Saturday, October 29, 2005

Every Little Thing That You Say Or Do (Or, My Early Days as Celebrity Stylist)


So, the Madonna Machine is rolling on...in keeping with the spirit of my last entry (a lá thirteen year old girl), here I go again on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. Like a drifter I was born to walk...hopefully, you get the picture.

I just saw the video for Madonna's new video "Hung Up". After the PowerPoint presentation that was the released version of "American Life", the silly junkshow that was "Hollywood" and the nausea-inducing L'Oreal commerical that was "Love Profusion", she finally got her game back with the new video. Sure it's a big riff on David LaChappelle's brilliant-at-times Rize, but still. Homegirl is thrashing and semi-krumpin' pretty damn hard on the dancefloor. The opening sequence, featuring some hilariously, intentionally semi-bad dancer-let-me-dance-for-you moves, is brilliance. Camped-up-faux-disco never looked so good.

It sort of reminded me of times in the very late 1970s when, as a child, I would beg my mother to wear these kind of junked up, over-the-top outfits to the grocery store or the shopping mall. My mother is about a size 0 when wet and I always thought of her as a movie star.

I also probably saw The Eyes of Laura Mars at too young of an age.

"Please, please, please wear this tube top!" I would exclaim, a mini demanding fashion stylist in the making. "It is so cooooooool!"

"And clogs. You need to wear clogs."

"Is that all the make-up you are going to wear. More lipstick. Now."

"How about some decorative combs for your hair?"

My mother was always the good sport. She would don the looks I came up with to satisfy my creative whims. She would even venture out in public sporting the brazen outfits I came up with. I was so entralled, I can not even remember now how she was received in the sleepy college town I grew up in.

Given that my locus for glamour at the time was The Love Boat and Fantasy Island, I'm sure my mother always looked like, well, a slut.

Friday, October 28, 2005

Thursday, October 27, 2005

My Future Ex-Boyfriend

My dear friend Ch'ien just worked with Freddie Ljungberg on a photoshoot. On this occasion, I feel compelled to announce - a lá the 8th grade girl's diary that this blog can be more often than not - that Freddie is indeed my future ex-boyfriend.

Sure, he doesn't know it yet.

And, sure, we haven't even met.

But, we really did have a connection once. I was nearly crushed in oncoming traffic as I stared at your mile-high naked torso crossing Houston sometime last year....

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Spit It Out

Some liken the creative process to childbirth.

For me, it's more like constipation.

On that note, my all-of-a-sudden-ancient home computer is massively constipated...and I'm fantasizing about a new tower like the inner A/V dork that I am.

Maybe not so inner?

Hmmm....

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Not So Poor Theater

Hands down, The Wooster Group is one of the best things about New York.

Sure, they are a "performance" group - which leads to many blunt assumptions about the sort of high-flying esoteric happenings associated with such a label. Thing is, they always build in a tongue-in-cheekiness into their performances that prevents this. As if to say: "Yeah, we know. This is some out there shit. We're not even sure what's going on here."

It's all intentional though...and the fact that they feature pre-recorded videos as live characters to interact with onstage sets me over the edge.

I saw Poor Theater a few weeks ago...conceptually, pure brilliance. House/Lights is an amazing show too. I might even cough up $250 for the DVD version.

Yes, it's that fucking good.

Where The Teets All Have Names

...I know I am desperately behind on posting, for those of you out there who still check in to dear old BV. Not to fret, I may make up for it today by posting 7 entries.

So, I made it back from Argentina in one piece and got banged up with a nasty head cold on the way back.

In the most recent of news, I went to see Sock Puppet Showgirls on Sunday night at Ace of Clubs. It is also playing this coming weekend for those interested. Here is my review:

Oh. My. God.

Seeing a sock puppet with nice tits was alone worth the $15 ticket.

Seeing the sock puppet version of "it-doesn't-suck" Nomi Malone thrash herself around onstage in a continual "emotionally unstable" shake of her moneymaker was worth ten times that.

I think Showgirls is a brilliant film all by itself. Paul Verhoeven used to be a very arty, very sophisticated director before he emigrated to La-La Land and went apeshit making the some of the worst/best American films of all times. Showgirls could very well be his masterpiece in this second phase of his career. It is a film entirely aware of it's atrociousness. It will live on and on, as only bad films tend to do, in our collective imaginations. It is a sexploitation film that is decidedly un-erotic; it is a throwback to Russ Meyers and Pam Grier and lifts the bulk of its skeletal plot from All About Eve.

