crap

"Whatcha doin?"

"Work."

"Can you help me with my homework?"

"Doesn't your mom?...why don't you do as much as you can and then show me."

"I already did."

"You didn't even try."

"What's the answer to this one?"

"Well, what do you think it is?"

"Just tell me. My mom gives me my answers."

This was the first 3 hours of my day, with a six-year-old. The boss's kid had a half day and mommy had a meeting. Playing ball, writing reports, commenting on the differences between the first Star Wars characters and the second generations' set and researching companies. These are the kind of tasks that I'm supposed to perform with head-nodding efficiency.

I had done a lot of work for Soledad, one of my bosses at the company I temped for. I worked hard, and quickly developed a reputation for good work, a fast learning curve and an ability to take on all loads of work, no matter how much was going on around me. Quickly though, I realized with frustration that this woman was taking advantage me. Soledad was from Chile, and was a fiery fast talking, wiry blonde with cutting blue eyes and sharp features. She was newly divorced, newly dyked and always dramatic. She sped through the office on foot and talked with the confidence of someone who comes to a country in which they are not a native of and succeeds.

I knew all about her because of the personal records I scanned for her. Suddenly I was the garbage man of the neighborhood. Oh, you left these on top of the stack...the affidavit of your kid's nanny who says (translated from Spanish) that there was evidence of negligence on the hubby's part. Uh. Oh.

"Do you know a good real estate agent in Clear Lake?," She asked me one day.

"Well, I said I used to live near there, but no I don't."

"Could you find one for me?" she said, those eyes urging, demanding and asking.

Well, no. I almost did, I felt guilted by those eyes. Like it was my job to interview my Uncle Larry who lived there and tell him. "Look, I've got cray on line 2 she needs a good realtor, could you give me a name? Oh by the way, thanks for the candies you're wife, my aunt, gave me for Christmas. Does she know I'm 26?"

Soledad was like a robot sometimes, with the inability to either feel empathy or someone who lacked the capability for common manners. People don't assume that someone, who is a stranger to them, will automatically want to do their personal business, do they? Isn't that a pretty much standard operation? Get to know them before helping them deliver a court summons for ex-daddy.

She wore on me. I wasn't just her assistant, I was 5 other people's, but in her world, everything must be done the fastest and firstest. I began to loathe doing anything she asked. I could be totally bored and look with contempt in my eyes at the mere mention of a researching task from her email. I'd do everything she asked and she'd smile a devilish grin and speak to me in Spanish. Her rapid-fire Spanish was light years beyond my comprehension level, but she'd smile when I'd reply to her in her native tongue, even if it was an easy phrase.

It had been a rough two weeks, I narrowly missed out on a job, and a girl I was dating moved to Ft. Lauderdale. At the office, Soledad's 6-year-old stared at me behind his mom's legs. Her eyes and his were the same. "Martin, if you need anything Jeff can help you." Thanks. That's all I needed was some kid asking me a million questions while I tried to get in an updated media list to some other department by 12 noon. I always forget that younger kids have no concept of personal space, and how it is to be respected, so it's always a little shocking to have some kid hang on your arm, or talk in your ear, or hug your leg. Finally, the bugger was gone, but Soledad informed me that she was too busy to order food, but she was hungry, and could I order the salmon roll for her with miso soup, thanks.

Last week Soledad's youngest child was present when I walked into my cubicle. I eyed the 3 foot little beast with a wary eye. Was I going to be conscripted into watching this one? Luckily for me the young girl held the attention of the women in the office. A close one to be sure. I gave her a stink eye just in case she decided that my cubicle was a McDonald's playland. It's not that I don't like kids, I just don't like hers.

BGB Revealed

Yesterday I waited by the phone. And waited. And waited. Why won't he call me? I made sure to sound as unassuming as possible when I dropped my phone number neatly underneath my signature of the email I wrote him.

Dude, pretty kick ass concert on friday if you want to go. I've heard that Animal Collective is pretty boss (i'm bringing it back) live.

j
512.xxx.xxx

He told me he might flake, but I didn't want to believe it. The concert wasn't the same. Where was my buddy who would tell me,"Tall boy time." Or the second pair of eyes for the massive crowd in front of me, "Check that out."

The best guy buddy is a grown-up (slightly) version of your best friend when you were younger, except you now add into the equation booze, girls, work, play and general philosophy. Maybe he's your roommate, a co-worker, or your bartender but never your lover. Nothing wrong with the latter, just doesn't end up being your best guy buddy as much he becomes your gay buddy.

