Saturday, September 09, 2006

Coney Island

Another marathon bike ride with the Farmboyz today. At 11am, we took the bikes onto the D train from underneath the Upper West Side's Dakota, emerging about 40 minutes later at the end of the line on Coney Island, the first visit for all three of us. We wandered around the boardwalk for awhile, marveling at an attraction called Shoot The Freak: Live Human Target, in which participants pay for the privilege of shooting paint guns at some poor schmuck running around in an alley, wearing protective gear. Announcer: "Shoot the freak! Shoot the freak! You can't come to New York City and not shoot the freak!" We did not shoot the freak. We did, however, ride the Cyclone, arguably the most famous roller coaster in the world. As always, right at the top of the first drop, I remembered that I hate roller coasters.

A mile or so past the Coney Island arcades, at the east end of the boardwalk, is Brighton Beach, aka Little Odessa, a massive community of 150,000 Russian Jews. We had lunch at a sidewalk cafe called Tatiana, where we decided the slow and inattentive service probably only heightened the authenticity of the experience. By the way, steer clear of the Eggplant Odessa, seriously. Also, Czech beer? Not too bad. After an hour of complete Russian immersion (between us we knew 5 words of Russian), we headed back up the boardwalk to the fishing pier west of Coney Island, where I got the picture at the top of this post and where the sound of Spanish and salsa from the fishermen and their radios sounded comforting and familiar, compared to Little Odessa.After the pier, we continued west for several miles along the Shore Parkway, which skirts the southern end of Brooklyn. The bike path took us right under the Verrazano-Narows Bridge, above. T'was a pity the day was so hazy, because past the Verrazano, on the Veterans Memorial Pier, we had a simultaneous view of downtown Brooklyn, downtown Manhattan, and downtown Jersey City. Peering over the cliff near the Verrazano, we noticed this rock with Keith Haring-like carvings. Farmboy C climbed out and took the pic. Anybody know if this could be a Haring?Leaving the bike path, we headed into Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, riding through its Muslim neighborhood, where many of the women on the street were doing their shopping in their hijabs. There we took the bikes onto the R train, where a mariachi band serenaded our ride back to Manhattan. I asked them if they knew "El Culo No Se Toca", but instead we got that Frito Bandito song. We exited the train at Carnegie Hall, where a street fair was just rolling up their wares. Declining to accept the offer of a free Koran from the young man hyping IslamABC.com, we headed into Central Park, weaving between the heavy hansom and pedicab traffic. Just before the Farmboyz and I split for our respective sides of the park, we came across a large group of Argentines, doing the tango for a couple hundred delighted tourists. Just another multi-culti day in the city.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Wired On Blogging

Creating your own blog is about as easy as creating your own urine, and you're about as likely to find someone else interested in it. - The Ultimate Blog Post (via Wired.com)

Clearly, this guy has never been to Folsom Street Fair.

(HT - SF Bootdog)

Deja Vu Vu Vu

Riding the subway this morning, grooving to some great new music, I had the weirdest feeling of deja vu. I had the weirdest feeling of deja vu. Deja vu. Yeah, like that. And then it hit me. For the last three years, my favorite albums of the year have all been late summer/early fall releases. There's a weirdly comfortable and familiar feeling of being crazy about a new record while enjoying newly cool weather. And even more deja vu-y, all three albums are by the same guys.

In 2004, it was Rich Morel's Lucky Strike.
In 2005, it was Bob Mould's Body Of Song.
In 2006, it is Mould & Morel's Blowoff.

The week I picked up Lucky Strike in 2004, I played it incessantly, including on the train down to DC and in my hotel room, trying to calm my nerves before going onstage to read my work for the first time, at Bob's Blogjam. I had to follow Andrew Sullivan! Now I always play it at home on nights when I'm going to be onstage somewhere. It's my thing.

I just got my copy of Blowoff yesterday. It's been available on iTunes for about week, but I wanted the physical CD. I'm old skool like dat. Plus, I wanted all the great Pat Garsys artwork. The album rocks as much as the advance download teased. Billboard Magazine says, "the rugged beats and rhythms pulsate with a cocksure swagger." Definitely. I highly recommend. Best album of 2006. (And that's in a year in which a Pet Shop Boys album came out, which for me, is near blasphemy.)

