The Office

My name is Resalin Rago and I have an office.

It's quiet, has plenty of storage space, and, best of all, tons of sunlight when the garage door opens.

Yep. I've set up shop in my mommy's garage. It's not much and certainly not what I had in mind after graduating from a top 5 J-school, but it's my own think tank and no one disturbs me, unless of course my mom pulls up in her SUV.

The Bargain

The following is my theory on why the Cowboys can't win a play0ff game, and now, after the jaw-dropping loss to the Eagles, won't even get to play in post season.

Jerry Jones made a bargain with the Devil.

I think that in order to come up with the billions of dollars, euros, rupees, and solid gold bars needed to build his shrine in Arlington, Jones struck a deal with the greatest conman ever.

Seriously y'all. This is just embarrassing.

For post game commentary and a look at Romo's dapper chapaeau, click on:
http://www.dallascowboys.com/multimedia/multimedia_center.cfm?id=80B7C1A6-E8D5-52EF-29F1423468A42132

It's good to be TO:
http://www.dallascowboys.com/multimedia/multimedia_center.cfm?id=80CBCB28-A7A2-6505-7A44C24D67DCED1A

A Christmas Wish

Dear Santa,

This year, all I want is for Texas to install a massive public railway system so that I don't have to buy a car. This is a very selfless wish. Not only would it be good for the environment but it would also keep the insurance rates for Asian drivers at a low (for them) premium. Must I remind you of the time I ran into Mike Herman's car in the student parking lot in front of the whole senior class. Or the time I backed into a minivan at the country club. Or the time I ran over a wheelbarrow on 75 which coincidentally spun my then boyfriend's mom's Lexus across three lanes of traffic before finally ending up on the shoulder facing the wrong direction.

So Santa...I know that I already gave you my Christmas list when I saw you at Macy's with Liz and Melanie but if you could add this wish to the top of the list, I would be most grateful.

Best,
Resalin

PS. If you're looking for homemade cookies, you won't find it at Judy's house. All of her cookies (regardless of what Mr. Bruce might think) come from a plastic bucket or a handy single-serving-just-add-1-tbsp mix that you stir and zap in the microwave for 45 seconds, 55 if you prefer your cookies crispy.

Happy Fucking Birthday Britney!

Britney Jean Spears turned 27 today. She is an adult and has been legal for nine years now. She’s not a girl, but according to the judges, she’s still not a woman and not adult enough to make any decisions: She can’t drive; She has no say in the hiring and firing of her personnel; She can’t freely spend her fortune. And, based on her new album, the 27-year-old can’t say “fuck” in the studio either.

Fuck: It’s probably one of my favorite words and much to my mommy’s chagrin, one I use quite often. It’s also in Brit’s lexicon as she dropped the F-bomb in the MTV tell-all. But there was no cursing, none, in Circus. No damn, hell, shit. Nothing. She can sing about partying all night, beating up photogs, and even phone sex, but when it comes to using four-letter words, Jive makes her use shitty PG stand-ins like “effing” and “fugly.” The sixth track, If You Seek Amy, is a three-minute fuckimism. (Say the phrase “If You Seek Amy” quickly enough and you’ll hear what I mean).

I’m not pro-potty word. You don’t need use them to have a hit song or to purport an edgy image. (We know that Brit can do edgy quite well). I know replacements are necessary, especially when children are present, but they need to stay in Dodge minivans. There’s no place for them in pop culture.

I would have to agree with many of the critiques out there and say that Circus is almost as good as Blackout. The ballads—saccharine, trite, and badly executed—severely drag the greatness factor down. I would add Kill the Lights, Circus, Phonography, Shattered Glass (the gay man’s perfect post break-up song and this album’s Stronger), and Unusual You to her second Greatest Hits album.

I’m glad that Justine and I went to Virgin at midnight to buy the album and I know that sometime soon, Circus will be on and I’ll be dancing around in my bra and panties, joyously singing along—even during the not-so naughty parts.

Dudeman: It's pronounced "Wa-lay" (apparently).

Wale Folarin








Mark Ronson sans velvet


Mark Ronson playing the electric sitar with Danie Merriweather's band


Daniel Merriweather and the Dap Kings


Daniel Merriweather

Alright. The comments on the last post established the fact that I can't decipher lyrics: "illegal woman" for "mean, evil woman," "secret Asian man," for "secret agent man," etc. Whatever. There's a lot of people who are similarly afflicted. If I may refer y'all to the Friends episode where Phoebe mistakenly combined John Elton's Tiny Dancer with Who's the Boss "Tony Danza" which resulted in the bastard lyric "Hold me closer Tony Danza."

But after last night's show at SOB's, I've come to the realization that I'm not so good with names either. Wale Folarin's first name is pronounced "Wah-lay" not "Wally" and is most certainly NOT a homophone of "whale," (as in Moby Dick, Willy, and Shamu), which is how I've been pronouncing it. Alex, the PR guy for SOB corrected me at last night's show.

After we finally got in (we had to wait outside for half an hour because SOB was at capacity since Allido records added 700 people to the guest list at the last minute), we scored a sweet spot close to the small, raised stage, right behind photogs from legit publications. They had their "professional" black Nikkons and I had my Sony Cyber-shot that Judy and Kathy gave me for my 24th birthday. Despite my amateur equipment, I think that I walked away with some pretty good shots.

I'm there as long as Wale doesn't brag about the Redskins.

DC rapper Wale Folarin has a high opinion of himself. Listed after “Sounds Like” on his myspace page, Folarin wrote:
“Think of what a deaf person’s interpretation of very good music would sound like ...multiplied by your favorite song’s impact when you knew you loved it, multiplied by what would happen if music never existed until you heard it, add a million to that and you’d be 1/100000 of the way to understanding my sound.”

So Wale’s music is lyrically mind blowing and inspirational….like Dangerous Minds mashing with Mr. Holland’s Opus; Coolio over Gershwin; band director’s paradise indeed (hold the Astroturf). That’s the kind of impact his music has on one’s tympanic membrane: His rhymes makes them bust faster than flying at 30,000 feet above sea level without any gum to relieve the pressure. That shit be booming…or so he claims.

Rappers talk game; that’s what they do. They can only talk about weed, prison, bitches, head, Cadillacs, lip gloss, booties, Superman, dollar$, sex, and mammas so much before the discussion veers onto bigger and better things: their sheer awesomeness.



