No Better Place

Scaffolding is not meant to be used like monkey bars

2006-08-19T14:55:00.000-04:00

So remember when you were little and it was really fun on monkey bars to swing up and hang by your knees and then do a backflip off?

Yeah. Doesn't work so well anymore.

Resurrecting this bitch to try my hand at transportation engineering

2006-08-10T20:55:00.000-04:00

Holla.

I read that the MTA is thinking about doing away with G train service in Queens, which don't bother me none, since, you know, Queens. HOWEVER, in the same article I read that they don't really know what the hell they're doing with the G, and might instead extend it to Church Ave. Here's a map for those of y'all who aren't up on your Brooklyn subway ish.

The G train goes all the way to Church Ave. anyway, since they turn the trains around there or something, so they're toying with the idea of letting them pick up people on the way. I'd be down with that, for sure (Church Ave. is my F train stop, should have mentioned earlier), since it means I could get to Williamsburg without going through Manhattan or changing trains, and half the people I care about in the world are all moving to Williamsburg. But, I think we can do one better than that:

Why not just extend the G all the way to Coney Island and make the F express in Brooklyn? They share a track from Smith/9th to Carroll St, and there's an express track at least to Church Ave. because sometimes the F runs express from Jay St. Maybe they'd need to lay down more track, but whatever, worth it. That would drastically shorten the trip from anywhere in western Brooklyn to Manhattan, and would allow uninterrupted service to Williamsburg, finally uniting the borough via subway, since who wants to deal with the B61 anyway? It's the best plan ever, and if anyone from the MTA happens to read this and wants to pay me for the right to use it, email's on the sidebar.

Dear Evangelical Christians,

2006-06-02T17:02:00.000-04:00

You already ruin everything. Please leave baseball alone.

Liveblogging the 2006 Scripps National Spelling Bee

2006-06-01T22:13:00.000-04:00

I’ve been around the live-blogging block a few times now (namely, two Grammy awards and Category 7: The End of the World), but this is probably the event that I care more about than anything in the world. Yes. The 2006 Scripps-Howard National Spelling Bee, the greatest example of child exploitation and pre-adolescent awkwardness in the world. With things like Spellbound, Akeelah and the Bee, and Bee Season, the National Spelling Bee is something of a cultural phenomenon now, to the point that they shifted the finals from they’re historical mid-afternoon ESPN slot (best sport ever, btw) to prime time on ABC. Should be EPIC. With an entire 12 pack of Beck’s dark and some kickass thunderstorms in the background, here we go:

8:00 pm: FINAL 13! LET’S DO THIS!
8:01 pm: “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all children are created equal, but some are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable gifts, that among these are focus, determination, and the pursuit of precise spelling.” HELL YES. Sweet intro montage, glad we’ve got the big ABC budget to play with this year. Also some footage from Bee Week, which included outdoor activities. I imagine they were VERY closely supervised.
8:04 pm: First pan shot of the kids on stage, looking completely and utterly terrified.
8:05 pm: Saryn Hooks, age 14, has studied the entire dictionary. Otherwise not notable on this stage, but unlike the others, she looks like she might actually get a boyfriend some day.
8:06 pm: Hey, Chris Collins. They’re using the ABC sports team to introduce the little back story sequences where they have the kids use their extensive vocabulary to describe themselves with expected spazziness that you want to laugh at, but sort of feel guilty. As mom #1 says, “We knew Jonathan was put together a little differently from most kids.” Jonathan Horton, incidentally, wears Velcro sneakers. And thinks he’d be in the NBA if he put more effort into basketball.
8:09 pm: Spelling starts. Dr. Jacques A. Bailly, the pronouncer on this thing for, like, ever, is one of my favorite people on earth. He won the competition in 1980, and one of my biggest regrets is that I wasn’t alive to see that. Most soothing voice ever. Also, Jonathan Horton gets “exergue” correct.
8:13 pm: DING! “Awwwww.” And Allion Salvador goes down on “Nauruz.” To the comfort room with you, in this gentle, gentle competition. 12 left.
8:15 pm: Serious thunderstorm activity outside. My computer is plugged in and sitting on my lap. I’m risking my life to record this thing for you people.
8:16 pm: Kavya Shivashankar goes out on gematrial. I thought she was going all the way. Seriously, I just told Joe how awesome she was. But she’s only 10, she has 4 more chances. That said, I have no favorite anymore. I guess the potentially hot girl.
8:22 pm: Profile on Katherine Close, the girl from the Jersey Shore. She’s disappointingly normal for someone who’s been in 5 National Spelling Bees. She likes sailing, and her dog. At least this is her last bee, so we don’t have to listen to her boringass story again.
8:25 pm: Michael Christie is the year’s “biggest surprise.” I have no idea how they figure that out, though I have been wishing I could get advance scouting reports so I would know who to root for. He squeaks by on “epityphlitis.”
8:27 pm: Saryn’s up, wearing makeup and with actually washed and brushed hair. And she’s PISSED that Dr. Bailly isn’t enunciating well enough. Oh, moment of suspense, the judges may not have heard properly, but they DO have instant replay… and she apparently spelled “hechscher” wrong. I don’t care anymore.
8:32 pm: We just learned about “focus time,” which gives you an extra minute to think, BUT only once a competition. There is way more strategy involved with spelling than YOU would ever guess.
8:33 pm: There’s no comfort room for the finals. The kids sit on the floor next to their parents when they lose. HUMILIATING. They don’t even have extra chairs.
8:41 pm: SARYN’S BACK IN! WHOO. The judges admit they were wrong, and she’s back in! AMAZING! Ok, I’m reinvested. The announcer informs us that, “those are definitely tears of joy.” That’s why they have experts for these things.
8:43 pm: Jonathan Horton gets “kamaaina” correct. Fuck. He memorized every word, ever. In every language. And he still can’t tie his shoes.
8:47 pm: Rajiv Tarigopula is the renegade speller. Stayed in his own hotel, didn’t go to the cookout, and never smiles. Ever.
8:48 pm: Just before the commercial break they reveal that Saryn in fact did spell hechscher incorrectly, but the judges still reinstated her… judging scandal imminent. This could be the biggest controversy since that ice-dancing thing in 2002.
8:54 pm: Ah, clarification. Saryn was right all along, the WORD LIST was wrong. Wow. Good catch, judges. And she’s up again to nail “sphacelated.” YESSSSSSSS.
9:06 pm: Round 10. 7 spellers. Jonathan Horton goes first again, we don’t like him. Give us the hot girl!
9:07 pm: He doesn’t know it! He’s wrong! Might want to pursue that basketball dream, Jonny-boy. “Sciolto” is NOT “shalto.” Post-loser interview reveals that he “thought they were putting an easier word in a later round,” then attributes his success to, “I dunno, God?”
9:15 pm: The blooper reel corresponds with my third beer. Thanks ABC!
9:18 pm: “Shedu” is spelled correctly by our Jersey girl, who HAS apparently studied her Assyrian spelling norms. Her parents look baffled and incredibly relieved.
9:19 pm: Big Surprise Michael Chrystie goes down, keeping Syracuse winless since 1987.
9:20 pm: Saryn Saryn Saryn Saryn. “Croquignole” without asking ANY QUESTIONS SHE IS A VERY ATTRACTIVE SPELLING MACHINE.
me (9:21:02 PM): oh man the hot girl is kicking ASS
ellen (9:21:18 PM): shes a bit overconfident for me
me (9:21:27 PM): she knows her words.
ellen (9:21:38 PM): she knows words about curling hair
me (9:21:39 PM): or maybe she derives her spelling ability from her sassy haircut.
ellen (9:22:01 PM): her hair is incredibly shiny
ellen (9:22:05 PM): ill give her that
me (9:22:48 PM): jealous much?
ellen (9:23:00 PM): no
ellen (9:23:01 PM): yes
9:25 pm: They play the same clip about the Canadian girl that they played this afternoon. So what if you’re the best speller in Canada? You still have a Canadian accent.
9:27 pm: Jacques is “worried about the middle there.” LISTEN TO JACQUES, THEDORE YUAN! He asked if “syringadenous” had any alternate definitions. How Jacques Bailly never screams, “Oh, wait, yeah, there is one. It also means SPELL THE FUCKING WORD!” is beyond me. Yuan got it wrong, by the way.
9:34 pm: German words are not fair. “Heiligenschein.” A bright light around the shadow of a person’s head. The Teutons do love their words. Joe and I simultaneously yell when Rajiv starts spelling, “There’s no ‘y’ in German!”
9:37 pm: No boys left, only three girls, all three of whom look like they may reasonably be attractive someday. This has to be a Spelling Bee first.
9:39 pm: Saryn tosses her hair saucily, revealing that she totally fucking knows how to spell “austausch.” No questions, once again, she is SO AWESOME.
9:43 pm: Championship Word time. If this were a Nintendo game, the music would have just gotten faster.
9:45 pm: Holy shit these girls can spell. There’s nothing gender-specific in that (Ellen), I swear, but they just throw those words out like nothing.
9:47 pm: Saryn goes down on “icteritious.” She said “ictericious.” I’m inconsolable. The Canadian better lose. Let’s go Jersey! 5th time’s the charm!
9:50 pm: Just found Saryn Hooks’s MySpace profile. That’s all.
9:53 pm: Katharine Close stays alive. USA! USA! USA!
9:56 pm: “Saryn likes classic activities—hanging with friends, talking on the phone, and shopping—and classic rock, especially the Electric Light Orchestra.” I’m never going to recover.
9:58 pm: Katharine gets “psittacism.” These two know every word ever, this isn’t going to end. Maiuetic, aubade, poiesis, kanone, tutoyer, izzat, koine, tmesis… I think Jacques Bailly is making up words and they’re still getting the right.
10:05 pm: Finola has a blog. http://www.canada.com/national/features/canspell/blog.html
I sort of like her a little more now.
10:06 pm: “Weltschmerz” trips up Finola, because she started it with a W. But she said “zed,” which is sort of adorable.
10:07 pm: “Kundalini” is nailed by Katharine (who goes by Kerry, which I admit is sort of weird, Ellen). ONE MORE WORD AND SHE WINS.
10:08 pm: The audience just freaked when Jacques pronounced her word. And it does sound like the hardest final word in a long time. “Ursprache,” however, is no problem for Katharine Close WHO WINS THE 2006 SCRIPPS NATIONAL SPELLING BEE, keeping it out of the hands of the damn Canucks for another year. Sponsored by the fine folks at the Asbury Park Press, too. Congratulations, Katherine/Kerry/Adorable little beach girl who likes to sail. Sorry I called you boring a little while ago.

Definitely the most well-adjusted final three I've ever seen. Solid bee all around.

For people who think baseball is boring

2006-05-20T23:55:00.000-04:00

Watch this video of Cubs catcher Michael Barrett punching White Sox catcher AJ Pierzynski in the face. If you know much about baseball, and AJ Pierzynski, then it's the most awesome thing ever. If you don't, it's still a pretty sweet punch in the face.

On reading

2006-05-20T01:23:00.000-04:00

The Da Vinci Code was the worst book ever. People who liked it are illiterate. There's a movie now, for people who weren't even literate enough to read it. The newspaper of choice for illiterate people is the New York Post. This is what Lou Lumenick of the New York Post thinks about the movie:

"Ron Howard's splendid 'The Da Vinci Code' is the Holy Grail of summer blockbusters: a crackling, fast-moving thriller that's every bit as brainy and irresistible as Dan Brown's controversial bestseller."

The fittingly illiterate full review here.

My habit of talking to crazy people will probably get me killed someday

2006-05-11T00:27:00.000-04:00

Setting: 4th and Broadway, 6 pm
Crazy Homeless Guy With Wad of Bills That He Is Waving In Everyone's Face: I've got more money than any of you!
Me: Can I have some?
CHGWWBTHIWIEF [totally serious]: Sure! You want some?
Me: No, you keep it man.
CHGWWBTHIWIEF: No, no, take some, really!
Me: I was just joking.
CHGWWBTHIWIEF: I'm being serious! Take it! I'm just trying to hang out here!
Me: It's cool, man.

John Vanderslice confirms what I've written four papers about in the past year

2006-05-03T19:50:00.000-04:00

After that I was like, "Fuck paying a publicist to work your record, lets just email all the bloggers and send them a record or some MP3's."

From Brooklyn Vegan.

And here's one of my diatribes about it.

"Unless they were crazy or hated their child, any parent who was financially able would do it," she said.

2006-04-28T23:55:00.000-04:00

Oh my god the New York Times ran a feature on My Super Sweet 16. It's amaaaaaaaazing. And, uh, no, I haven't watched every episode they talk about... no...

Big, dumb buildings

2006-04-27T14:19:00.000-04:00

The, er, second groundbreaking for the Freedom Tower was today. I was going to write a lot about this, but instead you should just go here, because they're much funnier than I am. Anyway, for those of you who aren't in my Metropolitan Studies class, this is the short list of what's so horribly, terribly wrong with this thing:
1. Who the hell is going to buy space in the building voted Most Likely to Be Blown Up '12?
2. Nobody wants to be downtown in general anymore. All the businesses are moving to Midtown, and having lived in the Financial District for a year, I sure don't blame them.
3. It looks like this:

The gray part at the bottom is concrete. And it's 20 stories high. So, like, it can't be blown up by a car bomb on the Westside Highway, but, uh, 200 feet of concrete. Also gives you an idea of how absurdly, unnecessarily tall this fucker is. But the only way to prove that the terrorists didn't beat us is obviously by building the tallest thing in the world and giving them a beautifully obvious target to crash more planes into. Yep. Gotta love America. Everyone's super intent on making a political statement with whatever they build at Ground Zero, meaning we need to build something bigger, better, and with more symbolic meaning, which, you know, is kind of why the terrorists blew up the WTC in the first place. It's a giant middle finger to the rest of the world, which, I guess, is probably what they're going for anyway.
4. Freedom Tower? Seriously, "Freedom Tower"? No wonder the world thinks Americans are all pompous assholes.

Mark Ecko vs. The City of New York (a brief pseudo-political rant)

2006-04-25T21:19:00.000-04:00

Mark Ecko and a bunch of teenagers are suing New York over the new anti-graffiti laws, which ban people under 21 from possessing spray paint or broad tip markers. While Ecko probably wants to use it as a springboard for further decriminalization of graffiti, their argument that the law as it stands now is unconstitutional has got to have some footing. The fact that the city can prevent legal adults from buying a totally legal, harmless product is kind of terrifying. This is, of course, the continuation of Guilliani-era Broken Windows policing, which says that tolerance of minor crimes gives the impression that all crime is tolerable; there's any number of studies to demonstrate that isn't true, but the city will cling to it forever, because it proves that they did something to reduce crime in New York, as opposed to it just being a product of decreasing crime rates everywhere. On the page of AM New York that had the Mark Ecko story, there was also a story about "scratchiti" (which is a great term, since "graffiti" is the plural of the Italian word "graffito," meaning "scratched"), in which a city employee dubs scratched names on windows of the subway the "new scourge" of subway riders. Personally, I think the new scourge of subway riders is when they shut down your subway every weekend for an entire month. There's better things the MTA and the city can be spending time and energy on. Does graffiti really bother anyone? I didn't live in New York in the 70's and 80's when it was everywhere, but I have been to Berlin now, which is absolutely covered in it. And I really don't remember it ruining my experience of the city. New York City officials continue to believe that oppressive "quality of life" laws make the city a more pleasant place to live, while they really just stifle the sort of energies that make people want to live here in the first place.

Furthermore, might the law have racist connotations? If my pasty roommate, who is only 20, were to attempt to buy a can of spray paint, do we think anyone would refuse to sell it to him? Just a thought.

Anyway, I'm rooting for Mark Ecko, even if it is just him drumming up publicity for his video game.

It's getting warm

2006-04-19T01:39:00.000-04:00

Only down to 58 tonight. Pushing 80 by Thursday. I can smell leaves again. Spring makes me limitlessly happy, which is good, because otherwise I'd be starting small-to-medium sized fires on campus right now. It being understood that I already hate my program (basically) and consider my college opportunities all but wasted, it does not help matters when the prestigious Stern School of Business decides, after ten years of comfortably cohabitating with the Music Business Program, that starting my senior year, they will no longer allow Music Business students to enroll in Stern sections of business classes, but must take the special non-major sections. Given that we have to take six Stern classes to graduate, this is a problem. A very large one. And the fact that they didn't see fit to tell anyone, even the head of our program, is somewhat of a larger program. While I'd love to not take Stern courses, I'd love much more to graduate. On time. With a schedule that allows me to fill my other requirements. This was my away message today:

11:50:50 PM thejustinsowa (Autoreply): disillusionment with nyu and my program at an all-time high.

class, class, group project, watching do the right thing and possibly throwing a trash can through a stern office window.

To which I received the following replies:

11:50:50 PM justinferrone: thats what i like to hear

and

3:24:29 PM stevenhasty: I will pay part of your legal fees if you actually go through with the trash can
3:24:42 PM stevenhasty: I second that emotion.

I love my friends.

Dear male population of Williamsburg

2006-03-23T00:22:00.000-05:00

The New York Times ran an article about beards. They can't possibly be cool anymore. Please shave.

Also, this is probably the most annoying article the Times has ever produced. Both "Vice" with a capital V and "metrosexual" are used 3 times each. That's all you need to know.

Post-Europe Depression

2006-03-19T21:33:00.000-05:00

Things to know about Berlin:
1. Beer costs roughly $3 a bottle in a bar. In superkmarkets, you get 10 liters for 8 euro. Do the math.
2. The subway is clean, efficient, huge, more or less runs 24 hours and has signs telling you when the next train is coming. Also, if you're clever, it doesn't cost anything.
3. Girls in clubs do not talk to or dance with you, but can be plied with alcohol like any other human female.
4. They don't understand hard liquor. A glass of Maker's Mark costs 3.50. A glass of Jack Daniels costs 3.50. A glass of Wild Turkey costs 3.50. A whisky and soda made with Maker's Mark costs 6 euro. A whisky and soda made with Jack Daniels costs 6 euro, etc.
5. Graffiti, drinking in public, smoking indoors, prostitution, and small amounts of marijuana are legal. Broken windows theory be damned (though this is a fairly European thing in general. Here's a fun Weekly Standard article from November that uses a bunch of uncited sources to prove that it's why there's riots in Paris, and also why American is better than everyone else).

