It's expected I'm gone

Ah, this is awkward. I don't know how to put it exactly. It's been four years and, well, it's been great. But now, like a two-minute brother, I'm through.

But listen: It's not you, it's me.

[this is good]

Summer is halfway over, sorta, and this being the busiest time of the year for me work-wise, I have neither the time nor the werewithal to come up with anything snappy to say. I have the following items that I've collected on cocktail napkins, wadded up in my pocket, and saved for a time such as this.

First of all, I'd like to thank not one, but TWO friends, for sending this article* to me, with the subject line "Thought you'd find this interesting." It speaks volumes that when a goth stripper in Philly gets arrested for having body parts in her house, you all think of me.
My favorite line is the following:

"And Hott 22 does not knowingly hire mass murderers."

Titty-squeezin' time

From what I have gleaned, apparently there comes a point in time at which all female journalists of a particular mien must write about visiting the Town Shop on the Upper West Side. Although I am no journo, I am no longer content to let Alex Kuczynzki have all that fun writing about shaking her cans. And also I'm short on material, so here goes.

There ain't shit on TV

Tonight a friend pointed me to a We Jam Econo DVD release party at The Delancey. I was...how you say...conflicted. Just as I was two years ago. I hate me some Delancey, and I swore the next time I entered its pseudohip doors it would be with Semtex strapped to my chest. So, I didn't go. Anyhow.

Speaking of pseudohipsterism, there's this (via), which is...troubling. Apparently he is the celebrity in residence in Williamsburg. He down to earth, he take a car service.

AAAAAND...Speaking of resident celebrities, here's a weird instance of synchronicity. (Though the story works better if you pretend that Sophie's is the Cherry Tavern, which it basically is.) Anyhow, it was a year and five days ago that I had drinks with Krucoff at the Cherry Tavern. So, as is my gift*, I managed to spot an erstwhile child celebrity passing by the bar. Anyhow, last night I was at Sophie's, another East Village underage drinking establishment, and who should walk in but the very same child celeb. Is it a sign?

Anyhow: Tomorrow, I swear, a rundown of all the food I et in Italia.

*This is my only gift, spotting small-time (no ::cough:: offense) celebs. I live in fear that I'll be on a game show and the host will select me and ask me what special talents I have and, rather than being able to demonstrate how I can dislocate both my shoulder blades or play "On the Trail of the Lonesome Pines" using my hand and my armpit, I'll have to say, Well, I'm good at spotting the first Becky from Roseanne.

Like Sharon Stone, I'm making my comeback and you should all feel indifferent

Hiya kids, hiya hiya.

So, Italy was great, duh. I have lots and lots of boring travelogues to share, but first I have to finish unpacking my suitcase--it's simply crammed with all my J. Peterman special nonwrinkling traveling smocks--and get settled in to work. Hello, email inbox! Hello, vitriolic missives from clients? Heh, yeah, I guess I did phone it in those last few weeks before I left.

Before I do anything else, though, I want to offer a big, big thanks to bmarkey for handling both the left- and right-hand sides of #1HS while I was away. Not only did he manage two record reviews, he also offered up a three-part insider's guide to Seattle, dispelling once and for all that it's a rainy city full of faux-nice armchair liberals who drink coffee and throw fish from tall pointy buildings. Thank you, bmarkey!

I'm sure you're all itching to hear about our Roman Holiday, but until I get my act together, you'll have to satiate your yearnings by perusing the first half of our vacation photos.

--We arrive and watch the World Cup

--We go to the market

--We do some touristy things and then come home to watch the World Cup

--We head to Abruzzo to watch the World Cup and witness frightening Italian traditions and hang out at the docks

More to come.

We are experiencing a lull

Big thanks to Maud for putting me on her list of favorite entertainment sites. Hello EW readers. I'm sorry for the dearth of fresh content! I am passer des bonnes vacances, but thank you for stopping by.

As much as I find Maud's compliment incredibly thoughtful, I also think--and I'm sure many of you will agree--that it's an entirely spurious claim. But if you wanna hang out, I'll point you to some of the posts I feel are PERSONAL FUCKING TRIUMPHS.

-On visiting the gyno.

-On visiting the strip club.

-On music

-On not picking up furniture on the street

-On stealing

-On Mardi Gras

-On shooting guns

-On why I won't ever reproduce, and that is probably a good thing

-On shoes (but not in a girlblogger-y way)

-On Tom Wolfe

-On pie-making

-Oh, you'll love this one: Serial Killer or Rock Critic?

-On overpriced headgear

-On the L train (man, I'm glad I moved to Queens).

I can't think of anything more because right now I'm operating on three hours of sleep and waitaminnit I'm in FUCKING ROME RIGHT NOW and what am I doing posting here?

Open wide for some soccer

Surely by now you are aware that there are soccer matches going on somewhere. We are--or at least half of us are, as mainly my interest in the sport is watching sexy guys with great legs run around a field--a soccer household. Football. Whatever.

There have been some crushing defeats. Jeff was devastated by Serbia-Montenegro's loss. And N, obviously, wasn't particularly happy about yesterday's USA v. Czech Republic match. We're actually flying into Rome on the day of the USA v. Italy match, which N plans to watch in some bar somewhere despite the distinct possibility of being set upon by a mob of angry strangers. Please, I beg of him, Don't say anything while you watch the match.

On a lighter note, the advent of the World Cup has allowed me to employ numerous permutations of one of my favorite Simpsons quotes: This match will determine once and for all which nation is the greatest on earth - Mexico or Portugal!

N's already getting a little tired of it, but I swear to Christ I'm gonna ride that one till the wheels fall off.