But my jealousy is getting the best of me. I have a healthy respect for the bionic wordplay of rap superstars and I’m being unfair and snarky because I find myself opening rhyming dictionaries and looking up entries for simple monosyllabic words like “cake” or “purse.” There’s no way I can perform rhyming social commentary that’s entertaining and on beat. Yet Folarin in “WALEDANCE” manages to allude to the steroid epidemic and brag about his lingual prowess in the second verse:

“And I must admit
I bring creatine to the scene
Your developmental league don’t see a team
I got a stitch lil nigga
You can see my seam…”

Or brag about his “headspace:”
I get brain everyday, I’m a know-it-all

Or drop names:
“My climate is way higher then Lindsay Lohan’s nostrils on powder
Sorry Mark I don’t want offend your sisters good friend
But when my pen get in
It pretends it’s a soul and an entity,
And it interferes and gets the best of me…”

He’s good times and I’ll be at SOB’s tomorrow at 8 PM to see if Folarin can c-walk the walk, and talk the talk. Check out www.myspace.com/wale for more info and some awesome pictures of Miss Lohan and company.

Folarin, Daniel Merriweather, Rhymefest, the great, velveted Mr. Mark Ronson, (and perhaps some pop tartlets) will be shaking things up go-go style tomorrow night. Fun times and facebook photo ops to be had indeed.

The BRIT is BACK.

What can I say besides I told you so!

It's not surprising that Brit's team decided to piggyback off the video's debut before releasing "Womanizer" on iTunes. We all know that she's more of a performer than a vocalist anyways.

At last...WOMANIZER

Britney's new single from her upcoming album (set to drop on her birthday) is certainly catchy and that's putting it kindly. It's the most infectious, no, most ear-worming of all her singles. It enters the ear canal, tunnels into the cerebellum and sets up house. Before the second chorus is over, the song has house plants, matching bathmats, and plastic covering on the couches. The beast is a squatter.

And I consider myself a loyal Britney fan.

It's not the droning beat (if you can even call it that. It's more like a buzzing airplane than a beat)
that bothers me. It's the fact that "womanizer" is half-sung/half-spoken 40 times in three minutes.

Chorus: Womanizer, Wo-womanizer, You're a womanizer, Oh--Womanizer, Oh--You're a Wo-womanizer,
You, You-you are, You, You-you are,
Womanizer, Womanizer, Womanizer, Womanizer.
Boy don't try to front, I know-know just what you are.
Boy don't try to front, I know-know just what you are.
You, (you got me going), You, oh so slimy.
But I can't do it. You Womanizer.

Boy don't try to front, I know-know just what you are.
Boy don't try to front, I know-know just what you are.

You say I'm crazy, I got you crazy.
You're nothing but a womanizer.

Seriously?

AND. If you count the title, "Womanizer" (shocking!), it's 41 times.

ACL: Day 2

Austin City Limits: Day Two

The festival was more crowded than the day before; everyone that planned on attending made it. It was game day and Austinites wore burnt orange and cheered for their Longhorns who were battling the Razorbacks at Royal Memorial stadium from Zilker Park.

At halftime, TX was up 31-3, Sharon Stone and the Dap Kings have finished their set and Brooklyn’s MGMT was playing a main stage. I walked over to the designated area but it wasn’t long before I met a wall of people and had to stop two football fields away from the stage. All I saw in front of me were the red necks of hipsters who should have put on sunscreen before putting on their fluorescent wayfarers. MGMT’s crowd was as big as the one that amassed at their free show in Williamsburg but this was in Texas for Pete’s sake! It was all too much. I didn’t want to fight the newly American-Appareled rookies from Austin and the veteran hipsters from northern climes. I left soon after Electric Feel for Conor Oberst and The Mystic Valley Band and open air.

After Oberst was Dallas-native Erykah Badu, her natural freshly teased (she left her pick in for safe keeping) and glowing like only a hot, pregnant woman could. But her delicate condition didn’t prevent her from delivering a passionate performance or from proselytizing. Badu cut into her performance when she used the stage as a soapbox for at least ten minutes. She had just started singing Honey when a timekeeper gave her a warning. Badu then ditched the new single in favor of crowd-favorite Tyrone (minus a verse) and she exited on time, dancing all the while to Lil’ Wayne’s A Millie.

Beck, along with Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, were Saturday’s headliners. Both played an amazing set, or so I’ve heard. I didn’t make it to the west side of the park for Plant and Krauss, choosing to stay on the east side for Beck’s entire show. While ACL offers fans a wide variety of acts, one of its biggest drawbacks is that fans have to choose between them. Should I go to Gnarls Barkley or The Raconteurs? M. Ward or Gogol Bordello?

But Beck didn’t let me down. Technically sound, innovative and expansive, his set and the crowd response it drew carried across Zilker’s expanse over to the competing show. “Their [Plant and Krauss] music was beautiful but you could hear Beck because it’s so mellow,” said one ACL attendee who was on my flight back to New York. Well Mr. Plant, Ms. Krauss, you’ll have to excuse the Beckheads. In his defense, you can’t not sing along when Beck—Beck!—is onstage singing Loser or Devil’s Haircut. Just try to keep mum. I double-dog dare you.

ACL: Day 1, Pt. 2

Austin City Limits: Friday, Day One

After flying south with Jakob Dylan (he, sprawled out across two leather seats in first class; me, flanked by two big-boned passengers in coach), I arrived in sunny Austin, TX for day one of Austin City Limits, a 3-day music festival with eight stages, local vendors, makeshift head shops selling custom-made glassware, countless cans of beer, and oh yeah, about a jillion bands.

It was past two o’clock pm and ninety degrees by the time the shuttle dropped me off at Zilker Park and the sweet smell of sun-baked (and lighter-lit) grass was high in the air. I could hear the last five minutes of TK as I walked to Patty Griffin’s show at AMD, one of the four main stages. Fans had claimed their area by planting festive flags and were waiting patiently on picnic blankets and lawn chairs for the singer-songwriter. The flags were everywhere. From American to Australian, store-bought or homemade, the cheerful banners represented the various tribes who migrated to Zilker for the weekend. They also functioned as landmarks for fans that had strayed from home base. (Finding a familiar sweaty face amongst the thousands of other sweaty faces proved to be a difficult task after sunset).

While Mars Volta played a show worthy of their headline status, Hot Chip was also a hot ticket. Their set was Revenge of the Nerds: The Musical. Dressed in white coveralls and thick glasses (my 5th grade math teacher had the same pair), Alexis Taylor totally owned lead geek status. I’d never heard the electropopers before, but I quickly joined the party. Listening to Hot Chip is like going on a Super Mario binge without the guilt of wasting a beautiful day indoors. You find yourself grooving to strange beeps and clicks except there are no Luigi or magic mushrooms, just five Brits who make really cool sounds with strange instruments.

