January 2005 Archives

I knew I felt some sort of kinship with the hood from the start. Not only does the area itself have a mini-Curbed, but the folks who used to live in our place are bloggers too. That fact I discovered playing cyberdetective hoping to find some contact info to send them some important mail. Shouts to Josh and Miyuki in Japan! The internet...making the world go round.

Speaking of Curbed, I'm sad to read that Tupelo is closing. When Ant, PrincessNella, and I thought we had the Astoria thing in the bag, we went there to hang out and imagined making it a local spot. Ah well.

Anyways,

Naughty Girl by Beyonce

"Tonight I'll be your naughty girl I'm callin all my girls We're gonna turn this party out I know you want my body" 2004 was your year! You felt sexy as hell - and it showed.

Massive update over on the Prefuse 73 news page. Woo...new album! A song on the regular radio too! (Too bad...I don't listen to that shit.) And also, he's DJing at Northsix this Sunday the 31st though it's not mentioned on there. I found that out in the bathroom last night during the Man Man show.

Straight gold from today's Gawker Stalker:

sat next to busta rhymes on a flight from dallas to jfk on sunday. he was seated in coach because there was only one seat left in first class. Busta had to give it to his body guard because he couldn’t fit into the coach seats. Ended up getting in an altercation with his rapper friend (flip squad or something or other?) because he was talking VERY dirty to a lady he had courted on the plane. when i told him i could over hear his whole conversation (comeplete with “i’d like to stick my nine incher in you”), he got angry. He called busta over, only to draw more attention to the scene. i eventually got scared and apologized (hey, i’m a small white 19 year old girl…). busta then seemed more friendly but also seemed to think i like it “rough” and have “chains and whips and shit.” it was a long flight.

Same old music meme with a helping of snark over at Feminste.

My thoughts echoed exactly over on the FT: Black Actors thread:

I'm looking forward to the HBO production of Lakawanna Blues with a powerhouse cast of Mos Def, Charlayne Woodard, Ernie Hudson, Rosie Perez, Terrence Howard, Delroy Lindo, [Macy Gray!!!!!!??WTF???!!], Louis Gossett Jr., Liev Schreiber, Jeffrey Wright, Carmon Ejogo, Rueben Santiago-Hudson, Henry Simmons, Jimmy Smitts and the tragically underused S. Epatha Merkerson.

Try to find the person who just DOES NOT FUCKING BELONG. I'm not giving any hints, so you're going to have to put on your thinking caps for this one.

And news from the comments: The Art of Shooting playing Thursday February 3rd at KP fave (cider on tap rulez!), Mercury Lounge with A Place To Bury Strangers, PS, and Astronaut.

Plus the best comment ever [c/o Dip Dip Dive]:

Yancey, I have a theory here. You live in New York. You have a glamorous job at emusic. You get to go to special critics-only events like Big & Rich at CBGB. You probably ride a winged unicorn to work. You don't need a movie about graceful flying ninjas in beautiful billowy bathrobes falling in love with each other, since that's, what, your life, right? I live in freezing-ass dirty Baltimore and take the bus to work and just had to argue with my landlord over whether I could keep my dog, so I needed a movie like that. Oh, and the last two movies I saw before it were Napoleon Dynamite and Resident Evil: Apocalypse, so, you know, garbage is relative.

Says The Peanut Gallery, "what's that blog meta shit about? We don't really care. Can we move along please to things that would make our time wasting go faster please?" "Sure, no probs," says I, the proprietress.

Two weeks into the new place and things are going sorta swimmingly. Ant and I are having fun and trying to work out a system for household things. We're a couch and a futon away from being totally furnished. We finally got the gas and electric switched over to avoid some pesky blackout type sitches (I'd like to joke that we don't cook, but I was all over the stove last week. The oven, on the other hand, is for pot storage. That probably won't change until around the Housewarming when I bake a cake or something. Or just act like I did and pick up something from a local supermarket. But, pretend you didn't read that.) and the cable/(legal) net/phone triple whammy (courtesy of Cablevision who just added our block last week) is coming this weekend. Apartment life during the blizzard was sure toasty, but I was climbing the walls after being stuck in the house from just after work Friday night to off to work Monday morning. The wireless kept drifting in and out and we were running around trying to find ideal signal positions. We're gonna suck it up and pay $30 a month cause it really isn't worth all the hassle.

Seeing the neighbors has been an interesting experience. On the move in, everyone just kinda glanced at us struggling to carry things up. One girl queried which apartment I was setting up in. Everyone's fairly nice and I think a little surprised that a black person moved into the building when that's generally not the trend on the block as a whole. When the super showed me the place, he was almost excited by that. It's pretty much an all black building minus Ant and the rumored (until today) white girls across the hall. Everyone else seems like families who've lived there for years and I'm sure they're paying better rent than we do.

What's being irritating me most (besides the creepy guy diagonally across who looks at me up and down like a steak on a plate and was strangely hovering in our open doorway waiting for someone to come out on the move in day) is this barking shit of a dog who lives across the hall. Every time I hit the landing, it starts barking its head off and generally getting on my nerves. To say the least, I'm not really fond of dogs. I tend to run into the psychos of the family and have a scar on my face to prove it. I wrote the fucker off as a yappy little thing with a Napolean complex and that was that until today.

