Ricardo Montalban Es Loco

TEC

2007-03-15T22:21:00.000-04:00

Fuck Taco Bell

2007-02-23T14:13:00.000-05:00

Total misappropriation of my name and reputation. Mr. Bell, you'll be hearing from my fake-lawyers!

Communist Mariofesto

2007-02-20T00:50:00.000-05:00

Ah, so Bowser's repression of the Mushroom Kingdom was, in fact, about the growth of markets, which caused the economic sphere and the moral-legal sphere to become separated in society. Shocking.

Power to the plumbers.

Shredded purple pants are too loose a fit

2007-02-03T13:16:00.000-05:00

Here's a funny exchange between my roommates a few days ago. They were arguing about girls and the things they would say to them to impress them.

[names have been satirized to protect the irrelevant]

STEVEN SEAGAL: You only hang out with girls who believe everything you say. Like the dumbest stuff ever.

MARSELLUS WALLACE: Like what? I forget. Remind me.

SS: Like when you told that girl that the weight gain powder or protein powder you were drinking was Lou Ferrigno's RNA.

MW: Ah! HA HAHAHA!!! [convulses violently]

SS: And you told her it was RNA because DNA was too commercial.

* * * * * * * *

On a more serious note, this pisses me the fuck off:

The New York Police Department released new information yesterday showing that police officers stopped 508,540 individuals on New York City streets last year — an average of 1,393 stops per day — often searching them for illegal weapons. The number was up from 97,296 in 2002, the last time the department divulged 12 months’ worth of data.

. . .

At a City Council hearing on Jan. 24, Police Commissioner Raymond W. Kelly assured council members that his officers were not practicing racial profiling in street stops.

“Officers are stopping those they reasonably suspect of committing a crime, based on descriptions and circumstances,” Mr. Kelly said, “and not on personal bias.

The remains of industry

2007-01-23T17:23:00.000-05:00

Following up on a train of thought begun last post . . .

During the course of my daily interweb-probings, came across two talented street fartists, John Fekner (above) and Alexandre Orion (south).

Orion uses a method known as "reverse graffiti." Sort of like reverse racism or Reverse Flash or reverse engineering or *gulp* reverse cowgirl. Apparently, it involves scrapping images into the layers of soot and filth on the walls of Sao Paulo transport tunnels. Best use of surface dirt since "Wash me" stormed the airwaves.

Between 1975 and 1986, Fekner roamed the muttering retreats of New York City, throwing up a variety of socially conscious stencils as he went.

I like it cuz its big and to the point.

We're over this town

2007-01-17T11:33:00.000-05:00

Just got back from Buenos Aires. That's in Argentina, chief. Um, South America? The Global South? It's south of Miami. That's where "Miami Vice" was filmed. Still not ringing a bell? You're an idiot.

How was it? Awesome. Second best city in the world. The first? Guess.

So, anyway, one of the best parts of BA was the stencil art and graffiti. No surface or wall went untouched, and a lot of the stencils were really creative and kickasstastic.

Simple, elegent. Um, blue.

I think I may have read about these guys in college.

"The fault lies with the Vatican." Made all the more poignant because it was on the gate of a church. Tough words, sure. But considering abortion is still illegal in the fervantly Catholic Argentina, the message still rings true. A couple portenos told me that they were fairly confident that abortion would be legalized in a few years. Until then, women have limited access to birth control, and it seemed everywhere I turned in the city, women were preggers or towing along a litter of ninos y ninas. Crazzzy.
This is one of my favs. It was everywhere. I think it's supposed to be Evo Morales, but I could be wrong.

Lastly, a simple message that I kind of felt after two and half weeks in a country where I couldn't understand what anyone was saying.
I didn't really want to leave, but I admit, I kinda ran out of things to do. Plus, it's 14 degrees in New York! How could I possibly miss that?

Priceless

2006-12-17T18:22:00.000-05:00

Hakken

2006-11-27T00:37:00.000-05:00

Apatly dubbed "Aryan krumping" and the "stupidest thing I've seen today."

Check ignition and may God's love be with you

2006-10-24T15:35:00.000-04:00

Here's some pics of the latest shuttle launch, as seen from the International Space Station:

Kinda makes you feel teeny tiny, don't it? For me, it completely justifies the billions we spend a year on space travel. No, really, put 'em on a scale and weigh 'em out. Billions for education, health care, low-income housing, the environment, and other boring-ass issues, orrrrrrrrr, billions for cool little shots like these? Yeah, that's right. Dolla dolla bills, y'all.

(Photos via This is Warren Ellis Dot Com)

Mind is a razorblade

2006-10-15T14:52:00.000-04:00

Brooklyn Papers finds itself in the unenviable position of having to apologize for Maggie Gyllenhaal's cootch.
The Shockinator!! Let's see all those fingers, Arnie. (NSFW I guess?)
The Japanese are always one step ahead of us. First Pearl Harbor, and now this, a, uh, walking bike I guess. Seems like an efficient enough way to get around town. I know that when North Korea eventually drops da bomb, this is gonna be my preferred method of gettin-the-fuck-outta-town.
All your douchebags are belong to us.
If given the opportunity, I'd eat, sleep, shit, walk, talk, live, and die to this song, for the rest of my life, forever and ever, or until I get sick of it and move on (dot org). Bonus hyperbole: is it just me or is YouTube running a lot slower since they became billionairesses? Or is it just my weak-ass wyre-less connexion?
If Screech is punk'ng us with this one, than the man deserves a career-revitalization. Cause it's brilliant, plain and simple.
And, finally, fotografia of the best macaroni n' cheeze this side of the East River. It's from 'Smac, comfort food for the gods. Me and Malia ate the shit out a sampling of three: goat cheese and spinach, four cheese, and bacon and gruyere. Totes awes!

