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.
in
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