I was running late and coming down the stairs to the 3rd floor when I saw a girl who could only be the white girl across the hall, known from today forward as That Stupid Neighbor Bitch, with her dog. Which is a fucking Rottweiler. That was looking at me like "ooh...breakfast!". And walking around with no leash.

I froze and tried to crack jokes. "Oh...let me guess. You live in 16, right?"
She nodded and played with her little monster who was watching my ass like a hawk.
"And that must be your dog. He's always barking at me."

"Oh...haha...yeah, this is her. She barks at everybody." (Hmm...wonder why.) "Don't be scared, she's a sweetie." (Lifted from the pages of So Your Dog Is A Psycho...Owner's Manual)

I laughed hollowly and walked through the landing. As I was walking down the next flight of stairs, I look back to see that fucking dog following me and looking at me evily from the top of the stairs. Gulp. "Uh...can you get your dog please?" I said with more than a touch of hysteria in my voice.

"Sorry," she replied in a tone you'd say "bummer" or "fuck off." Stupid bitch.

It was only fitting to me that she was a stupid hipster with a skunk streak in her hair and wearing fucking legwarmers, for Christ's sake. Hipsters are the only thing I hate more than dogs after all. Regardless, I think I held my breath until I was safely outside. I had a flash of her letting the dog rip me to shreds and then saying "oh, bad girl, no doggie treats" over my mangled body. If it kills me, I'm gonna haunt her ass. I'm serious.

He uses the word "hater" often, and sometimes in a positive context. Star seems to view hate as a kind of natural energy (perhaps like the Freudian id) that can be channeled for constructive purposes. In his view, an "Objective hater" is potentially a person of great purpose and passion.

Who would think that an odious radio personality and I would see so eye to eye?I have full-time hater in that about section for a reason. There are no sacred cows here. If I don't like it, I'll say so. The time I got into "trouble" I'm always alluding to had to do with my version of Man Man Show # 875, I got a friendly phone call from Ryan MM saying, "you're so off blah blah no groupies blah blah." My response was basically: "eh...I don't really care. Last time I checked, I wasn't writing for you." And he was on my shit list for months, but naturally it blew over and throughout I still loved the band.

This is a personal blog on whatever the hell I feel like, bought and maintained by yours truly. Some days I'll talk about music, some days nightlife, some days why I'm mad, others why gender relations can be such a pill. It's been fun making blog friends and getting links and shit, but at end of the day, I'm happier telling you what parties I went to, why that venue/DJ/music was shit, and what some idiot had to say on the street...or not for that matter. Along with what I read on the web that was totally insipid. (Though hey, I'm a teddy bear. I'm definitely a happy-go-lucky sort in real life -- if by happy go lucky we mean not scowling...that much and even known to laugh.) Despite that, I believe it's important for there to be a certain degree of armchair criticism because the danger of mindless fawning and lip service is everpresent.

The way I look at it, I've got nothing to lose. I'm not an actual music critic -- aspiring or otherwise -- so I don't have to worry about stepping on toes and blocking my career trajectory. So, it's easy for me to say for example: my thought on M.I.A. is that Nelly Furtado owes her an ass-kicking for stealing her shtick and therefore, ruining her career -- and I don't even like Nelly Furtado; I'm so bored with the "ohmigod, it's Black Sabbath and Jay-Z on the same song/I totally put America and Mobb Deep back to back, I'm such a great DJ!" bullshit because you obviously aren't. Did you see that? You know, the crowd stopping the movement thing? That means you just failed your DJ test; and I think that blogs consisting of childish potshots at those who express even the mildest nonplus and insecure proclamations of greatness are shit and no matter how much cold fire they send my way, it's not going to change that fact anytime soon (aww...I was on a roll, I couldn't help myself). But naturally, all things are subjective.

There's shit stirring for the purpose of being a blowhard and there's having an honest to goodness dissenting opinion. I don't need to throw my weight around like 300 lb gorilla because my blog (and the blogosphere in general) only has my attention when frankly, I'm sitting around with nothing else better to do. Still, I am a little bit disgusted how the arena of whatever this loose collection of blogs around the music critic print folks is has developed into sycophancy. And THAT's what I was getting at in the original post that set it all off. Too bad some folks got selective vision and want to turn it all about them once it starts to process in the ego. I was being mildly provocative while venting my frustrations. There's not enough honest dialogue around. Everyone's worrying about stepping on toes and/or getting in good with the "powers that be" (says who?). I miss the days when I followed a link and started reading a blog because it was funny and fresh with a clear voice. Nowadays, everyone's an ultra sensitive junior editor in chief.

Perhaps there's nothing to be done about it. Perhaps it's growing pains as O-Dub says. I think it's fair to say that blog beefing or whatever is one of the most colossal wastes of time since...erm, message board beefing, I suppose. Part of taking responsibility for your words is knowing that everyone doesn't have to care about them. We've all got our little slivers in this pie and at the end of the day I'm not trying to be anything but me and my disjointed, flightly self, you know? But I pay my $x.xx a month to do as I please.

