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Go to May's blogGo to April's blogRead blog entries from March 07















June 29, 2007

Whatever is bothering you, it is as bad as you think it is.

June 24, 2007

It was another one of those full throttle weekends. Go go go.

Friday night. Is it possible for a guy to be gay and not know it? I got hit on by a chap who I'm sure was gay on Friday night. Now I don't think that I am such a great example of the feminine spirit that homosexual men would give up their true instincts just to get a shot at me, but this guy screamed gay. Of course, a few years back, I did once hook up with a friend who I know was gay (he was very out, we were both very polluted). Maybe I am that good.

Anyway, this guy insisted on buying me a drink -- even though I hadn't even finished what I was drinking. He grabbed my arm and called me "sweetie" and "honey." He was overly demonstrative. He was, if not gay, terribly effeminate. And yet, he kept asking if I wanted to "hang out" which I took to mean sleep together, because when I countered that we were hanging out, right there in the bar, he then asked if we could hang out at my place.

Hahahaha! The guy invited me back to my own house. Stupid. Not to mention pathetic. By the way, my husband found all this amusing. I told the guy I was married, so then he asked if I actually had to go home that night, maybe I could just go to his place. Hahahaha! Poor kid. I barely know the power I have over men, apparently. After a few turn downs and some more reminders of my married status, he called a cab and left. I asked the bartender if he was a regular and she said yeah, and I said, "Hell, is he NOT gay?" And she laughed, and said, yes, he definitely seems gay but she didn't think he was quite aware of it yet.

Saturday was the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island. Holy cow, it was fuckin' packed! I think there is a fear in the hearts of my artsy brethren that this would be the final Mermaid Parade because of the planned real estate development changes to the area. Astroland and Deno's are goners. This news has made even those slightly aware of Coney Island melancholy. So they swarmed on the southern end of Brooklyn on Saturday.

Seriously, yesterday was one of the few times a in my life when I was in a crowd that made me worry about a stampede. And I have been in very large crowds. As I stood on Surf Ave. and faced a wall of people that would not move forward and spied oddly placed blue wooden police barriers, I thought, "Holy fuck! If someone fired a gun or yelled 'He's got a bomb,' at least a hundred will be crushed in the push."

So my party turned tail and left the actual parade site, and headed up to the beach. There we languished in the sun, relaxed and medicated -- drinking Mexican beer, whisky, and vodka. Good friends and a good locale. There is a total synergy that I feel with Coney Island. I have been going there my whole life. It is a part of Brooklyn that I have always known. Hell, when the Mets brought a single A farm team to Coney Island, my parents and sister were amongst the first to get in on season tickets to those Brooklyn Cyclones games.

As for me, I love the ocean. I love the amusement parks. I love the carney atmosphere. I love the people -- now a combination of hipster and back Brooklyn. The faces on the boardwalk scream an unusual pedigree. The sun. The Cyclone. The Wonder Wheel. The Parachute Jump. Such a pretty place. So disturbed, so freakish, and so comfortable all at once.

Somehow, it was after 8 when we left, and the gang trekked by subway back to Williamsburg (through Manhattan -- it pains me to say that getting from Coney to Billyburg is fastest by going through Manhattan). And then we went to a pub and finished out the night -- and some of us (not me) were still in costume, Mexican banditos and girls in shell bras and mermaid tails.

Then today, Sunday, our fascinations turned to the more genteel. Even though Superchunk -- only one of my favorite college-era bands -- was playing a free show in McCarren Pool, my husband and I had tickets to the theatre. We checked out Liev Schreiber in Eric Bogosians's Talk Radio at the Longacre.

It was great. I have always loved Talk Radio, and I have to say, having now finally seen Schreiber on stage, he earns very bit of praise he gets. Natural. Effortless. Unfortunately, Schreiber has been in a lot of crappy movies, but he, himself, is extremely good. Hailed as my generation's finest stage actor, I think I must agree.

He is in control on that stage. He is dynamic. This is a play that demands a lot from its lead. A whirlwind of emotions. A lot of dialogue. Even moments of drunkeness. Playing drunk, I think, is alway hard to do. Also, crying is hard. Oh yes, Schreiber had to cry in this play, too, and he nailed it. And let us not forget that he is awfully fine to look at.

