25 April 2009

Dying to be thin....

With all of these countless commercials and advertisements for diet remedies, followed by desperate resolutions to drop 10-20-30- even 40lbs and beyond (even I'm guilty!), I got to thinking about how God-damned lucky we are as Americans to even have that option. The above photograph (Nachtwey, 1993) depicts a starving woman suffering from the famine in Sudan and reflects that of many images and faces of millions of others just like her - all across the world! Universally, millions of people are dying for a crumb of bread; while as Americans, we aim to (as many diet books will tell you..) "cover half of your meal with a napkin to avoid picking at it and to eat smaller portions." But, where does that half uneaten meal go? It goes to decompose in a waste... you know, much like the wastelands millions of poverty-ridden human beings must not only reside in, but search through to find rotting morsels of food that even a maggot wouldn't touch - just to satisfy their hunger enough to survive just one more day! So, instead of dwelling on that trivial extra winter weight, picture those people starving around the world who would KILL to be pleasantly plump, rather than continue DYING to be thin.


Yacki's Track to Success, Pt. I

My mom gave birth to a calf. I weighed around 10 lbs. when I was born and it was difficult being a fat kid.

About 1 year old and able to hold an adult sized bowl of food.

Everyone gawks at the grossly chunky kid. None of my friends made fun of me (to my face), but I clearly recall this one time that everyone laughed hysterically when my ("friend") Alexander pulled down my gym sweatpants in the middle of the playground thereby exposing my grandma underwear and chubby legs. It was traumatizing.

This is me at age six with my only true friend, Ramona.

All the boys saw me as just a friend, but I wanted more. You might be wondering what an eight year old might have possibly known about dating. Here's some background: I was pretty much raised by my grandmother, who religiously tunes into Canal 41: Univision, a Hispanic channel that broadcasts some of the raunchiest soap operas. So, every birthday, I'd blow out my candles and wish for my papi chulo. My wishes didn't manifest themselves for a long, long time.

Why? Probably because I was a fatty. I wore size 11 jeans (at 5'2" then) and would soothe my insecurities by calling myself a curvaceous Latina (the only visible curves were the rolls on my torso). I began identifying myself as wholly Peruvian, and denied my Japanese descent for a few months. That transient phase ended after graduating middle school and entering high school where I found some White friends. My obsession with Lil' Wayne was replaced with one for the front man of Dashboard Confessional, Chris Carrabba.

Left: Lil' Wayne, Right: Chris Carrabba.

In my freshmen year of high school, I started taking better care of myself. I discovered make up and no longer looked like a little Asian boy in a dress.

This is me looking like a little Asian boy in a dress.

This was around the same time that my first boyfriend and I got together. Luckily, he wasn't a douche bag about my weight. I ended up giving rice (a key part of the Hispanic diet) and lost a few pounds, but still weighed around 155 lbs. I was fat and happy throughout high school until we broke up after three years of dating. I became a health fanatic and dropped to 130 lbs.

Unfortunately, the healthy mindset dissipated shortly after stepping into my current relationship. Luckily, my weight hasn't varied much from 130 lbs., but I'm FREAKING OUT now that summer's right around the corner. This happens every so often, especially when I want to procrastinate from things I should be focusing on (i.e. studying for my physical chemistry final that is in three days).

My goal for the next few weeks is to go down to 120 lbs.

My current statistics are as follows:
Height: 5'4"
Current Weight: 131 lbs.
Goal Weight: 120 lbs.
Frame: Medium

I have been keeping track of my calories for the past five days, and it was incredibly difficult for the first "three day hump" because I accidentally consumed a 700 calorie Mango Margarita from Blockheads that left me starving for actual nutrition. I intend on sharing some of my irrational fears, but mostly (I hope) interesting nutrition and biochemical facts with you guys.