My best guy buddies and I made a split this year, moving to different cities across the states. At times it wasn't pretty and now it's sad. Jealousy arises when some other dude is mentioned as "really cool guy," or if said other guy says something admittedly funny. Damn it, don't do this to me best guy buddy, I thought we had something!

After I put back a fifth of JB and suitably expanded the contents of my stomach into a "how digestion works" diorama, it was time to face the facts. Find a new best guy buddy.

This is a hard job. You've got to tell yourself that asking to play a game of darts or pool with someone is no big deal, and that they have no clue you're on the search for new BGB. This should be your basic template. "Hey man, you got next on ______? Wanna play doubles?" A simple innocuous question that either works or it doesn't.

Sometimes you hit pay dirt, sometimes you hit the sandbar. I knew I was in for a tough sell when I tried to make the bartender, at my neighborhood bar, a new BGB. It wasn't an active mission by all means, but it had the makings. Nothing forced, just an every Tuesday trip down to the bar, some chatty time and a couple of beers on him. "Hey look at that Upper East Side d-bag. You should check this band out. I'm playing at this bar. Hey I might go to that concert you told me about," he said on many occasion. What was I supposed to think? I know the old service industry boundry line, if you're not one of them you're none of them. But I thought he might be different, he could be my new BGB. Maybe FL.

I related my troubles to a friend of mine over pulled pork and brisket on a warm Brooklyn night. "I've got the perfect guy for you," she said. I told her to go on, and I heard her case for BGB matchmaker. She told me this weekend we could "hookup." I quickly told her that BGB's weren't about hooking up and maybe I had given her the wrong impression. She quickly apologized and rephrased it, "Look, he's looking for a BGB too, but don't tell him I told you."

Secret's safe with me.

Exploitation 2000

Red and white fragments of pre-paid envelopes pile up on the kitchen bar in my studio apartment. A book of Verdi classical operettas and songs props up the laptop to a proper viewing height so I can lay on my couch/bed and watch movie after movie that graces my mailbox. New York is, to quote my sister, "Fucking expensive," and catching a quick beer often means that $5 and $10 bills magically burst into flames as soon as you walk into any service based building. My temporary solution for this forced liquidation of cash flow, is to stay inside and only come out when my salary allows me to buy new clothes, a plane ticket and food from a restaurant, in the same week.

If you or someone else you know is currently is a similar situation, then I recommend taking full advantage of your hermit ways. First things first, get a Netflix account or become a regular at your local indie movie store, they still have the mainstream titles and have the foresight to retain an archive of older and less well known films. Next, pick a genre, director, actor or producer and give the person a thorough study. Today's lesson, exploitation films.

Many of you have seen a recent film, Grindhouse. Its tribute to older exploitation films of the past was an appreciative tongue implanted into cheek. I like the Tarantino and Rodriguez's films respectively, but I was more interested in the genre itself. Fast forward to my renting of exploitation hits like, The Big Doll House (sexploitation), Coffy (blaxpoitation), Sweeet Sweeetback's Baad Assss Song (supposedly first blaxploitation, but really a great art-house film), Mad Max (Apocalyptic Carmeggedon), The Gumball Rally (fastcarploitation). All of these films have similar characteristics, with the exception of Mad Max and Gumball Rally, they're not great movies. In fact, they're terrible. What they offer maybe cliche now, but put yourself in the world of the late 60's and 70's and these films offer inventive story lines and content everyone wants to see: sex, drugs and violence.

Oddly enough while doing a little research on the subject of exploitation, I came upon a Kroger Babb, who in the late 30's and 40's and into the 50's touted a 'personal hygiene' film called Mom and Dad. The film was an early "public health" film that showed the dangers of not informing your children thoroughly on the topic of human sexuality; its climax being the showing of an actual child birth. Great to know we're related, hey this man should be recognized for the invention of legalized porn on the big screen. We must share some genes. I leave you with a clip from a movie that I haven't seen yet, but you can bet it's at the top of the Netflix queue. Death Race 2000 is probably the greatest name for a movie, ever and the fact that Sly Stallone and David Carradine are in it, make it 20 times better. This scene featuring a crazy Stallone is awesome.

