August 2004 Archives

My favorite Republicans, Billionaires for Bush. Celebrating in Bryant Park, a chortling flurry of caviar and gold lame and petit fours and rhinestones, a precursor to their Weds. nite ball coronating King George. Having champagne over "Dick Cheney's innocence."

Anarcho-direct action shakedown on the steps of the NY Public Library... 4 paddy wags parked, doors swung wide and hungry, awaiting 100 protesters; two men in their 20s wearing all black and pink sweatbands were being arrested for hanging a sign from one of the lion statues. Flanked by beefy riot cops, bound by handcuffs, they mashed in to one another for a proud, sloppy kiss, like motherfuckers can put 'em in prison but cannot repress their gay American love. My arm hair was like, tingly from the energy.

Greatest American Heroes, the Hold Steady. Unlike Usher, they make me want to:

1. Join a union
2. Drink a six-pack
3. Get high and watch a movie
4. Feign interest in baseball
5. Feign interest in Minnesota
6. Wear a bandana like that chick from the E Street Band

Here's tomorrow's most interesting/fun RNC protest event, organized, unsurprisingly, by the lovely brave ingenues of Code Pink:

Fox News “Shut-up-a-thon”
Tuesday, Aug 31 @ 04:00 PM
2 hours
Location: 1211 Ave of the Americas bet. 47th & 48th

Join Fox News’ Bill O’Reilly in shouting, “Shut up!”(his favorite line) in front of Fox’s corporate HQ. You won’t want to miss the spectacular moves of the “Fox News Republican Cheerleaders” – guaranteed to leave you stupefied*

Brought to you by CODEPINK, Houston Global Awareness, Ronald Reagan Home for the Criminally Insane, The Tejas Bloc and more.

*An Oct. 2003 study by the University of Maryland found that people who rely on the Fox News Channel as their main news source are wildly misinformed about key issues regarding the Iraq war and that the more they watch, the more misinformed they are.

Three years ago, the world was not ready for Townsend, but I am pretty sure you are now.

RIP to Laura Branigan, she of my trademark karaoke song, "Gloria."

VMAs were slightly more exciting than my mom at church, and a flagrant waste of celebrity... like, why even invite Missy Elliott if you only alot her 30 seconds of mic time? Or did Usher's auto-erotic acceptance speeches cut into everyone else's screen shots? Also, the Lakers LOST the series, so why was Shaq hosting to "Let's get Barftarded" instead of oh, I don't know, A PISTON?! Let us not forget we congratulate winners around here, and haterate losers, and that Shaq, despite having a build not dissimilar to the Beasties' Sasquatch doll, is an unequivocal LOSER.

Unspoken rivalries made for slightly interesting friction. For instance, who had worse pitch: Hoobastank singer or Chaka Khan? Who is the wacker Simpson: Ashlee or Jessica? Who is drunker: P.Diddy or Bruce Willis? Such questions weigh on one's mind for 1/8th of a synapse, and then... nothing.

Even at 6 am PST, World's Greatest Ex/Pug Trader Ezra Ace is slinging zingers:

"Did Fat Joe lick his shoe? Did he lick Cam'ron's shoe? Interracial gay licking: the future of hip-hop."

ANSWER: Is that Hollywood Montrose on the "Get 'Em Girl" chorus?

I'm sure the fellows will better summarize it, but I will say one thing: you know that majestic woman who sings the "Killa Cam" aria? Yeah... it's a dude. With long, silken locks. And a light grey, shiny suit. And expressive hands.

Also: Sizzurp glowsticks.

My mind is coming apart like when Cam'ron and Nas TP your mom's house for democracy. OK not like that. When petite Belgique choreographer Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker puts post-modern steps—twitch and skitter across the floor on kneepads, kick their legs out and up and roll around on the ground a lot—on Mostly Mozart in the Fame high school, it's kind of awesome. Especially when she is a feminist and everyone's wearing 18th century shirtwaists and Hanes underwear.

Also, are minimal techno show-atmospheres the same in every city in America? Cylob, looking very much like a cross between David Chandler/Solenoid and my old housemate/ex-Xtian techno producer Stefan, broke unexpectedly nasssty electro/acid trax over the heads of ducky dudes, a whole row of them, their glasses glued to the back of his iBook. E-Double and I: lone dancers. Granted, we were in a salaciously monikered Chinese installation-art bar on the LES and also dancing is illegal, but whatevzzz.

