twinkle twinkle blah blah blah etc.

You know who gonna find you? Some old guy fishin'

I slept like the dead last night and dreamt about shooting up. I watched as the old guy next to me cooked it and shot up. I watched the blood backtrack into the needle and then he offered it to me. Something in the back of my mind said, "This is a bad idea." So I went to look at some graffiti in another room.

Where was I going with this. Ah. I didn't remember this dream at all until this morning on the 7 when I passed the 5 Pointz Building. And I thought, hey, THAT's something cool to post. Much better than 2 am azzpix for certain.

Anyhow, I'm leaving early to go on vacation. Be back on Wednesday. Besos.

Update

My bruise is getting purpler. It might be ass cancer.

A house is not a home

Vidiot's taken some lovely pictures of an abandoned house. To me, there's something Romantic (big R) about abandoned houses. (Plus, I love snooping.)

Confidential to T.N.

Whoever it is at The Nation who wants to see me naked, your google-fu is seriously lacking.

Now that nothing depends on me

I've created a movie for you to watch while I'm busy. Enjoy!

Also believed lost are the infamous Napalm Series and The Saw Dust and Gunpowder Orbs

Ugh, this is truly awful: Emin tent feared to be among Saatchi works lost in fire:

Many of the lost works are from the collection of Charles Saatchi. It is thought that they may include Jake and Dinos Chapman's Hell. Tracey Emin's famous Everyone I Have Ever Slept With may be another: the tent appliqued with the names of her past lovers was the star of the famous Royal Academy Sensation! exhibition and to many became emblematic of the endeavours of a generation of young British artists. "I don't know what specific pieces have been lost," Mr Saatchi said yesterday. "So far it has been a day of many rumours."

Speaking of art handlers, I finally figured out that Hedley's Humpers, which is two blocks from my apartment, is actually a fine-arts and antiques handling/crating/storage service. Up until now I thought I was situated in the Porn District of Queens. (Confidential to any HH employees reading: I really want a t-shirt.)

Can I really be considered a short eyes if I'm only 5'4?

Alright, I know all the Farkers out there are going nuts over Hermione's rack, but why didn't anyone TELL me how fuckin' adorable Daniel Radcliffe is? He's like Elijah Wood (yes, thankyou for correcting me) before he disappeared into that Emo/K-hole look of his.

I know it looks bad but believe me I'm innocent

McClusky have a new album out, The Difference Between Me And You Is That I'm Not On Fire. Glorious Noise has a review.

I'm wide awake on memories

I just remembered a dream I had this weekend. It was set in the future, and I was driving around. And nothing was different: no flying cars, no jet packs. There were still tons of strip malls.

But all of the bars had been replaced by these things called Mothering Stations. And you could go in there and be hugged and comforted by motherly types.

You can barely see his lips moving

Setting: Me sitting at desk, feeling at a loss for what to blog.
Dramatis personae: Me and N.

N: Blog this.
D: What should I say?
N: Champions league is a tournament with the best teams from the best European leagues
N: Say that if Morientes isn't 100% Monaco, which dispatched Real Madrid and Chelsea en route to the final, stands no chance.
N: say that you'll be drinking pints and screaming ole! ole! ole! all afternoon long.
D: ok....
N: say that, by all rights, Arsenal should be there, were it not for the misfortune of having to face Chelsea for a fourth time in one season in the quarterfinal
N: And it's next to impossible to beat the same team--especially one of Chelsea's quality--and double especially one from the same city--four times in one season.
N: point out that if Porto wins Portugal will go APESHIT and it will be a fitting prelude to the European Cup 2004, which begins in June and is being held in none other than Portugal.
N: And, say that it should be an infinitely more entertaining match than last year's all Italian, all defense, all rolling around on the ground final.
D: Done and done.

Asses, Elbows: It's All the Same to Me

I spent most of Monday moaning in agony and clutching my head. When the DTs finally subsided, I went into the city to run some errands and go to a cocktail party (because the name of the game is FREE, people). At the Sprint store on 5th and 23rd, where I waited for an hour hoping that the corporate stooges at customer service wouldn't ask me why my cellphone had stopped working (Hint: hairspray), I found myself standing behind this guy. He smiled at me a couple of times, perhaps to say "Yes, I'm *that* guy." Both he and his tall, pretty girlfriend had broken Sprint phones. He clung to her like a tornado was approaching and she was made of rebar.

