the queen with the nappy hair (raising her fist)

Sometimes when the Universe has something to say to you, it says it in a whisper.
Other times, a shout.
Tonight, it was the voice of Jill Scott.
I saw her speak at the Union Square Barnes & Noble, there to promote her new book of poetry.
Now, I've been a fan of Sister Girl's since her first album. I saw the video for "Long Walk" on some late-night video show, and it absolutely knocked the breath out of me. I knew then this chick was going to be a star. Songs from her recent album consistently show up in the Most Played list in my iTunes. But I never knew that Ms. Scott considers herself a poet first, a singer second.
She started her talk tonight with that confession, and said that publishing a book of poetry has long been on her list of things to do before she dies. Other items on that list: Star in a Broadway play, win a Grammy (which she did this year), play Storm in an "X-Men" flick (she had some choice words for Halle Berry), and be a ballerina (good luck with that one, Big J).
Keeping a list like that, she said, helps keep you going. When you're having a crappy day, you can look at the list and say, "Shit -- I still got 75 more things to do."
Amen. That's exactly what I needed to hear today.

who are you wearing?

* How cool is this? Many thanks to Buzz, who's been hard at work putting together a kick-ass promo package for my funny pictures. Included: a T-shirt, flip book and apparently some stickers (?). I can't wait to see the hard copies.
* The Arcade Fire.
* Chad Jack. After letting the ATL have it on Saturday night, he flew back to NYC for a killer set at Avalon. I felt like I was back in ATL, due to the number of known former Southerners in the crowd. Spotted: La Femme Rikita, as well as her.
* Clear vision. The doc told me on Saturday to stop sleeping in my contacts, or else I'd not be able to stand wearing them at all in a few years. Scary stuff. I took her advice and today, oddly enough, the cloud is gone. Who knew?

lassie, get help

I have learned the hard way not to let the BF get his hands on the remote control.
We never had this problem in ATL. There, our roommate was often curled up asleep in the living room, and we never really turned on the TV in our bedroom.
But shortly after moving to NYC, the BF discovered the joys of digital cable. I remember one of our first nights here, I was working in the other room when I heard it: The unmistakable cadence of a Lifetime movie drifting through the apartment. Susan Lucci was involved. He was hooked. Sadly, so was I.
That's the thing. He has this mutant power to find the strangest -- and most strangely addictive -- programming in the cable wasteland.
The other night I caught him watching the City Council meeting, followed by "Gastineau Girls." I'm not sure which was more appalling.
This morning, it was "Paradetown USA." If you thought the Salute to Israel Parade was a riot when you saw it live, just wait for the taped recap.
Animal Planet is another favorite. Really, most any show involving animals. This morning we watched a double feature of "Lassie." Everything was going great until Mr. Wilson got his leg pinned under a boulder. At that point I was able to snap myself out of my semi-catonic state and go get some lunch. The BF was a little pissed that we didn't stick around to see what happened. Call it a hunch, but I'm betting that Lassie saved the day.
Tonight, it's more Animal Planet, followed by Tom & Jerry.
Makes me kinda miss Brad curled up on the couch, really.

at the corner of 8th and random

The thing about NYC is: This city is unpredictable. The BF and I stepped outside our apartment Saturday morning expecting to stroll down to Diner 24 for some pancakes with attitude. Instead, we discover 8th Avenue completely blocked off for as far as we can see in either direction, and some sort of street festival being assembled.
We're told this sort of thing happens almost every weekend, though not usually on a thoroughfare as big at 8th. The BF called it "Chinatown on Wheels," due to the overabundance of vendors selling $5 leather goods and sunglasses (and, yes, I bought a pair, ahem).
Unfortunately the weather didn't comply. It was a windy and wet 40-something as the day began, and remained cloudy and bleak most of the afternoon. This after an 80-degree afternoon on Wednesday. Unpredictable -- and kind of annoying.

but do we get the senior discount at shoney's?

