CMJ "New" "Music" Festival 2005: A Self-Destructive Circle of Jello, Speed, Tears, Brocolli, Puking, Social Akwardness, St. Pauli Girl and Crochet

ah, cmj, the 5 day "music" "industry" death march that invades nyc every fall (cept 2001, when cmj lost in the battle of terrorists vs yet another sub pop showcase). as you can see, teet and i live very different lifestyles, yet we are still BFF. what gives? you chew on that one, we'll be here watching season 4 dvds while i embroider DXE logos onto our jean jackets and teet tries to get her sidekick to stop howling like a dog that still has its balls whenever she gets an IM, which is every 10 seconds.












Tuesday, September 14th, 2005

TS: On Tuesday, September 14th, 2005 I rolled out to the much anticipated Syndicate CMJ Pre-party. Scoped the scene with one of my main party o'clock lady brodeos, H. Raff - who doesn't for one second let the fact that she is like 16 years old and partially blind in both eyes or something hold her back from her god-given responsibility towards advanced social warriorism. We double fisted mixed drinx and snuck ginormo gulps of cough syrup from the secret flask our Howard Johnsons assistant continental breakfast shift manager friends Linda and Denise, sang and danced to Say Anything like total lame drunk popular girls, and were so effing drenched in sweat and Presidents Choice Diet Cola that trying to move in for the pipe-n-toss on party attendees Tucker Rule or Andy Milonakis or even that pre-AI Clay Aiken doppleganger wasn't an option. I puked my weight in Gilmore Girls Season 4 DVD box sets all over Chad Sanderson, the man-orexic, torchered artist lead singer of Elliot's June Snowfall- a recent Drive Thru Records signing whose lack of sales on their debut record rendered them a commercial failure even before the writing, recording or selling of their debut record; a troubling new industry phenomenon.



I then mistakenly took speed given to me by this chubby regulation emo dude while standing in a hallway with George Clinton and proceeded to stay up until 6am pounding my Thundercats pillow in distress, convinced that my heart was going to pop out of my chest.






SB: dude, i think we all know what i was doing--tuesday means both cake day at atlas and a double dose of gilmore girls reruns at 8. but what ho! premiere night on the WB! that basically means gilmore girls, 6000 promos for dean's shitty new show, dean's shitty new show, and the kind of local news where there's one story about the hurricane and news stories that are actually promos for dean's shitty new show. sadly, due to my responsibilities as social chair/co-comish of a hockey league, i had to skip cake and catch gg on my tivo later that night, and, despite luke's weave, the lack of post-engagement smooching, and bizarro rory, i was not disappointed. i was semi-disappointed by my hockey league, or at least the dudes in it, who are all either a, married, b, fake-married, c, grotesque (but still married or fake-married), d, under 24 years old, or e, bad sports who are all "what did i do?" when a ref calls them on something shitty that they know they did which translates to them having small weens. another obvious sign of small ween-having: tiny, silent asian girlfriends with a grasp of english as small as a small ween. but this is neither here nor there nor the kind of thing i like to focus on but i guess hanging tight with my on-the-rebound pal andrea has really put dudes on my mind in the place where, say, making a living should be. i should have been figuring out how to stop my money free-fall, but no, just hockey, GG, and dudes for me. and i think crocheting was also involved.


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Wednesday, September 15th, 2005

TS: On Wednesday, September 15th, 2005 we totes cut out of work early and went to see rad zappers Motion City Soundtrack play all acoustic style at the fakest of fake NY venues, Arlenes Grocery. There were free beers and snax and weed-n-shit but I was still too sick from the night before to even consider eating or stealing any. Kates Joint was totes next on our to do list (natch. sayin') where faces were beyond sufficiently stuffed with Unturkey Clubz and regulation emo dudes were unsuccesfully scoped (said natch uh, word - sayin'.) We then hoofed it over to 2nd most out of the way venue in all of Dirty NYC, Tribeca Rock Club, to see Motion City Soundtrack again, amidst a sea of super amped teen mall punkers - but this time they were plugged in and all MCS standard procedure pogo-ey fantasia style.

