Even Elvis Sang About The Ghetto 9.23.04

I forget the first part of the dream- I think it involved some flooding or some kind of quarantine—but Eben and I were relocated to the projects, the PJ’s. It wasn’t so bad, really; it was late and the place really didn’t quiet down. My dream had no smell-o-vision so no pissy hallways; most everything from the walls to the doors to the furniture seemed in good condition.

I remember images:

A line of cars slowly following a police car, silent, but lights flashing a block to our left when we looked outside. For some reason we spent a lot of time outside the apartment, made friends with some neighbors who were mostly okay.

My little brother stopped by at some late hour to borrow a sleeping bag. He snuck into my room thinking I wouldn’t notice, which was scary. He does that when he’s home and looking for something. But he didn’t live anywhere around there. I asked him about it and his response was “eggh. ugggh.”

At some point we were outside late at night, couldn’t sleep. It was a peaceful courtyard. A couple was doing… something, not illicit, on a bench. Like a guy was showing a woman how to draw, perhaps. Eben was outside and then went in, because, really, we were in the courtyard of the PJ’s late at night and is that where we really needed to be? Amorphous relocation situation or not.

I noticed a man sidling to a fence, and then to the entrance door. I was excited because it was Beenie Man. Then I was disturbed because Beenie Man was looking a little shady, alone, in a black leather jacket and same colored shirt and pants, maybe cream colored. He gave me a look and I realized I really shouldn’t be outside. Some noise heralded the entrance of some residents and a couple of cops.

Who were actually very nice. Talked to us all about security. Asked me a couple of questions about what Beenie Man was doing there, who he was, if I knew if he had any connections in the neighborhood. They went after him. I went back to the apartment where I was staying—spacious, but with old furniture—and checked the closets and then I woke up.

I think I watch too much Law and Order.

basement bhangra1

basement bhangra1,
originally uploaded by picodulce.

this is dave/ oliver/ deep doing the onstage thing. before the cd player went ill.

doctor doctor, can't you see i'm burning burning 9.23.04

the title was a song i heard in a drugstore this afternoon, i think it is from the 80's. does anyone know who sang it?

angie and matt and i were discussing how one tends to be friends with people of similar/ equal attractiveness. is this true? then what's wrong with me hanging out with selvadurai? breeding material, indeed.

also, read this month from que sera sera. truly impressive. sweet. aww! that means you, neverecho.

some nerdy kids have taken over the lounge where i was working, with video games with foot-activated pads. they're dancing to some terrible music; the action is projected onto a large screen. well, at least they're getting their exercise.

because shotguns are so passé 9.20.04

a rough turn on the knob of the toaster over will set my bread to dark; i am busy making a sandwich with as many remaining fixin's in the house before they go bad. this includes the ham and roast beef, tomato, lettuce, an avocado; might work in some peppers and onions too. worcestershire sauce, that’s what’s needed.

i'd like to thank alex for updating the phrase "shotgun wedding" with "glock wedding," or "semi-automatic weapon wedding." now we can get pregnant kids to the altar faster and with less haggling!

as a side note, i've had this urge recently to learn how to fire a gun. it's one of the few things a young man misses when he grows up in new york-- even in this almost-hood neighborhood i live in now. everyone on law and order has a gun, even socialites! and all my favorite rappers drop lines about gunplay. i just want to fit in.

i am serious about this. i am going to learn how to shoot. next year.

shit! jehovah’s witnesses at the door! i think they heard my plate…

from there to sunday part II 9.19.04

saturday night i went on what seems like a reunion tour-- to zoe's gathering and to jennifer 8's gathering. zoe's was good, and of course not enough time to talk to the host. 8's was kind of nuts. and i got a little hammered. and the bartender wasn't very nice. i think she was trying to be fun or quirky or mock bitchy when she gave me the finger, and i laughed, but i'd rather not be given the finger. good to see the hs boys, ashok a/k/a dead air dave, john john blond john, sam-buka, mr. funk, and the beautifully chill zara, tommy brown, josh, john's crazy sister laura, abby, blah blah blah, et cetera, et cetera.

and that nice young lady we spoke to, and that short young lady mr. funk tried to speak to. i mean, serious, she was a midget. no, no, she was at least 4 foot 5. i could have put her in my backpack.