It's much more fun to spot minor celebrities than major ones, no? A few weeks ago I was at a party and noticed one of the cocktail waiters was the guy who licked the door handle in the Jetta commercial.

See, now *that* takes skill.

And speaking of skill: It takes skill to fall down the same flight of stairs twice (originally, I thought it was only once, but N was nice enough to remind me I went two rounds ass-over-teakettle, teakettle winning both times), which was what happens when I go here on Sunday night. My fate was sealed after my second (or third?) fruity drink served as a winking paean to Trader Vic's, (which incidentally was where my parents went on their first date*) and I turned to my friend B at 6:30 and said, "I think I'm going to call in sick tomorrow." Down the hatch!**

At different points in my Journey to the End of Night, I found myself laughing heartily (with my head resting on the cool, cool marble stair, my limbs akimbo) and sobbing hysterically (with my head resting on the cool, cool railing of the fishing pier at Gantry Park, so moved was I by how "happy" I was) and falling dead asleep without brushing my slowly-dissolving teeth. Wheeeee!

What I don't understand is how N and I went drink-for-drink, yet he remained remarkably sober. He is not, apparently, a girl-drink drunk. God bless him and his neverending admiration of my Sad Clown antics.

Anyhow. Enough of this Sunset Boulevard action.

I did not go to bed before 2 am this entire weekend, which is approximately 3 and a half hours later than my usual bedtime. Highlights of Friday night included 3 am pork tortas and Tres Leches Cake at Grand Morelos and returning from said meal to discover that an enterprising homeless man named Shorty had washed and waxed my car.

Pressing on. On Saturday I went over to PS1 in the day and then went to the Hook in Red Hook to see some, hmm... bands. There was this one band who sounded like they didn't know how to play their instruments and seemed genuinely on the verge of tears when their guitarist broke a string. ("Dude, this sucks.") They were from Milwaukee.

Then a band called The Real Losers got onstage, told us all we sucked, and that NYC was the shittiest town they'd ever been to, and promptly left the stage. From what I could glean from the two songs they did play, they were marginally more promising than the Milwaukee Dudes. The lead singer had an interesting shirt on.

Then The Little Killers got onstage. Reeves is right: Their bassist is a hottie.

The sound techs at the Hook need help, btw. It was like hearing music underwater all night.

Finally, more evidence that the lameness of one's band name is directly proportional to one's musical chops: The Riverboat Gamblers took to the stage, all cute and tall*** and lanky in tight jeans and jumping about and genuinely putting on a good show. Even though I fell asleep for about ten minutes of their set, I still think they were the highlight of the evening.

The unfortunate thing about Red Hook is that there's no place to get Sparks at 1 am. (Or at any time, I'd reckon.) (Incidentally, I only drink it for the sterilizing agents.) So we headed home, where I slept the sleep of innocents, not knowing what Sunday held in store.

*My mother got so drunk that she passed out on her couch while my father was talking to her. Sound familiar?
**I can't tell you how many times in Savannah I saw a man dragging his near-unconscious date down the street at night, offering by way of abrupt explanation as they passed, "She had one-uh them frozen drinks." OK, pal.
***The first indication that they were from Texas.

Oh, goatse, we hardly knew ye

OK, enough of THAT. The only ass that gets shown on this blog is mine.

So without further ado, here's the lovely bruise I sustained last night after falling down some stairs. (Hint: Three Frozen Zombies, a Planter's Punch, and a Singapore Sling were involved.)

Can I play with your panty line?

My thoughts upon listening to "Get Low" for the first time (the first time being 5 minutes ago because I am not in touch with what the kids are listening to):

This is what "skeet skeet" means?!?

I had no idea.

So lemme get this straight: you want me to dance with my hands touching my toes while shaking my ass in the air? Shit, man, I can barely keep my balance on the StairMaster.

All music sounds better when you're drinking Sprite and cough syrup. I can't wait till these bozos discover how cool blacklight posters and hologram jewelry look.

Reunited

[Ed note: There were too many fucking exclamation points in this post. I redacted them. I didn't wanna come across like some goofball.]

