Saw Chris live for the first time recently, opening for Xiu Xiu at ULU. He sang solo, no cellist unfortunately, and despite the din his sound was sublime. Impossibly cute, too. I'm a big fan. Xiu Xiu, as expected, were insane. Huge noise, good energy. They make more sense live, I think. I'm sort of ambivalent about Xiu Xiu. Very cool crowd.
in
Chris Garneau,
London,
Music,
Personal,
Xiu Xiu
UPDATE: A (shaky) video I shot of the speeches before the film, including an appearance by the four actors and a few short words by SJP at the end:
Thanks to a brilliant friend I managed to score tickets to last night's world premiere of the Sex and the City movie at Leicester Square in London and also to the absolutely stupendously wonderful after party at the Old Billingsgate. We walked down the red carpet, totally surreal. Masses of screaming people crammed against metal barriers. The energy inside the theater was incredible. Sarah Jessica Parker said a few words on stage, then the film, which I completely enjoyed. Being a big fan of the TV show I wasn't disappointed. The after party was astonishing. Great venue, unbelievably good (and abundant) food, endless booze, worthwhile famous people everywhere, the Sugababes randomly performing...crazy good fun. Eggs Benedict + chocolate soufflé = happiness. One of the best nights ever. I want more.
HOWEVER
I am going to Berlin on Thursday, so if you happen to know something useful, now is the time to leave a comment or send me a note with thrilling ideas for wondrous German times, full of joy, and wonder, and time. In Germany. For example:
(a) names of bars with employees who look like THAT. (I'm pointing at the photo in the post below.)
(b) addresses of sophisticated old theater-going ladies who will allow me to sleep on their sofas/in their spare bedrooms/in their beds.
(c) locations of colorful art galleries/vintage furniture stores/magazine shops/dark tastefully-graffitied alleyways.
(d) telephone numbers of dirty punk rocker boys (with or without a Jew fetish).
(e) names of delicious food outlets/ice cream retailers.
(f) anything else you think might be relevant. Your name and a naked photo. Poetry. I don't know.
in
Berlin,
Personal
2
comments
Budapest is like when you see a hot ass in a heavy crowd and think, Wow! and then your eyes trail up and you realize it's connected to a really old lady. And you shudder and feel dirty because you were totally turned on. And then you try to think of construction equipment or derivatives trading because neither have anything to do with really old ladies, and maybe if you think about those things long enough you'll forget that you were fantasizing about old lady ass. I really can't describe Budapest any better than that.
There are some photos here. One aspect that is not included in these photos is the live gay sex. It was like being in Amsterdam, only there were no women and I was disturbingly sober. I didn't include any photos of goulash soup either, but that was definitely a huge part of the trip. There was also an odd incident involving a young waiter who drew me a map to his house during dinner and then ran away crying. And there was a woman outside McDonald's who took my apple. I really, really liked Budapest.
in
Budapest,
Gay,
Personal
1 comments
Contrary to (wishful) speculation I did not elope to Iceland. Or to anywhere. I did spend a recent afternoon with the Sultan of Brunei's daughter but that's another story. I've also been indulging myself in a mild existential 'reassessment' (which sounds far better than 'crisis') and so far things are progressing nicely. I'm eating less wheat, for example, and silently forgiving estranged relatives. I also found a cello.
Meanwhile, here are some photos from yesterday in Shoreditch which, as far as I can tell, is the British equivalent of Williamsburg. Lots of punk rocker boys and people with cool hair and street art and buildings which look like they might be fun to explore. And bagel shops. My kind of place. A man with a straw hat and a thick felt coat asked if I needed a taxi. I said no, seeing as his breath smelled of beer, and he wasn't wearing shoes, and I didn't need a taxi. Then he asked if I wanted to get a drink with him at the pub across the street. It's like the ads here say. Too much alcohol makes you feel invincible when you're actually most vulnerable.
