Shackin' up, part two: Making music

I'm not gonna lie to you, blogland, the merging of the bf's and my CD collections caused me a bit of anxiety. At first it was hard to sleep. Then I remembered that every big life change has made me nervous like this. That's one of those good things about getting older: sometimes after something happens over and over, you actually remember it and see the pattern.

Between us there's dozens of CDs worth of overlap, which raises the question, what to do with all those doubles of Beck and Sonic Youth and Yo La Tengo? So far they're just a few stacks of clutter in our already super-cluttered bedroom. The bf casually says we'll sell them. To me, who has never had a beau stick around this long before, who has been walked out on with zero warning after being professed love eternal, this is a bit scary. All of it: Transitioning from an independent permasingle to integrating my life with someone else. And back to the subject at hand, music, this sounds like a potential way to lose a bunch of CDs in the event that it's back to square negative one. But you can't focus on negative things that could happen, or you're just inviting them to happen.

Not to get all High Fidelity on you, but I'm about to. There is more at stake when you've merged your CD collections and sold off the doubles. For music nerds, that is true commitment. But again: poor is the woman who is afraid to have anything at stake.

The positive side that outshines the scary bit is that some some sweet complementary merges happened in our collection as well: the one Belle and Sebastian I don't have, he has. (I didn't like that album, the Storytelling soundtrack, but there's a dorky satisfaction in having them all.) I have all the Merge and Matador records promo CDs from the past two years, he has them from the previous few years before that.

Together, we have such a sick collection now, more than a thousand CDs (not counting 33s, 45s, 78s, 8-tracks, and my extensive sun-faded cassette collection residing in my bus, Wolfgang). Some '90s rock I now regret selling, he has. Monster Magnet? Checking...YESSSS! Various indie rock classix from Sebadoh and Pavement that I should've already known by now but have never heard? Yeah, we've got that. I look at the CD corner--because it occupies a whole corner, in bold defiance of less fetishistic music fans' clinical move to digital. My eyes unfocus and I'm back in the WRSU record library surrounded by undiscovered treasures that are all stickered with rude commentary from my fellow college DJs. No need to pare down the collection anymore for space considerations; we're in it to win it. For now, at least, these are our babies: our many enjoyable possessions and our pets.

Here is a real-life example of one of our music-nerd discussions:

"Know what's sad, between the two of us we have two Metallica CDs, and they're both mine."
"That's because mine are on cassette, because I was into them before CDs, douchebag."
"I have them on vinyl, douchebag."

Someone please decapitate us with a vinyl copy of Ride the Lightning.

Note to the possible beastiality practitioner in my readership

To the prevert who found this blog by doing a blog search for "animal sex video": shame on you.

Were you looking for beastiality videos? Then I hope that someday you are violated by something that you wouldn't want to have enter you. Which, I imagine, since you already include the general term "animals" as potential objects of desire, would not leave a very large selection of candidates. In any case, I hope that fate has some rapey reward for you.

In the event that you were looking for a video of animals boning each other, that is not as repugnant, but you are still a damn prevert.

Damn preverts.

Our little girl is partially growed up

I was in the Berkshires this weekend and finally got to try an iconic all-American summer fun activity: a rope swing over a swimmin' hole. See this 1982 Mountain Dew commercial? (You have to watch a few others first, but they're great, and God bless the Internets.)



Although I was thinking about this fine example of youthful rope-swing exuberance the whole time, my first turn on the swing was pretty much the exact opposite of that. Hanging from the rope, I was calling on upper body strength that just didn't exist, and plopped into the water after one second. I emerged from underwater to witness the utmost merriment from my cohorts, who I hated soooo much.

This reminded me of one reason I hate sports: I suck at them. For one thing, I don't run (unless there were fast zombies about), which alone rules out a lot of sports. The only ones I don't hate tend to incorporate activities I already enjoy. Like bowling--(that's a sport, right?)--in which you hang out with friends drinking beers and heckling each other. But as far as doing something for the sake of competition, or the team, or some kind of abstract athletic ideal, those concepts are lost on me. (This ethos is quite foreign to my sporting bf, who hasn't quite admitted to himself yet that I signed off on most athletic participation forever, along with all but the most basic math, when I graduated high school.) I do hope to start totally kicking ass at kickboxing or something, but that's pie in the sky right now.

So in order to avoid complete humiliation and disappointment in myself (and why is peer pressure such a big part of sports?), I tried it again. This time I happened to sit on the big knot on the rope which is there for just such a purpose, eliminating any need for upper body strength, and I swung all the way out, then dropped into the drink. Of course it was super fun, and as extreeeeme as several bags of Doritos washed down with a Monster energy drink.

