Saturday Night's All Right. . . well, almost all right.

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Originally uploaded by CBlock.

It seemed for a while there that SNL was having something of a revival. New writers were turning out great, off-the-wall sketches, older ones were hitting their stride. They were even making stuff that was genuinely. . . memorable ("Dick in a Box" anyone?). This week, I was looking forward to it enough that I actually turned it on at 11:30 on the dot, only to be reminded why you call a good episode "pleasantly surprising." They usually suck.

The best thing I can say is that instead of giving us a few unfunny and overlong sketches, they gave us lots of short unfunny sketches. So at least they're writing more. Seemed like Andy Samberg was finally getting his big break this week, with his "Lazy Sunday" and "Dick in a Box" fame finally translating to more in-studio face time. Too bad he squandered it on Nicole Richie-thin sketches about an annoying kid and a white guy who can't rap. At least he had the restraint not to make that second sketch about how "black guys dance like this, but white guys be all like this." Maybe he's saving that for next week.

Stephen Jenkins, Nostradamus of the '90s

Crystal meth is much in the news these days: documentaries on PBS, extravagant and on-going reportage by some of the nation’s top newspapers, and several bills pending in congress. It’s the scourge of the new millennium, and it took us all by surprise. Right?

Actually, it’s been on our cultural radar (at least among those of us who actually listen to the lyrics of commercial radio: why we do that is still up in the air) for almost a decade. It was way, waaaay back in 1997 when diminutively-bearded chanteur Stephen Jenkins (Third Eye Blind) warned us all in their break-out hit Semi-Charmed Life:

Doing crystal meth
will lift you up until you break
it won’t stop

I took the hit that I was given
And I bumped again
And I bumped again.

How could our nation’s poor and our nation’s club goers resist what even leather-jacket sporting 90s soft-rockers were powerless against? Social Scientists would do well to examine the current Top 40 rotation to spot problems which might crop up in 2017. . . will Jesus really begin taking the wheel of hundreds of thousands of motorists? Will someone really take “what’s left” of Nick Lachey? Will someone finally rescue Rhianna and save her from Whitney Houston-style implosion, lalala lalala la-lalala-oh? We’ll just have to wait and see.

Mommy and Me. Okay, Mommy and Mommy.

You know, it would be easy to draw a caricature of women who choose to give birth via artificial insemination as self-centered, career-driven type A personalities who can barely stop keeping up with the Joneses long enough to have some stranger's sperm dribbled inside of them. So, it's nice that the NY Times' cover profile of these women helps dispel this wholly unfounded rumor. To wit:

"This baby will be my baby, only my baby," Karyn told me that night at Caliente Cab. "The thing I'm afraid of is that after doing this, I might not want to get married. It seems like a lot of hard work, a lot of compromise. . .

"They got a child out of love, and the parents couldn't deal with one another," Daniela, who asked that I use only her first name, told me. "And now she lives in Germany; he lives here. He doesn't pay any money if he doesn't see the child. So there's a constant battle over it. The child is torn in between. She has to deal with the father. I won't have to deal with the father."

And that this whole thing isn't an exercise in totally shallow eugenics:

"Her solution: a 6-foot-2 Catholic, German stock on both sides, with curly blond hair and blue eyes. "He really was the typical Aryan perfect human being," she said, laughing. "He was a bodybuilder. He played the guitar and the drums, and he sang. He was captain of the rugby team in college. . ."

Oh, wait. Well, at least someone is finally helping those blond, athletic 6-2 men reproduce.

Old-Time Goodness

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Originally uploaded by CBlock.

This may be kind of old news (as it’s literally old news), but bear with me. Last Thursday, on St. Patrick’s Day Eve, the night we all hang our pint glasses by the chimney with care, the NY Times ran a page one story about Irish immigrant groups bringing heat to the issue of immigration reform (presumably because they’re white). This is already old-timey enough, conjuring thoughts of hard-drinking, knife-fighting Irish immigrants circa 1902, wearing funny hats, dancing jigs and being mercilessly beaten by xenophobic mobs. But then comes this turn of phrase just before the point the article flies away from page one to some section no one cares about: |

"Some in the immigrant coalitions resent being passed over, and worry that the Irish are angling for a separate deal. Others welcome the clout and razzmatazz the Irish bring to a beleaguered cause.

Yes, that’s right. The much-needed commodity Irish immigrants bring to the immigration debate that’s been roiling America since. . . well, before we were ever “Americans” is “razzmatazz.” But will they have the moxie to get America off its Cross of Gold?

Seriously, though a Google News search proves this word to be less out-of-date than I thought. . . who is writing at the Times? Mr. Burns? James A. Garfield? I won't go all crazy and invite the Grey Lady into the 21st Century, but maybe the mid-20th?