"You can live rent free for two years in this city, you just have to know how."

2006-10-08T13:48:00.000-04:00

I met this guy a few weeks ago, Brian I think his name was. He came to my apartment with a few of my roommates' friends, and it was pretty clear from the start he was just a tag-along, some guy, some anonymous random. He reeked of booze, was dirty, dishelved, wild-eyed. His curly brown hair clung limply to his head, and he wore a ratty Hawaiian shirt and smudged white sneakers. At first I was wary. Why is he in my apartment? Who the fuck is this guy? The living room quickly filled with conversation and it soon became clear that I was stuck with Brian. I could either engage or retreat to the warm confines of my room.

Quickly, I made the decision to chat with this outwardly unappealing person. C'mon, pussy, I thought. You want to be a journalist so bad, well now's your chance. You want to be Joseph Mitchell, well, you're not going to be by not talking to strangers. I bit my lip, and engaged.

"Hey, so-"

Turns out that was all I needed to say. Brian launches into the story of his life with barely any prodding. I love people like this. They're like human rollercoasters. All you have to do is strap yourself in.

So, it turns out Brian is a squatter. Presently, he's trying to find out a way to avoid being evicted from a Park Slope apartment in which he's living. "I don't pay rent," he says. "I never have." He's full of pointed, confrontational little phrases like this. "You can live rent free for two years in this city, you just have to know how," he says. I ask him what I think are poignant journalistic queries. How often do you have to move? "About every six months or so." Wow, so your life must be pretty portable. "Yeah, it is." He shows me his book, of which he has around ten copies in a bag. It's called "Codename: President," and each copy has a different collage-style cover that he designed. "They're $20 each," he says, raising an eyebrow. I nod uncommittingly. I don't have $20.

Brian says he's currently fighting eviction the only way he can: turning the tables on the landlord by trying to shine a spotlight on all the health code violations in the building. "I'm trying to drag it along for as long as I can," he says. But you'll eventually get kicked out, right? He doesn't answer this, instead launching into how he's trying to recruit his neighbors in his crusade, unsuccessfully. They apparently enjoy having a roof over their heads.

He hands me a flier for an art show where he's showing some of his stuff - I don't ask what his "stuff" is. I'm starting to get the feeling this guy's a phony. The flier says the gallery show is sponsored by Corona Beer. I begin to wonder if this Brian fellow is as authentic as I had him pegged, or if he's just some drunken lazy art kid, of which New York never appears to be in short supply. It's only later that my roommates warn me, "He's a junky. He's worthless." Hmmm. Perhaps.

So I admit I was a little caught up in the quasi-romantic (I assumed) life of a squatter. Bucking the system, refusing to conform, claiming ownership simply by occupying space. It's the ultimate "fuck you" to a system drunk on capitalism. The Prestes Maia in Sao Paulo. The Au in Frankfurt. The C-Squat in the Lower East Side. All of these places existed outside the box, off the grid, in a place not on a map although it may technically be on a map, in a time not on a clock cause the clock is broken. Squatting is commonly wrapped up with punk and anarchism, both of which have been sterlized and crippled by years of aggressive co-option. According to Reclaim the Streets, a squat group based out of Berlin, it's all about taking back public space from the enclosed private arena.

Maybe Brian was just some worthless junky. Some drunk. Some idiot artist too stupid to make a buck and afford his own place. But there is something to be said for his approach. Rent free for two years? In New York City? My god, if such a thing were true . . .

The Bikeman cometh

2006-09-28T18:25:00.000-04:00

Some "acquaintances" and I went upstate (upstate New York, that is; specifically Ulster County) last weekend for a little "west and welaxation." You know, clean mountain air, crisp vegetables, honest country folk . . . and copious amounts of vice (re: booze and truculant games of Truco [which I've concluded cannot ever successfully be understood nor played] and Cranium [best if played when drunk or 12 years old {or both}]).

Parantheticals aside, it was good times had by all (except by former roommate/local ad shark Dunny Griddles, who found himself on the wrong end of being punk'd). Local yokel Monsignor Pinto provided shelter in the form of a quaint-as-fuck blue, 100-year-old cabin with three front doors, low-ass ceiling beams, a classic wood-burning stove, and weak-as-shit pipes (toilet paper was not flushed but gently placed in an adjacent recepticle [eww]). It was so quaint, buddy Roast Beef Sandwich busted in the joint and screamed at the top of his lungs, "This place is quaint as fuck!!!" (He made this face when doing it.)

