A House is Not a Home

C finished moving out most of her stuff late tonight. The cats were the last trip. On the way back from the truck to the door, I noticed a girl wheeling a small coffee table.
“Are you comin’ in?” I asked, “Do you need a hand?” I’d already spent most of the day doing this, and we got trapped in the elevator earlier so I knew it wasn’t working.
“If you don’t mind, that would be great.”
“What floor are you on,” I double-checked, hoping I hadn’t volunteered to schlep this thing up 6 flights. In my head, I prepared a compromise – I’ll stop at my landing on the 4th floor.
“Three, C” she said. “I’m Annie. Are you movin in or out?”
On the way up we chit-chatted – she’s an actress/waitress/industry person. Petite, dark-haired, vaguely Latin – Spanish/Italian it turned out. She thought I was Hawaiian, a new twist on the usual guessing game. Turns out she does regular work on Law & Order – “I was just doing CI (Criminal Intent)…”
“I love L&O,” I said. “I used to do random extra work and I’ve actually been looking into it again.” It’s true – I registered with a service out of curiosity and in less than a week got a couple of email audition calls. They’re probably cattle calls and low non-union/scale pay but it would break up the monotony of my day. It also ties in with something else I’ve been thinking about doing with video, so it was uncanny that we’d be having this conversation.
“Central Casting,” she said emphatically. “And if you’re just in it for fun, and you can get the time off, it’s perfect.”
“That’s funny. I was registered with them back in LA, so at least I can trust them.”
“It’s a cheap fee, and they’ll get you something for sure.”
We then talked about the building and the co-op drama, but I steered clear of divulging too many details. “I’m only here because my best friend lives down the hall from me.” Then we talked about Terre briefly.
“Yeah, he was on his bicycle once…”
I then excused myself, reminding her it’d been a long day, hinting that maybe I’d have a little cocktail party soon.
Cheesy California gay boy that I am, as I climbed the stairs and turned the key and found myself alone again, good old Burt popped into my head. On good old YouTube I found a handful of versions of “A House is Not a Home.” Two of the best – Luther and Dusty, are below. (Sandra Bernhard’s was NOT online.)
Now, the nesting begins in earnest…

Half-baked Haiku

My fish swim wildly
One is dead, eaten, all bones
Next door – tape, boxes

Full Moon Mojo Rising

Ok, I’m an idiot. I let that editor’s burn get to me. I postponed two interviews to shake it off and recharge. Tuesday night, as the moon was 99% full, I took a deep breath, a couple of puffs and dialed Prefuse 73’s Bowery pad. Sitting on my bed, with my laptop notes before me, tape recorder at my side, I introduced myself and began what turned out to be an almost 2 hour interview for a 500 word Earplug feature. By the end of it, we’d talked about the state of hip hop, the industry, downloads, vision quests, ethnic identity and politics, Latinos in electronic music and the world at large (Guillermo Scott Herren is Miami-born, Irish/Cuban/Spanish) and exchanged personal contact info. Reinvigorated, I fired off a thank you to Guillermo and the universe. He replied the next day saying he was glad to have had a real conversation for a change; today the publicist said they were talking about it and Herren repeated it was one of his best interviews yet.
Later that night, Phil at Earplug wrote back regarding another interview. I’d asked if he just wanted a review (to give my nerves a break) but he insisted – “No, you know how I love your Q & A’s!”
Today at “the office”, after we sat around a large table overlooking Times Square brainstorming product ideas, Boss Man asked me to stay and talk money. Finally, he threw numbers on the table – first the base increase, then the performance bonus. It was not bad. In one year, two raises and two bonuses, just like I’d threatened with a wink.
I still feel a little like it’s blood money. But isn’t all money blood money?
All I’m sayin’ is, the bitch is back….

