Too Sane

My Obama Dream

2008-04-23T14:45:00.002-04:00

Thursday, April 17, 2008

I had a strange dream about Democratic Presidential Candidate Barack Obama last night, and thought I'd share it with you. I submitted it to the "I Dream of Barack" blog:

http://idreamofbarack.blogspot.com/

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Hearing some rustling from outside, I went over to the glass sliding door that looks out into the yard. A young, backpack-wearing Barack Obama was attempting to peep into the house through the slightly open curtains. Annoyed, I asked him what he wanted.

"Hi! I'm looking for Homer Simpson!" he replied eagerly.

I informed the young man that Homer Simpson was not around.

"Would ya - would ya mind if I took a look around ... inside?"

He spent about an hour nervously poking around the house. My irritation grew, and when he finally emerged from the laundry room, I left my wife's side to attack him with a wooden baseball bat. He easily sidestepped my strike, and then I felt guilty about attacking him. He was very sincere and polite, but just too invasive.

Persuaded by my anger and his fruitless search, the young man left.

The next day, I looked outside and saw a dozen college students with backpacks and metal detectors snooping around the back yard. When I asked them what they were looking for, they cheerfully replied, "Homer Simpson!" At a loss, I simply closed the sliding door. I told my dad that a guy named Bill (ironically enough), who looked to be about 23 years old, was out in the yard with his disciples, desperately searching for something that they will never find.

Later, Bill/Obama returned alone, and gently knocked on the window.

"Hi! I'm looking for Homer Simpson!" he called out on the other side of the glass.

"Homer Simpson," I explained, "DOES NOT EXIST!! GO ... AWAY!!"

I closed the curtain.

Milestones

2008-04-23T14:43:00.000-04:00

January 2008

Ever since I popped the question to my lovely lady Yael, random memories and images from my formative years have emerged frequently. These anecdotes seem to be the doing of my inner consciousness, as it takes stock of my pre-married life. A bit of "This was your life, Hal Miller," perhaps? Well, I'm certainly glad it WAS my life. I was a little, um, uptight, back then; my outward behavior did in no way reflect my budding, inner yearning for female acquaintanceship. Here is the first of the many ridiculous and telling moments from my adolescence.

The story you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Being 13 or 14 years old was confusing and really unfun (that's a Jawbreaker reference, not a typo). I remember feeling so awkward about expressing my thoughts and feelings that I simply maintained silence most of the time.

So here I am in Eighth grade Spanish class. I'm so painfully shy that I avoid eye contact with classmates and even more so, the teacher, in order to shun class participation. I know every graffiti scratch of misspelled profanity and witty hieroglyphic on my desk. Intimately.

Shoshana Liebowitz, the cute, friendly girl sitting next to me, often tries to make conversation, and I usually respond to her quietly and briefly, studying my scribbled-on notebook on my desk. There was absolutely nothing wrong with this girl at all, but I simply didn't know what to say or how to act around her. Over the weeks, I sensed a growing dissatisfaction emanating from her. "Why does it always have to happen this way?" I wondered to myself. Hey! Classmate! Leave this kid alone!

My neighbor must have felt insulted at my unfriendly ways, because, one day, as everyone was settling in right before class began, she stood up and shook her hot pink, Guess brand (this was the 80s, after all) sweatpants-clad bee-hind right by the side of my blushing face. I felt the swishing air as the sweatpants pushed it at me like an electric curtain. Feeling hot and shameful, I pretended to not notice as she turned to the girl behind her and shrugged.

"See?" She explained, pointing to me, the frozen young mensche. "No reaction!"

And I'm still not sure exactly how she expected me to react to her little dance. Should I have asked her out? Commented on the hidden shape of her derriere within the baggy sweatpants? My face featured varying shades of red throughout the rest of the class period, and, in my mind, broadcast my humiliation to the kids sitting around us. The cold sweat didn't begin to evaporate to a flat stickiness until the bell rang.

"What's wrong with him?!" they must have thought. "Any normal boy would have grabbed or spanked that ass!" And my croaked reBUTTal would have sounded something like, "... my mom taught me to respect women!"

I was pretty grateful that we sat in the back of the room where such teenage antics could take place without the entire class noticing. Had I known then what I know now, I would most likely been the one inciting the silliness. I still manage to place myself in awkward situations, but I'd like to believe that I handle such scenarios with a sense of humor.

Over the years, I have recalled this incident a handful of times, and felt pretty embar-ass-ed about it. And now?

It's just another brick in my wall.

Emo Philips

2008-04-23T14:37:00.005-04:00

Monday, January 21, 2008

This past Saturday night 1/19/08 at NYC's Comix club, we witnessed oddball comedian Emo Philips in top form; he mixed the classic 80s nuggets with more recent observations. And, of course, his trademark wide-eyed but misdirected innocence and floppy arm gesturing commanded the attention of the entire room for every second he stood on stage.

Emo with Phil Collins on an episode of Miami Vice

"Sometimes I miss NY so much, I'll fill my humidifier with urine."
"One time I surprised my parents during sex. They said, 'where'd you learn to do that?'"

Go check him out, the face muscle exhaustion from nonstop laughter is more than worth your time. After the show, we talked with him for a minute and he signed one of our tickets. We weren't sure what he would be like off stage, but Emo was amazingly receptive and friendly to his fans. We asked him to return to NYC as soon as possible.

My face still hurts.

CHARLIE

2005-02-07T01:47:00.001-05:00

Walking home in the freezing cold around midnight on January 27th, I heard a pitiful cry to my right. About three blocks from my apartment, I looked down to see a beautiful tuxedo kitten craning his neck up at me and crying. Kneeling down by the gate where the little guy crouched next to a garbage can in the bitter air, I extended my hand. "What are you doing out here in the cold?" I asked the abandoned creature as he rubbed his face on the back of my hand.

Reaching through the metal gate, I gently wrapped my hands around my new friend and pulled him to my chest. He began purring immediately and seemed relieved and happy in my grasp. I thought it was strange and amazing that this stray cat called out to me instead of running away like most street felines do. I wondered if this little one, who looked to be about 8 pounds and maybe ten months old, belonged to someone. Anyone who would abandon an animal in the freezing cold doesn't deserve to have one. It was time to mete out some street justice and take in this sweet little guy.

The next thing I remember, I was cleaning up my furry friend in my kitchen while he plowed through half a can of Fancy Feast. While I scooped out the rest of the can onto his cleaned-off plate, my guest hopped around and begged for more.

The name "Charlie" came to mind in the wee hours of the morning. An old book of mine, which featured a story about a tuxedo cat with that namesake, provided the inspiration to honor little Charlie with his moniker.

The next morning, I left a pile of paper towels near my door for Charlie to do his business on. I arrived home from work to find a terrible stench accompanied by a big ol' crusty log on my Converse. I ran to the deli to pick up a cheap tray, a bag of kitty litter and some Woolite to clean up the scene.

