The Day Job, Part XXIV

I will now add podcast producer to the list of things I do at the Y. While I've posted almost 100 "podcasts" since I've been here, they've all been clips of our public events pulled from the soundboard. But now we've started a new "pre-appearance" interview series called "Tell Me Why" with host Julian Fleisher (pictured here with Ana Gasteyer, not the bust of Dylan Thomas) that we record with a laptop, a pair of rock-n-roll mics and one of these things. So when I say "producer" here, I mean I'm actually wearing the headphones and pretending to monitor sound levels while Julian conducts the interview. I've already mastered the sideways wiggling thumb signs.

Julian is a great personality and noted jazz singer; he used to have a nightclub act with Martha Plimpton among other names-you-might-know collaborations. Other facts you might want to know include: 1) His dad is famed pianist Leon Fleisher. 2) A few years ago his mother found my blog and emailed me because she grew up with my uncle and dad in Baltimore - and of course, I only got around to meeting Julian when he recently pitched this project to the Y. 3) In that first meeting I find out he knows Choire Sicha and lives across the street from him. 4) New York is mostly gay and Jewish.

The first interview is with Bill Charlap, jazz pianist who is featured on David Remnick's 100 Essential Jazz albums list.

Men's Recovery Project - Emergency Record

(Back Cover)

Side 1: Abort / Goats in the Field / Ye pt. 1
Side 2: Ye pt. 2 / Good Friday, 2033 AD

Notes: The explanation ranks with the best of them. How Babies Are Made, Why War, Newton's Principia, Bell Bottoms, etc. If you're in L.A. this week, save the date.

Isn't He A Bit Like You And Me?

Ok ... now I hate him. Seriously, at no point have I had a dog in this fight, but actually showing sympathy (even the false, condescending kind) for the comment drones is where I draw the line.

Oddly enough, for the time in memory I'm actually kinda of curious to read his book. Not curious enough to buy it, but if I had a Kindle who knows what I'd be capable of?

E.V.E. Project Update

The E.V.E. (Earthly View of Eden) Project is a work-in-progress art work. It will be a life size female human being sewn together from animal parts. Estimated completion date September 2008.

Toby Young Responds To Our EmailsEven Though He's Famous Now

We also found a photograph of Toby hanging out with
Gillian Anderson on the red carpet in Cannes,
but couldn't figure out how to upload it onto blogger.

Everyone got fired from YM's Tumblr today, so now's as good a time as any to trot out our recent interview with fellow firee the Right Honorable Tobias Young. After we were the first to break the news of the trailer to How To Lose Friends, we reached out to Toby to let him know that we had done him the honor of a YM mention. We needn't have bothered, as he had apparently already caught wind of our post via the google alert machine. Make of that what you will. In any event, Toby, good sport that he is, eventually agreed to the submit to YM's line o' questioning about the whole media thing and acquitted himself most admirably. Let's watch:

YM: You're back from Cannes, where your movie screened to strong reviews and you were generally treated like a bona fide celebrity. [N.B. This was back in May; Toby didn't get back to us until yesterday.] You getting used to the idea of being on the other side of the proverbial velvet rope?

TY: Certainly am. I wondered how long it would take a lifelong critic of celebrity to be seduced by the trappings of fame. The answer is about 30 seconds.

YM: You didn't write the screenplay for the film--I read somewhere you actually managed to get fired from that role. What was your involvement creatively (other than having written the source material)?

TY: I was originally hired to write the screenplay, but the producers fired me as soon as they read my 33-page treatment. They kept me in the loop, though. Each time Peter Straughan -- the writer they hired -- wrote a draft, they'd send it to me and I'd make reams and reams of notes. Sometimes Peter paid attention to them, sometimes he ignored them. Occasionally, I'd cross out his gags and insert my own and some of those made it into the final script. I also wrote a couple of Jeff Bridges's speeches and it's great to sit in a movie theatre and watch an actor of that calibre delivering lines you've written.

YM: Do you think the New York media scene has changed since you moved back to London? Do you think people are still as beholden to Carter and the other media titans of the 90's (Brown, Weinstein, etc.) as they used to be? (You can probably tell what we think the answer is.)

TY: The titans of the New York print media certainly aren't as powerful now as they were in the 90s, but nor are they as obsolescent as people thought they would be at the height of the dotcom boom. The problem is, the Internet doesn't stay in one place for long enough for a New Media cadre to emerge that's capable of shunting the Browns and the Carters out of the spotlight.

YM: You follow the New York blog scene at all? Any bloggers you particularly enjoy/loathe/wish you could be more like?

TY: There are a number of bloggers in my daily trawl -- Jim Wolcott, Nikki Finke, Ken Levine -- but I've never thought of them as being located in any one geographical area. That's a bit Old Media, isn't it?

