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Redolent

Tonight I saw Comets on Fire and Sunn0))) (I have no idea if that’s really how they spell their name, it’s some aggravating combination of letters and punctuation. This just in: that is how they spell their name!) at the Knitting Factory. While I could review the music, I think my words would be better used reviewing the smell of the show: ripe with a musky gamey funk I haven’t enjoyed since riding public transportation in Europe. About two-thirds of the way through Comets on Fire the scent suddenly turned decidedly skunky and acrid and I looked around to see whether someone was burning something hydroponic but I didn’t see anything of the sort leading me to the sad conclusion that I was just smelling the same smell I’d been smelling before, and maybe it was fermenting. Overwhelmed, I stepped outside, thus reducing the show’s female population by 50 percent.

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Upcoming Posts Will Include

The Brooklyn Speech, which is delivered by people who’ve moved to Brooklyn and can’t believe how much they love it because they thought they were going to miss Manhattan but blah blah blah, best of both worlds, blah blah, bike riding, yadda yadda yadda, know the deli guy’s name etcetera parks et al.

The I Just Love All Women Speech, which is delivered by guys curiously driven to announce that they just love woman in general, all kinds, ever since they were kids, and there’s just something about women they love, they way they smell, the way they move, the way they sound, etc.

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Uncomfortably Sanctimonious

I’ve been thinking lately that it seems there’s a new breed of rock star (not talking about shtick bands anymore) for whom the idea that a journalist’s agenda is anything other than to write fawning publicity pieces is inconceivable. (Do I need to make that sentence less doubly negative? I don’t not need to.) Why is this? Are they cutting their teeth on fanzines? Which is not to say that I’m trying to rip anyone a new one or even be unduly harsh because I think I’m a pretty gentle writer especially compared to some music critics who give off the impression that they delight in verbal evisceration but just that my job is not to patch the dings in some inked neophyte’s public image and that my allegiance is to the truth and reality first and foremost. And I realize how frigging grandiose that sounds and at the end of the day it’s all fluff anyway but journalism and truth are supposed to be pretty closely affiliated and it’d be a shame, and kind of dangerous really, to forfeit such a beautifully lofty goal.

That said, off the record is off the record and my allegiance to human decency probably guides me, as a reporter, more than the aforementioned ideal.

This is screedy! And pretentious!

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'roid rage; the calculus of nyc

I have unbelievable hostility for the people at the gym who refuse to tell you their rates and instead make you take a tour and tell them what you’re looking for in a gym and whether you’re training for a marathon or just looking to feel the burn cuz it’s go time and you can sleep when you die and summer’s coming and nothing tastes as good as thin feels and tone it up etc and then sit you down and throw a bunch of numbers and conditions at you and work their way around a piece of paper until it’s just an inscrutable black blob of numbers and x-es and you’re sure that if you could just hold it all in your head, including the special promotions they mentioned at the beginning of the gym tour which they’re now not mentioning anymore so you should remember to remind them about that you could get the best deal but you also suspect, or rather know, or really, feel, that no matter what you’re getting fucked even though they’re flashing you a shit-eating grin and asking if you have friends who would be interested in training, not to contact them, but just they can “get some ammunition on you” for when they go to their manager because they don’t even know if she’ll okay this deal and she’ll want to know how they even got the number so low but it’s ok because they like you and want to help you out.

I’m reminded of room draw in college where you’re each given a number but if you draw into a room together you combine the numbers and take the average so while looking at rooms you must carry a calculator and have various back up plans for if person A goes with that plan or B goes with that plan or abroad, etc. Frustrated, my friend Wendy declared that this was like a horrendous word problem and she suspected if we could just figure it out somehow we could get an entire dorm.

And loosely related is trying to get an apartment in NYC where you’re walking around with a broker and trying to butter them up because maybe they can help you on the price and they’re trying to butter you up because they want you to take the apartment and so it’s just a big ass-kissing free for all.

harrumph

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When you're at a Vice party in New York

My friend Mike who used to be in Smile but is now in Satisfaction wrote this which I think is pretty fucking ingenious so I’ve reprinted it here:

It’s alright.. cocaine.

I have been updating the lyrics to Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine” to fit in with modern times. With a few contributions by some good friends, I have compiled the following verses so far. Please feel free to help me out with some good ones.

Cocaine

When it’s two weeks of no sleep and your dick looks like an acorn, cocaine.

When your buddy owes you a grand but he only gives you half and his Datsun B210, cocaine.

When your chick falls asleep and you have a lot of soldering to do in the garage, cocaine.

When it’s time for bed but it’s also time to polish your guns, cocaine.

When it’s 4am and you’re convinced you can rewire the VCR to unscramble Cinemax, cocaine.

When your ex wife had you watch the kids and you can’t remember where you put them, cocaine.

When you’re driving home from a double shift and you swear that helicopter is following you, cocaine.

When you are kind of hungry but you’d rather chew on the inside of your mouth, cocaine.

When your name is Barry but everyone calls you “scoops”, cocaine.

When you’re cleaning your stag’s head antlers with some hooker’s crotchless panties, cocaine.

When you put a nail in a piccolo pete and you duct tape it to the bottom of a skateboard, cocaine.

It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright..

Cocaine.

And here’s my contribution:

When you’ve been waiting to use the bathroom for like 25 minutes and the door is locked and you can hear a whole bunch of giggling bitches in there, one of whom asked to borrow a “key” or “pen cap,” cocaine.

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I could use less of

the phrase “owning” your “sexuality.” Not the concept, or the notion, or the idea, or the H&M-clad strut it implies, but simply the phrase. I rent mine.

Similarly, while I can’t stand “walk the walk and talk the talk,” I really can’t stand when people say “walk the talk” or sometimes “talk the walk,” which actually just goes to show that these phrases are meaningless ultimately because how do you walk the talk? Uh-oh, now I’m beginning to wonder if walk the talk is right and I’ve actually had it mangled this whole time? walk is a weird word. everything’s losing meaning. help.

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