Urban Honking

Popcorn and fake lasers.: date night at the Court Street Stadium 9000 and we’ve been planning this for months. We ride the escalator up 40 floors, past concessions and spilt skittles, up another floor, another, up like Jacob’s Ladder, there is no movie, only time. Fourteen-year-olds are cutting it close to curfew, clutching their boyfriends’ […]

Now Wut? has footage of the Jam Master Jay/Adidas party SANS Public Enemy performance, and a pretty redondo clip of Cam boyishly drunk, the watching of which is silently voyeuristic and personal, and makes me feel for the dude, even though (or perhaps because) he is showing off his $105,000 watch. Apparently everyone mocks him […]

Honestly, give me one good reason why I should ever get “real” cable.

Did I neglect to tell you I think Sleater-Kinney’s The Woods is the greatest rock album I’ve heard in something like two years, and their best album since Dig Me Out? All that annexation of Led Zep, the sharp political commentary–smart and not the least bit cynical–the seething operatic vocal runs and fluid sensuality in […]

Steven, my oldest and dearest friend, who joined me in that lovely tour of duty that was high school in nuclear Wyoming, came home drunk the other night, posted up on our ugly blue-grey couch (which looks like a half-consumed blueberry jawbreaker), and freestyled. Topic: me, who I was at 16, 17, pissed, aggressive and […]

I unlocked the giftbox and a glut of Pitbull freestyles were inside, including “Miami Clap,” and “Miami” on the beat to “New York.” So like, why was his crunk-aeton album not-so-blazing? Other than the singles “Culo” and “Toma,” M.I.A.M.I. was kinda like buffalo winging it. AND YET! This man in my iTunes has a sense […]

Mais oui. The Mixtape Awards last week were a montage of bananas and binoculars (a word further immortalized in SPIN this month by Matos, who’s easy with the hollers. Thank you, Matos.). I went straight to the awards from thurrrapy; normally I like to roast in my own pathos with a movie post-head-shrinkage, but tonight […]

Perhaps I should have qualified that statement with “What Western artist’s suicide isn’t solipsistic?”

The Diane Arbus retrospective at the Met is enveloping–six or seven rooms of devastating portrature and tablets, scribbled notepads, letters, resumes, pleas to the Guggenheim. On the long guest list for one of her openings, she’d typed names and demarked each with short descriptors in green pen: Mr. And Mrs. Leonard Bernstein are tagged as […]

Soon I will tell you about my bananas evening avec one plainclothes reporterman, and my assortment of new boyfriends. But you will have to wait for a minute. Just a minute.