Anyway, click the Fernehsturm for the full Flickr glory.

Things I Should Have Been

2006-02-28T17:08:00.000-05:00

A short list of things that, had conditions and planning been better, I feel I would have been very successful at:
1. Short track speed skater
2. Metropolitan Studies major
3. Journeyman utility infielder
4. Born rich
5. Alcoholic poet

It's really cold

2006-02-24T22:42:00.000-05:00

Tonight is the last ever Stolen Transmission party at Orchard Bar before they move to Thursday nights at The Annex. These Friday night parties have basically been a given for me for the last four months, and have served me well. By any measure, I should be there tonight, since they're most enjoyable between 2 and 4 am and there's no way I'm ever going to make it that late on a Thursday night. But I'm not. Because I don't feel like it.

I believe this is a sign of my ultimate submission to seasonal affectation disorder. Despite the Winter Olympics, which, regardless of the opinions of most sportswriters and Americans, is one of my favorite things in the world, all I've been able to think about for the last couple weeks is warm temperatures. I'm not going outside tonight, end of story, and don't plan on doing so until the thermometer gets another ten degrees on it. I'm also looking forward to my summer social life, which will involve much less dancing and a lot more drinking outdoors, most likely in the following contexts:
1. 40's on my stoop.
2. Commonwealth's back patio
3. The Gate
4. 60 oz. mugs of beer at Nathan's at Coney Island
5. Illicit drinking at Prospect Park

As much as I can't deny having enjoyed myself at overcrowded hipster dance parties, those all sound a lot better right now. I will now go drink a bottle of wine and watch figure skating. Oh, I'm also listening to lots of Fountains of Wayne.

Hero of the Week Part 2

2006-02-21T23:52:00.000-05:00

We've discussed my obsession with Finnish hockey. I still can't possibly explain it, except with the following. Ahem:

At 2006 Torino Games, Round Robin First Round:
Record: 5-0
Goals scored: 19
Goals allowed: 2

And Teemu Selanne (at left), in addition to leading the Olympics with 6 goals scored (and being one of the all-time leading Olympic goal scorers) and being a nine-time NHL All Star used to teach kindergarten in Finland to make extra money before he made the NHL. Also, Saku Koivu is a cancer survivor. Furthermore, there are three sets of brothers on the team (Saku and Mikko Koivu, Tuomo and Jarkko Ruutu, and Sami and Niko Kapanen). If that doesn't make them the most lovable hockey team ever, I don't know what would. And, as we've gone over, they all have the best names ever. So, yes, I'm rooting against the US tomorrow.

Which brings me to this: If anyone speaks Finnish and can navigate this site, I'd like a t shirt, please.

Hero of the Week

2006-02-14T01:03:00.000-05:00

Congratulations to Shaun White on being the only superhyped American Olympian to not totally fuck up. In addition to totally owning the rest of the world on a snowboard, his interviews and this Times feature demonstrate that he's also a much cooler person than most Olympic athletes. For example, he admits to both wanting to win and to being nervous as hell. None of the standard "it's an honor to be here representing my country" crap. And he did win. Hard.

Additional early-Olympic Applause to:
1. Kelly Clark, for completing the only women's halfpipe run in history that was interesting.
2. Australian snowboarder Torah Bright for being more technical and MUCH hotter than the Americans.
3. Speed skater Joey Cheek, for winning an event he wasn't supposed to win and having a fantastic name.
4. (This was going to be Allison Baver, the very attractive and talented short track speed skater, but then I found out that she's both dating Apolo Ohno and auditioning for The Apprentice. -30 points.)
5. The Chinese figure skater who got thrown into a wall, basically, smashing her knees in an incredibly painful way, and then continued her pairs run and ended up with a silver medal. Here's hoping the Chinese Olympic Committee awards her by letting her see her parents for five or six minutes.
6. The US women's hockey team for refusing to take "No Bodychecking" for an answer. Still no substitute for the men's competition, though, which starts Tuesday (go Finland!)*

And definitely NO cheers for NBC choosing to show Kelly Clarkson sucking her way through "Since U Been Gone" (STOP singing that live, Kelly, you're ruining it for everyone) but not the snowboard halfpipe medal ceremony that she performed after. Shaun White deserved more, dammit!

*I'm one of the biggest (non-Finnish, at least) supporters of Finnish international hockey. Why? Partially because they're probably the best-skating team EVER, but mainly because "Teemu Selanne" and "Teppo Numminen" are the two best names to ever be placed on the same athletic team. "Saku Koivu" isn't bad either. God I love Finland.

In case the Final Destination trilogy last night didn't convince me, here's more proof that I can't control when I die:

2006-02-08T17:07:00.000-05:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/02/08/health/08fat.html

"Except for not smoking, the advice for a healthy lifestyle is based largely on indirect evidence, Dr. Howard said, but most medical researchers agree that it makes sense to eat well, control weight and get regular exercise."

Most? Great.

"In this case, the study addressed a tricky problem. For decades, many scientists have said, and many members of the public have believed, that what people eat — the composition of the diet — determines how likely they are to get a chronic disease. But that has been hard to prove. Studies of dietary fiber and colon cancer failed to find that fiber was protective, and studies of vitamins thought to protect against cancer failed to show an effect."

Well fuck it. Pass the bacon.

NY Times Sports Magazine: highbrow meets lowbrow and things explode

2006-02-05T15:04:00.000-05:00

When the Times (home of some of the most humorously misguided sports writing ever) decided that a sports magazine was a good idea, fun was sure to be had. When they decided the slogan would be "A magazine that simultaneously celebrates how sports are played today while presenting the big, rich human stories that emerge from the world of sports," even better. Lead story: Body Miller. Oh boy oh boy oh boy:

Since every sports fan, consciously or not, is a fan of myth, it may be useful, before considering the question mark appended to the figure of Bode Miller, to bring to mind the example of a free-spirited boy named Icarus. Icarus was given wings of feathers and wax — high-tech, aerodynamic equipment in its day — with which to flee the confines of his existence. His flight coach warned him to avoid hovering too low, lest he wipe out on a wave, or soaring too high, lest he flame out. But Icarus was a fiend for novelty and daring. Flying felt good. It felt free. Icarus caught tremendous air, as the saying goes, and launched himself through the sky. He could sense the temperature rising. It must, he thought, be the heat of the moment, that special flush that animates adventure seekers. But it was more than that. It was the sun. Soon, Icarus' gear was toast. He fell. He streaked across the horizon, and disappeared into the sea with a splash. Some observers were saddened by the spectacle. Others found the humbling of Icarus to be a case of just deserts.

Bode Miller's wings are bound to his feet, and he is a landlubber through and through, but he has built a career, and a persona, on his knack for rescuing himself from perilous spots.

A-maaaaz-ing.

Kings amongst music geeks

2006-02-02T23:09:00.000-05:00

One of the highlights of my week is the Other Music Update email. This is a list, with short reviews, of new arrivals to the store since the last update. While it's ostensibly a great source for being tipped off to things that you would otherwise never look into, it's much more valuable as a source of reading entertainment. The (surprisingly, actually) friendly staffer of OM pour every last bit of sincerity and superlative into their descriptions of things you have never, ever, in your wildest dreams heard of. The adorable part is that they write them as if you know as much music as they do (you don't), namedropping artists, record labels, and genres that probably nine people in the world who don't work for Other Music or the artist/label/genre in question have ever encountered. Some delicious samples from this week's update:

I've often described Mountains to newcomers simply as "Fennesz with song-structure, with equal texture and a focus on beauty." Equal parts Mego and Fahey.

While your first reaction to having a string player make dance tracks is to lump him together with Arthur Russell, Polar's work hangs in a slightly different way.

It's about 10 times better than I could hope to possibly make it sound here and it has practically restored my faith in the power of the single.

It was just a matter of time before Acid Mothers Temple and Afrirampo collided in their universe of mesmerizing live shows and psychedelic improvisation.

Definitely the most beautiful CD in our store for under ten dollars at the moment.

And it's like this every week. Just like the store itself, absolutely amazing, even if you don't buy anything.

DMV, Coney Island Style

2006-01-31T12:27:00.000-05:00

Tuesdays are one of my built-in rest days of the week: no class till 2:00 pm, no work, all sleep and relaxation. Today, however, in my efforts to become an official resident of the borough I call home, I dragged myself from bed at 8:30 am to go to the Kings County Department of Motor Vehicle: Coney Island Branch and attempt to procure a New York State driver's license. JUST as I got to the photo counter (mind, I'd only been waiting in line for five minutes or so), the computer system broke and the friendly man told me that, unfortunately, they would be unable to process license applications until the computer was serviced. He assured me that he's never known the system to go down for an entire day, so I could certainly come back later and probably get my license. What with class at two and being a forty-five minute subway ride from home, I politely declined, saying I would come back Thursday. So he filled out a green form with my info on it which is potentially the most valuable thing anyone has ever given me: a front-of-the-line pass for the DMV.

This otherwise unassuming piece of paper allows me to simply, easily, and with clean conscience BYPASS the ENTIRE line (which, being a New York City DMV, can be miles long). It does, of course, require me to once again get up at 8:30 am on a rest day and trek to Coney Island, but the fact is that having another excuse to go to a completely abandoned Coney Island is probably worth the loss of sleep. I'm bringing my camera this time, too and rooting for another cold, gray day. There's nothing more simultaneously beautiful and unsettling than a summer vacation spot in the dead of winter. Boarded up arcades, idle roller coasters, the complete dearth of people; it packs a heavy dose of pathos. There's still plans on the drawing board to "reinvigorate" Coney Island, involving boring residential buildings, corporate retail space, an indoor water park, a four-star hotel, and something about blimps. At any rate, it will, of course, destroy the gloriously dilapidated character that Coney Island has had since, well, people stopped going there. Since New Yorkers still have cars and summer places on the Jersey Shore, it's not like they'll start going back to Coney Island because it's shinier. If anything, everyone will stop going, since the only people who go there now are those who, like me, love kitschy, run-down oceanside amusement parks and boardwalks. It's still the only place in the world where you can shoot the freak.

Buster Olney + Math = Even Dumber Than Usual

2006-01-24T23:12:00.000-05:00

I quote:

It wasn't as if the Red Sox thought Damon was washed up; their last official offer to him was $40 million over four years, with the possibility of going to $46 million or $48 million, depending on who you believe. In the end, the Red Sox were blindsided by the Yankees, and effectively let Damon walk away for what are relative pennies in their financial hemisphere -- maybe $1.5 million per year, over four years, if you believe they would've increased their offer to $46 million.

Now, with a huge hole in center field and at lead-off, the Red Sox will have to trade some of their young talent -- their most coveted asset -- to get the Indians' Coco Crisp. Top young third baseman Andy Marte would be part of that deal; the third baseman of the future could be headed out the door. Had the Red Sox believed Kevin Youkilis was really that good, they wouldn't have traded for Marte, and they would've already installed Youkilis, as a stop-gap, at third base.

As Chris Snow reports, the Red Sox would have to pay Crisp about $3 million this year. In the big picture, it would have made a whole lot more sense to keep the prospects and keep Damon, a primary face of the franchise. A few dollars more is not that big of a deal for Boston -- or at least, it shouldn't be.

Ok, so, $46 million divided by four years equals, I believe (unless the good folks at Casio are fucking with my calculator), $11.5 million a year. $11.5 million minus $3 million equals $8.5 million... which is only a few dollars, in Olneyland.

Now, to be fair, Buster is saying that the Sox could have gotten Johnny Damon by increasing their offer by only $1.5 million a year, which, yes, is pennies in the AL East. But, by effectively replacing him with a younger version of himself, they SAVED $8.5 million a year. At the, notedly steep but essentially impossible to evaluate, price of Andy Marte. He just sort of doesn't mention this. Because he's, well, Buster Olney.

As a side note, Kevin Youkilis would be the Red Sox's third baseman this year, except he's the Red Sox's starting first baseman this year. Oh Buster, you'll never learn.

PARTY MOTHERFUCKERS

2006-01-23T21:23:00.000-05:00

I turn 21 on Wednesday. This is going to change my life... exactly none, but it's still an excuse to get proper muddled. So.

Where: Commonwealth Bar, 12th St. and 5th Ave., Park Slope, BROOKLYN
When: This Wednesday, January 25th. 9 pm-ish. I don't have class till 2 on Thursday, so I plan on closing the place.
How: F train to 4th Ave. Walk uphill a block, turn left and walk three blocks.
Why: Amazing jukebox, $4 pints of good beer, no IDing that I've ever experienced (but I'm-a be 21, so fuck all y'all), close enough to home that I can take a cab.

Anyone who's likely to come probably got the Facebook invite, but I feel like hammering the point home, because the more people who come, the less likelihood I have to buy myself drinks.

I think it's crucially important that everyone see this

2006-01-22T15:08:00.000-05:00

Joe Gallucci. January 22, 2006.

2006-01-22T05:35:00.000-05:00

I'd really like Coco Crisp, thank you.

But if the Red Sox flip Andy Marte, I'm becoming an A's fan.

Not like I've ever been hip anyway

2006-01-21T01:49:00.000-05:00

Right. This is at least a year late. But right now, if i could spend the rest of my life drinking Patron and listening to The Arcade Fire... I'd be pretty down with that. Anyone who can accomodate my plan... hit me up, son.

The only thing worse than filthy rich people is warm filthy rich people

2006-01-12T21:35:00.000-05:00

Ocean Drive Magazine makes me thankful for hurricanes. Grossest publication ever. The real estate listings are the most depressing part, because there's apparently a lot of people out there shopping for $10 million penthouses in ultramodern high rises in Miami. Depressing for seven or eight different reasons, I think.

Brooklyn is Burning (?)

2006-01-10T19:03:00.000-05:00

Left my office at 32 Court St. tonight around 6:15 to see that Downtown Brooklyn had turned into a war zone:

No idea what was going on, but there were four or five of the giant emergency response vehicle, a few ambulances, a fire truck, and other small police things. They had Joralemon St. totally blocked off at Court St., causing a backup of busses down Fulton St. I understand that massive outpourings of police are relatively common in this city of 35,000 police officers, but you still don't see this every day. Any ideas? Terrorists? Communists? Maybe there was just a kickass sale on bagels at One Way Deli. They do have pretty good bagels.

View the full Flickr set.

Reason #425 why I hate Easton

2006-01-06T13:51:00.000-05:00

So many tears.

CNN.com: Free booze benefits homeless alcoholics

2006-01-05T16:07:00.000-05:00

TORONTO, Ontario (Reuters) -- Giving homeless alcoholics a regular supply of booze may improve their health and their behavior, the Canadian Medical Association Journal said in a study published on Tuesday.

Seventeen homeless adults, all with long and chronic histories of alcohol abuse, were allowed up to 15 glasses of wine or sherry a day -- a glass an hour from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. -- in the Ottawa-based program, which started in 2002 and is continuing.

After an average of 16 months, the number of times participants got in trouble with the law had fallen 51 percent from the three years before they joined the program, and hospital emergency room visits were down 36 percent.

"Once we give a 'small amount' of alcohol and stabilize the addiction, we are able to provide health services that lead to a reduction in the unnecessary health services they were getting before," said Dr. Jeff Turnbull, one of the authors of the report.

"The alcohol gets them in, builds the trust and then we have the opportunity to treat other medical diseases... It's about improving the quality of life."

Sign me up!
This really doesn't require commentary, but two observations:
1. 15 glasses of wine a day is a "small amount"?
2. Canada is one civilized fucking country.

Because you think that poor is cool

2006-01-04T19:41:00.000-05:00

I understand this observation is about three years late, but having just finally procured a used copy of Pulp's "Different Class," and having finally paid attention to the lyrics to "Common People," the fact that MisShapes is named after a Pulp song is the most astonishingly, lip-smackingly ironic thing in the history of the world. Whenever I'm in a downtown club listening to the downtown kids sing along to "Common People" at the top of their lungs, I probably won't be able to stop laughing, ever.

But whatever, irony is cool, anyway, so a bunch of rich kids pretending to be poor singing along with a song about rich kids pretending to be poor to be cool is just so ironic that it's some sort of hipster wet dream, right?

No, I'm still pretty sure they're just too dumb to realize it's about them.

Tearing down Brooklyn

2005-12-28T19:10:00.000-05:00

Forgotten NY has some neat pictures this week of the area around Atlantic Ave. that's going to be mostly razed for the new Nets arena. This inspired some heated debate on Curbed regarding the neighborhood's worthiness of not being bulldozed.

Personally, on an errand for work I once walked down the stretch of Dean St. that features prominently in Forgotten NY's photo essay, and it's a neat little chunk of neighborhood. Being situated at the convergence of Prospect Heights, Fort Greene and Downtown Brooklyn, the jarring collision of beautiful row houses, decrepit warehouses and barely/non-functioning industrial buildings is fascinating, but understandably not entirely screaming to be landmarked, particularly with most of the nice residential parts safe from Ratner. Nonetheless, the townhouses will end up being somewhat less attractive when they're in the shadow of a basketball arena. But, despite being an architecural abortion and hell on traffic, both foot and vehicle, Ratner's Atlantic Center does have a Target, so he's surely acting with Brooklyn's best interests in mind.