Greenpoint Terminal Market Fire

This morning we awoke to news of the five-alarm fire at a warehouse in Greenpoint. The sky was incredibly black and we could see giant billowing clouds of smoke from across the Newtown Creek. We puzzled over which warehouse it was. (I was hoping that it was El Stinko Candle Factory, but the smell wasn't nauseating enough.)

Unfortunately, it's the Greenpoint Terminal Market, which is was a group of several buildings in northeast Greenpoint. (Read here for some interesting historical background.) For anyone who loves urban spelunking, these buildings were a motherlode; I never made it inside, but this was truly my favorite part of the neighborhood. (The narrow, tree-lined Guernsey Street is a close second.) One of the neatest things about these buildings were the skybridges. (See more photos here.)

It's probably because I grew up in the middle of nowhere--with very little inorganic material to look at--that I think abandoned factory buildings are far more compelling than trees and fields. I'm keen on all decrepitude and decadence, though...falling-down barns and ancient Buicks parked half-underwater in corn fields. I love the art(ifice) of Gordon Matta-Clark. I prefer the smell of attics and basements to any kitchen.

There was something truly gorgeous about the Greenpoint Terminal Market buildings; the colors, the angular shadows cast, and the reflection of the sun off the crumbling windows. It was an elegiac experience to walk around them--a symbol of the death of Brooklyn industry.

People have remarked that they would make perfect condos. Total infeasiblility aside, I believe the beauty lay in the decay. (Qualifier: I am not a Ruskinite; I want to see many spaces preserved. But not everything needs to be made into condos in the process.)

Anyhow. Just as they postulated here, I wouldn't be surprised if this was arson. It sure got really big, really fast.

Photo courtesy of Randy, whose photos of the fire can be seen here.

Updates: It's now a ten-alarm fire; Randy is keeping us updated; lasadh has some gorgeous photos of the Greenpoint Terminal.

Also, this might be the best quote ever, from the AP story: "They're going to save a lot of money on demolition," said Yuda Geller, a real estate agent who lives in Greenpoint.

My pink half of the drainpipe

There's this old man who stands in the causeway between the 7 train and the Lexington line at Grand Central Station. He plays the viola for money between 8 am and, like, 8 pm.

Unlike some of the other buskers in the subway, he has no discernable talent. Sawing back and forth with an unrosined bow, he produces a single agonizing, endless free-form tune that kinda resembles "Old MacDonald Had a Farm." It is unbearably sad. He is unbearably sad.

I don't know how he does it for twelve hours a day. He must be aware that he's not very good, although he's not quantifiably worse than most violists. He's clearly there because he needs the money. And so he stands there, hours on end, playing tunelessly.

Head like a hole

Oddly enough, Maud and I were both at the dentist on Tuesday. As I've mentioned in the past, I like Dr. S very much, and I hope that she gets a personalized license plate for her new Mercedes-Benz SL that says DANAPD4THS.

The genesis of Tuesday's visit occurred a few months ago when I noticed this jagged spot on one of my molars after I had two fillings. I assumed that she'd used too much composite and created some kind of overhang. So I mentioned it to the hygienist during my routine cleaning last week. "Do you think Dr. S could grind it down a bit?" It seemed to be catching a lot of food, particularly red meat, a problem that, though small, is somewhat of an eating deterrent for me. It's a free country; why not demand unfettered access to red meat?

Hosing them down, I tell them "You've got pretty eyes"

Last night was the annual ritual of the Ringling Brothers' Elephant Walk. I missed it again. Torpor took over, and I just couldn't make myself walk the five blocks to the Midtown Tunnel.

I was a bit drained from having completed an Elephant Walk of my own through the garment-strewn aisles of Century 21, a discount clothing emporium that calls itself (facetiously, I presume) "New York's Best-Kept Secret." It's basically a complex of nightmarish warrens and cupolas, where last year's designer castoffs jut out at angry angles from overstuffed racks. I have never had a satisfying transaction there. But when you're looking for cheap foundation garments, Century 21 is the place to go.

It's hard out here for a pimp

In the two years I've lived in LIC, cafes have closed and opened, buildings that should have been granted landmark status have been torn down to make room for architectural abortions, and our view of Manhattan becomes more and more occluded. I don't think there's another neighborhood more in-flux than LIC--sorry Bushwick, but you don't even come close.

However, there was one single, solitary thing I counted on, my daily stationary reference point.

And now it's gone. RIP, Pimp My Ride.

I forgot to forget to remember

I began composing this post nine months ago, which explains why the topic and links are more stale than usual. I unearthed it last night when I was going through my "Draft" entries--the ones I'd begun but never completed--and I thought, Eh, good enough. TEH IRONY!!!1!!!11! Anyhow, only the first two paragraphs are old.

About a month ten months ago I broke down and bought the must-have self-help treatise for creative, hip professionals in the know: Getting Things Done. I did this in the hopes of becoming a super-efficient worker drone*. What happened was that I abandoned it about halfway through, because I figured I'd pretty much gotten the gist and I was also ashamed to be seen reading it on the subway. I don't even know where it is any more--I either loaned it to someone, telling them "This will change your life" (lie), or it's underneath the copy of Motley Crue's Dirt, which I also haven't made it through (misplaced priorities).

The premise of GTD, if I recall correctly, is that you collect shit in your in-box and then divide it up according to how long it'll take you to take care of it. Then you Do, Delegate, or Defer. Then there are 20 more steps after that. I have a flowchart pinned to my bulletin board here. Its corners are yellowed.

