I recently sent a text message to a friend after learning his grandfather had passed away. It read: "Sorry to hear about your grandad. My amenkamads to you and the family."
That's the last time I use T9 to quick-write a text. My "condolences", aka "amenkamads" (thank you, LG), were definitely not delivered as intended...but I have a feeling my friend, who is Methodist or Lutheran or Quaker, may regard "amenkamads" as a mysterious Catholic saying conveying comfort. So all is good.
Oh wait, sorry, the true point of this post is that when presented with a life issue so significant, I should actually pick up the phone and speak voice to voice/mail...or proofread.
08 December 2008
12 October 2008
MUSIC REVIEW! MUSIC REVIEW!
Santos Party House
100 Lafayette St
New York City
I thought that I would tease readers and never post anything about music or music-making machines such as jukeboxes. But I’ve decided it’s no longer fun to tease. I am not a tease, as of now. Last night I went to a show at Santos Party House (Andrew WK’s venue). It’s small—two floors— but clean, unpretentious (read: you can wear sneakers, a sombrero, whatever), inexpensive (‘cept for that night’s cover of $20), and doesn’t smell. In fact, it smelled like lemon-fresh Pledge for most of the night. Very refreshing!
I was there to watch a friend’s favorite DJ spin. I wasn’t sure what to expect…was it a concert where the audience would stand and stare at the stage? Or would the audience dance and ignore the DJ? And I found it’s a mix of both. At about midnight, my friends and I headed upstairs to see the main event, DJ Z-Trip, but he wasn’t on yet. People were standing in a circle, bopping their heads to another DJ. At first it felt like an eighth grade dance when no one wants to start the dancing and everyone just stands there waiting. But then in succession, young men dressed as hipsters or in hoodies hopped into the middle of the dance floor and threw down some moves. Some raved, some skanked, some did a bit of breaking. I think in their minds they were rockin’ it like America’s Best Dance Crew, but...they weren't quite that good. I totally give them props for the courage to get out there solo and try. At one point, I even had the urge to break into the circle and do The Running Man or Roger Rabbit, but I realized it may come off as poking fun of them, when I really meant to make fun of myself (all right, all right, and them, too). (Side note: I’ve decided I'm going to practice my pop-n-lock skillz for the future should I get the chance to partake in a dance off).
As the crowd was getting pumped for DJ Z-Trip, the circle soon filled with everyone dancing and jumping and gyrating and just partying like it's a house party. Then an older gentleman, with gray hair, a gray beard, and 70’s polyester T-shirt started trippin’ to the tunes, right in front of me. It was odd at first, and a bit creepy. I couldn’t look him in the eye for fear he would dance with me (weirdoes tend to gravitate towards me—see July '08 posting: “The Triumph Room”). I just couldn’t risk or tolerate it tonight. In fact, he was near me and my friends for so long, a guy leaned over and asked if we had brought our grandfather. I joked that the elderly man must think this is the original Studio 54…but he was having a great time and it was kind of awe-inspiring. One day I’d like to be 70 and partying like it was 2008, just like this guy (well, for him it was 1968).
At 1am, DJ Z-Trip finally took the stage. I have never seen a DJ scratch, spin, and mix like this before. He’s not your average club DJ. He’s an artist, an architect, a genius at blending opposites. He juxtaposes dialogue, tells a story, and takes us on a journey during his non-stop three and a half hour set. DJ Z-Trip doesn’t just spin records for us; he spins and journeys with us.
DJ Z-Trip dropped beats that had us booty-shakin' to “Walk the Line,” jumping to “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” dancing to “Jump! Jump!” He transported us back only a couple days, then 1992 and even further, when allegedly, our “parents were f*ing to this song.” (I’ve never heard the song before, but according to the roar of cheers and applause, many of the people there were conceived during that piece of music. I’ve never thought about my conception, and never want to).
