where the sun shines damn near every day

Well, folks, due to some crazy unforseen circumstances, I'll be in Florida until Monday, February 11. Once things calm down a bit on the home front, I'll be available for mingling, etc.. If you're in or near the Fort, then we probably haven't seen each other in a while, and you oughta give me a call.

bitchnmoan

Listen, here. I recently found out that Aesop Rock, my favorite white Jewish hip-hop virtuoso, played a free show at Southpaw (which is a mere six blocks from my apartment) the other night. And NO ONE bothered to tell me about this. I thought you guys were my friends. The worst part about it is that I actually walked by there before the show, saw the line of people wrapped around the block, and thought, "what the hell is going on there? I'll have to find out when I get home," and then of course promptly forgot all about it. I SO would have been there. SO. Would have.

It's so cold in my apartment right now that my hands are going numb. I'm wearing outerwear inside. Also, I'm hungry. And I have to pee, but it's too goddamn cold to take my pants off. I just opened up the fridge to get some milk, and it's warmer in there than it is out here. WTF?

Woe is me, and all that.

cookies!

I just realized that it's been about a month since I last posted here at the dinghy, which prompted me to reflect on just what I've been doing with all that time. . . .



Christmas was spent the same way last year's Christmas was spent: Hanging around my apartment, alone, dicking about on the internet and telling everyone I spoke to how I was "just about to go walk across the Brooklyn Bridge." I moved into this apartment five days before Christmas last year, and knowing that I was going to be spending it alone got me thinking that I should create a new tradition for myself, which would be to walk across the bridge on Christmas day. I imagined myself gazing out over the East River while reflecting on the past year's accomplishments and all the blessings in my life, and walking off the other end into Chinatown with warm yuletide feelings of thankfulness and self-satisfaction. In reality, my "Christmas Tradition" is apparently to just browse craigslist in my pajamas for hours in search of comedic gems (and dates) and talk a lot of game about walking over the bridge.



I did get to speak with every other living member of my family on Christmas (there are five of them; we're not a very formidable clan, except for my mother, who pretty much defines "formidable"), so that was better than nice.


AND later in the evening I had dinner with the ATL, who even came bearing gifts! "Listen here, if you don't get to be with your family on Christmas, you damn sure aren't gonna go without any presents to open." We had oysters and champagne and onion strings and wine and burgers with bacon and bearnaise sauce. It was fun and delicious, and the whole evening somehow managed to warm the cockles of my shriveled, black heart. In related news, I've been rockin that new Skeletonwitch CD pretty hard.



Then came the 30th, when a dozen of my closest friends (okay, two of my closest friends, as well as five people I hardly know and four complete strangers) gathered to wish N.Eck a happy birthday. We sat around a big, round table at Lil' Frankies, which has the worst name and the best Italian food of any restaurant in the East Village. Ray and I had scrumptious duck ravioli, and more importantly, I learned that the secret to appreciating the band Bright Eyes is to listen to them in your car while driving around Omaha, Nebraska in the snow. Also, receiving a bi-weekly paycheck from them seems to help.


New Year's Eve came and went with an anti-climactic sort of ppffffffftthhthht.... It was N.Eck's birthday, but we had already celebrated that, and nobody was really all that drunk, even though I worked really hard on getting us there, and when we thought we had found a new funny interesting stranger to welcome into our group she ended up getting lost in the crowd (or running like hell, is more like it). My night-long wild goose chase for the elusive and mysterious MB ended with a big, fat handful of nothing, as is par for the course. But we all had a great time nonetheless. Ray did an excellent job with the camera, as usual, making everyone look beautiful, even the ugly people -- see:







The first few weeks of January were spent mostly in Midtown Manhattan, entertaining the lovely ATL, drinking too much, and enjoying the life of the standard business-class hotel resident. You know those stories you read about people who live in hotels -- writers and artists and other "eccentrics?" Well, now I get it. I totally understand why someone would choose to live in a hotel. Only thing is, the Marriott Courtyard Midtown East ain't exactly The Chelsea. Also, Midtown sucks. I started to feel like my personality was being systematically hacked out of me every time an overly-made-up fur-clad middle-aged woman looked me in the eye while tottering past me on the street.


Turned out there was a hidden benefit to spending so much time in a black hole of vapidity: Returning to my neighborhood felt like some kind of triumphant homecoming: my creativity re-emerged with a vengeance, and after I spent adequate time with all the parts of my apartment that I had missed so ("oooh, kitchen, I love you so much, microwave me some Easy Mac, yeeeeaaaahhhhh..."), I sat down for a much-needed beer at The Gate and was able to complete my first fully-formed, coherent, publication-ready piece of writing in months. (This is not it.) Also, I like to bake biscuits in the middle of the night, and you can't do that at the Marriott.