Today's Lesson:
In my opinion, drinking light beer is futile. I discovered Heineken Light a few months ago through my best friend, and it was love at first taste, which was odd because I never really liked the taste of beer. However, Heinken Light had this almost soda like taste, which amused my soda-loving taste buds. Now, if you're out and about, dancing and drinking, you tend to want to get more and more inebriated as the night progresses. So, you purchase as many tasty beverages as necessary to get to this point. This amounts to several gratuitous dollars spent because turns out Heineken Light only has 3.5% alcohol content! This is false advertising, if you ask me. I can consume almost the same amount of ethanol from certain yogurts. So, go for shots, ladies. One shot (typically 1.5 oz) of most vodkas, gins, and whiskeys is about 95 calories and about 40% alcohol. You would have to purchase two Heineken Lights to consume this amount of alcohol, which is costing you about 200 calories, $14 (if each beer costs $6, +$1 tip/drink), a bloated tummy, and another fat roll. This applies to most light beers, which range from 3.5%-4% alcohol content.

Fifth Annual New York Round Table Writers’ Conference

Two weeks ago I received an email from the head of Baruch’s English department saying that they were sponsoring me to attend the New York Round Table Writers’ Conference. I hadn’t applied for it, and I didn’t know anything about it, but I figured that if Baruch wanted to blow some money on me, I might as well make the best of it.

The two-day conference began today. It’s taking place at the General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen on 44th Street and 5th Avenue in the City. The place is fucking grand. All of the sessions I attended were conducted in the library, where marble columns stretched four stories up, supporting a skylight that illuminates the atrium. Besides the library, the Society also housed a small museum exhibiting stuff donated by its members, like this old book about interracial sex in Korea:

As cool as the venue was, the first day of the conference was sort of a let down. Keep in mind that there were two sessions running simultaneously, so everything I attended was what I judged to be the better of the two.

9:15 – 10:30 Small but Mighty: Indie Publishing
Thankfully, I overslept and showed up late for this. The crowd, which on average was twenty years older than me, was only concerned with one thing: How do I sell my shit? Every bit of muffled advice from the panelists elicited salivating grunts--“What was the name of that agent? Can you repeat that website?” Is there anything sadder than a crowd of geriatrics hoping that the novel they’ve spent so long working on will finally be brought to life with a few words from a lineup of hardened insiders? Maybe the moments when audience members were embarrassingly close to soliciting the panelists right then and there over the microphone. The panelists were equally eager to hawk their own wares: books they had written, published, or were somehow monetarily connected to. It was basically a big circle jerk with everyone trying to get off.

11:00 – 12:15 Fiction Agents: A Novel Approach
What the fuck is “novel” about fiction agents? They’re necessary to get by the Gatekeepers, the essential avenue between your writing and publishers, and they’ve been there for a while. Fiction agents receive so many manuscripts and queries, which they affectionately refer to as the “slush pile,” that they’re forced to adopt cutthroat, Nazi-like tactics to manage. All four fiction agents openly admitted to unquestionably running with their prejudices. Whether it was incest, violence, or cancer, if they came across a manuscript containing something they had a personal—not literary or professional—aversion to, it was out.

2:00 – 3:15 Fiction Editors: Champions of the Story
Fiction editors are constantly reading and working, except when they’re having lunch meetings, which seems to be often. Also, eloquence is not a prerequisite to becoming a fiction editor. They don’t want to read about the same thing again, but want something familiar. According to them, everything is actually much better than the way it sounds when they’re explaining it to you. It was during this discussion that I realized that the business side of literature is mind-numbingly boring at best, and soul-crushing at worst.

3:45 – 5:00 The Technofile: Online Writing and Blogging
I was looking forward to this discussion because it had the most immediate relevancy to me and the panel, which included editors from the Huffington Post and MediaBistro, seemed knowledgeable. Unfortunately, my expectations only left me that much more disappointed. The problem was that 90% of the audience admitted to being “newbies to blogging” (i.e. didn’t know jack shit about it). So instead of receiving insights from experienced professionals, the entire session was reduced to Blogging 101. During the Q & A, I realized that old people fail to comprehend the interwebs. They are way too concerned with copyrights, royalties, and other such bullshit. There were three separate questions about trivial legal issues concerning blogs.

All bitching aside, I actually did learn a few things. (8 out of 10 readers are women; a majority of published books are failures, in terms of copies sold; it is widely believed that an unusually large amount of blogs are dedicated to cats doing cute things.) I have another 9 to 5 day of sessions tomorrow. I guess that even if those are filled with more useless bullshit, there’s still a cocktail reception afterward so I can get Baruch’s $350 worth in booze.

