It's my birthday and I'm celebrating by sitting around a lot, napping, drinking Folger's whole bean 'gourmet' coffee and by feeling my feelings. I feel things sometimes. I felt sick last Monday at 'Sticky Fingers' (Big Lug, 85 Avenue A, New York City, New York 10009) when I witnessed a hopelessly inebriated mother dirty boogie and simulate oral sex with her perky NYU daughter's gay best friend and then sit down on the floor and cry. On this day of days I feel a tad conflicted:
I feel like I could give two shits about O.J.'s pending confession and/or TomKat's Italian sham merging of Scientologist souls.
I feel a little in love with my next door neighbor.
I feel anxious regarding my best buddy, 'Fredo, because he's being harrassed by his brand new frightwig/stalker (guess what: Frightwig/stalker works for Conde Nast...surprise).
We're deploying even more troops to Iraq. wtf. sigh.
Pause a moment and consider Tazers. Civilian control has become a priority in this theocracy we call home sweet home.
Chan Marshall (Cat Power) is jaw-dropping, heart-stoppingly beautiful now that she's pulled the hair out of her face and makes extraordinarily inspiring/wonky/boozy/chanteusey music. 'The Greatest' is the most vital break-up/can't-go-on-but-I-must cd-download since Roxy Music's 'Siren' and that is no shit. What happened? Who intervened? Did she take tea with Tom Waits and Elvis Costello and Stephin Merritt? Did Nina Simone Tazer her from the crypt and give her a make-over? Speaking of boozy chanteuse I can't wait to check out 'Bobby', Emilio Estavez' ambitious take on June, 1968 featuring that M to F tranny Demi Moore as a nicotine-stained hooch whore: Estavez couldn't hammer out a deal with Justin Bond so he nabbed The Next Best Thing. Great casting...although I'm not quite sure I buy Elijah Wood as a Vietnam draftee...he still looks like he's waiting for his nanny to pick him up at Montessori...
I've come to love Jeff Buckley because he's just so damned queer and he hits all those high notes. And he's dead. Figures: Story of my life. Yeah, yeah...I know he was straight and he banged Courtney Fucking Love...wait a minute...he's still just so damned queer...check out 'The Man That Got Away' or 'I Want Someone Badly' (girl group back-up singers). Fine-boned hetero dead dudes who have nailed impossible falsettos. What am I gonna do? Can't help it. I'm weak. The Arcade Fire makes me cry. What can I say?
KT Tunstall's annoying summertime radio headache, 'Black Horse And The Cherry Tree', actually began life as a terrifying, authentic acoustic delta blues tune before it was ass-raped over a sawhorse by radio programmers. Here's hoping KT wins a bunch of Grammys, says 'lick me' to Clive Davis or whoever and goes back to her indie-label bad-ass self.
More to come.
-Satisfaction Pony
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Justin Timberlake Is Not Actually Bringing Sexy Back At All...
...Timbalake is.
Timbaland, rather.
First of all, there's not a whole helluva lot of 'Justin Timbalake' in 'SexyBack'. Timbaland (Tim Mosley) produced the monolithic chart-topping juggernaut and his cynical, spare, stutterstep signature is all over it. Justin warbles in seriously tweaked sampled bursts like an ambisexual karaoke victim here and there but mostly it's all about Timbaland and his seriously unsexy 'yEAh!' sample.
If this is sexy then a Sears credit card application is the kama-sutra.
What the fuck? Why are lesbians batshit for this cloud of toxic egg fart? They hop around to this crap like rhythm-impaired wood sprites. Don't they know that this shit is anti-music for anti-people?
If you absolutely HAVE to plug in to some garbage-y dance music might I recommend LCD Soundsystem's 'Thrills' (?)
LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy sounds like a chronic masturbator with a lethal headcold as he brags about how some unfortunate enabling bitch unconditionally digs his pill-addicted flat white ass. Is Mr. Murphy bringing sexy back? Hard to say, but as far as I'm concerned...'plugged up' is hotter than ever.
