Every so often I'll catch myself doing it and groan. Kat looks at me and says, "What?" I confess that It has happened agan and she knowingly pats me on the shoulder and says, "I know." I'd like to think of myself as this dynamic, distinct individual whose voyage through life has made him a completely New sort of human being, but Then I cross my arms while I'm talking to somebody or tug at the little soul-patch under my chin and I see... my dad. I don't find my father's mannerisms to be offensive - it's the Recognition that they are now On Me. I haven't seen my father on a regular basis in nearly 8 years but they've been bubbling out of me, as naturally as breathing or growing my hair. I'm dealing with it, however. 'Things like this happen,' I tell myself, 'so you've just gotta accept it and move on.'
But, then there's this:
Everyone in my family knows that I am The City Kid. I am the family member who never liked camping or living in the country or hunting for deer or reaping the benefits of Mother Earth (gardening). I wanted to go to the movies or hang out with the neighborhood kids or see a basketball game while my parents planned week-long excursions to remote corners of Alaska for salmon fishing and hiking. From Denali National Park in Alaska to the remote campgrounds along the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia, I've been a personal food reservoir for mosquitoes and deerflies all across this country and abroad. It wasn't enough to camp in the Great Outdoors. Oh no. It had to be done in the Remote Great Outdoors. K.O.A. campgrounds were for wimps. Hot water? Electrical hookups? Flushing toilets? Hell, you'd might as well stay in a Day's Inn and eat at the Waffle House. As I lay in my sleeping bag with rocks jabbing in my back and the persistent itch of mosquito bites on my ass from my last outhouse Debacle, I fantasized of the day when I would be the Master of my Own Destiny, when I would never again be forced to endure another second of Camping Torture. So, when Kat and I found a few days in July when we could relax from the daily grind of Work, what did we do?
We went camping... and it was... fun.
You can run, but you cannot hide, my friend.
Living in big cities has made me appreciate the beauty of silence. All those things I thought to be a tedious, cruel punishment from my parents for a hyperactive demeanor have since been twisted into perverse notion of idyllic bliss. My fantasies have flipped like a hippie-turned-neocon. I daydream of the wind through the trees instead of car alarms. I contemplate canoeing down a meandering brook in place of the choking cluster-fuck of a subway at 8 in the morning.
What have I become? Dear GOD, What Have I Become?!
...need... decadent night... on the town... now!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Freakin at the Siren Festival
I want to join a freak show. I don't really know what my skill would be. I never honed my gross-out skills in middle school. My skill was paper football games and pencil snapping and although I might have ruled the school in those days, I don't see the general public ponying up the cash to make my dream a viable reality. I used to be a cutter, but I've weaned myself away from that lifestyle (much to Kat's relief) and the fact is that real, physical pain is a turn off in a live, theatrical setting. If there is ever a manic-depressive freakshow, sign me up, otherwise I'm destined to be a dreamer, not a practitioner. Fortunately, there were four practitioners at Coney Island this last weekend and for $8 on a hot afternoon, Kat and I partook of all that is Good and Joyous about a nice, wholesome Freak Show... particularly ones that serve Coronas.
The Real Reason that Kat and I subjected ourselves to one and a half hours of subway bliss was to attend the our third Coney Island Siren Festival. I had one of my 'Holy Shit' moments at my first Siren Festival when I watched a pissed-off Jamie Hince (a.k.a. Hotel) and Allison Mosshart (a.k.a. VV) perform an disjointed-yet-amazing set of music. The sound was terrible and they had a drum machine that couldn't work for-shit, but there was something there that made me hunt down one of the band lineups to find out their name - The Kills. A few months later, they returned to NYC and played at the Bowery Ballroom and confirmed themselves as my Favorite Band.
Frankly, the idea of the Siren Festival is a lot better than the reality. The bands play from 1pm-9pm and it's at the height of the summer with no relief from the heat except oversized cups of Rheingold beer. The crowds are fun and casual for the first couple bands, but as the day wears on, the crush to See gets unbearable. This year seemed exceptionally underwhelming. We arrived just as Ambulance LTD was taking the stage. They had some fun, catchy tunes for the first few songs, but their stuff fell a little too close to Nickelback by the end. The Dears took to the stage and after a short setup... kept setting up. Tell me, truthfully, does one band REALLY need 5 keyboards to get through a 45 minute set? Does everything REALLY have.to.be.just.so. for a steaming-hot afternoon where you're performing next to a rollercoaster?! Two songs into it, I knew that The Dears have been spending too much of their career working on setup and not enough time on songs. "Oh, I promise not to cry" as a climactic refrain? Somebody, shoot me.