This will probably (hopefully?) be the last I'll say on the subject but, for my own record, it has now been over a year since I quit smoking. My official quit date (according to an old post on this blog) was January 22, 2007. I remember having a bad date about a week later and smoking a single cigarette as dull compensation (and then throwing the remaining pack away in dull fury). Being now February I think it's safe to commemorate an official anniversary, so, hoorah to me! That's over 3,000 cigarettes not smoked, at least $1,000 saved, and precisely one mother made extremely happy. I've lost a certain amount of coolness but only in the abbreviated high school sense, and surely I'm over that by now. End.
Meanwhile, here are a couple photos involving me and a handkerchief by Louise Bourgeois. The Tate Modern recently did a retrospective of the artist's work and without meaning to be dramatic, it was the most wonderful and astonishing show I've seen in years. I've never encountered an artist whose work so thoroughly captures the rhythm and color of my mind, which was at once validating, glorious and intensely frustrating. She's almost 100. Art is a guaranty of sanity.
I prefer listening to Architecture in Helsinki than viewing architecture in Helsinki. The city was very cold and as predicted, the sky snowed from midday. Within two hours the streets were blanketed and the harsh grayness turned quaint and pretty. We almost slipped. We found a room full of ghosts by the side of the road. We stopped to play. The rest was all light, and dark, and an abundance of men with strange facial hair. [For the full Facebook gallery click here.]
Arrived just after midnight in the capital of Finland and watched a handsome, young, thickly-bearded lad (Brad Pitt during his facial hair period) sweep the shiny white floors of a very bare international terminal. Nothing feels so far away, or so large, as an empty airport in an strange town. Brad Pitt sipped Pepsi between sweeps - a captivating rhythm! - and I listened to Asobi Seksu discuss Lions and Tigers. Customs was a pleasure, barely a glance, and the Brandy remained firmly intact. Outside, the air felt like a supermarket vegetable freezer. Our driver was not from London or New York, and if I had seen him stand I would surely have checked for hooves and a goat's tail, so sure was his resemblance to the trotting Mr. Tumnus. He was blond and curly, well pretty, and had a thick gold hook in his right ear. He told us that tomorrow it will snow. Tomorrow I will wear the big coat.
:: RIP Heath Ledger
Just back into London after a couple nights in Munich earlier this week. Here's the Facebook album for anyone interested, commentary included. We walked the city center and managed to fit in, towards the end, a quick visit to the Dachau concentration camp. We happened to arrive on the one day of the week when the site is closed, which wasn't a bad thing. 2,000 people visit every other day. I preferred the closed emptiness. The light was fading and the air was like ice. The remnants of the old train tracks and platform used to transport the prisoners were heartbreaking.
The city itself was dreary, full of clouds and cold. The scene was fascinating still, the birthplace of the Nazi party. Our taxi driver told me about his cars and his guns. All around there were signs that seemed to ban parents holding hands with their children. Which of course was just a comical misinterpretation on my part, but seemed sort of fitting. The trains were numbered with military efficiency. The people were dressed very practically. Young Aryan men with crisp German accents and stern faces were hard at work at the hotel front desk, and in clothes shops around the city, and behind the counters of fast food restaurants everywhere. It's hard when you're there not to wonder what those same men might have been doing sixty years ago.
There were two boys
at the Tate
dressed perfect,
a perfect two,
in tight pants
and long coats
and loose hair;
and their dance
was astounding
and very lovely
to watch.
And in the end
when they touched
it shook the ground,
even the ground;
it split the concrete;
and people ran
to see the crack,
but missed the boys.
The boys were gone
in
London,
Personal,
Words
1 comments
Do I look terrorist-y? I'm usually ushered through airport security with a curt smile while the 98-year-old lady behind me gets strip-searched and beaten. Not so lucky this time. This time (out of JFK last week) I was directed to a separate section. Questioned. Had my bag searched. Underwent a full (clothed) body search using the 'back of [his] hand,' which I felt dirty for enjoying. I couldn't speak due to a throat virus which had destroyed my voice, something the people in charge seemed to view as uncooperative. I think what sparked the whole mess was my outrageous act of initially walking through the metal detector with - *gasp* - my shoes still on my feet. Which these days is basically akin to running around the departure terminal with ticking bombs and a tan. Thank God I didn't have any bottles of suspicious liquid in my bag, like cologne or...water. I still remember sitting with my aunt years ago in the smoking section of an old 747. Back then you were allowed carcinogenic drugs and fire. Now they're scared of footwear and Evian.