Fatty of the week...

Is that a cancerous tumor on her left breast, or is her nipple just happy to see me?

23 April 2009

Hottie of the Week

Sometimes the sex appeal lies within the smile, and so I give you Chanel Iman.

21 April 2009

Giving Up on Going Down

Remember my earlier post and how I spent the entire day thinking about sex while trying to study. Well it happened again and this time it started as soon as I got to work. Lana later experienced ovarian blues and I apologized profusely. But what can I do? It seems now a days, she keeps being part of a bargain she has no gain in. One of which we both don’t win.

You can take this as a rant or whatever, but I’m taking back my gift. My close friends had been right, I am extremely generous and for what? For nothing I tell you. I’m referring to the gift of giving succulent mind numbing oral. I know it is a bit skanky on my part, but it’s something I enjoy doing on the right person. It gives me a weird satisfaction of knowing I can make you scream my name and leave you shaken and out of breath. In fact I get so into it turns me on because I’m expecting the same in return. Instead the guy either falls asleep like a baby from exhaustion or wants to have sex. What’s the problem you say? The problem is the fact that in the end I have yet to climax like you motherfucker. And there I am left alone still pining for more sex. The past two years have been like an inescapable nightmare.

At first I thought maybe I just have a hard time getting off but after countless bathroom conversations with random drunken ladies and reading numerous scholarly articles it seems to be more of a global problem. It seems to me that most guys that don’t know how to get a lady off, and don’t bother learning. For starters, fore play is so necessary to get things going because if you look at the facts it generally takes longer for a woman to reach that orgasmic bliss that makes sex worth it. Penetration can only take you so far, and I meant that literally because it takes one person where they want to go and that is the dude. Ladies need that clitoral stimulation, or at least a vibrating cock ring.

What’s more of a global problem is the fact that men are receiving without giving. So I say you join me in this protest and don’t give until you receive! Now these sexual conversations always tend to make an appearance at small gatherings, or are of topic amongst my male peers and it seems they avoid it because they don’t like fish. Seems to me they’ve had a bad experience or have yet to get an acquired taste. Let’s not forget that spunk doesn’t taste like a bowl of cold stone birthday cake concoction either.

I can’t speak on behalf of how other ladies tend to themselves, but I can and will speak for myself. I am low or no maintenance to hang with and expect the same from my friends and crushes, but when it comes to my body I am on top of my game. Brazilian waxes, kiegels, cute underwear, showering, exercise, healthy eating, and doctor visits to give me the satisfaction of knowing I’m clean. True some of these things I picked up from having to dress in front of strangers at runway shows and swimsuit gigs, but it only made me more aware of myself and damn baby I look and smell good! So why would “he” missed out on such an opportunity to make me red. I mean there is a reason why my daily uniform consists of skirts and dresses.

As I wrote this on the train a fellow lady lurker sitting next to me agreed. Sort of creepy, but it proves my point of how we are not receiving equal treatment. For that reason I will no longer use my DSL to head downtown if I don’t get it first. I’m pretty sure I can go a long time with no problems.

Another qualm I do have but I’ll give some slack for are those guys who do go down, and fail so miserably. A for effort, but F for sucking badly. It’s called eating out for a reason, so baby get a lil’ dirty and bon apetit. That’s all I have to say about that.

I don’t want to fall in love with you; I just want some good satisfaction. And then maybe I’ll fall in love with you.

So for those of you guys who want to do something right for the world I urge you all to start practicing, or read up on this. There is so much information you all severely lack, excluding Canada.

If you want us to go down in the darkness of a cheap movie theater, you got to realize that if we proceed to place our bare knees on sticky popcorn littered theater floor we do expect something in return.

And please MAN UP.

“Call before you come, I need to shave my chocha, go downtown, eat it like a vulture”. –Missy Elliot

Please note: Sex and the Cyber City are on vacation temporarily.

