Music Notes. Monday.

Observation. I was listening to Chris Isaak on Sunday and just realized that "Graduation Day"is a dark song. Something very ominous and permanent about it.
Unlike the song that follows it, "Go Walkin' Down There", which is so obtuse about its bitterness it practically wipes the smirk off your face on the spot, "Graduation Day" is a double edged sword of a song - as calm as pond water on the surface, almost sweet & nostalgic...but there's something when the veil is lifted thats more stabbing. Perhaps it has to do with the opening lyrics - "driving slowly/watching the headlights in the rain"...haha, but thats too obvious, really. There's a tuxedo black sentimentality threaded through it.
I have always loved Forever Blue (great album!), especially as a summer listen.
Funnily, my thoughts on Chris Issak are always peppered with one specific memory.
Years ago when I worked the green room at the HOB in Chicago, I recall specifically being pulled by the arm and not reprimanded so much as screamed at by his tour manager, who had clearly specified on the rider that "Chris have a WARM Rotisserie chicken and ROOM TEMPERATURE Perrier (NOT Pelligrino!) delivered to his dressing room at exactly 3 PM." (It was about 3:15)
Oh I love reading riders, but I'll never ever miss being in charge of them.

I can't believe I heard Paolo Conte in a Mastercard commercial.
Wowsa.
Everyone should love Paolo Conte - that's a fact. He sounds Franch but is actually Eye-talian.
Beauty x Infinity. Delicious.

What else. Well, my friends in Takka Takka are playing a sssssshhhhow (that's secret+show, and not a secret anymore) tonite at Pianos (183 Ludlow on the LES) w/St. Vincent (whom I have a ladyboner over), the new girl, Bell, and John Vanderslice.
Like Parfums de Cour - if you like Bjork, you'll love Bell !
Its going to be hot as hell in that room so you might as well wear a bikini.
They will be going on around 10 PM, directly after I defend my Title as Music Trivia Champ upstairs.
Arrivederci for now.

Take a Picture

This morning I spent several hours at the coffee shop with lots of espresso and the new issue of Vanity Fair. 

I look forward every month to sitting down with a cup of coffee and a glossy, slippery, pristine copy of VF, which I usually read cover to cover, because, aside from Esquire I feel that its one of the only magazines in decent circulation anymore that cares about being...well, literary.

This month's cover/feature story is Amy Poehler, Tina Fey, and Sarah Silverman - a response to the provocative piece that Christopher Hitchens did last year called "Why Women Aren't Funny". However you might respond to it, it's an interesting subject, and it evoked an unprecedented amount of response emails from readers. Most of them were predictaby angry. 

In any event, this issue features a rather breathtaking piece about the American photographer-artist, Robert Frank.

When I was 22, I moved to Chicago and started to try and drink in everything I could about living in such an imperial city.

I remember going to the art institute in Chicago and by happenstance, pure- dumbluck, seeing a Robert Frank exhibit. It was his photographic manifesto,  The Americans. 

I remember that as I walk-stopped through the exhibit, I had in each eye, tears that kept in obedient, shallow puddles and remained but never dropped, much like the small bowling ball apparently caught in my throat. But I didn't know why, becuase the pictures themselves were very plain and didn't necessarily demand an emotional response.

83 photographs.

Very pedestrian.

But they do envelope a perfectness that language could never articulate, really.

I have never understood exactly what makes some people magicians with cameras, and some not. Two people could essentially take pictures of the same object or person, and one of them will invariably have some kind of unexplainable honesty to it. A beauty that is unduplicated except for in that precise moment the ravenous lens eats it up and cements it in 35-mm.

There's no answer to that, and even if there were, I wouldn't want to know it.

Frank also directed the movie "Cocksucker Blues", about the Rolling Stones. He told Mick Jaggar that Keith Richards was simply, more interesting than he was. 

His work, like how he speaks, is very plain and to the point. 

In any event, I feel that the articles author, Charlie LeDuff, sums up The Americans perfectly in the following paragraph:

If you see the photographs today, nothing about them looks scandalous. Rather, everything appears normal. It's as though Frank predicted the future. A car, a jukebox - they became the symbols of our lives.  We were ruled by our machines, Frank seemed to say. A covered car neatly arranged between two trees looks like a coffin, and then you turn the page and there is a grainy photo of a dead body covered by a blanket lying beside a highway, and the corpse and the car look the same.  The tuba player has no head, and the television personality has no body.  Frank took 28,000 shots from 1955 to 1956 over the course of three road trips. The genius lay in editing them down into 83 daggars which he plunged directly into the heart of the Myth. The critics...were saying "The Americans" was a movie slowed to a stop. A novel without a plot, a symphony of no sound. Frank had gotten our souls on film.