It's funny that I've moved onto bigger and better things yet they've still got me on their mind. Get a life, fellas! Relax, relate, release.

ETA: Blog beef is so boring because I'm really too pretty to be wasting my time bullshitting with trolls on the internet. Especially since this is the only arena they have to prove what big men they are, which just makes them pathetic. I even rose to the bait and submitted a nasty email -- and I'm not even sorry. You push me too much, you're gonna hear from me. Even corny motherfuckers get put on blast. I'm no one's pushover and psuedoesoteric blather doesn't impress me.

But, let me drop it once and for all, given that my main gripe is that they beat that poor dead horse until it's doubly deceased. They're ruining my good mood and drinking focus. Fuck off and die, for reals. Kisses.

"Little West 12th and Washington."
"You look like a movie star," says the cabbie. I insert my eyeroll at the proper spot. "Have you been in something? You look familiar."
"Yeah right," I respond. "I wish. I'd love that movie star money."
"What do you do?"
"I work for a marketing company."
"Well, there's gotta be good money in that."
"Yeah, you'd think...but not really."
I feel him looking at me in the rearview and I look up. "Sorry...you should be a movie star. You look like the type going places."
"Heh. Thanks. Let's hope."

The day before, I was back to business as usual playing the wandering intrepid. Some downtown party had to be found on a street with a familiar name but hidden location. I had mapped it out at home to be sure, but was still a bit turned around on the street. I stood at the corner wondering which way and picked up the trail from the weaving hipster sorts walking my way. I could use the drunkies like breadcrumbs/a rainbow with a nice full glass of my own waiting on the other end.

I suppose the new thing is to forego those pesky front door and stairs combo to just give you an elevator to the street. I strolled on the scene confused and played with my phone until I was assured that I wouldn't look like an ass pressing the button. Emerging on floor 2 was the typical scene: too many people jammed into a narrow space (check), free something or another (check), booze freeflowing and calling my name (check). Wes kids at 2 o'clock damped the fun slightly but ignored them and kept rolling up to the makeshift bar table. The bartender guy looked at me expectantly. "Can I get a vodka and cranberry?" I asked.

He held up two bottles: Brand X El Cheapo that I bought a few days later for the apt and The Sponsor's Brand O' Whatever. I shrugged and he picked The Sponsor. As if it really makes a difference. He added tonic to the cup and I looked at him quizzically. He shook his head no and said, "you wanted cranberry" before putting that cup to the side and making a new one. I held in the "oh that's cool, I'll drink that one too!" for my benefit and thanked him when he handed me the cup.

Jenny came along soon after and I had someone to stand and gab with, which really is something that always starts to ball of randomness rolling. She ran into someone she knew and his friend and I went off on a "horrors of living on your own" dishfest after deducing that all of us lived pretty close to each other. The best part of being back in Brooklyn is that everyone else is here too. No more "I grew up in Brooklyn, but now I live in *mumble* Jamaica." Fuck a Queens! Anyways, I had my most fun unexpected blogosphere to real life crossover when Abe came over (seeing him always dredges up school spirit I didn't know I had. Yay Hunter!). [For the record, the strangest was Nick in Kmart. What's next someone in Duane Reade?]

Post-party, I was off a little uptown to do the friend-of-a-friend thing up real big and hopefully meet up with The DJ and D. Worlds collided as I instantly recognized one of the performers from his job at 419...okay, APT. I barely go there anymore, so I can take the psuedonym away. (Incidentally, I ran into him there Thursday night and gave a "good job" on his performance. Think that'll keep me in Taylor's 20 for a minute?) I marvelled at how miniature Joe's Pub was. I'd never been there before and just imagined it as way bigger. It makes Blue Note look like Roseland.

I settled into any place where I could find room and see the stage with my $5(!) bottle of water(!) in front of this table. I stuck up a convo with the occupants and took them up on their offer to sit. I got pushed all the way in and started chatting with the guy next to me about music and the like. Meanwhile, I ran into The DJ and D standing around. I remarked to them that their friend onstage was looking like Leisure Suit Larry. D laughed "oh, you're so right" (like a liar) and The DJ looked at me puzzled. I tried to help him: "Okay...I can tell you weren't playing computer games in the '90s. He had this whole thing like...uhh..." I was thinking Charlie from Empty Nest, but he seemed not like the Saturday night tv watching type in the '90s either. So, I continued with that guy's other persona: "You know, like Joe Izuzu!" Another blank. Bless his pretty heart. I took the B/Larry comparison back to the guy at the table and he knew exactly what I meant. Sometimes it's the little things. One of the girls asked him when he was planning on asking me out on a date and we both looked around embarassed. Something was vaguely setup for this week and we took a cab back to Brooklyn since we live about four blocks apart, but I'm a cynic and we'll just see what happens. Or not because I'm lazy too.

