ones and zeroes

Better living through modern chemistry.


mama, please look at me

strange days

I've had two classes with this kid Jason. I just realized I included my blog address in an e-mail once and maybe he checks it out. Oh well. I'll just say it, cause I hate being fake. He is in one of the worst bands I have ever heard in my entire life, who were just signed to Type A Records last week, and I encourage you to listen to them on their website after reading the following quotes from him:

"I really believe the best bands get the biggest record deals."
"My band is making the most interesting music in New York today." [I act flabberghasted, and mention Interpol. He makes a jacking off motion and says] "...we're so much better than Interpol."
[When asked about any awesome band]"Yeah, I heard their single, they suck."
[lyrics from one of their songs:] "Love's a powerful thing, like a rat on a string."

So there you have it folks. Check out Eulogy over at their website, listen and weep. The music business needs a culkin.

the politics of phonetics

I learned that awful news in my Linguistics recitation where I also was flabberghasted at Jason's ability to be absolutely closed-minded about anything. We got into a big class philosophical discussion on this statement: "The human brain is capable of creating an infinite number of sentences and comprehending them." He could not accept it. You know, the biggest annoyance here for me was that I feel like some thoughts I communicate are completely borne from the psychedelic drugs I've done, and they hit people like brick walls no matter how good the point is. How would you feel if I said this in class in front of you:

"The universe is infinite, and I believe that the part is just as great as the whole. Therefore, the entire universe is essentially contained inside the human mind as abstract concepts we can never truly understand, but, bit by bit we can concretize these abstract concepts into language, and art, and sentences. Therefore, since the infinite is inside our minds, we can create an infinite number of representations of the infinite."

I think only Tony got what I was saying, and I wanted to slam my head against my desk. Jason said that if you wrote an endless sentence, like "He was an old old old (repeat old forever) man" that it would no longer make sense because no one would comprehend it. I pointed out that this was like a tree falling in the forest with no one around, and that we're pompous enough as humans to think it might not make a sound just because our sorry selves aren't around to hear it. To which some girl replied "That's not a brilliant analogy." Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Fucking people!

rad zapping

After that exercise in stopping myself from screaming at the top of my lungs I went over to Lucy and Eileen's to get the important part of the day, the night, started. We got a big ol' bottle of Bombay Sapphire and mixed up some gin and tonics. Ani rolled in to watch the OC with us once again and it was awesome to have Eileen there to watch it with us. Usually she works on Thursdays and we have to tape it for her. She whipped up some pasta with vodka sauce and gave me a sizable helping of it which was sweet.

Larry wonders why I watch the OC and last night's episode I wish he could have seen. Pure entertainment. Like the good old days when I could watch TV without analyzing it for how it fucks with your brain, back when I could watch something and just laugh or arch an eyebrow. Seth's the best character, he makes me laugh a lot. And I hope Alex and Marisa stay together, cause that's one gorgeous lesbian couple. Woah, listen to me, I sound weird.

After the OC Lucy and Eileen and myself headed over to Rothko, parting ways with Ani who went to meet up with her sister. A band called Lucy was opening up for Hockey Night and we thought we'd catch the tail end of their act. Much to our chagrin, we got there at 10:40 and they were just taking the stage.

Lucy is the worst band ever. Lucy deserves to be burned alive. Lucy made Eileen so nauseous that she went home and went to sleep. Lucy herself, the lead singer, deserves the kind of Culkin action I heard Action got this past weekend - though 4 in 2 minutes is frankly too few for her. Her guitarist girlfriend sucked a big one, the drummer was a douche, and the bassist was just harmless enough for me to not rag on him. But for being in Lucy, he is condemned to eternal damnation. Worst. Band. Ever.

By the time they were done with their "performance," which consisted of shitty punky 50's-infused bad imitation rock and roll, I was thoroughly fed up with Rothko, but able to realize that was just because the first band I ever saw there was now one of the worst bands I had ever seen in my life. Thank goodness Beach and Daylen rolled in soon after that which was good for the ol' cheering-up. Then Hockey Night took the stage.

Those Canadian fuckers [note: Johnny pointed out their from Minnesota. Same shit, different state.] were Absolutely Fucking Awesome. If Lucy gets 1 out of 100, Hockey Night seriously gets like a 92. They non-stop rocked. Iw as wondering how their album would translate to a live show, and well, it didn't. I don't think they played a single entire song off of Rad Zapping and it didn't matter one bit, though certain lyrics and guitar parts were definitely lifted from the excellent LP. They were comprised of two drummers, two guitarists, and one bassist, and were arranged in perfect symmetry on the stage. At their most rocking-out moments the bassist would serve as the anchor while the guitars would either double solo or one would play complementary riffs to the other's screaming high-frequency rockoutfreakouts. The drummers were perfectly in sync, and everyone on stage seemed to be sincerely enjoying what they were doing IMMENSELY. And that counts for a lot, ya know? They had a total Pavement vibe around them, but not Pavement-imitation, just Pavement-inspired-esque. The lead singer's lyrics are especially Malkmussy though his delivery is all his own. He would pump his fist in the air to get the crowd rocking and the space between people and the stage, and between people and other people, kept on tightening as the set went on.

I had to sit down when they had three songs left cause it was fucking hot in Rothko and I was dead tired, but I still managed to stay awake and nod my head to their pure and unadulterated rock. But once the show was over and Lucy, Beach and Daylen were getting ready to head over to Del's party at Micky's Blue Room, I had to pull a Belin. Remembering that last week I ended up wasted at 4 AM and coming in to work unfathomably late, I went home and worked on a mix for Ani a little bit and then hopped into bed for a solid night's sleep. Good boy.

bitz and bytez

-Regarding my prison rant yesterday, read this article!

-And Kudos to Adam for summing up all my problems with writing in one paragraph:

PyrusNeoptolemus: seems like you have an overexposure to
inspiration too... too many great things to see, read, hear, taste,
experience in the city and not enough time to channel any of it


Hope Can Drive A Man Insane

This computer at work has back-and-forward Internet buttons near its arrows. I just deleted my whole fucking post. Here we go a-fuckin-gain.

i get closer to my better days

Lucy and I are on a fucking roll here with the awesome movie-watching. More on that in a second. Yesterday I made the rounds and did the class thing, meeting up with Eileen randomly in the middle of the day and getting some sandwich action at 7A (where they've changed the name of the Austrian. Bullshit.) After some catching up I went to my last class, fell asleep, and then met up with Lucy for a few before confining myself to solitude in my apartment. Not quite solitude though, because I was in the company of those beautiful new One-Pint Cans of PBR. Even more beautiful than the cans themselves was the fact that THE DELI (village farm, NE corner of 2nd and 9th, best deli ever) still had them marked for the little can prices. Six pints of PBR for six bucks!!! Rrrrrock.

So I locked myself in the room, cued up Explosions in the Sky and Miles Davis' Birth of the Cool as my instrumental soundtrack and slapped my typewriter down on my thighs. It felt so fucking good to write something. I just let it all out as my fingers hit the keys, writing nothing at all and everything at once, letting my brain reprint its train of thought, trying not to think about poetry or fiction or films or anything and just write whatever I was feeling. The fact that my typewriter is manual made it even better since when I hit the end of a line a bell rings and I gotta slide that muthafucka back into its rightful place all by my lonesome, and then I've got a whole stretch of page to fill all over again. I churned out four or so pages, folded them up in my pocket and went to rejoin Lucy for some Two Boots, after which we headed to Hollyshit Video to rent a movie.

the tumblehawk prison rant, 2005

So we went and grabbed The Shawshank Redemption, one of the best thing a bunch of people with a few cameras have ever made in the history of film. Lucy hadn't seen it and I was quite ready to sit through it for the billionth time, albeit the first time in a while. I don't want this blog to start turning into Film Comment magazine so I'll keep my wish-I-was-a-cinema-studies-major rambling to a minimum and not go on and on about how Tim Robbins is excellent and the film is layered so deeply with interwoven imagery and symbolism that winds up as a tightly wound package with a healthy dollop of whip cream and a cherry on top.

