Archive for October, 2006
Friday, October 13th, 2006
Goodbye, Jessica Coen. This is like the moment I realized I had watched through an entirely replaced cast of SNL, including Tim Meadows. That was also about the time I stopped watching SNL. With Oxfeld and Coen now both gone, I have no reason to watch. Don’t it always seem to go / that you don’t know what you got ’til it’s fucking Joe Dolce on its way out the door?
Thursday, October 12th, 2006
When we moved into our new place the landlord(‘s son) gave us a can of roach killer. Nice to receive after we signed the lease, right? So, fearing the worst but having seen no bugs in the few days we’d been there, I put the can under the sink. In the few weeks we’ve lived there, I have found four crickets in our basement. Now, crickets I’m wishy-washy about. On one hand, they’re big fucking ugly black bugs with giant legs that can pretty easily get away from you when they want to. On the other, they’re “signs of good luck” (Anna) and have been personified by Disney to the point that I feel bad killing them. So I keep sweeping them up in a dust pan and throwing them out the back door into our garden. And “they” may, in fact, be the same cricket coming in every time I go outside and leave the door open. The only other bugs I’ve seen have been a long-legged spider that I painted over, and a small sink bug that I think we brought with us from our old place.
When I called the cable company to come and hook up and transfer our account to the new apartment, the woman kept asking me why I couldn’t take the Monday morning appointment time (a four hour window) because there was nothing scheduled then. I kept saying no, “give me the following Saturday,” and she asked “can’t you miss work on Monday to meet our technician?” I replied “can you miss a day of work for the cable guy?” That shut her up. Seriously, why is every stranger on the other end of the phone always, always, always a complete fucking retard?
Ray Ray sent me an entire rainbow of American Apparel underwear a couple of weeks ago as a (very late) birthday present, and I’ve now worn them all except the orangey melon-colored one. For some reason it creeps me out.
One of the good things I took away from my old neighborhood in Gunset is the knowledge of an amazing supermarket. Rossman’s, on 3rd Avenue and 26th Street. It’s in the middle of nowhere underneath the noisy, dirty BQE, but it’s jaw-droppingly cheap and everything there is fresh and fantastic. It’s even nice to be inside the place. I swear to God, every time I go to the register after calculating prices in my head and thinking I’m going to pay $50, the bill comes to $20. It’s unbelievable, every time. Though, they don’t sell meat, and often they don’t have any cheese. I still drive there to do my grocery shopping even though we’ve moved to Park Slope. The latest greatest find was a box of amazing chai teabags for $1. It’s replaced coffee for me this week. Does anybody know if tea, especially chai, is any better for you than coffee? I read this malarkey and though it sounded like it was written by Miss Information, I let my stupid self believe some of it and now I’m worried that coffee is killing me. Insight or advice?
Yesterday I bought Anna something at… a store… for her birthday today, and the girl wrapped it first in cardboard, then in another item, then in a box, then put it in a bag. I felt like writing a “you waste materials” letter like I did in sixth grade to the company that made Now & Laters (which were wrapped individually, then by flavor, then all together in a bigger wrapper). A letter written by someone in my class that year apparently caused the Taco Bell in our mall to start putting its condiment packets in bins where you could take only what you wanted, rather than get a handful from the cashier that you would inevitably throw away. Yesterday, though, I took the bag and walked back out into the rain and puddles of Union Square. My shoes were not waterproof at all, and my socks from yesterday are still wet on the floor of my bedroom today.
If I see a dime on the street I quickly look away and think to myself “fuck you, I have my own money.” If somebody brings in a tray of cookies and leaves them on the kitchen counter at work I refuse to take one because fuck you, I can buy my own cookie. If a seat opens on the subway and I want to sit but there is anyone else standing on the car, I refuse to sit there because fuck you, I’m capable of standing the entire ride.
I can’t wait until it’s cold enough to wear real coats again.
Wednesday, October 11th, 2006
Ash, popular Irish band (1992—). Rode the Britpop wave across the Atlantic Ocean in the nineties. Little is known of their whereabouts or the welfare of since-departed fourth member Charlotte, but some pose that the boys have been feasting ceremonially on her frozen corpse in the year since their split. A rare appearance at Stolen Transmission in October 2006 provided more fodder for speculation.