That night we ate at Great Barrington's celebrated Mexican restaurant Xicohtencatl and I had Attack of the Wild Mushrooms. I felt like this was a mature choice, as I didn't go for something with a guaranteed cheese payoff. This was vegan, was made with locally grown organic shitake and oyster 'shrooms sauteed with chipotle, garlic, and cilantro, atop mesclun greens and jalapeno rice. I'm not sure how big organic mushrooms or mesclun greens are in Mexico, but I'll gladly let that slide. This meal was fantastic. It was the best thing I've eaten all year, and in fact was so delicious that I forgot all other delicious meals I've ever had that I could possibly compare it to. (I know a lot of people are disgusted by mushrooms, so try to imagine instead really well-prepared delicate meat that you enjoy, or try to imagine that you are not a mushroom wimp. To reiterate a phrase bandied about at the swimmin' hole that day, quit bein' a pussy, pussy.)

And here's some pics from earlier in the weekend, at a farm/ orchard where we picked a ton of succulent strawberries that later made their ways into strawberry rhubarb pie, strawberry martinis, and daquris. Good strawberry-hole-stuffing times.








And once again ladies and gentlemen: Cooper. A dog who totally knows how to party.

East coast rockin'

So, for those of you who didn't grow up in New Jersey, there's this free paper of rock-show listings and coverage called The Aquarian Weekly, formerly known as East Coast Rocker (which is now, puzzlingly, a supplement inside Aquarian--not sure what the diff is).

I recently picked one up at the Virgin Megastore on Union Square for the first time in years, and it struck me, not for the first time, just how many terrible band names there are. Aquarian/EC Rocker is a treasure trove of these names:

Original acts:
Blondes Pass Out
Bowling for Soup (BOOOOOOOO!)
Jet Lag Gemini
Bedlight for Blue Eyes
Portugal the Man
Amish Outlaws
The Working Title
The Number Twelve Looks Like You
The Devil Wears Prada
From a Lacerated Sky
When Balance Breaks
What About Blanch

These names must just come from taking random words from columns A, B, and C. I don't know, the Working Title, if you can't bother to come up with anything good as your band/brand name, why should I want to come see you?

Tribute bands:
Bruce in the USA
Bad Medicine, "A hometown celebration of Bon Jovi"
Slippery When Wet (I'm just assuming this one is also a tribute)
Ron Jovi (I don't know what-all this nonsense is, but am filing it here)
There are also tributes to Zepplin, Queen, Pearl Jam, Sublime, No Doubt, the Ramones, more Bon Jovi, Motley Crue, Metallica, and "Iron Priest."

This newest issue has an interview with one band that is the perfect example of the crap-name phenomenon: Dance Gavin Dance. (Not to be confused with another band listed in this issue, Play Radio Play. I kid you not.)

"I think the biggest question of all is how did you guys come to be named Dance Gavin Dance?
I don't know, Jonny came up with the name back when he was in his old band and nobody wanted to use it so when they were thinking of names for the band it was kind of just there and easy to remember and somewhat catchy, but there is no real meaning.
So there is no Gavin?
No, there's no Gavin at all. [laughs] I'm sure there's a Gavin somewhere and I'm sure he's dancing, other than that I don't know."

Look at this photo, scanned from the paper. Are they joking?!?!



You prob can't tell from this crappy scan, but the guy highlighted on the left has short hair spiked out in all directions from behind the longer hair, and the guy higlighted on the right has the most douchey feathered irono-mullet that ever douched.

Bring back the fight tonight, indeed. What fight do you suppose they are bringing back? The one for terribily-advised hairdos? Not since Big Orange Cone has a band name in EC Rocker enraged me more.

This full-page ad was quite enjoyable, too.




Not only does it totally match my blog's color scheme and feature a floor length keyboard scarf--twice--but it is also very Dick Craig. I'll be so stoked if anyone gets that super-Jerse reference besides Amanda.

Shackin' up, part one: animal collective

My boyfriend and I are shacking up. (And we are not even married! Please don't tell Baby Jesus.) In many ways, the transition has been pretty seamless. And it's also cool: he's really going to be here, every night. No more G-train-and-littered-ugly-street commutes! No more roommates! Well, one more roommate (more on that later). But in one big cartoonish way, the transition has not been seamless: the classic clash of cat versus dog.

I have a big old grumpy calico cat, Gypsy, who has mellowed with age but is still one of those cats who mostly just likes me and will tolerate other people until it's time to swat them away. She has no tolerance for other animals, as I learned in a few previous living situations. We knew Gyp was going to be decidedly not pleased about her new housemate, Cooper the exuberant yellow labrador, but figured she'd just have to get used to it.

