Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Kickin' Dirt In Your Face part i.

I'm inching closer to that coveted title of "writer-employed." I've now covered two events for New York Magazine and I gotta admit, I had a lot of fun. Friday was my first foray and I found myself in Midtown for ESPN the Magazine's Draft Party.

I left the evening with a newfound respect for David Banner's politics and his ability to lose a ridiculous amount of weight in a short amount of time.


Mind you he wasn't shirtless at the event (nor did he have facial hair--the man shaved!) but I wanted to illustrate the "transformation." There was some serious broing out in regard to a mutual love and respect for greasy southern cuisine.

This short Jewish cat next to me kept asking me who every rapper and athlete was at the party which got a little old; but can you blame him? He was entertainment, or something, the sports guy just threw him the story that afternoon, apparently. So I gave the little bugger some slack.

Mike Jones also lost a great deal of weight which was shocking but somehow less interesting. The guy did hug me though, thus bequeathing me even more street credibility, if you can imagine that.

Other highlights: chatting about basketball with Sports History God the Schwab. He picked the Suns to win the championship this year...I guess no god is infallible. This wild-eyed black kid shouting "Hey Ashton! Ashton Kutcher!" at me for a good thirty minutes straight. Chatting up women at the event with the intent of trying to sex as many football players as possible. Watch out, dudes!

To close the night out I tried selling my V.I.P. pass to some asshole waiting in line outside in the rain but he and his friends just gave me a blank stare.

Another day, I suppose.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Oh, James, How Could I Have Forgotten You?

I stumbled upon this video earlier today of Clint Ruin a.k.a. Foetus a.k.a. J.G. Thirwell and I was ashamed at how long it's been since I've sat down and listened to some of the man's work. Fucking incredible musician who's been churning out the "hits" for nearly thirty years now--amazing.

To give you some more context, this is a video of Soft Cell covering the Suicide (the band, not the act) song "Ghostrider" with Thirwell, during his Clint Ruin years, hopping in to provide some spine tingling guest vocals. The man is a howler and I mean that as the ultimate compliment. Enjoy.

Addendum: Clint Ruin/Thirwell is one of a select few able to get away with wearing sunglasses at night or indoors. That boy is BAD! End mancrush.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Regurgitate your ingested "musings" elsewhere

I attended an opening last night for this guy and while I certainly wasn't repulsed, annoyed, or irked by his work, his fans, or art fans in general, I can't say the same.

Every comment I eavesdropped sounded like the same generic bullshit I've seen and heard swallowed and purged as individual cognition.

"Do these assholes even know what they're saying/think?" I'd find myself thinking to myself. That isn't meant to be an indictment of their grasp of the piece and its paling in comparison to my own, but in fact an actual question. So often I notice people espousing word strings being masqueraded as original thought when in fact it's something the speaker read or overheard.

Art and creative exhibitions as a circle jerk exercise (redundant?) are not for me. Oh, you with the ironic outfit, can you choose somewhere to have your discussion on the night's activities somewhere other than DIRECTLY in front of the piece I'm trying to look at? Thanks. Nice mustache, asshole.

The night wasn't all douchebags worthy of a fist flurry (to the face for boys and the agina for the girls) for their artistic pretensions. I also got to hang out in the company of CD Djs!!!

Let me preface/soften this section by saying that I'm sure there's some skill and a general degree of difficulty to overcome in the world of compact dics jockeying. However, that being said, shut the fuck up. Chances are you're a glorified button pusher and what you do isn't important, interesting, worthy of any acclaim you might reap. I'm all for having fun, playing/listening to music, dancing--but you're not a DJ.

I don't feel like harping on these subjects of societal dregs (fake-DJs, party photographers, underground socialites) any longer. Listen to Leviathan's last (and by last I mean most recent AND final) album and enjoy the hate. It's super fun playing air drums to "Sacred Scars."

Random note: I just found a gray hair--fuck life.