Once Time Warner delivers the internet to my house via truck and man, my sentences/thoughts will no longer resemble broken Twix.

PS MY NEW EMAIL IS julianneshepherd@yahoo.com; plug it in!

PPS my current top three rotating rap albs: jada "kiss of death" (soon to be defended) dizzee rascal "showtime" ("stand up tall" best song of year right now) cam'ron "the album god giveth and the album god taketh away" aka "raiders of the lost ark" aka "stupid (/) good" (aka the purple bootleg). More on everything soon, when the internet comes and I have seen Fat Joe and Cam and I play olympic whiffleball for Jadakiss.

Best advice all year, from tiny lucky: "WWGSD?" ("What Would Gloria Steinem Do?")

Not having cable TV has turned me into an Amish person, apparently, because I have thus far labored unawares as to the ridunkulous sexual verisimilitude that is Usher Raymond's stee. I just figured anyone who'd propose marriage to his woman MID-COITUS would have the brokest game in history. BUT! The man is hurricane charlie: his libido encompasses, and ultimately destroys, everything in its path, to nearly sociopathic levels. His props included fireworks, explosions, fog, extended video shots of flames, more explosions, the ocean, women swiming underwater, and a final eruption of confetti -- which cascaded down like seed or an ego upon the screaming heads of 20,000 women and LA Reid-- in the Continental Airlines Nets Kiosk, which as far as I can tell is located somewhere in New Jersey. Ever the fountainhead, Usher held his own among such biblically-proportioned imagery.
This is not to say I'm any less ambivalent about his music; I think his voice is strong, but he's all cadence. What K sees in him, that he is a miniature pop R Kelly, does not grab me without [as-yet unconvicted/caught-on-tape chi-mo] R's silken hooks, even including "Yeah," which is best for Lil' Jon and Ludacris anyhoo. "Caught Up" has that hot little breakbeat but after the concert, when the restaurant was blasting their '89-'90 mix, I felt more emotional response hearing Lisa Lisa and Tony Toni Tone that I've ever felt from "Confessions."

DISCLAIMER: In no way do I find a groomed and baby-faced narcissist attractive--but I was sucked in for a hot minute, by his fairly accomplished b-boying and the systematic removal, and recostuming, and removal, of his shirts. Most importantly, I was sucked in by his SINCERITY, read on his face through inner-pained cringes and dazzling grins (not to mention dazzling footwear). Of course I was, because that is how players work.

Except players usually trip up when the objects of their desire exercise free will. So when Usher singled out a lady from the audience to join him onstage to serenade her with "Superstar," she was NOT having it. When he tried to stick his tongue in her throat, she brushed him off; then he basically pinned her down on a couch, and she gave him the cold dis. Only a megalomaniac such as Monsieur Raymond, self-indulgent and absurd, would attempt to dry-humping a stranger in front of thousands of people. And only a woman with a strong sense of self, and self-respect, would be able to spurn his exhibitionist advances.

Christina Milian (aka Paula Abdul II: great dancer, awful tone) opened, gave "Dip it Low" (right now, not as good to me as Nicole Wray's "If I was Your Girlfriend," which is number 13 to Milian's 12, so sez Hot 97). She and two dancers proffered half-moon views of their asses, donning racing-striped leotards and letting their molded abs distract from Milian's flimsy voice. I predicted her career will last three to six months, but Mensa Party said I was being too generous, and gave her 'til the end of the tour. Either way, the choreography was pretty all right.

Word up to stealing existentialism. Take it far, far away!

Also, I was going to write a lengthy essay about my simultaneously most-favorite and least-favorite magazine, XXL, which then morphed into the more pressing "What the Hell Are You Talking About?" in which I defend my second-favorite rap album of 2004 from a piece that can't decide what it thinks, except that it inherently mistrusts Jadakiss for unspecified reasons. (P.S. Throw your hands in the air if you don't want rap reviews to rhyme!) I still might.

I'm just saying, even despite (or maybe in tandem with) the government's religious fanatacism, Jesus is slathered all over '04's face. Score another one from the paint for Mr. Water-into-Wine, cause Lauryn Hill was shooting a music video outside my office yesterday. If god is truly merciful, it is a video from her autumn-promised album, and NOT the video for "The Passion." Scott Stapp was MIA—a good sign in any situation.