The major flaw of the GTD philosophy is that it can't really help you if you hate working. But I reckon if you're in that position, ain't shit that can. Does anyone like working? Very few friends of mine seem to enjoy working but we're a profoundly shiftless lot. I've been wondering this a lot lately. I wish I did enjoy working--because I'm certainly never going to be independently wealthy.

I said, "Gimme summa dat, what you're suckin' on"

I am heading off to the hinterlands to bark at the moon, drink beer, shoot guns, go off-roadin', and maybe do a little antiquing. To commemorate the occasion, and this fabulous photo that Lentz sent me, here is my favorite Zappa song, Titties and Beer.

Liveblogging the Super Bowl!

As if. We are watching the Full-Tilt Poker.net Invitational Live Thanksgiving at Monaco, and it's fantastic. It's really plodding and uncomfortable. And they're all wearing tuxedos, something that is apparently de rigeur for this particular arena, so as the evening progresses, their bodies are sweating and rejecting the monkeysuits like they're George Best's liver. Imagine your high school AV squad wearing tuxedos. Yeah.

Except for Dave Ulliott, who is my favorite poker player. With a thuggish, winking air, and a raised eyebrow at all times, he looks like he could be a stand-in for Terrence Stamp. The man has seven children, he wears two gold knuckle rings, and his expression says he'd just as soon gouge your eye out with a grapefruit spoon as look at you.

I need to have a word with you

Everyone's been going on about the Arctic Monkeys like they're the second coming of The Fall and so I found some mp3s on the trusty Hype Machine the other day which I finally got around to listening to.

You know what? You're wrong. They sound like the Strokes. If Mark E. Smith had known that this is what the fruits of his labor would be compared to he would've taken better care of his teeth and gotten a job with the ministry of agriculture.

...and the sun shining on my face

I know what you're thinking. Why the long face, Rocky?* Well, cue up that Bob Seger and pass me Laura Dern's forehead, 'cos I've got a whole lotta living to do in the next few days.

That's what I'm here to talk to you about, actually. I know I've been leaving you out lately. There are the overdue reviews. There are the extraordinarily witty lagniappes to which you've become accustomed. There are the drinking photos.

Because of stuff--both good and not-so-good--that occupies me in the meatspace, I might not be around so much for the month of January. So in the meantime, some listomania.

Constabulary Notes

Like a two-minute brother, I'm through! It was my quickest jury duty stint ever: after six hours and one voir dire, I was dismissed with the thanks of the court. The case I was questioned for was rape, sodomy, and first-degree burglary. Just like the title of my favorite Pogues album.

Anyhow, I was sent back to the jury pool to sit with 60 or so other people, 40 of whom were chosen to go to another voir dire. I looked around to see who was left. There was the mentally ill college professor who was sitting behind me during voir dire and whose constant nattering on about everything everyone said made me want to jump up from my swivel chair and punch him in the cock; there was the woman in the burka, also in my voir dire; there were the two Chinese people who barely spoke English, or were faking; there was the guy whose father-in-law was a federal prosecutor convicted of bribery; there was the grossly obese woman who was confined to a wheelchair and whose legs (amputated just below the knees) were covered with dirty bandages; and there was the woman who, it seems, had some connection to the mafia. And me. What does this say? It's not like I asked if the jury would be allowed to look at the trauma photos.

Fun fact: The offices for the Evangelista family's bail bonds business are right across the street from the court house. I loved that show.

In other good news, The Great Leader has returned. For how long? We don't know. Welcome back!

Where ya been?/ Watcha been doin'?/ What took ya so long?

We made our pilgrimage to Florida for the holidays and got back 5 days ago, and since then I have felt nothing but a resounding meh when I look at a computer screen. It's not that our vacation was unfun; it was actually better than expected, considering...oh...everything.

OK, two tears in a bucket, motherfuck it.

N and I started our holidays early with the exchange of presents before we left NY. I had sent out all the presents for la famiglia a week earlier because this year I OPERATED WITH RUTHLESS EFFICIENCY. This meant fewer things to carry, I figured, plus I was wary of overzealous airport people making me unwrap gifts in the airport.

No, instead, they stopped me at the X-ray machines, emptied the contents of my bag, and sent my box of tampons through the machine again, presumably because they looked like ammo.

Pull down your bloomers and slide on the ice

Well well well, here we are with the eve of the Sure-to-Be-Doomed Airline Travel Which Will Commence XMas 2005: Trail of Tears Edition. For those of you sent here from Hanasiana, I'm so glad you came, and your wait time will only be...8 days. I'm sorry. It's this time of year, and the dread and cost and anxiety, that make me clam up like my clam is, um, superglued.

Much love, hope youse have excellent holidays, and look for my return sometime before New Years. Maybe there will be photos? Hm, food for thought!

And now, I welcome my guest bloggers, penis enlargement pills and texas holdem. Take it away, boys.

Yes, God, I'm doin' my job

Work--work-work, not my daylong perusal of RSS feeds, for which, I might add, I am totally undercompensated--has been kicking my ass this week. Look for a little something in the near future. It will have jeweled eyes.

In the meantime, a bagatelle pour vous: Let's Just Fuck for Christmas, by Bantam Rooster.

Sweet Meats

This weekend I was cycling manic and thus, at 5 pm Saturday, I decided I would make the Swedish Ginger Snaps from the Times' "Style" supplement, which should really be called "An Assemblage of Articles So Fatuous They Make the Sunday Styles Section Look Like Foreign Policy Review."

Why did I make these cookies? Because of their secret ingredient: bacon grease. I love that a recipe calling for 3/4 cup of rendered fat can coexist mere pages from Scarlett Johanssen and Her Fabulous Rack. I was inspired because just that morning, I made bacon and eggs for breakfast. So I decided to save the grease.

