Statesman > XL Blogs > Archives > 2005 > March
March 2005
Shopping is such a drag
So there I was standing naked on the counter of a trendy store on the Drag with a credit card clenched between my teeth, dancing a tarantella. No one noticed.
OK, so that’s not entirely true, and by “entirely” I mean “remotely”, but it does illustrate perfectly my first shopping experience on the aptly named Drag, that legendary section of Guadalupe Street that parallels the University of Texas campus.
On the tacit advice of Buster Crash, tattoo artist and Flametrick Subs front man, I avoided the Drag like the plague. He said there were hippies there, and anyone who knows me knows I have a famously low tolerance for patchouli. Plus, I have learned that when Buster says something is bad, it’s in the best interest of all involved to believe him. I once ignored his warning about Oklahoma and nearly got my eyeballs removed by a marauding gang of flesh-eating emus.
However, the pursuit of jewelry drove me, as per usual, to abandon my better judgment. To be fair, even my better judgment is rarely up for many blue-ribbon prizes, but when it comes to sparkly things, the only thing that differentiates me from a raccoon is line of credit. I braved the Drag because I was in search of The Second Greatest Necklace in The Whole Wide World, and no hippies, hipsters or kamikaze pedestrians were going to stop me.
The Second Greatest Necklace in the Whole Wide World is a marvel and features two sections of simple silver chain suspending a shiny powder pink enamel pistol that spouts flames. It is most often found in the company of my friend Tara who looks exactly like Eve (of “Adam and” fame) would have looked if the Bible had been cast by Russ Meyer.
Any Club DeVille darling worth her Bettie Page bangs would have tossed decorum aside and snatched the trinket from Tara’s neck shortly before beating a hasty, yet sparkly, retreat. Sadly, I am not worth Bettie Page bangs (which reside in a bag in my closet with the rest of my fake hair when they’re not parading around on my head) I am also not especially fleet of foot, and while I’ve never actually been to prison, I’ve seen enough B-movies to know that it’s not a fun place to be, no matter how pretty the girls are. Eventually, I was left with one option: to actually go and buy the darn necklace.
Cue nude Italian folk-dancing.
I’ve heard stories about clubs with secret handshakes used to separate the societal wheat from the chaff. Apparently, the Drag boutiques have employed the secret handshake method of retail commerce, and I was left hanging out entirely ignored with the rest of the monied, yet prohibitively uncool, chaff while the shop girls practiced their slouches and attended to their male equivalents, whose main hobbies, I can only assume, include listening to Bright Eyes and crying like first-grade girls.
By the time I left the third boutique, I was upset enough to seriously consider obliging the festively haired gentleman with a large dog by providing him with a ride to Montana (the dog could sit in the back) and wouldn’t have bought The Second Greatest Necklace in the Whole Wide World if it came with real bullets and a vial of Elvis’ own sweat. Fortunately in the absence of interesting jewelry my reason had returned, and I declined his thoughtful invitation. Instead I went home, dug into my closet, past the bag of fake hair and pulled out a lovely blue box, opened it and smilingly donned THE Greatest Necklace in the Whole Wide World before drifting gently off to sleep.
Take THAT, Guadalupe.
Permalink | | Categories: By Rhiannon Gammill
On some level, I think I sensed this, and was afraid
Something else I learned about today, via Jeff via Ellen: Are you not dying to have one of these now?
Permalink | | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
Big in Japan
Asian earthquakes, living wills, child molestation trials, Jessica Simpson in Austin and the size of a small monkey. The world spins, tragedies unfold, and I have but one question: Should I bring a scarf to Japan?
I’ve decided against the tasteful Iron Maiden T-shirt and that pair of Diesel jeans with the baggy tush. Same goes for the NB running shoes that vaguely resemble moon boots. All of it disqualified in great trip-packing deliberations. Günter Grass’ “The Tin Drum” — that’s the novel I’ve elected to bring. It’s about 1,000 pages long and stars a hero, Oskar, who is the size of a small monkey.
The scarf, sprawled on the floor like a pancaked python, awaits my verdict. Longingly, lashes batting, it looks at me, wistful. It might have whimpered. I took it to London. Is that not enough?
