You'll never see the end of the road when you're traveling with me

OK, I am leeeeeeee-ving. I'll be back in about a week and a half. Tizzie and Reeves, my trusty guestbloggers, will be taking the wheel. No idea of when, given that Tizzie's overseas and Reeves is probably drunk, but they promised they wouldn't let the site go totally dead. I look forward to their witty, erudite political commentary, and the spike in unique visitors that guest bloggers generally bring to this site.

Have fun, kids!

Trust in your calling make sure your calling's true

OK, we're 5 days away from Election Day. Do you know where your polling place is?

Also, some anonymous reader sent me this: Seymore Butts Offers Free DVD to New York City Voters:

“Of course I’m excited about doing our signing at the Virgin Megastore in Times Square,” Butts said, “but to me the most important part of it all is the fact that we’re giving away DVDs in exchange for election receipts, and to me that’s a great promotion. And we’re not determining who gets DVDs based on who they vote for. Obviously, we’d like them to vote for Kerry, but if they voted for Bush and come to get a free Seymore DVD… well, that’s a little telling, isn’t it?”

And on the 7th day, the chocha rested

Whoo-hoo! Yes, we are very happy that the Sox won the Series. They deserved it. I sincerely hope this means a lot of sexy, postseason Annie Leibowitz (or, even better, Terry Richardson)-style photos of Johnny.

[But we are quietly happy about the Sox given that some of the people closest to me (and my chocha) are Cardinals fans. Wah-waaaaaaah.]

Neat-o

Could these be my ancestors? Scientists Find Prehistoric Dwarf Skeleton:

This hobbit-sized creature appears to have lived as recently as 18,000 years ago on the island of Flores, a kind of tropical Lost World populated by giant lizards and miniature elephants.

Can you hear them as they call your name?

There's a neat conversation with Errol Morris over at Gothamist, covering his convictions, his work for MoveOn, and Fog of War, which I only just saw last week. N and I made the mistake of getting high before we watched it. Let's just say that we got really...bummed...out. (And that's when I said no to drugs...) If you haven't seen it because you thought it would be boring, remember that this is the guy who managed to make a fascinating documentary about a pet cemetary. Seriously, go rent Fog of War, but leave the sinse until you're done or you'll find yourself contemplating life in the hollow log.

Drat

Legendary radio DJ John Peel dies.

Well shit. Looks like tonight I'll be having the Piel's Sessions at my house.

Bald Headed Woman Alert

Fat Possum has recently realeased Nathaniel Mayer's new album, I Just Want to Be Held. Go check it out.

He laughed I felt like a gringo

OK, I leave for Costa Rica this Saturday. I will be in San Jose, Montezuma, and Quepos. Anyone have any recommendations? Also, I was looking here, and wondering: is Day of the Dead celebrated in CR? Just curious. Please edumacate me. [Edit: Hmm, I guess it is.]

Bring it on home

Yeah baby yeah baby yeah baby don't stop: Treo 650 Officially Released!

This calls for some happy music: Give Him a Great Big Kiss, by the Shangri-Las. As they say at my local diner, ENYOY.

Oh God Yes

I want one of these.

They don't mind throwin' a brick

So let me get this straight. KRS One gets quoted out of context and the tabloids organize an auto da fe. Meanwhile, Cam'ron releases an alcoholic beverage called Sizzurp and Page Six doesn't bat an eyelash.

Question: Is Cam'ron a member of the Fifth Column? Can we count on Eminem to introduce a Roofies liqueur? (If there were only some way to glamorize inhalants to today's midwestern farm youths....Marketing, get on that.)

Marginally related, on the train this morning I saw a woman with a pink and green totebag. I initially admired it, because I liked the color combination, but then I noticed the design on the side: It was a screenprint of a 50s-style image of a trailer and it said underneath it something glib like "Your New Life Begins at Mountain View Trailer Park!" There was some glitter and rhinestones involved.

This woman, roughly my age, was wearing an Ann Taylor-style twinset and a black skirt. Her hair was highlighted. I think it's fair to assume that she did not live in Mountain View Trailer Park, nor was she an agent thereof. As a matter of fact, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that Mountain View Trailer Park is apocryphal. So where the fuck does this aspiring Stepford Wife get off with that la-di-da-"Aren't-poor-people-cute?" accessory? How about a bag emblazoned with Cabrini Green on the side? Or the Lutsk Shtetl? Isn't that charming! HA HA HA.

