C'est combien? J'ai faim!

I am now studying French in my spare time (which—following a death in the family, a visit from my parents, all of the editing/finalizing for the issue, party planning, and attending shows/events—doesn't amount to much). I started to watch Rififi tonight and have come to the realization that my pronunciation is absolutely horrid with my Spanish accent.

As far as the trip goes, I haven't planned a thing except for dinner with one of the Pierres. I don't even have the exact address in the Marais where I will be staying, nor do I know when/where I am meeting my Belgian host. Whee! If you (or any charitable person you know) speaks French with a good accent, let me know. I carry my French textbook with me at all times and want to practice at every opportunity: coffeehouses, grocery stores, bathrooms, parks.

To blow off some steam, my roommate and I are going to the firing range next weekend. I've got a choice of rifles, handguns, semi-automatics, etc. I think I'm going to focus on building up my handgun expertise for now, although the semi-automatics have some allure. And to be frank, I really wanted to try the grenade launcher, but you can't do that at the range (at least, I don't think you can?).

Joke of the Day:
Donald Rumsfeld is briefing the President: "Yesterday, three Brazilian soldiers were killed."

"OH NO!" cries the President, "...But how many is a brazillion?"

From New Wave to Air Waves

I just got back from the Elkland/Annie show at the Delancey. Except we didn't see Annie (that place has major sound/technical issues that need to be fixed if they want to be taken seriously).

Jon marched vigorously to the beat as the boys played on. There were too many new wave '80s freaks in the crowd and I ended up fanning myself with my Harper's whilst lugging around a bag of French books. "I bet we're the only ones here who read Harper's!" I yelled at our music editor over the noise. "I bet we're the only ones here who read," he quipped back. My feet started to hurt. We glanced around the room. We felt old. I felt old.

After their set, I noticed a couple of the band members packing up equipment and heading outside. I needed to get Jon's contact info so we could invite them to our upcoming party, but didn't want to look like a freakin' groupie. Then I noticed Jon standing by himself outside talking on his mobile.

Keeping a respectful distance until he finished listening to his voicemail, I introduced myself. His eyes narrowed slightly as he mentally tossed me into the "groupie" category. It's like that moment when you're calling someone you don't normally call, and you want to fast forward quickly through your intro so you can get them to the "Aha! that's who you are" moment as painlessly as possible. Once he realized who I was, his guard came down immediately.

"I'm sorry about the show," he said ruefully. I raised an eyebrow. "It was awful. The sound was so bad," he explained. We chatted a bit longer and I invited him to the party. Then I asked him for his phone number (now I know how difficult you boys have it) which he relinquished easily; he told me to call him tomorrow. "We'll be there!" he said. As we departed, Joel, the keyboardist, came over. He has the most angelic, delicate features in the world. I haven't seen a prettier boy in person.

***

In other news, my broadcast career is really taking off. Not only have I been on BBC 2 radio this month, but I'm also on our second podcast (introducing song #3). Be sure to check it out and vote for us on Podcast Alley.

The Big Apple: Something’s Rotten

My favorite play by J.M. Barrie, made famous most recently by Finding Neverland, isn’t Peter Pan—it’s What Every Woman Knows. Written in 1908, the play’s revelatory response^* to the title’s implied question needs an update for the times and a particular place: New York City.

Every unattached woman here knows the dire state of the dating scene. And please spare me the predictable, uproarious response I get from male colleagues about how it’s the same for guys and all such nonsense. It’s not. Which is why I was so pleased to read Salon’s interview with Benjamin Kunkel, young author of the much-hyped Indecision, a novel chronicling the transformation of one such vapid urbanite, suffering from a "crisis in American masculinity," who currently thrives in the city that never sleeps.

