blah blah blog

Friday, November 21, 2008


Hi Blog that nobody carries about. Myself included.

I'm going to buy the new Juana Molina album and a CD player immediately after, so I can listen to it instantly.

< link that i would usually insert here to aforementioned musical sampling >

i think she plays the gym coach whistle over shrunken cymbals with a stringed drone while marching. it blends my brain up and turns it into a nice gentle smoothie.

it feels nice to poop words out. thank you.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Profiterole in a Box

Disclaimer: This post has been sponsored by an outside party, BUT I do most everything on the cheap and sometimes write about those events, so what's the difference really.

Last night I took my girlfriend Ms. Rinita B. to the Soho Playhouse for a complimentary viewing of Life in a Marital Institution. The playhouse itself is unassuming and quaint in that it is tiny as hell, yet still is able to shrink everything down by 20% and snuggly fit a stage and bar inside the narrow confines of the former colonial mansion of the former Huron Club, which probably was a meeting place for upper crust men to gather and talk about clubbing Hurons.

My bladder was filled with grape soda, so I made a quick stop into the bathroom, whose outside door lead to another wood plank door marked with yellow and black caution tape and the words "THIS DOOR MUST REMAIN CLOSED." Obviously, I had to yank at the door since the message was so appealing and I saw no other space for a toilet. I pulled at the door to no avail, while waiting for a pirate with one wooden leg to emerge from behind the outhouse door, picking his teeth and discarding his lacy white hand towel at my feet and letting me know "It's all yours." Instead, a blond-haired woman in a black cocktail dress walked in and stared at us pulling at the little death trap and laughed "Are you high," as she walked through the mirror, which turned out to be the cut out entryway leading to the bathroom stalls that so seamlessly melded with the wallpaper I still hesitated to move inside even though I was half way through.

As I stepped out of the bathroom and Narnia, I peered into blue lit bar that was packed with middle aged couples and seemed to extend beyond the dimensions of the building. I didn't step inside since it so closely resembled Stanley Kubrick's Gold Room, I feared I might hack Rinita with an axe mid-scene.

Back upstairs, a quick glance at performer/writer James Braly's biography portended the NPR-style light-hearted chuckles that allude to razor-sharp wit, but dull at the last moment in fear that it might cut you. The unfortunate title of the monologue conjured up the cliched heterosexual yuppie couple angst that could be found in the book "Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus."

BUT I am not a judger; even though I gleaned this from his Jerry Seinfeld-like press picture and the way the hang nail fell on my right pinkie, I should let him speak for himself.

Within the first minutes of the monologue, Braly interwove the story of his dying sister with his relationship with his wife. The scenes effortlessly moving back and forth with a change of lighting on the silver grate back drop. There were stories involving potential placental mastication, deathbed marriages and a soon-to-be brother in-law named Uncle Yuck Yuck (or something as atmospherically disparaging). The outrageous tales in themselves seemed to aim for a high guffaw factor with its hyperbole too apparent. However, the wackiness outlined the prosaic details and decisions made within the institution.

One of the most engaging accounts involved his fascination with a French woman where he recounted the pull between this temptation and loyalty to his wife. He thoroughly narrated the process with simplicity and subtle humor. He never once had to whack her on the head with a frying pan to keep the audience engaged.

At times, Braly delivered his stories with a literal tongue-in cheek, amused by his own wit, which detracted from the presentation. The second coming of Spalding Gray, he may be not, but the show is enjoyable for those that would like to see NPR come to life every now and then.

Thursday, July 03, 2008

Pick me up

I hate when I get in a musical k-hole that forces me to seek out the
various versions of 'Orphan Girl.' With the multiple media access
points, my hole is dug deeper.

I am neither an
orphan nor a follower of that guiding light and the looming issue I
currently have is that my couch is not cushy enough, but this damn song
is making the pulse vibrate in my lips. I've been trying to substitute
in my own personal metaphor. I can only come up with the reunification
of my beloved english springer spaniel. But I guess 100% authenticity is not completely necessary since Gillian was born in Manhattan. (though she really is an orphan yikes)

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

The Kids I Never Had or The Kids Are Alright or Boohoo

My kids were taken away from me tonight. I showed up an hour late for the 6th consecutive time and that was when they were taken.

My ring of the doorbell was greeted by one completely naked except for his glasses with his hair dripping wet surrounded by the notebook he had torn apart and scattered; the other already outfitted in his cold day pjs, begging me to help with his rainbow Baby Einstein manifesto. Both were yelling and looked like they could have used some supervision.

