Wednesday, October 30, 2002
I am lazy. I do not have the time or the energy to put these things in narrative form. Still, they should be said.
[Ed. note: more links will be added later when I am hopped up on goofballs and not before.]
1) Jonno's family rocks. I'd met his mom and dad and brothers before, but this time I was introduced to his aunts and cousins and his grandmother. I'd been on his case forever about that, about the fact that I'd never met all these people before, people he grew up with--not just casual acquaintances, but people whose deaths would warrant the sudden purchase of airline tickets and the pressing of our best suits. My grandparents, aunts, and uncles meant the world to me as a kid; now that most of them are long gone, I'm sorry Jonno never had the chance to meet them. I don't want him to feel the same about his own relatives.
2) The Ring is not as bad as you might think. I went into it knowing it was based on a Japanese film. I went into it knowing Japanese films make two dollars and no sense ("Mommy, why is that cat talking? Why is the girl wearing a bikini to school? Mommy, I want to wear a bikini to school!"). I got what Jonno paid for.
3) The Transporter is far worse than you can imagine. Jason Statham is hot and the production values are high, but there is no plot, or if there was, it was written by a non-talking cat.
4) Aside from Jonno's family, I spent time with many other wonderful people, most of whom I'd never met before. We had drinks, we laughed. Some people made plans. Mardi Gras may be very interesting and crowded this year.
5) There was one notable absence.
6) We were stupid and missed two very good shows.
7) I miss the bagels and the change of seasons but not the iced tea or the radiators.
Saturday, October 26, 2002
Okay, fuck it. Andy's freakin' show was last night. Like, if I'd even looked at the goddamn webpage I would have noticed, right? Jeez....
So all bets are off about tonight's plans. Probably still Leshko's at some point, but who knows? Call us and we'll figure it out together.
Ya wanna know something? In the course of all my airborne travel, I've never once been seated next to anyone I'd wanna schtup (with the notable exception of you-know-who, of course). In fact, over the years, there have only been one or two people I've even wanted to talk to. Now, those of you who know me, I'm sure you're not surprised: I'm not exactly the sort of warm and fuzzy person who strikes up conversations with absolute strangers. In fact, of all my faults--and I have a number of 'em--the biggest is probably the general hauteur I project toward people I don't know, keeping them at arm's length and giving me a convenient excuse to keep the family pictures inside my wallet.
Still, that's not to say I'm not open to making new friends on airplanes--or anywhere, for that matter--but would it kill JetBlue to seat someone cute in the aisle seat? At least get the ball rolling for me, that's all I'm asking! I mean, what was up with that skinny, pimply, bologna sandwich-toting gothboy on Thursday, huh? Why not the chunkymonkey wopdaddy Jonno and I were checking out in the waiting area? Why not the guy in the snug-fitting black jeans with the H&M skinnyrockerboy sweater? Hell, why not the righteous babe with the blue Sony discman in one ear and the cell phone in the other? Huh? ...Although to be fair, I guess I didn't get seated next to the screaming 6-month old child, either...
Maybe one day the moon'll be in the seventh house and I'll get to initiate Jason Statham and Michael Milhoan into the mile-high club.
Friday, October 25, 2002
Oops. My mistake. The show's at midnight. Drinks to follow, probably still at Leshko's. See you there.
So we're here, at Jonno's parents' house. We'll be in the city tomorrow, seeing Andy's show. Join us for the 10pm performance, then for drinks afterward at Leshko's. Or don't. See if I care...
Tuesday, October 22, 2002
1) This is George. 2) This is the gas George buys for his car. 3) This is the oil company executive who makes money on the gas George buys. 4) This is the terrorist organization supported by money from the country where the oil company does business. 5) We all know what this is. 6) The biggest weapon of mass destruction is parked in your driveway. Jeez, somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.
What do you mean you haven't told him happy birthday yet? No email? No e-card? No prezzie? You obviously know nothing about the Bronx temperament....
Why are you still sitting there? Get with the birthday cheer--and step on it! I gotta live with the guy! Yeesh...
Monday, October 21, 2002
Oh, yeah: we'll be in NYC this weekend.
Details to follow.
Friday, October 18, 2002
What the ?!?!?!
Either CNN posted the beginning of a previously unknown H. P. Lovecraft story, or the Yukon's making some kick-ass crack.