Austin City Limits: Day 1, Pt. 1

I landed in Austin-Bergstrom International ten minutes early--go Continental! Slept the whole flight sandwiched between an Indian man and a big White guy who looked very uncomfortable. His knees pushed right up against the seat in front of him and he had tried to squeeze his wide frame within the arm rests so as not to invade my personal space, but it just wouldn't happen. Poor thing. I was woken up several times by accidental elbow nudging.

Amber, Jason, and I had lunch at Magnolia and now we're back at the casa waiting for Stew God They're napping and I'm trying to wait patiently. Maybe we'll make it to Zilker Park before Vampire Weekend's set is over. I'd love to see if the Columbia alums are making headway with UT students.

More later..much, much more!
Resalin

PS. Jakob Dylan was on my flight. His blue eyes are unmistakable, even underneath a fishing cap. He was sitting in first class, of course, and I passed by him on my way to seat in coach. He was already asleep, sprawled out on two leather seats. One of those could have been mine Jakob!

Do You Want To Be A Canadian Rap Superstar?

Everybody knows who Akon is. The Senagalese rapper has made millions of people smack it on the dance floor. Everyone has heard his nasal, yet surprisingly catchy voice half-sing hooks for American rap stars like Eminem.

But who's the guy rapping with Akon in Dangerous and why does he want me to make his "black snake moan?" His name is Jason Harrow and he hails not from the islands like his dance hall beats suggest, but from Canadia--Scarborough, Ontario even.

Harrow is known as Canada's hip-hop ambassador. Indeed he's worked with artists who are regulars on Billboard charts: Rihanna, Jay-Z, Pharell, and Sean Paul. But while he's earned industry cred for his notable singles (BaKardi Slang, Ol' Time Killin'), Dangerous was my first introduction to Harrow's work. I didn't like it at first because Akon's voice grates on tympanic membranes; everytime I'd hear the single on a top 40 station, I'd turn the dial. But the first time I head Kardinal rapping about "Jessica P" and "trying to give a home girl sex in the city-ti-ty", I knew that there was a reason why Kardinal's Dangerous is No. 22 on the iTunes chart. (I also spent $1.08 for the single). Let's ignore the sexist lyrics and just have fun! Dudeman: Anybody that can use a biscuit as a vehicle in a metaphor has my vote.

August 13, 2008 (Happy Anniversary New York!)

My feet are ugly now. They used to be so pretty and so delicate—small and well taken care of. I indulged in pedicures twice a month. The ladies at the nail salon in Addison, TX knew my face, and my size 5 ½ feet. They knew I liked to bring my own nail polish—small bottles of OPI in varying shades of black and red—and for my 25^th birthday, I brought gold, a color I’d never worn before. It was summer and I wanted to be golden all over. My toes were lacquered gold one year and one month ago.

Now, my feet are dry, covered in blisters and calluses, and the red, Essie polish is chipping. The nails are uncomfortably long and push up against my running shoes. One nail has fallen off, choosing to defect instead of hang around for abuse and neglect. Its replacement is growing in green and bumpy. It looks more like a wart than a nail. There is a small patch of black hair on each of my big toes. The hairs are coarse and have a tendency to stick straight up in a defiant stance, like they’re daring me to shave them off. Sometimes I accept and mow the hairs down with my razor. Now, more often than not, the insurgent strands grow long and strong under my ignorant and lax rule.

I blame New York for my feet’s disgraceful state. The metropolis was fourth in a poll which ranked the top walkable cities—and I believe it. Walking the miles and miles and miles of sidewalks have maimed and marred what was once a source of confidence for me, and have reduced them to a source of insecurity. I’ve started covering them in socks and sneakers to shield them from disapproving eyes. Summer is agony. Espadrilles, peep toes, and flip-flops taunt me constantly. The season’s airy footwear reminds me of the glory days when my feet were sun-bathing appropriate. Little about them now is glorious or appropriate, but it’s simply too hot to hide the poor, unsightly darlings. Too much heat induces sweat and sweat causes odor, so I wear sandals and risk public ridicule because it’s much easier to avert one’s eyes than to escape rank odor. Even baby powder can’t mask the pervasive stench of feet—something that smells like rotting garbage soaked in vinegar.

The city is too expensive and I’ve no allowance for pedicures. I’d rather eat or buy a cocktail than treat my feet. If I do get a pedicure, I make the hour-long trek to Astoria where I can get a mani-pedi for $20—and they shave off the calluses. Tomorrow, to celebrate my one-year anniversary of living in the Big Apple, I’m going to take the yellow line to Queens. I’m going to visit my nail salon and pick out a bottle of red, Essie nail polish. Then, I’m going to relax in the massage chair and let the nice Mexican lady shave, massage, and polish because I’m going back to Texas in ten days and I can’t let my home state know that New York City has gotten to me—or my feet.

Lesson Learned

I’m just an intern. I do mass mailings. I unpack boxes. I offer to get lattes in the hopes that coffee runs will garner a good rec at the end of my four-month stint. But I’m lucky enough to intern for a publication that gives me editorial assignments instead of typical admin bullshit expected of bottom-rung feeders. And when prized opportunities arise, like doing red carpet interviews with Chris Brown, Ne-Yo, and Julianne Hough at the Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum Press Conference, I’m smart enough to take them. (Plus, I like totally heart Chris Brown and Ne-Yo). Yesterday afternoon will forever be one of the most exciting, educational, and humiliating afternoons of my life. It was exciting because I had the undivided attention of a certified-platinum superstar for 1.3 minutes before PR reps/refs blew the whistle, educational because new experiences always are, and humiliating because I let someone delete photos of Brown I took during his performance.

After the press conference, I wandered around the theatre waiting for the concert to begin; and somehow, I made it backstage. I, a lowly intern, was backstage eating a homemade sandwich and watching Brown gyrate his hips for his screaming fans. I, a nobody, was in the wings, directly across a female R&B sensation with a pixie haircut, and was watching her sing along to the ballad, “No Air.” Perhaps she felt a deeper connection to the high-flown romantic lyrics. “This is what it’s like to have access,” I thought as I started to take pictures. I’ve made it.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. “What are you doing? How did you get here?” a woman asked me. She demanded that I give her my camera. Unknowingly, I had apparently done a very, very bad thing and Chris’s “people” were very, very upset.