When Coop first entered my apartment to officially live here, their first encounter went so badly that Gyp's world is scarred to this day--but all witnesses had to admit it was also hilarious. Gyp happened to get cornered by Coop in the kitchen. Startled by her presence, Cooper barked his head off at her, causing her to try scrambling up the radiator (which was on), then launch airborne and finally land on the windowsill, where she remained behind the curtain for hours.

Here is a reenactment of the incident. Note: The role of Gypsy will be played by a Photoshopped amalgam of two less pretty cats, since Gypsy was unavailable to pose.



After this fiasco, there was one standoff where Gyp was being tuff, and she has left at least one claw and multiple clawmarks in Coop's curious schnozzle, but unfortunately this has not encouraged her to remain in the open. She has taken up dual residences behind the futon and atop my roommate Hannah's loft bed, only timidly emerging for our special "morning Mommy/cat time" when Cooper is locked in the bedroom, and sometimes to use her litter box. Even the litter box, not so much; she has adopted a liberal attitude about appropriate sites for doing her business. Apparently one of them is now Hannah's bed, where Gyp tried to cover up her dump with a pillow.

Speaking of Hannah, who is moving out next week and heading to Portland, Coop quickly tried to establish dominance over at least one member of our apartment's pack. This meant anytime he encountered her, it was time for him to do the humpty dance and for the red rocket to come out. Especially if she did something enticing like bending over. Fortunately, he abandoned this notion after terrorizing her a while, so we didnt' have to get him the sex doll for dogs.

I also had to change over from a relatively spoiled cat lady to become one of those city dwellers I never wanted to be: a dog-walker. Walking a dog in the city means you have to pick up their fresh hot dumps in a plastic bag. I have to say, it is disgusting, it does smell horrible, but you know what? It really isn't all that bad and has raised my threshold of disgust. Like, now I'm not as bothered anymore when the dog keeps licking me. I also came up with a few poop pickup tricks. If there's dirt handy, sprinkle that on for added fiber, creating a more solid mass to pick up. What's that, you say? You weren't too smooth with the pickup and got some poo on your hand? Curse vigorously, and then make use of some nearby moist leaves--nature's napkins.

And now whenever I'm home I have a new buddy, whether I'm in the mood to have one or not, following me everywhere I go, putting his head in my lap or a slobbery ball on my keyboard, so I have named him Obsesso. Other alternate names for Cooper: Pigpen (he frequently shakes his whole body, releasing hundreds of hairs to the wilds of our apartment each time), Enthusiasmo, Pooper, Blooper. Sometimes I think hangin' with Mr. Cooper is pretty similar to hanging out with President Bush. (Only Coop's smarter, of course! Wocka wocka!)

I am wary of writing one of those blogs that is like, "Look at our perfect Brooklyn brownstone life." "Look at these perfect vegan meals I make for my guaranteed-to-be-bullied child every day." (It's defiance of both of those sentiments that inspired my other dead blogs, Stoop to Our Level and Cheegan.) But I also have to be mindful of another pitfall of blogland, which is rampant cynicism.

I want to be reeeeaaaal, maaaaan, without heading too far into TMI-land or disclosing any ATM secret passwords. So here it is: It's great to be so comfortable with someone. In under a year, we've gone from complete strangers to reentering a room greeting the other one with, "...still scratchin' that, huh?"

We do spar a bit, but nearly all in good fun. The boyfriend will correct my pronuciation of vase, which brings us to a favorite topic of ours (fancy Connecticut mouse versus down-home New Jersey mouse), then later I'll correct his pronunciation of Moog. He can make fun of my Bon Jovi days, but watch out when I bring up his Grateful-Dead-following past! I love making up names for his former "on tour" cronies, like Hobo Johnny, Bojangles McGee, and Heroin Jack. That really gets him fired up, and he professes to hate me. But I know that "I hate you so much" really means "you are hilarious."

And so, hoping not to be fakey-braggy or corny or cynical, I present you: a fambly portrait, taken by the beleaguered Ms. Hannah.



Isn't it gross that we kind of look alike? We're like brother and sister, no? Special brother and sister.

Not pictured:



Mommy is so sorry, Gyp. Here, maybe these free-range chicken treats will make it all better.

Despite all appearances, no animals were harmed in the taking/making of these photographs.

Sometimes Auntie CoKane is busy

I have a big post brewing but it won't be ready today. Meanwhile, if you have the time and are not a total lazewad, please enjoy the following hilarity that I've been meaning to share for a month now.

