A Mutilation in Chinatown

For those of you who aren't fortunate enough to live in the five borroughs of New York, or, rather, you have the good sense to live somewhere that's not teeming with rats and where your chances of standing next to a tuburcular hobo on a crowded subway car are relativly slim, please allow me to briefly explain the Manhattan subsect known as Chinatown:

Chinatown, located near the Southern end of the island, is a big wad of flashing neon-lights and cheap dumplings, laced with crummy stalls selling unbelievably shoddy trinkets and liberally sprinkled with sensory-overloaded tourists who move in packs and generally take it upon themselves to be in the way, always. It smells entirely and unrelentingly like fish. I also happen to love it, as does Em; it's weird and entertainingly chaotic, the food is really cheap and they occasionally have buckets of live frogs on the sidewalks for no discernable reason. How could you not love a place like that? So we go there a lot, for the good eats and the atmosphere and because, really, who doesn't enjoy being shouted at by pushy t-shirt vendors as your nostrils are invaded by clouds of trout stink?

Friday night, we continued this tradition. Both of us out of work late, grumpy and not feeling up to actually cooking, we decided that, since our train's going through there anyway, it wouldn't kill us to stop in Chinatown and fill ourselves to the brim with hot exotic deliciousness.

We took a back table at Wong's (our usual place) and drank tea and ate heaping piles of noodles and egg rolls and General Tso's chicken, relishing in the cultural back-slapping that white people get off of eating in an ethnic restaurant and being the only non-ethnic people present; we eat where those in the know eat, we think, and we're damned chuffed about it. We were happy and full and completely unaware that tragedy was about to strike.

I went to the bathroom, the seconds ticking down as the Sword of Damocles swayed perilously above my unsuspecting head. I did my business, I washed my hands then, as I turned to exit, I was struck by something amiss. The doorknob, very present and functional on the restaurant-side of the bathroom was, in the interior, completely gone; only a metal-ringed hole remained, it's opening yawning into blackness like a waiting alligator waiting to clamp down. Nervously, with sweat trickling and eyes twitching, I stuck my right index finger in the hole, gingerly, as one would push the button that launched the nation's supply of nuclear bombs. Nothing happened. My finger lay waiting in the dark, ready to pull; eager in it's duty. With a regretable cavalierness, I yanked on the door and it swung open, in the process taking a chunk of my fingertip with it and, most worrisome, slicing deep into the flesh right below the second knuckle of my pointer.

Gouts of blood immediatly came out and said, "Hi!" The pain was an open-palmed, hysterical slap that buckled my knees and made my vision swim. I spattered the bathroom with arterial droplets, desperately trying to stop the bleeding before unconciousness swarmed over me. A wad of toilet paper clamped around my savaged digit, I hurled myself back through the restaurant, grabing roughly 9,000 napkins from the dispenser at our table and collecting my girlfriend in the process.

It was bad. Bleeding and messy from the cut, raw and angry red from the ripped portion. We kept it wrapped in napkins and we boarded the subway toward home. As I sat on the hard plastic bench, the shock wearing off and the pain reaching it's boiling point, an older man stepped into the train and began to play a lively, backing-tape-accompanied version of "Puttin' on the Ritz" on his trumpet. It was all too surreal and my brain shut down, refusing to process any more information, just in case a troupe of midgets decided to enter and put on a spirited production of "The Madwoman of Chiallot."

Eventually, we got me bandaged up and doused with anti-infectious liquids; Em should be a doctor on the battlefields of the world, so adept is she at kitchen-table surgery and putting up with panicky soldiers (that would be me).

I'm going to live, I suppose, but, like the fisherman who's nearly eaten by a shark or an astronaut who's nearly eaten by a space shark, I have a new found respect for my sea, my space... my Chinatown. You dangerous beauty, you violent flower. I'll be back, baby... I WILL BE BACK!!!!

Red Teeth vs. Metal Man: Goin' to the Showdown!!!

Champagne, Potato Chips, Penicillan and Silly Putty... all things created by accident, yet all are vital to the landscape of our lives. Penicillan in particular, should you be the sort that hangs around bus stations after midnight. Now, the time has come to introduce the newest member of the Happy Accident List (patent pending)...

Borne from the titles of two unrelated blog entries, crafted in the mind of a very handsome madman, and typed out in Times New Roman for all of humanity to bear witness... I give you, breathlessly and with a tear tracing my cheeck...

!!!RED TEETH Vs. METAL MAN!!!

