Jay-Z's impression of Miss Stacia, age 5:
"First, I'm gonna play Barbie. Then, I'm gonna bake muffins. Then I'm gonna take a nap, and tonight I'm gonna read myself to sleep."
I'm sorry, but it's never too early to set short-term goals and master time management.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Stacie Rose @ Sin-é, 9/21/06
At the bar before Stacie Rose’s show at Sin-é this past Thursday, a friend attempted to describe Rose's sound, offering up the preview, “Her music matches her engagement ring.”
Rose and I have been coworkers for about six months now and I have never once looked down at her left hand. In fact, about a week ago I can remember being startled when she casually mentioned her husband in conversation, mostly because Stacie is vibrant and attractive, and at 23 years-old it never occurs to me to assume my social and professional contacts are committed to lifelong significant others. I finished my beer wondering how people come to get married, what this funky, talented promo producer’s dream wedding would entail and how her ring would sound if shot out her vocal chords through the speakers of Sin-é.
From the first notes out of Rose’s mouth I assumed the setting was platinum. The lady’s got chops. Her folky sweetness, unpretentious refinement and barrage of “oh oh ohs” led me initially to Natalie Merchant, but in her slower, softer moments she channels a coy whisper, Jewel sans yodel. When laying a little twang on the sugar and the polish, maybe LeAnn or Faith Hill. In her grander, stockier, ballsier moments, even a little Ethridge. It’s not a discount to Rose that she conjures thoughts of so many other female pop singers. You can never really point your finger at one because she’s gleaned the best from them all, fusing them together, giving her voice a distinct but immediately accessible shape.
This shape was bolstered by a full band, including electric and acoustic guitarists (Rose’s husband on acoustic), a bassist, a drummer, and a backup singer. It’s invigorating to see a singer-songwriter travel with such a deep crew, and the full sound enhanced Rose’s poppier compositions, swelling to meet her peaks and dropping out to let her shine in moments of melancholy and quiet triumph. But the standouts were Rose’s country-tinged numbers, acoustic laying the earthy foundation and electric guitar solos threading the seams between Rose’s uplifting vocal choruses.
Recorded, Rose sounds a touch bubblegum, but onstage she spits more attitude. She sings songs about disaster with sly pride. She banters about “guns and drugs and puppies.” She tells you she likes to write sad songs and then throws down “Sad But Blue,” a drum-heavy powerhouse that hardly seems sad when delivered with such unapologetic resolution. She sings, “I’m a lucky girl…I’m a happy girl…I’m a troubled girl..." on "Okay," her lyrics suggesting trust and graciousness, coupled with a distinct distaste for game playing. She cuts to the chase, and effortlessly.
That ring could be a promise string or a five-carat rock. Regardless, I’m sure it is precisely what the woman wanted.
Rose and I have been coworkers for about six months now and I have never once looked down at her left hand. In fact, about a week ago I can remember being startled when she casually mentioned her husband in conversation, mostly because Stacie is vibrant and attractive, and at 23 years-old it never occurs to me to assume my social and professional contacts are committed to lifelong significant others. I finished my beer wondering how people come to get married, what this funky, talented promo producer’s dream wedding would entail and how her ring would sound if shot out her vocal chords through the speakers of Sin-é.
From the first notes out of Rose’s mouth I assumed the setting was platinum. The lady’s got chops. Her folky sweetness, unpretentious refinement and barrage of “oh oh ohs” led me initially to Natalie Merchant, but in her slower, softer moments she channels a coy whisper, Jewel sans yodel. When laying a little twang on the sugar and the polish, maybe LeAnn or Faith Hill. In her grander, stockier, ballsier moments, even a little Ethridge. It’s not a discount to Rose that she conjures thoughts of so many other female pop singers. You can never really point your finger at one because she’s gleaned the best from them all, fusing them together, giving her voice a distinct but immediately accessible shape.
This shape was bolstered by a full band, including electric and acoustic guitarists (Rose’s husband on acoustic), a bassist, a drummer, and a backup singer. It’s invigorating to see a singer-songwriter travel with such a deep crew, and the full sound enhanced Rose’s poppier compositions, swelling to meet her peaks and dropping out to let her shine in moments of melancholy and quiet triumph. But the standouts were Rose’s country-tinged numbers, acoustic laying the earthy foundation and electric guitar solos threading the seams between Rose’s uplifting vocal choruses.