from there to sunday 9.19.04

i can't believe i never chose to go to basement bhangra before. oh, i am a simple and moronic man. it was hot times. i mean hot. i mean i was soaked to the bone dancing with arroz' sister, kiri the rice-a-homie and her doll friend katie. also in the house was shashi and maggie and maggie's sister ryan and ruthie and samantha and samantha's friend and shashi's friend and-- you get the idea. sharma and oliver and deep up on stage banging on two drums and a bass and watching their cd player gag and cough while they tried to play over "lean back." (note: learn fat joe's lean back dance from this link.)

unfortunately ruthie also got some stuff stolen. so kids, when you go to basement bhangra, i guess you got to secure your stuff. i wouldn't have thought it, the crowd was fun and friendly, the sikhs were dancing and banging into us, the young men greased across the floor looking for single women; but you never know when you have a thief in your midst.

had a moment with kiri and katie where i looked up on stage, trying to position for a picture (maybe i should get those jammies developed, huh?) and sharma was asking everyone to give the middle finger to the cd player and i yelled at kiri, "you sometimes, i love my boys." it's good to look around and see the loopy ass people you fraternize with.

basement bhangra! 9.16.04

if only i can amuse myself for two more hours.

the service was even worse 9.15.04

jaunted into the city to meet rini and ellen and rini's boy scott, over chinese/ vietnamese/ japanese food uptown; and then to what was once drip, a cheesy coffeshop comeplete with dating books. now drip is a malt shoppe with dollar beers. yeah, i said dollar beers. i went once with lillie (heretofore known as lala or my new young friend) and tusi when tusi was in town and amidst the crying and the protestations and the giants game, the dollar rheingolds were good times--

though this time we sat in the little grey brick outdoors, a backyard in the middle of the upper west side; metal chairs and free-standing table sized umbrellas. since the umbrellas aren't attached to the tables, of course, the rain coverage leaves something to be desired. there is construction through the fence next door. and still, it seemed like a fine place to have coffee and talk with your old friend.

the fellow to the side had the same idea, bringing his notebook and ordering some food, writing with his striped wristband. funny how that phrase looks like stupid wristband.

anyway. we waited for our coffee. scott and rini went ot find our waitress. while we found out our coffee was organic, we didn't get to taste its organic goodness; and when we got our coffee, we didn't get to enjoy it with milk. ten minutes later, as it was cooling, we enjoyed the milk. around this time, the writer received his burger-- lacking bacon, and his fries, cold. and his cherry lime rickey. without the cherry. and a few minutes later, we got the sugar. and a minute later, the spoons.

our compatriot agreed. it shouldn't be this hard.

nothin' but a sundance things

read about burt bacharach... and a mention of the album he's doing with dr. dre.

parcel post 9.14.04

just so you know, sending mail packages to kansas involves a different pricing structure than the one we use in new york. i never knew that. i just slapped postage on and sent my mail on the way... but i guess kansas is much more backwards. it's like a foreign country. i coiuld continue with a blog that complains about the surprising post office which would touch on matters such as incompetence-- i try not to get too crappy about people doing their jobs, but when you start to feel you are talking a foreign language, it all changes.

as a side note the prince street post office is the most fey-ass soho joint i think i've ever seen. so many bad haircuts, so much of the 80's, and the hot woman who of course was about to toss a fit. okay, off to queens, and shopping and deciding whether i will see the thrills at irving plaza on friday, in dc on saturday, or not at all.

word.

going to... 9.10.04

jersey for the day and zara's gathering tonight.

class starts tomorrow 9.8.04

And I am so not ready. I even have reading to do but I am thinking about seeing all the people I haven't been able to all summer (though many of them don't really know the difference-- i didn't see the G-Balls and longuyland Lori's that much before). And hijinks, been thinking about hijinks. And the blog posts I never put up. And the photos I never scanned. And how I need to reorganize my room and really, how I am just holding back from spending what little money I have on an X-Box-- I want some Madden 2005 in my life.

Regrets, regrets, regrets. If I could get all that done and convince the NYMets to actually win a game I'd be money in the bank.

-P.

Open 9.2.04

Going to the US Open with no knapsack as instructed. Time for a plastic bag with water, a book, and my IPod. More postings later; Silver, I think you will appreciate my new playlist on the right. And glad to see you're still checking out the blog, Greg.