It's a funny time in Brooklyn. Having been fully discovered by this point, the march of progress is moving steadily and probably unstoppably. Brooklyn was, I guess, the best-of-both-worlds urban-but-still-small-town partner to Manhattan, and that's all changing as all of Manhattan moves to Brooklyn. Downtown Brooklyn will soon be turning into a baby downtown Manhattan. It's unfortunate, I suppose, but progress, whether it's driven by a billionaire developer with deep political connections or not, tends to keep going. Manhattan having been played out, the spirit of Manhattan continues pushing further and further east. Which is good, I suppose, in that maybe eventually there will be bars in Flatbush. I do worry a bit, though, that our neighborhood still isn't landmarked. I'd worry more if I actually owned a house, especially if I had payed $1 million plus like people have had to do for the last five years. The downtown Brooklyn arena/Frank Gehry Dr. Seuss skyline will be interesting to watch. I don't suppose you can continue to cling to outmoded architecture forever; maybe 100 years from now people will be horrified when Bruce Ratner III threatens to tear down the historical titanium and concrete buildings in favor of carbon towers.

"...one of the worst prose stylists in the history of literature"

2005-12-27T13:21:00.000-05:00

I found a blog that's entirely devoted to language: grammar, mechanics, style, etc. It would probably be my new favorite thing, anyway, but then I found this post in the archives:

I have a new hero.

Christmas is a rockin' time, hold you body next to mine

2005-12-26T15:11:00.000-05:00

In light of Santa's arrival, I now have the following things that I didn't before:
1. A functioning (for now) iPod
2. A functioning digital camera (that I am in danger of swallowing)
3. A pair of really expensive jeans, which are in practicality a $200 jeans credit at Saks
4. A brown velour track jacket
5. Several of the Best CDs of 2004 (and one from 2005... will take care of 2005 next Christmas)
6. A OneSweep

Also ate a lot in Connecticut, drove back to New York in driving rainstorm, went bar-hopping on Christmas. Which meant two bars, because, well, things were closed. Must now attempt to reconstruct room around presents, but not before going to Cranford for Magic Grill and diners.

2005-12-24T09:51:00.000-05:00

Easton would be much more tolerable if my mom's new computer wasn't such an unimitigated piece of junk. Rot in hell, Dell. You even rhyme with it. Almost lit the damg thing on fire last night trying to get iTunes/BearShare/BitTorrent/Soulseek to work so I can listen to music. I'd like to at this point thank Secretly Canadian for making three Jens Lekman songs available for easy download from their website.

Amtrak Accela business class: $106 from New York to Boston, one-way, but entirely worth it, especially when mom's paying for the ticket. Roomy seats, legroom, tray tables, 3.5 hours. Dope.

Buying presents today, as the transit strike required me to bring home nothing that wouldn't fit in a backpack. I've never shopped on Christmas Eve before and can't say I'm particularly looking forward to the experience. Tomorrow is Christmas, of course, and since we're going to the in-laws (?) house in Connecticut and I'll already be halfway to New York, I'm going back Sunday night and getting drunk with Nick Rizzo on Christmas Night. That should certainly mitigate what is sure to be, particularly in light of events in the past 48 hours or so, a very lonely week. I anticipate lots of books and whiskey, which are better friends than any people could ever be.

The Strike: Day 2

2005-12-21T14:33:00.000-05:00

Rode my bike home this morning, not bad, Prospect Park SW is one big hill, and I was going in the right direction, so I got through all of Windsor Terrace in about 23 seconds. I also think it was less cold today. I managed to shed a layer. Only had to walk part of Flatbush. All things considered, a successful ride.

The papers of course had some great strike coverage. My favorite:

For New Yorkers, Just Another Wrinkle of City Life
NY Times

New Yorkers, who have learned to endure blackouts and breakdowns with stoicism, showed signs of resilience yet again today as they adapted their schedules and attire to the long lines, crowded trains, police checkpoints and inflated taxi fares during the morning commute to work in bitter cold.

As much as I enjoy being called stoic and resilient, really... what the hell else are New Yorkers supposed to do? Cry? Riot? Sit home all day watching movies, drinking cheap beer and smoking pot?

I didn't ride my bike 8 miles to school yesterday to show the TWU that I wasn't going to stand for their collectivist bullshit. I rode my bike 8 miles to school yesterday because I had to take a music history final. But thanks anyway, Times.

This is so absurd I don't even care anymore

2005-12-20T13:59:00.000-05:00

The bike ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan (roughly 8 and a half miles) was unenjoyable, but not quite miserable. The downhill side of the Manhattan Bridge was the only fun part, but such is life.

Ready to hear what I'm doing the next few days?

I have to take a music history final at 5. Then I plan on finding an apartment in which to stash my bike and sleep tonight. Get up earlyish tomorrow, ride back to Brooklyn. Write papers, sleep. Thursday, pack up the bare minimum I can survive on for the weekend into my bag, ride back to Manhattan. Leave my bike there, Friday afternoon walk up to Penn Station.

And the funny part is, right now, this all seems totally logical.

Glorious day

2005-12-19T20:44:00.000-05:00

The Times now has a real estate blog. My life is complete.

The Walk Through

Double true

2005-12-19T14:05:00.000-05:00

Got everything done, with time to spare, and possibly even didn't do an awful job. Now I get to relax/study for music history for two days, then spend one more day writing/doing laundry/buying christmas presents for the family, then my month of joy begins.

Enough about me. Even if you didn't see SNL this weekend, I'm sure you heard about this anyway, but regardless, it's the only funny thing SNL has done in, like, forvever... except the Digital Short from the previous week... the one with the lettuce. Andy Samberg may be the savior of Saturday Night Live.

afljdljasdf

2005-12-18T23:48:00.000-05:00

Welcome to absolute bottom of my semester. So much writing, don't know how to get it done, going to be lousy anyway. Not getting good grades in my music business classes, which is ok, since I hate them. And I'm getting an A in everything else. Still annoying, though.

Thursday Thursday Thursday Thursday, when everything gets a lot lot better.

At a very weird point right now. Listening to country music and not writing papers. Soon I'll sleep, then wake up and write more. I want Thursday now. I want more Christmas.

Contrarily...

2005-12-16T13:43:00.000-05:00

Ok, so the subway didn't stop, the weather's actually beautiful today, this Devo 2.0 project I'm working on at work is actually really cool in a very messed up sort of way (details forthcoming), and I downloaded the Sufjan Stevens Christmas EPs and have been listening to "Come On! Let's Boogey to the Elf Dance" all day. I'm in a much better mood than I had any reason to expect to be in. Tonight holds several different possibilities for merriment, as well.

There's still those papers, though.

Countdown to Armageddon

2005-12-15T14:53:00.000-05:00

So the city has completely gone batshit insane. The normal exit from my subway station at work was closed for some reason, forcing me to go about five blocks further away from my office to get out of the station. Then Borough Hall was completely surrounded by fire trucks. Then when I left work, there was an unconscious person on the sidewalk being lifted onto a stretcher by two teams of paramedics.

Then tonight, the subway stops, the snow starts, and the world ends. I'm also ready to start praying.

Also, I still have to write six papers by next Thursday. Assuming I can get to school to turn them in.

Narwhal tusks UNCENSORED

2005-12-14T11:30:00.000-05:00

"Dr. Nweeia noted that the discovery does not eliminate some early theories of the whale's behavior. Tusks acting as sophisticated sensors, he said, may still play a role in mating rituals or determining male hierarchies.

He added that the nerve endings, in addition to other readings, undoubtedly produce tactile sensations when the tusk is rubbed or touched, and that these might be interpreted as pleasurable.

This tactile sense might explain why narwhals engage in what is known as 'tusking,' where two males gently rub tusks together, Dr. Nweeia said. He added that the Inuit seldom report aggressive contact, undermining ideas of ritualized battle."

The Times brings you all the other narwhal info in glorious phallic detail.

Attack of the Hollister Models

2005-12-12T11:34:00.000-05:00

While reading the Times's article on the racial riots in Australia, I couldn't help but notice that all the white youths beating the crap out of Muslims are all really, well... not to go gay or anything... really really hot.

Since these are supposedly mostly lower-class Sydney kids, and lower-classes generally can't afford expensive clothes and personal upkeep and whatnot, does that mean that every dude in Australia is attractive? All the girls I went to high school with had an obsession with Australia, and I guess I understand now. There's just something undeniably dreamy about a board-shorted, bleach blonde, shaggy haired, perfectly toned Australian lad kicking a Muslim in the face on a train.

I bet the Muslims who are currently smashing white people's cars aren't nearly as well-groomed.

Since I now have a real music blog, I can start focusing more on baseball over here

2005-12-08T21:15:00.000-05:00

First of all, read this Buster Olney column: http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2223628

Now, know that Buster Olney is one of the dumbest people who gets paid to write about baseball this side of Joe Morgan. I shall now refute every one of his claims in this article about the Renteria for Marte trade.

The Move: The Red Sox trade shortstop Edgar Renteria for Braves prospect Andy Marte, while agreeing to pay $11 million of about $30 million still owed to Renteria.

The Upside: The fact that Boston was even willing to discuss a Renteria deal just one year into his four-year deal tells you how unhappy the Red Sox front office was with his play. At the very least, the Red Sox turn the page on a player they didn't want, and they get Marte, who has been widely regarded as a top minor-league prospect; if Mike Lowell doesn't work out at third base for Boston, Marte will be ready to step in immediately. For the Braves, this could turn out to be a tremendous deal. Renteria is only 30 years old, and he has a career average of .288 with an on-base percentage of .345,

Let's stop right here. A career on-base percentage of .345 is about 15 points below the rough league average. Kudos to ol' Buster for trying to be, uh, hip with the statistics, but he sort of missed the point.

and he's been one of the steadiest middle infielders in the majors over the last decade.

By what measure? Let's look at his OPS for the last five years.

2001: .685
2002: .803
2003: .874
2004: .728
2005: .721

Yeah, that screams consistency. I suppose we're talking defense. Let's examine his Fielding Runs Above Average:
2001: 10
2002: -11
2003: 2
2004: 7
2005: -21

Awesome.

Atlanta will pay Renteria just $6 million per year over the next three years, at a time when Rafael Furcal will earn $13 million annually from the Dodgers. It stands to reason that Renteria will be much more comfortable in Atlanta, and will turn out to be an incredible bargain.

It also stands to reason that he's 30, in steady decline, and is still overpriced.

The Downside: The Red Sox save themselves a lot of money on Renteria, and time will tell if that cash could be used on some other player.

Since one of the best offensive prospects in baseball is completely inconsequential when you get paid to cover the Yankees.

But it appears that going into 2006, Boston will field Alex Cora at shortstop, a year after Cora hit just .205;

Or Dustin Pedroia, whose on-base percentage in AA was .409 last year. You know Buster, some teams develop their own players.

Lowell at third base, in the first season after Lowell had the worst year of his career; relative newcomer Kevin Youkilis at first base;

Yeah, relative newcome Kevin Youkilis, who in two years of part-time major league duty has put up a .376 OBP.

and second baseman Mark Loretta, who is a good but not a dynamic offense player.

Right, who only got on base at .360 in a season when he was playing with a broken thumb. Two years ago his OPS was .886. In 2003 he went .314/.372/.441. He also plays the violin and attends wine tastings. YOU CAN'T FUCK WITH THAT.

In addition, the Red Sox don't know whether they'll have Manny Ramirez, or how invested he will be. In recent seasons, the Red Sox offense often carried the team -- and there appears to be a very good chance Boston's production will plummet next season.

Because we're replacing Bill Mueller with Mike Lowell/Kevin Youkilis, Edgar Renteria with Dustin Pedroia, Mark Bellhorn with Mark Loretta and Kevin Millar with Andy Marte? Buster, do your homework buddy. Andy Marte's OPS in Richmond was .878. We've gone over everyone else. Think about it.

The Red Sox need some offensive help, in a big way. From Atlanta's perspective, it's possible that Renteria's decline in 2005 is a sign of a steep drop in production in the years to come -- but we don't think so.

You should. It's two years of decline. Two very steady years, and he's over 30 so he's only going downhill. Trading one of the best prospects in baseball for a declining 30 year old powerless shortstop... I'll take it.

Big Picture: Boston's signing of Renteria to a four-year, $40 million deal might be one of the best things that ever happened to the Braves.

I'm so happy that everything Buster Olney has ever said is wrong. Really. And an infield of Youkilis, Pedroia, Loretta and Marte is all I want for Christmas. Probably won't happen, but a boy can dream.

Elevator Etiquette

2005-12-06T10:26:00.000-05:00

There's few things I dislike more than people who do stupid, inconsiderate things in elevators. Walking a flight of stairs is not going to kill you; on the contrary, it will likely do great things to prolong your life. Nonetheless, this morning, half-asleep and uncaffeinated, I get into the empty Education Building elevator and hit the button for the 12th floor. A woman gets in and hits 11.

What would normally just make me blatheringly mad was at least, this time, smoothed over by a delicious bit of irony: the 11th floor is the nutrition department.

God it's going to be a long day.

December will be magic again

2005-12-04T13:02:00.000-05:00

Last night involved:
Jack Daniels, apple crisp, Wings, Jens Lenkman, Trapped in the Closet, incredible cake, Kelly Clarkson in the kitchen, only cool people (who all brought their own beer), "I Don't Believe You," microphones, tearful confessions, snowballs, hugging strangers outside the Beverley Rd. Q station, Kate Bush, and running around in the middle of the snowy street yelling "This is magical!"

And it was. Our house makes amazing things happen.

HP4

2005-11-25T18:01:00.000-05:00

Being a staunch individualist, I decided to be completely unlike the rest of America this afternoon, take a stand and not give in to typical post-Thanksgiving consumerism: so I went to see Harry Potter.

Er.

Anyways, the fourth movie installment of the mega-massive-ultra-gigantic-popular series (did you know there's books, too?) continues the trend started with the last movie of not having the same director as the one before it. The last one was Cuaron, which was completely random but turned out being awesome. This one is Mike Newell, whose credits include things like Four Weddings and a Funeral, Donnie Brasco, Pushing Tin and Mona Lisa Smile; all good enough movies, I suppose, but not exactly special-effects coming-of-age extravangazas. Of course, after the first two Chris Columbus cartoons-come-to-life, there's no reason to be worried about sullying the franchise.

And this one's real good. There's a lot of hype about the neat coming-of-age teenage interraction story, which is pretty cool and well-handled, but it's really just an interlude between fucking awesome action scenes involving dragons, mermaids and ultimate evil. The computer effects in this installment are by far the best in the series, and Hogwarts looks even darker than Cuaron made it. The whole movie is dark and misty and fairly creepy, which fits with the darkening themes of the books. Of course, the way the trend continues in the books, the sixth movie will have to be filmed several miles underground.

The movie gets a little boring through the middle, but the last twenty minutes or so are powerfully intense, with the climactic showdown scene in a graveyard being possibly the best scene from any of the first four movies -- Ralph Fiennes without a nose is scary -- with the aftermath being suitably emotional (though neither was intense enough to reduce all the 6 year olds in the audience, who I imagine constituted a good 60% of the theater, to hysterics like I was hoping). Whether The Goblet of Fire is better than Cuaron's nifty Prisoner of Azkaban can, and will, be debated by 8 year olds everywhere, and anything that gets 8 year olds talking about Alfonso Cuaron must be good, right?

Also, Ron's new haircut rules. And Hermione is now old enough that we can with clear conscience once-and-for-all declare her hot as hell (she probably isn't, but... just go see the damn movie).

Thanksgiving

2005-11-23T02:20:00.000-05:00

Bus Ride Observations of Thanksgiving '05

1. Road travel makes me do two things I never do otherwise: a. eat Pringles; b. listen to The Shins. I don't have an explanation for either.

2. Shame on me for not giving Modest Mouse a chance until, um, today. Good News for People Who Love Bad News is, I'm pretty sure, quite a good album (thanks for the free copy, Guest Speaker for a Class I'm Not In Who Sent a Box of CDs to the Music Business Office). My laptop's battery died about halfway through, which means I actually didn't hear anything I hadn't heard before, but for some reason I like it now. I think I had vague recollections of one of their old albums and thought they were a jam band, as opposed to a really weird, scary pop band. Anyways, I'll listen to the rest of it at some point. But also, it's kind of funny how whenever an indie rock band has cracked into the mainstream in the last year, they've gotten hugely popular. I'm speaking, of course, of Modest Mouse, The Shins and The Postal Service. How's the new Death Cab album doing, anyone?

3. That bus ride gets longer every time. Even when it's shorter than the last time.

4. The girl who sat next to me was really really attractive. Too bad she was on the phone with her boyfriend the whole ride. I saw her phone, his name is "Cameron." What a stupid name.

5. North-Central Connecticut is, without a doubt, the most boring place in the universe. I hate that state so hard.

6. I want turkey now. Give it to me.

DualDiscs

2005-11-15T21:01:00.000-05:00

I hate them. No CD artwork, they never play right and who cares about the bonus video footage? Quit the gimmics and just give me a decent fucking CD. Stupid record labels.

Liveblogging Category 7: The End of the World Part 2

2005-11-13T22:59:00.000-05:00

Category 7: The End of the World Part 2

If you didn’t watch this last week, you suck. However, in case you didn’t watch it this week, I’m liveblogging it for you, because I love. And because it’s the funniest damn thing ever. A quick recap whilst our TiVo holds the start of the movie:

Because of global warming there are lots of big storms. Something about the upper level of the atmosphere falling into cities. It doesn’t make sense. But Randy Quaid is involved and that’s all that matters. I commented more thoroughly down the page a bit, so get caught up and then check back.

