Don't Stop Til You Get Enough

Thursday night was my last night out with my BU compadres and we did it up rotten in Shoreditch, where by coincidence, is the first area we went out together. We hit Plastic People and it was a rager. Basement, grinding, some dude filming the whole thing.

Ended up walking Jack Kalish home. He's from Brooklyn, was lost in Shoreditch, and speaks Russian. So we hopped into and out of a van, went to a bar that was closing, and at some point he made fun of me for eating bacon. It was nice to get acquainted.

Friday was a trip. I called Jeffrey, Dogstar's resident DJ, in the early evening and he remembered me! From 2 months ago. So he said he'd put me on about midnight. I got there way too early, left, came back, then Joe met me out there. There was a serious party on, including failed salsa dancing Aussies, people on...something, lasers, and my baile funk/Peaches break!

It was a blast. We stayed mad late then today did absolutely nothing. I'm being a really bad student, considering I have to write an entire paper tomorrow and practice my Russian presentation for Monday. But it's been fun and it's been worth it. And I'll never have this kind of opportunity again, so I ain't mad at me.

Deerhoof is my xanax

And Offend Maggie is my hot hot sex.

PBR You Kidding Me?

Today Netta e-mailed me the upcoming feature in Adbusters. After reading it, I reflected and sent her the following e-mail:

Yeah, this article is so defeatist. After I took a minute to criticize the writer (step 1), I realized he must have been pressed on a Tuesday to meet a Thursday deadline, so he hopped to that club on Wednesday, ended up blowing lines off that girl's Polaroid with her and Bruce Willis's nephew, and hit the send from his DELL. DESKTOP. some time around 7 am on Thursday. This could explain the fixed-gear bike fallacy (they can, and often do, have brakes) that could have been easily warded off with that last, crucial Wikipedia scan.

Some counterpoints:

That last paragraph is self-obsessed just by being! The Lost Generation died off before WW2. And now that acid and cocaine are illegal, the only things we can rebel against are the war on drugs and gas prices and the Right's deathgrip on consumer efficacy, by getting high and going on a bike ride to the thrift store.

Here's something that "feels real": cash. So having a college degree, especially in the progressive sciences, not only allows you to criticize every aspect of the feeding machine your paycheck powers, but to do so with the backing of, you guessed it, a government-funded institution.

"We are the last generation." He's really given up. He considered throwing those rocks (at a vacant housing development? talk about subversion!) and decided to reveal the huge conflict of interest apparent in this article: the royal "we" and the titular "hipster" are inseparable yet unwilling to admit their point of intersection, the reporter.

Wearing non prescription glasses (I have some) and skinny jeans (I have multiple) and listening to Deerhoof (you've probably never even heard of them) on your iPod (I don't have one, or a Facebook) while making sure everyone on the bus can SEE that you're reading Bukowski (shhh--I haven't read Bukowski, but Pete Doherty interviewed him in VICE) probably has little to do with a disillusioned backlash (not to be ironic) to the West's ignorant overconsumption and excessive reproduction of style and standard. Maybe everyone feels so snubbed by Hollywood that it's less hurtful to create mini, Internet Hollywoods or even pitch them up under a 300-year old bridge (et voila, DUMBO--"Down Underneath the Manhattan-Brooklyn bridge" DUH!).

But before this sounds too optimistic, I'll acquiesce to the conservative evildoers who Barry O's obviously grinding a self-challenging, earth-conscious cog against: the American Apparel has been pulled so far towards the belly button that we've been looking for nipple on Last Night's Party instead of even glancing at the dynamic shift occuring in our history that accompanies any change in power. Call it our New Millenium American Dream: We won't take the President, but we'll take a tip from his pastoral origins. Cowboy-fit jeans, white v-neck, and the interning class's perverted darling, piss ass beer.

Rave Till You're Blind

Yo yo yo yo yo! Life is awesome for the following reasons:

1.Finished this book.

About 10 pages in and I stopped agreeing with Satter for the remainder of the book. His anecdotes are imitable, his suspicion, blinding, and his thesis, inconclusive. He purports from the beginning that administrative ineptitude, corruption, and a resulting moral vacuum in Russia's "soul" (bullshit) are responsible for her inevitable rule by dictator. We belabored this same argument in Soviet Union in WW2 and it still nags me, begging the questions 'Is Russia really doomed?' and 'Are we as doomed as Russia?'


2.Started this book.

After seeing the movie and reading the script, I bought this and 2 other of Irvine Welsh's novels, Glue and Porno, the follow-up to Trainspotting. I'm on page 43 and the plot is up and hoppin' already. The phonetic Scottish slang dialect doesn't even faze me anymore. I love books!!!!


3.Got these shoes.
From Beacon's online. New guilty guilty guilty pleasure since I went to Brooklyn and shopped there 2 days later. I'm gonna whip them out for fall like whoa.


4.No longer jealous of Balenciaga.

Just when you thought Balenciaga could go no more angular, they etched from a block of vinyl these cage-like "dresses" that the ugly-no-not-model-ugly-just-straight-up-UGGZ wearer seems rightfully displeased to sport.

Unless she's wondering where her period went.

Those satiny, exposed framework pantsuits of last spring were pretty groundbreaking for a house that traditionally favors more sensual, form-following lines.

This, however, simply gross.


5.Maybe Satter was right after all.

Read about the Moscow rave that left 61 people blind!