- Parkour / Freerunning
- Urban Exploration (ties into Parkour)
- Cooking Show
- Capture the Flag with homemade flags (Summer Tournament)
- Some kind of pet service
- Making Halloween costumes
- Modern Art
- Making babies (ties into Modern Art)
- Repairing my moped
- Fake Murder?
- Starting a cult (already have a base, just need to formalize system)
- Martial Arts/Dojo
- Flash Mobs
- Mural in my apartment/on my walls
- Old Chocolate Projects
- Restaurant based around Old Italian Women (O.I.W.s)
- Photography Comic
- Silent Film (get Sean to compose score)
- Mouse(computer)/Car Bedazzling
- Getting Jobs/Making Money
- Arkady's Glow in the Dark Bike
- Comedy Troupe
- Party on Arkady's Roof (huge parties)
- Welding two bikes together
- Blog about chip shapes
27 May 2009
26 May 2009
(817): I woke up this morning and I couldn't find my coffeetable. wtf?
(248): apparently they started giving me water shots and i couldnt tell the difference
(734): i was shrooming and she was sobbing. i was trying to be sympathetic, but i could see the veins working like worms under her skin. and then her face stripped down to the muscle.
(1-734): what was she crying about?
(734): i wanna say it was the lack of skin on her face but maybe she lost her job.
(972): I'm scared
(337): There's nothing to be scared of. My penis is average size.
(972): That's what I'm afraid of
(540): I just got a ticket for shitting on a sand dune.
P.S. There's a conspicous lack of 646 and 917 area codes on this site. I think we should correct that.
22 May 2009
Congrats on your 100th post.
Crystal Castles are my fave of all these bands though. Their songs don't get old. Crimewave & Untrust Us have been hits for like, 3 years now.
I deleted my La Roux & Ladyhawke mp3s after 1 month.
May 12, 2009 2:50 AM
Considering the above comment, I realized that judging music is a lot like judging prospective relationships. Stay with me here: basically, all musicians fall somewhere on the exact same continuum as relationships. On one side of this spectrum you have the people you would never, ever even hook-up with. No matter how many drinks you have, it just isn't going to happen. Musically, this zone is dedicated to Lady Gaga, Akon and country music. The opposite end of this is marriage material. These are the people you're picking out curtains with and giving up blow for.
According to this rubric, Phoenix, a four-piece alternative rock band, falls into the "fling" category. (No homo.) Although there's definitely space for unflattering comparisons to other soft rock bands, like Maroon 5, Phoenix would be more appropriate alongside Chromeo because they're both so fucking smooth. Whereas Chromeo sweeps women off their feet while laying down the funk like later-day Stevie Wonders, Phoenix are a couple of white kids sitting in their suburban basement listening to soul records on repeat.
They're soon releasing their fifth album (really "New Artist," I know), and if listening through all their music featured on their MySpace is any indication, they had quite a few misses leading up to it. A few of the songs are forgettable, if not straightup bad. The songs where they really shine feature soft guitar melodies, funky bass lines, simple, danceable drum beats and swooning vocals. Sparse synthesizer and violin tones are small details that really polish off these songs. And though their smoothness might be chalked up to the fact that they're French, it's hard to believe because they don't sound French. The vocals lack even a hint of that accent that sounds like someone trying to speak while choking on a frog.
Overall, Phoenix has a few really great tracks, but it isn't a band to dedicate yourself to. It's a fling. So have fun with it while it lasts, 'cause that might not be long.
Phoenix - If I Ever Feel Better (mp3)
21 May 2009
Pete finds that his phone is a much better source for information on the events of the past few days than his mind. Text messages, photos, call logs, addresses he searched, it's all there. He tries to focus, but can't. The letters smear themselves across the screen when he attempts to make them out. Coffee. That was the solution. Some caffeine would get his brain kick started. He sets out his kettle and dumps some instant into a mug. At his table he starts going through his phone. Ok, Anjela is the first question. Who is she? He checks his voice mail. “You have one unheard message. 'Hey Pete, it's Anjela. I just wanted to call up and like... you know, thank you for this sculpture. It's really beautiful. This may be the coolest gift I've ever received from a man I've known for two days. Call me back.' Next old message. 'Peter, it's your mother. Your father and I have been getting really worried about you. You don't call and there's all this talk of terrorism and I just don't know what to think. Call me back, sweetheart.' Next old message. 'PEEEETE!! FUCKING HELL MAN! It's Jamey! Where are you? We got the- (unintelligible garbled speech) You gotta get down here man! Gimme a ring when you get this!' Next old message. 'Good afternoon Mr. Sartinger, I am calling on behalf of the library. You rented out quite a few films and they are now past due. To avoid incurring penalties-'” Pete hangs up and rests his forehead against his palm.