Well, after a long conversation with a friend last night, I've discovered the source of my blogging ennui: I've forgotten the funny. Some of you might protest that I've never had the funny. To those people I would say, Just go away like Motley Crue, biznatches.

I keed.

Anyhow, while I'm off at my humor retreat in the Catskills this weekend (I'm really looking to the Aristocrats symposium: "Is The Dog Fucking the Son Going Too Far Given the Current Situation?"), you should go read Winkyshock, which is not so much a blog as it is an encapsulation of working as a corporate drone. Kinda like The Office, only without those strange accents.

Speaking of strange accents, dig this big crux. My friend S has FOUND M, whom I'm sure you'll recall from one of my boozy adventures this winter. The beauty is that she's never met M, nor seen him, but she saw this shady-yet-affable character in her local bodega and she just *knew* it was him. No longer a Missed Connection.

Suffice it to say that we'll be going down to Iona tonite to catch M dee-jaying some most excellent soul and whatnot. You should too.

Fairytale of New York

Or, Why Being an Obsessive Collector Pays Off. Sometimes.

Background: two friends of mine owe several thousand dollars in back rent on their shop. They've been going to landlord court for months now. Needless to say, they've been close to eviction on more than one occasion. Losing the shop would be a tragedy, because it's a neighborhood institution and, more important, because I absolutely do not EVER want to have to help them move the insane quantity of crap they've piled up floor to ceiling in there.

Anyhow, one-half of the couple is a bit of a packrat. This is part of the reason why we get along so well. (We also share a love of accident photos.) When one of the tenants in the building died last week, the landlord hired a salvage crew to empty the apartment.

Naturally, C weaseled his way into said apartment to look for anything "valuable." He ended up with a 30s maple-inlay hutch that he only shlepped down six flights of stairs because there was another junk collector there who was eyeing it. (You know the mentality, right? Haven't you ever carried a two-sizes-too-small dress around the Barney's Warehouse sale because you knew some other bitch wanted it?)

Anyhow, when he got the hutch downstairs, he tilted it back to see if it had a manufacturer's mark underneath. That was when he noticed the false bottom inside.

Yanking on a small string released the secret compartment, which, as it turns out, contained a small amount of jewelry and an envelope containing $9000.

Of course they did the sensible thing and paid part of their rent, rather than picking up and going to Costa Rica, which would've been the first idea that crossed my mind.

Stop the planet of the apes, I wanna get off! ::snicker::

My friend Stv just emailed me this open directory of what could best be described as Sci-Fi Ape Sex Assault Fantasy.

A few favorites.

Clearly these are not safe for work. Tragically they're not titillating either.

I say bring on the pink

Michael Winterbottom's got a new movie at Cannes right now called Nine Songs:

With a cast of two, it is like nothing you've ever seen before. Although you might find the sex scenes graphic, it is certainly not pornographic. The nine songs of the title break up the action, as the starring couple make occasional forays from the bedroom to watch live bands: Primal Scream, Super Furry Animals, Franz Ferdinand, Von Bondies, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and, to add some generational balance, Michael Nyman....Winterbottom was initially inspired by Michel Houellebecq's novel, Platform. "A great book, full of explicit sex and again I was thinking, how come books can do this but film, which is far greater disposed to show it, can't?"

Snitches get stitches

Hey, here's a little game to run concurrently with Gawker-guest-host Andrew Krucoff's little Score-the-Scar contest:

Just *how* tiny is his pecker, anyhow? (And what's more well-thumbed, ya think: his butthole or his copy of "Please Kill Me"?)

I write the songs that inspire mosh-pit rape

Todd holds forth on Fred Durst's blog, (which I will not link to here because I don't want the taint):

I've always argued that he was a dangerous character because it's very destructive for a band's spokesperson to be dumber than his dumbest fan, and Durst is possibly just that. But that's the old Durst, with something to prove. The new Durst has another generation of Bizkits to raise. Wait. Who am I kidding. Durst still has a ton to prove, and he thinks by proving it to us he's proving it to himself. Plus, even better, his new prove-y stuff isn't all rageful and "smell my finger" -oriented. It's full of flowers and drawings of nuclear mushrooms reflected in the eye of a naked baby riding a kitten. And as such, the weblog has a delight around every corner.