But the best was when the Monsignor took me and Twickface to the Bikeman's barn. The Bikeman was man who repaired and sold bikes back in the dizzay. Young Pinto purchased a bike from the Man in the heady days of youth. He'd never actually been inside the Bikeman's dilapidated barn, but had always wanted to. Well, on Saturday, that day had come. We (Pinto, Twickface, and I) made our gentle way inside, careful to mind the towering wreckage and rotted foundation.

The Bikeman may have been long dead (rumored to have perished in a tragic fixie-related accident), but his legacy lived on. The barn was teeming with dusty relics, once proud velocipedes that now stood as markers of one man's obsession. Rusted Schwinns lay entangled with busted roadsters, fused in a permanent embrace by calcified bike chains. A quiet awe overcame us as we picked through the offal.

Needless to say, for a bunch of beeks (bike geeks) like us (well, maybe more Twickface and Pinto than me), it was a rusty slice of heaven. It's one thing to bear witness to old, cool shit - we all love old cool shit, no doubt. It's another thing, however, to bear witness to one man's mystery, his life's work.

The Bikeman. Who was he? Where'd he come from? Monsignor Pinto knew little, except that he once purchased a bike from the old coot, and that he apparently had a soft spot in the cockles of his upstate heart for repairing messed up two-wheelers.

I was careful to leave everything as it was when I left. While I'm sure dreams of salvage danced through Twick's and Pinto's minds, I held what I'm sure would be regarded as a pussier opinion: leave it as it is. No ecological footprint and other nonsense hippie-speak.

I guess this has kinda become my philosophy for life. Quit trying to improve everything and leave well enough alone. Things were meant to rot and fall apart, meant to gather dust and warp in the sun's heat. This has nothing to do with salvage or anything, but I guess I feel slightly protective of these forgotten and invisible spots. It's mainly selfish (I love discovering and photographing this kinda stuff), but it also has to do with history's anonymous players. Like the Bikeman. Consider it a memorial for a man who loved bikes.

That said, I'm never telling anyone how to get there. Because I've already forgotten. Whoops.

America personified

2006-09-18T22:25:00.000-04:00

My style broke motherfuckin backs like Ken Patera

2006-09-15T01:01:00.000-04:00

Some interesting blog posts I stumbled across while using Blogger's "Next Blog" function...

From mmda-b:

my bad - another movie ref for conspiracy theory and evil government cover ups: the manchurian candidate (the denzel washington version). kylie, i like the idea, parts of the concept are really working for me. especially the eyeball tatooing and the drugging of cult participants... print peeps should get right onto some "euphoric" propaganda!!

From Family~Friends~Art....and ME:

Well, I'm still at it! Still working on new art for a show on September 23rd. I'm having such a ball! My creative juices are really flowing... Thank God! I've been doing art almost every evening. Listening to oldies, and lighting my favorite Autumn candle ("Mulled Cider" by "The Old Virginia Candle Company) My sisters came over on Saturday, and and we were all doing art... accept for Rita, she was busy with plans for our 4th annual YA YA day. She claims she's not artistic, but she's a wonderful floral Designer... (she even worked at Michaels) So we has so much fun. We picked up Chinese from my favorite place: " China Kitchen" And I got my usual, Wor Sue Gai.. yummmmmy. We sat around, laughing, drinking wine, and talking. They spent the night, and in the morning we had breakfast, and coffee, and went right back to doing art.

Escritos de Gerardo gets down and dirrrty:

Esta negativa hará que nos cuestionemos sobre muchas cosas ocurridas en las elecciones, también nos remite a lo ocurrido en las elecciones de 1988, cuando la caida del sistema y la incinereración de las boletas, nadie supo, salvo el P.R.I., lo que verdaderamente aconteció; con esto no quiero poner en tela de juicio la legitimidad de las elecciones, ni el lugar, bien merecido, que ocupará Calderón, sólo me cuestionana lo siguiente: ¿por qué si han sido las eleciones más cerradas, transparentes y en las que la mayor parte de los mexicanos hemos participado, no se nos permite a los ciudadanos y a los medios el acceso a tales boletas?

Conspiratorial whisperings from Stuff the Press!:

And so I tried again... but it seems that the censor will not allow!!!!

Somewhat motivated by the knowledge of having motivated at least one other to also submit a comment to the newspaper, I tried my wits again: can I find a way to weave a story together that links up both the emerging problems of possible death by firing squad of some young Australian fools caught in Indonesia for attempting to carry drugs into Australia because the Australian Federal Police tipped off the Indonesian Police, and the fact that many high-flyers here at home seemingly consume with immunity.

No it seems not. And I'm losing interest in finding a way. Seems silence is the password. Buried in denial in the social subconscious – a well saturated lozenge down under.

The real issue I am (or was) trying to expose is the duplicity of the Australian psyche at present. "Zero tolerance" some yell. "Christian compassion" others whisper. “Kill the couriers” at the bottom of the ladder, but “Pssst!, got any mate?” at the top. Like prostitution I guess. Get the working girls underneath, not the jerks getting off on them from above.

Well, I’m with the compassionate ones.

American Twentysomething 2.0 fights to stay above the surface:

So I said I'd be back later in the day. That kind of fizzled out.
Couple that with continuing agony from the back trauma I sustained while helping The Nurse move, lack of sleep from school and work and general mental weirdness and you leave me in a position I can't hardly stand.