Photoshop Of Horrors

Fembot Fatale

Those lips, those hips, those – microchips!
What’s better than one hot Bionic Woman? Two hot bionic women, of course! If they’re wet and angry and locked in a stormy rooftop death-match – all the better!
And that, in essence, is what the new Bionic Woman is all about. Unlike the sun-kissed New Age tennis pro that Lindsay Wagner made famous in the 70’s empowerment parable, this 21st century fembot’s dark and aggressive with enough issues to match her circuit-to-cellular ratio. Whereas the old well-adjusted Jamie made serving the man seem like fun, these two bitter bots make it look like a pain. The old one smiled; these two pout and scowl.
The fact that the two fembots seem to take Sapphic comfort in each others’ blows above all others’ adds a Gen XXX charge absent in the disco-era original. These robo-ladies may have been made faster, stronger, better at the hands and behest of men, but once they awakened to their powers, men became completely irrelevant. All, except the gay ones like Terre and me hootin’ and hollerin’ at the telly.
Adjusted for inflation, Miss Thing is now worth $50 million. I’m all for campy cat-fights, but hopefully some of that will be spent on the missing and sadly missed trademark sound effects and dialog that avoids lines like, “I just think it’s cool a girl can do that.” Of course we do! That’s why we’re watching.
(Meanwhile, down the dial, another kind of antisocial beauty goes for Tyra’s Top Model Prize; her name is Heather and she’s got the body, face and Asperger’s syndrome to make her my early favorite. What is it with me and hot, twisted sisters?)

Passerby bye…

Got this from Andy, and found it on Gawker. The word-of-mouth west-end hole in the wall on 15th street with the flashing lights where the high-brow went to get down low seems to be shuttering its wee glass doors to make way for luxury condos. The Meat Packing district, like most of NYC, has been gentrifying so rapidly, it’s really not a surprise. It’s almost an afterthought. While it was there, I’m glad to have had the opportunity to jump-start Monday nights for a post-trauma downtown posse including, er, passerby childhood heroes like Malcolm McClaren, Anthony Hayden Guest, Liquid Liquid’s Sal Principato, gifted DJ’s like Danny Wang, Ben Davis (Paper) and GusGus, and after parties for fine folks like Prefuse 73, Manitoba and Fourtet. Bruce at Time Out and Tricia at the Village Voice gave us plenty of love and support – and we were just the wee little party amidst a week’s worth of larger, wilder nights. When our six months of Back Room were up, we packed our disco tent and moved on. We returned briefly for a downtempo Thursday that limped along at a sequel’s pace but ultimately for so many reasons we just took flight. The scene, as it was, would soon come undone, as bottle service took over downtown and NYC nightlife sputtered to its current still-life. Quoting Passerby’s manifesto “The past was indeed the golden age and the present only drags us into the insipid future.” Ciao, for now, Manhattan…
*Sniff*

Ay Caramba, Don Gato!

This is one of the oddest ditties ever taught to kiddies back in the day. Our most-likely quietly deranged music and crafts teacher, Ms. Goode, taught it to us in elementary school on her portable harpsichord. Counting the ex and my coworker who responded, Meow Meow Meow, to my mumbling today, that makes 3 people I know who’ve heard and/or remember this oh-so-Mexican ode to being doomed by love and resurrected by…fish. Thanks to the internet, I know I am not alone.

On Wed, Apr 19, 2006, Abigail Goldstein said:
I am 8 years old and I am doing Don Gato in music and I wanted the Spanish version so I could sing it for my spanish teacher

Don’t forget – the final verse slows to a dirge, Abigail! Below, a couple takes including one on something called a Carillon – I’m sure there’s a Theremin mix somewhere – and another as a cutesy alt.folk video. The odd lyrics, including the words Solar Plexus -!- are here.

Hoe is We

Today I got an email and phone call from a friend of ours, a guy who’s also Positive. He’s had no insurance for a while now and a few bad habits for a long time. Recently, he was hospitalized with pneumonia and some other kind of gland infection. He’s in his early 30’s.
It all sounds a little too familiar. We hate it when we see the worst parts of ourselves alive and kicking in our friends. We hate it even more when we see those parts kick them to curb. It reminded me that my comfort zone is not as wide or deep as I would like it to be.