He almost falls asleep resting on his arm but the kettle begins to whistle. He pours water into the mug and watches black, boiling coffee come climbing up. No milk in the fridge. No sugar in the cupboard. He stares hard at the hot, black liquid and feels it stare back. Steam comes rolling of it and tiny droplets cling to his face. He attempts to absorb the caffeine through his skin. With that failing, he sips at the acidic beverage. Back at his chair, he goes through the messages. The one from Anjela, he takes another look and finds that she is not wholly unattractive. Definitely not classically beautiful, but strangely attractive. Her face is kind of round but her skin clings to her bones as if they were shrink-wrapped. If he had to guess, he would put her in the area of 5% body fat. Her hair shows signs of being dyed, multiple times and then ignored, so now her roots, which are black, are showing. Her hazel eyes stare directly into the camera and it's all done from this teeny-bopper myspace angle. A thought pops into his head: he can't really tell how old she is. She could be anywhere from 16 to 20. And he could have committed a crime by doing whatever he assumes he did with her. He blurts out, “O, fuck my shitty mind!”
Cy peaks out through his door and catches Pete's eye. He asks, “Whats the problem man?” Pete turns his phone towards Cy's direction, “I think I may have fucked a teenager.” He smiles and walks across the hall, through Pete's open door and takes the phone from his hand. Cy's eyes grow wide. He whistles a prolonged whistle that slowly trails off, the kind you hear from bystanders right after you clip a guy's fender in the local super market parking lot. “Jesus man, she looks fifteen.” Pete buries his head further into his folded arms. “Well, maybe you didn't and even if you did... well maybe no one will find out.” Pete can do nothing but groan. The room is silent for a few seconds and then Cy asks, “Pete, why do you owe Chris a new set of silverware?” Pete lifts his head and grabs his phone back, “Don't go through my messages! And I'm not really sure.” Cy turns around and starts to walk out, “Alright man, feel better, drink some of that coffee and think about laying off the booze for a day or two, this lifestyle is getting right on top of you.” He closes the door behind him and Pete is left alone in his kitchen, a phone in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.
The phone shakes in his hand and Pete almost throws it to the table. He composes himself and checks the caller. The screen reads “Unlisted Number” and nothing else. He clicks it on and warily asks, “Hello?” A deep male voice that suggests advanced years responds, “Hello, is Mary there?” Pete looks at the screen again and puts the phone back to his ear. “Um, no, I think you have the wrong number.” The older man says, “No, no, no, this is the right number, I'm sure. Could you just tell her that I was at the pharmacy and... and my insurance was turned down and I can't get my prescriptions.” Pete says, “Uh, sir, listen, I don't know any Mary, well, I mean I do know a Mary, though this probably isn't your Mary... What I'm trying to say is that you called my cell phone and there's no Mary here.” Notes of desperation come clawing through the phone speaker. “Could you please just tell her that I need to get this fixed? She knows I need my prescriptions.” “Ok, sir, I'll tell her.” “Thanks, just tell her-” The phone is off and lying on the table. He stares at this reminder of his inability to remember, this fountain of fucked up. He leaves it on the table and takes his coffee to the living room. After sipping at it for a few moments, he is overcome with the need to sleep. Within a minute he is snoring soundly, curled among dirty clothes, a throw pillow and a few magazines at his feet.
A streetlight shines directly into his window and onto his face. He rolls over and faces the back of the couch, but it was enough to get him thinking in a vague way of waking up. Thoughts roll around in his head as if they were made of cold, slightly congealed soup. Eventually they collect at the bottom and he might be able to fall back asleep. One thought stands up in the back of his head, the nagging recollection that he has no idea where he's been or what he has been doing for the past few days. A rush of energy and determination flows through his limbs and chest. He sits up, the dark corners of his apartment seem to beg his eyes to adjust to the light, to discover their secrets. He knows they hold nothing enlightening, no revelations, but his pupils grow wide anyway.