Recorded, Rose sounds a touch bubblegum, but onstage she spits more attitude. She sings songs about disaster with sly pride. She banters about “guns and drugs and puppies.” She tells you she likes to write sad songs and then throws down “Sad But Blue,” a drum-heavy powerhouse that hardly seems sad when delivered with such unapologetic resolution. She sings, “I’m a lucky girl…I’m a happy girl…I’m a troubled girl..." on "Okay," her lyrics suggesting trust and graciousness, coupled with a distinct distaste for game playing. She cuts to the chase, and effortlessly.
That ring could be a promise string or a five-carat rock. Regardless, I’m sure it is precisely what the woman wanted.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Another Saturday Night
Mama Jones and I just finished watching Say Anything (with commercials on Bravo - so annoying) and I am left with two lingering thoughts:
1. As Chuck Klosterman once postulated, Lloyd Dobler, or the dateable equivalent, does not actually exist. Coming to this realization while painstakingly studying Dobler's limitless devotion to Diane Court (played by the poor man's Jennifer Connelly) brought me to tears. Personally, I'd rather date Rob Gordon with his enyclopedic pop culture knowledge and endearing obsessive tendencies, but it would be comforting to know there is a man out there who might live for the opportunity to teach me to drive a stick shift, accompany me on adventures overseas, or even just call me every day. (Although, in life, the boombox schtick is a bit overkill.)
2. Jeremy Piven is way sexier at forty-something than he was in his early twenties. And I'm convinced his career began to soar the day he decided never to rap or beatbox on camera ever again. I bet most people don't even remember seeing the future Ari Gold in Say Anything, but trust me, he's in there and as my mother observed, "he hasn't yet grown into his teeth."
1. As Chuck Klosterman once postulated, Lloyd Dobler, or the dateable equivalent, does not actually exist. Coming to this realization while painstakingly studying Dobler's limitless devotion to Diane Court (played by the poor man's Jennifer Connelly) brought me to tears. Personally, I'd rather date Rob Gordon with his enyclopedic pop culture knowledge and endearing obsessive tendencies, but it would be comforting to know there is a man out there who might live for the opportunity to teach me to drive a stick shift, accompany me on adventures overseas, or even just call me every day. (Although, in life, the boombox schtick is a bit overkill.)
2. Jeremy Piven is way sexier at forty-something than he was in his early twenties. And I'm convinced his career began to soar the day he decided never to rap or beatbox on camera ever again. I bet most people don't even remember seeing the future Ari Gold in Say Anything, but trust me, he's in there and as my mother observed, "he hasn't yet grown into his teeth."
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Indulge in my box.
Next Saturday night, take some friends here. Once you start making the sake box jokes, you'll never stop. You will scream out things like:
"Wow, that's one tasty box!"
or
"Your box is wet, try not to spill."
or
"It's really best only to taste one box a night."
or
"I think our boxes are pretty comparable in quality."
You will take pictures of yourself indulging in your own box.
And your friends touching each other's boxes.
You will shoot an album cover for your new band, "Ham(ilton) and the Boxes."
From the forthcoming LP, Drink From The Corner
Your mouth will form the word "box" so many times, specific motor muscles will start to ache, and you will want to punch yourself in the face.
And then you'll just order another box.
"Wow, that's one tasty box!"
or
"Your box is wet, try not to spill."
or
"It's really best only to taste one box a night."
or
"I think our boxes are pretty comparable in quality."
You will take pictures of yourself indulging in your own box.
And your friends touching each other's boxes.
You will shoot an album cover for your new band, "Ham(ilton) and the Boxes."
From the forthcoming LP, Drink From The Corner
Your mouth will form the word "box" so many times, specific motor muscles will start to ache, and you will want to punch yourself in the face.
And then you'll just order another box.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Poetry Exchange: The Number One Stunna
Sent to me in response to yesterday's haikufest (the author wishes remain anonymous):
Major points for kissing ass and giving me way more credit than I deserve. Minus a few for a wordy second line, earned back in bonus points for "nookie-nook" and the salt shaker metaphor.
Try and top it kids. I welcome all contributions.
*DISCLAIMER*
The attached poem is not based on any real life experience on the author's part. When writing a poem for/about a female, it is generally a good idea for the piece to be complementary in nature. The alternative could spell disaster for those in any proximity to the subject. Also, when writing single rhyme scheme poems, one is limited to a certain number of words. Therefore, the writer must pick a theme that works and run with it. This poem is a cautionary tale. Enjoy.Let me tell you about this stunner named Stacey Brook
Sure she’s easy on the eyes, but her wardrobe is what gets the second look
Say you meet her, you chat, dance, girl has you on the hook
Maybe you get friendly and even score a little “nookie-nook”
Bored, she changes roles and becomes the cook
You’re the salt shaker, and dude you just got shook
You might feel bitter or feel as if advantage was took
The girl ran off with your heart like a common two-bit crook
Moving on is tough, I haven’t found the answer in a book
Until I do, I’m the king, checkmated, by Stacey’s rooks
Major points for kissing ass and giving me way more credit than I deserve. Minus a few for a wordy second line, earned back in bonus points for "nookie-nook" and the salt shaker metaphor.