Basement Deejays, (1971—). New York’s Annex provides giddy Fangirls with the opportunity to play their favorite emo music at very high volumes. Often these Fangirls adopt conjunctional or constricted disc jockey monikers, such as “KarenPlusOne” or “xGurjx,” the latter of the two being a notorious elbow-sucker.
Clap Your Hands Say Chav, slang (UK). Roughly translates to “Gurj Bassi sucks elbows.”
Men, Women, and Karen (2005—). Oddball discemo trio whose female constituent shrieks “Mets rule!” over every beat of every song. Notable events in the band’s history include that time when, like, Karen threw a bottle at Brendan Urie’s head at Reading and he totally bled and kept on playing, lol, and the bottle was full of lmao-nade.
Black Eye Guy (1980—). Explained that his black eye was sustained when “the cops beat [him] up in the street and kept kicking and said [he] was a faggot!” Passerby counterclaims include “passed out over a coffee table” and “walked right into that bus shelter.”
Roflcopter, slang (US, 2002—). The sort of vehicle in which a biologically female female impersonator might pose for randomly solicited casting photos, to appear more worldly in several animal prints and polka dots. Ex., “Anna lollerskates around in her roflcopter and drinks lmaonade for the camera.”
Helium Suckers (1954—1984). Quinn and Faran, conjoined twins surgically separated at super sweet sixteen, enjoyed childhoods on the road performing immoral acts together on small stages in dim night clubs with loose door policies. Upon their separation, however, it became apparent that the mental anguish of being forever severed from their lifelong counterparts was the cause of the bronchial problems they were encountering, and their final theatrical appearance was in Des Moines in 1971. A perpetual helium prescription was issued. In order to fit in and return to normal life, the girls were forced to carry prescription party balloons with them everywhere they went, including popular underground bar Home Sweet Home.
Ultragrrrl (1980—). Much-hated internet personality. Much-loved real-life personality. In 2006 she lightened her hair to a sultry blonde, and changed her alias to Miss Sarah Sue Devereaux. As Devereaux, she enjoyed complete blogosphere anonymity and the haters scattered like so many models from a platter of White Castle burgers. She also enjoyed iced tea, porch swings, and fainting couches.
Deez Homos (65,000 B.C.—). A peculiar breed of canine, homos like to rock and roll all day and party every night, directly contrary to the tendencies of old-fashioned, titty-loving real men. Here we see Ryan and Kyle engaging in particularly faggy behavior: standing near each other and smiling. Unnatural though it may be, homosexuality is a very real part of American society, and must be tolerated. At least until they have their own drinking fountains.
Sluts (1877—1991). Vicky is a bubble-blowing, cab-lusting slut.
Tuesday, October 10th, 2006
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Tuesday, October 10th, 2006
This morning on the F train a boy got on wearing tight jeans, a small sweater, a jet black tamed mohawk with giant old-school headphones on top, and a few lip rings. He didn’t look up once, didn’t make eye contact with anyone, just played with his iPod and stood in the corner unoffensively. Two unconnected men took notice and made faces in his direction and tried to do that thing where they make eye contact with person after person, trying to find someone to make that “isn’t that kid disgusting?” connection with. Nobody bit. One of the guys was laughing to himself with purpose, and the other shook his head and sighed a lot.
What I didn’t understand was why these two men, in particular, would be so bold as to publicly judge someone else’s strange appearance. The first guy was wearing a Navajo vest over a leather jacket and had a three rubber-banded ratty ponytail going down his back. The second was supremely short and I could see most of the toes on his right foot through his raggedy shoe. And I believe his pants were black and his suitjacket was navy. While the kid with the headphones would look completely appropriate on TRL or in an Urban Outfitters catalog, these guys would pretty much only look appropriate on the pages of Grown Men Who Can’t Dress Themselves Monthly.
Monday, October 9th, 2006
I’m still stealing digital moments where I can because we don’t have internet at home; a combination of them taking too long and me being terrified of phoning strangers. I have more backed up e-mails than I know what to do with.