Kick it

I don't wish I had actually been there for this, but I do walk by these guys from time to time. It always makes me wonder...should I stay in case anything else gets kicked?

give it more throttle you bloody c**t

¡oyen mucha! zanman did something today that tons of people do everyday but the difference is...i have what i think is a funny story to go along with it. i learned to ride a motorbike today at a local mototour outfitter here in antigua. the bike i had somewhat resembled this one. (i should have some pics soon on my site) the lesson itself is more or less your everyday garden variety anecdote chock full of stalling out, leaving the turn signal on, and locking up that rear break a bit...but the imagination of this prodigal student is something else. my instructor, a friendly welsh gentleman with what i thought was a thick australian accent could not have been more helpful and insightful. he did have a substantial cranial scar on his shaved head that made me think he knew what he was talking about, it also made me feel less like a moron for wearing my helmet with sun visor. (i was like the ricky williams of cobblestone dirtbiking) anywho, david was patient, professional and polite in the education process. (i think there were a few other P's to success including Poise, Personality, A Positive Mental Attitude, (im)press the customer, Primp Always, Positivity, Please Don't Flush Sanitary Towels Down the Toilet, Phreeze Plenty of Ice, Placate, Posture, Pomp and Circumstance, Pterodactyls, Good Dinosaurs to Mention to Kids, Patriotism, Pepper and Professionalism. i'm sorry i thought of about 5, then had to look up the rest, classic!)

ok, so everything went great. the lesson lasted about 4 hours. but all the while, i was remembering back to when i was learning how to drive for the first time in my dad's standard F-150. 2nd! 3rd! Clutch, Clutch! all gruff, resonant commands that still echo throughout my subconscious to this day. my dad was an excellent teacher, but psychologically reduced me to a skittish cat that gets beaten with a bat if he gets to close to the furniture. most of you know me to not be the most patient individual, and today, no exception ...after a few consecutive stalls, i was beside myself with anger. i looked up at david and he didn't appear disappointed or frustrated. the weird thing was i kinda felt disappointed. why wasn't this guy more like pops?

i actually laughed out loud after imagining my dad getting on my ass with a thick southern uk argot and not holding back with the expletives. "godammit! if you run over one more cone you can forget any more lessons, you can also kiss college goodbye, now chop bloody chop mate!" i relaxed a bit after this imagery. i suppose if this was s.o.p., this guy wouldn't have a job, but it really did have me wanting the abuse, some really rough feedback, i felt like like robin givens moonwalking back into the arms of iron mike after a decision loss in the early 90´s. all and all, i got the basics down. i think with a full day's practice i'd be just one dennis hopper sidekick away from easy ridin' central america style. vrroom!

History of a download

Rewind in time to 1992. It was the first time something I listened to had actually moved me into action. The first CD I ever bought was Jimi Hendrix and The Experience's "Are You Experienced?." I got it at the mall. The mall was a place that I suddenly had to show appearance at. I was wearing my Girbaud Jeans and a T-shirt with my Duke Blue Devils hat on. I made sure my mom was walking well behind me, as if someone was going to come up to the 13-year-old me and tell me how cool I looked. Hastings was the local book/music store that was the only outlet for cds. I walked into Hastings to the Rock section and spent $14.99 on a Jimi Hendrix album that my father had on vinyl.

Maybe I should rewind some more though, that Christmas I had received my first stereo system. It was an Aiwa with a tape deck and a CD player. I had some tapes, they were of the Young MC and Milli Vanilli variety. I traded Milli Vanili for New Kids on the Block in 5th grade from Daniel Leal. But it wasn't until I heard the psychedelic guitar of Hendrix, that obsession took over. Suddenly, all my disposable income went to cds. The Breeders, Nirvana, Metallic ("And Justice for All), Soundgarden. These were the first on a list of many that composed my collection.

Fast-forward to the advent of a cd burner and my first, personal, computer. A 56K modem was the fastest thing you could own, and I was borrowing cds from my friends like mad, creating a pile of markered blank cd's that would eventually overtake my bought cds.

In the summer of 1999, it somehow got wind of a little program called Napster. I think the first thing I downloaded was Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon." By the end of August, I was in college, and I had access to a T1 connection. T1 meant 10 times as fast as my feeble modem. I downloaded songs as singles. I had a hell of a singles collection. By 2000, the Napster phenomenon had lapsed and I now had a collection of mix cds. It was like the tapes you used to make from the radio, except now they sounded better. In 2003, I was introduced to DC++. My friend Alex directed me to the correct hub, and I suddenly had at my disposal, any indie band I ever wanted. These days, the indie hub still works, but I find that the mp3 blogs are out-pacing the dc++ hubs in terms of new music.

I'd like to think that all this music has kept me abreast of new trends and new bands, and it has, but the sheer power of word of mouth has beaten all of these new avenues of acquiring music. I've heard of more bands that I absolutely love from various friends of mine, than I have from these digital avenues of downloaded music. My taste have spanned generations, and my love for live music has only increased. Do I think it's wrong that I don't purchase everything I like immediately? No. I use the mp3 platforms to find new music, and then support these bands by attending live shows, and I still buy real albums. If anything, the download generation has taught me that what is put out for the masses' consumption is only the tip of a large undiscovered iceberg, the majority of it underwater, waiting to be noticed.

