Wednesday, Nov. 26th - Today at work, we've cut an old couch in half, and now my workmates are watching The Road Warrior while i write e-mails to my pals. Oh, and we just ordered up some pizzas. And, there's a wurlitzer here. Was i complaining about work? Best of all, since our demo reel was so poorly received by the Executive Producer, i'm getting paid for another 2 weeks to fix it. And eat free lunch and play piano. Strange it is how, the worse work you do, the more money and perks you get for it. I'm never ever going to complain about work again, this is assure you.
Oh, wait! My pizza doesn't have anchovies on it. This sucks. Get me out of here.
Tuesday, Nov. 25th - I don't feel like writing today. You've had those days too, i imagine. I'm at "The Edit" today, and our producer is away at another meeting, and there's nothing to be done to the pilot until he returns. I sit in a cold room, drinking coffee and killing time, as i've already finished two crossword puzzles and read every article about Alanzo Mourning's retirement. Jeff and i DJed at Sivan's bar B-Side last night, and, in spite of some fussy, skipping CD-Rs, and my laughably ineffiecient cataloging system, it was just as much fun as i remember. It made me face my need to update my musical selections and presentation, but that's an overdue positive development. And, drinking for free is always nice. We are all delighted to learn that Damien is doing a DJ shift there next week. A good way to get caught up on your Iron Maiden.
Anyhoo, the strangeness of this here job continues to delight me. As you now know, i'm doing literally nothing today, as opposed to the almost nothing from week's previous. Allow me to break it down for you. In late October, i was hired, mid-project to write for a half-hour show, since whittled down to a 10 minute reel. Yes, this was a month and a half ago. With no real mandate, i set about writing scripts, coming up with angles, ideas, jokes. This process lasted about 2 weeks. Then there was a couple weeks in the middle that i can't really remember *what* i was doing, other than rewriting the same crap, all of which was destined to get thrown down a well. It has been in "The Edit", now in its 3rd week, that i've been faced with the culmination of my efforts: about 3 jokeless sentences. Okay, maybe a paragraph. This has in turn manifested in me a Lazarus-like struggle between my love of money for doing absolutely nothing and my neurosis surrounding disorganization and a lack of pragmatism. Good money after bad being thrown towards 6 or 7 people doing the work of 2, in 4 times the time it would actually take to complete a project that will probably not see the light of broadcast. It may not be a good thing that, since i've started here, Dilbert has started to make sense. And, to think, i have yet to say even one word about this downright surreal interview tape we got with ex-Whitesnake video vixen Tawny Kitaen. The editor here just grabbed me a still, so you can now see for yourself how well she's aged.
Jeff, around 1:30 last night: Anyone want to hear "Pass the Dutchie?"
All 5 people there: Yeah!
Jeff spins "Pass the Dutchie" was rain and leaves blow about a lonely Avenue B.
Jesse Blockton: I feel like if someone opens the door, this bar is going to turn into a Corona ad.
Anyway, i just got word from the producer that he's heading down, and we're going to be in "extreme action mode." Sounds like fun!
Sunday, Nov. 23rd - I just got back from a quick visit to "Lola's" weekly book club, now held around the corner at the coffeeshop, to talk about a book i haven't read yet, and in fact didn't even have a copy of, The Sheltering Sky. Thankfully, a copy was lent to me by one of the two girls who finished it, so now i'm ready to get crackin'. Of course, the actual discussion of the book quickly gave way to talk about parties and random hooking up and how great Xanax is when mixed with a couple drinks. And now, you know why i go to book club.
Anyway, this has been one of the better rock weekends of late. Last night, it was Black Cat Revolver, Fresh Kills and the new-and-improved Go To Town (featuring a friend of Karen's from 4th Grade) at Asterisk in Bushwick. This was the 2nd Asterisk party i've been to, and i have to say, they are fun, fun, fun. Cheap drinx, a good rock room, a deck and a rooftop, 2 varieties of art, plenty of couches, alternately lo lighting, a room with a small step for everyone to comically trip over. And, everyone always seems to be really fucked up and in great moods. Worth the 15 minute bike ride to the middle of industrial nowhere. Mostly though, i was happy to settle my $3 loan with Shannon Sinclair by buying her a cup of fruit-laden sangria. That was really hanging over my head for a while.