Comedy partners/BFFs/mother & daughter Julie & Jackie have made their own tribute to soap star Brenda Dickson's 1987 video "Welcome to My Home." First watch the gobsmacking original--even if only for a minute or two. But if you enjoy cheese as much as I do, I defy you to not keep watching through part two once you've started it.





And now it's payoff time. Here's Julie & Jackie's verszh.



This vid is why I love these gals.

Rock and pop dreams come true

7:48 p.m. Exit apartment. I am going to a Duran Duran party. Almost everybody else in the world: not.

9:53 Post-roofdeck cocktails, Kim and I are finally cabbing to the party, on the West side in the 20s in a warehouse space. I tell her about the bet my commenters have going, $30 if I prank the guys in Duran Duran. She will give me $30 not to. Done.

10-ish: It turns out I'm wrong about almost everybody in the world not being here, as half of New York hipsterdom is here. The women are dressed just a little too ridiculously for a Monday night. Almost all are in high heels, myself included. Within seconds of exiting a freight elevator into the party, I spot Simon LeBon making his way through the crowd. OMG.
OMG. OMGOMGOGMGOMGOMGGMO

10:40 Kim, to me, as we stand near the corner throng where D2 is posing for photos and I can totally see John Taylor but only if I keep turning around: "You look like a giddy child."

John still looks great, though weathered. ("Weathered" here meaning "did a blizzard of coke throughout the '80s and possibly into the '90s.") I take a visual survey of the partygoers. Everywhere I look, women are gazing at the corner containing the Fab Five. (Wait, there's only four of them now I think but whatevs--Bop magazine used to call them the Fab Five.) The gals seem to have the same look on their faces that I must have, admiring these men both in their memory and in the present.

As we walk around, I realize something is different about this party. I get checked out by dudes in regular America, but am normally rather invisible among NYC hipsters. Here, guys are noticing me, looking at both of us. I formulate a theory about this, which Kim corroborates. Well, for one thing, we are probably glowing. But also, for once, these NYC men are invisible. They're not Duran Duran, so they might as well be eunuchs. Ha haaaa!, I think. For once, NYC women have the advantage in a market where we normally outnumber the men. We are the valued commodity here (besides, of course, D2). This is OUR TIME!

10:48 Seeing Simon work the crowd yet again is no longer so exciting. He looks rather like an aging British wiseacre, like a guy at your local pub watching the football match, only with highlights and fancy clothes. Kim knows from other parties that he's a dog with the ladies, too. We see him posing for photos and go, "One mo'." Kim and I look at each other and laugh. What a cheezer. Anywhere a D2 member goes, they get surrounded, like when someone's feeding the pigeons in a park.

10:55 Kim is asked by a random regular dude to take a photo of him with an older fellow in a fedora who I immediately recognize as Mickey Dolenz of the Monkees. Kim didn't make the connection until handing the camera back. Around then I declare this the best party ever. One of our fellow partygoers later describes Mickey's odd demeanor as "awkward first date." We also spot a guy from that reality show about the restaurant and think he is the culture guy from the show about the queer eyes for the straight guys.



11-ish There are cardboard cutouts of D2 to pose with. Kim and I are about to pose with those when we realize we are just now drunk enough to approach a real Duran Duran. Fortunately, the closest one at hand was also my favorite Duran Duran member ever, John Taylor. After slight egging on by Kim, I go for it. Tap tap. "Hi, [oh God, he could not be more bored with this scenario] can I get a picture with you?" In a way, I felt bad for not saying anything interesting and being just another meaningless interaction, but I'm over it. Kim takes the photo while using a fake British accent. Here's the money shot!





Doesn't he look like a wax museum model? In retrospect it was more the idea of meeting him than the actual experience that was such a thrill. I begin looking at the photo over and over.

I spy a tiny-featured pinner-thin model, realize it's probably a Mrs. Duran, and look for her mate, seeing the back of a Munchkin-short Nick Rhodes departing. The rest of D2 make their escape shortly thereafter. Mickey D is the last celeb to depart. When looking at him I keep seeing that dive at the beginning of that insane Monkees movie Head, but he's a long way from that look now.

11:55 Kim convinces me to join her for a monumental snack attack, viewing of Arrested Development, and sleepover at her apartment. I call the BF to tell him the plan. "Uhh, you sound really drunk," he says, pretending he thinks I'm hooking up with John Taylor, since I've thoughtfully shared my photo already. Me: "YOU soun' really drunk." (He doesn't.)

By the way, I don't know if you saw this:



UPDATE: When my 2 & 3/4 year-old niece saw this photo, she said, "That Tom is different." (Tom = the BF)

What does a girl wear to meet Duran Duran?