Why would I lie? Just to get by?

More than 160 lawyers who provide free representation to the city's poorest residents got pink slips yesterday - even as the Legal Aid Society made an eleventh-hour appeal to the city to avoid the layoffs.

Right, because what we need right now is to clamp down on them litigious po' folks.

"Richard Chamberlain" is actually an anagram of "Matthew Barney"

Greasy Man in Petroleum Jelly Jam:

Authorities said a Motel 6 cleaning crew discovered a petroleum jelly mess on mattresses, bedding, a TV set, furniture, carpeting and towels in Chamberlain's room after he checked out last week. Damage was put at more than $1,000....Fourteen empty petroleum jelly jars and numerous pornographic magazines were fished out of the trash can, according to WNBF radio in Binghamton.

The smell of swingset hands

I realize now why I like Long Island City so much--it reminds me of Hollywood, Florida, the town where I spent a great deal of my childhood. My grandparents lived at 2215 Jackson Street on a semi-industrial block with an empty lot (well, empty except for a grapefruit tree) next door and an ice factory across the street.

My childhood memories of that place consist of smells: Chanel for Men (my grandpa's cologne), chainlink fence, overripe sapadillas that looked more like small round gray mammals hanging pendulously from the trees behind the laundry room, the hot bleach smell of my grandmother's nonstop wash, steaming pavement, empty beer cans on the sidewalk, and decomposing underbrush. I suspect that even building rubble emits an odor, because as I walk past the empty lots here in Queens, some inorganic smell jogs my memory.

I love these sensory triggers, along with the smell of diesel fumes and the sound of freight train whistles that hung in the air in my hometown. It's no mystery why my first word was "truck."

Even though I've got a black thumb, I truly enjoyed the Times' magazine section this weekend, which was devoted to landscape architecture. My favorite article was about Landschaftspark Duisburg-Nord, a public park built in the ruins of an old factory. It's evidence to me that natural beauty can coexist with(in) the remnants of our industrial history.

Also in this issue was a great Andy Goldsworthy profile, a sculptor whose work is completely organic and mutable and also just as lovely to me as the Rutland Railroad paths that are slowly sinking into the overgrowth of upstate New York forrest.

A pox upon the media and everything you read

Click on Rumsfeld and he'll play you a song!

Edited to add: Thanks REEVES for the WSJ photo and thanks to the Soft Boys for just being themselves.

Judges should worry about their own tiny penises

Why won't Ohio let two nice fundamentalists get married? (Via Disinfo.)

These should not be forgotten years

As tenuous a connection as this perhaps is, should we completely discount it? It's creepy, and not explained away enough for my taste:

At one point during the bus ride, Berg said, the man sitting next to his son asked if he could use Nick's laptop computer...."It turned out this guy was a terrorist and that he, you know, used my son's e-mail, amongst many other people's e-mail who he did the same thing to," Berg said....Government sources said Berg gave the man his password, which was later used by Moussaoui, the sources said.

Unless his password was something like "1234" or "password" or "HIj4ck3r."

(Anyhow, right now Nick Berg is nothing other than a tragic victim of our War On Terror. I just find the connection interesting.)

Won't someone think of the children?

Chris, the guy behind the Encyclopedia of Sex, is looking for submissions.

(Of definitions, I hasten to add.)

Anyhow, apparently he's getting college credit for this. He must be going to one-uh those damned hippie-dippy liberal arts schools in New England somewhere.

YMMV

Religions differ over what Hell is, how one gets There, and if It even exists.

However, I'm fairly certain that all religions would allow that Hell is having 12 bagpipers warming up outside one's office at 9 am.

My boyfriend is funny

Fast on the heels of my exhusband, Todd Levin, my current boyfriend Fred Armisen says something funny.

More reasons to hate Philadelphia

John Whitehead shot dead.

I'm going on the knowledge that I have been burned

Sad news to report: The suicide of David Reimer, famous victim of John Money, noted sexologist who advocated nurture over nature when, as an infant, Reimer tragically lost his penis during a botched circumcision. Money's plan: Raise "Bruce" (his birthname) as "Brenda."