Tomorrow I go. My journeys have been voluminous and far. China and London were savored last year. Now I leave for the land of zen refinement, industrial urban chaos, noodles, neon and fantastic numbers of monkeys. (The simian motif stops here.)
I have no idea what I’m doing. I have a ticket. I have a couple bucks in change. I have a craving for sushi and Kirin beer. Let’s go.
A friend of mine is currently in Rome. I told her to be wary of begging children who will rob her blind. I’m good like that, though she didn’t seem to appreciate it. I’ve gotten no such advice from my frankly unsolicitous friends. Everyone freaked when I merely mentioned I was going to China. They seemed to think China was an unexplored planet of sea monsters and plagues and diabolical rickshaw drivers bent on running me down. They were wrong on all counts except the sea monsters.
My dad spent a spell in Japan in the ’50s. He was in the Air Force and young. He and a friend tried to steal luxurious bathrobes from the Imperial Hotel and got caught. I will complete the mission at which my father failed. The trick, pop, is to wear the bathrobe under your clothing.
I’m already getting chest pains about the Tokyo Metro, which, despite its vaunted efficiency and speed, looks like a riot of angry octopi. If any of you see red flares streaking the sky from the east, call the American Embassy.
Yet I can’t wait for the orgies of electric light and moving bodies in the Shibuya and Shinjuku districts of Tokyo. Can’t wait for the hedonistic excesses of the Roppongi area. Osaka, Kyoto and Hiroshima are also in my sights. They have been warned.
Without travel I’m dead. Very Descartian, that, but true. Incurable is my wanderlust, a disease I nurture and spoil. (Suddenly, I feel like a philosopher, a great guru of triteness and self-puffery. “I travel alone, with only the wind as my guide and companion …”)
I’m not nervous, I have no angst. I have reservations about nothing, though I have some for Seat 24-C on Northwest and a room at a Shibuya hotel. Plane crashes don’t worry me, but ask me again when the cabin is filling with smoke.
The scarf will go. It might sit rolled in the suitcase the whole time but it shall get glimpses of Japanese hotel rooms. It should feel lucky for that. I know I do.
Permalink | | Categories: By Chris Garcia
Ch-Ch-Check it out
I’m still just aghast at the Gap for dissing Sarah Jessica Parker in favor of Joss Stone. Didn’t it seem like everything was going so well? I don’t get it. Over pre-“Be Cool” margaritas at Maudie’s, we got into a discussion about this and about what entails a good spokesperson. SJP is smart, creative, powerful, cute as pie and has a sweet family. And who’s Joss Stone?
“She’s just a young Joan Osborne!” Jeff proclaimed.
See for yourself: Joss. Joan. Eerie!
“Be Cool” itself is kind of a mess, but there is one scene that’s absolutely jaw-dropping.
The Rock, he of the raised eyebrow and the supernaturally white teeth, does a monologue from “Bring It On.” Actually, it’s more of a dialogue, which, as John Travolta’s character points out, is kind of a mistake if you’re auditioning. He also recommended sticking to “man parts,” which someone probably should have told Travolta after, say, “Battlefield Earth.”
Personally, I think if you’re going to do something from “Bring It On,” go all out and do the opening cheer. Rock, you’re perky, you’re fun, and now you’re No. 1. K-K-Kick it, Dwayne. D-D-D-Dwayne!
My new checks came in the mail today, just in the nick of time to take care of some bills. But right when I was getting down to business, something stopped me cold.
The first check had horsies on it.
Soft-focus horsies in a field of wildflowers.
I, reader, am not a soft-focus horsies kind of girl.
Clearly, a mistake had been made. I had asked for the same checks I had had before. Plain, no-frills checks.
Now what’s even odder is that it’s not a whole book of horsie checks. The next one in the book is of the Jefferson Memorial. Because equestrians are also patriotic? Maybe. But then how does the toucan check figure in?
I don’t need my checks — or my ringtone, or my credit card, or my license plate, for that matter — to make a statement, especially when it’s one I have not approved.
Permalink | | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
The delicate machine upon which you kill aliens
I was going to write a very detailed account about the new Sony PSP given my vast (er, many) experiences as a gamer who first blistered his thumbs on the Atari 2600, but by the time I got my hands on one, about three-fourths of the million units of the shiny black mini-monolith had already been sold. Hundreds of thousands of gamers (not even counting the ones in Japan who got their PSPs months ago) were already Wi-Fi-multiplayering and busting blocks in “Lumines” by the time I went “Cooool!” over how sharp the bundled movie “Spider-Man 2” was. I wasn’t just behind the curve. The curve was straddling me, malevolent big brother-style, and giving me an atomic noogie.