I am lucky to be surrounded by so many creative people who are, as they say, "making it happen." Thursday I went to my pals Julie & Jackie's superfun comedy show Obsessed, for their gayer-than-ever Pride special; then on Friday I got to interview the hilarious comic Paul F. Tompkins and laugh my arse off at his show at Comix with a gang of awesomes also including the aformentioned Julie; and on Saturday I was wowed by my pal Kristina Wong's one-woman show Wong Flew Over the Cuckoo's nest, and come to think of it Julie was there as well and might just be following me.

And now, Kim Gallina, another one of my megatalented writer pals, is making good on her promise to one day bring me to rub elbows with Duran Duran.

Duran Duran! Classic lineup, in order of cuteness, as they used to so thoughtfully list them in Bop magazine: John, Simon, Nick, Andy, Roger. Tonight I shall attend a party that will also be attended by D2. The thing is, I don't know if I can talk to people who I used to have as pinups on my wall as a child. I went to a Cyndi Lauper mini-performance a few years ago where it would have been easy to approach her, but I practically ran off and hid when she looked in my direction. And that was Cyndi Lauper--not a very intimidating person.

No good thinking about that now. Instead, I must focus all of my energy for the rest of the day on the urgent issue at hand: what to wear.

It really does help with creativity to be around people who are so productive; it makes it all the more shameful if I do nothing with myself. And if there's anything that can still penetrate the consciousness of a lapsed Catholic, it is shame. These days you have to be a rich kid or rich adult to live in NYC, but a culture-packed week like this illustrates why those of us who aren't endure crazy living conditions and go into debt [ahem] to live here.

Full report tomorrow.

Dog day afternoon

Brooklyn's Prospect Park has a dog beach.



It rules.



Especially because it turns Mr. Coopington into Corpse-ington.



zzzzzzz

A short list which is gross but true

Things that make Cooper (the yellow dog)'s lipstick come out:

Metallica's 1986 album Master of Puppets
Being inside my VW bus
Taking a dump
The wind blowing

On this topic, I've seen more than enough. Here's hoping for a lifelong exemption from seeing junk I don't want to see.

Mom cocktails

I got to talking with one of my BFFs recently about what adult beverages moms and aunts tend to drink. (Older ones, not our age.) Here are the findings, in our experience:

Moms & Aunts:

Box o' Wine
White Zin
Tom Collins
Strawberry Daiquiri (if really getting kooky, my BFF's mom would have two of these and be "shithoused")

Then I recalled what my Nana would sip once in awhile, only when company was over:

Grandmas:

Sherry
Manhattan
Tom Collins (using Bartenders brand powdered mix)

I was a bartender and am still not too sure what any of these are like.

What are some other mom drinks, gang? If you say like, Muscatel, or vodka in a plastic handle bottle with a handful of pills, or anything in a bag, that's just going to be sad. Please try to keep it light, kids.

*BTW, don't do a Google image search for "drunk mom" with SafeSearch off unless you are a prevert*

A tribute, more snack analysis, and Internets justice

A few unrelated items:

1. Mr. Wizard, we hardly knew ye (were still alive).

2. Cape Cod Cheddar and Sour Cream potato chips: their sturdy kettle-cooked crunch and darker color says, "These might be healthier than regular chips. This is something I could potentially make in my kitchen." But their orange sodium-bomb tangy flavoring says "It's 1987 and I'm watching A Nightmare on Elm Street at a slumber party, one which prominently features orange-powdered fried snax as well as the party snack of the day, Keebler 'Tato Skins."
(Please pardon my idiot savant recall of the jingle that I haven't heard in 20 years, but which imprinted at a time when my brain was fresh: "'Tato Skins got baked potato appeal/ 'Cuz they're made with potatoes and skins that are real... [whistled interlude, while announcer discusses the virtues of TS]...Cheddar cheese 'n' bacon, sour cream 'n' chives, tasty baked potato, you won't believe your eyes/ They're made with potatoes and skins that are real/ 'Tato Skins from Keebler: baked potato appeal." YouTube confirms these memory skillz, if you want to watch the commerical.)

3. Time to help a good guy win--and crush a bad guy! CoKanes Bloggery reader, the very talented and pretty Sarah LeMieux, needs you to vote for her and her Super Blue Band on a site called Going. Going seems to be a social networking site, but with the goal of getting you off your expanding ass and into the real world. It's very easy to vote, all you do is fill in a few fields and upload a photo, then Sarah can win $1,000 and a cool gig.
Annnnd, you get to help her defeat her nemesis, who is also in the contest! As Ms. LeMieux put it, the nemesis "stole a bunch of votes out from under me in a horrible snake-like emailing maneuver." People, we cannot let this type of behavior be rewarded! As of last night Sarah was around 14th place, but there aren't all that many people in the running, so she could totally do it.
I know there are a lot more of you out there reading than are in my regular comment gang, so I hope you'll take a second to defeat evil. Thanks, dudes!