9:04 PM: Roommates aren’t ready yet. TiVo on pause. I’m getting a beer.
9:06 PM: Mmm Brooklyn Lager. I just took a picture of the title screen and set it as my phone’s background. It makes my phone about 7 times more badass than yours.
9:10 PM: Hipsters are preventing me from watching this right now. I hate fucking hipsters.
9:17 PM: Byron just finished his soup. Nick won’t shut up about his new Sidekick. Mike needs to get back or blood will be shed.
9:20 PM: We’re rolling. Las Vegas, Chicago, Paris and Buffalo are no more. Yes. Buffalo. Oh, maybe New York too. And a hurricane is heading for DC, along with the New York storm. Nope, doesn’t make sense.
9:22 PM: “Has anyone ever told you that you’re mentally unbalanced?” This question is directed at Randy Quaid.
9:24 PM: Oh, right, terrorists kidnapped the family members of politicians being evacuated from the capital. Uh, now they’re yelling and locking doors and stuff. Also, people got shot. SIDEPLOT! The son of the head of FEMA, who is the main character, is trying to be logical, but the curly-haired dude in a polo shirt is a dick. Never trust people in polo shirts.
9:27 PM: “This is a category 7!” says the head of the Extreme Weather Lab, disgraced scientist, uh, Someone. Also, the Extreme Weather Lab’s map of the US was apparently printed by Applebee’s.
9:30 PM: The solution to the Category 7 Storm is to drag a composite cable by jet into the “heart of the storm.” Science is so complicated; I’ll never understand it.
9:33 PM: Ooooooooh, they kidnapped the first-borns. BIBLICAL! Actually, it’s the crazy guy with the mustache who likes Swoozie Kurtz. He’s faking the plagues. This movie has so many levels it’s scary.
9:34 PM: I still don’t know why they keep showing the fighter plane… something about nuclear power plants. And really bad special effects.
9:38 PM: Apparently the whole jet thing is just more data gathering. I’m not sure why, with a storm about to annihilate DC, they’re concentrating on getting weather probes into the middle of the thing. Such is the way of science.
9:41 PM: Every time they say “Category 7 storm” we all laugh.
9:44 PM: Swoozie Kurtz just yelled at the scary dude for kidnapping the kids and then kissed him. Uh, then he shot her. I have no fucking idea.
9:50 PM: In trying to find out if a hurricane has ever actually hit Washington, DC (since one’s about to hit at the same time as another superstorm on this movie), I failed, but did discover this, which is at least as terrifying.
9:52 PM: Well, the storm just destroyed the jet and Viper from Top Gun died. But at least we now, uh, have more detailed data on the storm.
9:58 PM: Turing off the power will save DC. Politicians just ensured the destruction of DC to protect Big Oil. TOPICAL!
9:59 PM: Nick just made some joke about abused women’s shelters. I think he’s tripping on Ambien again.
10:02 PM: Silly kids, the Fake a Seizure Trick NEVER works.
10:08 PM: Monty, the overly zealous Swoozie Kurtz killer, just got shot by the anorexic journalist who was writing a story about Swoozie. This came immediately after a very intense religious discussion. A powerful moment that was blown when his dead body didn’t fall through the glass dome of the church like it so easily could have.
10:09 PM: Oh, that’s so the storm can break the glass instead. I spoke too soon. Also, Nick is totally passed out on a chair.
10:10 PM: White House destroyed! This is the movie’s money shot, I’m sure. This storm is especially unique in that one person can get sucked into a tornado while someone standing two feet away from them doesn’t get their hair mussed.
10:14 PM: I don’t know exactly what Robert Wagner is supposed to be doing in this movie, but he’s ruining it with his acting integrity.
10:15 PM: GRATUITOUS SHOT OF SOMEONE GETTING HIT BY A CAR!
10:17 PM: The blonde girl’s ears feel funny. She then deduces the air pressure changed, because it’s a hurricane and that’s a low-pressure system, and if the air can get out of the locked room, then so can they. Before we have to time to think about how illogical this is, they cut to a shot of a tornado fucking shit up. We don’t complain.
10:20 PM: “Do you smell that?” “Yeah, that’s gas, lets go!” COLUMN OF FLAME!
10:25 PM: “If I was ever in an action movie, I wouldn’t climb a ladder. They’d be like, ‘Just climb this ladder,’ and I’d be like, ‘Fuck, no!’” –Mike Dougherty
10:29 PM: All this stuff about turning on/off the power is making us think about Jurassic Park, which is a lot better than this movie.
10:33 PM: “Category 7” has just entered everyday colloquialism with Mike’s announcement that he is coughing because he has in his throat a “category 7 booger.”
10:41 PM: The Extreme Weather Lab people just spent ten minutes risking their lives to get their internet connection back up, presumably because, um, they need more weather data. The tornados that just ripped the entire city to shit aren’t enough proof for renegade meteorologists.
10:49 PM: I realized I haven’t yet mentioned Gina Gershon. She’s in this. Additionally, two people just got sucked into a tornado, making the total Sucked Into A Tornado Count for this movie around 8, which is MUCH higher than in Twister. But that movie was grounded in reality.
10:52 PM: THE TEMPERATURE IS 79.2 INSTEAD OF 80.3!!! THE WORLD IS SAVED!!!
10:53 PM: Seriously. The storm just evaporated. It’s sunny now, and the kidnapped kids who we had completely forgotten are all ok. Robert Wagner is pleased. Still don’t know what he’s doing.
10:54 PM: Oh, he’s Gina Gershon’s father/a senator. Got it. Only took me 3 hours and 56 minutes to figure this out. Randy Quaid is now drinking with/making out with Shannen Doherty. I don’t know why.10:58 PM: Commercials for Christmas movies, starting next weekend! Yay! If there’s one thing to take away from all of this, it’s that Christmas is better than made-for-TV disaster miniseries. Always.

Bushels and bushels of good news

2005-11-10T15:32:00.000-05:00

1. I think I just set up a schedule for the spring that involves no music/music business classes, leaves me room to work almost 15 hours a week, AND allows me to sleep till 1 o'clock on Tuesday and Thursday. Hopefully since I'll be a second-semester junior who's going to be taking a bunch of sophomore classes I'll get into everything I want. This is so glorious.

2. One of my lifelong dreams has just come true: I own a domain name! I share it with three other people, but it's ours. It's going to be a music blog, meaning I can raise my writing career from utter obscurity to utter obscurity with delusions of adequacy. Details coming once there's, uh, something there.

3. There's another L Magazine party next weekend! Whoo!

4. The grad student strike is hilarious. I don't really know how I feel politically about the whole thing, but I'm certainly enjoying the picket lines. There's nothing funnier than a full-blown angry strike -- complete with banging on buckets and waving signs and marching in circles -- being carried out by liberal arts post-graduates. The best part, of course, is the slogans. My favorite thus far: "If we're not workers than we're not not working!"

Brilliant! I am in such a good mood. I'm gonna go buy Christmas decorations.

Oh, and come to the Bitter End tonight at 8 pm for the Village Records showcase and I'll, um, thank you. It's going to suck, so consider this a personal favor to me. All ages. $5 and you get a free CD. Peace.

EVER so infrequently I enjoy something I do for school

2005-11-08T22:20:00.000-05:00

For Advertising & Promotion, I had to write a bio, press release and pitch letter for a band, real or fictional, about to go on their first American tour. This is my bio. If you get it, you are my friend.

DOWNTOWN SASQUATCH

BIO

Every small town neighborhood has that one garage; the one that’s never quiet, the one that sees the four scruffy-haired kids every day after school, who crank up their second hand amplifiers and out-of-tune guitars and, for the two or three hours before dinner, feel like rock stars. The garage -- littered with tossed-aside sports equipment, old bicycles, other relics of childhood -- becomes an amphitheater, filled with adoring fans, screaming along with every word; or it becomes a sweaty rock club, with devoted fanatics bobbing their heads and talking about where to find that original limited edition 12”. The garage is not a garage, and the small, middle-of-nowhere town is the center of the universe.

For the four scruffy-haired kids from suburban Toronto who make up Downtown Sasquatch, those afternoon fantasies are starting to materialize into something real, starting to coalesce into those phantasmagoric shapes that floated through the cold Canadian air and into Craig Manning’s stepfather’s garage, where old guitars and drums went from the vehicles of bright eyed high school dreaming to the foundation of something important. Downtown Sasquatch, on the eve of their first American tour, stand ready to spring from the garage and into the hearts and minds of music fans across the continent.

Made up of songwriter Craig Manning (lead vocals, guitar), bassist Marco Del Rossi, lead guitarist Jimmy Brooks and drummer Ellie Nash, none of whom are older than twenty-two, Downtown Sasquatch bring a youthful enthusiasm and optimism to their sunny variety of pop-rock. Manning’s songwriting is sophisticated for someone so young, but instantly accessible and, like everything else about the group, reverberating with realness. The group radiates authenticity; this should not be a surprise, given the long history of the group and close relationships of the members.

Manning, Brooks and Del Rossi started playing together when they were in 10^th grade. They took the usual baby steps of an adolescent band: homecoming gigs, battle of the bands, even playing live in a parking lot for the school Spirit Squad’s car wash fundraiser. Through it all, they built up the most valuable thing a band can ever have: a devoted grassroots following. Aside from a short and ill-informed attempt at playing funk at weddings (a band needs to make money somehow), they worked the indie rock circuit, playing in and around the Toronto area and perfecting their Death Cab-meets-Neutral Milk Hotel vibe. Eventually they perked up the ears of the right people, and signed to Arts & Crafts Records in 2004 and released a self-titled EP.

Now Downtown Sasquatch stands perched at the edge of their future, ready to take off into the stratosphere. As they sing their songs in a rock ‘n roll club near you, try to think of them how they started; four awkward kids with too-big instruments, trying to make something that sounds right in a drafty garage outside of Toronto. It’s a stretch to make, but if you try hard enough, you can probably manage. Every kid with a guitar dreams that he and his friends will make it big someday; it’s kids like these four that keep those dreams alive.

This is seriously the coolest thing ever.

2005-11-07T12:07:00.000-05:00

Pirates. Fuck yeah.

The vessel's passengers were gathered in a lounge for their safety, Good said. None was hurt, although a crew member was slightly injured.

"Our suspicion at this time is that the motive was theft," Good said.

Yup. That's what pirates do. It gets better though.

Fisher said the captain tried to ram one of the boats in an attempt to capsize it and stop them getting aboard.

"The captain didn't sound the usual alarm because he was worried that people would run up on the deck thinking it was a fire, and that would be the worst place to be," he said.

Ok. So. Luxury cruise liner. Off the coast of East Africa. Pirates fire rocket-powered grenades at it. The captain doesn't sound the alarm, but instead goes full speed ahead, chases the pirates and tries to RAM and CAPSIZE them with a CRUISE SHIP. I think this dude wins Badass of the Year, hands down. I can see an ad campaign in this, too: "Seabourn Cruise Lines: We Don't Take Any Shit From Pirates."

The Most Important Television Event, EVER

2005-11-07T00:30:00.000-05:00

http://www.cbs.com/specials/category7/

CATEGORY 7: THE END OF THE WORLD

In which fiery FEMA head Gina Gershon teams up with renegade metereologist Some Guy You've Never Heard of to save the world from superstorms caused by pieces of the mesosphere falling on top of cities and creating "Category 6 tornadoes" (no, they did absolutely no research before making this movie). Also, Randy Quaid (who starts the movie in a body cast and is climbing buildings roughly two days later) drives around and does what they did in Twister, and James Brolin is a televangelist who gets hit by lightning. His wife, Swoosie Kurtz, is apparently trying to create the illusion that this is all God's work to make money for her church, while she's probably screwing around with the choir director. The Great Pyramids get destroyed by tornadoes (the special effects sequence of which uses the same shot THREE times), as does Mount Rushmore, Chicago, Paris and some trailer park in Michigan.

Now some of these mesosphere droppings are going to land on top of Hurrican Eduardo and destroy Washington, DC in a "Category 7 Storm." What type of storm this is is anyone's guess, but I'm going with Hurrinado, which Nick Snow says would be a great name for a rock band.

Next Sunday at 9. CBS. If you don't watch it, you're, um, probably smarter than me.

Q: Why am I going to be alone forever?

2005-11-01T12:36:00.000-05:00

A: Because women are INSANE.

See: Maureen Dowd's piece on feminism/classicism/modernism in women from the Times Magazine this weekend.

Not like I'm a giant fan of feminism (I like girls who look like girls, thanks), but things like this...

"Today, women have gone back to hunting their quarry - in person and in cyberspace - with elaborate schemes designed to allow the deluded creatures to think they are the hunters. 'Men like hunting, and we shouldn't deprive them of their chance to do their hunting and mating rituals,' my 26-year-old friend Julie Bosman, a New York Times reporter, says. 'As my mom says, Men don't like to be chased.' Or as the Marvelettes sang, 'The hunter gets captured by the game.'"

ARGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH. I'm going to devote my life to disproving this theory that men like to be fucked with.

Of course, articles like this make me worry about something aside from the infuriating nature of the female species; they make me worry that maybe they're right. In which case, not only am I unable to understand girls, I apparently am not a man, either. I find myself all the time drifting farther and farther from the ideals of "manliness," actually pushing them away and hating myself when I think I'm being "manly." The word is repellent to me.

But, of course, women like men. And as hard as I've tried, I'm never going to be gay.

Worse, I've discovered that amongst the girls I tend to be interested in, two things are most attractive: confidence and mystery. I lack both entirely. I'm too open, too quickly attached, uninterested in gender games and have absolutely no confidence in my ability to attract members of the opposite sex.

And goddammit, Maureen Dowd, you aren't fucking helping.

PS - This past weekend was the best girl-related three-day period I've had in a year, so I don't really know what I'm bitching about. My points still stand, though.

PPS - This woman rules.

argggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh

2005-10-31T14:40:00.000-05:00

INDIE POP ROCKS JUST SEGUED FROM FOUNTAINS OF WAYNE INTO CLAP YOUR HANDS SAY YEAH OH MY GOD I AM SO ANGRY SOMEBODY HAS TO DIE RIGHT NOW

Still my favorite iTunes radio station though.

AllHits '70s is close.

I have a clone in Williamsburg

2005-10-31T14:15:00.000-05:00

This picture ran on the New Yorker's online feature about the L Train. The caption reads: "Bedford Ave. at night."

There's no way it's me, because I never go to Williamsburg. But that doesn't make it any less creepy. Not only do I own the exact same blazer, jeans, shirt and haircut, but I stand like that too. This person must be found and destroyed. Mainly because he looks too much like me, but also because he lives in Williamsburg.

Lately I remember afternoons of smoke and wine

2005-10-30T01:34:00.000-05:00

It has recently come to my attention that Jackson Browne is the greatest songwriter in the history of mankind. Oh man this phase is going to be fun.

Jackson Browne - From Silver Lake

My Internship Paper

2005-10-27T18:01:00.000-04:00

I had to write a midterm paper for my internship credit. It's a company profile of your internship company, with most of it consisting of "Trends and current issues affecting the company and the music related area." This turned into about a 1000 word treatise on the music press, and is probably completely wrong for the paper, but perfect for here. At some point I'm going to clean this up and organize my thoughts better and actually say what I've been trying to say since I've been working for a publicist, but here's what's getting grade (edited to protect my job):

Trends and Issues:

The music press is going through a time of upheaval, much as the rest of the music industry is. Mainly through advances in technology, but also due to a constantly evolving consumer base, the old means of selling and marketing music are not adequate anymore. Thankfully, while a successful publicity campaign will theoretically generate album sales, an independent publicity firm is not reliant on the sale of product to be successful. [redacted] is paid their monthly bill by their artists regardless of the number of records that are sold (of course, an artist who has success in the stores will likely remain a client of [redaceted] for a longer duration than one who does not, but the publicist is paid one way or the other). As such, piracy and filesharing is far from a crippling blow to the publicity industry.

That is not to say that the industry has been unaffected by the internet. The second word out of most peoples’ lips when talking about how technology has changed the music industry (right after “mp3s”) is “blogs.” These funny little micro-websites with witty names are one of the great postmodern topics of conversation, and certainly not limited to the music world. Internet music sites have nearly usurped print media in the fight for the minds and ears of the music-consuming public. Pitchfork Media, for example, being the frontrunner in the industry, averages 500,000 unique visitors a month, with 80,000 views a day. While certainly not yet at the level of Rolling Stone’s circulation of 12 million, online review sites are growing by the minute.

These sites pose unique challenges to the publicist. While the mainstream print magazines are corporate entities who are used to dealing with publicists and must make concessions to the mainstream tastes of American music consumers, the internet sites cost much less to publish, often times do not pay their writers (or pay them pittance if they do), and have nobody to answer to. Rather than being run from a corporate office, they are headed by twenty-something music nerds in a two room office, if that. The culture of the internet review site is much more resistant to the advances of the publicist. There is an elitism at work, as well, and a group of people who consider their taste to be beyond reproach and uninfluenceable.

[redacted]’s response to the difficulty of dealing with bloggers and internet critics is to simply ignore them. Fortunately, the internet sites tend to deal predominantly in indie rock and other underground music. While [redacted]’s roster is not exactly bursting with MTV stars, the types of clients they work with ([redacted]) are not the type that are often covered by Pitchfork. This is not to say that the company should be ignoring the internet sites, however. There are other, more specialized music blogs and sites that have devoted followings that hold great potential for [redacted]. It is impossible for any publicist at this point to disregard the internet.

The entire model of publicity needs to change. It is the big name publications that attract the most attention: Time, People, Rolling Stone, The New York Times. However, it is not these publications that are the tastemakers anymore. Bands are born and bred of the internet now. 500,000 people, the monthly readership of Pitchfork Media, is a huge number for most artists. While [redacted]’s clients sell only 15,000 records, there is a market of half a million active consumers who are not being targeted. The mainstream press has become impotent, in accordance with the stagnation of the mainstream market. People who buy top 40 pop records are finding their music on the radio and MTV, not from publications. The print media who still market themselves to the mainstream will become extinct, and the publicist who obstinately continues to cater to these publications will follow close behind. Paste Magazine, in my opinion the far-and-away finest collection of music writing in print, has a yearly circulation of 142,000 and can only afford to publish every two months. Compare this to the oft-cited (in this paper) 500,000 monthly viewers of Pitchfork Media and the direction of music criticism.

The entire music press is also staring in the face of this extinction. According to Geoffrey Hull’s The Recording Industry, 4.5% of music consumers surveyed said they purchased a CD based on a review. This is a tiny, tiny fraction. In an age where you can, for free, download and sample any song you like, the opinions of a writer mean less and less. Almost nothing. Consider, then, the place of the publicist: the person who is paid to influence the opinion of someone who is paid to influence opinion. When the writer is no longer able to influence the public, what is the point of influencing the writer?