YM: Do you think Gawker has changed New York? If so, for better or worse?

TY: It has turned New York into what the philosopher Jeremy Bentham called a Panopticon -- a type of prison in which all the prisoners are capable of being observed 24/7.

YM: Who's more powerful: Graydon Carter or Nick Denton? No equivocating.

TY: Who's Nick Denton?

YM: Can we expect to see any puff pieces about you in the October issue of Vanity Fair in time for the US release of the movie (assuming Carter doesn't read this interview)?

TY: That's about as likely as Graydon Carter running a nude photo of himself to accompany his Editor's Letter.

To 99, with love

Remeber, this is cooler because it is direct from the source, not some simulcast.

11:05 PM: Not a shocker, In the Heights wins. Time to party-party! Kindly fuck off! And the economy going down, by the way: if musicals don't stay as progressive as In the Heights or Passing Strange, it's fucked [look, I couldn't parse it either; maybe the yayo finally showed -- 99]. Take note. Also, the friend I took with me noted: "It seems like the underdog is put on a pedestal here." Before he can contextualize it: no shit, Sherlock. Welcome to Broadway. The end.

10:58 PM: Almost done. LuPone wins, and I make it out of here with my life. Gives a great speech, and is as blatantly crazy as anyone here. I like her, now. Rent gets huge applause but so clearly a product of its time. After the show, it's the after party [don't forget to piss in a tub -- 99]!

10:47 PM: Oh, Liza. You crazy gal.

10:40 PM: Xanadu just went, it looks like the frutiest shit ever. She rides off on a Pegasus?! I have to cave in sometime, I guess. South Pacific winning is a big deal, because it comes from a non-profit, and that pisses off commercial producers, because of the government endowment (Lincoln Center), and they need money to live -- money that can be won via a Tony pickup in ticket wraps. Actually have to say: this year's show has gone really well, really fast. The addition of non-nominated shows to perform is smart, which shows you how slow Broadway is to pick up on a good idea sometimes.

10:34 PM: Lakers 55, Celtics 52, halftime (Bryant, 15 pts first quarter; donut, second). David Stern is killing a goat under Staples Center as we type).

10:31 PM: August wins best play [um, so what awards are left; don't tell me Best Musical comes after Best Play -- 99], Letts says something that gets huge applause: these producers brought a play with stage actors into town (which is a piss off to lame, celeb-laden productions, like the upcoming revival of All My Sons with Katie Fucking Holmes). Harry potter gets huge applause. Sunday in the Park with George was actually kind of amazing: will never sell to tourists -- again, will it? You tell me. But it was really, really good, and I'm not a Sondheim devotee like the rest of these fuckers. Anyway: score please?

10:09 PM: UPSET! Mark Rylance beats out Patrick Stewart, Larry Fishbourne, etc, gives the weirdest acceptance speech I've ever heard in my life. Spectacular -- a few people are laughing, no one else has any idea what's going on. Lots of looks around. Deanna wins for August, which is great, but if you've seen the show, you know Amy Morton works harder for a bigger payout. Sad. Isn't Dunagan leaving the show soon anyway? In regards to Rylance: Those other guys are no doubt pissed, certainly the producers of Thurgood, who just extended. In the Heights puts in a solid performance, but viewers at home, you tell me, is that going to sell tickets? [I checked with both of them; in a word, no -- 99]

9:52 PM: August: Osage County picks up a third deserved win, nobody disagrees, though word on the street is that the show has tapered off since original cast members have left. One more hour left? I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, I want a motherfuckin' cig. Also, someone else in the building, someone prominent, on the business side -- texted me earlier to see if I was "partying-partying", and since my phone's dead, the answer is no (but if you DO come across some blow, please email help@youngmanhattanite.com. We will get back to you. [Actually, this is incorrect -- if you do, contact me directly -- 99])

9:34 PM: Someone mistook my iPhone and told me to put away my flask. Little Mermaid wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be -- take a niece, or something -- but Young Frankenstein was godawful. As expected.

9:23 PM: New phone, thank you roommate. Kristen Chenoweth: also, so hot, and tiny, and very Christian [plus: glittery! -- 99]. Wonder how she ever dated a dirtbag like Sorkin for so long [maybe she really wanted to be ridiculed on a failed television show? -- 99] ? A note of sincerity: Laura Benati accepting her award reminds me that there are people that really dream of winning Tony's -- strange, right? And they work fucking hard for years for it. Good for Benati. On the reals.

9:19 PM: Lakers 18, Celtics 5, 6:35 remaining, first quarter. Dick Bavetta, working his mojo (this is not Dana, BTW).

9:06 PM: Kelli O'Hara is so hot [We'll have to take your word for it -- 99]. She reminds me of the one spectacular looking girl in high school who did theatre and because you wanted to date her, you had to go get stoned and sit through your the fucking worst production of Into the Woods ever produced, and them you found out she was a Seventh Day Adventist and she'd never give it up. Anyone? I'm still not seeing South Pacific. Cornball ass shit.

