The World Needs A Stronger Blog...: August 2008

Showing newest 58 of 71 posts from August 2008. Show older posts

29 August 2008

Mad Libs

I've posted before about my girl Double R who's in pathology school... Well today she had to remove a __________ from a girls ______.

Touché!!

McCain picks Alaska Governor Sarah Louise Palin as his running mate.

Saw a guy walking to his Mini-Cooper this morning carrying a yoga mat. Made me wanna smoke a pack of Marlboros, drink a Bud and watch some football.

22 August 2008

Hi, we're absolutely retarded.

1. High class problem (noun): A good problem to have.

Nils Olav is the king penguin from the Edinburgh Zoo (that's Scotland, folks) who was knighted in front of 30 members of the Norwegian guard. He's also the Colonel-in-chief of the Norwegian army. He's the third penguin in Norwegian history to receive the honor. It's a tradition!

This photo is so Russian.

Look, I love me some fall. I'd much rather sit on my porch during a rainstorm or on a crisp November night than on a 95 degree day in the middle of July. That said, Rite Aid is fucking nuts. The way they rush the holidays and seasons is just obscene. So obscene that its quite endearing and wonderful. And so, today, August 22, fall officially begins at Rite Aid. (I've written about this before, go see). Above pic by Babypot.

Separated at Birth?

Lehman Brothers' Chairman and CEO Richard Fuld and deceased actor Andreas Katsulas?

We'll Take Manhattan

I'm down with the whole rooftop bar thing. I'm on the bandwagon; drinking the Kool Aid; in on the take, etc. But what is the deal with the mint mojito? Is it the official rooftop bar cocktail? Is it a social faux pas to order anything else these days? Gosh! But where else can you grab some after-hours libation sipped in style at a hotel sans room key whilst mingling among a mélange of the local and urbane. Where the clown tethered to his BlackBerry rubs elbows with the family from Saint Paul. The view from this particular rooftop bar is interesting because you can drink in the shadows of my past and current offices. Highly exciting.

Got That Diabeetus

Bloomberg Wants To Power Gotham with Windmills. I back it.

Love this blog. http://newyorkdailyphoto.blogspot.com/

Working on two stories right now whilst juggling my actual job...

Story #1 is about how much Spring Street has changed in the past 10 years and story #2 is about how Jesus was most likely of Arab, Armenian, Berber, Roman, Greek or Black African descent which contradicts the widely held christian belief that Jesus' birth was a unique miracle, an "incarnation in flesh of divine substance." Hmmmm.

Stay tuned...

Name That Pizza

OK, all you diehard pizza snobs. Name this pizza.

I ♥ Spam

LOVED the subject of this one...

-----Original Message-----
From: allin ioakim
To: dogs@pitbullgrindcore.com
Sent: Fri, 20 Jun 2008 8:26 pm
Subject: Ola ? My tits wait you here

Good Morning im Maddy im 24 years old.
Video where I am naked - look.
Call here and look!

S'up Son? Corpse Kept Upright For 3-Day Wake in Puerto Rico

A Puerto Rican man has been granted his final wish to remain standing - even in death.

A funeral home in San Juan used some sort of special embalming treatment to keep the corpse of 24-year-old Angel Pantoja Medina standing upright for his 3 day wake.

Dressed in a Yankees cap and sunglasses, Angel was mourned by relatives while propped upright in his mother's living room!!

AGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

His brother Carlos told the El Nuevo Dia newspaper the victim had long said he wanted to be upright for his own wake: "He wanted to be happy, standing."

The owner of the Marin Funeral Home said Angel's mother requested to fulfill her dead son's last wish. A thug til tha end.

Angel was found dead last Friday underneath a bridge in San Juan and buried Monday. Police are investigating how he died.

Amazing. From my man MC Shan...

This is a series of pictures from the ghettos of NY from 1965-1995. It shows all the desolation and drug abuse that was going on back in areas where even the cops were afraid to go. The photographer was a Dane who came to the US to teach, and ended up going on a vagabond tour to document the living conditions across the country. There's a link to the entire gallery, which includes DC and the deep south on the page someplace.

Link to the dudes book is here.

18 August 2008

Can't Stop Won't Stop (Reprise)

I never could really. I was with a girl for a while who was always trying to get me to slow down; "do this slower", "concentrate on breathing more" and all that ish. It drove me nuts! Theres something inside me that simply cannot purposely do things slow. I do it how I do it; deal with it.

Those new agey exercises where you do everything in slow motion, Qigong or Chi-Gong, I forget what its called, I'll freak the F out. I don't think anyone would say I'm a very high-strung guy; I can take a nap and chill out like nobodys business, but with ish like that, I just can't slow down.

I think being 'impatient' is just expecting more from people. It's that simple. Do it right the first time, speak clearly, think clearly, get it right. I'm not impatient, I just demand better always and NOW.

Most likely it's all a product of being a traveling "entertainer" for so many years; everything has to happen fast; in rest stops, on road sides, catch 2 hours of sleep before the next 13+ hour drive, etc. It isn't a climate conducive to relaxing and taking things nice and slow. Quite the opposite. You may be wild and free traveling the world in a rock band but being your own boss isn't easy. It takes discipline and sacrifice.

One particular time always stands out...

We're literally driving half-way across South Africa; from Durban to Cape Town (about 1,700 miles). My friend Rob and I are side by side in toilet stalls at a rest stop literally in the middle of nowhere; picture the middle of nowhere in your head and now multiply that by ten. So we're talking through the divider, making jokes, whatever; we were absolutely delirious from the drive, it was brutal and the vehicles we were traveling in were quite small and packed with gear (plus the van I was in was being driven by a boyfriend / girlfriend who were brawling the entire time). So we started saying how lucky we were to be the first American punk band to ever play in South Africa; no matter how bad it got, we always pinched ourselves. Then we started talking about the fantasy and what people assume its like to be in a band that tours like we did; incessantly; 250 some odd shows a year, 9+ months a year on the road; making your living off your art and answering to no one really. People think its like rock n' roll excess, glossy and privileged decadence; meanwhile here we are 8,000 miles from Brooklyn in disgusting rest stop somewhere in South Africa wiping pee off the toilet seats so we can sit down to take a shit. And that, my friends, is touring in a nutshell.

Oh, so where was I ? Oh, right... I can't do anything slow... and how the reason that is, is partly because I spent a good 12 years touring and rushing and hurrying up just to wait later. It just becomes a part of you. So there are some things now you just cannot shake. Quirks and habits that become woven into your fabric.

