on the great papi 10.19.04

like hethalouise, i still believe. i still believe. i still believe.

and i will more often read soxaholics. almost as good as bat-girl, who still loves her papi and anyone who lays the 2 x 4 to the yank-these.

if you haven't heard, the red sox have unbelievably walked a razorblade thin line, looked over the precipice, and remembered they do-not-give-a-f**k. down 3 games to 0 to the hated yank-these, they re-measured their sacks and played some actual baseball, despite the worst efforts of their starting pitching to do otherwise-- except for derek lowe, surprisingly.

the loud bomb in this resurgence (which this gentle writer hopes continues with mr. schilling pitching in the rain and muck, bite plate in his mouth when his new reebok shoe --ode to the shoe here-- doesn't stop the ankle pains) has been david ortiz, the genial and fun locker room also known as papi.

since an inquisitive mind can find anything online, i found a forum of twins fans talking about papi. he was the DH in the metrodome until they let him go; last year with the red sox, he played well and this year he isthe hard hitting 41 home run, 139 rbi plausible MVP candidate that co-powers the sox (where have you been manny ramirez?) what's funny about the twins is that they let him go in part for financial considerations and in part to let mienkiewicz and matt lecroy play.

i think i saw different games than they did; papi might have struck out a few more times than i would like. he got injured a few times. but damn, when he hit the ball? that thing starts bouncing. you've seen the man, he is the reincarnation of the man who ate mo vaughn. he cannot run, as evidenced by his stolen base (where he was safe) last night. but he hits doubles. that means he is killing the ball. smooth stroke, great power...

i could have told them he'd be the man.

cold and british tuesday 10.19.04

it's wet and damned chilly out hear. weather that reflects bad moods. so i am adding a couple of hot things for you to do:

1. check out tiny mix tapes, brought to you by my dear friend neverecho, who introduces me to everything that is cool. it's an automatic mx tape generator, online. make your own mix tapes! see others!!

2. you're writing a novel in a month. yes, you. uh huh. check out nanowrimo, the world's best non-contest. i did it two years ago and missed the 50,000 word target last year... but it's not as hard as you think it will be. and it doesn't have to be good; the idea is that you spit out lots of words and at least you have something to edit, versus the mealy-mouthed whining that goes on inside your head.

3. while we're at it, g-ball is running the fed reserve's nycares day. interested in painting a school early on saturday morning? i am, and gurney should be in on it too. public service makes you a good person, and less of a selfish alcoholic than you were.

backstage. underage. 10.18.04

it's a silent week, been working on school project work. my group doesn't annoy me as much. i've been coughing and a little tired.

but the most notable thing (besides samantha's party last week being really fun as far as dinner parties go) is that now that i am shaving, keeping the facial hair down, people routinely tell me i look 18. good lord. maybe i should grow the facial hair back, but i like being clean...

germfree adolescents 10.9.04

recap:

last night we found ms. new top in the wilds of brooklyn; and went to moe's bar in fort greene. along the way, or really, downstairs from thoren's apartment, we found mike, hetha louise's soon-to-be boyfriend-for-life. we dragged him to moe's too. pixel was there, jamie was there, sixo was there, silver was there.

short tale:

when we got to thoren's place, we sat and watched the end of the debate. on the floor next to the television were cd's, and curious to find out more about this fella, i took a look--

and saw a cover that is familiar because i have tried to place it for years. the image of the dark skinned singer and her braces and punked out natty hair was just as i remembered it-- it was the x-ray spex, the green cover, the band and album name i could never remember. mostly because i thought the title was teenage adolescents, which i knew made no sense when i asked everyone i knew if they knew the tune.

listening to a song only once sometimes leaves and impression in my head, defined, sharp, but not sharp enough that i can recall what the song is so i could buy the album. i thought i had honed the skill well- watching 120 minutes every sunday night before pulling all nighters to finish monday's homework. picking up song titles on the radio. thinking up possible titles after hearing the chorus of an unnamed song.

the same thing happened when i saw pearl jam's alive video, before it became popular; i walked around school singing the song appropriately mushmouthed. cas-nice and regina had no idea what i was talking about.

