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December 12, 2003 #
 This is not a To-Do but a MUST-DO: Becca Greene, my roommate and Chihuahua owner, is something of an on-stage auteur. She does improv, sketch, Lincoln-Douglas debates, and even drama. (I've seen several of her crying performances. It's the real stuff, yo.) Tomorrow night her comedy troupe is presenting Does This War Make Me Look Fat? which casts her in no less than three roles as a lesbian, prison warden, and a Red Lobster employee. No word if it's a musical send-up of Cell Block H. Please check out The Royal We website for more details. She's the one in knee-high boots looking like a combination of everyone's favorite late 60's-early 70's "Family" members: Manson's gun-toters, Patty Hearst/Squeaky Fromme and the Partridge's own toper, Susan Dey. This is neither a To-Do or Must-Do but a NOT-YOU: Tonight I am hosting the Krucoff.com Re-launch and LasagnaFarm's Book of Wages Release Party at the newly renovated, members only "Oh No House" at 125 Stanton Street. Entry is restricted to those with exclusive, club-issued blazers covered in swim meet patches. To give a taste of what's in store, there will be: readings by friends impersonating celebrities who are dead (to me, like Christian Slater), a No-Limit Tel Aviv Hold'em Driedel Tournament, and DJ's playing The Kinks, The Who, The Jam, The Clash, and anything else that complements the use of uppers. If you didn't get a personal invite then I am truly sorry but feel free to file a formal grievance with anyone on the stretch of Broadway between 40th and 50th Streets from 5 to 7pm tonight. You can download your own PDF copy of Book of Wages here and I also suggest funneling scotch, sobbing, throwing objects out of genuine rage, rockin' some Dokken, and puking in your own bathtub to simulate the experience of attending. Gracias y buenas noches. December 11, 2003 #  Good conversations go to die in places like "Real Estate/Apartment Rent Discussion" which is bordered on the south by "My Neighborhood Obsession" that is around the corner from the "Should I Move to the West Coast Question" and ending in the twin cul-de-sacs of "Shameless Website Self-Promotion" and "My Mix CD Compilations." There are many more fringe areas but the aforementioned have an 80% plus share of the talk-death market in NYC. The extreme intolerance I possess for these windowless slaughter-houses is only eclipsed by my unrestrained willingness to squat in any of them, a conflicted occupancy dilemma not to be questioned or fully understood. I'll also hang-out and shoot the shit-smack in that high-turnover, wildly-fluctuating two-story walk-down "Goddamn that, or Thank God for, Gentrification." I don't really care one way or the alternate side about any of this stuff as long as some nouveau fusion restaurant doesn't have a pork-butt induced grease fire which engulfs my too-cool-across-from-a-school Lower East Side block and burns down my deal of the century rent-stabilized building along with my awesome music collection and computer for which I use to maintain this online journal, forcing me to finally re-locate to L.A. or Portland. A block away but worlds apart, I admit to taking issue with most of the word mulling minced over at Lockhart Steele's own den of death warmed over discourse but I'll expand on just the one we actually agree on: The Avalon Chrystie Place Development. Construction is well underway and a lone sign promises completion by March 2005. Artist renderings scare me now, December 2003. As the most northwestern outpost of the Lower East Side at Houston and Bowery, it represents our first line of defense from the conjoined, trilateral threat of Soho scoundrels, Semi-Semites, and Village gypsies. Our neighborhood has already exceeded quota for all. Over the years, I always thought of that huge barren lot as a kind of scorched-earth Switzerland, or maybe Dresden after we 'Murikans firebombed it to hell in the Big One. And now (like then) there's an attempt to erect a shiny monument of affluence, and Olympic-size pools if you believe the promo material, in its place among the established eclectic shops, galleries, cafes and restaurants. I wish I could speak of the "negative space benefits" the empty lot provided over the years but I can't. I never took an Urban Studies course to produce a ready-made argument and typing "negative space benefits" into Google isn't providing me with the proper line of bullshit I was hoping to place a flag in. In fact, it looks like "negative space benefits" as an architectural concept doesn't even exist for fuck's sake. But nevermind that, I JUST KNOW this construction is bad. Bad, bad, bad like the naming of streets after war heroes and