Talking: I talk pretty fast and I have no patience for people who can't just spit out what they wanna say; it drives me mad. I have no time for slow storytellers, either. I don't want to hear your story if you're going to tell it in real-time as it happened; get your ish together and open your mouth when you're prepared to make a presentation.

Eating: I eat very fast. There aren't many 5 course candlelit dinners on tour; you gotta eat quick and keep on going especially when you're a part of some traveling circus with a bunch of bands and people and crew, its like growing up with 7 brothers and sisters I'd imagine; you've gotta stake your claim and shovel down that slop before someone else steals it; its quite territorial and barbaric but I love it; its real and animalistic and human. Basic and simple. Excess-free.

Traveling: I sightsee very fast. Vacation in Paris for a week? Why? I saw it all in about 3 hours; same goes for London. We did the econo sightseeing tour; "saw it all before doors" (meaning before the show starts in that particular city). When I hear about people going to one spot for a week or more, I can't imagine what they'd do; I mean how slow can you walk along the Sienne? Even if you're arm in arm and stopping for serious make-outs sessions? How long can you spend walking around Picadilly Circus or Camden Town?! Days?!?! I have no idea what you'd do for that long; how many bootleg Sisters of Mercy t-shirts can you buy?! We became so numb and jaded, by our seventh time in Paris, I didn't even leave the bus until showtime. We were parked a few inches from the Sienne and we just watched DVD's all day. Oh, I did leave the bus, but only to call my mom and my girl at the time. And during my walk to the payphone I saw a lady wearing a Hermès scarf walking a poodle and carrying a shopping bag with a baguette sticking out of it. I saw all I needed in that one trip to the phone. See? Though I would love to return to Das Motherland and spend some quality time there; thats the only exception.

Sleeping: I sleep fast. I don't need very much at all and I can fall asleep anywhere at anytime. Day and night mean very little to me, hardwood floors or 5 star suites, it doesn't matter; on the curb or on a California King, once your eyes are closed, its all the same. Right? Right.

Typing: I type faster than my mind works. Last time I was tested, about 9 years ago, I was at 95 wpm; Now, I have no idea if thats spectacular or not, I just know that when I wanna search something on Google, my fingers type "Goo" and then my brain automatically pounds down the enter key. My fingers and my brain aren't synced up; my mind is racing past my fingers; its very odd. But that's why I love New York, everything is now now NOW and faster faster FASTER. It's perfect. Yes, I want to relax and chill out on a sunny day but I want my f*cking iced coffee NOW and my NY Times NOW before I sit on my porch and watch the breeze go by. Got it ?

Making Love: Now this is when I slow it down, like Marvin, Barry and Lionel. It all comes to a halt. Flower petals and Glade scented candles from Duane Reade. Real classy like. Rub her feet and shit, tell her about the stars and them birds. U know all that ish a girl like.

8 gold medals & 2 bucks will get you on the subway

Now Phelps Must Chase Gold on Land {WSJ}

We departed for China not, technically, from Kennedy airport but from the New York car service, a fact I mention for the smell. There is no experience more redolent and usually more odoriferous than a New York car service. Like celebrities with licensing contracts, each Lincoln has its own peculiar odor. I have shut the door and inhaled leather with notes of cigar plus window cleaner. I have smelled decaying flora, fake pine and armpits. When I left for J.F.K., the car smelled of kimchi and dry-cleaning.
‘‘Which airline?’’
‘‘Korean.’’
‘‘Ah. You’re going to Korea?’’
‘‘No, China. Shanghai.’’
‘‘Why Shanghai?’’
‘‘I’m going to a party.’’
The party was being given by Ferragamo in part to introduce a new perfume called Tuscan Soul...

Nasal Passage: CHANDLER BURR GLOBE-SNIFFS HIS WAY TO CHINA...

How To Tie A Tie: Instructions on tying the Four-in-Hand, Windsor, and Half Windsor Knots.

14 August 2008

artist's rendition/dramatization of a car I saw this morning on Madison.

So we got to talking about all these secret fraternities, the Montauk, University, Harvard, Century, Lotos and National Arts Clubs. Twenty blocks south, the National Arts Club—founded in 1898—calls its HQ a classic brownstone on the edge of Gramercy Park. That's where I met her. At the bohemian answer to the Yale Club and the first thing we talked about was the score. Some 2,000 National Arts Club members paying $650 a year plus a one time initiation fee of $400. That's like a cool 1.3M right there. Not to mention the one time initiation fee they kept downstairs across from the Exchange.

They used the original 1898 structure to create lush and evocative dining rooms filled with dark wood, cream-coloured walls and beautiful chandeliers. You'd pass through the glass entrance into the grand dining room with 20 foot ceilings to face a gorgeous 20-foot bar and a floor-to-ceiling wall of wine and spirits. And we had the skeleton key. Two young kids hungry and in love with the key to a hidden fortune in cash. Unmarked bills. Just me, her, the key and her Swiss cheekbones as high as a mountain climber gets nosebleeds.

Upon entering, one was always greeted with the sight of a credenza groaning under the weight of large bottles of wine. You could still hear Sinatra's laugh bellowing in those sunken back booths.

A cacophony the smell of tufted crimson leather, Beeswax wood polish and baked clams oreganata with smoky red wine. Somehow it all worked and it was magical. She always had the goat cheese salad. We had a few bottles of Brunello Di Montalcino and got to talking about blood oranges and why egg yolks in Europe are orange compared to the yellow here in the states.

They make Brunello in the vineyards near Montalcino which is about 70 miles southwest of Florence. Brunello is a clone of Sangiovese, which is another Italian grape whose name derives from sanguis Jovis, or "the blood of Jove". In Roman mythology, Jupiter held the same role as your boy Zeus did in the Greek pantheon. The king of the gods. The king of kings. Capo di tutti capi. The boss of bosses.

But I digress...

The vault on the lower level was once J.P. Morgan & Co.'s original bank vault, which was installed by Remington & Sherman Co. in 1902. There's a bar there now in an elongated room, lined with vault doors, two of which showcase their extensive Wine Vault just beyond the 22-foot wood paneled bar.

In the center of the room is the impressive six-foot circular main vault door which opens into the vault itself. The walls are lined with the original antique deposit boxes that lend a rich bronze hue to the room. The dark wood accents, mirrored pillars and classic lighting transport you to another time when JP Morgan and John D. Rockefeller ruled Manhattan. Yeah, well those days are over. And it's just me and the blonde, after hours, drunk, in love, with the skeleton key and close to $2M in cash.