That's bone. And the lettering is something called Silian Rail.

There's no debate that the idea of judging a person solely on his business card has been around for awhile. But when you spot something truly genius, it can take your breath away. Take our friend Dr. So & So with MAXIMUS. If the gold lettering, and for those of you who don't have 3D glasses on, raised Times New Roman bold-face haven't set off the douche bag alarm in your head, then the quote under the title should. "Helping government serve the people." You could easily mistake this for a penis enlargement company, in fact I'm sure there's a court battle in the San Fernando Valley over trademark right now. Come on Dr. So & So you're no friend of the human being component of the word person, you're more good buddies with the corporation (law-defined person). So & So the lobbyist isn't green backing the glad hands of Senator Rightside for your children's educational interest. This d-bag ought to take a lesson from mother dearest below:



Keep it simple, make sure your logo doesn't give you a persona you don't want and try and take it easy on raised lettering and any use of gold font colors. Also, no script of any kind.

An Open Letter To "No Name"

An open letter to the woman on the subway this morning who not only stepped on my entire foot (on purpose), but also hit my lunchbox twice because it was in the general vicinity of where her ignorant ass was sitting (not standing as I was) on the subway...

Dear "No Name":

You are a dirty poose-faced tramp.

xoxo,
LD

diablogue

what do you really think of me?

or

gos: hey rich! what are you looking for?
rg: my career, have you seen it?

or

your mom probably wouldn't approve of me...makeout?

or

you gonna finish that apple?

or

true story, me and jdepp were playing dominoes naked, i mean buck naked

or

nah man, not just windows....i do floors, bathrooms, pools, whatever you need

or

gos: hey, you're richard grieco right?
rg: yeah, totally...you want an autograph?
gos: no, i want you to get off my lawn before i call the cops
mm: what about me?
gos: no, matthew modine...you're fine...you can sleep on my lawn anytime.

NYC, Un-Earbudded

Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored

- Aldous Huxley

Hey! I'm walkin' here!

- Ratso Rizzo (Dustin Hoffman) Midnight Cowboy

Placed inside your ear canal, it's buds blossoming into sound with a touch, the portable mp3 player has become the greatest asset to anyone wanting a constant soundtrack for their lives. This isn't news to anyone who's been alive in the last 3 years. Manhattan, Mecca for the ipodded masses, has scores of people silently nodding their head to a favorite song, everywhere they go. At the park, on the street, on the train, in the restaurant, in the bookstore and at work music is filling up the monotonous quiet moments, drowning the street's constant blare. You're not missing much anyways while your riding the train, or walking to the corner...are you?

I've been on a mission as of late, recede quietly from the nasty habit of not being fully aware of everything around me. I love my little shuffle. It holds just the right amount of music from my collection, and I change it out daily. But, I've noticed while wearing my headphones, I get into a trance. The constant drone of a song plays in my head while I daze off into space, on the train or walking outside. Many people believe this is an ideal way to pass through the droll commute or daily hassle of the New York streets, head in the sand.

Part of my mission includes wearing my headphones for a set amount of time. For example, I can listen to them on the commute to work, but not on the way home. It's time for headphone addicts to take similar action. The environment around you is a living, breathing organism that is humanity. The 6 train's whoosh as it enters the station, the dog barking, the loud conversations that two men are having next to you, the beggars, the vendors, the subway performers and the overheard conversations are all reasons you should listen. Listen to the music that 8 million people make everyday, because you are one of them. A triangle player in the symphony of tires splashing through water, wind rustling around a building and Ah-ha's "Take on Me" blaring out of that guy's Mazarati.

I like Blue Moon...

With that said I was drinking a Blue Moon Belgian-Style Wheat Ale this evening when I read the label which states..."for a uniquely complex taste & an uncommonly smooth finish." That made me think of a style of music that I have become particularly fond of lately, that of instrumental quasi-electronic music, and more specifically the aforementioned with drums of the jazz persuasion. Sounds like a tough class to get a hold of, but I've managed to find a lot of bands lately that I feel fit this category. They are all "uniquely complex" while at the same time having quite an "uncommonly smooth finish." The first foray into this was from an NPR broadcast when I heard of the band Moon Orchestra (I would provide some sort of link to his work but this guy is a recluse who doesn't work through the world wide web). This is the brain child of Jon Platou Selvig, who is also a member of the band Salvatore. Both these Norwegian bands are smooth music makers that can be listened to as a background to work, conversation, and all your creative activities. Most importantly they are amazing at their craft, and create really interesting music that withstands the tests of multiple listens.