9:00 PM: Lin Manuel-Miranda just free-flowed his acceptance speech. Awesome. Also: you can't buy that kind of advertising. NOW I want to see In The Heights.

8:53 PM: Julie Chen's presenting an award, introduced as "from the Early Show and Big Brother." Classy.

8:50 PM: Gypsy went well, I'm gayer for saying that. Boys, what's the Game 5 score? I just found out people actually paid to be on the third mezzanine.

8:32 PM: Battery's about to die [dude, did you just find out today you were going? 99], switching to a new phone soon. Ironic that Ambien is a sponsor - why not Xanax? Half the people here are on it.

8:15 PM: In The Heights wins first award, third mezzanine blows up. Wins second award, same. Stew wins one: "We did the shit, right?!" and the third mezzanine goes quiet. Nobody's rooting for that show, despite Stew being the most likable nominee this year. A dumb French sex farce that closed after 20-something performances in its original staging just beat Shakespeare, Pinter, and the play that inspired Cruel Intentions for Best Revival. Fuck that. Julie White is massively charismatic: we have to throw a nice one somewhere. Show started with The Lion King, which everyone in this business hates, but I love. Whoopi just incorrectly identified the fact that Thurgood wasn't the only black SCOTUS justice.

6:43 PM: I haven't seen this many old Jews in one place since the last time I went to Yom Kippur services. And I'm still on line to get in.

Prelude: Not Live Blogging the Tony's

Not Live Blogging the Tony's

A friend of YM has the (mis?) fortune of landing front and center at the year's Tony Awards. Not having a television, and seeming gay only to the women I want to nail, I don't have much to add. Even though I've seen a good two dozen productions this year, it's the Tony's, which make the Grammy's look like a paragon of critical insight. In other words, there will be no Allison Pill in the offing. Also, even though I offered copious amounts of the monkey paw to the YM crew, no one took up my offer of a not live blogging the Tony's party. This will be a solo, surly affair, punctuated by observations that mean next to nothing to most our readership. In other words, standard operating procedure. Oh, and Keith Gessen is still a dick. First dispatch below:

First thing's first, note that everyone I know who works in this business is far more excited for this shit than I am, because let's call a room full of queens a spade (ouch) [The youth of today, they understand how we play it -- 99]: it's pomp, circumstance, and a marketing tool. For the first time this year, shows that aren't even nominated are taking the stage, and people are shitting a brick over it. It costs about $250,000 to bring a show on stage at the Tony's, and if you have a new musical (like the gawdawful CRY-BABY or XANADU), that's a healthy chunk of coin, but of course, you get the national exposure you want [Cry-Baby, covering all its bases, also went with over-urinal advertising at Jake' Saloon on 23rd where I spent the afternoon drinking -- 99] to sell the poor-man's Starlight Express to the only marginally homophobic denizens of neighboring states and Californians.

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My friend who I generally fucked out of a ticket ended up seeing the rehearsal, which will no doubt be better (also: shorter) than the actual show. It sounds like Whoopi's gonna pull through as much as she can (take for what you will), but that the sound design is so poor the performers will be able to hear me in the third mezz talking shit better than they can the orchestra, which should be interesting. Related: Patti LuPone had some kind of Ryan Adams-esque freakout about the air-conditioning or the sound or something, so bitchy they cut off her mic in the middle of her number interrupting "STOP THE SONG, just STOP IT" rant that started to scare everyone. God willing, she'll do that during the show. Thing baout Patti LuPone is that Radio City will burn down via a bunch of torch-wielding theatre freaks if she doesn't win for GYPSY tonight, but the other thing about Mama Rose is that her fame barely extends to anybody outside of this evening's Radio City crowd. So what gives her the right to this horseshit diva nonsense towards techies trying to make it through the show without immolating themselves?

Exactly. That's Broadway, folks: a tiny industry of catty freaks, musicals, and occasionally, a decent straight play, all of which inspire an inordinate amount of awe in high school drama dorks now rife with silly power (marginalized out of context) and the starfucking richies who'll throw away a quarter of a million just to take a picture next to Rosie O'Donnell. Now and again they'll get lucky and make money, and then pat themselves on the back with the vapid belief they can smell talent. Maybe there'll be an exception (this year's PASSING STRANGE), but those usually fail. This, folks, is the Great White Way.

I'd make another joke about being cocksure, but I've got so many gaybaiters ready, we might not want to post it. Onward, Sparklenight 2008. Let's make William Goldman proud: he didn't endure this shit for nothing.

In Time for Father's Day

Here's a little peek at the E.V.E. Project, the life size female human being that I'm currently sewing together. It should be complete around September.