Later we'd talk of expensive and bold cabernets, and warm chocolate truffle cake with chocolate cigarettes and cheesecake with raspberry sauce. But for now our eyes were on the prize and there were only a few hours until the sun came up and the coffee cart guys starting unhooking their stands from their beat up AstroVans.

II. I Married A Mermaid

The shoeshine boys roll by kicking tin cans and whistling a lonely tune. Last thing on his mind right now is a spit shine on his favourite cognac wingtips. But no shine means no cerveza for señorita Saturday night. That's the way the world works. That's the economy in a peanut shell. And it seemed like every little trinket on his desk was hiding its face. A little dragon hides its fierce face behind the framed photo of his wife when she was a kid with a green top hat covering her entire head. A miniature easel frame of Daniel Striped Tiger faces the wall. Even the old black and white postcard of Frida in Diego's big blue overalls seems to be zoning out. Frida staring blankly at something off camera while bathing in the shadows of tree branches in an alley betwixt two houses. Everyone here has someplace they'd rather be. I sat in that car with her for hours just listening to the rain tap dancing on the ragtop. We killed the radio and hit the lights and just sat back and exhaled. It was a long drive from here to there but now we were together at last and alone. Nothing and no one in our rearview except our home. She nudged her small paws into my hands and closed her eyes. I cracked the window just a bit to let the intoxicating smell of wet asphalt in. I watched the steam rise over the dash. Our heat made fog. Lost at sea I heard a buoy's bell clanging desperately. I couldn't imagine life as a buoy. Must be so lonely out there, just you and the tide. I opened my eyes to see if she was still asleep and she was watching me. I looked down and her feet had become fusiform fins just like in the comic books and the movies. She was a mermaid at last. I drove her to the shore and she said goodbye to all her friends. There were whales and porpoises, a crown-of-thorns starfish and a school of beautiful pilot fish. There were Sea turtles and that old chinstrap penguin she'd told me about. I fell in love with the sea otters and gannets most of all. It was bittersweet. Like Czechoslovakian chocolate.

III. Miranda do Douro and I

I was working in pharmaceuticals at the time. Little dot-com start-up thing. Back when that balloon was still in the parade. Funded by The Wellingtons. Don't know 'em? Ask around at any rich tufted leather steakhouse this side of Park. You'll find the answers swimming in the clouds of sweet cherry mahogany cigar smoke and the deep bellowing laughs of the haves.

Just me, Simon James and that damn iceberg wedge. Gorgonzola dressing, bacon and a few grape tomatoes. Simon wore Italian eyeglasses before Prada and Gucci. Before he said a word, you just knew he wasn't from around here. Linen Santorio suits and bright blue Balenciaga socks. Italians pay special attention to detail. Simon would look at you in horror if a thread was hanging off one of your buttons, or your hem was coming apart. So naturally I never took Simon by The Spofford. Well, not during the week at least. But we'll get to that later. And by "that" I mean Simon and The Spofford.

Simon and Karen Miranda would argue well into the moonlight about men and shorts. Karen felt only children should even consider wearing shorts, and they had to be under 12 and the shorts should not be tight or shorter than mid-thigh. It got later and later and these two just would not quit. I started surveying the house for the nearest California King. Just wanted somewhere to rest my head and my father's cognac Gladstone.

Karen was from Portugal. She'd kill me for that if she ever found out. But she won't. Regardless she's actually from Miranda do Douro. And so naturally she was driven to New York for its merciless winters and equally heartless summers.

"A bit of black fruit to go with your Posta à Mirandesa?", Karen mused aloud.

Miranda do Douro was known for its abnormally potent wine. Miranda do Douro is to wine what Budapest is to absinth.

"Sure, but where?", it was late and I had no idea where to find wine at this hour in this town. It would take me an hour just to figure out where we were anyway. Not to mention finding something talented enough and highly oaked. Toasted grains, dry toast finished with some grilled barley. Almonds. That sort of thing. Earthy.

The classification system for Italian wine mirrors that of the French. Italian wines are generally Denominazione di Origine Controllata (DOC) or Denominazione di Origine Controllata et Garantita (DOCG). These correspond with the Appellation (d'Origine) Contrôlée wines of France, the DOCG wines supposedly with an extra degree of quality. Hey, what do I know?

The fairly recent qualification of Indicazione Geografica Tipica (IGT) corresponds to France's Vin de Pays wines, whereas the lowest category for Italian wine, Vina da Tavola, accounts for the table wines. Unusually Vina da Tavola has been known to includ some of Italy's top wines, as quality conscious wine makers were excluded from the DOC or DOCG because of the grapes or wine making practices they used. Riots. Murder. Extortion. All over a few bunches of grapes. Can you blame them?

Wines frequently referred to as 'super-Tuscans' are found in the the Italian wine region around Chianti in Tuscany. Makes sense, right? The relaxation of the DOC and DOCG thing was intended to bring the winemakers behind these 'super-Tuscans' back into the fold. In general it hasn't worked. Same way the A.K.C. refuses to recognise the pit bull. Once a rebel, always a rebel. But, none of that really matters now. The so-called super-Tuscans dried up years ago and so off to Piedmont went searching we.

Piedmont is surrounded on three sides by the Alps, including the Monviso, where the Po rises, and the Monte Rosa. It borders with France, Switzerland and the Italian regions of Lombardy, Liguria, Emilia-Romagna and Aosta Valley. And that's where I first met Simon, the Italian Francophone and Karen, the French Lusophone. I knew huit années of French would pay off sooner or later.

Every morning we'd "Alons, enfants de la patrie..." before class. I'd usually be knee deep in back page marble notebook daydreaming by the time we started conjugating verbs and doing the whole fronde/frond, gommer/gum, porche/porch, and traîner/train/trainer thing. Dreaming of sitting around the radio, dreary Sunday in early November and couverture chocolate. Chopping chocolate blocks into small pieces to temper. Two fitted saucepans make a double boiler but mum always called it a bain-marie. Warm petite madeleines dipped in chocolate fondue. Yeah, that too.

I overheard Karen diving into a discussion about vulgar Latin, the Satyricon and Petronius and that was my cue. That's when I decided to turn in for the night. In the morning, I was wistful, everything would work itself out. For now, I buried my head underneath an itchy, olive drab German Army blanket and dreamt of Slippery Nipples and a girl from Cardiff Bay.

One of those Chinatown/Atlantic City buses passed by this morning. It was called "Double Happiness". Not once but two times the happiness!! Kinda like double chocolate.

Also, this:

click flyer to enlarge

Whilst editing this entry I realized a lot of my favorite, and in my opinion best, posts somehow involve the word "chocolate". It's quite odd. See for yourself.