Celebrity Fish Story

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Originally uploaded by CBlock.

I went to a certain magazine's party last night, which was supposed to feature a DJ set from a certain high-profile DJ who's only a little past his due date. Given the fanciness of the invite and the promise of two OTHER celeb DJs, my little heart was a twitter with the promise of the evening. Walking three avenue blocks in 40 MPH wind? Pshaw. Standing in line for about 30 minutes in this same pushing wind, which felt more or less like being attacked by a thousand tiny ice knives? I said nothing, as I'm not one to whine.

Once inside, I was struck by the. . .well, ordinariness of the venue. Where were the glitterati? The arty signage? The free copies of the magazine? Shit, where is there even anywhere to stand?

After about an hour of standing next to the waitress station (literally the only space big enough for my g/f and I to stand that had remotely room enough for us to move our arms to drink), we managed to make it accross the room to a tiny platform my friend had been sitting on. We knew where each other were, but 20 feet away through that sea of fabulousness might as well have been the moon.

No less than five minutes after making our bold move to new territory, a huge and sheepish-looking bouncer came around to inform us all we had to vacate the platform. Everyone. He did look genuinely sorry, as he knew he was pushing us into a packed house where crowd surfing was basically the only option to secure a spot. "Is someone important coming?" I asked. "I dunno, man. They just told me I had to get everyone out."

Fair enough, but also an obvious call for us to get the hell out. The open bar was over, anyway.

A Couple of Envelopes

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Originally uploaded by CBlock.

Here's two Envelopes, from the show the other night. Oh, Europeans. Also, this is THE FIRST PHOTO I HAVE EVER POSTED OMG!!

The Envelopes, Mercury Lounge, 3/14/06

Saw the European Union of pop last night,The Envelopes at Mercury Lounge. They make a kind of taught and spare pop not unlike my friends Human Television, except they have a bit more europop bounce to them. Unsurprising, as they're made up of Brits, Swedes, and some other random Euros. The day a Swede makes a bad pop song is the day .. . something else unlikely happens.

I went on the recommendation of my roommate, as he's almost-probably-going to put out a single by them in the "singles club" he's about to start. Are singles clubs the "fixer-uppers" of the early 20s set, by the way? I mean, this is the vanity project a lot of my friends seem to be sinking their cash into. I personally think they just need to drink more, but if you want to "save money" so you can "do something that interests you," then you're obviously too insane to have a reasonable conversation with.

Anyway, the band was fun, is the point. And even though they're a semi-buzzed-about band making their first US appearance, the show was sparcely attended. Something I wish I would've known before I spent an hour and a half running around town so I could be there THE VERY SECOND the doors opened to make sure I got my tix. That's the last time I do that.

I've got some pics I want to put up, but my phone (yes, I took them with my cameraphone. You wanna fight about it?) is at home, so I'll have to do it later.

Let's Get This Shit Cracking

Today is the day I realized I don't really need to have anything special to say to make a post on my blog. I've written something like 5 entries in the last few months, but abandonded them all about halfway through because I thought they weren't interesting enough. As true as this might be, a blog is no place for doubts about whether the gooey center of my brain is interesting enough for other people to read. Not that anyone is reading this, anyway. So, I'm going to try to up my post quotient from "once every four months" to "once a day." Let's see how this goes.

And it just keeps going

Transit Strike 2005 just keeps trucking along, and I'm beginning to feel a little guilty about my telecommuting. I'm watching the people walking accross the Brookyln Bridge, and I'm seeing the crazy traffic, and it's like I'm watching Darfur or the tsunami. Or at least it's equally far removed from my very well-heated and spacious Brooklyn apartment. I live in Bed-Stuy, and as I've been telling myself (and my co-workers, and my boss), there really is no way I could walk to work. My office is in midtown (the 50's) and there basically is no way in hell I could walk in.

A big part of the Transit Strike 2005 is people having reactions. What's the reaction of those crossing the Brooklyn Bridge? People stuck in traffic? TWU members marching around wherever it is that they walk around in front of? The fact that "This sure sucks" is the unwavering answer hasn't stopped our intrepid media folk from asking. Yesterday's Daily News probes for some celebrity reactions, and turns up this from "Saturday Night Live" castmember and "comedian" Darrell Hammond, who you may better remember as the only unfunny person in Anchorman:

"I normally take the 1 and the 2 downtown to do standup, because it's much faster. Today I am doing the shared cabs, where they can stop and pick up four fares, but it's not easy to find one. I'm trying to get to the East Side, and it's a parking lot. I'm not mad at anyone. I think you'll find a more meaningful dialogue as talks continue. New York is a special place."

Wow. That's great, Darrell. Could you do me a favor, funnyman, and make a fucking joke? It's okay to laugh at it: nobody's dead. Except, obviously, your sense of humor.