Please to be havening good weekend

We have a complicated relationship with our super, Jeff. On the one hand, he is generally nice to us, joking with us in his determinedly broken English (which, of course, we mock so often that it's hard for me not to lapse into Jeffspeak when I'm around him). He especially likes N, who once helped him carry a fridge to the curb. Sometimes they talk about soccer. Jeff calls him "buddy." On the other hand, my relationship with Jeff is fraught with the sexual politics one might expect to encounter with a suspected Serbian war criminal.

You gotta live the life you sing about in your songs

Hey, I know how to party. At the bar last night was none other than Seth Mnookin, and goddamn if THAT isn't an exciting sighting.

Speaking of sightings: Today I saw two little people within a block of each other. One of them was really tiny. Is it good luck? (Not for them to be little, but for me to see them.) I like to take these things as good omens. Because I don't want them to be bad omens. Because I'm already superstitious and paranoid enough. Someone has to worry. Otherwise bad things happen.

Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes

Ed note: I can't really explain how this conversation began.

Me: [Long hypothetical lustmord scenario]

Him: How do you come up with this stuff?

Me: I'm the moderator of a serial-killer-themed penthouse forum-style newsgroup: alt.blood.vaginas.stabby.stabby.stabby.

Him: Stop.

Me: Perhaps you'd like to join? Got a great one the other day: "Dear Penthouse Forum: I never thought it would happen to me, but I found this retarded boy in the restroom of the KMart all by himself and I managed to lure him into the woods! Naturally, I was worried about getting bloodstains on my clownsuit, so...."

Him: Stop.

Me: It's hard work, being the moderator. Y'know, I just had to ban some people from the newsgroup. I think they were making stuff up. I mean, two Swedish stewardesses? I could see that. But the meat grinder I find hard to believe.

Him: Please stop.

Giblets

Saturday night was the closing party for TEN63. There was nothing funereal about it. Not to say that there weren't some tears, but the beauty of alcohol is that it does, in the short term, numb the pain. (I think.) [Better photos here, thanks Chris.]

Evening on the ground

Twice this week I've been visited by the Night Guard Fairy. The Night Guard Fairy steals into the bedroom, usually after a night of heavy drinking, plucks the $500 night guard from my mouth, and leaves behind a shiny quarter. I wake up shortly thereafter, my teeth cha-cha-cha'ing themselves into a fine powder.

Don't you know that it hurts me so

It's 25 days and counting until TEN63, the greatest cafe that ever existed, closes. NYC, being the huge organic structure that it is, has a lot of turnover and attrition. There aren't many places I've mourned the passing of, but TEN63 holds a place in my heart, not only because of its wondrous coffee and foodstuffs. It's also the first place I've been to, in my 8 years in the city, where I really felt content.

I don't mind some slight disorder

Apparently the ENTIRE subway system is on fire right now. As such, no one in my office has made it into work (one of them actually called me having a temper tantrum in his Brooklyn subway station), leaving me to do the administrative plate-spinning bonanza. I hate having to actually interact with coworkers.

In the meantime I picked out two songs for your weekend listening pleasure:
Rainy Night in Soho, by the Pogues. (Any word on Shane "Don't Let Them Bury Me I'm Not Dead Yet" MacGowan?)

Gloomy Sunday, by Diamanda Galás. AKA the Hungarian Death Song. Like being Hungarian isn't enough to drive you to suicide.

(Disclaimer: Not responsible if these songs drive you to suicide/rotting teeth.)

Everybody loves a TV show

Last night I found myself at one of those pseudo-private clubs for a Kennedy offspring's book release party. (Don't ask.)

Administrative notes

Two things:

• I've migrated some of the posts from my old blogspot address for various reasons, so if you look through the archives or are reading this via my brokedick RSS feed and see random shit from three years ago, that's why. Feel free to read or ignore. One of these days I'll get around to exporting all my blogspot entries in one fell swoop, but it won't be soon.


• Confidentially? Some of you are beginning to weird me out. (No, not you. You.)

Oh-OH New England!

N and I went to the Cape this weekend, for bidness. We stayed at the Sea Crest, which, as I am told, was once host to the best entertainment the Catskills had to offer. There was nothing of that sort when we arrived.

Sorry.

I'm behind in my posting. Now I'm leaving for the weekend. Have a good one, and see you next week.

PS Have you read bmarkey's Ramones review? Well, you should.

Oh baby

I'm so tired. I don't know why. And I have too much work.

And you know what? Skirts have gotten really, really short. What up with that?

Have this: Signifying Rapper, Schooly D. (The original, not that bullshit cocksucker Jimmy Page court-ordered version.)

Pith

A few points, because I'm feeling sparse:

• Mary-Kate leaves NYU. I still haven't seen her. Ever. Isn't there some sort of weight requirement? Do we need to enroll a cocker spaniel or some other sorta mid-size creature to balance out the absence?


• Terry Richardson is recognizable even from behind. And it's not like I saw his nutsack hanging out of his pants or anything.
• When a greater celebrity (say, hypothetically, Matt Damon) and a lesser celebrity (say, a supporting cast member of a Star Trek offshoot) are in the same room at the gym, the lesser celebrity will retreat, acknowledging the alpha male. He retreats into the locker room, pitifully. Observing this, I felt like Marty Stouffer, only on a treadmill.

My love is a flower

One of the presents N gave me for my birthday is a Phalaenopsis orchid. Supposedly they are easy to care for, but I must admit its mere presence strikes a grim chord in my heart. I once managed to kill a ficus. God help this poor plant.