We stayed until about 3:30am, when he finished his set with the subtly manipulated “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It seemed heartfelt and genuine, a thank you from DJ Z-Trip, but I’m not a fan of Queen so I was hoping for something more gripping, powerful, fun, or just unique. Maybe some hardcore Memphis rap mixed with Connie Francis? All in all, an incredible show that 21+ (and +++++) could dance their asses off to. And you know I’m notorious for avoiding obscene cover charges, but the $20 I shelled out was worth every penny. If DJ Z-Trip is playing at a venue near you, definitely go, and you may just catch me doing the Robo Cop in the middle of a dance circle.
http://www.djztrip.com/
http://www.santospartyhouse.com/
100 Lafayette St
New York City
I thought that I would tease readers and never post anything about music or music-making machines such as jukeboxes. But I’ve decided it’s no longer fun to tease. I am not a tease, as of now. Last night I went to a show at Santos Party House (Andrew WK’s venue). It’s small—two floors— but clean, unpretentious (read: you can wear sneakers, a sombrero, whatever), inexpensive (‘cept for that night’s cover of $20), and doesn’t smell. In fact, it smelled like lemon-fresh Pledge for most of the night. Very refreshing!
I was there to watch a friend’s favorite DJ spin. I wasn’t sure what to expect…was it a concert where the audience would stand and stare at the stage? Or would the audience dance and ignore the DJ? And I found it’s a mix of both. At about midnight, my friends and I headed upstairs to see the main event, DJ Z-Trip, but he wasn’t on yet. People were standing in a circle, bopping their heads to another DJ. At first it felt like an eighth grade dance when no one wants to start the dancing and everyone just stands there waiting. But then in succession, young men dressed as hipsters or in hoodies hopped into the middle of the dance floor and threw down some moves. Some raved, some skanked, some did a bit of breaking. I think in their minds they were rockin’ it like America’s Best Dance Crew, but...they weren't quite that good. I totally give them props for the courage to get out there solo and try. At one point, I even had the urge to break into the circle and do The Running Man or Roger Rabbit, but I realized it may come off as poking fun of them, when I really meant to make fun of myself (all right, all right, and them, too). (Side note: I’ve decided I'm going to practice my pop-n-lock skillz for the future should I get the chance to partake in a dance off).
As the crowd was getting pumped for DJ Z-Trip, the circle soon filled with everyone dancing and jumping and gyrating and just partying like it's a house party. Then an older gentleman, with gray hair, a gray beard, and 70’s polyester T-shirt started trippin’ to the tunes, right in front of me. It was odd at first, and a bit creepy. I couldn’t look him in the eye for fear he would dance with me (weirdoes tend to gravitate towards me—see July '08 posting: “The Triumph Room”). I just couldn’t risk or tolerate it tonight. In fact, he was near me and my friends for so long, a guy leaned over and asked if we had brought our grandfather. I joked that the elderly man must think this is the original Studio 54…but he was having a great time and it was kind of awe-inspiring. One day I’d like to be 70 and partying like it was 2008, just like this guy (well, for him it was 1968).
At 1am, DJ Z-Trip finally took the stage. I have never seen a DJ scratch, spin, and mix like this before. He’s not your average club DJ. He’s an artist, an architect, a genius at blending opposites. He juxtaposes dialogue, tells a story, and takes us on a journey during his non-stop three and a half hour set. DJ Z-Trip doesn’t just spin records for us; he spins and journeys with us.
DJ Z-Trip dropped beats that had us booty-shakin' to “Walk the Line,” jumping to “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” dancing to “Jump! Jump!” He transported us back only a couple days, then 1992 and even further, when allegedly, our “parents were f*ing to this song.” (I’ve never heard the song before, but according to the roar of cheers and applause, many of the people there were conceived during that piece of music. I’ve never thought about my conception, and never want to).
We stayed until about 3:30am, when he finished his set with the subtly manipulated “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It seemed heartfelt and genuine, a thank you from DJ Z-Trip, but I’m not a fan of Queen so I was hoping for something more gripping, powerful, fun, or just unique. Maybe some hardcore Memphis rap mixed with Connie Francis? All in all, an incredible show that 21+ (and +++++) could dance their asses off to. And you know I’m notorious for avoiding obscene cover charges, but the $20 I shelled out was worth every penny. If DJ Z-Trip is playing at a venue near you, definitely go, and you may just catch me doing the Robo Cop in the middle of a dance circle.
http://www.djztrip.com/
http://www.santospartyhouse.com/
15 September 2008
BURLESQUE REVIEW! BURLESQUE REVIEW!