In the bathroom, I sat Charlie in the makeshift litter box a few times, but he didn't seem to get it. He obviously wasn't used to such a convenience. Back in my room several minutes later, I felt a horrible smell smack me across the face. I turned around to see Charlie squatting, like a homeless guy, in the corner of my room near the door and the litter box.

After he did his business, I sprinkled some litter on it and placed it in the litter box. After watching me scrape litter over the evidence, Charlie seemed to understand; he began imitating my motions as both of us scraped in the litter. He had either never used a litter box or had simply been long out of practice. The next time nature called, Charlie ran to his new bathroom location. I was so proud of my boy; he had passed the test.

Unfortunately, curiosity got the better of my friend, when my roomate left the door open for a minute at one point that night. Charlie ran downstairs to explore while I was on a phone call. Of course he headed straight for my landlord's door, effectively ending our fun and re-instating the building's no-animals policy.

After a week of bonding with Charlie and gladly suffering allergic reaction at the hands of his dander, I took my furry friend to North Jersey animal rescuer Nancy Maynard. Spending much of her time rescuing cats, dogs and other lovable critters from the difficult conditions of our merciless world, Nancy works with Critter Cab and Jersey City's Liberty Animal Shelter to ensure that abandoned animals find homes.

Charlie let out one squeaky meow, but remained quiet throughout the ride to the shelter. I wondered how much he understood as we rode further and further away from his adopted home. Upon arriving at the shelter, I noticed that while many of the dogs that occupied the ground floor of the shelter barked in their cages, the cats upstairs enjoyed a noticeably less stressful lifestyle. The cat room on the second floor was a lounge/hang out pad for about thirty felines, all overseen by the loving staff.

Cages containing blankets, food and litter boxes lined the walls. Two portly sleepyheads, one tabby and one tortoiseshell, dozed on separate cliffs of the plush tower at the center of the room. Nancy introduced me to "The Mayor," a rotund, puffy tabby who spent her time visiting every cat and checking up on all goings-on. Overcome by what I call a "cute attack," I intercepted The Mayor for a moment to pet her before stepping aside to allow her to return to her duties.

Although it broke my heart to part ways with Charlie, I knew that I had left him in good hands. Charlie had clearly enjoyed his stay with me, his foster dad, and seemed sad and confused at the shelter. His reaction was not surprising, though. Charlie went from freezing on the street to rolling around a big, warm apartment, before traveling by train and car in a carrier bag straight to a cage; a comfortable cage, but a cage nonetheless. The fluffy varmint in the cage next to Charlie's meowed a hello as the other felines bathed, slept and roamed about the room. A few weeks later, I learned from Nancy that Charlie had been adopted into a loving home.

"If you love someone, you must set them free."

I've always hated that saying.

Safe and secure

Under the bed

What? Trying to sleep over here.

Playful at night.

Let the games begin!

Enjoying a moment of tranquility before the sneezing storm commences.

DIMEBAG DARRELL

2004-12-11T14:37:00.000-05:00

Dimebag performing w/Pantera @ Ozzfest 2000. Photo: S. Cabral.

Thousands of people die every day. But what eludes me is how so many people who have contributed significantly to our culture have been silenced in such a violent and untimely way. I'm sad to report that guitarist Dimebag Darrell, founder of Pantera and more recently Damageplan, is the latest on that tragic list.

This past Wednesday, Dec. 8, on the eve of the anniversary of the John Lennon shooting, psychotic fan Nathan Gale brutally murdered "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott at Columbus, Ohio nightclub Alrosa Villa. According to reports, the disturbed 25-year-old Gale was not only obsessed with Dime's former band Pantera, but also held a severe grudge toward the guitarist for breaking up the Texas quartet (and, apparently, for forming new band Damageplan). Gale jumped onstage as Damageplan began their set last Wednesday, taking out several people and wounding drummer Vinnie Paul. Gale shot Dime five times in the head, point-blank, before a cop ended the rampage with a bullet. Nice work, you stupid bastard, now there definitely won't be a reunion.

I'm glad to say that I experienced Pantera live on several occasions. The two most memorable times being September 10, 1997 at Roseland, NYC and February 5, 1999 with Black Sabbath at NJ's Meadowlands. At Roseland, the band held the room by its collective cajones; as the energy overflowed out of the venue, Pantera's formidable presence was felt all around. Dime rocked a confederate flag guitar and singer Phil Anselmo referred to his "Italian ass." These guys didn't give two shits about political correctness, and you just had to respect that no matter what.

In true metal form, Dime tossed cups of beer at the V.I.P. section where music industry people sat. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. It was a humorous, ballsy move, and made the show that much better.

We got our asses kicked to the back of the arena when Black Sabbath, Pantera and The Deftones came to destroy NJ. It was loud, evil-sounding and intense; the perfect metal show. The bill was almost too good to be true, and all three bands proved themselves to be masters of heavy music. The image of Dime on stage, a true guitar hero with hair in face and back to a wall of Marshall stacks, is forever burned into my brain.

After two decades of making metal mayhem together, members of Pantera began pursuing other projects several years ago, with singer Philip Anselmo joining Superjoint Ritual and Down. Dime and brother Vinnie formed Damageplan in 2003, and toured to support their debut, New Found Power.

Dime was known not only for embodying the looks, the lifestyle and the fuck-you attitude of metal, but also for being a helluva nice guy. Although I was barely out of diapers when John Lennon's murder turned the planet on its ear, I do recall the feeling of sorrow accompanied by collective dread. Although I love the Beatles, I have probably listened to Pantera much more over the past ten years. There are very few things in life more satisfying than blasting Dime's raw, dirty guitar riffs through the ol' headphones.

Dime's untimely fate is a horrible tragedy, met by metal fans mourning around the world. At only 38 years old, the guitarist had so much more ahead of him; at least he lasted long enough to shape heavy metal with amazing performances and ear-shattering recordings with Pantera, Damageplan and others. Dimebag Darrell may be gone, but the noise he made will ring in our ears forever.

R.I.P., brother. You will be sorely missed.

--> Damageplan

--> Pantera

JUMPING SOMEONE ELSE'S TRAIN

2004-11-29T01:08:00.000-05:00

All aboard, bitches: actual train ridden not pictured.

I was running late as usual. Every time I have to catch a train, I set my alarm for a time too early, doze off and wake up in a panic. I showered anyway, finished packing my bags, and ran the hell out of my apartment. I would have to catch the L train here in Brooklyn and then transfer to the N or R train at Union Square in Manhattan to get to Penn Station. That is, if I wanted to make it to Baltimore to see my family on Thanksgiving.

Flying out of the 34th street station R train like a bat outta hell, I readied my quiver of curt excuse me’s. Everyone in my path had a bull’s eye, including Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade a block away. A straight shot down 32nd Street (between 6th and 7th Ave.) and five minutes to catch the 12:02 train en route to Wash., DC lay before me. I don’t remember if anyone slowed me down, but whoever may have gotten in my way probably got flattened. Most of the time, I complain about other people being inconsiderate, but, in this case, I was the asshole.

Strings attached: he must have done something awful to suffer such indignation.