Timbaland, rather.
First of all, there's not a whole helluva lot of 'Justin Timbalake' in 'SexyBack'. Timbaland (Tim Mosley) produced the monolithic chart-topping juggernaut and his cynical, spare, stutterstep signature is all over it. Justin warbles in seriously tweaked sampled bursts like an ambisexual karaoke victim here and there but mostly it's all about Timbaland and his seriously unsexy 'yEAh!' sample.
If this is sexy then a Sears credit card application is the kama-sutra.
What the fuck? Why are lesbians batshit for this cloud of toxic egg fart? They hop around to this crap like rhythm-impaired wood sprites. Don't they know that this shit is anti-music for anti-people?
If you absolutely HAVE to plug in to some garbage-y dance music might I recommend LCD Soundsystem's 'Thrills' (?)
LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy sounds like a chronic masturbator with a lethal headcold as he brags about how some unfortunate enabling bitch unconditionally digs his pill-addicted flat white ass. Is Mr. Murphy bringing sexy back? Hard to say, but as far as I'm concerned...'plugged up' is hotter than ever.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
A Dream Is A Wish Your Bloated Gasbag Of A Heart Makes.
My best pal Alfredo has granted me my most exalted wish via a stickynote stuck to my desk-away-from-desk in Crown Heights:
"Dear Goo (don't judge, grown men sometimes address each other in utterly batshit kittytalk...didn't you know?)
Please pick a list of 200 cds and 400 songs for the Big Lug Men's Bar jukebox. I'll pay you. Thx."
Dude. That's like the most awesomest task ever assigned to anyone ever. Big Lug, by the way, is a night Alfredo and I started on 14th street in the East Village two and a half years ago. As of October 24th, 2006 Big Lug The Bar will become reality and men who aren't bois, twinks or cracked-out circuit twats will finally have a place to go and chill. Alfredo will become an icon of NYC gay culture and I'll finally host the downtown ScuzzRock night I've always dreamt of.
Right on.
My night is called 'Sticky Fingers' and it happens every Monday at Big Lug Men's Bar, 85 Avenue A in the East Village. You'll come and you'll realize that although your mama don't dance, you daddy does in fact rock and roll - and thus you'll come back again and again and we'll all get trashed together and coagulate into one big happy scab (family).
Again, right on.
So back to my list. I want the jukebox to rock, not whine, so absolutely no John Mayer, that most odious dookie-butted hipster eyesore/jailbait-magnet/ClearChannel schlockmonger. No Pussycat Dolls (darnit, 'Stickwichu' is my most treasured guilty pleasure...I even wrote my own knock-off: 'Smokewichu' which has been recorded by Joey & His Bone-Tired Mothers and which I'll post on this site if I ever learn how to do that). I'd love to load it up with all the music I'll play at 'Sticky Fingers' but that would be redundant and not very democratic. As we know, not all fags sit around drinking boilermakers while bumping & grinding to T. Rex, Joan Jett and The Cramps (unfortunately That Demon TechnoThrob has got many of us in its sway). I have to include That Mystical Jewess: Madonna. Which Madonna masterwork will I include?
'American Life'? Just try and hum 4 bars of any one track, I dare you.
'Erotica'. Bingo. It's a dense, deeply funky four-star statement of purpose and who can't relate to 'Bye Bye Baby'? I ask you.
You're probably thinking to yourself Christ, it's a fucking jukebox not a WMD hunt just pick something/anything, who cares? (Something/anything...aha...Todd Rundgren!)
If you're thinking this a) you're a horse's ass and b) I must savor this moment for it will never come again.
Sex Pistols. Of course. Queer soccer hooligans singing along to 'EMI'? That's a no-brainer.
Thin Lizzy. All menfolk enjoy the musical stylings of Phil Lynott and his band: Gay, straight or vaguely confused.
Slick Rick. Rap is not my forte' but old-school hip-hop is reliable comfort food for many youngish New Yorkers much in the same way that a Thai food can be counted upon to evacuate my bowels post haste regardless of entree or location.