If you'd like to see this head closer and in more detail and try your own hand at being Dr. Frankenstein, I'm hosting a free, public "arts and crafts table" of dead rabbit, chicken, and rooster tonight. Free latex gloves and scalpels as always.

S.W.R.

A few posts ago 99 took some liberty with our eyes and forced the supposedly curious among us to scroll through every fourth artist in his music collection. While it was a noble attempt at "memefucking", or being fucked by a meme - I'm not sure which is which, but if someone feels free to make that the takeaway* of this, go ahead - I only really took note of one thing: Atmosphere. It was the ninth or tenth artist down on the list.

We'll get to him in a second. But the first thing to note about Atmosphere is that he's Caucasian-appearing, but fuck that: he's somewhat white (actually: half-white), which would quasi-technically (but most definitely categorically) lump him in with other "white rappers." And here I was going to try to listicle white rappers, but if there's one thing you learn about them when you're making a list, it's that most of them are completely different from one another (there's no definable styles), most of them only rise to fame by being notorious, and as their notoriety fades, so does their career. Get ready for a paragraph of the worst music ever referenced in one place on this site:

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Vanilla Ice had one single. So did House of Pain. Everlast tried to have a solo career but had to do the nu-rap/nu-folk thing to do it, and people were so surprised by that alone, he actually made some money in the late 90's before fading into obscurity yet again. The Insane Clown Posse (shudder) could only shock so many mothers before they turned into a live stage dog-and-pony Jerky Boys with more brain-drain power. There was that Jewish guy, Remedy, who was briefly affiliated with the Wu-Tang Clan, and was notable for referencing the Holocaust in his music (lesson: never underestimate the Wu's tendency towards diversity in anything). There was White Dawg, known only for papering The Source and XXL with ads of music nobody in their right mind would listen to (but apparently, some still do. A Richard Marx sample? Really?). F-r-e-d D-u-r-s-t, and we say no more. MC Serch did The White Rapper Show on VH1, which set everybody on this planet back about twelve years. Bubba Sparxx was lucky enough to be picked up by Timbaland, only to be left to rot after his shit didn't take off (a white farmboy who raps about being ugly? Buy!). Kid Rock is barely holding on by turning his hip-hop tribute act into something that insults both fans of hip hop and country music, which makes him the poor man's (or the USO's) David Allen Coe (with his variation on the n-word gleaning only a slightly different context). MC Paul Barman named his much-hyped record Cockmobster, and that was easily the best part of it. Paul Wall probably sold more GRILLS than albums. I know there are those who say they like Sage Francis, but I don't know anybody who actually listens to him besides angry Evergreen students who still read Adbusters. Brian Austin Greene once tried to rap, and he couldn't even get booked at the Peach Pit. Kevin Federline was a joke, but I think someone, somewhere played his single just to hear it. The Streets is great, but how many times have you actually listened to that first album? Aesop Rock used to fall out of this grouping, but (A) he's Albino - either him or Murs or Brother Ali, but does it matter? - which is post-white and (B) ever since he rapped with John Darnielle, he might as well be signed to a McSweeney's/Def Jam imprint. And then there's Eminem: someone who took their enormous, street-born talent, saw where the money was, and ran that way - if it's white kids buying all the rap music, why not just openly pander to them? It's an old trick, and it's proven to work, so we soon find ourselves adding him to that Oscar list of winners now that don't belong, somewhere between Mira Sorvino and Mel Gibson. Only the Beastie Boys escape clean, and even they've mentioned still feeling terrible about the "whiffle ball bat" line in "Paul Revere."

At the end of the day, most of these guys are known simply for being white, and (with common exception to the Beastie Boys) their embrace of any aspect of hip hop culture is at best, suburban and and worst, full-out, totally offensive exploitation under the guise of reverent adoption, and I'm a white guy, too.

Which brings us back to 99's every-fourth and Atmosphere, which is actually two guys: Sean Daley (Slug) who does vocals, and Anthony Davis (Ant), his DJ/producer. And you're probably wondering what the hell makes these two (kinda) white guys - from Minnesota, no less - any different than anyone on the above list.

For one thing, they've been hacking away at it since 1993, and they just made their best album. For another, there's an ambition of art present that's lacking in any of the above: it's not overly political, but it's not unaware of the both the bling-conscious nature of populist rap and the contrived coffee-shop-intellectualism of "indie hip hop", and it knowingly walks that fine line. Their latest album, When God Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold, is the perfect example of what they're doing that's different: songs about the down-and-out, blue collar frustration and nihilism that's spreading with the massive separation of wealth taking our country by the half-second. These aren't songs about not being able to pay the bills so much as they're about the enormous expectations people place on themselves, or the enormous contextual letdowns they allow themselves to become: the casual coke user, the single pregnant mother going vegetarian for the baby (the most she can do), the music industry old-timer who was supposed to be the next best thing, but wasn't, and feels the need to expound upon this whenever someone lends him an open ear.