By the time Q and Not U took the stage, I was ready for a break. Fortunately, Coney Island is a great place to visit once a year. In 2003, we sampled the Boardwalk hustlers and carney-style food. Last year it was the Wonder Wheel and Cyclone rollercoaster (though Kat wouldn't call that her high-point of entertainment). This year, it was The Coney Island Circus Sideshow. This was my first freak show since my Nine Inch Nails days when Trent was touring with the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow. This show wasn't on the same scale, but it was welcome respite from dull alt bands and a hot, rainy day that turned sweltering-sunny.
There must be a shortage of reliable freaks in New York City (or I swim in the same circles) because I've seen at least two, possibly three, of these freaks elsewhere in the City. It's hard to forget a dreadlocked woman with facial tattoos so I'm sure that Insectavoria is the same lovely lady I spotted handing out fliers in front of Andromeda's on St. Mark's Place. I wonder if she's related to Mikel Monkeymeat, the dreadlocked, facial-tattooed, body piercing specialist in said-establishment? I interviewed Mikel my first month in New York for a Playgirl article on genital piercings (that's another story), but I digress. Insectavoria put on an impressive display of fireball blowing and sword walking. If she'd been putting on that show when she was handing out fliers, I mighta strolled right in and got myself an apadravya... or not.
Eak the Geek was a frequent rider of the 'F' line when I lived in Brooklyn and, in hindsight, must have been headed home from work about the same time Kat and I set out for the City's evening entertainment. One evening, a friend of mine, smitten by his bodyfull of blue tattoos, spontaneously lept from her subway seat to talk to him. He's much angrier-looking when he's not talking. At the sideshow, he insulted hipsters for ignoring the 'No Photos' signs and had a hefty couple from Suburb,USA stand on his stomach as he was sandwiched between a pair of nail-filled boards. Not the most impressive feat I've seen, but he had some good carney-energy and kept the enthusiasm level up.
Heather Holiday looked very familiar to me. I don't know where I've seen her but... There's nothing that would suggest that she's a sword swallower and contortionist on the Outside, but that's just what she did for us this afternoon.Despite the fact that she was cute, dressed in a little sexpot number and had the obvious double-entendre skills, I kept getting the feeling that a date with her would be a lot of heavy petting, giggles, and coy grins, but little else. Alas, she had all the stage presence of a middle-school recital. Her bits desperately called for a burlesque touch, but this sideshow seemed a little desperate to keep everything 'G' rated.
Diamond Donny V was the host of this escapade. He sported a derby hat, pork chop sideburns and a placid demeanor. His bits were a little weak, but he had good comic timing and kept the show rolling along. He did succeed in grossing out Kat when he successfully threaded a long nail through his nose. A good emcee for the show, but I'd have preferred a little onstage contrast with him and Eek the Geek. Ahh... if I ran the circus...
The Sideshow was great, but I knew it was time to go when we finally emerged into the sweltering late afternoon. The crowds had begun to choke the streets and it was still a couple hours until home. Thank you Coney Island, it was Real.
The Real Reason that Kat and I subjected ourselves to one and a half hours of subway bliss was to attend the our third Coney Island Siren Festival. I had one of my 'Holy Shit' moments at my first Siren Festival when I watched a pissed-off Jamie Hince (a.k.a. Hotel) and Allison Mosshart (a.k.a. VV) perform an disjointed-yet-amazing set of music. The sound was terrible and they had a drum machine that couldn't work for-shit, but there was something there that made me hunt down one of the band lineups to find out their name - The Kills. A few months later, they returned to NYC and played at the Bowery Ballroom and confirmed themselves as my Favorite Band.
Frankly, the idea of the Siren Festival is a lot better than the reality. The bands play from 1pm-9pm and it's at the height of the summer with no relief from the heat except oversized cups of Rheingold beer. The crowds are fun and casual for the first couple bands, but as the day wears on, the crush to See gets unbearable. This year seemed exceptionally underwhelming. We arrived just as Ambulance LTD was taking the stage. They had some fun, catchy tunes for the first few songs, but their stuff fell a little too close to Nickelback by the end. The Dears took to the stage and after a short setup... kept setting up. Tell me, truthfully, does one band REALLY need 5 keyboards to get through a 45 minute set? Does everything REALLY have.to.be.just.so. for a steaming-hot afternoon where you're performing next to a rollercoaster?! Two songs into it, I knew that The Dears have been spending too much of their career working on setup and not enough time on songs. "Oh, I promise not to cry" as a climactic refrain? Somebody, shoot me.