The music press is, by nature of the environment, becoming more and more self-serving. This is by no means a bad thing; rather, it gives the writer more and more freedom to write what they want, as they want to write it. To the artist, the press may not dictate record sales, but it dictates your image, which is, in an abstract sort of way, just as important. The publicist needs to be aware of this. Who cares if the massive-circulation newsweeklies give your client a good review? Nobody reads Time for the record reviews. The publicity industry must become more aware of the altered purpose of the music press, and evolve with it, lest we become more irrelevant than Spin.

I'm gonna go turn it in now, since it was due 6 minutes ago.

In other news, Pitchfork doesn't like the new Fiery Furnaces album

2005-10-25T17:29:00.000-04:00

In a display of astonishing honesty and humility (kind of... not really) from the musical universe, Chris Martin said the following yesterday: [NME via Stereogum]

Martin claimed in a recent interview that he couldn't pick a favourite lyric of his because he didn't think they were very good.

Speaking yesterday (October 24) to Chris Evans on BBC Radio 2, Martin claimed: "One thing we're working on is our lyrics. They're about to get brilliant.

"I don't want to go on about what we're about to do but we're about to get a lot better and part of that is lyrically."

Really, I just don't even have a joke here.

Honestly. Nothing to say.

Oh, except this:

The lights go out and I can't be saved
Tides that I tried to swim against
Have brought me down upon my knees
Oh I beg, I beg and plead singing

Come out of things unsaid
Shoot an apple off my head and a
Trouble that can't be named
A tiger's waiting to be tamed singing

Yooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaare
Yoooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuu aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaare

Sweaters

2005-10-24T22:04:00.000-04:00

I bought a new sweater today.

This seems inconsequential, but it was purchased through just the most beautiful shopping experience ever. The sweater's great, first of all. It's brown (the hippest of all sweater colors) with blue, yellow, beige and red rectangles in stripes lining the top of the sleeve and in two little diagonal lines going across the front on the shoulders. It's indie as all hell, and would certainly fetch $70 or $80 at Urban Outfitters. I got it for $22 at Rags-A-Gogo, so it's used. Real vintage. The tag's even been ripped out. It fits perfectly -- really just a superlative sweater. I've been needing new sweaters since it turned cold; I only really had about three that I like, and it's getting damn cold out there. Just the fact that I found a great sweater would be enough to make me happy, but this was more than just a sweater. This was a moment, an event, a stars aligning sort of deal. This is how I bought it:

1. Walk around Union Square area on phone with parents.
2. Realize I'm supposed to be at class in fifteen minutes.
3. Run into Rags, look at sweater rack, see perfect sweater.
4. Quickly try on sweater. It fits.
5. Hand credit card to Joshua Suzanne, the greatest shopkeeper on Earth.
6. Tell her I'd shop more but I have to be at class in ten minutes.
7. Sign receipt, promise to be back soon.
8. Decide not to go to class anyway.

Finding a great sweater at a vintage store is one of the most rewarding things you can ever do. It brightened my mood for the rest of this cold, rainy night. It's ok to be cold now, because I have an awesome sweater.

God I love sweaters.

Notes while trying to figure out who the hell to root for

2005-10-23T21:18:00.000-04:00

This has got to be the dumbest World Series ever. The two teams have, combined, exactly ONE of the top 20 players this season in the Major Leagues (by Baseball Prosectus's VORP statistic), and that's Morgan Fucking Ensberg, who, as an interesting aside, is NOT Jewish. He's Norwegian. Fascinating, yes?

There are, of course, an infinite number of awesome stories, like the fact that Houston's never been in a World Series and the White Sox haven't since that one they threw a few years ago (see Field of Dreams). Furthermore, it's the year of the Little Guy (read: anyone who doesn't play in Boston or New York), like the plucky Chicago White Sox, the team who succeed through good old-fashioned fundamental baseball, like getting 67 baserunners thrown out trying to steal in the process of hitting 200 homeruns (4th most in the AL). For those of you who aren't baseball experts, home runs work better with people on base. Then there's Houston, who's team on-base percentage is .322. This is sort of like having a starting lineup of nine Ty Wiggintons, except that his slugging percentage brings his OPS up to .787, 57 points higher than Houston's, who's .730 OPS was 22nd in baseball. Pitching and defense does appear to win baseball games, but it certainly doesn't make them interesting.

Anyways, I'm rooting for Houston, because Ozzie "Raving Pyschopath" Guillen shouldn't be allowed to win anything.

A post about music, surprise surprise

2005-10-11T22:36:00.000-04:00

So I'm sitting in my room, kinda drunk, incredibly lonely and thinking about the girl that I'm falling more in love with every Tuesday and Thursday and who probably doesn't think twice about me. And it occurs to me that some people who read this may not be familiar with Tom Waits's first album. Should you find yourself in similar circumstances, this song should be rather useful. Enjoy.

Tom Waits - I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You

Since the season is now officially over...

2005-10-11T00:57:00.000-04:00

My brother finally gave me my Christmas present from last year, which is Leigh Montville's "Ted Williams: Biography of An American Hero." I'm about 200 pages in, and it's of course awesome, but I noticed one sort of interesting point.

In his day, Ted Williams (who we all know is the second best hitter of all time, right kids?) took endless crap from the Boston sports media. He was accused of being lazy, selfish, erratic in the field, interested only in his own statistics and in general unmotivated and a bad team player. This was mostly based on his pretty awful performance in the one World Series the Red Sox played in while he was on the team, in 1946, when he was probably hurt, and in which Stan Musial also hit .222. Anyway, I'm not about to give everyone a baseball history lesson, so I'll now tie this into something relevant.

The Boston sports media never learns its damn lesson. Ted Williams was butchered in the press for not swinging at pitches out of the strike zone, walking too much, refusing to try to hit singles with runners on base and waiting for a home run pitch every time he was up. This, they maintained, was costing the Red Sox runs in important situations and submarining the team. Nevermind that Ted Wililams led the American League in RBI four times and never finished lower than 5th before the Korean War. They didn't have these stats at their disposal (not like they would have paid attention if they did), but Williams also led the AL in OPS+ every year from 1941 to 1954 (except for World War II and his injury-shortened 1950 season), and never in a full season before 1959 (when he was in his 20th season, at 41 years old) finished lower than 3rd. By any rational measure he was more valuable to any team than anybody, then or since. But since he wouldn't bunt against the shift, they hated him.

From 1983 to 1991, Wade Boggs never finished lower than 5th in batting average or 6th in on-base percentage. He won 5 batting titles, led the league in runs twice (with precious little offense behind him), hits once, walks twice and OPS+ once (he was in the top 10 seven times). He was in the top ten for at bats per strikeout eleven times. But, like Ted Williams before him, the Boston media hated Wade Boggs. He was also surly and disiniterested in the press, but more than that, he too was considered a selfish player. Oddly, while Ted Williams was selfish because he only hit home runs, Wade Boggs was selfish because he didn't hit home runs. Ted wouldn't hit singles with men on base, Wade only hit singles (and doubles: he's 17th all time) with men on base. He never won an MVP, never finishing higher than 4th in the voting, coming in 9th in 1987 when he had the highest OPS in the American League (George Bell's gaudy RBI total won him the award that year. He's not in the Hall of Fame, incidentally, and aside from his 1987 season never led the league in anything). Bostonians still don't like Wade Boggs because of what the press did to him in the 80's. He was my favorite baseball player growing up.

Manny Ramirez can't play defense. He doesn't run out ground balls. He forgets to flip down his sunglasses. He talks to the guys in the scoreboard. He's goofy and anti-social and has a tough time with the press. These are things that were also true of Ted Williams. Another comparison: Ted Williams's Career OPS - 1.115. Manny Ramirez - 1.008. Ted's 2nd all time, Manny's 10th. The only righties higher on the list are Jimmie Foxx, Hank Greenberg, Rogers Hornsby, and the small-sample-sized-Albert Pujols. Manny has the most beautiful right handed swing probably ever, Ted had the most beautiful left-handed swing. Their approaches to hitting are practically identical. Wait for a pitch you can hit for a home run. Study the pitcher, know what he does, go up to the plate with a plan. Both are concerned with hitting, and only hitting. In nearly every way they're the same ballplayer, and the sports media hates Manny just like they hated Ted. Manny doesn't run out groundballs. Manny can't play the field. Manny doesn't care about the team, he's selfish and a little crazy. So was Ted Williams.

The worst part is that in each case there's always an inferior Yankee that the writers are quick to use as an unfavorable comparison. Joe DiMaggio never led the American League in OPS or on-base percentage. Ever. Ted Williams led each category 10 times. DiMaggio hit more home runs than Ted Williams twice. His career OPS ranks 14th to Williams's 2nd. But Joe wore a suit and talked to the press and smiled pretty, while Ted was prone toward making obscene gestures toward the Fenway hecklers. Don Mattingly had a better mustache than Wade Boggs. Derek Jeter runs out every groundball on his way to an .847 career OPS (Manny Ramirez's, you may recall, is 1.008. Yes, that is a very large difference). The Yankees wear suits and don't have facial hair. The Red Sox have always been, and always will be, nuts. I just wish their own writers would understand this and stop doing their best to drive our best players out of town.

Also, thank you, Angels. Thank you very very much.

Death Cab for Angels of the Night, Vol. 1: The Turning

2005-10-06T00:55:00.000-04:00

"There's no songs yet, there's nothing, but I'm dying to see what happens next. I think the next record's going to be the prog-rock record. [Laughs.] I think it's going to turn into Close To The Edge. It's going to be a whole bunch of little pieces of pop songs dropped into three tracks that are each 15 minutes long. [Laughs.] Yeah, I think it's going to be interesting. [Laughs.] Ben's been spending a lot of time with Dark Side Of The Moon—thank God for that... If we get the tiniest hint that we can crack something open and do something ridiculous, we'll totally do it. I'm pretty excited about it. I'm very encouraged by the conversations we've had so far."
-Death Cab for Cutie's Chris Walla in The Onion

I can see myself finally coming around on Death Cab.

Can we pleeeeeeeease just have a playoff?

2005-10-04T11:53:00.000-04:00

The Indians, of course, are the team for which Red Sox fans should be most grateful. If the Indians, who for months might have been the best team in the American League, had not lost their magic and six of their last seven games (five by one run), the Red Sox would not be playing in Chicago today as the wild-card team.
-Murray Chass, New York Times

Very true Murray, they wouldn't. They'd be playing the Angels as the AL East Champions, or at least would have as high a probabilityof doing so as the Yankees would. I really dislike this tiebreaker rule. Very strongly.

The Best Things in Life Are Free. The Upper East Side Is Not.

2005-10-03T20:10:00.000-04:00

At work in the music business office, I, in general, do nothing. I would estimate that I put in somewhere between fifteen to twenty minutes of actual work per five hour work period. The rest of the time, I have my standard rotation of blogs that I read. My favorite, at the moment, is Curbed. Curbed is a New York City real estate blog. This, in any other city, would be the most boring thing imaginable, but with New York real estate being as preposterous and absurd as it is, a blog about it is, in my estimation, one of the most entertaining things that can be read. Over the summer they did a series on the nine townhouses in Manhattan that recently sold for over $20 million. Most people are not fortunate enough to live in close proximity to a twenty MILLION dollar house, let alone nine of them, so I decided today to do some investigation. If Curbed is real estate porn, then I was going to go to a real estate strip club: the Upper East Side.

Not having time to record the location of all nine $20 million residences, I quickly looked at the addresses and determined that most of them were in the same six blocks: East 62nd St. to East 69th St., 5th Ave. to Madison Ave. This is one block east of Central Park, near the southern end, and consitutes the most ostentatious display of late-19th century American hubris this side of, well, anything. I love it. I had trouble actually identifying any of the $20 million nine, but only because everything else up there is so ridiculous that it's hard for anything to stand out by way of luxuriousness. This is the land of the truly monied. Even I-banker money can't touch the Mansion Mile. This is the world of old money, ANCIENT money by American standards, and represents a level of wealth more or less unimaginable to the outside world. Perhaps the sheiks of Qatar or the royal family of Monaco would be unimpressed, but to mortals, this shit is bananas.

After doing the Grand Tour, I was worn out and exhausted by close contact with affluence, and being only a block east of the park I thought a nap would be in order. There was a nice grassy area just inside the park around 70th St., so I sat down, finished reading my New York Times from this morning, and watched a group of blonde-haired, blue-eyed UES toddlers playing with each other and their almost uniformly Hispanic nannies. It's natural to assume that rich white Manhattan families would hire Hispanic nannies based on cost and willingness to work, but I remember reading somewhere that lots of uptown families insist on hiring only Hispanic nannies so their kids grow up bilingual. I can't figure out exactly what seems distasteful about this, since it seems noble enough, but it bugs me. Something about them not only exploiting the labor of these girls instead of raising your kids yourself, but also exploiting their culture. Regardless, this foray into the world of the wealthy led me to think about something that's been bothering me quite a bit, and which I believe to be a fundamental conundrum suffered by the educated members of my generation, especially those brought up on a steady diet of Fitzgerald and Salinger: how to be incredibly rich without doing anything.

I would love to be absurdly wealthy, to have a west side townhouse and send my kids to the finest private schools. Unfortunately, most of the professions that lead to such wealth (doctor, lawyer, stockbroker, university president, publicist) are distasteful to me, at best. The professions that I find more palatable (writer, musician, academic, sloth) tend to generate not quite as much in the way of monetary compensation. I've given this some thought, and have come up with three possible courses my life can take to realize my dream of being a member of the Idle Rich:

1. Rock Star. This is probably ideal. This is also the least likely, since any sort of music I'll ever play will not lead to rockstardom. Also, I don't like drugs.

2. Marry an Heiress. This I could do. I already let girls buy me drinks, so I might as well just follow this to the logical conclusion and marry up. Rich men tend to have attractive daughters, too.

3. Patronage. I'm sure I'll have rich friends. If I keep them close and gather them around me, and stay witty and interesting and a conversationalist and great pal, I'm sure they'll support me while I pursue whatever vain goals I come up with. This one seems pretty attainable.

So, to my friends who are/will most likely be rich: forget what you just read. I love you for who you are and because you're all great people. Please buy a house with a nice guest room.

Shit shit shit fucking shit

2005-10-01T19:07:00.000-04:00

The 2005 New York Yankees:

A heartwarming cinderella story about how even when it seems like everything's gone wrong, with a couple of lucky old pitchers, a plucky rookie who swings at everything and $220 million you can still win the division.

See you next month, assholes.

Yes, Literary Interpretation is the only class I care about right now

2005-09-22T17:48:00.000-04:00

Last night I wrote a two page paper on Ezra Pound's "In a Station of the Metro," which is 14 words long. It was fun. My first paper for Literary Interpretation suffered from attempting to talk about far too much, and I decided the easiest way to avoid a repeat of that is to write a paper on a two-line poem.

Words are starting to take over my life, and I'm very much enjoying it. I forgot how fun class discussions are, especially about poems, though I'm still going to have to murder half my class. The other half, however, I'm enjoying quite a bit, particularly the one girl who I think I'm on the edge of falling head over heels into unrequited intellectual love with. Ahhhh, college.

This developing love of literature is having two (and a half) other consequences.
Consequence one: I'm reading newspapers. Bought my first ever (sorry, world) New York Times this Monday. Good paper, that.
Consequence one and a half: I'm getting addicted to coffee. If I'm going to be sitting in a cubicle reading the Times, I might as well have a cup of coffee.
Consequence two: Existential crisis. I swear, if I had ANY idea what else I would do with myself, I would do it. I read a passage in one of my textbooks for Village Records about the music press. It was in the chapter "The Recording Industry and Other Media," the print media section of which takes up two pages in which the author explains why the music press really doesn't matter at all. Only 4.5 percent of music consumers find music from reviews. This means that being a music journalist is basically meaningless... so what does that make someone who's job it is to influence music journalists? Matt Stupp's godfather, who works for CBS, wants me to go to a press club seminar with him Tuesday. This would be great, but would necessistate changing my Village Records group meeting... that's the, uh, publicity group... I don't know what I think of myself as a journalist, though. Doesn't pay very well... but I could do it in Texas!

CMJ/I Don't Like Music Anymore

2005-09-18T15:01:00.000-04:00

CMJ is a magazine, but nobody read it anymore. Nontheless, once a year they create an excuse for record labels to pay inordinate amounts of money to ship college radio program directors out to New York, keep them drunk and presumably introduce them to hot new bands that should be played on college radio that nobody listens to.

This is called the CMJ Music Marathon, and there are these shiny pieces of plastic that get you into pretty much every single show in the city for four days. These are called CMJ Badges and are the most coveted items in New York for a week every early fall. The Music Business Office, in a rare fit of usefulness, produced 100 of these for general distribution. So here, in easy-to-read capsule form, are recaps of my four nights of CMJ.

Night 1: Knitting Factory
Cherry Tree Records Showcase: Flipsyde, The Lovemakers, Feist
Flipsyde were this weird DJ/MC/Acoustic Guitar/Electric Guitar combo that treads the apparently thin line between House of Pain and Faith No More. In general it was painful and embarassing, but on their last song the Cheech/Chong-looking lead guitarist played a solo that can really only be described as "bitchin'."
The Lovemakers were a standard dance-rock band, leaning in the more aggressive direction, who were made awesome by three things that every dance-rock band should have:
1. A violin (not sure about this one)
2. A middle-aged synth player who looked like Jack Bristow from Alias/the law professor from Legally Blonde
3. A really, really, REALLY hot lead singer
Feist would be better if she sang, instead of doing her crazy pitch-shifting warble, but Mike informs me that that's how all Canadians sing. Anyways, she did a cool cover of a Ron Sexsmith song.