the one and only time i heard the x-ray spex was on the floor of maya's apartment-- and not the tall maya descha and craig know, a small cute kid who hated being called maya the bee, like the cartoon. it was one of the first times, and perhaps the first time, i had gotten good and drunk. off of wine coolers. it was 1991 or so, hanging out with ellen and whoever else we were friends with back in the day. it was a foggy night and maya's apartment looked over the emptying streets at 77th and lexington, as i stumbled over words and hummed along to the song "germfree adolescents," yelling things into the other room.

being that the song itself is fairly mellow i never linked it with loud punk rock; ellen didn't know the five words of the song i knew, nor did abe, veronica, or any of the other kids i walked up to. i must have sounded like a dealer-- "hey, hey, man, listen to this-- you know this song man?"

i did forget about looking for the song but it's the kind of tune that finds its way into your head yearly-- simple, sweet, obviously sloppy but intentionally so-- so sloppy it feels genuine, sharp. i don't listen to much of the punk rock and late 70's imported british music. it's only these days that i'm going back to the clash (and the bay city rollers, but that has nothing to do with this conversation). but the not knowing felt like a little gap in knowledge; and i take my music identification seriously.

and 13 years later, it's on my laptop. hot.

phlegmatic 10.8.04

so i am coughing up a lung and all. but i am getting better. i went to book club last night with nicky marie and her friend sue (everyone else was sick. not that i know everyone else) and we swapped books. that's about all i have to say.

but you, dear readers, can give me your opinion on what makes crazy women crazy, and when crazy becomes too crazy. i am giving my opinion to nathan on the subject but it's always nice to have some other objective ideas...

that means you, michaels.

out on the tiles 10.7.04

yeah, i been lazy. or busy. i think i have been busy. but i have been doing my homework between sneezing and coughing bouts (i might have to get that checked out at school, get some top medicines to kick this... possible flu?).

and writing a little. you will join me for the national novel writer's month, the best non-contest that i and other people have told you about. yes, even you, silver, even if you're not listening. sign up at the link above.

personality order 9.29.04

being a policy and management institution, we tend to talk about the popular ideas in management and leadership, such as being innately in touch with yourself. personally, i like to not be in touch with myself-- i feel better when i think less.

so i was overjoyed, of course, when a piece of our senior project was moved up to this week-- a re-introduction to myers-briggs personality test. it's a popular personality test that most of you likely know-- then again, they don't give those things to art students, do they? anyway, it's designed to ask you a bunch of questions and pigeonhole you into a number of categories and describe the level to which you are each type-- whether you are introverted or extroverted, a senser or an intuiter, a thinker or a feeler, a judger or perceiver. okay, just take a sample test here.

for example, i am a sensitive ass wimp. i am an INFP:

Idealistic, loyal to their values and to the people who are important tot hem. Want an external life that is congruent with their values. Curious, quick to see possibilities, can be catalysts for implementing ideas. Seek to understand people and to help them fulfill their potential. Adaptable, flexible, and accepting unless a value is threatened.

A certain reader is an ENTP:

Quick, ingenious, stimulating, alert, and outspoken. Resourceful in solving problems. Adept at generating conceptual possibilities and then analyzing them strategically. Good at reading other people. Bored by routine, will seldom do the same thing the same way, apt to turn to new interest after another.

according to that online test, i am also:

• moderately expressed introvert (44%)
• slightly expressed intuitive personality (11%)
• slightly expressed feeling personality (11%)
• distinctively expressed perceiving personality (67%)

basically, a big ol' waffler.

this annoys me, the self-analysis. i'd rather get work done than sit around talking about our feelings and tendencies, because i don't care and i don't care for them to know. i don't need to be reminded that my tendencies probably lead me to a career in writing or counseling or something else that would be poverty-making, depressing, difficult to sustain—i'm risk-averse.

and of course i hate talking about such profiles for what happened afterwards. i walked by my old hs classmate karen and one member of her group project. i was telling karen how much i disliked MB and her friend asked my type, responding immediately with "we wouldn't get along." which is what administerers of these tests tell you not to do-- jump to conclusions about the person. i'm all over the place and i think at times i act like a different person (who would have guessed me introverted?).

we weren't meeting so i took a walk to the pool when class was done and swam a little-- just enough to realize i haven't swam (swum? a little help, editors) all summer. my wrists hurt, my palms got weak, my arms were fatigued from the get go, and i left the pool empty in the stomach.

that's the way it's supposed to be. so i stopped at school and watched some intramural basketball. it was fun. when i should have wished nicky brooklyn happy birthday... but she'll forgive me.

insomniac theatre 9.29.04

the worst thing about late night television is that at 2.00 am you can have finished watching spaced on trio and of course a little blind date and elimidate because, hell, you ain’t getting’ none; and then you flip channels and find yourself fifteen minutes into VH1’s 50 most awesomely bad songs, and debating with a television and smarmy, unfamous comedians about the merits of songs, agreeing that the friends theme blows as does dancing on the ceiling, disagreeing with some assertions, all when you should be sleeping, resting to get back to training for the triathlon you were seriously thinking of doing.

and when you try? you still can’t get to sleep.