Drowning.

You may or may not know that drowning is probably the method of dying that I least favor. Not that I'm all that crazy about dying anyway. Personally, I'm working on the whole living forever thing, but whatever.

And yet, this is where I find myself: Desperately gasping for air, fighting to keep my head above water, with every facet of my life furiously trying to snuff me out...

There have been some bright spots...

I was feeling him until the bright spots, then he lost me.

Anyway, that's a snapshot of the 34 million strong sphere-o-blog. Everything from "euphoric propaganda" to "life furiously trying to snuff me out." Yup. That's seems about right. Well, until next time, I'll leave you with my notable contribution to this mad blogapolooza.

Mort the Mouth

2006-09-07T23:28:00.000-04:00

Meet Morton Downey Jr., the grandfather of trash news talk shows.

If I understood him the first time, everyone could just suck his arm pit. Jesus freaks were "hypocrite murderers." Liberals were "pablum pukers." He was ascerbic and unconscionable way before Bill O'Reilly penned his first tirade.

Mort on his audience:

"It isn't the rich people who come up and say, 'Oh Mort, you're just great,"' Downey once said. "It's the blacks and the ethnics and the blue collars, those guys with too much hair on their shoulder blades. They want some answers."

Things were real swell for Mort the Mouth throughout the 80s. He and fellow satanic cult afficianado Geraldo ruled the airwaves, getting up in America's face and demanding they stop and smell the dried blood and sex fluids. Oh, you already have? But this time, reallllllly smell them.

On his talk show, The Morton Downey Jr. Show, he even claimed to have helped John Lennon get his green card.
I'm posting this because I recently watched a recording of a meeting of national newspaper editors held at Columbia University, 1989. The roundtable, moderated by Fred Friendly (aka, George Clooney from Goodnight, and Good Luck), included such luminaries as Washington Post media critic Tom Shales, the editor of the Daily News, the creator of MTV, etc...

Sandwiched in-between Donahue and the editor of the Des Moines Register sat Downey, looking positively rumpled in his leaden grey suit. A hot pink tie hung lose around his gills, and despite the VHS's grainier qualities, you could almost smell the coarse cigarette smoke looming like death over his shoulders. He was Downey. He was an asshole.

Mort sat there taking the abuse of his journalistic betters. Until he said something unrefutable. "You know, you guys make news. I tell stories for the other 98% of America." It made me think about this New Yorker cartoon, with a man and woman watching TV, and the man says, "What'll it be, honey? Entertainment or entertainment news?" Look at the 24-hour news channels. My lord. "Pablum pukers" indeed, and not in the liberal sense. In the pukey sense.

Is good journalism snapping a photo of a woman when she first hears news that her son died in Iraq? Is it cozing up with Washington whags in order to get the scoop on the WMD snipe hunt? Is it enduring ethical scandal after ethical scandal until even Gary Busey would say, "enough is enough"? Is it whining and crying about the war on Christmas?

Or was Downey news? Smoking on TV during a time Americans were trying to come to terms with the dangers of tobacco. Smuggling himself across the border along with 46 immigrants just to show how easy it could be done. Were his on-screen antics and bastardized version of the news truly what people wanted to digest? Given the current popularity of O'Reilly, Limbaugh, and others of their ilk, I'd say it's relatively clear that Americans prefer their news loud, obnoxious, slanted, and sensationalistic.

In 1989, after his claim that he was attacked by skinheads in the bathroom of the San Francisco airport (they apparently drew swatsikas all over his forehead and shaved his head) was proved false, Downey was doney. He died 2001. His craptacular legacy lives on, for better or worse.

[Bonus: Downey sings!]

A Collection of Assholes

2006-08-31T17:18:00.000-04:00

Tempers flared last night at Loreley Restaurant & Biergarten in the Lower East Side. Shouts were shouted in a shouty fashion. Fists were applied forcefully (and forcibly) to tabletops. Fingers were grabbed and pulled, and nary a fart was heard in the aftermath.

I was out with four of my muchachos: Twickface, Hipster Scientist, Laser Feldshul, and Roast Beef Sandwich (names have been changed to protect the sensitive). Laser’s ebullient girlfriend works at Loreley, and was whetting our appetites with mug after mug of frosty bier. Gotten bless her. It was a reunion of sorts, as Roast Beef had spent the last month in the Virginia hinterlands recovering from a nasty case of measles mumps rubella. Or maybe it was appendicitis. I forget.

Regardless, rosy-cheeked camaraderie reigned and many witty one-liners and one-uppers and out-siders were dropped, none of which any of you would find very funny. (Or for that matter, phunny.)

But the tone soon changed, as all tones do. A cloud of anger slowly descended over our five-top table, as if we’d all just shelled out $12 to see a movie only to discover it starred Jimmy Fallon. The topic was airport security, or security in general, and how it manifests in our (and I cringe to say it) post-9/11 world.

It began when Laser told us about the latest security snafu at his place of employment, a Yiddish historical society. Apparently, he and all the 90-year-old Jewish archivists (such as the esteemed Zelda Ackerman) were required to go through a security gauntlet to get to their desks, wanded and searched like potential criminals. I responded that at my graduate school (where I just started classes this week), there was a security guard on practically every floor. Twickface made the point that knee-jerk security like this only fuels our collective national paranoia and only makes it easier for the White House and other authorities to impose more and more restrictions, all under the name of protecting the Homeland.