==WATCH FATHER OF THE PRIDE AT 9 PM EDT==

From my dear friend Laura:

Hello, all.

Well, it's finally here.  After about 16 months, 13 episodes, countless late nights and one tiger "accident" (Um, Roy fell down, the tiger was just helping him up...), "Father of the Pride" premieres tomorrow night on NBC at 9pm Eastern and Pacific. As most of you know, I'm the script coordinator on the show, which means I spend all of my time with the show's writers, and they've been great to me. As the episodes come out over the next couple of weeks, you'll even hear some jokes pitched by yours truly.  And the alligator you'll see skating by in the opening credits?  My idea.

So what is this show, in case you missed the promos they showed during the Olympics?  "Father of the Pride" is a computer animated, beautiful-to-look-at family sitcom about a group of lions who live in Las Vegas and work for Siegfried and Roy.  I might be biased, but I happen to think that the show is smart and funny, featuring, among other things, two hilarious German magicians/superheroes, and a lot of angry primates.

Trust me, when I first heard the idea, I thought "what the hell?" But the show has turned out to be great, and the episodes just get better and better as they go along.  As well as our main cast members, we've got wonderful guest stars, including Andy Richter and Lisa Kudrow playing pandas in our first episode, Eddie Murphy as Donkey from "Shrek", Danny DeVito as a lobster who thinks he is a political prisoner, and David Spade as a stoned coyote desert guide. We've had a lot of fun here.

I hope you're all tune in and check it out - NBC is even going to be showing it commercial-free tomorrow night.  They'll also be repeating it a few times this week for those of you who miss it tomorrow. I hope you enjoy the show.  Let me know what you think!

Love, Laura

RNC-1 8.30.04

Somehow I still feel ill when I see black and asian Republicans joyfully clapping. Gives me that ol' Sambo feeling.

Somehow I still get excited when I see movies such as "Love, Actually" and how they have multiple black characters! With speaking roles!

The speech by Rudy Giuliani was impressive. That fathead might actually have touched on a way to look at the President favorably. I don't agree but out there, maybe even a town over, someone is thinking, I'm going to vote for Bush. You know, after they ignore the idea of sovereign nations, the fact that Rudy "feels" Saddam had weapons of mass destruction and that he is a weapon of mass destruction (i almost typed distrustion, must have been thinking ahead), and they ignore the whole false premise thing.

Pool? 8.29.04

Pool party was all good. Complete cheesy wrap up in the AM.

Pressure's On You, Lassie! 8.27.04

Check out Heather's blog, The Outpost. She's one of the funniest most pop-cultur-y people I know. I admire her greatly and if she doesn't fill her blog with quotable goodness I'm going down to the Illadelph and spanking some ass. Word.

Since I Can't Speak German 8.27.04

I know you'll wonder why I was even interested in translating the site. Well, I don't need to apologize to you, you, or you, dammit! I just liked the German field hockey womens' game. Here is a profile I found on google of German field hockey player Tina Bachmann... translated to English. I point this out because I think this translator leaves a little to be desired... but it's funnier all garbled.

Reverie 8.27.04

...from last night...

It’s almost midnight already; and I remember what I like so much about being alone. Did some productive things in the morning, after watching the US Men’s Basketball team actually win a game (and their coach, Larry Brown get all cuss-y and incensed at the Spanish coach). I also got on the exercise bike and rode somewhere between 8-10 miles. The phone rang. I lost track. Also watched US Women’s soccer win their gold in semi-dramatic fashion, as my favorite New York Mets were getting blown out by that San Diego squad.

In the past few hours after my brother left to attend some cipher somewhere with some cat named Crazy-E, I:

• Mowed the lawn
• Removed the last of the fallen branches from the tree my father and I cut down
• Scratched my notable non-mosquito bug bites
• Listened to a great Pumpkinhead song
• Watched the Olympic field hockey gold medal game
• Ate a roast beef sandwich for dinner
• Put out the trash
• Picked a pepper
• Opened a Red Stripe (though I have quit drinking)
• Left some kids some messages about this weekend
• Started some notes on what will either be a short story or a “novel”
• Cleaned a few tables
• Set up my IPod on random
• Sliced off slivers of ginger, set hot water to boil. (I added some golden seal root to it in hopes of quelling my sniffle-nose. DO NOT follow my lead on that one)
• Read 80 pages of Symptomatic (listen to her here)
• Fell asleep
• Enjoyed the crickets outside
• Enjoyed the breeze

If not for Pixel I’d stay home tomorrow. For now, I think I will wake up at 6 or 7 and water the lawn, eat an apple, finish my book, take the life of leisure as it comes. Ooh! Rush comes up on random! Time to go.