Pandora, at The Box
189 Chrystie Street
New York City
Pandora is a burlesque show straight from the bowels hell. It’s not “hot” in the “sexy” sense. It’s raunchy. Naughty. It attempts to be artistic. But it’s more like live amateur porn bordering on comedy.
I’ve described the truly bizarre events to friends and received a myriad of reactions, the most stunning being, “Next time you go, let me know. ___ and I want to see it.” This reaction came (separately) from two married women, which gave me an unwanted glimpse into their private bedroom lives. What also bewildered me was the “Next time,” phrase. After everything I told them, in a tone of disbelief and disdain, they thought I would go again???
From the spectators to the performers, Pandora’s a self-contained freak-show hidden on a less-traveled street of New York City. The club-goers are the wealthiest young people in the city, dropping $1500+drinks to sit in the sweatfest of a balcony. They are rich, they are wild, they have no boundaries, and they won’t think twice about disrobing in public.*
As for the people putting on the show, the talent’s the level of a high school Gifted and Talented Showcase. Maybe they’re a little more limber…and willing (or allowed) to show their naughty bits. That’s not to say there aren’t memorable performances. The image of a drag queen revealing his wing-wang and then her boobies is burned in my mind’s eye forever. Oh, yeah, and then him/her reaching between his/her legs to pull a brown-stained lower arm, presumably out of his/her poop-covered ass. That I won’t soon forget.
Then there’re the two leather-pant acrobats who did some Cirque du Soleil type spins and flips over the audience, then humped each other off stage like frogs. Felt tacked on.
Another acrobat flipped vertically in the air and ended upside down dangling by his feet. As if his act wasn’t exciting enough he pushed his pants to his knees and his peepee flung out.
The last act features the Porcelain Twins, who I don’t believe are actually related. The girls do look very much alike but they partake in things that family don’t do unless there’s some sick shit going on. The only way to describe this act is like this: first, the “Twins” undress each other and blow cigarette smoke on each other's naked bodies. There appears to be some (simulated?) oral sex. Then one girl spits on the other girl’s coochie. A dildo is pulled out of the girl who was spit on (I assume it was inserted at the point I turned away in astonishment). Then the spitter spits on her own self and puts the previously used dildo inside of her own cooch. Then she reaches over and picks up something that looks like a light bulb. She puts it in her mouth, then the other girl rolls over…and at that point, I figured I knew where the “light bulb” was going, so I called it a night. If the above description is a bit hard to follow, just know a lot of spitting and sticking objects into orifices happened.
So, am I really alone with my “never again” attitude? Are you as enticed to see Pandora as those two married ladies? I’m telling you, my descriptions are as “erotic” as the performances...I’ve painted the pictures accurately…it's like you've been there now...which, come to think of it, technically means you owe me $1500…plus drinks.
*"No boundaries" case in point: My “entourage” included a friend’s cousin's young, rich client (follow?). The client brought his girlfriend who appeared to be about 15 years old and she literally skipped down the block in a tennis skirt and flip flips, jumping up to touch the Walk signs on every corner. The client drank very much. He danced. Ignored his girlfriend. Rubbed my friend’s butt. Told me I had “tremendous breasts.” I told him to take off his shirt and wave it over the balcony. He did. I told him to take off his belt and taunt the crowd below with it. He obliged. I told him to take off his pants…and his jeans hit the floor.
189 Chrystie Street
New York City
Pandora is a burlesque show straight from the bowels hell. It’s not “hot” in the “sexy” sense. It’s raunchy. Naughty. It attempts to be artistic. But it’s more like live amateur porn bordering on comedy.
I’ve described the truly bizarre events to friends and received a myriad of reactions, the most stunning being, “Next time you go, let me know. ___ and I want to see it.” This reaction came (separately) from two married women, which gave me an unwanted glimpse into their private bedroom lives. What also bewildered me was the “Next time,” phrase. After everything I told them, in a tone of disbelief and disdain, they thought I would go again???