I can't wait to get out of here. One week and counting.

LIC Open Studios

Check it. This weekend is LIC Open Studios weekend once again. As you'll recall, I rather enjoyed myself last time around, and I think you would too if you'd just give it a try for one goddamned minute. If you go here you can download an exhaustive brochure outlining every participating open studio, or if you'd rather not go running around the mulberry bush you could simply go to Crane Street Studios, which contains 4 floors of artistes, most of whom are superbly talented and friendly. Also, some will be serving cheese and crackers. (I drew a Venn diagram of that particular Talent vs. Foodstuffs overlap, but I accidentally used that napkin to blow my nose.) Anyhow, you should go, it'll be fun.

Early and often

So I got two absentee ballots in the mail today. What does this say about the voting process? Is it a test of my honesty?

Today's First Johnny Damon Post

Just remember whose magic chocha powers got you the Pennant, darling.

PSA

RightRides, a new neighborhood organization that provides safe, late-night transportation home, is offering a free 90-minute self-defense workshop for women and transfolks, led by Brenda Jones of the Center for Anti-Violence Education. It's this Sunday, Oct. 24, from 1 pm-2:30 pm, at the Greenpoint Y (99 Meserole Ave). With the disturbing rise in violence in Greenpoint/Williamsburg, it couldn't hurt to attend.

Warm, soft, damp, with seeds inside, so round.

Friends, I give you the Johnny Damon pumpkin.

[Via The Great Leader.]

GodFUCKINGdammit

Is Palm releasing the motherfucking Treo 650 or not? The article linked over at Treonaut has gone bye-bye since yesterday.

I must have it. I haven't felt such inchoate longing since Jake Ryan.

Lies, Damn Lies, and Sinclair Broadcasting

Please go over to telescreen and read Vidiot's amazingly comprehensive rundown on this whole Sinclair nonsense. That is all.

The Power of Pussy

Know why the Red Sox kicked IBM's* the Yankees' asses? It's because of the Twinkle Twinkle Blah Blah Blah Etc. Magic Chocha Benediction I offered up to my homeboy Johnny Damon the other day. He better remember that lovin' post-season, 'cos he sure as hell ain't getting any MVP awards this year.

*Hi HereIType.

I'm not an animal

Out with a girlfriend late last night, we took turns assuring one another that the fact that we didn't respond to babies didn't make us monsters. "Something in me is broken," she said. "I just don't feel anything, and I'm afraid that if I have a kid, I still won't feel anything."

"I worry that if I have a kid I *will* feel something," I replied. "What if I become one of those people who say 'No, really, smell the baby's head!' I don't want to smell that. It's a testament to the banality of babies that they all have that same baby-head smell anyhow."

"The last time I held a baby I accidentally moved my arm too suddenly and the baby's head moved funny. I was all like 'Whoops! I broke the baby!'" she added, fishing a piece of ice out of her cocktail glass and popping it into her mouth. I laughed sinisterly.

"Why do parents foist their babies on us anyhow? Everywhere I go, someone wants me to hold the baby. 'Here, hold the baby!' Plop!" I feigned holding an infant. "And babies are so dumb--they just snuggle up to you. Clueless."

At this point, the bartender placed a half-full glass of water on our table. Illicit smoking time! It almost seemed like a message from God: It's okay, I don't want you to reproduce anyhow.

Put me in, coach, I'm ready to have wild monkey sex with this centerfielder

I may be the only person in the universe who thinks about sex while watching baseball--it keeps me distracted--but goddamned if the Red Sox Johnny Damon isn't a sexy melange of XYY chromosome and simian good looks.

Clean cut, he's dashing. All scruffy-like, he's got a certain rake-cum-hobo charm.

And did you know that he's the only player in history to hit a single, double, and triple in one inning? [Fill in obvious sexual metaphor here.]

Go Red Sox!

Out here in the fields I fight for my meals

If there were a Pulitzer Prize for screengrabs, it'd have to go to this one of Bill "Falafile" O'Reilly.