He walks in the dark attempting to remember the location of everything in his house and stubs his toe on a laundry basket. With the light switched on he grabs his phone, determined to discover what the hell is wrong with him. He calls Chris, “This is Chris, leave a message.” “Hey, what did I do with your silverware? I may have been a bit drunk.” He calls Anjela. “Hey, Pete. I thought you weren't going to call me back.” Pete shifts in his seat. “Yeah sorry about that, what's up?” “Oh nothing, drinking a gin and tonic, reading this book. I was thinking about what you said the other night.” He winced, “You're going to have to be more specific than that. I say a lot of things. Or at least enough for that to not be enough information to identify the exact thing you're talking about.” She said, “Oh no, I guess nothing specific, just what you said about art and love... and age.” Pete thought to himself, “Shit,” but said, “Hey, I have a weird question. When did we first meet?” Anjela was silent for a while, Pete imagined what the question might suggest to a normal person, “Hmm, three days ago. Monday. Why do you ask? You can't remember?” “No, no, nothing like that. Say, we should meet up for a drink.” She asks, “The same place?” He says, “Mmm, I don't know.” “I thought you loved Walker's Pub.” “Ok, fine, Walker's. Meet you there in half an hour?” She says, “Sure Pete. See you soon.” She makes what could be interpreted as a kissing noise and hangs up.
Pete stands up and takes stock of himself in a mirror. His filthy, greasy, bruised and cut face stares back at him through the mirror. His lips turn down and he walks to the bathroom. Undressing, a large blotch on his stomach catches his eye. A gasp leaves his lips as he looks in the mirror. Arabic. Half the Koran seems to be written on his stomach. He stares at his stomach and back into his own eyes. He does goes back and forth for about five minutes until he remembers his meeting with Anjela. He gently washes his belly even though there is no real tenderness in the area. Washed and dried he dresses and steps out of his building. The night air is hot and slightly humid. The water he missed with the towel now clings to his skin for dear life. Walker's is only a few blocks away.
Entering the pub, silence falls on the normally lively, if not raucous, establishment. Pete looks around at familiar faces, “What?” Walker, whose real name is Carl Sampson, says, “You have a lot of balls walking back in here. Tell me why I shouldn't kick your ass right now?” Pete stares back, “Because... because we're friends?” Carl, who only let's you call him Walker, steps out from behind the bar and slams the bar top back down when he passes through. His thick arm slides behind Pete's back and walks him to the game room in the back. There is extremely sloppy (though he can only real compare it to his tattoo) Arabic scrawled across the walls in red. Tables are broken and there seems to have been a camp out on top of the pool table. The smell of burnt plastic permeates the air. “Walker, now I didn't... I mean who did this?” Walker's eyes pierce Pete's very soul, “You. You and some fucked up Middle Eastern-looking mother-fucker. You two did this. Now tell me why I'm not ripping your balls off and force-feeding you them? Tell me that, Petey.” Pete stammers out, “Because we're old friends?” Walker responds, “Not no more, Petey. Not no more. Now do you want to pay for this damage in cash or flesh? I'm flexible, and since we're old friends, I'll let you decide.” “C-c-cash. Definitely cash. I'll pay you back for this, Walker. I swear it. I fucking swear it.” Pete is learning quickly to handle these little shit storms his drunken self has left around town. “Walker, man, I can't remember anything. I think someone slipped me some PCP or some shit.” Walker is incredulous, “You can't slip someone PCP, Pete.” Pete steps back, “Listen, I'll pay for this. Don't worry. Did you by any chance catch the name of the guy I was with?”
