resurrection/insurrection.

I like writing. I'm only going to get better at it if I actually do it more often. Now, however, seems to not be the time.

How do you cure writer's block if you're not even a writer?

sec 2.

This one I wasn't too stoked on. I feel like it really limited me. Nils gave us 4 different scenarios and asked us to expound on them for ten minutes. I got so bummed out I didn't even do the fourth... Oops. I felt really blocked and uninspired.

Scenario 1
It's late. You're out walking in a quiet neighborhood. You're worried, looking for something. There's a house in front of you. A door opens, two people come out...


(Let yourself feel the situation, see the house, see the people, jot down your associations. Who are they? Who are you? What do they look like, what are they wearing? Are you nervous? Curious? Do they see you? Help you? Hurt you? What happens next?)

The door opens and lets out a stream of golden light, along with the jingle of cheerful laughter and all-around merrymaking. The couple seem drunk, or at least a little tipsy, and are leaning into each other as they make their way to the sidewalk. I slow my steps so as not to come in contact with them. I’m afraid their jubilance may rub off on me and the cold night and harsh wind have already taken hold. There’s snow on the ground, and empty, sparse branches hang from the trees. My breath makes icy puffs as I breathe. I’m in a very residential neighborhood, tony, even. Brick houses with white pillars and dense hedges line the street, and the rows of cars parked on either side make the street narrow and almost claustrophobic.
The couple has found their way to their car and the man is opening her door for her. She’s wrapped in a camel-colored shawl, tiptoeing in black stilettos, small but brilliant diamonds glinting from her ears. She smiles big and wide and her laughter fills the otherwise empty air. I want to be her. I want to be happy and carefree and in love. Instead, I hang back and watch. If I can watch for long enough, maybe I’ll be able to approximate her life, her attitude, her laughter.

Scenario 2
You're alone in your apartment. You're angry, upset about something. You hear a sound at the front door. You go to it, open it. There's a box on the doorstep. You lift it up, open it...


(Who are you? Why are you alone? Why so angry? Do you open the door slowly, quickly? What's in the box? What happens next?)

The conversation hadn’t gone the way I’d wanted it to. I wanted to scream and complain, but instead I stayed calm and mellow and let her speak her mind; let her win. Again. This is the way it goes.
My throat is starting to close up again. I carry my stress in my throat, and when I get angry, so exceptionally angry that I can’t even speak, I also start to lose the ability to breathe. I want to throw my phone against the wall, my brand new $300 phone. I want to throw something. I want to break something. I want to cut something. The pain is so sharp and so clear, it allows me to focus on nothing more than the simplicity of it. My kitchen knives are too dull, though, and I end up with bright red scratches instead of clean incisions.
I hear the knocker on my front door shifting, ever so quietly. If I’d been listening to music or watching TV, I wouldn’t have even heard it, but I’ve been sitting here, quiet in my anger, and so I catch the soft touch of metal knob to metal plate. I walk over to the door and look out the peephole, but there’s no one out there. I hear the door to the stairwell latch closed and the steady, rumbling rhythm of someone running down the stairs. I open the door to try to catch them, and literally stumble over a bright red toolbox left in front of my door. It’s full of something heavy, and I can barely move it. I push it into the living room without opening it, and can hear metal pieces rattling around inside.

Scenario 3
You've been out drinking, celebrating something with your buddies. This guy you don't know very well says, hey, let's do something crazy. You laugh, get in his car...


(What's the occasion? Why do you get in? What do you see, hear, smell? What happens next?)

We’d been out since happy hour. Jennifer had gotten the job she’d been interviewing for and we’d been celebrating with Black Velvets. My tongue was fuzzy with champagne sweetness and it was time to switch to whiskey. The man who sidled up to me at the bar as I ordered our round seemed charming enough, so I let him pay for our drinks. He, in turn, followed me back to the booth. He leaned in closely when he talked, enveloping me in a heady cloud of tequila-tinted breath, cigarette smoke, and a faint, musky cologne. There were tiny beads of sweat on his forehead, which only added to his intensity. “Let’s do something crazy,” he said under his breath so no one else can hear.
I stood up immediately and announced my departure. He grabbed my hand and lead me up the stairs to the exit. This was nothing new for me. Strangers intoxicate me: the excitement and awkwardness, bolstered by alcohol, fuels the part of me that otherwise hovers below the surface. I become fearless and invincible and almost otherwordly.

singularly exquisite corpse 1.

As part of the bailee. life-overhaul, I signed up for a fiction/short story writing class at the UW's Experimental College. I've been once, and while I'm annoyed with my fellow classmates, I like the teacher and I look forward to blowing him away. Judging by my competition in the classroom, I don't think that will be too hard. We started a true exquisite corpse exercise where we were in groups of four and each person contributed a sentence to a tiny short story, and where I felt like my sentences opened up the narrative (as did two others in my group), there was this one girl who just kept throwing a wrench in the works... Every single time. Let me give you some examples (her contributions are italicized):

When the clock struck midnight, Mark knew that nothing would ever be the same…
But although this was what he wanted, he felt hesitation and then paralysis.
He knew he was supposed to make this call, to press this button, to “change the world,” just like they’d always said.
But he wouldn’t go through with it. Breaking up with Paris Hilton just isn’t something you “do.” She usually does it for you.