Post Script: At some point I will talk about my relation to classic rock and why I really get that excited about it. Just the other day I was explaining it to Anna-Lu and I think it’s an interesting topic. And that’s all that matters.

Where The Poodle At? 8.26.04

Yesterday, while running, I realized a few things about my local park. My little sibling, Agua Dulce, at one point would talk about our neighborhood as “the hood,” you know, that place where gunshots pop off all night and crap games get broken up in front of project walkways by the muthaf**kin’ 5-oh, where the stairs smell like piss and there ain’t nothing but bodegas and churches and liquor stores on every corner. And the beauty salon so you can get your hair did, and the barbershop so you can get your fade and sides trimmed correct.

I never really thought of it as such, being four years older than he and not having gone to our local grade school, a home for hoodlums like the now famous Lloyd Banks of G-Unit fame. Additionally, I never learned that one should talk about one’s rap craeer and how “you’ll hear of us” to the insurance company that one owes money to. Nor have I had friends who just got out of jail. Except for Eben, of course. But something that struck me—just as cities have suburbs, and suburbs have ex-urbs, the hood has sub-hoods. And I seem to have been enveloped in one.

Now, there are still couples walking their poodles. Lots of poodles. It was strange. Some larger and well-kept dogs. Black people, Latino people, Indian people. A women’s softball game, some people running, kids waiting for football practice. Tennis courts active with players. All countered by the occasional smell of weed smoke (light this afternoon), the sauntering kids in football and basketball jerseys, yelling on the basketball courts, the guy in the laminated van (like the ones radio station street teams drive) trying to sell me his CD, “Hood Politics” with a picture of him “intelligently” reading a book with some glasses that don’t fit, and of course the asshole.

The asshole is riding a dirt bike on paths, had been doing so for a while. If one comes to a fork to split, we’re on the other side of the fork, where the paths come together. I am trying to pass a slower runner on my right. I see the biker and think, at that speed he’s bound to go straight. But oh no. That isn’t adventurous for this jackass, who cuts a 35º turn straight into my path. I jumped out of the way.

Effin’ knuckleheads. We ain’t the hood but stupid elements still infiltrate. That’s the name of my new album. S.E.S.I. Wait, if I add the N-word, then I can call my album S.E.N.S.I. If I put that joint on a Carolina bounce beat, add some dancehall touches, it’s gonna sell like half-price Ipod minis.

Post Script:
*Check out NeverEcho’s blog.
*Check out Rini’s work editing Two Lines.

New Top = Kotter 8.25.04

I don't have no kind of nothing to say. Welcome back New Topography, read her blog. She's much funnier than I am.

Pico in San Frisky, 2 years ago 8.23.04

Wherein your hero is:

Scared of Dogs.

Check out this month, featuring why I hate Cr-Oakland, a horrible Mets doubleheader, Candy-licking in Chicago, and a tourist excursion. I promise it’s entertaining.

The Scents of Silence 8.23.04

In my hands I hold the world’s stinkiest cap. It’s ungendered and named Stinky-Cap. It is an old St. Louis Rams cap—old as in from the 1998-99 season, when I temped for the NFL for a couple of weeks. It’s blue and sits low on the head. And it has years of softball and running and general use under its bill.

I suppose I should get rid of Stinky-Cap; just the other day I tried to wash it and it came out stinkier than before. That is of course because I didn’t put it in the dryer, and perhaps it was damp for longer than it should have been. I plan on rewashing it; but I have worn it once or twice since, hoping passerby will attribute the smell to the hardworking, sweat covered fella underneath the cap.

My cap is a good cap, even has a hint of the sweat line frat boys get under their “Cocks” or whichever hats, you know, the white ones with red lettering, frayed at the edge of the bill, a yellow shoreline built up over the years. Stinky-Cap accompanied me on my 3.75 mile run this morning, shading me from sunlight and prying eyes.