The conversation drifted to airport security, and how it was a pointless endeavor that made people more afraid to fly while providing very little in the ways of actual preventative measures. Roast Beef and Twickface, the two loudest and most opinionated of my friends (the former a recovering philosophy grad student, the latter an Israeli), started to get into it, yelling and pounding their beer mugs on the table. Roast Beef maintained that airport security wasn’t tight enough, and that metal of any sort should be prohibited from carry-on luggage. Twickface responded that airport security should be cursory and non-invasive so as not to contribute to the climate of fear in which we live.

At one point a finger was pointed (I won’t say by who) and then grabbed in a let’s-fight-now manner. Fortunately, tempers cooled, backs were rubbed, and Hipster Scientist asked in his pleading, sincere, circa-mid-90s kinda way, “But what about all the poor people in the world?” Well said, my friend. What about all the poor people?

My friends are phunny.

Saturday Soul

2006-08-26T14:07:00.000-04:00

(a)l green sings "let's stay together"
(b)arbara lewis sings "baby i'm your's"
(c)andi staton performs "young hearts run free"
(d)elfonics slay "la la means i love you"
(e)vie sands sings "take me for a while"
(f)atback band perform "(are you ready) do the bus stop"
(g)erri taylor sings "empty arms & bitter tears"
(h)old on i'm coming" by sam and dave
(i)ke & tina turner do "baby, get it on"
(j)oe tex sings "ain't gonna bump no more (with no big fat woman)"
(k)im weston performs "a little more love"
(l)ou rawls & aretha franklin double team "tobacco road"
(m)arvelettes ask "please mr. postman"
(n)ina simon sings "if you knew"
(o)tis redding performs "i've been loving you too long"
(p)rince buster sings "wash wash"
(q)uincy jones lands on the soundtrack for "they call me mr. tibbs"
(r)onnettes sing "be my baby"
(s)am cooke does "blowin' in the wind," a song he says he should've written
(t)emptations performing "ain't too proud to beg"
(u)ndisputed truth sing "help yourself"
(v)andellas and martha doing "heatwave"
(w)anda jackson rocks "rock your baby"
(x)anadu (it was the only "x" i could find, OK?)
(y)ou should have seen the way he looked at me" by the dixie cups
(z)ee you later, aligator

[Thanks to Moistworks for the idea]

Robert Mosaic

2006-08-16T15:13:00.000-04:00

Robert Mosaic
Originally uploaded by andyjay.

Some of my favorite pictorials. I am truly an awesome photographer.

Hoisted On My Own Petard

2006-08-14T15:13:00.000-04:00

I need to start out by saying that I was NOT drunk, OK? I’d had maybe two beers at the time and I could totally recite the ABCs backwards while balancing on the end of a cop’s nightstick if I had to. Unfortunately, that was the least of my worries.

The night started out promising. Me, “Twickface” and “Hipster Scientist” bike over to Billyburg to go to this kid’s going away party: a purported “Mexatravaganza” complete with a bathtub of beer, a huge outdoor courtyard, live music, and tons of kids slugging beers and having a pretty good time. I run into two friends I hadn’t seen in a while. My boy’s band Professor Murder plays. (Technically it was their rap/mashup side project, King Oppression, but what do I care?) All in all, it was gearing up to be a swell Friday night.

Then they shut the shindig down. Too noisy. Too outdoors. Fortunately, everyone is cool about it, no yelling, no cops. Half the party files indoors, the other half out front to contemplate the next move. There’s word that some are heading over to Levee’s, a bar on Berry and North Third. Me and Hipster Scientist say “why the fuck not?” We’ll bike over. It’ll be swell.

Now keep in mind I’ve only been biking in NYC for a few weeks, following a long non-biking existence in Washington, D.C. I’m a little rusty, and I’ll be the first to admit it. But I want to be able to find my way around the city, I want to be able to bob and weave with the best of them. I want to thumb my nose at the long pathetic parade of clods clogging the streets with their polluting, gas guzzling crap-mobiles. But until then, I have to rely a little on my friends, who’ve lived here longer than me and have also been riding longer. Anyway, we’ve got that little disclaimer aside. On with the boring, self-centered story.

So Hipster Scientist and I are cruising down Union, and the night is beautiful, and the lights, and New York, and...wow. I love it, right? I can’t get enough. Biking in this city is just...right on. I’ll admit that I’m a little star struck and I’m not paying a lot of attention to the road, to HS in front of me, to the cars whizzing around me, etc. Translation: I’m being a real fuck-tard on the road. So, Hipster Scientist slows down a little, a red light or whatever, I’m not paying enough attention, and our tires connect, his back and my front. And I start to lose balance. And I’m flying over the handlebars. And I hit the ground. Hard. Boom. Ouch.

My red flashy light shatters. Good old HS swoops in to make sure I’m OK. And this “concerned” couple who saw the whole torrid event stop to see if I’m OK. I’m on my feet, my pride and testosterone demanding I suck it up and admit no hurt whatsoever. “Oh man, you OK?” the man asks. I nod and immediately start gathering the pieces of my red flashy light. “Well,” his girlfriend/wife/concubine (whatever she was) says, “you shouldn’t be biking drunk.”