That last one strikes a big, loud chord, because, really, there're few things worse than the dinosaur trying to convince a first-fighter's hunger that things will never be as good as they once had it. Sound familiar, writers? Maybe, from a self-aware 36 year-old white rapper, this sounds like total bullshit; I, for one, am willing to buy it.

And for the first time ever, Atmosphere's loud, brash, yell-'em-down delivery is changed out over the first song and a half of Lemons in exchange for a small, lullaby-level whisper and piano-blues riff crooning. And yes: sometimes, the metaphors (like on "Puppets") are a little heavy-handed, but he isn't Jonathan Fucking Lethem. He's a rapper, and he makes it work. You'll realize this when, five minutes, 21 seconds after the albums begins, that first loud, hard beat drops with the first familiar harsh, loud line - I think it's great how you used to be great.. - and it presents itself in the form of bitter relief: somebody, somewhere, after years of trying, finally may have gotten it right.

Atmosphere, Like The Rest Of Us

Atmosphere, Puppets

*No, actually, the real takeaway of all of this is that when I told 99 I was getting this post ready, his reaction was something like "Atmosphere's white? Huh." So maybe he's not a racist after all.

I Was Told There'd Be Bukkake

Unbelievable. My bathroom ceiling expels its monthly load on a now suspecting floor. IT'S WORTH WRITING ABOUT. Gessen/Crosley, come clean this crap up!

Previously: Fuck and Shit

I was told there'd be hype.

In New York, they saved.

They saved on orange juice, sliced bread, they saved on coffee. On movies, magazines, museum admission (on Friday nights). Train fare, subway fare, their apartment out in Queens. It was a principle, of sorts, and they stuck to it. Mark and Sasha lived on the 7 train that year and when they got out, out in Queens, Mark would follow Sasha like a little boy as she checked the prices at the Korean grocers, and cross-checked them, so they could save on fruits and vegetables and little Korean treats. They saved on clothes.

...and when there was no meat, we ate fowl and when there was no fowl, we ate crawdad and when there was no crawdad to be found, we ate sand.

This post has sat fallow in "drafts" forever. At least a month. I've been hoping that he would go away. He won't go away.
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It started out with this excerpt, sent to me by a friend, with the commentary: If you have a SINGLE story, essay, article, poem, etc., sitting in a drawer, pull it out and submit it somewhere. Because this is fucking ridiculous. So I read it and suddenly I imagined him as an inspirational figure. I replied:

I would be slicing my wrists open right now if I weren't laughing at the image of us literally pulling crumpled pages of writing out of desk drawers, glancing up at a Russian icon-style portrait of KG, saying "Fuck it," and shoving it in an envelope.

The reply:

If that little fucker Keith Gessen finished a novel, any of us can. The wonders of Saint Keith and His Miracles. Let the testifying begin . . .

Those baleful eyes. That Romantic mouth, concealing his three rows of teeth. That college-writing-prof air, emphasized by his fashion choices and casual misogyny. You can't help but be mesmerized by the Gessen.

I asked myself, WWKGD? And so, ignoring my real work, I noodled around in Illustrator. (Can you tell I don't do this for a living?) And I uploaded the result, above. But it stayed in "drafts."

But then came this. Earnest! So earnest that he plays football, eschewing the hipster dodgeball conceit. Everything is said in earnestness. Except when it's said defensively. Yes, it's a tragedy that the everyday lives of young urban adults are no longer considered appropriate subjects for ambitious novels. Beg your pardon? What percentage of books published now are set in New York? It's gotta be at least 40% or I will eat my hat. Yet I resisted the urge to publish the post.

Then I (indirectly) found this article via a comment at Emily Gould's blog: "American life, at least the past 10 years, has pretty much allowed people to do what they wanted to do." Yep, a near-universal experience. Not that he can help that perspective, given his pedigree.

Yet still, this post sat in the drafts. And I told myself to forget about it. (A half-hearted attempt to quell my anger issues.) Because he is but one of the dozens of imminently forgettable young white male novelists whose books garner handsome advances but fail to deliver.

But then there was this, just today: "Is it more stigmatized to masturbate to internet porn or to be so vain as to Google your own name?" he asked, adding that he hadn't done either in the last couple of days. Sigh. Sometimes a little penis can be a dangerous thing.

You might argue that this is not a legitimate critique and I am being needlessly cruel and petty. I reject that criticism. I don't want to have an intellectual debate about a man who agrees to sit on a panel, mentions the wrongness of the panel topic, and then proceeds to talk at length about the topic. I want to punch him in his dazzling teeth. You win again, Gessen! I'm trotting this out of "drafts."

Shut up, sad little literary young man. Please go away.

