Emma was on Jeopardy! She looked and sounded really professional, and answered so many questions that I can't believe she only came in second. Although, to be fair, Terry From Plano is clearly a trivia master, and Jeff Kirby has apparently done this before.
On Saturday night, Nina and I went to the Peelander-Z show at The Studio at Webster Hall. I'd never been to that part of the club. We got in via their weird little subterranean entrance, cutting through the line winding around the block for the show in the main space, some DJ. The Studio's not bad at all -- kind of cozy, really -- except that people from the horrible, regular part of Webster Hall pass through on their way to the bathroom. It's like rooming with a bunch of frat brothers in a railroad apartment.
Peelander-Z command attention, though. Peelander Red opened the show, storming the stage in an enormous plush red squid / bass hybrid costume. He couldn't play bass while wearing it (or see, I don't think), but he could cavort, and he sure as fuck, you know, went up. They played a bunch of songs, or parts of songs, but that's kind of besides the point. And I don't mean that, you know, the music doesn't matter, but the fact that they start and stop the songs more or less as they feel like it keeps the show lively; keeps at bay the sweaty pageant vibe that so often creeps into the live show of "fun" bands.
"We are not human beings," explained Peelander Yellow, picking his nose and flicking it into the crowd. "We are from Peelander planet, Z area. On my planet, I am considered very handsome. Here, okay. But on Peelander planet, very, very handsome." Peelander Red climbed into the ceiling, hooking his legs around a metal beam and dangling upside down over the audience while he played. Peelander Green did the same thing, while pounding the fucking drums. All the Michaels in the audience came up on stage for "So Many Mike." They closed out the show with a combination conga line drum circle sing-a-long to "We Are The Champions." "This is cheaper than therapy," Nina said. I bought a t-shirt.
Afterwards, Nina wanted a slice of cake, so we walked over to Veniero's, which was still open. She had a slice of coffee-imbued cake and a limoncello. I had a coffee with a bunch of booze in it, which was awesome. It was a nice date.
Tom's been trying to get me to listen to The Best Show On WFMU, but I just can't get over how radio Tom Scharpling sounds. And is it possible to have a genuine radio talk show with bearable phone calls? I don't know. Scharpling's just too unpredictable when it comes to which self-important WFMU-listening twits he's willing to indulge, and for how long. Fans of Seven Second Delay have complained that they're afraid of being summarily dismissed by Andy Breckman; I find I get a cold feeling in my stomach when it becomes clear that Tom won't be giving "Spike" the "heave-ho" he so desperately deserves.
This week is CMJ! I'm planning what to go to.
Sunset Park got cold, babies. I brought lemon tree inside from where it had been summering: the top of the metal staircase out back where all the flies are. Our apartment, like others in the neighborhood, comes with ample heating apparatus but practically no way to control the temperature. First it was sweltering, then freezing; last weekend the radiators made a soft splashing sound, like the waters of a quiet lake being acted upon by the moon.
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