WHAT HAS BECOME OF ME?!!
Friday, April 07, 2006
a baby step towards hell
I bought expensive sunglasses. Very expensive sunglasses. With a name on the side.
WHAT HAS BECOME OF ME?!!
WHAT HAS BECOME OF ME?!!
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Raining gerbils and hamsters
SO… I moved to Dubai.
I moved on a whim, thinly disguised as a job. I came for some sun, I came to see the shiny buildings, I came because I’ve never been to the Middle East aside from a midnight layover in the Abu Dhabi airport, which rather resembles a spaceship dressed as a Las Vegas peacock.
Dubai is an odd place. Modern, bustling, incredibly exciting, and yet somehow hollow. No heart, no soul. I guess this is the Tin Man of cities. More on that in another post… For now: let’s talk about the weather. 75’ and sunny everyday, not a cloud in sight. Apparently it rains here 3 days a year. This is likely to drive me insane eventually (I live for thunderstorms), but it’s OK as a novelty for the moment.
We had one of our three days of rain earlier this week. It sprinkled for a few hours and, amidst panicked cries of “it’s raining cats and dogs!,” I watched from my glass office tower as the city streets transformed into accident-clogged canals. There are no sewage or gutter systems here! Traffic fatalities (already the highest per capita in the world) quadrupled that day and the camels looked confused.
People keep asking me if I’m going to stay. I’m not sure yet. I’ve met some brilliant people, including my long-lost twin brother, but it lacks the quirky, historic, and cosy elements of a city which I usually gravitate towards.
I certainly COULD live here. It’s full of interesting things to look at…
… but I COULD get along pretty much anywhere, and that includes most cardboard boxes.
(though not a box with one of these in it.)
The question is not COULD I make it work here, but should I? Or should I shove off in favour of a city with a wardrobe broader than business suits and evening glitter?
Answers would be most appreciated.
I moved on a whim, thinly disguised as a job. I came for some sun, I came to see the shiny buildings, I came because I’ve never been to the Middle East aside from a midnight layover in the Abu Dhabi airport, which rather resembles a spaceship dressed as a Las Vegas peacock.
Dubai is an odd place. Modern, bustling, incredibly exciting, and yet somehow hollow. No heart, no soul. I guess this is the Tin Man of cities. More on that in another post… For now: let’s talk about the weather. 75’ and sunny everyday, not a cloud in sight. Apparently it rains here 3 days a year. This is likely to drive me insane eventually (I live for thunderstorms), but it’s OK as a novelty for the moment.
We had one of our three days of rain earlier this week. It sprinkled for a few hours and, amidst panicked cries of “it’s raining cats and dogs!,” I watched from my glass office tower as the city streets transformed into accident-clogged canals. There are no sewage or gutter systems here! Traffic fatalities (already the highest per capita in the world) quadrupled that day and the camels looked confused.
People keep asking me if I’m going to stay. I’m not sure yet. I’ve met some brilliant people, including my long-lost twin brother, but it lacks the quirky, historic, and cosy elements of a city which I usually gravitate towards.
I certainly COULD live here. It’s full of interesting things to look at…
… but I COULD get along pretty much anywhere, and that includes most cardboard boxes.
(though not a box with one of these in it.)
The question is not COULD I make it work here, but should I? Or should I shove off in favour of a city with a wardrobe broader than business suits and evening glitter?
Answers would be most appreciated.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Saturday, January 14, 2006
R. Kelly Touches Us All
When I heard the rumblings last year about a new R. Kelly album, my whoop-di-doo-o-meter registered a negative 3. I’ve never been a big fan of the “hoodlum with a heart of gold” school of R&B… and then there was that sex scandal. He handled that so badly. Really, R., everyone knows that you have to cut off their tongues and hands so they can’t identify you later.
So it was with much protestation that I let my friend Patty O’Mallory play me a selection from this new album. He introduced ‘Trapped in the Closet’ to me as a complex and delicately rendered tale of domestic strife, each track an elegant “chapter” of a visionary masterwork. He pressed play. My distaste quickly gave way to prune-faced disgust – “there’s no tune! and the lyrics are stream-of-consciousness!” – which evolved into confusion – “wait, this second track has the same aimless instrumentation” – then wonderment – “did he just say the neighbor burst in brandishing a spatula?” – incredulity – “did he just say ‘I said what, you said damn, I said I know?’ and why is there still no tune?” – awe – “there’s a midget in the closet! and still no tune!” – and finally fanatical flabbergastification. “This is it,” I declared, “the Ulysses of our generation!”