Sunday morning I put on The Roches and drank coffee in my kitchen, looking out into my garden. Then I called my mom and we talked about what color I should paint the cabinets and what knobs I should put on them to go with the color of the walls (nice, calming, earthy mustard yellow). I said “uh oh” out loud when I realized what’s becoming of me.
How do people sleep forever? I wake up on my own after eight hours, max. This is what it looks like out my bedroom window:
I went out on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Haven’t done that in almost a month. I guess my fake hiatus is officially off. Sunday we swept and half-weeded the garden. I must buy a hose to clean the table and chairs with, and then I can have my morning coffee outside before it gets too cold. Dinner yesterday was very good, chicken wraps and a giant bowl of homemade guacamole with pita chips we cut and baked ourselves. I think I am the only person on the planet who cares what I ate for dinner yesterday, so I don’t know why I just wrote that.
They say you can’t have a job, a boyfriend, and a home that you love all at the same time. I have two at the moment.
Friday, October 6th, 2006
My website is sort of new. Not much new content, but it looks different. I still have to update the photo sections; most of the stuff up there now is more than a year old. The owl was drawn by Kathy, who, by the way is the Stolen Transmission token partygoer (look at the “Party!” Polaroid on the right) for three weeks running. And I don’t even upload them, Sarah gets them from me in a big zip file and does it herself. She’s in Vanity Fair this month (yow!), and they focused on her having Jew love. That’s why she loves The Jewlahs so much.
Last night at ST was really crowded because everyone and their drunk mother came out to see Ash perform. I got there a little early and annoyed because I was tired and didn’t know the band’s music. I’ve never seen Annex so packed. There was a huge line out front, it was strange. Karen and Gurj seemed to be excited that Ash were there, and their set was fun. Adrian Grenier was a fan, too. I felt like a wiener for not having the strength to get through The Crazies for some stage shots, but I got the band later in the makeshift VIP area (that would be the stairwell). The guys in Men, Women, and Children are pretty fantastic. They play tonight at Ruff Club at Annex!, which is where I will be, and then the Killers thing at Trash for a little bit.
Not often do I get this excited about a musician, but my friend Alan MX is doing to me now what these two did in years past. He seems to be unaware of how good he is. I love his voice, I love his songs, and how simple and self-made they are. I love that he isn’t doing acoustic folk music, because he could easily get away with that sort of cop out. He’s like Sufjan Stevens and Patrick Wolf and Sondre Lerche all rolled into one. Everybody who hears the CD in my car wants to know who it is. “Kill Me” is one of my favorites, as is “Handgun,” which isn’t on his MySpace page. We’re currently remixing each other.
I could fall asleep right now and not wake up until Sunday.
Wednesday, October 4th, 2006
On Friday, was Richie bartending at Fun in Brooklyn, or was he impersonating a pirate in Hoboken?
Is Anna’s dress meant to be perfect Williamsburg camouflage?
Am I going to get fifteen e-mails from strangers asking for Richie’s e-mail address (again)?
Did she explain that this was her “dead cockroach pose?”
At White Dove, is Geneva wearing a wig to disguise her famous blonde self from all the BK Girls stalkers?
How does Caitlyn get it right every time?
Geneva and I come from the same roots. Is there Zygo in Ohio?
Did Anna know that I was taking this picture in the corner of the back room?
What band was this? (Seriously, I don’t know.)
Tracy Bonham says that “behind every good woman lies a trail of men.” Is Hannah therefore the greatest of all women?
Moby what? More here.
Tuesday, October 3rd, 2006
I’ve had the newest Animal Collective album Feels for a while but didn’t listen to it until yesterday. It’s almost a year old. As usual, there are a few that I will never listen to again, but I’m in love with the first two tracks and the fourth. I also have a few songs off the new Patrick Wolf album. The single bores me, which is sad, because he’s one of my favorites. There’s another one that’s interesting, but overall these don’t impress me as much as Wind in the Wires did. Maybe they’ll grow on me more, or maybe nothing could live up to it being in my top five favorite albums ever, like Mary Timony’s Ex Hex. The Golden Dove was so meaningful to me and I got to know those songs so well that when Ex Hex came out I was disappointed. All the songs on it are just as good, but I had built it up too much before it came out. “I Fire Myself,” from her first solo album, might be my favorite song ever recorded. I think I write this twice a year.