Now, like I said before, I’d had maybe two beers. I certainly wasn’t drunk. Yet this nosy and apparently clairvoyant woman automatically assumes I’m drinkin’ and peddlin’. What the fuck? Am I stammering? Is my nose colored red? Are my eyes watery? Do I smell like the inside of Mel Gibson’s car?

“I’m not drunk,” I say, still picking up pieces of red flashy light. “I’m just clumsy.” I’m wishing they’d just go away. No one wants to have an extended conversation with someone who’s just witnessed them take a spectacularly embarrassing nosedive off a bike. “Well, just so you know, don’t bike drunk,” she repeats. What’s with this woman? Was my accident so ridiculously inept that it could have only be perpetrated by a drink-sodden buffoon? Thanks for the vote of confidence, random pedestrian.

On a lighter note, my red flashy right is fixed and working like a charm. And I have a bunch of awesome scars on my legs. Badges of motherfucking honor. I’m totally into it.

Sunny day real estate

2006-08-12T17:19:00.000-04:00

Nice day today, eh?

The park where the punishment fails to fit the crime

2006-08-10T12:39:00.000-04:00

I just had one of the most intense movie-watching experiences of my life, and I don’t think I was adequately prepared for it.

It was a lazy afternoon and my friend “Y” and I were lounging around, thoroughly enjoying our shared summer of unemployment. We were watching “Next” on MTV, that ridiculous “dating-reality-show” menagerie of popped-collar jocks and vacant-eyed Stacys (our word for empty-headed, fake-tan-sporting bimbos, no offense to anyone named Stacy, it just seemed like an accurate description). After the show, I suggested popping in one of my Netflix movies. It was either “The Hunger,” starring David Bowie, Susan Sarandon, and some hot lesbian vampire action, (I ask you, is there any other kind?); “Kontroll,” a movie that takes place entirely underground in the Budapest subway system; or “Punishment Park.” Y had already seen the first two. “Punishment Park” it was.

Holy shit. I was not prepared for this film. Here’s a brief description from IMDb:

"Punishment Park" is a pseudo-documentary purporting to be a film crews's news coverage of the team of soldiers escorting a group of hippies, draft dodgers, and anti-establishment types across the desert in a type of capture the flag game. The soldiers vow not to interfere with the rebels' progress and merely shepherd them along to their destination. At that point, having obtained their goal, they will be released. The film crew's coverage is meant to insure that the military's intentions are honorable. As the representatives of the 60's counter-culture get nearer to passing this arbitrary test, the soldiers become increasingly hostile, attempting to force the hippies out of their pacifist behavior. A lot of this film appears improvised and in several scene real tempers seem to flare as some of the "acting" got overaggressive. This is a interesting exercise in situational ethics. The cinema-veritie style, hand-held camera, and ambiguous demands of the director - would the actors be able to maintain their roles given the hazing they were taking - pushed some to the brink. The cast's emotions are clearly on the surface. Unfortunately this film has gone completely underground and is next to impossible to find. It would offer a captivating document of the distrust that existed between soldiers willfully serving in the military and those persons who opposed the war peacefully.

The film was released in 1971 at the height of domestic discontent with the war in Vietnam. Director Peter Watkins, a Brit, was obviously influenced by the tragedy at Kent State, the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention, and the U.S. government’s active suppression of dissent and prosecution of draft dodgers and student protestors. The film itself is a potent and uncompromising vision of what-could-have-been (or, for that matter, what-could-be). Watkins juxtaposes two stories: the trial of eight activists before a “civilian tribunal” (inspired by the real-life trial of the Chicago Seven), and the journey of a similar group of activists and pacifists through Punishment Park, a 50-mile stretch of stark and brutal California desert. The prisoners are told that once they reach the American flag at the end of the park, they will be free. However, if they are captured by the pursuing law enforcement and army officials, they will be sent to jail to serve 20 and 30 year sentences.

If you have any animosity toward cops, “Punishment Park” will no doubt piss you the fuck off.

The movie was difficult to watch for other reasons too, and had the effect of making me madder and madder as it went on. I kept thinking about its application to the present, how it should be required viewing for everyone who continues to insist that the war in Iraq is essential to the security of our nation, for everyone who insists that the erosion of our civil rights is essential to the fight against terrorism, and for everyone who automatically characterizes opposing and dissenting viewpoints as giving comfort to our enemies. Also, “Punishment Park” would appeal to anyone who harbors fear about our country’s direction, who sees this recent spate of chest-puffing and saber-rattling as unnerving, and who knows that this has happened before and can happen again.

There’s nothing funny about this movie. It’s brutal, it’s uncomfortable, and it’ll make you think (or, in Y’s case, it’ll make you depressed as all hell). There are no heroes or redeeming characters. The activists are overcome and outdone by righteous fury and the law enforcement officials and civilian tribunalists are simultaneously myopic and blind. The end of the movie is far from happy; I’m sure the end to our present domestic and foreign conflicts is sure to be as well.