I was standing at the kitchen sink when it happened.
I saw the flash out the window and was momentarily blinded.
“Jesus!” I exclaimed. “Yes, it is I; I was wondering if you could recommend an esthetician, for my beard is rather out of control.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, for I am a skilled stylist… but there’ll be a price, and it shall be steep!”

It seemed like the ice had formed instantaneously; every step he took down the stairs was so slippery and unsure, it was like one step closer to death.
Her mother’s icy expression confirmed what she expected already: her mother was now fully aware of the fact that she’d been amorous with the pool boy.
The only problem was the pool-boy was her ex-husband’s love-child.
After contemplating a moment, she decided it wasn’t a problem- if Woody Allen could marry his wife’s adopted daughter, she could do anything.

     It was really discouraging. Everything she had to offer seemed to change the direction the exercise was headed and we all had to adjust to her low-brow sens of humor accordingly. No fun.
     Anyhow, I'm going to be posting the personal exercises here. Feedback from strangers is all well and good, but I'd also appreciate some from people who know me, and probably have a good sense of what I'm aiming for. This was an in-class exercise; the instructor basically said "Write for ten minutes straight." The ten minutes went really quickly.

     The phone is ringing. Again. It's an old-school 80's era rotary dial, all coffee-brown, dial yellowing with age. The ring is loud and harsh and everytime I hear it I tell myself to get rid of the phone. But I haven't yet. I also haven't cleaned my bathroom or my kitchen in weeks. Sure, I straighten them up and wipe down surfaces, but I've yet to give them the deep scrubbing and sanitation they need. I'm running a little behind on my spring cleaning.
     I think about my apartment a lot, about how it has become this ode to mid- to late-century decor, thanks to cabinets that haven't been replaced since the 60's, along with my penchant for buying random bits of furniture at yard sales. I like my apartment. I like that I don't use air freshener or incense or candles, but every time I open my door it smells fresh and clean and slightly sweet, regardless of whatever bacon or marijuana smell is permeating the outside hallway.
     It's tiny and it's mine and it's perfect. Or it was until a month ago. The dogs that have taken up residence in the new kennel just across the alley from my bedroom window have tainted the unit's perfection, ever so slightly. The barking begins before dawn, but even worse than that are the girls that work there, whose only method of placating the animals (heaven forbid they should play with them or take them for walks!)is to walk into the kennel area and yell, "Hey! HEY!" until the beasts are still. The I hear the gate shut, and silence, until usually a smaller pup starts whimpering, and then a larger one begins bellowing, until finally it's a chorus of canines, and the routine begins anew. I want to complain, I want to go in there and ask those girls why they work in a kennel if they hate dogs so much.

i'm lucky to have such clever friends.

In a further attempt to alienate anyone who reads my blog and DOESN'T frequent the Cap Hill "scene," here's an IM conversation from earlier today that I keep thinking (and giggling) about:

bailee: hey, was it just me, or did [REDACTED] SUCK BALLS?

donte: it was lame - i came by for my hellos and well wishes, and that was it

bailee: i am SO TIRED of hearing the same 10 songs every time i go to that night.

donte: although i did appreciate some electro track they played
-i tired of that long ago
-yeah, i wonder if all those djs have some playlist that they all share

bailee: totally!
- and they're not even that great of djs.
- my friend made a really good point: "none of those dudes probably listen to music."

donte: i feel like the same can be said for much of the audience
- it's just top 40 for hipsters

bailee: exactly.
- over it.

donte: i don't think you're allowed to say that. vice magazine will send the hipster gestapo to get you
- for "reeducation"

truckasauras, dude!

One of the more depressing casualties of the Keenan Bowen Debacle of Ought-Six was the feature I wrote on Truckasauras that was going to run before their opening slot for Daedelus. It was slated to run in the October 19th edition, but was shelved on the 11th... Two days later, Dave and I were unemployed. Sigh. What with all the hullabaloo surrounding the Truck now, I revisited the story, and it amazes me how well, in a 45 minute conversation the first time we met, I was able to capture their personalities and dynamic. Having spent tons of time with them in the last few months, I've borne witness to the constant finishing-of-sentences and psychic abilities these guys share, and I feel like the people I purport them to be in the story are pretty spot-on representations (with the exception of Dan, who, it turns out, is the spawn of Satan). Without further ado...