I expected the parade to somehow delay my date with Amtrak, but, ironically enough, it helped me get there faster. The street was sectioned off and filled with onlookers. With no traffic to impede my way, I shot across the street, briefly looking up at the looming parade floats without discerning which copyrighted characters hovered overhead and between buildings. In retrospect, I probably should have taken a better look at the televised spectacle that brings people from all over the world to NYC. Seeing a Disney character may have given me an instant of comfort, but I probably would have been let down with SpongeBob SquarePants, or some other pathetic icon that passes for pre-adolescent entertainment these days.

Once I printed out my ticket from the machine, I barreled down the steps, sweat spraying from my whipping hair. My suitcase dangling mid-air, I skidded up to a Yoda-sized female conductor. “Is this the 12:02 train?” I blurted down at her breathlessly. Her mumbled response channeled the neurotic demon inside of me and I repeated, “IS THIS THE 12:02 TRAIN?” I knew it was indeed my train, but I had to make sure. “Y-yes, yes!” Yoda-woman confirmed. “Thanks,” I croaked, and hopped on board.

I roamed the aisle until I found an empty seat with a non-smelly, tolerable looking prospective neighbor. “Excuse me,” I asked a gray-haired, middle-aged lady occupying an aisle seat. “Is anyone sitting here?” No one was. Cold rivers of sweat flowed down my temples and back as my body attempted to cool itself down and the dust settled behind me.

The lady, who I'll call Lucy, held an authoritative air about her. She even suggested I stow my suitcase up top, across the aisle. “Sorry,” I said with a self-deprecating chuckle as I stepped over her to my waiting window seat. “Running late?” she asked. “Yeah,” I laughed.

“I can see the signs,” Lucy remarked, and returned to her book.

Repeated announcements stating that the café car was closed provided little hope for relief as I sat dehydrating in my own juices. Obviously, I hadn't given myself enough time to pick up any snacks or water. My self-hatred magnified every time I squeezed by my neighbor to get up. On my maiden voyage, I locked myself in the bathroom to cool off with cold, wet paper towels, the supply of which I nearly depleted in my effort to dry off.

Returning to my seat, I expressed my pardons without looking down. Lunging forward, I knocked the book out of Lucy’s hands and woke her up. Ruminating over the embarrassment, I plopped back down, and felt my throat closing up. I braved the asthma and claustrophobia as long as I could, while I focused on relaxing and breathing. After making little progress, I grabbed my inhaler from my suitcase, nearly dropping the bursting bag into the aisle.

Safely locked in the bathroom again, I pushed down on the yellow plastic inhaler, sucked in, and held my breath for a moment. Repeat. My obstructed airflow restored, I floated back to my seat, relieved.

An attractive, dark-haired, twenty-something girl and her mother sat across the aisle from Lucy and me. I decided that Lucy must have been the girl’s aunt or her mom’s friend. With her flattering striped frock, chin-length mop of curls and attempts at affecting a cultured inflection, the young girl was vaguely styled like a roarin’ twenties party girl. Think a toned-down “Thoroughly Modern Millie.” But, like a lot of people, her good looks masked her annoying personality until she opened her mouth.

Thoroughly annoying: Millie's song & dance.

Predictably, Millie asked Lucy about the book she was reading. Impressed, Millie breathlessly exclaimed that “no one I’ve met has heard of that author, and these are people living on the Upper West Side!” Lucy shrugged. Although I was not involved in the conversation, I had to roll my eyes anyway, just on principle.

“I see you’re wearing the necklace and the bracelet,” Millie said to Lucy. “You’re wearing two presents that I gave you, that makes me feel so good.” Millie’s ass-kissing sentiment brought me very close to vomiting. Pointing out the fact that Lucy was sporting the accessories that Millie gave her would have been totally natural. Telling Lucy that it makes her feel “so good” was laying it on a little thick. All the brown-nosing led me to suspect that Lucy was Millie’s professor, or someone with some kind of authority over Millie.

My neighbors’ conversation began to slip into the awkward realm of the vain and self-conscious with Lucy’s remark about gaining weight when she was recently sick. Millie, in a backhanded way, attempted to rationalize Lucy’s dilemma with her own history of the battle of the bulge. We learned that Millie’s weight problem, which began in high school and extended into her college years, provided the side effect of sizable breasts. Upon hearing this expertly delivered buffalo chip of conversation, I turned to size Millie up. I concluded that her story was entirely unbelievable, given her long, naturally slim body. Also, Millie couldn’t have been older than 23, yet she strived to close the age gap between her and Lucy. Sure, she just graduated, but it must seem like, soooooo long ago.

The conductor announced that the café car was open. I jumped up again and stumbled back to the small concession area at the front of the train. A fifty-something man in a suit with no tie and his jacket sleeves rolled up stood in the lengthening line behind me. Every time the people in front of me moved up, I felt him brush up against me before I could step forward. When he stepped on my shoe with his Doc Marten boot, I turned around to give him a dirty look. Very few things in life annoy me as much as queue-crowders. He apologized but repeated the same behavior twice more. He seemed slightly drunk or very self-conscious in his attempts to look hip, kind of like a record exec who partied hard in the ‘80s.

Virgin territory: becoming part of the complete collection.

My tumultuous trip to Penn Station had left me physically and mentally flustered. My mood shifted from irritated to irrational to angry to relieved. This Richard Branson wannabe lit my shortened fuse and I was about to kick him in the crotch. However, I drew unexpected consolation from another stranger whom I had encountered on this trip; my friend Lucy, back at the seats. There was something comforting about Lucy. She didn’t seem too worried about anything. Being a woman of few, yet very effective words, she held an air of authority and security. She also seemed thoughtful, yet at the same time very practical, to the point of alarming. Lucy was not someone to be messed with, as I would soon find out.

While waiting in line and getting bumped by Branson (wait, the real Branson wouldn't be caught dead riding a humble, earthbound locomotive!), I tried to imagine serving food on a train. The work certainly didn’t look very difficult. A microwave was present for any food that needed to be heated up and most of the items were packaged. Probably the most difficult task was pouring coffee or any other liquid into a cup without spilling. I ordered a chocolate chip cookie and apple juice and returned to my seat.

The presence of food in her vicinity seemed to prompt hunger in Professor Lucy. A plastic Tupperware container appeared with cold chicken and roasted potatoes. This was the kind of woman who is always prepared and doesn’t rely on public transportation for her nourishment. Like a bear going in for the honey, Lucy slowly and deliberately pulled off the lid of the container and reached in for a meaty morsel. Although I had my cookie and juice to distract me, I braced myself for the imminent olfactory assault of cold poultry, unavoidable in such close quarters.

Raw like sushi: snack time.

Devouring the first bit with moist crunching, Lucy turned her working jaws in my direction, perhaps in an attempt to escape from Millie’s incessant gabbing. It took less than a second for the smell of the food to travel from Lucy’s mouth to my nose. Feeling grossed out, I wondered if I smelled the chicken itself or the chemical results of my neighbor’s saliva and breath mixing with, and breaking down, the salty victuals. Turning my head toward the window and away from the impromptu snacking, I prayed Lucy would turn on Millie with her volcanic mouth.