Jay Reatard, Fading All Away

Kiss My Ass And Maybe You'll Go Free

This is apropos of absolutely nothing, but I had a funny thought today. Remember when the sitting Vice President of the United States shot a 70-year-old man in the face with a shotgun? God, that was fucking hilarious.

Did anything ever happen with that, by the way?

Lee Michaels - Murder In My Heart For The Judge

I use hatred to express fear.

There's been talk about the Mudhoney reunion tour. (Anyone see them at the Highline on Saturday? Did they still serve wine in stemware?) I myself am not a fan. Never fully embraced the grunge movement, though I was okay with the aesthetic, favoring as I did flannel shirts and cardigans and band tees and baggy jeans as a teenager. It was more a Flyin' the Flannel sort of thing. (When I went off to college, I abandoned the flannels. A few years ago I discovered my dad incorporated them into his wardrobe.) I'm pretty sure I was never without eight layers of clothing.

I spent a lot of time at all-ages shows at a local community center. Their fashion: Champion sweatshirts, skate shoes, black Xs on their hands, and those stupid Krishna beads. Because everyone loved Shelter. (Except me. Fuck that noise. There was a rumor at the time that Ray Cappo paid underage girls to watch him jerk off. I'm amazed they didn't do it for free, considering underage boys were willing to pay $5 for the privilege of seeing him, Porcell, et al, do it onstage.)

But I went to see them anyhow. And 108, Burn, Bold, Inside Out...everything on the Revelation Records roster. And a bunch of stoopit NYHC bands. Because that's what you did when you lived in a town of 2,000 people and one stoplight.

Of course, there was also the Albany scene (Wolf Pack was before my time). It wasn't all that bad, really, though there were the bands from Troy that were a little too metally for me. And all these bands had a pretty wide testosterone streak. (But my favorite local band, All Fall Down, were cool and not scary dudes. The first time I ever ate acid was at the lead singer's apartment. Ah, memories.)

And then there were the awesome times when a band might come from outside of the Mid-Atlantic region. The time I remember best was when 411 played. 411!* Not only did they have the SxE cred, but they also had legendary skateboarder Mario Rubalcaba on drums. Oh, it was like Christmas for the local boys.

They had just released "This Isn't Me," this scathing diatribe, loud fast guitars, shouted choruses, and lyrics about blind patriotism, homophobia, and--naturally--people who aren't true to themselves. And the boys were climbing over each other to sing along to the chorus of "Those Homophobic." Even though most of them were homophobes. And after they finished their set, and we all stood around outside fawning over Dan O'Mahony, he turned to me and said, "So what exactly do you guys do for fun around here?"

"You're looking at it," I said.

411, Destroy the Dream

*Dan O'Mahony (No For An Answer, Speak 714, Carry Nation, John Henry Holiday) on vocals, Mario Rubalcaba (Rocket From The Crypt, Drive Like Jehu, Hot Snakes) on drums, Kevin Murphy on guitar (Farside), Josh Stanton (Farside) on bass. (Look at the 411 Family Tree. An embarrassment of riches!)

While the bankers and the lawyers drive our country to the wall.

There are two important takeaways from the Waco Brothers show at the Highline Ballroom this week: one, Tracey Dear can sell a holocaust joke better than David Cross [Or David Duke -Dana]. And two, it turns out I'm not racist after all: I'm just an idiot. [Not even! Just a drunk. -Dana]

The run up: after the tremendous successes of the Creativity Now conference (read: cheap material gold mine), we hatched an elaborate plan involving recruiting young, eager suckers, rehashing old ideas, and finding out more about Curt's 'interesting' manhood.

Though it's Internet Week, which I will ask someone about in a drunk and confrontational state before Sunday, and then interrupt even a cogent answer with unjustified bellicosity -- and I've already blown off the Thrillist party (sorry Curt!) -- it was important we swing for the fences and do something about our anemic music blog rank.

So Team YM went to the Waco Brothers show at the Highline Ballroom on Tuesday. Rhodia notebooks were left at home, but not that much drink was consumed (out of real wine glasses; remember that for the upcoming F Yeah Tour show), so all near quotes are verified. [How does the Highline Ballroom stay in business, incidentally? This is the second show I've attended there and both were fairly sparsely attended. -Dana]

Walking up, I had one of those "hey, that guy looks like... everyone I know" moments. Which means we marched right by without a glimmer of acknowledgment. Upstairs, later, I theorized it might be Alex Pareene, which is weird, since even though he's the most precocious human being ever, Jon Langford is too old for his mother. Ten minutes after that, I thought I saw Maura peering intently into a phone at the bar. Thoroughly chastened by my debacle at the media clusterfuck, I approached neither. Inquiring after both of them the next day, it turns out I can wipe away my previous shame with a towel of ignorance and lack of social graces (Alex, thank you, white brother!).

