Friday, February 27, 2009

ABM


I think I've seen a few of these in the financial district downtown.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

From 'Bama To Loo-sianna

I watched the President's speech last night and thought it good, though it did creep me out a bit to see our elected officials jumping out of their seats to applaud every other minute like pre-teens at an 'N Sync concert...or whatever expertly coiffed, Disney-built eunuchs the kids are agog over these days. (I'm looking at you, Pelosi.)

I did not watch the Republican response, though I hear the strategy was clever: show the American people what Obama would look like if he had been born a red-blooded, patriotic conservative and, through the stark contrast, leave the President's failings open for all to see.

The problem, apparently, is that a conservative Obama is half Fred Armisen and half sophomore debate club go-getter unaware that the Armisen half is mocking him.

The Poor Man Institute (founded to document and dissect just this kind of issue) has released a paper on the topic so that I don't have to pull myself further away from the warm sun, golden sands, and flowing margaritas that constitute every day off for me from my work in the New York theater world.

Senorita, una más, por favor.

Ah....

Saturday, February 21, 2009

One Across

"Mute Glute"

7 letters.

I know when my name is called from the Great Book Of Life that I'm going to owe an apology for this, but I can't help it; it made me laugh out loud when it occurred to me walking down Sixth Ave.

Besides, it's just too cheeky to keep to myself.

Giggle, snort.

...

Whoever leaves the correct answer to this little puzzle in the comments section will win, um, something nice. TBD.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

"Fiancé" Is French For "Soon The Legal Entities Of Our Land Will Know That We Plan To Do Nice Things To Each Other Forever And Ever."

And so it happened, on a chilly February night in the year Naughty-Nine, in a tastefully decorated nest of art, humor, philosophy, carnal pleasure, and cat hair located in the 3rd Borough of New York City in the great L'Etats Unis, only a few minutes into a chapter by that internationally celebrated observer of romantic love, Judy Blume, (ahem) in said time and place I confused the hell out of my true love by interrupting her reading Fudge-a-mania to me, leaping out of bed, teary-eyed, digging out a guitar case from its place underneath the bed frame, pulling out a simple silver band, and proposing that she and I spend the rest of our lives together.

My love accepted.

So as of 11:45-ish PM, EST, on February 18th, I am engaged to be married to the very woman for whom I have been patiently waiting the better part of three decades, and who, in sixteen unbelievable months, has made those three decades seem truly worth it.

Oh, don't go jumping to conclusions; it's not all sweetness and light. My cheeks hurt something fierce from all the smiling. No pain, no gain though, right?

The circles represent eternity. The threaded rod and the nut--each perfectly sized for the other; the rod strong and stiff; the nut ready to have the rod slowly but firmly screwed into it--represent, um, why eternity is going to be pretty fun.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Random Thought: On Art And Boredom

The one human state no art is able to capture is boredom.

Music can't do it. Notes have an intrinsic energy that's the opposite of listlessness, a kind of temporal tension: a tone has a beginning and, once begun, we wonder where it will go. Will it rise or fall, or will it simply fade back into silence?

Words, whether read or spoken, have this same energy. There's a tension between the meaning of the word and the way that meaning sits within the larger message of the thought being expressed. So writing--though capable of describing the feeling--can't actually convey it.

Similarly, color and line relate to each other through boundaries, all of which relate to the larger border of the frame (whether a rectangle of wood molding or, for a mural, say, the perimeter of a wall), which is to say nothing of the energy inherent to the pigments themselves, the gray scale included.

Boredom, as we all know, can be provoked (and here I must mention the art of theater, the ne plus ultra of such a provocateur), but it can never be artistically transmitted.

There's a saying that despair is the greatest sin against God (which we secularists do no injury by interpreting as "life"). Perhaps. But underlying such abject devastation is a longing for life as it used to be. Boredom, on the other hand, while certainly less overwhelming is actually more extreme. It is, at heart, a disinterest--a detachment--from the senses, from chronology, and so, really, a detachment from life (no matter how briefly).

