Stellastarr* (asterisks in your name make you cool) played at the great american music hall yesterday in SF. A great show, and much better than I expected from a band who just released their first full length album (that I know of).
For those who haven't heard them yet, or can't put a name to a tune they are the ones with that notoriously 80's sounding "My Coco" song they are going to start playing the sh*t out of any day now.
Regardless... a good show. Solid drums, limited excursions into noise and the lead singer Shawn Christensen's voice held up dispite his trying to destroy it. Did I mention that new wave rules? Granted... their sound is pretty eclectic right now, but give them a few albums and they will surely sort it out.
Great songs: In the Walls (the obvious openner), Jenny, and My Coco. To bad I'll get in shit if I post mp3s because they are worth checking out.
A friend of mine told me this story by the water cooler this morning, and transcribed it into an email.
Cookie strode into the center of Teatro Zinzanni and asked that we take ourselves on a flight of imagination, that we imagine ourselves in a wooded glade, that we imagine her as the Goddess of the Hunt. Dressed as she was, in a glamorous outfit with a tall headdress and 8 inch high heels, it was admittedly a bit difficult, but we struggled to participate in her vision. The two-foot bow she carried helped only a bit.
So, there I was, wondering who the poor schmuck was who was going to be picked as Victim #3. In fact, several times over the course of the evening I had lamented poor #3's fate. I was drinking wine, following Cookie's gaze around the room to see who would be picked. I put down my wine and looked up around Karen to track Cookie again...
... and found her looking right at me.
Cookie strode into the center of Teatro Zinzanni and asked that we take ourselves on a flight of imagination, that we imagine ourselves in a wooded glade, that we imagine her as the Goddess of the Hunt. Dressed as she was, in a glamorous outfit with a tall headdress and 8 inch high heels, it was admittedly a bit difficult, but we struggled to participate in her vision. The two-foot bow she carried helped only a bit.
So, there I was, wondering who the poor schmuck was who was going to be picked as Victim #3. In fact, several times over the course of the evening I had lamented poor #3's fate. I was drinking wine, following Cookie's gaze around the room to see who would be picked. I put down my wine and looked up around Karen to track Cookie again...
... and found her looking right at me.
"You!" she cried. I pointed at my chest incredulously, and over to our table she marched, this six and a half foot Amazon crossdresser.
"May I borrow him for a minute?" she asked Karen, who demurred and thus sealed my fate. "Thanks for the fifty bucks," she said to Karen and out into the center of the "glade" I was marched. Before I went, I asked her if she was going to read me my Carmen Miranda rights, and she said she would, if she knew who that was...
I was asked to survey my domain, as the Lord of the Forest, and did so, arms stretched wide and face formed into a grimace of terror which I only hoped resembled a smile. Around and around we turned, surveying my domain.
Next, she determined that to fully know that I was the Lord of the Forest, I needed to display some, um, fur. And it was at this point I was disrobed, all the while attempting to hold in my abdomen so as not to appear grotesque.
I think this was the point where she indicated my nipples and tweaked them, but I can't be sure, as my memory of the course of events is a bit hazy, due both to the horrific scale of my embarrassment and the heat of the lights.
I admit, she was a bit disappointed by my fairly hairless chest (those of Italian descent have a great advantage over those of French in this department). So naturally, fur needed to be brought. An immense, furry hat was placed upon my head, with a mane hanging down about my neck and shoulders. I kept my abdomen as tucked as possible, so as to preserve whatever tiny shred of dignity I still held; perhaps that bit could be nurtured back to something approaching its former self after the show.
I was led again around the inner circle, or rather, the glade, and finally up one of the entry ramps, the one closest to the band. She asked me to growl, and I accommodated her, raising my hands like claws. She went up the other promenade and "camouflaged" herself, holding a gloved hand in front of her face.
I was asked to prance into the glade, where I was shot by a dart from her bow. She proceeded slowly down the ramp and pierced my heart (nipple tweak here, I'm certain of it) and told me that it was time for my death scene. So I feigned my death while a gentleman in the front row remarked loudly, and to much merriment, that I had already died a thousand deaths. Eventually, I died, and she placed my face (inside its protective hat, thankfully) against her bosom. I think she made another remark then, but I was trying to be as dead as I could possibly be.