13 August 2008

Forgot to tell y'all... had a dream the other night, scratch that, a nightmare, where all I had were these flowery pattern blue shirts and no solid navy ties. It was fucking scary. It was one of those dreams where you wake up and you're so relieved it wasn't real but then I realized I do in fact need a solid blue tie or at least another tie or two where blue is main color. Fuck!

Shit like this still makes me smile. Me?!

Full Message The Wall Street Journal to you - 7 min ago
More Details From: The Wall Street Journal
To: xxxxxxx
Date:Wed, 13 Aug 2008 12:48 pm

Dear Wall Street Journal Subscriber:

Kendra Wilkinson; nice Italian girl

Read this article on the way in today. Front page of the WSJ. Wow. So Gawker beat me to it but they did a great job. I love that Olive Garden is still trying to maintain this fantasy of old world authenticity. It's hysterical. I love that this girl is their rogue spokeswoman. It's sublime. Sometimes these things... these things, they write themselves...

Olive Garden Has Mixed Feelings About Its Biggest Celebrity Fan {WSJ}

...this fucking guys head

Dunkin Donuts is running some iced coffee baseball thing and every DD I duck into I see this fucking guys head, Joba Chamberlain. Some of the stores have life sized cardboard cut-outs propped against the counter. I dunno what it is... something about the way he wears his cap.

I wrote about this back in June. Amazing.

11 August 2008

The video for "Bitter Sweet Symphony" features Richard Ashcroft lip-syncing the song while walking down a busy street; Ashcroft refuses to change his stride or direction throughout, apparently oblivious to what is going on around him.

He repeatedly bumps into passers-by (causing at least one to trip and fall), narrowly avoids being hit by a car, and jumps on top of the bonnet of another vehicle stopped in his path. The end of the video leads into the beginning of the video for "The Drugs Don't Work".

Ashcroft starts walking from the southeast corner of the intersection of Hoxton and Falkirk Streets in Hoxton, North London, subsequently proceeding north along the east side of Hoxton Street.

The "sidewalk journey" format was inspired by the music video for the Massive Attack song "Unfinished Sympathy", in which Shara Nelson sings while walking through a Los Angeles neighborhood.

Filming for the video took two days due to an interruption on the first day; a passing man, unaware of the nature of the video shoot, attacked Ashcroft after he bumped into him. Because of this extras were used during the second day of filming.

Biscoff

I could live on these things. Delta's in-flight cookies with a Diet Coke or even a Bloody Mary. At 30,000 feet there simply is no better cookie.

I told you about the baby damselfly thats been following me around, right? She stopped by last night, too.

The Dragonfly Nymph

I really dig that first Rancid LP. For some reason this song is in my head right now.

"Another Night"

In the dark with the okland skyline
As I cross the city I avoid the landlines
All I wanna do is make it through without dying
All I wanna do is keep on trying

Another night
In the streets for me
Another night
No sanctuary
Another night
Come and watch me bleed
Another night
In the streets for me

She wouldn’t move until the coast was clear
She always knew the final battle was near
If you have a bag of dope she give it up for free
If you got a song of hope it will help her see

Another night
In the streets for me
Another night
No sanctuary
Another night
Come and watch me bleed
Another night
In the streets for me

Flatiron Beach?

Anyone know what's cracking with the Flatiron intersection? I spy a labyrinth of orange cones complete with new green bike lanes and spaghetti-like bus lanes in effect. What's more, they seem to be filling the split betwixt Broadway and Sixth with sand. Surf's up at Flatiron Beach? Fish and chips from the Shake Shack? Miley Cyrus crucifixion? What gives? Somebody please step up and school me.

From my inbox...

"Think you know who this man is?

This possible President of the United States?? Read Below and ask yourselves, is this REALLY someone we can see as the President of our great nation!!!!

Below are a few lines from Obama's books; In his words!

From Dreams of My Father: 'I ceased to advertise my mother's race at the age of 12 or 13, when I began to suspect that by doing so I was ing ratiating myself to whites.'

From Dreams of My Father : 'I found a solace in nursing a pervasive sense of grievance and animosity against my mother's race.'

From Dreams of My Father: 'There was something about him that made me wary, a little too sure of himself, maybe. And white.'

From Dreams of My Father: 'It remained necessary to prove which side you were on, to show your loyalty to the black masses, to strike out and name names.'

From Dreams of My Father: 'I never emulate white men and brown men whose fates didn't speak to my own. It was into my father's image, the black man, son of Africa , that I'd packed all the attributes I sought in myself , the attributes of Martin and Malcolm, DuBois and Mandela.'

And FINALLY the Most Damming one of ALL of them!!!

From Audacity of Hope: 'I will stand with the Muslims should the political winds shift in an ugly direction.' "

07 August 2008

FBI Paints Chilling Portrait Of Anthrax-Attack Suspect

I dunno; I'm not buying it. I don't think Ivins acted alone. Gubment is too quick to get this open & shut. Somethings fishy.

Salmonella Is Tested To Fight Cancer Cells {WSJ}

Ford Invents Blind-Spot Mirror

Someone should've invented this thing 50 years ago. All those years we've been buying those cheap peel and stick mirrors.

ASSOCIATED PRESS August 7, 2008

Ford said it will introduce its blind-spot mirror this fall on the 2009 Ford Edge crossover.

Ford had planned to bring the mirror to market next year but moved up the date after getting so much positive feedback.

Ford is racing General Motors to bring the technology to market. Blind-spot mirrors will be a standard feature on the 2009 Chevrolet Traverse crossover, which will start production in September.

The mirror will be added to other Ford vehicles in 2009. On both the Edge and the Traverse, small mirrors that give drivers a view of the "blind spot" alongside the vehicle sit flush in the outer corner of the side mirrors.

Up next, cordless phones and microwave ovens...

email from my friend in medical school

-----Original Message-----
From: xxx@aol.com
To: gotham city insider.com
Sent: Thu, 7 Aug 2008 2:24 pm
Subject: Re:

right now i'm staring at a big calcified nodule that came out of some woman along with her small bowel, gall bladder...

I Was Just Interviewed & Photographed For The Daily News...

We're going Hollywood.

Recipe for the lady sitting next to me on the bus this morning

2 tablespoons violet baby powder
3/4 teaspoon soil (or dirt)
1/2 tablespoon dirty diaper
1/2 cup speaking on cellphone in Russian
Bake 30 to 35 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center of the woman comes out clean.

Chasing the dragon: Scratching the itch

Why does it feel so goddamn good to scratch an itch? I have always wondered.

