28 February 2011

I must write this story swiftly as every breath converts its hilarity into grave horror at how dangerous the encounter actually was. It all begins when we are halfway through watching the Oscars in my friend’s living room. My micro-group is situated in the nosebleeds as we arrived late, blocking the entryway with fold-out chairs. A latecomer arrives after a long day at work with Bulleit Bourbon in tow, beckoning half the party to the balcony for cigarettes and god knows what else.

The rambunctious whiskey drinkers return to heckle all Oscar winners and performers, beginning with witty and well-timed insults but quickly slipping into booming and incoherent tangents. Irritated, I watch The King’s Speech take the crown while observing whiskey man, who has just plopped down next to me. Every minute or so he grunts and laughs: words are just too difficult to escape his drunk face. I can’t help but outright crack up at his newly adopted Down syndrome look, at which he realizes he is way too drunk to hang and gruffly announces his departure.

I offer to walk him home, and after saying my goodbyes, begin down the stairs toward the front door. Whiskey man follows behind, pushing his bike in front of him. I am about to reach the bottom of the stairs when I hear a rumble mixed with alarmed grunts quickly approaching the back of my head. I turn in horror to encounter a bewildered and panicked face emerge from the dark stairs, lost in a whirl of bumping bike tires that plummet straight at me. In a split second, I realize what is happening here: he had attempted carry the bike upright with the back wheel rolling down the stairs while holding the handle bars up high; but it has gone terribly wrong. After losing complete control of his bike and confusedly trying to wrangle it back, he has actually somehow mounted the death vehicle and is now riding at 60mph to both our deaths by bike-meets-door sandwiching.

My first instinct is, how can I help. But the velocity and weight of one 180lb man plus one steel framed bike immediately puts that option out of my head. I paste myself to the opposite stairway wall, sucking in to allow the fiery duo to fly past me into the door. After a whoosh and giant crash, the bike bounces off the front door and somehow into my arms. Laying on the ground at my feet is a sprawling body, head against door, torso in the entryway and legs mangled up the stairs. It doesn’t move.

I scream for help thinking that the poor Stairway Rider might be limp and lifeless to my touch. I’m envisioning ambulances and casts and surgeries when he stumbles to his feet, grumbles something illegible, and searches for his glasses a few feet away. Frozen in fear, anger and uncontrollable laughter, I let other party-goers chase him down the street to inspect a bleeding eyebrow and thoroughly scoffed glasses while The Stairway Rider promises in slurred speech that he is okay.

After a worrisome night over possible concussions or stitches, it turns out our own Evil Kenevil survived the stunt with little more than a nasty cut. His Ray Bans are totaled, but the bike, door, and girl have magically survived unscathed. And so the legend of The Stairway Rider will live on forever in my memory, a flash of bourbon-soaked fury and befuddlement topped with a little bike grease. To you, Stairway Rider.

17 July 2010

1. Arrive wasted at 1:30am with rum, Pepsi and champagne in tow.

2. Assassinate the birthday girl’s specialty balloon by willfully stabbing it with your keys.

3. Knock the dart board on the floor. Party time!

4. After recovering the dart board, tuck the deflated balloon into the board corners to create a “new and improved” target.

5. Thizzle dance is a great idea.

6. When you’ve been shaken by the shoulders, slapped in the face, and screamed at for your obnoxious and unacceptable childish behavior- keep raging.

7. Shake up a full liter of Pepsi soda, slightly twist the cap, and spray the ensuing fire hose mess of brown foam all over the ceiling, walls and floor.

8. Upon being chastised for the sticky mess coating every kitchen surface: flee the scene, slip on the frothy soda goo, fly onto your back and take down the entire mobile island with you.

9. Once you have effectively crashed the party, destroyed the kitchen, ruined your friends’ reputations, and laughed the entire time through; run out the front door and disappear into the night.

10. Party on, future of American public policy!

{jcomments on}

17 June 2010

Episode 1: Self-Reflexive

Produced by: Simon de Pury and Sarah Jessica Parker

Judges: Bill Powers, Jerry Saltz, Jeanne Greenberg Rohatyn, China Chow

"Next Top Model." Sure, I buy it. There can be one top model per year. "American Idol." Yes, pop stars can take over the billboard in a flash and leave faster than they came. "The Next Great Artist." Hmmm. So who's the current Great Artist? Great, as in a household name? Great, as in dead? Great, as in making billions of dollars or showing at the most prestigious museums? The new BRAVO reality TV show is problematic in its title alone; a "great artist" cannot be quantified, and certainly cannot be fabricated from one season with China Chow ("I love art. Art is my passion") and Sarah Jessica Parker ("I'm an art enthusiast! Be brave, be competitive, and be yourself!"). Is this soon-to-be "Great Artist" going to take over Damien Hirst's gloating celebrity and knock out Mr. Brainwash as the fastest growing not-to-hot scam? $100k and a solo show at the Brooklyn Museum will decide.