The BF and I joke that when we're 60 we're not going to have anything left to do, because we're knocking out all the Old People Attractions early. This weekend proves the point.
It turned out to be one of the single best weekends we've had since moving to NYC, so here's a brief play-by-play:
Friday: Millions. Very cute little fable. Precocious kids, dead mom, visions of saints. See it.
Saturday: More exploring, this time the Lower East Side, which remains an enigma. After that we hit Urban Outfitters for jeans from the sale rack. (Group topic: What was the first store that made you feel a generation gap? Discuss.)
That night we saw the taping of A Prairie Home Companion, which was awesome. OK, yes, we were the two youngest people there by about 25 years. So what? Madeleine Peyroux kinda sucked, and acted like someone had insulted her shoes backstage, but Brooklyn bluegrass singer (um, what?) Jen Larson stole the show. Garrison was great, as expected.
Sunday: The BF surprised me by renting a car and announcing we were going to spend the day driving up along the Hudson. What he didn't do was plan an itinerary for us, which meant I had about 15 minutes to frantically print out as many Yahoo! maps as possible before we hit the road.
I'm a total planner, and the BF completely is not. He's fine just flinging himself into the wild blue Thruway and blindly hoping it all works out well. We're like Yin/Yang on vacation: He's the Impulsive, I'm the Compulsive. I suppose you need a little of both for success.
Our first stop was Sleepy Hollow, site of Washington Irving's home and some big (read: boring) manse that we stopped at briefly. Even we're not that old.
Next was Beacon, home of the Dia:Beacon arts center, which was well worth the trip. An amazing space, with equally amazing artwork.
After that, more driving, which meant tolls. And more tolls. And more tolls. Southerners aren't used to such. I think we spent as much on toll fares as we did to rent the car.
Two exits later -- and the exits are a lifetime apart -- we set out in search of Woodstock. Turns out the music festival wasn't actually held there, but don't tell that to hordes of hippies playing drum circles in the streets. Oddly enough, the whole place apparently closes up shop at 6 p.m. You'd think those old stoner dudes would keep the party going at least until 8.
Our last stop was New Paltz, where we had dinner with Swimmer Jeff. It's a little college town which made me not miss college one bit.
Back in the city, and after a brief detour of getting lost in Queens, I was exhausted. It's a good thing we're doing all the Old Folks stuff now because I'll need to rest when I'm 60.

poetry is no place for a heart that's a whore

Early in my journalism career I decided I did not want to be a news reporter, because I didn't like the idea of calling people at work and asking them questions they didn't want to answer. Instead, I chose the path of arts and entertainment writing. It's more critical, often more personal and — best of all — usually doesn't involve phone interviews.
Or so I thought.
Approximately 800 phone interviews later, you would think I would be good at them by now. I've chatted up actors, artists, authors, choreographers, DJs, drag queens, celebrities and wannabes.
And I'm here to tell you, it's still hard. I still get a little freaked out in the hours leading up to the phone call. I usually double my caffeine intake the morning of the interview, which probably doesn't help matters.

Once the person is on the phone, I try to take the approach I learned from one of my old Loaf buddies and just shoot the shit with the subject, not necessarily sticking to a prescribed set of questions. But that rarely works. I always end up going way off topic and having to double back around to some ridiculous soft-ball question from my notes. Which then makes me feel like an even bigger idiot and more of a fraud.
One thing that's not taught in journalism school is the fact that those in the entertainment industry largely hate giving interviews. And they should, because they get asked the same lame ass questions over and over again. That's why most celebrity interviews suck. "I'm so excited to be back on the road blah blah blah can someone please just fucking shoot me now?"
Therefore, I try to mix it up in my interviews and come at it from a different angle.
Which is fine, until it backfires.

Today I had the chance to interview Martha Wainwright, who Lucas has been gushing over lately. After hearing her debut CD this week, I could see why. It's amazing.
The song "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole" might be my favorite track of the year so far, and it definitely wins the award for most in-your-face song title of 2005.
So, like Lucas, I was also gushing when I finally got Martha on the phone. I say "finally" because my cell phone is a Bloody Mother Fucking joke these days, and never seems to work when I most need it to.
Martha's voice in the interview was coarse, as on the album, and I had the sense that she really didn't have time to talk to me. Things started off fine and then, as always, I freaked out, just a little. I asked her about a song, "Lolita," which actually doesn't appear on this album. I didn't realize that I had downloaded it a while back and imported it into my iTunes, which is why I thought it was on the new release. She freaked, just a little, and made me read her the song list to make sure I had been listening to the right album. Let's just say the interview after that was barely shy of a disaster. Who's the Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole now?

