"My Ride's Here

I stumbled upon this video. The video is mostly stills over a track of Bruce Springsteen covering a song co-written by Warren Zevon and the poet, Paul Muldoon. It's the most beautiful thing I've heard all month. Gotta love a song that references Lord Byron, Charlton Heston and Jesus and makes you goofily glad to be alive.

Uh, maybe not in that order, though.

Art Attack

I went to an art thing. It wasn't an exhibition of work. It was a public meeting/party to discuss an art HAPPENING that will take place next year. It's well-funded from what I can gather.

So I'm sitting on the floor (when in Rome) in the gallery space drinking water and listening to the presentations. It was at this point that I would have hired an actor to give the presentations. A lot of laughs, these visual artists were not.

At some point, I realized there was unopened PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) at my feet. I then had the foresight to realize that the PBR would make this art thing much more fun, so I cracked it open and yelled out:

"Yeah, brother, tell me again about institutional critique and the ontological conundrum of conceptual art in an urban landscape while trying to find plausible spaces and economic frameworks for new work." (When in Rome)

I didn't really say that, mostly because it makes no sense, but I did say to myself, "this beer is warm. My leg fell asleep sitting here. That foreign art dude is hot. He's really something."

(I'm not making this stuff up. Terms and expressions such as, institutional critique, plausibility and conceptual art, where all bandied about with impunity, so you see why the PBR was so welcome)

I have to admit it, It was an interesting experience and there were topics discussed that made me think, and I'm glad I went except for one thing.

I was waiting to use the restroom. The two people in front of me had been specatators, also. They had sat right next to me on the floor and also enjoyed the PBR. Tow-headed, arty guy and his anemic-looking gal pal. She goes in. She exits the bathroom. He's next. He stands there talking to the gal pal after she leaves the restroom. I'm behind him, and at this point I figure art boy doesn't need the restroom, that he was just keeping his friend company. I take a step forward to enter the bathroom.

He turns upon me and announces in no uncertain terms that he has to use the bathroom because he has to "really, really go." Then, he stands there. I nod. He turns on his heel. He has now very much exceeded the time limit allowed for the on-deck person in line, but still he's not in the restroom. He whirls about to face me, again. He does a shuffle that involves hands and feet and vogueing. Then he says to me:

"Was I too agressive?"

I say "No." Real deadpan. I'm starting to get pissed. Then, I realize he is a twit, an art twit. He can't help himself. He thinks being an ass is the same thing as being interesting.

Luckily, I was saved from further conversation with the art twit by this nice woman. She was a German artist, and she offered to show me where another bathroom was in the space. She did. I was glad. There's more but this is long enough. I may make a collage to explore my feelings further.

Originally posted September 21, 2006

Petting

I checked out the money mailer coupons. One is for a Pet Spa, grooming and what not. These people will pick up and deliver your pet back to your home -- after they groom the poor thing to within an inch of its life.


You can get your dog a "Blueberry Facial."

Or:

And I swear to God this is true: "Pet Hair Dye."

There are actually people who have their pets' fur dyed, and apparently I live within the same zipcode as these persons. What kind of narcissists insist that their pets have refreshed, non-grey hair and toned, taut "blueberry infused" pet faces?

Look, I come from a long line of women who dye their hair. So, I'm all for it. For people. However, subjecting an innocent animal to facials and hair dyeing is the single, stupidest thing I've ever heard.

On the upside, there is 10% off any service.

Scared Out of My Wits

I'm watching The Omen. It's in the middle of the movie. I've never watched it before because I'm chicken.

The first commercial break and I find out that the movie has been brought to me by Ambien. The sleeping pill.

The Omen is the antithesis of sleeping pill material.

Watch The Omen: Stay up all week.

Take an Ambien: Maybe you get eight hours. But not if you've been watching The Omen.


I'm scared. I need a tuna on rye.

Gotta go. It's back on.

Riddle Me This?

I'm feeling Zen:

Riddle me this:

1)If all the politicians who have extra-marital affairs and/or frequent prostitutes up and resigned, well, who would be running the show?

2)Why should I vote for someone because their supporters will be disappointed if that person doesn't win? Why should I give a crap about their disappointment? I vote my interests. That's it. End of story, morning-glory.