musicians. (Sorry, but if you don't get this then it's too late, they already got to you.) I realize it's now impossible to challenge the Avalon with any action, imaginary or otherwise, but I honestly hope in the future that community education efforts will include posting copies of recently filed building permit applications above local bar bathroom urinals. Of course, if Avalon can attract a crowd not unlike Prague in the early '90s then I'm all for it. Just in case, I put myself on the priority waiting list to waive the application fee. December 10, 2003 #  "I've kissed mermaids, rode the El Niņo. Walked the sand with the crustaceans..." What the frozen-cum-hell happened here in NYC? I return from sunny beaches to find Mother Nature's been splooged with monster facials all over the Northeast's top, bottom, and mid-section. This blows. Mere hours separate the sand and snow wrestling each other on my sneakers to form a subtle, and wet, reminder of NAFTA's once great promise. For this reason, I present Krucoff.com's First and Last, To-Do List: Move to Mexico What follows next may or may not be a poem. It's in a gray area but I promise this is the only time anything remotely resembling one will appear here. (Unless of course, The Prodding Son of Father Gage would like to pop and freak with his mad rhymes about mag rims.) I do know this was inspired in Newark, New Jersey a couple hours ago and I figure any inspiration that Newark offers is probably poetry or at least recyclable. In any case, I'm gonna submit it to the head of the Righteous Literature Department at the MTA in hopes that it will be published on subway trains or buses. Now please cover your eyes and turn away slowly... Wave of Retardation (with apologies to The Pixies) Social-mixer hosted by Shoes with Sand and Snow. Awkward greetings: forced s(miles) and fumbled Hand shakes. I cheated on Winter, But like: Fireflies, Bad lies, Wandering eyes, I was eventually caught. Red-handed, -backed, -faced, and -necked. You name it. I started to apologize And stopped when I remembered What a whore Winter is anyway. December 4 to 9, 2003 #  Goin' to Puerto Escondido. Shit, it's only my third (or fourth?) day as Editor of "The Other Page" and it's already clear to me that the reclusive publisher of this site is a clueless ass in my pain. I asked for some office supplies and an intern; he gave me Tylenol PM, a Coors Light keychain bottle opener (gross), and a completely useless IM porn bot that talks all dirty. I swear this daily web stuff is much harder and more time-consuming than I thought it would be. Slap me silly with a sock-puppet Santa, what did I sign up for?? When I answered a polite, earnest CraigsList ad that solicited "Male companionship to assist with routine back hair removal" I had no idea it would turn into this half-assed, faux-blog writing gig! So gang, I'm taking a break - a fiver if you will. (Or sixer, technically speaking.) You heard me right, I'm blowing this freezing popsicle stand for warmer environs. I deserve, more importantly, I *need* some precious "ME" time to internalize all this performance pressure and exhale the world's craziness, along with whatever I can pick up for under 50 bucks. I'll be heavily Coronated on a beach in Southern Mexico for the next week. I tried to get any of LasagnaFarm's impressive literary troika to fill in as Guest Editor but I was rubberhosed with a unanimous "absolutely not." Worthless fags. Until next time, take it away Dr. Frank... December 3, 2003 #  New Yorker Survey. I know a thing or three about survey research (ahem, "day job") so when it comes to signing up for market research panels, I am none too shy. To be honest, this is done primarily out of boredom rather than any effort to keep abreast of developments in the field. As a New Yorker Compass Member, I receive a darling email every couple months from Carol Thomas offering such incentives as the chance to win books like Nick Hornby's High Fidelity (huh, does it come with alternative endings, bonus features, or covered in rhino-skin?) to get my input on advertising crap and product proposals so that some data jockey can make some useless cross-tabs to impress his boss with baloney stats who in turn gets an assistant to patch together a PowerPoint presentation to convince David Carey, et al. it's a great idea to charge $100 for an annual "upgraded" magazine subscription that most people currently read less than 25% of per issue on a weekly basis. (Seriously, I'm back-patting myself if I get through one item in The Talk of the Town.) The most recent survey spoke of these "premium benefits" as discounts on Cartoon Bank prints or books by New Yorker authors at Barnes & Noble which didn't exactly tar