Instead, I'm going to talk about this bullshit system we've got going on called prison. Prison is one of the oldest institutions in the realm of human existence. Back in the seafaring, colonizing days, prisons were one of the first 2 or 3 structures that would be erected when a travelling party arrived somewhere new, because problems were always expected. I'm not going to say that prison makes criminals instead of the other way around, this isn't a chicken-or-the-egg discussion.

I just think we've moved on. It used to be the human race was trying to set its flag down on the earth and try to survive, but now we've gotten to the point that we can all survive just fine, and the only reason some people do and some people don't is because we've taken physical darwinism and turned into bullshit Social Darwinism precipitated heavily by the spread of the scourge that is the capitalist system. Thing is, see, I think prison makes madmen and monsters, and that it takes a monster to control a monster, and the whole thing is an endless downward spiral, a self-perpetuating disease. Prisons are also one of the largest sources of incomes for every country, and so we sort of lean on them as crutches. This needs to be changed.

While I'm sure some criminals are so insane that they are beyond rehabilitation and require only control, the bulk need therapy, that's my opinion. Not petty criminals, but so many murderers and felons would benefit so much more from a stint in genuine, caring psychotherapy. And frankly, I don't think humans talking to humans is enough for everyone. I believe a lot can be achieved with the use of medication but also and especially the use of psychedelic drugs, in low doses and high doses, such as MDMA (ecstasy), psilocybin (mushrooms), and LSD (I like the full name, myself - lysergic acid diethylamide). If you're thinking this is just some halfway-hippie who likes those substances talking, and you don't think there's any answer to be found in those substances, ask me for a copy of Timothy Leary's research into just this kind of practice. Along with a team of researchers they dosed a bunch of extremely hardened criminals, many of them cold-blooded murderers and had repeated sessions. The criminals were volunteers who saw this as a chance to break the doldrum of prison life and eat some better food which they were offered, and a staggering majority of them had sensational breakthroughs in their experiences. They felt compelled to perform acts of love instead of hate, and the only reason the project ended up floundering was that when they were re-integrated into society, society simply doesn't accept ex-cons with open arms at all, giving them no support and no jobs and no nothing . . . so obviously prison isn't all we've got to change.

I'll leave you with this quote I saw someone post on Shroomery:

"The embarrassing truth is that consciousness is a chemical phenomenon. Everything that you have ever experienced, you have experienced because of a chemical reaction in your nervous system. Memory is a chemical process. Learning is a chemical process. Stupidity is a chemical process. "Stupor" is a chemical process. Normal awareness is a chemical process."
-Tim Leary

keep it like a secret

Built to Spill @ Irving Plaza May 11, 12, 13, tix on sale now 20 bucks a pop, not listed on Irving's page for some reason . . .


you can take your blog and shove it up your ass

I got drunker as the night went on so I can't remember all too clearly, but I'm pretty sure that's what Sean Bones said to me when I declared my fervent desire to Culkin him. Said desire has not abated, only inflated, in the wake of this effrontery upon my forays into the world of blogging. Where did all those words just come from? Weee.

So this morning I got to my Hemingway/Faulkner class really early, too fucking early, but thank god Linnea has the same problem as me (overcompensating fear of lateness and ending up at a place way earlier than you need to be). We caught up since she was sick and missed class last week and did the whole "where were you when you heard Hunter S. Thompson died?" thing. So take this with a grain of salt but here we go. Linnea's roommate, Viv, was supposed to have Thompson as a godfather, since her dad used to be his lawyer. (Not that lawyer, from Fear and Loathing, but a lawyer for him none the less.) Anyhow, her mom objected to his having that title due to Thompson being a lunatic, but still, the two families remained close. This is hearsay, but I'm gonna give it to you straight the way I heard it, I'm paraphrasing the exact wording, but the concept is still the same:

"Apparently he was having a big party at his compound as he liked to do, and they were having a big old barbecue when all of a sudden Hunter came out of the house and said, 'You better give me a damn good funeral.' He then went inside the house, into his room, took out a gun, and shot himself in the head."

The way the news outlets had it was that his son "found him" dead, made it sound kind of like he did it in a bit of privacy, but apparently everybody heard the gunshot and knew what had happened, and there you have it. The biggest "scoop" onesandzeroes is ever gonna have. For those curious and concerned, Viv is pretty shook up.

johnny's wife was playing keyboards

If what Beach claimed in his mid-set comment to Lucy is true, then he's going to be having some beautiful rockin' children.

The Shout Out Louds were awesome last night, and I didn't feel let down one bit despite the months-long build-up of excitement leading up to last night's show. We got to Bowery in time to miss their first track but just in time to hear The Comeback. When Noah waved us in, Lucy and I literally ran through the bar-crowd and headed upstairs and made our way to the front where Jay had his arm around Builder's neck and they were swaying back and forth like a couple of Irish drunkards. Standing behind them Beach and Daylen were doing their own little bounces and we commenced to join in on the Swedish dance party. Jersey Dan hugged us from behind demanding to know where we had been for the past few days and to know why he hadn't seen us in his time in New York. Well geez man how was I supposed to know! I barely know the guy. I hear about him in the RANA song Replacements more than I ever do in daily life. Mandel showed up not long after and Matt "I Can't Believe You Named Me Egg And Cheese" G. showed up a little later than he would have liked to, but still got to catch a good dose of Shout Out Loud rock.

They're a really fun band to watch, every single one of them. The bassist has this rigid hop that seems like he's on the verge of spasming and doubling over his bass that had me laughing on the inside a lot. Not on the outside, cause people would think "what the fuck?" The keyboardist, who at the Mercury CMJ show seemed kind of useless and annoying (albeit hot) was really cool last night though. She always looks like she's either a) riding the Xanax wave, b) half-heartedly interested, or c) wishing she was somewhere getting laid because the rockin' turns her on. A couple of songs into the set I decided that option (c) was probably closest to the truth, so a toast to Mrs. Swedish Beach.

The Futureheads were good background music for horsing around near the side-door but that's about all they did for me. They were kind of all over the place and I felt like they had three tempos - moderate, slowed down but about to explode, or frantic. They never settled but the switch-ups had no real rhythm to them and I was just confused. Plus, the Shout Out Louds were a really tough act to follow. All the pomp-and-circumstance and lights the Futureheads had couldn't even live up to the quaint, simple poster about the Shout Out Louds tour that they had set up on stage with them.

We spent most the Futureheads set drinking beer (which I got for free after the bartender dropped one and then insisted on giving me both for free. rock.) and plotting to Culkin Jay who was being way too cute for his own damn good. I got drunker than I expected to on less alcohol than I even planned to drink. How does that work? After some end-of-show banter with Jin, I headed out with Matt and Lucy and we took a stroll down Bowery headed northwards, discussing why the only cheese for egg-and-cheese is American cheese, processed down to the very last bit. Mmmm. I could go for one right now. Right now I am skipping Linguistics class to write this. Ha ha ha ha ha! I actually came pretty close to going today. I sat in a chair, took out my books, and then pulled a Belin one minute before class was to begin, in the middle of a conversation with my friend Tony. He was saying something and I turned to him and plainly said, "All right. I gotta go." That was that.


..someplace between nowhere and goodbye..

senorita swanky

Compared with Hilary Swank's mere beginnings in her destined-to-be-illustrious career as an actress, the details of my weekend are a blip on the radar, a speck of cosmic dust powdered with tequila and Corner Bistro, but we'll get to that once I get this out of my system. For a long time I held a grudge against Hilary Swank for absolutely no reason at all (though thinking about my linguistics class and accent prejudice, I do realize a lot of it had to do with her southern drawl, which tended to draw on my nerves). The weekend began, on an obnoxiously cold Friday night, with Lucy and I taking a trip to my family's favorite restaurant on Indian row, Calcutta, complete with the 15 percent discount. We scarfed down some chicken tandoori, samosas and kadi mix and filled up on Taj Mahal in order to warm ourselves for the long-ass walk to the Angelika.