How could I not love it?

See the trailer here.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Como Nueva, Papi?

...I am so far down under, that I can't get up from under.

So much to say, so nohwere in sight to start.

I feel like a semi-retarded yet spoiled bourgeois infant most of the time here in Buenos Aires. I can say:

Good Morning.

Thank You.

How much?

And, most importantly:

I am going to the Sheraton, San Martín.

The only Spanish I know is incredibly nasty and should only be spoken in dark alleys and backrooms.

For instance:

No venga in mi boca.

and...

Cupa mi cuolo, papi.

"Don't come in my mouth" and "Eat my hole, daddy" respectively. I was taught these phrases by a friend before I went to Puerto Rico in desperate search of the then little-known-to-America Ricky Martin.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Idle Idling Idly (Or, The Dogs of Post-Summer)

...I am at the airport facing down a delayed flight and I am so bored, bored, bored.

I am also pissed, pissed, pissed, since I didn't grab any DVDs on the way out the door, thinking that I would be just sleeping through the lengthy flight I have ahead of me.

Now, I am digging through the bowels of my powerbook's hard drive, finding anything of interest to read or futz with or otherwise occupy my time.

At least the terminal, sad and scary as it is, has a wi-fi connection.

I might write a book in the time I have to sit here and wait.

Monday, October 10, 2005

La Boca Se Moja Y Grande

...A drag alter ego as yet to be claimed: Choriza Sausalita, slutty star of Mexican stage and screen. Scorned star of the hit Blue Demon Y Las Seductoras.

Long story short, I'm going to Argentina tomorrow.

Friday, October 07, 2005

Reprinted With Permission

"...I never go out unless I look like Joan Crawford the movie star. If you want to see the girl next door, go next door."

I. Had. To.

The Littlest 'Ho

'Lil Kim really should have covered this on her latest album, which just came out in time for her jail term. Here, from 1981 is the always delicious "Genius Of Love" from the Tom Tom Club. (Not to be confused with that other mid 1990s junked up version appropriated by that certain pre-junked up 'ho)

What you gonna do when you get out of jail?
I'm gonna have some fun
What do you consider fun?
Fun, natural fun

I'm in heaven
With my boyfriend, my laughing boyfriend
There's no beginning and there is no end
Time isn't present in that dimention
He'll take my arm
When we're walkin', rolling and rocking
It's one time I'm glad I'm not a man
Feels like I'm dreaming, but I'm not sleeping

I'm in heaven
With the maven of funk mutation
Clinton's musicians such as Bootsy Collins
Raise expectations to a new intention
No one can sing
Quite like Smokey, Smokey Robinson
Wailin' and shakin' to Bob Marley
Reggae's expanding with Sly and Robbie

All the weekend
Boyfriend was missing
I surely miss him
The way he'd hold me in his warm arms
We went insane when we took cocaine.

Stepping in a rhythm to a Kurtis Blow
Who needs to think when your feet just go
With a hiditihi and a hipitiho
Who needs to think when your feet just go ...Bohannon Bohannon Bohannon Bohannon
Who needs to think when your feet just go ...Bohannon Bohannon Bohannon Bohannon
James Brown, James Brown
James Brown, James Brown

If you see him
Please remind him, unhappy boyfriend
Well he's the genius of love
He's got a greater depth of feeling
Well he's the genius of love
He's so deep.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Balls-Out Mould

Last night I went to see Mr. Bob Mould play at Irving Plaza. It was an amazing wall-to-wall-balls-out set spanning his whole career (including some old Hüsker Dü blisters).

I was very happy to hear "See a Little Light", given an amped up bad-ass treatment, which brings me straight back - in a heartbeat - to the summer of 1989. Through and through, Workbook is still one of my favorite albums.

Bob gave me some VIP passes which granted my friend Patty and me some aftershow mingling priviledges. Patty turned pussy at the last minute - she promised she would call him "Joan Mould" if she met him. Or, at the very least, just Joanie.

But, then, she didn't.

Pussy.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Freudian Fugue

What does it mean
When you see in a dream
That Miss Sheryl Crow
Is your orthodontist?

Does it mean
In your dream
That you long to belong-
Like said chanteuse-
Onstage, in a corset?

Broken and wet
A tankini pet
Wild on the beach
Split like a peach
Instead of in school
Up in Cambridge?

Back in her crib,
She smirked, rather glib
And then cried at the sight
Of her medical whites.

"Oh, shit!" She exclaimed.
Face beet-red with the strain
Of noticing one's chosen
Occupation.