Of all the social and emotional purposes the arts serve, perhaps rescuing us from boredom is the most basic.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

43: The Starkening

It really is never going to end, is it?

V-V Day

I admit, I don't quite understand its significance.

I already know that I love her, so I do my best to show her that every day of the year. If I had to wait till some random day in February to tell her how wobbly she makes my knees go...well, I'd probably spend 364 days switching my weight from foot to foot in a corner somewhere, slowly perfecting syllable after syllable of overly earnest romantic poetry.

As tempting as it is to have the one monumental day, all it would most likely lead to is a few minutes of stammering as I blank on all the painstakingly honed verse followed by the most epic case of spontaneous ejaculation this side of 8th grade. So, clearly, it's in both our interests to spread the sex liberally over the entire calendar.

As for the poetry, let me just say that the level of conversation I have with my lovely woman is more intelligent, lively, and satisfying than anything I could come up with on my own.

So, Happy 365th Day! Don't forget to enjoy the other 364 too! (And save something special for that 0.24219th most people forget about!)

And to my dearest, I love you very, very much.

Like...


whoa.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

...Or As We Say Here In The States, Fucking Booze Sponge!

A little ditty from Deep In Vein practice the other day: Bloody Liver.

I hear the bass player is a real cool cat.

Just saying.

Happy 7th Birthday, Billy! Here's Your 2.5 Milligrams Of Ketamine!

I am officially a proponent of getting little kids high as balls.

I so should have been a dentist...

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Going Green

And you know what? Now that I'm thinking about things that offend li'l miss common sense to fainting, how's about this one?

Look, I'm not a smoker. In fact, I'm so not a smoker that when I hang out with my musician friends they know to go ahead and puff-puff-pass...pass-Marlon...puff-puff. But the stigma attached to the drug by those who have...what, hang-ups? See, though, that little word sounds so forgivingly mild, considering the harsh legal penalties our society levels against those millions of our neighbors who relax by smoking a naturally occurring, green-leafed plant...oh, wait. Not that one. That one's legal because it's safe.

No, I meant this other, dangerous, Vietnam-Vet-spitting-on, Baby Jesus-mocking, pro-free-love, anti-free-market horror house of criminal madness and immorality. Behold!

And yes, I realize that's a pro-legalization website, but finding unbiased voices on this issue in America is a little like finding a virgin in an abstinence-only campaign.

Actually, you know what? I feel qualified to submit myself as that voice. My credentials include: 1) having no vested interest in the area of study; 2) my years of observational experience living with and around the aromatic indigenes in their native habitat. After analyzing the wealth of available data, I can report that it is a very lethargic species, with a healthy appetite for fried cheese and Mexican take-out. Compare such a gentle lummox with his more aggressive cousin. And to think, the branches of that family tree differ by only a leaf.

But seriously, fuck those people who insist that Phelps has somehow sullied his extensive victories. Fuck them with the open end of an unwashed water bong. This is an athlete whose Olympic achievements have redefined the sport's possibilities. And, um...

Uh...

Hol' up, I just realized...you're trying to tell me that, because he smoked, Michael Phelps is now some kind of loser? Lord help me, maybe I've been overly hasty all these years! Perhaps, in failing to seize the many bowls of sticky dank that have been passed around me, I've also failed to seize the day! My god, I could have been an Olympian!

Maybe though...maybe it's not too late. Maybe there's still time...ah, here it is...

History books...pfffffft...here I come...

...

Update: Exactly.

Update (2): Ok, so maybe the guy is more likely down the road to leave his stones at the bottom of the local swimming hole, but considering the self-inflicted drubbing "normal" people (ahem, me, for instance) inflict on themselves, well, one can safely say the bud still barely holds a Bic lighter to the booze.

43: A Just Addendum

More of this, please.

The slate really just cannot be wiped clean enough.