The NYC contemporary art world is just one big fashion show anyways, so why not a reality TV show. Get all the big shot, blue chip players in one room with a dozen small town artists and one or two who've already made the cusp; it's bound to be more cut-throat than "The Bachelor." In a competition that rewards valuable creative expression, the artists are tripped at the gate with cramped living quarters and one shared studio space. Trapped like cattle in two-bed college dorm rooms, the handful of legitimate artists have no escape from manipulations and schemings of the "Work of Art" drama queens (ie. Nao: "I feel like I've already won, so I can be really generous with my criticism"). I'm all for constructive criticism to help an artist grow. But how could anyone produce something true to the heart when they are criticized by competitors and auction house tycoons through the entire artmaking process?

There are a few hints at something fishy throughout the first episode. Miles, who happens to be obsessive compulsive, blows a screen printing bulb and displays a mini freak-out. He has no chance at completing the portrait he had planned; thus one finicky bulb means the death of his budding art career. What is this, Shutter Island? Aren't there art supply stores in New York City? I'm troubled by Miles' inability to purchase a replacement bulb. He kicks things around and screams a little, so I suspect the self-imposed restraining order was all rigged for the spectacle.

Another inconsistency lies in the final "instant death" elimination ceremony. In the episode's previous critique, New York's most influential art leaders tore apart the clear "loser": a self taught artist (Erik) who blobbed primary colors over a photograph, which was then mounted on a painter's easel. It was clearly sub par, reflecting his lack of skill, experience, and voice. It might have been the first time Erik had seen a paintbrush. The judges tear into him like lionesses to a stray caribou fawn. Yet upon the elimination platform, Erik is granted another chance to prove himself, and a blah architect-turned-abstract painter (Amanda) is sent home. I can only speculate that Erik will be kept on the show long enough for his anger management issues to manifest into a modern "Van Gogh" inner struggle. Buying the judges like NY Magazine Arts editor (Jerry Saltz) and Half Gallery owner (Bill Powers) for cheap entertainment is slightly Big Brother for me.

The show's redeeming quality: critiques by three reputable, knowledgeable experts. I'm guessing their comments were edited down to be Simon Cowell as possible, and I regret we couldn't hear more. Jerry Saltz, Bill Powers, and Jeanne Greenberg Rohatyn are articulate, well versed, and experienced on delivering an effective critique. Oh, and there are two hot guys on the show.

I have a feeling this reality tv experiment will make fools out of the no-name ametuer artists involved. It will be a black mark on the credibility of each judge and even Monsier De Pury; and especially Sarah Jessica Parker (the clear authority figure on contemporary art). For the artists who have already staked some level of success, and maybe even developed a valuable voice and body of work, this show could be the end of their career. Would you trade a few minutes air time for a spot in art history books? Now that's Hollywood.

For further research:

• Watch Hulu episodes
• Meet the Artists
• Meet the judges 
• Cast Blogs

Photos © BRAVO

09 June 2010

Photo © Charlie Riedel (AP photographer).

Charlie's documentation on the Louisiana oil spill is much more revealing than British Petroleum's glamorous cleanup campaign, go figure.

30 May 2010

I was wholeheartedly satisfied with Google Chrome for about four months until it started pooping out on me last week. Every other page turned to "server not found" to the point where browsing the internet was like starting your 1994 Volvo in a Fargo snow storm. Upon the suggestion of two undisclosed fixed gear riding film students, I gave old Safari a second chance. I'm wholly disappointed, and here's why.

1. The address and search bars are separate. I am constantly typing phrases into the address box and getting "failed to open page," upon which I type for another 10 seconds to get where Firefox and Chrome would have directed me on the first try. 
2. When I begin to type the title of a google doc or website into the address bar, Safari fails to auto complete my query.
3. The inactive tabs provide no indication of new gchat messages. 
4. There is no + arrow on the current tab to quickly and efficiently open a new one.
5. By default, links open in a new window (after losing 5 minutes of your life to troubleshooting forums, you can learn to change this in Terminal).
6. Safari won't reopen close tabs (all is lost!).

Safari, I gave you a fair chance. With my tail between my legs, I crawl back to Firefox with a bouquet of flowers and box of chocolates. If it takes me back, I promise never again to run off with the pool boy (and then the mailman).  