So I, being just an intern—and one ignorant of her rights—delivered the goods. I was then asked to leave the area by a different PR rep who, again, asked how I managed to breach security. We were met in the lobby by yet another PR rep who also asked the question du jour. Then the second rep provided the icing on my humiliation cake when she confiscated my press conference pass.

After finding the nearest exit, I rushed downtown to relate my experience to my editor. He explained that while they couldn’t legally steal my camera, they could have had me arrested for trespassing if I chose to be uncooperative. But what did I know? I’m just an intern.

Superstar Smorgasbord

The adrenaline and energy surging between stars and reporters during red carpet interviews is amazing. To a red carpet virgin such as myself, I could only imagine that photo and interview ops like the Wrigley’s Spearmint Press Conference are akin to feeding chum to a school of ravenous Great White sharks. Reporters, lured by the scent of expensive cologne, circle the carpet with their tape recorders in hopes of getting a juicy bite for their publication. Here, Blackbook offers you the chum of the day—a succulent stew of Chris Brown, Ne-Yo, and Julianne Hough. Bon Appetit!

Ne-Yo: The perfect gentleman gives a shout-out to Lindsey Lohan. RR: You're looking so rat pack these days. Can you tell me about what you're wearing? Ne-Yo: button down, red shirt, tie, nice fedora. This is my thing--the year of the gentleman.

RR: How did you come up with this concept?
Ne-Yo: Basically, it's me making an assessment of the business and seeing that the essence of what it means to be a gentleman is lacking nowadays. For example, the guy that will pull a woman's chair out for her when they sit down to eat, the guy that will open a car door for a lady, the guy that takes the time to make sure he looks his best when he walks out of the house, that guy is far and few in between. So I'm basically leading by example, trying to show cats what it means to be a gentleman again.

RR: Would you ever consider doing your own fashion line?

Ne-Yo: I don't really have a lot of free time but maybe once I slow down on my artistry.

RR: I know you're working with John Legend, Lindsay Lohan. Are you planning on changing or adding to their respective sounds?

Ne-Yo: John Legend is John Legend. There's no changing that guy--he is who he is. Lindsay Lohan—I didn't really know what to do with her. It was a shot in the dark with that one. We did something a little dancy and tried to bring a little energy to her and she loved it. She cut it and it was fantastic.

Chris Brown: Matchy-matchy in blue and yellow from his flat-billed cap to his Nike sneaks, CB talks shop.

RR: I hear that you're doing your own reality dance series. How is that working out?

CB: My dance series is still in the works right now. It's not gonna be like America's Best Dance Crew even though that's an incredible show. But it’s gonna be different from the more cliché dance shows.

RR: How are they cliché?

CB: Because all of them are based on the same thing: Judges. You know what I'm saying? They get certain people to judge for ratings. This won't be about big judges. No offense to JC Chasez or Lil Mama or none of them. Lil Mama dances to a degree but she's not a trained dancer. JC, he danced in a boy band, so he was taught everything he danced. You know what I'm saying? They need to get the old Gods of Breaking. They need to get legendary dancers that people might not know of, but who are hands on, that do real choreography. Right now, we're thinking it might be called Break Nation. It's grittier, more street, showing the urban elements of hip-hop and b-boy. It's not a bubblegum-type show. I'm just included because I believe in it.

Julianne Hough: Two-time Dancing with the Stars champ trades glittery heels for cowboy boots.

RR: How is your tour with Brad Paisley going?

JH: Oh my gosh, it's unbelievable. He's such an amazing artist, writer and I just think he's a great guy. He's really generous. He lets his opening acts--me, Jewel, Chuck Wicks--we all get to use the stage.

RR: Do you get to do much dancing on the stage?

JH: Not too much. I'm not breaking out into a waltz, or a tango, or a pasodoble, but I'm definitely moving around the stage, having a good time, and getting the crowd involved.

RR: I know you're remaking the gum jingle, but if you were to remake a country song, what would it be?

JH: Re-do a country song?! Oh my gosh, there's so many. Dolly Parton! Nine-to-Five, that would be so fun. Pam Tillis, anything by her, that would be great. I'm just such a big country fan that I would want to collaborate with any of them and maybe do a duet. That would be cool.

RR: If you could two-step with anybody, who would it be?

JH: I would probably say George Strait. He's probably the hottest older man ever.

Saul Williams aka Niggy Tardust

Sorry for the poor photos. They were taken with my Blackberry and I was in the very, very back.

You're on a spaceship that's hurtling through outer space at the speed of light. Stars, moons, comets, time itself--whiz by. But you're calm because you have absolute faith in the captain commandeering the ship. His ebony skin is covered in war paint and a crown of feathers
jaunt out of his fauxhawk. Perhaps he descended from the bloodlines of an indian war chief or he’s of a fierce aborigine from the jungles of Peru. His name is Niggy Tardust.

An homage to David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust, Niggy Tardust is Saul Williams’s alterego; although onstage at S.O.B.'s, Williams claims that Tardust is Barack Obama. Is he though? When asked who Tardust was during a recent interview with Blackbook Magazine's Ben Barna, he told the reporter that Tardust was "you." Who is it then? The presidential hopeful or a twenty-something writer? Is he you? Am I, him?

From what I gathered at Wednesday night's show, Tardust is a spirit that's embodied by those who are fearless and commanding. Those possessed strut the line between hate and love; ugliness and beauty. They crow loudly, sound the alarm, and demand peace. They fight under a banner portraying an eagle clutching both an olive branch and arrows in its talons. In order to lessen suffering, one must "question, demand, and fight," Williams/Tardust said before launching into his rendition of U2's Bloody Sunday, a crowd favorite.

There aren’t that many Tardusts in this world, but the ones we have make their presence known.

For Blackbook's take on the show: http://www.blackbookmag.com/article/saul-williams-as-niggy-tardust-sobs/3493

A Hamptons Alternative

For those living on a grad school budget, a weekend getaway to milder climes is as feasible as… well, I can't even complete the simile. I think the scorching temps have fried whatever brain cells I had left. Picture the sunny-side up egg in the "This is your brain on drugs" public service announcement starring Rachel Leigh Cook and you'll understand my state of mind. The effects of heat and humidity on the noggin are comparable to that of a narcotic's: NYC inhabitants walk around dazed, confused, and suffering from cotton-mouth. But what's a broke journalism grad student to do when Sallie Mae refuses to fund a trip to the Hamptons?

Yesterday afternoon, I took the 1 train to South Ferry and boarded the prison-orange Staten Island ferry for a cool, breezy jaunt on the Hudson River.