Last night N.Eck and I ate at Mama's, our favorite spot for BYOB tall-boys and big, heaping plates of lukewarm delicious. He succeeded in getting my tiny pea-brain all addled with linguistic jargon, as well as securing my participation in some sort of glove-dropping social/linguistic experiment, which will probably be, like everything else N.Eck is involved in, fun as hell.


In other news, I'd like to know why my brushes with the Falcon are always so weird and awkward, when we clearly share the same sense of humor and many common interests, as well as being of perfectly complementary heights. Probably he just likes chicks who are prettier and skinnier than I. Also I am weird and awkward. And have zits.


Now it's time to clean my apartment and bake cookies. I'm so domestic! Pretty soon I will have to buy a crockpot and a housedress and relinquish my sensuality forever. But in the meantime I intend to perfect the hazelnut-butter chocolate chip cookie. Taste-testers are welcome to sign up via e-mail or text message, but be warned, the early bird gets the cookie.

because i can't come up with anything interesting to say on my own...

I'm ripping off somebody else's blog. Again.

From "Overheard in New York:"


In My Family, Jack Daniels Is the Tradition

Middle-aged woman: Tradition brings us all together and makes us feel close.
Twentysomething woman: That's not the tradition; it's the Jack Daniels.

=:=

Merry Christmas, folks.

hipster quote of the week

"The Arcade Fire is just Neutral Milk Hotel for people who like suspenders."

Bonus: "Awww, you still listen to music? That's adorable. I only listen to ambient frog whistles."

christmas in nyc. . . again.

So here's the big news: It appears that I am NOT going home to Fla. for Christmas.

For my Florida friends: Sorry, I know a lot of you don't live there anymore, either, and this is the only time you'll be back in the Fort. Guess I'll see you on, I dunno, Memorial Day? Next Christmas? For those of you who do live in Fla. full-time. . . I'm planning a long, leisurely trip down in mid-January, so let's make plans to get together then, ok?

And for my New York friends: For the second year in a row, I'll be here in NYC, sans family or roommate. "Lonely guy, table for one," and all that. Anyone else in the same position? If so, let's do something fun. Dinner at my place? I'll cook. I know how. Ask anyone whose been lucky enough to find out. Dance party? Backgammon tournament? Boozy storytelling? You tell me. Get in touch. Let's not end up down at the soup kitchen, crying in our Night Train, like we did last year.

Or was that just me?

xo
Val

we had the best time at your party.

Ween are a real live rock and roll band.





B: "Yeah, you know how some people are Dead-Heads? Well, I'm a Ween-Head."
G: "You mean a Ween-er?"
B: "A weiner? Uh, no."
G: "You're a Weener."

so this guy walks into a bar...

Not really. But a guy I knew long, long ago was recently arrested for allegedly throwing a 4-lb. pumpkin at his girlfriend, in addition to, according to the newspaper, "several other gourds." This alone was enough to make me nearly wet my nickers, but in the grand tradition of milking the most possible humor out of someone else's unfortunate situation, here are my favorites of the comments spawned by this nonsensical incident:

• "Total waste of a beer. Everyone knows pouring beer on people doesn't make them more attractive, it just makes them smell better. He should have drank the beer then put the pumpkin over her head. Just a little thought would have saved the day, not to mention the beer, pumpkin, and gourds."
• To the girlfriend: "Be grateful for the experience and what it taught you: Move forward and duck for flying pumpkins."
• "10 bucks says his jailhouse nickname will be Pumpkinhead."
• "Hug a pumpkin, not a miscreant!"

=:=

In other news, I went for my semi-annual haircut today. After the stylist looked at the job I've been doing maintaining my own bangs and unconvincingly lied, "it really doesn't look bad at all," she went to town and gave me a new cut that she described as "mod." I don't know about that, but it does look disturbingly similar to the hair of the wayward 18-year-old waitress at my work, except her hair is blue. Too bad the salon didn't have any Botox laying around, I'd have been all set.

=:=

Quote of the week: "I never puked on myself until I met Jenny."

=:=

More uninteresting nonsense later.

outs.

"You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write 'Fuck you' right under your nose."

well, i'm screwed. or not, actually.

According to an article on Netscape.com's love channel, there are lots of things a woman can do to be sexy, but according to singer Rihanna: "You want to have good skin and be blond and all that good stuff."

Now I get it.