Walker lights up a cigarette, “No, I didn't catch his name, you two ran out the back and hopped the fence when I came in. It was fucking 5 AM. You two broke in here and set my god damn bar on fire. If you didn't make all that god damn noise, I could have burnt to death in my sleep upstairs. If I knew his name he wouldn't be alive, and you would be in jail, you little fuck, if I hadn't known you for the past three years.” He exhales a cloud of smoke dramatically and Pete becomes weak in the knees. The room spins clockwise and he slumps against the wall. “Pete, you ok?” Walker's sausage-like fingers reach out for Pete's shoulder, but he slumps further down until his ass smacks into the hardwood floor. “Pete? Pete, are you -”
The world flashes in an out, two or three times a second as if the bar was suddenly a rave or a shitty basement party. Walker's giant, round face is hovering above him and his mouth forms a crooked smile, “Pete, it looks like life is beating the shit out of you for me.” He hands Pete a glass of water. Most of the bar patrons stand around him in a circle and watch him drain the glass. Pete doesn't even try to talk. He stares at the ground and notices red paint splatter all over the floor. His stomach is performing acrobatics in his torso. The world is way too bright. He vomits on someone's shoes. Someone grabs him under the arms. The floor moves underneath him. He's dropped unceremoniously at the curb.
Once Pete collects himself, he sits up and scans the street. Cigarette butts and candy wrappers. He groans out something that sounds like “Shit.” From behind him a high-pitched, feminine voice says, “Hi, Pete.” He spins around and sees what must be Anjela. She looks different with a majority of her clothes on. She's wearing pink and black striped thigh-high socks, short black shorts and a black Devestaor's t-shirt. Her hair is a short, messy bob with several colors running through it. She's wearing too much eye-liner and black lip stick. Her face betrays obvious concern, “Pete, you look like shit... and I mean worse than usual. Are you ok?” Pete stands up, falters, and leans against a post, “Yeah, no, I'm good.” She asks “Are you drunk?” He shakes his head emphatically, “No, no, just feeling a bit... I don't know, sick, I guess.” When Pete stands, he notices that maybe she's five feet tall, if that. Her tiny hand reaches up and massages his shoulder. She could be his daughter. Pete's mind races, how the hell can he get rid of this girl as soon as possible? She says, “Let's go inside and sit down.” Panic flashes across his face and quickly disappears, “No! No, I mean no let's go somewhere else. This place cards. I mean let's just go somewhere else.” She smiles, “I have a fake ID if that's a problem.” He shakes his head, “No, it's not, I just don't want to go here.” Her face, posture, the air around her seems to grow angry, “What are you embarrassed of me? I'm going in.” He grabs her arm and pulls her back. She says, “Listen, I'm going in there and there's nothing you can do to-” He kisses her on the mouth and instantly regrets it. After a few seconds he begins to enjoy it. Then regrets it again. He starts enjoying it again but she pulls away before he can cycle between lust and disgust a third time.
“Did you just throw up?” Her eyes are accusatory. “Mmm, kind of, sorry.” She smiles, “It's ok. You want to go home and clean up a little bit? You really do look like hell.” He doesn't want to think about what he looked like before the shower. “Yeah, my place, sure.” He was all too pleased to get out of that situation, but now he's bringing a teenage girl to his apartment. He prayed that none of his neighbors were around to see this. They crept up the stairs to his apartment and he stuck his key into the already unlocked door. He let her in and shut the door quietly behind them. “Oooh, nice place, Pete. Is this your studio?” She goes skipping into his studio. Pete mutters below his breath, “Oh please, for the love of God, please don't skip.” He speaks up, “I'm going to shower and change, ok?” From somewhere in the back of his apartment he can hear her practically sing, “Oooh-kaaay.” He grabs some reasonably clean clothes and steps into his bathroom. The front of his shirt is covered in watery vomit. As he scrubs himself for the second time in an hour all he could think was a single word, fuck. He would repeat it as a mantra. After a while of cursing, he hears a knock on the door. “Pete, what are you doing in there?” He shouts back, “Nothing, I'm almost done.” She replies, “Want me to help?” “No! I'm fine. Really.” He washes off any remaining soap and starts drying himself off. His mantra runs through his head at incredible speed. He should be planning an exit strategy, but he's too nervous and to be honest, horny, to think of anything else.