Much like Spy Vs. Spy, Freddy Vs. Jason and Me Vs. Not Drinking, this will go down as one of the greatest battles of all time, thrilling all, scaring some, and confusing those who don't get references to 80's music and unhealthy snack foods.

So with out further fuss, part one of an on-going series...

RED TEETH Vs. METAL MAN: Goin' to the Showdown!!!

Red Teeth stomped about the deck of his horrifying and dusty pirate ship, stroking the ragged hank of hair that burst forth from his chin like so much straw from a scarecrow's guts. He clicked his nauseating red teeth (fangs, really) together in a tuneless cadence as he slowly scanned the horizon for land. Clutched in his right hand, a sword made of human bone, dripping with jewels and hand-painted with adorable frogs kissing on a lily pad, a design he tolerated because the sword was bought at a considerable discount. In his left hand, not really clutched so much as lightly grasped, a bag of Combos (Pizzerria Pretzel flavor) laid open, it's contents naked and ready for easy snacking to all of the world. But the world wouldn't dare try to take the fearsome Red Teeth's Combos... they would pull back a stump, surely, then they'd be slapped a few times with their own severed hand, and finally offered a Combo to console them.
The Combo's did little to soothe the savagery and hate that raged hot and smelly inside of Red Teeth's distended, tattooed belly. Nor did the cassette tape of whale songs that he had bought for the journey. In fact, the whale songs had only served to attract whales, which even now thundered against the bottom of the pirate ship, shaking it's frame and making Red Teeth wish he'd gotten that Annie Lennox greatest hits tape that he'd been eyeing instead.
But that was of little consequense right now. All that occupied Red Teeth's mind was the battle that would soon be at hand. His greatest nemises waited for him on a three-mile slip of island just about where the sun was setting... right off the Eastern coast of this country known as the United States. He rolled the island's name around in his mouth, savoring it with the salty bite of the final Combo. As he tossed the wrapper into the sea, he spoke the island's name aloud...

"Manhattan."

The island would come. And with it... Metal Man.


Coming soon... Part 2!!!!

Metal Man

I'm pretty sure I'd be an awesome metal singer.

I'm not saying that I'd be world-famous or anything; I don't think that I could distill the essence of metal into a tidy enough package that it would be accepted by the mainstream music listener. Also, I don't really like metal all that much... it's loud and it's fans tend to be, well, douchebags... so I probably wouldn't put my whole self into promoting any records I made and I'd flat-out refuse to meet n' greet with the fans. I have no tolorance for neck-tattooed sweaty guys who smell like 35 years of living in basements, bongwater spills and failure.

But, be that as it may, I think I would be an awesome metal singer. Why, specifically?

-I'm a big guy, stocky and, okay, "fat" wouldn't be too far afield, so when you dressed me up in the prerequisite chainmail and leather-gauntlets drag, I'd look dead-on like every single metal singer out there, with the possible exception of Danzig, because he's hunky, and I really don't even know if he's techincally a metal singer anyway.

-I can totally do all the screechy high parts and I can do the deep, rumble-o'-doom growl and I can go back and forth between the two like it ain't no thang. Blessed, me.

-You have to be on pretty good terms with Satan to truly be a metal god and, I'm not saying I know the guy personally or anything, but when I run into him late-night at a diner, he gives me the cool-guy head nod and I shoot him the "finger gun" and say something like, "There's a handsome devil..." and we share a knowing laugh. And once, he spotted me 1.50$ so I could add chicken to my Penne a la Vodka. Satan may not be my motor, exactly, but he's at least my carburator.

-I have my own eye-make up (for very manly reasons, okay) and I could probably get a black van for us to go on tour with, as long as we promise to gas it up and clean out the Doritos bags before we return it.

-Most importantly though, I quite simply rock so hard that anywhere I lay my hat, musically speaking, is my home. And I've decided metal is the home I want to rent-to-own.

I do wish I didn't think metal was kinda lame, though. Going to make all of this soooo much harder. Oh well... um, are you guys ready to rock?

Red Teeth

This isn't what you'd call an essential matter, especially in light of recent events in my life and, honestly, I wouldn't even bring it up except for that it's really bugging me. My question:

Remember those little red tablets you got in elementry school that, when eaten, made all the plaque on your teeth turn bright red? You were supposed to use them to aide your brushing habits, but I'm pretty sure I only used them to aide in my dressing up like a scary vampire. Anyway, those things... what were they called and where can I get some today, for my own nefarious purposes (dressing up like a scary vampire)?