It's 2008 and New York, for a week, has been a delight. On the escalators at Barneys, and Saks, and Gucci, and Dior, and Burberry, and possibly Prada, men done in military coats and leather shoes glide silent like perky mannequins or peacock giraffes and make happy gestures with their eyes, and two in particular look very content. They're sharing lip stuff. They're eating sandwiches on a cold rock by Sixth Avenue. (Shivering.) The sky turns dark and the people start glowing. The streets of Midtown are frantic like the world might end. The shops are closing. Everyone keeps saying that the air feels electric. A week isn't long, and two days is shorter, and when it's all done, in a minute, they'll wonder why they never kissed.
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New York,
Personal,
Words
3
comments
Even the air feels new, prickling at my face like the rub of small hands with uncut nails. (Less chilling, now, but just as fresh.) The slim boys in Prada march down Kings Road – stern giants with blond hair and skinny chests – and their jeans don’t fit, or fit perfectly, and it all seems silly (so silly!) and how has it already been three weeks? In the light of New York on Christmas it will probably seem absurd, like a bubbly bit of something imagined by someone young, and the three of us will laugh, at twenty-five-and-a-half, and time will surely fly.
in
London,
Personal,
Words
3
comments
In numbered rooms, in foreign places, on streets full of cars, on roughly upholstered armchairs, next to dripping faucets, next to windows locked permanently for the safety of our guests, sit men with worried eyes, sit men with lovers in other towns, sit men reading hotel bibles.
in
London,
Words
2
comments
1. Whimsical London. Subway art on the walkway under Wellington Arch.
2. Beautiful London. Part of a detailed entry gate at Hyde Park Corner.
3. Playful London. Monopoly everywhere. In the tube station below Bond St.
4. Retarded London. For people like me who find street crossings terrifying.
5. Bored London. When I decide to mark time by photographing my face.
6. Amusing London. Street sign in Westminster.
7. Dead London. Graves in Chelsea.
8. Power London. Big Ben, Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament.
in
London,
Personal
1 comments
The rubber man in black moved his lips in silence, reached out his right hand, cupped, and shook it at the rush of bodies flying past his face. Please! Food! Help! His palms looked inflated and fatty and swollen, like rubber, like his fingers wouldn’t bend more than a few degrees and maybe the cup was actually a fist and maybe he was trying to fight, not beg.
I stood watching from across the street and in the distance he seemed repetitive and silly. Silly even for a man crying for dinner at a train station in the middle of London. He was short, and fat, and nothing moved properly, and there was no grace, and it was difficult to stare. He looked at me as though I knew something special but his eyes twitched mad and I couldn’t hold his gaze.
The people arrived in waves coinciding with their tube schedules and during the quiet he would take out a pack of Marlboro Reds and smoke away his food. The urgency in his face disappeared when he smoked. The desperation in his furrowed brow cleared. But it didn’t turn the misery fake. No doubt he was hungry, no doubt those hands were really swollen and no doubt his filthy clothes were really his, and not so filthy to him.
A man named Hassan arrived to show me an apartment on Queensway. The rubber man watched as I took the other’s hand and shook his cup in my direction, where there were no people, and I waved goodbye back with my eyes. We walked down a long corridor that smelled like stale Indian spices, must and old flesh. The apartment was dark and stank like the outside, although the air felt stiller.
I hate it.
The reaction spilled from my mouth.
It smells awful. What is that? What is that smell? It needs paint.
I painted it myself yesterday.
Oh, well, maybe just a good clean then.
I did that too.
His polite pretense disappeared with the prospect of my business and he sounded mean.
I made a long trip out here. Do you know where I’ve come from? Do you have any idea?
I’m sorry.