Ever see a dog really laying in to an itch behind her ear? My dog nearly falls over sometimes because she scratches herself into a trance. It makes me jealous.

Why the F does it feel so good?!?!?!!

I don't really care about why we itch or what makes us itch, thats boring and everything I read on the subject makes me feel like I'm back in school. So, scratch that.

I just wanna know what goes on when we scratch an itch; depending on the whereabouts, it can almost be orgasmic to finally scratch the shit out of that elusive bitch of an itch and once you start-a-scratchin' you don't wanna stop, right? Well, it turns out orgasms and itching are actually cousins; its all pleasure receptor shit. For as intricate as our bodys are, the pleasure department is pretty simple and the same guy who makes you feel great when you scratch that certain spot, is also the dude who makes you feel amazing when you're doing something sexual. Holla.

So, I found itching has to do with histamine. "Histamine?!" I said. When I hear the word histamine I immediately think of medicine and Rite Aid but thats because I'm actually thinking of anti-histamine. Ah ha!

Stay with me, friends. I'm onto something here...

Histamine is actually a chemical protein inside our body which is released during an allergic reaction. Histamine commands some of our itch nerves to transmit information to the spinal cord where it is processed and zipped off to the brain. Thats why if you have allergies you'd take an anti-histamine medicine; to block histamines signaling powers and therefore muting your allergic symptoms. Got it? Ok, now we can move on.

The sites activated in the brain when we itch are very similar to those switched on when we're in pain except pain causes a withdrawal response whereas itching causes a response that makes you want to go toward the site of the itching. Very interesting.

Which leaves the main issue of why scratching feels so fucking good. The pleasure receptor road is actually a one-way street so the brain can only juggle one thing at a time. If the brain is sending you an itch and you're sending back a scratch, its gonna process the scratch and thats gonna feel good because you are squelching the itch for the time being; stimulating the nerves with an answer to what its sending out. You feel me?

Too much scratching, however, can trigger an "itch-scratch cycle", I like to call it "the pleasure tailspin" in which the scratching aggravates the body into releasing more histamine, which causes swelling, which stimulates nerve endings, which causes more itching. . . . and next thing you know you're passed out on your bathroom floor with your hand down your boxers.

Depending on where the itch is, more or less nerve receptors will be stimulated sending more or less good times back to your brain.

This is why scratching an itch on your arm will feel dope, but scratching an annoying itch on your back will feel a lot better because its closer to your spinal cord; and we all know scratching an itchy head is the bomb and thats because of all the nerve endings on your scalp, son. It's pretty simple.

So if you follow the human urge to scratch, you're going along a well-trodden neurological pathway that is hardwired into the brain. It's very satisfying. Medicines or tricks that suppress itching are sometimes not as gratifying. That shudder of pleasure from scratching that itch may be from a release of endorphins that give you a natural high.

Fuck yeah, now you're talking... endorphins!

Scratching turns on nerves that stimulate pleasure systems in the brain. The same pleasure systems that go buck when we...

The Big Yawn: An Autopsy (reprise)

Have you ever wondered why we yawn? Yes, we yawn when we’re bored, sleepy or tired, but what purpose does a yawn serve? How are yawns triggered? And were you aware of the fact that in humans, there is a relationship between yawning and orgasm? Hey now!

Most of the higher vertebrate species yawn: mammals, reptiles, birds and even fish. It’s known that human fetuses yawn as early as the end of the first trimester of prenatal development. These facts make it clear that yawning must have evolved quite a long time ago, far back in the evolutionary line.

A yawn consists of a powerful movement of jaw-gaping along with deep inhalation and exhalation. But it involves much more than just that. While yawning, the head tilts slightly backwards, the eyes narrow, the facial muscles stretch. Inside the middle ear, the eustachian tubes open, while the tear glands and salivary glands have increased activity, not to mention a whole bunch of other brain areas, as well as hitherto unspecified cardiovascular and respiratory acts.

In terms of biochemistry, it is not known exactly what triggers this highly complex motor program. Although it’s known that boredom or sleepiness can cause yawning, it has also been documented that certain changing colour patterns can induce yawning. People have also been observed to yawn when they are tensed, like paratroopers before a jump or musicians before a concert. I personally know two people who have a habit of nervous yawning and they say dogs will sometimes yawn when they are nervous or anxious.

Research has demonstrated that the conventional belief that yawns are caused due to a high level of carbon dioxide or a shortage of oxygen in the blood or brain, is completely false. However, after comparing some of the similarities between the physiology of yawning and that of sex, it has been suggested that the two acts might have a common neurological background.

For instance, the facial expression during sexual climax (the "Oh" face) is remarkably similar to the expression during yawning. Furthermore, some of the neurotransmitters associated with sexual activity, such as oxytocin and androgens (HOLLA!), are also connected to yawning.

Chemical agents that induce yawning in lab rats have also been observed to induce penile erection. Hey now! Most fascinating of all, old school antidepressant drugs such as clomipramine and fluoxetine, in some people, have the side effect of inducing yawns that trigger orgasms. Which sounds pretty awesome but actually would totally suck.

One trait of yawning that has so far only been documented in humans, and our closest living relatives, the chimpanzees: contagious yawning. Though yawning itself is an ancient practice, contagious yawning must have evolved relatively recently. Humans are not susceptible to contagious yawning until they are several years old.

We’ve all noticed how contagious a yawn can be. Watching someone yawn can cause us to yawn too. In fact, just thinking about yawning is sufficient to induce a yawn. I’m willing to wager that by the time you finish reading this post, you will have yawned (if you haven’t already done so) or at the very least, felt like yawning.

This property of contagiousness has the potential to give us some insights into the neurological basis of imitation, face detection, and various other such social behaviours. Scientists have found that individuals with disorders like schizophrenia or autism (where the ability to infer the mental states of others is impaired), or even just schizotypal people, are markedly less prone to contagious yawning. It has even been suggested that increased rates of yawning might indicate that a person may recover from schizophrenia. Hmmmm.

Yet another fascinating aspect of yawning is the relationship between yawning and stretching, also called ‘pandiculation’. In humans as well as in animals, yawning is invariably accompanied by stretching upon waking up after sleeping, but almost never before falling asleep.

"Baby, I'm tired, do u mind if we just pandiculate tonight?"

"Sure, honey"

In many people who are paralyzed due to brain damage, pandiculation causes their otherwise immobile limbs to rise and flex automatically. This suggests that yawning activates undamaged, unconsciously controlled nerve connections between the brain and the cord motor system.

Hopefully, science may some day discover a therapeutic value of yawning for people with such conditions.