My friends and I raced to the top deck and waved goodbye to sweltering Manhattan and said hello open water. We were lucky enough to be on the starboard side so we had a fantastic view of Lady Liberty. When we got thirsty, we made our way down for $3 beers—cans, no bottles. The bar is sparsely decorated with gleaming stainless steel instead of campy, nautical décor I expected. It's not Babette's, but there's fresh popcorn, pretzels, and hot dogs to snack on. And most importantly, if one popped too many tabs of domestic beverages, one doesn't have to wait in a long line to use the sparkling clean facilities. While the ferry isn't a yacht bobbing on the Atlantic, it beats sweating on the city's sidewalks and in the subways.

Trips to and from Staten Island run every half-hour. Admission is free. My only other tip is to resist the temptation of sitting on the railing, no matter how debonair you may look or what an awesome facebook pic it would make. Have fun and bon voyage!

Departure (leg 2)

After six hours of waiting, I finally got on the fifth flight to LAX: Flight 1605, seat 14 C, flying 1,576 miles over west Texas, our nation’s desert, and the Rockies before making its descent into the City of Angels.

However, I was happy to be marooned on the island of IAH—George Bush International Airport. The airport covers hundreds, maybe even thousands of Houston’s acres. It’s designed like an old airplane hanger—wide open with terminals as big football fields and walls of windows with views of clear blue skies, flat green fields, and navy blue airplanes taking off without me on them. Continental’s corridor spans terminals C through E. Within this corridor, notable eateries include members of the Pappas Corp such as Pappasitos, Pappadeux, and Pappas barbecue. I’ve walked by a Panda Express, Café Famiglia, Auntie Anne’s pretzels, There are two watering alcoholic watering holes for those looking to ease their flight anxieties and standby frustrations. There are two Starbucks servicing Continental fliers. One can also unload wallet contents in the retail stores that hearken to passengers with their enticing window displays. My favorite? The Bass Pro Shop. Just in case you forget to pack the camo or you decide to stock up on fishing lures for the weekend camping trip in the Yukons, you can duck in and stock up on all your outdoorsman needs.

Los Angeles: Departure (leg 1)

I don’t know if this cross-country journey is starting off on the right foot. After I finished packing, I laid down on my bed and promptly fell asleep. But not to worry, I woke up from my brief cat nap in time to haul ass to the street corner so that I could hail a cab because I thought it would be cheaper than ordering a car from Dial 7, which is what I normally do. Hailing a cab in Harlem during rush hour is hard. Since NOBODY wanted to go to La Guardia, I decided to risk it and take a gypsy cab, a beat up Lincoln sedan driven by a Maverick cabbie who charges unsuspecting tourists and desperate New Yorkers exorbitant fees. I could have used public transportation but it’s my first time to fly standby as a travel companion and so I wanted to get there extra early. Plus, I’m spoiled.

So right now, I’m sitting in Gate A2 in New York’s La Guardia Airport hoping and praying that Continental grants me a seat. While I dressed according to first class regulations, I would gladly sit in coach next to a loquacious 500-lb man as long as I get to Houston in time to hop on the connecting flight that would take me to Los Angeles. Yep…coincidentally, my layover is in my home state.

Well, I couldn’t get on the first flight and was rolled over to the next flight to Houston which landed in George Bush International one hour late. On my flight to Houston, I sat between a man whose breath smelled like he had just dined on Jamaican Jerk chicken, and a man who had his volume to his headphone at a decibel level loud enough for me to hear Owen Wilson deliver his mind-blowing lines in Drillbit Taylor. I didn’t watch the movie but from the chuckles and snorts emitting from my fellow passengers, I’m guessing that it was hilarious in a lets-watch-three-kids-get-the-snot-beat-out-of-them-by-two-bullies-for-two-hours kind of way. After landing at 11:16 pm CST, I headed down to baggage claim and saw La Quinta’s ad hanging over the carousel. Being bereft of bed and lodging, I promptly booked a reservation for the night ($146.25, tax included) with Yasmeen who with her smiles and generosity with free toiletries* restored my faith in humanity.

After a hot shower, I crawled into my double bed, read half a chapter of Mitchell’s southern epic, and didn’t stir until the phone rang to wake me up call at 5:15 am. I dressed in yesterday’s attire and made my way down to the lobby to break the night’s fast. A formidable spread lay before me: rock hard-boiled eggs, muffins, bagels, cereals, instant oatmeal and grits (it is Texas), do-it-yourself Belgian waffles, kolaches, and eggrolls—continental indeed! I ate a bagel and schmear and grabbed a banana and coffee for the road.

* As of this moment, my teal suitcase containing my clothes, four pairs of shoes, and my toiletries is waiting for me in LAX airport in the City of Angels. As my mommy pointed out, my luggage made it to LA while its owner did not. All I had with me at check-in was my wallet, chapstick, and Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind.

July 1st (three days before America's birthday and four days before mine!--I know, shameless plug)

It’s Canada Day which means that we should take shots of maple syrup and watch lots of old school hockey (pre- helmet regulations) on ESPN to celebrate our friendly neighbors north of the border. We should also take some time to listen to schmaltzy Celine Dion power ballad her way to our soft sides and eardrums. Our hearts will go on, Celine, for Canada. Stereotypes aside, I’ve enjoyed really getting to know the Canucks I’ve met in the past year since moving from Texas to New York. Very few Canadians make it to Tejas—I think they’re afraid of the sun. Seriously, Canadians are just like us albeit some minor differences: They say “aboot”, we say “about” properly; they have Timmy Hortons, we have Dunkin’ Donuts; they smoke pot in Ontario, we smoke pot undercover. See! We’re all one big North American family. There is one thing, however, I never understood. What’s up with Canadian bacon?

One of my favorite Celine Dion songs. Yes, I am a fan--Filipino's LOVE la chanteuse extraordinaire.

"Showdown in Chinatown"

My, my, my. I do love to watch a game of pick-up soccer, especially when the pros are playing. And ladies, if you want to pick up some men, organize a celebrity soccer match. It will be the Field of Schemes: If you build it, they will come.


Raja Bell

Yellow Capitan: Steve Nash
(I can't believe I talked to him about his booty. Lookin' Good, Nashty).



Kidding around with Thierry Henry


Henry is the best doctor around--or should I say "medecin?"

Nice outfit, Baron


Going for it


See ladies, I told you.