From the spectators to the performers, Pandora’s a self-contained freak-show hidden on a less-traveled street of New York City. The club-goers are the wealthiest young people in the city, dropping $1500+drinks to sit in the sweatfest of a balcony. They are rich, they are wild, they have no boundaries, and they won’t think twice about disrobing in public.*
As for the people putting on the show, the talent’s the level of a high school Gifted and Talented Showcase. Maybe they’re a little more limber…and willing (or allowed) to show their naughty bits. That’s not to say there aren’t memorable performances. The image of a drag queen revealing his wing-wang and then her boobies is burned in my mind’s eye forever. Oh, yeah, and then him/her reaching between his/her legs to pull a brown-stained lower arm, presumably out of his/her poop-covered ass. That I won’t soon forget.
Then there’re the two leather-pant acrobats who did some Cirque du Soleil type spins and flips over the audience, then humped each other off stage like frogs. Felt tacked on.
Another acrobat flipped vertically in the air and ended upside down dangling by his feet. As if his act wasn’t exciting enough he pushed his pants to his knees and his peepee flung out.
The last act features the Porcelain Twins, who I don’t believe are actually related. The girls do look very much alike but they partake in things that family don’t do unless there’s some sick shit going on. The only way to describe this act is like this: first, the “Twins” undress each other and blow cigarette smoke on each other's naked bodies. There appears to be some (simulated?) oral sex. Then one girl spits on the other girl’s coochie. A dildo is pulled out of the girl who was spit on (I assume it was inserted at the point I turned away in astonishment). Then the spitter spits on her own self and puts the previously used dildo inside of her own cooch. Then she reaches over and picks up something that looks like a light bulb. She puts it in her mouth, then the other girl rolls over…and at that point, I figured I knew where the “light bulb” was going, so I called it a night. If the above description is a bit hard to follow, just know a lot of spitting and sticking objects into orifices happened.
So, am I really alone with my “never again” attitude? Are you as enticed to see Pandora as those two married ladies? I’m telling you, my descriptions are as “erotic” as the performances...I’ve painted the pictures accurately…it's like you've been there now...which, come to think of it, technically means you owe me $1500…plus drinks.
*"No boundaries" case in point: My “entourage” included a friend’s cousin's young, rich client (follow?). The client brought his girlfriend who appeared to be about 15 years old and she literally skipped down the block in a tennis skirt and flip flips, jumping up to touch the Walk signs on every corner. The client drank very much. He danced. Ignored his girlfriend. Rubbed my friend’s butt. Told me I had “tremendous breasts.” I told him to take off his shirt and wave it over the balcony. He did. I told him to take off his belt and taunt the crowd below with it. He obliged. I told him to take off his pants…and his jeans hit the floor.
25 August 2008
A NOTE OF OLYMPIC PROPORTIONS
It's been noted that my subtitle, "For every 15,000 Adult Male Performers, there are 30,000 Child Laborers standing behind them" (in reference to Beijing's Olympic Opening), is not entirely accurate.
The enforcement of the strict one-child per couple law in China, therefore, would theoretically mean that 15,000 males would produce 15,000 children. But I was counting the females, too, you know, the children that don't count.
The enforcement of the strict one-child per couple law in China, therefore, would theoretically mean that 15,000 males would produce 15,000 children. But I was counting the females, too, you know, the children that don't count.
NOTES FROM THE CORPORATE INSIDE, V
After I read in Anne’s notebook that she took samples of the Cafeteria’s salad dressing, I couldn’t believe it. She has facilities for this sort of thing? How does she know where to send samples? Is she really a corporate spy sent by a temp agency? She knows enough spy words...her notebook is peppered with them. So I started some spying of my own.
Yesterday, when Anne was out at the photocopy machine (she can spend hours there…not sure why), I snooped in her briefcase. And I found something. I found…a document…and it—shoot! Squeaky Aerosoles. Anne just got in. I should never blog at work! I’ll have to write continue this later.