But I did get to play it for a whole weekend, and my thoughts on the system are not much different than the reaction from most longtime gamers. After I was done letting my jaw hang for those lost hours, I collected myself enough to appreciate that while this device might try to do too much (do we really need something else in our lives that plays MP3s?), its aesthetic appeal (non-gamer friendly!) more than makes up for the weird whirring sound it makes as the diminutive UMD discs spin in its innards or for its short battery life. It does indeed feel like a powerhouse piece of technology in a slick black sliver of a package. Which is all to say that I like the PSP. It excites me in a way that the ugly duckling Nintendo DS (could it be that it stands for “Dork Soup?”) has yet to.
But about that industrial design — whose idea was it to make the PSP so pretty? The thing is too beautiful, just like the iPod, and just as prone to be spoiled. When I got my iPod, it was lovely, but only weeks later, without any additional rubber or leather carriers purchased to protect it, the shiny silver side of my player looked like Mel Gibson’s chest in “Lethal Weapon 3,” (or Jesus’ in Gibson’s “Passion,” to keep the references coming) — a crisscrossing, scarred mess that only tough-as-nails Rene Russo (or, again, maybe God) could appreciate.
Gamers, especially those playing portable devices like the Nintendo GameBoy, keep their wares in messy backpacks full of sharp objects, Coca-Cola one-liters and probably butane cans. They play their games while jostling into others on subways, or stealthily in class beneath a small desk. These game systems get banged up and abused.
The PSP has a reflective top surface that is easily smudged by fingers and looks so delicate that you think you could crack it by breathing too hard toward it. It’s simply too nice for gamers. I would resist buying a PSP (the one I’m playing now is borrowed) for the same reason I won’t buy a Cadillac or an Infiniti to drive — I know how I treat my vehicles. That pretty Cadillac CTS would be a scratched-up, devalued mess with stacks of newspapers littering the backseat.
So, thanks Sony for giving us something cool and pretty to impress people with. Just know that we’re not thrilled at having to hold in our hands something so shiny and pristine. You really should have left the Faberge egg design to — well, Russian czars, I suppose.
Permalink | | Categories: By Omar Gallaga
Impeach Pedro!
Next year in the spirit of streamlining SXSW, I vote that all attendees, foreign and domestic, cut to the chase and surrender their entire collection of retro-inspired tees in exchange for a shirt that simply reads “Snug-fitting Ironic T-Shirt.” They wouldn’t even have to make it themselves, because Mario DiGiorgio has already created one, available for conspicuous consumption at Parts and Labour, my favorite South Congress boutique.
Imagine it, for nine days in March no one could vote for Pedro, be a Pepper or brag they shot JR. It would be glorious. Now if I could get them to give up those stupid white belts.
During SXSW I got to do what I do best; parallel park.
I love parallel parking. I do.
I love it like a kid loves candy, like a sorority girl loves Jell-O shots, like an American Idol contestant loves hair product. That is to say I love it a lot; but sometimes I get bored. There’s just not enough excitement to bring me to the top of my game. That’s where Southby comes in. The great marauding herds of wristbandits provide an extra element of mystery (who is that pedestrian?) excitement (will I hit that pedestrian?) and danger (will anyone notice if I hit that pedestrian who cut in the line for Elvis Costello forcing me to stand behind the Tallest Man In The Universe for the duration of the set?) that makes shimmying into a particularly snug spot an extra enjoyable achievement.
You can’t get that on the Dillo, pal.
Permalink | | Categories: By Rhiannon Gammill
Scenes from SXSW
Well, my goodness, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? All of this South by Southwest business has cruelly torn me from you, so let’s get caught up.
For the first time, I went to SXSW Interactive, a fine event attended by many, many Powerbooks and their human friends. I wouldn’t have taken a non-Mac in there any more than I would have worn a Christmas sweater into Emo’s.
On the film side of things, I’m going on and on to everyone about “Rock School” and “Cowboy Del Amor.” I can’t imagine that you wouldn’t like these two films. Unless you’re evil.
