Fans of cabaret-inspired bands are plain spoiled rotten. Constant stimulation and fanfare is the name of the game for a certain breed of band that counts Humanwine, the Dresden Dolls, and the Ditty Bops among its ilk, the latter of whom played Spiegeltent at South Street Seaport tonight.
A combination of sassy saloon jazz, plucky folk and vaudeville showmanship, The Ditty Bops were a perfect fit for the antique dramatics of the Spiegeltent setting. The “tent of mirrors” is over 80 years old, one of under a dozen traveling cabaret performance houses left in the world. Fanned out on the north edge of the Seaport’s famous boardwalk amidst strings of festive carnival lights, the self-sufficient structure brought an air of welcome festivity to Manhattan’s edge, shrouding a clan of impossibly eager fans in slim rectangles of stained color and aged wooden support beams showcasing endless panels of reflective glass. The Bops’ starlet duo, Amanda Barrett and Abby DeWald, who bicycled for nine hours straight in the pouring rain to make the New York tour date (they have cycled to EVERY show on this summer’s tour – 4,502.75 miles, thus far) were no doubt grateful for the magnificence of their temporary shelter.
The girls wasted no time pulling out the tricks, sending their Master of Ceremonies in on stilts for introductions. Amanda, on mandolin, sported a cop uniform, complete with signature hat, and Abby, on guitar, donned the jailbird ensemble. The duo breezed through numbers from their latest release Moon Over the Freeway, with an upright bass, piano, accordion, and host of Amanda-operated (literal) bells and whistles supplementing the angelic harmonies and invigorated strums. The set list included, among the new gems, two covers by Bops-endorsed group, The Boswell Sisters. Old favorite “Sister Kate” inspired an audience member to hop on stage, inciting jealousy in all those who weren’t wearing gold fringe to better “shake it like a bowl of jelly on a plate.” Audience participation, which often serves up snooze or cringe-worthy moments at live shows, provided many of the night’s highlights. The three volunteers called upon to sing “Wishful Thinking” to The Ditty Bops’ accompaniment, grabbed hold of the cheerful tune, even nailing some of the unpracticed harmonies. When asked to tell a story during the interlude of “a song about an obsessive love,” a balding, self-proclaimed Dungeons and Dragons geek in a priest collar (yes, that’s right) riffed about following two girls who rode their bikes across the country: “I’m not an athlete,” he delivered rhythmically. “I rode hard. It was at the 9th power, if you know D&D.”
The band was as playful as the fans, intermittently pulling from a trunk of props for visual and dramatic aids. Eye patches and skull-adorned hats came out for pirate-inspired chanteys. Juggling pins and playing cards were exchanged in soundtracked duels. Balloons were popped, used to create static electricity, and even inhaled for their helium, to hilarious effect, before harmonies.
Towards the close of the set, the MC creeped on stage to hastily apply black and white makeup to the girl’s faces before they stripped down to skeleton-screened t-shirts and shorts to play one of the band’s more ominous numbers. Now dressed in Halloween garb and harboring surprises still, The Bops followed with a song featuring a guest musician from New York, recruited through the band’s website to play the SAW (In case you’re wondering, you play the saw with a bow, and it sounds a lot like the ooooooooooo oooooooo’s you hear from ghosts in a cheesy haunted house).
The band closed the night with an encore set of two of their more traditional Ditty Bop numbers, the first featuring spectacularly racy lyrics like, “I ain’t the electrician, I ain’t the electrician’s son, but I will wire your box until the real electrician comes,” and raunchy variations on this formula (think “I ain’t the carpenter, I ain’t the garbage man”).
The last number, a simple, darling, hip-shaker, turned the fans’ attention back to the catchy simplicity of the recordings that brought them to Spiegeltent in the first place. The Bops write and sing great tunes. The rest is just icing on the big top.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Questions from my future readers
As I was scanning my sitemeter this morning, I noticed a visitor whose referring URL was a Google search of the words "is eating bacon raw dangerous." Another Google search for "ladies crotch grabbing" also pointed a new reader to Collections Are Dangerous early this AM.
These are the issues that bring random people to Miss Stacia's forum these days. Hope I deliver what you folks are looking for.
These are the issues that bring random people to Miss Stacia's forum these days. Hope I deliver what you folks are looking for.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
And for my Japanophiles...
Eat: Dressed up noodles
Attend: The Japanese New Music Festival
Read: Murakami and Murakami
Listen to: Asobi Seksu
Attend: The Japanese New Music Festival
Read: Murakami and Murakami
Listen to: Asobi Seksu
Pour les Francophiles parmi nous:
Trouvez: "Paris, Je T'Aime"
Voyez : Mon chère Devery
Lisez: Marguerite Duras
Ecoutez à: Françoise Hardy
Voyez : Mon chère Devery
Lisez: Marguerite Duras
Ecoutez à: Françoise Hardy
Monday, August 28, 2006
The Underappreciated Eating Establishment Series: Red Lobster
If you're one of the many people who has been hounding me to post about my Red Lobster experience for almost four months now, I must apologize. It took me this long to digest the (roughly) four pounds of shellfish I ate that night, and I'm just now starting to feel like myself again.