Now, R. Kelly knows his shiznit is radicizzally insurrectionizzlist, but he’s mistaken as to the nature of his innovation. He claims he is a genius for pioneering what he daringly labels “hip-hopera.” Most fans of the genre would credit that honor instead to Prince Paul’s ‘A Prince Among Thieves’ (an outstanding album with, among other virtues, a tune… several in fact), released in 1999. However, as I just learned this evening, most fans would be wrong because the Animaniacs beat both Prince Paul and R. Kelly to the punch with their 1997 album, 'Animaniacs Starring In A Hip-Hopera Christmas.’ Yakko, Wakko, and Dot in da house.
No, R. Kelly’s genius is in the way he shatters our narrow modern notions of lyricism. He eschews the hackneyed verse/chorus structure. He heroically dismantles our feeble dependence on meter and melody. He altogether transcends the primitive habit of rhyming (though, oddly, I read an interview in which he congratulated himself on his ability to deliver the complex narrative in rhymed prose, which is a surprising claim given his failure even to capitalize on the opportunities presented by a character named Bridget having an affair with a MIDGET). But even amongst these bold innovations, his greatest accomplishment is the subtle blend of microscopic detail with gritty dialogue:
- He says “move.” / She says, “no.” / He says “move.” / She says, “no.” / “BITCH MOVE!” / She moves.
- whoo while Twon & Sylvester sniffin’ around / tryin’ a figure out what’s that smell / as they turn and look at each other like whaaat the hell?
- *Cough cough* *cough cough* / Twon starts coughin'. / *cough cough*
- Then she cries out “Oh my goodness, / I'm about to climax.” / And I said, “Cool.”
- Then the midget takes his inhaler out / and says, “This is not good for my heart.”
- whoooo the midget faints again / while Twon and Sylvester is trippin’ / “The midget is the baby's.....daddy” / whoo!
- The midget say “God I think I just shit'ted on myself”
Best of all, he has figured out how to convey heightened emotion and narrative tension by simply singing louder. It’s a masterpiece. A towering accomplishment in the history of musical endeavor. A virtuosic reflection on the grit, glory, and heartbreak of the human condition.
But would you expect anything less from a man who pees on fourteen-year-old girls?
So it was with much protestation that I let my friend Patty O’Mallory play me a selection from this new album. He introduced ‘Trapped in the Closet’ to me as a complex and delicately rendered tale of domestic strife, each track an elegant “chapter” of a visionary masterwork. He pressed play. My distaste quickly gave way to prune-faced disgust – “there’s no tune! and the lyrics are stream-of-consciousness!” – which evolved into confusion – “wait, this second track has the same aimless instrumentation” – then wonderment – “did he just say the neighbor burst in brandishing a spatula?” – incredulity – “did he just say ‘I said what, you said damn, I said I know?’ and why is there still no tune?” – awe – “there’s a midget in the closet! and still no tune!” – and finally fanatical flabbergastification. “This is it,” I declared, “the Ulysses of our generation!”
Now, R. Kelly knows his shiznit is radicizzally insurrectionizzlist, but he’s mistaken as to the nature of his innovation. He claims he is a genius for pioneering what he daringly labels “hip-hopera.” Most fans of the genre would credit that honor instead to Prince Paul’s ‘A Prince Among Thieves’ (an outstanding album with, among other virtues, a tune… several in fact), released in 1999. However, as I just learned this evening, most fans would be wrong because the Animaniacs beat both Prince Paul and R. Kelly to the punch with their 1997 album, 'Animaniacs Starring In A Hip-Hopera Christmas.’ Yakko, Wakko, and Dot in da house.