Since no one probably cares about the move (We love our new place! Buying furniture off Craig's List rules! I can keep not going to the gym for another month with all that lifting and running up and down the stairs I did! We're siphoning wireless net off some neighbors!), I'll tell you how I spent my Friday night.

I'd committed myself to checking out this party I'd been getting emails about for a few months. I trekked across Queens and Brooklyn on the J as usual, stumbling into the haphazard rerouting that had a special J train running in place of a 4/5 as an M/Q hybrid to Prospect Park. The MTA loves fucking up the weekend trains all at once. It's always so fun.

I found myself around J&R circa 1am, peering down a sidestreet and hoping that I had to be anywhere besides the dark alley. But, I took a breath and was off until I found the nondescript looking storefront building. My note in my phone said it was the place and I opened the door to see a Wes-like hippie man chilling in the lobby.

"Am I in the right place?"
"You're here for the party?"
"Yeah I think so."
"We've got to keep it lowkey, you know."
I nod sorta and look around for an elevator/stairs/something.
"So, are you a cop?"
I shoot him a funny look. "Yes. Definitely."
"Nah really."
"Yes I am." I laugh. "Come on, do I look like a cop? I'm like 4 feet tall!"
"Well, you never know. Are you a cop?"
"Yes..ahhh...no. Heh...I can't help saying yes. But, I'm really not a cop."

A new guy comes through the door and the door keeper quizzes him. The guy says yes too. It's impossible not to. The question is so ludicrous. Not that there aren't black cops, but I doubt the guy and I with our modified afros and slightly hipster gear would make the cut. This is real life, not 21 Jump Street. The door dude babbles on, "well, it's a legitimate question. If you were cops, you have to say you are when asked, you know." We get on the elevator, chuckling about it, and a girl and another guy hop on before the doors clothes. "I'm totally a cop!" she says and we all laugh.

We exit upstairs into a line in front of a door. Music thumps on the other side, but first we have to get through the chick with the clipboard and the man selling door tickets. I pay my $7 entry fee and pick up 2 drink tickets (also $7 a pop) before heading in. The party is live: great music and dancing, people all about. The bar is even professional looking considering the circumstances.

I spot D, newish friend, holding up the wall and he waves me over. "You've got perfect timing," he says. "The party just got really good."

I panscanned the crowd -- a heap of people I've never seen before. It's a miracle! I've been slowly phasing out a lot of the places I used to hang out and shifting into new ones. I'm trying to recapture the feelings I had last winter when anything seemed possible, but navigating things a little wiser this time around. If anything, I hate a lot more things than I used to, so my bullshit meter is pretty sensitive now.

In some sort sick cosmic joke, just as my wandering eyes landed on paydirt (fucking Morgan Geist at the same party as me! Holy shit!), the lights turned on. D and I glanced over to the doorway to see cops in uniforms busting in the place. He disappeared somewhere across the room and I stood wondering what was about to happen. "I guess the guy downstairs wasn't so silly asking if we were cops," said the second guy from the elevator who had the bluest eyes I've ever seen. True to form, I blathered with him and had no clue who he was (until I looked it up on the net, natch). Some guy came up to him solemly and shook his hand saying, "I really enjoyed your set last night. It was really awesome." He demurred thanks and I glanced on it quizzically. Ignorance is totally bliss.

Some hecklers encouraged the cops to go waste their time on real criminals, etc. and chanted "9-1-1." One got grabbed up by the arms and marched out. The notable thing about that to me was the fact that he was picked up by the undercovers...who were straight up as plainly cops as ever existed. They looked like someone had gone to central casting and ordered up some "cop-looking" characters. I wondered how the hell paranoid door guy would ever let them through. Maybe they lied and said they weren't, totally disproving his little theory.

They made with the kicking out of the partygoers and I used my scarf to cover up my little plastic cup of rum and cranberry. I met up with D on the street and he was amazed to see me sipping. "This is a $21 drink, goddamit. I wasn't leaving it in there!" We made our way past City Hall and Uptown. It was only 1:30. The night was still young.

While bouncing in the back of a U-Haul van, I was telling PrincessNella about the recent blogging adventures. We were both amused at some of the reply comments. I liked you better before you started commenting on my site? What the fuck does that mean? Before I opened my mouth and muscled in where I've got no business or some shit? I shouldn't even have bothered commenting on that. It stands so much better alone. It's totally possible to like someone's stuff but think they're just wrong on a certain front you know. It doesn't invalidate anything. Egos are so fragile.

Oh, guess what I read today? Not only am I misguided by offering up opinions on matters of subjective taste and cultural consumption -- just like everyone else with a blog -- but I'm also apparently on some campaign for validation and attention? Interesting...I swear, it sucks being a new jack on this web business. I mean, I've only been protoblogging since like 2000 and shit (coming up on 2 years with this little thing), but god knows, you're nobody until some pseudo-"intelligent thug" throws some shine your way! Especially since I'm just jealous that he can babble nonsensically and people read it. More like puzzled that the jester is wearing no clothes and no one else seems to notice. Good thing I'm just a girl and can't get threatened with a punch in the face like some other people! But, we're totally shaking in our boots because we've got the Voice From Beyond on our ass now.