More somber docs like “The Boys of Baraka,” “Troop 1500,” “Highway Courtesans” and “Emmanuel’s Gift” have all stayed with me. And all but “Courtesans” are screening one more time in the next couple of days, so get out there and show some love.
I’ve noticed kind of a weird side effect from these films, though: They made me dislike some of the narrative feature offerings without even seeing them. Reading their descriptions, I made snotty little remarks, like, “Oh, I’m so sorry about your relationship problems. While you were busy whining, Emmanuel rode a bike across Ghana! And he only has one leg!”
Confession: I had an episode of getting majorly starstruck. It wasn’t Elijah Wood or even Lauren Bacall. It happened when I saw the girls from “Troop 1500” in the lobby of the Alamo South. I wanted to say hello and that I loved their movie, but I was all tongue-tied. Real stars can have that effect on you.
Permalink | | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
The abstention: Call me when the water gun arrives
Sign at the Riverside Drive and Congress Avenue Thundercloud Subs:
— Small cheese
— Whole pickle / side of ranch
— Small diet
$27.50
$3.50 service charge
Wristbands only, no cameras, no taping, don’t move here
And I’m out.
I haven’t seen any South by Southwest films. I’m not going to any showcases or even standing in line at the Austin Music Hall to see Erykah Badu, a performer I’ve always wanted to see live. I’ll have to admire her and listen to her genius “Mama’s Gun” from afar.
I didn’t go to the Interactive festival’s inaccurately-titled “Blogging vs. Journalism” panel. I haven’t seen “Palindromes” or “The Aristocrats.” Missed “Cowboy Del Amor.” I didn’t check out the “Comedians of Comedy” at Emo’s.
No wristband. No badge. No $6 sneak-ins at the last minute.
I’m not boycotting, I swear. I love South by Southwest. I love gawking at mohawk-headed heavy-chain-wearing out-of-towners near Jo’s on South Congress Avenue. I like the crush of cars downtown as bands double park on Sixth Street to get their gear into a club not much larger than their van. I love having Andrea Echeverri and Al Franken and the Brothers Chaps from HomestarRunner.com all at around the same time.
Hey, I went to the ACL Festival last year. I’m not afraid of crowds or sunburn.
In truth, work commitment, home commitments, a rigorous sketch-writing festival that I’ve been up against deadline for, and my daily commute to and from New Braunfels all contributed about equally to my just giving up the idea of partaking in our city’s yearly smorgasbord of sensory overload.
Hey, I like sensory overload. You should see my computer desktop. But this year, I simply decided that my health, sanity and pulse rate were just a bit more important than forcing myself to live two weeks without sleep and sanity.
So this year, I’m a SXSWuss. I’m abstaining. You guys have fun. I’ll be over here reading about everything you guys are doing and asking you what you thought of the Iranian band and whether that Elijah Wood soccer nuts movie was any good.
It’s nothing personal, SXSW, I swear. I’m still into you.
Not only is Science exhibit asks ‘Know Thy Poop’ my favorite CNN.com headline ever, but it’s also the headline to a not-at-all-bad story, one that reminds me of days when I see a cool toy and wish I was young enough to play it, or marvel at the technology that has expanded the world of waterguns far beyond the limits of my imagination as a child. This is an exhibit not geared to me or my age group (pushing [cough] thirty [cough]). Yet they couldn’t have made an exhibit more for me if they tried.
Appreciating gross stuff, I say, is the new Botox. Saying “Poop” has to, in some way, keep you young.
Speaking of waterguns, did you know somebody has gone and built the ultimate watergun? If there’s ever an alien invasion, especially if it’s the H20-fearing aliens from “Signs,” hand me one of these, not an AK-47, please.
Permalink | | Categories: By Omar Gallaga
I was watching “American Idol” and then WHACK! Drew Barrymore is down!
I tried.
I tried very, very, very hard not to get sucked into the gaping TV viewing vortex of “American Idol.” As my wife and my sister-in-law watched, I physically removed myself from the rounds of auditions, sequestering myself to the upstairs office, or to the other room to watch “Smallville,” which, with its ongoing series of WB guest stars, feels itself sometimes like a questionable audition of talent.