The Party’s Crashing Us Now
Truckasauras’s Advanced Nerdery
By Keenan Bowen Bailee Martin

     There’s a moment during every Truckasauras show, usually midway through the set, where the group drops a banger. It’s the same song every time, and every time one can feel the collective, yet silent, round of “Oh, shit!” rattle through the masses. The heads up front start bobbing a little stronger, fists begin pumping in the air, and the three dudes behind the expanse of drum machines, keyboards, and Game Boys begin bopping back and forth in unison.
     “Even if we mess up, which we do a lot,” admits Adam Swan, Truckasauras’s keyboard/Commodore 64 specialist, “it still sounds good. We get going, and just kinda listen to it; we’re just tricking all the machines into doing something that we like.”
     With whimsical analog loops skirting over darkly minimal drums, Truckasauras’s sound toes the line between goofiness and sincerity, and does so with aplomb. Such is to be expected from a group comprised of members of Seattle’s Fourthcity collective.
     In a roundtable conversation with Swan, his brother Tyler, childhood friend Ryan Trudell, and visual ace Dan Bordon, the giddiness and excitability expressed by the group when discussing their gear is palpable. “There was a show a few years ago at the Hugo House; some 8-bit themed thing,” Trudell explains when asked about Truckasauras’s origins. “I had recently gotten the Game Boy program [NanoLoop, a German synthesizer /sequencer program for Nintendo’s handheld systems], and Tyler and I threw together a set on a whim.”
     Tyler breaks in. “Like, that day. We just started drinking at noon or something, and it was born.”
     “Initially, it was just me and Tyler,” continues Trudell, “but then I got a Commodore 64 and Adam started rocking that, doing keyboards over it.”
     “Basically we pulled this guy out of his bedroom,” says Adam, gesturing at Bordon, who spends the majority of the interview with his fingers laced, quietly watching his musical counterparts wax effusive over the intricacies of vintage Roland drum machines.
     “There’s a lot of modern software that’s all based on this stuff, but you can’t beat it,” Tyler boasts.
     “And just the way you use [the gear] in a live setting dictates the music to a certain extent. It’s super fun,” adds Trudell. “We’re just rocking hardware, you know, the old 808 drum machines and stuff. [Being able to] plug that into a nice system and let that bump is just…pretty awesome.”
     “It’s a lot of fun to buy gear, too, so…” Adam’s thought trails off slightly. “Nerd stuff,” he grins.
     “Total nerd stuff!” Trudell agrees enthusiastically. “It’s the 808 that’s really constrictive [live], but it sounds so pure, and it’s got such character.”
     “It’s a classic,” attests Adam.
     “About as old as us, I think!” Trudell concurs.
     When asked what label the group’s upcoming album will be released on, Tyler smiles. “This is gonna be an independent release, hand screen-printed, the whole thing.”
     “We really like the DIY aesthetic of Truckasauras,” Adam declares.
     “The first time we did a show,” says Tyler, “half of it was live drums, and we were excited because it felt like punk rock.”
     “The visuals are pretty punk rock, too,” his brother agrees.
     Live, the group resembles (as Portland Mercury’s Chas Bowie so eloquently put it) “a trio of Larry the Cable Guy devotees who would spit Skoal in your eyeball after kicking your hipster ass for no good reason.” Fishing vests, trucker hats emblazoned with bald eagles, and American flags-as-capes are the fashion de rigeur for these fellows, who stand three-strong in front of a screen projecting images of monster truck rallies, explosions, and WWF matches.
     “Even just the name ‘Truckasauras’ is just so over-the-top,” insists Trudell, referencing the monster truck destructive icon. “The other day I saw a semi with a big Confederate flag for the grill. That’s so Truckasauras. It’s pseudo-patriotism. If someone was kinda into that stuff they’d look at it and be stoked, but we just look at it as so…”
      “It’s parody style— Truck has become its own entity.” Tyler continues, in the habitual pattern of finishing each other’s sentences like only a tight-knit group of established comrades can. “Truck definitely has plenty of gimmick, but with the album, we want to make it so it’s good to listen to—not reliant on the gimmick. We really do put a lot of thought into it.”
     “We didn’t initially,” interjects Trudell. “It was more of just a fun thing to do, but then…”
     “People started taking it seriously,” Adam concludes. “And it just turned into… it’s just way cooler than any of us just on our own.”

this is why going to sleep sober isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I had a vivid and disturbing dream last night. I was shacking up in this flop-house on northeastern Manhattan (in my dream it was in Harlem but I don't think that's correct). Instead of being on the water, though, the building was smack up against a hillside, a huge, rolling hillside with a metal fence running the length of it. Like, one whole side of the building was without windows because it was almost built into the hillside. People hung out on the rooftop, much like they do in front of the halfway houses that run the length of Summit Ave b/w Howell and Pine. Two of those people were jbin and Woody Harrelson, and the three of us started smoking crack out of a pipe fashioned from a test tube, with a screw-on cap/screen combination reminiscent of a Mason jar. The next thing I knew, I looked over, and jbin had shot an arrow through his dog's head. He'd done it from behind so that the arrowhead was protruding from between her beautiful (and now lifeless) eyes. Blood was trickling out of her mouth. I LOVE this dog as though she were my own, and this action broke my heart. I got up and walked to the edge of the roof, looking out at the fence. I wondered to myself if it were an electric fence, and just then I saw two raccoons come scrambling down the hill. One of them lost its footing and tumbled into the fence, and I watched it spasm and jolt as a current ran through it (Is that equivalent to lucid dreaming? I'm kind of inclined to think it is). While I was distracted by that, the other raccoon jumped over the fence and started to hiss and growl at me, shoulders haunched and fur standing straight up. I started to back away slowly, when he lunged and sunk his teeth into my wrist. I swear, I've never physically felt the pain in a dream like I did last night. It burned. I could feel it on my nerve endings. At times like these remembering dreams is overrated.

i really do hate to say i told you so...