This orchid could be construed as a test subject for my facility with childrearing. Now that would certainly ignite jubilant celebration in some parts of la famiglia, but as I said at Christmas last year, I've got 6 years left on this IUD and I'll be damned if I don't get my money's worth out of it.

P.S. I know #1HS has been short on the reviews lately, but just you wait. We've got Freakwater! We've got Rick Moody! We've got your momma!

When you look into the beer garden, the beer garden looks into you

This weekend N and I went upstate.

I have nothing to say, and I am saying it

I'm sure that everyone's already headed out to their beachhouses, and I am mentally headed out to my imaginary beachhouse, which actually looks a lot like Bellevue and is crawling with spiders, and so I have nothing left to say. Things you should do this weekend: Donate to the Red Cross, drink lots of beer, and if you're going to be around on Monday night, head over to the 13th Annual John Cage Birthday Tribute at St. Mark’s Church, at 7:30. I've gone to this before and once I got to sit next to Merce Cunningham, who doesn't smell nearly as bad as you'd think, judging by the looks of him.

Anyhow, I have the whiskey shits, as per usual, so I'ma wrap this up. Ta!

Ain't no party once we crash the party

My neighbor and I share the same exact almost-to-the-minute birthday. It's a little uncanny. We have a number of things in common, actually, and I would think we were twins separated at birth except he clearly comes from tall, clear skin, effortlessly thin stock.

So last night he, his girl and I sat around and tried to plan our joint birthday party. Chris was in charge of nothing else but taking notes and looking nice. The gf and I traded suggestions about which beer was better--Utica Club or Olympia--and which hoagie shop had the best 15-foot-long baloney and mustard subs.

Today I'm looking at his notes and all that he wrote down is "NOISEMAKERS, COCAINE" and a crudely drawn set of boobs.

Pick up the tempo

N's been out of town for a week. In that time, I've made a concerted effort to bring my personal hygiene to new lows (Related: The empty bourbon and whiskey bottles) and generally behave in a manner unbecoming of your average longshoreman (Related: See above). Have been successful +/- 67% of the time.

In the aftermath of this bender, the acme of which involved dragging a 50-lb bag of recyclables down three flights of stairs, leaving a trail of stale beer, Skoal juice, and Fox's U-Bet syrup, I had this sudden realization: I'll be turning 30 in a week. This made me sad.

Not because of the symbolic/milestone nature of the birthday, but because if I had realized this sooner I wouldn't have stopped drinking on Saturday night.

Saturday night I was at the Underground Hipster Tearoom Bar to see my neighbor, who plays bass in this band/performance, uh, troupe when I decided, at 1:30, that I wasn't going to get any drunker.

I found myself very bored and sober at 2 am, sitting at home, watching some unintelligible movie on IFC in which Chloe Sevigny speaks six languages and has a microchip in her vagina or something. I should've just ridden the wave.

I threw in the towel too early. I have been turning 30 my entire life and now, allasudden, I have only one week left before it really happens. There is NO way that I'll be able to build up the drinking momentum I had this past week without going into a coma. It would involve too much double declutching.

(Oh, and for the record, I fully blame Maud Newton for really bringing me down yesterday afternoon when she called me--sounding all like Rip Fuckin' Torn--to tell me that if all goes the worst it possibly can, Hurricane Katrina's going to kill 50,000 people and the entire Gulf Coast will be washed out to sea. Why do you tell me these things, Maud? I had only just gotten the worry of Suge Knight's shooting out of my mind.)

You are entirely too fucking old for the following:

• Selling your used tampons for fun and profit.* It is appealing, at first, but when you consider the legality (even after doing the math) you realize that if you're going to have a permanent record, you don't want it to be for interstate trafficking of biohazardous materials.
• Coming home with two fucking stamps on your hand, and you weren't carded, at all, and you didn't even stick around for the star DJ whose claim to fame is starring in a number of Larry Clark films.
• Pissing on yourself because you're finally home and you've been holding it because the line for the bathroom was entirely too long and your cellphone rings because your friend is just calling to make sure you made it home okay
• Posting something at 1:30 on a Saturday night.

A game we all can play

So Tom and I, we were having this discussion about...I think it started out with Chuck Klosterman? Am unclear on exacts. Fingernail extraction was involved.

As you know, I never grow tired of mocking him. (Maybe that's because he's the male equivalent of a chick-lit author? Oh man, that was too easy.)

I was thinking how one of the most mockworthy things about Chuck is his generally creepy fashion choices. It was then that I had my eureka moment, right as I was tabbing back and forth between Ed's recent post and one of my daily haunts: Wouldn't it be fun to play a game called "Serial Killer or Rock Critic"?

Yes. Yes it would.

Frankly, I thought it had nothing on the "Family Ties" Finale

Great weekend. Did nothing. Watched the Last Episode Ever.

I've been horribly neglectful of my post over here and Krucoff's been nothing but nice about it, so I should really get on that. There'll be a few quickie reviews this week, I think. Tune in later.

You deserve something more life affirming

Well, it's been quite a week. It really warms my cockles to see so much hate. What a fan-frickin-tastic idea this was. And in case you've missed it, I'd like to give you a rundown, the time-honored tradition of all self-aggrandizing douchebag bloggers.

Like a hatewave burning in my heart*

As bmarkey alluded to, and as my general demeanor of late might have clued you into (whoa, I really did drink myself braindamaged last night), this week's #1HS theme is HATE. Because I love to hate.

Gone Fishin'

Not a moment too soon, N and I are leaving the sweaty, soporific city and heading to Nature's Wonderland: Detroit. bmarkey's getting outta town as well, because in Seattle it's a sweltering 80 degrees out. But in his wake, he's left this lovely review of the new Fruit Bats album. Which is more than I have for you. Anyhow, have a great weekend. (And look for me on TV at the Tigers game tomorrow night...I'll be the one with the "I" painted on my belly in orange and blue.)