Breakfast With Coast Guard Rob! 9.28.04

and later, comments on Myers-Briggs in this space.

Can't Stop the Shuffle 9.27.04

In our quest to find something to do on Saturday night, I met up with Eben/ Shashi/ his friend Juan/ Gurnifer/ her friends from Michigan (Golnar (?)/ Dana/ Carrie/ Jonathan (?))/ Holiday/ Jill C.

The only real thing of note is that while chatting with Dana and Holiday my eye got all itchy. And it's hard to find a drugstore at 11.30 at night.

I know, you're thinking-- no story? No half-baked tangent? Well, it's a quiet morning.

alarm call 9.25.04

eric's show was funny. looked like an electronic geekfest. anna-lu, you would have liked it. japanese toys and interactive screens and lots of lights.

watched red sox lose to the yankees with eben and zippy-greg in a bar on avenue b that's a slice of long island with the people to boot. think i saw marla's friend marea there.

at ace bar, saw susan barnes.

this morning i ache.

but i had great dreams. chase scenes, a dream where i was sleeping with someone repeatedly but myself and eben and someone else had her totally convinced that i was a lion. after the third time she noticed i had no tail and the jig was up.

now, breakfast, and softball at kissena park.

word.

from e-sox. tonight.

hello, it's eric again!  but this time i'm not writing about boring politics, i'm writing to invite you to join me at Compact-Impact on Friday night.

i will be showing a piece called 'vectogram' at Compact-Impact Night Vol. 3.  Compact-Impact is an electronic gadget and toy store specializing in cutting-edge design and technology implementations for fun and for everyday life.  Compact-Impact night is a periodic show held in the store that showcases new experiments in the field.  it's also a chance to drink free Sapporo.

Compact-Impact Night Vol. 3 is:
- on Friday night, September 24, from 6-9pm
- at 21 Avenue B (just above 2nd St., on the east side)
http://compactimpact.com

vectogram is:
- a two-player videogame
- a generative graphic art piece
http://transmote.com/projects/vectogram

oh, and did i mention free Sapporo?

see you there,
-eric

and from sharma. tonight.

All-- following in the footsteps of last week's outlandishly fun (if technically challenged)  Basement Bhangra, I'd like to invite you all to a special, early gig I'm doing @ Joe's Pub this Friday, 9/24:

Join London-based writer/rocker TANUJA DESAI HIDIER , as she does a reading from her acclaimed first novel, the Indian-American coming-of-age tale BORN CONFUSED-- complete with live custom-made mix from NYC's reigning queen of South Asian dance music, DJ REKHA.

Then hang on to your seats for a full-hour rock and revolutions live set from T&A, the NYC band Tanuja sings/songwrites in with ATOM FELLOWS, here joined by special guest DAVE SHARMA, percussionist from Broadway's Bombay Dreams. T&A will be performing tracks from first-of-its-kind CD WHEN WE WERE TWINS, the cross-Atlantic collaborative album of original rock/pop/electro-folk songs based on Born Confused they wrote/recorded with San Transisto, the London band T sings/writes in--plus new tunes from the forthcoming T&A album.

The band's loads of fun and... different, to say the least.  It's better than Yom Kippur!
The show really is @ happy hour time: doors open @ 6 and the set is @ 7.  Tix are $12 in advance, $15 @ the door; Joe's Pub is in the annex of the Public Theater on Lafayette between Astor and & 4th.