My camera is en route to me, so once I get that I'll throw up a huge post about the Truckasauras/Portland weekend. Until then, however, maybe this GLOWING FUCKING PRAISE from PITCHFORK and Line Out will tide you over.

I called this shit like a year ago. Those boys are gonna be famous. Much love to the Truck.

feel my iPain.

So. Last week at Ratatat's "DJ" set at Havana, I lost my iPod. jbin said he saw me, at one point, look down at my bag and see that my headphones were no longer attached to anything, and whimper. The next morning, in a slightly-less drunken state, I realized it was long gone. I went through brief moments of incredulity and irritation, and then just decided that instead of spending my next Chop Suey check on my bike, I'd replace my Nano with the top-of-the-line 80GB video iPod, which I did in Portland (no sales tax).

Last night, a conversation with one of my coworkers went something like this:
Him: "I want to start filling iPods with music and selling them, rather than burning discs of stuff."
Me: "iPods are expensive."
Him: "Yeah, but I find a lot of them. Like, last week at Havana I looked down and kicked what I thought was a flyer, and this iPod went flying across the floor."
Me: "..."
Him: "And it's got some hella good shit on there. Aesop Rock, MF Doom/RZA..."
Me: "OHMIGOD you found my fucking iPod! God DAMMIT!"

Needless to say, I'm slightly annoyed this conversation didn't take place BEFORE Saturday. So now I have two iPods. Annoying.

2nd best call-out on blogging suckiness...

While talking about this weekend's debaucherous intentions: "Gotta give you something better to talk about than Triscuits and hummus."

Oh, snap. Burn.

Keep posted for an On The Road/Fear And Loathing-type journal of Truckasauras' Portland Weekend Blast-off Extraordinare.

yum.

I'd be a far less picky eater if all food came in Black Pepper flavor.

Seriously, I could subsist on these crackers with hummus for the rest of my days. Throw an avocado in there and I'm set.

trim the fat.

While watching last week's episode of Lost (not this week's, mind you, as it is on right now and I'll patiently download it tomorrow, thank you very much), I found myself wondering why Sawyer is my favorite character. Granted, Josh Holloway is a rugged stone fox, but there's also that whole "tortured soul that won't let anyone close" schtick that he's got going for him, too (although, that sums up Jack and Kate in a nutshell, as well). What I realized, however, is that I identify with the fact that he refers to everyone by nicknames (I also noted this literally seconds before Sun made a bet with Sawyer, the stakes being that if he lost he wouldn't be able to call anyone a nickname). Freckles, Doc, Snuffleupagus and Grimace... He referred to the Korean couple as Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon in this episode. My Lost-watching companion cried "Rah-ceest!" while I just laughed my ass off. The thing is, I do the same thing. With the exception of my family and people that I work with, everyone in my life has an alternate moniker that I use to label them. Segal/Veins, Arty, LT, Mar, jbin, Cuban-B, etc. (Yes, I'm counting last names as nicknames). Even people that I'm not super tight with (Parks, D-Nyce, Enthusiastic Matt) get these unique handles. I'm not necessarily the one who comes up with them, but I'll pick up on their usage in an instant and perpetuate it. When discussing "romantic" endeavors, aforementioned Lost companion and I refer to people, even though we know their names, by distinguishing characteristics: "The Hippie," "The Twin," "The Coke-head," and so-on and so-forth. I suppose there are just far too many Jennifers, Jasons, Heathers and Ryans in this world to keep them all straight, so the idiosyncratic nomenclature comes in to play.

ladies and gentlemen...

May I present to you Jonah Santos Dominic Lamas.

Born March 6th at 4:17 AM (12 days late! Obviously inherited his father's sense of punctuality).
9.13 lbs, 21 inches long.

I'm going to be the best ADOPTED aunt ever.

On a side note... I suck at blogging.

i beg of you.

I have a proposal for all males over the age of twelve: Can we please call an indefinite moratorium on the usage of "weiner," "weenie," "weenis," or any derivative thereof when referring to one's member? That terminology stopped being cute around the time you learned the scientific nomenclature for said organ. Whenever I hear it, it literally makes me cringe. If you stop using that, I'll stop referring to you as "boys." I swear.

steve jobs needs to get his act together.