No, R. Kelly’s genius is in the way he shatters our narrow modern notions of lyricism. He eschews the hackneyed verse/chorus structure. He heroically dismantles our feeble dependence on meter and melody. He altogether transcends the primitive habit of rhyming (though, oddly, I read an interview in which he congratulated himself on his ability to deliver the complex narrative in rhymed prose, which is a surprising claim given his failure even to capitalize on the opportunities presented by a character named Bridget having an affair with a MIDGET). But even amongst these bold innovations, his greatest accomplishment is the subtle blend of microscopic detail with gritty dialogue:
- He says “move.” / She says, “no.” / He says “move.” / She says, “no.” / “BITCH MOVE!” / She moves.
- whoo while Twon & Sylvester sniffin’ around / tryin’ a figure out what’s that smell / as they turn and look at each other like whaaat the hell?
- *Cough cough* *cough cough* / Twon starts coughin'. / *cough cough*
- Then she cries out “Oh my goodness, / I'm about to climax.” / And I said, “Cool.”
- Then the midget takes his inhaler out / and says, “This is not good for my heart.”
- whoooo the midget faints again / while Twon and Sylvester is trippin’ / “The midget is the baby's.....daddy” / whoo!
- The midget say “God I think I just shit'ted on myself”
Best of all, he has figured out how to convey heightened emotion and narrative tension by simply singing louder. It’s a masterpiece. A towering accomplishment in the history of musical endeavor. A virtuosic reflection on the grit, glory, and heartbreak of the human condition.
But would you expect anything less from a man who pees on fourteen-year-old girls?
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Plumps When You Cook It
“What’s my favorite meal? Why, hot dogs and champagne, darling.” (Marlene Dietrich)
The Dawning of a Gray and Drizzly January
Happy 2006, darling devoted readers! Belated midnight kisses to you all. I hope you revelled exquisitely. I rang in the new year with old friends and tootsie pops in midtown, close enough to dance through the drifts of post-midnight confetti but far enough away to be spared the sight of Mariah Carey and the sound of what I’m sure she assumed were her legions of delirous fans.
Next year, I propose that we tour some nursing homes and take advantage of hearing impairments for our own petty amusement:
“Happy pap smear!”
“Snappy bandolier!”
“Crappy brigadier!”
“That’s not a real Vermeer!”
“I’m going to sell you to Zaire! For manual labor!"
My first musical recommendation for this new year is a song that appeared on many of my Christmas mixes this year: “Love Generation” by Bob Sinclar. It is happy, happy, oh so happy, and infectiously dancable. Priceless prizes and immortal glory to the most creative description (text or video) of your listening experience …
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Adventures in Suburbia: Spelunking with Schoolchildren
O, the little town of Bethlehem, PA… An unlikely series of events has deposited me in my hometown for two months, which is more time than I’ve spent here cumulatively in the past 8 years. It’s essentially a pit stop between Philadelphia and New York. The rolling hills are blanketed by quiet, cookie-cutter neighborhoods and every bar has at least four guys with mullets drinking Keystone Light (on tap for $1) in front of the Eagles game, the Jersey accent seeping through their conversation like battery acid.
I’ve found that it takes a bit of imagination to keep myself entertained here.
Fortunately I have my brother, THE AMAZING METRO! He earned this nickname at the age of 6 as an aspiring magician. His best trick was assembling family and fortunate visitors carefully in their seats around the room and then magically jumping up from behind a piece of furniture to announce “It’s THE AMAZING METRO!!” Applause all around, every time.
Luckily for me, as his muscles have grown over the years, so have his feats of legerdemain evolved from the existential to the practical. He can now consistently conjure fun out of Pennsylvania! No easy task, ladies and gentlemen, I assure you.
Just recently we re-discovered the joys of geology at Lost River Caverns, our perennial favorite school field trip. I am pleased to report that it has retained its magic and dank mystery. Stalagmites! Stalactites! Cave bacon! “Fun for the whole family… a stimulating day trip for residents of the Country Meadow retirement community… a unique way to make science come alive for your students!” I concur with the latter suggestion particularly. Limestone is fascinating. And 52ºF, the cave’s comfortable year-round temperature, seems to have a pleasantly sedative effect on children, especially after they recover from the shock of being greeted by several life-sized and slightly cartoonish velociraptor statues in the lobby. As an added bonus, the gift shop boasts the most astonishing selection of geological crap. Sadly, only the figurative kind of crap is for sale – the museum’s actual collection of fossilized excrement is kept in the glass display case amidst the special shiny rocks.