She said with a smile
A mile high off the dial,
"Did you want mint, or bubble gum
Flavored mouthwash?"

We laughed and then ran
Down the beach with a can
Of "Bronze-My-Brunette"
Tinting hairspray.

"Not me! Not today!"
She called out in the fray
Of beefcake lifeguards' display
A rippled oiled fuse
Of sweat and aftershave.

"Your bill's in the mail!"
A yelp out of the trail
Dragged off by the buns of the steel
Toward the horizon.

She wouldn't keep them at bay.
"Omigod, no way."
With a moan and a sigh
Oozing lotion.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

The Skills To Pay the Bills (Or, In Defense of Being Phair)

Liz Phair's new album Somebody's Miracle came out today. I just got it from iTunes, and on first fast listen it is crazy poppy like the last album.

Hopefully, she doesn't get ripped up by the press again.

In her defense, sure she's left her indie-ness (a little) behind her, but at least she's still alive and kicking in the music industry. When her landmark album Exile in Guyville was released in 1993, I read an article about her and Juliana Hatfield and new feminism in "alternative" music.

Which begs the question: where the fuck is Juliana?

Enough said.

Whether it's 8 track demos or over-crystalized La-La Land studio production, I'm thrilled that Liz is still around and rocking the show.

Name another VH1 Artist of the _Blank_ that writes about "hot white cum" and "doing things that would make a slut blush blue".

Monday, October 03, 2005

Nature or Nurture?

My grandmother is going to turn 91 in a few weeks. Her mind is still as sharp as a tack. Something she said last year, regarding a friend of hers she considered, um, a little dim:

"She may be able to put two and two together, but that doesn't mean she'll come out with four."

She is also something of a closet potty mouth.

For quite some time, "Shit" was her favorite curse word, but it would only slip out in times of intense stress, or when she thought she was alone. My brother and I both knew about her secret fondness of the word. I once baited my brother (who was quite a wee toddler then) in front of my grandmother:

ME: Hey, Jason. What's Grandma's favorite word?

JASON: Shit.

Our grandmother's face turned bright red and I swear she turned away from us to whisper to herself:

"Shit!"

Saturday, October 01, 2005

Aging Me Softly With His Kills


...I went to see The Killers last night at Jones Beach with my friend Patty. The evening began with the Beyond Thunderdome adventure of managing to catch a bus from the Freeport train station to the Stadium. The bus we were on was super crowded and we had to stand in front of a pack of six brokedown drunk college kids who were eating pot cookies on the bus. There were three girls and three guys. One of the girls was named Tami.

We were forced to know this because one of the other girls drunkenly wailed her name every ten seconds or so:

"TAMI...TAMI! How much did you eat? You have to eat more. TAMI!"

Poor Tami was practically unconscious as it was, she was so visibly drunk. Adding canabis to her system at this point didn't seem to be a power move.

Patty and I were giggling uncontrolably at points, predicting how the kids' night would turn out.

Patty leaned in to me and whispered, as Tami's eyes rolled back in her head as she nearly passed out in her bus seat: "Poor Tami's not going to make it past the parking lot. We're going to see her with asphalt chunks and puke in her hair on the bus ride back."

It was a so-so, short set despite a very exciting beginning. Let's say the kids from Las Vegas really know how to pull off a light show. The Warhol and Bowie references were way over the heads of the mostly teenage crowd.

PATTY: Those poor kids got fucked up and stoned for this?"

ME: Those kids don't even know where they are at this point.

When the band covered an early Bowie song (from the Ziggy Stardust era), the hyperkinetic troupe of German teenagers seated in front of us suddenly fell limp to their seats. They looked at each other blankly, as if asking each other:

"Is this on the remix single for 'Somebody Told Me'?"

or...

"Isn't David Bowie married to, like, Naomi Campbell?"

As we were exiting the stadium after the show, we saw a few middle-aged attendees.

We had just spent the last four hours of our lives feeling hopelessly old and out of place demographically. Patty turned to me and said:

"See, we're not the oldest people here."

Then, we witnessed the middle-aged folks intercept a set of eager twelve year old girls who had bedazzled their own baby tees with the words "I LOVE THE KILLERS!".

I turned to Patty:

"No, we're the oldest people here who came of their own free will. Everyone older than us is a chaperone."

It was a beautiful night, however. And the show's finale, "All These Things That I've Done" is a great song, despite that its message is suredly lost on the Me-Too-Me-Too Generation.

Pictured: Too much rock for one hand, as demonstrated by Patty.