October 11, 2004


Me and Julianne are in the BK, on the stoop smoking Parliments until her upstairs neighboor, named Jean Gray (not Grae, we wish) comes out spraying whiskey breath bragging about how old school she is - she's been in Brooklyn all 73 years and her hair looks like a grey shower cap and only seems to talk about how old she is. Julianne and me, we stub out our sticks, we go up in her apartment, roll up the orange ikea carpet, put on some Anthony Hamilton, and get out the hot glue gun, settle in for a long hot night of serious, laborius CRAFTING. I am half way through turning her roomates lamp from the ugliest white porcelian shit ever into a green-sparkled Genie Bottle idea replete with tiny rubber dogs with wings, chasing invisble meats heavenward. If I had another week here, she'd have a coffee table made of shells by the end of it.

I am in lust with the J-Zone album.

Right now, J-Shep, is whipping round in some donk-donk motion along to a Cam'ron song, singing along "Put your meat on my stick like a shish-ka-bob". There, somewhere, will be justice in this world and Julianne will be choreographing the mami's in all the BET most-requested videos, and managing to infuse the steps with a Dworkinist heart.

Last night I fell asleep face-first into Salinger rather than seeing Animal Collective play at dawn. I think the only band I am willing to wake pre-dawn to see play is Steely Dan fronted by Mary J Blige and baby Jesus doing a krumping routine. I lamped boring and librarial and got 3/4ths into someone else's week in Manhattan for the third time. Holden Caulfield, I know, the youth narrative is supposed to be fin-all be-all classic, but all it reminds me of is why I never went out with high school boys, so I never finish it. Nothing but pussy mythology and clown brained life theories. I can understand why all young mens everywhere feel like it's the true script, because it's nothing but bedmate-hounding and getting drunk and remorse for telling pretty girls "I love you," when they don't because they were entranced by that ass and that long shiny hair. I probably do not need to get passed page 160 anyways, because if I am really curious about the ending all I have to do is hit up the Rainbo Bar an hour before bar close and watch it play out in technicolor.

The first six times I came to CMJ, I was always secretly ashamed of my shoes. All the NY women have sex-pumps, many-buckled splendor heels, and immaculate french trainers that they only made three of, flip flops made of straw, ribbon and chinchilla, shit that does not do well in places with snow. My shoes were always unpolished and punk, duct-taped up, broken laced. This time, my shoes are just fine, but I very well may walk with a pair of the new Missy E. signature Adidas. Julianne's got these xtra-bananas snakeskin dunks, and I have to roll flossy just to keep up, and not sully our collective stee with anything less than polish.

We saw Travis Morrison with his new band at Rothko the other night. The new songs fly so much freer with the back up - apparently he found the folks from ads in DC City Paper looking to lay out jams "like Stereolab meets GoGo" and he kind of nailed it. Three synths, a rhythm player thats timbale back beats, triggers and egg shaker aplomb. The drummers name is Sadat and goes light and funkifull at times, other times like he's working a pinata into submission. The band is all rhythm, interlocking and twerking and sqeeky. They did Janet's "When I think of You" which was a crippler, they took us hostage in their postfunk fantasy. Morrison Band Mach II is the joyously logical jump-off from Dis Plan that you were begging and praying would manifest -- mature dance music that jocks your entire collection and solidifies that yea, in fact THE DORKS HAVE WON. The girl who sings and plays the piano-sound keys now does the Trina verse on the Ludicris song, throws her hair like a pony, plus she does some moves that were grindy new wave and flashed us her panties, which with anyone else would come off like Amateur night auditions at The Admirals Club, but with her, it was kind of like she was the party and she did not need any of us. Someone actually managed to steal the show from Travis, for the first time, ever, ever. Ever.

ALSO, Derida RIP.

Today, I went to Coney Island with friends, which was about 56 light years on the Q-train. It was about 89% vacant, the terrifically named Ghost Hole ride was shut down, Shoot The Freak was down for the season (shoot sideshow freaks with paintball while they run around trying to flee - 5 shots $15), the flea market only offered dumpstered coats and vanilla musk, But! But! I won a sawdust stuffed Nemo with dirt all wiped over it's fishy lips. THEN! THEN! Walking past a trash can, I spied a bunch of ancient black and white photos of women in wedding dresses taking flight out of the top of a trash can and ligting into the high ocedan breeze. Upon inspection, we found an entire trash bag of an entire torn up photo album and about 60 8x11 wedding photos from the '40s, namely of a double wedding of TWIN girls and their mustachioed husbands, their mother and aunts weddings, in all sorts of classic wedding photo poses, with the limo ride, the rice, the bridesmaid arranging the bridal veil in a mirror. We sat on the boardwalk and divied them up between us, trading them like baseball cards.

I did not by the "100 % Puerto Rican Bitch" hot pants from the souvenir shop because they would have made me 100% too-popular with the dudes that deal drugs up the block from me in Chicago. They were really hard to pass up, though.

I took a picture of some kids making out with the girl laughing up against the boardwalk rail. I took a picture of a man showering in his underwear on the beach. I took a picture of seagulls unafraid. I took a picture of Camile sleeping on the train bench in our empty car with the white sun illuminating the box-lettered tag that read CRUEL in huge letters on the window above her. I took a picture of Cali and Nick eating colon-rotting cheezfries. I took a picture of the Shoot Sadam game on the midway. I took about 19 pictures of the silver fringe carnival streamers against the clearest, purest looking sky ever. Then we saw James Gandolfini and then we went home.

Posted by Jessica at October 11, 2004 11:13 PM | TrackBack