Anyone who can help me with this will get a small order of fries from the fast food establisment of their choice. I'm that generous, yes.

Superpowers Would Be Nice

I'm not sure how Superheros do it.

If I were in possesion of, say, the ability to pick up a car and fling it three city blocks or shoot lazer beams out of my fingertips that slice through concrete like a hot knife through margarine, I'm fairly certain that on days like today, Metropolis would get the living shit kicked out of it. Surely Superheros have bad days... I mean, they're fictional I know, but if you were to look at their lives as real spans of time, you'd think that they'd at least occassionally be confronted by non-villian-related events that would made them want to take big chunks out of the landscape. You can't always rely on strong moral fiber to hold a person back, you know.

Anyway, it's been a totally crap day. There's a major decision I have to make and it's the currently proving to be the emotional equivelent of that scene in The Hitcher when Jennifer Jason Leigh get's tied between the two 18-wheelers and they start driving in opposite directions. Okay, maybe that's not the best analogy because that didn't really end up to well for her and, no matter what I decide on my matter, I'll still be keeping my insides off the pavement.

So yeah. Blah. Wishing badly for the power of flight and it'd be nice to throw around some fireballs, too.

Megalomania At It's Finest

If you consider yourself to be a "film person" and you haven't seen Elia Kazan's "A Face in the Crowd," please start slapping yourself in the face and don't stop until I can get to your home or place of business and take over.

For those of you who haven't seen it (and if you're in that group, you should be slapping yourself right about now; remember, NO STOPPING), it's about a boozing, whoring hobo who, while spending a night in jail for being drunk and disorderly, gets put on a local radio station as part of a "voices of the community" type program. His "aw shucks" demeanor, his boisterous personality, and his southern-fried wit make him an instant celebrity and, as he begins a rise to a Will Rogers-ish level of fame and power, he slowly descends into madness, with all the delusions of grandeur and backstabbing paranioa that implies.

This movie is a brilliant commentary on the nature of fame and how it can be used as a weapon in the hands of a madman, which is all well and good, but the real reason to watch the movie is this... the drunken, whoring hobo who goes insane is played by ANDY GRIFFITH!!!

I know!!! Before he was Matlock, before he was Sherrif Andy Taylor, before he embodied everything good and wholesome in America, he played a real life, ravingly maniacal bad guy and his is fucking brilliant. How he didn't earn a bucket of awards and become the biggest star ever from this movie is proof positive that life is harsh and unfair to those who deserve it's sweet, sweet prosperity.

Oh, also in it are Patricia Neal, who's hot and awesome, and a young Walter Matthau who, as the movie's wise-ass moral center, gives some of his best early work.

So, "film people," go rent this movie, watch it and then, only then, can you stop slapping yourself.

Welcome to the Newest Magic

To all...

So this is the new place. Nice, no? All fancy and so blog-like.

Below this post, you'll find some of the content from my old blog that was hosted by Myspace. From here on, it'll be nothing but fantastic newness, spiced liberally with exciting enchantment and just a dash of exotic wonderfulls.

Hope to see you all back here on regular basis, where we can learn about life, have a few laughs and maybe, just maybe, fall in love all over again.

Kisses, hugs and moderately inappropriate touching...

-CLINTON

It's Hard Out There for a Me

I got rained on today as I walked to work and, as I became increasingly moist and uncomfortable, I began to contemplate just how difficult my life is. This is what I was able to come up with, before I made it to the Dunkin' Donuts and got me a cup of coffee; my soothing balm of Gilead.
1. When all is said and done, will I be remembered for anything more than my snappy dress sense, my always-pleasent breath and the fact that all of Nick Cave's ballads were written about my junior high school days?
2. It's week 22 of my transit workers strike and it's not going well. I blame the weather, though I have a sneaking suspicion that it might be the fact that I'm not in a transit union, nor do I have anything at all to do with the transit system. I am also not sure why I started this strike, anyway, and my feet hurt from all the picketing.
3. I got those diamond plated teeth like Paul Wall and now I have the most bling gingivitus in my neighborhood.
4. I love to sing-a, about the moon-a and the June-a and the Spring-a, which unfortunantly has proven to be the key evidence in the legal proceedings that are being brought against me. I'm being charged with manslaughter-a.
5. I saw a pale horse and it's rider's name was death, which is weird because he looked just like my 11th grade math teacher. Either way, he stole my wallet and the NYPD aren't really up to searching for death, or for my 11th grade math teacher for that matter. He's crafty.