After consuming one greasy chunk of chicken and a cold, boiled potato, Lucy sealed and retired the Tupperware. She returned to her book and Millie and Mom switched seats to huddle in whisper. After a few minutes, the mother and daughter socialite team invited Lucy for a bite to eat at the next stop, which would be Philadelphia. Apparently, the ladies had blocked out enough time to dine in between hunting down Gloria Steinem books and getting tipsy at wine tastings.

We arrived in Philly, and the estrogen posse left me surrounded by empty seats. There I was, alone, with my own thoughts for an hour or so. Now, I could only complain about myself, to myself.

POSTCARD FROM THE EDGE

2004-11-23T21:30:00.000-05:00

A couple of months ago, our roommate left the comfy, hipster environs of Brooklyn for the friendly sands of Iraq. Although an avid gamer and champion of violent, anti-terrorist games, his move to the Middle East was not spurred on by political motivations or nationalistic pride, but rather an opportunity to gather once-in-a-lifetime experiences and stories. And, of course, there was the financial reward involved in this gold rush state of affairs. His plan, as it stands, is to return after about a year, with a hefty bank account and more than enough inspiration for another independent film. Either way, the spoils of war were there for the taking, all graciously sponsored by Halliburton.

The virtual land mine explosions and simulated gunshots shaking our roommate’s brain - and the wall between our respective rooms - will now be replaced by nothing less than the real thing. After blowing up “Tangos,” i.e., terrorists, like anti-terrorist hero Jack Bauer does on 24, our strategically minded friend is now looking over his shoulder instead of squinting at the pixilated screen. Although his adventures occur within the framework of reconstructing Iraq, he is like any soldier serving in the military in a war-torn, third world country, risking his life just by being there. His brother, currently serving over there, can certainly vouch for the risk.

Yes, we all doubted his sanity for jumping into one of the most dangerous situations in the world. He bought a one-way ticket to the land where suicide bombing is the preferred pastime. Is he brave? Insane? Greedy? Read these passages from this postcard he sent us, and judge for yourself.

* * *

“Did someone say Tangos[?] I just bought a [Playstation 2] today. Everything here has been quiet last few days. It’s like a film set out here, with no cameras. Some people are working, some don’t do shit, but there are a few assholes to ruin your whole day.

I was changing a few lightbulbs and smashing them, and yelling “Mazeltof.” [sic] Iraqis don’t like that too much. The 20 Iraqis I work with, I have been teaching them how to sing “She Blinded Me With Science,” “Do Run Run” and Nelly “It’s Getting Hot In Here.” You would shit your pants if you heard it.

I see you all voted for George Bush, good work.

There is tons of chaos and bullshit, and loud noise, so I’m having fun, and pushing myself to the limit. Tomorrow they are going to turn Fallujah into a cement rubble meat grinder. Hold the mayo! Payback is a bitch.

I’m chillin,’ and miss your insults and late payment notices. Tell the new guy some old stories over beers.

Peace.”

NYC MARATHON 2004

2004-11-11T13:53:00.000-05:00

NYC Marathon, Nov. 7, 2004. Bedford Ave. in Brooklyn, NY.

Elvis: "... we're gonna win this race...!"

"I'll cross that finish line no matter how long it takes me .. in these jeans!"

Photos by Hal

CURIOSA

2004-08-02T16:08:00.003-04:00

The Curiosa Festival
July 31, Randall’s Island, NY

On the Earth-Shaking Monsters Of Goth Main Stage: The Cure, Interpol, The Rapture, Mogwai

Across the field on the Tiny But Very Loud Second Stage: Auf Der Maur, Thursday, Muse, The Cooper Temple Clause

Poetic warblings from the ether - The Cure's Robert Smith

For a music festival dedicated to the kings of doom and gloom, Curiosa was an uncharacteristically comfortable and joyous experience. Clearly organized with fans in mind, the show featured bands with unmistakable musical connections to the deified headliner.

Melissa Auf Der Maur’s Black Sabbath meets Siouxsie Sioux-inspired performance demanded late-afternoon attention by the tiny second stage. Clad in lacy top, leather mini-skirt and black boots, the scarlet-maned, Amazonian four-stringer alternately rocked out on bass and pranced around the stage like a sexually charged free spirit, filling the field with her powerful voice. “This is the most romantic concert I've ever been to!” the ex-member of Hole and Smashing Pumpkins exclaimed twice.

Across the field, the four t-shirt-clad waifs of The Rapture got everyone on their feet with their energetic, infectious Gang of Four and P.I.L.-inspired dance-rock. But things didn't get too out of hand, and nobody worried about missing any of the bands as there was no overlap. Unlike other major touring events such as Ozzfest, the recently cancelled Lollapalooza and various huge, outdoor radio-sponsored festivals, Curiosa gave fans the opportunity to enjoy every act performing throughout the day. While New Jersey screamo heroes Thursday rocked the second stage, the main stage was readied.

Fans of all ages calmly migrated across the grassy field like a trickling white wave of pale, anemic flesh to witness Interpol. Stylishly dressed in black suits and ties, the Brooklyn-based goth-rockers looked and sounded absolutely huge and larger than life. The somber, Ian Curtis-impersonating Interpol of only a few years ago has smoothly transitioned into a slick and powerful quartet with formidable stage prowess. Although constantly compared to Joy Division, Echo & The Bunnymen and The Smiths, Interpol’s Turn On The Bright Lights (Matador) has become a classic album that will stay relevant for years to come.

Like Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd or any other long-standing rock outfit, The Cure are more than a mere band. The venerable Robert Smith and his revolving line-up have inspired an entire lifestyle among their followers, from looks to overall attitude. Although the entire day was relaxed and refreshingly free of obnoxious behavior, the masses’s collective anticipation for the lipstick-painted Big-Haired One caused emotional ripples within the ocean of people. The sweet, stale odor of weed, beer and bodies penetrated and enveloped the crowd. After passing a joint around, a couple had to drag their fainting friend from a coveted spot up front.

Under the calm, overcast sky, The Cure calmly took the stage with barely a “Hello” and dove right into “Lost,” the first song from their latest, self-titled album. For a bunch of forty-something guys, the band came off as quite energetic and youthful, proving their infinite relevance all along. “Lovesong,” “In Between Days” and “Just Like Heaven” seemed to draw the most sentimental reaction from the enraptured audience under the colored lights and floral images projected onto the screen onstage.

Nearly an hour into their set, the band brought out one of their darkest moments, the opening track off 1985’s Pornography, “One Hundred Years.” The overall vibe took on a new intensity, but soon shifted to the upbeat melancholia of early, Spartan pop hits “Killing An Arab” and “Boys Don’t Cry.” Having loved the ominous sounds of The Cure for so long, I can’t think of a more romantic way to end an evening among friends.

Faraway, "artistic" photo of Robert Smith by Hal.