He steps out of the bathroom and she's sitting at his counter, sipping at a beer she found in his fridge. He hates himself for feeling attracted to her. She stands up, walks over to him and wraps her arms around his neck. He feels how small she is, how fragile, and can't bring himself to throw her out. She kisses him, which he enjoys despite himself. He pushes her off. “Listen, I don't know if this is right.” She rolls her eyes, “What? I'm too young? I'm turning 16 this month.” He almost vomits again. He looks her in the eyes, “Anjela, I'm 29.” She stares back, “So? I like older men, the boys in my school are so stupid. I think that painting in the back is awesome by the way.” He smiles, “Well, I mean I got the idea from- No. I am twice your age. This is illegal.” Her eyes light up, “So I guess you don't want anyone finding out about us.” Pete's brain scrambles, “I'm not going to be blackmailed by a 15 year-old.” “Who said anything about blackmail?” Pete grabs the beer off the table and begins to drink it. Soon, the bottle is empty and he looks back at Anjela. “Ok, I want to talk, I just want to talk.” She nods, “That's fine.”
18 May 2009
The first door, apartment A, is occupied by an older woman, she seems to be an old 50, like someone who has lived far too much life too quickly and was now, simply worn out. Her hair is a slightly graying blonde which probably isn't even its real color anymore. Her name is Janice. Pete couldn't stand the sound of that name. It seems like the kind of name you would give to a daughter you despised for being born. He doesn't know anything about Janice's personal life, but he assumes it was filled with pain and heart-ache and children who now despise her. Pete would have time for this when he grew a bit older.
Apartment B. First floor just to the left as you enter. Pete hates the fact that A was to the right of B. It didn't make sense. In English we read from left to right, why is his apartment building any different? Perhaps the person who put the letters on he doors was from a culture with a language that read right to left, maybe that person simply did not care and nailed any old letter on any old door. Apartment B was the residence of a woman he knew only as Erika. She often has parties on the weekends and Pete throws most of his get-togethers just to show her that he has a life as well. He is in a desperate struggle to not appear desperate to Erika. He doesn't even know if she does spell it with a k, he just assumes she does because she seems like that kind of girl.
She has a floor mat outside her door that has “Welcome” spelled out in a weird mix of Gothic and cursive lettering that is bordering on unreadable. Again he assumes it says Welcome, what else could it say? Her rain boots stand next to her door at attention. She calls them galoshes and he finds that incredibly endearing. They stand there as if she were raptured up, right on the spot and her boots were the only part of her left behind. If the rapture did happen, Pete was pretty sure he wasn't in that select group that would be taken. And if he was, well, he would probably wind up getting drunk and hitting on Mary Magdalene or beating up Jesus or some other unforgivable faux pas that would get him banished to hell for the rest of time.
Erika's muffled voice sounds from the other side of the door. It sounds like an argument. “...well just tell him that...” Pete stands there dumbfounded, enjoying that slightly nasal voice traveling through a door and into his ear. “...I know! She is such a bitch for doing that, I really can't believe...” Pete considers his position and decides to stop eavesdropping before one of his neighbors finds him. Although, what could they say? “Hey, stop standing around in the hallway of the building in which you live?” They would probably use a less awkward construction, now that he thinks about it. And they probably wouldn't say anything to that effect at all, now that he thinks about it more. His stomach grumbles to remind him of his mission. Self-preservation comes before reproduction! Plus, Erika just hung up what sounded like an old fashioned telephone. Why would she have one of those? He can't help but imagine her entire apartment is decorated in a gaudy, roaring 20's style.
Pete raises a leg and his foot lands on the first step leading to the second floor. As he reaches the top he notices his neighbor from across the floor has left his door ajar. His name is Cy. Pete is pretty sure it is short for Cyrus and he has no idea where he is from. “Cy, you there? Buddy?” Pete pushes the door open an inch wider and sees Cy cooking a gigantic omelette in a wok while listening to his iPod. “Yo! Cy!” Cy spins around, clearly startled, with his right arm cocked, ready to fling burning hot egg in the faces of his attackers. Pete dodges back behind the door and yells, “It's me! Pete! Your neighbor?” He rips an earbud out of his right ear and says, “Peter! You scared me the hell out of me, you little shit!” Pete peaks out from behind the door and Cy approaches with a hand out stretched to greet him.