I think they could sense that the end for me was near. Each was vying for my attention like they knew it would be the last viewing of The Goddamn Bee Movie together. The last meandering, non-sensical rabbit fairy tale I told. The last goldfish cracker I stole from their snack bowl. And the last blind eye they turned at this sign of my poor, desperate existence.

I came into the situation unexpectedly, not wanting kids, not even really knowing kids (less my nephew that trumps all children, less his yet to be born brother). I left the situation, unexpectedly, still not wanting kids, but still attached and touched like I had seen my pet bunnies eaten by a large tortoise.

My daily conversations have been peppered with R&A anecdotes since I took on my role. Some nights I would only make it through a shift by picturing the kids as wild running dollar bills that I would have to chase down and tackle to earn some sweet, sweet easy money. Overall, however, it is one of the random situations I have found myself in that has made my soul a little more pillowy. In the beginning, they would jump on me and hug me goodnight and I would receive them like a swimming pool ladder hanging from my shoulders. But slowly after awhile, I would tuck them in and give them a kiss and hug like a normal substitute mother.

The experience was everyday fodder for examining issues of child rearing, economics, race, recycling, my own identity, toxicity levels of crayons if inserted inside one’s anus and much, much more.

At the end of the night, they started to cry over the news that their actual parents would be leaving for a few days, so I left without having the chance to hug them goodbye and goodnight. I walked out of their apartment discombobulated, a little sad and nostalgic knowing that a chapter of my life was ending. Until I realized that that was not my life, it was another strange social experiment scenario I had put myself in and was less like a chapter and more like a full-page color JC Penny ad. I did realize how I did take these toddler parables for granted and should have documented them. But like Jesus, I don’t write. The ovaries of my biological clock have yet to ring, but I think I will make a great uncle.

So goodnight, I guess.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008


Delilah: Hi, who is this?

Caller: Hi, Delilah. This is Rwanda.

Delilah: Hi Rwanda, can you tell us who the special someone is that
you are holding a dedication for?

Caller: Well, I was born prematurely and had to spend the first
several months of my life in an incubator. Those nights were
physically very, very warm, but mental I was lost. Until this
special man came into my life. The daily visits of his orange
rubber gloves into my incubator felt like a shot of Lidocaine
to my system. Those visits got me through those days and helped
me reach my release wait of 12oz.

Delilah: Sounds like he really helped you out during a hard time in your

Caller: I only had eyebuds at the time and the feeding tub prevented me
expressing my gratitude, but I just want him to know how special
he was and is too me.

Delilah: Well, what can I play for you?

Caller: Could you play John Mayer's cover of 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean?"

Deilah: You got it...Do do do, do do do,
My Bonnie lies over the ocean, My Bonnie lies over the sea

**Shockingly there is not a Wikipedia entry for Delilah,
so I have created my own**
Delilah is the gelatinous voiced soft-rock syndicated radio dj. Each night, on 'Delilah After Dark' this adult contemporary velvety June Cleaver spins timeless tracks from Rick Astely, Taylor Dane and the later works of Aaron Neville. The songs are presented by listener requests and accompanied by their personal stories of inner demons and a lack of perspective. Her work can be found in your mother's station wagon, on the radio in women's correctional facilities, and Sade's home safe.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Trapped in the Closet

I have pieces of paper floating around that have little notes written on them that I don't necessarily want to throw out and definitely don't want to keep. One of these notes occurred when I was trapped in the vestibule of a brownstone on 121st St. waiting for a trombone player to either let me in or out of the building.
It makes no sense, but that's what happened. And the story itself involves Chinese New Year RAT08.

Now, I present, Trapped in the Closet: AUDREY

"Audrey," and with that she was out the door.

I, however, was finishing a gmail conversation and did not have time to entertain affected dramatics, but when she didn't return after 10 minutes, I followed out the door as well.

"Something has happened," she said cryptically finishing her previous breath as if we lived in a clapboard house with no heat.

So I ran up to 2C to see what was occurring. Hunched and lurching, Audrey was panicking Mr. Ho and Anthony.

"She's not breathing!" Anthony said.

But I was witnessing the opposite - huge snorted breaths so messy that there was no way they could find their way into her lungs. They were throwing pillows and bottles and spinning all over the place, creating a mess that was adding to the confusion.

"I think she took too much medication," he said referencing the bottles that he had just scattered.

With one foot in the door and most of myself outside of the situation, I calmly directed the search. "What about that pharmacy bag?" as they tore open the bag and shook the bottles. "What about under that pillow?" as they raced to the pillows and threw them over their shoulders.