The Fresh Kills, who i still owe $7.
Sometimes it's just better not to know.
Saturday, Nov. 22nd - And speaking of new rock, here's some photos of bands for you ...
The Giraffes break the 4th wall, again.
Fur Cups for Teeth, featuring Simon
As for Fur Cups for Teeth, they soared eagle-like over other, lesser, boring/bad synth bands Thursday night at the Pussycat Lounge downtown. The shows at the Pussycat are upstairs from the modest, charmingly unclean stripclub that greets you when you first walk in the front door. I, after yet another harrowing 11 hour day at "The Edit", went with Josh, who had never seen FCFT or the Pussycat before. And, as every show in NYC now seems to run an hour and a half late, we had time to pay too much for drinx and weigh the relative merits of watching the surly strippers dancing before the un-Windexed mirrored behind the bar downstairs, as opposed to the guy in the rugby shirt backed by two girls dressed in bumble bee suits singing along to their Apple laptop upstairs. Ah, New York. Guess which one we chose.
If you haven't seen Fur Cups for Teeth, you really should, and you can probably at least start to get the idea of their ... sound ... from the above photo. I told Hilary Englert - who i was surprised to see in attendance w/ Tris - that seeing them is like spying on a slumber party, but she was having none of it, of course. Instead she just gritted her teeth, called me a pervert, and retired to the bar. I miss her sometimes.
Dammit, there's symbolism somewhere in this picture ...
"Balki's Dance of Joy is necessary to reverse the Billy Goat Curse. Watch for Alou nailin' it every time a Cubby gets to first base next year."
... before telling me about he saw on ESPN in the stands of a college football game that read "Wade Boggs once drank 64 beers on a cross country flight." God, i love that guy.
After almost a month of employ (and about 3 hours of work) at The One, i have a suspicion that i'm finally going to get paid today. "The Eagle Shits Tonight" is what Big Dave Heineman in Denver used to say when he got paid. Probably still does. And, in fact, i just searched for "The Eagle Shits Tonight" on Google and, sure enough, nothing. That's great! I like when my friends make up sayings.
I'm clearly avoiding work today. I got up at 8:15, but it's nigh 10 now, and i still haven't left for work. But, i did discover something interesting, for you people with electric toothbrushes (teethbrush?): next time you are using your electric toothbrush, especially around the molars, stare at your computer screen. It gets like, all freaky and wavy and junk.
Sunday, Nov. 16th - A discussion earlier with Josh, regarding NFL celebrations. Quick, how many can you name? Most recently there was the "Dirty Bird", perpetrated by one of the worst teams in Super Bowl History, the 1998 Atlanta Falcons. Then, as all 14 Bengals fans in the world know, you have (or used to have) the "Icky Shuffle". Going back to the pre-gruesome-injury Joe Theismann era, there was Washington's "Fun Bunch." And Josh, remembered "Showtime" which we're pretty sure was a dance Dionne Sanders did everytime he wasn't too busy with the Braves. How about the '85 Chicago Bears, did they have a dance? Because they had a great song. Anyway, that begged the question, from Josh: "Why don't baseball players dance after they hit a home run?" It seems like the Yanks could have the "Matsui Shuffle" if only Matsui had a personality. The '93 Phillies could've had the "Drunk Bunch" or the "Morandini Shuffle" or something. Dammit, this is a question for Mark Puner.
Incidentally, has anyone else noticed the NFL is *completely* devoid of even one single likeable player?