3)I saw a Flamenco show on Friday. It was magnificent. The dancers and the flamenco singers brought down the house.

#3 is not a riddle, just a comment.

4)This is also not a riddle. Okay, a week or so ago, I met people at a tavern on the East side. They were in this back room area. I only knew two people but everyone was nice. Anyway, after I got there, I went to the bar to get a beer. A friend was buying me a beer because it was right near my birthday. Everything is copacetic. A-OK.

This guy at the bar doesn't see me, and bumps into me.

He says, "I'm sorry."

I say, "I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

He (quick as lightning) kind of grabs my waist, drops to his knees, and kisses my boot. It all transpired so quickly that I didn't say or do anything. I'm looking at my friend, she's looking at me. The guy gets up and apologizes again.

I say: Nothing. Because I'm f'n speechless.

Then, I see the girl the guy had been talking to right before the "Boot Incident" and she gives me a shocked, kind-of-pissy look. But hell, I didn't do anything. Me and my boots were minding our own damn business.

When we walked away I said to my friend: I'm glad I had a witness to this, because if I didn't, I wouldn't believe me. We go back to the back room and tell our other friend what happened. And she is laughing and says, this kind of stuff always happens to you. Which is true, but more importantly, it was pretty damn funny.

Later on, when I was leaving, the boot kissing guy told my one friend he liked her hat because when he saw it earlier it looked great with the snow falling around her.

Real Life Adventures: They Suck!

I just watched A River Runs Through It with Brad Pitt. It's one of my favorite movies. The first time I saw it, well, by the end of the film, I was weeping. I didn't cry. I wept.

At that point in time, I hadn't cried that much over a movie since The Champ. The very young Ricky Schroder crying over the dead body of his father, played by Jon Voight, after Voight dies during a boxing match: "Don't die, Champ. Don't die."

Everyone who has ever seen "The Champ," cries like a little girl. If you didn't, cry, well then:

1) you didn't see the film

Or

2)That's it. #1. Because if you saw it, you cried.

Back to real life which unlike the movies has regular fluorescent lighting and Brad Pitt rarely makes an appearance. You never see Brad, say, on the F train or at the Duane Reade buying paper towels. And that is too bad.

Warning: awkward transition ahead.


I was at a bar a couple weeks ago. Mexican place. After I left I went to another bar across the street where in short order I was schooled on my alphabet and confronted for daring to try to enter another area of the bar.

So I leave the Mexican place and I'm at the bar across the street, and I go to the restroom. I think it's the ladies room, and I open the door. Huge guy inside there. Apparently, he just walked in because he was still zipped up. How do I know this? I'll tell you. He turned around and walked to the threshold of the men's room. I babble an apology. He (I swear to Christ) touches the door, pointing his finger to the letter "G" on the door. He says all nasty: "G. Guys." He is schooling me on my consonants right there in a Lower East Side tavern like we are both in some fucked-up version of Sesame Street and he is an allegedly uber-cool version of the The Count

Next. I go to the real ladies room and try the door. It's locked. I immediately back off because who knows who is going to come bouncing out the door, trying to teach me a lesson. A woman leaves. She's pissed that I knocked and makes a comment about my knocking. (I hadn't knocked)

I say, "I didn't knock. I just tried the door."

She's like, "Oh, sorry."

And it's at this point, I'm wishing I had gone to the restroom again before I left the Mexican place -- where everyone was nice and relaxed.

Anyway, LONG f'n story short. Next, I try to go to the downstairs bar in this place. Mistake. I hit the bottom step and this guy approaches me. He is right in my face. He bounds over to stop any further progression on my part. Good God, what if I had passed by and entered the downstairs bar without permission. All hell would have broken loose: bar patrons allowed to roam freely into all areas of an establishment. That would be crazy.

He says, and I quote: "What do you want?"

I say, "I want a drink."

He says something like "this area is closed." He is giving me this nasty, nasty look. And his tone of voice was malevolent.

I shrug my shoulders like fine, whatever. So I leave the bar. Who needs this crap. I don't.

But I know his face. I've seen him before, but I can't place him. I know I don't have a positive association with him, but I can't think where my previous association comes from. Then, I remember. I've seen this fucker at shows. Several times. I don't know his name, but I remember his smirk, and general, ah, demeanor.

