ugh, redux
On plane. Head hurts. “O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.” – William Shakespeare.
ugh
Much too early. Flight to San Francisco leaves out of JFK in two hours. Played jazz gig last night at Opal involving significant quantities of vodka. Woke up this morning with lipstick on undershirt – must have been a good evening. Note to self: Swear off drinking and begin looking for replacement livers.
these keep riding up
The venerable Wall St. Journal reports on men wearing pantyhose (not cross-dressers, just guys who appreciate the warmth or support that stockings provide) prompting several readers to comment on the Journal’s sinking story standards. Of course, the Journal’s story standards have been sinking for a while – about two years ago, I was the first person to be quoted on their pages using the phrase “wet their pants.” My mother was so proud.
note perfect
A solid article in the Denver Post on the increasing and increasingly-questionable role of technology in musical recording: “When MTV debuted two decades ago, the movement accelerated toward signing artists based not on vocal ability but on how appealing they would be on video. Vocals were put through the technology wringer from that point on.”
The article focuses mainly on pop, but the effects of high tech have even made their way to the staid world of classical music – producers regularly fix instrumental soloists’ cracked or out of tune notes. Live performances, then, are forced to match the nearly impossible ‘note perfect’ recorded standard. Increasingly, performers are forced to focus less on making music and more on just cleanly hitting all the notes.
That’s why I love playing jazz. Because if I screwed up, I meant to crack that note – it’s you’re fault you weren’t hep enough to dig it.
old fat naked guys
I work down the street from the Yale Club of New York, and have been exercising my alumni-ship by working out there several mornings a week. While the equipment is sparse and a bit rusty, they have a decent collection of bars, plates and benches, which is pretty much all I need. The real downside, however, is the locker room. While brief stints of nudity are the locker room norm, the Yale Club is truly in a league of its own. Never before have I seen crowds of old fat guys lounging around on couches completely naked, watching CNBC or reading the Wall St. Journal. They prance around, letting it all hang out, seemingly without a care in the world. While I’m thrilled they’re enjoying themselves, that much pasty, jiggly flesh early in the morning just isn’t a good way to start the day.
life is like a box of
Since Valentine’s Day, we’ve had a giant box of chocolates sitting in our office, which my colleagues have been eating throughout the day. Watching them, I’m fascinated by the difference in male and female chocolate-eating styles:
Girls carefully survey the box, select the ideal looking chocolate, and then take a small bite to verify the quality of the filling. If it passes muster, they’ll continue to eat it in small bites.
Guys, conversely, grab the nearest chocolate, pop the whole thing in their mouth, and then curse out the filling (“What the fuck is this? Coconut? This tastes like crap!”) before swallowing it down.
It makes me proud to be a man.
going analog
One word: plastics. Or, more specifically: vinyl. That’s right, I’m buying a record player.
Serious audiophiles will tell you vinyl has a warmer, fuller sound than the digital, mechanical sound of CDs. Vinyl, they point out, uses a wider range of frequencies than CD. These people are morons. Yes, records have greater frequency range, but both capture sound well beyond the limits of human hearing. And only records have that unfortunate snap, crackle and pop.
So why am I buying a record player? In short, women. Records may sound like crap, but a collection of jazz LPs is as James Bond sophisticated as a vodka martini (best served: Grey Goose, dirty, straight up).
15 minutes
||||coiffeur semiotics
A man’s appearance speaks volumes – his hair particularly so (observe Brad Pitt’s transition from crazy pansy in 12 Monkeys to crazy badass in Fight Club). Thus the importance of Howard Spent’s Interactive Semiotics of Hair. What is your hair saying?
condensation
Amazingly enough, a fairly large number of people read this site. And many of them send me emails. One of the most common questions I receive (Second to: you realize you’re a self-obsessed, pretentious asshole, right? Answer: yes.) is: how do you have the time to do all of the things you do? Mainly, my secret lies in having given up sleeping and going to the bathroom. But I also try to squeeze additional minutes out of the day through sheer effectiveness. Which is why I was thrilled to discover Book-a-minute, the “ultra-condensed” book summary. Sure, we all want to read the classics. But most of us don’t even have time for Cliff’s Notes. Hence these beautiful summaries. Say you want to read Ken Kesey’s modern classic One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Here’s what Book-a-minute has boiled it down to:
Nurse Ratched: I destroy my patients psychologically so I can have power and control.
Randall P. McMurph: But freedom and happiness are good things.
Nurse Ratched: Lobotomy time for you, buster.
(McMurphy DIES but inspires HOPE so OTHERS may LIVE.)THE END
Be sure to visit the similarly indispensable Movie-a-minute. With all the time these sites save, you can finally take up macram