I opened the door and walked fast, alone, down the twisted corridor, my head spinning from the nervous exchange. Outside it had started raining and the sun was almost set. The footpath was packed with people and I walked through them like an alien incognito, or a deaf person attune to the hum of life but not the full song. I was on the wrong side and I hit arms and bags and almost knocked a small lady over altogether. The lights were bright down Westbourne Grove and inside the grand, white houses the air looked warm and probably smelled like clean sheets or flowers.
There were square jaws aplenty that night, and bits of secret sex everywhere. Men with pretty faces and long shoes smacked their hands together, clicked their necks and bounced between brick walls and behind glass fences like elastic bands or soft ping-pong balls. Their eyes were huge - giant blue watermelons - and twice I tried to grab at their trouser cuffs but each time my fingers missed and slapped the clean concrete instead. What an awful sting!
In the silence of my small room, later, I imagined the same men bouncing between the ceiling and the floor, their sharp heals banging holes in the roof and all the neighbors turning furious at the noise, and the upstairs man running down and yelling that his floor was breaking and that men with eyes like giant watermelons were flying through and smashing his teacups. And I imagined the rubber man arriving and offering his hand as a replacement, and a Marlboro Red, and shaking his fist all over the place with a bent brow and stretched out legs. And then all of us sitting, and laughing, and panting, and drinking black tea from his rubber palm, and it tasting like salt, and sweat, and dirty silver.
in
London,
Personal,
Words
4
comments
A few things you might not have realized about Buckingham Palace:
1. The stonework really needs a good clean. Her Majesty should consider investing in a power hose - effective, easy to use, and loads of fun. No more unsightly green moss or unidentified blue stuff.
2. For all its pomp and grandeur the palace still understands the importance of a sturdy all-weather broom.
3. Up close, the changing of the guard is strangely erotic. There's no good reason why (non-fascistically-inclinded) men shouldn't dress like this at all times. Military coats are the go, especially when accessorized with a nice shiny sword.
4. The real purpose of the changing of the guard is to distract the crowds and allow the Queen a chance to sneak into the palace's back entrance without creating a fuss. This photographer misses nothing.
I took a train today bound for a place called Cockfosters (which no one else in the carriage seemed to find amusing) and spent the morning listening to Philip Glass and pretending I was Virginia Woolf - in a non-transsexual, assuredly masculine sort of way - freshly back in the capital and off to buy flowers, ginger and ink. I'm used to 24 hour delis and ice cream at 3 a.m. Tonight I fell asleep at around 5 p.m. (jet-lag) and when I awoke at midnight the shops were all closed and I'd missed dinner and forgotten about lunch. The man downstairs gave me his chocolate croissant, which was very sweet indeed. Everything here is something indeed. For example: it's unfortunate, indeed, that while cleaning my apartment in New York over the weekend I inadvertently threw away my camera. Fucking annoying, indeed.
Just arrived in London where it's raining and cold. Which is no surprise at all, being London, and considering I love the cold and rather like the rain, not a bad state of affairs altogether. Currently in Notting Hill enjoying two cups of coffee, eggs on toast, and free wireless internet. Surrounded on all sides by persons of impeccable style. Suddenly wish I'd packed more fancy clothes. Weary at the prospect of spending my weak dollars on expensive shoes and elaborate coats. Resolved, in the absence of suitable upper crust accoutrements, to maintain artsy facial scruff and cultivate an aura of mystery and intrigue about everything I do.
in
London,
Personal
4
comments
He fiddles six simultaneous tunes on one violin while also playing a keyboard, drinking a beer, and singing about impotence. It's very beautiful and thoroughly unique. Plus he's gay, and cute, and goofy. There's nothing bad about this man. Below is a video someone else took of him doing a cover of Mariah Carey's 'Fantasy' which he also did when we saw him. It's funny and ear-pleasing. It's also the only thing to do with Mariah Carey that will EVER appear on this blog. The sound is all live. He records various bars and beats on the spot using pedals at his feet and sequences them to play in harmony while he sings and plucks, and records more beats. Sneaky.