I.M. Pie

I like to make pies. This is mostly because I like to eat pies. But it's also because making pie crust is the closest I get to meditation.

If her daddy's poor, just do what you feel

Summer has hit full stride and I am now able to enjoy heat rash and airless subway platform agony in earnest. And now I can enjoy even more of the latter, what with this genius move on the part of the police. A confidential to all the aspiring suicide bombers out there: I'd like to direct you to the Vernon/Jackson 7 train stop, where no one was there to check MY bag this morning. Because clearly the station stop that precedes the East River tunnel and Grand Central Station isn't high up on the watchlist. No, the cops would prefer to examine the bags of the folks who are entering the subway at Grand Central. It's obvious to everyone, isn't it? All suicide bombers are coming in on the 8:37 from Scarsdale.

I know I shouldn't complain, as I don't want anyone rifling through my satchel. I don't like the idea of anyone's bags being searched, frankly. And if they finally install cops at Vernon/Jackson I may take to carrying around used maxipads, just for fun. (How is everyone's delivery service going to make it across the river to Williamsburg?)

You got a pig that good you don't eat 'im all at once

In case you're interested, this is my pig. My results told me I was an emotionally stunted pessimist with a terrible sex life.

Tattoo You

In an unrelated google search I came across the (A&E-sponsored) InkedblogINKED Quiz. After you answer a couple simplistic questions, they give you a PDF of the tattoos that perfectly suit your personality.

Sitting here in Queens, eating refried beans

Occasionally, living in Queens has its benefits: Water Taxi Beach. Like Paris Plage, only with ugly people.

Picking and screaming

There was some photobooth action at the party on Saturday...

The Sun's in my Heart and I'm Ready for Love

Setting: Our Hallway
Dramatis personae: Me and N

N: It's teeming out there.

Me: Let's take the big umbrellas. [Reaches into the bag closet and takes closest umbrella, which is black.]

N: [Looks at remaining umbrella, which is light blue.] Why don't you take that umbrella and I'll take the black umbrella?

Me: Why?

N: Because the blue umbrella is GAY, that's why.

Me: There's no such thing as a gay umbrella. Why shouldn't I use the black umbrella?

N: [Pauses.] Because the blue umbrella is... prettier?

[Exeunt]

Weekend recap

I understand the rationale for enjoying the Independence Day holiday, I really do: barbecues, friends, no overt religious message, the warm weather. Oh, and, yes, celebrating our country's founding. But I've never been fond of loud noises. And why do the fireworks last so long? And who are all you people?

As the roof of our apartment in LIC has the clearest view of all the fireworks displays, N & I entertained guests last night in the half-hearted way I am wont to do: lots of beer, and a bowl of stale chips with a side of forlorn store-bought salsa. The show was not bad, and standing on roof, watching the UN building shimmering like Vanna White's dress behind the fireworks display, and being with friends...that was very nice.

This morning, I'm in the process of penning the Longest Letter Councilmember Eric Gioia Has Ever Seen to discuss the piles of trash that all you fuckin' interlopers have left behind. I hate you.

This afternoon I'll have a new book review up, and a couple of other things are in the pipeline. So tune in later!

In dreams, I pack with you

Last night I had a nonstop anxiety nightmare. It continued until 6 this morning. It involved having to pack up everything I've ever owned while the house it was stored in was being torn down. I could only find two boxes. And the one pair of shoes I wanted was missing.

Clearly this means I should drink more.

If I can't get you here I'll swing by your house

I hope you're all reading Blottered. Don't front like you don't like to rubberneck.

The Intro and the Outro

Okay. So today's the official "launch" of #1HS, inasmuch as it's possible to launch this sort of silliness.

Do you promise not to tell?

Hey, notice anything different around here? Why yes, I did just get my hair done. But...did you notice anything else?

Welcome to the revamped #1HS. As you can see, it still has the same "because it is bitter, and because it is my ass" stylings here on the left. But look right! There's the obligatory Links column, the perfect format for posting those open directories of infantilism porn I know you're all so fond of. And then, even farther right, you'll notice something else: a new section that will feature reviews and interviews. As the Brits say, I'm well chuffed at this addition.

Thanks (and Happy Birthday!) to Michael Condouris for all his hard work--he built this baby!

And see that naughty little logo up there? It was designed by Bossman Graphics. I'm honored that he took the time from his busy schedule to create it--it was well worth the beaver shot trade.

Anyhow, stay tuned for Monday, when we'll have worked out all the kinks and have actual content.

Maybe I'm just too demanding

Being cretins of the finest pedigree, N and I put off getting an air conditioner until the hottest day of the year (so far). At lunch yesterday we wandered over to the swindlers appliance megastore on 14th Street, where the vibe was not unlike a Miami police auction. I wasn't prepared to buy anything just then, because parting with any amount of money--unless it's for booze--is very difficult for me and involves some crying and dryheaving. I wrote down some model numbers and was determined to find better prices for them online so that I could force those hustlers into honoring their pledge to "beat anyone's prices."

By the time we returned that evening, the store--which, in retrospect, seemed downright placid earlier that day--was like a scene from The Year of Living Dangerously and the salespeople were shouting "WHO CAN I HELP NEXT?" and desperate customers would wave their hands frantically and shout "ME! ME!" which is really funny, actually, because New Yorkers hate being helped.

Of course, they'd already sold out of the air conditioner model that I was prepared to make them give us for $30 less than their advertised price. We rushed over to our second-choice model and were told there were only a couple left, which other customers were eyeing hungrily. Naturally, we purchased that one immediately.