Night 2: Webster Hall/Irving Plaza
Lady Sovereign, Blackalicious/Devotchka, Regina Spektor
A night of contrasts. It occurred to me that Lady Sovereign is probably the ideal woman for me: petite, brunette, British, spits rapid-fire battle rhymes over brutal grime beats. Oi! She only did a half-hour set, but she's awesome. Gift of Gab raps really fast. It sort of gets boring, and he's better with other people, such as in the Quannum collective. He brought backup singers and an indie-looking white keyboard player. Chief Xcel was turned up REALLY GODDAM LOUD, but I think his beats are good, and he can do the cool rap scratchy thing.
Devotchka, for the unitiated, are gypsies. They play gypsy music -- not gypsy punk like Gogol Bordelo, just gypsy music -- and they are awesome. They were much better in the context of Irving Plaza than for free at the Seaport, and the lead singer drank a bottle of red wine while playing. He also plays theremin, which works surprisingly well in the context of gypsy music. Also, they have a hot tuba player (not as hot as the tuba player from Architecture in Helsinki, but still probably a top 3 tuba player on the hotness scale, for what it's worth.
Regina Spektor made me almost forget that I'd been standing up for like 5 hours and had an unberable splitting pain in my lower back. She's that good.

Day 3: Mercury Lounge
James Hall (who ISN'T Little Barrie)
Little Barrie, in their continuing quest to NOT EVER BE SUCCESSFUL IN THE US didn't show up for CMJ, despite being listed in the book and not being mentioned in the corrections sheet. My guess is they failed once again at getting into the US. Their replacement was named James Hall. James Hall, according to AllMusic.com, is the very successful leader of the Praise & Worship choir. This was not that James Hall. This James Hall thought the best vehicle for his very obvious protest songs was three electric guitars and nothing else. It was a bad idea. This was discouraging enough that I left, went to Blaire's hotel room, took a nap, eventually drank a lot and didn't go to any more CMJ shows for the rest of the weekend. Damn you James Hall

I WROTE A PAPER! YAAAAY

2005-09-12T16:57:00.000-04:00

Since I'm not a bright-eyed and apple cheeked first semester English minor, I have to do things like write papers sometimes. Since this is the first literary essay I've written since Writing the Essay Deux: Timothy Johns, I've decided I'll share it with you all. Since all I've been writing all summer is blog entries, it was hard to not be snarky at all towards W.H. Auden (besides, he didn't even like this poem himself), but it's mostly just an analysis of his diction and tone and other literary terms I'm supposed to know. Enjoy!

[formatting to be better when I'm using a computer with a browser less lame than Safari]

From the Edge of Armageddon, or, The First Day of School: “September 1, 1939”

The speaker of W.H. Auden’s “September 1, 1939” wastes very little time in establishing a dire tone: “I sit in one of the dives/On Fifty-Second Street/Uncertain and alone” (1-3) is the formal introduction he gives the reader, and things spiral downwards from there. Auden, writing this poem on the brink of global catastrophe, infuses his speaker with an apocalyptic sense, and his diction and voice maintain a mood of overwhelming catastrophe throughout roughly two-thirds of the poem.
The language is by turns weary, outraged, resigned, dramatic, hopeless and defiant, moving along a general curve from despair to, at the very end, a flicker of hope. Early in the poem, phrases like “the unmentionable odour of death” (10), “darkened lands of the earth” (7) and “waves of anger and fear” (6) stand out. Auden does not make any attempts at subtlety, establishing right away that this is not a happy poem. The second stanza takes a turn from the sensational to the more academic, with psychological phrases like “what huge imago made” (17) and historical references to Luther (14) and Linz (16), which Auden distills to his very simple point: “Those to whom evil is done/Do evil in return.” (21-22) Auden brings up “accurate scholarship” (13) essentially so he can disdain it. His stanza is ostensibly about Hitler, and refers to how the crimes of Western society would inevitably produce a monster like Hitler, “as all schoolchildren learn” (20).

At this point, Auden devotes the next several stanzas to a point-by-point analysis of, briefly, everything wrong with society. He cites Thucydides’s analysis of dictators (“the elderly rubbish they talk” (27)), serving in a way the same purpose as the previous stanza’s reference to schoolchildren: that being that these truths he is speaking are universal and ancient, making it all the more discouraging that “we must suffer them all again” (33). Auden’s language remains both angry and resigned, with “elderly rubbish” (27) coming right before “an apathetic grave” (28). The next stanza takes on the so-called “strength of Collective Man,” (37) which it can be inferred the speaker does not believe in. The capitalization of “Collective Man” implies a sort of forced formality, setting the phrase aside from the speaker’s own words, and making it seem like the speaker is using the phrase ironically. This is furthered by his belief that Collective Man constructed “blind skyscrapers” (35) along with “vain competitive excuses” (38-39), and he wonders, “who can live for long/In an euphoric dream” (41). The last two lines of the stanza pull the speaker’s accusations out of the abstract and into the very concrete, somewhat jarringly: “Imperialism’s face/And the international wrong” (43-44). This is another example of Auden using a specific reference to the time period, as he did before by directly addressing Hitler (the “Linz” reference) and a 52nd St. dive. While he meanders into grand, generalized statements, he always pulls everything back into the present, and in case the reader was to forget, he even names the poem “September 1, 1939.”

Having soundly dispatched imperialism and international discord, Auden’s speaker does not let the common man off the hook, devoting a stanza to “Faces along the bar” (45) and their stubborn refusal to see the world as it is. The bar is, to them, an outpost of comfort, where “the lights must never go out,/The music must always play” (48-49), and they try “to make this fort assume/The furniture of home” (50-51) to avoid seeing how sad their lives actually are. The speaker goes on to say that the blatant warmongering of “Important Persons” (57) (again using capitalization to make a point) is not nearly so destructive as the indifference and selfishness of the human heart, who wants “not universal love/But to be loved alone” (66). The speaker has very little regard for the “Collective Man,” using very dehumanizing language to speak of him: he previously used “Faces along a bar,” and now “The dense commuters,” and in case the reader is unclear, he again ends the stanza quite obviously, asking “Who can reach the deaf,/Who can speak for the dumb?” (76-77).

Why, the speaker can, of course! As can anyone, since he lacks any special powers: “All I have is a voice/To undo the folded lie” (78-79) he begins. The poem at this point goes through a transition: up to here, it has been wrought with unpleasantness, and essentially lacking in anything hopeful. For the final two stanzas, the speaker, who has served as nothing but a societal naysayer, offers up his proposed solution to the global problem of the apathy of the human spirit, and its symptoms of war and tyranny: “we must love one another or die” (88) (a footnote points out that Auden himself believed this line to be a “damned lie,” but we will read the poem as it stands). His diction becomes, rather literally, brighter, exchanging references to “darkened lands” for “points of light” (93), “elderly rubbish” for the messages of the Just being “flashed out” (93). The final image the speaker leaves us is of himself, who like the indifferent masses is composed of “Eros and of dust” (96), standing up in the face of “negation and despair” (98) and leaving an “affirming flame” (100), one small message of hope and triumph in a world that certainly seemed poised to grind itself into oblivion. The poem has progressed structurally from being a dirge for the world, to an angry, confused and frustrated lament, and finally to a plea for hope and empathy – “an affirming flame.”

COLLEGE WHOOOOO

2005-09-07T21:19:00.000-04:00

so it's totally school time again. whoo! another sweetass year with my sexxxxxy bitchez!

there's a lot of new freshmen, and for the first time, they're TOTALLY recognizable, probably because at two years younger than me, they're completely infantile. and beautiful, for the most part, having not yet been new york-kinda-uglied. during orientation, we were wondering if maybe these new freshmen are much cooler than we were as freshmen. this is not the case, and i believe the reason it appeared that way is that what was new york cool two years ago has finally made it to the suburbs, while new york has struggled to spit out a new breed of hip. as such, they look like us, mostly. lots of killers and franz ferdinand shirts, as has been noted, which i imagine is equivalent to the film students who really liked coldplay when i was a freshman. they'll all be listening to clap your hands say yeah by thanksgiving.

speaking of thanksgiving, the weather has started to turn. have you noticed? it's at that really annoying phase where it's still hot as hell during the day, but drop 30 degrees at night, so you wake up freezing and decide to wear a coat, which you end up carrying around all day because it's too warm to wear it. damn the northeast. it'll be freezing in no time, though i'm actually sort of looking forward to my house in the winter. i expect it to be nice and cozy, though it's going to cost $400 a month to heat the damn thing. i'm on the lookout for new exciting ways to incorporate alcohol into warm beverages.

i'm taking an english class this semester. i can tell it was a mistake. one class period and i already hate everyone, more or less. the one attractive girl in the class happens to be supremely annoying, and in GSP no less. like everyone else. i was expecting freshman english majors. instead i get a room full of GSP sophomores. there's this really belligerently gay kid in the class, which is cool, who has something to say about everything, and is always wrong, which is not cool. furthermore, as new short-term roommate sam pip pointed out as i was ranting about this kid during music history, he's getting his $160,000 worth in vocabulary. for example, as a breaking-the-ice in-class exercize we analyzed a John Lennon poem. the teacher (who is unfortunately appearanced by cool as shit) asked us the very existential-literary question (i should get used to these... vomit) of "what makes this a poem?" genius-boy (who must remain nameless because of the dangers of google's grasp of the blogosphere, which is sad because his name is incredible) says, "well, i understand this isn't orthodox of all poems, but it has a rhyme scheme." ORTHODOX? first of all, DOESN'T MAKE ANY GODDAM SENSE. secondly, a non-pretentious-thinks-he's-smart-GSP-douchebag would have said "it rhymes, though not all poems do." this class is going to provide great fodder for my belief that i'm smarter than, um, everyone. it's funny, because around my friends i generally feel like an idiot. class, fortunately, restores my faith in myself, and destroys my faith in my peers. which is how i like it. hooray school!

maker's mark + brooklyn lager + the end of summer = this entry which i will never allow myself to read

2005-09-05T02:00:00.000-04:00

it's the beginning of the summer and i'm standing in the lobby of a thousand-story grand hotel, where a bank of elevators a mile long and an endless red row of monkey attendants in gold braid wait to carry me up, up, up through the the suites of moguls, of spies, and of starlets, to rush me straight to the zeppelin mooring at the art deco summit, where they keep the dirigible of august tied up and bobbing in the high win. on the way to the shining needle at the op i will wear a lot of neckties, i will buy five or six works of genius on 45 rpm, and perhaps too many times i will find myself looking at the snapped spine of a lemon wedge at the bottom of a drink. i anticipate a coming season of dilated time and of women in all disarray.
-michael chabon

i start my junior year of college in roughly 36 hours. i have spent the last four months in the grips of an elyssian new york summer. this summer has been, mostly, completely unexplainable to anyone who hasn't been here. it's been the least free summer of my life. i've worked 45 hours a week, struggled to pay rent, bills, food costs and transportation. i've been sweat-soaked, living in barely hospitable condidtions 45 minutes from anything that matters, two months without windows, next door to Indian families with retarded children who stand in the backyard and scream at 7:30 every morning, spending two hours a day on the subway, alternately boiling in unventilated subway stations and freezing on over-air-conditioned subway cars, surrounded by hot garbage, overcrowded, cramped against other sweaty new yorkers, suffocating, rarely fully fed and desperately lonely. i've also probably never felt more purely, animalistically, humanistically, creatively, and in most important ways alive. i've stood on the 2nd avenue F train platform at 3 am in 120 degree heat waiting for the train. i've walked from brooklyn to manhattan to catch a train back to brooklyn. i've met people from my youth who i never knew before. mostly, i've melted. summer in new york is hot. really, really hot, especially when you can't afford air conditioning. i've also drank, a lot, and smoked more cigarettes than i may smoke in the rest of my life. i threw one party, at which three people almost died and the last person didn't go home until 5:30 am. i've probably heard more new music than i did in the last three years, and read a dozen books, which is about 10 more than in any summer since i was 15. there's been a sort of nyu-summer club formed, and i feel like the bond we formed by suffering through heat, humidity, intoxication, boredom, loneliness, and occasional euphoria together is probably the deepest bond of companionship and friendship that can be formed. it's been, rather literally, forged, in fire, heat, alcohol and nicotine. everyone's coming back now, and it's nice to see everyone again, but they aren't on the same level as those of us who suffered, together, through our first new york summer. it's been busy, exhausting, tiring, uhealthy, and inexplicably important. i'm consumed by the strongest feeling of depression i think i've ever felt at the end of summer, and this summer was, ostensibly the least overtly enjoyable summer i've ever had.

what's strangest is that i hardly even did anything, given the opporunities presented by new york. all i'll remember from this summer is sitting in my old backyard with my roommate, drinking magner's, smoking camels and talking about god knows what, or standing on rooftops in the east village, drinking red wine and complaining about trendy people across the street. the epic nights won't matter so much as intoxicated conversations on the subway, existential conversations on the roof and resigned, yet content conversations in our tiny, weed infested and half-concrete backyard in south park slope. i remember being 10 years old, when summer meant zero responsiblity, homework or commitments, and meant nothing but baseball, video games, and sleep. i miss that desperately, especially since i was never able to appreciate it at the time, but this summer, this summer of work and responsibility, feels somehow more mythical, more legendary and more epic than the rest combined. i'm terrified of my future, terrified of ending up trapped on a path i want nothing to do about, but while my days have been, all at once, rewarding and depressing, frightening and enlightening, my nights of heat and madness have been the most perfect things i can imagine. to those of you who haven't yet a spent a summer here, i can't in any way convey what it means. to those of you who were here with me for mine, there's nothing i can say that will say anything you don't already know and feel.

to another semester of debauchery and insanity.

I fell in love again. All things go, all things go.

2005-08-22T03:42:00.000-04:00

Tonight I saw Sufjan Stevens and the Illinoisemakers at night three of their Bowery Ballroom Spirit Week and Pep Rally. It was Pirate Night. Yes, it was some of the most gorgeously perfect music I've ever heard, and yes, his backup singers are really really indie-hot, and yes, it's awesome that they wear cheerleading outfits, but I'm not really going to talk about the concert because lots of others have already, much better than I could. I have something more important to say on the issue.

That being, I think Sufjan Stevens may be the single most important musician in the country right now. The primary reason, as I've discussed with some of you already, is that he sounds like nothing else. Unlike, oh, everyone else, when you listen to Illinois, you don't hear seven other bands. You don't hear ANY other bands. He just sounds like himself. In today's musical climate, this is not only admirable, it's absolutely astonishing. Oh, sure, you can concoct some sort of cocktail to describe Sufjan, like, "Woodie Guthrie and Philip Glass filtered through Brian Wilson mixed with Jerome Kern," but, God, why bother? He's the only unique thing that I, at least, have heard in, um, years. The fact that his music is beautiful beyond all human reason helps, but even if it was awful, the fact that it's utterly unique would give it a free pass.

Even more importantly, it lacks affectation. It's sincere music. Yes, he has a goofy streak roughly as wide as, um, Michigan, but it's actually legitimate fun, not irony, that serves to balance out the drama, cutting it off before reaching the point of melodrama. He's informed, obviously, by a huge slab of Americana, and not the NPR interpretation of Americana. There's an adoration of America, in the Charles Ives sense, a chopping up of everything, resorting, rearranging and reassembling into an unrecognizable but distinctly American final product. There's still a questioning and a criticizing, but still a streak of deep, deep appreciation. Just listen to the last two minutes of "The Tallest Man, the Broadest Shoulders," and short of Peter Gammons's Hall of Fame exceptance speech, I haven't heard anything a perfectly American, the way it is and should be, probably ever.

Sufjan Stevens has been embraced and accepted by the indie community, somehow, probably because somebody told them to, but he's managed to stay clear of any of the expectations or cliches of it. He's part of what makes me not want to stay in New York. New York could never have produceed Sufjan Stevens. He's completely immune to our standards of coolness: he wears baseball hats, brings a bright yellow Baldwin grand piano on tour with him, and lives in Queens. His live show is, in just about every way I can think of, the most beautiful thing I've seen in New York.

Taking drinking to the highest level of sophistication yet

2005-08-20T14:46:00.000-04:00

Last night, Nick (finally) took me to Milk & Honey. Milk & Honey is a self-proclaimed "speakeasy." It's not, really, because they have a liquor license (which they do a good job of hiding, but it's still there), but it captures the spirit just about right. The place has been around for five years now, having been born on New Year's Day, 2000, and has been written about in every New York culture/society/gossip blog, so feel free to stop reading now. Anyways.

It is, despite being oh-so-aware of this fact, the greatest bar in the universe. Here's why.

1. The Rules. I don't want to post the entire sheet here and give away the fun, but #1 is "No name-dropping, no starf*cking." The rest pertain to gentlemen not approaching ladies, no fighting or general bar shenanigans, and rules to maintain the speakeasyitude of the joint, such as never ever lingering around the front door. It rules.

2. The Process. This is what you have to do to go to Milk & Honey:
a. Get the secret phone number. It's hardly that secret anymore, but you still need to get it from somebody.
b. Call the secret phone number. Make a reservation. Last night, being a Friday, we called around 10, they were full, called back at 11, got the on the wait list, got in around 1-ish, I guess.
c. Go to the unlabled door. It's just a door in Chinatown. Look closely, however, and see the camera at the top. They buzz you in.
d. Walk through the dark scary hallway to the bar.

3. The decor. Dark. Really dark. But not dingy, just atmospherically lit. Tin on the walls, gorgeous stainless steel bartop, leather booths. Jazz playing quietly in the background.

4. The staff. Last night they were both imported from Italy. Vincenzo, the maitre d', waiter and barback. Wears a dress shirt, tie, suspenders and sleeve garters. Super nice guy, too. Bartender, Laura. Extremely attractive, wearing a dress.

5. The drinks. Good god the drinks. You just sort of describe the general flavors you're going for, pick an alcohol or a (fresh) juice, if you like, and they prepare for you the most astonishing concoction that will ever get you drunk. Mine was something with rum, honey, ginger and some juice... I don't even know, but god was it good. Their Gin Fizz, made with real egg whites, is to die for. And they even made a killer Manhattan. I don't really think there's anything they could make that wouldn't be the best thing you've ever drank. And they have giant ice cubes, which melt a lot more slowly.