[I was thoroughly pissed off that these two were in attendance, because it means that I was no longer the youngest person in the audience. -Dana]

What this also means is that everyone who wasn't a portly, shaved-to-stave-off-balding man in the audience (me: "This is the only show in the world with a lower men to men who are getting laid ratio than a TMBG gig") was a blogger. But there is this: there's something sweet about watching people who are well past the point of giving a shit dancing because they love the music. [True. A Wacos show is a Safe Space for Dorks. This is why I have seen them roughly 20 times. -Dana]

The show itself was a fucking blast. Of course it was -- it was the Waco Brothers. If you didn't assume that, shame on you. We'll tell you all about it next month at Spitzer's. [And whack you with our canes. -Dana] Disappointment of the evening: they ran out of flasks at the merch table.

The Waco Brothers 'Do What I Say'

FYMTQ: Laura P. Soflux

I don't know what the hell has happened to the FYMTQ but someone please light a match. FAST. It appears we've lost focus in only the second week. First we featured a dude (Dana's been gnawing on that bone all week) and now we find a Tumblr named Laura who's over 30 and married. (Married? Yes, married! Sheesh.) Please try to suppress the overwhelming urge to close this window immediately. Let's assume there are extenuating circumstances. This much we know: she wants to quit her job, she's begging YM for a backstage pass to the boom boom room and even though she's got the Minnesota thing going for her, Rex Sorgatz is not on her radar. That's good enough for us.

Following Young Manhattanite Tumblr Questionnaire

What's your background?
I'm a ridiculously sweet girl from Minnesota with a wicked sense of humor. Okay, I'm not really all that sweet but that's what people think of us flyover state types. Anyway, I went to Minnetonka High School and grew up on the lake of the same name. And while most bloggers were born the year this movie came out (Purple Rain), I have frequently bathed in the waters of Lake Minnetonka. Yes, like every good Minnesotan...I love Prince even through the creepy symbol years. Anyway, I hated high school and couldn't wait to get the fuck out of Dodge...which led to scenic Oxford, Ohio (the furthest place my parents would let me go). I then went to law school and discovered I hate lawyers. Which led to my twenties where I lived in seven cities in six years. I will soon be 33 and I still have no idea what the fuck I want to do with my life. So, I blog. I like long walks on the beach and writing with parentheticals.

Why are you following us?
It started with Berhle and his Kats. Then like a good contrarian, refused to leave when you all were trying to get rid of your followers. Then I realized that you guys are pretty funny.

What era, day or event in blogging history would you like to re-live?
Well, I fondly remember that one time...ummm...yeah...ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? BLOGGING HISTORY???

Who do you consider to be the greatest blogger of all-time?
First - the greatest blogger of all-time should be in all caps. Its really the only way to truly capture the absurdity of that notion. That said, there are some really great writers and fucking funny people in this world. Those are the bloggers I respect rather than the overthinkers and oversharers. I, of course, fall into the latter camp which fits squarely into my whole self-loathing emo blogging m.o.

What's your blogging motto?
Censor. Censor. Censor. It's sad just how much I don't share.

Describe that low moment when you thought you just might have to leave blogging for good.
I still can't believe that girl posted that money shot. It makes me sad. Which made me realize how badly feminism/equality has missed the mark. Which made me feel old. The I got pissed at myself for caring cause this angry contrarian makes a point of not caring about such things.

So, yeah, that and all the Sex And The City blogging.

What was the last thing you read on Gothamist?
Honestly, I don't have an answer for you on this one. Is that bad?

If you could change one thing about blogging, what would it be?
All the bloody posturing. Just like I'm doing right now.

What was your best or most expensive medication experience just after midnight on a summer Saturday?
Well, it didn't happen in the summer and happened on a Friday but once I experimented with a certain pharmaceutical while visiting a friend in Chicago. I completely lost my shit and spent a couple hundred bucks on a one-way ticket so I could get back to New York City. All my other medicinal experiences happened when I was in college where I did so much damage to my brain cells I honestly cannot remember much about them beyond the fact that I still can't listen to techno without losing my mind.

Would you consider dating one of us, only for 24 hours, if it meant the opportunity to meet the lowest branches of New York's reblogosphere?
Well, I made the mistake of telling you guys that I'm married which apparently made me as attractive as an STD. Yes, it's true. I'm off the market but sleep easy boys...my marriage certificate listed my pre-marriage status as "spinster." Who wants to date an old married spinster anyway?

Zuckerman Bet

From Eli Valley:

Please forward this to Lockhart Steele, with the note that I suggest he start putting aside money between now and November so it's not a sudden loss. Just $10/month for five months, which is basically a sacrifice of one apple martini per month.

You'll notice, despite your inebriated left-side paw-print signature, that you were the Witness.