Back at our apartment, N grunted and cursed and howled as he struggled to assemble the air conditioner. (Did you know that A/C units require assembly? The accordion-type thingies that flank both sides of the unit must be painstakingly affixed in 43 different places using screws that are less than a millimeter long.)

I drank a Pimm's Cup.

When it came time to mount the A/C in the window, however, we realized we had a problem--no wooden blocks to keep it from tilting at a dangerous angle. We struggled with what to use instead. Styrofoam wouldn't endure. Same with cardboard.

We ended up taping together A Man in Full and some Anne Rice novel. Oh, and an old Paris Review. They weren't difficult sacrifices to make. Infinite Jest would have been ideal, but I remembered I was already using it to prop up one of my bureaus.

William Gass better hope we don't need another A/C for the living room.

This is like the schadenfreude ultrarare picture disk UK import for me

I can't tell you how delighted I was to read about Kim's employees gettin' busted for piracy. It's not because I'm necessarily antipiracy. And it's not because I find Kim's merchandise lacking--quite the opposite. It's because everyone who works at Kim's is an enormous fucking asshole. I know, it's practically a sterotype--the snobby record/video store clerk. But at Kim's, the behavior seems to be encouraged. I actually go there only as a last resort simply because as an attractive young woman I am unaccustomed to receiving sub-par customer service.

It's hard to pinpoint which part of this article is my favorite. There's this gem:

Then, all of the 20 or so clerks, managers and other employees who were working in the three-floor store, which sells DVD's, CD's, books and production equipment, were told to line up on the ground floor.

But then there's this part:

The employees charged with counterfeiting were identified as Theo Frimpong, 39, of the Bronx; Diana Kinscherf, 19, of Queens; Donald Stahl, 26, and Charles Bettis, 29, both of Brooklyn; and Craig Willingham, 32, of Manhattan.

And I bet that she's also the only one not currently living with her mother.

Neener.

There I go, there I go, there I go again

Now that it is suddenly 90 degrees out (this happens every year...why are we always so surprised when it does?) the sartorial trends in the city have reached terrifying new lows that lead me to wonder who on MTV is responsible THIS time.*

I thought trucker caps were dopey, but, as a brilliant man once said, We've Got a Bigger Problem Now. There is a new horrifying trend--I noticed it last summer, but it's returned.

I asked my love to take a walk

Weird things happen a lot in my neighborhood, and yet, and YET, they don't make it into the papers.

The latest strangeness unfolded last Monday, May 23. My girlfriend A, who drives to work early in the morning over the Pulaski Bridge, filled me in.

That particular morning, the police had closed off the southbound side of the bridge, and four units were parked on the bridge, near the bridgekeeper's tower.

A couple hours later, the story partially trickled out: A woman had hanged herself from the bridge.

I checked the news for mention of the story. I didn't find any, but I thought, Oh, perhaps the papers aren't mentioning it because it's a suicide. (Though the media generally covers suicides in public places--moreover, hanging from the Pulaski Bridge is a pretty exceptional way to off yourself.) Anyhow, nada.

A day or so after that, a little more of the story came out: It wasn't suicide, it was murder. Ooooooh. This from a neighbor who can see the bridge from his apartment. Oh, I thought, This will definitely make the news. It's got RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES written all over it.

A resounding NOTHING from the media. I began to question the veracity of the story. I mean, ladies hanging from bridges? That's crazytalk.

The only thing (and I'm trying to find a nonspecific way to phrase this) is that there exists video footage of the body. And yeah, that is a little creepy, and yeah, of course I wanna see it.

Remember the Brooklyn Strangler? Six women were murdered, and the media couldn't have cared less (three guesses why, and the first two don't count). My hairdresser (assuming that hallowed role of gossipmonger) was the one who told me all the lurid details months before they caught the guy. All of my female friends were freaked right the fuck out. The coverage only began after the police found the sixth body.

Oh, well thank goodness it was only crackwhores, the newspapers said.

So what's going on with this case, exactly?

I will be released

OK, false alarm.

So N and I spent the long weekend in St. Augustine, where his folks live. A nice time was had by all, even though it was essentially a replay of last year. So much so that we didn't really bother taking photos.

We saw the toad.

We went to the beach.

We spent time at Murph's Bar and Grill [but Mostly "Bar"]: more on that later.

Oh, and we went to a church carnival, replete with White Elephant sale, rickety rides, and Infectious Diseases Petting Zoo. There was a large, hay-filled corral housing llamas, donkeys, emus, baby goats and whatnot. Then there was a small playpen alongside:

I have been back an hour

And now I must watch focus group videotapes.

Pray for Mojo.

Your mother was a hamster.

I am acknowledging that I've been challenged, and as soon as I meet my work deadline, I'll be right on it. A few list items that crossed my mind: kiwifruit, Desperate Housewives, and Mexicans. But then I realized, Hey, scratch that, no one really likes Mexicans, so now I have to come up with three more things.

Dream Told by Dana, Part II

OK, so We Jam Econo was fantastic and I have a full report for this afternoon. Actual work beckons.

This Just In: Broccoli Gives You AIDS

So it turns out that sunshine may actually be good for you.

That's great. But it doesn't lessen the fear that this mole developing on my right cheek isn't going to become terribly cancerous, necessitating that I have surgery that makes me look like that poor fucker who tried committing suicide after listening to "Stained Class" but only managed to blow off half his face.

Todessüßigkeiten!!!

Everyone--or at least the Post--is all up in arms about the Death Candy.

Whatever. I don't know how many children have choked to death, but clearly their parents didn't love them enough.