16 April 2009

Objects Imbued

I feel like there are two types of genius. There's the kind that produces outstanding insights and innovations that are so far beyond what the ordinary person could grasp that you sort of just step back and say, "Damn, that's pretty fucking crazy." Then there's the kind that results from shrewd observation, resourcefulness, and creative application. In these cases, you sort of slap your head in astonishment and cry, "Why the fuck didn't I think of that?" (Think of Warhol's soup cans, or I Remember by Joe Brainard.) Important Artifacts and Personal Property from the Collection of Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris falls definitively into the second category.

When I first came across the "auction guide," I began flipping through it, trying to figure out why someone would attend an auction for two no-names like Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris. (In all honesty, I was hoping to glean who these people were, thereby making myself seem a bit more knowledgeable of the going-ons of the literati.) I was surprised to find the guide filled with average, even worthless paraphernalia: Polaroids of scant artistic value, unremarkable articles of clothing, salt and pepper shakers. Confused, I examined the back cover. It included quotes from Dave Eggers and Amy Sedaris. Wait, what? Then it dawned on me: This is a novel. Well, maybe not a novel in the traditional sense, but there's a fucking story being told through these auctioned sunglasses and hotel key cards and scarves. How very...novel.

The real danger in working with such a idea is it turning into a gimmick. It isn't enough to shout out, "HEY, LOOK AT THIS WEIRD IDEA I HAD! ISN'T IT COOL? AREN'T I SMART?" Rather, you have to prove its worth. You have to say, "Look what I can do with this." And author Leanne Shapton does indeed do something. Over 129 pages, Shapton uses photographs of the items being auctioned (sometimes photographs themselves) and short, mechanical descriptions of them to tell the story of Doolan, a young journalist at The New York Times, and Mooris, an older free-lance photographer. And Shapton's entertaining creativity is present through and through. We glean through the descriptions explaining each lot, that Doolan had given Mooris Scrabble letters spelling out "Thank You" after he had given her a shirt. In an unfinished correspondence to a friend, which is also being auctioned, Mooris explains that when he initially received the Scrabble letters, he couldn't figure out the message, arriving at "okay hunt," "a hunk toy," and "yank thou" before finally getting it right.

Although you are sometimes left wondering how realistic it would be to auction some of the items (after all, who wants a used razor?), Shapton's desired effect still comes through. Examining Doolan and Mooris' correspondences, photographs and gifts to one another, you follow the story of their relationship. Their chance encounter at a mutual friend's Halloween party, the honeymoon period of near obsessive infatuation, the specter of lovers past, the strains of an often long-distance relationship, the crushing weight of their professional careers on their personal lives--it all comes through in vivid detail.

Every minuet detail presented by Shapton allows you to read pages into the story. Because the story cannot straightforwardly be told, you're forced to play detective, trying to put the pieces together to figure out what's really going on. You quickly get caught up in the evidence: "Okay, that umbrella belongs Hugh. Flip a few pages back. Okay, Hugh is Doolan's ex-boyfriend. Flip forward. The description says he left it at her house. Wait, does that mean they slept together? Oh man, and Mooris is using the same umbrella in that photo!" It is nothing short of engrossing.

Shapton even manages to thoroughly develop her character's personalities via the guide. Doolan's travel bag containing Wellbutrin and her obsessive notes on the day's meals and events, which are often scrawled on the inside of her reading material, paint the portrait of a troubled, yet dedicated woman. Mooris' planner, which includes his appointments with a relationship counselor and lyrics to the song he was listening to at the time, indicates a man incapable of commitment, growing older yet remaining childish and becoming increasingly unsure of what he wants from life.

Although the relationship depicted in Important Artifacts isn't very compelling (it follows a sort of typical plotline, which may be more of a universal theme than a commonplace relationship, but that's for you to decide), Shapton's ingenuity keeps you hooked. Inspecting and trying to understand people from their possessions isn't something many people outside of anthropologists often do, but it's a fascinating endevour. After reading Shapton's "guide" you walk away with the feeling that mere objects are more than just that, that they are the artifacts and currency of a relationship and even when that relationship dies, the objects remain, imbued with a type of power still observable.

MSTRKRFT Live at Webster Hall

Stephen Vasquez of One and Only Productions sent us these clips from the MSTRKRFT show that went down a few weeks ago. It's part of a larger documentary Stephen's working on called Electro Wars, which captures "electro DJs doing what they do best."

