Choire Sicha

Friday, May 23

The Long Island Expressway is a gritty parade of imported sedans; the Long Island Rail Road is a mosh pit of determined sunglass-wearing homosexual gentlemen and exhausted and angry young parents. The Friday of Memorial Day Weekend is perhaps the worst day in the world to leave Manhattan.

But I will, because I must, and because by the end of every May, I hate it here. My only hope is that I'll be up and gone before all the bastard weekend people.

In the duffelbag: nine two-dollar packs of Swiss-imported Winston Lights, one VHS copy of Showgirls, and in dusty paperback: Dune, Dune Messiah, Children of Dune, God Emperor of Dune, and Chapterhouse: Dune. One morning meditation book (shut up). One digital camera. One pair Chinese sandals, two decks of cards, three bags decaffeinated tea, Visene, moisturizer, Astroglide, and one Magnum latex condom (fortune favors the prepared). Two fluffy pillows, one heating pad to prevent night time hypothermia, two hundred dollars cash, one set of keys which may or may not be to the house I currently rent (we'll find that out soon enough), one cell phone plus the always-forgotten cell phone charger, one pair John Bartlett jeans, three pairs underwear, and one Speedo. One yellow French rain slicker, two fleece pullovers, one black ski hat, and one pair wool socks. If I'm not back soon, call the Coast Guard. ⊕

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Thursday, May 22

The blogumentary interviews are on!

Here's a submission from our old pal Noah. He advises: think long and hard about your decision to go pubic... err, I mean... and he's so right. Bust out those cams, kids. Everyone will tell you you're a spaz, but guess what? You'll be having more fun than they are. ⊕

If the mountain won't come to Adam and Steve...

Sodomy Tour 2003: the tale of a gay fella and his manpartner on a delightful roadtrip through the sodomy-free lands of Oklahoma, Texas, Kansas, and Missouri. Best line: "A towering billboard promoted a 'Shaken Baby Syndrome Prevention Workshop,' easily the five most upsetting words ever placed in a row. 'How long could that workshop last?' wondered Jake. 'See this baby? Don't shake it!'"

[via Chris and Brad, who have done their time in Kansas and Missouri respectively.] ⊕

Am I sad? Every night at 6 p.m., all the kids leave the office. I turn down the lights, pull out the ashtray from my bottom desk drawer, and set my itunes to 80s retro radio. That's when the real work gets done around here, but it does make me feel like an old man. OMG! Hush hush! Voices carry! That was so totally the 80s version of "Come, come, my lady." ⊕

For our friends at the New York Post: Although gibbering baboons has a nice ring, for your edification there are four active bloggers registered at NYC bloggers that admit to living in the district somehow still referred to as Dumbo. You're right, they ARE numerous, they ARE scary, and they ARE ruining simply everything. They are:

Read Me

Dammit (hello, hot stuff coming through!)

Jexe

Fluxblog (great obscure audio).

Update: Fluxblog writes in to say: "I haven't been living in DUMBO for quite a while - it's getting up on two years by now, I think."

THREE! Three DUMBO blogs, you Jayson Blair-a-like New York Post cracksmoker. ⊕

"Attacking Yale is like hitting New York on September 11, striking at a citadel of liberalism and undercutting any possible internal policy divisions on the prosecution of the war," writes the National Review.

Uh... sure. Wait! No, not really, not at all! Anyway, I'm obsessed with the Yale bombing, and not just because I hate Yale (because I do. Although I didn't bomb it. I'm a lover, not a bomber). While I was doing some searching to obtain some more concrete grounds for my hatred of Yale, I did come across this interesting cost of living analysis:

If 100 is taken as the mean cost-of-living for all cities in the United States then New Haven has a cost-of-living of 123 as compared to Boston with 143, New York 234, Philadelphia 126, Washington, DC 125, St Louis 99, Chicago 105 and San Francisco 156.

If one looks at the cost of buying a house and standardizes to Chicago being "100", then a comparable home in greater New Haven costs "95" while a home in Boston would be "123", New York "142", Philadelphia "92", Washington DC "128", St Louis "77" and San Francisco "187".

Of course, that's for the shitty houses that I'd never live in. Sigh. Yet more useless information about places I'd never live, not even if you threw in a free sex change and a high-paying job at Hooters. ⊕

Everyone's been talking about the blogumentary, so I figured I should spill the beans. I'd like to dedicate this theatrical pre-release trailer to all the bloggers imprisoned by brutal regimes or by vindictive suburban parents. ⊕

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Wednesday, May 21

Hump day.