At a bodega last week, as I waited for my coffee, a little boy--probably 8 or so--came in and slapped a handful of pennies on the clear plastic countertop by the register. Underneath the plastic were little partitions, offering all sorts of third-world confections: Chicletas, Chupa Chups, Lead-Flavored Asbestos Taffy Twisters.

The boy pointed at one of the partitions. "That's the killer candy," he informed me.

And it was. Goddamn, those are some big candies--roughly the size of your standard Spalding Hi-Bounce. "That's the candy that the little girls choked on, right?" I asked him.

He nodded enthusiastically.

"You're not buying it for yourself, are you?"

He nodded enthusiastically again, then giggled.

I paid for my coffee and the man behind the counter set to counting the little boy's pennies, many of which had rolled to the other end of the countertop. "Have fun," I said.

Only darkness has the power

I spent an hour at the DMV yesterday morning, which, as these things go, isn't an inordinate amount of time to be trapped there, nor was it particularly hellish. I'm not quite sure when the New York City Department of Motor Vehicles first got its rep as the Empire of Obfuscation and Sadism in Triplicate Form*, but I do know that it's been somewhat reformed.

I arrived at the DMV five minutes after it opened and was greeted by a line of about 60 people just outside the elevator doors. Soft hits of the 70s and 80s were piped in from the speakers. Periodically, the more incredulous among us would ask the person standing in front of them, "Am I really supposed to be standing in this line? I only need to..." and the person standing in front of them would nod and shoot them a "Who the fuck do you think YOU are?" look.

The entrance to the DMV is a standard glass door. The exit, inexplicably, is one of those floor-to-ceiling turnstiles that implies that you're not merely leaving, you're being furloughed. Yesterday it was in need of some WD-40. Everytime someone left, it made a grinding-creaking-KACHUNKing noise that put me in mind of an industrial guillotine.

I had already prepared for my trip to the DMV by downloading and completing every conceivable form they might ask me to fill out (hmmm...."Registering Farm Equipment"....better do it just in case) so by the time my number (C529) started blinking on the LCD bingo screen, I was confident that I'd be done in a matter of minutes.

(I was also begging God that I'd be done in a matter of minutes, because I had a desperate need to take a dump. Maybe it's the bureaucracy, or having to write my full name 117 times, or perhaps it's the promise of using the most horribly defiled restrooms in the five boroughs, but whenever I get called for jury duty, or visit the police station**, or have business with the DMV, I find myself seized by the need to defacate.)

For the first time in my life, divine providence smiled upon me: five minutes later I was done, and as Stevie Nicks' seminal "Edge of Seventeen" blared from the loudspeakers, I KACHUNKed my way out of there, hopped on the express, and managed to get to work at 9:55.

Riding up in the elevator, eagerly fecund, I noticed a sign: "Notice to Tenants: On Tuesday we will be doing work on the water supply. From 10 am to 3 pm you may experience an absence of water pressure. We apologize for the inconvenience."

By the time the doors of the elevator opened, I had already begun unbuttoning my trousers.

I'll spare you the rest of the story, but suffice it to say that I beat the clock by just under :30.

*When I was a kid, my parents' city friends--the ones who didn't run to the hills (like my folks) during the early 70s--used to come up to visit us just to go to our DMV. It was a kinder, gentler DMV than what they were accustomed to: There was never a line, the office was not a cavernous multipart drop-ceilinged nightmare with meandering lines of cretins (it was a small anteroom in the lovely neoclassical courthouse building on the town square), and the lady behind the counter was actually nice. "Hold on a sec, hon," she'd say when you'd go to register your vehicle. "Lemme see if I can find some license plates with your initials on them."
**On Very Special Occiasions.

Bilious and phlegmatic

This morning, while performing my beauty regimen (this involves close examination of face to chart gin blossom/Italian Ladybeard growth, picking at blemishes like a tweaker, and actually very littlle beauty at all), I noticed what appears to be a new mole near my right eye.

Oh, it's cancer. It's definitely cancer.

That this is surely a melanoma of the fast-spreading, brain infecting kind is compounded by the fact that I need to find a new dermatologist. My current one wears guyabara shirts and huarache sandals and apparently spends his vacation time in third world countries curing children of crippling skin diseases. Which is all well and good, y'know, admirable even, but at my last appointment with him (for some....heh heh...ass-ne, I guess you could say), we had a troubling exchange.

El Dermo: I can give you a topical solution for those pimples, but what you really need is to expose them to the air.

Me: ...

El Dermo: You need to go to the beach. Preferably a nude beach. That'll clear 'em right up.

Me: Okay. I like nude beaches, actually.

El Dermo: That so?

Me: Yeah, 'cos everyone looks better naked than in swimsuits.

El Dermo: Well, everyone except the fatties.

No more I'll dig the praties

You know what this blog needs? More foodstuffs.

Into you like a train

Can I just say how disappointed I am not to be included in the Sex Advice from Bloggers piece in Nerve? I am a font of good blog sex advice.

Like: It's okay to sleep with a blogger whose Technorati rank is lower than yours if they have the goods to back it up. (Conversely, it's NEVER okay to sleep with an A-Lister if he has a small pecker. If he tells you all those uniques turn to dick at midnight, girls, he's lying.)

And: Sure, it's okay to kiss someone after a literal rim job--but it's EXPECTED that you kiss them (or at least give a reciprocal link) after they've figuratively tongued your ass on their blog. (But never promise to collaborate until you get to put it in his/her butt.)

And finally: It's okay to sleep with older, married bloggers if their spouse consistently fails to come out to the Magician with the rest of you. Why? Because, to paraphrase Ben Franklin, they're so grateful.