:-) = 25

The ubiquitous smiley turns 25 today. Born in Pittsburgh in 1982, it’s since sprouted a lexicon of emoticons. Below, a link to the story, and examples of the most popular smileys, including Assicons, Boobiecons and Japanese smileys.
;0)
Popular ’smiley face’ expression celebrates 25th birthday

Emoticon 101    (Smiling)=)  (Smiling);]  (Winking):]  (Neutral Expression):/  (Partial half smile)    (Frowning):'( (Crying)   (Smiley with nose)    (Talking)<:o) (party smile) :p  (Poking his tongue outAssicons(  Y  )        a butt(_$_)         money coming out of his/her ass(_#_)        taking an ass pounding(_x_)         kiss my ass 

Boobiecons
(.)(.) little boobies
(o)(o) regular boobies
( O )( O ) big boobies
( ‘ ) ( ‘ ) perky boobies
( , ) ( , ) droopy boobies
{.} {.} cold boobies

Japanese Smileys
(>._<) – angry
(*^_^*) – blushing (or shy)
(v_v) – expressionless
(^o^;> – excuse me?

Ka-ch-ch-changes….

So, not only did I get dissed by an editor, I also got called into an end-day-meeting at work that got postponed twice, insisting that everyone had to be there for it.

A few days ago, we’d discussed my promotion, but not my replacement. Today, it became clear why. Before the team meeting, i was called into a private meeting. I was told that the NY Chat team was being dismantled and the current supervisor roles outsourced to Paris and Buenos Aires, leaving me the sole survivor. Then I was told to go and get the rest of my team and bring them to the slaughter.

Immediately after the meeting, their emails were shut down, their access removed, their ID’s collected. On the way out with C’s boxes, we got harassed by security for walking out without a “hall pass.” “Are you kidding? They just got fired.” As we stood there waiting, the top brass walks out, attempting some kind of tender moment through some mumbled spiel. We just stood there, saying nothing. Every time they looked to me to make the peace, I raised my eyebrow and looked away. This is not on me. I’m not cleaning up this mess. In one swoop, my immediate team, including C, was let go, the Director’s being moved to Paris – and I’m expected to put a happy face on it all? Is that what I’m being paid for?

I can’t help but think that this is some kind of payback for my remarks about the company blog and how everyone resents our swanky office. It’s very suspicious, even though I’m getting a raise, that days after we got into an email spat with the whole office, my team is taken apart. I feel emasculated, neutered, and I can’t help believe that this is the ultimate goal – to put me in my place because I’m the freak who won’t play. Of course, I’m in no position to walk out in solidarity. I’ve got to take on this rent solo now that Cara’s moving out and I’ve got a stack of bills including back taxes to sort out.

By coincidence or insomniac magic, I did blast off a resume to the NYTimes.com content management department for a midnight shift editing and uploading data last night. Early this morning, they called and left a voicemail. Just before this meeting, after that editor dissed me, I called them back to console my ego, and simply because I had a gut feeling I might need another job. Then, shortly after I got home tonight, the Crackberry buzzed – it was that editor, promising to assign larger pieces for more money and asking for pitches if I agreed to that basic process – critique.

Meaning, in one day, I got two raises in an ass-backwards kind of way; and one interview offer. Getting there took some bruising, but as upset as I am by today’s events, I can’t ignore or deny the end result.

The last thing I did before work this morning was gather a bunch of loose change and take it to Commerce bank. I’d always been told it was bad luck to leave money laying around on the floor, so as an act of magical rebellion, I disregarded it. Today, as an act of humility, I gathered it and cashed it in at Commerce bank’s Penny Arcade. It came to $75 dollars that had just moments earlier been scattered on my bedroom floor. For the last few new moons I’d meditated on new beginnings, fresh starts, getting my life back, upgrades. In a matter of days, hours, I worked my way from the back pages of a magazine to the front, from one raise to another, into a job interview and back into living alone.

I just wish there wasn’t so much bloody blood everywhere.

Paper Cuts

File under OUCH. Writers are sensitive beasts. Especially freelancers slugging it out in niche markets like me. Today, in a precious email faux pas, an editor hit REPLY ALL, including me on a response to a pitch I sent. Granted, it was more of a tech piece (discussing a new DJ Mixer, of which there are only 10 Betas in the world), so it would’ve been a stretch for me. But still, no one wants to read that your editors don’t think you’re a “great writer” and that it’s a “bummer” but maybe they can throw you smaller bones until you get up to speed. Considering the size of my ambitions and ego, the fact that I’ve been freelancing for 5 years now with only slight edits, I was shaken and depressed by this bit of news. It reminded me of editors at Vibe telling me not to use big words, to make things punchier, and giving me backhanded compliments like “that’s cute.” I’ve been forcing myself to write more commercially as an exercise, so maybe my heart and best work wasn’t in those pieces; maybe this is what I get for chasing bylines and paychecks. And I’ve been thinking about expanding beyond music because after all this time, it’s become a grind – there’s only so many ways to discuss DJ’s and remixes, even the ones you really like and are excited by. Realizing her mistake, the editor sent a personal message saying she had trouble on one of my pieces and therefore didn’t think I could do a tech piece to her liking, but she was open to working with me on “getting there.” Of course, I sent a sly, miffed reply along the lines of – “well, this is news to me….” Since then, silence. We’ll see. Maybe it’s time to move away from small DJ mags and toward something else. But what now? I’ve got interviews with Michael Mayer and Prefuse 73, and I can’t focus…