I could not believe how many people jumped to join me at my Red Lobster de-virginization. I mean LEAPT at the chance to eat heaps of food from a category that, even in top quality, can be responsible for the most vicious food poisoning ever to wash through your entrails. But somehow a group nine deep (including Jay-Z, Big Mo and K-Pun) came to inhabit a long dais of bargain seafood at the center of the universe: Times freaking Square.
Of the nine diners, my girl Jules, her boyfriend DC and I were the only Red Lobster novices. Jules, one of the original contributors during the gestation of the Underappreciated Eating Establishment Series' mission, had passed on rumors of the existence of mouthwatering "cheesy biscuits," Red Lobster's stab at the addictive, unlimited dinner roll. When we finally rounded up the crew and sat down to dinner we were starving, and those little popovers started disappearing at lightning speed. Jules and DC gave the warm, flaky bread nuggets rave reviews, as did the rest of the table, who claimed to have embraced cheesy biscuit comas in the past. But I was less than impressed, wanting an even warmer and fluffier conduit for a tangier, more obvious cheesiness. I'm also not that big into biscuits, so it could be my bias talking here, but the saltine simplicity of the Olive Garden breadstick is still the yeast to beat.
For the main course, almost the entire table opted for "The Ultimate Feast," a combo platter of fried shrimp, shrimp scampi, crab legs and a lobster tail, served with a potato in the form of your choice.
Sebastian has seen better days.
These mammoth platters of shellfish were hoisted out, four at a time, by the strongest waitress alive, and were granted to the members of our party at just over thirty bucks a pop, a deal that pleased and made me nervous at the same time. DC elected to order the televised promotion special of the month, 35 shrimp any style, which he bumped up to a mammoth 45 for a couple extra dollars. (N.B. It is noted on Red Lobster's website that all prices in the Times Square and Hawaii locations are higher than advertised. Figures.) T-Money, who is allergic to shellfish**, opted for one of the few non-seafood, dishes on the menu, which was a chicken pasta, covered in what else but alfredo sauce.
In my opinion the shrimp were pretty measly, missing the robust fleshiness required for scooping up cocktail sauce or marinara. But they were lying limp in a garlic butter sauce or crusted with breading on my plate, which hid their inferior quality well enough. I also thought the lobster tail was a little on the tangy side (although it could have all been in my head), but MAN were those crab legs sweet. I would go back to that place for the crab legs alone. The crab lags and maybe the drinks.
Now, I'm not ordinarily a fan of the frozen beverage, but when you're waiting for a group of nine to pull together at the bar, you're bound to peruse the special drinks menu. On a whim I opted to start the night with a pilsner full of Bahama Mama, a strawberry-injected pina colada. Nine dollars for ten ounces of crushed ice, two ounces of sugared food coloring and half an ounce of actual liquor. The Long Island Iced Tea that followed my tropical slurpee seemed to do more of the trick in bringing on the buzz. I typically fear the Long Island Iced Tea, as it combines just about every liquor I refuse to drink alone, tastes nothing like iced tea, and is named after a place that conjures memories of drunken adolescent behavior I am less than eager to revisit. But Big Mo seemed to be pleased with his first cocktail (he often starts his nights with the magic tea), so I decided to take a chance. The drink was the perfect cap to my seafood orgy, putting me in a coma that effectively numbed the pain of digestion. Strong Island represent.
Now, Mo sucked down his first concoction in no time and was ready for his second round long before the waitress brought our bounty of crustaceans to the table. It was on his second trip to the bar that the guy, in a bold vote of confidence in his manhood, decided to order a six gallon martini glass full of frozen strawberry daiquiri.
It takes a big man to order a drink that pink.
A warning to men who are tempted to pull a similar stunt in the future: As with the sporting of a pink mens shirt, don’t try to pull off drinking a massive, conspicuously girly drink if you don’t have a set of fucking bowling balls between your legs. Especially when the Red Lobster marketing team decides to call your tub of rose-colored slushie “The Lobsterita.” It's the most ridiculous name possible, the child of a brainstorming session in which everyone was on crack. It’s a name you love to hate to love. It’s the drink equivalent of worst band name ever. It’s fucking genius.
