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."