She then bemoaned that fact that such a noble beast had been slain, and regretted her actions in killing me. She wished that I could be restored to life, and then remembered that she was the Goddess of the Hunt, and thus, had power over life and death in her domain. So raised up my head and plucked the dart again from my breast (these nipple tweaks were starting to hurt) to restore me to life.
I suppose I should have remembered what was coming next, and it came to me once I saw Rosette crouching with a camera nearby... after restoring me to life, she removed the hat and demanded payment... of a kiss. And so, placing my hands on the sides of her head, I gave her a big one, to applause and the flash of a camera.
We left Teatro Zinzanni to applause and cheers, and exited to the lobby, where my clothing, though not my dignity, was returned. We made chit-chat as I dressed and a few people came out to use the restrooms, applauding my performance once again (one pair of ladies said they didn't know me, but that they were big fans). I admit, I was a bit shell-shocked, but I had gotten through it. I think she took me out to the lobby just to make sure I was going to be okay, and I appreciated the breather.
She used a napkin to remove her lipstick from my lips (and then reapplied her own) and returned me to my table, to the cheers of my tablemates.
Thankfully, not long after, dinner was served.
So I understand that different cultures are more prone to embracing certain types of entertainment over others, but this has got to be, hands-down, the most creative character development I've seen in a while...www.doggypooworld.com.
i'm allergic to turkey.
okay well maybe not "allergic", but it's easier to say that than the explain the following to everyone i come into contact with. i don't dislike the taste of turkey, or even the consistency, but for some reason my body rejects turkey. i eat it, i get full, my stomach starts to cramp and i get ridiculously bloated and my body feels the need to purge it rapidly... no need for further details, but we can all assume what happens next. i'm allergic, i tell ya.
people don't believe me. they say "ooh haha, nice try, but that's stupid. WHO could possibly be allergic to turkey, it's TURKEY!?!?!" no my friends, this is when i prove you wrong. turkey is evil. it even lost out to the bald eagle as our national bird, so there's SOMEONE out there who's on my side. okay, well perhaps that's b/c it would be treason to ritually roast up our national bird once a year, but that's not the point. i'm allergic to it. allergic!
now that you're armed with the facts, this little email will make more sense:
okay so i had to order lunch for a meeting today. ordered. looks great.
people are happy. there are leftovers after the meeting. delicious
panini sandwiches. i ask if one of the tasties is chicken, they say yes.
okay it must be sliced chicken. i ate it. WRONG. NOT CHICKEN. IT WAS
TURKEY! evil, triptophanic, stupid turkey. i can't tell the difference
btw turkey and chicken damnit! my belly has grown 2 inches, i'm bloated
and uncomfortable. i have 45 more minutes of work. stupid stupid stupid
sandwich. i have to go potty. 43 more minutes....... =(
DUMB BIRD.
Strange thing, layoffs.
I'm trying to figure out who I still work with... Shouldn't they mail out a list? Would that be rude? Is it insensitive of them to acknowledge what actually went down? That way, you don't mail someone that's gone and have it bounce back to you... what the fuck is that? Now you are the tool who didn't realize they got laid off... and your email was something stupid like a chain letter or dumb internet joke. Meanwhile, they have to make an appointment to come pick up their shit? Holy.
They really should send out a list.
A list of people I want to draw or paint, off the top of my head:
Batman, Stan Lee, George Bush, John Kerry, the lead singer of Coldplay, Thom Yorke, Death Cab for Cutie, The Distillers, Superman, Jerry Seinfeld as Superman, Terry Tate, my Wife, my Dad, my Brother
http://www.johnkerryisadouchebagbutimvotingforhimanyway.com/
Today was one of those fridays. It was so beautiful that when I stepped outside from my cubicle... I didn't know where to begin. I just sat on the curb for a half our and smelled the air.
sooooo drinking margaritas during the middle of the day used to be a good idea. a great idea, in fact. but not today. not in my new, boring life. today is friday. today it's gorgeous outside.....mid 80s. beach weather. my boss seems to think this is a perfect day to crank the A/C (see entry "Arctic Tundra") and have a highly productive day. i disagree.
sooooo drinking margaritas during the middle of the day used to be a good idea. a great idea, in fact. but not today. not in my new, boring life. today is friday. today it's gorgeous outside.....mid 80s. beach weather. my boss seems to think this is a perfect day to crank the A/C (see entry "Arctic Tundra") and have a highly productive day. i disagree.