Scary Kerry: With Question, Free Taser

Democracy in action. A justifiably curious student demands clarity from his government, on a University Campus no less, and as soon as the phrase Skull and Bones is mentioned, the mic is cut, the cops swoop in and take him down. His peers answer his cries for help by calling him an idiot, until the taser starts zapping and finally someone screams that the cops leave him alone. Even then, you can see a cop smiling and in the background you can hear Kerry babbling on in his usual monotone. This is how institutions of higher learning and elected officials reward inquisitive, engaged minds in the largest democracy on the planet. Lovely.

Beauty Queen Drama

In Venezuela, home to some of the most beauty and surgery-obsessed women (and men), a disgruntled spectator rushed onstage seconds after Miss Venezuela was announced, snatched her crown off her head and tried to sit on the throne before being hauled away by security screaming that his state’s rep should’ve been the winner.
I once pulled a similar stunt in a “young authors” contest in elementary school – but please, I was only 10 years-old back then, m’kay?

Oblivion with Bells

Great British House can be a beautiful thing. Under a cool overcast mid-September night sky Underworld, flanked on Central Park’s Summerstage by giant inflatable Glo-Stix, in celebration of their latest CD “Oblivion with Bells” rolled out a blissful DJ set that made Rave a four letter word worth uttering. After way more than “Two Months Off“ two-thirds of the guys (Karl Hyde and Rick Smth, sans Darren Emerson) who gave Gen-X trainspotters “Born Slippy“ and “Cowgirl“ played Hard House that was beacoup swish. Tambourines and a sequin blazer with your turntables, Sir?
I hustled a last minute photo pass (everyone was invited to upload pix) but sadly I have nothing to show for it because my camera’s still broken and in my sleep deprived-condition I lost Cara’s in the cab. I had a bad feeling and almost didn’t take it but as I was stumbling out of the apartment we convinced me. So, tomorrow guess who gets to go shopping?
Fortunately for everyone there was plenty of visual interaction, including the bands on-stage handheld. My tired stressed soul got a bouncy lift that answered with conviction the question that often nags at me – Disco Journalism is a good thing. Maybe my zombie state made me more vulnerable but the sheer glee in the crowd’s reaction to their most famous synth loop left a lump in my throat. And you say to yourself “This IS my beautiful House“.
Lest the night be a sentimental washout they made sure to serve up a solid couple hours of Macho Disco – robotic Moroder grooves peppered with cha-cha handclapping and sparkling tones, closing out with the still-tingling “JUMBO“. Video posts, including the encore, are already up on YouTube. For the night’s playlist text SETLIST to 72648.
I was going to hook up with the publicist (who hooked me up with my first freelance interview for Urb with Dot Allison years ago) for the afterparty at Webster Hall where Danny Tenaglia will likely drop one of his staple platters – Underworld’s 14-minute remix of Saint Etienne’s “Cool Kids of Death.” But here’s where you can tell it’s been 20 years since god “Let There Be House” and you were there to hear it. As the motley crew of NY mutts streamed out chattering about the night’s other parties – Miguel Migs’ San Francrisco deep house at this club-of-the-week, John Digweed’s UK Progressive trance at that club-of-next-week – this cool kid feeling near-death hopped in a cab, lost his friend’s camera and crawled into bed well before midnight, memories of being young and high and horny on the dancefloor ringing in his dreams…

“You had chemicals boy/I’ve grown so close to you/Boy and you just groan boy/She said comeover comeover/She smiled at you boy/Let your feelings slip boy”