“Get in here, Pete, I was just cooking an omelette, would you care for some?” Pete looks at the wok and what must have been a dozen eggs frying inside it. The eggs are covered in peppers, onions, tomatoes and a few other items. “Mmm, yeah, sure, cut me in on that.” Cy grabs two paper plates and divides the eggs onto them. He gives Pete about two or three eggs' worth, while he shovels the rest of it onto his own. “How can you eat that much? Where do you put it?” Cy's eyes glisten with a knowing twinkle and he whispers in hushed tones, “You should see my B.M.s. Simply glorious.”
“I really don't need to hear about your bodily functions before eating.” Cy smiles and reaches for his camera, “Are you sure? I've got my greatest hits on this thing.” He starts thumbing through the functions and his eyes grow wide when he finds a certain photo. “Check this one out, I named it the boa constrictor.” He flips the camera to face Pete and suddenly a chunk of egg is sucked into Pete's windpipe. The sight is indescribable. The longest and largest contiguous piece of feces Pete has ever seen is being displayed on a 3.8” screen on his neighbor's digital camera. Pete sputters and coughs while Cy pulls back his camera to his chest and dejectedly looks at Pete. “I... *cough* What is that? I mean... *cough* That... Why would you show me that?!” His eyes water as he tries to force more words out, but decides against it. “You really shouldn't be so sensitive. It's natural.” Pete swallows hard and says, “There is nothing natural about that.”
Cy sighs and puts his camera back on the shelf next to him. “Whatever, the guys on the message boards are gonna love this.” Pete starts thinking about what kind of internet communities Cy is a part of and before getting too far he refocuses on his eggs. “You washed your hands before making this right?” Now Cy looks genuinely hurt. “Listen, you barge in here, I offer you a delicious omelette and you question my personal hygiene? I have to say, I'm pretty offended.” “So you did wash your hands, right?” Cy looks to his sink and says, “Yeah, I did.” They sit quietly, picking apart their eggs. Pete remembers that he doesn't remember what happened last night. “Cy, what did we do last night?” Cy looks at him questioningly, “I haven't seen you in like three days. How much did you drink last night?” Pete sits in silence, poking at the eggs, mentally poking at the big gap in his memory. “Not sure.”
Cy tries to change the subject, “So it looks like the thing on the Mexican border are heating up again.” Pete perks up, “Yeah? The thing with the drug lords?” “It's not just drug lords anymore, from what I hear it's human trafficking, sex slavery, all that good stuff. There's a lot of money to be made buying and selling people.” “Hmph, I bet.” “Yeah, I mean some people are already calling it genocide.” “They're killing civilians?” Cy leans in, “Where have you been man? They're razing entire villages! People are dying trying to cross the border into the U.S. and if the desert doesn't get them, bullets from both sides tend to find them.” Pete looks out the window, the sun is shining through light clouds and creating that effect where you feel like you can see individual rays. Like god's fingers, slender and bright, are reaching down to warm the cheek of a little girl skipping down the street. He would prefer to think about beauty and innocence. Pete stands up and thanks Cy for the breakfast. “Any time, Petey.”
He walks across the hall and inserts a key into his already unlocked door. It opens and swings lazily, stopping short of hitting the wall. He hears a buzzing he recognizes as his phone ringing. He runs over to his phone and grabs it just after it falls silent. Missed call from Anjela. “Who the hell is Anjela?” The phone buzzes again and a voice mail notification pops up. He stands there, combing the recesses of his mind, trying to locate this girl. He thumbs trough his phone and finds a message from her with a photo included. Apparently, Anjela likes to send extremely suggestive photos of herself to other people's phones. “What are you doing tonight?” The message is dated April 14, 1:32 PM. That was yesterday. Now Pete tried to recall the day before or the day before that. Every memory is vague and random and absolutely soaked in alcohol.