Blog beef is so boring. Especially when mouths are writing checks their ass can't cash. I'll be off painting my nails and getting my hair done when the reckoning comes I guess.

In the meantime, I've made another resolution: I should comment. And then comment and comment some more.

Like I think, this:

I wonder- when is the last time Tate went to the club and saw a thicky-thick girl drop down and get her eagle on right in front of him? I think an experience like that would change his opinion about hip-hop for the better.

Now hip-hop is responsible for the mysogyny in the black community. GTF out of here. Please stop attacking the problem w/out looking at the symptoms my people. Art is a reflection of life. And get this, in case anybody missed it in 8th grade ed, sex is a part of life.

If you want instant popularity, you either align or attack rap music. Who was talking about Rev. Butts or C. Dolores Tucker until they attacked rap music? MTV was not the channel to watch until they started to show rap videos. Bill O’Reily wasn’t that popular until he went at Ludacris. And now there’s ESSENCE Magazine. How many people were talking about ESSENCE before their ‘taking back our music’ campaign? One yearly article on Mary J. Blige does not make you a hip-hop publication. But their campaign got them featured in a few magazines. Mission accomplished and I’m sure we won’t be hearing from about that campaign. Next!

So, what's the trajectory of the argument as being put forth over at Hashim's (not to imply it's bash him day over here at Kitty Power)? To understand hip-hop and where it's coming from, you gotta go out into the thick of it with a girl with a fat ass and watch her shake it for you. 'Cause real niggas don't dance or some shit. Misogynistic? Shit...that's ridiculous. Sex is a part of life. It's only natural for men to be voyeurs and rap about what good shit they're seeing. And what they want from you and stuff. Fucking loud mouthed Essence magazine. That's one of those old bitch magazines, you know. Who the hell has ever heard of Essence anyways? Like there's something that's really wrong with the culture nowadays. Them bitches are tripping. They need a mandingo dildo or something. Yo, pass me my King and step. Right, boys?

The "strolling back into irrelevancy" edition.

But first, a query: "there are so women hip-hop bloggers, like blah, blah, and blah" = "i so have black friends, like blah, blah, and blah"? And clarification of previous post: I was venting and invoking the right to be facetious. And all the peacock strutting about was giving me a headache.

I was most amused by Hashim's comment: "I didn't know you follow *us* so closely. You know the names, memes, and everything!" If a bear shit in the woods but no one sees, did it actually happen? Just because I haven't jumped in the convos with gusto (before now) doesn't mean I can't read. I'm bored at work like everyone else. I either a) don't feel the same point should be beaten into the ground: you agree! you agree! where's the pats on the head?! b) don't feel like it since i'll probably be ignored anyways c) don't care because I'm put to sleep by the smug know it alls.

Another query: does hip hop music talk almost incubate the pissing match atmosphere? Query #3 -- the tongue in cheek edition: If I had a booty pic would I get more linkage? Uncredentialed women in hip-hop better be bringing something to the table, right right? Heh.

I guess most of the time I just feel like I don't really need random guys on the internet to validate my opinions. I love my blog, etc but there aren't enough hours of the day/energy or attention in my brain to break down my thoughts on every meme popping up. (Oh look at me, I'm getting peevish again!) Whatevs. This isn't my market. I'll go back to talking about staying out too late, fine times with cheap alcohol, and Man Man. Meanwhile, you can go read Lynne's post and get an inkling of where my head is at.

More to come. I suppose.