By the time Q and Not U took the stage, I was ready for a break. Fortunately, Coney Island is a great place to visit once a year. In 2003, we sampled the Boardwalk hustlers and carney-style food. Last year it was the Wonder Wheel and Cyclone rollercoaster (though Kat wouldn't call that her high-point of entertainment). This year, it was The Coney Island Circus Sideshow. This was my first freak show since my Nine Inch Nails days when Trent was touring with the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow. This show wasn't on the same scale, but it was welcome respite from dull alt bands and a hot, rainy day that turned sweltering-sunny.
There must be a shortage of reliable freaks in New York City (or I swim in the same circles) because I've seen at least two, possibly three, of these freaks elsewhere in the City. It's hard to forget a dreadlocked woman with facial tattoos so I'm sure that Insectavoria is the same lovely lady I spotted handing out fliers in front of Andromeda's on St. Mark's Place. I wonder if she's related to Mikel Monkeymeat, the dreadlocked, facial-tattooed, body piercing specialist in said-establishment? I interviewed Mikel my first month in New York for a Playgirl article on genital piercings (that's another story), but I digress. Insectavoria put on an impressive display of fireball blowing and sword walking. If she'd been putting on that show when she was handing out fliers, I mighta strolled right in and got myself an apadravya... or not.
Eak the Geek was a frequent rider of the 'F' line when I lived in Brooklyn and, in hindsight, must have been headed home from work about the same time Kat and I set out for the City's evening entertainment. One evening, a friend of mine, smitten by his bodyfull of blue tattoos, spontaneously lept from her subway seat to talk to him. He's much angrier-looking when he's not talking. At the sideshow, he insulted hipsters for ignoring the 'No Photos' signs and had a hefty couple from Suburb,USA stand on his stomach as he was sandwiched between a pair of nail-filled boards. Not the most impressive feat I've seen, but he had some good carney-energy and kept the enthusiasm level up.
Heather Holiday looked very familiar to me. I don't know where I've seen her but... There's nothing that would suggest that she's a sword swallower and contortionist on the Outside, but that's just what she did for us this afternoon.Despite the fact that she was cute, dressed in a little sexpot number and had the obvious double-entendre skills, I kept getting the feeling that a date with her would be a lot of heavy petting, giggles, and coy grins, but little else. Alas, she had all the stage presence of a middle-school recital. Her bits desperately called for a burlesque touch, but this sideshow seemed a little desperate to keep everything 'G' rated.
Diamond Donny V was the host of this escapade. He sported a derby hat, pork chop sideburns and a placid demeanor. His bits were a little weak, but he had good comic timing and kept the show rolling along. He did succeed in grossing out Kat when he successfully threaded a long nail through his nose. A good emcee for the show, but I'd have preferred a little onstage contrast with him and Eek the Geek. Ahh... if I ran the circus...
The Sideshow was great, but I knew it was time to go when we finally emerged into the sweltering late afternoon. The crowds had begun to choke the streets and it was still a couple hours until home. Thank you Coney Island, it was Real.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Son Volt at South Street Seaport
It was at Gabe's Oasis in Iowa City, Iowa where I had my first 'Holy Shit' moment. My best friend, Eliot, dragged me from the bowels of my cramped, one-bedroom apartment and introduced me to a band that wasn't quite country, wasn't quite punk, and featured a half dozen musicians who appeared to be touring with 30 instruments in tow. They had two lead singers-- one, a sad crooner with long, brown hair, the other, a droning, lilting singer with a bowl haircut nearly as bad as mine. The band was called Uncle Tupelo and they frigging rocked my world. I had no idea that country music could rock that hard or that a country-style band could do a kick-ass cover of "I Wanna Destroy You".
A couple years later, the band had split and the lead singers had built two, equally-strong bands with completely different sounds. The floppy-haired one, Jeff Tweedy, formed Wilco and Ascended to alt.pop heaven with the fantastic album Being There. The second singer with the dork haircut, Jay Farrar, embraced the country side of Uncle Tupelo's sound and formed Son Volt and put out a debut album, Trace. Three years ago, I finally caught Wilco live at NYC's Roseland Ballroom and had a blast. Last Thursday, I finally consummated my ongoing infatuation with that 'Holy Shit' moment by heading down to the South Street Seaport and catching a free concert featuring a much-hipper haircut singing lead for Son Volt.
Free concerts are always a mixed bag in a big city. They're outdoors, free and usually a fantastic opportunity to check out obscure bands. On the other hand, these venues provide a wonderful opportunity for every ass-clown with a few hours to kill to exchange office gossip with co-workers as if he's hanging out in his own living room, holding court with people who actually give a flying fuck. Nothing says Kill Me like listening to some shmuck on a cell phone during a concert, endlessly repeating "I Can't Hear You!" to the poor soul at the other end of the line...
