Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Holy crap. Bat Out of Hell III is freaking fantastic.

I mean, there are one or two things that I am a little meh about, but like W., Our President®, we have to stand behind him one-hundred percent, through hell and back (did you see that?).

1) Meatloaf is, and will always, kick ass.
2) This album was birthed from the fiery loins of Meatloaf.

QED: This album kicks ass.

Plus it comes out on October 31st. I mean, shit. If there is one day when something is going to bust up through the crust of this mortal earth from the depths of hell, when do you think it's going to get here? Halloween! When the hell else would a motorcycle riding badass who sure as shit didn't love you, because he LOST EVERYTHING THAT MATTERED TO HIM YEARS AGO, come back to the land of the living to take his rightful spot on the Billboard Charts? HALLO-FREAKING-WEEN, dude. He's a little sadder this time, sometimes. He even kind of laments losing you for a minute on one or two songs. But even on those, he's probably not even talking about you. He's probably talking about the other girl, the one from "Two Outta Three." What, you didn't think he changed his mind, did you? Did you think that an immortal, bat-master biker just forgot that the love of his freaking life left him because she didn't love him? HELL NO. And then he's all like, "Wait a freaking second I have SKULLS and a MOTORCYCLE and BATS STRAIGHT FROM THE PITS OF HELL and a SWEET LEATHER JACKET and a PIANO THAT SHOOTS FIRE OUT OF THE BACK. I don't need no woman! Let's break stuff (hint: there is a whole song about breaking things)!" And then he totally rubs it in your little emo face at the end, with a song about making you cry. So suck on that.

Rock and roll was so much more awesome when it's main influences were blues and Satan and Elton John.

Friday, September 22, 2006

We didn't know where we were, or where we were supposed to be going when we got off the train. I knew the name of the bar, and I must have known a cross street, because the cab driver found it. It was important to make it there tonight, because they were giving out free Sparks all night. All. Night. Not one of those 10:30 to 11:30 open bars. Til they run out. Plus it was a Halloween party and we hadn't done anything to celebrate yet.

By the end of the evening everyone's tounges were orange from Sparks. The DJs had spun most of the tracks that everyone knew, but somehow they kept coming up with more. People were dancing on the bar. Some neighborhood Puerto Ricans were smoking weed on one of the walls, dispite the fact that the bar was about the size of my bedroom. Couples were going to the bathroom together, Halloween costumes were becoming mangled and lost and littered the floor. I had attained a new level of drunkeness that can only be acheived with the help of Sparks or massive quantities of Red Bull. You know it's time to go home. The bar is closing. You can't really walk more than a step or two. But somehow, it feels like the night just started, and you just really want to find a fucking house party or something.

The cab got us home again, safe and sound.

Finger On The Pulse tonight. TGIF.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

At four o'clock yesterday afternoon I got a call from a gay actor slash waiter. Oddly enough, it was the most exciting call I'd gotten in a long time. He told me that, if we were still interested, he'd be happy to bring us into his home. It's a generic home: tiled living room, cheap carpeting in the bedroom and two flights up a disasterously skinny staircase. We are going to be located right by a cute bar that serves catfish poppers, one of the gayest bars in Brooklyn, and the place that gives you a pizza with every drink you order (which will definitely save us some money). We're also close to a natural foods store, an arcade bar with Pac Man, overpriced fusion restaraunts, and the Bushwick projects about a ten minute walk away. Yes, sirs and ma'ams, I am moving to Williamsburg, the hippest place in Brooklyn in 1995.

Williamsburg is the nexus of New York's youngish generations' culture folding back on itself and incubating the uniform, cynical, liberal, ironic because last year it was cool but it's not anymore because last year it was ironic because it was cool in the 70's, mindset that has stagnated art and politics and most of our music. And in two weeks I'll be part of the five percenters that commute from Lorimer to Manhattan wearing a tie to work.

This wasn't exactly my decision, or my ideal situation. If I could afford it I'd be living on Bond Street in a brownstone, or on Smith in that fancy new condo at the corner of State. This is a product of conveinience and economy. The L train goes right to 14th, so my commute will be a paltry 25 minutes, and the wife's will be about 15. There is also something exciting about living around the corner from a real music venue, and a short walk to some of the biggest in the city. Also, those catfish poppers.

So good luck to everyone moving, I'll be right there with you in a week and a half, and I'll try to document as much of it as possible to remind myself never to do it again.