My new favourite blog


Veiled Conceit:

"Also, I like how, once again, the Times tries to make a sleazy bar hook-up seem like a deeply romantic moment.

Finally, with the bar empty and the bartender grumbling about closing, Mr. Monahan told Ms. Halperin he would like to continue their conversation on the next of his frequent visits to New York.

'You're going to have to kiss me, so we can see whether this is going to work out,' Ms. Halperin remembered telling him.

So he kissed her.

No matter how you paint it, they were That Drunk Couple sucking face while the bar was closing. That's fine, but don't try and make it seem like they were sharing a tender and intimate moment in Cinque Terra"

Hahahahah fucking excellent. Just as well I am out of the office tomorrow as this blog made me laugh so much I crapped on my seat.

(That bitch better have cleaned it by the time I get back.)

I shall be here until Monday for a wedding. There's no rest for the wicked.

On Fridays, Bloggers Sometimes Retract Their Claws:

"To some, the point is that posting pictures of their animals provides a chance to introduce a softer personality into blogs that are often hard-edged.
'It's just nice for bloggers to do things that show themselves as ordinary people,' Mr. Drum said, 'not just partisan political writers.'
Mr. Black agreed. It's a 'way to humanize me and a way to put a little bit of me into the blog without going into my personal life,' he said.
Of course, while Mr. Black's readers usually come to Eschaton for his takes on the political landscape, many visit on Friday to check for cats.
'It's the one thing that readers demand that I do,' Mr. Black said. His cats 'generally get positive comments,' he said, although 'some people think that they're fat.'"

Oh jesus fucking christ. That's it. Enough alfuckingready. Can we have a week of the NYT not writing about blogs? Let's everyone just talk about me.

DJ legend John Peel dead:

"LIMA/LONDON (Reuters) - Veteran disc jockey John Peel, who championed new music trends like punk on mainstream radio, has died of a heart attack on holiday in Peru.
His employer the BBC said on Tuesday the 65-year-old Peel, whose laconic style and northern accent was immediately recognisable, was in the ancient Inca city of Cuzco with his wife Sheila.
He died on Monday."

Peelster. You will be missed.

Operation Stalk Hawke. Day 1

Fucker wasn’t in Jamba Juice on Fifth and 22nd. So I bought an Original Razzmatazz instead which is 480 calories more than I could do with right now. I only wanted a 16 but as ever I am CRUSHED™ by salesperson pressure to upgrade. Why is that? Anyway it’s a weirdly shaped store. Too big for a smoothie shop and all the interesting eyecatching stuff is at the back, not attracting anyone’s attention as they walk by. I predict poor sales figures for this location.

Nice smoothies though. But more expensive than Robeks. And Robeks in on the ground floor of my building and has that acai shit going. Acai. Reassuringly expensive. And a nice purple colour. That’s the best bit about it.

Oh Eth. I do it all for you, you know.

Ha. Fucking Excellent.

Edward Champion's Return of the Reluctant: The Secret to Speed Reading:

"The fact is, dear reader, that, in addition to the starving you reference, I do most of my reading on speed, bringing new meaning to the term 'speed reader.' In fact, I can finish off a book of normal length and density while snorting up a line of good Colombian. It's certainly a little faster than that Teachout fellow, but at least Teachout doesn't have to resort to drugs to remain hyperliterate. His loss. "

via the fabulous Ms Weinman

I have had 2 crises recently that have altered the way I think about myself.

The first being the now apparent fact that I am not comfortable with “staff”. Whilst I am happiest being waited upon in a dining establishment, those whose designated functions involve waking me up in the morning with a silver tray of tea and toast and ascertaining of what I am desirous for breakfast, lunch and dinner and at what hour freak the living fuck out of me. Especially when clad in doily hat and pinny. When I have successfully, or so I thought, hidden my dirty clothes, to find them clean and ironed on my bed that evening I am overcome with guilt. I think that’s why I have had the same cleaner for so long, she makes me feel privileged to have her and never lets a visit go by without leaving an indication of her utter contempt (these range from her fag butts to a scathing note about my disgusting lifestyle). I will now have to change my previous life from Memsahib during the Raj to fishwife.