And so, i feel like apologizing for that rather bellicose entry you will read below, specifically to the staff and patrons of both Paragon Sports and Goony Golf, who have clearly been made red herrings for a deeper seated hatred i clearly have toward VH1. You see, i do have some work to do over the weekend, that i am, predictably avoiding. But, unlike the comparatively-Shakespearian heights of sophistication embodied by my previous employers Pop-Up Video, my task this time out has me reduced to making boob jokes about Britney Spears. I really can't tell you how i dread doing this. I like the people i work with, i guess, but it's clearly not an environment where great things happen. It's more like "Oh, we like the Moment of Zen piece they do at the end of each Daily Show so let's rip that off somehow" without the realization that they would fuck up and then not even pick up The Daily Show if it fell straight in their lap. And you think i would be content to take money from people like this, and ultimately i'm perfectly happy to do so, thank you. Until i have to do the work. Sure, i got tired of *popping*, but only at the end (coinciding with increasing interference from The One) did i start to feel embarrassed about the diminished quality the show. Here, it only took me about an hour. During one point at The Edit, i did warn the Editor that i might throw myself out the 6th story window into the bleak, prison-cell looking courtyard below if anyone should happen to see the handiwork i've been made complicit in. And of course the worst part is me having any emotional reaction to it at all. Bad Jens. I mean, i really *do* want to try to help. If people will let me. Ah, fuck it, what do i care.
I guess it's a good thing that no one at The One even knows i do this website. What is it again that goeth before the fall?
Earlier that day: First off, as promised ...
Yesterday found Karen and i shopping, although this time not for shoes. You readers out there narrowly missed a very poorly written, lengthy screed about how the steady decline and demise of American culture has a direct parallel in the rather wan options for new shoes these days. These negative feelings were somewhat ameliorated when i finally found a store still willing to carry the old black Pumas i've worn for the past coupla years (even though i have to wait another week for the new stock to come in). But still, new shoes are something that shouldn't involve research. Fortunately, i tend to have an easier time with other items.
And i will just come out and admit i don't mind the Gap at all. Ha, "don't mind the Gap." Not intended. Anyway, as far as plain clothes go (and i do favor plain clothes sometimes), they got what i want, which in yesterday's case was a navy v-neck sweater (to go with the black and burgendy ones i purchased the previous week from the same store) and some black gloves for wintertime bike ridin'. I also picked up a new pair of black Dickies at K-Mart, and within an hour i was set for the day.
That's when we went to Paragon Sporting Good Store to get Karen some new pilates clothes and a new fleece. I must say i do like the fleece she selected, lite blue, form fitting, making her look like a hot little snow bunny. BUT i did make a bad realiziation yesterday, after about an hour and a half at the store, and that is: i *hate* sporting goods stores. Let us take a trip back in time to this summer when the lady and i went up state to kick it, and we ended up at one of Lake George's many mini-golf courses. It was a foggy Sunday around 7 pm, and we were killing time before going to see Pirates of the Caribbean and get eaten alive by mosquitos at the local drive-in. Goony Golf, that was the name of the place, and it's actually one of the oldest mini-golf courses still in operation, nestled into a hillside of the Northway, fairly well maintained and colorful. The only problem, of course, was all the other golfers. When people talk about how fat and stupid Americans are, it's sometimes easy for us NYCers to become a little puzzled. Until we leave the confines of our advanced culture and inflict our snobbery on the overfed masses, that's when it gets thrown into stark relief. A surly, supersized bunch these people were, bratty kids, glassy vacant eyes, the air heavy with a lack of conversation, you probably get the idea. Strangely, among my many prejudices, i can't really include fat surly Americans on that list. Is it because some vague sense of patriotism? or because of the remote possibility that i could be one myself someday? I prefer to think just "because." (Ir)regardless, the same cannot be said of Karen, who, in spite of our starting on the 18th hole and working backwards specifically as a way of avoiding the other golfers, got dismayed and depressed for mankind in her inimitable Karen-y way, after a mere 4 holes. So, after declaring her the winner, we agreed to leave the morgue-with-windmills posthaste to get a good spot for the movie.
I bring all that up because Karen's feelings toward that segment of humainty echoed in me yesterday while being at a sporting goods store, especially so close to Christmas. Too many people in bad clothes, paying too much for bad clothes, self-absorption, consumerism run amok, guys who would be wearing sandals in the summertime, perhaps with their khakis, you know that NY Times add that's been running for about 7 years, where the lady says "I love finishing the crossword puzzle?" while swaddled in the arms of her doting, well-off husband, ick ick ick. God, i wish i could describe what i'm talking about. I think the world needs a new punk rock movement of some kind, to burn away the scum of privilege and unctuousness and treacle. Or, maybe i should just admit i've become a complete crank. Heh. "Crank Rock." Invest now.