I’ve been talking about the consumerist mentality that dominates the New York dating scene for a while now. So when Kunkel not only referenced that notion, but fleshed it out by comparing a sense of destiny to buying new pants, I was transfixed:

Partly, a model of shopping has overtaken our experience of romance. Love, historically, has been associated with a sensation of destiny. It's very difficult for us to attain a sensation of destiny where love is concerned anymore, because we think we can always look for something better, which is essentially a shopper's mentality. There's no destiny when it comes to buying pants or shirts or a dress. There'll be the nicest thing you can afford this season. But then a new season will [bring] more attractive styles and you'll actually be able to afford something better. I think that tremendous passion that we feel other generations had and that we missed was attached to a sense of destiny, and of permanent love that would survive changes in station and opportunity and fortune.

He goes on to describe New York as a breeding ground for “disposable relationships” and even suggests women go on a sexual strike, but not in a prudish sense: “You need to make an old-fashioned masculine distinction between sex and love. Just find some guy and use him. The guys you want love from? Give them nothing.”

And then he goes for the jugular, saying something a woman could not state without having her credibility, desirability, and everything else brought to question:

I have a sense that particularly in New York…there is a super-abundance of attractive, intelligent young women whom a man is very unlikely to be worthy of, who nevertheless set a higher value on him than he sets on them. This makes any sort of decision very difficult. Because to constantly be exposed to people whom you are unworthy of to begin with, yet who want you more than you want them, is confusing.

An incident from last weekend supports part of his theory (hint: I play the attractive, intelligent young woman in this scenario). After an evening of bar crawling in the Lower East Side, I tacitly agreed to be wingman for my friend Rachel. After 4 AM, we ended up hanging out at Jeremy’s** flat, where I chatted with his wingman, Jake. Somehow Jake ended up showing me his comic book drawings. “I want to create a comic book backed by a soundtrack,” he revealed, his breath heavy with whisky. Unimpressed but bored, I encouraged him to go on. The hero, called “The Troubleshooter” (or something equally horrendous), also went by the name "Nick" during off hours. “Doesn’t he look tough and hardened?” he asked, trying to lead me to conclusions like a fledgling trial lawyer. I nodded after much drunken deliberation. “But he also looks a bit…racist,” I suddenly concluded: it was the wife-beater and peculiar facial lines. We started to argue as Rachel and Jeremy began to make out in the background. “He fights for the rights of all,” he protested. “Looks like he fights for the rights of whites to me,” I countered.

As this compelling conversation wore on, we finally got to Book Three. Jake moved in closer. “Look, you’re relieved of your wingman duties,” I assured him. “Oh, I gave up my wingman duties hours ago,” he professed. Some black-and-white photos slipped out of the trilogy as I flipped through a treatment for a script of some sort. “Those are pictures of my cat,” Jake said. I thumbed through them and noticed a picture of a girl. I pressed for info. “Oh, that’s my girlfriend,” he said nonchalantly. I wonder what she says about these comics, I thought. We continued talking as the sun rose. Someone suggested opening up a bottle of champagne.

Jake leaned in and whispered a pick-up line. I scoffed and said, “Dude, you have a girlfriend!” to which he replied, “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” As Rachel and Jeremy laughed and sipped champagne on the rug, I shook my finger at Jake and declared, “Guys like you are the scourge of the New York dating scene. You are exactly what’s wrong with this place. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Unabashed, he explained that they had an open relationship and that this was "totally cool." It was not cool with me.

A few hours later I woke up and struggled—but failed—to shake Jake awake. I, alone, remembered he had to go to work (at a comic book store, where he claimed to earn $6/hour) by 11. He ended up waking up late, borrowing my phone to call the store, and jetting off, leaving his keys behind in a scattered flurry. Later in the week I got word from Rachel through Jeremy that Jake was, in fact, homeless. Yes, he lived with his girlfriend every now and then, and couch-crashed the rest of the time. So there you have it: a 5’7,” $6/hr-earning***, homeless, 30-year-old, mediocre-comic-book-drawing lad has no trouble finding a girl willing to put up with such shenanigans. As for me: you need not express surprise any longer when I gleefully mention my Joy Division dance parties for one—the loneliest number, perhaps, but I learned to troubleshoot my own problems long ago.