The second was today upon opening a copy of Conde Nast Travel mag and the 100 best hotels in the world wide everest edition. After scrutinizing the entire fucking thing twice I realized that I had frequented only:

2 of the 100 best hotels in the world
6 of the 10 best European cities
9 of the 10 best US cities
2 of the 10 best Pacific Rim cities
2 of the 10 best Americas cities
4 of the 5 best Asia cities
1 of the 5 best Africa Middle East cities
2 of the 10 best Asia Indian Ocean islands
3 of the 10 best Pacific Rim islands
0 of the 10 best us islands
6 of the 10 best Caribbean islands
3 of the 10 best European islands
2 of the top 75 hotels in Europe
2 of the 75 best us hotels
0 of the top 10 Caribbean hotels
0 of the top 50 Asia hotels
0 of the top 10 Central America hotels
0 of the top 10 South America hotels
0 of the top 15 Pacific Rim hotels
1 of the top 20 Canada hotels
2 of the top 25 UK hotels
1 of the top 10 Africa Middle East hotels
0 of the top Latin America resorts
0 of the top 15 safari camps
0 of the top 5 Atlantic resorts
1 of the top 50 US resorts
0 of the top 30 Pacific Rim resorts
1 of the top 15 European resorts
0 of the top 20 Caribbean resorts
0 of the top 10 Canadian resorts
0 of the top 10 Asia resorts

This is too depressing first day back from the best holiday of my life. And of that, more later.

Fuck, I thought this morning, I haven’t made any reservations for tonight. Some bloke I once agreed to marry when I was shitfaced years ago is on town and, more importantly, is ON EXPENSES. Anyway, after trawling through Citysearch looking for restaurants with $$$$, my establishment of first choice, and one voted recently as having an outstanding wine list, came good for 8.30.

It’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you. Oh yeah, and I am going to South Africa tomorrow.

I dreamed of Africa

Am off on Thursday to meet up with this guy. He didn't die at all actually, he just got pissed of with all Kim's whining.

Take these business cards away from me.

Hi Maccers,
M from [random place you went to two weeks ago], hoe are you doing?
It was nice meeting you at the [random place you went to two weeks ago].
I thought you use electricity so i thought of emailing you:) since it is so hard to reach people now a these days over the phone.
So what are you upto this week, would you like to jion me for a cup of something wonderful and some stimulating conversation? Talk to me.
M

How about, No fuck off, there's a reason you go direct to voicemail.

Service journalism is the new black. Yes it is.

There’s always a danger with Shakespeare in particular for the director to want to make it different; to show fresh insight into characters and events. I imagine the lack of stage direction and the over interpretation of Shakespeare over the years prove irresistible. So I’m wondering what Declan Donnellan felt drawn to emphasize in the Cheek by Jowl production of Othello currently at BAM, because whatever it was I just couldn’t get with it. It was all over the place. I mean, yeah, I love the whole “we’re all on stage in life’s whirligig” angle, it kept it fast paced and the production down to three hours and fifteen minutes, which is all good when you have to rush back to Manhattan to meet your dealer in Pianos. But the characters were bipolar and just not credible, except maybe Iago, who I am assuming was loosely based on the cartoon germs you see in kitchen cleaner commercials, with his nasally speech impediment and hyperventilation. I pitied the Americans in the audience, even more than usual, as I had a hard time understanding anything he said. Oh note to Ben Brantley at NYT – that was NOT a working class accent, you twat, the character was just dressed unkempt and unshaved. He was a hipster with a voice as annoying as the sound of Desdemona’s heels on the stage. Actually, when I think about it, I think it was Welsh, so I might give you that one back, our Ben. No hard feelings, huh?