Who Arted???

Went with Em to the Whitney Biennial today. For those of you who don't live in the greater Manhattan area and therefore aren't required to know about deeply pretentious things for fear that you'll have your mid-twenties taken away from you, forcing you to move to the outer-edges of Queens and open a small deli where you'll live as an old man or woman until you can wear a trucker hat and white belt with enough elan to be allowed back into the island of Manhattan... The Whitney Biennial is a showcase for artists that is considered to be the cutting edge of the current art scene; hip, funky-fresh, etc. I found it, personally, about as hip and funky-fresh as Mr. Big's hit single "To Be With You," which is to say, not terribly hip and funky-fresh at all. There seemed to be an overabundance of art aimed at... how's this for daring, in-your-face edginess... how the Bush presidency sucks and fuck that guy!!! Um... yeah, allow me to drop-kick a large wad of "No Doi!" into the atmosphere. Railing on the Bush administration these days is kind of like calling the retarded kid in gym class a retard when he can't catch a softball. It's fucking 2006 people, we all know Bush sucks and we all know he's not going anywhere. I'm from Texas, mind you, and I hate the guy not only because I think he's an ass politician, but also because he makes we Texans look bad, and even I'm saying enough's enough. Anyway, there was a lot of that kind of stuff and a bunch of video installations that gave me a headache, and some other things that were interesting but left my brain as soon as they left my eyeline. My friend Lisa, who has like 19 art degrees and once kicked Basquiat in the nuts, went with us and said everything was mostly bullshit, so I'm going to stand firmly behind the expert and say, yeah, that stuff was wack, yo.Or something. Anyway, it was a good day in the sense that we all got out of the house and got to feel superior to a bunch of artists, which always leaves me with a warm, drank-a-bottle-of-NyQuil glow.

Vampires With Jazz Hands

We started the evening, appropriately enough, with bloody marys. Ironic drinks always make things better, especially if they have vodka in them.
But really, how can you prepare yourself for a Broadway musical about singing, dancing vampires? Especially when said musical has anything to do with Elton John, a man who once performed a concert dressed up in a full Donald Duck costume. To get ourselves in the mood, we decided to go in full gothic drag; Emily wore a lacy black dress that was cut just high enough to ensure that my concentration on the actual show would be minimal and I gelled my hair all Robert Smith crazy and put on copius amounts of eyeliner and mascara. I still looked totally manly, just so you know. With my beard and my overall oafish demeanor, I was more Lumberjack Goth than anything else.
We were seated in the third level, front row, which means we could see everything perfectly but were canted at a weird angle, looking down on the action. Good seats overall, though some of the illusion is ruined when you can watch the orchestra's bassoon player pick his nose in between songs.
The show its self... surprisingly, it wasn't that bad. I know, I'm shocked even as the words leave my brain. It was really disjointed and hurried; you could tell they were covering, like, 19 books in two hours. And, of course, the fact that it's a musical about vampires is going to naturally lend it's self to some unintentional silliness; there was much talk about "the crimson kiss" and "your body is dying; just go with it." And they had this amazingly shoddy special effect (note: ONE special effect) where part of the stage would catch fire so the vampires could commit suicide. Or something. Anyway, it looked a lot like a spilled BBQ grill in front of a trapdoor and I was not blown away by the splendor of Broadway.
But, there was a lot of good stuff, so it wasn't a total waste. Firstly, the music didn't suck. At all. Most of it, whole songs even, were really good. Despite the fact that Elton John is a mentally ill woman, he can write a catchy tune. And the dude that played Lestat... it kills me to say this... was really fucking awesome. And hunky. Mmm... break me off a piece of that. There was also this girl in it... she played Kirsten Dunst's part from Interview With a Vampire... she tore the roof off the theater with her mad singing skillz.
All in all, it was about 75 percent good. Interestingly, it was probably the gayest show I've ever seen and this is coming from a guy who's seen a LOT of theater in his day. By the second act, they pretty much drop all vampire pretenses and it turns into the the story of one man turning another to a "wicked" lifestyle, he's uncomfortable with it, then they adopt a daughter and live as family together. I know that vampire stories have always had some homoerotic undertones to them, but this was so in-your-face it was like a gothic Brokeback.
Anyway, the biggest problem with it is that there's no real reason for anyone to see it. It's not campy enough to get a cult audiance; it's not flashy enough to draw the tourists in; it's not flat-out good enough to last much longer than a few dwindling months before they pack it all in.
But whatever. I had a good time and my girlfriend looked hot. I want to be a vampire, too, because they're oh so handsome.