My cap is my trusty assistant for coming tennis excursions with young ladies such as Tusi’s little friend and the one of the many Erins still in New York and one day with that curly haired Ochs kid. Because tennis with young ladies is an excellent way to… embarrass myself and make them laugh, which is a normalizing occurrence for me.

I’d play with young men but Eben has his blacktop hockey and I don’t know anyone besides Joel in Cali who gets into playing tennis.

Stinky-Cap is now tossed on top of an unused sleeping bag, airing out, with a hint of Febreeze to de-funkify its life for tomorrow’s tennis excursion with my father, where, like he did when I was 12, he will yell at me to turn my body and to finish and to stop trying to kill the ball and to hit deeper and to calm down. Ah, sweet memories of hiding the middle finger behind the racket. Only Stinky-Cap and I will be able to see.

The Inactive Life 8.22.04

While I love the HBO show Entourage , and the Showtime movie This Girl's Life about a porn star and her new beau named Kip played by Kip Pardue; and while I love reading the newspaper and my new library books (one on the history of race mixing from WWII until now between black and white Americans-- Marge, it's research for our seduction of Ann Coulter -- action figure available here), I must say that sitting on my ass was a little bit much. After talking to Anna-lu for a while about the importance/ learning one can get from going abroad (and how I feel that my experience is different, growing up with people of many cultures here in New York vs. in a homogenous suburb. I had that conversation with little Marnocha a lot back in the day), we spoke about the possible pratfalls of biking to Rockaway Beach from my home on almost Long Island, as Gurnifer and I had planned to consider doing.

And after all of those words, words, words-- I watched women's basketball in the Olympics, and television (and read a little) until Entourage came on. And the show was worth it-- visceral, makes me think I am too old to enjoy that part of Los Angeles-- the parties, the star chasing. And it made me think that if I should follow a Western fantasy, I should consider San Diego and Seattle and maybe even the dreaded and self-loving San Francisco.

And I sat on my ass all. Evening. Long.

Olympia 8.21.04

I still get that nauseous feeling when I hear swimmers take your marks in the Olympics. Or in any swimming pool. I think about getting my ass beat, about faltering in the water, about cramps, about failure, about failure, about never being able to go back, about my best being good enough.

Boy, am I glad I quit swimming!

Two Star Hotel 8.19.04

Admit it, Pico. You slept a lot of the day away. In part because you were playing tennis and softball yesterday and somehow all the running and poor form conspired to lay you out on your ass. That and the bad spelling of the letter you read, and the not eating/ some writing fest—you’re pretty beat.

This is a good time to admit that you are thinking very seriously about making a break from the New York when you graduate your program. Yes, Pico will graduate. But will he leave? Probably not. Two years ago, Pico talked about leaving when he started his blog (but not within the confines of the web-log). And now, having made a few more acquaintances but little headway in the PLAN FOR A SECURE FUTURE, perhaps a new locale is necessary.

These are all words. Y’all will believe it when it happens, and only then, and rightfully so—I have lots of ideas but most of them don’t come to fruition. Which is a reason to slap this on webspace—so myself or an assclown like me can point out that I said these words and ask “why ain’t you left yet?”

After the fistfight (which I plan on winning. Dirty.) I will ponder those words and put that question to good use, to power a break from NYC, to start a new beginning.

But first, an old episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit is on!

Summer’s End, A Proposition. 8.17.04

“the world don’t spin without you, I’m amazed you’re standing still.” –Jimmy Eat World.

The summer has been mostly blog free, and not just for me, for my blogging compatriots. Gigs and gigs of internet space that we should have claimed as our own are taken up by Ann Coulter’s no-conversation invective, candidate’s blogs, pop culture, goofy humor, games to play at work, and who can forget the porn.

And that’s cool by me. Personally, I am excited for a time, a week and a half coming, where the rest of my family will vacate the premises and it will be quiet, peaceful—no bitching about the house being built in Florida, no bitching about bills, no detached and passive aggressive conversation about what to do with Agua Dulce, no more hissing teeth and oh Lords.