Hope to see y'all there!

competing early gatherings. word.

for your amusement 9.24.04

last night after having dinner with misanthrope anna, i went to wait by my father's car, he was not yet out of work. i usually do this when i want a ride home, and it's easier than ringing up to the lab where he works, standing outside, or sitting inside.

i went to the car, next to a tree and went to my bag to look for a book. apparently the way i turned looked a little dodgy and a cop car, which i didn't see amdist the traffic on 3rd ave ("you looked like you were trying to hide from us") disgorged three passengers to check me out.

i thought that was a little silly, on 3rd avenue, a warm, busy thursday night, kids going to webster hall, kids walking to cafés, kids walking back to their dorms, to find one person to be looking dodgy. i suppose they were doing their job, and after all, i was wearing marge's gay-ass blue jeans and a 76ers shirt.

it was mostly without incident; the officer thought i was giving him attitude, because i was like, "serious. i look suspicious?! should i not stand here?" and was a little perturbed that they took my name for a record of the "incident." as my father cam up, they had checked his plates and determined that we have the same last name, so they could leave me be;

but i do worry about the fact that a couple of suspicious moments can be recorded and later strung together by an eager officer to create a "suspect"; i know of a person who called in a terror threat and when the police responded, there was a record of some other time he called in to report suspicious activity.

which is fine. record keeping is all good. but a speculative mind can start to wonder about abuses.

--addendum--

the lead officer also mentioned that they had to ask questions, in case there were any break ins. the unsaid part is "in case you look like a suspect," which is funny. i look like EVERY suspect. you know, between the ages of 17-30, 5'7"-5'10", 130-160 lbs. you know, average black guy. eben might remember our sophomore year of college, where there were flyers about some guy-- a thief i think, or a peeping tom-- who looked very much like me; someone tacked it on our suite door. kinda funny, kinda mean, mostly true.

Damn You Again, Heather 9.23.04

I’d like to thank Law and Order for improving one crappy week of television. It’s season premiere week and what I have seen so far are schmaltzy retellings of last season’s stories, limp pilots with too many unbelievable pretty people (and I didn’t even watch Mountain), and the ABC show Rodney (kind of funny).

By far the worst was One Tree Hill—a questionably bad show in its own right, surviving off of the beauty of a young soon-to-be-forgotten teen heartthrob (Chad Michael Murray), a Bush cousin from the model side of the family (Sophia Bush), an “awkward” girl who is hot, extraneous pulchritude, and the aging talents of Moira Kelly, Craig Sheffer, and Paul Johansson, all with named like Haley and Lucas and Scott. The season opener was a set of flashbacks to catch us up… and leave us right where we knew we started—in the middle of some dumb “this town is SOOOOOO small” melodrama. I love watching some WB porn as much as anybody—pretty people, scantily clad, in cities that never get cold—but damn, that tested my patience.

I hope next week’s episode is better.

Even Smallville left a bit to be desired—except for Clark/ Kal-El’s first flight, which was a hella cool effect. And the gratuitous WB softcore skin scene—Lana taking an extended shower, Lana in amber tones, hair matted down, sweating, Lana looking at the surprise new tattoo at the small of her back.

And at least I didn’t get caught watching Mountain (television without pity recap here).

But, then there is Law and Order, with Dennis Farina in the old-detective role. Interesting, shady, and I wonder why he gets top billing. But LO whipped out Mayor Mike Bloomberg and Sarita Chowdhury. I wonder if Fred Dalton Thompson and Elizabeth Röhm get into fistfights, Thompson being a conservative, and Röhm being all actressy and very believable delivering her liberal lawyer lines about the US’ role in the Middle East, in terms of antagonizing and actually doing things that violate people’s rights

The show pointed out what seems to be a gaining public middle ground. These are the facts our nation will generally accept—that there are laws and to violate them one way brings violence and retribution on participating (or almost participating) states; that we freed the world from a mini-Stalin; that the economic and militaristic actions we take on the rest of the world are righteous, are the will of everyone, and are lawful. That people are jealous of our way of life but they need to accept it and get with the program. That people need to divest themselves, perhaps, of community thought and accept the secular and individual western way of thinking.

And there will be no peacenik solutions that involve America admitting that, as a nation, we do not look at Muslim nations as sovereign, as making their own destiny, with different theories of how to function; as nations to negotiate with. There will be no admitting that sometimes coming in like a stern father figure often breeds resentment even if we promise them scantily clad white women to populate their television.

Unless that’s too pessimistic.

On the lighter side, Britney Spears' cover of Bobby Brown's My Perogative is actually... very bad. Surprisingly poor. But Gully listens to it every day when he wakes up! Just kidding.

Okay, read today’s Boondocks. That’s a better ending.

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.