PUBLIC RESTROOMS

2004-07-15T11:02:00.000-04:00

The term "Rest Room" is one of the most inaccurate euphemisms of all time. Never have I rested in such a room, nor would I ever be able to relax in one as bacteria merrily declare open season on me. But, when ya gotta go ...

Anyone who treats the use of public lavatories with barely a thought and a smile is someone I don’t want to know or associate with. These are also the ones who whistle annoying ditties like “Jingle Bells” to themselves. For people like me, using the men’s room at work, school or at the museum tends to be an exercise in discomfort, humiliation and olfactory assault. Everyone is familiar with this experience, so why doesn’t someone do something about it?

Perhaps the people who run public facilities are germophobes themselves, or maybe even the opposite; they are phobia lacking, unaware brutes that aren’t affected by tropical temperatures, horrific odors and lack of personal space. And don't forget the ca-ca-phonous symphonies emanating from behind stall doors.

While I'm saying what everyone's thinking, I may as well explain my simple proposal here. Install speakers above each stall and play relaxing classical music at a reasonable volume. This will at least mask some of the echoing, gastrological orchestrations and post-coffee pleading moans that punctuate the toxic, disinfectant-urine combo-tainted air. Regarding the forward-thinkers who have turned such common public stink-lockers into surround-sound lounges, we salute you and hope others will follow in your footsteps.

My next piss-positive pitch has already been put into effect. Allow me to illustrate with a story. Last week at the movie theater, my urgent bladder temporarily suspended my fear of filth-ridden bacteria dens, sending me in search of the nearest human waste bank. Springing up the silver catwalk to the intimate hallway leading to the restrooms, I nearly crashed into a wall of Tommy Hilfiger and Old Navy queued up to empty their swollen bladders.

Craning my neck around the crowd, I peered through the threshold of the tiled arena housing gleefully abused plumbing. Shining stall walls harbored glimmering porcelain amidst a peculiar, steamy haze. Shower capped men bathed and played Marco Polo in vast pools of urine while more adventurous types yellow water rafted in feces-and-pube canoes. It was a scatological nightmare, a love letter from Willy Wonka’s Human Waste Factory on Bizarro World. Horrified, I slid down the railing, hit the floor running, and didn’t stop until I stumbled into a large, illuminated metal door.

Finding myself in an unearthly foyer resembling an alien space ship, there was just enough light to make out shapes and edges. All I could hear was the comforting blow of constantly recycling, refrigerated air. A monolithic entrance, lit around its edges and marked with the universal symbol for male, stood mightily before me. Reaching out, I pulled the chilly, metal lever down and entered.

"Men"

A rush of cool, fresh air gently caressed me and pulled me inside. My body went limp and relaxed as I floated in, like a tiny vessel enveloped in the welcome rescue of a mothership’s loving tractor beam. The door swiftly closed with a quiet click and I prepared for a body scan.

Hearing a “pshhhkk” sound, I looked up and discovered a minor miracle; a timed, scented spray machine. Genius! Wherever this superior civilization was from, I wanted to join. In fact, I’d even say that I would travel to distant galaxies in order to further experience the advanced ways of this scatologically aware society.

Space-Turlit

Not only was this futuristic lavatory devoid of offensive smells, it was also devoid of the producers of those smells: people! I was in a one-man escape pod, equipped with everything I needed to efficiently relieve myself and remain relatively germ-free. The only luxuries missing from this heavenly washroom were the automatic flush and sink sensors.

The experience was so surreal, yet so visceral. I was so awestruck that I barely remember leaving the room and returning to my seat in the theater. Later on, I wondered "Would I ever find another safe, germ-free oasis again?" Like any desperate man crawling through a desert of discomfort in search of The Shining One, I could have simply imagined a mirage. Did this hazy incident even occur at all?

I have a dream … that one day … mankind will EVOLVE … to the point where we have total, touch-free automation! For in-depth coverage of these evolutionary steps, please visit The World Toilet Organization at World Toilet.com and register for the next World Toilet Expo. Or, visit the informative and quite revealing Restroom Ratings for unfortunate but amusing instances of an opposing nature.

BRIDEZILLA GOT SERVED

2004-06-28T11:54:00.001-04:00

Part I: And the wall came tum-ba-lin' down ...

If you haven't heard about this yet, a young lady by the name of Blaire is desperately searching for a husband to complete her life before she turns the ripe old age of 27. My first eyeful of this proud Jersey girl's web site, marryblaire.com, sent my lunch northward, as Hatorade Man busted through my wall with his signature "OHHHH, YEAHHHH!!!" And it was on!

Glamour shot and nuptial hopes -- both overexposed.

I locked my door, turned off the music and got on the case. You may wonder why the hell I would even bother paying attention to this predictable bottom-feeder and her cutesy, shameless piece of self-promotion. I suppose my reaction has something to do with growing up around a bunch of repulsive JAPs; those typically scowl-faced, over-tanned, materialistic harpies who were my kryptonite as a young man growing up in suburban Baltimore. Their smug sense of entitlement and the "I'm doing life the right way" attitude, among other things, sends me rolling to the floor, speaking/yelping in tongues.

After witnessing marryblaire.com's missive of marriage monster madness, I felt obliged to broadcast my message. And Bridezilla got served.

Part II: THE IMPETUS!

This is, more or less, what I found on marryblaire.com:

Do you know my husband? Or - maybe you ARE my husband!

My name is Blaire - and with my 27th birthday just a few weeks away, I've decided to go about looking for my life partner a bit differently, a bit larger, and a bit more dramatically!

My goal: To be engaged by December 2004

Countdown to my Engagement:

189 days, 14 hours, 21 minutes, and 27 seconds

Kiss these frog lips and I will transform into a Jewish American Princess! Oops, too late!

As I get older I feel my social circle has been getting smaller and smaller - and the prospects for my potential mate are not as great or abundant as in the past. I've been to single's events, done the club scene, and have been matched up and Internet searched.... now, it's time for me to Mass Market!

Over the years I've worked as a Matchmaker for a large national dating website. I am around singles everyday (planning/hosting events) and meet tons of men - but sad to say no one has captured my heart. I coach singles on improving their self esteem and dating track record (I'm a dating coach) as well as plan events for couples. I know relationships.

Furthermore, I run my own Event Planning company - specializing in Bachelorette Parties ... let's just say I'm around love all the time and I've decided it's my turn to get a dose of it! I know, you may be saying to yourself "Come on, this girl is attractive she doesn't need help!" Well I assure you - I do! I want to be passionately in love and it's just as hard for me to find love as it is/was for you! (I hope not!)

[I'm a] proud Jersey girl! Did the city thing, and am now am back in good ol Jerz. I would describe myself as a confident, creative, spiritual independent woman. Passionate, intelligent, motivated, honest and witty. I absolutely love my life and believe anything is possible. (please sign my guestbook or drop me an email!)
** I did that! But you didn't seem to like what I said!

I can't wait to read your email! I may put it on my website to share your words of wisdom, your encouragement or disapproval - without your name of course!

My husband is a wonderful man. Do you know him?