[Addendum: YES, I know it's not real. Well, *now* I know it's not real. Feh.]

Um, Hi.

Here's a question that doesn't pertain to 99% of my twelve daily readers, but which one of you is looking for "jenojenny"? If it's important, please email me. Thanks.

I avoided policemen when I went to cop

Yesterday I got a wild hair up my ass and went traipsing all over hell's half-acre looking for galangal and kaffir lime leaves to make Cambodian Catfish Soup. In the borough of Queens, the census equivalent of the "It's A Small World" ride, you'd think that this shit should be growing on the street corners, no? Nope.
This isn't the first time I've found myself cruising around aimlessly, looking for an elusive ingredient. I once spent five hours looking for jicama. JICAMA! It's almost too embarassing to admit.

Frightening the horses

Apparently the city of Cincinnati has finally, at the end of 2004, discovered TEH GAY. Tizzie sends the following vocab list with this comment:

There is the most hilarious feature in the Cincinnati Enquirer - three days of "there are queers among us!" news. I was scared to read the "Words and phrases to know" page - would it be about cock rings? Kenneth Cole shoes? And the "where do gay people like to go?" page - to the ROCKY HORROR movie?? Oh, dear, we don't get out much now, do we??

Thank heavens!

Fishfucker is back. (And girls, send him your boudoir photos.)

Sick girl

So, guess where I was last nite? At Roseland seeing Social Distortion. Jealous?

Heh, but seriously, it was a great show. It was a show that, in all respects, I wish I had seen when I was 16, which is approximately the last time I listened to SD in earnest. The crowd was 80% male, and 50% superhot in a way that would have made my 16-y-o self moist with desire. (Actually, I still find rockabilly guys attractive, but much less so, given that so many of 'em seem to be Bush supporters. But I digress.) It was a strange, though not surprising mix of people: punks/rockabilly types, frat boys, and guys in pleated Dockers. My 16-y-o self would've poured my soda down those Dockers, but the 29-y-o me was content to sneer in their general direction. One of them thought I was flirting with him or something and kept trying to catch my eye for the rest of the night. Note to self: Learn to sneer better.

When P and I arrived at the show we walked back to the bar and I jokingly said, "This is a crowd that would buy us drinks all night." And then, as if to prove that the universe is as crass and sexist as I am, three guys approached us, all of whom were named Matt. Matt 1 worked in cryogenics, Matt 2 was unemployed, and Matt 3 was a pilot. All three were from Allentown. Matts 1 and 3 were voting for Bush, though Matt 1 said that he'd promised to vote for Kerry in exchange for a soup recipe.

They offered to buy us drinks using the time-honored tradition of "I'm going to make you drink something you're frightened of." In this case: Old Grandad. Ick.

"No way, I don't drink that shit, it makes you sterile," I told them with absolute certainty. Though really, I don't drink it because it's fucking awful. I don't care what Jack Kerouac said.

Still, two seconds later, P and I found ourselves throwing back shots of Old Grandad and trying not to projectile vomit. Matts 1 and 2, sensing that they were getting nowhere with us using this tactic (Which is true: I'll drink anything alcoholic if you tell me you think I can't/won't. My biggest error? Galliano.), dumped Matt 3 and headed to the stage. Matt 3--actually a pretty nice guy for a Bush supporter--was telling us about being a pilot. Then he admitted that he wasn't a big SD fan and that Matts 1 and 2 had dragged him here. "I'm too old for rock shows," he said.

"Wait a minute. How old are you?" I spat.
"28. How old are you guys?"
"33."
"29."
"Oh," he said, and 5 seconds later, "Well, you ladies have a good night and enjoy the show."

Dissed and dismissed for being geriatric! And called a lady! That hurt. We should've weaseled more drinks out of them before our Fixodent loosened.

Oh, and for those who care about the MUSIC: SD put on a great show, and I was surprised to recognize fully 75% of their set--they must've played older stuff? They ended with Ball and Chain and encored with Nickel and Dime and something else I don't recall because at that point it was 110 degrees in Roseland and I was itching to pee.

