Reviews, reviews, reviews ...

That's my night tonight, after putting together a Hip Hop interview article that led to a song getting stuck in my head and produced the phrase/name "Rapping Bangless Bieber." I would argue he looks a lot like if Casey Affleck and Justin Bieber were physically able to have a baby. But, this song just won't quit, and I think it's likely because of the Annie Lennox sample.

Now I get to review a bunch of music that is almost the polar opposite of this. First I have to clear my head, since it feels achy from Oscar's Manhattans last night and generally way too much work the last few weeks (but who's complaining)?

I can't wait to get back to figuring out how to superhero-ly do it all, from making music and playing shows, recording, working my many "day jobs" (which are becoming closer and closer to my for fun, pay-less night jobs, which is an excellent feeling indeed) and noveling/essaying.

Also, I need to make more sense before I write anything that's going to show up in a magazine, so I better go do something non-computer-related for a while to get my head back in shape.

President's Day What?

I was going to get a ton of work done yesterday (and also revisit my "real," as in, "dream" writing projects), but sickness got the better of me. I still don't feel quite right today. I'm going to try to hole up today and get everything I possibly can done, so I can feel good about myself again. I also got new work today, so I'm going to have to do something to make it happen.

a blah blah blah

There won't be much to this. I'm trying to get some serious work done this week, so I've been a bit on edge, "blah" and busying myself with worrying about nothing. I've been taking myself and others way too seriously. I think laughter needs to go on the menu.

I stayed up too late last night working on articles and a newsletter, as well as sleepless from an uneasy feeling, and now I'm feeling the burn. Mister Badger returns tonight (in rehearsal form), so I'll admit, I'm a bit excited about that.

Foodie Lapses

A belated Happy Valentine's Day to all.

I don't have much interesting or literary or anything else to say. The past week has been filled with businessy writing, food and social engagements (and that's not so bad!).

Last weekend E. and I went to a delicious Thai place in Park Slope, Song (which I discovered I'd been to eight years ago with a bunch of high school friends when I walked in): A bottle of wine and a heaping plate of chicken spicy noodle later and only slightly over $15 per person spent, and great happiness ensued. Then it was off to a fun and slightly raucous night with new friends and a slightly hungover brunch on Sunday at the Sidecar (fried chicken salad sandwich!). Brunch was a little pricier than the previous night's dinner (and I'm not so sure the $10 bloodies had any alcohol in them), but it was pretty worth it.

For Valentine's Day, I prepared a plate of appetizers: shrimp kebabs with tarragon; veal/duck pate with peppercorns (purchased from Eli's Vinegar Factory) and rosemary crackers; bruschetta with goat cheese, nectarines and jalapenos (a recipe courtesy of my friend "Famous Original Emily"). We also burned through 2 bottles of wine. By far, it was the best V-Day I've had in a long time, and it was mostly spent in pajamas. This isn't really surprising.

Oh, and I have a new house plant. I didn't realize how much happier it makes my apartment, and now I want more. Let's see if I can keep it alive.

Where's the Party?

I woke up with this song in my head today, and it's totally frustrating me. When it came out, I was so obsessed with Madonna, and particularly the True Blue album that I didn't even care or notice that a lot of the songs sucked. And, thanks to that moment of blindness, I now know all the words to all the songs, making them even stickier when they come to mind.

E. sent me an e-mail with a hilariously mismatched subject line (as I've noticed she is wont to do) yesterday, and I think that's how the vicious spiral probably started that led to waking up to internal "wished we'd forgotten this happened" True Blue era Madonna. The subject line was "Martika -- Toy Soldiers." The actual contents of the e-mail revolved around a Buffalo wing competition in Brooklyn. Of course, who am I to say that Martika isn't at all related to Buffalo wings? I have no idea what she's doing now.

Qabang

Incidentally, that's "I love you" in Klingon (depending on which part of the galaxy you're in, of course). Today, it was actually necessary to research that for an article I wrote in honor of Valentine's Day. Pullitzer, here I come! Or, perhaps a Nobel Peace Prize? Actually, it was one of my more well-written pieces ever, but I'm not expecting many accolades. It was on the topic of successful but odd dating and social networking sites.

Now I have so much work it's coming out my eyes, but I knew I had to update this or my creative sanity would fall by the wayside. I've been having a bit of blockage when it comes to getting writing things started the past week, and I think I finally got over it. I rarely really have writer's block, but I definitely had a freeze-out of my brain/creative process this week. I feel a bit better now that I actually finished something, but there is a lot more to do to catch up to my week's worth of professional inadequacy.

Besides, this week I'm working for the weekend, which is kind of starting tomorrow night (at least the evening part of the standard view of the weekends). Thursday Night Date Night, aka, RELIEF.

Things are really okay.

Bears, Maple Syrup ... and Robyn

Today is a very exciting day. Not only is it ONE day until I see one of my favorite things, Robyn, at Radio City, but it's also the day one of my favorite people on the planet, my old friend Frank, descends upon New York City from the Great White North (well, Toronto) for the FIRST time ever! I have a lot of nice, happy thoughts on the subject, but the biggest one is a question: What would I do without the internet? Frank and I have known each other for almost a decade ... but have NEVER MET in person (until today, when we will, at last). Still, thanks to the multi-media power of the internet, I consider him to be one of my bestests. Does anyone really stop enough in life to realize how amazing we all have it? In what Space Age world is that possible? Next time you're complaining about something (and you will eventually have grievances, because we all do), think about how incredible it is that we are all connected on such a regular basis by such seemingly simple technologies.