Preferred Age Range: 25-32

He should be honest, romantic, sensitive, creative, quirky, and of course good-looking! ** And he must be Jewish.

. . . . . . . . .
Part III: Open letter

Dear Bridezilla,

As a little girl, your mommy told you that you were special. By age 27, her little bubbala Blaire would be happily married to a nice Jewish doctor or lawyer, just like her mommy. Well, now that you've entered your late twenties, it's time to trap a nice Jewish boy in your manicured grip.

From looking at your obnoxious web site, I can see how you fit the tired image of the typical Jersey girl to a T. You're probably a big fan of trash TV reality shows like Survivor, The Real World, Joe Millionaire, My Daughter Married a Big, Fat Slob, etc., and want to use the Internet for your fifteen minutes. You are so pathetic that you have to put up a silly web site to find a husband. You obviously see your life as a mere novelty.

You should ask yourself, "what kind of desperate man would answer my ad?" It's just so easy, right? Set up some silly web site and the men will just line up so you chop off their balls and lock 'em up in a Teffillin box. I can hear your shrill, nasal voice screaming "SOMEBAWDY FIND ME A HUSBAND ROIGHT NOW, GAWDDAMMIT!!" over the Internet.

If you work for a matchmaker, why can't you find someone on your own? No one has "captured" your heart because you are a self-absorbed clone who just wants to mass-market yourself. What happens when Jdate doesn't deliver the man of your dreams? You'll be the shame of your town. I mean, do you really want to find a soul mate or are you merely trying to advertise your event planning crap? Sounds to me like you just want to be married because your friends are, and it's short-sighted sheep such as yourself that contribute to the viral misery of divorce.

Growing up Jewish, I've had to deal with JAPs my entire life. You and your ilk infinitely disgust me.

Sincerely,

Hatorade Man
"OHHHH, YEAHHHH!!"

Imaginative rendering by Dan Avery (note alternate spelling).

. . . . . . . . .
Part IV: Satisfaction is the death of desire

As expected, my thoughtful response was removed from the web site a mere five minutes after I posted it. Being the bastard that I am, I posted it once more before she blocked my ass. I'm sure I'm not the only detractor this monster has censored.

Anyway, as requested by Blaire herself, be sure to drop by marryblaire.com to let her know what you think (heh heh!). Now please excuse me while I clean up this mess made by my destructive, pitcher-shaped friend.

Damn, I'm thirsty!

CABLE GUY

2004-06-28T11:21:00.000-04:00

Good morning, everyone, and welcome to another glorious Monday in this f-ed-up world. I had just finished a tasty bran muffin moments ago, when my stomach started twisting into hateful knots from resting my gaze upon this sickening headline:

“A Texas couple who named their son ESPN after the cable sports network will soon get a visit from the toddler's namesake.” (From the Associated Press article)

Reading about how a couple names their own flesh and blood after a cable sports network does little to restore my dwindling faith in humanity.

‘Rebecca and Michael McCall said their son's name started as a joke after they heard on the radio about another couple naming their son ``ESPEN.'' ‘

I can see McDonald’s-eating, floppy jowls guffawing good-heartedly all across America. Is this real, or just some sick marketing ploy on the part of ESPN? “I guess there's no better testament than when someone names their child after your product,” commented ESPN spokesman Dave Nagle.

The future of marketing and branding: your own flesh & blood.

Stories such as this leave me with images of a dark, stillborn life to come. You might say I’m reading too much into this, but I imagine the McCall boy’s life might turn out something like the following.

“Thanks for naming me after a goddamn sports channel, Dad. Now not only will I face a lifetime of ridicule and irritating jokes, but I will also get free athletic gear forever. I will see my own tortured face on every snowboard, baseball bat and Kobe Bryant-signed basketball sent gratis. Of course I will detest anything to do with professional sports from the moment I’m able to understand why I’m considered “unique” and “different” from everyone else. I will suffer from severe depression and various addictions, which will require me to hock all that free sports junk with my imagined face on it. I will be pawning off my own soul when I doubted the existence of one in the first place.

I can just imagine how it all went down, Dad. There you were, merging your podgy, lard-addled ass into the new leather couch on a Saturday afternoon, enjoying the game between Budweiser belches. In your sudsy stupor you probably looked like one of those balding, average Joe America slobs on Best Buy or various car commercials that try, in a humorous way, to target pussy-whipped, debt card-wielding husbands such as yourself.

In one last, desperate attempt at asserting yourself in a disappointing marriage, you decided that your first-born child would reflect everything you ever wanted to be but never could achieve. Throughout my stolen childhood, Sundays at Outback Steakhouse would be your opportunity to shine. “Yeap, that’s ma boy!” you’ll say to everyone who stops by our table to interrupt our dinner and gawk at the bespectacled, unspectacular spectacle of me. “Esssss-pen!”

Our relationship will deteriorate as years go by, since I will never be able to live up to my name. You will constantly compare me to the other two unfortunates spread out across the nation who share my name. “Why can’t you be more like that ESPN boy in Ohio?” you’ll ask me. “He got into Kent State on a basketball scholarship!” At least you got free cable, Dad.

I will become the opposite of everything you ever dreamed I would be, leaving you without a son to live through vicariously. I will spend my every waking moment searching for an older man who will love me for who I really am, rather than sniffing around the Cinemax girl’s house down the street. Eventually I will find a small scrap of purpose in life beyond patriarchal revenge, in the form of my debut autobiographical novel “Cable Vision.”

Desperate and broke from various addictions and small royalty checks from the publisher, I will be forced to drive around a van covered in corporate advertising to pay the bills, just like you did when you put the first down payment on the house. There’s nothing like selling a little piece of your soul for a little empty recognition. Right, Dad?

BEAUTIFUL GARBAGE

2004-06-24T11:39:00.001-04:00

Living in relatively small quarters with two other guys can get a little cramped, so we never hesitate to toss or donate anything broken or obsolete. I used to drop off bags full of clothing and cassettes at the local Salvation Army, but now all I have to do is leave it in front of my building.

Within minutes of leaving several items on the sidewalk recently, the vultures descended upon said junk from the dark corners of the neighborhood. The rain-soaked, yellowed plastic drawer thing would soon have its drawers filled again, but with someone else’s stuff. That filthy, lint-pregnant vacuum that lived its final days rotting behind the couch would soon be reincarnated as a piece of “found art.” And I don’t know why I wasted my time bundling up those magazines when they would be available for purchase on Bedford Avenue in the morning. If I ever miss anything, all I have to do is walk outside with some change in my pocket.

Old ladies and starving artists (i.e. CT trustafarians) hawk found crap all over Williamsburg every day; you can’t walk two feet without seeing outdated (i.e. ironically hip) clothing from Marshall’s displayed on collapsible tables or hanging from fences like the corpses of murdered injuns.

After the last time I left a bag of clothing off at Salvation Army on Bedford, I imagined a recent college grad whipping out five bucks after "discovering" my holey thrift store sweater I paid 65 cents for in DC ten years ago. He’d probably slip it on before even walking out of the store, clueless to its long, colorful history, just as I was when I bought it myself.