Meanwhile, Bright Eyes played Radio City two Mondays ago. I had been looking forward to this show for months. They're one of my favorite bands and I think Connor Oberst is a magnificent songwriter, but the show was sort of average, maybe because I had such high expectations. Satisfying, definitely but the sound was off and the song selection could have been better. More old stuff, in particular, would have made me happy. Plus the venue was stupid for a band like this. We still had fun, although I almost ripped off an usher's head when she wouldn't let me leave the theater before the show started. I threatened something about unlawful imprisonment, I think, but she wouldn't budge. And she smiled the whole time while basically telling me to fuck off. I was filled with equal parts outrage and respect.
War and Peace?
Excuse me?
Your book. Is it War and Peace?
Oh. No. David Copperfield. Do you like Dickens?
Yes. Very much. I love Great Expectations.
Me too. Me too!
Do you live here?
Yes. I mean, what do you mean?
Is this a residential building?
Oh. Yes. I live here. It’s residential.
Not all of it. Perfect location though. You’re smart.
Thanks. I love this neighborhood.
I don't blame you. So, where are you off to? I’m headed this way also. East.
I was just getting a coffee.
Oh, me too. Mind if I join you?
No. I mean, not at all.
My name’s Xavier.
I’m David.
Nice to meet you.
in
Gay,
New York,
Personal
4
comments
The old king of Australia whose name you didn't know, John Howard, just got defeated by a man whose name you'll soon forget, Kevin Rudd. By mentioning this single fact at your next dinner party you will appear smart, SEXY, and very international. Just remember: Kevin, which sounds like heaven, which is the opposite of hell, which is what Australia will become now that the Labour Party is in power, and Rudd, as in dud, which according to my MacBook dictionary is "a thing that fails to work properly or is otherwise unsatisfactory or worthless." I don't mean to be partisan, I just find rhymes particularly helpful in trying to remember names.
I voted a couple days ago at the Australian Consulate here in New York. A few things about my proud nation's consulate, which is located on the thirty-seventh floor of a slightly shabby office building in Midtown. First, you don't need to show any ID, or even sign a visitor slip, to enter the building or the elevators. Disturbing. Second, you don't need to show any ID to vote. Very disturbing. Third, they were playing Missy Higgins the entire time. Extremely disturbing. Everyone was super friendly but the rooms themselves felt a little like the worst office ever, or like one of those temporary spaces that get hired out for cheap corporate seminars and factory outlet sales. I'm hoping the luxury suites, marble foyers, and other trappings of power are located elsewhere. But I think that might have been it.
Pygmalion is trash. Don't bother. Jefferson Mays, who I absolutely loved in I Am My Own Wife a few years back, is the only worthwhile element in an otherwise rubbish production. (Helen Carey, as the professor's mother, is also sort of wonderful but her part is very limited.) Claire Danes was, well, let's not be mean. The point of this post isn't to review the play. It's to tell you about the crazy thing that happened afterwards.
So the show ended and we strolled for a while, got some ice cream, caught the train back to 14th Street, wandered a bit, and then decided to head to my favorite quaint little bistro on Greenwich Avenue for wine. No sooner had we sat down than who should enter the room but...Jefferson Mays. What.The.Fuck?! Professor Higgins? It's not like the restaurant was across the street from the venue. Or even remotely in the same area. The theater's in Times Square and we were all the way downtown. Crazy fucking coincidence. It also made it impossible to discuss the atrocious production with any semblance of discretion so I just kind of gawked for a while and sipped my wine quietly.
On the riveting topic of B-grade celebrity sightings I also saw the red-headed lady from Project Runway today walking up Broadway by Herald Square (fierce black boots), and on Saturday I saw the Aussie supermodel Elle McPherson at the Guggenheim. She was far more beautiful than anything by that hack Richard Prince (currently on show at the museum) and I don't even think she's particularly exceptional. My advice: skip the Gugg and go instead to the awesome Rembrandt show at the Met. Wow!