I don’t know if the Lobsterita tasted any good, and can’t remember if Big Mo even came close to finishing it, but I do remember the drink making frequent appearances in my overnight shellfish-induced hallucinations. (Morning-after discussions with DC confirmed that both of us awoke in discomfort in the wee hours, myself with visions and nightmares, DC "to drink a gallon of water.") The following Monday, none of my coworkers reported middle-of-night disturbances, although Big Mo made it clear Red Lobster would live on through the next week and beyond, interjecting shouts of "Lobsterita!" at random points during the day. For quite some time the drink was adopted into dub room vernacular to imply a number of things:
1. I need a drink. (In a desperate tone, with a look of exhaustion: "Lobsteriiiiiitaaaa.")
2. Fuck that. (Chris Tucker stylee: "Lobsterita motherfucker!")
3. Hand me that dub? (Pointing to the tape: "Lobsterita?")
This all-purpose exclamation has since exited our daily vocabulary, but as I finally put a cap on this long-awaited installment of UEE: Red Lobster, I feel it is only appropriate to blurt out, if one last time (a la Benicio Del Toro in The Usual Suspects): LOSTERFUCKINGRITACOCKSUCKERMOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!!
**Jay-Z is also allergic to shellfish, which is why she ordered shrimp, lobster, and crab legs for dinner. I'm actually pretty sure she ate the last half of MY lobster tail as well. It's okay, she looks HOT in hives.
I could not believe how many people jumped to join me at my Red Lobster de-virginization. I mean LEAPT at the chance to eat heaps of food from a category that, even in top quality, can be responsible for the most vicious food poisoning ever to wash through your entrails. But somehow a group nine deep (including Jay-Z, Big Mo and K-Pun) came to inhabit a long dais of bargain seafood at the center of the universe: Times freaking Square.
Of the nine diners, my girl Jules, her boyfriend DC and I were the only Red Lobster novices. Jules, one of the original contributors during the gestation of the Underappreciated Eating Establishment Series' mission, had passed on rumors of the existence of mouthwatering "cheesy biscuits," Red Lobster's stab at the addictive, unlimited dinner roll. When we finally rounded up the crew and sat down to dinner we were starving, and those little popovers started disappearing at lightning speed. Jules and DC gave the warm, flaky bread nuggets rave reviews, as did the rest of the table, who claimed to have embraced cheesy biscuit comas in the past. But I was less than impressed, wanting an even warmer and fluffier conduit for a tangier, more obvious cheesiness. I'm also not that big into biscuits, so it could be my bias talking here, but the saltine simplicity of the Olive Garden breadstick is still the yeast to beat.
For the main course, almost the entire table opted for "The Ultimate Feast," a combo platter of fried shrimp, shrimp scampi, crab legs and a lobster tail, served with a potato in the form of your choice.
Sebastian has seen better days.
These mammoth platters of shellfish were hoisted out, four at a time, by the strongest waitress alive, and were granted to the members of our party at just over thirty bucks a pop, a deal that pleased and made me nervous at the same time. DC elected to order the televised promotion special of the month, 35 shrimp any style, which he bumped up to a mammoth 45 for a couple extra dollars. (N.B. It is noted on Red Lobster's website that all prices in the Times Square and Hawaii locations are higher than advertised. Figures.) T-Money, who is allergic to shellfish**, opted for one of the few non-seafood, dishes on the menu, which was a chicken pasta, covered in what else but alfredo sauce.
In my opinion the shrimp were pretty measly, missing the robust fleshiness required for scooping up cocktail sauce or marinara. But they were lying limp in a garlic butter sauce or crusted with breading on my plate, which hid their inferior quality well enough. I also thought the lobster tail was a little on the tangy side (although it could have all been in my head), but MAN were those crab legs sweet. I would go back to that place for the crab legs alone. The crab lags and maybe the drinks.
Now, I'm not ordinarily a fan of the frozen beverage, but when you're waiting for a group of nine to pull together at the bar, you're bound to peruse the special drinks menu. On a whim I opted to start the night with a pilsner full of Bahama Mama, a strawberry-injected pina colada. Nine dollars for ten ounces of crushed ice, two ounces of sugared food coloring and half an ounce of actual liquor. The Long Island Iced Tea that followed my tropical slurpee seemed to do more of the trick in bringing on the buzz. I typically fear the Long Island Iced Tea, as it combines just about every liquor I refuse to drink alone, tastes nothing like iced tea, and is named after a place that conjures memories of drunken adolescent behavior I am less than eager to revisit. But Big Mo seemed to be pleased with his first cocktail (he often starts his nights with the magic tea), so I decided to take a chance. The drink was the perfect cap to my seafood orgy, putting me in a coma that effectively numbed the pain of digestion. Strong Island represent.
Now, Mo sucked down his first concoction in no time and was ready for his second round long before the waitress brought our bounty of crustaceans to the table. It was on his second trip to the bar that the guy, in a bold vote of confidence in his manhood, decided to order a six gallon martini glass full of frozen strawberry daiquiri.
It takes a big man to order a drink that pink.