Due to Apple's 2007 Campaign to Drive bailee. Absolutely Batshit Crazy (brought to a screeching halt by my benevolent mother), posting has been impossible as of late. Vegas is keeping me busy, so I'm just gonna throw up this one that's been percolating for awhile:

Via Seattlest, BLVD Gallery's Damion Hayes has begun a video series on local artists on his blog, Artstash. Much to my merriment and delight, his first installment features both my fave Seattle street artist, No Touching Ground, and the divine musical stylings of my boys in Truckasauras' more developed and brilliant main project, Foscil. Enjoy.

notes on a failed attempt (or, he really can rap that fast!)

I was all stoked for the Busdriver CD release party here in LA last night. It was to be Busdriver performing alongside Nobody and Boom Bip (who shared production duties on Roadkill Overcoat), and Daedelus was going to be recording his set for a live album. I got my girl Brooke all excited, she rallied the troops, and off we went.

We showed up to The Airliner around midnight and things looked promising. Not too bad of a line to get in, or at the bar, and the crowd seemed rather sparse. We grabbed drinks and headed back to the show space, snaked up a few stairs, and walked into a wall of people. We tried to move forward into the crowd, but we were walking uphill (!) into a reverse amphitheater-type setup. Daedelus was just beginning his set, but there was no way we were going to be able to see anything, so we headed upstairs to a different section. This decision proved fortuitous, as Boom Bip was throwing down rave-tastic acidy breakbeats for the unlucky people who couldn't squeeze onto the show floor.

We danced for a bit (to Peter, Bjorn and John's "Young Folks" at one point), and I headed outside to "catch some air." What's this? The upstairs smoking area was a deck looking down onto the stage! All was not lost. Busdriver had just begun his set (with "Casting Agents and Cowgirls," no less. It irks me when people begin their sets with the first song from their album. Daedelus did the same), so we were able to catch his entire performance, paper party hat and all. He played choice selections from Overcoat, threw out a stellar freestyle, and ended the set with "Imaginary Places," leaving a screaming, bouyant crowd.

i called it from the beginning (right, momma?)

My boy won.

on like, love, lust.

February's issue of (Sound) (is it Seattle Sound? Sound Seattle? I can't tell) has a surprisingly well-written and effectively sentimental article on Jesse Sykes, of Sweet Hereafter fame. Being the February issue, in favor of all things Valentinidous™, the angle of part of the piece and its corresponding sidebar centers on Sykes' relationship with Sweet Hereafter guitarist Phil Wandscher. The article's author does a bang-up job of describing Sykes and Wandscher's opposing yet complimentary personalities, and is able to make the songstress open up a tad with this quote that's stuck with me all day:

"I like the idea of loyalty before fidelity... When it comes down to it, we're extremely loyal. We totally have each other's backs, but at the same time we fight like cats and dogs. We've hurt each other deeply at times, but at the end of the day, we're best friends."

And in the sidebar, which focuses on Barsuk's affinity for married acts (Starlight Mints, Viva Voce, Mates of State), Sykes offers this flippant opinion:

Status: "We're whatever. [Musically,] I don't know what I'd do without Phil. As far as everything else, he can get lost. If we were rich, we'd probably be like Frida and Diego and have two houses with the bridge between them."

I like that. I really, really, like that. My perspective on "relationships" is a selfish and lonely one, but it's reassuring to know that it's shared and brought to success by someone else out there.

all in a day's work.

Today started out excitingly enough, with some pyromaniacal idiot finding it necessary to light a woman on fire in downtown Seattle.

Then came irrational demonizing of Ignignot and Ur.

Not to be outdone by the City of Boston's overreaction and ineptitude, tonight on my way home I walked past a fire engine on the side of the road, siren blaring and lights flashing, and watched four firemen stand around a wastebasket while one of them sprayed a fire extinguisher inside. I kid you not:


Thanks to Slog and Steve Schieberl for the tips.

girl talking.

all photos ©2007 jbin

The Girl Talk show at Chop Suey last night had been much hyped since it was announced back in October: The Stranger devoted tons of print space and bandwith to promoting the show, and word of mouth spread like wildfire amongst the hipster-elite in Seattle. Girl Talk's album has been the soundtrack to many a party in the last few months. People love it, and rightfully so. As one show attendee put it, "Night Ripper rocks!"



But, I really don't see what all the hype was/is about. I mean, it was a total dance party vibe night, and I love Night Ripper as much as the next dude (it's great to rock while getting ready for a night out), but dude's just chilling on stage with a laptop, cutting up mp3s. And not even busting out any new tracks or anything, just culling songs from the last 40 years or so, and mashing them up into a "frenzied, shiny mess." There's no vinyl involved; no true, inherent talent. I feel like I could do what he does if I had an egg timer, a sick laptop, and Serato. But, again, I still had a great effing time. He pwn3s the crowd.



The show was off the chains, however, and people were into it. As soon as he began his set (with an awesome sports reference, "Good evening, my name is Girl Talk, I'm from Pittsburgh, PA. Ignore the fact that we won the Super Bowl last year,") the crowd went absolutely nuts, rushing the stage and turning the club into one huge sweatbox. Girl Talk ended up shirtless, body surfing the crowd, dripping sweat on anyone and everyone who deigned to grab him as his body writhed overhead. After the show was over, as we filed out of the club, there were myriad people standing around in the below-freezing chill with clouds of steam rising from their bodies, glistening with sweat and shimmering energy. The show garnered a great turn-out that totally turned it out. Well played, Chop Suey.

girl talking (©2007 jbin)

nothing need be said.