Hipster himself Declan Donnellan shows us a neat Cassio puking on stage scene and Bianca as an S&M dominatrix. Oooo racy. Othello on the other hand was such a waste. Nonso Anozie is so physically magnificent and his voice so magisterial, but we see him flip-flop [ha!] to a teetering wreck with impotently outstretched flailing arms. To and fro – where’s the in-between? Where’s the ache? Where’s the manifestation of his loss? It needs to be more than a very unconvincing epileptic fit. Not that I’ve actually SEEN an epileptic fit, mind, but you know. When Iago tells Othello to strangle his wife, Othello’s reaction was so piss poor that the audience actually laughed. And Desdemona. She was such a pain in the arse schizo I wanted to kill her myself. Screeching around the stage and then pretending it never happened. And she wasn’t even coked up at the time. Also Decco, I think you should have made Emilia a drunk. I’m not saying, I’m just saying.

If you want to see some decent Shakespeare go and check out Richard III at the Public.

I have't;--it is engender'd:--hell and night
Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light.

No shit Shakespeare. Now go and tell Declan Donnellan.

Dirty Tricks, indeed

So last night, after a couple of large glasses of Italian red, a nice rich Barbera D’Asti and fruity Dolcetto d'Alba with the Bruner I tripped my way to Dirty Tricks at the Public Theater. Arriving late, the usher made a big fuss, claiming that the sight of me had rendered him speechless. Fuck I though, I really must tweeze those hairs out of that mole on my nose. He flapped and escorted me to my seat at the front and on the corner next to two old crones. “Miss Maccers,” he said handing me back my ticket and a programme, “we really want to make sure that you have a wonderful evening.” The crones eyed me with intense curiosity and then loudly continued a conversation for my obviously sacred ears on how they were patronnes des arts and very important. I took out a notepad and watched, craftily out of the corner of my eye, as the scrawny monster next to me wet herself.

Dirty Tricks is a two hour monologue with Judith Ivey as Martha Mitchell, the wife of the Attorney General John Mitchell and details her involvement with the Watergate scandal set on August 8, 1974. It’s thirty minutes too long. Granted the median age of the audience was about 55, but I saw at least 10 snorers during the performance and that had nothing to do with the fabulous performance by Ms Ivey. It’s just too long without an intermission even though the use of other recorded media did keep the tempo up somewhat. What really disappointed me was the end, which just petered out. No bang. I understand that it took John Jeter five years to bring it to production but there was no relevance to the events of today, just when this is what could have given it a sharper edge. Dirty Tricks is of historical relevance only. Unless of course I am pigshit thick and missed it. Possibly, I was rather fuzzy headed.

Anyway, crone next door certainly wasn’t concentrating on the play. She was far too busy straining her myopia to get a glimpse of what ever I was writing down – crap I can’t read today actually. I tormented her for about an hour by covering most of it with spread fingers and then I decided to liven up her night and wrote on one page: PENIS VAGINA FISTING and left it uncovered. She jumped up in her seat in utter shock and spent the rest of the play staring at me directly and unabashed. Or maybe it was my hairy mole.

The New York Times - Gauging the Impact of a Bargain Dance Festival

"Ms. Selby, the Columbia Artists manager, was much harsher. She described Ms. Shuler, who is acknowledged in the dance world to be a master fund-raiser, as 'self-serving' in organizing the festival.
'She got the foundations to pay for her to fill the theater,' she said, and just at a time when other companies are trying to sell subscriptions and begin their series."

Oh dear Ms Selby, you are a cretin. If 2,700 people can see amazing dance for $10 a night this is all good, right? You know there is a thing called an audience?

Personally, I am sick to death of people trying to flog me subscription series and I would guess that I am not alone. If you are having problems filling subscriptions then you might want to think about alternative methods to fill the house. Not everyone feels comfortable about throwing down a couple of hundred of dollars to go and see 3 performances six months hence.

Hip replacement for US rock star

"US metal band Motley Crue's guitarist Mick Mars is recovering after undergoing hip replacement surgery. "

Ah bless.