It occurs to me that this post might seem a little negative and that makes me sad so let's end on a high. I adore good theater (almost invariably off-Broadway), it's one of my favorite things about this city, so if you're in New York at the moment I'd recommend either Peter and Jerry (by Edward Albee) or The Receptionist, both stellar productions (especially P&J). If you're in the mood for opera Mozart's Magic Flute (produced by Julie Taymor) at the Metropolitan is rather special. And for something a little cheaper/easier, Margot at the Wedding (the new film by Noah Baumbach with Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Jason Leigh) is mostly brilliant, and is currently showing at the Angelika. Or for a guaranteed good time just buy some nice wine, lay on the grass, sing songs with the homeless people and get ferociously knackered. You don't even need to be in New York for that one.
(Oh yeah, and, happy Thanksgiving! If you're not in the US then by all means still go ahead and have a pleasant Thursday. Just not as pleasant.)
And she has this thing where she wants to fuck a white girl, and then fuck me in the ass. She's very attractive. Really. Killer legs and just a bundle of energy. Lots of fun. I usually swing straight but hey, I love this girl. And I'm not sure this technically counts as 'gay' anyway. Look there she is. Hey sweetie! What.did.I.tell.you? Killer! Ooohhhh....I love you too! Kisses!
[Source: a friendly, mid-aged sorta gent at a local West Village lesbian bar. My white female friend, raised in the kosher suburbs of Melbourne, Australia, politely declined. "He didn't even buy me a drink!" she screamed as we headed down W4th Street in search of propositions less vivid. Bad form. BAD form.]
in
Gay,
New York,
Personal
4
comments
There's a chance we never met. I see him often - we're practically neighbors - but his face is a ghost and it changes with the clouds. A city face.
It began in a deli by Bleecker Street between fluorescent aisles of cleaning detergent, Twinkies and frozen pizza. His eyes were dark and he looked about forty-five. I felt bratty, worn, and altogether in the mood for cheap attention. The night had been tough and I wouldn't be home for at least two hours.
A pack of Marlboro Reds, please, and a lighter. Anything, sir, to quench this fury.
I looked back to the ceiling and matched his furtive gaze. He was well-dressed, very handsome, and though I'd never met him before his stare was familiar. I headed west towards a park on Tenth Avenue to smoke sorrows with black men dressed as leggy, redheaded brides. I could feel him close behind, the sense of him. The crunch of hard leather on dirty concrete.
Don't walk out, not after all this. Stay. Please. Shout a little more.
I sat on a bench near the gate and watched matching streams of white and red light fly past in jagged slow motion. The city felt industrial, sturdy, and the smoke from my cigarette mirrored the plumes of gas across the river. I was safe, finally, and my head was afloat. Wine that had earlier fueled chaos and shattered toes now touched my eyes, calmed my face and made the breeze seem warm. I heard footsteps and the sound of a man sitting on the bench next to mine.
How old is he?
About eight months. He's a purebred.
He's gorgeous.
The architect's stare was hungry and full of hope. I might have called it desperate if the light had been better, slutty even, but in the soft glare of traffic and a dim moon I could only smile. He looked to the ground and started fidgeting, the dog started growling, and I lit another cigarette. We talked about Meir and Ghery, about London Terrace, about where he went to school and about how he loves imagining skyscrapers. He pointed at the smudged silhouette of downtown Manhattan and said: see, that one, there - that's mine.
Can I help you?
Can you help me? Can I help you! A puff, friend, if you please!
Queen Elizabeth's voice was deep and he stared at me with a countenance of bright doom. He was magnificent - all white lace, red leather, and stockings so high they touched the clouds. A virgin bride turning the city's filth into feathers and pink fluff. His finger was a long cane wrapped in tape and it traced circles in the air around my face, and with his hands flapping by his mouth like the bill of an unearthly duck he proclaimed in Latin that tonight the world would end and that tomorrow would be all cherries and tobacco.
So you see, friend, why I need a good fag! A fine fag! A hard fag!