From truckasauras/...

pictures of arty's party are here.

i must hate myself.

So here's the (tentative) plan for tonight:

8ish: one-on-one time (read: beers at the Dunne's) with Arturo, who is leaving Seattle FOREVER in about 36 hours.
9:30ish: scooch on up to Neumo's to catch Truckasauras. I haven't missed a performance since they opened for Dabrye in July and the Chop Suey website had the wrong door time, and I don't intend to ever miss another one again.
10:15ish: as soon as Truck ends, skip out on Pigeon John and run down to the Garage for *bess.'s b-day extravanganza. I figure I'll have just enough time to buy birthday girl a shot and enjoy a beer.
11:30ish: head back to Neumo's to catch the first part of Subtle's set. This will be the third time in a year I've seen them, and while my love for Doseone is powerful, my love for Arturo Robles trumps it.
12:20ish: head down to Linda's for Arty's going away party. I'll end up staying there until last call and then see where the night takes me.

It's nights like these that make me so glad I don't travel in packs. I always have the most fun when I'm only accountable for myself (I think that mostly has to do with my affinity for social butterfly-ness); it drives me nuts to have to coordinate more people than just my able body. Wish me luck in my endeavors; with the tiniest bit of fortune, I may have photographic evidence of it all tomorrow.

starfucker.

Remember Claire Danes, of My So-Called Life and William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet fame? She is so much prettier in real-life than she is on the screen. Her skin is impossibly clear and milky, her eyes are huge and blue, and she looks great with absolutely no make-up on. How do I know this, you ask? I passed her on a stairwell at Moss in SoHo today. She looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, “Hi.” It was awesome. A few hours later, just as I closed the car door on the way to the airport, Kim the Lesbian from America’s Next Top Model walked right by my window.

I have an obsession with spotting famous people, and it honestly doesn't happen enough for my tastes. Really, though, levels of fame and/or recognition are completely subjective. For instance, when I saw Aesop Rock outside the Triple 5 Soul store, I started shaking and couldn’t really talk. The same thing happened with Christina Aguilera when she came into my place of employment on her Drrrty tour and also when I was introduced to Shepard Fairey in Vegas. It took me three interactions with Doseone (I swear, every time I’ve seen him play, at some point in the evening he ends up standing right next to me in the crowd) before I was able to tell him how great I thought he was. On the other hand, I’ve also been inches from Nelly, Will.i.am from the Black Eyed Peas, Gene Simmons, and Tommy Hilfiger, and felt nothing but slight annoyance that their entourages were getting in my way. My point is, I’m sure most of the people reading this couldn’t tell Shepard Fairey or Dose from Adam (snicker) if given the opportunity, and there are probably people out there that would trip over themselves to shake Nelly’s hand. It’s all relative, man. I guess I’m more impressed by people whose oeuvres I actually respect and admire (and yes, Xtina falls into that category).

On a vacation in Puerto Vallarta, my family happened upon Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins, and their brood in the airport. My sister and I, classy even at the ages of 12 and 16, gazed in awe at Louise and the dude from Jacob’s Ladder, while my mom chased them down the terminal and stopped them, just to commend Sarandon on the fact that she doesn’t shave her armpits. “I read it in People, and I just think it’s great. I don’t either.” I’ll leave you with that; feel free to imagine the astronomical levels of our mortification when she told us what she’d said.

en why sea.

I hold these truths to be self-evident:

• the vegan options in NYC are limitless and extraordinary. A buffalo chicken sandwich with ranch dressing, entirely animal-free. Curly's Vegetarian Lunch, you make me happy.
• Häagen Dazs' Zesty Lemon Sorbet tastes way better in a king-size bed with down-filled pillows watching pay-per-view with one of your favorite people than it does alone on your couch in the afternoon.
• if someone else (like, say, a cabbie) mis-hears your directions, even though you repeated them twice, you are still financially responsible for his mistake, and he will yell at you until you acquiesce.
• skinny black pants that are scrunched at the ankle are hot on both males and females.
• I'm getting too old to party (I've retired to my room sober and before 2 am three nights in a row).
  
• Strong Isle has lots of lampposts.
• no matter how foxy and attentive your waiter is, he will probably mess up your highly-allergic friend's order.
• people in NYC aren't afraid to look you in the eye and smile when passing you on the street, like they are in Seattle.
• I may be too comfortable in this town. I walk around with my iPod on, in neighborhoods I'm not entirely familiar with, and don't feel any differently about my safety and surroundings than I do on Capitol Hill.
• every hotel should start leaving Jameson and bananas on pillows instead of mints.
• I often forget how much I like/liked certain people until I'm around them again.
  