Two others worth mentioning come from another circle of artists in multiple bands. First is the band Ratatat. This band is a bit more uptempo, more of a dance-ilk. None-the-less they are classically entertaining song writers who really capture your attention. From this band we also get Evan Mast's side project E*vax. His work for E*vax is much more electronic, and I am normally not much for the primarily electronic pieces, but once again this is music that provides a perfect backdrop for any activity (except things that require raising your heart rate). He releases his E*vax stuff through a label he and Ratatat bandmate Mike Stroud run called Audio Dregs. Other notable artists I've found from this label include Supersprite, and F.S. Blumm. There is a great sampling of music on their site to help you pick up what you might like.

I'll give you a few samples if you're lazy...and I hope you like, "But you don't have to take my word for it..."

Ratatat-Wildcat-listen to the bridge...


E*vax-Contra Costa


Salvatore-Rainbo


Moon Orchestra-Moving On Out-listen to the drums...

Rocky Mountain HIGH...ya'll

According the "late" great Tupac Shakur, the weekends were made for Michelob. Here in Denver, quite possibly the whitest city in the world, we tend to think that weekends are made for microbrews....and scantily clad women, air-born jello shots, hula hooping eskimoes, naked skiers and, well, straight-up debauchery on the mountain. Lets rewind to April 14, 2007 where the seventh annual Thrift Store Ski Party (a.k.a. TSSP 07..baby) took place at Arapahoe Basin. It was a beautiful sunny day, one of the 300 days of the year where that great blazing star in the sky shines down on our gorgeous state.

Anyhow, I digress. A-Basin is a locals mountain approximately an hour and half from the Denver city limits, nestled between the more popularized resorts of Keystone and Breckinridge. On this day all the crazies come out to dress in 70/80's esque ski clothes, drink free Flying Dog Pale Ale, hula hoop, dance to various dj's and bands, and then ski down the mountain for the coveted 4 ft tall barbie doll.

I would love to go into all the nitty gritty details of the day, but now that I'm a top secret agent working for the feds...I think its best I keep it in my sneakers. But, if you're lucky, next year you too can wear nothing but a man-sized diaper taking shots off of a ski just after finger banging a chicken ( twice). Cross ya fingers....

For more insanity....check out this site. http://www.veoh.com/videos/v392190emmmcxXS

The battle of the big bands...

I was recently giving my apartment a cleaning while listening to my iPod. While on a random shuffle I was allowed to listen to tracks by Broken Social Scene and Arcade Fire back to back, which led to the thinking...which of these two bands is more deserving of the hype? It is an interesting comparison, what with all of their similarities. Let's give them a quick run through...
1) Both hail from Canada
2) Both have released two official full length LPs (Let's not count EPs and collections here)
3) Both could be considered collectives, or groups of friends who collaborate on an album
4) Both have principle song writers who form the backbone that is then expanded on
5) Both draw from a circle of talented musicians who play a multitude of instruments
6) Both sounds, though different, have the same layered atmospheric feel
7) Both have received astronomical amounts of hype
So who is more deserving. I am just one humble opinion, but let it be heard. My vote is for BSS. I believe the self titled sophomore effort by BSS to be a highly underrated effort that seems to have flown low of the peaks reached by You Forgot In People. The Arcade Fire in much the same case had a spectacular debut that garnered all sorts of critical acclaim and anticipation of a second effort. That second effort is, in my opinion, a dud. The only highlight I've found that I could listen to in the long run is No Cars Go, which is a rerecording of a song they had previously released. Go back and listen to You Forgot in People, then listen to Broken Social Scene and tell me I'm wrong. I dare you. Simply for the mere fact that KC Accidental might be one of the most beautiful songs that I've ever heard, one of only two songs that I can tell you exactly where I was when I first heard it, BSS gets my vote. Don't mistake me, I look forward for a third album from both, I just think that Arcade Fire fell a little flat for all the hype this time around. And if you haven't heard the Arcade Fire offshoot Bell Orchestra then you have been missing out.

"That's Scott Caan!"

Star sightings in Manhattan are supposed to be the norm. They live here and so do you, it's going to happen. The ultimate question is what to do whenever you see one. Some people go to the extreme, as in accosting the celebrity, telling them how much they love them and their work, and then hating them for not carrying a sharpie on them so they could sign off on their grocery receipt. Some even go to the other route, and stalk the person. There's even a website who commits a Google map application to the whole thing (Gawker Stalker).