Jamirakid: hey there
jsmooth995: hey watsup
Jamirakid: i left a comment in the "facing hip hop love addiction" post
jsmooth995: oh cool
Jamirakid: it was kinda flip because i can't really write long comments like everyone else at work an all
Jamirakid: but what i would clarify with time is: why does the problem of disillusionment with hip hop music/culture have to be one of those "old head" problems?
Jamirakid: it seems like the young ones all caught up in "y'all are old and don't get it" are kinda reluctant to admit they're living a hellhole
Jamirakid: hence stockholm syndrome
Jamirakid: i base that more on just observations/incidental eavesdropping of kids than the back and forth blog convos
jsmooth995: yeah that may be true, i'm looking more at the young and old sides of the disscussion online
jsmooth995: since jeff chang pointed it out
Jamirakid: yeah
Jamirakid: i totally want to jump in but i have no tiem
Jamirakid: *time
Jamirakid: plus the convo is a straight up sausage fest really
jsmooth995: yeah except for lynne
Jamirakid: but she's totally lost in the shuffle going on over at o-dub and your site and hashim's
Jamirakid: heh. two posts in one: stockholm syndrome and the young(ish) hip-hop fan and where the hell are the women at in this conversation?
jsmooth995: do you think it is more male dominated in this case than other big convos?
Jamirakid: well no because generally the sites that focus on hip hop news/happenings/etc are men and lynne
jsmooth995: yeah
Jamirakid: i mean, i listen to as much music as the next person -- probably more -- but i like my blog more as just random bullshit than MY HIP HOP TRUTH which is what most of the guys seem to be aiming for
Jamirakid: no offense
Jamirakid: :)
Jamirakid: i think i'm more worked about the convo because i've read like a hundred different comments spread across posts than because i actually give a shit
Jamirakid: *worked up, that is
Jamirakid: especially since it's all going in a circle now
Jamirakid: "hip hop was real back in my day...well, it felt like it to me!"
Jamirakid: "bump that...shut up, old man, and give me some killa so i can bounce...but i'm no misogynist or whatever"
Jamirakid: *snore*
jsmooth995: hehe.. do you think there's a reason men are more inclined to make that specific focus in their blogs?
Jamirakid: beats the hell out of me. i've been wondering it for a while now
Jamirakid: the sociologist in me is totally curious
jsmooth995: i dunno it thought the comments in o-dub's post went to some interesting places
jsmooth995: mhm
Jamirakid: i also noticed with the guy blogs it's all like some competition
Jamirakid: all the new jacks start off with some hateration and linking to get the attention and then comes the welcoming to the fold
Jamirakid: a la that whole kris ex blog thing
Jamirakid: everyone's so on his jock. what the hell is even talking about half the time?
Jamirakid: i did enjoy the o-dub convo too. but i think y'all have been beating this dead horse for a while
Jamirakid: wasn't it the "are snoop, etc misogynists and does that make me one too?" the other month
Jamirakid: and then "no homo: classic or dud" before that
Jamirakid: sorry...i've been on ILM a lot lately and they do it too
Jamirakid: constant pissing matches blah blah blah
Jamirakid: all you guys are so smart and music experts to the utmost. give yourselves a big pat on the back, but don't strain anything LOL
Jamirakid: sorry. i just feel like being a hater
Jamirakid: that star post you linked to referencing ayn rand(!) inspired me

(Before I get into it, I've actually updated my page o' mp3s to grab because I love.)

Over the weekend, I was cross legged on the floor surrounded by papers, keepsakes, and all sorts of accumulated crap from the past few years of my life. There's that book about the puritan family I couldn't unload from my US History class. A little wallet sized photo of me in my pink princess prom gown. Graduation program. Yearbooks. That photo of me and The Ex that I still love. LA pics. Me, Ant, and Farmer at Union Pool. Do I need Find Law printouts from the DC program...shit, almost three years old? Yes...no...maybe.

I'm mentally moved into our little walkup place, but I'm physically boxed up in Queens. As terrible as it sounds, I almost didn't realize Monday is a holiday until I got an email about it at work. I've got the long weekend to get my stuff in and nest a bit.

I made a harrowing trip through town with Grandmastah H's lent air mattress strapped to my back. I couldn't even be too stoked that I made it door to door from the West Village in 25 minutes because that fucking thing felt like it weighed 25 pounds. I was doubled over in pain at Underhill, almost unwilling to walk the extra half block. But, I made it and faced down my new apartment nemesis: the tricky lock before inflating the fucking thing and collapsing. All the while, I was thinking "I can't die out here. I've got to get home first." Because that place already feels like home. Probably because home is where your money vanishes into thin air.

The weekend was pretty low-key. I've been rolling lean and staying out of sight because $10 can only take you so far once you've gotten used to being limitless. Saturday though I found the best parties ever. What I like to call "that crazy motherfucker going apeshit" party at the Knit. I was surprised to see it so underpopulated but the man is unstoppable -- DJing and scatting with horn players and percussion. I love that shit and I was amused at the yuppies just in for a drink who were glancing at the stage like "what the fuck is going on over there?" I like an element of "what will that crazy do next?" at a concert. Most shows are the same old setups and proceedings, so a dash of zaniness adds a little something. Plus they've got cider on tap there. I'm all about enjoying a glass of not!Beer for a cheap.

From there, I was up at Starfoods for this. I was doing the old sitting off to the side and taking it all in routine, but the music was so ridiculous. I love that party but something about it makes me feel inhibited. Perhaps it's the feeling of social claustrophobia as I see the same old friends of friends plus randoms I've met along the way. For a city of millions, I see the same 30 people everywhere I go. Maybe I'm just burrowing deeper and deeper into the scene, even as I "branch out," or perhaps maybe this is all there is. As I've been mentioning a lot (only on the web, I don't know anyone who'd care in real life), MF Doom was supposedly there also. I think that's neat because what little I know about him, I feel cool to be somewhere he might be. Compared to if it was like, I dunno...Fabulous -- one of the reasons I haven't gone to Gustavino's (does that place even still exist?) ever again. Of course, me being cameraless -- no mugging with him. Not that I'd know him if I fell over him. I know he's black and that's about it. I've got no identifying features besides that...which is kinda the point, I suppose. At least I can admit I'm fronting in this situation. I'm good for talking to someone I guess I should know as a music fan sort, i.e. running into the Greenskeepers guy when I fucking love them, and being all "duh...blah blah let's talk about bullshit and I'll kick myself later." Or looking right at them and not reacting at all (hey, Rufus Wainwright!). Ah well. At the end of the day, they're just regular folks. I've had my one lifetime "famous" person spazz episode, it's all whatever after that.