Naomi Watts, mother of his child, I will let you keep him (especially because, much like the guy I met on Friday night, I think Liev might be gay and unaware of it. At least that's what I like to tell myself about my celebrity crushes. Liev Schreiber, and Christian Bale for that matter, isn't interested in me not because of who I am or the fact that we've never met. He hasn't sought out my love because he is gay... I know it isn't logical, but it helps me sleep at night. )

And the play, well Talk Radio was sublime. The set was great. The story is great. Tonight was the last night of the play and Eric Bogosian, the playwright himself, was there. As my husband and I stood on line to get into the show at the Will Call window, Bogosian was one foot away from me. He is shorter than he looks in the movies and on TV. Likewise, he doesn't nearly look as old as he is. He looks older on screen.

Anyway, the play. It's so moving to see this character -- this alcohol swilling, self-hating man -- at the climax of his career totally pushing away all the players who have made him who he is -- the station manager, the producer, the phone screener -- he crushes the souls of the people who brought him to this pinnacle. One by one, they leave him. They exit the stage. And it is so haunting at the end to see him try to push his audience away, to ridicule the listeners, to tear them down only to have him then realize there is no him without the audience. And all this action takes place over the course of one two-hour radio show. Brilliant.

So I say this to you people out there. Find a passion. Write a play. Paint a portrait. Start a band. Snap some photos. Create. Be true to you. Do what it takes. Get to it. You only live once, asshole, and yes, you will die. If you don't chase it now, there is no second chance.

June 22, 2007

I ran ten miles in 88 minutes today. That's a new personal best.

Oh and check out the Art Page -- I finally got around to putting up links to four of my more recent paintings (two have already appeared in the blog, so I figured I had better).

June 15, 2007

There is a school of thought that if you haven't anything nice to say, then don't say anything. I have said nothing for too long about the state of indie rock. Dear heavens, people, the overly synthed out crap that has you bloggers and hipsters creaming in your shorts is absolutely useless. It is shite. Shite! I am so frustrated.

Riddle me this, kiddies: What is the fascination with the synthy ‘80s sound? It went from splendid homages to the genre (the Go! Team’s debut and the Faint’s Wet from Birth album) to absolute overkill. Listen to what is out there right now, I mean really listen to it. The stuff that is getting huge exposure on the indie scene is such forgettable nonsense. It doesn’t even imitate the songs from the ‘80s that had some worth. It's more like a rehashing of Ebn-Ozn’s A E I O U. Over and over and over again.

Yacht? Crap! Architecture in Helsinki? Crap! Klaxons? Crap! Dan Deacon? Well, that’s the biggest, crappiest crap of them all!

Really, I mean, what is up with the fascination with Dan Deacon? Sure, his performances look funny, but this music he makes is terrible. It is not even b-rate (not to mention, it at times sounds like he's trying to rip off Weird Al’s synthy polka sound), and his schlocky vocals make Wesley Willis (who I was also not a fan of) seem like Caruso (the opera singer, not the redheaded actor from CSI: Miami – though, if you were to compare Deacon’s bad vocals to bad acting, that Caruso fits well).

I reject that I am too old to “get it.” I lived through it once already, and people, we, who endured it the first time around, are embarrassed by it. It is BAD music. I spoke with my friend, one of the poor souls who still works in the music industry, about this. I said flat out that I was worried about the state of indie rock and he agreed. He promised that good music is right around the corner. Then he teased me by sending a track by Justice to listen to. Oh geez, the horror! It is more synthy crap. And whoever the singer is has an Elmer Fudd speech impediment and says "mystewee" instead of "mystery."

My friend said to try and just regard it as “fun” music. Then he sent me a new track by Beirut, whom I adore. I can't put that song up, but you can watch Beirut's Elephant Gun video, instead. I want more new bands like Beirut – well, not exactly like Beirut. Could you imagine? A hundred more 11-piece Balkan-inspired orchestras headed up by a 21-yr-old musical genius? Geez.

I don’t want throwaway music. I want music that I will still listen to in five years. I guess I need to be patient. For every 1,000 crap machines I listen to, there might be one worth hanging onto.

June 10, 2007

Weekends. What can you really say about them? During the week, we work, we strive to stay alive, and we pack our weekends trying to forget all that. We aim for pleasure. We want to forget the office and pretend to be beyond that. Who out there doesn't want to sustain life without having to toil for the man? Sometimes we end up working too hard to make up for all those hours making money for someone else.

So was my weekend: A lot of activity. Friday night I hung out with friends and ended up seeing a bouncer and a drunk guy get into a tussle. It is strangely entertaining to watch a 5'3" drunk patron yell gay slurs only to get bitch-slapped by a 6'2" bouncer. And a bouncer who could bounce and smile about it, at that. After that, my friends went home and I went to a bar for one more drink.