A warning to men who are tempted to pull a similar stunt in the future: As with the sporting of a pink mens shirt, don’t try to pull off drinking a massive, conspicuously girly drink if you don’t have a set of fucking bowling balls between your legs. Especially when the Red Lobster marketing team decides to call your tub of rose-colored slushie “The Lobsterita.” It's the most ridiculous name possible, the child of a brainstorming session in which everyone was on crack. It’s a name you love to hate to love. It’s the drink equivalent of worst band name ever. It’s fucking genius.
I don’t know if the Lobsterita tasted any good, and can’t remember if Big Mo even came close to finishing it, but I do remember the drink making frequent appearances in my overnight shellfish-induced hallucinations. (Morning-after discussions with DC confirmed that both of us awoke in discomfort in the wee hours, myself with visions and nightmares, DC "to drink a gallon of water.") The following Monday, none of my coworkers reported middle-of-night disturbances, although Big Mo made it clear Red Lobster would live on through the next week and beyond, interjecting shouts of "Lobsterita!" at random points during the day. For quite some time the drink was adopted into dub room vernacular to imply a number of things:
1. I need a drink. (In a desperate tone, with a look of exhaustion: "Lobsteriiiiiitaaaa.")
2. Fuck that. (Chris Tucker stylee: "Lobsterita motherfucker!")
3. Hand me that dub? (Pointing to the tape: "Lobsterita?")
This all-purpose exclamation has since exited our daily vocabulary, but as I finally put a cap on this long-awaited installment of UEE: Red Lobster, I feel it is only appropriate to blurt out, if one last time (a la Benicio Del Toro in The Usual Suspects): LOSTERFUCKINGRITACOCKSUCKERMOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!!
**Jay-Z is also allergic to shellfish, which is why she ordered shrimp, lobster, and crab legs for dinner. I'm actually pretty sure she ate the last half of MY lobster tail as well. It's okay, she looks HOT in hives.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
The Tigress knows all.
Partially in celebration of another excellent Neko show under the belt, partially in homage to the most heavily rotated Caseian creations, as of late:
That Teenage Feeling
I Wish I Was The Moon
Listen to the woman.
That Teenage Feeling
I Wish I Was The Moon
Listen to the woman.
Hungover, I could take on that skinny hot dog champ, I swear.
Last night I stayed up until 5am dancing to doo-wop and early MJ in a sweaty, smoky east village basement with a bunch of NYU freshman (Jay-Z, I don’t know HOW you convinced me to go you-know-where). This morning I awoke to the nausea invoked by three vodka tonics, a Jager shot (not my idea), a Corona and an infinite number of Stellas and Brooklyn Lagers. For the first three hours of bleating consciousness, I could barely think about downing the water required for recovery, not even touching upon the idea of food until about 2pm. But once the impulse hit me, I shifted into my usual hungover garbage disposal mode, working through the following in a matter of hours:
1. 6 steamed pork dumplings
2. 1 order chicken w/ broccoli
3. 1 pint white rice
4. medium tomato cheddar soup (best shit EVER) from Hale and Hearty
5. lots o' bread (w/soup)
6. 1 slice key lime pie
7. more-than-tastes of Jay-Z’s fruit and chocolate tortes
8. 1 spinach pie
9. 1 hummus and pita sandwich with cucumber and tomato
Cocoa Krispies are a good bet for later, and I’m pretty sure I’ve already consumed the adequate calories to last three days without food. How am I still hungry? Have to flip. The. Switch.
1. 6 steamed pork dumplings
2. 1 order chicken w/ broccoli
3. 1 pint white rice
4. medium tomato cheddar soup (best shit EVER) from Hale and Hearty
5. lots o' bread (w/soup)
6. 1 slice key lime pie
7. more-than-tastes of Jay-Z’s fruit and chocolate tortes
8. 1 spinach pie
9. 1 hummus and pita sandwich with cucumber and tomato
Cocoa Krispies are a good bet for later, and I’m pretty sure I’ve already consumed the adequate calories to last three days without food. How am I still hungry? Have to flip. The. Switch.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
"Revenge of the Bookeaters" at the Beacon Theater, 8/23/06
A few highlights from the “Revenge of the Bookeaters” show at the Beacon tonight (Quick because Miss Stacia’s got to go to bed and kick this cold before her Fran Drescher turns into a phone sex operator. If you've had a conversation with me recently you know what I'm talking about.):
1. Jon Stewart making an interesting observation about how Mac commercials kind of make him want to buy a PC (because presumably John Hodgman is the more likable of the two annoying spokespeeps.).
2. “Chicago” followed immediately by “Casimir Pulaski Day” from Sufjan Stevens and his sweet, six-piece band. Major score, and I wasn’t even crossing fingers for favorites like I usually do.
3. A silver-haired, cowboy-booted David Byrne announcing that he was going to do an entire country set, noting, “I’ve played all these songs before, just never all at once.”