My Gawker Personal Tag Line

Why you should get to know me: Because I can't be arsed to get to know you.

One of the problems of having a friend just out of rehab is that emails in capital letters scare the shit out of you. Especially when they say: I NEED YOUR HELP. PLEASE CALL ME.

So much so that eventually, when contact has been restored, you hear yourself saying, "Yeah sure the naked pictures. We can do those these weekend. Yeah whenever. Just let me know when you are free."

Drunk lady in the house

And for once it wasn’t me. I was alerted to her presence during the performance of “City of Brides” by the Big Dance Theater at the City Center’s Fall for Dance Sunday program. At $10 a seat the house was packed with an unusually enthusiastic audience. Unusually enthusiastic for dance. There was a large number of the usual audience suspects, emaciated ladies in their 60s, the pink blusher on their transparent skin not in any way detracting from the fact that they are, indeed, ghosts. But there was also a large number of people who don’t generally make it to performances and didn’t wait until the end of a piece before whooping and clapping which made the evening so much more fun and seemed to inspire the two dancers from the American Ballet Theater. It reminded me of the reception the prima ballerina got when she entered the stage in Don Quixote at the Ballet Nacional de Cuba in Havana when I was there in 1995.

Anyway, I was having a tough time trying to connect with the Big Dance Theater’s piece. The dancing on points was spectacular but I was bemused by the lifting up and crawling under of the skirts. It was getting monotonous and there was all this clapping going on. The clapping being what the drunk lady in the audience particularly enjoyed. So much so that she clapped with them, out of time, naturally, and then on her own when they stopped. She whooped. Which was when the grande dames in the audience turned on her with their vicious shushing. “Wha?” she yelled and kept on clapping. The intensity of the shushing grew until it almost drowned her out. “Wha? Wha?” she yelled again. She was answered only with a shushing so vicious I winced.

At half time, after she balled out the usher, she was escorted out of the theater by security. But not before she had flung her drink down in protest. The ladies from the Upper East side clustered and gossiped in hushed tones with admonitory glares. They would have grimaced I am sure if not for the Botox and the tightness with which their hair was pulled back into the kind of bun which screamed “I used to dance!” all on its very own. Probably naked with snakes, I always like to silently yell back at the yellowing coiff.

Once the large voluptuous lady had left the building, they grew more animated, if only with hand gestures, and obviously more condemning. Mmm, I thought, you were all shitscared. You should have been. She would have snapped you in two with a sneeze. When the lights came on and you realized whom it was that you had been agitating, I saw you all shrivel Wicked Witch of the Eastlike with the addition of water.

The last act on Sunday was a dance by Sidi Goma – the black Sufis of Gujarat.

A traditional occupation of African-Indian Sufis in Gujarat has been to perform sacred music and dance as wandering faqirs, singing songs to their black Sufi saint, Bava Gor. Sidi men and women perform sacred music and dance during rituals in the shrines to Bava Gor, and have lived on accepting alms for touring these devotional genres from villages to shrines for centuries. Their native African music styles, melodic and rhythmic structures, lyrics and musical instruments have mingled with local influences to form this final symbolic representation of African-Indian ness.

Christ, I thought as I looked a the dancers on the stage, with their skirts made from peacock feathers and face paint, you could make this shit up. Tell a bunch of hoo hahs in the Lincoln Center that you were managing a group of dancers who were keeping alive a tradition of dance from centuries ago and make sure their outfits involved a lot of shells. Who the fuck would know otherwise or call you out on it? I remember that shit Brazilian fusion band you booked 2 years ago for the festival. It doesn’t matter what they actually did on stage as long as there were drums and a lot of grimacing and chanting. As I watched the dancers’ skirts gradually come undone by accident as they performed solos this idea really gelled with me. It wasn’t until one of them did a move involving him on all fours a la push ups and as moving rapidly across the stage that I realized that I may not actually be being spoofed. This pleased the grand dames no end, who then ironically enough, started clapping and whooping along with the dancers. The gentleman seated next to me and with whom I had both shared and invoked unstoppable giggling through skirt falling off scenes leant over to me and whispered “These ladies obviously go to the Caribbean as sex tourists”. “Hey,” I told him, “There’s nothing wrong with that.” We erupted once more.