This would be a fine time of course to have a girlfriend (or a weekend fling) but I think that is a near impossibility. But if you’re volunteering, I take nekkid pictures as resumés. And dirty talk as cover letters. In between doing some small home repairs and perhaps attempting a repair that will involve spackle, paint and a whole lot of prayer, you can receive “the business” from Pico. Hopefully I can get some testimonials letting you know “I’m good for it,” because that’s my official motto. That and “like, how ‘bout it?”

Apply early, Pico has rolling consideration.

Back Dipping Zipper Ripping Advennture. 8.17.04

In some words, the weekend consisted of two friends in town. In the left corner, athletic and as pretty as ever, sharp and principled, now living in Orange County, CA, the inestimable Tusi. And in the right corner, from St. Louis (aka the Lou), flashing her tits across the country and her sharp wit at anyone who gets in her way, the incomparable J-Rich and her chill as hell friend Val.

Tusi and I took in the Yuppie West Side and all the old haunts from my youth with Shevi and Elle. Which are no longer there—Café Lalo is still displaying film stills from You Got Mail, Drip and the charming coffeeshop down the street no longer exists, having been replaced by construction, a “malt shoppe,” and some standard wanna be too-clean pub that belongs in Chicago or Boston or midtown. Also removed was the sh*tty club Indigo, the home of embarrassed eye covering and a couple of youthful indiscretions. God, 1998 was a poor year for me. I know what you’re thinking and no the other years haven’t been much better.

Thursday, Tusi and I sat on the Central Park grass and were taken for coffee/ pre-dinner with her cousin Beiruz (sp?) and her friend Lillie who is cooler than Vanilla Ice, cool enough that I do believe she’ll take up some future column width in this blog. Depending on how much time she spends with her boy and how ridiculous she gets.

Friday I stumbled out of bed to meet Jen and her friend Val, plus Shashi. Good stuff. Ambled uptown into some drama none of it involving me. Thinking about it makes me want to take a dump. That has to be an important psychological reaction, one that I always obey. I found myself faced with two choices. Crappy bar with awful music or crappy bar with awful people and hot bathrooms.

Thankfully I chose the bathrooms. Got my dance on. Saw L’il G-Ball and her pants dropping boyfriend. Missed seeing Serge the cock lifter. Rocked out with my cock out. Best moment, looking out and seeing Riz/ Jen/ Val/ Arroz/ Shashi across the street from bOb’s and covered in sweat, girl Sammy across the street, looking for us. 3 AM. Slept in Jen + Val’s hotel room. Word. Thanks, ladies.

Saturday I tried to sleep the day away and found myself back in the city at night with nothing to do. L’il Haylz confirms my suspicions—very few chill places to dance to the house music (though she was in Miami… I should have brought her number and called her dancing ass). So Jen, Val and I went bowling. Because the ‘Lou girls looove that over dancing. But it was pouring and none of us was up for a walkaround the neighborhood, peeking in this place and that, trying to find the right vibe and the dance music.

Stayed at the hotel again, took the ‘Lou girls to the battery and up to Chambers, met with Riz and Arroz at Lombardi’s. I realized I’d been running into people I knew all weekend—Kandle and Rachelle on Saturday night, January from high school on Friday night, Shevi’s mom Manette on Friday afternoon, Lauren from Camp DeFambul on Sunday afternoon, some c*nt from Pi Phi Sunday afternoon—yeah, I said it.

That’s your recap. Chicago will come, if only for my need to chronicle all of the Chicago trips.

Side note—thanks, Misanthrope Anna, for meeting me for a few hours and the MetroCard. Thanks to Joel for swinging by one more night for a couple of beers. Thanks to Heather and Mike for being really silly and for trying out for Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. And to Jason P. for popping up at NYU this morning.

Chesterfield ’93 8.11.04

Happy birthday, Pixel!

Obviously, the weather deities like you too and gave you crazy weather. Hard rains! Biblical floods!

That having been said, I am goddamned sick of baling.

It’s almost 7 pm and about three hours ago I discovered my basement under about 2-3 inches of water. More in some spots. Which is impressive, considering that it rains, and our back-door drain had been clogged in the past, but no longer. I have never seem this much water, just lounging in my basement, lolling between bikes and under the VCR, around the couch, into the laundry room, lifting loose papers and pennies like kids at the beach.

My back hurts. My mother and I made some headway, she sweeping waves my way, me balking first with a bucket, and then with the wet-vac we’d bought years ago which has a crack in its base. I used duct tape to patch it up but it didn’t work so well.