Side-rant: recently, at the Sam Champion Luna Lounge show, Ramie told Lucy and I that he wasn't sorry to see Luna go because it was a shitty venue with overpriced beer, no matter how much nostalgia is wrapped up in it. When we got to the Angelika all I could think about was that if someone was buying out that space and closing down the Angelika, sure it would be a huge blow to the local indie flick scene but as a theater, I wouldn't be sad to see it go at all. The Angelika theater is a piece of shit theater. The seating arrangements are crap, there's always heads in the way. The sound system is perpetually plagued by slight fuzz. The screens have been too worn down for too long. And beyond the aesthetics of it, the whole Angelika crowd/scene needs a collective Culkin. It's like a bunch of snotty French people getting high off espresso fumes while trying to look mysterious and sexy.

Okay, so once I got past all that and we got to our seats, the movie was ready to begin. What movie, you may ask? Do you have a free night this week? Do you feel like you haven't spent 10 dollars (or, as the Angelika likes to charge, 10.25...that extra quarter pisses the shit out of me) and gotten your money's worth in a while? Did you look at this year's list of Oscar contenders and, like me, say "I haven't seen any of those." If you're looking for remedies to any of this problem, Clint Eastwood has made it and its name is Million Dollar Baby, and it wants you to love it like it loves you. Eastwood is a master. If you haven't learned that from the thirty years in-between his spaghetti western acting days and his ultimate western, Unforgiven, it's time to see what the hubbub is all about.

I'm going to vaguely tell you what Million Dollar Baby is about, because you probably think it is a boxing movie. Eastwood, introducing a clip from the film at the Golden Globes said that he did not think of it as a boxing movie. To him, it is a film about people trying to make meaningful connections in a forlorn age. It's a story about people, and that's my favorite kind of story. It made me laugh out loud. It made me cry. It gave me chills. It made me wince. It made me want to make a movie, or create SOMETHING, and isn't that the most important one of them all? And if you've read in articles or heard from friends about what some people are calling the "plot twist at the end," trust me, I half-ruined it for myself by reading an article before seeing it and it did not matter one single bit. A plot twist is a plot twist when the director is trying to pull the wool over your eyes in some fantastic sense. What Million Dollar Baby does is bring an absolutely visceral story about two lost people to a climactic close that hurts so, so good.

Fast forward to Sunday night: after some Sapporo East (rocking the udon and the dragon roll), Lucy and I return to her apartment and decide to surf the cable box to see if anything is on. Boys Don't Cry is on. Hilary Swank is in front of me again. And I know I didn't say anything about her in my above rant about Million Dollar Baby, but she was ridiculously terrific. Not only was she completely her character, but she played off of Eastwood and Morgan Freeman so, so, so well. Ever watch a movie and feel like the performance someone is giving is a treat you should be thankful for? That's how I felt. Anyway, Boys Don't Cry came on, and I knew the whole true story it was based on, how it ended included, and that was part of the reason (combined with my dislike for Swank) that I had never felt the need to necessarily watch it before. But on the heels of Million Dollar Baby I was psyched as all hell to watch Boys Don't Cry, and

She did it to me again! She made me smile, laugh, wince, and cry. Not just the story, but HER. She is AMAZING. She is officially one of my favorite actresses of all time. I spent Saturday Morning rolling around in bed trying to get my head around everything Million Dollar Baby did to me, and I ended up spending Monday morning trying to understand all the emotions that her performance in Boys Don't Cry brought out in me. My mind has been extremely blown.

i don't mind not making sense

The rest of the weekend was a hodgepodge. Lucy's friend Lara visited from Penn State bringing her friend Jeremy along for the ride and after they got stonediddlyoned we headed over to Corner Bistro where the wait was an hour to get a table. After 40 minutes, we were mysteriously yanked up past the entire line and given a table, much to the chagrin of the party of a gazillion and another party of 4 or so in front of us, who persisted in giving us dirty looks for a while after we were seated. Once again, the Bistro blew away all its competition and a bacon cheeseburger never tasted so damn good. After that, Lucy got hooked up with some pigtails, we knocked back some tequila (I'm a pussy, I did half a shot), and headed over to 2A for a bit, then over to Library, and finally headed to B-Side where Lara and Jeremy cued up Willy Nelson after some Nine Inch Nails and David Bowie action.

The next day started with Veselka: 2 pancakes, 2 sunnyside-up eggs, 3 strips of damn good bacon, two pieces of toast and a whole lot of coffee. After that Mike the Amazing stopped by for a wonderful transaction and then Lucy, Lara, Jeremy and myself headed to Sam's so Lara could stock up on nugget. Sam's this aspiring actor dude who just graduated from NYU and used to live down the hall from Noah sir Champion. He hooked her up with a sweet deal as is his modus operandi and then we headed to Central Park only to get stuck in so much traffic it was ridiculous. Lara and Jeremy headed home and Lucy and I took a nighttime stroll through the Gates, which I really enjoyed the sight of, watched some ice skating, and then headed home for sushi and Boys Don't Cry. I spent Monday writing a paper and then filming Eileen's Real World audition videotape. Best of luck to her. I think I'm gonna make one myself, even though I wouldn't want to be on the Real World at all. But it'd be fun to see if I could wrap my life up in 5-10 minutes without mentioning marijuana once. Challenge!

the past it is a foreign country

First of all, before I throw the bits and bytes at you, I just need to get this out of the way cause everybody's gotta chime in right? At first, I was SHOCKED at Hunter S. Thompson's suicide. My gut reaction was "that sucks." But I don't know if I'm so right to think that. It sucks for me that he won't be making any more wonderful columns and books, and that he isn't part of the living collective unconscious anymore, sure, but the man did it on his own terms much like he lived the rest of his life. So, "There he goes. One of god's own prototypes."

-The sign of a dying ideology? Good.

-I am so guilty of this crime.

-So soldiers get to do ecstasy? Yeah, this seems fair.

-The Gates: The Sequel goes against typical sequel rules: it's smaller, less sensational . . .


two for one is some peace of mind

Lordy lord, what a fucking headache. I got wasted last night. But first let me tell you that Lucy and I took a cue from Jay's delicious-sounding write-up of Juanita's on Wednesday night and decided to check the place out. It rocked. The margaritas were delicious, and if you get there between 3 and 7, it's three dollars for a pint of margarita. Yes, that is correct, you are not hallucinating, you just read that. Wowee. Gotta get there on time next time!

Anyhow, Wednesday was the type of day that solidifies my being a waste of academic life. I had a paper due at 3:30, so I skipped my 11 and 12:30 classes to write it because I'm an idiot and hadn't done it yet. It was only five pages, and counted for very little of the total grade for the class, but yes - I managed to NOT finish it in time for my 3:30 class. That's even putting me in a favorable light. It's a little bit more like, I decided not to do it and just hang out with Lucy listening to music all afternoon. I ended up finishing it before we went to dinner, and handed it in the next day, but really, what the hell is my problem? Argh. After Juanita's Lucy got me psyched to rush back to her and Ei's apartment so we could watch (and tape for Ei) the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Special on Spike TV. I don't think I would have ever watched something like that unless I had the coolest girlfriend ever. But really the true props go to Eileen for awakening a love in all of us for Petra Nemcova, Marisa Miller, and all the SI gals that she posters up around the apartment. She's been accused many times of having lesbianic tendencies, but Eileen and Lucy are just two girls that can appreciate beauty. And there's not much more gorgeous in this world than a finely sculpted female body. By the way, Marisa Miller is a goddamn idiot. Anyway.

Yesterday after work I went to my Linguistics recitation where me, Jason, Tony, this girl with a really weird Brooklyn accent, and 2 other guys who don't give a good god shit about the class have formed a solid back-row bloc of snickering dissent. I kind of feel bad for my TA but she has to understand it's all out of love. We give her hell, cause the class is such bullshit. But I can't help it, I don't really care where the tip of my tongue goes when I pronounce my l's. I finally met up with Lucy afterwards and we headed to 2A to take advantage of the beauty that is Happy Hour. After a couple of Tanqueray tonics we parted ways so she could watch the O.C. while I went to have dinner with my dad and Nika. We went to Sapporo East, which rocked as usual, and I ate a sick amount of sushi downed with a huge Sapporo. Roooooock.