Uncomfortable with the strange puppeteer effect I was having, I ran downstairs to check on the ambulance. We both waited at the door trying to hide our inappropriate excitement. After 8 minutes at the door, we were both wondering why emergency services was so slow.

Finally they arrived, parked perfectly with lights flashing horrifying a line of SUV drivers down our one way street. They ran up the stairs with their orange backboard more like a team of lifeguards than a medical crew. We stayed at the bottom of the stairs listening as Anthony nervously translated Mr. Ho's garbled English as the medics foolishly tried to retrieve vital information from Audrey as she lay unconscious. The scene seemed to become hostile as the medics couldn't understand Mr. Ho, Audrey was laying low on life and Anthony's neurotic tendencies were showing they were not meant for such a situation.

Five minutes later for some unexplained reason, a team from Beth Israel drove down the wrong way of our street, parked in front of the other ambulance and ran into the apartment. "Oh shit," said one of the paramedics as she saw our slick 100-year old marble staircase and ascended with what looked like a MOOG synthesizer strapped to her back.

While at the bottom of the staircase we could hear what seemed to be a fight developing:
"Sir, sir, you need to calm down."
"You don't understand she's usually very active."
"Audrey, can you tell us what's wrong."
"We were supposed to go to dinner. She never came up. She was bleeding from her mouth."
"Sir, we are trying to work. You both need to leave the room."
"What! You can't kick us out."
"Sir, I will call the police."
garble garble we need to get her on, garble garble
"My foot!""Fascists." "I'm going to call the FDNY medics and the police."

Oh Anthony, such a vestige from the days when the neighborhood was filled with activists and bullet holes. Fascism is such an outdated word like flimflam. There are no fascist.

Then there was a ring at the door. Tapping at the glass, attached to a burly tree-trunk necked police man with at least 10 more behind him, with a taunting burly tree-trunk necked grin asking if I would please open the door. As I instinctively walked to the door because his plan of intimidation had worked, I wondered if I should leave the door close since the fascists might arrest Anthony. Their grinning teeth won and as soon as I opened the door no less then 30 FDNY flooded past me using arrogance and brute force as their key in. You could hear Anthony's face being pushed into a wall and the FDNY overtaking the barricaded apartment sounding like a crew of Paul Bunyans with "What's going on here," high fives and crotch grabs.

I think some of those lumberjacks must have run straight to the roof since Audrey's tiny apartment and the even smaller landing did not have enough space to hold an entire precinct. Finally, after over an hour Audrey was attended to and leaving the building. However, Audrey herself is not a small person, so the FDNY was devising a plan to lower her down to the bottom floor. Amidst a bunch of heave ho's and a hand over rail system, we see Audrey descends to the bottom floor like a scene from the bride of frankinstein. She is carried out atop the head of the simultaneously jogging precinct in some strange Chinese New Year parade come New Orleans Jazz Funeral march.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Clinton Street Baking Company

Once upon a time in a two Chinese family town there existed the L*ms and the Hu**s, each struggling and speaking badly of one another in an attempt to dominate the lucrative eggroll industry. In such a town, the small Chinese community overlapped and interactions were unavoidable. Pleasantries were exchanged before the Sunday sermon while deceptive glances were cast during the off-key butchering of How Great Thou Art.

The exact transgressions were never clearly outlined, but understood by all. Each family member had their respective adversary of the opposing family, dictated by age approximation. Nearing the age of 80 did not exempt one from this policy. Those who did not have a counterpart where either written off as too bookish for recognition or confused with his older brother, the one that did not wear glasses. The responsibility of each individual was to excel in the areas of beauty, intelligence, dental hygiene, native language, mother tongue and hours logged manning the restaurant front counter, and eclipse their analogue in these same areas.

We were not the family that caught that case of head lice. We were not the family that received a score of 4 out of 10 on 'Behind the Kitchen Doors.' We were not the family that threw ladles and woks at one another in front of customers.

Though the ultimate goal was to out succeeding the other, there was a gentleman's agreement that barred any licentious behavior - no tires were to be slashed, no MSG to be misplaced. This diligence and hard work itself would be rewarded by eternal salvation accompanied by two ponies from heaven bearing golden carts of gold, nectar, root vegetables and more ponies. Slow and steady would win the race, even if the race killed you.

