That's Just The Booze Talking

Friday, February 25, 2005

I Also Have a Ferret

Maybe this is some kind of code, lesbispeak for a hot & kinky Sapphic practice to which our straight boy cultural paradigm is utterly and hopelessly blind. But we’re guessing not so much, no.

Maybe Partying Will Help

There are two things about NYC that will never make sense to us: A) There exist a number of people who are known as “Celebrity Publicists” and B) There also exist a second group of people––and they sort of overlap the people in category A in a troubling Venn Diagram of loathsomeness––who make a living by promoting parties. This guy is one of the latter, and if his Flash-heavy and curiously designed Web site is any indication, he’s got to be as irritating as a pinecone up the ass. (Camping trip. Long story.) However, give “Toshi” a measure of credit … even though he sports a name that sounds as if it were cribbed from the back of a Pokemon card, the guy likes to par-tay. And in doing so, he insists on offering an “unlimited premium open bar all nite long.” Again, not crazy about the willful misspelling of night there, but free booze trumps our curmudgeonly sense of grammatical propriety every time. Here’s the kicker, though. The girls that serve up the boozy bounty are more or less nekkid. How did we not know about this?

The next throwdown isn’t until June 24, but the fact that it’s a “Swedish Party” already has Woodrow Wilson campaigning mightily for reelection to the oval office inside our trousers, if you get our gist. There should be an emoticon for this sort of thing, but alas there is not.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

It’s a Jump to Conclusions Mat

In Hollywood, they call this kind of thing “high concept,” which we believe means that whoever came up with the idea was high as all fuck at the time. Warning: Huge (25MB) file and some of the surrounding real estate, the banners and whatnot, are not exactly SFW.

Can’t Stand Me Now

Not at all sure how we managed to miss this Times piece on shambolic junky/ex-Libertine Pete Doherty, who's spent the better part of the last year alternately shooting up and smoking crack, much to the delight of the NME and legions of his bad skin/bad teeth/bad ideas fanbase, but it’s well worth revisiting, if only to marvel in the giddy résumé the 26-year-old has cobbled together. Highlights include: an arrest for breaking and entering the flat of bandmate Carl Barat (Pete’s erstwhile best mate and co-songwriter); a trip to what’s been billed as the world’s most stringent rehab facility, in Thailand, no less, whereupon Doherty went missing and scored what he called the best heroin he’d ever tried; a few furtive Kate Moss shags followed by a very public and predictable parting of the ways; and, regrettably, the sundering of what was the most promising band to come out of Blighty since Radiohead decided to stop biting off Nirvana.

Barat, meanwhile, has inked a deal with Vertigo and is expected to deliver a solo record by the end of the year. You can get a good sense of what we’re missing here.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Oh Take Me Back

M. Ward's Transistor Radio is now available here as well as in retail outlets everywhere, should you still practice the arcane art of "goin’ shoppin’." Stream it now.

Nothing Rhymes with Saffron Orange

As far as public art installations go, we're happy enough with The Gates , even if the $20 million project has encouraged tourists and their filthy, bawling spawn to clog the byways of Central Park like so much human cholesterol. But enough already. The Times has devoted an entire section to the Christo piece, which, when you come right down to it, seems like overkill, even in the fluff-and-puffery Keller era. Which is why we were amused by this guy's scaled-down installation, which has garnered some 100,000 hits since his URL started making the rounds of the blogosphere last week. If you can't get to NYC, or if you can't be bothered to churn through the human traffic at the Park, this satellite shot of all 7,500 gates is pretty nifty. Oh, and one last thing: They're fucking orange , people.

Boston mASSacre

The Boston po po busted up the release party for our alma mater's new student-produced smut rag, Boink. (Link not at all SFW, unless you work in a place that's cool with you having nekkid college kids swarming on your monitor. Thought so.) Of course, getting the stopper pulled at 12:30 in the ayem isn't exactly a buzz kill in the Bean, where the bars close at the unconscionably early hour of 1:00, but we still applaud the moxie shown by these Terriers, even though print is no longer a viable delivery system for poonani. Also, the kid who wrote the Freep article is trying way too hard, what with his “spunk” and “stiff” puns; moreover, do you see anyone in the accompanying picture that you'd like to, uh, boink?

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Mahalo, Doc

We’re still feeling a little raw, a little banged up from the weekend, primarily because we lost one of the best Sunday. The good Doctor was one of our heroes, not so much for his storied excesses—they only served to push him further down the road to self-caricature—but because the man wrote like some kind of avenging demon, brewing up a heady mix of satire that owed much to Mark Twain with a brutal honesty that seems like an artifact from a lost era. And while the speculation as to the cause of his suicide began the moment the story hit the wires, we’re not interested in adding to the babble, if only because that’s the one question that nobody can ever really answer with any degree of certainty. Hell, this guy offed himself because he couldn’t keep it real like Freddy Mercury; we just bet if he’d allowed himself another go at the suicide note, Cobain would’ve excised the odd reference.

But enough of this morbid shit. Above all things, Thompson was a man of letters, and even long after he’d deliquesced into a mumbling, jibbering lunatic, he could still put together a sentence every now and again that could blow through your synapses like burning jet fuel. And no one will ever do invective––that scalding cascade of logorrhea, those torrents of abuse––with more antic joy. Hilarious, bilious, an enraged voice of the disenfranchised and a man with no interest in sucking from the teat of party politics, HST was an American original. We’ll not see his like again.

Res ipsa loquitur.

“And that, I think, was the handle - that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting - on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave ...

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas

Update: Hunter’s friends have been silent for the most part, although Tom Wolfe came through with this elegy, which adds to the legend a very funny story about a formal luncheon torn apart by a nautical distress signal. Partner in crime Ralph Steadman offers up his own elegant take, which includes a reprisal of the classic “Fuck the Pope” story.