Everybody's an expert

It's been a while since I posted about one of my pet peeves: relationship books for women, but the business is still booming, and I continue to get new ones all the time at my job. And apparently, anybody can write one. Here's one written by a bodyguard and former playa, Big Boom.



It features such pearls of wisdom as, "When a woman runs out there like a cabbage--all head and no tail, she's going to end up in the frying pan."

Phew! Good thing Big Boom's around to clear that up! This book is pretty funny. I think I'm going to keep it in the bathroom for some casual perusing.

Then there's this one:



Written by two guys who admit, "We're not psychologists or counsellors or self-proclaimed relationship experts," this is like a workbook with 150 exercises and scenarios for bringing that reticent male out of his shell. One exercise features a list of first names, and you are supposed to go through this list with your date and for each have him give the first person he associates with that name: polititian, TV star, etc. For example, the book says, if when you say "Howard," he says, "Howard the Duck," he may be too young for you.

By now, of course, that man would have run for the hills, but if he did stick around and say Howard the Duck then he may be just the fellow for someone who would see no problem in giving her date a prepared get-to-know-you pop quiz. Also-- "too young for you"? I'm 33 and saw this movie in the theater in 1986, possibly hoping because of the Lea Thompson factor that it would rule as much as the previous summer's blockbuster which she was also in, Back to the Future. (It did not.) That would put me toward the younger end of people who are aware of this character. Guess the authors are not really going for a younger readership.

The next exercise is a list of 20 fill-in-the-blank rules for when he's watching sports that you are supposed to ask your man to give you. (Did I mention that this book was written by two men with no apparent qualifications?) "RULE TWO: When the guys come over it's okay for you to say hello but..." And then I guess your man can say something like, "...but if you don't get right to servin' cocktail weenies I'll show you the back of my hand, bitch." "RULE THREE: If you're watching a recorded game, I should never, ever..." and then he'll be like "...say a word to me or I'm locking you in the root cellar again."

Unfortunately, I'm not making any of this up (except the imagined responses from the men in the last examples).

And coming in January 2008, Don't Be That Girl, by Travis Stork, otherwise known as The Bachelor from the Paris edition. I might have to agree with him, if "That Girl" means being like the ones he must have dated on The Bachelor.

Decidedly not loving it loud

Sooo, I've mentioned that my apartment has been surrounded for months by very loud construction. This doesn't make for the best morning-time sleep conditions. Starting at 6 a.m. we get construction workers having their coffee out in front of the building calling back and forth to each other at high volume and laughing. One of my neighbors put up a note to them on the door addressing this, which was submitted to the highly entertaining blog Passive Aggressive Notes, but I don't think they've used it, and now it's gone. (Instead here are some other notes from that sign-writer, unfortch not including another great current one informing our front-door lock thief "You are being watched," with a primitive drawing of one ominous eye beneath.)

Anyhoo, last night I was woken by the sound of the dumpsters in front of the next-door construction being lifted, deafeningly emptied, and replaced at 4:30 a.m. for about 15 minutes. Boyfriend informed me that they do this every night around the same time. Jeepers, I thought to myself, this certainly was considerate planning on the part of some city employee. I would like to go to that city employee's place of residence and express this thought via bullhorn at 4:30 a.m. Ideally I'd be doing this to the city employee while hosting a dance party featuring such early-'90s hits as "Everybody Dance Now," and "Pump Up the Jam," and punctuate the proceedings with an air horn. But I guess my middle of the night racket would be illegal, whereas this one somehow is not.

My normally quite laid-back bf hasn't been sleeping well lately (go figure?) and so as we left this morning, him all grumpy, he ended up confronting the first jabbering guy he encountered outside the door about how people are trying to sleep in our building. Sadly, I don't think this chatty man was part of the 6 a.m. coffee klatch at all--he was a toothless old coot who might have been touched in the head and had probably just been babbling away to himself. I'm trying not to think about him too much or I'll feel bad...instead I'll think of how on Saturday some SUV jerk blatantly blocked the intersection after the light had changed, not moving when I beeped, and the bf yelled out the window of my VW bus with choice words about SUV-driving yuppies, looking like the angriest hippy of all. I had quite a laugh.


UPDATE: The bf insists that Old Man Toothless McGee is, in fact, part of the Construction Coffee-Drinkin' Loud-Talkin' Gang. Good, now I don't feel so bad.

inTouch People Stars are just like Us

This is my nabe's most famous celeb couple several minutes ago. I got a phone tipoff from my BF, who had just departed, telling me to look out the window.