This silent betrayal was shattered with a transposition by the opposition. Within a period of a month, we noticed a slew of misdirected phone calls intended for the establishment of the other camp. The orders were filled and we delighted in the extra $1.99 and lamented the misfortune of our neighbor. However, this glorious schaedenfraude could not last forever.

One day while purusing the local directory of ethnic offerings, it was noticed that we were listed immediately after our friendly competitors. With the change of a 'u' to an 'o' we were now cleverly separated by merely half a point of spacing rather than the expected 10 restaurant buffer. How many of our lunch specials had they plated? How many of our loyal patrons would no longer enter our glass doors and ask me why that cat's paw was giving the 'Sieg Hail' sign? My innocence was irrevocably destroyed that day.

Anyway, I believe this is why I have noticed some heavier reader traffic to this site after I titled one of my entries as a bastardized version of a popular video website. That's all I meant to say.

Friday, October 26, 2007

Clean It Up

Sometimes life doesn't turn out how you planned it.
Sometimes you don't plan your life and you end up in some strange, deep shit hole of your own making.
Some people call this a wasted, pathetic, inconsequential existence.
I call this home.

Sometimes you watch too much Strangers With Candy and surround yourself with others who do as well.

:Halloween costume

Sunday, July 08, 2007

Entry #1

"There's a pigeon in the bathroom." I awoke at 3am to find a dirty bird standing on our bathroom's window sill. I stared at him and the trail of shit that he had left cascading down the loose bathroom tiles we had left strewn across the ledge. He no longer had a purple-green iridescence and looked like he recently recovered from an Alaskan oil spill and a fight with a seagull. After a moment of mutual consideration I instinctually began to formulate how I would exterminate him. I had often envisioned and prepared myself for my chance encounter with one of the Christmas rats that lived under our floorboards and the tragedy of my frying pan striking his head. It would be an ugly necessity. But I never imagined this back alley meeting with the perptually cooing neighbors. Perhaps a plastic grocery bag. Fortunately he casually stepped through the burglar bars and ducked under the 3-inch window gap like any embarassed man who had accidentally stepped into the wrong bathroom line. I frantically perched myself on top of the toilet seat trying to close our dust-covered, gnat-encrusted window. Using all of the tensile strength that the tips of my fingers could generate I pushed on the 3-year-old opened window, constantly switching the lock left-right-middle. His tail feathers were still sticking through the window. He could enter again at any time and coo me to death or if I did succeed in closing the window his tail and scream would be stuck and I would be forced to deal with 3/4 of an angry bird. But with all of the thrashing and cursing about, he flew away. I hope he comes back.


Update: Entry #2
Two days later a mangey mouse was spotted on the stove, inside the saucepan and way too close to Heather's head. Soon enough the homeless will be in my bed wearing my socks.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007


Again I was told that I am linguistically dramatic and referenced death too often for people to be comfortable. I clearly remember the first instance when this occurred. I was in a darkened theater waiting for the show to start, which had the thermostat set to 2 degrees to compensate for the 180 degree stage lights. I told my critic that my sister once had to amass a bug collection in middle school. Instead of ethanizing the bugs, she would catch them in a zip lock bag and throw them inside of the freezer and let them decide what they were going to do in that ice block...I feel that cold. That is when I was told I talked about death too much. Where in that antecdote did I reference death? If anything I think I talk about bugs and mole rats*(reference) much more than death. And when I am having a bad time somewhere and I make the sign of the noose and stick my tongue out, you don't know that I necessarily died in that imagined scenario.

Since we are not on the subject, I recently woke up and realized that I am no longer afraid of it. I am still scared of slowly aphixiating in an asthmatic fit after going to a dinner party where I was not warned about the 5 cats or being in a plane where a high-flying misguided pigeon discovers the engine and I will still scream if a mugger points a gun at me. Not that I am welcoming it and I really don't want to start over again, but I am no longer going to fight with Jesus over my lunch money. If he wants it he can have it.

Currently I attempting to finish my expose on dry cleaning for the project I am working on and I have a paragraph stuck in my shoulder. This should have only take about an 1 hour, but is going on its second week.

Anyway, here is a song for you:
I'm taking the title as meaning I have a smiley face in my heart for you, and not, you know...death
The original:I Will Follow You Into the Dark
My wife's version
(Note: Destiny's Child's 'Say My Name' proceeded this song in my iTunes playlist, which was very cruel. It's like shining a flashlight into a mole rat's eyes*.)

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Man of the Year

"Mr. Smith said he viewed most stories of drug use and physical abuse as exaggerations. 'I don’t put a lot of stock in them because, to be brutally frank with you, abuse is like beauty. It’s in the eyes of the beholder,' he said."