But for me, the best part of the night, no joke, was exiting a killer musical showcase onto 74th and Broadway, a mere nine blocks from my apartment. This has never happened to me before, and may never again, as the typical bill for the Beacon theater these days features Linda Rondstadt* or Meatloaf (I shit you not, he was just there). Regardless, I could not stop reveling in the convenience.
Also, although I have seen a fair amount of hipsters make their way through Central Park for Summerstage, it truly tickled me to see them running amok on UWS city streets. An army of leggings marching towards my diner? A cluster of mullets and side-swept bangs in front of the Ruby Foo's?! I don’t think there was ever an occasion on which I could gaze at Zabars and catch so many pairs of thick-rimmed glasses in my peripheral vision. No strollers or little dogs, just a string of skinny chain smokers hanging across the street from the house that bubbe built.
*Sorry Linda, my heart belongs to Carly Simon.
1. Jon Stewart making an interesting observation about how Mac commercials kind of make him want to buy a PC (because presumably John Hodgman is the more likable of the two annoying spokespeeps.).
2. “Chicago” followed immediately by “Casimir Pulaski Day” from Sufjan Stevens and his sweet, six-piece band. Major score, and I wasn’t even crossing fingers for favorites like I usually do.
3. A silver-haired, cowboy-booted David Byrne announcing that he was going to do an entire country set, noting, “I’ve played all these songs before, just never all at once.”
But for me, the best part of the night, no joke, was exiting a killer musical showcase onto 74th and Broadway, a mere nine blocks from my apartment. This has never happened to me before, and may never again, as the typical bill for the Beacon theater these days features Linda Rondstadt* or Meatloaf (I shit you not, he was just there). Regardless, I could not stop reveling in the convenience.
Also, although I have seen a fair amount of hipsters make their way through Central Park for Summerstage, it truly tickled me to see them running amok on UWS city streets. An army of leggings marching towards my diner? A cluster of mullets and side-swept bangs in front of the Ruby Foo's?! I don’t think there was ever an occasion on which I could gaze at Zabars and catch so many pairs of thick-rimmed glasses in my peripheral vision. No strollers or little dogs, just a string of skinny chain smokers hanging across the street from the house that bubbe built.
*Sorry Linda, my heart belongs to Carly Simon.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
The College Man: And the Trail He Leaves Behind
I just opened my fridge to get a drink and was assaulted by a 22 oz. Bud Ice that wasn't there yesterday. I think the College Man spent a total of 44 waking minutes in my apartment between last night and this morning and we never went to a liquor store. Kid is a goddamn magician.
The College Man: Sophomore Send-off
Last night The College Man and I went to see Talladega Nights and eat some delish Malaysian noodles while reconnecting for the last time before he returns to the U of Maryland. After waking the groggy bastard long before his typical rising hour this morn, I brought him into the office because I thought he might get a kick out of the studio and edit rooms, and because he had never seen a cubicle-ridden workplace before. I gave him a speedy tour, finishing in my dear friend Shanaberg's windowless equipment sanctuary before leading the way back to the LIRR. On our way out, The College Man turned to me and said, "This is kind of bleak."
No kidding sport. Welcome to life after college.
It should also be noted that The Princeton Review's list of the Best U.S. Party Schools was released today. University of Maryland clings impressively, if just barely, to the Number 20 spot.
Enjoy it while you can my brother.
No kidding sport. Welcome to life after college.
It should also be noted that The Princeton Review's list of the Best U.S. Party Schools was released today. University of Maryland clings impressively, if just barely, to the Number 20 spot.
Enjoy it while you can my brother.
Monday, August 21, 2006
A Hearty Thanks
To the considerate woman who put up the "No Toilet Paper" post-it on my go-to stall in the ladies room. I salute you. Drip drying's a bitch.
Snakes on a Half-Empty Plizzane
Reasons you should see Snakes on a Plane even though apparently no one else has:
1. To appreciate the screenplay's endearing commitment to a ridiculous premise. Says the movie’s villain of his decision to release snakes on the plane (to eliminate a witness who means to testify against him in a murder trial): “We’ve exhausted every other option.” Of course you did.
2. To witness Samuel L. Jackson’s dexterity in wielding random snake defense weapons including a tazer, a lance tipped with a broken beer bottle, and a hairspray-fueled blowtorch.
3. For a disturbing and hilariously predictable string of snake attacks on multiple genital/erogenous zones.
4. For the most ridiculously hedonistic-turned-gory airplane sex scene. See number 3.
5. For Sam Jackson’s PERFECT delivery of the line that launched the hype.
6. For Julianna Marguiles’ underappreciated hotness.
7. For David Koechner’s performance as mildly sleazy and freakishly resilient co-pilot, Rick.
8. To see a Tinkerbell-sized dog punted directly into the mouth of a boa constrictor. Sorry mom/Shayna, it was funny. And some little dogs deserve it.