*Read the play if you want to know what every woman knew back then (and what we still know today)—it’s quite good.
**Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
***Please note: I do not care about height and income, but am going by the ostensible "standards" of our lackluster population.

New Permission + Anton's Antics

Plug: check out Permission's updated site, which corresponds more closely with the new magazine. You can also buy exclusive (and very limited edition) Permission magazine T-shirts if you act fast. They are great shirts. I wear mine at least once a week. It has all sorts of stains.

In other news, I just got back from a show at Rothko, where I was ruthlessly elbowed by Anton Newcombe, freaky frontman for Brian Jonestown Massacre:

Anton had a mad gleam in his eye. Watch those elbows, man!

Our music editor, Dave, and I were sitting at the bar watching an Aussie band play when our universe suddenly turned sideways with the entrance of a disheveled, shaggy guy wearing a caftan-like top and beads. His buddy wore bug-eyed shades and a #13 "athletic" jersey that bore the words "Los Angels" (not a typo). We were transfixed as these scary dudes proceeded to attract the attention of cute, indie girls in the audience.

"Clearly, I'm taking the wrong approach," lamented Dave. I was speechless. Occasionally, Shaggy would lean over and whisper things in people's ears, and we made eye contact a couple of times. I gave him a look that asked, "What?" Dave and I continued to marvel at these guys when suddenly (without warning) the Shag-ster leapt on stage and made an announcement about microwaves, rabbit feet, and other nonsense. A frightening possibility dawned on me: What if that's David, the Aussie band's publicist? I had gone to the show with the express purpose of meeting him after having unintentionally blown him off a couple of times via e-mail.

But then we figured it out. I heaved a sigh of relief. The world made sense again. You just need one of the Big Three: fame, money, or looks (exponentially increased if you have any combo of the three). So Anton: thanks for the reminder. I have now added DiG! to my Netflix queue.

The Problem with Eye Contact

To fight the overwhelming power of urban alienation, I’ve decided to make regular, more meaningful eye contact with my fellow citizens in everyday surroundings. After returning from London, where it seemed easier to make small talk with strangers, I confessed to feeling a surge of energy from these small, daily doses of interaction. At least that was my mindset before entering the crowded FDR post office during lunch today.

I joined the long Monday line as it snaked around the queue markers. The crowd consisted of the usual mix of corporate types on lunch breaks, eBay sellers, and retired folks. The glint of a small glass liquor bottle caught my eye in the hand of a stout woman, whose long, frizzy black and gray hair obscured her face. This was not the ideal subject with whom to begin the eye contact experiment. Look away, look away! I thought immediately, but it was too late. She had spotted me like a T. rex honing in on its target: nothing could avert her gaze. I inspected the creases of my notebook carefully and looked in the other direction. I fumbled around in my purse for a pen and pretended to jot down notes.

It was no use. In a loud voice reminiscent of Jacob Silj, Will Ferrell’s SNL character who has trouble modulating his voice in changing situations, she asked, “Where are you from?” Please be talking to someone else. When nobody replied, several heads turned my way. I couldn’t necessarily claim to having not heard her—the bloody clerk all the way at window 19 had even looked up. She asked again, making direct eye contact with me. In a hushed tone, I said, "I’m from Los Angeles.” She looked incredulous. Please don’t let me have the “Where are you really from?” debate right here in front of this captivated audience. She continued to look me over in a non-threatening way. “Those are beautiful colors on you—very much fall colors,” she finally declared; in my peripheral vision, I noticed other women perk up as they gave me a closer examination. Relieved, I quietly thanked her and hoped the conversation had reached its conclusion. “So are you Japanese?” the bottle woman continued. “Yes,” I practically whispered; the line had come to a horrifying halt, holding me hostage. I nodded and looked down at my notebook, trying to signal in as many ways as possible that the conversation had run its unnatural course. With a satisfied look, she said, “They are very artistic.”

The line moved.

Paris...Paris has won the 2005 bid

CMJ + Fashion Week have greatly reduced my spare time. But much has happened: another fine evening with comedians, my voice clip airing on BBC 2, fashion shows, after parties, after-after parties, after-after-after parties, and the delightful Christopher Hitchens-MP Galloway tea party (more on that; I promise).