No, I did not get photos, but I did try to worm my way into a shot, which will probably get cut because I was gazing dumbly upon the heavenly visage of the Lady herself—transfixed by the purple kimono-dress, mesmerized by the vintage Gucci bag, riveted by the fact that she looks like she's been fasting since Unplugged. Put the carbs back in the eucharist, woman!

For reasons too heartbreaking to go into, God's Son eluded me. I don't want to talk about it. I have already commenced finding an alternate life-purpose.

Later, I saw Animal Collective, which of course did not make up for MISSING THE BOAT WHICH CARGOED MY DESTINY, but was surprisingly thrilling--best I've ever seen 'em. What's up with New York, though—applause was just polite, even after a horse's-length of spastic, backwards cloud-song barking, spirits freed, like we'd walked into the AC's boy slumber-party and they hadn't yet figured out we were watching their pillow fight. Totally bananas, totally heart-in-your throat; the next logical step for them was to strip buck-naked and ritualistically liberate one of Siegfried and Roy's elephants.
The audience? Golf clap.
BUT, when Avey Tare began MEOWING listlessly, place went nuts. Midsong.
New York, are you cat-deprived? You should cop some of that crazy Meow Gilberto; shit is truly like crack, and traverses the whole of the animal kingdom.

Dear zealous small-coffee-biz folks, I must confess: I am currently patronizing Starbucks for their t-mobile wi-fi (tangential advice to future New Yorkers: in the fourth largest city in the world, I have better luck getting calls by styrofoam cup and psychic energy than with with my t-Mobile cell service), and overheard the man at the next table saying this:

"Americans CAN'T DEAL... with sodomy."

McGreevey in the house. Thank you, strange man, for encapsulating the root of our current domestic clusterfuxx: Americans can't deal with sodomy. Steven, my favorite sodomist, has taken to the phrase "I am a gay American." I dig it; has this sweeping, Olympics-commercial "successories" ring; very Affirmative Action. The California Supreme Court gets a special lo-fi condo in H-e-double hockey sticks. California Supreme Court, go suck a cock.

[Sorry for all the Christo-centric damnation talk; I'm just emotionally preparing myself for GOD'S SON—who rips a nasssty line about HETERO sodomy in "You Know My Style"— in two hours. (Actual track is fairly 'naners, bumps hips with that bare-bones jingle/riding-the-cochlear-vortex production like Young Gunz "Can't Stop Won't Stop," except not lyrically asinine. Nas is number-one most-requested this weekend on Hot 97, for those keeping track.)]

Get a load of my stream of consciousness swing: this Americano shit is the juice.

Press is hot. Truth is out. Ready? The two REAL reasons I got a New York zip code have finally culminated in one weekend: 1. Hot 97 and 2. Nas, live and purportedly assisted by my spirit guide Jadakiss, in Central Park. I have seen many things, during these weeks, including a live man and his blow-up doll (in a shopping cart wearing a mink coat) selling "Tell Me Off"s for $1. I have danced until 4 am on several occasions, humidity and sweat forming grotesque pools in the small of my back, to Peanut Butter Wolf, and Mr. Mao, and some Hollertronix dudes who played 9288387 dancehall joints before they hit it with Terror Squad. I have dumpster-dived with the fine denizens of Park Slope; I have subjected my interim roommates to the "betta get that bitch told tonight" song by Teedra Moses (track eight, produced booty-edifyingly by everyone's fave car-horn Lil' Jon) on neverending repeat; I have fist-fought for dish liquid with fellow rabid shoppers in New York's lone, brand-new Target (the Target which also yielded a clock radio, and therefore Hot 97, what!! SHOUT OUT TO TARGET STORES); I have not yet stalked Jake Gyllenhaal. But NONE OF IT MATTERS, because tomorrow is NAS, WITH JADAKISS, IN CENTRAL PARK. It is the pinnacle of my entire life. Seeing Nas and Jadakiss in Central Park is what I was born to do; it is why Jesus has bestowed me with this precious existence. And the selfsame Jesus knows: if shit doesn't get thrown, I'm gonna be fucking pissed.