9. For Keenan. Way more effective sans Kel.
10. For the rewarding epiphany that Samuel L. Jackson isn’t acting at all. He’s just a bad ass motherfucker. As he proclaims early in the film, “It's my job to handle life and death situations on a daily basis. It's what I do, and I'm very good at it.” Damn straight.
1. To appreciate the screenplay's endearing commitment to a ridiculous premise. Says the movie’s villain of his decision to release snakes on the plane (to eliminate a witness who means to testify against him in a murder trial): “We’ve exhausted every other option.” Of course you did.
2. To witness Samuel L. Jackson’s dexterity in wielding random snake defense weapons including a tazer, a lance tipped with a broken beer bottle, and a hairspray-fueled blowtorch.
3. For a disturbing and hilariously predictable string of snake attacks on multiple genital/erogenous zones.
4. For the most ridiculously hedonistic-turned-gory airplane sex scene. See number 3.
5. For Sam Jackson’s PERFECT delivery of the line that launched the hype.
6. For Julianna Marguiles’ underappreciated hotness.
7. For David Koechner’s performance as mildly sleazy and freakishly resilient co-pilot, Rick.
8. To see a Tinkerbell-sized dog punted directly into the mouth of a boa constrictor. Sorry mom/Shayna, it was funny. And some little dogs deserve it.
9. For Keenan. Way more effective sans Kel.
10. For the rewarding epiphany that Samuel L. Jackson isn’t acting at all. He’s just a bad ass motherfucker. As he proclaims early in the film, “It's my job to handle life and death situations on a daily basis. It's what I do, and I'm very good at it.” Damn straight.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
La Musique Transcendant
If you like Francois Hardy or Serge Gainsbourg or my very favorite NYC faux-french seduction act, La Laque, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE achetez-vous Francoiz Breut's 2005 album, Une Saison Volée.
Aussi, a list of songs I may NEVER get sick of walking NYC to:
Widow and Son - Keren Ann
Before We Begin - Broadcast
Chicago - Sufjan Stevens
Us - Regina Spektor
Et une nouvelle favorite pour capituler à la force de l'orchestration:
I Hurt You (off the live Isle of View album) - The Pretenders
Aussi, a list of songs I may NEVER get sick of walking NYC to:
Widow and Son - Keren Ann
Before We Begin - Broadcast
Chicago - Sufjan Stevens
Us - Regina Spektor
Et une nouvelle favorite pour capituler à la force de l'orchestration:
I Hurt You (off the live Isle of View album) - The Pretenders
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
The first step is admitting you have a problem.
I have been a Cocoa Krispies addict for as long as I can remember, thanks to mom and pops' lax policies regarding their children's consumption of sugar cereals. But never in my life, not even in my late-night cereal heyday (basically all of college), did I even come close to ingesting as much soggy rice and chocolate milk as I have in the past 24 hours. I estimate I've consumed about three-quarters of a box since about 9:00 am yesterday morning, which breaks down to around 12 of 16 possible servings and 168 grams of sugar (and I wonder why I can't fall asleep) in a little over 17 hours.
On the other hand, I've also sloshed down about a quart and a half of milk with my chocolate crack, so at least I'm working hard to keep osteoperosis at bay.
On the other hand, I've also sloshed down about a quart and a half of milk with my chocolate crack, so at least I'm working hard to keep osteoperosis at bay.
Somehow we missed the Rice-a-Roni factory.
In addition to the Bonz's move to San Francisco this month, my good friends DC and Juju are also heading to Cali, as they're both from California and claim New York is lacking in natural wonders and relaxed vibes.
I don't know what the hell they're talking about (you mean Central Park isn't natural?!), but as I was recently reflecting upon the mass migration west, I started to tap into memories of the last time I was on the Golden Coast, during Spring Break '04. My roomate Scott and I rented a convertible in San Francisco and drove down US 1, hitting smog-enveloped Los Angeles on the way to our final destination of San Diego. I don't remember all too many specifics of the journey (which is not unexpected for me at this point - again, i blame heredity), although I do remember listening to a lot of Grandaddy and trying to maintain some kind of order to the long hair whipping in my eyes for all 15 hours we spent driving with the top down. I also remember rushing back to my Boston apartment with my digital camera, eager to upload the photos and create this egggcellent slide show with my newly acquired iMovie, posted for your viewing pleasure below.
I'm coming to visit biatches!
I don't know what the hell they're talking about (you mean Central Park isn't natural?!), but as I was recently reflecting upon the mass migration west, I started to tap into memories of the last time I was on the Golden Coast, during Spring Break '04. My roomate Scott and I rented a convertible in San Francisco and drove down US 1, hitting smog-enveloped Los Angeles on the way to our final destination of San Diego. I don't remember all too many specifics of the journey (which is not unexpected for me at this point - again, i blame heredity), although I do remember listening to a lot of Grandaddy and trying to maintain some kind of order to the long hair whipping in my eyes for all 15 hours we spent driving with the top down. I also remember rushing back to my Boston apartment with my digital camera, eager to upload the photos and create this egggcellent slide show with my newly acquired iMovie, posted for your viewing pleasure below.