15 April 2009

Short Story

This is the beginning, thoughts and comments are welcome.

He sits inside his studio. On the floor, cross-legged, with his head cocked slightly to the right. He imagines his eyes are able to see through the different layers of paint and he visualizes the different steps, the other images buried underneath the topsoil of his finished work. Or at least as close as he gets to finished, he’s never said he’s been finished with a piece. He has sold unfinished pieces and has no problem with that, but he’s never called something finished, he just gets bored. His latest is a remake of a Garfield comic strip. It’s painted diagonally across a canvas the size of his wall. Jon is replaced with portraits of the past three popes. Garfield is a carefully reproduced baby with a nosebleed. The baby is identical in all three panels, except for one where he messed up the hand a little bit.
He hates it when people ask him to explain his work. Understanding is dominance. It is psychological rape. It’s all about sex and power and massaging one’s ego. At least that’s what he thinks. Though he has painted over the word bubbles about twelve times and each time painted the exact same words, he feels compelled to do so again. He thinks about Koons’s pink panther. How society is maturing. How we have been running on the same track since the Paleolithic. Perhaps the Garfield baby should also have a broken arm, a piece of bone just barely poking out the paper-thin skin of its fragile little forearm. Maybe.
Jon doesn’t seem like that bad of a guy, but do you know any single man that has both a cat and a dog? Of course not. It just doesn’t happen. This whole thing is ridiculous. It’s all based on a lie. He stands up to rip the thing off the wall and throw it to the ground. He rises, gripping a stool but his right leg fails him. It's fallen asleep. He sucks air in between his teeth as he just barely touches the tip of his big toe to the ground. The drive to destroy has stalled completely. A figure stands in the middle of a room with no more furniture than a stool and some easels, the silhouette shifts slightly leaning more and more back to its center of gravity. The sound of rattling comes from the other room. Plastic resounds against wood followed by a crash. He hobbles over and finds his phone on the floor. He unlocks the screen and navigates to the message icon hopping impatiently in the corner.
"You owe me a new set of silverware, Pete."
The question, the obvious one resulting from this text message, is what did Pete do to his friend, Chris's silverware? Pete was troubled by the fact that he did not really have an answer to that. He recalled many things from last night. His already somewhat drunken stumble to the bar down the street. Getting thrown out of the bar for groping what looked like a woman from behind. He did get in a fight somewhere, with someone, which explains the bruising and the cuts, but what about the burns on his forearm and fingers? Surely, they weren't there yesterday. The welts were swollen and pink. He prodded the fluid-filled pouches of flesh with his index finger. The resistance was both pleasant and somewhat painful. As the backlight for his cellphone turned off, he noticed his reflection. One eye looked like it was gangrenous. How did he miss all of this when he washed his face this morning? Did he? The first thing he remembers today is sitting cross-legged in the studio. Fuck.
He starts getting dressed. A lack of clean clothes is nothing new. Everything he owns is paint-stained. Sometimes he worries that he is too stereotypical. His shoes are slipped onto his feet, which are slipped out the door, which is shut after the feet have slipped outside. He stares at his feet as they navigate the steps and attempts to untangle his thoughts. Pete looks up to see his neighbor. In his mind they both stop on the spot, they stare deeply and longingly into each others eyes. He would say exactly what she needed to hear. He would know what that would be. She would grab his arm and he would pull her in close. They would just stand in each others embrace, eyes clenched closed, teeth gnashed, their hearts trying to break through their chests. And just as the joy would build to intolerable levels he walks into the deli. A familiar bell rings somewhere behind him.
"Petey! What can I get you?" a fat, older gentleman behind a six-foot-high counter smiles impossibly widely at Pete.
"Just..." he fumbles through his pockets and pulls out a wad of papers, "I'll have a..." receipts, post-its, torn looseleaf, no money though. "I don't seem to have any money on me. Heh, do you think I could put a sandwich on my tab?"
His smile shrinks and warps into a tight, straight line between two pale lips. "Sorry, but this ain't no bar, buddy, we don't really do tabs around here."
Pete pleads, "C'mon, you know me Mike, I live down the block, I'm here every day."
"Well then go back down the block and get some money, sorry kid."
Defeated and malnourished, he exits the deli and the bell rings again, signifying his failure to provide for his own basic needs.