My First Star Sighting

Steve Nash and I don’t have much in common. The height disparity between my Filipino self and the Canadian is huge, for one. In checkered Vans, the stylish baller stands at 6-3 while I barely graze the 5-foot mark. Secondly, he’s a 4-time all-star and one of the greatest point guards to ever two-step down the court, and I can’t even win a game of HORSE. Still, there is one thing we both share and that’s our love for cold beers on a summer afternoon. Nash and his posse, which included footballer (“soccer” in American) Robbie Fowler, striker for Cardiff City, and Steve McManaman, ex-winger for Liverpool, were toasting tour bus passengers riding by at Phebe’s, an East Village pub. (Little old me sat directly behind them, trying not to hyperventilate).
Nash, who summers in New York with his wife and twin daughters, is entertaining fellow athletes participating in “Showdown in Chinatown,” an 8-on-8 football match benefiting Nash’s and Claudia Reyna’s respective charities. Reyna plays midfield for the Red Bulls. NBA stars Raja Bell, Leandro Barbosa, Jason Kidd, and Baron Davis are expected to try their hand (oops—I mean foot) at dribbling a checkered ball for once. Maybe France’s Thierry Henry can show them a thing or two.
Kickoff is at 5:30 pm, tomorrow, at Sara D. Roosevelt Park. Admission is free. An auction will be held during the after party at Replay in SoHo.

NOTE: This was written yesterday. Stay tuned for current news on Nashty and crew. Pics to follow.

Eavesdropping on Girl Talk

What do Cheap Trick, Lil Wayne, and Earth, Wind, and Fire have in common? What about Radiohead, Tag Team, En Vogue? Ace of Base, Yeal Naim, Jay-Z?

All of these artists take part in Girl Talk's pop music pastiches. In his new album, Feed the Animals (thanks Amber!), the DJ parachutes in artists from across the soundboard--old/new school hip-hop, 80's hair rock, and cocoa butter soul classics--to produce tracks that make you want to shake it. I dare you to stand still while listening to Busta Rhymes flowing over the Police's Every Little Thing...

Girl Talk is a meticulous tailor who seamlessly stitches together anything he can get his hands on. Beginning with Play Your Part (Pt. 1) and ending with its counterpart (Pt. 2), the fourteen tracks listens like one long playlist that will have you pop locking your shit until closing time.




Rolling Stone's review of Feed the Animals: http://www.rollingstone.com/reviews/album/21457036/review/21463543/feed_the_animals?utm_source=daily-newsletter&utm_medium=email

Game 6: 2008 NBA Championship

The following is my assessment of Game 6 of the 2008 NBA Championship: The LA Lakers dropped the soap and the Celtics made them their bitch.

The routing of the Lakers in game 6 gave the Celts its 17th NBA championship. Maybe green is lucky...or maybe Garnett is just golden.

My Morbid Morning Jacket

James is the second one from the left

Maybe it’s just me or maybe I just woke up on the morbid side of the bed this morning, but does anybody else see the resemblance between Jim James, the frontman for My Morning Jacket, and the late Heath Ledger?

Evil Urges, the band's latest album, dropped last Tuesday while Ledger's, The Dark Knight, will hit theaters July 18.

"When I Grow Up..." by the Pussycat Dolls

When I Grow Up is the Pussycat Dolls’s latest single. I didn’t even know they were working on new material until I saw the video in PC Richards. So being a fan of bubblegum pop and burlesque, I youtubed the video last night to get a closer look.

As expected, navels, fishnets, and overly-amped up hair jiggle their way through the five-minute video. It’s fun to watch, though certainly not as good as Buttons, my favorite video in the Dolls’s repertoire. I’m sure it will make it on TRL.

Other than the fact I found the video visually stimulating and physically motivating (it makes me want to get my ass in the gym), I did find that the lyrics related to our society’s current state of mind—one that’s self-promotional at best and self-obsessed at worst.

But I ain't complaining
We all wanna be famous
So go ahead and say what you wanna say
You know what it's like to be nameless
Want them to know what your name is

Not too far back, I read an article that talked about a little girl who, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, replied that she wanted to be famous. She had no idea how she was going to become famous, just that she wanted to be famous. The strange thing is that with the help of social networking sites like facebook and myspace, she can be famous without having an ounce of talent or drive.

Tila Tequila became famous for having the most friends of myspace. Now the “baddest bitch” has a record deal, was on the cover of the May issue of Blender, and her MTV reality show, A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila, is in its second season. (Apparently, the last shot didn’t go down as well as the bisexual mistress had planned.) Her myspace music page has been viewed over 140 million times and she has 3.5 million fans. Kristin C from Laguna Beach is traipsing her way through her second music video, Gavin Degraw’s In Love With a Girl. Her nemesis LC is even like, more famous, and involved in a feud with reality tv star and consort Heidi, who also has a record deal. WTF. I’m not saying that these people aren’t deserving..okay…I am saying it: They don’t deserve it. Whatever happened to talent and hard work? Or, at the very least, sleeping your way to the top.

"Gobbledigook"

Sigur Ros's new video, Gobbledigook, makes me believe in fairies, elves, and nymphs--creatures that will be saved through recycling, hybrid cars, and other attempts at minimizing our carbon footprint.

It looks like a camera man went on a nature hike (with his camera of course...what kind of camera man goes on nature hikes through virgin forests without his trusty gear?) and stumbled upon a fairy celebration complete with bonfires, stick-banging, a wooden swing, body paint, and skinny dipping. In fact, everyone that's participating in Ros's version of a woodsy rave is frolicking, jumping, and rolling around stark naked. While there are plenty of boobs and butts, the innocent glee on faces and childhood games like hide-and-seek depicts innocence instead of perversion. It's all good, clean fun without the danger of someone's eye--or anything else--getting poked.

"Football"

I had never seen my demure, British friend, Sophie act so loud and so vulgar before yesterday; but then again, I had never seen her root for her football team, Chelsea, as they fought Manchester United in the European Football Final, an event which parallels the spectacular displays of fanaticism of the Superbowl: It's kind of a BIG DEAL. The Londoner in Addison, TX was packed mostly with red jerseys for Man U even though there was a small, but boisterous, contingent of blue jerseys making merry at the other end of the bar. (It seems that even in a bar setting, the reds will always outnumber the blues in TX). It was my first futbol match and I was trying to figure out why the sport that is far more universal than American football.  Futbol spans the globe.  People in North Texas take off work to sit in a dark bar in the middle of the day to watch a match that's being played in Moscow thousands of miles away.  

It seems like everybody has a team, a favorite player, and knows the rules.  For example, in futbol, the ref just flashes a penalty card--yellow or red--and magistrates, officials, or registrars (I don't know what they're called) keeps tally and the offender is punished accordingly.  They are warned or if they commit a big no-no, they are ejected from the game immediately.  Chelsea's striker, Didier Drogba, was ejected before the penalty shootout after he slapped United's Vidic.  

