Emma had a birthday. We drank; then, later, Katharine and she and I watched Troll 2 together. I hadn't known what a gold mine that fucker is in terms of bizarre dialogue and delivery. You don't piss on hospitality -- true, that.
There were a lot of fruit flies in the kitchen recently, and I couldn't figure out why -- I couldn't blame it on Sophie any more, and, while I'm not great about doing the dishes, having an empty sink didn't seem to mitigate the problem. What happened, though, was that Nina was cooking steaks on my stove and went looking in the cupboard below the counter, in which Randy's got space allotted for his dry goods, for a saucepan. Next to his stash of Cheddar Bunnies was a bag of potatoes I'd left down there a month or two ago, and there were flies buzzing around that thing like nuts. It was sitting in a swamp of its own putrefaction -- something had gone terribly wrong, and, when I gaggingly hoisted the sack into the garbage, I noticed that it left a viscous trail that was bubbling and seething with a pupal host. Indeed, said ichor had spewed forth out of the cabinet onto the floor below a day before. I had assumed it was cat food gravy. It smelled like old cat food gravy! Nina dubbed the whole scene "the horror," and we determined that the remaining pool should be left for Someone Else to deal with.
Then there was The Game -- you know, when the big football teams play each other. I came up on the train after work on Friday and met up with The Friends at Rudy's. Maggie and Cliff were there -- it was great to see them! I ate some Alfie Bread (they've introduced a new Alfie Bread that has pepperoni!) and then we all crashed at Ted's house. For some reason I petitioned to share a bed with Ted, forgetting that he's a snorer. Greg and Ted made everyone breakfast in the morning, which was delicious, although my stomach was doing a thing. Around 10:30 we headed to the tailgate, which was as about the same as usual. We drank whiskey out of a thermos. The game itself was boring and Yale lost, rottenly; like Yankees fans, we left after about thirty minutes and then waited for another thirty to board a bus back to campus.
I got to pee in that trough urinal, though. Whenever I'm peeing into an unfamiliar thing, I have a second or two where I think, "Maybe I shouldn't be peeing into this!" And then I look around to make sure other people are peeing into it, and they are and I'm sorry I checked.
Master Krauss was having a party when we got to Silliman College, and Ron took us on a tour of the new, renovated dining hall and basement. I can't really think of a way to describe it to people who don't know what I'm talking about without making it sound boring, so I won't try, but suffice it to say that it was very different and kind of a strangely emotional experience. Not with tears or anything, mind you, but it's always surprising what an effect place has on you. I opted to drive back to Pelham with KT that evening instead of staying another day, because I was feeling run down. I'll get to the why a bit later. Pictures are in the photostream.
For Thanksgiving I made chorizo and spinach soup, as per this recipe. I realized part way through making it, though, that my big pot was not going to be big enough to hold it all. So, with the soup simmering on the range, I ran down to the hardware store on my corner and bought a really big pot, like, that a restaurant might use. So I finished making the soup in that (it barely filled it half-way) and then lugged the fucker on the subway over to Eve's, who was also cooking in preparation for the festivities at my parents' house. I was so exhausted when I got there that I had to eat a piece of bread and drink some whiskey. Eve made a vegan chocolate cake and some apple stuff. It was delicious! So was my soup.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Friday, November 02, 2007
Five Beautiful Parakeets
More show news, because I have to record what I do.
Eve and I went to see The Thermals at Warsaw on Thursday, and, despite the fact that their openers were awful, it was an amazing show. There wasn't much of a crowd as Hutch & Co. were getting set up, and we were worried that people just weren't gonna turn out, but by the time they started playing, there was a great, vigorous throng. Their set list hasn't changed much since the last time I saw them, but that was fine; they were still admirably tight and angry. Kathy Foster cut a striking figure -- her bouncy hair, kind of her signature, I feel like, was swept forward into a sort of 'fro-hawk -- and she and Hutch faced off on some of the harder numbers. She's got this captivating, stolid grace about her that... well, I won't get into it lest I get into "trouble." I am a faithful man, after all.
The bouncers at Warsaw are these creepy Polish skinheads (at some of the artier shows, Nina and I have played "Polack or hipster?"), and they were managing the crowd pretty actively that night, really front and center, up close to the stage. As I find is often the case, they paid special attention to me (height? Jacket?), even though there were plenty of jackasses in the audience, including a really smelly dreadlocked goth dude and his really smelly girlfriend.
For encores, the band covered a Built To Spill song that was okay and a Wipers song that was pretty cool. And nobody puked this time, so that was good, too.
I'm having a hard time putting into words why I didn't like the Gogol Bordello show I went to on Saturday night with Nina, Randy, Winnie, Evan, and David Bell. All I know for sure is that I was in a good mood when I walked into the joint, but within five minutes I kind of wanted to leave.
Maybe it's the music -- I've never really been sure whether I like them or not, ever since Eve lent me Gypsy Punks a year ago. On the one hand, they've got tons of energy and swell instrumentations with all sorts of old-world instruments playing in minor keys. (To picture the guy who plays the violin for them, imagine Armin Mueller-Stahl in Eastern Promises, but wearing bondage pants and a leather vest with no shirt.) On the other hand, though, the songs aren't really that catchy -- or at least, I can't remember what they sound like when I'm not hearing them. And the tone of the whole thing is kind of problematic: These guys have been compared to The Pogues, but whereas Shane MacGowan is acknowledged as a fond historian of Irish folk who's earned the right, through research (and time on a barstool), to sort of queer the genre; Eugene Hutz doesn't strike me as much of a good shepherd of Gypsy music. Either Gypsy music just isn't that good, or the band is making fun of Gypsy music -- or Hutz just isn't that smart. Or he doesn't speak English that well. With lyrics like this, it's sort of hard to tell:
That's pretty much what the audience was like. Lots of chubby white dudes in popped-collar Polo shirts, lots of spacey girls with frizzy hair in long flowing dresses (too dark to tell, but I bet there were some Henna tattoos). Every problematic rock concert audience trope was on display -- the skittish girls who didn't want anyone dancing around near them; the guy and his girlfriend trying to have a slow, protective cuddle in the middle of the mosh pit; the insanely sweaty guy really swingin' his elbows around with his eyes closed, enjoying some private groove in a contemptibly public way.