South Street Seaport provides a stunning backdrop - the Brooklyn Bridge, downtown Brooklyn, the towering skyscrapers of Wall Street, and a small collection of early 20th Century sailing ships. The forecast had been threatening rain all day, but it was a picture-perfect evening. Kat and I were running late (having enjoyed a couple rounds of happy hour magic in the East Village) and missed the opening band, Dr. Dog, but Son Volt had just begun their set as we finally reached the end of Fulton Street. The show was solid, but a bit tepid. When you're playing for both fans and passers-by it's gotta be a bitch to engage an audience. Also, many of Son Volt's newer songs sounded much like one another and I frequently found myself staring off at a swingin' old guy in the audience who was laying into his air guitar harder than anyone onstage. It wasn't until Son Volt started laying into their older tracks that the show finally found a stride.
It wasn't anything close to a 'Holy Shit' moment but it was a respectable set and the price was right. I'm not terribly psyched of picking up Son Volt's newest album, Okemah and the Melody of Riot, but any fans of alt.country should still check out Son Volt's Trace, Wilco's sophomore effort Being There, and anything from Uncle Tupelo's first 4 albums. You won't be disappointed.
A couple years later, the band had split and the lead singers had built two, equally-strong bands with completely different sounds. The floppy-haired one, Jeff Tweedy, formed Wilco and Ascended to alt.pop heaven with the fantastic album Being There. The second singer with the dork haircut, Jay Farrar, embraced the country side of Uncle Tupelo's sound and formed Son Volt and put out a debut album, Trace. Three years ago, I finally caught Wilco live at NYC's Roseland Ballroom and had a blast. Last Thursday, I finally consummated my ongoing infatuation with that 'Holy Shit' moment by heading down to the South Street Seaport and catching a free concert featuring a much-hipper haircut singing lead for Son Volt.
Free concerts are always a mixed bag in a big city. They're outdoors, free and usually a fantastic opportunity to check out obscure bands. On the other hand, these venues provide a wonderful opportunity for every ass-clown with a few hours to kill to exchange office gossip with co-workers as if he's hanging out in his own living room, holding court with people who actually give a flying fuck. Nothing says Kill Me like listening to some shmuck on a cell phone during a concert, endlessly repeating "I Can't Hear You!" to the poor soul at the other end of the line...South Street Seaport provides a stunning backdrop - the Brooklyn Bridge, downtown Brooklyn, the towering skyscrapers of Wall Street, and a small collection of early 20th Century sailing ships. The forecast had been threatening rain all day, but it was a picture-perfect evening. Kat and I were running late (having enjoyed a couple rounds of happy hour magic in the East Village) and missed the opening band, Dr. Dog, but Son Volt had just begun their set as we finally reached the end of Fulton Street. The show was solid, but a bit tepid. When you're playing for both fans and passers-by it's gotta be a bitch to engage an audience. Also, many of Son Volt's newer songs sounded much like one another and I frequently found myself staring off at a swingin' old guy in the audience who was laying into his air guitar harder than anyone onstage. It wasn't until Son Volt started laying into their older tracks that the show finally found a stride.It wasn't anything close to a 'Holy Shit' moment but it was a respectable set and the price was right. I'm not terribly psyched of picking up Son Volt's newest album, Okemah and the Melody of Riot, but any fans of alt.country should still check out Son Volt's Trace, Wilco's sophomore effort Being There, and anything from Uncle Tupelo's first 4 albums. You won't be disappointed.
Monday, July 11, 2005
tap... tap... tap...
Summer is hitting NYC hot-and-heavy today. I'm camped out in front of a fan with shades drawn, windows closed, and my air conditioner lying dormant. People bitch and moan about hot weather, but it's just a matter of getting used to it. When I was laboring in 100° F (37° Celsius) heat among the ruins of Ayutthaya, Thailand, I watched groundskeeping women go about their work wearing heavily-layered, dark clothing from head-to-toe while Kat looked like her head was about to spontaneously combust. Hell, even an anglo fella like me has gotten used to it. I spent a summer in the San Fernando Valley, enjoying 95° F (35° C) temps in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Of course, I was unemployed for that summer so I had a LOT of time to get used to the weather along with far too many vodka and orange juice libations. Working in an office makes it hard, though. You spend the day in overly-cooled environments then try to go without when you get home. It's a vicious cycle. Vicious, I tell you. Fortunately, I have the advantage of only working three days a week.
Actually, it Would be fortunate if someone were willing to pay me to endure heat.