I’d hear my wife and her sis howl with laughter at the auditions, and later, hear them debate the relative merits of potential singing superstars I had never heard of.
It was a great effort on my part, I think, but I gave up when one night, on the couch, I saw 12 of the men perform. I was a goner.
Now I’m trying to figure out whether I like Bo Bice (rock on, Bo!) and what is up with Makalah’s Barbra Streisand vibe.
My initial pullback from “AI,” (the one with the singers, not the one with the creepy boy robot) was my balking at any show that tries to get me to watch it three times a week. Then I remembered that I watch “The Daily Show” about four-times a week when it’s not on vacation, and loosened up my TV girdle for some Fox competition.
I do not understand the addictive properties of this show, the same show in the same format that we’ve seen three times before, but I do know that once sucked in, you are powerless in its viselike grip.
I’ve heard tales of a file you can download that gives you access to every publicly available promo MP3 for artists playing at South by Southwest, but I’m a whiny old man when it comes to filling up my desktop’s hard drive with things I’m unfamiliar with. I’ve managed to keep my hard drives relatively clean with just enough space on them to burn the occasional DVD compilation or install a new game when I need to. But it’s like a finite set of shelves — something has to go to make room for a new flower pot.
So, while I do have the necessaries for such a transaction — an iPod, a fast connection and BitTorrent, that devil-may-care file-sharing application that is here being used for Good instead of Evil.
There’s something sad about knowing that there’s more hard drive space on your iPod than on your computer and that because of this, your music player will never, ever, ever get filled without a computer upgrade.
I drove by Whole Foods today. It looked big and clean. Healthy-eating people were sitting at benches outside in the beautiful sun, and folks were crossing the street at the Waterloo/Amy’s corner to hustle over and get some … what do you get there, like peas and chutney? With an Odwalla to drink?
I love eating healthy, I really do, but that big parking structure and the tales I’ve heard of massive crowds at every eating station made me stay away.
I’ll try next week, I swear. I’m all about the peas.
I saw a trailer for the movie “Fever Pitch” the other night (during “Gilmore Girls,” and you can keep your jokes to yourself about that, thank you very much). I’m always fascinated by the way movie trailers are created for different audiences; for instance, this trailer focused on Drew Barrymore’s character and the idiot Red Sox fan dude (Jimmy Fallon, natch) she has to deal with.
It was mushy, mushy, girl, mushy and then WHACK! Drew Barrymore gets slammed in the face with a baseball. Everybody cheers, including me.
The thing is, I like Drew Barrymore. My wife asked why she’s always cast in romantic comedies, and I had to amend her question to say that she’s always cast in romantic comedies for guys. Adam Sandler ones, where she’s the attainable girl.
But why, if you’re trying to sell the movie to the women watching “Gilmore Girls” (and me) would you end the trailer with the heroine getting hit in the face with a baseball? Granted I found it hilarious, but I’m going to the movie because it’s based on a Nick Hornsby novel (two for two so far on the quality adaptation scale: “High Fidelity” and “About a Boy”), not because it’s about relationships.
Still, I hope for a future when this movie makes a jillion dollars and the device is employed in every chick flick trailer. Don’t you want to see Julia Roberts running up the aisle to stop a wedding and then WHACK! — smacked in the face with a hockey puck?
I hear all these stories all the time about people getting fired for writing blogs, but I rarely hear about how to cope with your employers starting a blog.
I don’t even know how to react. Should I send them links to the Hamsterdance site like I would other bloggers I know, or should I try to get them to participate in a Friday Meme? Should I ask them to find out which “Harry Potter” character they are?
Am I allowed to give “mondo props” to my bosses on my own site? Do I add them to my links page? Do I challenge them to a karaoke throwdown?
If you’re listening, “Books for Dummies,” people — please write one for me: “Dealing With Your Bosses Blogging for Dummies.”
Permalink | | Categories: By Omar Gallaga
A table with a view
There comes a time when one must put one’s foot down and decide that no, they would not like a side of peepshow with their steak tip salad. For me, this time came approximately noon last Sunday on the swampy patio at the nearly empty Texas Music Café.
I am not a prude. I have been to Hippie Hollow, I have been to Mardi Gras, and while I’m not sure if they still ban books in Boston, I’d read them if they did. I typically do not mind a little P. in my D.A. That being said, once a harmless case of kissyface progresses into full-blown romantic calisthenics, I will make my displeasure known; even if that means raising both eyebrows.