-from a NYT story about the dirty underground world of magazine subscription chain gangs

Mr. Smith is right. A foot in my ass is a beautiful thing.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Seclusion: The Solution

I am officially unemployed. The previous references to unemployment were half-truths, but I am now fulfilling the promise. If I think further than 20 minutes into the future, panic and desperation set in. Please keep in mind, dear reader, (1) this state is undesired, temporary and I am speaking with administration to resolve the matter and (2) any employment opportunities vaguely encompassing music, radio, or editorial are welcome.

As is such, to counterbalance the zero intake, I have reduced consumption to a minimum, eaten every flavor packet in my apartment, and secluded myself to my bedroom. Save for the occasional outing to the local forgetting hole. San Guadalupe of No Tengo Dinero heard my pleas and has mercifully stricken me with a bacterial infection that requires medication that will cause an immediate emetic exorcism if any alcohol enters my body. Further ensuring that I follow my choosen chaste path.

Initially I was hesitant to sign up for this savings plan of the broke. Seclusion can often lead to seeing of imaginary flies, speaking to every egg before he is cooked and sitting on your roommate's lap when she arrives home. Instead it has made for an urban monastery where I can read and reflect again and again.

Five days into the path I finally stepped from my apartment around 7PM and was surounded by the police. The SWAT Team was parked on the sidewalk five steps down, men with guns were using the fire escapes and the local news were interviewing idiots. What fanfare my emergence was greeted with! They know I have found the way! In reality the Hell's Angels had decided to exert there leathery status by beating up someone's face. San Guadalupe whispered in my ear "Go back inside. You're broke." I heeded the warning.

The next day I left my apartment once again and was greeted by a little Walden Pond flowing down from up the block, out of a Con Ed hole and flooding a two-foot width of the street. Once again the hand of San Guadalupe was preventing me from doing something unwise such as buying food. I went back inside and Santa Sangre was flowing from our tap. The destruction of the 3rd St. well had caused our water to turn a beautiful sooty amber. I decided to have a huge helping of the poor man's dinner by going straight to bed.

As always I have found the perfect song for the ocassion.

Additionally A (and I) still can be seen every Wednesday at a little place in the East Village. Please stop by. I will be holding a blog signing there next week.

Friday, December 08, 2006

U Tub?

Junior Boys + Godard

Click here. It'll be good. I promise.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

One-hundred Million Miracles

Is this picture real? It was on the front page of the NYT.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the cast of the Asian Economic Summit's after dinner presentation of 'Flower Drum Song,' GW colludes with theatrical ally Pootie to upstage Chile's Michelle Bachelet's turn as Linda Low singing 'I Feel Pretty.' Michelle could sense that something was amiss.
"It just doesn't feel right Steve."
"It's ok. You really were the better Linda Low."

Hu Jintao was dutifully delighted to finally have Chinese popular culture in the spotlight and secretly excited to play a part, even if he was cast as Madame Auntie Liang. But South Korea's Roh Moo Hyun had been suspicious all night. He stroked his Fu Manchu in contemplation and gripped the sharpened chopstick stolen from dinner tighter under his Hanfu sleeve. He would not be made a fool of like his Northern counterpart.

-Alexa L. (NYT Staff Writer)

Story ripped from the New York Times. I swear.

Friday, November 17, 2006


Of Montreal is a band that I have meant to investigate long ago. Not until I was shuffling through my brother's ipod, looking for something amongst his particular taste of teenage angsty yet simulatneously contempary adult light chemical romances, I found the theme song of my life - Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games. I could see it used in an ad for Chevy Shabbat, Liquid LS or another innanely named light-weight compact fuel-injected get away car. The entire Sunlandic Twins album is so great I have no words. Yes I do:

Referencing Mercury vapor trails and alluding to making love like a pair of black wizards, flashing bombs going off in your head, Neptunian blues that eyes forgot, and abject failure, the lyrics are twisted and nearly uncomprehensible but are completely familar. All is set to the catchiest, pop-programmed technotronics. Whenever I listen to the album it builds up from my knees and results in me windmilleding my arms and playing the tambourine with my head. Each one of the songs on the album is my favorite. If you would like to escape for 39 mins and reimagine yourself as a giant penguin astronaut, this will help. I don't like drugs but I love people who do.

Everyone should own this album. If you are a poor Ugandan kid reading this entry and can't afford a copy, send me your address and I'll make you a copy.

Sunlandic Twins Lyrics

Voxtrot is also very good.