In football, there's a litany of fouls--holding, blocking in the back, horse collaring, etc.--that fans have to watch out for.  Plus they have to match the foul to the ref's hand motions, a difficult task since sometimes the ref looks like he's trying to land a plane.  (Thank God for mics and friendly sports announcers).  Sometimes, the foul happens so quickly that the offense isn't noted until refs review the tapes, which could be days after the fact, and  subsequently delaying punishment.  

What I did understand was the camaraderie between fans of the same ilk  and the blind hatred between fans of opposing teams.  It doesn't matter what sport is being played on the field: There will always be some guy in face paint calling someone a wanker or a douche bag.  

The Guess Who

Carl Dixon on the big screen

Last Saturday, I didn't have to guess who was behind the classic rock hits American Woman, No Sugar Tonight, and These Eyes. Even though I could sing along when they were played on the radio, I had no idea that they were by the Guess Who; but plenty remembered the Canadian rockers and they were at the Wildflower Festival in Richardson, TX to hear the soundtrack of their youth. Before long, the Guess Who had the crowd up from their picnic blankets and lawn chairs and dancing. Each thrust of the hip and devil horn hand sign brought listeners back in time to the halcyon days of scenic overlooks, bell bottoms, and muscle cars. While my group enjoyed the music from the beginning, the close-ups of Carl Dixon, the lead vocalist and guitarist, posted on the giant screen above the stage, caught our attention: Dixon is sexy. His flat-ironed blonde hair caught the summer breeze and gently blew away from his lined, yet handsome, face, and his tight pearl-snap shirt showed off a taut physique. (He unsnapped towards the end of the show). Jenny, 25, kept asking if he had a son. The band finished with American Woman; and Mary, 31, thought that the #1 hit was written by Lenny Kravitz. She was joking, of course. Even is she wasn't, Kravitz has nothing on the Guess Who.

I heart Britney

We’ve all heard her story by now as each chapter of the Britney saga—a fairytale turned tawdry tabloid—has been meticulously recorded by the media. First, she was an innocent Mouseketeer, then the Bubblegum Pop Princess, and now she’s a pudgy has-been, a drug addict, and a bad mother. She’s gossiped about like the high school slut. People think she’s mentally ill. But as someone who has always been a fan, I’m rooting for her. I get sad when I watch her music videos because they’ve become a documentary of her downfall, her disgrace.

It seemed like Britney happened overnight. Her wave crested and all of sudden there was a deluge of saccharin sweet pop flooding the radio and TV airwaves. Then again, nobody notices the plates shifting on the ocean floor until the tsunami hits. When I saw the video for …Baby One More Time, I wondered whose genius idea was it to play up the Lolita, catholic school girl stereotype in order to sell Britney. With one video, Britney Spears usurped the Spice Girls to become my new guilty pleasure. I loved it and I wasn’t the only one. Baby debuted as No. 1 on the Billboard charts and to this day has sold 13 million copies. She was only 17 years-old when she became an international superstar.

As with all of her songs, Baby is overproduced, especially the vocals. Her alto voice deepened to evoke a sultrier tone. Sometimes her vibrato sounds like a bleat. None of her songs are vocally demanding because she’s not a strong singer. You want powerhouse vocals? Bop over the pop aisle and play Christina Aguilera. If you want to be entertained, stay with Spears. She has the ability to look past the camera and fix her brown-eyed gaze at the viewer. In all of her music videos, Britney uses tricks she learned from her small town dance studio to connect with her audience and each move is calibrated to appeal to young girls and to pervy old men. The exaggerated lip-synching conveys the agony of teenage of crushes and draws attention to her glossy, shellacked mouth.

Britney is a talented dancer and her gift is displayed in all of her performances. She moves through the music fluidly, confidently. The years of marking 8-counts have instilled rhythm in her bones; the result being that she’s never worried about getting off-beat. Her certitude gives her time to maximize and accessorize each movement with finishing touches—a wink, an impertinent lift of the chin, a giggle. She demands your attention. The choreography in the final dance combination of the Baby video is particularly demanding with a lot of level changes. In sixteen beats, Britney slides on the floor, where she does a knee spin that flows directly into a deep lunge, which launches her into a triple pirouette. She spots the whole time she’s stretching and spinning to maintain the connection with the camera.

In Baby, Britney captivates her audience but in Prerogative, her audience is confronted. As she states in the Gimme More introduction, “It’s Britney, Bitch.” In hindsight, the car crash in the opening scene of the My Prerogative video foreshadowed current news stories. We are bombarded with stories detailing Britney’s vehicular mishaps: driving with her baby on her lap, a fender bender, assaulting a paparazzo’s SUV with an umbrella. In Prerogative, the dancing and bubbly charm is replaced by fetishism. At one point, she’s wearing black lace lingerie and brandishing a whip as she poses in front of a screen which shows flashes of her writhing on a bed in matching white bra and panties. The tease has been replaced by a dominatrix. Prerogative is the beginning of the end of Britney’s reign. Her relationship with Justin Timberlake ended, her 24-hour Vegas marriage to a high school boyfriend was annulled, and people were taking bets as to how long her marriage to backup dancer Kevin Federline would last. Prerogative was her three-minute response to all the Britney haters: “The say I’m crazy, I really don’t care.”

But does she? Can you go from pop star to burnout and not care? I like to think that Blackout (2007 Jive Records) is evidence proving that she does. If she didn’t care about her career, she wouldn’t have agreed to do the album, especially one that caters to her fan base. The bass-heavy, danceable tracks and the half-sung, half-spoken come-ons are all for Team Britney. There are no PG-13 filler songs like Sometimes or Lucky that exist to suck up to parents and tone down her sex appeal. We like it when she’s sexy. We don’t like it when she’s white trash.

Which is the real Britney? The charming Louisianan or the one who walks barefoot around gas stations? I’m making the assumption, of course, that Britney the performer, and Britney Lynn Spears is the same person. But the dividing line separating the persona and person becomes more porous as we continue to be inundated with Britney news, both private and professional. In order for her to make a comeback, the line must be re-drawn which means the parasitic relationship between Britney and the paparazzi must end. Once that happens, I forecast a resurgence. At this moment, Britney is just off-beat, but I’m sure she’ll get back on rhythm.