The architect didn't notice the Queen, or if he did his head didn't turn. He was facing me, half-bent, and his cheeks were wet. Why are you sad? He told me his bed feels empty, that money doesn't help, and that sometimes he wishes he could sleep forever. Outside, in the air, surrounded by his work and by the noise. We didn't talk about the deli, or about his ring, or about how very nervous I suddenly felt. Neither of us said anything when he stood up from his bench and sat down beside me.
His fur is magnificent. So shiny. What a good boy.
Do you have a dog?
Our hands must have touched because I remember him telling me my skin was soft. How old are you? I remember Queen Elizabeth swaying to the tune of his own heels and tripping on a crack in the crooked cement. God damnit! Did you see my lashes? I remember the smell of his hair, the strange intimacy, and the look in his eyes the moment he disappeared.
It was a look that said: Help.
Hold My Hand.
Sit With Me And Show Me Your Soul.
It might also have said: Piss on me. Whip me with your belt. Break my knees and punch me in the gut! But the look was fleeting and the night dark, full of distraction, talk, and mixed up color. And even now when I see him in the street his brown eyes seem to change from blue to green, his face is always a little more handsome, or less, and he always smiles, or nods, or waves, but then blinks once and disappears.
in
New York,
Personal,
Words
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Shot Tuesday night - Regina Spektor performing 'Hotel Song' instrument-free with Only Son beatboxing beside her (my finger touched the mic a bunch of times and messed up the sound - sorry). The show was magnificent even if the Hammerstein was a bad choice. Definitely one of my favorite live performers and just as good this time round as in Sydney (although that show felt a little more intimate and the hobbling cane/pain meds combo was funny/tragic to watch). Meanwhile, who knew she had such a large lesbian following? And so LOUD a lesbian following? Not me, or else I wouldn't have stood smack bang in the middle. Damnit I almost ripped off some pretty girl's head.
in
Music,
New York,
Only Son,
Personal,
Regina Spektor
Someone stumbled on this blog recently by searching Google for: what to do if homeless man is on stoop NY. Horror of horrors! (Honey, what's that on the steps...Oh.My.God. Don't say anything. Just fetch me my laptop.) They found some old post about cops 'escorting' a homeless man off a fancy lady's stoop last December. I'm concerned, however, that the reader's specific query wasn't adequately addressed. There isn't always time to call the police. Nor should one have to suffer the hassle. You don't ring an exterminator every time you see a cockroach, right? Of course not. You use bug spray. Or a shoe. Or in my mother's case, boiling water. Point being, you deal with the problem quickly and with simple household items. So too the subject dilemma. Yet the internet, for all its wonder, offers precious little in the way of relevant advice for imperiled townhousers, a defect I hereby plan to rectify with this definitive guide (and what's sure to become a popular online resource) - My Seven Easy Steps to a Homeless Man Free Stoop. Guaranteed effective.
Required items: latex gloves (x2), plastic wrap (about 20ft), swimming cap, shovel, fried chicken.
1. Place double latex gloves on hands and wrap entire body in plastic. Hair should be tied back and covered with swimming cap.
2. Grab shovel and bag of fried chicken.
3. Tell Guadalupe to open the front door slowly (and to please do something about that squeaky hinge in the morning!)
4. Stare at homeless man with ironic indignation. Not more than five seconds or until he starts growling.
5. Throw pieces of fried chicken (especially drumsticks) onto the street. The homeless man will become distracted by the smell and visual spectacle.
6. Drop the bag and bang the motherfucker in the back with the shovel. If timed correctly he should roll gently to the ground and remain unconscious for at least the remainder of the evening.
7. Admire your pretty, homeless man free stoop. Tell Guadalupe to quit staring and get back to the kitchen.
Optional Step 8: for a clean stoop and a clean conscience, try stuffing a crumpled one-dollar bill into your unconscious homeless man's pocket. That way when he wakes up he can buy a hot dog and a cup of ice water! Now everyone's happy!