27 May 2010

Such was my Twitter status this morning upon clearing the wino haze from last night's dinner. Because the truth is I'm fed up with all this whining. Of my close circle of friends, only one uses Twitter. He happens to be my live in boyfriend currently enrolled in a social media course required for his film program. My remaining friends (if you can even call people who you have to text message for an update friends) refuse to enter the 21st century and adopt a 10 character username and 140 character speech impediment.

They are naive to the miracles of hash tags, @ replies, RTs, and trending topics. Insane Clown Posse is concerned with "magic" such as "how magnets work," but I blow them out of the water with truly unexplainable phenomena. How could a healthy, cultured, talented, YOUNG, and web addicted group such as my own stand defiant against the inevitable takeover of Twitter? Being rebellious just for the sake of being "original" lost its charm long ago. As Douglas Haddow once said of hipsters, they are hot onto everything trendy until the moment it is recognized as such. I can compare such offenses to driving an H3 in the age of Prius; relying on Yellow Pages during the reign of 4G networks; or enacting a transportation ticketing system dependent on quarters and newsprint (yes, Muni, I'm talking about you).

Being behind the times is dismissible for grandmas and Ugandans, but there's no excuse for 8 year old kids (and cats) to be tweeting before my own 24 year old power Facebook using buds. Do I think I'm better than everyone else? No. Sure I'm slow to read up on the world's natural disasters and guerilla coups, but at least I hear about them on Twitter before anyone else. At least 5 times a day, I zone out of a conversation till I'm brought back with the common outburst, "oh I heard about that on Twitter!". Coming from the girl ya'll made fun of for being home schooled (in 2nd grade) I'm not THAT out of touch. 

"I don't have anything to say," they tell me. "I don't have time." Or the best yet, "I don't have an iPhone." The great thing about Twitter is that you can use any duct taped 2002 flip phone, provided it sends text messages. Of course you have something to say- you send me hilarious text messages, pictures, and videos all day long. And don't talk to me about time. I see you on gchat, Facebook chat, IM, Skype, and chat roulette from 9-5 Monday-Friday. Do us all a favor and share your secret life of quirky links, thought provoking articles, and underground local events. I'd love to be a part of your life.

I know this seems harsh. I beg of you, take a moment to see from my perspective. I love and enjoy Twitter and I have a wealth of personal connections each day through this medium; wouldn't you miss your best friends in such a situation? It's like being on a gorgeous vacation on the beaches of Turkey with a hostel group full of nice strangers, but you still miss your good ol besties. My frustration only stems from my love for you. Deep, needy love that requires 140 character updates every hour to keep me breathing. Please, I beg of you, come to the dark side. You might actually like it. 

21 March 2010

I am stuck in a conundrum.

However much I adore texting, I am equally perturbed by iphone/smart phone abuse. Yes I have a crappy Blackberry. But rarely will you see me in a group of friends searching for BB apps and cruising facebook (updating facebook is another story- but mobile uploads take 30 seconds tops).

I hope that the iphone Nation is a period of adjustment, like when a new drug floods the street. Everyone overdoes it, abusing the drug, overdosing and eventually readjusting their daily intake until to functional levels. We could be in that initial phase of uninhibited consumption, where mobile google is to 20 somethings as Adderall is to 5 year old boys and desperate housewives.

Example One:

While watching tv for the first time in months, I witnessed an alarming commercial that didn't seem to phase my friends. A man is bragging about the new and improved "everywhere" wireless service on his netbook or Droid or whatever (irrelevant). A series of appealing scenarios unfold to convince that this new technology will improve your quality of life. Said man is shown in a campsite surrounded by woods, nature, and friends. As five or six buddies sit around a campfire, what activity dominates their interaction- smores? Whiskey? Tales of their daily hunt while roasting fresh halibut? No. The men sit in silence, heads bowed, shoulders tense, completely engaged in their smart phones. They are oblivious of their temporary liberation from the cubicle and from the city, but by god they are connected to the global nervous system.

Next scene:

Same man (now alone) boasts his newly possible dining options via breakthrough mobile technology. Sitting in a restaurant with white tablecloths and smiling waiters, he is served a generous plate of gourmet cuisine. He grins with pleasure and, head bowed, attends to online business through his handheld device. Assumably, he ditched his dinner date so as not to offend him/her by his excessive phone addiction. Man's best friend has been replaced by a needy, high maintenance, loud, cold piece of technology with a 2 year shelf life. Looks like Nano Babies were training us for this colossal transition back in 1998 through some twisted orientation of small, mobile, computer beepy "toys" with fuzzy, cute, lovable life companions THAT LOVE BACK.

