Love Hurts…and maims…and kills…

But mostly it hurts. Case in point: Boy meets boy. Boy dances with boy. Boy loves boy. Boy kills boy. Boy misses boy. Invisible Engine features a series of Gay Friday TV “web-isodes” revolving around a tortured love affair between Jason and Michael from Friday 13th and Halloween. If these two can’t make it work, with all that bloody honesty between them, then what hope is there for the rest of us? Love, like sequels, slips into overkill over time. Below, a peek at the couple of the day. Happy Halloween, freaks!

Smash the System

Chris “The Long Tail” Anderson posted some interesting figures about the state of the record industry as we know it on his blog. A couple of people posted negative comments, but the general consensus was postive. David Allen, guitarist for Gang Of Four posted a comment that’s in line with what I’ve been hearing from most progressive artists who do not confuse the death of the old label system with the death of music. Allen also has a nifty blog which you can peruse HERE. Of course, yours truly couldn’t resist throwing in his two cents. I’ve been arguing that MP3s serve their function perfectly well as a mere ENTRY point into a larger music experience, laden with revenue-generating potential – concerts, t-shirts, cds, vinyl, posters, dvds, etc. The figures below are all from Anderson’s blog.

• Concerts and merchandise: UP (+4%)
• Digital tracks: UP (+46%)
• Ringtones: UP (+86% last year, but probably just single-digit percent this year)
• Licensing for commercials, TV shows, movies and videogames: UP (Warner Music saw licensing grow by about $20 million over the past year)
• Even vinyl singles (think DJs): UP (more than doubled in the UK)
• And, if you include the iPod in the music industry, as I’d argue a fair-minded analysis would: UP, UP, UP! (+31% this year)

Only CDs are down (-18%).

Holiday Schadenfreude

I usually don’t dress up for Halloween, which isn’t very pagan of me. After seeing this clip of Anna in her clown getup, I’m suddenly feeling inspired. Try to think of it less as schadenfreude, and more as an homage to the oxymoron “pretty scary”.

Buzz Kill

First the cows go mad. Then amphibians sprout abnormal limbs. Now, the bees are dying off. Pesticides designed to destroy immune systems, genetically modified seeds and crops, suburban sprawl, stress and even cell phone frequencies could be to blame. Honeybees with AIDS? WTF? (Kind of makes you wonder about the origins of the human strain.)
On 60 Minutes, one farmer breaks it down. Things have gotten so bad that in order to pollinate crops some farmers have taken to renting bees for double their normal rate because they are in such high demand. And the problem is international. In Paris, one expert believes bees might be safer in cities, away from the pesticides; but with all the cell phone towers dotting urban skylines their welfare is questionable.
A few years ago there were rumors of killer bees swarming toward America. Now, they are suffering from “colony collapse disorder”, leaving ghost town hives in their wake. Considering they help produce a third of the food our expanding population consumes, their demise cannot be good news for anyone – especially those unable to afford safer, more expensive organic products. It’s hard not to imagine a bleak futurist scenario where clean apples and oranges irrigated by privatized water sources become contraband smuggled by vigilantes desperate to save their malnourished children from the fast-food/ghetto conspiracy. In the U.S. hunger and race are related. In 1991 46% of African-American children were chronically hungry, and 40% of Latino children were chronically hungry compared to 16% of white children.

Good thing this didn’t happen during Sylvia Plath’s lifetime; just imagine what this would’ve done to English Lit 101 had her daddy had time for her instead of his winged friends. Talk about a major buzz kill.

Mac Attack

Further proof that Mac-heads are a cult: three reasons to love Apple, and none of them have anything to do with technology.
1 – MacBook Pros make great cat toys
2 – if you make a commercial and they like it, Apple will buy it
3 – Stefano, iPapi

kitten vs. frontrow from mattcoats on Vimeo.

TGIF RBMA

I have to admit that when I heard Red Bull was getting into the online radio game, I expected the worst. After all, how can anyone with that aftertaste in their mouth possibly have good/my taste in music? Well, color me Red-faced. Check the roster – it speaks for itself. Whoever is in charge of programming is doing a bang up job finding and booking the smartest disco jocks around the globe. Unlike BBC which plays much more to a “big party” crowd, the Deejays and sets on RBMA have an intimate, underground, private feeling to them, perfect for the elitist dancing queen in all of us. Sweetening the pot, the interface is well organized, archived and its pop-up player lets you tap and whistle while you work. Here’s a link to a set by Prins Thomas, one of the darlings of the percolating Scandinavian/Norwegian/Swedish/Danish scene. Yup, it’s real. Hey, something’s gotta keep you warm. It might as well be a hot shot of deep house with a twist of soul.