While I whiled away the eons waiting for my salad (after a point, I suspected Godot would arrive first), the questionable couple, or should I say, couple in question, displayed their mutual affection by lovingly caressing each other’s tonsils. I cleared my throat and put down my ice water with more force than necessary. That’s right. I went there. I’ll tell you what’s more: Had it not been raining for the past several days, making the ground soggy and acoustically unsound, I would have activated my world renowned “Tappyfoot of Extreme Annoyance”, an impatient foot maneuver famed in story and song (though in the spirit of full disclosure, those stories and songs are mostly composed by the people in line with me at Central Market and aren’t extremely flattering).
As I continued to wait for my salad and my dining companions continued to try for another child, I scowled and tried very hard to compose on my face the disapproving glare perfected years ago by my grandmother. I won’t say which grandmother has the superlative glare; they may fight for the title if they wish. I’ll sell tickets and make a fortune.
Sadly I am not very good at disapproving glares, and I’m afraid I ended up looking more like a badger with a stomachache. Obviously not the desired result, but still the disapproving glare of an urpsy badger should convey at least some form of displeasure, so I ran with it. The couple was not swayed, or if they were it was not by my doing. My still-missing salad, I became convinced, was a very special artisinal salad and clearly the cook was growing his own equally special artisinal salad greens, which explained the wait. Still, a gal can only avert her eyes for so long before staring a hole in her shoes.
I debated leaving but decided against it. As great Texan and imaginary-boyfriend Lyle Lovett said “I realize there are things you say and do you can never take back” and while technically he was talking about a cheeseburger, I felt that ordering a steak tip salad on questionably artisinal greens was close enough and decided to stay for another five minutes. Thankfully the waitress arrived just as I was getting up. She had, I imagine, been engrossed in reading the whole of the Oxford English Dictionary, and satisfied to find out the Zyrian (n. A member of the Komi people of the north central region of the former U.S.S.R) did it, emerged casually with my salad.
I fell on the disappointingly non-artisinal salad with delight (figuratively, although don’t imagine it is beyond my powers to physically fall on a salad. I can trip over leafy greens with the best of ‘em). I was starved, and even though the salad was not merely tossed but physically assaulted with and then drowned in a vast churning sea of blue cheese dressing, I ate it with gusto. After all, having a sense of shame is hungry work, and it seemed I’d be working for three.
Permalink | | Categories: By Rhiannon Gammill
The BEAT! Is BACK! OW! My EAR!
Every morning on my way to work I still listen to Howard Stern (thank you for not judging, by the way), except for the many, many minutes of commercial breaks where the new Beat 104.3 inserts some music (heard the new 50 Cent song? Why not hear it another five or six times?) and a lot of their promos inviting you to stick around after 10 a.m. for more Beat music.
Have you heard those promos?
They sound like this:
“The BEAT is BACK! The ALL NEW BEAT 104.3 is (POP!)” and that’s right where my eardrums bursts from the sound of this loud woman hollering into both my (now useless) ears.
I quickly grab at the tissues in my glove compartment, and after I’ve wiped away the blood, I can hear a sharp ringing, but through that, I can still make out: “… in the ATX, the NEW UNO-CERO-CUATRO-TRES!”
Owwww!
It’s been going on like this for a few weeks: Stern, commercials, LOUD, eardrums, bleed, ow, pain, 50 Cent. I started to get really curious about who exactly was causing me this pain. Just in case that person was in town, maybe working at a Subway as a sandwich artist, in case I inadvertently walked up to them and they took my order. I think that conversation would go a little something… like this…
Omar: Hi, I’d like a —
Loud 104.3 lady: Would you like to try the ALL NEW fresh tasting CHICKEN TOASTED RANCH!?
Omar: (Sopping up ear blood) Yeah, I guess, I —
Loud 104.3 lady: That’ll be CUATRO-CERO-NUEVE plus tax!
Omar: My ears just fell off.
So I did what any enterprising new-media blogger wouldn’t dare to do: I called the radio station and got to the bottom of this. I spoke to “Dusty Hayes” (probably his real name), the vice president of programming for Infinity Broadcasting in Austin (definitely his real title).