One more thing: The bar has a great jukebox. And some random guy tried to tell me that the Hall & Oates song "Private Eyes" was better than their song, "Rich Girl."

WTF. It boggles the mind.

What He Said

Paul Krugman

Dr. King

My brother has Down Syndrome. He loves to put flags out on all the patriotic holidays. He magically knows when it's Flag Day or Veterans' Day - any day in which putting out the Stars & Stripes is right.

I was in Pennsylvania this weekend and this morning he got his flags together to fly in honor of Dr. King. The ground was hard because of the bitter cold, and he could only get one flag in the ground. I had to go to the doctor's with him and we didn't have time to place the rest of the flags.

It just struck me that the lone flag stuck in the dirt of a dormant flower bed -- flapping in the frigid air amid the bright winter sun -- was appropriate.

A single flag for Dr. King's singular vision.

A single flag to represent unity. Oneness.

A flag to represent an epic struggle which made us a better people.

A single flag to honor Dr. King's fight for justice and for all those who believed and believe in the dream of an America of decency, honor and equality.

Happy Dr. Martin Luther King Day.

Fred "No Particular Interest" Thompson

Fred Thompson was quoted as saying he was "not particularly interested in running for President." The phrase, "not particularly interested" is a collection of words I never want to hear in connection with the act of running for President.

Shouldn't having a "particular interest" be mandatory for those seeking the office of President? Hey, Fred, we're not asking for passion but a passing curiosity would be nice.

I would say that as a Dunkin Donuts patron that I am interested in getting a medium coffee cream only and a marble frosted when I am at a Dunkin Donuts. So, basically, I am more "interested" in coffee than Mr. Thompson is in running for President of the United States of America.

I think there is something awry with this situation. And it isn't my interest in coffee, jack.

On the upside, Mr. Fred Thompson was fantastic on Law & Order. He was my favorite DA.

Theater of the Absurd

I saw Jesse Malin at the Mecury Lounge on Thursday. Great show. He looked gorgeous. I expected both of these things.

In a fit of "fan-girl" mode, I say to my sister right after he hit the stage, "that man is gorgeous."

She readily agrees to the obvious.

What I didn't expect was what happened on the F train back to Queens.

I needed food. I'm always hungry after I go to a show. I don't know why. I'm just listening - it's not that taxing from an audience perspective. But, I always, and I mean always, eat after I go to a show.

So, my sister and I stopped at a place near the show. Sat down. It wasn't crowded. Our table had a dirty ketchup bottle - I am not overly particular, but this thing just screamed, "Germs." Still, I would have eaten there, but we couldn't get anyone to wait on us. They gave us menus. We waited. It wasn't crowded, they weren't busy, but still no one came back to see if we were interested in eating, anything. We just sat there. I bet if we were bums just sitting at the table, not eating, they would have noticed us and kicked us out. Dicks.

We left.

Anyway, we decided to go to the Georgia Peach in Queens. Waited forever for an F train. Realized we'd have to switch to a local train to get to the diner, bagged the diner idea and stayed on the F.


At one point, a girl gets on. She is fucked up. She starts singing. Badly. This doesn't bother me b/c I'm a carsingeralonger, and I'm bad, so who am I to judge a subway singalonger? When, the subway stops just before 71st & Continental, she starts freaking out. She is pacing the car and stomping around while everyone else pretends nothing is happening.

She starts yelling, "what the fuck are you looking at?" She's behind us now, and I'm thinking, "I hope she isn't talking to us."

She stalks back towards where we are sitting and stares at the subway door, yelling, "What the fuck are you looking at?" She is kicking the door really hard with her Chucks. Kicking the crap out of the door. Then, I realize, she is yelling at her own reflection in the door. She is yelling at herself, asking herself, "what the fuck are you looking at" to herself. She is mad at herself and punching and kicking the door. All this while the rest of us pretend everything is A-OK. It's like we all signed a pact the minute we crossed into New York to never be thrown by such subway theater. She got off at the next stop. Lurched out. Frankly, I was glad to see her go.

I ended up buying pea soup at a 24 hour place on Queens Blvd. The soup was kind of scary. I would say the soup was way more frightening than the freaky, subway-singeralonger girl who beat the F train door to hell.

I love New York.

Happy Holidays!