He’d take it home, have his girlfriend sew an ironic Styx patch on it and flip it for $10 at Beacon's Closet or some other hipper-than-thou clothing store. And you just know someone would buy it.

Photos by Hal

BANTERIST

2004-06-21T16:57:00.000-04:00

Brian Sack is saying what I'm thinking. With Banterist, Sack sweats the small stuff with a dash of X-Treme Bile-flavored Hatorade and a keen eye for observation. Check out his September 16, 2003 entry entitled "Rant: You" and the recent "Notes To Igor On The Occasion Of His Hair Salon Opening" for starters! Then move onto "Greatest Hits" and revel in the misanthropy.

PIMPING THE BAND

2004-06-18T13:54:00.000-04:00

Promoting a rock show can turn into a catch-22-type situation. You have to get the word out so people show up and drop dough on drinks while you make noise on stage, but shop owners, random smart-asses and the weather aren’t always as cooperative as you need them to be. Just try telling that to the booking guy at the club your band is going to play next month. It doesn’t fly too well.

After tacking up and dropping off extra flyers along the humid East Village streets this week, I lit up a Marlboro light and headed in the direction of the L train. It was probably going to rain soon and ruin whatever I had posted on public property anyway. However, passing by a few promo-friendly stores, I decided to put in a little more legwork before calling it a day. After stubbing out my cigarette, I walked into a small dry cleaner with flyers posted near its door, and courteously asked the two Korean men there if I could add my flyer to their burgeoning but neatly compiled collection.

“Let me see,” said the man nearest me, regarding me with dull, untrusting eyes.

“It’s for a rock show,” I politely explained and handed one to him. “I see you have other flyers here, so I figured I’d ask.”

The proprietor of the establishment stood there, carefully clutching the small, black and white piece of paper on each end with his thick, vice-like fingers while staring hard enough to burn a hole through it. After watching him concentrate on the defenseless six inch by three-inch piece of paper for several very long and uncomfortable seconds, like it was some dangerous bit of propaganda, I felt impatience and irritation bubbling up through my chest. How dare I dishonor his business with my stupid pieces of paper?

Taking one big step toward him, I leaned in and rudely seized the flyer from his hands, making a loud SNAP. “NEVERMIND,” I blurted, and walked out without looking back.

Trendy clothing spot Metropolis was right next door, complete with friendly hipster working at the counter. I added my rock propaganda to their promo rack and stepped out of the store with headphones on. “HEH YOO!” I heard from behind me, my dry cleaner’s echoing, frog-like croak penetrating my headphones from about twenty paces down the street.

Turning around for a second, I pretended to not hear him or that I didn’t know he was addressing me, and I continued walking. The corner was right there, so I figured what the hell, cross the street just to be safe. Dry Cleaner also crossed the street. I ducked into a deli for a minute and pretended to peruse the pasta section. When I came back out, my foe was nowhere to be seen and I didn’t waste any time looking for him. Lucky for me, he must have finally decided to let the whole thing go.

Deliberation over tiny, insignificant social exchanges literally bends me out of shape. I actually feel my insides twist up. When you live in a city, you get used to people handing shit out, whether it’s advertising live music, comedy or the corner “V.I.P.” club. Yes, it can get annoying. Sometimes I accept the sticker or flyer or CD-R, sometimes I don’t. Please don’t stand there, mulling over a tiny piece of paper with information on it, wasting everyone’s time while you decide if you want to accept something that will eventually wind up in the garbage anyway. If you take it and don’t want it, for Pete’s sake, just throw it in the fucking garbage. Didn’t your mama teach you anything?

www.tearusapart.com

FRIDAY, JUNE 4, 2004

2004-06-07T09:59:00.000-04:00

It’s a beautiful day in New York City; a perfect opportunity to casually stroll down the streets, wading through the relatively clear, crisp air and those fucking idiots not paying attention to where they’re going.

Retort fantasy t-shirt by Dan Avery.

Pigeons dance before me, their winged movements introducing my every step down the romantically ubiquitous Park Avenue. The concrete jungle’s cold, artificial obstructions partially eclipse the spirit-lifting waterfalls of sunshine as their man-made shade cools my heels. At every corner, pedestrians instinctively spring between the paths of moving vehicles in a naturally balanced action that so beautifully reveals their basic survival skills.

The human flow empties into the riverbanks to my left as new bodies cut in from my right. I let the chaos swirl into a blur until it spits out obstructions into my path. As expected, Dockers-and-polo-clad Joe Anyschmuck swings into view out of the human traffic pop-up book, raising his hand in farewell salute to Mr. Suit in a customary exchange. Assuming that anyone or anything behind him will meekly steer around his field of inconsideration, he takes no caution in stepping back, even as his left heel meets my left foot.

“EXCUSE ME,” I say as harshly as possible – out of irritation, not an attempt at being polite - causing him to turn his head and nearly lose his balance. This sunlight-blocking douche-bag represents every repulsive, aging frat-boy lured into a degree of social discipline by the promise of cases of Bud Light and “Girls Gone Wild” videos. His oafish lack of awareness clashes directly with my crotchety, uptight reaction like an ugly tug of war between oil and water.

The dumb animal responds with a sort of grunt and steps around me the best he can, leaving me shaking my head and rolling my eyes. Manhattan streets are packed with bodies, unlike the wide-open spaces or cornfields you imagine you’re walking through, asshole.

blog, Blogger, BLOGGEST

2004-05-27T14:05:00.000-04:00

Since I started writing regularly years ago, I found that inspiration emerges whenever it wants. I write every day, but it may not always be interesting enough to share. But, if anything, the compulsive bloggers in a recent New York Times article make me feel better about myself! So click on that link for the dirt on the blog-obsessed. Or, if you don't feel like registering or logging in, you can also read the article at IHT.

On the other carpal tunnel syndrome-addled hand, a recent CNN article focused on dispelling the time-sucking myth. "The impression out there is that a lot of the blog activity is very feverish," said Lee Rainie, the Pew project's director. "That's not the case. For most bloggers, it's not an all-consuming, all-the-time kind of experience." Blog-slaves rejoice and read all about it at CNN.

THE JEWBIRDS OF HERALD SQUARE (AND EVERYWHERE)

2004-05-27T13:51:00.001-04:00

They come in the fall, descending like crows, swooping down when I least expect it. They fly in, dressed in head-to-toe black and surround me. No, this is not some violent fantasy from The Matrix where I battle 100 Agent Smiths. This is a threat far deadlier. These are young men who have devoted their lives to God and refuse to take “No” for an answer.

If you live and/or work in Manhattan and look even remotely of Eastern European decent, they will demand to know:

“ARE YOU JEWISH??”

Like Agent Smith, there are many, and they are unstoppable.

My answer to their string-pulled question happens to be, “Yes, I am Jewish.” But my reply, in turn, begs the additional question: Do I want to announce it to the world?

NO!!