I saw Taylor Negron in the park on Friday. Mr. Negron of "Nothing But Trouble," and most notably "The Aristocrats," fame. My buddy Alex and I especially liked him in latter movie. His play on the joke was told as if he were describing what heaven looks like to a first-year catechism class. The delicate touch in his voice while explaining the twisted act can only be described as genius. I love when someone explains something truly horrific in a soft and sweet voice. It's like putting a cherry on top of your shit.

The sighting of Mr. Negron came as a surprise. I was taking a park detour on my way home and there was the celebrity, sitting on a bench. His hair was pulled back in a pony tail and he had on those sunglasses that look like two Sacajawea coins. I caught his gaze for a moment, and then looked beyond. But most of that moment I was shoving my voice back down into my throat, prohibiting it from yelling out, "Taylor Negron!?" Also in that moment, I thought I would say something like, "I loved you in 'The Aristocrats," but that sounded lame and passe. Ultimately, I walked by him, confident in the fact that I had probably done the right thing. Maybe he would welcome the attention, or maybe he was just trying to sit on a park bench and enjoy the day. In situations like these I think the most you should do is give a tip of the cap, some sort of non-verbal recognition if you think they deserve it, that shows you know.

Or maybe I should have yelled out his name. My friend Gui and I were in a bar in Austin, Texas called Red Fez. We were standing by the bar holding our drinks and admiring the view on the dance floor when a man in his late twenties, who was all of 5'6", came waltzing in with an entourage of guys. From my vantage point, I thought some high society douche bag had tried to come all grandiose and shit. I looked over at Gui to get some non-verbal approval, and he just yells out, "That's Scott Caan!" Scott Caan looked toward Gui and kept walking. Every time I think of that episode, I can't help but double-over and laugh. We all want to do it, yell out the name of someone that we saw in the movies or television as soon as we see them in our own reality. Gui just didn't hold back.

check out the big brain on brad

 

i should've entitled this piece double f, but lo que sea. so here's the backstory; my spanish is poor and my comprehension of the metric system is worse. the other night, we had a ton of extra folks at dinner, some of whom were real deal mayans. anyway, some wise guy asked me how tall i was during coffee. what ensued was a clusterfuck of times tables, spanish vocabulary and broken yardsticks unraveling in my head. somehow the atomic weight of aluminum got in there too, but it was in grams. so i just probably made a face like "i know other stuff," just not my own height. i felt like a real dunce. luckily somebody's uncle asked me to stand up and estimated dos metros. i had a chance later to sit down with a sliderule and came up with about 2.01 meters. it looks like tío suave was right on the money. anyway, i started thinking...and now i'm going to try to not get so annoyed when people ask how tall i am because they could be asking me how many hands i measure in some ancient celtic dialect. then, when i pause in a fit of perplexity with a ten pack of isotoners draped over myself, some filthy medieval scribe will ride up on a dwarf pony and bury a two sided axe into my forehead. "Too slow lad," he'd lament. the point is i've been putting off learning the metric system and it almost cost me my life. do you think they have over the counter medication for what i've got?

Work Crushes

Work crushes are inevitable. You connect with that cute girl/guy over copies and coffee on a routine basis, knowing full well that he/she has a has a he/she back at home. Hell, you even make plans that you both know will never come to fruition because of the rule. Never date anyone from work. But maybe our friend Michelle took this rule too much to heart. By the way doesn't she look like this guy?


*a note to all those: This was written by Michelle, not me. Don't know how there could be confusion, or confusion of the use of he/she.*

from Blogher


Oh god, the pain, the anguish, the moist panties. My worst work crush happened on 9/11; everyone's in the office watching CNN not doing anything; we were in a federal building and couldn't leave and started talking. How sick is that? Suddenly you see someone in a stressful situation, and you're single, and you start thinking "hmm, I wonder."

And then, two days later, you come back from lunch and see him running past you on the path around the office park without a shirt and you are gone. The problem with office crushes is they go on, and on, and on, because you see them every friggin' day. My Mr. Gorgeous Abs was completely unattainable because I had just been promoted to Marketing Manager and I was marketing for the newest division for which he was a sales rep. He was nine years younger than me and he was just . . . beautiful. But if I had gone after him, I would have lost my job. So . . . there I am one Sunday working overtime on a project, and I'm in his office going through his desk trying to find out his address. How sad is that? I never did anything about it. Too chicken.