I Will Someday Save Your Life

I don't mean to be too grandiose at 9:30 in the morning, but I'm pretty sure that I am blessed by divine providence and will one day play an important role in the shaping of our planet's future. Why do I feel this way? Is it just my over-inflated sense of self-importance coupled with the sugar high that comes from eating half a box of leftover Marshmallow Peeps on an empty stomach? Perhaps, but I'm choosing to ignore those facts for a moment. Instead I'm going to focus on the shocking, unimpeachable evidence that I am The Chosen One.

My Case:
This morning, I overslept by an hour, waking up at 8am and in a bit of a panic. I'm a lot of things, but "perpetually tardy" is not one of them. Once you factor in the toothbrushing time, the picking-out-of-the-snazzy-clothes time and the annual hunt for my keys, wallet, cellphone and other important miscellenia that I toss about my apartment like a deranged petal-chucking flower girl the minute I get home, I was only left with about 45 minutes to make the hour-long trip from my door to my cubicle. Clearly, I was fated to be sneaking in at 9:15, my eyes cast downward, my knees buckling under the weight of my own shame, my office-mates flinging poop at me and branding my flesh with a red hot letter "L." And yet, through the bending of time, by the grace of whatever particular deity you subscribe to, with a pocketful of miracles, I made it to my desk at exactly 9 O'CLOCK! Clearly something, be it fate, be it the tides of history, be it karmic retribution, wants me to keep this job so I'll have enough money to continue living in the manner in which I've grown accustomed, therefore keeping me happy and healthy so that, when the revolution happens or the world needs its self saved or the forces of darkness need to be beaten back into hell from whence they came, I'll be totally ready.
Doubt me if you will, mock me if you must, but I think the facts speak for themselves. When I cure cancer, stop a bullet meant for society's greatest thinker with my bare hands and go all Jackie Chan on a roomful of terrorists, you'll thank me. Oh yes, you'll be so grateful that you'll cry real tears.

Goddamn I love Marshmallow Peeps!

Goths are Dumb

Apparantly, "goth" kids are more likely to do themselves harm as opposed to good boys and girls who choose not to dress like a Hot Topic exploded all over them. This doesn't exactly strike me as a negative thing; keeping company with a group of goth kids makes one long for the intelligence, class and social graces found amongst those that hang out in bus stations after midnight. It is surprising, though, that it's the kids doing said harming to themselves and not the general citizenry taking matters into their own hands.
I can tell you from personal experiance that, whenever I see a slouching, bitterly acne-ridden teen who's smeared himself in the make-up from his sister's old Halloween costume so he looks like a rather liberal interpretation of The Crow, I feel the need to rain blows down on him so bad it's like I have to pee.
It's not so much the stupid clothes (though they're smart to dress in slimming black; a lucky break for about 80f all male goths) that I dislike, or even the craptacular music and the strict adherene to guidlines within their subculture that make the Brownshirts seem like your old dormmate who used the same towel for a whole sememster and always attended classes looking like a down-on-his luck boogie boarder. No, it's the attitude that really grates my cheese.
Now, I do recognize that some of the kids who get cuddlin' close to the goth culture come from shitty backgrounds, homewise, and for them a pallor of gloom and doom comes naturally. Those folks get some what of a free pass, but all the other ones... those who come form normal families and just choose to act like manic depressives for no other reason than they're "afflicted" with a suburban boredom so utterly manufactured it's sold at Specner's Gifts next to the fart machines and the black light posters... well, fuck them. I feel that if you're going to act like you hate everyone and everything and all is blackness and hate and a swirling eddy of dark dispair, you might as well do everyone the kindess of offing yourself because, Prince of Bloody Pain, we don't like standing behind you at the movie theater. You're irritating and pretentious and when you look back on these days you're going be struck down by a shame so powerful it will set your hair on fire anyway, so... you know... go ahead and get down with the sickness.

As it were.

More True Facts

You people that are reading this should know more about me. Why? Because I will someday be your husband! Or, if not, I will someday hit you up for 20$ and don't you want to know where your money is going?