I’m sorry this isn’t a very upbeat or positive post, but there are times when upbeat or positive things aren’t readily accessible. I’m a journalist (or strive to be), and I want to be objective about things. But the abuse of power is something that I can’t see both sides of. “Punishment Park” is a remarkable portrayal of what can happen when that abuse reaches new and upsetting heights. Check it out, but don’t blame me if it freaks you out. Blame the terrorists if it makes you feel better.

"The way I see it, if you're gonna build a time machine into a car, why not do it with some style?"

2006-08-06T22:52:00.000-04:00

[On the New Jersey Turnpike earlier today, “D” and I spy a De Lorean, secured to a trailer, towed by some asshole in a black SUV. Flabbergasted, I fumble for my camera while D maintains a steady speed parallel to the fabled vehicle of our hallowed 80s past. The following conversation occurs.]

D: Shit, you don’t see those things anymore.

Me: Well, I think they only made about 10,000 of them or so, right? [Actually, 8,500 were made; 6,000 are estimated to still exist.]

D: De Loreans were awesome. Have you ever heard of the Golden De Lorean?

Me: [thoroughly cowed by the idea of a Golden De Lorean] No.

D: There’s only a couple of ‘em. Rare as shit.

[We both stare in rapt fascination, as if in the presence of a biblical artifact of some kind.]

D:They were real fucking fast, you know?

Me: Yeah.

[Awed silence]

Me: Like, 88 miles per hour, right?

How To "Beat the Heat"

2006-08-03T13:35:00.000-04:00

1. Wrap arm tightly around Heat’s neck, punch it repeatedly in the abdomen, demand its tzedakah money or you will steal its talit.

2. Go to the park down the street, start a water fight with summer campers, frolic gayly while flinging water from bottles at screaming 12-year-olds, think briefly about the impending global water shortage and how despite a majority of the people in India lacking in clean water, 90% of said water is used to grow products for Coca Cola, sigh, shrug shoulders, continue throwing water at 12-year-olds despite guilt pangs.

3. Stick head in freezer and leave it there until death. Death is better than this.

4. Never leave air conditioned apartment, re-experience guilt pangs, this time associated with environmental impact of air conditioner being left on all day, moan and tear at hair and rend clothing, sigh, shrug, flip on HBO On Demand and see if the new “Deadwood” is up.

5. Wait until sun goes down, go to park, play an unbelievably intense game of soccer, lose several pounds due to gallons sweated out, come home, take cold shower. Relief experienced will surpass most orgasms.

6. Watch Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth,” re-re-experience guilt pangs about global warming, the snows of Kilimanjaro, the drowning of polar bears, hurricanes, floods, pestilence, starvation, oil company profits, on and on and on, grow several shades of red upon learning how members of Congress resist doing anything about it until more evidence is acquired, as if the thousands of people dying from the heat is not a giant red fucking flag, sigh, roll eyes, flip on HBO On Demand and see if new “Entourage” is up.

7. Sit on front stoop, look up into the sky, wipe brow with handkerchief, whistle and say, “Woowee! Shore is hot today!” If some one responds, “Boy howdy,” you’ve technically beaten the heat. Blade of grass to chew on is optional.

8. This is you: "Boo hoo! It's too hot! Mama!" Just thank God you don't live in Lebanon, you ungrateful fuck.

9. Walk around town with sack of ice down one’s pants, and when someone snidely comments on the stain, merely state, “Eleventy hundred degree heat always makes me incontinent. What’s your excuse?”

10. Give up. Heat will never be beaten. Concede defeat and welcome our new Fiery Overlords from Hell.

The Fuck You Heroes

2006-07-31T15:34:00.000-04:00

I live in Brooklyn, along with about 2.6 million other people. And yesterday, I chose to chain my bike to a fence owned by the one guy in Brooklyn with a electric cutter and a nasty, weird hatred for Kryptonite bike locks.

I just bought this bike, right? A 1975 Schwinn Continental. I love this bike. No, let me rephrase that. If this bike were a woman, I would definitely buy it a drink and leer drunkenly at its spokes all night. Now, it’s old and the gears are a little weird, but it's Laffy Taffy yellow and fast as fuck. Riding it instills me with a sense of freedom and independence I haven’t felt in a while. You see, I used to be a, erm, driver. You can’t see me right now, but I’ve got my eyes cast down and my shoulders are slumped. Yeah, I drove a Honda Accord all through high school and college and I regret the shit out of it. Luckily, I was way too irresponsible to continue being a car owner, and that ended in 2003. Details are irrelevant. Suffice to say the city of Washington, D.C. deemed me unworthy to continue operating a vehicle on their roads, and God bless them for it, eh? Damn right.

Anyway, so now I’m a biker and I’m immediately up in arms about all the disrespect my fellow bikers are forced to endure while living and riding in NYC. Seriously, I’ve been riding for maybe 3 days and already I’m all, “You can’t treat us that way, you fucks,” as if I were born with a bike chain strapped around my waist and grease permanently smeared on my face. But my rage makes sense when the city and the cops are single mindedly bent on making it as difficult as possible to bike the streets of New York. I’ve heard a plethora of stories about arrests and harassment. It’s sad and it pisses me off, because when you consider the alternative - belching SUVs crammed together on the highways and byways, clogging the air with exhaust, increasing the rate of asthma and cancer among the population - it seems like a no-brainer. Ride a fucking bike. It’s good exercise, it’s better for the environment, it’s cheaper and you’ll feel better about yourself.