Josh, knowing that i'm supposed to be working on work for work right now, just now came in and asked: "are you being funny?" And i said "certainly not in a professional sense."
Friday, Nov. 14th - I have been at "The Edit", on E. 28th St. and far from my office, the last few days, trying to put the finishing touches on the show we've been working on. Those of you who have found yourself in a rock n' roll recording studio, perhaps for day-long streches, during a mixing session would find The Edit to be a very similar experience: a small room with little to remind you of the outside world, the big book of menus to order lunch from (in this case, on The One's dime), the friendly-but-possibly-overworked guy with the beard with his back turned to you most of the time, the banks of threatening-looking machinery, the long interludes with no conversation, the palpable sense of passionlessness, the focus on details that will elude about 99% of the people who will come in contact with the final product. The only thing missing is a leather couch. I should say it has been a fun, lunch-filled, educational experience. It's just that the thing i've been educated most on is how not-very-good this show is, and how it never really stood a chance of being anything else. "You can't polish a turd" goes the old saying, and friends, i am truly in the turd polishing business. And business, for now at least, is booming.
I am temporarily back at my desk, alternately working on another version of a script for a segment featuring The Original Video Vixen Tawny Kittaen, and trying to figure out why i have yet to receive a paycheck. And so, i had a chance to include some more Daily News pictures, including one of a clown kissing the Pope, onto my Wall of Pictures here on the Big 3-1. My co-work-ster Jenny came over to assess the latest additions and (after talking at length about both being bowlers when we were kids), asked what i was going to do with my photo collection after next Friday. Next Friday? "Because that's when the show ends" she pointed out. Oh. After a pause, i said i hadn't really thought about it. I tend not to think more than 2 or 3 days into the future. Besides, can you imagine, me without a job?
Last nite was Lisa Klimkiewicz's going away party (she's moving all the way to Baltimore!) and it was a good, sad excuse to go a-drinkin. I'll get more into this when i have a chance to download the one unintentionally hilarious photo i took of this event. But, for now, i wish Lisa good luck, although i don't think she'll need it.
More proof that real irony still exists: There's a One-r here on the 31st floor who posts on her wall a caption contest each week for various de-captionized Family Circus cartoons. Time-honored fun, rewriting captions is. So, this time around, the picture featured Jeffy, sitting alone, impatiently, on a too-big chair, his mouth slightly open as if to say something. Of course, his open mouth was just provocative enough to elicit some predictable pedophilia jokes, but the winner thankfully didn't go that route. It was merely "I fucking hate IKEA!"
The winner was my cubicle mate Lynn, a PA for another show, who is quite nice, and likes Homestar Runner, jam rock and complaining about work. Anyway, a couple of days later, while in the process of moving stuff from her desk to go to a shoot, she accidentally broke a very stylish, unique lamp that had already been used, on-screen, for the show on which she was working. And so, to maintain continuity for a 0.9-rated show, it was necessary to procure an exact replacement of the lamp that very evening at 9pm, when normally she would be going home. And where did she have to go to get the new lamp? You guessed it, IKEA.
Yet another trip down memory lane: you may be interested (if your name is Jeff Mensch) to know that the COME ON (no, not GIRL HARBOR, but COME ON) website still exists! I wonder who's paying for that. Anyway, the ol' Drummer's Diary is still in effect. Ah, what fun we had. Mishka dumping beer on people, Mishka dumping Jeff on his head, Mishka dumping. Oh, and that picture of the guy from the Strokes' ass, which i'd completely forgotten about. See, i knew i did this thing for a reason.