With a drunk 15 person posse in tow, we cruised the 99% asshole-run Knitting Factory to see the Slowdance Showcase [sb's note: sorry i took off 1% but brice at the knit has done right by me a few times so i can't disrespek. sorry vis a vis yr integrity but i don't have enough wood to burn bridges sayin.] It was here that I saw a drunk shortround Mexi-man who didn't speak English or even seem to like music pee all over The Velvet Teens pedals, cables and stacks - enraging hot ass frontman Judah Nagler to the point where he couldn't stop screaming about it from his spot on stage. So upset over the pee-struction of his gear, he had a full on emo seizure, replete with tears and convulsions, begging loyal roadie Hambone to bring him his blankie. Judah then sucked his thumb; rubbing his index finger against his nose until he puked all over the girl in the front row on crutches with the Mary Tyler Moore flip do'. It was here that I noticed that Ezra, Slowdance Records Head Cheeze (S.R. H.C) was super hot in the face, had no haircloud, was romantically available AND SB's people, 'sayin. It was 1,037 and a half degrees at this showcase and made me want to punch myself in the eye or drink Boric acid, an acid that smells like farts even more than farts smell like farts. Instead, I opted to get my freak on with the ugly barback in front of the entire Knitting Factory Tap Room within the iceyness of the bottled beer well. I came out wif my hair in sexin' it knots and wreeking of St. Pauli Girl.



I then mistakenly took speed given to me by the mexi-man as he sat crying out front, having just been kicked in the teeth and booted out by the strings of his shredded ghetto gown. We sat on the curb, defeated, both crying, he due to the lack of any further access to the beer that made him pee the pedals, and I, because I effing hate CMJ so hard.







SB: wednesday i was supposed to drum for a coupla hours at the music building on 8th ave, aka the place where all of the rats in all of the five burroughs go to die, but when i got there i fell asleep on the practice room couch for a half hour and realized i was not going to be damon che-ing it anytime soon so i walked all the way home. when i got to the farmer's market i realized i still had that bag of potatoes in the fridge from mom's garden and oh look there's some broccoli for sale and who doesn't love dining on nature's broom? so with two veggies to go i just needed protein, but since i am not allowed to cook meat due to my chronic impatience (me+half-cooking meat=guaranteed e coli for all) i hit the whole foods for a coupla premade chicken boobs and went home to make myself a normal meal for once that doesn't include a take-out container, sprinkles, or jello. passed out in front of the tivo, crochet hook in hand. dreamt of moving into a large house in miami with teet, suz, and andrea, eating vegan cheesecake, and talking about the good ol' days back when we were 27 and realized that it was normal for dudes our age to be bald/almost bald/have hairclouds (a sad fog of hair that sits on a dude's head with the silver-lining of scalp underneath) unlike when we were 23 and it was normal for dudes not to look like our dads. woke up tearsoaked (JUST LIKE TEET! WE ARE ONE!), wanting to throw the eff to luke (minus weave!). i thought this was a real turning point/coming of age moment so i rewarded myself with a take-out containter filled with sprinkles/jimmies but no jello because i forgot to make money again.


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Thursday, September 16th, 2005

TS: Thursday, September 16th, 2005 reached maximum allowable USDA musical hellscapery. My very own fake not fake mall emo band played a CMJ show with a bunch of snootrock, fancypants, Lego-pop-on-hair mod dudes and the on-stage/off-stage firey resentment I have for my fake not fake now ex-bandmate made me puke up my Frito-pie all over Steve's drumset while twirling my baton during the 12th wave eem keyboard breakdown of that one song I can't fucking sing which in actuality could be any song in my band or the music world at larges song repetoire. I wanted to shoot myself and my bandmate in our left thighs and then crawl into this hole in the floor that I dug with my teeth but instead went to (F)Atlas; ate Ruben Studdard's weight in Vegan Cake and puked in both my and the counter helps hair.



I then mistakenly took speed given to me by the bouncer of the club who only gave it to me after I assured him I was indeed 18 years old. He did not as the ask age of the dudes in black and white verticle Hamburgler pants (that were practically see-thru in the club's New England aquarium/average stoner's iguana set-up-style blacklight) or Kate Perotti who is single-handedly trying to bring back early-90's-style, Roseanne's sister's-style, ugly-style vests. Brave lady.


