. i ain’t shitting you,
have fallen asleep
at , New show
Mr.
Raycroft over
them skittish.
Thanks to Affordable Justice for popping this on his site. It's a poem generator. To try it, click this jammie.
One generated for Pico Dulce's blog--
muses codfish ] ; cops try to his licence,
to players to say that
proper budonkadonk
to Drinkland. My rims
done slaving over
Persian food.
choices. i ain’t shitting you,
have fallen asleep
at , New show
Mr.
Raycroft over
them skittish.
Tuesday, May 06, 2003
Quick-E 05.06.03
Check it out-- Pixel is finally done slaving over her boyfriend's site. he should like, take her to a Hollywood opening or something! BTW, look for the picture with Carrie-Anne Moss, it's special.
Check it out-- Pixel is finally done slaving over her boyfriend's site. he should like, take her to a Hollywood opening or something! BTW, look for the picture with Carrie-Anne Moss, it's special.
Monday, May 05, 2003
Six Responses From Hayley 05.05.03
Fill in your own questions. I am lazy.
Halyz says: when else would you get to sing "piece of me?"
to answer your questions:
1. scale of 1-10, 3-4. and it only gets that much because i was wasted. and because there was ass exposure in the street.
2. hoboken is a quaint little place, but there are too many drunk fraternity guys and sorority girls. if i had to live in jersey, i would choose hoboken. but i will never live in jersey.
3. if i could change one thing, i would not have fallen asleep at schnapp's, but rather whipped out some stimulants, gone back to manhattan to a bar, and gotten laid.
4. i remember thinking that one of the designs on the wall looks like my tattoo, i remember schnapp told me there were bananas and i found chocolate chips and was mad that he had "lied" to me about my snack food choices. i remember tossing mini chips into my mouth. i remember being woken up.
5. not mr. softee. i'm thinking mini oreos.
6. i thought she was really pale.
7. i learned to do a bridge from yoga class. i am most impressed that i can reach my head back onto the ground when i am in the bridge. i did it because i want other people to oooh and ah. i'd like to say that that's the first time i whipped out the bridge, but it is not.
Fill in your own questions. I am lazy.
Halyz says: when else would you get to sing "piece of me?"
to answer your questions:
1. scale of 1-10, 3-4. and it only gets that much because i was wasted. and because there was ass exposure in the street.
2. hoboken is a quaint little place, but there are too many drunk fraternity guys and sorority girls. if i had to live in jersey, i would choose hoboken. but i will never live in jersey.
3. if i could change one thing, i would not have fallen asleep at schnapp's, but rather whipped out some stimulants, gone back to manhattan to a bar, and gotten laid.
4. i remember thinking that one of the designs on the wall looks like my tattoo, i remember schnapp told me there were bananas and i found chocolate chips and was mad that he had "lied" to me about my snack food choices. i remember tossing mini chips into my mouth. i remember being woken up.
5. not mr. softee. i'm thinking mini oreos.
6. i thought she was really pale.
7. i learned to do a bridge from yoga class. i am most impressed that i can reach my head back onto the ground when i am in the bridge. i did it because i want other people to oooh and ah. i'd like to say that that's the first time i whipped out the bridge, but it is not.
The Smut Ambassador 05.05.03
My time with Hayley was something to behold with beer goggles firmly on. So was the sight of us screaming the lyrics to 18 and Life as we stumbled past the bars of Ho-broken as the little sorority chickens and fraternity puppies watched us pass. And watched Haylz flash. And watched Gulshan try to convince various ladies to accompany us into the city.
We did it all, yelled off of roofs (rooves?), made time with the nice people of the ACLU, I talked sports until Marla was ready to deck me…
And what I came away with was this—even though Haylz will do a bridge for our pleasure, I refuse to hang out with her and Gulshan together until they can play civil and not fondle each other until one ends up upset or annoyed. That’s just me.
On the other hand… it was kind of funny. And it’s not so bad, nobody fell off of Devon’s balcony. No one was photographed with a Bacardi O3 in hand. And no one decided to stay in Ho-broken because it seemed happening and adventurous.
My time with Hayley was something to behold with beer goggles firmly on. So was the sight of us screaming the lyrics to 18 and Life as we stumbled past the bars of Ho-broken as the little sorority chickens and fraternity puppies watched us pass. And watched Haylz flash. And watched Gulshan try to convince various ladies to accompany us into the city.
We did it all, yelled off of roofs (rooves?), made time with the nice people of the ACLU, I talked sports until Marla was ready to deck me…
And what I came away with was this—even though Haylz will do a bridge for our pleasure, I refuse to hang out with her and Gulshan together until they can play civil and not fondle each other until one ends up upset or annoyed. That’s just me.
On the other hand… it was kind of funny. And it’s not so bad, nobody fell off of Devon’s balcony. No one was photographed with a Bacardi O3 in hand. And no one decided to stay in Ho-broken because it seemed happening and adventurous.
Thursday, May 01, 2003
Ozzy 05.01.03
Ozzy might sing in the kitchen: "I'm rocking out with Haylz eating Gravy Train!" A night of debauchery with Bangin' Brooklyn is coming and I will give you the real inside scoop into her debaucherous life. What makes her tick. The most embarrassing thing she's ever done. Is there love in the Bangin' world? What's next for our sexual stuntwoman?
Coming after this weekend's hangover. And be thankful I didn't lead you to this site, the first thing that pops up when you search "Gravy Train" on Google.
Ozzy might sing in the kitchen: "I'm rocking out with Haylz eating Gravy Train!" A night of debauchery with Bangin' Brooklyn is coming and I will give you the real inside scoop into her debaucherous life. What makes her tick. The most embarrassing thing she's ever done. Is there love in the Bangin' world? What's next for our sexual stuntwoman?
Coming after this weekend's hangover. And be thankful I didn't lead you to this site, the first thing that pops up when you search "Gravy Train" on Google.
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