If you are interested in reading more about the research on yawns, you’ll surely find it very useful to read Robert Provine’s brilliant, jargon-free research paper "Yawning: The yawn is primal, unstoppable and contagious; revealing the evolutionary and neural basis of empathy and unconscious behavior" which you can get find here.

The "Ham & Egger"

I call this look the “Ham & Egger.”

For some reason guys who don't get dressed up much always reach for the “Ham & Egger” whenever a special occasion calls. A family function, a wedding, a job interview; they all call on the “Ham & Egger” in a clutch.

The “Ham & Egger” is a maroon dress shirt. Tie color is (normally) black. Pants are always black or tan chino's. No suit jacket. That is the quintessential “Ham & Egger”.

For some odd reason the dude who doesn't get dressed up for work or whatever, he'll always have one "dress up" outfit and it'll always be this.

Not a plain, nice white dress shirt but a maroon shirt. He'll go for the black tie and that old pair of black chino's that are so fucking faded they're starting to look purple.

But what is the allure of the maroon shirt? Why not just go for a white shirt? Its a clean, blank canvas. Can't go wrong with a nice, bright white shirt, right?

Perhaps the maroon shirt is saying “I'm still holding on. I'm not a cog in the machine, maaaaan!” and no, a cog in the machine you'll never be, not with that fucking outfit! Show up to a job interview in the “Ham & Egger” and I guarantee they'll give that $11/hr data entry gig to someone else.

The “Ham & Egger” reeks of desperation. It says you're either a recovering addict and this is your first step back or you still live with your mum and it's time to get a job so you threw on the only "dress" outfit you have; the shirt & tie you bought for your Aunt Mildred's 89th surprise birthday party, the same one you wore to your Uncle Vito's wake month later.

The “Ham & Egger” rips his tie off his neck the moment he gets outside at 5:01 PM. The “Ham & Egger” runs home from work and tears off his clothes like a three-year old. He just wants to play Xbox or whateverthefuck.

Classic “Ham & Eggers”

“Thanks, Brian. We have your resume and we'll be in touch.”

Repurposing The Word "Faggot" (reprise)

From this point on "faggot" will no longer be a pejorative slur for a gay man. That shit is done. It's time to stop being so hateful and homophobic and get with the program. Enough. We're taking the power back like that dude from that band.

Therefore I am hereby repurposing the word "faggot". Faggot will now be used as a term for effeminate hipsters who don't hold doors open for their girlfriends.

I am officially done with these messy just-out-of-bed but totally contrived clowns with the regulation American Apparel zip-up hoodie and the shy sort of mumbling, stumbling, bashful and mousy cadence.

I thought that dolt Patrick Moberg would signify the death knell for this drawn out era of self-effacing sheepism but I guess it lives on not unlike a Bedford Avenue cancer.

I'll take the fucking Marlboro man over dudes like this any day.

I'd sooner be a Hooters hot wings & arena football connoisseur than one of these "watch me as I sheepishly play with the loose rubber on my old Sauconys at brunch" boys.

Now witness if you will my friend Angel and I at Beacon's Closet this past Saturday afternoon.

We'd generously decided to bestow these clowns with some of our non-ironic used clothing. We braced ourselves for our trip into the eye of the hipster tornado.

As I waited for Angel to get paid I witnessed a tall, lanky dude with his short, little, cherubic girlfriend crossing the street towards Beacon's.

First they were both nearly run over by a dude on a bicycle. Lance Armstrong started yelling at the little cherub while 6' 2'', 125 lbs. in flip-flops just stood there with his boney arms folded and said nothing; dude stood down to a guy in spandex bicycle shorts. "Strike one", I thought.

Later I saw Brangelina leaving Beacon's and of course I watched as cherubic little one not only opened the door but held it open so 6' 2'', 125 lbs. in flip-flops could make his exit.

6' 2'', 125 lbs. in flip-flops didn't take the door from her, he allowed her to hold it open for him and slithered out like a faggot.

Gents, I'm not gonna get into taking your hat off when you see a lady. I'm not even gonna get into opening their car doors first, pulling out their chairs, putting on their coats or waiting for them to eat before you begin.

Let's just focus on door opening. Baby steps.

If you're with your girlfriend, YOU open the door for HER.

Would I love to go through life having doors opened for ME so I could slither out like a Park Slope garden snake, sure, but I was born a man and therefore I must abide by the rules.

Start with opening doors for the women in your life that you care about and eventually you can ramp up to opening doors for complete strangers of the fairer sex!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, you can do it. I have faith in you, faggot.

Thank you.

The Homeless Soda (reprise)

I'm taking a shot in the dark with this one but like every little thing in life, if its happened to you you can be sure its happened to someone else, too. Jerry Seinfeld made a whole career out of it for Chrissake!

And so it is with the power of subtle observationism that I give you, The Homeless Soda.

First, let me set the stage. My thirst is never quenched. Ever. If I don't have a giant 1.5L Poland Spring in my hand, then I've got a can Fresca in my hand and if I don't have a 20 ounce bottle of Fresca in my hand then I'm signaling the waiter to refill my girls ice water because I drank hers too.

And as an insatiable camel, I've unfortunately encountered The Homeless Soda many times over the years. I have little scientific explanation for this phenomenon. I have theories —well, I have one pretty solid theory —but that's about it. My claims have been backed up by friends who have also experienced The Homeless Soda and so I'm sharing my experience to assure you that you're not alone out there.

The Homeless Soda can be found in any busy, highly trafficked neighborhood bodega.

A Homeless Soda looks like any other soda. It blends in with the crowd but sometimes you'll get lucky and when you put that 20 ounce bottle to your lips you'll know, you've picked coveted The Homeless Soda. (For the sake of full disclosure, I've also had it happen with cans)

The Homeless Soda is called The Homeless Soda because the top of the bottle (or the can) smells like an actual homeless person. Unfortunately there is no other way to describe it.

The only explanation I came up with for the awful stench is that perhaps the clerks or whoever refills the shelves at the store must wipe the sodas down and maybe they use a wet, stinky rag and this produces the undeniable stench which mauls you like an Asiatic Black Bear.

Otherwise, aside from my smoking rag theory, The Homeless Soda remains one of the only truly urban mysteries.

Please, if you have any information regarding The Homeless Soda, do get in touch. I'd love to hear from you. You don't have to reveal your identity to help stop The Homeless Soda. Anyone with important information about a Homeless Soda in New York City is urged to provide me with information anonymously. Thank you.

The Snake Guy Cometh (reprise)

OK, once and for all, what is the fucking deal with the ubiquitous dude with a snake around his neck?