Monday, Nov. 10th - Cameras and i have had a very tortured history. You know about the not just one but two Canons that have been stolen from me this calendar year. And, some of you are familiar with my story about driving across country with my then-girlfriend in my grandmother's Firebird when i turned 21, how i took 6 rolls of pictures on an old camera, without realizing the shutter was broken and not a single picture came out. In fact, my older-yet-more-recent version of the Mavica is the only camera i've ever really gotten on with, until it finally collapsed from overuse and obselesence. Anyway, i mention all this because i finally got a new camera today, after leaving work. It's a Nikon "Coolpix", and i'm afraid we're already getting off on the wrong foot. Over dinner at the nearby Stage Deli, i took the camera out of the box to set it up and perhaps take a picture or two. The pastrami sandwich at Stage - voted biggest sandwich in the world, or something like that, in the Daily News - seemed like a good a target as any; a huge pile of fatty, peppery pastrami overwhelming some defenseless slices of rye bread. Just as i was about to click, the battery dies. So, i guess, just picture a really big sandwich, with some wacky caption, and we'll try all this again tomorrow.
Incidentally, the Stage is a little more expensive, and nowhere near as good, as Katz's.
Sunday, Nov. 9th - Sundays are days to reflect, to think back, to watch Charles Kurault. Long-time fans of this site may wish to click here to see how far i've come (or haven't) as a webmeister, as a person, or for a cheepy nostalgia rush. Worked for me.
The ironic thing about that is, the photos you may have just seen from that old version of the website were taken with a camera off a more *recent* vintage than the one i'm currently using. As you know, Jeff, through the patronage of Whitney's parents, kindly set me up with an old 1999 model Mavica. And though i apprectiate the gesture very much, and it is better than no camera, the results have been ... er ... mixed. Exhibit A: check out my rad lunar eclipse photos!
Yes, think it may be time for an upgrade.
Friday, Nov. 7th - I just put 65 cents into the snack machine here on the 31st floor, and selected A3, which is Fritos, and the machine dispensed three (3!) bags of chips. Wow! This must be my lucky day.
Those of you who know Greg Altman are encouraged to wish him "Happy Birthday" today, as he is stuck in sunny Los Angeles on a Friday nite, with nothing but a rental car and a hotel room and a per diem from The One to keep him company, the poor fellow. Happy Birthday, my wayward friend!
In about a half hour, i sit in on an interview with Sebastian Bach. Never meet your heroes, indeed ...
Wednesday, Nov. 5th - Kickball Night (now cancelled). April Long once told me, after a long harrowing story about a very painfully awkward interview with Steven Malkmus, "never meet your heroes." It was with this quote in mind that Jesse and i went to the Coliseum book store on 42nd St. to attend a speaking engagement with Ball Four author Jim Bouton. Robin tipped us off to this event, and attended as well, as she works in the building. Jim just released a new book, Foul Ball, about his attempts to save a historic baseball stadium in Pittsfield, MA, and the environmental can of worms he strangely opened up in the process. Of course, he lead off his speech with a Mickey Mantle story, a funny one at that, before taking an surprisingly serious tone about the new book. But, it was a fun way to spend lunch, and afterward Jesse and i both picked up copies, after being assured by the author that it is an entertaining book "even though Joe Shultz and Fred Talbot aren't in it." Best of all, while getting our new purchases signed (he wrote in mine "Keep your eyes open for bulldozers"), Jesse slipped him a copy of the first Denver Zest record, a gift that Jim seemed unusually delighted by. Crap, we should've signed it. Anyway, i'm awaiting photos from Jesse's palm pilot (of course) of this historic event, so you can see for yourself how sharp and well preserved Mr. Bouton is.
Too bad we didn't pound the ol' Budweiser.
Tuesday, Nov. 4th - Each morning since i've gotten settled in here at El Uno, i've borrowed scissors and tape from my co-worker Courtney. This of course has nothing to do with the fact that she looks more than a bit like Kirsten Dunst and everything to do with the fact that, strangely, she seems to have the only pair of scissors on the whole floor, and she bought them herself. Of course, i haven't told her what i've needed them for, but i'll tell you. You see, inspired by that odd little photo of the kids from Kansas being made by their parents (seemingly) to protest gayness for them, i've decided to cut a photo out of the Daily News each day and tape it to my wall. This is the only suitable way i can think to decorate my desk, really. But, i've had some good results thus far, including ...