Ah, memories. Eventually he moved to another division on a different floor and not seeing him every day made the crush gradually fade away. He got laid off just before me and I haven't seen him since. Sigh .

Michelle Tackabery
Raleigh, NC

i need more fat guy laughing

i'd like to discuss something that will inevitably beget disagreement. hopefully though, this will broaden our awareness of a music phenomena that when utilized correctly can really pump up a song. i'm talking about live crowd noise recorded onto a studio track. yes, often these may be sampled on, but when the music transports you to that smokey booth with the band in their prime, takin' it from the top, there's a sweet vibe that sets in for the listener. i'm not talking about backup singers and i'm not talking about live concert recordings, rather folks in the back of the studio just kickin it and enjoying the tunes. more than likely these folks are the bands' little brothers or girlfriends clappin and takin lines off an amp. they're always the people that get 'special thanks' on the album credits and tell you they're cousins with the drummer at shows. there're tons of examples out there, probably this recording method peeked out with motown in its heyday. good tracks that come to mind are:

1. donny hathaway - the ghetto
2. marvin gaye - got to give it up
3. sublime - badfish
4. weezer - undone (i really hesitated putting this one)

but, each example does justice to this concept that there is superb sound quality and you can enjoy the jam as if you were there without actually having to be there. and as for me, that is quickly becoming a preferable option when it comes to live music. (i know such will back me on that one) anyway, i think the purpose of this rant is to credit the institution of the studio as a fun place to hang out. it feels and pays like work but is ten times as cool as the roller rink, bowling alley or roof of an abandoned arby's anyday. your thoughts...

God is Crying

The rain brings water. People bring water repellent, mostly in the form of an umbrella. Umbrellas are a necessity for New York. You walk around outside most of the time, so it makes sense. What doesn't make sense are the obnoxious, ginormous-sized umbrellas that some inconsiderate people choose as their rain weapon. Hey lady, do you really need the umbrella with a five foot diameter that not only covers your head but the entire population of Liechtenstein as well? The only useful umbrellas that I can see fit are the small compact ones, or the umbrellas that would double as a sword if you had to go one on one with a robber.

Bozo the Clown...Anyone?

I don't play beer pong and I don't really understand why someone would try to master it, but I do remember the grand prize game. It's obvious this guy would have had that grand prize, no problem. These are the kind of skills I dreamed about having while watching WGN-TV...also, I wondered why their weather forecast was different.

gulp.

my eyebrows were left raised high on my forehead after I saw this. i've ran this scenario through my head a number of times. its so random that i had to try and put some rhyme and reason to it. this is what i could come up with.
- the pigeon (deceased) owed the pelican some money for a super long time.
- the pigeon was a 'fag, the pelican hates 'fags'.
- the pelican was a douchebag. a hungry douchebag.
- the pelican was trying to get some pussy.
- the pigeon fell into some b.b.q. sauce earlier.
- the pelican saw the camera and thought 'hel-lo youtube.'

may i rest my sac on your leg?

 

after a harrowing excursion to the active volcano paçaya yesterday, i've reverted back to seafoam. i don't think this will last for too very long but when you're feeling vulnerable...you seek refuge where and however you can. anyway, my emotional state as of late is not the topic of this article, rather i'd like to relate a little ditty about sack and diane. on the way to the volcano, the school booked us a transport van but put far too many people on board. it looked to accommodate comfortably 15, and we had 19. in predictable fashion, zanman found himself not actually in a seat but on a raised portion of the floor that i think was just some carpet over the engine. i was stretched longways across 4 people in a comically choreographed position. i made friends quickly by making light of the absurd and unavoidably awkward scenario in which we had been thrust. i spoke mainly to this very sweet, and might i add attractive danish girl who also attends a spanish school in antigua. as the conversation went on and the roads got windier everyone's personal space kinda dissolved and arms and legs and other extremities merged with their neighbors'. at one point i drifted off and only re-awoke after an abrupt stop by the van. this was when i noticed that my genitalia was ever so gently resting on the thigh of this seemingly innocent dane. i avoided eye contact at first, but then decided i shouldn't let this disrupt the flow of convo, so i procceded to turn and continue interviewing this girl about her travel plans and scholastic aspirations. she kept on fielding questions and had a lot to say. all the while, i had the biggest smile on my face, not because i'm so immature that i can't rest the nads on a foreign leg now and again, but because i think we both knew what was happening and we were content not talking about it and letting it continue. i suppose i don't need to mention this was the best part of the trip. so the next time you find yourself asses and elbows with a gang of strangers on a 2 hour road-trip, think about where your boys are....then think about where they could be.