• Street Fighter II on the 360 looks just as shitty as it did in the arcade.
• loud, wine-fueled debates about alcohol-branded condoms and how rapists using said prophylactics could be construed as good PR for said alcohol brand probably isn't the best dinner conversation in a tiny, crowded Italian restaurant.

Bulleted lists are for lazy bloggers. You can see pics of the first few days of my trip here. The rest have been much too boring to document.

conviction.

Last night, I spent the better part of my evening in a whiskey-fueled debate (the best kind) with an educated evangelical theologian (the worst kind). He's actually fallen from the Christian take on things, and it ended up that he and I share a lot of the same perspective on religion and belief.

Faith seems to me to be the most fallible essence of human nature. Even disregarding the concept of organized religion and the charlatans/prophets contained therein, the idea of faith as manipulation is exploited on a daily basis. Essentially any inter-personal relationship- interaction, even- is founded on a mutual faith-based acceptance of purported virtue. My whole "optimistic misanthrope" ideal stems from that- the optimist in me wants to accept everything anyone says or does at face value (why would people need to be deceptive?), but the cynic/misanthrope realizes that's rarely the case. The slightest of white lies are usually part of a larger picture: "If I say (x), then they will think (y), which will cause them to (z)." Basically, tell me what you think I want to hear so that I'll react how you want me to.

This extends to every realm of my daily life- my job (sales), my nighttime gig (working at a club- people always want something from you), my established friendships (although I try to surround myself with honest people), my budding relationships with new people- male or female, platonic or non.

In the mires of pretty much any one-on-one conversation, I put myself out there, no holds barred. I ask questions that I honestly want the answers to, and I expect honest answers. I love nothing more than learning about people- listening to their stories and hearing them think aloud. It just saddens me to think that perhaps what comes out of anyone's mouth isn't the most up-front angle.

I have faith in humans and their desire to be righteous; I have a healthy distrust for human nature.

instant message of the day.

11:32 am P.S. You suck at blogging

Thanks. I'll do my best to remedy that.

omg wtf.

In essence, the U.S. invaded Iran last night.

Bush seems to do this quite often: execute some sneaky maneuver while the country is busy being distracted by something else; in this case, his speech on the escalation strategy that he gave last night.

AMERICAblog sums up my concern thusly:

How exactly are we going to fight a war with Iran? Our generals told us we didn't even have enough troops to meet the needs of Bush's new escalation plan (the plan called for 32,000 more troops, the generals said we only have 22,000 or so available, that's it.) So where exactly will we get the troops to fight a new war with Iran, at the same time we're fighting a civil war in Iraq, and fighting an increasingly bad civil war in Afghanistan?

scentuous.

Speaking of sexual episodes at a public execution*: last night I saw Perfume, the adaptation of the book by German novelist Patrick Süskind. There may be some spoilers in the following post (and I can't figure out the code for expanded-summary posts), so skip this one if you're concerned.

I started reading the novel a little over a year ago, and didn't get very far. Süskind's style of writing- an old-timey oxymoron of twee lasciviousness- rubbed me the wrong way and made it hard for me to take the story seriously. Luckily, Tom Tykwer's (Run Lola Run, The Princess and the Warrior) screen adaptation is able to keep the lightheartedness of the source material, but also lend it the gravitas that the narrative deserves. Perfume: The Story of a Murderer is the tale of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille (the decidedly dreamy Ben Whitshaw)- a young man born with a tortuously keen sense of smell- and the obsessive and murderous journey this gift/curse causes him to take.

Set around the time of the French Revolution, the scenery, cinematography, soundtrack, costumes and women are all devastatingly lush and gorgeous. Conversely, Whitsaw's star-making turn is restrained yet perverse. The impact of his character's laconicism is two-fold: when Grenouille does speak, the influence of his words carries much more weight, and the simple fact that Whitshaw can convey the complexity of his character through facial expressions and some drawn-out inhalations speaks volumes to his talent as an actor.

*The anti-climax to the story is an all-out orgy in the public square, the site of a failed execution. The scene made me think of Saddam and Nïn, and I joined the rest of the sparse theater crowd in giggling and squirming nervously in my seat, though I think for reasons other than theirs. Sans that seemingly misplaced scene, however, I loved every minute of the film. Visceral reactions seemed to be Tykwer's goal with this project, and it's one he achieved with considerable fervor and aplomb.

i shall die happy.

I've been waiting for months for Apple to unveil the iPhone, which they did this morning. Even almost more awesome than that, however, is the fact that Crunch Gear has been liveblogging from Macworld's keynote address since 9 this morning (they finished as I wrote this post) with some applet installed that keeps refreshing the site so you don't have to. Not that I had my browser window open all morning or anything.

But back to the iPhone- Cingular signed the contract to exclusively offer the phone sight unseen, and they were so smart to do so. A 2 megapixel camera (and since I just lost my SD550, that's a bonus). Touchscreen interface with a QWERTY keyboard. Runs on OS X, son! Can run actual applications and widgets. Push IMAP email. Fully integrated browser with multiple windows, much like the Expose feature on Macs. I just had a nerdgasm.