13 April 2009

Darlene's Fix

Darlene and I enjoy a tall, frosty whiskey & beer.

I've known Darlene a long time, almost ten years. Somewhere along the way, we got into the routine of trading music. Well, it was mostly me sending her music. I think it was due to her having a 56K connection up until last week, me having high-speed, and our musical tastes being pretty similar.

Recently, she was bemoaning the fact that I'm never on AIM anymore, and thus haven't sent her any music in awhile. Since she's told me this, I've been running into one song after another that I know she'd love. So I started feeling guilty and posted it all below for everyone to enjoy.

Chromeo - Call Me Up (Bag Raiders remix)

09 April 2009

Pick Up Line of the Week!

I live in Lefrak City (not actually a city, but a few buildings) and up until now did I realize it was sort of ghetto.

I was speed walking down the sidewalk with my face pointed down. Until...

Guy: Damn baby girl you are so beautiful! I would take you to Las Vegas and marry you if I only had a ring. But I'm poor because of the economy.

It was hilarious and I laughed very loudly, but continued to speedwalk home. You never know what could happen in the ghetto.

08 April 2009

Odds and Ends from Last Night

Oh, c'mon. Either the bottom one should have a fender bender or the top one should be engulfed in flames.

This was duct-taped to the Parks Department placard at Tompkins Square Park. Apparently, junkies have funerals.

I guess schools in the L.E.S. are prepping kids for kung-fu tournaments.

07 April 2009

Cute Couple of the Week

Dolores Fonzi & Gael Garcia Bernal

Celebrity SCOOP: They just had a baby.

Oh, Gael...you're so drea...*drool*...I mean, congrats on having a beautiful baby boy!

Follow the Leader! Goes to 66Sick, Again

Although most colleges' spring breaks have come and gone, CUNY's begins tomorrow. To celebrate, we're going to our perennial Tuesday night hangout, Happy Ending, where 66Sick will be raging with its usual dance floor antics, free vodka, and no cover.

Tuesday, April 7th to Wednesday, April 8th.

Time: 10 PM to 4 AM.

Location: Happy Endings
302 Broome Street

Price: Free.

Drinks: Free house vodka cocktails from 11 PM to 12 AM; $3 Pabst Blue Ribbon all night; easy to sneak in booze, dark enough on the dance floor to enjoy it.

Music: No-names (DJs Micprobes, Peter High, and Dimitry) spinning sets heavy on the electro with some pop thrown in for good flavor. A few of songs I've heard there are...

The Ting Tings - Shut Up and Let Me Go
IAMX - Spit It Out (Designer Drugs remix)
Stardust - Music Sounds Better with You (Discotech remix)

Crowd: A mix of young hipsters and Euro-trash; free booze means they're drunk as Hell, but doesn't ensure that they'll dance; downstairs tends to be a fire hazard as midnight (i.e. last call for free vodka) approaches; after that the crowd thins out a little, but things never really die down; in the off-chance that the lower level doesn't please, just walk upstairs to Disco Down on the ground level and discover a whole 'nother party.

ID: 21+, but they are more harsh with guys; the first time I went Olek almost didn't get in because the photo on his ID was taken ages ago and doesn't really look like him anymore; on the other hand, Kat was using a friend's ID and got in no problem; government issued only.

Coat Check: They have it, but I'm unsure of the price; every time I go I just stay my stuff into the seating-area cubicles.

Directions: F train to Delancey; walk four blocks West on Delancey until you hit Eldridge; walk one block South to Broome; turn East on Broome; Happy Endings is near the corner; it still has the red awning of the location's former Chinese massage parlor.

Angels and Kings
500 East 11th Street & Avenue A
No cover; free vodka from 10:30 to 11:30

A few photos from last time:

06 April 2009

New Artist Alert: White Lies

[Big ups to Stephen Vasquez for prompting this post.]