What are the plans? Well, it's Chinese New Year, the Superbowl and a bunch of other things this weekend. So far, there will be late morning dim sum at Sweet Spring tomorrow, Robyn at Radio City, obviously, and Momofuku (at his request, and apparently his treat!), probably on Sunday, Papaya King, pizza ... Oh, and I think I'm going to inflict a Phil Hughes "liquid brunch," though I'm nervous about doing it on Superbowl Sunday.

According to the latest e-mail I just received, laundry is also actually on the laundry list. Talk about trying to experience it all!

Mustache Competition Contestants vs. Has Been Female Figure Skaters

The old man bar in my neighborhood is kind of amazing. But I love it when I introduce someone new to it, because they find new characters to add to the cast. It's mostly always the same group: a mumbling man drinking red wine with an ear-flap winter hat and reading the newspaper from four days ago (probably unaware it's out of date), who signs over his social security checks directly to the bar; an old woman that has likely been coming there since the 70s that gets her hair helmet done once a week and never washes it and sips white wine spritzers while bitterly remembering her failed marriage; three perpetually-drunk, white-haired men that look like they could've participated in either a strong man or mustache competition in Coney Island in 1954. Last night, I took E. there for the first time, and she noted a new contender: a 50-something-year old woman in a canary yellow very trendy cable knit sweater with her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, kind of looking like Peggy Fleming. Her comment: "That woman looks like a former figure skating champion." Except she didn't mean she looked like a specific one; she just had the aura of someone that probably took the ice for the last time at some point in the early 80s.

New York is known to be full of celebrities, but I'm not quite sure this is what they mean by that.

earlyish start

I decided to get strict with myself this morning and not put off an update. It's sleeting here, and I'm feeling sad that a comment about the weather is the thing I'm talking about right out of the gate.

I guess the most interesting thing (that I'm willing to talk about at this point within the confines of this space) I've noted lately is that my dreams have been fairly crazy lately. The dream parade seems to have hit the pavement since right after I finished a chapter of my essay book about my Stanley Kubrick dream starring Nicholas Cage (which I had quite a while ago). Lest it slip through my fingers -- because dreams are wily like that -- I must note that last night my dream involved having moved back into my first NYC apartment, part of which had been turned into a men's college dorm. I was bringing my parents there, and my mom was alive, though she had a sprained ankle. She was also an Avon lady that couldn't stop trying to sell (despite her injury). Incidentally, I was a TV reality show maven along with my sister, and went to the bar a lot and fought while eating french fries and nachos. Also, my father was Craig T. Nelson, and an avid boater. In fact, he had picked me up in his boat on the Hudson to bring me home, and was wearing heavy rain gear, since a storm had arrived. This wild sea scene was of course probably sparked by the sounds of the ice storm in real life on my skylight. Oh, and he was accompanied on his journey by Sinbad and Ice Cube and their five-year old son, who randomly took his pants off when he got scared or felt socially awkward.

Even stranger, this dream began with me somehow managing to hot air balloon (with my bike, from the shores of New York City) to Morocco, where I was greeted by characters from The Office. I'm not exactly sure what that part is about, because I haven't even been watching that much television lately.

bridge bys ...

I think having a gym membership contributes to New Yorkers' desensitivity to poverty in the cracks (and sometimes right out in the open). When you have the luxury of going to sweat it out in the winter (or any other season) at a gym with a bunch of other people who can also afford, at minimum, to spend $100 a month for that privilege, you can encase yourself in a comfortable bubble. I realized yesterday while I was running along the river, through depressing amounts of grey snow, puddles and half-melted ice how depressing that run is. It's along the expressway, and more often than not there are sleeping bags and dirty mattresses full of people sleeping under the bridges along the way. Of course, I have also previously mentioned the fact that the Randall's Island foot bridge seems to be the hobo pooping haven. Once while I was crossing it, a ranting crack head touched my arm, and it felt like one of the most violating things that has ever happened to me. And I believe I've mentioned the man with the shopping cart full of his life's belongings that loiters beneath the stairs of the foot bridge over the FDR at E. 111th Street. He keeps to himself, but he's consistently there; things never improve for him, though sometimes he has a few more or a few less things in his cart.

The other day I thought, "Once I get more comfortable financially and catch up from the nightmare personal work decline of the past year and a half that is finally looking up, the first thing I'm going to do is buy a gym membership again." And I think the thought was formed a lot because, when I get lazy and don't want to walk all the way to Central Park -- which presents me with a blissful cakewalk(run) during which the worst thing I will encounter is a clueless looking-up tourist that won't move out of my way on the running path -- running is pretty depressing. The "river people," and honestly, even the people walking there with dogs, etc., are often creepy and sad, and it makes me uncomfortable, probably because like so many other New Yorkers, I feel that horrible, selfish truth welling up inside: I have no desire to help them get out of their situation, and sometimes wish I didn't have to see them at all. But maybe it's not so aggressive as all that. The feeling is more that I recognize the futility of helping with my normal resources, and my complete inability to understand how they got there or how their lives must feel.

Even at my lowest, I've at least had family members and friends to send me boxes of food and other lifelines, and those people care whether or not they get to me and know enough about me personally to send things that I can actually use.