today was a coworker's bday, today bossman had a lunch meeting...aka perfect day for a long lunch. a long lunch with a margarita. a long lunch with a margarita or two. so i hop back to my desk with a smile, only to be inundated with complicated requests and schedule conflicts. whyyyyyyyy people, why? it's going to be a wonderful weekend, can't we just throw on some sunglasses and feel the spirit(s) flowing through our veins?
negative.... not in this sunny hell.
so i just caught some guy, one of the 'talent', staring at me as i filled my water cup. he has long hair and a femme voice. he complimented me on my toes. no wait, my toe. "you have pretty toenail." which one, boy? i have ten. creepy. odd. but thanks anyway. this is the last time i wear a skirt to this joint.
i'm gonna put on my crest white strips. they're premium. 2.5 hours to go. kill me.
some of you may not realize this, but there is, in fact, a certain point when it is OK to throw away an inner office envelope.
people in my office don't realize this, so this is my effort to get the word out to the four of you who may possibly read this: if the envelope appears as though someone's four year old has scribbled a family portrait on it, throw it out. if there are tire tracks or foot marks on it, throw it out. if the little paper dowl or piece of string has shriveled, fallen off or your fastening them together as a noose, throw it out. if all the edges have split and been TAPED back together, throw it out. hell, recycle if you prefer, but whatever you do, DO NOT find a square centimeter of space to add "just one more name" on the damn thing. throw it out. there are more available.
maybe if the office retards i work with would actually use the designation lines as a guide and not a "suggestion" then we'd be able to use the envelopes more often, but nooooooo. fat Cathy down in Accounts Payable has to write your name if 45 font with a big fat circle around it. Like i'm not gonna see the horrific scribble of red sharpie from 15 feet away.
i know everyone is environmentally conscious, but don't worry. we've still got a solid 80 years before the forests are completely devasted. And we'll all be dead by then, hopefully. In 40 years the whole world will be digital anyway and only a few natives in zimbabwe will require paper and a slab of graphite. totally fine.
so my fine people, heed my word to make this world a better place..... "when in doubt, throw it out."
thank you.
a little diddy from a few weeks ago....
random story for the day:
so my dramatic aunt from NYC was in town visiting her single opera singer friends (which = opera singers are even more embarrassing than regular relatives). i met them out for drinks at a fairly posh beverly hills restaurant after work last night (Maple Drive Restaurant). by the time i get there, the singing trio has of course drained the bartenders of all their personal info and is eager to make a connection somewhere. so i show up around their third drink and they're scouting the bar for eligible men. well all the eligible older men in LA don't want eligible older women, they want tarts with no boobs, so they can buy them implants in exchange for sex. aaanyway, that was interesting to watch, not to mention alarming.
so i start chatting with the metrosexual bartenders (who are actors, surprise) and it turns out one guy was from Ohio (the other was very keanu reeves aka not so bright). so we start chatting about our respective ohio colleges and partying vs the LA scene etc. then my aunt's friend comes over and blares, "ARE YOU MAKING A CONNECTION? DO WE HAVE A CONNECTION HERE?!?" so i start stuttering and the bartender runs away. wow, that's embarrassing.
so as i'm reeling to try to recover from that, i hear my aunt beckon from
the other side of the bar, OOOOOH MIIIIIISSSSYYYYY (in her opera tone),
DC! WE HAVE SOMEONE HERE FROM DC...YOU TWO SHOULD TALK! oh lord. luckily this time it was a girl, so i knew she wasn't trying to set me up. "kate"
was originally from DC and had just moved here from NYC five months ago.
so she was cool and we bonded over the fact that our witty sarcasm ends up
insulting just about everyone in Los Angeles county. she was of course a
gorgeous waitress/actress and a size 2. more chips please.
around 7:45, 2/3 of the trio was ready to head off to our dinner
destination, but my aunt and i were having fun chatting at the bar, so i
finish my raspberry stoli and sprite and Ohio dude quickly sets another
glass in front of me, saying it's on the house. so i ask if we're staying
for one more drink and friend #1 is like OH NO, WE'RE GOING TO DINNER NOW.
uuuuuuuuum are you asking me to deny a free drink from my Ohio brethren?