PostSecret + LolCats = LolSecretz

Online memes are one of those unintended by-products and barometers of cubicle culture.
Two of my favorite time wasters at the office are Post Secret – now a full-on community with video, audio, books, and chats; and LolCats – captioned pix of kitties gone wild. Inevitably, a mashup was born – LOLSecretz, about guilt-ridden cats. Yey, internet!

Killer Monologue: All About Debbie

You got your Bette Davis fags, your Joni Mitchell fags, and then you’ve got your Joan – as in Cusack – fags. This faerie will watch – almost – anything by this comedic diva – and if you think diva is tall praise, you try stealing the show from Raul Julia, Anjelica Huston and Paul Rudnick. In Addams Family Values, la Joan nails it time and again, packing more retarded and sinister humor into one scene than most actresses squeeze into a whole flick. The scene of her practicing her faux sobbing before bursting out in sinister hysterics while parked outside the house waiting for Fester to go boom is short but sickly sweet. Her final killer monologue should be de rigeur on every Sissy Aptitude Test; no gay card should be issued to anyone failing it. Trust me, next time you feel the world owes you everything, don’t turn to drugs, alcohol, priests or shrinks. Channel your inner Debbie. Simply look in the mirror and repeat these magic words; then go out and get yours. When I die, someone please read this at my funeral.

Debbie: I don’t want to hurt anybody. I don’t enjoy hurting anybody. I don’t like guns or bombs or electric chairs, but sometimes people just won’t listen and so I have to use persuasion, and slides. My parents, Sharon and Dave. Generous, doting, or were they? All I ever wanted was a Ballerina Barbie in her pretty pink tutu. My birthday, I was 10 and do you know what they got me? Malibu Barbie. That’s not what I wanted, that’s not who I was. I was a ballerina. Graceful. Delicate. They had to go. My first husband, the heart surgeon. All day long, coronaries, transplants. “Sorry about dinner, Deb, the Pope has a cold.” Husband number 2: the senator. He loved his state. He loved his country. Sorry Debbie. No Mercedes this year. We have to set an example.” Oh yeah. Set this! My latest husband. My late, late husband Fester, and his adorable family. You took me in. You accepted me. But did any of you love me? I mean, really love me? So I killed. So I maimed. So I destroyed one innocent life after another. Aren’t I a human being? Don’t I yearn and ache…and shop? Don’t I deserve love…and jewelry? Good-bye everybody. Wish me luck.