Souixsie & The Banshees. Interestingly enough, every single homosexual I have ever met harbors an unhealthy obsession for Souixsie Souix and her Banshees. This phenomenon merits a blog entry unto itself. I'll have to do a little field research.
The sun is laying low here in Clinton Hill so I'd better finish my list and submit it to Alfredo.
'Positively Ponyfied' is intended to be a music blog...if you've read this and you feel, well, disponyfied or you'd care to pony up with your own two cents I suggest you get you're own damn blog. After all, it's free.
'Sticky Fingers' @ Big Lug Men's Bar, 85 Avenue A beginning October 30th.
"Dear Goo (don't judge, grown men sometimes address each other in utterly batshit kittytalk...didn't you know?)
Please pick a list of 200 cds and 400 songs for the Big Lug Men's Bar jukebox. I'll pay you. Thx."
Dude. That's like the most awesomest task ever assigned to anyone ever. Big Lug, by the way, is a night Alfredo and I started on 14th street in the East Village two and a half years ago. As of October 24th, 2006 Big Lug The Bar will become reality and men who aren't bois, twinks or cracked-out circuit twats will finally have a place to go and chill. Alfredo will become an icon of NYC gay culture and I'll finally host the downtown ScuzzRock night I've always dreamt of.
Right on.
My night is called 'Sticky Fingers' and it happens every Monday at Big Lug Men's Bar, 85 Avenue A in the East Village. You'll come and you'll realize that although your mama don't dance, you daddy does in fact rock and roll - and thus you'll come back again and again and we'll all get trashed together and coagulate into one big happy scab (family).
Again, right on.
So back to my list. I want the jukebox to rock, not whine, so absolutely no John Mayer, that most odious dookie-butted hipster eyesore/jailbait-magnet/ClearChannel schlockmonger. No Pussycat Dolls (darnit, 'Stickwichu' is my most treasured guilty pleasure...I even wrote my own knock-off: 'Smokewichu' which has been recorded by Joey & His Bone-Tired Mothers and which I'll post on this site if I ever learn how to do that). I'd love to load it up with all the music I'll play at 'Sticky Fingers' but that would be redundant and not very democratic. As we know, not all fags sit around drinking boilermakers while bumping & grinding to T. Rex, Joan Jett and The Cramps (unfortunately That Demon TechnoThrob has got many of us in its sway). I have to include That Mystical Jewess: Madonna. Which Madonna masterwork will I include?
'American Life'? Just try and hum 4 bars of any one track, I dare you.
'Erotica'. Bingo. It's a dense, deeply funky four-star statement of purpose and who can't relate to 'Bye Bye Baby'? I ask you.
You're probably thinking to yourself Christ, it's a fucking jukebox not a WMD hunt just pick something/anything, who cares? (Something/anything...aha...Todd Rundgren!)
If you're thinking this a) you're a horse's ass and b) I must savor this moment for it will never come again.
Sex Pistols. Of course. Queer soccer hooligans singing along to 'EMI'? That's a no-brainer.
Thin Lizzy. All menfolk enjoy the musical stylings of Phil Lynott and his band: Gay, straight or vaguely confused.
Slick Rick. Rap is not my forte' but old-school hip-hop is reliable comfort food for many youngish New Yorkers much in the same way that a Thai food can be counted upon to evacuate my bowels post haste regardless of entree or location.
Souixsie & The Banshees. Interestingly enough, every single homosexual I have ever met harbors an unhealthy obsession for Souixsie Souix and her Banshees. This phenomenon merits a blog entry unto itself. I'll have to do a little field research.
The sun is laying low here in Clinton Hill so I'd better finish my list and submit it to Alfredo.
'Positively Ponyfied' is intended to be a music blog...if you've read this and you feel, well, disponyfied or you'd care to pony up with your own two cents I suggest you get you're own damn blog. After all, it's free.
'Sticky Fingers' @ Big Lug Men's Bar, 85 Avenue A beginning October 30th.
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