NO SOUP FOR YOU. so i totally had to ditch the drink. that's just rude,
not to mention, free drinks from metrosexuals are a goldmine. you all
feel me on this.
then the tab comes and ohio/keanu hooked us up a bit, so my aunt and i
naturally assume that we'll hook 'em up with a tip. but the AARP divas
weren't raised that way. so we end up with enough to cover the tab and a
basic tip. wanting to end on a good note, i had to bust out the plastic
for sufficient payment ....as i do so often. not to worry, my aunt later
stuffed a Hamilton in my pocket, to make up the difference.
the 2 hour dinner scenario in "ThaiTown" is a whole other story.
highlights include: getting the wrong directions....twice. Thai karaoke.
shrimp soup. shrimp cakes. pork sates and unidentified fried things. i
don't like shrimp. not a huge fan of pork either. can't stand Thai
showtunes. i wanted to kill myself.
basically, i got the names of the bartenders and they said to come back
anytime for "the hook up". now to recruit some socially acceptable
partners in crime, cause we know where to party.....and where to never
ever eat. ever.
end scene.
so i think my boss is going through menopause. not exactly shocking news, until you realize that my boss is a man. call it "man-o-pause" if you want, but everyday is a constant battle over the thermostat. this powerful little device is conveniently located in his bright, sunny office...overlooking Beverly Blvd. he has windows. he is flooded with sunlight and accolades. I, the peon, sit in a cavelike domain that exists in the hallway, surrounded by telephones and computer magazines. i am bathed in countless watts of flourescent light. i stare at blank shit-taupe walls all day, feeling every excrutiating minute that exists between 9:30 AM and 6:30 PM M-F. sadly, a good portion of these minutes are spent in the great thermostat war of 2004....
my boss arrives. A/C comes on full blast. i put on whatever jacket, sweater or down comforter that i've brought for the day. this is the first half hour of my morning. he exits his domain periodically to chat it up with "his boys," so i sneak into the "ice box" and crank the temp up to 76 degrees. apon his return, it usually takes him about 20 minutes to realize that it's slightly above freezing and down down down goes the tstat.
i'm fairly certain that he doesn't realize his thermostat also mandates the temperature of the bathrooms in the lobby. you try taking a piss when your bladder has lodged itself far up into your body cavity, huddling around your other organs. human parts can only function appropriately in certain temperature ranges. porcelain does not conduct heat. i pity the eskimos.
one day the tstat wouldn't work. it was broken. i felt encircled by an unusual, glorious warmth. i heard angels singing. no, i heard my boss yelling for me to call down to facilities ASAP!!!! so i stalled. said it was a "generator problem, facilites knew about it." 45 minutes later he was panicking. guilt settled in and i called down. up comes the engineer, "yep it's broken." thanks dude, now is there anyway that you have to "order a part" and it won't be in until, say, next tuesday? negative. the "cool flo" was back in business by lunch...and didn't turn off until 6:25 PM.
it's always worse when he has a meeting in his office. all that hot air blasting around really warms up the place. i light matches as the temperature plummets. it the artic tundra, bossman is in peak form while he and his team plot more ways to take over the universe.... or as i've recently discovered, they're probably watching March Madness on his computer. since he's the boss, he gets to stream video. i, however, can't even send out an email over 20K. back to the gully, slave. point being, i schedule his meetings in a conference room whenever possible. if the room is booked, i do whatever is in my power to sabotage the other agent's meeting.
i must point out that i'm not sure of my boss's take on this. he obviously knows that someone is foiling his polar efforts, yet i doubt he will confront me. he's weak. for christmas, i debated whether or not to make him a "Degree Antipersperant" gift basket. other coworkers thought that could be "mildly offensive". what do they know.
it would make more sense to raise the issue in a mature manner and democratically resolve the matter with a compromise, but i shun this tactic. why? would that make a great blog? i think not. welcome to my world, everyone.
~JFPasst
Just picked up a copy of the "believer" magazine this weekend.
Check this url: www.believermag.com
I have seen it on the stands before, and the design is what made me buy it. They get a bunch of fantagraphics comic artists to do most of the illustrations (tony millionaire, dan clowes, etc) and the articles span a huge spectrum of stuff (fiction, politics, pop etc). It reminds me of a young hip new yorker built by those brilliant guys at 826 valencia or mcsweeney's book publishing
This last issue had an excellent article on the downfall of the Dean campaign. Interesting, it wrote more about the mundane than the traditionally newsworthy, making the politics seem sickeningly more real
Dave eggars also has an article that I am about to get started on - he wrote "You Shall Know our Velocity" which is the best book I have read in a long time.
Check the site out and read their headlines... great articles in this thing.