Maybe I'm jaded. Maybe I set my expectations too high. Maybe I'm overcaffienated. But one thing's for sure: Autofocus sucks. Yeah, the title sequence is good, and I was happy to see that the movie wasn't art-directed to within an inch of its life (unlike another flick about porn in the 70s I could name), but in the end, Autofocus amounts to little more than a director sitting on his ass for two hours, making facile moral judgements instead of giving you the opportunity to care about the characters. I mean, Entertainment Tonight could have made a less cliched piece of tripe. For those of you considering filmic forms of amusement this weekend, you've been warned.
Tuesday, October 15, 2002
eight zen questions for modern life
Of the 27 people on-duty at Kinko's, why is there only one cashier?
When does "no cheese" actually mean "no cheese" to a Taco Bell employee?
Why does my keyboard have a greater affinity for Diet Pepsi than I?
Why do people insist on sending html email?
Why does my Windows folder view keep changing long after I've set the default options?
Why can't money buy Bill Gates a good gay hairdresser?
Don't you know who I am?
How did you get this number?
Monday, October 14, 2002
seven adjectives for a monday at 5:06pm
dreary
bleary
shrill
chill
loathsome
uninspired
fluorescent
Wednesday, October 09, 2002
Oh yeah: I wrote for someone else again. It's pure mendacity, but it comes with a paycheck.
You can tell it's slow around here 'cause I'm tidying up. Don't get used to it.
My excitement over certain things only reaffirms the fact that I am, indeed, a complete dork.
Monday, October 07, 2002
It's kinda weird: just the other day, I was saying how no one really speaks of snipers any more. As a phenomenon, snipers fall into the same general category as flashers, streakers, and those who create macrame.
They want a profile? Try looking for (a) a 40 - 50 year old male with a history of stalking Jaquelyn Smith lookalikes, or (b) someone 20 - 30 with retro tastes that could best be described as terminally hip (and I do mean terminally).
Sunday, October 06, 2002
Homosexuals ruin everything.
Well, clueless homosexuals do. Look at Southern Decadence, or Memorial Day, or Halloween: at one point, these were all fun, festive holidays, fabulous excuses to dress up and boogie down. Not to get all essentialist on your ass or anything, but there's something very special and particular about the way New Orleanians pass their good times, and folks who first threw parties associated with these holidays knew how to do them up right. They knew how to enjoy the moment in that kinda unique way, when the only tools at their disposal were a keg of cheap beer, an amateur funk band, and a old muddy lot in the ghetto.
Now, yes, I understand: change is inevitable. These were good parties, and it would have been impossible to keep them from growing in size and scale. But even with everyone telling two friends, and so on, and so on, the character of the events had been kept intact. They still had that certain je ne sais quoi.
Until last night.
Last night was Decadence Ball (technically, no relation to the aforementioned Southern Decadence, though I'm beginning to wonder if it hasn't been co-opted by the latter just to annoy me). For years, the Ball has been a full-on freakfest, a celebration of the Ninth Ward personality: funky, dirty, nasty. It's been held in artist's studios and abandoned warehouses and on condemned properties, drawing a devout crowd of locals from Elysian Fields to Poland Avenue. But last night, as I walked onto the scene with my two housemates, I was dismayed to see so many Decadence costumes--I mean Southern Decadence now--scuttling around. Gold lame thongs. Oakleys worn without a hint of irony. Tans straight from the bottle. Couples with pupils the size of quarters darting off behind the stacks of unused lumber at the back of the lot, then coming back with pupils the size of silver dollars.
Where were the freaks, the beautiful, delectable freaks? Sure, there were a few familiar faces in the crowd, but not as many as I'd have liked--and of the several I recognized, there were quite a few I wanted to avoid. I tried drinking copious amounts of cheap beer to put myself in the mood. No dice. I left after an hour.
Of course, it's not just the homers that have ruined it. It's people like the woman I passed, sporting a mundane ensemble of jeans and a leopard-print t-shirt screaming into her cell phone with a thick yat accent, "Oh my god, dawlin', you gotta come down here and see dis. Dis shit is wild!" To put it in New York terms, the party's gone all bridge-and-tunnel, you know. In other words, it's over.
Maybe I sound bitter. Or jaded. Or self-aggrandizing. Or like an old person waxing nostalgic. But more than anything, I think I sound like Ralph.
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