The "passing the time gently" edition. Whatever that means.

In the "I shill because I love because they're blowing up quite nicely on their own, thank you very much" category, Easy Star All Stars at the KF Wednesday and Man Man (feel the buzzzzz) on tour alone and with the Arcade Fire. And since I'm shooting shine on my fave bands, The Art of Shooting is playing Southpaw also on the 12th and Benzos are at the Mercury Lounge
Saturday the 15th.

Meanwhile, Jay-V and I are saving our pennies to buy this and spin ourselves stupid. And I totally know Portuguese: eu tenho boca de broche! But, nah.

A gem from Overheard In New York:

Guy into cell: Uh huh, he knows it's an 8-track, right? He knows how to work with one of those?...Now listen. I want to make this crystal clear. I want to make sure that he fully understands what I'm about to say. There is to be no sucking dick before studio time. Does he understand this?

--8th St. & Greene

And I applaud Essence for their new campaign (and new section for me to query). It's a cultural sore. I love a good beat probably better than the next person but it's impossible to get beyond some of these lyrics. Even the super sweet love songs will have a throwaway line so insulting that you wonder what the hell they're thinking. It's entertainment, but too much of the garbage is playing out in public and no one even blinks at it. I've heard stuff coming out of young girls' mouths so mindboggling that it would put any uncensored verse to shame. Everyone is a product of their environment. I get into confrontations all the time with men/boys on the bus, subway, and streets. It always kills me the amount of silent bystanders who just watch it all play out. Most of them are other men. Perhaps it will take a nation of women sick of simply accepting what's put out there about them to make a change. It's better than nothing.

Reality sets in sometime mid-morning Monday. I queue insertion orders on one screen and toggle to the furniture listings on the next. I'm aiming to buy the bulk of the apartment furniture off Craig's List. That site is good to me as the spot I found the apartment, job, former column, parties, and misadventures. The Zen plays on low (since I have a thing about ear-drum splitting music outside of clubs) and I'm unable to drown out the screeching whines across the aisle no matter how much I zone out. This scenario has played out for too long. I don't think I can last much longer.

I'm in a position of liking the job in itself but hating the co-workers. I like my team. I like that I'm autonomous. But, I hate the pervasive camp culture and the team near us with the most high-pitched voices (male and female) I've ever seen. I'm a loner in a box. I know I've been isolating myself further as time has passed out of spite and I'm sick of it. It's counterproductive and makes me feel worse. I want to be a part of a group, just not that one. I'm mentally planning my escape.

Ant and I both view the new place as a fresh start. He hopes to be released from the desk chains and I just want to feel creative again. Money is always the big factor. In a way, I should've been more proactive and laid down some tracks for the writing last year in my marginally employed state, but hindsight is 20-20 and I also couldn't afford it then either. I wasn't mentally ready. In a way, I feel like I'll be more hungry now. I need you to accept my pitch/resume because I've got my share of rent/cable/gas/electric to pay and have no nest egg/parental bankrolling to fuck around with, motherfuckers! Meanwhile, I'm stepping up -- brainstorming, researching, eyeing the options... but I can't jump until I've got something set. And you probably thought my resolutions were just lip service? Shit is real, people.

Scene: Moi pottering away at the comp. Ms. Mommy comes into the room with a funny smile.

Ms. Mommy: I just remembered something funny. You're gonna think this is way too much information though.
Moi: Eh?
Ms. Mommy: I was just thinking about my apartment housewarming party. You were conceived at that. Hehe.
Moi:....
Ms. Mommy: See, I told you. Too much information. So, you better behave yourself. [strolls out the room]
Moi: I'm so traumatized.

Um...thanks for sharing?

01. Be more social
02. Reconnect with those I've lost touch with
03. Update my personal style
04. Take a class
05. Dust off my creative side and start cracking
06. Keep writing
07. Be more proactive
08. Build an oasis at home
09. Do something career wise that makes me happy
10. Get a new passport and take a major trip
11. Fine tune the radar
12. Keep building the nest egg
13. Take more chances

Happy 2005, everybody! 2004 was a bit meh, here's to hoping it can only get better instead of worse!

I started my New Year's Eve traipsing across Queens and Brooklyn to meet up with Ant and the management company man. We read and signed and read and signed and read and nitpicked and signed. Exchanged checks for keys and papers. And with some finals handshakes, Ant and I became official residents of Brooklyn. We made our way from Boro Park to Prospect Heights, strolling up Flatbush and deciding that the birthday dinner (just over 3 months and counting) shall be held at Chuck-E-Cheese this year because...well, just because. (We were amused by the imaginary exchange: "So, how old are you this year, erm...little girl?" "Oh, 24.") We had a good old southern food lunch on Vanderbilt, murdering our food upon sniffing. We're very excited about all the stores in the area. We went to the place to guestimeasure rooms and confer on where furniture would go. This week, I measure for real. Next weekend is move in. Yay for us! And I spent everything I had in the bank minus $30 to get to this point. Not so yay!