Example Two:

A friend back home recently went through a dramatic breakup. His texting, calling, and facebook messaging for consolation was tiring, but we indulged him (being the good friends we are). When he flew up to The City for a mini weekend vacay, us friends were eager for a lil heart to heart time (or enough whiskey to make him shut up and have some fun). Five of us old buds set out to cook a nice dinner at home, drinks flowing and burners burnin. We started telling stories and laughing it up when we noticed that Mr. Weekend Visitor was nowhere to be found. When we finally discovered him on the patio (smoking and texting) we dragged him back to the couch. The gravity field of his iphone was so strong that food, drink and friends could not compete: his head immediately bowed in submission to the iphone apps awaiting discovery at his fingertips. We teased the disengaged buddy, but he didn't even hear.

By the end of the night, two more of the dinner party got sucked into Visitor's trap. The three sat together on the couch, heads to their screens, mumbling once in awhile about the new apps they were stumbling upon. I was left alone with the only remaining non-iphone owner in the room, laughing and chatting and enjoying the beer induced break from real life. We dubbed ourselves FAT: Friends Against Technology. The truth is we love technology- this particular friend and I spend the majority of our waking lives on a MacBook Pro. But in that exact moment, we were indeed FAT.

The End:

The three amigos simultaneously downloaded "Bump," an app where trading contact info is easy as touching two iphones together. Boom! Wazaam! This is a physics-defying transfer of information that could change the future (for good or for evil, impressive and scurrry). ANYWAYS us FAT kids looked on in horror/amazement as the iphoners raised their devices in a toast of informational exchange. An innocent and fun gesture, right? But in a flash of premonition, I saw the Bump taking the place of traditional Cheers. I foresaw old friends passing each other in the street and throwing up a Bump in the place of warm hugs. Visions of suited businessmen exchanging Bumps instead of handshakes. Horrors of Spanish friends giving "dos Bumps" where there was once "dos besos." Bump is the new 21st Century hug, just as those cuddly little Nano Babies forewarned.

Conundrum.

I heart texting, facebook, mobile uploads, twitter, blogging, and my dear external hard drive always within reach (mobile google). Am I afraid of the iphone Nation? Not really. Do I poke fun by constantly taking pics of group texting sessions (with my camera phone)? Yes. But please, for the love of god, take a moment to think about the electronic leash and to consider the ideals of FAT. And don't forget to text me later about dinner.

29 November 2009

As some of you may know, I was riding my bike one day this September when a car door viciously attacked me. It's a wonder I walked away from that accident, although my beloved bike didn't. The man responsible for dooring me fell over himself to apologize and offer money for my bike and medical bills. With the naivety of a bruisy, I stupidly believed him.
Almost three months later, this is the most recent correspondence I have had with the man. I am obligated to publish this so that others may begin to understand the burning frustration that has extended from my checkbook to my heart. His lack of punctuation, the sentences with no beginning or end, the nonsensical explanations, and the inability to provide me with a solution. God he's just like my ex boyfriend. By the way, he writes this email from JAIL (where he has been for the last few months, god knows why).

Take a deep breath:<blockquote>i can tell you right now i am not working and i have three judgement on me  as i am talking to you so one more does not hurt me thank you i will let you know the frist judgement was hitting a car that was my cousin in a fight the second one was hosphal bill for a fight the last one was a parking grag and so on i will like to help you before you do that  with the court i can see helping you then not to help you so if it go to court i do not have the money to pay  anyway  i know if you agree to this i will get it done one way or the other thank you for understaning  ps i will check my email wed 2 09</blockquote>I refrain from publishing his legal name as to avoid a hit man at my window tonight. But trust me, his first name is that of my childhood Springer Spaniel and his last name is also a word used to describe dumb blonds. At least this makes for a good story to tell the grandkids.

19 October 2009

Dearest Chester

Thank you for not offering us to live in your apartment building. You saved us the trouble of one, two, three or five years of deceit. We lied. We do smoke. We do play loud music. We do have raging parties.

I don't make as much money as I told you, and I haven't worked at my job for as long as I said. My boyfriend and I scream and chase each other around the house, we bang on the walls, we break windows during our fights. We have an egregiously loud parakeet/velociraptor.

My boyfriend is in fact not clean or organized, as I had led you to believe. He leaves wet towels on the ground and doesn't replace empty toilet paper rolls. He just rests the new toilet paper on top of the old roll, and it often falls to the ground (that he hasn't mopped in 3 years).

A 1/4 inch layer of mold covers all tile surfaces in our apartment. These kinds of hygienic tragedies would have caused your heart to stop.
By the way, you moved here from China 10 years ago- why the hell is your name Chester? And please, let your wife talk!

Back to the story. We found an apartment that is ten times better, and we couldn't be happier. Our bird can tweet all day long, we can romp/roll/scream/drink/smoke all we want. Sucka!

love, Rocknerd