His sexual reassignment was then widely reported as a success and proof that children are not by nature feminine or masculine but through nurture are socialized to become girls or boys. David's identical twin brother, Brian, offered researchers a matched control subject.

Sadly, his adult life was not much happier than his childhood. You can read more about him in this engrossing story from Rolling Stone. He was also featured on Nova in a program called Sex: Unknown.

Sources say that David had been suffering from depression following the death of his brother (which may have also been suicide) and the dissolution of his marriage.

With a baseball bat

Just thought I'd direct you all to the newest item in my sidebar: The Terror Alert Banana.

Thank you to victorisdead/luna for the code.

Thanks to Mr. Crash Davis for pointing me there.

Signifying is not as important as frothing rabidly, in my book

I just wanted to direct your attention to Idle Threats, where Russell says things that make sense and succeeds in being just as angry as I am but without descending into my patented preverbal strangling noises of late. I think you should go read him until I can be a nicer person. (This may take a while.)

See, all morning, while I should've been thinking about work, my friends, my aspirations, I instead was compiling a list of everyone I hate. EVERYONE. It was all-consuming and even I was shocked at the length of the list. And everytime I'd get an email from a friend, no matter what they wrote, I'd respond:

"Don't you hate so-and-so?"

To which they'd reply, "Um, sort of. But do you think you can come down to the hospital and see if we're bone marrow matches?" Or some blah-blah like that.

Anyhow. The article I read in Oprah this weekend at my mom's told me to constantly take notice of and evaluate things that make me happy. And right now, I LOVE TO HATE. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE FUCKIN' LOVE.

*sigh*

Um, so until then: IdleThreats. Thank you.

TK

Hey, have you guys checked out Superbad lately?

And also: ArtCoup.

(Both via Pixelsurgeon.

Move over, James Van Der Beek

Everyone go and look at Todd's giant disembodied head over at The Onion.

Would she take Mel to the one in Hollywood?

Oh Linda.

Yes, Zeebah's right--it don't get much worse than aspiring to visit every last Hard Rock Cafe.

Weird is as weird does

Over at Missed Connections, Email exchange with a wackjob:

He wrote:hi can u get me a job as a writer or editor at your company? I can show you my stuff if I work with you. thanks.

I wrote:How old are you? Have you worked as an editor or writer before?

He wrote:I'm 30 years old and never been a full-fledged writer/editor but I do have excellent writing skills. I'm quite familiar with journalistic/academic writing because I wrote for my colllege newspaper. I feel very old to be a journalist so that is why I began to write creatively on my own. Also I couldn't get an entry-level job after graduation and took off to the West Coast where I ended up doing construction/landscape work. I'm a quick-learner and can write impeccable letters that will knock someone off their feet. My goal is to write a romance novels and begin my carreer as full-fledged writer once I get that big break. You see, I have a hard time finding a job writing or being a reporter because of the competition. It's obviously a number's game and I hated that and I don't want to be compare to someone who just graduated. I'm a good writer but I'm not the pedantic type.

Looking Into the Abyss, OR, My Morning Commute

Scene 1:
A disheveled hipsterboy, wearing a Tom-Wolfe-on-Crack outfit comprising a wrinkled seersucker suit, a grimy sweater, an oxford with the collar turned up, wraparound mirrored sunglasses, and flipflops, stands on platform.

A man walks by, neck craned in appraisal, turns to me, and says, "By all accounts, that outfit should've worked."

Scene 2:
At Grand Central, I find myself at the base of the stairs next to a blind man who appears to be waiting for the crowds to subside before ascending. A woman in a suit comes gallomphing down the stairs, shouts "Excuse me," at him and, noticing the white cane, grabs him by his shoulders and roughly pushes him out of her way.

Scene 3:
Waiting for the 6 now, and the MTA announces that the 6 trains aren't running. A nervous guy in a suit approaches me. "What track does the 6 run on?"
"Ordinarily runs on this track, but they just announced they're not running right now."
He looks more nervous.
"Where are you going?"
"33rd and Park."
"Well, honestly, at this point..." I begin.
The blind man materializes next to me. "You're better off walking."
"Yeah, you should prolly just walk."
The man looks nervously at the 6 side of the platform. "Um, is that near here?"
"It's close enough," I reply, and silently add The *blind guy* is telling you it's walkable! What are you afraid of?