Earlier this week I interviewed Junior Vasquez, who was distant at first (as I'd been warned he would be) but warmed up by the end of our conversation. I left that phone call feeling like maybe I had improved after all these years.
But days like today make me realize that maybe I should just stick to giving advice on dating or, better yet, drawing my funny pictures and leaving the interviews to fledgling writers who are still too green to realize what a sham the whole business is.

the news from lake wobegon

In honor of Frank Green, a list.

* I'm so freakin' excited I was able to score tickets to Garrison Keillor. (See earlier comment about the nursing home.)
* The theme of our weekend: Photographs of children in India. Exhibit A. Exhibit B.
* At last, sunshine.
* Note to self: The gym called. They miss you.
* Our social Siberia seems to have ended. We were turning down drink invitations left and right this weekend. Which is probably not a good strategy for continuing the thaw.
* Girlyman. It took a few listens but now I'm hooked.
* Captain D is rocking the blogosphere. A must read. Meanwhile, welcome to TJ.
* Chuck Palahniuk. I just finished Lullaby and I'm still speechless.
* Fenton Johnson
* Did I mention sunshine?

ink stains

The package arrived in the mail yesterday, and I wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or elated.
It's now official. I'm a published porn writer.
What happened was this: Two years ago, JP and I were working at the Loaf. His friend Chris mentioned a call for short stories dealing with gay men and tattoos. The stories, so said the editor of the anthology, were to be "erotically charged," but not necessarily pornographic. The collection was to be titled "Men & Ink," which sounded at least borderline literary. We all bit.
As a sort of competition, JP, Chris and I took to the keyboard and came up with three (somewhat) twisted tales of illustrated men. I'll have to say Chris beat us both with his story of a trick from the Eagle. He claims it's complete fiction, ahem. JP came up with a fascinating vignette of life as an army brat, which he's since reworked into an even more pointed insight into early teen longing. And then there was my weird little story, inspired by a conversation I'd had with a long-lost college aquaintance. I wrote it in one night, then sent it in the next afternoon.
Oddly enough, JP's story, which was much better than mine, didn't make the cut. Maybe mine got in because there's anal sex hinted at.
And so now, many months later, the book arrives. Only it's now called "Skin & Ink," which sounds a lot kinkier. And the whole affair looks about as literary as a glory hole and a bottle of poppers.
Still, it's cool to see my name listed in the TOC. Just please, don't tell my mother.

15 friends, 30 years, 40 degrees

I'm pretty pissed at Mother Nature right now.
This is our third day in a row of amazing weather in NYC -- the first real taste of spring since I moved here. It's cloudy but a nice 74; yesterday was sunny and 70.
Why does this suck? Because this weekend, when I had a surprise visit from 15 of my closest friends, we got hit by driving rain and temps in the 40s. Just gross, and I'm betting most of those guys went home wondering why in the holy hell the BF and I would move to such a dreary place.
Despite the pissy precipitation, I still managed to have an amazing weekend. The BF had teamed up with Taures to plot my 30th birthday party, and I'll have to say they did a great job keeping the plans secret. OK, yes, I did know that some folks were coming to town, and I did do some prying beforehand to try and figure out who. (I'm a journalist -- prying is my job!)
What I did not expect was to walk into a bar on Friday night and have everyone gathered there already. They were hidden in a curtained off corner of the bar, and yelled "surprise" when the curtain was pulled back. The BF claims that I didn't look surprised, but that's simply not true. I was mainly trying to figure out how he got to the bar before I did.
Anyway, the weekend turned out to be an unforgettable experience. Well, from what I remember of it. Truth is I started drinking Friday afternoon when Taures got here and pretty much partied on through until Monday morning. Crazy.
The weather didn't stop us from bar-hopping, but I'll have to say some of the most fun times of the weekend were spent either here in my apartment (where we repeatedly watched excerpts from "The Wiz" -- yay) or in Bryan's hotel room, where folks gathered after our Saturday night adventures. I guess I'm getting old, because I get pretty bored in bars and clubs these days; I tend to have more fun with smaller groups in quieter settings. Next stop: The nursing home.
I also did not expect the gift the BF presented at dinner. Seems he's also been plotting with JP, and has booked a trip for us to spend a week in Spain in May.
God, I hope it's sunny there.