Speaking of which, it was definitely about time for some Rock, and I met up with Lucy in the ?!SNOW!? to go to Bowery Ballroom. We realized we hadn't been there since the Ray Lamontagne show on Jan. 19th, which seemed highly absurd. There were definitely a bunch of jackasses out for the show, and it was hard to enjoy Calla in the company of hecklers, but it was also hard to enjoy them cause I think they're still working out the new tunes. Yet, they played a similar set opening for Interpol and managed to really impress both of us and a whole lot of the Interpol crowd at Hammerstein. I can't wait to check them out at Mercury next month, I think it'll be a lot better than their opening slot last night.

This was my third time seeing the French Kicks, and whaddya know! They finally did it for me! I will go so far as to say that I HIGHLY ENJOYED their set. They write interesting songs and I think the lead singer has definitely gotten better at not holding an instrument. I never saw them when he was playing drums for the band, but I could tell the first couple of times that I saw them that he didn't know what to do with himself. Last night was a really great show though. The only disappointment was that after some good times with J Good Times, he got swamped at the merch table and couldn't join us on our way to Mickey's Blue Room.

It was the return of Kibbles and Bits, though only Kibbles was doing any DJ'ing at all. Mandel was throwing out all the songs you ever want to hear, as usual, and also threw us the new Spoon record, which I'm pretty sure Lucy stole out of my coat pocket while I was shooting pool. Either that, or I lost it and Del can you give us another copy? Hahaha. Beach and Daylen stopped by, but not before some random dude gave me his hip-hop CD: "I've been waiting all night to give this to the right person, and I can tell you rock out man, you're gonna like this shit." I think this was mainly due to the fact that when Del put on Nine Inch Nails' awesome song, Wish, me and the dude were both rocking out hardcore and had a couple of metal moments of eye contact.

Once Beach got there he showed me that I do not know how to play pool as well as I thought I did. I was getting drunker and drunker, the pooltable was unlocked, and he just kept beating me and beating me. I couldn't get sore though. Maybe after I clean his backyard tomorrow he'll let me try and beat him after he passes on the new British Sea Power. Oooooooooooooooooh mama.

I don't remember coming home. I came to work 3 hours late. My head is pounding. I'm having trouble eating this bagel with cream cheese. I want my mommy.


gin-drinkin' bloodhound

Yesterday had all the sweetness of a toddler dipped in whipped cream, but no maraschino cherries please. I hate that shit. Work was work, you need not know about that, but I don't even need to let you know how frickin' gorgeous the weather was outside. So after conspiring to break out of work early, I decided it was time to take some detours on my way uptown to see Dr. Greenberg (that's my inimitable shrink, ya see). I fired up the iPod and decided to make a mix on-the-fly, using that wonderful On-The-Go feature.

1. The Magnetic Fields - Long-Forgotten Fairytale
(I'm walking out of work, and heading to the Chambers St. Station to catch the 2/3 uptown to 72nd st.)
2. Wilco - A Shot in the Arm (waiting for the train)
3. Neil Young - Barstool Blues (sliding uptown through the underground)
4. Pixies - Bird Dream of the Olympus Mons
5. Desert Sessions - I Wanna Make It WitChu
(I exit at the 72nd St. station, immediately flooded with memories of two Junes ago when Lucy and I spent 44 hours on the corner of 76th and Amsterdam waiting to get 2 dollar Radiohead tickets. I head uptown, towards 86th st where Greenberg resides.)
6. TV on the Radio - Satellite
7. RANA - Good Book
8. Talking Heads - I Zimbra
(Here I pass by Nick's Burger Joint and immediately remember how good our pizza was here when we took a break from the line. I decide to take advantage of the lovely weather, grab a table on the sidewalk and order a Cheeseburger with Fries. The pickles are fucking delicious. I sit, and listen, and eat.)
9. Shout Out Louds - Shut Your Eyes
10. Pavement - Rattled by the Rush
11. Asobi Seksu - I'm Happy But You Don't Like Me
12. Lali Puna - People I Know
(I pay the check, having devoured my meaty delicious meal, and proceed to walk down to Riverside Drive and the park beneath it, watching the strangeness of uptown life as I go along. Things are different here. It is New York in a different way. Uptown and Downtown are the only realities this city has. Midtown is a joke.)
13. Say Hi to Your Mom - But She Beat My High Score
14. Nada Surf - The Way You Wear Your Head
15. Sam Champion - Now Look At Me
(When the Sam Champion songs come on, it is precisely at the moment when I am faced with a choice between two paths each leading down to Riverside Park. One is a dirt path through trees and leaves, and the other is a neat stone stairway. I take a cue from the song and take the road less travelled. I pass by the tunnel where we smoked a couple of bowls around 5 in the morning, a couple of feet away from homeless people snoring in its stony shelter.)
16. Pulp - Bar Italia
(This song makes me grin and I've got a spring to my step. I realize this must be the last song of the mix even if I've still got a half hour till my appointment. The mix has finished itself. And it finishes itself by bringing me to a stone embankment of sorts looking across the river to Jersey. Jersey can only look lovely from a spot like that. The song finishes, and I take out my notebook, and for the first time in 9 or ten months, feel the urge to actually write something. And I do.)

It occurred to me that you could never see the river moving all at once, that it took on the illusion of opposing lattices to justify or make reason of its own intertwining. If it all moved uniformly there would be no movement, really, just a static stillness slightly flickering. So the roles must all be divvied up between the waves, with some seeming to stand still against the onslaught of the others while in reality there was no true direction, just a mish-mash of complements and supplements that we would bury underneath a word to make it clear, the river.
And while the river moved in seeming lanes, the shore beyond it lay upon its side just like the clouds beyond and the six striped lanes beneath me with the vehicles all jockeying for position, and behind me bikes and dogs and running men all in their places all leading to the sudden sickened notion that I alone was standing here in perpendicularity to everything and not in line with anything. But then I turned, and saw the buildings rising up to scrape the linearity they drowned in, and I felt not so alone.

german short-haired pointer my ASS

I went in to see Greenberg and we discussed some dreams that I'd been having, the pot I ain't been smoking, the stuff that I been buying, and the words I'd just been writing. It was one of the best sessions we've had. When I got back downtown it was just in time to join Lucy and her parents for dinner at Supper, which was fucking sweet. We ordered a delicious bottle of Pinot Grigio and I had the Priest Stranglers. Afterwards was the second and final night of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, which was a joy to watch as usual. But I was very disappointed, as was Lucy, in the results of Best in Show. The German Short-Haired Pointer just did NOT do it for me. Meanwhile, I called my mom right before Best in Show to remind her to watch. She called me when the pointer was being shown and said that was the one she wanted to win. Lucy and I had bet dinner at Corner Bistro some night on the outcome of Best in Show, and my mom ended up winning. I don't think she's one for cheeseburgers though. Oh well.


long-forgotten fairytale

frankly, here's friday through monday

Friday was the dullest day in the history of days, friends. I went to work from 10-5, and then I returned uptown, showered, caught some Chipotle action with Lucy and Nika, and then Lucy and I wandered around the LES trying to pick a bar to drink in but eventually realizing that for no reason we were both in a gloomy-let's-not-do-anything-but-mope mood. After lots and lots of nothing, I went to sleep while Lucy went home with a six-pack of Magic Hat.

Saturday was a completely different story. Saturday was marked by 4 completely distinct events, each holding their own degree of awesome significance:

#1 - I spent easily six hours cleaning my apartment top to bottom. I put cleaning off for a long time and end up doing it about two times a year and giving it my all when I finally give it anything. After gathering enough dust to choke a small country (anyone reading this is like - you used that line already saturday night) and spending half an hour on my shower alone (you don't want to know), I was thoroughly pooped. I had a great soundtrack though, sweeping and scrubbing to the tunes of Asobi Seksu, Lali Puna, RANA, Neil Young and Talking Heads' Fear of Music. Neil Young was important on saturday, because you see -

#2 - while rocking out to ZUMA and dusting off my bookshelves, Ani's friend's friend stopped by and hooked me up with 4 little buddies the likes of which I haven't seen since Nov. 1st, 2003, the night Lucy and I saw a dead body outside the Mercury Lounge and ended up wandering around the city madly for a few hours. ROCK. ROCK ROCK ROCK. We talked about the awesomeness of Neil Young for a bit, and then Mike went on his way. Soon, finally, the cleaning was done, and little bits of jesus were sitting in my freezer, and I met up with Lucy for the first time in the day to head over to Yuca Bar. If you haven't been to this place you're missing out big-time. I wolfed down the amazing Latin Burger, helped Lucy out with her second happy-hour mojito, and then it was time for the Champion.