NFL 2008 Draft Day, Radio City Music Hall, NYC

It was a cool day, overcast with a brisk wind. A man wearing New York Jets jersey jogged down the street, his sneakered feet maneuvering around pockets of tourists huddled around tables displaying handbags and cheap sunglasses. He turned right at the intersection of West 50^th St. and Sixth Ave. and looked both ways before crossing the busy thoroughfare to Radio City Music Hall. It was 2:50 P.M. He got in ten minutes before Roger Goodell, NFL Commissioner, kicked off the 2008 NFL Football Draft.

Football fans not lucky enough to score tickets into the music hall went down the block to the ESPN Fan Watching Center, a pigskin pick-watching party with video game consoles, raffle contests, and bikinied Philadelphia Eagles cheerleaders: Amy, Jamie, and Kristy. And of course no football party is complete without a monster sound system and a 60-inch HD flat-screen TV hoisted above an elevated stage between a yellow goal post. Kids and adults jumped on inflated bounce houses and tossed footballs while draft commentary boomed over their heads. Those not interested in playing games were busy managing their team’s future roster.

“With the fourth pick, in the 2008 NFL Draft, the Oakland Raiders select Darren McFadden, running back for Arkansas,” Goodell announced.

Brad Sample, 46, sported a Green Bay Packers jersey. He thought the Oakland Raiders made a good choice by choosing McFadden since they should see quick returns on their multi-million dollar investment. “Running backs take a shorter time to develop than quarterbacks. Look at Adrien Peterson and JaMarcus Russell,” he said. Russell, the 2007 number one pick, went to the Raiders while Peterson, the number 7 pick went to the Minnesota Vikings. While Peterson had an outrageous first year with 5.6 yards per carry, Russell only managed a 55.9 percent quarterback rating. It’s clear that the Vikings got the better deal. But now that Russell and McFadden are on the roster, Raiders fans should expect more points from the offense.

As owners bang their heads against the salary caps to get the high profile draft prospects and free agents, the expectations from coaches and fans for a vetted player to perform become bigger. Miami fans are expecting to win at least two games now that Jake Long, Offensive Tackle from Univ. of Michigan and number one overall draft pick, signed up for a five-year pleasure cruise with Bill Parcells and the Dolphins. The contract is worth $57 million. “He’s making more money than veterans,” Sample said. Having never played one down as a pro-football player, Long became the highest paid lineman in the NFL.

There are great NFL players that don’t go in the first round: Tom Brady, for example. Brady went in the sixth round and was the 199^th overall draft pick. Tony Romo was invited to Valley Ranch as a free agent. Both quarterbacks led their team to the playoffs last year.

“With the fifth pick in the 2008 NFL draft, Kansas City Chiefs select Glenn Dorsey, Defensive Tackle, LSU,” announced Goodell.

During the commercial break following the Chief’s pick, the emcee introduced Tony Richardson. It was Richardson’s first time at the NFL drafts but he wasn’t there to sign a contract. He was there to sign autographs. In 1971, Tony Richardson signed with the New York Jets as a free agent after failing to get drafted out of Auburn University. His 6-1 frame, stuffed in a lilac button-up, looked small onstage. “It doesn’t matter how high you go in the draft,” Richardson said before signing autographs. “You have to bust your butt, you gotta work hard. You have to put your head down and go to work.” During his 14^th NFL season, he carried the ball 7 times and rushed for a total of 13 yards, averaging 1.9 yards a carry. The median average of productive running backs is between three and four.

“With the sixth pick in the 2008 NFL draft, the New York Jets select Vernon Gholson,” announced Goodell.

The TV cameras zoomed in on the green and white painted faces of the Jets fans screaming for their rookie. By picking Gholston, the Jets made NFL draft history. For the first time, the anointed six went as the first six picks. Who could forget the panicked on Brady Quinn’s face as one by one, his competitors were chosen and he was left alone, a worried kid with shaggy hair dressed in a nice brown suit? He finally went to the Cleveland Browns as the 2007 22^nd overall draft pick.

Football fandom doesn’t end in February. After the Superbowl, there’s the draft, followed by training camp, and then preseason. Then sideline tidbits—team politics, trades, rumors, supermodel girlfriends, court trials—keep devoted followers chained to the media for the latest news about their team. Some fans will waste an entire spring afternoon watching the draft. Sample got to the ESPN festival well before the first pick and he will be glued to the screen, waiting for the Packers’s selection. “My feet are killing me,” he said. “But I gotta be here at least until 30^th pick.”

Carly Simon, Starbucks at Astor Place, NYC

On this sunny May Day afternoon, I was fortunate enough to grab the last neon green wristband to Carly Simon's five-song acoustic set at Starbucks on Astor Place. The cavernous space was packed with fans hoping for a musical afternoon delight, and they noshed on complimentary pastries as they waited for the show to begin. After a short introduction, Simon came up and sat on a stool at center stage wearing a black blazer and beatnik poet sunglasses. Her four-piece band, which included a barefoot bongo player, framed the blonde singer. She eased into her set with three mellow songs from her new album This Kind of Love which dropped this Tuesday. While slow, the bongos and the wooden hinge box Simon played added a Peruvian groove as bold as the coffee beans brewing in the background. During the second song, Hold Out Your Heart, Simon and her bongo player, perhaps inspired by the coffee house setting, began to snap their fingers to the beat. But the crowd knew things were going to pick up when Simon exchanged the box for a guitar. "It's fun to redo songs when they take on new meaning," Simon said before launching into Anticipation and You're so Vain. They didn't have an electric guitar wailing in the background but it didn't stop Simon and her crew from rocking out Vain. (I didn't know the cowbell could produce such a strident and angry sound until this afternoon). The song started out slow but forceful, with Simon spitting out the scornful lyrics. Soon the whole band joined in, which increased the volume and attitude during landmark phrases like "clouds in your coffee" and "wife of a close friend." It was a good move on Simon's part to close with the karaoke favorite—something old to promote something new.

Sheryl Crow at Irving Plaza, NYC

Some shots taken with my handy-dandy Blackberry

Sheryl Crow
February 6, 2008

Strumming her guitar and decked out in weathered jeans and a vest the color of ripened pomegranate, Sheryl Crow looked seventies-hippie chic. Crow portrayed a confident and engaging persona. She shook her ass and entertained the crowd with sassy and sarcastic banter. Her set consisted of songs plumbed from past albums and her new one, “Detours,” a politically-laced and personal record, which she promoted during the gig. “You can buy it or steal it. I don’t care, just listen to it," she said. The show climaxed to “Gasoline,” a song about a future society free from oil and political manacles—an obvious nod to the Bush administration. Her parting words show that her last two years didn’t break her: “All I wanna do is have some fun, no matter how fucked up things are.” A fierce flower child for sure.