And finally, the City of Light will be my place of residence for the better part of October. I've booked my ticket, packed up Pierre (quite lazy of me since he came prepackaged), and acquired a taste for strong coffee and chocolate croissants.

Je voudrais joie de vivre, merci.

The New Yorker Doesn't Know Sex Appeal

In a review of Wong Kar Wai’s 2046, New Yorker movie critic Anthony Lane got it wrong. Way wrong. I just couldn’t go on after reading this particular passage:

I am not competent to judge whether Chow [played by actor Tony Leung] is really the type to make the opposite sex go weak at the knees, waist, neck, and other points of seizure, although to my eyes he looked, with his whisker of mustache, like a no-good rat in a George Raft movie. What I will say is that nobody who has the ungallant gall to inform us, in voice-over, that “I became an expert ladies' man” is a ladies' man at all. Ladies of every description will know him better as a creep.

There are few actors who are universally smokin’; Tony Leung is one of them (the others are Ewan McGregor and Johnny Depp). He sizzled in the final non-speaking minutes of Days of Being Wild. And...

He put Maggie Cheung in the mood for love in 2000

He smoldered in Chungking Express as the shy policeman

And he seduces Ziyi Zhang in 2046

As a friend put it, Lane should’ve just stopped short at “I am not competent.”

East Village Eavesdropping

My roommate overheard a couple of interesting conversations today, shedding light on the dire New York dating scene:

Conversation #1, Brunch at Sidewalk Café

A group of guys discusses politics, referring to the latest judicial nominees and the state of the Supreme Court, when the conversation turns to dating:

• “Is it harder to get laid in this city or have a real relationship?”

• “And how sad is it that I’m complaining it’s easier to get laid than to have a relationship?”

Conversation #2, East Village Crêperie

Two girls share a crêpe in the early evening. They start to discuss relationships, until one finally declares: “I just want to get laid!”

Japanese ShitBegone, Part Deux

After knocking down a mannequin display at Urban Outfitters today (my knapsack latched onto a button and the whole thing came crashing down), I headed to JAS Mart for Japanese groceries to make soba for dinner. Much to my surprise, I came across Toire, or “deodorizer for toilet,” tucked away discreetly and selling for $5 a pop.

I mentioned it to my mother. She then told me about a recent luncheon she had with the golf wives. Discussing current events, Mrs. K. attempted to introduce the marvels of Toire to the group. "But three of them reached into their purses to reveal bottles of their own," she said amusedly. Without any prompting, she added: "It makes a great stocking stuffer."

On!Air!Podcast!

Here’s the latest sign to appear in our flat:


The good news: our first podcast is LIVE. You can access it NOW via iTunes with these simple instructions:

1. Under the “Advanced” menu, choose “Subscribe to Podcast”
2. Enter http://permission.libsyn.com/rss into the dialog box
3. Voilà! Download and listen.

I plan on co-hosting some of our future podcasts, so stay tuned.

Hooray for Bollywood

I can now cross off item #24—audition for a Bollywood film—from my 30 Things To Do Before 30 list. Unfortunately, this also means I can strike another item from my next destination list:

1. Beijing
2. Mumbai
3. Paris

Yes, like the Broadway musical, my Bombay dreams are over.

I walked into the midtown west dance studio shortly before 4 PM on Friday and entered the registration room on the 17^th floor. I noticed one other applicant stretching somberly on the wooden floor. The registration girl, glancing out the window, looked bored as she munched on a sandwich. She accepted my portfolio without looking at it. I grabbed the next number, 73, and sat down in the airy room paneled with mirrors.

A few stragglers arrived. With growing concern, I realized that my dance group would be small, resulting in closer scrutiny. When Lindsay had relayed her experience to me a couple of weeks ago, it sounded like a breeze: just cheerful fun with some professional dancers and amateurs in the mix. Today, however, the skill set ranged from professional dancer to…me. I thought about bolting.