A little note: The other night, on the corner of Seventh Ave. and Eighth St., we met with an industrial-sized dumpster filled with people, looking for free gems like ants on honey. I climbed in after I saw a lady scavenge three yards of obnoxious neon Pucci / Valley of the Dolls fabric; a man, submerged waist-deep in the middle, was explaining to his partner why they should take home an unopened box of Tide detergent. One guy dove underneath some boxes, and emerged wearing a pair of felt costume devil-ears. I discovered a three-inch, post WWII-era porcelain figurine of a coy-looking toddler missing an arm; and a scrap of chartreuse polyester with leopards on it, which I can wear as a scarf. Steven took pictures of my torso in the dumpster, legs flailing upwards; the Pucci-fabric woman got his number for photographic evidence, so she could pitch the story to one of the daily rags. And the story was: in the apartment above, an elderly woman had died alone with no relatives, so all her possessions were junked, then foraged. She passed on and went public domain, which I think is a pretty good deal.

M. Night Shyamalan's Spielberg fetish: so thorough! I really missed Amazing Stories!

Scott Giampino, ex of Touch and Go/The Showbox in Seattle, is one of the nicest people I can think of, so perhaps you might paypal him some dollares to get him, Ali and Max back on their feet:

"As most of you know, Scott and Ali Giampino were victims of an arson
fire at their Lake Forest Park home last night. Shortly before 1 am, Ali
awoke to sounds of broken glass and fire engulfing their home. Blessedly,
they and their son Max escaped unharmed in what must have been an absolutely terrifying couple of minutes. Their two cats, their possessions, and their home did not fare as well - they have lost virtually everything.

They are fully insured and will eventually be able to replace their lost
possessions. In the meantime, there is a Paypal account being set up for donations by credit card. The email address to send funds to is dmopbox-giampinofund@yahoo.com.

Temporary housing accommodations have been arranged and the Capitol Hill
branch of Sonic Boom Records and The Showbox are also currently accepting
donations. Since they are without a home, the most useful donations are
monetary, gift certificates, and good thoughts. Max could sure use some
clothing - he wears a size 4T or 5T (like his daddy, he's big for his age).
Toys and books would be useful, as well. The little guy is down with
Clifford The Big Red Dog, Tonka trucks, and stuff that is cool. Seeing that
little bug on the news was enough to make me want to buy him Disneyland if
he wants it.

There are multiple benefits in the works so keep an eye out for details.
Since moving here from Chicago two years ago, the Giampinos have quickly
become beloved members of this community. I know I speak for everyone when I say we are all damn lucky they are still with us today. It's not gonna be good times replacing Scott's records or Ali's beautiful perfume decanter collection but we're all sure thankful they are alive.

Kerri/The Showbox"

Things are all Animal House here on the Slope. Crashing on Steven's couch with two roommates, which brings the total occupancy to 4. (Four! Mwahhahaha... four! People waiting for the shower at eight am!!) Coffee-deprived grownups say the snottiest things, i.e.:

"R. Kelly can no more conduct a symphony by waving his arms around than I can breakdance by standing on my head."

Or so says Steven, resident classical-music genius and Lincoln Center Assistant-to-the-Czar, as we discussed the new Teedra Moses (more on her later), the shower clog, and the merits of R.'s Space Jams (when his sole known moral offense was Cliff's-Noting classical maestros before playing one in a video. R. Kelly is apparently not a method actor).

As a handwaiter to the higher-ups, Steven's presence was required at the Mostly Mozart Gala, which I am told is a mondo happening for the bourgie-boo and benefactors: $20,000 a plate for Lincoln Center donors, who have to unload the francs gros so they don't get screwed by Mr. Tax Man at the end of the fiscal moon-cycle. We shall forgo comment on the staggering class imbalance of this scenario, and skip straight to the part where Steven, my future roommate and familial life partner, downed Wild Turkey and white wine at said gala and, by the time the concert rolled around, actually PASSED OUT in a PRIVATE BOX at Avery Fisher Hall—one of the world's foremost hi-class cultural institutions—all before Yefim Bronfman made it to Piano Concerto No. 25. With this kind of scene, I have no idea why LC is having attendance problems. Another thing: what are they doing serving Wild Turkey at a $20,000 gala? Would it kill them to spring for a nice Jim Beam Black Label, at least?