And here we have a hellalame segue from geology to… a band that "rocks!"
Mclusky. The muse of my inner bulldozer. This is music for smashing things, running from the law, and hucking tomatoes at rosy-cheeked MTV punk bands. The Welsh trio’s song titles are immaculately wry: “Without MSG I am Nothing,” “Falco vs. the Young Canoeist,” “Your Children Are Waiting for You to Die.” The bass riffs rumble like a rowdy ogre orgy, the lead singer screeches, quavers, and spits up lung tissue and wit in equal measure, and it’s all strung together with drums tight enough to slingshot you straight through your neighbor’s window.
Best of all is the glee with which they trash your eardrums. They’re unabashedly obnoxious, but not of the preening Oasis school of obnoxious arrogance polished to the luster of Armani leather. Rather, Mclusky buries their self-aggrandizement under a landslide of sublimely crass taunts, insults, and glorious shoutalong non-sequitors:
“All of your friends are cunts/ Your mother is a ballpoint pen thief.”
“You were such an ugly child.”
“The world loves us and is our bitch.”
“My love is bigger than your love/ We take more drugs than a touring funk band/ SING IT!”
Sing it, I shall… even if they don’t anymore. Sadly, Mclusky disbanded in early 2005 after the release of their third album, ‘The Difference Between You and Me Is That I’m Not on Fire’ but they will remain my band of choice for scoring the monster truck rally in my heart.
Recommended tracks: To Hell with Good Intentions, What We’ve Learned, She Will Only Bring You Happiness
I’ve found that it takes a bit of imagination to keep myself entertained here.
Fortunately I have my brother, THE AMAZING METRO! He earned this nickname at the age of 6 as an aspiring magician. His best trick was assembling family and fortunate visitors carefully in their seats around the room and then magically jumping up from behind a piece of furniture to announce “It’s THE AMAZING METRO!!” Applause all around, every time.Luckily for me, as his muscles have grown over the years, so have his feats of legerdemain evolved from the existential to the practical. He can now consistently conjure fun out of Pennsylvania! No easy task, ladies and gentlemen, I assure you.
Just recently we re-discovered the joys of geology at Lost River Caverns, our perennial favorite school field trip. I am pleased to report that it has retained its magic and dank mystery. Stalagmites! Stalactites! Cave bacon! “Fun for the whole family… a stimulating day trip for residents of the Country Meadow retirement community… a unique way to make science come alive for your students!” I concur with the latter suggestion particularly. Limestone is fascinating. And 52ºF, the cave’s comfortable year-round temperature, seems to have a pleasantly sedative effect on children, especially after they recover from the shock of being greeted by several life-sized and slightly cartoonish velociraptor statues in the lobby. As an added bonus, the gift shop boasts the most astonishing selection of geological crap. Sadly, only the figurative kind of crap is for sale – the museum’s actual collection of fossilized excrement is kept in the glass display case amidst the special shiny rocks.
And here we have a hellalame segue from geology to… a band that "rocks!"
Mclusky. The muse of my inner bulldozer. This is music for smashing things, running from the law, and hucking tomatoes at rosy-cheeked MTV punk bands. The Welsh trio’s song titles are immaculately wry: “Without MSG I am Nothing,” “Falco vs. the Young Canoeist,” “Your Children Are Waiting for You to Die.” The bass riffs rumble like a rowdy ogre orgy, the lead singer screeches, quavers, and spits up lung tissue and wit in equal measure, and it’s all strung together with drums tight enough to slingshot you straight through your neighbor’s window.
Best of all is the glee with which they trash your eardrums. They’re unabashedly obnoxious, but not of the preening Oasis school of obnoxious arrogance polished to the luster of Armani leather. Rather, Mclusky buries their self-aggrandizement under a landslide of sublimely crass taunts, insults, and glorious shoutalong non-sequitors:
“All of your friends are cunts/ Your mother is a ballpoint pen thief.”
“You were such an ugly child.”
“The world loves us and is our bitch.”