Becauase the place is trendy to the extreme, there's a lot of morons in there, but the rules restricts their stupid conversation to the people in their own booth (and me and Nick, being awesome, just sat at the bar and talked to Laura and Vincenzo). And there's never more than about twenty people allowed in at once, so it never gets too annoying. They get an A.

Pop Culture Confessions Part II

2005-08-16T13:47:00.000-04:00

I've always considered myself something of a pop culture scholar/connoisseur. While I would still never, ever, ever challenge Joe Gallucci to a game of Trivial Pursuit DVD Pop Culture Edition, I feel I have the ability to appreciate the lowest of cultures for what it is, and evaluate it on its merits.

This, of course, is simply rationalization for watching terrible television.

While I fought off the lure of "The O.C." for about a season and a half, I managed to avoid its (vastly superior) lovechild, "Laguna Beach," for, um, no time at all, having watched since the very first episode (I'd justify this by pointing out that it was on after "The Real World," but I don't want to dig myself too deep a hole). While I came slightly late to the second season, the twin miracles of reruns and TiVo have allowed to get firmly caught up on the escapades of Kristin, LC, Jessica, Talan, Jason and the rest of the blonde, rich supercast.

I think "Laguna Beach" is brilliant. Let me start with that and get it on the table: this show is amazing. I don't know why, exactly, just like I couldn't really come up with a reason I liked "The O.C." enough to watch seven episodes in a row (though I blame that partly on a bottle of Stolichnaya). But, while watching the most recent episode, in which Kristin hooks up with Talan who has a heart-to-heart with Taylor and Jason continues to be a general inarticulate douchebah, I brainstormed a few reasons that would cause me to watch every episode of this season at least twice. Here's my tentative list:

1. There's a great sense of accomplishment in being able to tell all the characters apart. Here's how I've worked it out: Talan has short hair and no beard, and is the only character capable of completing sentences. Jason has a terrible beard and stupid haircut and speaks in slightly varied grunts. Taylor has a squashed nose and usually pinned up bangs. Morgan is fat. Morgan S. is basically only a house. Jessica's eyes are too far apart (though she's still way cuter than Taylor, Jason you fucking idiot). Kristin's the prettiest one. LC is the other prettiest one. Alex is kind of fat, but is basically the brunette one who isn't fat. Lo is REALLY fat, all of a sudden, but she's in college now (right?) and isn't on so much. Stephen is Stephen, everyone knows that. Cedric is always with Jason, and despite being on three episodes in a row is still labled every time he's on screen. Nobody else matters.

2. The whole real/not-real paradigm. This show would be the most incredible piece of voyeurism ever (Discovery-channel style telephoto cameras EVERYWHERE) were it not so obviously staged. It doesn't matter, of course, since it's not like these kids' lives are real anyway, but the so-fake-it's-real element is endlessly entertaining. I spent the whole first season trying to figure out if it was completely fake or not. The second season, despite being clearly more staged, almost feels realer. That tells you something about Southern Californian teenagers.

3. Despite the above, I'm legitimately interested in these kids' lives. I think it's because they're also American high school students, like I was only two years ago, but are SO ENTIRELY different from me. According to friends from the West coast, that's really what high school is like out there. Where I went to high school, the whole popular-social dynamic was very different. The cool girls were basically the same, albeit slightly poorer and with fake Chanel bags instead of real, and only a few people drove Range Rovers, but the popular male set was nearly the opposite of the LB kids. The attractive, rich, trendy girls in my high school hung out with the buzz-cut, football team, wear-work-boots-to-school, listen-to-Ja Rule gym rats who smoked a lot of pot. I never understood it, really, and I'm not sure if that's how every northeastern high school is, or if Oliver Ames was just really weird like that. It seems that if Stephen was the model for popularity in my high school, I would have had a better shot at being popular, seeing how I shopped nowhere but Pacific Sunwear for about three years of my life. I suppose it's geographical differences: surfing is cool in Southern California, football is cool in Massachusetts (although our football team always sucked beyond imagination). I dunno. I'm sure that being in marching band would have been a hinderance to my popularity level, as would liking girls who use the word "like" less than seven times per sentence, but I do wonder how high school would have been different for me had I lived in Orange County... and been really rich.

In the meantime, I'll live vicariously through MTV.

Contractual obligation update

2005-08-14T11:07:00.000-04:00

Because apparently blog-reading is the sole source of entertainment when TNT isn't showing awful movie marathons (you know who you are), I guess I'll write something. At any rate, it's about fourteen thousand degrees in my house and I'm in no position to anything more active than type (and my fingers keep slipping off the keys).

Heat like this causes all sorts of weird, unpleasant things to happen. Take our couch, for example. Heat indices of 103 lead to a lot of couch-sitting, especially given that our couch is on the first floor (read: only the third or fourth layer of hell). After not moving from a single spot on the couch for two or three hours, it's entirely possible to sweat through your clothes, into the couch, and most likely out the other side. I've not yet checked our walls and floor for sweat stains, but I wouldn't be entirely surprised to discover some. Yesterday, both as a result of heat and the previous night's festivities, I slept for something like 13.5 hours, mostly during the day. If you tack on my actual sleep last night, the total ends up somewhere around 23 hours of sleep with breaks of consciousness totalling something like three or four hours. In those three or so hours, however, I managed to drink two pitchers of water, one pitcher of lemonade, a glass of Tropical Punch, a glass of Orange Pineapple juice, and 32 ounces of Gatorade eXtremo. I'm pretty sure I also managed to sweat it all out in real time, getting no actual gain in hydration.

The National Weather Service is promising severe thunderstorm this evening. They've promised similar severe thunderstorms the last two nights, with nothing to show for it except a half hour rain delay in last night's Red Sox game, which, being in Boston, brought no relief to Beverley Rd. Of course, even tonight's thunderstorms are only going to bring the overnight temperature down to 77, which while being an improvement on 86 is still not exactly comfortable sleeping weather, even when I put my fan on my bed six inches from my face.

There's a beach volleyball tournament at Coney Island today. I haven't left my house in 36 hours, and the beach is the only place where you can actually appreciate gloriously hot weather like this. Also, beach volleyball is cool, and I've gone long enough without female interraction that I can see the appeal in watching bikinied women jump up and down. So, Coney Island it is.

The Book of Beverley Rd., Chapter 1, Lines 1 - 35

2005-08-03T20:12:00.000-04:00

And on the first day, the Lord said, "Let there be cable," and yea, digital cable came into being, with its multitudes of Nickelodeon GAS, the Food Network and the History Channel, and the people did smile and sing songs of praise to the Lord. But on the second day the people were sad, because sometimes they were in the fields, reaping and sowing and doing other Biblical things, and whilst they were so disposed Laguna Beach was on, and they missed it and never found out if Stephen laid down with the blonde maiden or the other blonde maiden, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And the Lord took pity upon the poor people and said, "Let there be DVR, so that all my people can watch the highest quality digital cable programming when they want to, and not be enslaved by the brutal scheduling of the networks," and the Lord did lead his people from corporate media slavery into the promised land of DVR, and they did sacrifice many lambs on the highest peaks and sing more songs of praise to the Lord, because he was so great. But on the third day the people were again sad, and they appealed to the Lord, saying, "Oh great God, we are so humble and thankful for the great gifts that you have given to us, but we grow weary with only television programming. We wish for a way to access all the information in the world with a simple device from the comfort of our own huts, and also to check sports scores and stock quotes. Canst thou cause something to be that will satisfy our great thirst for knowledge, and porn?" And the Lord did raise his arms and the Earth did shake, and He said in his mighty voice, "Of course there is, I'm God, aren't I?" and then he remembered that he was an anachronism and did loudly declare, "Let there be high speed internet!" And yea, the cable modem did come into being, and the people did rejoice and sacrificed a mighty bull on a high altar, and the Lord was so pleased with their sacrifice that as a bonus, he also created Wikipedia and media blogs, and spake, "Now, never shalt thou suffer through a boring day at the office and actually need to do work. Thou shalt waste all thine time with Gawker Media and Stereogum, and avoid all productivity, but be enlightened with knowledge of Kelly Clarkson and Tom Cruise." And the people were glad, and smiled and sang and danced and feasted. But on the fourth day, the bills came, and the people again wailed and gnashed their teeth and called upon the Lord for his great mercy and wisdom. And God said, "Let there be Cablevision, and let all these great developments be packaged together for the low price of $104.35 a month!" And the people were glad, and split their bills four ways with their roommates, and feasted once again, because the Indian place down the street was super cheap and open 24 hours. Then the people did drink heartily of the Lord's wine, cheap beer and vodka, and they did sleep for many an hour, and never left their huts again.

On the fifth day, the Lord threw in digital phone service, but the people didn't give a shit because all the 718 numbers were taken.

A completely unrelated observation

2005-08-01T12:57:00.000-04:00

While browsing Billboard Magazine at work today, I have discovered the following factoid:

There is a rap group called "Boyz N Da Hood" who released an album called "Boyz N Da Hood," the first single of which is called "Dem Boyz." Self-titled album with a first single that has almost the same name, all deriving from either a John Singleton film or an NWA song. Hip hop may have reached creative lows, and I haven't even heard the song.

I live in a house

2005-08-01T12:02:00.000-04:00

So. A month of brokers, phone calls, emails, fighting with parents about money, feeling unimaginably poor, hating friends who aren't unimaginably poor, fearing homelessness, expecting homelessness, anxiety, waiting, panicking, thinking about nothing but apartments, having nightmares about apartments, talking about nothing but apartments, hating New York City and being in a generally bad mood is swept away by the following 22 words: four bedrooms, two bathrooms, living room, dining room, eat-in kitchen and thirty windows on the corner of Beverley Rd. and Westminster Rd.

The new place is gorgeous, the neighbors (who we know because they actually come over and introduce themselves in Beverley Square) are friendly and cool and are all artists or musicians, the subway's convenient and quick and the neighborhood is architecturally stunning.

I'd like to deeply thank everyone who helped us move and visited us yesterday (Blaire, Nick, Sarah, Jo) for not only making the process infinitely easier but also making the new place kind of feel like home. Please come back. And everyone else needs to visit, immediately. It's totally worth it, trust me.

Tonight: IKEA. Bed. Bring it on.

Guns, beer and naked women

2005-07-22T02:10:00.000-04:00

Since my brother's getting married in two days, today was the proverbial "bachelor party" day, which is, of course, the most masculine thing in the universe.

We started with paintball. Whatever, grown men with fake guns, it's still sort of fun. And our referee girl was possibly the most attractive female I've seen since returning to the suburbs. I'm sort of afraid of girls who play paintball often enough to get a job at a paintball field, and she was probably about 17, but neither of those things detracted from her all-encompasing hotness. It's sort of hard to impress a girl when you're covered in bruises and paint, though.

Tonight we went to the Foxy Lady, which is, believe it or not, a strip club. They accepted my ID with no questions, probably because I was paying $15 to get in, and then, uh, there were naked chicks. The entire concept of a strip club is fascinating to me. Yes, they're taking their clothes off for money, but at the same time, you're paying them money (and a lot of it) to do nothing more than take their clothes off. It's mutual exploitation. This place is what they call in the stripping community "classy," which means there's no cigarette butts or puke on the floor and there's lots of dark wood, brass trim and couches. They avoid the Vegas-type glitz by having several smallish rooms and stages instead of one big section. The music in unobtrusive, and the girls are encouraged to talk to you and flirt and walk around and let sketchy men buy them drinks and get drunk. And for an extra $5 cover you get to go to the "Solid Gold VIP" room where they dance on the bar and get completely naked. There's so much blatant nudity that the entire experience is completely desexualized, even when your brother buys you a lap dance. She was very nice, and very good at, um, lap dancing, but it still gets boring. It's not even the "not-being-allowed-to-touch-them" thing, it's just, somehow, despite a naked girl being all over you, a completely asexual thing. It was therapeutic at best, and I'm sure glad that I wasn't the one paying $30 for it. Also, strippers smell like incense. I think it's really heavy cheap perfume. I can still smell it and I don't like it.

In conclusion, I wasn't as miserable at the strip club as I thought I would be, but instead ended up just being very, very confused.

The end.

To catch all of you up

2005-07-19T11:24:00.000-04:00

I'm in Easton. My friends remain as flaky and unreliable as ever, but it's still sort of nice to be here. It was made nicer by the fact that my mom bought the new Harry Potter book. I read it last night. All 650 pages of it. Right now I'm sort of in the middle of the post-Harry Potter depression, where you realize that there's no Harry Potter books you haven't read and won't be for like eight hundred more years because such glitteringly perfect brilliance takes time. I get, legitimately, physically depressed when I finish these books. I didn't start reading the series until the first four had already been written, and could take solace each time I finished one in the fact that there were more that I hadn't yet read. The day I finished the fourth one, I went back to bed and didn't get up all day. I was miserable after the 5th one (since it has a depressing ending anyway), and, were it not 3:30 in the morning when I finished this one I might have just slit my wrists. She better hurry up with the 7th one, although I worry that when I finish that one and not only is there no Harry Potter book to read right then, there will never be another Harry Potter book, I may just go back to bed for the rest of my life.

Anyways, this post-Potterian depression is somewhat lessened by the fact that WE GOT THE APARTMENT! WHOOOO! Any of you who've had any sort of contact with me over the past month know how much of a better mood this will put me in. We sign the lease around the 27th, or whenever Byron gets to New York, and move on the 1st. This is, really, the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.

Once we actually move and I believe in it completely, I'll write a nice apartment-hunting manifesto. In the meantime, go read Harry Potter. If you've never read any of them, you are so lucky, because you have 6 to read. Though you may not want to finish them alone. Make sure you're in a safe place away from sharp objects.

Contrarily, a list of things that I DO hate right now

2005-07-09T19:09:00.000-04:00

-Real estate
-Realtors
-The New York City real estate market
-Money
-The fact that I don't have nearly enough money
-Doing things other than nothing
-A decent portion of Washington, DC
-The fact that Tim Wakefield pitches EVERY SINGLE TIME I SEE THE RED SOX

Aside from the gnawing feeling that I'm going to end up homeless, though, I'm not in that bad of a mood. The weather's just way too nice today and I'm going to Camden Yards tomorrow.

Born down in a dead man's town

2005-07-05T16:31:00.000-04:00

This weekend, I went to New Jersey. I then did the following things, and hated none of them:
-Went to Ocean City
-Drank Coors Light
-Met Blaire's New Jersey friends who go to southern schools and wear cargo shorts
-Went to Philadelphia
-Saw the Portland Sea Dogs lose to the Trenton Thunder
-Watched fireworks in Trenton (and giggled gleefully at the irony-free usages of "Little Pink Houses," "Born in the USA" and Neil Diamond's "America" for the soundtrack)
-Watched Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle
-Did not come back to New York until the last possible moment

How weird is that? Also, I think we're going to stay in Brooklyn. It has nothing to do with image, morality, class or connotation. It's just cheaper. For the price of the only things I could afford in the East Village (which would probably be glorified coffins) I can get, godwilling, a duplex with a garden and stainless steel kitchen in Red Hook.

I am hereby breaking the great code of Brooklynites, who have taken it upon themselves to defend the glory of Brooklyn and insist upon it's superiority over Manhattan in all regards when I make a simple, truthful, uninfluenced statement: it's cheaper and bigger. And yes, there's something to be said for that.

And you know, it really doesn't matter. I just can't afford Manhattan. At all. Anyways, party at our place, August... let's say 3rd.

I really wish I wasn't poor

2005-07-01T02:26:00.000-04:00

I realize my last entry was also bitching about the subway, but I promise this one will be short and effective, and god am I angry and need to vent.

So, upon leaving 12th and 2nd this evening, I walked to the 2nd Ave. F stop (which isn't actually on 2nd Ave. after 9 pm), found out there was still no downtown F, and in fact isn't until July 8. So, that's good to know. A quick check at the Broadway-Lafayette stop revealed that in addition to their being no F there, either, the N was running express from 34th St. to Atlantic Ave., thus rendering the 8th St. stop as impotent as it was Monday night. At W. 4th St., the F track was being blocked by a service train that wasn't moving, so I hopped on the downtown D train in anticipation of changing to an N at Atlantic Ave. At Atlantic, I waited a good 15 minutes or so, and when the glorious N finally arrived was informed by intercom that it was running express to 36th St. I live at 16th St., so this would do me no good. I then walked half an hour from Atlantic Ave. to my apartment, which I would have done 15 minutes earlier had the MTA been considerate enough to post a sign at Atlantic Ave. indicating that previous signs of express service to Atlantic Ave. were bullshit, and in fact the whole fucker was just running express for the hell of it.

The moral of the story is that although I love the space, families, yards and stray cats of Brooklyn, I love the ability to stumble home at 3 am just a little bit more. The Brooklyn experiment has been nice, and I adore the borough and will certainly come back when I start getting home before 2 am, but as of the fall, godwilling, I'll be inhabiting some sort of closet on Avenue D in Manhattan. You may all commence gloating.

Notes from the 7th Layer of Transportation Hell

2005-06-28T18:58:00.000-04:00

Should it not be commonly known that the New York City MTA is a direct disciple of Satan to the highest degree, let this be a lesson to you.

Last night was (supposed to be) the final night that my friends Chaundra and Katie from North Carolina would be in the city. As such, they wanted to go out and having a total blowout, which is a challenge on a Monday night, but kudos for trying. I, however, was functioning on about 4 hours of wine- and tequila-induced sleep, and wanted nothing but sleep, and lots of it. Nontheless, I agreed to go out for a while. Around 2 am I decided to head home, giving my friends directions to the F train at 2nd Ave. When I shortly thereafter followed my own directions, I learned that the pattern of there being no downtown F service from Lower Manhattan was still very much in effect. So I ran back to the bar to tell my rapidly intoxicating friends that the F train won't work, and that they would have to walk to 8th St. and catch the R. I learn in the process that Katie isn't answering her phone. Upon getting to 8th St., I remember that late nights there is no R train, so I send a quick text message to take the N instead. Then the N train goes past the station on the express track. One of the other people on the platform says that it's the third consecutive one that does that, so somebody finally goes and asks the token booth man, who call somebody and finds out, no big deal, that the N train isn't stopping at 8th St. because there's a problem with the electricity on the track. The otherwise reasonable-looking man in a nice button-up and khakis proceeds to scream at token man as to why he didn't bother to make an announcement for the 20 people who've been waiting 45 minutes for the train, but, as is typical of people who spend their working nights in a bulletproof box, the token man really doesn't care. We all leave the station, very much displeased, and I trudge over toward W. 4th after sending Katie another text message saying that they have to call me because the trains are completely useless. I try calling them about 9 or 10 times to say to just get in a cab, but the phone goes straight to voicemail every time. Also, it's raining.