Regardless, here are some more True Facts about me; a continuation of the previous entry that won me the Pulitzer and brought me fame and fortune like a rap star. Enjoy:

Fact: I lived in Los Angeles for a little while. It was memorable in much the same way being stabbed with a broadsword would stick in your mind. I spent most of my time there drunk and shacking up with a girl that was unquestionably unhealthy for me; she was much older and also crazy. When I broke up with her to move back to New York, she threw a bottle of wine at my head. I suppose warrenting an aerial attack upon my departure should be a bit flattering, but it really just kind of made me glad I was changing coasts with no forwarding address.

Fact: I really like buffalo wings and burritos. There's not really a joke here, or even an interesting story; just cold, hard facts. I suppose that, if we run into each other on the street and you want to buy me a meal to show your unending gratitude for my verbosity, now you'll know the types of places to take me that will most garner my favor. This is really a public service, because if you were to take me to, say, a place that only served turnips and large hunks of toffee (two of my least favorite foods), then I would have no choice but to tear into you like a Grizzly on a wild salmon and nobody wants that. Think of your family. Write this down if you need to.

Fact: I spent the majority of my late teens deeply immersed in the Theater Department of Arlington High School. I was so into theater it was a little scary, leading me even to question my sexuality; was I, in fact, a Drama Fag? Turns out, no, I was not... what can I say, I do so love the ladies. But still, it was an interesting debate topic, what with my spending as much time in tights and full makeup as I did.

Fact: I've been writing, off and on, for a horror magazine. Movie reviews and such. I'll probably post all of them on this very blog at some point, but doing so would require a whole hell of a lot more energy than I could possibly muster up right now. Okay, yeah, it's not like I have to do push-ups to get them posted on here. But actually sifting through the web to find the links and then copying them and then... well... no, that's just not going to happen today because it'd interfere with my "staring off into space" schedule.

Fact: I have a deep mistrust of organized religion; of religion it's self, really. I've always held fast to the believe that your life is what you make it and leaning on an unseen God is a bit of a cop out, or, at the very least, a groping in the darkness for a light switch that can be flipped, illuminating all the problems one has with the light of a big guy in the sky that can fix it all. I prefer to rub together the sticks of intelligence and good nature, creating the spark of confidince that will eventually grow into the bright burning flame of my own self-reliance. But that's me.

So there you go. Maybe more to come, but maybe not. Trying to keep you guessing.

Easter Candy Kicks My Ass

It's Easter.

I'm not what you would call particularly religious (for those of you keeping track at home, I've noted myself as not "into" politics, formal wear, vegetarianism and, now, religion) so the Easter holidays don't mean a whole lot to me, other than, of course, Cadbury Eggs. It being the Easter season and all means that I can buy Cadburys openly and without shame in any of my neighborhood's candy purveyors, as opposed to the rest of the year when I have to buy them off the black market like a Ukrainian dictator purchasing plutonium.

In truth, the whole Cadbury Egg thing is a much better concept in theory than it is in actual application. I can only eat about two of those things in a given holiday season. Yes, I crave them constantly and, yes, I think they are ridiculously delicious, but after eating one I tend to be left with the desire to never, ever, under any circumstances be in the presence of sugar for the rest of my days. Eating a Cadbury egg is like having the Easter Bunny beat you senseless with a log of medium-quality chocolate, after which he attempts to drown you in a bathtub full of mucousy nougat that looks like the innards of a real egg in much the same way the Choco Taco resembles Mexican food.

Or at the very least, it feels like every single one of your pores has been filled in with caulk and your eyes aren't going to stop vibrating because a gallon and a half of sucrose has just entered your bloodstream.However, given the choice between a confectionary mugging and having to sit through a Easter Sunday church service, with all the droning on resurrections and tie-wearing that that implies... well, punch me in the mouth with all the sweetness you can muster.

Cadbury, make me your bitch.

I Can't Believe It's Not Beatles!

Emily and I went to see a Beatles tribute band today at the B.B. King blues club in Manhattan.