Every goddamn street fair there is, no matter where you go, there is always one dude who walks around with a python around his neck all day long. And naturally he thinks he's the fucking man

Girls come up and wanna pet his snake and they go "oh my god" and scream
"Can I touch your snake?"
"What do you feed that thing?"
"Does that thing eat zeppoles?"

Dudes go up to him, "Yo thats a big snake, yo"
"Yo, that dudes got a long snake, son"

I mean...

The large print innuendos are as subtle as an anvil over your head and almost as classy
But then again, its a street fair; should I expect anything different?

I don't believe in the "fast red sports car makes up for your small penis" phenom. It just means you have money and you're insecure and desperately trying to tell people how NOT uptight you are.

But walking around with a 6 foot snake around your neck, I mean come on... if that isn't overcompensating for your small dick, I don't know what it is.

Will you just get the fuck out of here with that thing?!
You look like a fool.

That's not your dick, its a snake.
Go put that fucking thing away.

She was playing Guinevere then at the Chicago Philharmonic. The legendary queen consort of King Arthur. Ironic then that her name was Jennifer. Ironic she was so glamourous and called Glamorganshire her home. I wrote her a quick note and sent along a photograph. "This pic reminds me of u", I said. "That pic of u laughing on New Years Eve in the pink dress." I knew she would know what I meant and to what photo I was referring. I knew she would know the note was from me though I neglected to sign it. Purposely.

When I received a letter back from her a few days later I swore I could smell oranges on the envelope seal. I imagined her sitting barefoot on a soft and aged milk chocolate leather couch; smooth legs crossed Indian-style reading my note while circumnavigating the rind of a diminutive clementine. I imagined drops of sweet nectar dripping down her chin as she sealed her envelope to me. Maybe she knew what she was doing. She was smart like that. Drove me crazy and pretended she had no idea.

Her sweet navy blue ink seemed to levitate above the white pulp like bubbles in a brandy snifter filled with club soda. I let the letter sit for about a day before I even read it. I just wanted to fill my living room with her sweet scent. Like a souvenir from the other side of the world I imagined where it came from and how it got here. By the next morning my library-like living room smelled like ricotta cheesecake with blood orange gelée and dark chocolate and orange shavings. I wrapped myself in her note like a warm blanket and drank her words like hot chocolate.

As fair as a Scarborough angel. She was heliotrope, orris, vanilla, citrus, cumin, orange blossom and thyme. She wrote only this, "Between the salt water and the sea strand. Then he'll be a true love of mine." And I knew what that meant so I got dressed as fast as I could and wore her favourite shirt and her favourite hat and her favourite shoes and we met for a chocolate malted and talked about the breeze.

Reprise

Heidi and I went to the Blogtron last night at the The Lyceum. We had vegan cupcakes and beer; an interesting combo.

The main thing I got out of last night was that bloggers are bloggers for a reason. Bloggers are not public speakers - that much is certain. But it was cool and run well by Louise Crawford. So cheers to her and everyone involved. The Lyceum is a wonderful space.

Bob from The Gowanus Lounge said more neighbourhoods need to be represented in the blogosphere and I agree. Some girl behind us yelped "Bay Ridge!". Heidi turned around to give her a nod but before she could the squealing drunk twat said something like "What are you looking at?!". Heidi just smirked like "nigga please". Later we saw this same drunken mouse upstairs hovering over the last of the cupcakes and beer. A real class act. Some bloggers should be read and not seen I suppose.

Anyway...

Gersh “broadsheet” Kuntzman from The Brooklyn Paper made a good point (however unpopular it may have been) although not everyone is trying to change the world with their blog and though I wouldn't dare speak for anyone but myself I don't think we're looking for that sort of responsibility. I'd rather Plead the Fifth, act evasive like Dylan and hide behind “Dude, it's a blog. It's a glorified online diary. It's not the Dead Sea scrolls” when asked about my blog too deeply. It's not something I want to get too philosophical about. I write shit down, some people read it, the rent is due on the first. That's it.

Gersh spoke about how sardonic commenters can be and for better or for worse the anonymity of the Internet most definitely lends itself to witty sarcasm and acerbity. I think that's healthy and I find it entertaining and above all: REAL. I'd MUCH rather the crude cynicism and juvenile barbs than feigned compassion and simulated empathy.

Blog comments are like the transcripts of sitting down to watch the 11 o'clock local news with your wife after a long day. I know my living room, feet up on the coffee table commentary is usually quite similar to the anonymous comments I read here and there.

I don't blog for anything but myself and my need to purge these thoughts from my head. For that same reason I have a home studio. One day I'll wake up with an idea for a eurodance song and the next day I'll have an idea for a folk song. One day I'll write an "article" about a union labor dispute and the next day I'll write about how I happened to notice Fabian Basabe looks a lot like David Wright. I need these outlets to stay reasonably sane.

I'll aggregate the news, links, photos and stories I find interesting instead of just reading articles I find in the morning and keeping them to myself. I'll link you to these stories so if you care you can follow along. It's really that simple. Like one of those talking books when you were a kid and when the record went 'GONG' you'd have to turn the page.

My “blog” is more of a “monoblogue”. I'm writing to evacuate my mind not to market myself in any way. I started this blog because I had downtime at work, that and I have a manic need to write. I'm constantly writing – whether its verbose, exhaustively researched emails and texts to friends or just short notes to myself, ideas for things, lyrics, melodies, whatever.

I figured a blog was as good an outlet as any. Pop culture commentary was never my thing. I suck at storytelling but I'm pretty good at writing them down so I guess I hoped this blog would get my writing noticed by more people and it has, surely it has, but I'm not sure where I want to go with it now and after last night even less sure.

My output is manic. I've averaged about 200 entries a month and that's all me and my mind. No one else is contributing here. Just the tiny elves working overtime in my skull. Sounds like a Swans song, yea?

I know I want to write a book, if not a few books, but we'll start with one. I have enough ideas and stories to fill looms upon looms of paper. I've been all over the world with my mind as the film. I have stories to tell and I have the gift of gab. I'm confident I could write non-fiction and have it read like fiction. Most of my life has unraveled as such.

I take pride in the written word. I'm fascinated by etymology. Ever since I was a kid I've loved alliteration, mnemonic devices and, above all, word play. I remember when I first realised cereal and serial sounded exactly alike but meant two different things. I was floored by these things I know now as homophones. I thought I was so fucking clever saying I was a “cereal killer” when I was 8 or 9. I remember coming up with the phrase “You might make dollars, but I make sense” and thinking it couldn't get better than that nugget of youthful brilliance.