One for the Alamo, one for the Pope

Folks, tomorry is Bloodshot BBQ and that is where I'll be all day, prior to attending my friend G's birthday party. (N and I are charged with bringing the pepperoni--no, not in that "HERE IS THE PIZZA AND *zip* HERE IS THE PEPPERONI" way.) My boyfriends the Waco Brothers will be there, as will the Meat Purveyors, with their foxy standup (the instrument, not her) bassist. Also last year we got free Rheingold beer* coozies. They cannot POSSIBLY top that this year.

*Fun fact! One of my second cousins was a Miss Rheingold in the '30s. Or she may have been only a runner-up. I don't remember anymore.

Souvenir

It's CMJ and the streets are chockablock with rock stars, which is how I envisioned every day was like here when I was a kid. I'm sure there isn't a dry panty in NYC bloggerland (prepare for your Pamela Des Barres moments, ladies). Anyhow, I saw Richard Buckner walking down the street by the gime. He paused at Other Music, but didn't go in. I hoped that perhaps he'd stop at my destination, but he didn't appear to be desirous of a pressed panini sammich. I should've followed him and bought him a beer and asked if VW paid him enough for Ariel Ramirez.

I am a rich man, and I have good pants on

Today on the train I was squished up against a guy wearing a mass-market men's suit. He was purposely rubbing his arm against my boob. I was staring into his ear canal looking at the strange outcropping of black hairs therein.

Ordinarily I would be annoyed by getting rubbed on, but as I looked at this man and his cheap-ass suit I felt a tremendous sense of pity. Because why the hell would you work at a job that requires you to wear a suit everyday but doesn't pay well enough for you to buy something made of merino wool at the very least?

It could be argued that this man might have other interests that he likes to spend his money on. If this is the case--if you are, in fact, only phoning your work wardrobe in--then don't dress like you're *trying* to pass for someone who gives a shit. It's so Willy Loman.

My friend's outside, can he come in?

Bob Mould is DJing at the Delancey on Thursday night. I'm feeling conflicted. On one hand, I bet he has impeccable taste in music. On the other hand, I wish everyone at the Delancey (with the exception of the bartender with the brunette pageboy and septum ring) dead.

If I had a pack stuck upon my back, would I look fine and cheery-oh

Hello from Iraq! is a photoblog from K's brother Pat, who (along with their brother Ken) is a reservist in Iraq now. I don't agree with his assessments of certain things but his photos and sardonic commentary are entertaining and poignant.

A Gentle Reminder

Today is the deadline to register to vote in NY. If you haven't already done so, you need to. Go here right now to download a voter registration form, or get off your lazy ass and pick one up at the post office.

Fast and Furious

A belated life-lesson: Open bar != quality beverages. There's the rub. Sure, you *think* you can drink $10 (or whatever the price of admission is) worth of well drinks, but as it turns out, there is no such thing as getting your money's worth of generic vodka. Is this what economists mean by diminishing returns?

N and I arrived at Rothko* (we were there to see Shy Child, and not to change the subject, but they rocked out with their cocks out**) in time to "enjoy" 1.5 hours' worth of open bar (Reeves, on the other hand, was looking so young and freshfaced that they wouldn't let him in without his ID and had to go back home to get it). After a disappointing round of well bourbon and soda, we concluded that it was essential to disguise the taste of the liquor. Gin and tonic for him, cranberry and vodka (ick) for me. Still terrible, though strong. Noting the time frame--45 minutes had sped by--we realized that we weren't pacing ourselves properly and began ordering back drinks hand over fist. Reeves arrived and, in order to catch up, hovered at the end of the bar simultaneously waving a single above his head and chugging a canning jar of vodka, Adam's apple bobbing frantically.

Thirty minutes left: I didn't know it was possible to sweat while drinking, but the exertion was getting to me. The sword of Damocles was dangling above our little green wristbands.

Fifteen minutes left: "Yes, may I have a vodka-tequila-gin-and-tonic please? In a pint glass? No ice please."

With five minutes left, I threw (up) in the towel and got a diet Coke. I realize now that I should have done so earlier in the evening, as this morning I am wracked with a relentless headache and baby snakes shits. Never again. Except maybe tomorrow.