and feather my fancy but I guess there's no harm in floating the bloated concept out there. There's more to it of course but I literally zone out whenever I read the words "Cartoon B..." - see, you get the point. Anyway, most interesting is the question asking for reader input on possible names for this new upgraded subscription: Please rate each one on a scale of 1 to 5, where 5 is excellent and 1 is awful. Please select only one for each item. Shouts & Members The New Yorker All Access New Yorker InK. The New Yorker Club The New Yorker Connection The New Yorker About Town 1's across the board obviously, but "The New Yorker Club" is so cutting edge that I rate it awful only because I think it's way too far ahead of its time. Fortunately they offer an open-ended option to suggest your own name. I gave it a shot and if picked, I hope they give me a complimentary lifetime membership in: The New Yorker Bleeding Stoners (End Note: This was written in an attempt to show a certain family member that I'm not running around this city getting blind drunk all the time and I do have intellectual pursuits. Convinced now? Right, didn't think so...) December 2, 2003 #  This man, while soulless, has peered into many dark abysses...and asked them all to shave. Date Ape. The NYTimes broke significant sociological ground with an article on current dating habits and the discovery that some dolts just can't cut the cord on their college courtship philosophy. An old co-worker, deceptively referred to here as "MJ" for anonymity purposes, of mine during the Net Boom/Nut Bust was interviewed for this article. He was the subject of so many office rumors that the ribbon-cutting ceremony for his memorial wing at the water cooler had a cover charge and "guest-list only" policy to control overcrowding. Please allow me to translate some of his finer passages for you. #1 MJ, 33, describes his late 20's and early 30's as a cycle between looking for dates, planning dates, going on dates or deconstructing dates with friends. means: MJ, 36, describes life - as far back as he can remember - like a 25-cent rollercoaster ride of non-stop sexual partners. He also loves the way "cotton candy" makes his face feel sticky. #2 Every year, the fall scramble - the rush to find someone to cuddle with against the winter chill - gave way to the spring fling, and then a rinse-repeat. means: "I get laid all year long - seasons hardly make a difference. It's just as easy to convince a girl to disrobe due to summer's sweaty heat as it is to procure a warm winter blowjob under flannel sheets." He is well-versed on grooming product and prefers body oils when shagging in the shower. #3 "When you're seeing the world and civilizations that are thousands of years old - it seemed so petty to focus on 'meeting the right match,'" he said, his voice mocking the phrase. "You get a bit older, you go through this a couple of times, you start to think that life is short." means: "Traveling around the world has exponentially increased the available talent pool for my unsatiated libido. Why should I settle for some prissy, cute skank from Connecticut who wants kids and a house before turning 30 when I can still snag 16-year olds in Bangkok and barely-clothed/fully-inebriated Latinas?" he said with a voice scratchy from Lebanese hash and Finnish vodka. He barely manages to add audibly, "Commitment is for suckers." #4 Like others, MJ now feels you can't hurry love. "It's not a backlash or resenting the whole dating thing," he said. "It's just, you've gotten over it, it's no longer of the utmost importance to go on a set number of dates or be on dates or to meet some specific person. By taking off that pressure you allow yourself to just go through life, enabled to meet people." means: Women bore MJ shortly after he has sex with them. "Look, as long as I don't get AIDS or some nasty dick disease, I don't have to justify my actions to anyone." December 1, 2003 #  The Queen of Carrot Flowers. Navigating the Kiddush Wine Ocean or crossing the Great Milk/Meat Divide with munitions, mittens, and a mutton hangover is evidently child's play. For this 3-year old, speaking fluently on the Jewish Question is just another hobby, like mutilating Barbie dolls. After reading Marxist interpretations of The Wiggles "Going to Zion in a Big Red Car" and presenting her own proposal "Diaspora in the Post-Diaper Era: Daddy, I Just Went Number 3 (Diarrhea)" to the C.G. Nursery School's Thesis Committee, she offers what could be our last hope for peace. "More cake, please." "The Other Page" powered by Removable Hype. The information contained in this web site is subject to change without objection. Copyright © 2003 La Otra Página, Inc. All nights observed. |