Yankee Doodles

I was trying not to read the Yankees post-season like Tea Leaves for clues to the city’s future and my place in it. Sitting at the counter at the Metro diner this weekend, reading the sports section – gasp, egad – in the Post – egad, gasp – I couldn’t help but feel a bit of sadness in the news that Joe Torre was out. Between the iced coffee and the French Toast swimming in syrup, you’d think I’d have enough sugar in my blood to weather any heartache, but this news made me pause and reflect again on my time in this city.
I drove from Chicago to NYC in late October 1996, through a monsoon of a thunderstorm with the ex who was just dropping me off. The storm broke as we approached the Washington Bridge; rush hour traffic was just letting out as we zipped down Broadway for the first time, past Hell’s Kitchen, West Chelsea and the Village, which were still affordable messes just this side of gentrification. At the southern tip of the city, those two towers were still there. On the news, talk had started about the Macy’ sThanksgiving Day parade and the city was in full Yankees World Series fever. It was Joe Torre’s debut as Manager and it would turn out to be the first of the Yanks’ 4 World Series and 12 league championships under his watch. I had less than a $100 in my pocket, and still I thought – this is a good sign.
Now, after one of the most diplomatic, stellar turns managing the high-voltage all-stars, Torre gets a corporate working over like any other cubicle confined schlub. Yes, $5 million is a nice chunk of change, and with the post-season bonus incentives it could easily be $8 million. And maybe it is time for Joe to go. The last couple of play off seasons have been disastrous and a little humbling could go a long way to energizing the team and its fans. So, the insult, gloom and doom then, is not in the sum of the fee offered; rather the omen for the team and the city and die-hards like me is in the very offering of the “incentive offer” and the salary reduction – a vote of no confidence from management in a man who has delivered consistently on the Yankee promise. The “corporatization” of a dream team, its city, the country and the demolition of the old stadium and the rise of the new one with more VIP seats than bleachers echo the changing of the guard – not only in the Bronx, but in NY and USA as a whole. Unlike any other team, and any other city in the world, Yankee fans not only EXPECT the bombers to shower in champagne every October – we actually need it. Boys in projects need to dream of making that leap and dream of doing more with their bats than bashing in each others’ skulls.
The rest of us, those that love the Yankees anyway, also need to believe in our collective hubris, in the unstoppable force of the New York hustle as a catalyst for hope and sportsmanship in ourselves and the world. We need to believe that paying ridiculous rent for tiny apartments in dubious neighborhoods is worth the stress and strife of transportation strikes, power outages, and all the other quality of life issues that drive us to the brink of a million daily mini-riots. We need to believe that with enough muscle, hustle, brain, brawn, and sheer will power New Yorkers can propel themselves from nobody nothings to the top of the heap, top of the list, and be king of the hill, “a-number-one”.
After all, no one gets tears in their eyes dreaming or belting out choruses about being number two. Except, maybe all the new yuppies and trust fund babies filling the luxury condos buying their cultural cachet wholesale and reshaping the neutered skyline while re-imagining themselves as Warhol’s babies when not even those kids are buying into that fantasia anymore. I wish I could have faith in the new kids coming up, but given their inherent disposable, derivative zeitgeist, I doubt they can ever love the city as she deserves to be loved.
Many unsentimental and democratic types will cheer the end of the Roman era in baseball. But for all my buddhist inclinations, I’m not one of them. The excesses of success may corrupt the soul, but only if you see it as an end, and not a means. And that is how I make my peace with being a type A, overachieving, recovering star fucker. So, thanks Yankees, and Joe Torre. My NY years have been infinitely enriched and inspired by your juggernaut streak. This Warhol baby needs to believe in a special city. A city where Bryant Park tents are cluttered with models in February and September; a city where boom boxes on stoops bang out summer beats; a city where you can take your Shakespeare in the park or the parking lot; a city where almost anything can be delivered to your door cheaply and quickly; a city where Union Square is filled with skaters and bikers and Palestinians and Isrealis facing off; and above all – a city where the Yankees are champs and a man’s hard work and love needs no other incentive, season after season, year after year…

“Start spreading the news/I’m leaving today…”

Paint it Black

In San Francisco, they held a “lights out” night to promote wiser energy consumption. It’s a catchy, noble, easy idea that will make people feel good in the short run without much sacrifice – and isn’t that what Enlightenment 2.0 is all about? But, aside from government buildings and landmarks going dark, I can’t really note a major difference in the posted pix on Flickr and elsewhere. I wonder if my coworkers in SF for the CTIA conference are aware and/or participated. Me, I’m stuck in our calm, empty NYC office, on an eerily warm October day; somehow, hanging out discussing Mobile Social Networking really didn’t get my woody up.
In Green solidarity, a few media companies did participate, including one called Blackle who skinned Google’s search page in black. There was a rumor that rendering black pixels consumes less energy, as well being more chic. But this turned out to be some eco-guilty designer’s wet dream. Truthfully, rendering online pages in black may actually consume more energy.
Will yours truly “do the white thing” and change his blog template? Um, not likely. White screens hurt my eyes and aesthetic sensibilities. But since I’m now living alone again, I am consuming much less energy, and I’m being extra careful. I have jacked everything into power strips that are easily turned off and unplugged in one yank, because allegedly simply having something in an outlet draws energy whether the device is turn on or off (including phone chargers). I’ve even replaced my night lights with LED light-sensitive ones that don’t use bulbs and only go on when it gets dark. Even though the plumbing’s been fixed and I can do laundry whenever I want, I still only do it on Sundays and limit it to a couple of loads using cold water. To further encourage weening myself off the grid, I’ve made a Sci-Fi game of it, imaging myself living in a free-floating space pod a la Lt. Ripley. Whenever pulling the plug on the way out, or jackin it on the way in, I always address the house – “Hello/G’nite, Mother.”