Boyfriend has been around many a famous folk, and is also the kind of person who always happens to be around for newsworthy/historic events (he was one of the lucky ones to be late for an appointment in the WTC on a certain fateful morning, so I can never be too mad at him for being late) and he also frequently spots celebrities that I would have missed. Whereas my work and interests often take me around well-known folk, I'm also usually the type who misses the chance encounters and historical things I've lived through and should have seen but somehow did not (Halley's Comet, Hands Across America, etc). Now, by association, I too shall be around or notice more of those exciting events and people. So yeah, I prob would have walked right by Heath and Michelle had I been down there just now, thinking it was any of the other interchangeable rich yupps of Boerum Hill. (I'm on the very edge of the 'hood, hence the garbagey corner.) Not that this sighting is super exciting, mind you, I'm just riffing like a jazz man.

Earlier this week, the bf's connection to a superpopular rock band gained us access to their sold-out (secret?) show and the after party at The Spotted Pig. There we had their famous sheep’s ricotta gnudi with brown butter and sage, which I inhaled in .05 seconds and declared the best thing I'd ever eaten. This was after numerous beers, but I suspect it would be the same without. Living in New York City can suck for sure (if you're not wealthy), but it allows for some pretty special experiences as well.

And finally, I just learned from reading an EXCLUSIVE! cover story in inTouch magazine, apparently Nicole and Angelina are SCARY SKINNY! I had not been aware of this Hollywood phenomenon, and am glad the fine journalists at inTouch are finally tackling this important subject with their exclusive expose. Nicole and Angelina should have some gnudi.

Support your local hippy

I don't want to say that the showing of comments on my first Plenty blog last week was pathetic, but it kinda was. You can do better than that, Team CoKane's Bloggery! For shame.

This week's Saying Something Nice about Green Celebrities™ on the Plenty blog is here--and I'm told that soon my blogs on there will have their own place/link and not be mixed in with all the other stories. Reading my Plenty blog is rather like eating your vegetables, yes, but because it was written by me you can also count on some cheese.

That is all.

Blog buds unite

Last night, cokane's bloggery supercommenter Lioux's band Sister Kisser® played a rockin' show on the Lower East Side. He and I have known each other since the early '90s, but also in attendance was another part of our blogging circle who we had never met in real life, Jeff. We got along rather smashingly.

Sitting on a monitor at the stage directly in front of Lioux during their show was a strange-looking fellow who was rocking with such familiarity I assumed was a superfan who came to every show. As Lioux later noted with dismay, he would periodically lift up his shirt, reavealing his pale belly, to wipe sweat from his brow. Turns out he was just a random weirdo. Here is a sketcheroo I did whilst awaiting the subway.



It is rather inaccurate; for example, he did not actually look like Ben Franklin in sweatpants. He was wearing sweatpants, though. Never a good look.

Also, my mind was blown when Lioux introduced a friend of his who was like, "Yeah, I know Colleen." Then I recognized him--we used to hang out all the time in college but I hadn't talked to him in like ten years! I had no idea those two knew each other, so the world got smaller right in that moment. He looked so different without his Mike Patton-esque college 'do (long hair, shaved sides) and now facial hair and glasses, that I didn't even put together that he was the drummer of the band I'd just watched until much later in the night. DUM!

Remember when Friendster, and then MySpace, used to come up in real-world convos all the time? Now it's blog talk. There was lots of talk last night about how cool it is that we're making friends through blogging who we're starting to meet up with in the real world (there was another gathering last week that I unfortunately couldn't attend because I was hanging with hunks at a Naked Man Magazine™ party), and I believe at some point Lioux declared, "I love the Internets." I have to agree.

Hello, dollies

eBay is an ever-replenishing treasure trove of oddities, and there's even a terrific but abandoned site highlighting some of the 'Bay's strangest hits: Disturbing Auctions.

Recently on eBay, in the highly entertaining "haunted" category, I stumbled into a subcategory of creep: haunted dolls, featuring such choices as the expected old porcelain dolls, haunted Freddy Krueger (he's apparently a regular in this subcategory), Granny Marlow's haunted Cabbage Patch Doll "Pickle" (umm, that is not even close to an officially sanctioned Cabbage Patch name), and even some kind of haunted "gas station doll." I wanted to say, what kind of a poor-ass spirit winds up in a gas station doll? But as every horror movie has proven, you shouldn't scoff at ghost stories. Or else. There's one doll in the current auctions that I was going to use as my main photo for this, but quite honestly I'm afraid to even link to it. Instead I went with this relatively benign haunted toilet paper cozy.