Photoabove guide:

1. Gas Station-Albequrque, New Mexico

2. Trolley - New Orleans, LA

3.  Jukebox-LasVegas, NV

4.  Parade - Hoboken, NJ

5.  Charleston, SC

6. Public Park- Ann Arbor, MI

Something.

How beautiful it is to wake up sorta early on a Saturday. 

On clean purple sheets and lay in bed for an hour alone. 

And look like a child for two minutes in the morning mirror when you brush your teeth. 

Like grown ups drinking soda through a straw.

How beautiful is it to go outside where the wind whips your face.

And to walk and smoke and listen to Neil Diamond and to have hot coffee in the cold, dumb-blonde winter sunshine and read books and stare out the window where the blinds try to cockblock the light.

How beautiful is the second before you realize you are stuck in a day dream.

Exact happiness.

And how superb is it on a Saturday to visit the flea market & walk out with nothing.

And see the vanilla limosiounes on sixth avenue.

And try to remember to how to spell limousine correctly on the first try.

And walk past the hotel towards home and think about the song where they say its strange to be anything.

At all.

Come on Down! the Price. Is. Right.

Home sick from zee job today. Watched my favorite running game show, the (new) Price is Right with Drew Carey. 

According to Wikipedia, the PIR is believed to be the second longest-running game show on television, trailing only the Spanish-language variety show Sábado Gigante; it is also the longest running five-days-a-week game show in the world. 

Though nobody will ever replace the Silver Fox, Bob Barker, Drew Carey gets gangbusters on that shit and does a really good job. 

Glasses are to Drew Carey what the phallic mic was to Barker.

I guess we all know by now that Barker was sleeping with half of the Barker Beauties. I always imagined him breezing through the backstage pre-show, slapping their asses and making little misogynistic remarks while a team of assistants tried to keep up with him, fixin' his coif and applying self tanner to his face with a sponge. Oh, my imagination gets carried away.

A few months ago I went out with a friend of mine, a musician whose hired bass player is MARRIED to one of these ladies. I practically nailed the poor guy to the bar, interrogating him with a feverish line of questioning about behind-the-scenes secrets. I confided in him that I had always equated these assistants to flight attendants - look pretty, stay below the weight restriction, and do exactly what you were trained to do. I was pretty much on the money.

Moving on, I couldn't help but notice how utterly depressing the commercials are during this show. I'd say 97% of them are for products involving bladder control, fiber, anything endorsed by Wilford Brimley (I like to think of him as Brad Pitt for the "Cocoon" set), life insurance policies, a product called the Hoveround (which is a mechanical scooter), and dying some more.

I saw a particularly odd spot for Colonial Life Penn insurance policies, wherein 2 older women, who are dressed as "old ladies" to an almost comedic, high-school-theater-costume-dept.-degree (think "Mama's House") are arranging food and talking at a funeral wake.

They have the following exchange (we'll call them Ethel and Maude. Those just sound like elderly ladies names to me at the moment):

Ethel:     You have a Colonial Life Penn life insurance policy?

Maude:  Sure do! 

Ethel:     But how ever do you afford it?

Maude:  It costs AS MUCH TO BURY A WOMAN AS IT DOES A MAN!

Ethel:    (acting surprised), Well can you get me some more information....

...and so on. I have DV-R, so I watched this perplexing dialogue a few times over in horror. Not only is it incredibly perplexing that some copywriter sat down and penned that conversation, but it doesn't make any sense! Why would it cost more to bury a man than a woman in the first place? Is this some kind of er, feminist statement? 

I throw my hands up on that one.

Did I mention Wilford Brimley endorses like, everything if you are over the age of 65?

Anyways, I watched the whole show, and it thrilled me as it always has. I have always loved the rebel contestant who gives a middle finger to the rest of the panel in the first round and bids a dollar, hoping they will outsmart us all.