Fashion Tweek: Model Citizens

The other night, I spotted a modelesque blonde on the subway. She was wearing tight jeans, little boots, a loose sweater, her hair was done up in sloppy pony tail, her glasses were pushed up on her head and her face was bird-like in an odd, photogenic way. She carried a big bowling bag type of tote, half-zipped, her iPod was on and she was flipping through W magazine. She kept looking up at every stop, until we reached 86th and Central Park West, where she sprinted off. She didn’t look like a working girl, more like a “former model”; there was something unkindly “used” about her face.
She reminded me of another girl, one I had spotted a couple seasons ago on the L train. I recognized her from the Gen Art catwalk a few hours earlier. She was unlike the C train girl, a newbie, a fresh face. But already, she was looking tired, worn out from being pulled at, pushed, having her hair tugged, breasts taped, makeup applied-removed-reapplied. She had shortish, dark hair, closely cropped and a smallish, sporty face. She was Williamsburg skinny and pouty. But unlike those girls that like to be recognized as put upon models pretending to suffer the hazards of their trade, this girl looked genuinely exhausted in the way that only a novice baptized by fire could look. The last thing she seemed to want after a day of trotting before NY’s ficklest, was another person looking her over. Yet, I could not look away. Just a few hours ago, I imagined, she must’ve been amped, psyched, excited. Gradually as she dashed from one stylist and tent to another, her smile faded until it froze into the resigned grin she wore now. Her head was tilted back, resting against the subway map, and her eyes scanned the train over low lids for spectators. She spotted me looking, not gawking, in a sympathetic way and semi-smiled, then looked away again.
So, what can I actually say about this season, now that I’ve posted 3 sets of pictures without captions or commentary? One thing for sure – bucket hats, especially on women, should be banished forever – or at least until the next generation gets retro with the look. By then, if I’m still around, I’ll likely have Glaucoma or Alzheimer’s and the buckets of my concern will be, like everything else about me, a lot closer to the ground.
Another thing I can say is Viva Color! Blue, Red, Lime, Orange, Yellow, Purple – it was everywhere. As were prints – animal, plant, mineral! The effect was scandalous…in the Tracy Reese show, when models reached the end of the runway and did their 3/4 pivots, they actually – gasp – smiled! Big, happy, fun smiles, too, as bright as the tropical hues they were sporting.
And from a DJ perspective, Temperley captured the no-wave/funk vibe best with a polyrhythmic world-punk playlist that included New Young Pony Club.
Amidst the effortless, glowing make-up and free-flowing, straight hair, these touches made up for the lack of outrageous lines and cuts. Most of the shapes were highly-tailored – “clean” and “simple” and “organic” and “sporty” in a late-70’s “Enjoli” way, with a tad ghetto-fab thrown in for the tastemaking “urbanistas” increasingly lining the front rows. It was like a slumber party at Diddy’s where everyone came dressed in their mamma’s best clothes. Diane Von Furstenberg (the mother muse) almost got lost in the subtle iconic shuffle.
But almost no one blew it out of the box; just about everyone played it safe. As refreshing as all the collective restraint is, I have to wonder – what fresh hell is this? Things weren’t all that great for everybody in the late 70’s as I recall – but a lot of the key players on the scene now were coming of age then and their nostalgia, as it sashayed down the catwalks, was touched with a reverence bordering on denial. Where does that leave the rest of the everyday citizenry that isn’t swaddled in cashmere amnesia? Things aren’t all that groovy for everyone now either, so why should we be taking our style pointers from those late Carter/early Reagan years? Aren’t we done nursing our jihaad-inflicted wounds yet?
There were some kookie looks bandied about, often by the younger, up-and-coming set, but even that felt strained and ultimately fell limp. How can everyone be so bloody demure all the time – even with Target licensing everyone before their diploma ink dries? Is this a subliminal government conspiracy? Are we being medicated by pill-colored outfits in gentle silhouettes? Will Pfizer or Bristol-Meyers replace Olympus and Mercedes-Benz as sponsors next season? Maybe I just need to accept “safe” is the new cool. After all, I will never own or wear any of these clothes, so why do I even care?
I mean, really, why would anyone – particularly a paycheck to paycheck brother like me – need to believe in a world where beautiful things exist purely for their own sake and absolutely no other reason at all, anyway?