Thursday, April 3, 2008


I was just let in on another secret of the internet: Muxtape. Create, upload, and have your own mp3 mixtape, sorry, MUXTAPE hosted. You're only allotted 12 songs which kinda sucks, but that's nitpicking on my end. Great concept and I am sure it will be shut down soon once L33T H4X0RZ (I don't know if that's even funny anymore) find a way to download the hosted mp3s and Metallica or U2 end up on a muxtape.

Mine is pretty raging and total pissed off hardcore/punk/metal goofiness. You'll enjoy it if you've got these.

If not, make your own.

Keeping with the "theme"...

Mishka, you've done it again. But fix your Doombox, it's fucking terrible. Bring back fun stuff and leave the nu-rave for the other dudes.

Goodnight all, time to fall asleep to nicotine withdrawals

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Get your metal gear, it's headbanging time

I weaseled my way into a concert tonight after taking part in a few open call interviews for jobs I wouldn't want in high school, and the same goes nearly ten years later.

I actually completed an interview for a position within Dialogue Direct's "Street Team" (my wording, not theirs) to pester New Yorkers on the street in some feeble attempt to badger them into donating money to a good (assumption) cause: Children.


The other interviews were for restaurants, but what struck was that the female interviewer was likely pushing fifty and absolutely rocking a nose ring. The fuck? I'd go on, but I think I just jinxed myself out of the running for that job. Then again, if that's the case, I'll proceed.

Nose rings are pretty terrible for men and women of any age; isn't a person supposed to realize as they grow older that trends don't last because they lean toward the moronic to begin with?*

But that isn't where the day got interesting, come to think of it the day never DID get interesting, activities simply developed/appeared.

A quick rundown of the day's highlights and lowlights before I pass out and strip this entry of what little cohesion and direction it possessed already:

  • $2 margaritas? In New York? You bet! And if you show up at the right time, they'll let you make your own BEHIND THE BAR. Feel free to stiff yourself on the tip--you didn't earn it.
  • Tecmo Superbowl is back with a snowed-out (in appearance--remember when you tried watching scrambled porn? Add some controllers.) vengeance. If you're unfamiliar with this game, then fuck you. Bo Jackson is the truth and a beast.
  • Entirely too much pizza, how do the Italians do it? Give me a fucking burrito, I want to shove pizza up my ass. Why? I have no fucking idea, I'm just tired of eating it.
  • The favorite part of any day for me is really when I get to surprise my girlfriend by dropping in on her at home and sharing some cuddling, eskimo kisses, baby talk, and then trying to convince her to let me penetrate newfound orifices. SO CLOSE!
After alllll this** I proceeded to the rock show.

In retrospect I'm glad I didn't pay $16. I missed half of the show and of the halve I witnessed you could lop off another half to keep the just the tasty parts.

Red Chord-Boring, sloppy, and derivative. Who would strive for a trifecta of this nature? If you're going to be sloppy be interesting, the same can be said for derivative sounds.

Genghis Tron-I was trying to get laid.

Baroness-Look up. I heard I didn't miss anything.

Converge-Unless you're not a fan, then you know they were great. A little sloppy*** to start but it was to be expected seeing as this was the opening night of the tour. After the rust was shaken, the shred was on in full force and I even got to partake in some moderate headbanging--which I always enjoy. The kids were going bonkers and I swear some bird who crowd surfed her way to the front was gonna try to instigate onstage bukakke on herself had security not grabbed her. She had the rape eyes, for sure.

All in all a good night. Someone take me bowling this weekend and someone else do my taxes. Hooray!

*Fuck your highwaisted jeans/pants. You look dumb, frumpy, and ridiculous. Errr...oops.
***For the record, I LOVE sloppiness, overly precise music or vessels of expression as a whole (haha, I suck) seem inhuman to me without the occasional human error. Organic is good. I have a problem with it when the sloppiness detracts from the overall presentation.