Monday, October 2nd, 2006
In the place we just moved out of, we had two landlords – brothers – and one of them told us that we could move our things on Saturday and Sunday (the first of the month) because nobody had rented the place yet for October. But halfway through Saturday the other one came by and said we had to be out by midnight that day. This brother’s name is Bernard. We call him Bernard the Tard because he’s the most dumbfounding example of a landlord I’ve ever seen. How this man got to be in the position he is (nepotism) is a mystery (family pity). Landlords are, generally, not too bright and not too classy. Sweaty tank tops and indecipherable rambling are to be expected. But Bernard the Tard is a fucking trainwreck of mind and body.
So we moved in just one day, with barely anything packed in the morning, using my car and Kathy’s dad’s van. We have a shit ton of furniture; it took us all day. There were the two of us, Kathy’s parents and brother Chris, Jake, and Anna and her friend for a little while. We weren’t done until well after two in the morning, when everybody’s arms and legs and backs were on fire. Jake, who had to work early Sunday morning, even took a dresser in the shoulder for me. Now that’s devotion. I owe him kind of big time.
Yesterday I unpacked my bedroom and created the most comfortable bed ever with a bunch of layers of stuff. Tonight we start the kitchen and bathrooms, because this morning getting ready to go out to our respective offices was a bit of a transient experience. Must get the internet running at home because I am an addict (as is Moby, who has been oft e-mailing my friend despite his internet hiatus – New York is a carnival and Hannah is the painted Zebra that all the local papers write about). TimeWarner is notoriously slow on the installation, though.
Lunch yesterday was penang curry at an amazing Thai place right down the street from us, and for the first time, somebody we knew (Ben) was walking by! In our neighborhood! Where we live! We run into people we know now, instead of people in handcuffs being taken from the cop cars that littered our block into the station at the end of it. The walk to the subway this morning was nice and calm instead of ugly and noisy.
Park Slope is an infinitely nicer place to live than Gunset Sunset Park. When we gave directions to our old place it was “when you come up out of the subway, walk away from Dunkin’ Donuts and toward White Castle. Turn left at the police station and walk to the BQE. We’re across the street from the federal prison and around the corner from the big yellow porn store.” Now the directions are “come up out of the subway, walk away from beautiful Prospect Park and past the beautiful old block-long armory building, turn left on 7th Avenue and walk through the beautiful old town full of restaurants you’d want to eat in and under lots of actual living green trees, and arrive at our house across the street from the beautiful famous historic cemetery.” Gotta pee? Try one of our two bathrooms. Fall in the dirt while you were running around in the park? Wash your pants in our own washer and dryer. Don’t like sitting in this living room? Try the one upstairs. Find a cricket in the basement? If you’re Anna, pick it up gently, declare it “a great sign of luck on your move-in day!” and let it loose in our own private garden backyard.
When I moved around as a kid, the first meal in the new place was often Kentucky Fried Chicken. I remember being nine, eating mashed potatoes on the carpeted living room floor of a wholly unfurnished apartment in Euclid, Ohio when my mom separated from my stepfather. He U-hauled all the furniture away, so we had nothing that didn’t fit into the car with us. We drove through KFC and listened to the Pointer Sisters on my boombox, plugged into the corner of the room. When my mom and my second stepfather separated and we moved into a new house, the first thing we ate was KFC.
I couldn’t go to KFC this time when Kathy and I moved into our new place because the night before I had yelled “well fuck you!” at the window and driven off. Jake was slow at the drive-through and the guy on the other end of the speaker was getting impatient. He started giving me ‘tude so I told him to “hold on a second!” to which he countered “Sir! You only have 45 seconds to order!” There was nobody in line behind us. So I said my fuck you, honked the horn a few times because I am of grade-A breeding and completely in control of my temper, and drove off to McDonald’s so Jake could ingest something horrible. Our first new apartment meal was White Castle (their mozzarella sticks are not bad). I am going to die at thirty.