I'll be in San Francisco in a couple of weeks for the Folsom Street Fair, where Blowoff is headlining the Main Stage at 5pm. Look for me down front, squealing like a Tiger Beat groupie.

Urban Living: 1-2-3

A single terrorist nuke, more likely in the 5- to 10-kiloton range (Hiroshima was 12 kilotons), will kill tens or hundreds of thousands of people in any big city but spare the rest. In New York, that will leave about 7.5 million of us to sort through the carnage.

- How To Survive A Nuclear Bomb (via Slate.com)

1. Having potassium iodide tablets on hand will prevent your thyroid from soaking up radiation and giving you cancer, the most common complication of a nuclear detonation (for those that aren't incinerated.) Get tablets here.

2. Preparing your home by making sure you have at least a week's worth of food and water on hand is critical. You must also find a way to properly shield yourself from fallout for at least two days. Basements are always best. After two days, radiation levels will have fallen to 1/100th of the initial level, which is still highly sucky, but survivable. For a guide to preparing your home for a nuclear emergency, go here.

3. If you are in a subway or tall building that is attacked by non-nuclear means, your best defense is a face mask and a flashlight. For a powerful LED key-chain flashlight, go here. For a window escape from a tall building, you might consider the evacuchute, which is exactly what it sounds like.

Have a nice weekend.

Hips Don't Lie

On the same day that I found 100 people surfing in NYC, I cut through Central Park on the way home from dropping off the Farmboyz, to find about 100 people hula-hooping by the Bethesda Fountain. This town is cuh-ray-zee!

Gotham City Surfing

Last year the Parks Department declared this stretch of Rockaway Beach, Queens, to be NYC's official surfing-only beach. Previous to 2005, surfing was a ticketable offense. According to the city's site, you should carry your surfboard onto the A train, then ride it to the 90th Street stop in Rockaway. The surfing beach is between 87th and 91st Street. I've never seen a surfboard on the subway, has anybody else? I saw about 100 surfers last Sunday, maybe if you enlarge the top photo you can see them bobbing out there.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Advocate Reader Survey


HomoQuotable - Oscar Wilde

"When I think of all the harm the Bible has done, I despair of ever writing anything to equal it." - Oscar Wilde.

Maybe - The Three Degrees

In 1957, producer Richard Barrett steered The Chantels, a Bronx-born group of five teenage girls into the national top 20 with Maybe, a first for an all-black girl group. Then 13 years later, he gave the same song to his latest girl group production, Philadelphia's The Three Degrees, who were on the cusp of becoming globally famous as the voice of the Philly Soul/Disco sound.

And that, gentle readers, is where things became of interest to The Gays, as the Three Degree's version of Maybe became an absolute drag standard, even though Maybe's very long spoken introduction sorely tested the lip-syncing skills of queens everywhere. I can remember queen after queen stumbling through that intro as audience members catcalled "Learn the words, girl!". (Yes, in the south, you see a LOT of drag shows, whether you want to or not.)

But I also quite fondly remember Casa de Parliamente's Lori Del Mar's triumphant performances of Maybe, which always ended with her pulling some schmuck out of the audience for some enthusiastic dry-humping during Maybe's shrieking climax. Never failed to bring the house down. Give Maybe a few listens and see if you aren't tempted to do head-swivel your way through the ending.

Maybe does not appear on any of the half-dozen or so Three Degrees greatest hits packages that have been released in the last decade, it would be out of place among their Philly soul/disco classics such as TSOP and Love Is The Message anyway, but you can find it on an import compilation called The Roulette Years. With more cast changes than Destiny's Child could shake a stick at, a total of 11 women have been members of the Three Degrees, who despite that Supremesian volume of turnover, continue to perform today.

Download: Maybe - The Three Degrees 3:36
Roulette Records 1970
Billboard #4 R&B.

UPDATE: Thanks to BJ (NSFW), I now have the much longer, funnier version!

Download: Maybe - The Three Degrees 5:42
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Gleasonism


Open Thread Thursday

The house is burning down. What's the one (nonliving) thing that you save?
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Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Backfired

NYC Eagle, Sunday 11pm

I'm on the roofdeck of the Eagle, as I am on most Sunday evenings. The holiday weekend has brought out a huge crowd of regulars and tourists and I am penned into a corner of the deck, surrounded by friends and one very horny and persistent young cub.