At this point I get so frustrated that I wrap my umbrella around a scaffolding pole and throw the bent shaft of it into 4th St. I also start panicking, just a little, but comfort myself with the fact that Katie and Chaundra are with their friend John who has a hotel room in midtown should things get really dire. Of course, I don't even know if they've received any of my text messages at this point. Also, the F train was running on the A line to Jay St. This doesn't effect my ride, but adds to the overall effect of the story.

Once the F train pops above ground I start frantically calling Katie again, but still, nothing anywhere close to an answer. I'm so flustered at this point that I get off the F train at the wrong stop and have to walk home from Smith St, through the Lowe's parking lot. Despite the fact that I don't think I'm ever going to see my friends again, I fall asleep immediately because I'm bordering on physical exhaustion. And it's 4 am again.

My alarm wakes me up at 7. I was expecting to be called by my friends who were supposed to come back to Brooklyn and call so I can open the door for them. No call. 8:30 comes around. No call. I leave my apartment at 9:30 very much unsure of where my friends are and how alive they may or may not be. I don't even remember the first few hours of work, since I don't think I breathed or thought anything rational the entire time. My thought processes were something like this:

Rational mind
Chill out, they're either at John's hotel room or they got an early morning train back to New Jersey where they're housesitting. The phone's out of batteries, they'll get there and send me a Myspace message and everything will be fine.

Irrational mind
NO THEY AREN'T THEY WERE DRUNK AND GOT LOST AND KIDNAPPED AND RAPED AND STABBED AND DUMPED IN THE EAST RIVER AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT BECAUSE YOU WANTED TO GO HOME AT 2 AND GET A GOOD NIGHT'S SLEEP AND NOBODY WILL EVER FORGIVE YOU

Chaundra called me at 2:30 in the afternoon to tell me that they took a cab to midtown with John, caught an early morning train to New Jersey and were fine. Also, they had sent me a text message the night before telling me that's what they were doing. I, of course, never got it.

Furthermore, since my way of dealing with stress is to lose consciousness, instead of eating during my lunch break I went to the Kimmel Center and took a 45 minute nap. Lunch ended up being a bag of barbecue potato chips and a bag of Raisinets.

On that note, I'm going to make dinner now.

Further evidence of the intellectualization of baseball

2005-06-24T18:57:00.000-04:00

For the nonfan, the game is slow and unexciting, yet the object of consequence (a baseball) gets thrown the hardest, hit the farthest and sometimes is "accidentally" thrown at an opposing player.

In a game where control and execution are deemed necessary, it seems that so often the outcome is decided by something that isn't within a player's realm of control. These ironies within the game can make us swear by it or swear on it within the same breath.
-Huston Street
Relief Pitcher, Oakland A's

He went to the University of Texas, too, which makes it that much more amazing that he knows words like "ironies," "consequence," and "isn't." I'm sure you can get a great education at UT, I just wouldn't expect it from their baseball team. Read Huston Street's diary, it's pretty sweet.

Proof of absolute evil in the universe

2005-06-23T21:23:00.000-04:00

This is what I do when I go back to Massachusetts

2005-06-20T12:14:00.000-04:00

Families are funny things. There's families that love each other, families that hate each other, families that act like they don't like each other bute really do love each other they just don't know how to demonstrate it properly because they're all emotionally detached, and families that have sitcoms made out of them.

My dad's family, on the other hand, just has basically nothing to do with each other. There are, however, events in the course of human affairs which dictate that even the most estranged of familes gather together and attempt to share in joyful occasion with each other. My uncle (aged 49) getting married for the first time was just such an occasion.

My mom's family is very large and close and have parties whenever there's any possible excuse for it. It was thus extraordinarily strange at the rehearsal party sitting in a backyard having a cookout with a bunch of people I don't know. The fact that I'm supposedly related to most of them drove the surreality through the proverbial roof, though there wasn't actually a roof because we were outside. There was, however, salmon, steamers and corn on the cob, which made the evening more tolerable than it may have otherwise been.

A list of those in attendance:
My godfather, who I last saw at my high school graduation
My grandfather, likewise
My uncle, who I had never met
My cousin, who I last saw when we were about 12, and her parents
Her crane-operator boyfriend
Various other extended family who I didn't know existed
The in-laws, who were a lot cooler than my family

Later that night the party moved to a local bar, which was nice, and I met my uncle's friend Dave Herlihy, who was the lead singer and songwriter for O Positive, who you've never heard of, and is now a copyright lawyer/copyright law professor at Boston University. So at least we had a few things to talk about. Like how awful the music industry is and how I'm a fool for wanting to work in it.

The wedding was lovely and free from reproach, aside from the 10:30 AM start time. The reception was lovely, as well, and the bartender complimented me on the quality of my fake ID, having had the same one when he was in college. I smiled awkwardly, congratulated him on noticing, took my free Chopin and tonic and hurried away. I spent the reception "reconnecting" with family, admiring the cocktail waitresses with the Emerson kids who were filming the wedding, and dancing with the twelve-year-old junior bridesmaid who was the only other person at the reception cool enough to dance to disco. The reception ended at 5.

A very wise man once said "And after the party it's the afterparty," and this ancient truism would not fail us this weekend. The afterparty was held at the British Beer Company, which is a great name, and the inside filled the promise of the title. The BBC, as the locals call it, is set up like your standard pub, with funny drinking-related quotes stencilled on the walls and 20 British beers on tap. Because there was no private function room with soundproofed walls and ergonomically designed chairs, my family left after ten minutes. The in-laws stayed (like I said... much cooler), as did the bride and groom (who got there an hour late, but on your wedding day I'm not going to complain). Some long lost second cousin (we'll call him LLSC) arrived when my dad and I were eating a pizza and drinking real beer and asked what the beer selection was like. Here's how our conversation went:

LLSC: What do they have for beer?
Me: Everything
LLSC: Anything domestic?
Me: Uh... I guess you could get a bottle of Budweiser if you wanted to...
Dad: Come on, be a man, get a real beer.
LLSC: I am a man, that's why I drink Budweiser.

I kept my mouth shut and enjoyed my Newcastle. The BBC wore out its welcome after a while, though, when the live music started. Acoustic guitar, electric bass and bongos playing Beatles covers in the style of Jack Johnson is, um, the worst thing in the world. Also, my long-lost uncle was arguing politics with the stepfather of the bride, who "SPENT TWENTY YEARS IN NAVY INTELLIGENCE AND KNOWS A BIT ABOUT THE WORLD!" Furthermore, he'd like to know if "YOU'VE EVER BEEN IN A CONCENTRATION CAMP," which is what he was basing his opinions the war in Iraq on. Also, he wears clip-on sunglasses and spent most of the weekend bragging about his pitching performance in the bachelor party softball game. He's a Yankee fan, too.

We went back to the hotel, I read "Catch-22" and went to bed. In the morning there was breakfast, and it was good, and we went home, and I took the bus back to New York.

As a side note, while we're talking about making reacquaintances. My dad is a substitute teacher at an elementary school in my town. Though it's been moved to a different building, it's essentially the same school I went to for 4th - 6th grade. I visited his class Friday afternoon, and after the kids confirmed that I did indeed have the same last name as their teacher and complimented my Air Force Ones, we went upstairs and visited my old library teacher and 4th grade teacher, who are somehow the only teachers still at my elementary school who were there when I was. I'm not sure who felt older. Nontheless, my old librarian told me that I was a perfect student, one of only a handful that she can remember, and I bonded with my 4th grade teacher about New Jersey. She's from West Orange, which is on the PATH.

Weird.

How to not get out of Manhattan

2005-06-17T11:14:00.000-04:00

Last night on the Fung Wah bus, I dozed off near the northern end of the BQE. I woke up an hour and ten minutes later on the LIE eastbound. To those of you who don't know the New York City highways system, this implies that we entered some sort of time warp for an hour, because the BQE meets the LIE right around where I fell asleep. I haven't got the slightest idea where we went in the interrim. 6 hours later we got to South Station.

There's this view from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, right over the Kosciuszko Bridge by the huge cemetery, that is probably the best view of Manhattan ever. You're looking across a cemetery and an industrial wasteland right at Midtown Manhattan, which looks really weirdly clumped together. Last night there were sporadic thunderstorms in the area, so the sky was partly black and partly orange. It looked like on the other side of Midtown New Jersey was on fire. Though that may have just been wishful thinking.

When I woke up today, my clock said it was 4:30. It was actually 10:30, but I panicked for a second. It's been a long 24 hours.

Williamsburg... I'll have my revenge...

2005-06-14T22:26:00.000-04:00

Below I mentioned my "Do Not Go To Williamsburg Any Under Circumstances" policy. I broke it last night, and I paid the goddam price.

The goal of the excursion was the Architecture in Helsinki show at Northsix. I'd heard good things about Northsix and was certainly excited to try it out. At the Union Square subway station we noted the sign about the L train not running from 12:01 am June 14 till something on June 17th. Noted, disregarded. Go to Williamsburg.

Went to Academy Records, which was ok. I bought several albums which lowered my hipness quotient by about a billion (Randy Newman was involved). We ate dinner at Sea, which is an uber-hip Thai place that's actually affordable. Oh, and they filmed the first scene of Garden State there. Anyways.

The opener for AIH was called Heads of Femur, which is the worst band name ever, so we referred to them by their subtitle on the Northsix webpage, which was "Ex-Bright Eyes." They were surprisingly awesome, mainly because they have a horn section and all their songs sound like 70's TV show theme songs. Also, their violinist looks like Gene Frenkle.

The problem with Ex-Bright Eyes is that they went on two hours after doors. Architecture in Helsinki thus went on about three and a half hours after doors, and it was 90 degrees out. The show was hot and sweaty and tired, which prevented any manic dancing that should have taken place, but was enjoyable nontheless, mainly because AIH have THE hottest tuba player in human existence.

When we left the club, we remembered that the L didn't exist anymore. Sad. We walked over the Williamsburg Bridge and took the F from Essex St., which sounds innocent enough until you remember that we walked from Brooklyn to Manhattan to take the train back to Brooklyn. I hate Williamsburg.

Today I bought lots of mod clothes at the Ben Sherman sample sale, including black and white plaid flannel trousers that should be about three inches too short for me. I'm awesome.

Somebody tell me what to think

2005-06-13T12:07:00.000-04:00

This band was featured on the cover of NY Press (which is a bit of a red flag in the first place) and are playing at Gothamist's Movable Hype (which I'm missing again). This song is free on their webpage, and it sounds like Tom Petty. Sounding like Tom Petty is certainly not a bad thing. The webpage has a list of each band member's favorite songs and albums, and the all listen to stuff like Johnny Thunders, Cheap Trick, Thin Lizzy, Badfinger, etc. For a New York band, this is exciting, right? I don't think any other local bands would admit to owning The Best of Hall & Oates. The NY Press article makes a big deal out of them not being Interpol, and god knows I like bands that aren't Interpol.

So, their influences and image are great. I'm just not really sure their music is actually good. So, um, everybody listen and give me my opinion. Thank you.

The Fame - Lost in You

A post that isn't about country music

2005-06-10T18:05:00.000-04:00

Here's a song I shamelessly stole from stereogum, but oh well, listen to it anyway. I technically discovered them on a different mp3 blog at work on Monday, but on second listen I was more impressed.

Anyways, they sounds like the Postal Service the way the Postal Service should be: female, attractive, and with a French name and songs about falling in love under cherry trees. They're playing some crazy pig roast thing in Williamsburg on Sunday, which I'm considering violating my "Do Not Go To Williamsburg Under Any Circumstances" policy for.

Au Revoir Simone - Backyards

This is the story of Victoria Lee/She started off on Percodan and ended up with me.

2005-06-10T01:19:00.000-04:00

I saw Old 97s again tonight, and I'm proud to say that my country fixation is back. I'm pretty sure there's no problem that a Telecaster and a Matchless amp can't solve. But just in case, I'm raiding every used record store in the city for Don Gibson and Jessi Coulter records. Um, I'm not sure how many are kicking around in New York, but at least I can be sure that nobody else is looking for them, right? And if that fails, I'm sure I can find some used Jayhawks CDs somewhere.

I really enjoy my music schizophrenia sometimes.

Puerto Rican laundry

2005-06-08T23:38:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I did laundry.

I've done laundry many times before, often at night. In addition to two solid years of doing my own laundry at school, I also did my own laundry the last year or so I lived at home. So, doing laundry is not a particularly momentous event.

It was at a laundromat.

This, again, is hardly special. Our dryer broke once and I had to do laundry at a laundromat in Stoughton, Massachusetts. Furthermore, there's very little difference between a laundromat and a New York University laundry room, least of all in terms of price.

This laundromat, however, is in South Slope, Brooklyn. That means one very special thing: it's full of Puerto Ricans. I can say, with 100 percent authority, that I was the only native English speaker in the establishment at 9 o'clock this evening. I was certainly the only caucasian. I'm assuming they were mostly Puerto Rican, partially because a few cars on my street have Puerto Rican flags in the windows, and partially because the radio in the laundromat was tuned to Puerto Rican radio (which we actually have in New York). I know Park Slope has a large Ecuadorian population, most of which was lined up outside the Ecuadorian restaurant on 5th Ave. Saturday to watch the Ecaudor vs. Argentina jugado de futbol, but I believe my immediate neighborhood to be mostly Puerto Rican.

This is one of the things that I enjoy most about my neighborhood. My neighbors have small children. And not the Central Slope status symbol children, either, in their fancy strollers dressed in Baby Burberry. No, my neighbors are actually families. Also, they apparently live in apartments arranged similarly to mine, which is more or less terrifying, but hey, poverty is poverty. Nontheless, the kids are always happy, despite sharing a bedroom with eight or nine siblings, and there's something kind of cool about coming home from work and seeing an ice cream truck and kids riding bikes in the street. I suppose this is sort of what I moved to New York to get away from, but it's different here. Also, two years in Manhattan makes you realize that Manhattan is not anything remotely resembling the real world, and it's sort of nice to ground myself again. Manhattan is the playground of the filthy rich and children and benefactors thereof, such as 23 year olds whose parents still pay their rent. I'm not jealous (of course I am). And, actually, my parents are paying my rent too, but I could pay it myself if I had to.

Anyways, the point is that I live in a neighborhood, and having grown up on a busy street where I didn't know my neighbors, I like it. There's no neighborhoods left in Manhattan. I still don't actually know any of my neighbors, but me and Mike are totally going to introduce ourselves to the people across the backyard who had a party and were listening to Regina Spektor Sunday night. Seriously.

Why Brooklyn is better.

2005-06-05T03:18:00.000-04:00

Tonight, as I sat with several chemicals coursing through my veins, a girl I hardly know unconscious on my bed, the handle on my toilet recently having been broken off, completely, utterly alone, smoking a cigarette in my own backyard... I've never felt happier.

This only proves that backyards are better than anything in the world, ever. Especially when they're yours.

This is a song I learned in Crown Heights...

2005-06-03T20:23:00.000-04:00

I took some CD's from work today. The best one is Matisyahu - Live at Stubb's.

First, listen to this.

Then know that it's being produced by this.

And that he is SO AWESOME. I've had his studio album for awhile, but the live one just rules.

I say "Well maybe he's just not all that bright"/She tells me it's not his brain that she likes

2005-05-31T22:30:00.000-04:00

Today on my 45 minute lunch break (conservative for this job), I was enjoying my cart-purchased hot dog (the product of my last $1.50) and reading "Franny and Zooey" in the fountain, feeling wonderfully bohemian and urban and sophisticated when my momentary sense of sublimity was interrupted by a small army of predominantly blonde, clean-cut, white teenagers in matching blue and yellow tee shirts. Something was written on the tee shirts, surely of the generic "Urban Adventure Crew New York 2005" variety. They had set up a PA on the little protest stand at the southern edge of the park from which they were blasting Dave Matthews and Sister Hazel.

There's always these groups of midwestern kids learning about the big city in their matching tee shirts. For the life of me I can't understand why they always choose Washington Square Park as a meeting point. WSP, as everybody knows, is the epicenter of weirdness in the universe. Taking these kids from Omaha and submerging them in the vortex of surreality that is Washington Square has to be the most traumatic event in their young, blue-eyed lives. Asking them to talk to people, hand out flyers, or whatever it is they do is just throwing them to the wolves. I didn't stick around long enough to find out what was actually going on, but I hope nothing too awful happened.

Anyways, speaking of clean-cut and white, the new Fountains of Wayne single, "Maureen," is the most absurdly derivative, cheesy, over-the-top song they may have ever written. From the Thin Lizzy guitars to the Cars synths to the simply idiotically clever lyrics (including the background "ah uh uh uh uh" in the verses), the song occupies some 70's/80's time warp that plays as some sort of nostalgia trip to an idyllic power pop glory day that never happened. In less competent hands this would obviously be an utter disaster, but in the hands of the best band in the universe, it may be the most enjoyable song ever written. I'd upload it, but a.) you don't care, and b.) I'm not about to send away for a single, so I just got it off iTunes. If you have 99 cents to blow, and want to hear what pop music is supposed to sound like, do your thing. If I find another version I'll put it up here. "Out of State Plates" comes out on June 29th, in case you, like me, can't wait for a 2-disc collection of Fountains of Wayne b-sides and unreleased tracks.