This just happened recently:

On July 18, 2006 the New York City Police Department proposed changing City rules regarding parade permits. The changes will put bike rides, walks, jogs and other events under the Police Department's direct control and will greatly discourage walking and biking.

Under the NYPD's proposed rules:
* Any group of two (yes, 2) or more cyclists or pedestrians traveling down a public street, who violate any traffic law, rule or regulation can be arrested for parading without a permit;
* Every group of 20 or more cyclists must obtain a permit and approved route from the NYPD;
* Every group of 35 of more pedestrians must obtain a permit and approved route from the NYPD.

This seriously fucks up positive, proactive events like Critical Mass, a monthly meet-up-and-ride event in Manhatten that is empowering when you see it and discouraging when you hear about the arrests and the venom and bile tossed at bikers by cops and drive-aholics.

But now I’m getting righteous and preachy. Fuck it. I don’t care. When that asshole with the electric cutter started moving menacingly toward my bike last night, a surge of righteous adrenaline coursed through me. I was fucking the Jesus Christ of bikes right then, halo over my head and divine fury in my heart.

“Hold up, that’s my bike,” I shouted.
“Get it off my fence,” he said, revving the cutter maliciously.
As I unlocked my bike, I said, “Get a fucking sign if you don’t want people parking their bikes on your fence!”
“I don’t need a sign,” he yelled back. “How would you like it if I locked my bike up in front of your house!”
“I wouldn’t give a flying fuck!!”

Alright, so maybe Jesus would have handled it differently, but the asshole did have a fucking electric cutter. I wasn’t going to aggravate him further.

It wasn’t until later, after a couple carafes of lime margarita and some delicious guacamole, that I noticed that his SUV was parked directly in front of a fire hydrant. Welcome to the United States of Hypocrisy.

[Photo by Seth Holiday]

Braclet

2006-07-30T18:35:00.000-04:00

Allow myself to introduce...myself

2006-07-28T10:23:00.000-04:00

It’s really hot outside right now so I decided to stay in and start a blog. And not just any old blog, but one with the potential to change the world. A blog that will force Israel and Palestine to get along. Reverse global warming. Reanimate extinct species (hello, dodo). A blog as sumptuous to eat as a melty red velvet cake while the sun blazes down, blistering everything in its sights. A blog to end all blogs. A blog to eternity. A streetcar named blog. A panacea for an ailing world, a planet sucked dry by a vampiric species (hello, human). A blog to bring a smile to the faces of humorless old people. A blog to cuddle up with late at night while it sings Cat Stevens songs in your ear and strokes your hair in that totally unsexual yet comforting way that my babysitter used to do while unbuttoning my pants and telling me never to tell anyone. Eherm. Heh.

I’m just kidding. This blog is going to suck.

But that’s OK. That’s the great thing about blogs, right? Neither high-art nor low-art, they occupy a space in our cultural hierarchy that allows them to completely defy expectations. When you read a really great blog, you go, “A ha! So that’s what talented writing looks like.” But when you read a truly awful blog, you merely shrug your shoulders and go, “Meh. There’s no shortage of douche bags in this world, and definitely no shortage of douche bags with high-speed internet connections.” So, I hope this blog doesn’t make you go “meh” or “a ha.” I’m looking for a comfortable medium. Sort of a “meh ha” type of reaction.

So what’s it going to be about? Psshw. Don’t worry about it, esse. I’ll take care of that. But, if you’re really curious and you’re not going to let it go, then I guess I can preview some topics that have been popping around in my head like motherfucking Redenbacher. Holla!

1. Why the world is such a shitty place right now, and yet I continue to find ways to enjoy myself. (I.e., why the beach kicks eleventy hundred different types of ass.)
2. My friends and how I can embarrass them (such as a treatise on the social ramifications of their tiny penises, their lack of talent on the soccer field, and awful senses of humor).
3. Journalism, cause I like it and its what I wanna do...for money and stuff.
4. New York and Brooklyn, cause I just moved here and its fucking awesome. Heya!
5. Music, specifically truly excellent music and why your taste in music is boring and awful.
6. Why I am such a prick, but more importantly, where I live so you can come over here and kick my ass.
7. Red velvet cake.
8. And so forth.

You get the idea. Pretty much whatever pops into my delicious little head. So sit back and watch the fireworks. Who knows? This will probably be my last post.

This is confusing, because 14-day-old cell clusters aren't old enough to contribute to Republican coffers

2006-07-26T18:55:00.000-04:00

Bush's stem cell veto "dashes the hopes of millions of Americans," advocates say.

On this particular eve of destruction, its fairly obvious what the world needs is another blog

2006-07-26T18:52:00.000-04:00

Weeks of war to come, says Israeli general

Grilled cheese, motherfuckers

2006-07-26T14:50:00.000-04:00

This is the first post of my new blo--arhgh, oops, shit, I just threw up a little

2006-07-26T14:41:00.000-04:00

Aww. Man.

It's all over my shirt.

I need to get a towel. I'll be back.

Fuck, disgusting.