This week has been particularly musical. Saturday we caught Of Montreal's stellar show at the Roseland Ballroom. It was big fun (how could this band not be?) and typically theatrical, including one sword fighting episode, below, between a shirtless Kevin Barnes and a masked, spandex-clad gray man. As you do. No nudity this time round just insanely skinny jeans, which I love on guys able to pull off the look - i.e. Kevin Barnes and maybe five other people. (I'm still into the whole hipster aesthetic. Feel free to vomit. Or slap me.) Also at the show: lots of youngsters. I felt old for a minute but then someone started feeding me cheap beer and I forgot why.
in
Music,
New York,
Of Montreal,
Personal
Here's Tori doing her double keyboard thing (and gyrating) last night in New York. Her best show ever according to my friend who's seen her six times. Which seems slightly excessive. She should have played more of her recent stuff for fake fans like me who only caught on a few years ago. But I guess that's our problem.
Managed happily to get a last minute ticket to Saturday's sold-out 'Evening with Sigur Rós', part of the three day New Yorker Festival which started Friday.
The band performed a short acoustic set, premiered their new DVD documentary, Heima, and conducted an interview/Q&A session with the audience. I love their music and my seat was practically on the stage so needless to say I had a blast. The film was beautiful and made my longing to visit Iceland even more urgent, but the real fun was listening to the guys speak. They were all very soft-spoken and their answers were sort of bland ("yes, we like New York") but there was enough personality and interest on the part of the audience to keep things entertaining.
Especially at the very end when someone grabbed the mic and begged for an encore. Um. Uh. Ehh. The guys were clearly very nervous and unprepared. The interviewer made a bunch of excuses about insufficient time and the band said something about inappropriate instruments. But the audience was relentless, the cheering and thumping growing louder and more intense. Jónsi, the gay lead singer (in the orange t-shirt above), looked particularly uncomfortable, and actually raised his hand at one point like a kid in school. "Can I use the bathroom?" he asked, after the host, New Yorker writer John Seabrook, pointed in his direction. You get the idea.
After a lot of fumbling and Icelandic mumbling they finally got it together and sang something pretty. The vocals were weak but the audience didn't care and the night ended with a bang. And despite the awkwardness the guys came across as wonderfully talented, humble and very authentic. Outside the line was already forming for the midnight show, set to start an hour later. Hopefully during the break the men found something in the back room stronger than the red wine and beer they'd been sipping. Calm the nerves and all that, although to be honest the fuck-ups and fluttering were half the fun and really quite endearing.
PS - John Seabrook was surely stoned. Sort of funny in a really excruciating way. Or excruciating in a funny way. Or something strange. (In fairness, he's a writer, not a public speaker. But still.)
Here's the music video to Glósóli, one of my favorite Sigur Rós songs and an awesome film clip, too. I took some video footage at the show also which I'll try to upload here in the next day or two.
Arcade Fire, LCD Soundsystem, Sigur Ros (x2) and Fiona Apple all in one day is why New York rocks. Actually getting tickets is another story.
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1 comments
A middle-aged black man skating around Central Park in spandex pants that leave nothing to the imagination. Eyes closed, music loud, swaying blissfully to the beat of another world. And graceful like the Little Mermaid on crack. I think we all have something to learn from this man.
You must see The Bubble, the latest film by Israeli director Eytan Fox. It's the story of an Israeli soldier who falls in love with a Palestinian man and it's fairly magnificent. I loved it especially for its portrayal of Tel Aviv. It captured perfectly the guts and the vibrancy of the place, and the righteous energy of its people. The title refers to Tel Aviv's purported mental isolation and political insularity within greater Israel, a condition resented by many Israelis. The real crux of the film, then, is its exploration of this reality through the dynamic that forms between a group of young Jews living in Tel Aviv and the Palestinian outsider suddenly fucking in their midst.
I also finally saw one of Fox's earlier and better known films, Yossi & Jagger, which is the story, based on truth, of a love affair between an Israeli Army commander and one of his soldiers. I have a definite thing for Israeli soldiers so both of these films were kind of guaranteed to please. Y&J isn't as polished as Fox's later stuff but it's engrossing nonetheless. It's also very sad so be ready to cry hard and to find yourself violently shouting at the TV screen...NOOOOOOO! Because the characters can hear that. It makes a difference.