Me: Remember genitalia?

Bazima: No?

Me: My hand brushed against my own penis the other day and I was scared! What IS THAT?

Bazima: I haven't shaved my chocha in a month. I'm like a pregnant woman who can't see her feet.

Me: I have to go home now, because I am dead inside.

Won't any of you please do something? ⊕

Remember that time you went on a date with your ex? And he was cuckoo-crackers and denied that you'd ever actually dated and by the end of the evening you weren't speaking to each other? Philo does, in a tale so chilling it makes me never want to look at a man again. ⊕

All the ladies in the house: Lockhart Steele is A) hot B) single C) employed D) allegedly heterosexual (although I'm not such a good judge these days, it turns out) and E) I'm still not convinced that he's not in the employ of some evil real estate developer who wants to ruin the Lower East Side for us little people, but he has a good sense of humor. If you should like to date him, please contact me and I will make casual, cunning arrangements. ⊕

Notes for the irony impaired. A perspective on fame, sarcasm, and the New York Times. I snicker in a French manner. I've been hearing this sort of critique of online narcissism in one form or another for the last three years. [Of course, I have to give the kid props: I began my internet career (*cough*) as an internet slanderer as well... hey, wait! "Started off?" Who am I kidding?] ⊕

I often don't know if I'm coming or going, but that's my cross to bear. Why should everyone else have to suffer?

As the summer season kicks it up a notch beginning this rain-soaked Memorial Day weekend, I've prepared by doing the people in my life a favor: I've invented the Choirelocator™. Since it seems everyone reads this damn website, clients, pals, moms, housemates, and tricks alike now have a handy-dandy resource. Whether I'm chilling on the beach, sweating it in Manhattan, or on an archeological dig in Bratislava, my squirrel will tell you all about it! Of course, we all know that mostly what I'll be doing is beating the crap out of obnoxious teenagers on the Long Island Rail Road. C'est la guerre.

I'm so completely spastic that I excite myself. ⊕

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Tuesday, May 20

I found and cooked my spirit animal. Martha, Inc. was, in a word, incredible. Cybill Shepherd's weird portrayal of Martha Stewart was perhaps one of the most spellbinding performances I've seen on the little screen. Borrowing equally from Holly Hunter's total, almost myopic, commitment in Texas Cheerleading Mom..., Sandra Bernhard's cruel intelligence, and Catherine Keener's harsh understanding of performative womanhood, Cybill turned what could have been a dreary Lifetime Television biopic into a fiery display of the affecting power of camp. In her blizzard of irony, she took the pure road and dispensed entirely with impersonation. It would take the woman who did Elvis to bring us this bizarre celebration and condemnation of celebrity. God bless you, Cybill. ⊕

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Monday, May 19

Memorial Day weather forecast for my first weekend at the beach house: Friday, showers. Saturday, rain. Sunday, showers. Monday, scattered thunderstorms. A 75% percent chance of soggy lesbian housemates. As Jonno put it, "Sounds like you'll be spending a weekend indoors cooking various soy-based products and building consensus! Woo!"

I've been preparing the loom all week. ⊕

Evil takes a holiday... for now. Ari Fleischer: yesterday's scarifying mouthpiece, tomorrow's grotesque oligarch. If only Mark Lombardi were alive to keep us up to date on which pies that disgusting little man will stick his fingers in over the next decade. We'll have to count on They Rule to keep us up to date. [N.B. I'm not usually about the hate, but if I had a goat, that man would get it.] ⊕

What a weekend! I explored the New York Tattoo Convention in all its tattered inky glory (more on that at a later date), I rediscovered the joy of Frosted Flakes for dinner (now that's magically fucking delicious), my three-week-long neck injury is nearly healed and now I don't turn to the right like Dr. Evil any longer, Electrelane fucking ruled at the Bowery Ballroom (Hi Mia and the gang, brilliant show, and yes that was me grinning like an idiot dead center, and what an amazing cover of I'm on Fire played to what sounded eerily like the Buzzcock's Ever Fallen In Love!), and so far two indecent proposals from readers of the New York Times. Keep those cards and letters coming, please! No offer too small -- or too large! No money down? No: money down! ⊕

I'm impressed by this roundup of odd alarm clock patents. ⊕