Although their debut album, To Lose My Life, has topped the charts and everyone from BBC Radio 1 to NME have been singing their praises, the hype surrounding White Lies seems a bit undeserved. They're a trio from London who make mediocre alternative rock. They occasionally sound like lesser versions of celebrated bands: unexperimental Joy Division; Franz Ferdinand minus the dance; Muse without the impetus. Their songs feature energetic, though sometimes inappropriate, repetitive drumming. The lead vocalist can sound hollow, and his guitar work is nothing special. The bassist is alright, though his sound never really varies. Many of their songs also feature synths, though they do little more than add a harmonic backdrop and thus feel tacked on. They're are pretty good when they finally kick out the stops, which is usually during the last minute of a song after a melodic build up. Then the vocalist's voice really shimmers, the guitar and bass fall inline with the drums, and the synths--well, they sort of disappear, but that's probably for the best. The only problem is that it often takes White Lies so long to get to that sweet spot that most of the song has already passed in a forgetable haze.

Although White Lies' music might be negligible on its own terms, there are a few DJs who have done some interesting stuff with it. Yuksek, who you may remember from last Saturday, transformed "Farewell to the Fairground" into a great electro banger. Filthy Dukes also managed to inject some life into "To Lose My Life," which they molded into a poppy dance tune. Generally speaking, the remixes are much more memorable than White Lies' orginal material.

White Lies - Farewell to the Fairground
White Lies - Farewell to the Fairground (Yuksek remix)
White Lies - To Lose My Life
White Lies - To Lose My Life (Filthy Dukes remix)

02 April 2009

Sex and the Cyber City: The Date Update--Nunca Mas.

As promised, I have the story of my very first internet-based date. It was all that and a bag of chips--stale, disgusting, 25 cent chips that left the taste of vomit in my mouth.

So I met "Corey" inside of Penn Station. He called my cellphone and said he was walking towards me. I got excited since the guy that was walking towards me was tall and very good looking. You should have seen my face when that guy walked right past me, and I was left staring at my real date. He was around my height, plain, and a bit chubby with man boobs. I was quickly thinking of excuses that would ensure a quick getaway.

I couldn't do it. He seemed so genuinely excited about finally meeting me, so I had to go with plan B. I had to get drunk to somewhat enjoy this and not care about being seen with him. Lucky for me it was St. Patty's day, so getting drunk was not difficult. I also wanted him to realize that I was a party girl. For some reason, if you tell a guy you like to go out, dance, and party, they seem to lose all interest. That failed miserably.

So off we went to the place most likely to be able to have a full on conversation: an Irish Pub in Midtown. He couldn't hang and started to whine that we wouldn't be able to chat (duh!), so we left to another Irish Pub around the corner, where I made the b-line straight to the bar and ordered myself an Irish car bomb. We had a chat, and he is way too into zombies and anime for my liking. I wish I wasn't so drunk I would delightfully tell you about his horror flick based on how trees come alive and eat people. Sorry, I have boozed brain. He reminded me way too much of my brother. He doesn't enjoy going out that much, doesn't find enjoyment in dancing to good DJs. That's when I brought out the stories that revolved around me doing drugs in public and going out nearly every night. He brought up the fact that he likes to smoke a doobie every so often and chill at his dorm, and that we have to smoke together when I come to visit him. When he mentioned that I had to quickly claim that I can no longer smoke.

Thankfully, I had an English class which needed attending, so I left. He asked me to skip it to have a late lunch with him, but I politely declined and stumbled my way to Hunter. I have slowly cut off communication with him and realized I do have higher standards for myself. "Matches.com," you have failed me, and I will never use your services ever again.

01 April 2009

Drunk bitches are awesome.

He notices, as any young male is often apt to do, a young female attempting to shout at the man behind a four foot tall wall, two record players spinning records at regular speeds and the classic one ear on, one off headphone combination. He shrugs his shoulders, suggesting he does not understand her. She redoubles her efforts screaming loudly, spilling a small amount of liquid out of her glass. The man behind the wall nods and gives the thumbs up sign. Having already decided on a course of action, he walks up to the wall after the girl has walked away and he asks, "Hey, I'm a drunk bitch! Can you play my favorite song?" The forty year old with uneven headphones laughs and replies, "But you don't have tits!" He rises on his toes, grabs his torso and with all his strength presses his chest towards his solar plexus. He looks to see an amused DJ nodding and giving him a thumbs up. That was when he realized, he was a drunk bitch.