To this day whenever I see a word I instantly read it backwards. It's funny what you'll learn doing that. I've always thought the words used themselves should become part of the subject of the work. Puns, phonetic mix-ups, spoonerisms, obscure words and meanings, clever rhetorical excursions, oddly formed sentences, and so on. It just flows from me. I'm like an open faucet with this stuff with nowhere to pour it. Like the great Biggie once so eloquently said: “I got techniques drippin' out my buttcheeks / Sleep on my stomach so I don't fuck up my sheets”.

I will tirelessly research spellings, contexts and references for simple emails and text messages. Again, I'm manic; I know it and I love it. My mind works faster than a the central nervous system of a squirrel. My mind is always racing. The cursor forever blinking. Often my brain works faster than my fingers. I'll wanna search something on Google. I'll open up a new IE page and type in "Goog" before my finger instantly slams enter. I need to be there now. Already gone. Back again. Jumping out of my skin when an idea hits. Inconsolable. Searching for a pen or a tape recorder or someone to tell it to, hoping they can remember for me.

The other night I texted my girl that I was making dinner and to call me when she got home. She texted back and asked what I was making. Next thing I know I'm rummaging through a New York magazine on my coffee table and texting her back referencing all these random things from the restaurant review section. I told her I was making a blood orange and duck ravioli with a Robiola cheese brûlée and side of seared Turbot in a cream morrel mushroom sauce. In fact I was microwaving two veggie burgers and slicing off some Jarlsberg Swiss, switching between CNBC and Howard TV with my dog named after my favourite sweet smelling herb.

My mind automatically goes to these things. Just like my brain sends the message to my fingers to move, my mind relates stuff to this or that - always songs, lyrics and songs, characters in a movie, whatever. References. My life is all references and trying to make people be there; trying to paint a picture for people by referencing things I think they'd know.

I think what I'm trying to say is: we don't need to live longer, we need to live better. See the paper for the pulp. See the paint for the bristles of the brush in each stroke. Hear the words before they come out your mouth. The cadence. The inflection. Say the word like it should be said. Try to describe it simply with your pronunciation of it. Listen to the last of those tired and rusty November leaves crunch under your feet. Pick up on the rhythm of your leather soles as the scuff the porous sidewalk. Rewind the tape a hundred times if you must in order to hear what the bass player quietly says to the drummer before the song starts in that song. Surely the band left it in there for a reason and for people like you and I.

Have you ever been listening to a band and it almost frustrates you? It's almost too good? So good you wish you had created it yourself or at least been a part of it? That happens when I listen to Siouxsie's "Juju". I guess it happened this morning too when I was reading DeLillo's "Great Jones Street" for the fifth time. I mean how many times can you read or hear something and say "I can do that!" and really know it before it drives you insane? How many fucking books can I buy before I freak out knowing I should have my own pile in the new releases non-fiction at Barnes and Noble? I have a story to tell. I want to see my words settled into the pulp.

I'm a musician, a bouncer, a banker, a dealer, a stealer, a traffic reporter in a helicopter, a song writer, a lyricist, an only son who lost his father, a poet, a lover, a gambler, a control freak, a voice over artist, a traveler, a hopeless romantic and an agoraphobic friend always searching for a calm, a peace, a balance in my life. I've been true to my astrological sign, Libra, the only symbol of the zodiac that is inanimate, not represented by an animal or person.

I can be cooperative, diplomatic, open-minded, playful, urbane and fair. I'm an easy-going, even-tempered, strong, classy, refined, balanced, conflict avoider. I'm a graceful, artistic, flexible, sensual, idealistic, sociable leader. I'm a home-body and a hermit. I can be charming and debating. I can be very romantic, idealistic and equalitarian.

I can just as easily be deterred, indecisive and lazy. I'm oft changeable, vain, and easily influenced. I can be flirtatious, conceited and aloof in my pursuit of perfection. I can be vengeful and quarrelsome, over-serious and cold. I can be self-indulgent, jealous, and at times violent and cruel. And sometimes I just can't say 'no' .

I've written albums and albums of hardcore/punk/metal songs. I've written volumes of folk songs, tons of IDM/darkwave songs. I can't sit still. I don't know what to do with my hands. If I turn on my laptop when I get home to check my email, the few seconds it takes for the ol' PC to warm up I'll grab my acoustic and start playing. My mind simply cannot sit idle, theres restlessness and impulsivity, there is never nothing.

I spent over a decade of my life in a state of arrested development where I learned more than I ever I would have in a college class and became a man. I've slept on the hardest floors and stayed in 5 star hotels where the faucets poured Codorníu semi-seco Cava and French doors. I negotiated record contracts, merchandising deals, dealt with promoters, managers, booking agents, publicists. I've had to problem solve in just about every country in Europe, across the U.S., Canada, Puerto Rico, Brazil, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand. We were on our own. We weren't just the band, we were the road managers and the roadies. It was a circus of 5, sometimes 6 with me at the epicenter in all my manic moodiness, despondency and surges of frenzied energy and pure joy. I think they call it hypomania.

As always Dylan has said it before and said it better:

“Well, I wake in the morning,
Fold my hands and pray for rain.
I got a head full of ideas
That are drivin' me insane.”

Perhaps instead of going to The Lyceum last night I should've asked Heidi to drop me off at a the Manhattan Psychiatric Center?

Crass Commercialism

Starbucks is offering $2 grande iced-coffee drinks after 2 P.M. everyday to ~~customers~~ "heavy users" who present a receipt from earlier in the day. Lasts through September 2.

O Starter, Starter, Wherefore Art Thou Starter?

Whatever happened to Starter? Back in the day I had a sweet matte-black Chicago Blackhawks Starter jacket with a red and heather gray UNLV cap to match. I'm not one of these 80's retro cats but I think I'd rock a UNLV Starter parka this winter if I could find one of the old ones even though it goes against my whole On The Waterfront / Winston Churchill style fantasy.

Last I heard Starter was planning a relaunch to capitalize on all this 80's hip hop nostalgia. A grip of different magazines and companies (Mass Appeal, Freshness, Hyperbeast, etc.) received surprise jackets in the mail to spread the word.

As of right now the Starter site links to a flaccid Wal-Mart shopping cart page with Boys' Mesh Soccer Goal Tee's. There's a cryptic
"Season Starts Soon" on the bottom of the site. Hmmmmm.

Let's hope it starts before my birthday.

29 August 2008

22 August 2008

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06 August 2008

Search Gotham City

F*ck what you heard

The Past is tense

Holla at your boy

THE OLD GUARD