“My love is bigger than your love/ We take more drugs than a touring funk band/ SING IT!”
Sing it, I shall… even if they don’t anymore. Sadly, Mclusky disbanded in early 2005 after the release of their third album, ‘The Difference Between You and Me Is That I’m Not on Fire’ but they will remain my band of choice for scoring the monster truck rally in my heart.
Recommended tracks: To Hell with Good Intentions, What We’ve Learned, She Will Only Bring You Happiness
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
My Own Little Big Bang
After years of heaping scorn upon the practice of blogging, I’m surprised to find myself here, tossing more junk into orbit. I’m not so vain as to think that anyone cares about what’s written here as much as I do, but I do promise you, dear reader, whether you are here because you’re my grandmother (hi Baba!) or because you got lost on a lonely midnight search for nude pregnant Britney pics, I will do my best to entertain you with some interesting stuff and to gain your trust with properly placed apostrophes. And, yes, I AM that much of a dork, but that’s why you love me.
And now without further ado, I present to you my Discovery Du Jour:
Balkan Beat Box and their recently released self-titled debut album
If the Basement Jaxx took over a UN committee on refugee resettlement in the eastern Mediterranean, it might sound something like this album, which is the most delightfully and indefatigably eclectic thing I’ve ever heard. Densely and danceably odd, it blows my genre classification system to smithereens... It’s Israeli accordion funk peppered with digital whooping and girls yelling “cha cha.” It’s a frenzy of klezmer horns surrounding the smooth rhythm of a happy African dude. There are Bulgarian angels charming muted jazz trumpet snakes out of disco baskets. We’ve got roosters, we’ve got cowbells, we’ve got reverb! We’ve got Hassidic Sephardic Arabic breakbeats! And above all else, this album has a sublime sense of how to shake your tochas.
Though I don't have any pictures of the actual band (the architects of this madness are Tamir Muskat and Ori Kaplan, denizens of the New York hardcore Hebrew underground scene), I thought I would submit a few helpful visualisation tools nonetheless. Imagine the lovely, fresh-faced youths on the left amping up their lutes, unbuttoning their blouses, and dancing until the thatch catches fire.
That’s kind of what this album sounds like.
Alternatively, imagine a heaving nightclub where this woman is the bouncer.
Recommended tracks: Hassan’s Mimuna, Adi Adirim.
Finally, in closing, I would say a few words of thanks to you for encouraging my little blog adventure. Thank you. This has been fun already. And in the words of Eddie Vedder: “I set a gnome what a whale and a paxil on the blegck. AhyayeeyayeeyayAAAA…”
And now without further ado, I present to you my Discovery Du Jour:
Balkan Beat Box and their recently released self-titled debut album
If the Basement Jaxx took over a UN committee on refugee resettlement in the eastern Mediterranean, it might sound something like this album, which is the most delightfully and indefatigably eclectic thing I’ve ever heard. Densely and danceably odd, it blows my genre classification system to smithereens... It’s Israeli accordion funk peppered with digital whooping and girls yelling “cha cha.” It’s a frenzy of klezmer horns surrounding the smooth rhythm of a happy African dude. There are Bulgarian angels charming muted jazz trumpet snakes out of disco baskets. We’ve got roosters, we’ve got cowbells, we’ve got reverb! We’ve got Hassidic Sephardic Arabic breakbeats! And above all else, this album has a sublime sense of how to shake your tochas.
Though I don't have any pictures of the actual band (the architects of this madness are Tamir Muskat and Ori Kaplan, denizens of the New York hardcore Hebrew underground scene), I thought I would submit a few helpful visualisation tools nonetheless. Imagine the lovely, fresh-faced youths on the left amping up their lutes, unbuttoning their blouses, and dancing until the thatch catches fire. 
That’s kind of what this album sounds like.Alternatively, imagine a heaving nightclub where this woman is the bouncer.
Recommended tracks: Hassan’s Mimuna, Adi Adirim.
Finally, in closing, I would say a few words of thanks to you for encouraging my little blog adventure. Thank you. This has been fun already. And in the words of Eddie Vedder: “I set a gnome what a whale and a paxil on the blegck. AhyayeeyayeeyayAAAA…”
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