Um... yeah, aren't tribute bands supposed to kind of suck?, At their best they're supposed to be middling imitations of the original that only serve to remind you of how much better the real band was. At their very worst, at least in the Beatles' case, they just call themselves Oasis and act like complete assholes for a decade. Apparently, these tenents are not as steadfast as I would've liked to believe. These guys, Strawberry Fields by name, fucking rocked. HARD. Harder than most of the ironicly-mustached, shaggy-bedheaded, vintage-t-shirt-wearing, Brooklyn-spawned bands whose members can barely shake off their Special K addictions long enough to grind out a power chord that could get the audiances gaze off of their shoes and their hands in the air. And, to kick a hipster when he's down, these guys were my father's age! Middle age men in mop-top wigs are showing up the "scene" in midtown and I couldn't be more pleased with myself for having witnessed it. Now, yes, there were the Beatles cover-band prerequistes... they wore the assorted, era-specific costumes and they attempted the Liverpool accent with varying degrees of success and, okay, it was just a tad cheesy. Also, the band members didn't... eh... exactly look like their respective Beatle counterparts; hell, the drummer looked more like Keith Richards than Ringo. But none of that matters; it's the candy roses on a declicious cake that can and should be easily overlooked. They sounded like The Beatles. And I mean, exactly like them. The guy playing the Paul part was, WAS, Paul. Freakily so. A one-legged model and a smug satisfaction about veganism were the only missing pieces. They tore through a two-hour set of the big hits and, shockingly, a few of the slightly more obscure tunes that other bands attempting the same feats of mimicry wouldn't go near. Find me another Beatles tribute act that does "I am the Walrus" and "I'll Get You." I can almost guarantee you your failure, but that's okay. I still appreciate you trying. Anyway, I can't remember the last time I was at a concert that had real, non-drug-induced joy fairly sloshing about up to our ears. From the boomers who are required at these sort of things, to the trying-to-act-bored-but-failing teens, to the little kids who danced and wiggled with unrestrained glee... everyone was having a good time. The whole event was proof positive that The Beatles will never go out of style, will never fade from the muscial conciousness, will never be less than the most influential band out there in the pop culture ephemera. With bands like Strawberry Fields keeping the torch of The Beatles legacy alight with the high-octane gasoline of their raw, raucous talent, that is a certainty carved in stone and laid in concrete.

So there you go. I'm going to be snotty about something next entry, I promise.

UPDATE: Fancypants

Just got back from my tuxedo fitting where I was informed that I will not, NOT, be wearing a bow tie. They've opted for the "long tie" look, which is fine aesthetically, I guess, but it's really hurting my James Bond fantasy and that's not cool. You hear me, Joel!!!! How am I going to fight off Dr. No and OddJob in a long tied tuxedo??? It's like The Lone Ranger without his black mask or Batman without the homoerotic subtext.

I'm so going to be in a funk about this for the rest of the day. Also, I should probably cancel my Aston-Martin rental.

(Heavy sigh)

Fancypants

Getting fitted for my tuxedo today.

Backstory: Joel, one of my best friends, is getting married in about a month and he asked me to be his Best Man. I've pretty much gone through my adult life assuming that I am the best of all the men out there, but it's nice to finally have the title made official. At any rate, because they're having a traditional wedding (in the sense that we're not doing it underwater or naked or online or whatever permutation society has come up with to further bismirch holy matrimony's already blemished name) I have to appear be-tuxed at the altar. Thus, today I head to Men's Wearhouse to be measured, pinned and probably discreetly fondled. I'm guessing.

Thoughts On Wearing a Tux: It's okay, I guess. I'm not exactly what you'd call a "formal" guy. On a scale of one to ten, with "one" representing a deranged homeless man who's made a wardrobe out of medical waste, silly straws and a large chunk of foam rubber and "ten" representing Ryan Seacrest, I'd probably be about a four. I dress well enough to be allowed into Barnes and Noble, but not well enough that the security doesn't follow me around once I'm in there. So, the idea of donning what is essentially the most formal thing a man who's not royalty or the pope can wear is a bit unusual to me. You're talking to the guy who didn't wear a tie to his grandfather's funeral and who has every intention of attending his own wedding in flip-flops. But I suppose it will be fun; a break from my usual reality of shabbiness and moderately lax grooming habits. I will, and this is a direct promise, be pretending that I am James Bond EVERY SECOND that I'm wearing my tux.

Oh sure, I'll smile when they recite their vows and, of course, I'll wipe a tear away when he gives her their first kiss as a married couple. But in my mind, I will be kicking the living shit out of Goldfinger. And really, isn't that what weddings are all about?
Also, I look fucking awesome in a bow tie. I have the neck for it.