Cherry Blossom Special

Matsuri is one of those newish, fabled celeb-sighting boites. Situated in the Maritime Hotel (formerly known as the building with those weird porthole windows where teenaged runaways go to get fondled inappropriately before being shipped home to the parents), it looks vaguely like a Japanese-themed Pirates of the Caribbean ride. My friend J, in town from the Left Coast, got us reservations there last night. We couldn't tell if the Le Tigre playing as we walked in was a good or bad sign.

According to the mixed reviews, the service aspect at Matsuri is lacking. Our waiter was cute but dumb, though on the plus side he didn't bring us all our food at the same time, and aside from forgetting one of our dishes, was fairly attentive.

I had a cocktail that was not particularly memorable in flavor. Presentation-wise, however, with its little cherry blossom garnish, it was quite lovely. Sort of a metaphor for everyone seated around us last night.

I wish I could remember exactly what we had, but that's J's job, not mine. We got a bottle of Pinot Gris, and started off with some small plates. We had sea eel tempura (which we ordered instead of the special eel pie, something that both J and I were more curious than excited to taste. I envisioned Stargazey Pie. The look on our server's face when we asked him how it was seemed to say "Barfalicious!") and yellowtail (or was it fluke? I can't remember) sliced thin and positioned in a salty, citrusy brine. We also had rather delicious sardines. And something that I, in my paltry food lexicon, would call scallops in jell-o, but better than that.

Then, for our large plates, we had rare roasted duck breast with wasabi-chive sauce. And our long-forgotten order, a grilled fish collar of sorts. Was it yellowtail? Delicious though it was, I can't recall. Serves me right for not paying attention while J ordered (a procedure I deferred to him entirely, seeing as he does this for a living and when left to my own devices I will always order chocolate pudding and hushpuppies). Actually, I was distracted by the party three tables down--Julian Schnabel, Lou Reed, and a rotating cast of ingenues. (Maybe some of them were Schnabel's daughters? I probably wouldn't recognize them unless they were wearing matching "I FUCKED VIGGO MORTENSEN" shirts.) They were eating before we were seated and continued to eat for another 3 hours. The small plates being REALLY small and the large plates being not very large at all and *all* the plates being pricey and Schnabel being the, ah, robust man that he is, I can only imagine that the bill came to a figure comparable to the GNP of an Eastern Bloc country. Actually, he got up and left about a half-hour before we did, leaving Lou to foot the bill, perhaps.

We had dessert, a coconut pannacotta that tasted oddly like peanutbutter. And then I got a cab that ultimately cost me, with the fare hike, something close to Schnabel's bill. Not that I'm complaining--it's not like I paid for anything else that night.

Plus, J and I got to hang out and talk shit about Arianna Huffington's house, Courtney Love's general craziness, and the blog world, a topic he thoughtfully pretended to be interested in. It was a fun night, despite the gale-force wind and rain. It always seems to be rainy when J gets to NY. He's probably flying over one of those square states as I type this, so of course it's sunny again. Ah well.

I want news of my death to feature the sentence "She spent her last night at Flora-Bama"

Dammit, I missed the annual Mullet Toss down in Pensacola, AGAIN.

This was sent to me by Reeves who claims to have been drunk more than once at this very establishment, despite having been raised by to be a respectful Southern gentleman.

Some people should die

And most of them are spammers. After being carpetbombed with spam the past few days, I finally got up the nerve to install MT-Blacklist. I don't know why I was so worried about it--the instillation was fast and painless and took all of five minutes.

I'm not sure how thorough the blacklist is, but I delight in knowing that those who do get blocked will be greeted with the message "Get fucked in hell, spammer. May your mother get cunt cancer and your father be penetrated anally by wildebeests. May your own underdeveloped genitals develop cystic, incurable chancres. May your children, should you have any (which is mightily impossible but just for the sake of argument go along with me), be eaten before your very eyes by a pack of feral carnies. May you die alone and penniless but in a way that is so spectacular that the photos make it onto Stile Project. Finally, may the manufacturers of your favorite toothpaste go bankrupt."

(Actually, it doesn't say that, but I fantasize that it does.)

God bless you, Jay Allen.

Fuck right off, spammers.

More later.