Sure, one more drink. Here's to Zablozki's. Two pinball games, $5 pints, pool, darts, and just two blocks from my home. There a 22-year-old boy hit on me. Talk about sweet and satisfying! I'm too far away from 22 to even know what 22 yr olds think about, and too into my husband to care, but it was swell to get the attention.

Saturday brought good news. The painting I donated to the art show earlier this week actually sold. I was beside myself. I blew off the actual show and yet someone still bought the painting. I am charmed. I mean, someone bought my art. That rocks. I'm also sad. I miss the painting. I love my art work, and it tears me up to let them go.

Later that day, my husband and I trekked to Staten Island to attend a family party. We got lost quite a bit, driving around the most wooded of boroughs. But in the end, it was good. It was sentimental. A grounding.

Then, that night, we went to a birthday dinner for friends at Craftbar in Manhattan. Now Craft is a restaurant owned and run by Tom Calicchio, who is a celebrity chef and the head judge-type guy on Bravo's "Top Chef". We agreed to the dinner before checking out the restaurant's menu, and so, when we got back from Staten Isle, we looked online only to find that entrees at Craft start at $30. ZOIKS! Luckily, when we got to the dinner, we found that the reservation was actually at Craftbar, which is the cheaper version of Caraft (owner and management is the same). And though the place was REALLY REALLY LOUD and terribly adult, we had a good time. Friends are good. Sometimes you just have to admit that you're a grownup. Sometimes a faded, '80s rock concert t-shirt isn't appropriate clothing anymore. How did that happen?

Luckily, Sunday morning was totally appropriate for faded '80s rock t-shirts, so I pulled on a Springsteen shirt from an '80s tour of L.A. and off my husband I went to a brunch at a friends new apartment in Fort Greene (half a bl0ck from Fort Greene Park). Close friends, bagels, indie rock and screwdrivers made for a great late morning/early afternoon.

And before you knew it, I was home again blasting Afghan Whigs albums and painting. The new piece is called "Let Us Erect a Monument to Our Love" and it's of a water tower. I'm happy with it. It's about New York City. It's about friends and family. It's about staying young and in touch. It's about anything you need it to be about.

Don't stop living for your weekends.

June 5, 2007

Friends are getting married in Bethlehem PA in July. I just made reservations for the weekend in a hotel that is supposedly haunted. I am not enthused about this.

Guests and staff at the Hotel Bethlehem apparently have reported everything from full on apparitions, to odd shadows, figures in mirrors, and eerie noises. I scare easily, and I don't like to be scared. Even worse, I don't even believe in ghosts, but I am still frightened of them. Go figure.

I was the kid who cried at her first Halloween party and sat in the kitchen with the mother of the girl having the party while the others sat in the basement holding a "seance". I was the child who foolishly watched Psycho on TV on a Saturday afternoon, and then was terrified to go into my bedroom because there was a rocking chair right near the window in it, and my room was right in the front of the house (just like the chair and window where Norman's "mother" could be seen peering from in the movie) (I might add, though the movie petrified me, I also had a strange fascination with Norman Bates and his insanity). And even though, as a college student, I used the basement of my parents' house as a bedroom when I was home on breaks, I am very scared of being alone in basements. They creep me out.

I am uneasy about this upcoming trip.

Did I mention that my husband believes that he has encountered spirits. He spent time living in a very old house in Connecticut as a teen and nearby was a small burial plot. He saw things in the yard, he felt rapid temperature drops in the basement, there were odd lights. So here I am, holder of a two night reservation in a hotel that boasts of its ghouls and my bed partner will be this man who has experienced the things that I refuse to believe in (but am scared of -- I love the contradiction).

Wish me luck.







Crowd at the Mermaid Parade

Too Many Hipsters at Coney Island
(I'm the second redhead from the bottom)




Coney Island at Night

Coney, My Love, at Night, Through
a Subway Fence
(both Coney photos by Shea Stone)




Liev Schreiber

Holy Gorgeousness! It's Liev Schreiber! (And He Can Act, Too)




Eric Bogosian

Mr. Bogosian, Your Playwright.




















Music Lesson #1:

ZAch Condon of Beirut

Beirut, Good.

Music Lesson #2:
Dan Deacon

Dan Deacon, Bad. Very Bad.









Let's Erect a Monument To Our Love

One helluva weekend made one helluva new painting


















Hotel Bethlehem

Lookout ghosts that I don't believe in, I'm coming to visit!