If anyone can shoot me Morissey's number, I'd like to give him a call. I may need some tips on adopting an asexual lifestyle.

that dog, he don't come around anymore

"the town's so small, how could anybody not look you in the eye, or wave as you drive by..."

here's the difference

Spotted in Bushwick, where folks keep it real:

In my neighborhood, they will invite your dog in for tea and a poetry reading.

over-under

Ever had a two-dollar psychic reading? Me either. Funny how they're so boldly advertised even though they don't really seem to exist. That's okay; a two buck reading would probably consist of something like, "judging from your face, I'd say you're not terribly bad-looking."

=:=

In other news, the Halloween festivities weren't exactly what I expected, but the night somehow exceeded my wildest expectations nonetheless. Ask me to explain this and I'll kick you in the shins. No, really. I don't usually hang out with moustachioed headband-wearing Russian gangsters, but I was feeling generous and I figured, "hey, it's Halloween, for Chrissakes, nobody should have to be alone, not even moustachioed headband-wearing Russian gangsters with ample chest hair and enormous foreheads." Here, look how much fun we had:





=:=

Tonight: My friends Ford & Fitzroy play the Pianos 5th Anniversary Party. Put on your dancin' shoes. It's gonna be a real good time, folks.

what to do, what to do?

So this Saturday night is when the majority of Halloween festivities will take place.

This bar is having a costume party. And cold cut platters.

Lucky 13, "Punk Slope"'s only metal/deathrock bar, is having their 3rd Annual Halloween Bash, promising "Metal! Punk! Drunk people! Insanity!" No, they're not kidding!

My downstairs neighbor is having a party, too. (Hey, baby! I'll be down later!)

The Drive-By Truckers are playing at the Music Hall of Williamsburg.

How to choose?


=:=


On Halloween, this band is playing at the Silent Barn/Raven's Den (which is actually somebody's house):



Old Time Relijun, you scare the bejeezus out of me with your songs about vampires and witches and black widow spiders. Hey, horn player, is there a dead bat stuck in there? Sounds like it. And Arrington de Dionyso, you already have a scary name. Why must you sing in such a scary warbling howl? And playing on Halloween, in a place called Raven's Den? This is just too much.

Old Time Relijun, let's get it on.

I'm ready.

=:=

Here's some advice on what to do if you're attacked by monkeys.

blahblahblog

Things I learned while reading Craigslist and eating Ramen Noodles today:

**note: No need to inquire as to whether I might be feeling lethargic and depressed, concerned friends. I just said I was reading Craigslist and eating Ramen Noodles, didn't I?

• "Cash and prizes" = funny term for male genitalia.
• "Cat in the asshat" = roughly the same as "douchebag."
• A group of mice might be properly referred to as a "herd" but is more likely a "pack."
• Someone in Ann Arbor, Michigan was lucky enough to find a Rick James album randomly placed on the windshield of their car, while it was parked at the shopping center downtown. (Rarely have I been so envious of the good fortune of another.)
• Bartering with/for alcohol and tobacoo products is against CL regulations.
• Tattoos can be covered fairly easily with a thick layer of Max Factor stick makeup, which can, in turn, be removed with roll-on deodorant (?!) and baby wipes.
• Apparently, some women aren't attracted to men. And vice versa. Who knew?
• The Multnomah Post Office is a hotbed of social interaction, but you probably don't want to mess with the "regulars."

where mah fitty bucks?

Friend-wise, I have been very lucky. Whether or not I deserve this is another story. It's been almost eleven years since I lived under the unfluence of SDRE and Slayer, double-brewed cuppamud, wake-and-bakes and G'ville mullet-hunts. Eight years since Bjork (Post), dead birds on hotel balconies in O-Town, and "sorry, Everlast cancelled, so we're giving back half your money and the Roots are gonna play for three hours." "WHAAT?" Five years since my first and last visit to the house of the coolest semi-crazy-cat-people in No. Ga..

By the way, I think I still owe you sixty bucks. You can collect in person, sucka.

i was looking at you, too.

Billy Harvey played in NYC again, and this time I was there.

fitting in doesn't feel so good.

I can't stop feeling that the expression on my face makes me look like I belong here. Having attended, I can tell you how frightening a thought that is.

just my style, part II

From Yankee Pot Roast:

“My earlier work, which I’ve also yet to write, is much better.”

(MB says he will now be attaching this to all of his work e-mails. He's a copywriter.)

just my style

I just spent an hour writing. About...writing. Somehow this seems worse than talking about writing, which is widely advertised as an activity that makes me want to puke. Now I'm actually writing about writing about writing, which probably makes this the most self-conscious paragraph ever put into print. Self-congratulations are in order.

So today I attend one of the most anthropologically fascinating events of my life, on two hours sleep.