I have friends with the Blackberry Pearl and the Samsung Blackjack, both of which are nifty phones/PDAs/gadgets, but this iPhone puts them both to shame, at the very least aesthetically (it's even thinner than the Blackjack!). The fact that it operates on GSM/EDGE and not UTMS seems to be an issue for some people, but my nerdery doesn't extend that far, so I have no idea what that even means. All I know is that when my deal with the devil Sprint expires in July, momma's gonna have a brand new phone.

Check Apple's iPhone page for the full beauty.

blood broham.

Something about the new year and the solstice awakens the pagan/hippie in me. I always end up reading through journals and sifting through photographs from ages ago. Today I found this, written in 1995:

I drank my own blood this morning in the shower; I was rinsing the shampoo from my hair. When I opened my eyes, there were droplets of blood splattered across the wall in front of me. I looked down and my torso was covered with crimson plasma. The sight of bright red life- dripping down my body, running courses over my breasts and abdomen, scattering onto the linoleum and down the drain- became intensely erotic. I could taste metallic on my tongue; in the bottom of my vision I could see the blood dripping off my bottom lip. I cupped my hand under my nose and my palm filled with the sustenance of vampires. I tipped my hand at my mouth and felt the liquid of my own being coat my throat, all the way to my stomach.

The sight of all that blood led me to remember when Julian, who was caught somewhere between my best friend and my guardian angel, attemped to "shape" my hair. He nipped my ear with the dull scissors he was using... His eyes grew wide and he got a slight smile on his face. "You're bleeding," he said, and rushed to get me a paper towel. We began a discussion on how incredible and sensual vampires are, and how we wished we were guardians of the dark. When I pulled my hand away from the wound, there was a perfect spot of blood on my middle finger. "Look!" I said, reaching my hand out to Julian. He grabbed my hand and quickly licked the blood off my finger. I was speechless. "There," he said. "Now we're connected forever."

I love that. To this day, I still find blood- and the inherent associations thereof- arousing. The best part of that post, however, is the fact that Julian (whom I met in Alaska at the age of 15) is a promoter-about-town now, and I run into him on a regular basis. We always like to reminisce about the Alaskan days, and now I have one more memory to toss on the pile.

When going through the remnants of my written remembrance, I'm always tempted to file entries away for Ariel's Salon of Shame. The self-aggrandizing megalomaniac in myself (I swear it exists) won't allow for it, though. Even when I was a teenager, my shit was still solid.

torrential output

You know what's not the least bit attractive? Attempting to run, as quickly as possible, across an intersection teeming with a two-inch deep stream of water, one hand shoved in your pocket and the other one holding on for dear life to an umbrella that seems only moments away from being torn from your grasp. All while trying to balance the bag strapped to your back that holds your laptop. So, to any of you who may have witnessed my atrocious display of agility on Pine and Boren just now, you have my permission to gouge out your mind's eye with a fork. I promise I won't be mad.

Said umbrella is brand new; I'd purchased it just moments before reaching that intersection. Its predecessor was literally whipped inside-out by the wind, ripping my arm from the side of my body and pulling me diagonally across the sidewalk, where it decided to wrap its spindly tentacles around a lamp post, bending its stalk irreparably along the way. I felt like I was in some Three Stooges scenario.

I think as long as things don't get this bad, however, we'll all be okay.

i prefer the word "hung."

This roundup may be even sadder than the actual public execution. Yeah, it totally is.

I had serious issues in the days leading up to Saddam's hanging, and when it actually happened I felt hollow. I'm not feeling inspired to launch into a diatribe about the death penalty, but Americablog has myriad posts about the entire ordeal that I'm inclined to agree with.

On another note, all the talk about hanging made me think of this story by Anaïs Nin. Little Birds was my first foray into erotic fiction (save one or two romance novels when I was a wee lass) and that story is the only one I remember from the collection. In researching the link, I read the entire thing again, and I actually didn't remember the first part of it. The ravishment in the public square is the only imprint left on my brain.

nye 2006 in a nutshell

The FourthCity/ SunTzu Sound/ Shameless party at Lo Fi Performance Gallery.

Martinis. 3 inch heels. Absinthe. Girls. Numerous midnight kisses (with four participants being named Jason). A story about an erroneous 911 callback which ended in the responding officer solving a heated debate on whether "Mystery Science Theater (sans the '3000')" was an acceptable Trivial Pursuit answer. Hair irons. Champagne. Jameson. Mammary gropes. Flirting. Errant eyelashes and earrings. Breaking up fights. Dancing. Walking home (in aforementioned heels). Sock monkeys. Purple blossoms. Tallboys. Even taller boys. Photos can be found here; Truckasauras video here; Jacob London video here.

overheard at chop suey

"How you doing? I'm Tang, Jeremy [Enigk]'s tour manager."
"I'm sorry, what's your name again?"
"Tang. Like the drink. What's yours?"
"Bailee. Like the drink."