#3 - as usual, an awesome show by the Sam Champion crew. We got to Luna Lounge in time to catch the tail end of Frank Bango's set and met up with Matt-and-Cheese, his entourage of Belgians, Kabir who I always run into through NYU people, Jay, Builder, Johnny, Ramie, etc, etc, etc. The place was fucking packed to see Noah and co. rock out, the crowd spilling out into the bar-room and people literally pushing their way to the front to get a better view of Noah's muppets-esque stage presence. Lucy pointed out the muppet-bounciness and from that point on I couldn't help but think of Gonzo everytime he went apeshit on his guitar. Scott from RANA joined them on stage for Neil Young's Vampire Blues, and it was as if Neil's soul had possessed Noah. I was really impressed by the fact that Noah didn't seem like a jackass without a guitar in his hands, cause that happens to so many frontmen who put down their instruments for just one song. Way to go Noah. I couldn't help but grin at the new significance Neil Young had taken on throughout the day. The set wrapped up with Cheadlebug, which is so far the best song of 2005 and makes want to see Hotel Rwanda.

#4 - Afterwards, we made our way over to the Loose Record afterparty at Hanger Bar, where Builder and Jay spun more Talking Heads than me on acid. -Zing!- It was a great gathering of folks: 3/4 of RANA, Ramie, Matt G, Say Hi to My Eric and more. Ramie got to see Lou Reed open for U2. What the good-god-fuck, man! Anywho, the PBR flowed on and on, The Faint got about as much airtime as David Byrne, and there was much tattoo-talk. I'm pretty sure I'm getting this done on my wrist, in black ink:

Homeward-bound with Say Hi to My Eric tagging along on his way to the L train, we ran into Beach and Daylen who were on their way to Hanger Bar from the Jens Lekman show at Mercury. We chatted it up for a while down the block from Two Boots, which made me really want Pizza, but they were closed. Bastards. Then, !, the night was over.

Sunday I woke up and peeked inside my freezer, wondering if it was all a dream. Eileen dropped by on her way to work, and she peeked inside too, squealing with delight immediately thereafter. Literally, she SQUEALED WITH DELIGHT! She also lent me 5 bucks, she rocks, and with that five bucks I went to Veselka and grabbed 2 Sunnyside-Up Eggs, homefries, white toast, and three humongous strips of crispy bacon. I ate this delicious breakfast in the comfort of Lucy and Ei's apartment, where I pretty much live, while watching Total Recall. It reminded me of growing up with channel 11's weekend movies. One day of comedies or family dramas, and one day of straight-up action-movies. Total Recall is such an awesome movie and Arnold Schwarznegger rules. If they change the rules and he runs for president, he will get my vote without a moment's hesitation. Schwarzenegger/Beach '12!!!!!!!!!

So Arnold kicked some ass while I did my Linguistics homework and then I laid around the girls' apartment for a long time reading A Farewell to Arms, which is a pretty wonderful read. I also listened to three discs' worth of RANA that Ramie had been generous enough to give me at the Sam Champion show, all three encompassing their 12.30.04 show at the Tribeca Rock Club. Which meant that I got to hear Vampire Blues all over again. Rock!

Lucy had been gone all day at a bridal shower for the girl getting married to her cousin in Mexico. She came back in the evening and we rented Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet, which I had never seen and had always been reluctant to see. What is wrong with me?! While I still think the opening 5 minutes or so are almost too over-the-top, the film on the whole was wonderful. Too many filmmakers today don't understand how to modernize an older or ancient text. You can't just put the story IN modern times, you have to make it relevant to modern times while still preserving the essence of the story itself. Luhrmann does this, and also manages to perfectly cast each and every role, straight from the Prince to Romeo and Juliet to Juliet's father. Way to go Luhrmann. Too bad Moulin Rouge kind of sucks my left nut. Make another good movie! You've got talent, buddy!

week one: complete

Monday was the one-week marker of my three-week foray into herbal sobriety. Say that six times slow. After class I picked up a heart-shaped Valentine's Day cake from Blackhound and headed over to 418 to hang out with Lucy and Ei for a bit. When Ei went off to class Lucy and I picked up our personal choices for Valentine's take-out and she chewed down some Yaffa salad roughage while I gorged myself on Banjara's Murg Tikke Masala and a whole lot of nan. Dinner finished just in time for the greatest TV event of the year:

Maybe you're like my sister Nika and you think I can't possibly be serious about ignoring the rest of the world and watching dogs on TV for three hours - but if you are, then you, like her, are missing out on one of the greatest annual events humanity has ever orchestrated. I love dogs so damn much and if you do too, then grab a beer, or grab a bong, or just grab a bowl of popcorn, and sit back and enjoy the show. You missed a lot of good ones last night, but you can still catch part 2 of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show tonight, including the ultimate event, the Best in Show competition that will wrap up the evening. Of the four winners from last night's groups, three were particularly awesome: the Pyrenees, the Pekingese, and the Norfolk Terrier who goes by the name of Coco! Catch the rest of the excitement tonight, on the only place where you'll hear the word BITCH on television All! Night! Long! WOOOOOOO!


16 balls/16.5 fingers

"only in America could you find a way to make a healthy buck
and still keep your attitude on self-destruct"
-MF Doom

I live in one of the most industrially advanced, educationally progressive, scientifically advanced nations in the world. We're so much further along than all those barbarians running around other parts of the world. We don't even believe in torture. Which is why we just outsource it to the barbarians instead. What a fucking sham. It amazes me how a Christian agenda won the election. Openly, the Republican party is declaring its desire to preserve Christian values. Christian values! Torture, discrimination, disrespect, racist policies abound! And don't get me started on the death penalty. If you want to think of yourselves as an enlightened nation, you can't sanction the killing of killers. It has absolutely no logic to it. And meanwhile, someone who wants to die can't even kill themselves or get help with euthanasia. Ugh. Anyway. I'm not even in the mood for politics right now.

Yesterday, if you read the entry below this one, you may have noticed I was really enjoying sitting at work. Well boy did things go downhill within an hour of that post. I have never been so fucking sick of work as I was yesterday. I went into a meeting with my boss, Dave, that snide little prick, and we were waiting to see if a phonecall would go through to this dude at MCI. Then, with absolutely no reason to say it, out of nowhere, he says:

"See Danny, business is everywhere in life, it's always going to be there and you're always going to have to be a part of it, no matter how much you want to run around doing artsy-fartsy stuff."

Well, you slimy little fucktard, way to be ridiculously rude. It's the equivalent of me walking into his office in the middle of the day and saying, "Art is the only true human purpose [and then taking a snivelly tone] no matter how much you may enjoy your business schmisness." Later on, during a pizza party meeting with a couple of our consultants, he was talking about a part of his knee that always hurts from running. He said, "I think it's the only design flaw the good Lord looked over." I said NOTHING, and he immediately followed it up with, "But I don't think Danny agrees with my terminology there." What the good god fuck, you white-picket-fence-SUV-driving-republican-voting-lying-to-your-customers motherfucker. I wanted to just quit and destroy everything I had been working on regarding this huge project we did for MCI. Of course, I didn't. I didn't even tell him I was offended by anything he said. Because it's not worth it. He'll always be an asshole.

After that rousing game of how-long-can-I-stand-this-fucking-place, I headed back uptown for some hummus and gin-and-tonics at Lucy and Ei's place, followed by pad thai from Thailand Cafe all leading up to some more gin-and-tonics during the O.C.. Jay sums up all my complaints in one tidy little paragraph. Lucy said it right when she noted that episodes of the O.C. tend to fall just short of excellent and leave you a bit disappointed. Granted I've only seen 4, but that's how I feel. Anyway.

I then delivered a pizza all the way to my sister's apartment at 5th between A and B, being the oh-so-wonderful brother that I am. In case you're wondering what could bring on such a case of do-gooderism, I had to give Nika much respect for helping to set up the big art project in Central Park that was designed by Christo. She's been up at 6 AM every day this week assembling the huge arches, draping the fabrics, getting rained on, and going to bed at 9:30 each night. So when she called me begging for pizza, I told her once the lesbians kissed I'd hop on over.