In other news: I have proof Sasha's dog walker/Jessica's white whale travels above 14th: Stephin Merritt sighting on the corner of 42nd & 6th, near the Bryant Park Starbucks kiosk—minus Snookums, but reading a Zagat guide. I wouldn't have recognized him with a bald eye, but Steven told me who he was, cause they rock the same parties.

Here is the reason you should start reading the Fader: Elliot Aronow in editorial masthead total non-shocker, like finally. He looks like a young [Bob Dylan] [Sean Penn] [Dustin Hoffman], will make you wait for him on the corner (mysterious), and cracks whips. Call him if you have central A/C.

So Owen came to play, and it was basically like being in Portland.

Owen, who used to live in P-Town but now kicks it in a tour van, is my good friend and one-time intern (if you are a publicist and ever got a tearsheet from me with a giraffe drawn on it, he is responsible). He plays under the moniker Casiotone for the Painfully Alone, plugging rudimentary pop melodies and pre-set "Samba" rhythms into a malfunctioning assemblage of junked Casios, which are in turn plugged into an overloaded jenga tower of practice amps. At any moment, the entire precarious rig may burst into flames. His lyrics* mostly capture listless wanderings of ReadyMade, post-crash SF hipster intelligentsia, but he's packing serious heart, got warmth in a zoom lens.

His Brooklyn show happened on Warren, a half-block from Wyckoff Gardens, one of two housing projects in Boerum Hill. I walked there along 4th which, at 11 pm, feels more like a highway, with a speeding kind of emptiness. Every half-block, clusters of stoop-sitters chattered but mostly it was car clamor, scratch tickets and smashed water bottles in the gutters, and sticky dudes in undershirts who wanna know how ya doin'. Because you are sexy.

And the wormhole. That's how Owen described it: the wormhole to Portland. On Warren, we quantum leapt through the hallway of a walkup, into the private courtyard out back, and got swept into Our Town, like being Melanie's backyard for the PDX sunday vegan cafe--leafy, intimate, slow. Protected from everything outside by trees, a spotlight, and sameness. A hushed ensemble of cute naifs, 30 deep, crouched on lawn chairs as some guy in cowboy boots and a trucker hat (yep) plucked a soothing Bob Ross landscape on an acoustic guitar and sang wispily of love and faith. (The courtyard, incidentally, belongs to this Portland expat who promoted some of the first shows I saw when I moved to P-Town. The older I get, the more I see boomerangs.) The unkempt guitar boy arpeggiated, well-learned but topically unsound; he had a lyric something like "close your eyes and see the world inside your mind/hope when you open them everything is fine," which was aiming for the Sound of Silence or rather, more obscure '70s folkies who pulled the shades on Vietnam and started practicing inner-light meditation. I wanted to pull the Jadakiss back on my iPod.

But then there's this guy Zeke Healy, who plays in The Boggs (home to another incredible musician, Philip Roebuck). He whips out this undersized guitar that looks like he found it in the back of a caboose, all weathered and chipped, straps on some fingerpicks and a glass slide, and tears open the swamp, hammering on and on and on, such jagged blues, his body flinging.

* Casiotone sample lyrics:
carson, flannery, & jerome line the bookshelves at home
waiting tables at some cafe to pay my student loans
a listless intellectual in her prime
scrabble high score 409
with nothing remarkable to leave behind
smoking lights, working nights
& frequent trips to the public library

In the simplest terms, I moved to NYC to get my ass kicked. Tonight, after a run-in with Terror Squad and a woman named Jennifer, my calves and arches went with it.

She is like, level four Andre from Dance it Off. She does not need to army-sergeant her way through class. She is the Thunderbird of dance instructors: silent, stern, aerodynamic, and totally awesome. In her studio, "Rockaway" means "pas de bourre, bump bump flick, feel-your-body-four-counts-look-behind-the-left-foot, pop-sweep and elbow is IN not OUT." In sixteenths. There is a CW that dancers step clumsily and it's trite and often true; but when you look club-footed and the goal is mugging hard, it's just plain embarrassing.

SHE CHOREOGRAPHS THE KNICKS CITY DANCERS.

I'm totally going back next week. I estimate I will be ready to audition for videos in 17 1/2 years.