I'm coming to visit biatches!
My Life in Bonz
For those of you who are new to Collections are Dangerous, or who are unfamiliar with one of it's early stars, let me give you the quickie guide to The Bonz:
1. She pops the collar.
Heyyyyy!
2. She has the rack to beat.
Miss Stacia's left breast acting as an inadequate imposter.
3. She will put peanut butter on anything.
Peanut Butter Encrusted Meatloaf: A Bonz special recipe.
4. She dresses experimental fashionistas in her Lilly Pulitzer when she's wasted.
Yes, those are whales.
5. She innapropriately flashes the devil horns.
Old Fashioned Tomato Soup rocks, motherfuckers!
6. She encourages drinking beer from a cozie.
One of many from the Bonz's collection.
Proper lubrication aids the creative process.
8. She has an unhealthy obsession with Manhattan socialties.
Just call her Bonzley Mortimer.
9. She can shoot the duck.
Not this kind.
Or this kind.
But this kind.
10. Many things make her "uncomfy."
But not this.
The Bonz was my anchor of sanity while I worked for the Citi, and in addition to acting as a main supporter of the Experimental Fashion Friday movement (along with Jules McMattress), she was instrumental in the development of both the Wall of Faith...
Freedom of Religion and Bat-Mitzvah phone card giveaways for all.
and the Wall of Fashionable Orthapedic Shoes.
No way we're wearing Dr. Scholl's when we're 65.
Next week a much tanner chapter of the Bonz's life will begin in San Francisco. I'm sad to see the lady go, but the surf is calling for her preppy chic to wash over the boardwalks of California. All will be okay as long as you don't forget your roots Bonzie. The Upper East Side blondes will never let you live that down.
We'll miss you.
1. She pops the collar.
Heyyyyy!
2. She has the rack to beat.
Miss Stacia's left breast acting as an inadequate imposter.
3. She will put peanut butter on anything.
Peanut Butter Encrusted Meatloaf: A Bonz special recipe.
4. She dresses experimental fashionistas in her Lilly Pulitzer when she's wasted.
Yes, those are whales.
5. She innapropriately flashes the devil horns.
Old Fashioned Tomato Soup rocks, motherfuckers!
6. She encourages drinking beer from a cozie.
One of many from the Bonz's collection.
Proper lubrication aids the creative process.
8. She has an unhealthy obsession with Manhattan socialties.
Just call her Bonzley Mortimer.
9. She can shoot the duck.
Not this kind.
Or this kind.
But this kind.
10. Many things make her "uncomfy."
But not this.
The Bonz was my anchor of sanity while I worked for the Citi, and in addition to acting as a main supporter of the Experimental Fashion Friday movement (along with Jules McMattress), she was instrumental in the development of both the Wall of Faith...
Freedom of Religion and Bat-Mitzvah phone card giveaways for all.
and the Wall of Fashionable Orthapedic Shoes.
No way we're wearing Dr. Scholl's when we're 65.
Next week a much tanner chapter of the Bonz's life will begin in San Francisco. I'm sad to see the lady go, but the surf is calling for her preppy chic to wash over the boardwalks of California. All will be okay as long as you don't forget your roots Bonzie. The Upper East Side blondes will never let you live that down.
We'll miss you.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
This post looks fake. No no, it looks real.
Mama Jones has been dying to go to Madame Tussaud's wax museum for as long as I can remember, and a couple weekends ago, as a belated birthday present, Miss Raquel and I finally took her.
Personally, I have never understood the appeal behind a chamber of eerie, gelatin celebrity look-alikes, and I found the idea of visiting one in heart of Times Square to be doubly repulsive. For thirty freaking dollars, Jennifer Lopez’s frozen doppelganger ought to do more than blush when you blow in her ear – that thing better lap dance me to climax with it’s attractively disproportionate booty. (Apparently all subjects model for their sculptors, offering their bodies up to measurement for accurate replication.)
There are very few profundities to ponder and debate in a museum of wall-to-wall pop culture candles. The four basic utterances one repeats over and over until seizure ensues are:
“Yeah, that looks like her.”
“Eh…doesn’t really look like her.”
“Wow, he looks real!”
“Nah, he looks so fake!”
Of course there are minor variations on these these themes of accuracy:
“Well, it could be Trump in his YOUNGER years…”
“I don’t think Jessica Simpson can be THAT skinny and still be alive.”
and construction:
“Julia’s eye is looking a little lazy.”
“Ghandi’s got a crack in his shoulder.”
And on. And on.
On my visit I found myself occasionally drifting out of the standard debates to tune into the croaking conversation of some Red Hat Society members (A club of which I’m secretly DYING to be a member. Only 27 years to go!) as they hurled grating mispronunciations of “Madame Tussaud” at my pained, francophilic ears.