I love the Mountain Climber game, and sincerely/truly/deeply love Plinko.  I have always argued that because most of the games include bidding on household items (Hot Pockets and laxatives seem to be popular repeat items), the show is a bit unfair due to geographic circumstances. For example, if you grew up in say, newyorkcity, you'd be apt to price a roll of toilet paper or whatever at about double what it costs in the rest of the country. This is especially true for groceries. When I am home visiting in Michigan, Triscuits (for um, example) are priced at like, 3 boxes/$5. Screaming deal, compared to here, where they are $4.99 a box. So I feel this puts the contestant at a serious disadvantage in some instances. 

Just an observation from a fan.

As a viewer, of course the payoff comes when the show reaches its zenith - the showcase showdown. If you should ever find yourself IN the showcase showdown, my advice is that you pass on the first one (it usually involves a kitchen set or golf cart) and aim for the second if you can (it usually involves a trip/boat/car/luxury/etc).

I was amazed when I saw today, the prizes. 

Showcase A included said kitchen set and....a YEARS SUPPLY OF FROZEN PIZZA. 

Showcase B included a Ford Focus and ....A TRIP TO SPACE CAMP.

When did these prizes start getting so juvenile slash fantastic!?

No, I'm Never Gonna Dance Again!

Some dude just outside my office has been arguing loudly on the phone with his wife all morning, as always, for all of us to hear. He hung up & began listening to "Careless Whisper" immediately.
On Loud.
heh.
Wham's "Make it Big!" was my first cassette tape. My mom bought it for me while running errands at a Shell gas station. It provided a lifelike soundtrack for my crush on George Michael.
My other crush (my FIRST love) was on Barry Manilow, whom I was obsessed with.
Anyways, I see a connection here but I won't make it out loud. That's another story.

I pretty much only listen to sad bastard-hide-the-knives music for breakfast lunch and dinner, but I am fallin' in love with the new She& Him record a whole lot (Zooey D & M Ward). I want to sit under the shade of a giant green oak tree, wearin a dress and eating an ice cream cone when I listen to these songs.
It reminds me of Karen Carpeneter & Patsy Cline (minus the eating disorder and the bad luck). Listen Here:
SHE&HIM

Oh, I shoulda called this blog, Now & Then.

P.S. Diet Lemon Snapple fact of the day: Dragonflies have six legs but cannot walk.

#1s

There is a band called DURAN DURAN DURAN.

It might be the best name I've ever heard.

I stopped to bend down, coo over & pet a cute dog I spied

yesterday on the street on a walk to Chelsea Piers, and 

realized that it was Lou Reed on the other end of the leash.

Good one.

Drew and I won first place playing music trivia at Pianos tonite.

It feels sensational, I confess. 

And its a good thing "Double Fantasy" is my favorite John Lennon title.

That's all I have to say.

Dead Starlets and Funny Food.

"I'd get the skirt steak bathed in suffocated peaches, but I'm put off by the aspirin sauce." - David Sedaris, Me Talk Pretty One Day

I love oysters. I guess they make you sexy, or so I've heard. Point is, fresh bluepoints are perfect, and I feel pretty fancy when I eat them. I like the saltiness, I like the texture, however brief and slippery, and I don't even mind the minute bit of sand that you are sure to ingest (kind of like eating the beach). They are also in the dangerfood category and I like that, too.
I usually only eat them when I am drinking champagne and I think they are fucking delicious.

I read a review of a new restaurant the other day in Time Out New York,and it read, rather poetically I might add, "the oysters fill out their shells the way Jane Mansfield filled out a bustier."
Jane Mansfield was retardedly beautiful.
And by that I mean that she was stunning. Men probably made fools out of themselves in front of her on a regular basis. Unfortunately, all I can think of when I hear the name Jane Mansfield is that she was decapitated in a car accident. Decapitated!
And then oysters are the last thing on my mind. I can only think now about how there is an 8-second delay when the head is severed from the body. You can STILL SEE AND HEAR (and look at your own body, horrifyingly) for EIGHT seconds after your head's been sliced off.

