Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Aesop It To Me!

This weekend (in truth, five days) was aggressively good, one of those weekends that is obviously sweet revenge on seven hundred boring high school weekends filled with macaroni and cheese and a Comedy Central movie marathon.

My computer is updating itself at work, which gives me a little bit of time to at least begin to collect the thoughts of the last blogless week. As it turns out, when you work at a real company that publishes a real number of books, you don't have as much time to write a thousand words on American Idol or why you hate the photocopier. (Plus, I don't hate the photocopier anymore! One paper goes in, two papers come out. End of wonderful, wonderful story.) Then, when you get home, it is very important to sit on your couch in ugly shorts and watch the Golden Girls, and blog nary a syllable.

If we go chronologically, here are the things I did this weekend: Stolen Transmission for the Gil Mantera's Party Dream show, then had the day off, then drank in Union Square and saw The Devil Wears Prada, then sat around for a whole Saturday, then MisShapes, then visited my family for an early birthday dinner with my mom, then saw Madonna, then saw the Futureheads play at Motherfucker, then spent the fourth on a rooftop on the Lower East Side, watching planned fireworks in the sky, and then little bootleg fireworks on the ground.

See? Really good. So good that I'm willing to overlook the rain, and the early rising, and the general malaise of the 9:00 hour in an office. Besides, I think whatever good karma driving my weekend forward is still hanging on by a finger or two; there was no line at Starbucks this morning, and a hot young dad picked up my sweater when I dropped it trying to juggle my coffee, umbrella, wallet, bag and building ID.

I like to pretend that I'm not just keeping a diary online; I try not to update with lists of bands I've seen or parties I've been to unless theyre's a point to the story aside from "Hey, remember that?"" This is tied to my delusion that I have thousands of readers, like a newspaper columnist, although judging by my site meter they all read from one computer.

Anyway, in this effort to be bigger than myself, let's take this weekend in terms of lessons learned, not things done. Like Aesop, or some shit.

The Lesson of Madonna:
If you're trying to change the world, pick one cause at a time (and you probably shouldn't deliver your message hanging from a huge, disco fabulous cross). I had sort of the same trouble with U2's last concert, when Bono was yelling something about promoting public health in Africa while the screens on stage flashed crosses and stars of David. There must be good money in digital religious iconography, because Madonna's screens showed crosses, stars of David, ohms, and Hebrew letters over the faces of African AIDS orphans while she sang from a crucifix and her dancers did a little number about gay marriage. I am all for supporting each of those things. I'm just not positive I can do all that at once. It was the charity equivalent of that kids song about Joe who works in the button factory.

The Lesson of Gil Mantera:
When in doubt, make everyone uncomfortable. They'll love you for it later. When you put your pants back on.

The Lesson of The Devil Wears Prada:
Size six may be the new size fourteen, but champagne is the new popcorn. Four bucks for a single soda, or eight bucks for a whole bottle of booze? You make the call.

The Lesson of Motherfucker:
Sometimes a bad party has a hidden goody bag. After Madonna let out, I was pretty ready to go home. Two and a half hours in Madison Square Garden with no air conditioning (apparently Madonna really CAN do anything she wants) plus a pair of shoes that gave me an epic blister were enough to make me salivate at the thought of putting on pajamas. Still, the Fourth of July Motherfucker party was going on just ten blocks away, and it seemed stupid not to go. And it would've been; the Futureheads sounded incredible, and they played "Hounds of Love," which I will assume was for me and me alone.

The Lesson of MisShapes:
You are what you wear. I wore a big red bow in my hair on Saturday with an otherwise pretty normal outfit. Still, you would think I was walking down the street with my boobs a-waggin' naked in the summer heat with the looks I was getting. It's true that I can't remember the last time I saw someone wearing a big bow in their hair but for real, I was at CVS on line behind three teenage transsexual prostitutes buying antibacterial hand wash, and the cashier didn't bat an eye until he noticed my Minnie Mousey accessory. When you're looked at funny, you feel funny. At least until you get inside Don Hill's, and there's a duo wearing matching shorty shorts and tank tops.

The Lesson of the Fourth:
America, sometimes you're not so bad. I'll hate on the current administration as the next young, liberal arts educated, New York democrat, but you can't be on the roof of a building downtown, with fireworks exploding over the East River and the Empire State Building all lit up red, white and blue, and kids lsetting off little crackling rockets in a park seven or eight stories below you, and not feel a little something like pride. This kind of America I'm all for: summer city heat, hot dog in hand, stupefied, looking at the sky.


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