I then met up with Lucy once more to head over to Micky's Blue Room to meet up with DJ Del for our guest spot behind the CD decks. We got there a little early, just in time to catch some of the worst stand-up comedy I've ever been witness to in my life. I HATE stand-up comedy. What a waste of everybody's time. I could think of a much better way to get a laugh: Get some funny friends and have a fucking conversation. Do I sound angry today? ARGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

The night continued on with the hits being pumped out by the three of us. It was awesome. We had the back room all to ourselves while local folk mingled on the barside of the establishment. INXS, The Arcade Fire, The Walkmen, A Tribe Called Quest, what DIDN'T we play? It was truly sweet. The bartender even unlocked the pool table for us so we didn't have to pay to play.

Speaking of shooting pool, you may wonder why this entire post is titled 16 balls/16.5 fingers. Well, that's what was involved in the first three games I played. See, I shot three games of pool with a guy (I think his name was John) who had a left hand full-o-fingers, and a right hand comprised of a thumb and a semblance of a pinky. And he was damn good. I'm pretty good at pool myself, and though he won the third game on my scratch, he still managed to hand me a 2-1 defeat. It was a good time. Soon after that Daylen stopped by and we shot some more, even trying out a game of 9-ball which was my favorite back in high school. I gotta shoot more pool, period.

I went to sleep, and had some fucked up dreams that I can not remember, though I woke with the searing sensation that I had travelled enormous distances and performed astounding feats.


the earth is not a cold dead place

kibbles and bits

Usually if I used that for the title of a section of a post there would be newsbytes but this is to tell you to come to:

Micky's @ Ave. C between 10th and 11th @ 10 PM

to see DJ Del spin a set in a bar that has none other than beloved Magic Hat. Joining him on the decks tonight will be none other than Lucy and myself, and as the result of a half-drunken conversation at the Mercury Lounge, we'll be going by the name of DJ Kibbles & Bits. Apparently.

happy rooster

This is nice. I'm sitting at work, where the windows run from waist height to the high ceilings and look down over City Hall Park (once you get past the scaffolding that seems to have been here forever, that is). iPod hooked up to the computers speakers, Explosions from the Sky makes the grayness of this dreary cubicle quite fit with all the little raindrops flicking gently against the glass and makes me feel quite godlike as I watch the little beetles in their three-piece suits go scurryscurry all across the plaza, covering their heads with newspaper. I wonder if the papers will be legible when they get to their cubicles. Will they read them, and when they do, will they realize how sickeningly close we are to nuclear fucking holocaust? Will they realize the world went mad long ago, and continues to go madder with each passing day? That everything they do at work, pushing buttons, sending memos, chatter at the coffee machine, is putting all their energy in the wrong place? But then again, what am I doing? Writing this down here. Hm.

Where could all this be coming from? Only one place. My Contemporary British Culture class is in our early Cold-War Period, and I've just spent two days reading 1984 for only the second time. While I'm a big fan of Huxley's Brave New World, it's undeniable that 1984, as a dystopian novel, is much more functional in waking you up to the horrors-that-could-be. While Brave New World is more concerned with the emergence of rampant consumerism as the driving force of a sickly hierarchized society and the dilution of love as a a threat to the individual, the individual still exists in a sense. Orwell's vision is a world where individuality itself is a crime. Doing something for your own enjoyment, or being alone at all, is erratic. What's fantastic about Orwell is that he manages to drape you in this dreary fog and doesn't do it with characters, or plot, or even theme. It's the darkness of his language that puts you right in the midst of the gloom of 1984. I'm starting to understand that what I say is not as important as how I say it.

Anyhow, next to 1984, Brave New World is a shitshow blast. Have sex with whoever you want, recieve a daily ration of powerful hallucinogenic drugs, go see porn movies where scents that trigger sensation and color are pumped into the theater, and play games all the time. Wonderful.


Days like this make me work very little. I peruse music websites, blogs, discussions over at Kos, and manage to get very little done beyond ensuring the day has a great soundtrack. Not much to write in regards to yesterday - there was class, then a gin and tonic with Lucy and Matt, then Lucy and I headed to Sapporo East to celebrate the first day of the Year of the Rooster with some udon and the best fucking dragon roll in the city.

After that we made a last-minute decision to take in some rock and thanks to the generosity of the Beach were able to head on over to Mercury Lounge to catch Like Yesterday and a bit of Army of Me. We'd seen Like Yesterday once before, and they're fronted and drummed for by dudes from Actual Proof, who I always hear great things about. I vaguely remembered them being dark and good, Like Yesterday that is. Anyhow, both bands were swimming in a mire of mediocrity from which I doubted they would ever lift themselves. In a way, even though I liked Like Yesterday's tunes better, Army of Me was a little better in that they dealt out some standard Bends-ish rock without any pretention - something Like Yesterday is nearly oozing with. We returned to Lucy and Ei's apartment, where I couldn't help but think about the fact that if this was last Wednesday, I'd smoke a bowl before going to bed. Instead, I went home, cleaned my bathroom sink, and went to bed.

eat me drink me read me

- Awesome Radiohead interview from a Christian magazine called Third Way.

- A complete and utter lack of respect.

- Kudos to Larry for this fucking sweet-ass link. No pun intended.


i feel obnoxious when i say "poignant"

love is k-mart

You know, I doubt St. Valentine ever saw that one coming. While people bitch and moan about the glass colossus being erected in Astor Place, K-Mart gets to equate itself with love. Pick your battles people - psychedelically twisty glass mirror, or ridiculous big K suckhole - who you gonna hate?

Hey, do you read David Byrne's journal? He has some nice things to say about the Arcade Fire, and knock-off designer bags. I've got nothing to tell you about Saturday except that I walked over 120 blocks in one day, smoked a lot of reefer, and got drunk and full of french fries thanks to Eileen being the best when I stopped by Dylan Prime to visit her. She hooked me up with a couple of awesome Sapphire tonics and then sent me on my way(sted).

the conspiracy widens

First the Red Sox. Ugh. Then Bush. BAH! Now the Patriots? What the fuck is going on here people? Everything about Superbowl Sunday RULED up until the last 2 minutes of the game. It started off at 9th St. Market, which is oh-so-conveniently right across the street from my apartment. I always see the owner (Todd, I think his name is) around and we're real friendly and he seems to like me very much. Like Jay says, "a strange relationship." He says my name a lot. Anyhow, Jay headed over around noon and after some final bingers (more on that later) we headed across the street, skipped the line and slipped in for brunch. Jay and Ei were both hurting from similar nights of booze-and-no-sleep but we all took down our food as best we could. After gorging myself on cream cheese, cucumbers and coffee we split up for the remainder of the afternoon. Puffed ourselves into oblivion till about six and then we headed over to Jay's. After an unsettling conversation with the deli-guy at the corner of Houston and A ("who is with who?! who is with who?!") we finally made it to 186 loaded up with PBR and Rice Krispie Treats.

Chips, dip, chili, lads and lasses all were present including Dan and Dana, Jay and Steve, and Matt "I Know Where the Best Egg-and-Cheese Can Be Found" Gallagher. The game was nerve-wracking through and through right up to the end when Jay declared "This is where Storybooks get written, kids." 24-21 with a couple minutes to go, but after a lame onside kick and a nail-in-the-coffin interception the Eagles were defeated. Lucy and I could only shake our heads and imagine Beach's pain. I bet Baltimore ran out of Petron that night. Well, the chili had been awesome and Mario Tennis was fun, and so I was still in high spirits. We headed back to Lucy's, where I was dreading the end of the night, because . . .

