Just a quick note

To let you know that your intrepid correspondant (that would be me, assholes) has scored himself some press passes to CMJ! I'll be writing a kind of "CMJ Diary" for Blogcritics, the site through which I managed to claim to be a "member of the press." Thanks internet, for lowering all of our standards of what it means to be a journalist.

Any suggestions what shows i should see?

Let me know. Or die. Of syphilis. Which if you don't know, is a bad way to die. Read Breakfast of Champions for more info!

Hop into the Wayback Machine. . .

...and remember with me, if you will, July 11th, 2005. Yes, those were crazy days. A war in Iraq seemed destined to drag on indefinitely, gas prices were on the rise, and Jessica Simpson ruled our hearts and minds. Also, it was 7-11. Seriously, that is hilarious.

On this day, I just happened to be at the New York premiere of what has turned out to be one of the most success-challenged movies of the summer, Michael Bay's "The Island." Yes, expectations were high and hearts were a-twitter at the premiere of what Defamer.com would go on to call a "domestic box office bed-shitter." Producers and stars play the blame game, but no one has blamed the beautiful young starlet I was there with that night, a woman who I think I'm better leaving nameless. Let's call her LG. She's really quite a lovely young woman, and does a great job in the movie, but is not terribly well known. So, like any good PR pro, I'm on the lookout for ways to get her pictures more placements.

Towards the end of the red carpet, there's a tiny little double bank of photographers, sort of facing opposite from each other. LG and I have to wait as there's a traffic jam in front of us, being caused by someone who's having kind of a lot of pictures taken. As I'm taking all of this in, Mickey Dolenz (of the Monkees, but you knew that, of course) walks by behind me, and I think "Is that Mickey Dolenz? What the Hell is he doing here?"

I look in front of me, and see that the source of the problem is Jeff Goldblum, who for some reason is being photograpped as if Lindsay Lohan were doing a line off of him. A tiny evil lightbulb goes off over my head as I realize that getting him together with LG would be great for her (placements?) and for him (getting to touch a young woman). I walk up to him, blinded with evil PR adrenile, and totally forget to care that this is the first time I'm ever getting to talk to Jeff Goldblum (Jeff Goldblum! Jeff Goldblum! Jeff Goldblum!)

"Hey, Jeff," I say nonchalantly. "How ya doin? Listen, can I get ya to take a picture with LG, she's in the movie, and she's a new actress..." I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up as Jeff finally, and slowly, turns his head to look at LG. He is mesmerized. He sort of makes a noise like he's being blown, or his just had a lobotomy. At the same time, he extends his fingers in front of him and begins to slowly wiggle them, as if he is playing an invisible keyboard, or perhaps casting a spell on me.

"Aaaaaaa. . . LG. . . Statuesque. . . Beauty. . . " he breathes, taking, I swear to God, 20 minutes to get it out. His publicist rushes over, sensing that I am tricking him into something, perhaps having violent flashbacks about all of the magic beans he has bought. She is okay with it though, the pictures get taken, and we all go out for pie and cocaine!

The Sound of 400 Hipsters Clapping. . .

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!
South Street Seaport, 8-10-05

Saw Clap Your Hands last night. They were playing as part of some outdoor music fest, and were opening for some Gypsy-fusion band (when did Gypsy-fusion become the new Electoclash, by the way?) called DeVotchKa. Flavorpill can tell you all of this.

What it can't tell you is that due to its prompt 7:30 start time and the unnerving mallishness of the South Street Seaport, the show was as glutted with blue-shirted i banker types as with sweaty hipsters in clothes they pretend not to have bought at Urban Outfitters. Even stranger was that the blue shirts seemed to be enjoying themselves more, possibly because they were just coming off their third post-work coctail as the show started. In any event, watching several of them who were clogging the stairway to the Pizzeria Uno that overlooked the stage thrash around and scream the ENTIRE show was virtually as entertaining as the show itself. Unless you were actually trying to get in or out of said Pizzeria Uno, in which case I'm sure it was horribly annoying. Or if you don't like screaming pudgy men, which I developed an affinity for while at a state university.

The band themselves were pretty great. I was a lot more familiar with their buzz than their music, but was pleasantly surprised. The singer sounds like some bastard child of Behar, Bowie, and Byrne. "Daniel Byrne Bowiehar?" "David Behrne?" I'm not sure on the nomenclature. But, I enjoyed it, is the point.

Mind the Gap

Sorry 'bout all that time where there was time passing but I wasn't writing anything. I'm going to try to make that happen less. By stopping the passage of time. I'll keep you updated. . .