-zanman

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut is dead. The man who wrote, "Breakfast of Champions", "Player Piano", "Cat's Cradle", "Slaughterhouse-Five" and "God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater" was one of my favorite authors. His prose, vision and creativity were inspiration not only for me to write an occasional story here and there, but also as an awakening of the abstract, the pessimistic and the sardonic in my mind.

All my heroes, literary and musical, are slowly fading to black. James Brown in December and now Kurt Vonnegut in April. Fittingly, it's a dark rainy day in New York City.

Kurt Vonnegut, Counterculture’s Novelist, Dies - NYTimes.com
Kurt Vonnegut - Wikipedia



Jeffo

Addiction?

Hi! My first post here, but I'll save the intro for later... maybe somewhat holding the readers in suspense... or not.

Anyway, since moving to Mexico four months ago I have become an addict. To the Reggaeton music genre. I have heard that it is the equivalent to rap here in Mexico. This may not sound shocking to those that know me. Sure I like rap, so it only makes sense. Right?

A few things have influenced this.

1. A desperate need to understand quickly spoken Spanish. The necessity factor.
2. My class is approximately 50% Puerto Rican. The proximity factor.
3. It is played at all of the local hotspots. The repetition factor.
4. The ladies love it. The female factor.

So could you conclude that one who learns the language from Reggaeton will sound like he is speaking in Spanish's very own Ebonics? Can you imagine your doctor asking you, "Whats the damn deal!? Looks like that hurts like a biaaatch. Tellyawhat, I got the best dope in town, but it'll cost ya extra." Just a thought....

Adios y nos vemos tarde.

Crazies : OLTs = Goldmine

New York offers a veritable buffet of crazy. Even though Manhattan is, by many of the old NY'ers account, too antiseptic and "mall-like," it still brings out the sort of crazy that's not only real, but golden.

These gold bars of humanity roam the streets as assumingly normal people. Until they open their mouths. OLTs (Outloud Talkers) are my favorite of the crazies. But until recent technology they were a relatively stereotyped group of people, relegated to some of the city's grimy subways and dark streets. There are three types of OLTs in New York: The subway speaker, old man crazy and the bluetoother.

Subway speaker : This is the man/woman who makes their plea for help on the subway via a guilt ridden speech that each one of them has ripped off from the previous bum. I'm not hating on the homeless. I'm just saying let's get some feeling into this speech. You want me, to give you money based on the fact that somewhere there is some human decency in my brain-dead-let's not talk on the subway-persona. It's got to be better than a deadpan monotone. Ok. Take the guy who told everyone in the train that all he needed was enough money to pay for his electric bill and then showed the statement. Take a cue from Matlock, you're going to need some better evidence than ratty clothes and that I haven't taken a shower in a week look.

Old Man Crazy: This can be a man/woman who for no reason just yells things out loud. Usually found while walking down the street. Old man crazy's last siting for me was on 96 and Lex. "Ummph, God-Dammit. I don't wanna! Noooo!" He then had a 3-year-old leg-stomp tantrum in the middle of Lexington Ave.

The Bluetoother/Headset Crazy: These people are the most recent additions to crazy. Funny thing is, 98% of them have never been institutionalized or been on the meds, but have recently lost the concept that other people are around them, and can hear what they say loud and clear. The most recent siting of Bluetooth OLT was on 91st and 1st. "That fucking bitch. The bitch fucking dirties up my car. That's the last motherfucking time I'm fucking letting her use my car." Who are you talking to? I can't see the other side of your head. To me, your bat-shit crazy.




OLTs don't always have to be crazy. Some of the best quotes come from them. Two weeks ago there was 60 plus RVs full of of Hasidic Jews were in a caravan on 5th Ave.
Everyone was staring while walking their respective ways, when I turned the corner a young OLT said, "Son, dem niggas is deep." Exactly what I was thinking.

Coming Soon

Dear Prospective Wanderer,

This site is a collection of people I know and maybe you know. TransContinental acts as a portal for each of their thoughts, feelings, musings or whatever they feel like posting. Ideally, it's the musings of each of my friends in relation to where they're living right now (LA, New York, Miami; Antigua, Guatamala; Denver, Austin; San Fransico, maybe even Ames, Iowa.)

This is a site in progress. I would have one of those lame under contruction images, but I stopped doing that crap in '99, ya feel me?

Everyone has a story about something funny that happened to them in their city, and what they think is great. The hope is to bring all of my friend's great ideas, conversations, and passions into one site.

So, if you're reading this and you want to be a part of, or you got a great idea, then send it on down.

Jeffo