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But at least I've got some stories to tell...
Catch me here and there:
5/30 - Prefuse 73 @ Southpaw
5/31 - Palomar @ the Knit vs. the SSION @ Mighty Robot
6/1 - Ted Leo @ Southpaw
6/3 - Hot 97 Summer Jam @ the Meadowlands <-- have a ticket for me?
6/4 - Radio 4 @ the Bowery vs. the Clean @ the Knit
6/5 - Love @ Town Hall vs. the Rapture/LCD Soundsystem @ Irving
6/6 - Radiohead @ Beacon
6/7 - Field Day Fest
...and it keeps on going! It's summer in New York for sure, even if all natural signs point to the contrary.
Bishop Allen on NPR?! The list of people I know becoming more famous than I could ever imagine just keeps growing...
New mix CD in the pipeline. Anyone have a Pink Frost empeethree they want to send me?
Oh and I'll be in Boston this weekend. Mail me or something if you want to hook up.
Not counting the time that I'm asleep, I now spend more time on my bike than off it. On top of work (which'd take care of that statistic on its own), Saturday turned into an inadvertent epic up to City Island, then Sunday was a race day. Regardless (or nevertheless), I think this reflects an improvement on the general state of things.
Taking a page from Satan's Laundromat, here's my current favorite Manhattan Bridge graffiti.
I wish I knew who made 'em, because I'd love to get my hands on that BRKYLN screen.
Broadcast has always disappointed me. I'm not sure why I thought this EP would be any different. Maybe because it promised danceable beats. Maybe because they'd been working on it for a long time. But alas no. The whole thing's a little plodding and feels not entirely fully formed. On the other hand, if there's one thing that Broadcast does well, it's capturing the melancholy of missed opportunity and irretrievable past.
What has been cheering me up is my discovery (thanks Doug) of the BPitch Control label-- super-smart German electro that's not plodding or bland in the least. The plan is to digitize some of the singles, but if work keeps up like this...
Feeling all Bridget Jonesy out on my mini vac. More running around too, but here, meant to post this last week.
Two years ago or so, back when I started the job down in SoHo, there used to be this guy whose job it was to stand outside the building where I worked and pass out flyers for the clothing shop on the second floor. We'd chat a little, each morning when I'd lock up my bike and then again in the evening when I'd unlock it to go home. Over the course of a few months, we developed a friendship of sorts. Then things started to get weird.
One day Lenny was telling me about how he was in night school to become an English teacher. "Oh," I said. "I did English too. But I hear they're not looking for English teachers anymore. It's math ones that they want." Lenny nodded. The conversation moved on. I unlocked my bike and went home.
Next morning I'm locking up my bike when Lenny says, "Lauren. I took your advice. I changed my major. I'm going to be a math teacher now."
"WHAT THE FUCK!?" screams my brain. "Um that's great," I say. I decide that maybe it's time to back off.
A couple of days later, Lenny seems a little nervous. "See, there's this apartment that I want to move into," he starts. "And, well, the landlord's asking for a letter of reference. Do you think you could write one?" I'm still a little weirded out about the whole life-alteration-according-to-Lauren thing, but I agree.
I come out that night and Lenny's waiting for me. "I've been thinking," he says. "Do you think when you're writing that letter you could say you've known me for a year?"
"Um, ok," I say. And go home.
But Lenny's been thinking some more. The next morning, he's got another thing to ask-- "Do you think you could make it three years? That you've known me for that long? What do you think," he asks, "three sound better than one?"
I hastily lock up my bike and go inside, but on the way out there's more. "Do you think you could say that you work with me? That we work for the same company?"
Oh jeez, I think. Instead I just say "I'll write it tomorrow." Then I go home.
The next day I write the letter. It's the vaguest thing I think I've ever done: "In the time that I've known Lenny, he has demonstrated unsurpassed dedication, enthusiasm, and responsibility towards the job..." I sign my name, leave off my phone number, and give it to him that afternoon.
I think it's a Wednesday. Thursday morning I lock up my bike and notice Lenny's not around. I don't think much of it. He's not the most reliable, especially when the weather's bad. Friday, though, there's a new guy.
"What happened to Lenny?" I ask.
"Oh," says the guy. "He doesn't work here anymore."
And that was that. I was a little freaked out for a while, wondering what exactly my letter was being used for and why he quit the very next day. But after a while I forgot.
Then, last Thursday, I'm stopped in some traffic on 5th somewhere in the 50s when a man holding some flyers steps out into the street. "Lauren," he says. "It's me, Lenny. How're you doing?"
It's James Baker on Ali G, as reported by Maureen Dowd:
YOUNG MAN: How does you make countries do stuff you want?
MR. BAKER: Well, the way you deal with countries on foreign policy issues . . . is you deal with carrots and sticks.
YOUNG MAN: But what country is gonna want carrots, even if it's like a million tons of carrots that you're giving over there——
MR. BAKER: Well, carrots — I'm not using the term literally. You might send foreign aid — money, money.
YOUNG MAN: Well, money's better than carrots. Even if a country love carrots and that is, like, their favorite national food, if they get given them——
MR. BAKER: Well, don't get hung up on carrots. That's just a figure of speech.
YOUNG MAN: So would you ever send carrots? You know, is there any situation——
MR. BAKER: No, no.
YOUNG MAN: What about if there was a famine?
MR. BAKER: Carrots, themselves? No. (more...)
Seriously, though, things are wacky here. It's my last day in the office and the elevator, along with me, has totally checked out. You press 11, light says 11, but the door opens and it's stopped at 12. OK maybe that's not so strange, but get this-- going down for lunch the elevator stops at the overstock clothing place on 2. Already the string of explatives is forming in my head. Fucking designer suits beautiful day fuck fuck. Plus the elevator's slow enough already and for god's sake, the second floor? Door opens and I look out into a wall of shoeboxs-- eight stacks, floor to ceiling, double deep. A guy pokes his head around. "Jesus," I think, "he's not going to do what I think he's going to do." But he does. Five boxes at a time. Into the elevator with me. On the second floor. On my lunch hour.
Goodbye 598 Broadway. Can't say I'll miss ya.
On another note, Mike E. (not to be confused with Mike D., who now also has a website) is totally rocking my New York foodie world-- first he tells me about the Arepa Lady, who I am planning to visit as soon as I can swing it, then points out Robert Sietsema's new Jackson Heights find. I wonder if there's something new at the Eagle, because I'm tempted to ditch all existing plans and make a day of it.
Going to the WFMU Record Fair is a lot like a visit to the museum-- both result in complete exhaustion for reasons you can never explain. I really only spent a couple hours inside-- some late Friday and again Saturday morning (enough to collect some booty but not enough to break the bank)-- but it was the record fair plus a bike trip out to Coney Island plus a DJ set at the Typical Girls party that left me on the verge of collapse.
I'll let you know when I can feel my legs again. And my brain.