Girlfriend is Better

My girlfriend got me a 6-pack of tickets (that's 12 tickets to 6 games) to see the Mets play this season. Why? Because, in her words, "I love you and I knew it'd make you happy." HA! Suck on it, those that have no one who loves them!!!Wow. Sorry, that was perhaps a little south of the "too harsh" line. I'm just feeling a lot of emotions right now... scary emotions that I'm not equipped to name because they make me feel like a big mushy man-shaped pile of cuddles and pet names and, well... they may come and take my penis away if I get overly-flowery with my gushing. Not helping the matters of my emotional state, we just watched the movie Grave of the Fireflies, which is an Anime film. Now, as a general rule, I tend to avoid anime because I have a healthy sexuality that finds no room for tentacle rape and boobs that are so frighteningly large and ponderous they give me vertigo. But, like with all things, there are exceptions... some times it snows in April, occasionally a National Leauge team will win the World Series and, every now and again, the Japanese will put out an animated film that won't make you weep for your lost innocence. Grave of the Fireflies, along with most of the output from Ghibli Studios, is one of those happy few. Okay, "happy" isn't really the right word. It's about World War 2, told from an innocent Japanese bystander point of view, and is kind of like watching your mother get beaten with sticks in front of you while everything you own is set ablaze by your high school sweetheart as she fucks your best friend on top of your dead childhood pet. Only more downbeat. So with the baseball tickets and the movie that even Sylvia Plath finds way too heavy, I'm just a big ball of wet, gross emotions and writing about them on Myspace pretty much makes me a 13-year-old girl. So that's where my head's at tonight. Happy day, though. And I love that girl.

True Facts

First things first, I'd like extend heaping handfuls of praise to a young swain who goes by the name of Braden. Yesterday, he bravely and selflessly saved a young child from a burning building, taught a blind man to dance, started a fashion craze with his unique way of wearing a belt, cured acne with his homemade unguents and gave this site a gratuitious and appreciated plug on his own far superior, far better-smelling, far less-hung-up-on-John-Mayer-bashing website. If you haven't read it already, you really should go to it at your earliest convienance and drink deeply of its funny:

www.lazercanyon.com

If you don't, well, then you're a communist. I'm sorry, but I don't make the rules.
Now... I'm hoping that with the plug will come an influx of new and exciting readers; smart people that dress all cool and can get me into parties where I might meet some really famous or at least attractive people. Should that be the case, I'd like for those with fresh eyes for my words and limited knowledge of my person to get to know the real "me" of myself. I don't want to be just a collection of snarky comments floating in cyberspace. No, no... I want to be your friend. Your friend that you take to fabulous parties.
So, to that end, I have whipped up a fact sheet for you; some triva and minutia about myself to aide you in this courtship; to direct your ship of mutual interest down the channel of intimacy and into the safe harbor of everlasting comraderie. Or something. I've had a lot of coffee this morning.
Anyway...

FACTS OF ME:

Fact: Originally from Texas, I now reside in New York City. What can I say, there was a burning desire in my heart to be in place where, no matter what time of day it is, in rain or shine, during heatwaves and cold snaps, I can get a hot dog from a cart on the street, served by a man who comes from a country where "sanitary food handling" more or less means "not directly shitting on your food." Also, I like the theater and New York certaintly has a lot of it that I can't afford.

Fact: I have a love for ridiculously unhealthy food, strong drink, and a girl named Emily, though not in that order. I'm taking measures to cut back on the first and second of that list because the third one there is becoming increasingly more important to me. Also, I've realized that dying at 40 from a coronary thrombosis probably isn't as fun as it sounds.

Fact: Movie junkie? Yes, sir and/or ma'am! I went to film school and learned all kinds of fancy things about movies... I can wax eloquent on the craft of directing, the art of cinematography and the inherent skill that makes editing so important the process of creating a cinematic masterpiece. One of my favorite movies is Die Hard.

Fact: I have been called, on occasion, a music snob. This gets said a lot when I mention that I have done time behind the counter of the occasional record store, though I like to think that I'm fairly tolorent of other people's tastes as long as they are fully aware that mine is much, much more sophisticated and that they enjoy listening to the sonic equivilent of anal leakage. Oh but I kid. I bet that you... you who are reading this right now... have impeccible taste. We should trade mix CDs with handwritten liner notes. I'll call you.

Fact: I love baseball, though that wasn't always the case. I used to find it dull and only slightly preferable to a long, slow death by strangulation. Then my father's genes kicked in and I, almost overnight, began to look at the game with a child-like wonder and an insatiable thirst for it's many varied intricasies. This happend, coincidentally, right around the time I discovered beer.
Well, I do believe that's enough for now. Getting a bit long-winded and, frankly, I was bored by the sound of my own voice paragraphs ago. More facts will come, surely, and other stuff too. Some of it might, MIGHT, be interesting. I make no promises, though.
And remember... I love you.