Try and top it kids. I welcome all contributions.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
High-Coup: Taking Down the Man With Third-Grade Poetry
People express their job dissatisfaction through various outlets, some healthier than others. When I first started working for the Citi back in July '05, I was pretty miserable. The temp job was my first experience in a strict corporate environment and at first I found the atmosphere a bit stodgy, the people stiff, the work mundane. Eventually I came to love the Bonz, Ken Tailey, McMattress and the rest of the Citi crew. And I reveled in the hours of downtime, the likes of which I may never see again, by combing every New York City publication and gossip blog and hatching ideas like Experimental Fashion Friday. But in those first few weeks, before I started abusing my email account and reading Gawker shamelessly in front of portfolio managers, I nearly lost my mind among the suits and spreadsheets.
How did I cope? With Hai-freaking-kus. Yes, Haikus, the most simplistic poetic verse known to man, taught to me in elementary school and finally mastered in their application to the boring world of finance. At first I would simply text off-the-cuff verses to my boyfriend at the time, but after a while I began scrawling down pages and pages of spontaneous three-line poems in my notebook during work hours. I never really paid attention to the traditional
seasonal reference guideline, I just followed the basic five-seven-five syllable rule and let my random thoughts inform the subject matter. The majority of the poems dealt with my inability to comprehend my corporate surroundings. (I'll admit, I was very judgemental at first.) Some dealt with my insufferable boredom. Some were completely out-of-nowhere, and a handful were just plain dirty.
Below is a sampling of my poetic accomplishments. Ancient Japanese poets are rolling over in their graves right now. But at least they're not crunching numbers in pinstripes. Enjoy:
Oh ham, egg and cheese,
hope he doesn't break your yolk.
I like you messy.
Net interest margin?
Earning assests, average loans?
I failed statistics.
Some teachers sustain
healthy appetites for chalk.
What I learned in math.
When men wear work suits
hot, big, hairy animals
freeze out the women.
Next time, in fairness,
big boss man comes back to life
to work the mailroom.
Hall and Oates photo
Cubicles tell half stories
Oh lover of Floyd
It's four fifty-six.
Clock strikes five in four short ones.
In thirty I'm gone.
Nothing you can do
after failing the drug test
but light up a doob.
Confiscate my note
Read it in front of the class
All dirty haikus
Wasted life at work
Adding to the big green wad
No time for strippers
Prior to email
Had to talk to coworkers
Eighteen times a day
Tough when in common
all you have with coworkers
is Katie and Tom.
Albert Einstein, bah!
Cole slaw on turkey: GENIUS!
Fuck you, café wrap.
How many wires?
Building stuffed with computers.
Who sets this shit up?
Swim through humid air
Today all the amoebas
Get to work on time
Push a cubicle
Watch the dominoes sucker!
Office hazard deaths
At five twenty-two
Roseanne Barr on the treadmill
moves faster than time.
And a limerick for good measure:
At the heart of esteemed Citicorp,
sat a girl who found finance a bore.
If in work was enthused
as she was with haikus
she would be making money galore.
How did I cope? With Hai-freaking-kus. Yes, Haikus, the most simplistic poetic verse known to man, taught to me in elementary school and finally mastered in their application to the boring world of finance. At first I would simply text off-the-cuff verses to my boyfriend at the time, but after a while I began scrawling down pages and pages of spontaneous three-line poems in my notebook during work hours. I never really paid attention to the traditional
seasonal reference guideline, I just followed the basic five-seven-five syllable rule and let my random thoughts inform the subject matter. The majority of the poems dealt with my inability to comprehend my corporate surroundings. (I'll admit, I was very judgemental at first.) Some dealt with my insufferable boredom. Some were completely out-of-nowhere, and a handful were just plain dirty.
Below is a sampling of my poetic accomplishments. Ancient Japanese poets are rolling over in their graves right now. But at least they're not crunching numbers in pinstripes. Enjoy:
Oh ham, egg and cheese,
hope he doesn't break your yolk.
I like you messy.
Net interest margin?
Earning assests, average loans?
I failed statistics.
Some teachers sustain
healthy appetites for chalk.
What I learned in math.
When men wear work suits
hot, big, hairy animals
freeze out the women.
Next time, in fairness,
big boss man comes back to life
to work the mailroom.