Because tomorrow there are two shows you ought to go see. Actually, you can't literally see them both, given that they will take place at the same time in two different boroughs, so you'll have to make a decision. The incomparable Crimson Sweet are playing at Lit, which is where I'll be. N will be attending the DC Snipers show at Trash. (NB: Unlike Shy Child, the DC Snipers might possibly rock out with their cocks out: there was an [airquotes]alleged[/airquotes] incident involving group public urination at their last show.) Anyhow, you make the call.

*Rather underwhelming, to say the least. Felt like Williamsburg with its interior design half-assedry. Mean girls. Average-looking men. Everyone is brunette, which I think means that the Zionist Cabal now officially controls Hollywood, the media, the banks, and Having a Good Time in NYC.
**Not literally, which is unfortunate.

How the hell did I get here so soon?

Yesterday I went out with a friend to a bar I'd read about for many years and planned on visiting at least once: Circa Tabac. It's the only cigarette bar in the city, and it has this sort of clubby, bistro feel: Dark interior, leather banquettes, European people. In addition to a full, fancy bar, they also have an extensive cigarette list, from which you can select something as mundane as Winstons to fancier, boutique brands that I've never heard of. The markup, as you can imagine, is fairly sizable. I got a martini and a pack of Jezebel violets for around 18 bucks. The Jezebels, which I'd never even heard of before, come in a lovely lavender, black, and gold box, and are themselves lavender and gold. I was disappointed to discover that they didn't really smell or taste terribly flowery, as touted on the menu, but they were really pretty. What's kind of nifty about Circa Tabac is that it's got an intense ventilation system that really wicks the smoke away from the tables. I left not even smelling particularly smoky.

Anyhow, yesterday morning I passed a line of adolescents wrapping around the Tower Records at Broadway and 4th. They were waiting for the Good Charlotte in-store performance and record release, which was scheduled for 7:30 that evening. The truancy rate in Westchester County public schools must have spiked tenfold yesterday.

When I left work last night, the stage had been assembled on 4th Street and the crowd of chilluns loomed. If I didn't have plans, I might've stuck around to see what these prepackaged disaffected guys from suburban Maryland sound like. I'd seen their videos at the GIME but without the volume I could note only their appearance, which seems to indicate they were kidnapped, brainwashed by Svengali producers, and put under general sedation in order to have full sleeves of tattoos applied. Perhaps they sound good, but I defy anyone to convince me of that. Isn't there better stuff for the youth of today to listen to?

I mean, it's not as though I was born clutching a Big Star test pressing. In fact, I can tell you what I was listening to at 12: Howard Fucking Jones.

But, y'know, I got better.

This is an insult to my heritage

A creme-y, sponge-y insult.

Hair Like Shelley Winters

Kevin over at Languor Management writes of his apocalypse fantasy in Trapped Underground! or The Human Repopulation Project:

I assess the situation with the wise clarity of Gene Hackman’s Rev. Scott: My first thought is “will the race survive?” I scan the car looking at the motley assortment of men and women and try to imagine them organized into couples for the sole purpose of repopulating the earth. I’m afraid it’s going to be a hard sell. The car is full of drunk and exhausted hipsters and junkies, very few of which, beyond their stylish clothing, offer much attraction. Whatever glow they might have possessed while at their respective bars, restaurants, and parties, has long since dimmed. But as this is a crowd that was out on the town, several pre-existing couples and recent hook-ups are already among us, so I am reasonably assured that sex will occur, birth-control supplies will eventually be exhausted, and — provided we find some sort of food source to sustain us — we will be able to restock the earth with more unattractive people should it prove impossible to escape the Tunnel.

::cough::

*Probably my favorite NY movie, though not favorite Walter Hill movie.

I Can Hardly Breathe

Shy Child's new album, One With The Sun, is out today. I had the pleasure of getting an advance copy of it (BRAG!) in order to write a 20-word review for Sweet Action. However, they deserve more than 20 words, because they are teh awesome.

See here for mo' better words.

What's my opinion? I'm not a big electronic music fan. There was a point in time when I didn't even listen to bands that played anything more exotic than a piano. Is it a fluke, then, that I really, really like Shy Child? Nah, it's more like this: for the first time I see how electronic music is the progeny of punk. These guys are like the Sparks I was born in time to see. Seeing them live is transcendent. (Unless you're so drunk that you--ah... heh heh--pass out in your chair.)