Right at that moment, Driss walked in with the choreographer. I had communicated with Driss via e-mail after speaking with the film’s producer. He wore jeans and a blue, button-down, long-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows. He was tall and muscular and reminded me of an ethnic David Boreanaz, with a close-shaven head and light stubble. His voice had the breathy, nasal quality of the Godfather, without the accent. I disliked him immediately.

But then he glanced around the room and gave each one of us a warm smile with direct, meaningful eye contact. I quickly reversed my decision about him. My surroundings snapped back to me as I realized all the other applicants were stretching and bending into strange positions. I was the only one sitting there lamely with a notebook in hand. In a split second, my left leg involuntarily jutted out at a right angle as I tried to blend in. I thought again about escaping and never coming back. I zipped up my bag and conjured up ways to negotiate a graceful exit.

But Driss had just finished reviewing our portfolios and said, “Robin! Yes, I recognize you from our e-mails. It’s so nice to meet you,” he smiled. Shit. I smiled back brightly, not expecting such a reception. As if we went back five years, instead of five minutes, he asked about the magazine and work as we engaged in a personal conversation in front of everyone. He knew I had been referred to the audition by the film’s producer. All the while I wondered if he had taken a close look at my dance résumé. For this is what he would have seen:

The choreographer herded us into the practice room. I expected warm-ups. Instead, she announced, “We’ll start off with some easy steps, and then move on to the more difficult moves. And one! Two! Three!” I struggled to follow. If this was the easy stuff, what would the hard stuff be like? As the stereo blasted a song from Kal Ho Naa Ho, I shimmied over to Driss and declared that, after much thought, this wasn’t my thing after all. He smiled and said, “Are you sure? It takes a while to get into. Why don’t you try it for five more minutes and then decide?” He walked me back to my place in line. The choreographer told me to relax and have fun. And fun I had: jumping and kicking out of sequence. At least I didn’t kick someone, like another dancer did. Everyone else seemed to take to the routine like ducks to water. I felt like a monkey on skates. Finally, the choreographer announced it was time to freestyle.

Say what? Nobody told me this. Did Lindsay have to freestyle? I no longer cared. I walked over to Driss and laughed; I told him my audition was officially over. I unpinned #73 and tossed it into the trash. He invited me to stay and watch. The choreographers paired numbers 74 and 75 for some hip-hop freestyle action. The girl was good. The guy was just breakdancing—nothing special. In the second group, a blonde wearing a Detroit Pistons jersey looked awkward. I did not feel bad anymore. These were all professional dancers, and here I was trying something new. I relaxed and started to enjoy myself.

Soon the audition was over and the crew thanked everyone. I made my way to the lobby and started to pack up my bag when Driss came over. I felt like an ass when he mentioned my résumé. “So, I see you’ve been an extra before,” he said with a straight face. “Yes,” I said with reciprocal gravity. “But in those cases, all I had to do was pretend to talk. I can do that. I can’t pretend to dance.” We both laughed. “Look,” he said, “Each of those people in there had 6-7 years of formal dance training. They go to auditions like this every single day. It’s as if you walked into an ‘Intro to French’ class and instead found people analyzing Balzac.” I quelled the urge to embrace him.

As the dancers trickled out of the studio, they stopped by to thank us both. I guess my chumminess with Driss made them believe I was part of the casting department—perhaps the casting clown, to make them feel at ease. An assistant pulled Driss away, so we exchanged good-byes quickly.

I took the A train downtown. “Lodi” from Veer-Zaara started playing on my iPod. At random intervals, I smiled to myself, recalling what had just transpired. Had this been a Bollywood movie, I would be due for my song-and-dance number with Shahrukh Khan. Every now and then I burst into hearty laughter. The New York poker faces around me exchanged quizzical glances. Perhaps they thought I was nuts, or that I was in love, or that I was eager to get on with my holiday weekend. With an extra spring in my step, I marveled at how something so simple and trivial could make my spirits soar. I smiled broadly at no one in particular and exited the train.