I asked him what was the dealie-o with this woman ruining my hearing every morning.
It’s Angie Martinez. Yes, Angie Martinez, the recording artist from Hot 97 in New York City. Remember when she was almost a judge on “American Idol” for like five minutes?
Anyway, Angie is the one who’s been causing all this grief, a level of suffering not seen in this town since the amateur “Beat Box” phone-rap feature on Boy Loco’s old evening 104.3 show.
Hayes, who doesn’t sound like the biggest Angie Martinez fan (that would be Angie Martinez, I bet), says his station is planning to ease off on those promos. “It kind of wears on you after a while,” he admitted.
He says the response to switching the format from hip-hop to scuzzy talk radio (the short-lived “COYOTE!” talk station) back to hip-hop “has been phenomenal.”
Hayes and I talked a bit about what’s going on with Howard Stern’s winding-down FM radio contract and then, amusingly, he spelled out the names of the on-air talent at 104.3. Here they are in no particular order:
Tazz Daddy. 2DQ. Nina Chantele. Chico Rico.
“All the guys in the format have nicknames,” Hayes explained. Whatever you say, “Dusty.”
Hayes says they’re adding some new music from local mixers, including “The Fantastic Five.” Will popular ex-DJ Boy Loco return? “We’re leaving the door open to that,” Hayes says.
Oh, and by the way, if you ever listen to Stern and hear some weird radio problem, as if the station is fast forwarding through some raunch, it’s not the station, he says. “It’s a satellite glitch. But I get people calling, yelling at me. They call me the Gestapo.” He says as long as Stern isn’t doing anything to endanger their license, The Beat won’t mess with the content.
So, see? Some good news this week. We know the identity of the lady making our ears hurt, we have familiarized ourselves with “Tazz Daddy” and we know that Howard Stern’s show isn’t getting censored in town.
Who says there’s no important investigative journalism going on in blogs?
Permalink | | Categories: By Omar Gallaga
Durannies speak out
No one’s said anything about Duran Duran lately. Let’s fix that.
My recent effusiveness inspired other fans to do some sharing.
Wendy writes:
I haven’t been the same either. It sounds like you were in the same row as me and my girlfriends because all we could say over and over was “Oh my GAWD — he’s so HOT!” I felt like I was 16 again.
Also haunted is Stacy:
I still think about it too … and still have a bit of a buzz from it. I thought the show was amazing! I fell in love with them all over. Sigh. The only “bad” moments (and you touched on them) were the fool shouting “Wild Boys” (whatever) and the technically challenged sax solo (poor guy). Several times I thought to myself … Simon’s SO dramatic! Is it intentional or does he do it unknowingly? He gives new meaning to the “strike a pose” phrase. I love him anyway … I love John more, though. I was supposed to marry him way back when … we were going to live happily ever after. Seriously.
Oh, Stacy. When it didn’t work out for me and John, I had high hopes for you guys. Sorry to hear this.
OK, I’m getting kind of Kathy Griffin at the Oscars. Cutting it out now.
Speaking of, here’s how I came down on the key issue of the night: Hilary Swank’s dress was a good thing.
I’ve heard lots of different views on Chris Rock’s performance. I was fine with him, and I think Sean Penn needs to lighten up. Rock was not trying to deny that Jude Law is a Very Serious Actor. I think he was just skewering all the breathless publicity insisting we should be very excited about Jude Law.
I’m sorry, Ryan and Chuck. I liked you best and that cursed you on “Amazing Race.” I feel like we missed out on so much together. After we found out Chuck was fluent in Portuguese, we were dying to know what other languages you spoke. Mandarin, maybe? And when you cried at the end and swore you’d be best friends forever …
Sorry, but I can’t talk about it anymore.
With my boys gone, my attention, though not my fondness, is focused on Susan and Patrick as they are inevitably destroyed by their hatred for Rob and Amber. Jeff pegged it when he said Patrick is like a young Montgomery Burns. Eeeeexxcellent.
Chris has a story coming up that’s all about the new Alamo Drafthouse on South Lamar Boulevard, but let me give you my early assessment after a peak last week: Wow. Seriously. Duran Duran levels of wow. And I know the Alamo will never leave me like John did …
Permalink | | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