Here's a song off the new album called Summer.

They are having a release party at Rothko, 116 Suffolk St, this Thursday. One of the sponsors is SPIN magazine. And the door is ten bucks. BUT that includes open bar. And a bevy of NYC bloggers, I'm sure. Also, the afterparty features Phil Mossman of LCD Soundsystem deejaying. Borrowed nostalgia for the unremembered 80s, indeed!

Nobody does anything wrong; nobody is a dilettante

I'm still rubbernecking the car accident that is Some Blogs Are Better Than Others but what I'm really enjoying are the comments. This comment in particular:

Our "diaries" are not unlike Che Guevera's. We too fight for the freedom of ideas. Journalism and social commentary used to be pushed onto people by the "elites" and now we get a chance to decide for ourselves and push back. The political machines are being re-programmed by the public and debate of the issues (be it political or pop culture) has never been so democratic. This is what Jefferson envisioned all along. Finding common causes and organizing people are more effective and easier processes thanks to bloggers. The blogging proletariat is defiantly standing up to Corporate America and now **WE** define the agenda of what's cool and what's not.

Love is NOT. JEALOUS.

Dong Resin debuts today as editor of Screenhead, brought to you by the Gawker media empire. The concept is thus: Like Fark, only...ah...at a different URL.

I kid, I kid. Yay for Dong! Now that he's making the big bucks he can buy me that ring he's been promising.

Editing with one hand, posting half-hearted insults with the other

Is the Washington Post's Richard Leiby retarded? Is he Joyce Wadler in drag? Do we need to create a gossip columnist's Repurposement Camp? It can't be too late for them to learn a trade:

So, in a TriBeCa bar on Friday night, we find Steve Martin and Salman Rushdie engaged in deep, animated conversation with veteran Washington investigative reporter Seymour Hersh and his psychiatrist wife, Elizabeth. Unfortunately, Martin is not wearing a white suit and doesn't have a fake arrow jutting from his head, but let's imagine that anyway.

Also, Leiby refers to Anna Deavere Smith as an "actress," which is a little like calling Vaclav Havel a failed musician. The woman has a five-page CV, and I know this because I've been smacked down in my attempts to shorten it more than once.

(Via the lovely and decidedly NOT Velma-like Maud Newton, whose mention in the Times Book Review this weekend was accompanied by a not-nearly-diminuitive-enough cartoon representation.)

Well.

Everyone in my office called in sick today. I suppose this means that I'll be doing all of their work. I'll be back later on, I suppose.

Knitting idiot

My friend P, who came to visit this weekend, turned me onto the idea of knitting. I thought: Wouldn't it be nice to have something to do with my hands besides smoking or chronically masturbating? He made it seem easy. And he promised to teach me how.

Well, before he had to catch his Dangerous Chinatown Bus back to DC, we went and bought knitting supplies: A couple sets of needles, and a skein of yarn. But then time ran short, and he had to board his bus before the needles even came out of the package. So now I'm stuck with all the materials but none of the know-how.

I decided to go online to see if there were any helpful tutorials. I found this, which seems very straightforward, but I still can't do it. I don't do well with written instructions. I'm a learning-by-doing, Devry type, see. Darnit, it's killing me knowing that I grok the concept but can't...freaking...do it! I've gotten as far as the slipknot.

Why did I ignore all my girlfriends' enjoinders to learn knitting when it was cool? I feel like I'm eating crow right now. But dammit, I spent 18 bucks and I am determined to either learn knitting or garrote myself with the damn needles.

Creativity!!! N0\/\/!!!11!!1!

This weekend is the second annual Creativity Now conference. Last year's was fun (the bourbon helped), though the theme could've been "I Am a Creative Professional With a Castro Hat and a Japanese Girlfriend."

My friend P and I are going tomorrow, but forgoing Sunday. It's decided that we don't give a fuck about Brian Eno or Asia Argento. Mostly I'm just stoked to hear Ray Pettibon.

Ray Pettibon could kick their asses any day.