* One-hit Yankee wonder Aaron Boone, staring forelornly at a nearby baseball
* Sean "P. Puffy Diddy Daddy" Combs, complete with mohawk (?!), just after he'd finished running the New York Marathon
* The protesting children of Kansas, of course
* An ecstatic Mayor Bloomberg, getting a little sugar from J.Lo
* A strange-looking old lady underneath the awning at Beth Israel Hospital
* And today, perhaps the best of all, a photo of my friend(ster)/former Hissyfit/current barowner Sivan, outside looking in at Arlene's Grocery.
And i'm just getting started ...
I was wondering earlier today who finished *last* in the New York Marathon yesterday. I was on Bedford Ave. last night picking up my Les Paul bass with its new, non-active Fender pick-ups, and i was hoping to encounter some straggling, struggling runner, limping through the Williamsburg night, dressed in nylon shorts with a number pinned to their back, not getting any cheers or gatorade handed to them, not even an iced coffee or a flyer for a show, but, even in this state of lonliness, less than halfway to the finish line, still determined to finish the race. Alas, i may have just barely missed this lady.
Monday, Nov. 3rd - In a surprise turn of events, i think i'm on the precipice of actually having a little faith in this show i've been working on. We just went over to the legendary "1515" (the MTV building in Times Square) and interviewed two members of the pop band Fountains of Wayne (a band whose work i'm unfamiliar with, but am tempted to explore now) to get funny, nutty quotes for our show. And, they actually came up with some hilarious stuff. I won't reveal anything here - mainly because i don't have a transcript handy - so you'll just have to see our snappy demo reel when it's finished. I think this show might actually be going places, or more to the point, i might not be embarrassed to show it to people. Go fig. And, with our sister show "Super Secret TV Formulas" doing well (by VH1 standards) in the ratings - a staggering 0.9! - which, yes, is as small as it sounds, unless you're VH1, blah blah freakin' blah.
In my drunken haze last night, i forgot to include a few good lines about my mustard costume. First i should point out that i *did* run into "Ketchup" at one point early in the night. I swore i would run up and hug the person who was wearing the Ketchup costume if i saw him/her on the street, but this guy kinda looked like a surly little fireplug, so i just waved and said hey, while everyone in the vicinity said "look! It's Ketchup and Mustard!" and proclaimed it a Halloween Miracle. And, so in the initial round of responses to the predictable "Where's Ketchup?" question, i gleefully proclaimed "ah, i passed him earlier on 2nd Ave." At which point, i usually had to explain the whole thing, so i ditched that response pretty quickly, in favor of "he's in the fridge", then "i ate him", then just flat out ignoring the question, like i was deaf. Mustard doesn't have ears, after all. And so, i was relieved when, later in the evening, outside the dance club next to the Mercury, the big bouncer said "hey, where's your boy Frank?"
Then of course there was the little kid who said "look Mommy! Ketchup!" as i whizzed by on my bike, and the carfull of Brooklyn mooks asking what i was. And, i did enjoy helpfully telling all the trick-or-treating kids out there to "eat all their mustard!" But the best line came early, and was thoroughly unintentional. It would seem Karen was downstairs with a friend at Warsaw, and before heading back up to rejoin me, said "well, i gotta go catch-up with mustard." This was, of course followed by a sinking groan from all parties within earshot.
I'm just now remembering me and The Colonel getting in a minor cab wreck on the way to the Roxy for the Motherfucker party. It was that kind of night. But, enough. It's freakishly nice out again today, so i'm taking a long, strolling lunch, just like i did in the Pop-Up days, days i still miss mind you. But, it could be worse. Much worse. I don't even mind that my cubicle mate is playing Derek and the Dominos ...
Sunday, Nov. 2nd - I've had a few glasses of wine tonite. Halloween was very fun. Josh's impropmtu costume worked out well; i finally saw Karen play with the Anti-Social Music quartet at a teen-infested gig at Warsaw in scenic Greenpoint; my last minute costume purchase worked out quite well; i took in a Vitamen show; i did a lot of dancing; i went a 7th consecutive year without getting egged. Let's just go to the pretty pictures from Halloween, shall we? ...
Colonel Josh Sanders |
Violist Karen Correa |
For those of you wondering |
Waiting in line outside the Motherfucker party |
Aw ...