Can you tell that I'm trying to avoid work? It feels like people can tell. I've already done all the dishes in the apartment. I've scoured Craigslist for writing jobs in search of gigs that don't involve writing for somebody who has a 'great idea' and wants somebody to ghost-write it for him/her. I've read my bookmarked blogs, scanned the New York Times, checked the Fed Ex tracking site for the umpteenth time in search of minute-by-minute progress on the 160GB hard drive that I'm expecting Any Moment Now. I've even tapped out on my circuit of porn websites and when THAT happens, buster, you know that it is Time to get started. If I start playing Call of Duty, then I'll know that I've completely given up on the day.
Last night, I vowed to Kat that I would start sending out my poetry to contests and publications. Today was to be Poetry Day wherein I would cease the word-fucking of poems I wrote 3 years ago and finally get a few of the sons-o-bitches out the door.
Yep. Just about ready to get to work on that.
I wonder if the Bowery Ballroom has booked anybody new in the last 6 hours...
Actually, it Would be fortunate if someone were willing to pay me to endure heat.
Can you tell that I'm trying to avoid work? It feels like people can tell. I've already done all the dishes in the apartment. I've scoured Craigslist for writing jobs in search of gigs that don't involve writing for somebody who has a 'great idea' and wants somebody to ghost-write it for him/her. I've read my bookmarked blogs, scanned the New York Times, checked the Fed Ex tracking site for the umpteenth time in search of minute-by-minute progress on the 160GB hard drive that I'm expecting Any Moment Now. I've even tapped out on my circuit of porn websites and when THAT happens, buster, you know that it is Time to get started. If I start playing Call of Duty, then I'll know that I've completely given up on the day.
Last night, I vowed to Kat that I would start sending out my poetry to contests and publications. Today was to be Poetry Day wherein I would cease the word-fucking of poems I wrote 3 years ago and finally get a few of the sons-o-bitches out the door.
Yep. Just about ready to get to work on that.
I wonder if the Bowery Ballroom has booked anybody new in the last 6 hours...
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Good to be - *COUGH*
My pilgrimage to the land of the midnight sun has been completed and I am glad to be
*cough*...
Excuse me... where was I? Ah yes, I am glad to be back in my beloved
*COUGH*
... maybe I need a glass of water. It's just that this frigging-
*COUGH-COUGH*
air in New York-
*HACK-HACK-COUGH-WHEEZE*
I arrived at JFK airport on Wednesday, flush with relief at my return home. The sliding doors swished and parted and I stepped into the great outdoors- then we wavered in our tracks. The air was thick with moisture and the stain of stale oil and exhaust. It was as if the air was hostile. After spending a couple of weeks abroad, I'd forgotten how Third-World the cities of America have become regarding air quality. Based on what I saw in Stockholm, if it takes a little socialism in a democracy to make corporations improve their water and air quality, I'd take it over this tepid mess any day.
I am happy to be home. Really.
Sweden was amazing, the wedding was cool and the breadth of egos on display was grossly-disappointing.
Is that obtuse enough? I got to visit with an old friend, befriend some amazing Swedes and revisit old friendships that helped me to find closure in ways I'd never expect.
Yep. Got the cryptic, scrambling device running full-bore here.
There will be much, much more to talk about. My paperwork is everywhere and I've gotta sort this shit out before I start applying digits-to-keyboards.
I need some sleep.
*cough*...
Excuse me... where was I? Ah yes, I am glad to be back in my beloved
*COUGH*
... maybe I need a glass of water. It's just that this frigging-
*COUGH-COUGH*
air in New York-
*HACK-HACK-COUGH-WHEEZE*
I arrived at JFK airport on Wednesday, flush with relief at my return home. The sliding doors swished and parted and I stepped into the great outdoors- then we wavered in our tracks. The air was thick with moisture and the stain of stale oil and exhaust. It was as if the air was hostile. After spending a couple of weeks abroad, I'd forgotten how Third-World the cities of America have become regarding air quality. Based on what I saw in Stockholm, if it takes a little socialism in a democracy to make corporations improve their water and air quality, I'd take it over this tepid mess any day.
I am happy to be home. Really.
Sweden was amazing, the wedding was cool and the breadth of egos on display was grossly-disappointing.
Is that obtuse enough? I got to visit with an old friend, befriend some amazing Swedes and revisit old friendships that helped me to find closure in ways I'd never expect.
Yep. Got the cryptic, scrambling device running full-bore here.
There will be much, much more to talk about. My paperwork is everywhere and I've gotta sort this shit out before I start applying digits-to-keyboards.
I need some sleep.
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