New Year's Eve proper was rather anti-climactic. I dragged my feet and ended up where I wanted to be later than I planned. I had my first of 3 train rides with stupid kids running off at the mouth trying to start fights. WTF was up really with all the 16 year olds on the loose last night? In my teenage days, I knew I'd either be in watching Dick Clark on the TV, at a party with the folks, or someplace random like church. I sure as fuck wouldn't have been roaming the streets in a pack of knuckleheads. Later on that night on the G, two groups actually did get into a fight that other adults, being more benevolent than me (who just raised an eyebrow and then laughed at first with the folks sitting across from me), broke up. But when the group of little white kids (plus one boy of interminate ethnicity who had been getting angry that he was getting "played as a punk"), cowering in fear not mins before until the black girls who had been getting ready to open a supersized can of whoop were subdued, started talking smack now that it was safe again, I screamed on them to shut the fuck up since they were underaged little shits causing drama and we all should just let the girls beat the smirks off their stupid faces. And they did.

I rang in the New Year with my comp glass of Andre in Subtonic of the screwed up toilets, darkness, and DJ who was too busy playing Black Box (or something equally as random) to realize it had been 2005 for about 3 mins before he started the countdown. I had to quickest ride from Delancey to Bedford-Nostrand (like less than 15 mins) and strolled into the party at Jenny's invite. There were mini-cupackes, people! Cupcakes + alcohol = triple plus good in the Candice book. Listening to music, talking...I had fun. I made a half-hearted attempt to check out a party on 14th and then realized that I was definitely okay with going home at 4am. And the best part was not spending a fucking dime all night long! Return to the frugal crafty ways of back in summer/fall '03 era? Perhaps. Viva '05!

The Most Cliched Parts Of My Year:
1. "Oh my God...not them too! Another fucking sniffer! They're everywhere!"
2. "Wow...I had no idea you were black on paper/the phone! And you're like super black...nappy hair and damn, you are really dark!"
3. "Oh hey, Candice. It's me, [insert punk here]. Just giving you a call to see how you're doing/what you're up to tomorrow. I'm/I'll be around in the city and I wanted to see if you wanted to hang out. Talk to you soon."
4. "No, he's very nice person. You guys only hate him because I told you all that bad stuff about him. If you'd got to know him, you'd like him. What if we got married or something, are y'all gonna disown me?"

Favorite Free Alcohol Fueled Adventures:
1. Film Fest Volunteers Party
2. Getting PrincessNella Involved In The Hijinks...Twice
3. Is That Scott Or The Doppleganger?
4. The Birthday Party, natch

Most Memorable Concerts of '04 (No Real Shockers):
1. Tortured Soul at Deep LA, Halloween.
The LA trip was pretty up and down. The weather was eh at first and there was drama with the host, but I got a kick out of the first trip checking out cool things and exploring. Halloween had been a glorious day -- going to the beach, snapping pics, getting baked in the sun, and really just having a blast on the last day in town. I had never heard a song of theirs prior to the show, but their grooves were so infectious that I became a diehard convert on first note.
2. Man Man/The Art of Shooting at Trash Bar, 6/19.
It was my first (and so far, only) visit to a place I'd heard more than a lot about in its previous existance as Luxx. I strolled in and liked TAOS because as stupid and base as it is, as a girl, I'll always give extra bonus points for a band of women playing and doing it well. I really thought their music was great heavy pop/punk and was excited to talk with Kelly and let her know that that. I remember that MM show as rather inspired and I've got a polaroid with Ryan as a memento.
3. Phoenix/Benzos at Bowery Ballroom, 12/2.
My post is one of the few that captures the thought process. I was super excited about getting the chance to see Benzos again and coming it towards the end bugged me. I only stayed for Phoenix out of curiosity, but the won me over with their breezy songs and charm. Every once in a while, the hardest cynical heart needs a good old pop show.
4. Man Man at Siberia, 4/28 or thereabouts.
Because really I've been getting mileage of "that's where I got trampled by a guy in a yeti suit!" all year. Plus that was probably the last time I was still pretty anonymous and talking to band people made me all nervous.
5. Erykah Badu at Chapelle's Block Party, 9/18
Yeah there were other people there and Fizzie and I left about midway, but I don't think any act would've compared to seeing her. I've got all her albums -- legally! -- and I've always been dying to see her in concert. And she didn't disappoint with that voice and talent jumping off the stage and her rolling with the punches as her giant afro wig was almost blown away by the wind. She is an amazing live performer and I want to see her in a proper setting in 05 for sure.

Wonderful Things That I Really Got A Kick Out Of This Year:
1. "You know, that was a good article/book/album. I wonder if they have a website/blog...oh, nice...they do!"
2. Strange encounters. If I wasn't getting surprising emails because of some thing I wrote rather flippantly on the blog (c.g. Fizzie), I was going somewhere and finding out that a person I just met was: in a group I liked, someone I should introduce people I knew in bands to, or had parallel interests to my own. Random magnet to the end!
3. Feeling like a real adult for a change. I feel like I definitely got my shit together in a lot of ways. It's been nice.