. . . i'm on sabbatical

Tumbleweed loves to smoke marijuana, don't get me wrong. When asked, a couple years ago, what his five favorite things in the world are, he answered: Sight, Sound, Drugs, Love, and Uncertainty. In no particular order. And the longest break I've ever taken since the habit kicked into regular gear during the summer before college, has been about 12 days long. That break's been taken on maybe three different occasions, two times cause of vacation in a potless country and once because of dire financial straits. So why now? Well, as my final semester of college winds down I am beginning to realize how much I need to make the moolah. And not just job-wise...that's a whole other story. I'm talking about write-something-and-sell-it money. Because that's how I intend to spend my life, is writing - stories, screenplays, novels, articles, whatever I can work my brain around. It used to be I could get stoned and the words would floooooow like guacamole at a Mexican wedding. I'd take some bingers, sit on my bed with my typewriter in my lap, and churn out 20 pages of prose or poetry, and six or seven of those pages would be top-notch, which is a wonderful ratio. It was almost effortless (this of course lending itself to my unwillingness to edit, which I need to work on). Well things have changed lately. I got nothing. Nothing at all. Put the pen to paper, and the well is dry.

I took Robert McKee's Story Seminar in October, and it was a great experience. It's the basis for the screenplay seminar in Adaptation. At one point McKee said of writer's block, "You do NOT have fucking writer's block. Nothing is stopping you from reaching your muse, or any horseshit like that. You can't write because you have NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT! You need to stop trying to write, go read a book or see a film or just experience life, and then draw on those experiences to write." Great advice for lazy writers like myself. But the trouble is, I don't have much experience to draw on even if I am reading and watching and living, because lately I can't even separate the days without consulting the Mercury Lounge calendar and orienting myself show-wise. I am wandering through New York City in a complete haze and, frankly, I would be absolutely fine with that if it wasn't for the fact that I realize I need to develop a regular writing habit and start making my calling my job.

So when I smoked a bowl on Sunday night a little before midnight that was it for me for a while. I've set some ground rules for myself but I'm also allowing for flexibility. This may sound fishy, but I think I have a better chance of sticking to a no-smoke policy if I acknowledge that I could slip and do it sometime. So my loose ground rules are 1) No smoking the pots at all until March 1st - and only ON March 1st for the Interpol show. 2) After that, still no buying any pot until April 1st, but perhaps a toke each week, and each a week apart. 3) Spend 3-4 hours of alone-time set aside for writing at bars around the neighborhood and at Dylan Prime. 4) See how I feel after all that. BUT, also, since tumblehawk is tumblehawk, he has to make one final exception for himself, realistically: if someone tells me they have access to one of my two favorite psychedelic substances, I will throw aside everything I just wrote in this paragraph. Cause they just don't come around often enough anymore. Anybody listening? Grin. All right, enough about that now.

fast, cheap and out of control

No, no, no, I'm not talking about San Loco. I'm talking about Errol Morris' 1999 documentary of the same name. Before we get to that though, I spent most of Monday either in class or at the English department dropping my freaky Folktales seminar. I ran into Matt in front of the Stern building, and he was headed to a deli where he claimed there resided a man, nay a god, who would prepare the greatest egg-and-cheese in the area. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am here to tell you he was right. The red-awning deli on Broadway between 10th and 11th has the best 2-egg-and-cheese I've ever had. Tasty fucking egg. We headed to Washington Square to chow on them, caught up a little, and then headed over to Shisha, the best head-shop in the city that I've come across. Matt picked up some tobacco, I drooled over bongs I couldn't use for 2 months even if I could afford them, and then we went our separate ways for the rest of the college day. The evening was spent resisting temptation while Lucy and Eileen smoked ridiculously good-smelling pot that Lucy had picked up back home and rocking out to the Magnetic Fields. 69 Love Songs is my new obsession.

Oh yeah! Rewind, and back to Fast, Cheap & Out of Control. Have you seen this fucking movie? You should! What a wonderful experiment. It was the exact kinda thing I would have liked to watch stoned, and it didn't matter one bit that I wasn't because it was really an amazing experience just seeing it at all. We missed the first 10 minutes or so but within another 10 I got really into it. The documentary is about 4 people in completely different walks of life, all eccentrics in their own ways: a circus lion-tamer, a ancient gardener/caretaker of the world's largest animal garden, a mad scientist attempting to create independently intelligent robots, and a weird dude in a bow-tie obsessed with naked mole-rats. By weaving together interviews with the four men (all of whom are dealing with "animals" in some strange way) along with a score that shifts between light-hearted and haunting, film clips from bad b-movies, and images that seem to be completely independent of the narration associated with them, Morris makes an intense cinematic statement about the interrelatedness of all aspects of life, especially by throwing out any notion of linearity in telling these men's stories. What could these four people possibly have to do with each other? By the end of the film, the question is more what don't they have to do with each other? First I have my Varsity Blues virginity stripped from me, and now this. I'm on a damn roll.

a kibble & a bit

-David Blaine's weird. And this clip is even weirder.

-Fred Durst is one of those people I love to hate. He writes the stupidest things. But why, Wes Borland?! WHY?!


new york cares

I just wanted to let you guys know, since it has slipped under the radar of most news coverage today, that the New York County (Manhattan) Supreme Court has delivered a most excellent judgment today, essentially stating that no matter how other parts of the country feel, that the history of NY State and its treatment towards gays and lesbians cannot allow it, with good conscience, to continue denying them marriage licenses. We always go first.

Read the decicion here.

adderall xr 20mg

i likes it automatic

RANA's three week residency came to a climactic close last night. The sick jams and a packed crowd immediately made for an awesome atmosphere as Lucy, Ani and I cruised in post-OC. We arrived just as DJ Logic was finishing up his opening slot with Scott accompanying on guitar and picked up a couple of tanqueraytonics while waiting for the show to start. Not seeing anybody we knew, we formed a defensive huddle in the middle of the floor until RANA finally stormed the stage and dove right into the swing of things. Soon after the set began I looked over and got mighty psyched to see Jay leaning against the near wall. Many times has the man tenderly asked for hugs in his blog and I'd like to testify on his behalf that hardly anybody gives as good a one as he does. Ani and I debated whether to puff or not and a friendly local weatherman settled the argument by leaning over to ask if I had any grass. We rocked the downstairs with Noah, Jay and Sean Bones (along with DJ Logic and Official Floozy) and surfaced to a changed world.

The past two Fridays I've lamented the fact that I know no song names for RANA, but really, who gives a fuck. They've got such a consistent sound and yet each song manages to have its own personality and I know what the song is as soon as it starts by nothing more than feeling. Highlights were the We Will Not Be Lovers cover, the awesome new jam featuring the Beach cameo and Matt giving me many chills while singing about being older as well as the entire opening out-of-control jam session that kicked off the second set. I don't know about anybody else but I personally couldn't figure out just what DJ Logic was putting into it though. Something about this show on a whole was the perfect close to a three-Thursday run. The packed crowd gave it an extra intensity and was it just me or was all the keyboarding particularly awesome throughout the whole night? Once second set wrapped up a couple of hip-hoppers took the stage and Ani and I were just not feeling it. Luckily Lucy leaned over just then to let me know that it was Corner Bistro time.

None of the three of us had ever been there and Beach took it upon himself to initiate our deflowering. We hopped in a cab and headed through the West Village maze, and I was confounded until Johnny started oohing and ahhing at the bright neon Bistro lights. Holy fucking shit what a burger. While Beach continuously declared his wastedness we waited for our food: three bacon cheeseburgers, three cheeseburgers, one grilled cheese, five orders of fries, and three beers later we were all stuffed, and Beach was still wasted and let the record show that he damned the name of tequila on more than one occasion. We headed back East and decided it was probably time to call it a night. So we did.

the world is full of crashing bores

-We can think of the U.S. as a stubborn, puerile teenager at this point in its existence...the kind of kid that never learned to share in Kindergarten.

-And that appoints Attorney Generals in favor of torture. Here's an NYTimes OpEd from the Editorial staff explaining why this is so stupid.

-This cracks me up. Dokken. hahahahaha!

-Echo and the Bunnymen putting out a new album? points out they'd probably fit in pretty well with this year's Coachella.

-Free movies or something. Unfortunately, it's chick flick month.

-Joe Perry seems like a douchebag. I'm just saying is all.

-Lucky for us, there are better Perries in this world.


dirty rock and republican suck

politics is sexy . . .