Hall and Oates photo
Cubicles tell half stories
Oh lover of Floyd
It's four fifty-six.
Clock strikes five in four short ones.
In thirty I'm gone.
Nothing you can do
after failing the drug test
but light up a doob.
Confiscate my note
Read it in front of the class
All dirty haikus
Wasted life at work
Adding to the big green wad
No time for strippers
Prior to email
Had to talk to coworkers
Eighteen times a day
Tough when in common
all you have with coworkers
is Katie and Tom.
Albert Einstein, bah!
Cole slaw on turkey: GENIUS!
Fuck you, café wrap.
How many wires?
Building stuffed with computers.
Who sets this shit up?
Swim through humid air
Today all the amoebas
Get to work on time
Push a cubicle
Watch the dominoes sucker!
Office hazard deaths
At five twenty-two
Roseanne Barr on the treadmill
moves faster than time.
And a limerick for good measure:
At the heart of esteemed Citicorp,
sat a girl who found finance a bore.
If in work was enthused
as she was with haikus
she would be making money galore.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Things I Learned Today:
1. The LIRR never runs on time when you need it to. (This was really more of a confirmation than an epiphany.)
2. Falling asleep on the train is a terrible idea, unless you can guarantee coffee consumption exactly thirty seconds after reaching Penn Station. (Tip: It is very difficult to make this happen if you are running late. See lesson 1.)
3. Fed Exing a package is ridiculously easy. Until you fuck it up.
4. I hate making mistakes.
5. I hate missing deadlines more. (Even when said deadlines are semi-negotiable.)
6. In my lifetime, I will make many more mistakes and maybe even miss other deadlines.
7. Forty minutes alone in a room with a laptop, Zero 7 and a bag of M&M's will alleviate the funk brought on by all of the above.
2. Falling asleep on the train is a terrible idea, unless you can guarantee coffee consumption exactly thirty seconds after reaching Penn Station. (Tip: It is very difficult to make this happen if you are running late. See lesson 1.)
3. Fed Exing a package is ridiculously easy. Until you fuck it up.
4. I hate making mistakes.
5. I hate missing deadlines more. (Even when said deadlines are semi-negotiable.)
6. In my lifetime, I will make many more mistakes and maybe even miss other deadlines.
7. Forty minutes alone in a room with a laptop, Zero 7 and a bag of M&M's will alleviate the funk brought on by all of the above.
Thank you Ticketmaster.
Dear Ticketmaster,
Thank you sincerely for notifying me today, Mon 9/11 at 12:25pm, that tickets are on sale for the New Yorker Festival. Although the tickets went on sale last Thursday at noon, with the celeb-sprinkled events selling out in less than twenty minutes, it is comforting to see the mass notification email arrive four days after the on-sale date, giving those who do their research and stay on top of New York happenings full advantage in attending these coveted events. Not that this even helped me all that much this year.
So much for catching a glimpse of Ed Norton or Steve Martin. See you at the global warming panel! (No seriously, I will be there. Tickets still available.)
Much love,
Miss Stacia
Thank you sincerely for notifying me today, Mon 9/11 at 12:25pm, that tickets are on sale for the New Yorker Festival. Although the tickets went on sale last Thursday at noon, with the celeb-sprinkled events selling out in less than twenty minutes, it is comforting to see the mass notification email arrive four days after the on-sale date, giving those who do their research and stay on top of New York happenings full advantage in attending these coveted events. Not that this even helped me all that much this year.
So much for catching a glimpse of Ed Norton or Steve Martin. See you at the global warming panel! (No seriously, I will be there. Tickets still available.)
Much love,
Miss Stacia
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Give Me The Green Light
If you receive emails from me today harboring a few extra periods or out of place consonants, don't blame it on my cheating in eighth grade keyboarding class, blame it on Beyonce for crafting one of the most bumpin songs I've ever heard in my life. The new album is a real booty-shaker - there are at least five SOLID singles in there (see "Green Light," "Upgrade U" and "Freakum Dress" for evidence) - but "Ring the Alarm" is the killer. I wish the office would let me strut around with my 1980's-era headphones on all day so I could dip and bounce to Lady B's enraged catcall while fetching the good peeps their tape stock. But alas, my shimmies and siren-inspired gyrations most likey won't fly in the corpo atmosphere, so I must be content shaking my shoulders and punching out emails, two fingers at a time, to "I'll be damned if I see another chick in your arms!!!" Unfortunately I can't quite keep up with B's rants about chinchilla coats and houses off the coast on keyboard percussion without compromising spelling and grammatical accuracy. Such is the sacrifice I am willing to make to ring it in here in tghe dub roomn..
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