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Yesterday, when Anne was out at the photocopy machine (she can spend hours there…not sure why), I snooped in her briefcase. And I found something. I found…a document…and it—shoot! Squeaky Aerosoles. Anne just got in. I should never blog at work! I’ll have to write continue this later.
15 August 2008
OLYMPICS REVIEW! OLYMPICS REVIEW!
For every 15,000 Adult Male Performers, there are 30,000 Child Laborers standing behind them.
No one can deny that the Summer Olympics’ opening ceremony was stupendous. The artistry, faultless symmetry, and harmonized movement was a sensational journey through history and tradition. I was moved. I welled up. I was in the moment with them. Until, that is, the commentator noted that the Creative Director (or choreographer) watched a rehearsal in which the performers wore black unitards studded with tiny lights. He immediately said black would not work, change it to neon green. Within days they had a new unitard designed. Within a week, they had over 1,000 of them sewn and covered in lights. I marveled along with the rest of the world at this feat. And then it occurred to me: China has sweatshops. It’s summer vacation. And kids loooove to stay up late. Of course the Chinese could churn out over 1,000 costumes in only 7 days. Scores of teeny children were available (ready and willing?) for finger-bleeding work. So it may have seemed to the commentators--and the world--that those sparkling green unitards magically appeared, but my belief is that there’s more behind it. A lot more…like legions more...of 3 foot tall, 36 pound prepubescent government-limited laborers.*
*The above commentary mere speculation. NBC has not broadcast any sweatshops during their coverage of the Olympics. It is doubtful any sweatshops will be exposed, as inevitably a whistleblower’s tongue be gouged and hands cut off.**
** I exaggerate. Surely the People’s Republic of China wouldn't purposely hurt those critical of their alleged practices.
No one can deny that the Summer Olympics’ opening ceremony was stupendous. The artistry, faultless symmetry, and harmonized movement was a sensational journey through history and tradition. I was moved. I welled up. I was in the moment with them. Until, that is, the commentator noted that the Creative Director (or choreographer) watched a rehearsal in which the performers wore black unitards studded with tiny lights. He immediately said black would not work, change it to neon green. Within days they had a new unitard designed. Within a week, they had over 1,000 of them sewn and covered in lights. I marveled along with the rest of the world at this feat. And then it occurred to me: China has sweatshops. It’s summer vacation. And kids loooove to stay up late. Of course the Chinese could churn out over 1,000 costumes in only 7 days. Scores of teeny children were available (ready and willing?) for finger-bleeding work. So it may have seemed to the commentators--and the world--that those sparkling green unitards magically appeared, but my belief is that there’s more behind it. A lot more…like legions more...of 3 foot tall, 36 pound prepubescent government-limited laborers.*
*The above commentary mere speculation. NBC has not broadcast any sweatshops during their coverage of the Olympics. It is doubtful any sweatshops will be exposed, as inevitably a whistleblower’s tongue be gouged and hands cut off.**
** I exaggerate. Surely the People’s Republic of China wouldn't purposely hurt those critical of their alleged practices.
03 August 2008
NOTES FROM THE CORPORATE INSIDE, PART IV
It is my first Wednesday here at Best Practice. Turns out, the Café serves free food on this day each week. Broken Spirit says it’s to give people something to look forward to; help them get through the rest of the week. She would say that.
I observed the activity in the Café closely. The Consultants acted like vultures, swarming the buffet and piling their plates high, as though they cannot afford a $12 lunch on a $106,000+ salary. This free meal, no doubt, is a means to win Best Practice’s employees—and this operative—over with paninis and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. So I’ve taken samples of the salad dressing and soup, assuming a mind-control ingredient has been added to the recipes.
I will eat Subway from now on.
I observed the activity in the Café closely. The Consultants acted like vultures, swarming the buffet and piling their plates high, as though they cannot afford a $12 lunch on a $106,000+ salary. This free meal, no doubt, is a means to win Best Practice’s employees—and this operative—over with paninis and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. So I’ve taken samples of the salad dressing and soup, assuming a mind-control ingredient has been added to the recipes.
I will eat Subway from now on.
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