Now, I think I will get back to sloshing through the flood, picking up Agua Dulce’s freestyles and Velo Dulce’s bike parts and tossing them as I go, sifting through wet (ruined?) clothes, wondering if it is safe to plug the television back in so I can watch Law & Order while I bale.

Pictures from the trip still to come.

The Great Divide 8.10.04

We’re coming to ages where we start to separate in the things we do;

And I wonder sometimes what it is okay and not okay to say. Example; as always I am lacking motivation, lacking strong wants, but I think that’s just me. And other people feel the same way; wrong for New York, wrong for this world and such.

But, I should still do a recap of my trip and post some pictures. In the interim I am watching television, restarting my running regimen (only 2 + miles today—running with the IPod just did not work), eating Teddy Grahams, watching some decent movies ( The Shape of Things, Once Upon A Time In Mexico, Secretary, half of Master & Commander), and watching lots of the Little League World Series.

Preserving Intellectual Capacity 8.6.04

[--With Poor Grammar, Run-On Sentences, and Spurious Arguments--]

Please read about James' Hart platform for Congress, Slum Denizens, and the only man alive who actively uses the slur "coolie."

The Return

There is a lot to say about the trip but I have places to go-- but here is a picture of me passed out in Chicago. Enjoy...

chicago 17 Originally uploaded by picodulce.

bongoroom 7.31.04

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

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

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

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

so now you know.

great great great breakfast as the bongo room at noon.

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

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

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

Camp –or—Youth and Young Nudity 07.13.04

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

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

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

It showed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gaffe. 07.06.05

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

Happy 5th 07.05.04

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

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

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

Dammit.

Stories About A Wedding 6.30.04

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

...

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

well, it was hella good.

Here I-- UGGGGHHH! -- Come! 6.21.04

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

Now I wish I had a cell phone...

A Lighter Shade of Smart 6.16.04

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plus:

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

The Greatest President Like Ever Ever! 6.8.04

from the Guardian:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read more...

Tracking 6.8.04

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

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

Read more...

Reunion 6.7.04

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the men got bald and they also got fat.

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

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

And happy late birthday, Silver and Christina.

Buck Town 6.3.04

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Recap 6.02.04

Michael is fruity.

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

Paris, May 2004

One had

London, May 2004

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

****

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

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

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

New! With Photos! 5.27.04


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

10 Years Later. 5.26.04

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

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

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

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

This reunion might actually be inspirational or something.

Come And Get Me In My Sleep 5.25.04

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

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

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

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

FF 5.13.04

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

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

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

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

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

Word. Think on it.

But... 5.11.04

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

Also... 5.10.04

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

Of interest...

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

From Talking Points Memo.

Consideration is Key 5.4.04

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

Sitting on a Time Bomb 4.16.04

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

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

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

I am SO not-very-cool.

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

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

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

After the Humpday 4.15.04

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

April Showers 4.13.04

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

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

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

Janet’s Boobie Pageant. 4.12.04

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

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

Yes, I am a fan.

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

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

Subservient Chicken? 4.09.04

Ok, this is wierd. But surprisingly not perverse.

Circus 4.09.04

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

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

Department of the Interior Terrorist 4.08.04

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

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

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

Mythbusting 4.08.04

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

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

· caught in traffic;

· hot;

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

· sl-l-low;

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

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

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

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

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

Rock Out With My Cock Out 4.3.04

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

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

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

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

Letter to Cracker Flats Matt 4.1.04

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

Haha! April fools!

Golden D'Oh 3.31.04

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

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

Hang Out With My Wang Out 3.31.04

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

Tool Disclosure 3.29.04

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

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

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

Slimpy 3.28.03

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

Spanking 3.25.03

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

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

Plus: pictures from Gulshan + Pico's party.

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

Plus: For your politics and sarcasm.

The Drool Just Keeps On Coming. 3.25.03

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

Any Gunplay Will Be Answered 3.24.03

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

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

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

Well, here is an etymology of the word here.

Letter to Misanthrope. 3.18.03

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

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

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

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

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

Picks. 3.16.04

And I make them public, check 'em out.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year 3.15.03

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

Protest? 3.13.04

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

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

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

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

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

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

W.W.DJ.D 3.10.04

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

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

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