Unfortunately, I never have a witty response prepared for this unwelcome violation of personal space and dignity. They always catch me by surprise. It's October and the autumn light gives the city an unspeakable energy and beauty. Just like every year since I stopped going to Hebrew school, I don't know when Succot is. Overwhelmed with the fall colors, I leave work and forget to slap on my headphones/social armor. I’m a goner.

It’s not long before I feel a presence by my side and, from the pit of my stomach I know that I’ve made a huge mistake by not running from where I stand. I look into the bearded face of a very Jewish man, sporting standard-issue God-garb. He has already coiled back like a deadly snake, and is now springing forward to make the kill.

Very abruptly, in that quick, nasal New York Jewish voice, he asks, no, DEMANDS, to know if I’m Jewish. This, of course, startles me, sending me into what is known as the “fight or flight.” Having numbers in their favor, flight is the only option. “No!” I croak, and duck into the nearest subway.

There are those unfortunate souls who have stood up to the Hebrew Horde and shot back with “Yes! As a matter of fact, I AM Jewish.” I’ve stood and watched in amazement as the bearded predators thrust a deadly lulav-and-etrog combo into one man’s bosom before he could finish his sentence. Barely a breath escaped the victim’s mouth, his head raised and eyebrows arched in an affirming gesture that he would soon regret. The man’s own body language became his undoing as he found himself trapped in an embarrassing public spectacle.

The irony here is that these robotic crusaders of the Jewish Diaspora are undoing all of the hard work accomplished by our semi-assimilated ancestors. They are “outing” us in public, on the street. They are doing more harm than good by reaching inside of us and pulling out what we sometimes hide, sometimes loathe, but will always love; they are the Jewbirds of Herald Square.

(originally posted 5.11.04)

TWEET-TWEET

2004-05-27T13:51:00.000-04:00

Many things in life annoy me. Let's take whistling. Not only is the actual sound extremely irritating (after all, who can really whistle that well?), the selection is usually absolute crap. As I write this, someone in my office is whistling "Old McDonald," and I'm thinking about smashing his head in a wave of mutilation. The thought of brain, teeth and bloody bone flying about the office sounds much more appealing than enduring even one more second of off-key, ear canal-violating lip-screeching.

You know what? I know how to whistle. But I don't whistle. You know why?

Because it's F***ING ANNOYING!!!

(originally posted 5.18.04)

PIGLET

2004-05-27T13:50:00.003-04:00

I love the word PIG-let!

A PIGLET is a baby pig!

The pink PIGLETS suckled from their sow mother's udders.

PIGLETS at play!

Piggily-wiggily, piggily-pooh.

Piggles McGiggles.

Pah-Pah-Piggles. I mean, PIGLET.

PIG-LET!

(originally posted 5.6.04)

PASS THE POTASSIUM, PLEASE

2004-05-27T13:50:00.001-04:00

Saw somethin’ funny on the L train to work today. As everyone was pushing to get into the car, I felt a hand gently clap my shoulder. An older Black gentleman squeezed by everyone, "'Scuze me, ‘Scuze me ..." Anyway, a forty-something Puerto Rican woman turned around as he pushed by, and handed him a banana!

It was just like she was handing off a baton at a race. In this case, the rat race, but with a banana instead of cheese. I decided not to ask her why she handed him the banana, preferring to create my own scenario.

Juana Rodriguez’s neighbor Joseph Peajan sometimes forgets to eat breakfast on the way to wherever he works in the city. Being that he was dressed casually in a track jacket, t-shirt and jeans, he is most likely a social worker or a gym teacher/coach of some sort. Anyway, kindly Mrs. Rodriguez looks out for her neighbors. Hence, her helpful hand-off. I guess there ARE some nice people out there.

(originally posted 5.7.04)

MORE ANGRY WHITE BOY MUSIC FOR YOU TO BE ANGRY AND WHITE ABOUT

2004-05-27T13:50:00.000-04:00

Joan Jett said it best: I LO--VE ROCK N’ ROLL! If you share this sentiment, and you listen to Fugazi, Refused, The Pixies, Quicksand, Glassjaw, Helmet, Jawbox, Tool, The Cure and early ‘Maiden and MetalliFuckin'ca, then Brooklyn’s Tear Us Apart may just rock your world (Yeah, I’m in the fucking band). We played a very loud and very thunderstruck show at Plaid here in NYC last Friday, and have more "gut-crunching" gigs coming up in the New York area. Stay tuned, stay informed … head over to TearUsApart.com to join the TUA Army!

(originally posted 5.7.04)

THE PIXIES REUNITED! FUGAZI ON HIATUS!

2004-05-27T13:49:00.001-04:00

THE PIXIES have been touring for a few weeks now, taking it day-by-day, show-by-show, from what I understand. The ‘80s alt-rock legends played the five-year-old Coachella Festival among a handful of other gigs so far, and will eventually make it up here, where that underwater guy who controlled the sea got killed by ten million pounds of sludge from New York and New Jersey. They’re playing the second day of Lollapalooza at New York’s shitty dustbowl Randall’s Island (bring a gas mask, I'm not kidding) and also at NJ’s Tweeter Center. They will return in December, according to various sources. The cool thing about these reunion shows is that you can purchase CD’s of said gigs right there at the venue after the show and also online at Disclive.com.

Image courtesy of 4AD Records.

How’s that for immediate gratification?

And speaking of live CD’s, FUGAZI bassist Joe Lally has made a bunch of live Fugazi recordings available at FugaziLiveSeries.com. I like the photo on the first page, because I was there shooting right on the stage. They let you do that. Very punk-rock.

Fugazi Live at Wash., DC's SYLVAN THEATER, photo by Pat Graham.

For those wondering what’s up with the DC post-punk quartet, Fugazi remains on hiatus while the band members work on other things. Here’s the scoop from Dischord.com:

Contrary to a flood of recent internet postings, Fugazi has not broken up. Over the years the band has circulated in and out of active recording and touring according to the ebb and flow of their personal lives. Two band members now have families with children and currently their concerns are being put above the band's. As of this moment Fugazi is not actively playing or recording but that doesn't mean the band won't become active again in a year, two or possibly never....such is life.

Members of Fugazi have always made music outside the band and will continue to do so. Ian is currently playing in a duo with Amy Farina (ex-Warmers) called the Evens, Brendan has been playing with Amy Domingues and Jerry Busher in Garland of Hours, Joe recorded an album with Black Sea (now called Decahedron) featuring ex-Frodus members Jason and Shelby, and Guy performed with members of The Ex at a jazz festival in Austria.

Dischord Records mastermind and Fugazi founder Ian MacKaye is playing with his new, more intimate group The Evens – also featuring Amy Farina (Warmers & Ted Leo & The RX) -- at Philly’s First Unitarian Church on Monday, May 10th. “The Evens' setup is reasonably spare: Ian plays baritone guitar, Amy plays drums, and both sing-- usually together. Live, the band sends their vocals through amps rather than using a P.A. creating a quiet but extremely powerful sound.”

So if you happen to be in Philly, you’d be wise to drop by. Visit Dischord.com and R5Productions.com for further info.

(originally posted 5.6.04)