Maybe it was the venue, though -- Terminal 5 used to be Club Exit, which was basically a warehouse for bridge-and-tunnel techno douchebags, and nothing has changed besides the name. (Except that they're booking underground rock shows there?) It's got shitty access to the entrances and exits, the bars are irritatingly inaccessible, and the space is shaped such that it's impossible to navigate the types of crowds that form in front of the stage. I don't know how other places do it right, but these fuckers do it wrong.
Nina lost her phone in the crowd, but by the grace of God some nice lady found it and returned it. It still kind of works, too! We went out for dinner afterwards at Renaissance, which totally my new go-to diner for Hell's Kitchen. I'm there so much, you see.
Eve and I went to see The Thermals at Warsaw on Thursday, and, despite the fact that their openers were awful, it was an amazing show. There wasn't much of a crowd as Hutch & Co. were getting set up, and we were worried that people just weren't gonna turn out, but by the time they started playing, there was a great, vigorous throng. Their set list hasn't changed much since the last time I saw them, but that was fine; they were still admirably tight and angry. Kathy Foster cut a striking figure -- her bouncy hair, kind of her signature, I feel like, was swept forward into a sort of 'fro-hawk -- and she and Hutch faced off on some of the harder numbers. She's got this captivating, stolid grace about her that... well, I won't get into it lest I get into "trouble." I am a faithful man, after all.
The bouncers at Warsaw are these creepy Polish skinheads (at some of the artier shows, Nina and I have played "Polack or hipster?"), and they were managing the crowd pretty actively that night, really front and center, up close to the stage. As I find is often the case, they paid special attention to me (height? Jacket?), even though there were plenty of jackasses in the audience, including a really smelly dreadlocked goth dude and his really smelly girlfriend.
For encores, the band covered a Built To Spill song that was okay and a Wipers song that was pretty cool. And nobody puked this time, so that was good, too.
I'm having a hard time putting into words why I didn't like the Gogol Bordello show I went to on Saturday night with Nina, Randy, Winnie, Evan, and David Bell. All I know for sure is that I was in a good mood when I walked into the joint, but within five minutes I kind of wanted to leave.
Maybe it's the music -- I've never really been sure whether I like them or not, ever since Eve lent me Gypsy Punks a year ago. On the one hand, they've got tons of energy and swell instrumentations with all sorts of old-world instruments playing in minor keys. (To picture the guy who plays the violin for them, imagine Armin Mueller-Stahl in Eastern Promises, but wearing bondage pants and a leather vest with no shirt.) On the other hand, though, the songs aren't really that catchy -- or at least, I can't remember what they sound like when I'm not hearing them. And the tone of the whole thing is kind of problematic: These guys have been compared to The Pogues, but whereas Shane MacGowan is acknowledged as a fond historian of Irish folk who's earned the right, through research (and time on a barstool), to sort of queer the genre; Eugene Hutz doesn't strike me as much of a good shepherd of Gypsy music. Either Gypsy music just isn't that good, or the band is making fun of Gypsy music -- or Hutz just isn't that smart. Or he doesn't speak English that well. With lyrics like this, it's sort of hard to tell:
Have you ever been to American wedding?The guy sounds like a Ukrainian Andrew WK. And Andrew WK was kidding, wasn't he? At any rate, it's not like Hutz hasn't had a dark and terrifying life -- Wikipedia sez his family were refugees in the wake of Chernobyl -- why's he writing party songs for college students spending a year abroad?
Where is the vodka, where's marinated herring?
Where is the musicians who got good taste?
Where is the supply that gonna last three days?
Where is the band that [light on fire]?
Gonna keep it goin' 24 hour!
That's pretty much what the audience was like. Lots of chubby white dudes in popped-collar Polo shirts, lots of spacey girls with frizzy hair in long flowing dresses (too dark to tell, but I bet there were some Henna tattoos). Every problematic rock concert audience trope was on display -- the skittish girls who didn't want anyone dancing around near them; the guy and his girlfriend trying to have a slow, protective cuddle in the middle of the mosh pit; the insanely sweaty guy really swingin' his elbows around with his eyes closed, enjoying some private groove in a contemptibly public way.
Maybe it was the venue, though -- Terminal 5 used to be Club Exit, which was basically a warehouse for bridge-and-tunnel techno douchebags, and nothing has changed besides the name. (Except that they're booking underground rock shows there?) It's got shitty access to the entrances and exits, the bars are irritatingly inaccessible, and the space is shaped such that it's impossible to navigate the types of crowds that form in front of the stage. I don't know how other places do it right, but these fuckers do it wrong.
Nina lost her phone in the crowd, but by the grace of God some nice lady found it and returned it. It still kind of works, too! We went out for dinner afterwards at Renaissance, which totally my new go-to diner for Hell's Kitchen. I'm there so much, you see.
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