Anyways, after reading this somewhat hilarious description of the edible oceanic pearls, I thought once again about the absurdity and seriousness to which some NewYorkers view dining. Last summer, I read about a restaurant with an asinine price point in Chelsea, where patrons went to the pier and CAUGHT THEIR OWN FISH and had the restaurant prepare it for them. This is in the Hudson, mind you, where the blue plate special is hypodermic needle soup! Every day o' the week!
While I tried to keep up with the auctioneerish verbal pace that my waiter adopted to zoom through the specials while eating out this weekend, I laughed to myself thinking of MY mock NY restaurant menu. This would include nothing simpler than my recipe for Filet mignon marinated in Childrens Tears, most likely served on a mattress of Maytag-washed spinach and assasinated beets (pureed, duh). Naturally, this would be polished off with a light dusting of crushed Adderrall. Something like that.

In closing, adventurousness in the kitchen IS fun but you gotta take it with a grain of salt, so to speak. And to quote Sedaris on the topic once more... "What I really want is a cigarette, and I'm always searching the menu in the hopes that some courageous young chef has recognized tobacco as a vegetable."

Lights Out

Thoughts on a Friday.
Whipping out the crayons to write down my thoughts.
These'll be random.

* I dont' know why, but I always think of edible underwear as being made of strawberry Fruit Roll-ups. I have never actually SEEN a pair of them, in the....flesh, but I always imagine them like that.
* "Naima" by Coltrane is almost exactly the same as the first song in opening scene of Taxi Driver. Coincidence? Orchestral plagarism?

* This week Rufus Wainwright (and friends, including Joan Wasser and Beth Orton) wowed Drew and I at one of the best venues I have ever been in- the Angel Orensanz Foundation, which is a gothic, ornate, dark old church on the LowerEastSide.
He wore an ascot.
There were literally about a thousand tealight candles and it was ethereal and beautiful.
We both laughed at our VIP passes and wondered if churches have a "backstage" or thats sacrilege to even think about.
He played "In a Graveyard" which is one of my favorite songs ever ( I directly associate it with the image posted here).
I love cemetaries.
It was for a good cause, the BlackoutSabbath,
an energy conservation initiative conjured by Rufus himself that proposes a 12-hour blackout on June 21. He made the point that during the last blackout there were probably more people making love in the city than any other day, and thinking about that...is nice.

Pyrite Ring. Want. Want.

This massive glittering insect belongs on my finger.

(stephen dweck jewelry)

Back to the Future

This is a little annex to the Saturday post.

I like to think about how things are Jetsons-y (previously: tv dinners. videochat). But its even more fun to think about them as such, when they are like, really old. For example, I have to add to this list: bank tubes. Actually, I don't even know the name for them. I just find it amazing that drive-thru windows at banks still have them. I remember (before ATM cards omg!) my mom going to cash checks that way on Fridays. And that I would always sit up straight in the front seat so the bank tellers would definitely see me and give me a dum-dum lollipop, which they'd send in that airtight tube that traveled through the mysterious tunnel underground between bank and automobile. This tube is remniscent of the scene where Augustus Gloop meets his demise after drinkin' from the chocolate river in WillyWonka (the old one!).

Anyways, its sort of interesting to think about how convenient and sort of futuristic that seems, even still. Its probably becuase I grew up hearing that in the mysterious year 2000 (which, held the promise of absolute magic when I was kid), we would all have our own robots, and cars would fly.
haha!

Transylvania U.

I don't know why I keep hearing that the backlash towards Vampire Weekend is that they seem too intellectually snobby. ha. I can't believe how many people I've heard say that lately, both overheard and in direct conversations I've had about music. 

It sounds like a rumor that was started by the band themselves or something.

I think we are supposed to think that though, like its part of some academic image/schtick. 

It seems like a strange and suprising choice of resentment/counteraction on the part of the hipster, no? In all the things one could possibly cite as a criticism.Especially coming from elitist music fans who pride themselves on their like-minded encyclopedic knowledge of music and art, etc. (too witty for the aficionado? c'mon.)

Because, well, the Vampire album really IS a lot fun but...they don't actually seem that smart.

"You know the ethics those guys have...

...it's like a notch below child molester!"

I overheard the funniest conversation yesterday on the 6 o'clock subway home. Two men were talking about the whole Spitzer-prostitute scandal (the whole city is, all the time, it seems).

Their thick accents told me there were definitely from somewhere exotic. 

Like, Illinios.

Carryin' on.... I had to bite my lip not to laugh at the following exchange.

Let's call them -  ManA and ManB.

(oooh, i'm feelin creative)

ManA was flippin' through the NYPost, featuring the country's current most famous escort on the cover, and remarks, 

"That girls gonna make some serious bank sellin her story!" 