The cub has been touching me lightly as he speaks to me, taking increasing liberties as our conversation progresses. I haven't recoiled from his touches or pushed him away, but I am waiting to find an opportunity to gently let him know that I am far too old for him. The truth, of course, is that he is far too young for me, but semantics do not transmit well over draft beer and David Morales remixes.

The cub slides his hand into my back pocket when a handsome young Latin man arrives to stand next to me. Young men display their territorialness so brazenly, it always amuses me. The Latin kid makes no acknowledgement, but he does step away almost immediately.

The cub says, "Was that a friend of yours?"

I say, "No, I don't really know very many young guys." That's not entirely true, but it finally opens the subject.

The cub shrugs. "That's cool."

I count in my head..."One...two..."

"So- how old ARE you?"

And I lie to the cub. I brazenly, baldfacedly lie. But I lie UP. I add ten years to my age, as I often do in these situations. First, it's funny to watch the wide-eyed look of disbelief and to hear the resultant, "Man! 57? Really? You look amazing!" But also, this Jedi mind trick usually pushes me out of the do-able age range in the kid's mind, even after he learns the truth.

"I'll be 57 in October," I say. And I wait.

The cub looks at me, then nods solemnly. "Right on."

Right on? RIGHT ON? That's all I get? Right motherfucking on? Where's my "No fucking WAY, dude!"? Where's my "You are the hottest 57 year old EVER!"?

I feel slightly dizzy but the cub doesn't seem to notice my dismay. He lights a cigarette and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I take a piss and then a long look at myself in the bathroom mirror. And then I go downstairs and order a shot. And then another one.

"Taxi!"
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Morning View - Time Warner Center

Like most, I'm not too crazy about the Time Warner Center, but I am rather pleased with this photo, taken Sunday morning around 1030am.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

A Certain Ratio

My typically serene and genial office environment ripped at the seams on Friday over a bitter disagreement that forced our erudite staffers into two opposing camps. Curse words were uttered. Feelings were hurt. Disparaging comments about class and sophistication were made.

The crisis: What is the correct proportion of peanut butter to jelly in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?

Cultural Imperialists Camp: "Every kid in America knows the proper ratio is 50-50 and learning how to make that perfectly balanced PB&J is the first food lesson an American kid gets. Who cares how those foreign Godless communists do it?"

Axis Of Evil Camp: "Everybody loves peanut butter but most people merely tolerate the presence of his sticky slimy sister. Therefore, the perfect PB&J has two to three times more peanut butter than jelly. And somebody told us that jelly has been outsourced to Bangolore, where it's made by children working under inhumane conditions. Think of the children!"

After an afternoon of stoney stares and unnecessarily loud stapling, Editor Mike sought arbitration from an expert, the manager of the peanut butter and jelly restaurant in the West Village, who, in typical manager fashion, immediately referred Mike to his superiors at Peanut Butter & Jelly World Headquarters in Bangalore. And in typical world headquarters fashion, Mike was called today by their positively perky publicist, Jennifer, who left the following message:

"Hi Mike, I've just gone and asked him, and according to the president and founder of Peanut Butter & Co., well... of course, people love more peanut butter than jelly. I hope this helps settle things in your office."

Mike forwarded the voice mail around the office and a chorus of "told you so's" ensued, followed by some totally uncalled for instant messaging. An uneasy quiet exists at present.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Happy Labor Day

If there is any greater joy than spending a day at the beach wearing your best wig, I'd like to know what it is.

Morning View - Central Park West

At 72nd Street and Central Park West, you enter Central Park in the shadow of the ill-famed Dakota. The two towers on the right are the San Remo, a co-op apartment building that famously denied an apartment to Madonna in 1985, during her stint as a Playboy/Penthouse pinup.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Rock Rock Rockaway Beach

Nearly done with a grueling but fantastic 7 hour bike ride with the Farmboyz, we were halfway across the Gil Hodges Bridge, which connects the Rockaways in Queens to Marine Park in Brooklyn, when Farmboy C took this pic of me looking back towards Rockaway Beach, with Coney Island over my right shoulder. Living in the concrete canyons of Manhattan, it's easy to forget that New York City has miles and miles of gorgeous oceanfront.

Chewing out a rhythm on my bubble gum
The sun is out and I want some
It's not hard, not far to reach
We can hitch a ride to Rockaway Beach
- Rockaway Beach - The Ramones, 1977
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