The finale of Sidi Goma’s piece:

Drum patterns that "speak" the zikr prayers in rhythm support the dancers who perform virtuosic feats of agility and strength, gradually reaching an ecstatic climax. While the music gradually gets more rapid and excited, the dances unfold with constantly evolving individual and small-group acts of animal imitations, climaxing in a coconut-breaking feat.

The coconuts were thrown into the air and then headbutted by the dancers. The shells and milk spurted out and over the translucent ladies in the front row. They clapped like they hadn’t had that much fun ever. I knew that they were secretly as pissed off as all hell. The amount of ruined Ferragamo must have been prohibitive. The serenity of Botox saved the day.

Myla - Holy, well, holy.

I think I may even prefer these to Agent Provocatuer.

Upon Hallowed Turf

Mark Morris Dance Theater Oct 3 2004

Joan Acocella introduced Mark Morris, resplendent in back shirt, red trousers and his signature man sandals, as having fallen in love with dance at the age of eight, who then went on to learn Flamenco, ballet and Balkan Dance and became a choreographer at the age of fifteen. I was seated next to a lady who had gone to school in Seattle with Morris. “He was off the charts” she said, “no one had any idea what he was on about at all. Crazy”

Mark Morris is a genius. You may not agree with me, but I am right. Ms Acocella at times almost seemed to remonstrate with him for his creative process in that dance is a direct result of the music. According to the philosophy of dance at Juilliard, on the other hand, dance should assert itself and should not be the little sister to music. Morris cut through her nasal droning with his delightfully bitchy humor and stunning flourishes of his hands. “There is a universal truth that music is the reason we dance,” he said, “with the exception of a strange period during New York in the 60s.” And then “Trisha Brown just found music a couple of years ago. I hear she’s thrilled.”

When Acocella declaimed that all dance comes from the pelvis, he arched an eyebrow behind his fan and said “Oh really?” Christ, I thought, I have always loved your work, now I absolutely love you.

Morris talked us through his thought process on 4 of his dances and watching him watch his monitor as they came up on the screens you could see his energy and anxiety come through. Occasionally he would instinctively demonstrate some of the moves and his body was instantly alive and beautiful. It was a treat to see the two pieces I hadn’t previously seen – one in which he was dancing from I think 1984 in his old style or, as Morris referred to it, the ancient style and the other which was from his time in Belgium where he had men and women on the stage as snowflakes in tutus and on points. Fabulous.

When a lady in the audience asked how he managed to keep his exuberance he raved about his work and his job. “I love it. I want to do more of it. I love my dancers. They are darling. I would never be able to have friends their age if I didn’t pay them. Oh hang on, I do.”

Morris’ goal is to create new dance weekly, practice Monday through Wednesday and then have performances in his space Thursday, Friday and Saturday. I can’t think of anything that would make me happier.

A Friday gift for all you young lovers out there

ET be warned. This will make you vomit. Mainly because I liked it.

You know how you all do exactly what I tell you? Well go and see Peter Dinklage in Richard III. It was incredible. I may have to stop carping on about how Americans can't do Shakespeare. I said may, not will.

Be warned: It's 3 hours 15 minutes long. I was exhausted at the end - the Public Theater sure has got some crappy seating going on in there and my back was killing me. And if you do TURN OFF YOUR PHONES unlike the retarded bitch behind me whose Hava fecking Nagila ring tone went off THREE fucking times. BITCH.

Aside: I think I have developed Station Agent Syndrome. I am sexually drawn to Mr Dinklage in an inexplicable way. I think it's his cute shoes.