ManB: "Yeah! Fer bein' a whore. I sorta feel sorry fer dem' girls sometimes. They start out strippin', reeeeeal young, and next thing they know, they're turnin' tricks like dat." 

ManA: "Don't feel sorry for dem! If it weren't for guys like you n' me, dem' girls wouldn't even HAVE A JOB!"

To this, his friend paused, considered the statement, shrugged his shoulders and replied, "True."

Random Thoughts on a Saturday

I saw a vanilla, square-style limousine today in Soho. So 80's. So...."Coming to America"!

I want one of my own to roll around in. It would be hilarious to drive! Add to list of adult purchases I plan to make mine, including:

*chandelier (preferrably black glass)

*photo booth (black&white)

*baby grand piano (black)(Bosendorfer)

*jukebox

*deep, sink right in, old fashioned bathtub

*(and this is the best one)...full service in-my-house library (a study, one might call it. especially if you like to play CLUE. ha.)...with a bookcase that has a secret book which you can push, that opens a trap-door style wall to open up, leading into...a secret room. Somehow I envision teacups as part of this scenario (teacups and leather bound chairs help a library, right?), but I'm not sure how yet. Its very "Candleshoe" which I loved (starring Jodie Foster) when I was a kid. And "the Apple Dumpling Gang." I digress...Oh, what else...

Video chat on my MacBook is verrry "Jetsons". But then again, so are TV dinners, when you think about it.

Pimms cup is my new favorite cocktail. With cucumber slices floatin' on top.

Quote of the day: "All you need to make a movie is a girl and a gun." (Godard)

Fact of the day: A Hummingbird's heart beats 1,400 beats per minute. Whiz Bang!

More later.

Stephen King Would be Proud

Today is busy so I don't have a lot of time to write, but a funny thing DID happen last night. After bringin' my (sniffly) friend Kat some hot soup & a B-vitamin Monster smoothie and sitting in her garm farm of an apt wishing I had a SARS mask on, I came home to make a late dinner.

I was cleanin up my apt., and threw away some old magazines that were laying around, including the Britney Spears "An American Tragedy" issue of Rolling Stone. Ridiculous. Anyways...

I prepared some pasta.

I cooked the corresponding red sauce.

It was late and I was ravenous.

After eating, I threw away the excess sauce (I know, I'm wasteful. Go ahead, hate me.) and no sooner than it started to drip into the garbage can, I realized that my freshman year art teacher was right.

Art really is found everywhere!

Is this Thing On?

This morning on the subway (R train, y'all) a homeless person in my rearview announced that he was going to sing everyone a little ditty. He then proclaimed he was going to serenede one very special lady in particular.
At the time, I was reading ("The Worst Case Scenarios Survival Handbook", actually) and when I looked up, there was half a sardine-packed AM train full of people staring at me (the other half were doing what NY'ers have a black belt in, which is avoiding eye contact and pretending not to notice) while this gentleman, less than a foot from my face, belted out:

She was only sixteen, only sixteen!!

I loved her so

But she was too young to fall in love...*

And I was too young to know!!!

(**bum and I make direct eye contact)

This is where I start rifling through my wallet and instead of spare change, I fish for twenties nervously while pretending to not be mortified and smile without showing any teeth. ha, oh well. Sam Cooke in the morning is the sweetness. Sam Cooke for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is the sweetness, actually. It makes me want to sit on a porch and drink Country Time and watch the sun evaporate.

Anyways, I wanted to start a new blog, something a little more free-form (aside from mymymyspace one)(t-t-t-today, Jr!). I came up with a few titles this morning and finally decided on this, thatmakesoneofus. Why? Becuase I say that all the time, and I'm an island. ha. Others in the running were:

talkotaco (which, I may still do, but it would be a food appreciation only blog) OR

carlysimonsmouth (this was also a potential band name I came up with at one time. Drew claims they have reformed as Rocky Dennis' Forehead now, in my absence) OR, or....eh, who cares. I can't remember the third one....my mind has already wandered to my list of future dog names (Sherlock Bones, Root Beer....) and my first born daughters name (Violet).

So, to make a long story long, this is my new lil forum. I'm filling the jacuzzi with Dom - come on in and join me.

Swimmingly,

Yours,

E