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WFANFC, M’kay?

The drums go rat-tat-tat, the vocals go ahhhhhhh, the guitars wah-wah, the synths zip – and it all swirls around in a funnel of filtered sound. But it’s not Stone Roses. Just the latest groove-centric gang of four to shake and shimmy out of Manchester – Working For A Nuclear Free City. (Groan…)
On their 2 CD US debut Businessmen & Ghosts WFANFC rock, jangle, moan and backwater boogie like there’s no yesterday. They’re also into making award-nominated type of videos, which is OK, because they’re kind of easy on the eyes. Your ears will likewise be equally stimulated.

WFANFC, M’kay?

The drums go rat-tat-tat, the vocals go ahhhhhhh, the guitars wah-wah, the synths zip – and it all swirls around in a funnel of filtered sound. But it’s not Stone Roses. Just the latest groove-centric gang of four to shake and shimmy out of Manchester – Working For A Nuclear Free City. (Groan…)
On their 2 CD US debut Businessmen & Ghosts WFANFC rock, jangle, moan and backwater boogie like there’s no yesterday. They’re also into making award-nominated type of videos, which is OK, because they’re kind of easy on the eyes. Your ears will likewise be equally stimulated.

Politics, Hacks, Hags and Homos

Larry Craig is clearly not the only freak turning things out on Capitol Hill.
First up, Cheney and Obama – kissing cousins? Next, Ann Coulter – calls it quits, apologizes? And, last, but not “least” – a gay porn star on the Israeli consulate payroll?
Actually, Ann’s site got hacked; Cheney and Obama are (distantly) related – Ouias, c’est vrai, we have the French to thank for it; and, finally, porn puppy Dror Barak (aka Roman Ragazzi aka Gymscle) penetrated the scene, actually making for perhaps the least strange and most welcome bedfellow of all. Mazel Tov!

Super Natural Beats

Friday night, the Natural History Museum – yes, that one – will be hosting (along with Flavorpill) the latest in their One Step Beyond DJ Planetarium gigs featuring Superpitcher, currently one half of Supermayer (along with Kompakt boss Michael Mayer). Their new album Save the World just dropped – and yours truly has been playing email tag for another interview.
Last word, Flavorpill wants to videotape the pre-show chat, as well as run it in Earplug. Word is Superpitcher’s as camera shy as I am, so we’ll see how this goes. There aren’t too many videos online that do the mixes justice; but don’t let that dissuade you. Recommended tracks – “Two of Us” (played twice in one set by Sasha at Webster Hall Friday night), their remix of Gui Boratto’s “Like You” and the dreamy, buttery Lawrence remix of Superpitcher’s own “Happiness.”
Rave on, kids. “Mom, we’re going to the museum…See ya Sunday!”

Witchy Ya Ya

The night after her birthday, during a new moon, PJ Harvey brought her love to a sold out crowd at the Beacon Theater. There was no opening act, nor intermission, and just one encore. The stage was sparse – a piano, amps, a rotating array of guitars, all arranged in a semi-circle adorned by Christmas lights. She appeared in a long white dress that covered her from neck to ankles. “The lyrics are written on it” she joked in between songs, juggling instruments with “every limb and orifice.” The night opened with “To Bring You My Love” and “Send His Love to Me”. The spotlight changed hues in sync with her gothic twang and banshee howls. She focused on material from the new album, White Chalk, channeling every witchy diva in the canon – Patti, Nina, Stevie, Joni – they were all there as Polly Jean recounted tales of desperation, redemption, torture and love. The new piano based incantations mesmerized, the classic guitar pieces rocked – “Man Size” and”Rid of Me” – and the snazzy electronic churners “Meet Ze Monster” and “Down by the Water” kicked needed bass in the crowds chest and gave the largely female and gay fanatics a chance to shout “Big Blue Eyed Whore” at the stage. While we were left wanting “A Perfect Day”, “We Float” and “C’mon Billy” – to name but a few songs in her epic catalog – what we did take away was supernatural, spellbinding. To answer the refrain in “Long Snake Moan“, yes PJ, your voodoo’s working.
(Clip below’s from the same tour, earlier this year.)