“Oh, there’s one of Madame Toos-uhd! Ethel, she’s so short!”
And then right back into the fire.
All museum conversation took place in between obsessive photo snapping. Because God forbid you miss out on the opportunity to take a picture with faux Pat Swayze, circa 1987. (Patrick Swayze is not actually represented in Mme. Tussaud’s, NYC, but someone should really get on that. Ken Tailey predicts Swayze will enjoy a rebirth in 2007 à la David Hasselhoff.)
The Jones ladies were pretty discerning about which figures to photograph, probably due to our unease in attempting to integrate the balls-of-wax-cum-celebrities into natural or funny poses. Yet despite our initial reluctance, we did manage to capture a few clutch images with some of our more personally influential icons:
The Direct Imitation
The Part of the Family
The Too Cool for the Wax Museum
The “Tsk Tsk.” (P.S. You look nothing like Lindsay Lohan.)
The Unintentionally Awesome
For me, the most exciting moment of the day came when I realized I could take a photo with the wax Golda Meir, former Prime Minister of Israel, subject of my very first biography book report for which I was required to dress up like the The Iron Lady and read my work in front of my entire fourth-grade class. The wig purchased for my performance was later featured in my fifth-grade old lady Halloween costume, the first October holiday ensemble that instilled within me, pride in creative costuming.
Golda, your hair changed my life FOREVER.
Finally, in true perverted Jones family fashion, we instituted a crotch-grabbing series:
A bit more of a crotch-SMACK...
Miss Raquel jocks the jockey's jock strap. (Okay, jock can't actually be used as a verb.)
The swashbuckler that inspired the very first grab.
Because even wax museum-lovin Mama Jones agrees, nothing's fun if it’s squeaky clean.
Personally, I have never understood the appeal behind a chamber of eerie, gelatin celebrity look-alikes, and I found the idea of visiting one in heart of Times Square to be doubly repulsive. For thirty freaking dollars, Jennifer Lopez’s frozen doppelganger ought to do more than blush when you blow in her ear – that thing better lap dance me to climax with it’s attractively disproportionate booty. (Apparently all subjects model for their sculptors, offering their bodies up to measurement for accurate replication.)
There are very few profundities to ponder and debate in a museum of wall-to-wall pop culture candles. The four basic utterances one repeats over and over until seizure ensues are:
“Yeah, that looks like her.”
“Eh…doesn’t really look like her.”
“Wow, he looks real!”
“Nah, he looks so fake!”
Of course there are minor variations on these these themes of accuracy:
“Well, it could be Trump in his YOUNGER years…”
“I don’t think Jessica Simpson can be THAT skinny and still be alive.”
and construction:
“Julia’s eye is looking a little lazy.”
“Ghandi’s got a crack in his shoulder.”
And on. And on.
On my visit I found myself occasionally drifting out of the standard debates to tune into the croaking conversation of some Red Hat Society members (A club of which I’m secretly DYING to be a member. Only 27 years to go!) as they hurled grating mispronunciations of “Madame Tussaud” at my pained, francophilic ears.
“Oh, there’s one of Madame Toos-uhd! Ethel, she’s so short!”
And then right back into the fire.
All museum conversation took place in between obsessive photo snapping. Because God forbid you miss out on the opportunity to take a picture with faux Pat Swayze, circa 1987. (Patrick Swayze is not actually represented in Mme. Tussaud’s, NYC, but someone should really get on that. Ken Tailey predicts Swayze will enjoy a rebirth in 2007 à la David Hasselhoff.)
The Jones ladies were pretty discerning about which figures to photograph, probably due to our unease in attempting to integrate the balls-of-wax-cum-celebrities into natural or funny poses. Yet despite our initial reluctance, we did manage to capture a few clutch images with some of our more personally influential icons:
The Direct Imitation
The Part of the Family
The Too Cool for the Wax Museum
The “Tsk Tsk.” (P.S. You look nothing like Lindsay Lohan.)
The Unintentionally Awesome
For me, the most exciting moment of the day came when I realized I could take a photo with the wax Golda Meir, former Prime Minister of Israel, subject of my very first biography book report for which I was required to dress up like the The Iron Lady and read my work in front of my entire fourth-grade class. The wig purchased for my performance was later featured in my fifth-grade old lady Halloween costume, the first October holiday ensemble that instilled within me, pride in creative costuming.
Golda, your hair changed my life FOREVER.
Finally, in true perverted Jones family fashion, we instituted a crotch-grabbing series:
A bit more of a crotch-SMACK...
Miss Raquel jocks the jockey's jock strap. (Okay, jock can't actually be used as a verb.)
The swashbuckler that inspired the very first grab.
Because even wax museum-lovin Mama Jones agrees, nothing's fun if it’s squeaky clean.
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