17 May 2009
Ok, with that out of the way, I would like to say that Rachel Maddow is the most informative, principled news person on any network. This isn't saying much when you look at her peers (Glen Beck, O'Reilly, etc.) but she is pretty much in a class of her own. In case you haven't been watching recently, she had a segment on Thursday about all the new information about torture coming out. Watch it here. If you don't feel like watching one of the most important 15 minutes of television to be aired in the past month I'll break it down for you. We tortured. We tortured people who were already fully cooperating with the American government. We tortured people who were already fully cooperating with the American government in order to get Iraqis to lie so that the Bush administration could score some political points and not be outright lying when they claimed that Iraqi officials had said there was a connection between Saddam Hussein and Al Qaeda. People who had knowledge on this subject (the people we ignored) knew that this connection was simply illogical. No one who interviewed these people wanted to torture, no one suggested it could be useful, the order came from Cheney's office that they should be tortured and asked specifically about this connection. There is still no clear reason why America invaded Iraq. It is clear that the invasion was extremely desirable for extremely powerful people. Was it oil? Was it corporate greed? Was it revenge? Was it a misplaced sense of duty as the world's policeman? Perhaps it is simply what this country does. This is an extremely dark and shameful chapter in America's history. It already happened, but the regular people, the citizens of this nation, are just reading it now. The saddest part, the most shameful footnote may be that most people don't even care enough to pick up the book.
What better way to start summer than with free fun? And now that we've gotten to know the hosts maybe there'll be more free champagne. Most of you have already been here so you know the draw, but for those that haven't...
Date: Tuesday, May 19th to Wednesday, May 20th.
Time: 10 PM to 4 AM.
Location: Happy Ending
302 Broome Street
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 Ramones - Blitzkrieg Bop
KiD CuDI - Day N Night (Crookers remix)
Cut Copy - Lights and Music (Moulinex 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 actually started forcing you to check your coat and bag if either is too big. I think it's like $4, but save yourself the trouble and just leave all that shit at home. What the fuck are you doing going out in a jacket anyway? It's summer, bitch.
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.
Is Lazy Catfish still closed?
A few photos from last time:
11 May 2009
It must've been over a year ago, but one time I was smoking cigarettes with Vic during a party in Jersey and he called it:
"Soon all you're going to need to start an electro band is a relatively attractive chick and a guy who can play synth."
Or something like that.
Well, he was right; not just about the future of electronic music, but even his melancholy regarding it. Here are two bands that prove his point; Cute chicks singing, with invisible guys providing the beats. The tunes aren't really innovative or substantial, but they make for fun, interesting dance music. The songs also double as great remix ammo.
I think Vic's comment stemmed from a conversation about Crystal Castles, so its only appropriate that La Roux reminded me of CC, sans the meth. Ben Langmaid creates a similar rough, lo-fi sound, but its much more restrained, more melodic. Also, unlike Alice of CC, Elly Jackson can actually sing. The Twelves took to La Roux's "In for the Kill," but came up a little short of their usual handiwork.
La Roux - Bulletproof (mp3)
La Roux - In for the Kill (mp3)
La Roux - In for the Kill (the Twelves remix)
Alright, maybe I spoke too soon: Turns out Ladyhawke is actually just one chick, who sings and produces the music. Sorry Vic, guess your theory's got a hole in it--unless the guy behind this is really invisible. Anyway, Ladyhawke is a blond from New Zealand churning out electro-pop. It's actually a bit more layered and intricate than La Roux's brand. And if Alex Metric's and Fred Falke's attempts are any indication, its much more conducive to great remixes.
Ladyhawke - Back of the Van (mp3)
Ladyhawke - Back of the Van (Fred Falke remix)
Ladyhawke - Paris is Burning (mp3)
Ladyhawke - Paris is Burning (Alex Metric remix)
P.S. Hundredth post, motherfuckers.
07 May 2009
02 May 2009
you'll see in this *#@ life" (from Wikipedia),
Not only does this man create eloquent fine art, but has also directed The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a French foreign film that I behoove you to watch at some point in your life. Here is a clip to catch your interest:
The band is made up of Alden Penner (former vocalist of The Unicorns), Brendan Reed (The Arcade Fire), Ben Borden, Lisa Gamble, and Nick Scribner, thereby creating a sound much akin to The Unicorns and Arcade Fire. Every song is engaging in its own manner for each has a similar melodic theme but evolves completely differently. Some of their stuff is geared towards the sappy-lyric obsessed emo kids (like me), while others are a bit more upbeat and danceable to (hey, I enjoy this too, don't call me an emo kid!). They will be in New York on June 17th, for which my friend Mike will be traveling to all the way from Rhode Island! (Nudge, I think all of you New Yorkers should make the subway trip). The show is $12 and available for purchase at: TicketWeb.