Were you on the couch as bored as I was last night, wishing that your drink was twice as strong as Bush went on and on and on in his eerie 1984-esque style of political speechmaking? Didn't it all sound so great, so ideal. KUDOS to the Democrats for booing his proposals for social security. How often do we hear boos during a State of the Union Address? Really, that was an amazing moment. Gave me chills.

As much as I deplore the situation in Iraq and everything that got us in there, there is no denying the sentimental power of this image (minus Laura "FreakFace" Bush):

For those of you who weren't watching and are wondering who the huggers pictured above are, it was a strange moment in the speech when the mother of a soldier killed in Iraq, a marine to be specific, hugged with an Iraqi woman who had been fighting the good fight against Saddam Hussein for about 20 years and whose father had been killed by Hussein's assassination squads. Propaganda during State of the Union? Yes. But truly epic? Yes, we have to admit.

Meanwhile, in my last bit of political commentary, I'd like to point you: here. Alberto Gonzales, once the legal counsel for Enron during their shadiest days, and also the judge that told the Bush administration it's ok to torture terrorist detainees because they don't have basic human rights. He is about to be your new Attorney General. This is probably unstoppable. But symbolically, all Democrats should be voting "no" in the Senate when this topic comes up. Yet Sen. Salazar is voting "yes" and the link earlier in this paragraph leads to a fascinating read comparing Salazar's ridiculously naive opinions ont he subject with Sen. Durbin's much more realistic and frank view of the facts. Read the post, sign a petition, do something.

. . . but RANA's fuckin' hot!

I feel like The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King is coming out after this, there's nothing left to live all this time and emotion I've given over is going to come collapsing crashing down on top of me. But then again, I'm sure RANA will play again soon...but still, tonight's show has got me revved the fuck up. This is also partly due to my fervent anticipation of televised lesbian delight. Say that three times fast - or just say cunnilingus and be done with it.

Post All-Girl-Tonsil-Hockey you best all be sure to cruise on down to Tribeca Rock Club for not just RANA's unique brand of rock but also DJ Logic, and perhaps even get to see the birth of a lovechild between the two. If you missed out on the first two weeks, don't fall even further behind. You know you want it.


-If you haven't gotten excited about the new Nine Inch Nails album yet, but you love Dave Grohl, check out how psyched he sounds about it.

-Larry offers you the most disturbing link of a lifetime.

-Beloved Petra is out of the hospital! Amen.

-ProductshopNYC pointed me to this HILARIOUS Op-Ed. (All those of you too lazy to register for access to the NYTimes website, get on top of that already, it's free and you get to read the whole fucking newspaper AND magazine for FREE.)

Remember. RANA.


pitcher punditry

Yesterday could not have gone better, starting off in the most mundane fashion and ending in a burst of out-of-the-ordinary outrageousness. I sat at work doing a great load of nothing and pretending to a lot from 9 to 3:30, enough to fry any thinking man's brain. The highlight of the workday goes to Warren, our 70-something year old editor and consultant, who had given me a copy of Beck's Odelay a month ago which he found on the street, and a copy of Herbie Hancock's Headhunters a little while later since it was a little too funky for his tastes. Well yesterday morning I came in with a CD titled Thelonius Monk: With John Coltrane which I thought he would appreciate even more than I do (and besides, iPod and all that). A couple of hours after I gave it to him, Warren, a straight arrow straight out a time machine coming from the 1940's, comes up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder saying "Man, that CD's great. Makes me want to smoke a big fat joint! Hahahahaha!" That made my day. I knocked off early after skipping the option of a lunch hour and headed uptown.

fire on the green

I recall a Simpsons episode where Troy McClure says of Patty/Selma's lizard Jub-Jub, "He's everywhere you wanna be." That's how I feel about the Arcade Fire. After reading Good Times Roll earlier and learning that, a few hours after I write this, David Byrne will be performing with the Arcade Fire at Irving Plaza, I want to cry. BUT! Last night's show was goddamned great and absolutely makes up for what I may be missing today. It's 7 PM and I feel too hungover to go into any detail, and plus, if you click on the link from a few sentences ago you'll find that Jay has reviewed their show spectacularly. I was really glad to see them start off the show with Wake Up (the jam!) just like they did at their CMJ Mercury Lounge show, which was probably the best show I saw last year, Coachella aside.

After the show we hung outside with Uncle Mike and friends for a few moments and then headed over to Grassroots, the site of Kyle's Culkin mishap. The bar was feeling very low-key at this point in time though, and we were four of only a few people there at all. Double Beach Power, Daylen, and myself grabbed a table and Beach picked up a pitcher of Brooklyn Lager, and we began to play Pitcher Pundits on the topic of Coachella, Bonnaroo, and music festivals in general. After a while Daylen decided to retire for the night, but we made up for the missing person with another pitcher and a bowl of popcorn, and conversation shifted from music to sports, with Beach getting all Dashboard (copyright JGoodTimes 2005) about the Eagles and the Superbowl. After an hour of beer, popcorn, and the jukebox cheating us out of many of Johnny's selections, we called it a night. Lucy and I went back to her apartment, took an unnecessary lungful of smoke and then passed out until today, when our President is set to give an empty, pointless speech in a couple of hours. Enjoy.


war, what is it good for?

everyone deserves to DIE!

with dignity, that is. Isn't this case related to this case, to an extreme degree? It seems to me this country's views on suicide and the death penalty are both highly convoluted. Michael Ross, the serial killer in one of the aforementioned articles, is an interesting case because here we have a man who (at least for a long time) has insisted he wants to die, to put the minds of his victim's families to rest. Now (in a move brought on by a desire to protect his lawyer's bar license) he is having his mental "competency level" reviewed to see if he can really make that judgment about himself, that he wants to die. I've heard this man speak, and I don't think we can doubt his competency even if he did strangle and rape a number of women years ago. There's a fine line between incompetency and insanity.

With the Golden Gate Bridge story - come on. Look at the first line of that article: "San Francisco officials are again grappling with an issue as old as the Golden Gate Bridge: how to stop people from killing themselves by jumping off the city's most famous landmark." They're intiating a study into erecting an "anti-suicide barrier." What the good god fuck? This has nothi9ng to do with preventing people from killing themselves, it has everything to do with not assocating sad/bad things with a national landmark. If someone wants to kill themselves, they're going to do it. The problems are at the bottom, not at the end of the road when the person is standing over a body of water waiting to plunge themselves into oblivion. This is the type of senseless reaction I will never understand - building a physical wall to stop people from committing suicide. Argh. It seems that the interest is more about protecting onlookers from emotional scarring than it is about the people who want to kill themselves.

the luckiest guy on the lower east side

Well I booked my flight to Coachella along with Lucy last night, so once Saturday rolls around it's all set. In fact, (almost) every day of this coming week has some sort of landmark event tied into it:

Tuesday: The Arcade Fire @ Webster Hall (after the show catch them on Conan)(thanks Jay)
Wednesday: get excited for . . .
Thursday: RANA @ Tribeca Rock Club Pt. 3
Friday: Rogue Wave, Dirty on Purpose, Sam Champion @ Mercury Lounge
Saturday: Coachella Tickets Onsale
Sunday: (9th St. Market) Eagles Win the Superbowl (Boca Chica)

Lookin' good, lookin' good. Meanwhile:

-Dr. Alexander Shulgin synthesized MDMA and gave birth to the drug known as ecstasy, and has spent a great majority of his life researching thousands and thousands of psychedelic substances in a cobweb-ridden shack behind his house.

-ProductshopNYC has this link to a really interesting article on Beck's Scientology streak. But hey, I guess if I think people should be allowed to commit suicide if they want, that everybody's free to join whatever shady cult they want.

-Terrell Owens prepares to show that the age of dissent is alive and well when the Eagles crush the Patriots this weekend.

-Cheech's better half hasn't smoked pot in two years.

-De Rosa, my erstwhile roommate from the Carlyle days, reports to me that he hears rumors left and right that people along the lines of Isaac Mizrahi are attempting to buy the L.E.S. wholesale, incluing Mercury Lounge and Luna Lounge. The first half of that sounds believable, but the second half sounds like bullshit, but I'd love to know if anyone else has heard anything of the sort...(and the only thing that prompted me to put this up here is the fact that Jay's reporting Tonic bowing out of the biz.)