And on a somewhat related note, I know that we are officially in the future, but I am so disturbed by this "baby-type robot":



To quote my friend Chris after he tried a free sample of Dippin' Dots, "the ice cream of the future," at Bridgewater Mall, the future sucks!

Sing the noise

The other night, amidst the cacophony of Kristina Wong's birthday at Sing Sing Karaoke bar in the East Village, I got a small insight into the world of a karaoke bar employee. I've always wondered, how on Earth do they deal with hearing the world's worst and also loudest live renditions of the same 50 or so most popular songs, night after night? Do they now hate music? If they're wearing earplugs, do they read lips when they have to interact with patrons?

A lone stranger was singing a Neil Diamond song at the end of the bar (and not "Sweet Caroline," which made it way more interesting) when the bartender/karaoke-tender put one of the mics down next to the credit card machine, causing a wall of piercing feeback sound. Her blank expression didn't waver; in fact, she didn't even appear to notice the feedback until a good five seconds later. (She had the general air of a tranq'd-out zombie to begin with, which may be one of her coping mechanisms.) This clue might mean that she is somehow able to filter out horrible sounds, no matter how loud. City people develop this to a certain extent, filtering out street noise and cries for help and such, but the karaoke-tender seems to have taken it to a supermutant level.

Vitaminwater: the new Kool-Aid?

Before our recycling began its journey to the dump recently (yeah...my building doesn't actually recycle...sigh), here's what it looked like:







Notice anything? My bf increasingly drinks vitaminwater like it's, well, water, and the other day when picking one up for him, I actually had to wait on a line at the fridge case of vitaminwaters at my corner store as a few other people chose theirs. What are they putting in this stuff? Is it addictive? Is drinking vitaminwater equivalent to drinking the proverbial Kool-Aid?

I don't understand the appeal. The bf describes the taste as a lighter Gatorade now that Gatorade is all EXTREEME-flavored and gross. (I thought it was always gross?) To me VW just tastes like someone spilled a little juice into my glass of water.

What I learned with a lazy minimum of research is that while it's marketed as a healthy product, according to Glaceau's Wikipedia entry, " nutrition experts question whether vitaminwater beverages are indeed healthful (Day 2002, Somers 2006). Depending on the variety, each 20 fl. oz. bottle contains 100 to 125 calories and from 20 to 32.5 grams of sugar[2]." There you have it: sugar= addictive.

And then you have Coke (who just bought VW last month) making Diet Coke Plus with vitamins in it to get in on the action on the cola end. It's all chemicals, basically liquid cancer--but it also has vitamins! What a healthy choice!

Old Lady Kane sez: You know what beverage is great for you, clears your skin, has 0 calories or fat or carbs or sugars, and is also free? WATER! Bahhh grumble grumble

Roaches of Unusual Size

Check out Grandpapa Roach.




(Not clearly pictured: antennae longer than the body.) Aren't I brave for posing so closely to give a sense of scale? One of these bad boys appears in the tiny bathroom at work every month or two--Just frequently enough to let you realize there is a larger supply of them somewhere in the building. It remains a rather unflappable presence, taking up about 5% of the bathroom floor's real estate until getting crushed by someone.

Creep overload

So much is going on here; where do I begin? First, some background: I found this pamphlet at my otherwise-professional and not scary gyno's office. If it is meant to sway ladies away from having abortions, I don't know that it will be a success. Aspects to notice:

* It's faded
* It's from 2005 (we are now in 2007); can't imagine why they didn't all get taken
* Street "Faires"
* The font--I'm going to have to defer to my font-expert BFF ecs on this, but I'm going to call it '70s Natural Foods Cookbook.
* Last and certainly not least, that menacing little boy! Facially, he reminds me a lot of Jason Mulgrew. Expression and intent-wise, possibly Damien from The Omen. Inside, there is a small display ad for a portrait photographer, using this very same photo (!)

I've got Plenty of something

Anyone who's visited this corner of the Internets* a few times is famill with my weekly feature, Saying Something Nice About Celebrities Wednesdays™. Well! Now I'll be posting a similar blog to that once a week for a very cool environmental lifestyle magazine to which I subscribe called Plenty. (Their tagline is, "It's easy being green.") My posts will be on their blog about green celebrities and will appear each Friday.

My first post is here.

I hope to bring y'all over there, and would much appreciate your comments on that blog! Please add it to your blogroll or your Blackberries or whatever you kids are doing today with your computers.

* By the way, I LOVE that this Bushism appears over 11 million times on the Internets! (I don't know if you've heard this before, but Bush is dumb!)