As "Witness" I am obliged to blog this (and I think I collect 20% either way the action goes), but I honestly don't remember much from the evening other than a couple of Israeli girls at 11th Street Bar.

"What On Earth Are You Doing With Howard Bannister's Rocks?"

Here's a sentence that I bet you have never heard spoken aloud or even said yourself: "You know what movie you need to see? 'Paper Moon.' It's really good!"

Honestly, I think the NY Post and everyone else who has pretended to give a shit is seriously overestimating the fame of Tatum O'Neal. How many New Yorkers would even recognize her if she walked up to them on the street at three in the morning and asked them to sell her some crack? I put the over/under at 8.

Ryan O'Neal, I put at 4. But he was still pretty fucking brills in "What's Up, Doc?"



You need to see this movie, because it's really, really good.

Mason Jarring

Remember when blogging about Pink Floyd was all the rage? Maura does! Well, I've been looking for the interview portions of the Pompeii video on the Internet for quite some time and finally found it uploaded, in 3 parts, to YouTube last November. The clip above includes an extraordinary case study of temporary drug-induced dysarthria, right around the 4:00 mark, by Nick Mason who -- medically speaking -- farffles his harfuffim. I remember a night in Baltimore in the mid-90s when we must have rewound this part 100 times.

FYMTQ: Matthew R. Smith

I'm pleased to be starting off the week with our latest FYMTQ profile, Matthew R. Smith. I decided we needed some gender parity up in this piece (and, frankly, he was game), so he's our very first XY. We love him because he was kind enough to get us into Creativity Now, and when he's not getting us sauced on free champers, he's writing L.E.S. Francophile, which we enjoy almost as much as free booze. (Almost.)


Following Young Manhattanite Tumblr Questionnaire

What's your background?
As I'm writing this, my background is my day job: a PR office. Otherwise: Long Island-raised; Fordham grad; French major; French wine publicist. Latecomer to public blogging at the ripe old age of 23 (I did, sadly, have a Livejournal way back when.)

Why are you following us?
Honestly? Because back when I used to read Gawker (when it was palatable), I didn't know who this mysterious Krucoff was and I forced myself to learn!

What era, day or event in blogging history would you like to re-live?
[Travel back in time to] intervene in Perez Hilton's nascent stage and dissuade him from celeblogging. The sad state of our nation and press is only exacerbated by the culture of celebrity obsession and the paparazzi.

Who do you consider to be the greatest blogger of all-time?
You know what? I've often thought that Voltaire (see: Le Dictionnaire Philosophique) would have made a good blogger. His 1-2 page stories, political reactions, and analyses of broad themes would translate so well into contemporary blogging society.

Uh, or Alex Balk's cock?

What's your blogging motto?
Le blog, c'est moi.

Describe that low moment when you thought you just might have to leave blogging for good.
Actually, it's a pretty sad story: an estranged friend of mine texted me with a quote from a protected blog I had written about him (suffice it to say I feared for his health) and I realized that my old blogging platform had not respected my privacy the way I had hoped.

Your mom sounds like an awesome lady. Tell us another good story about her. But don't send her a link to YM please.
Here's a good one: I grew up on Long Island, which my folks always encouraged me to explore. (We often visited museums, nature sanctuaries, forgotten beaches, etc.) One birthday, my mother and aunt brought me and my cousins to the Holocaust Museum on the North Shore, ostensibly to visit the museum and then ramble around the pretty rural beachfront grounds. My mother, however, got lost on the way and, unawares, turned into a different Gold Coast mansion, Winfield Hall (the F.W. Woolworth estate, evidently). After wandering the dilapidated grounds for ... oh, 2 hours or so, we were confronted by a man with a shotgun and a mastiff (which at 3' was nearly as tall as my skinny 13 year old ass) who chased us off the grounds. Literally, he chased us to our car, and pointed the gun at us until we left the property. And then we went home and had cake and I got a Razor scooter.

If you could change one thing about blogging, what would it be?
Every blogger would be as gorgeous as Emily Gould and me.

What is your favorite summer cocktail? [This is asked on behalf of Dana, not Krucoff, who drinks only Budweiser longnecks, should you ever run into him.]
Lillet on the rocks with a slice of orange. Chilled, crisp, citrusy, and bien sûr, French.

Would you consider dating one of us, only for 24 hours, if it meant the opportunity to meet the lowest branches of New York's reblogosphere?
I think I would go with Dana. And I'd totes date her for as long as she'd have me. I treated my high school girlfriend very well. We went shopping together, I drove her around in a Beemer (shhh, it was 15 years old), and sang musical songs at the top of our voices. As long as we can maintain that kinda relationship, Dana, I think we're fine. [I would absolutely go out on a date with Matthew. We could read Fleurs du Mal to one another and talk about CRAV and drink Lillet, of course. -Dana]