SB: went to see teet's band but evidentally she saw a different show cuz i spent the next few hours convincing her she was really rad (when in her alternate universe she was william hung or something, it was trippy man, ah'word). got to drive around in teet's dad's car and eat at max's, which is a kind of insanely delicious italian restaurant staffed by actual for'ners and is in no way related to the max i know who is clinically insane yet being milked by his record company and "friends" so the payday doesn't end. viva the music industry! anyway, i ate too much bread and andrea's semi-brown canadian friend called me on it, which was gay. went home late but remembered to crochet myself some toothpaste before bed and dreamt of teeter's alternate universe where she can't sing and i can't eat or be lazy.



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Friday, September 17th, 2005

TS: On Friday, September 17th, 2005 we totes cut out of work early to go see the ever charamastic J. Mascis drum it up in his old-guy Hessian band, Witch. They did not suck and J. was a surprisingly spiffy drummer, spiffy clearly being the absolute wrong word to use right here in describing this man or anything he does. I then proceeded to eat J. Mascis's weight in Kate's Joint Unturkey Clubz. (Yeah I'm always at Kate's, sup?) I slept/cried for 5 hours on the stinky excersize mat in my apartment building basement gym cause natch I mislocated my keys somewhere on my person.

Later I rode my BMX bike with my crack hanging out of my OP shortshorts to see Limbeck and Lucero, the gatekeepers of modern day whiskey-soaked alt alt alt shitkicker rock. A few drunk people who are always drunk and always mean to me were mean to me, so I rode my bike home at 3:30am blindfolded and with my right foot bound to my handlebars, jus fer Kix 98.2 FM. (Playing the Henderson Valley's Most Rockin' Mix of Songs from the '30s, '40s, '50s, '70s, '80s, '90s, and Today.)



I then mistakenly took speed given to me by the homeless man who lives on my corner who, in a different social realm, could easily be mistaken for Dan Higgs of Lungfish. I slept in the cozy confines of his beard, protected by gnomes and pegasi (the new unicorns, sayin'). and woke up on the stairmaster in the aforementioned basement gym with his puke dripping from my ears.





SB: suz had a camp-themed party on her roof which was actually her third attempt at a pre-foot surgery send-off. suz has bunyans, and what better way to celebrate their eminent removal than with s'mores? her roof smelled like brooklyn, aka feces and garbage, but i have a disease which made me eat melted sugarstuffs til i got physically ill and had to be rolled to the subway station by my favorite power couple, andi and jeff. got home by 11. not saying i watched a few eps of freaks and geeks with commentary, but i'm not saying i didn't, either. crocheted myself a barfbag but barfed into a d'ag bag instead cuz i can sell that crocheted shit in brooklyn to silent japanese girls for big bux, FINally. dreamt of being given a s'more by another of andrea's semi-bald canadian friends but insteada chocolate it was poop.



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Saturday, September 18th, 2005

TS: On Saturday, September 18th, 2005 I was sposed to take part in a bunch of CMJ related "networking opportunities," {read: industry nutglider retard rodeos } but bailed on them all, instead opting to sell dirty old clothes to Beacon's Closet so as to rest assured that repeatedly powerstuffing Kate's Joint Unturkey Clubz the following week was indeed a goal within reach.

I then went home to Mom-n-Dads and cried myself into a 3 day torpor followed by 96 hour catatonic episode which was not completely catatonic because I would willingly talk to PA Ingalls, Tinker Jones, Willie Olsen and Doc Baker while Mom had me set up in the wheelchair in front of my TIVO-ED episodes of Little House on the Prairie.



In summing up, CMJ makes me want to die (quickly, which is why I mistakenly kept taking all that free speed).






SB: i pledged to avoid all cmj cept teet's show but decided to go to a sample sale on saturday day anyway to keep spending that money i don't have. my bad. had to walk thru cmj central, the lower east side, past the insider douche bag/steve aoki memorial lounge, past abc where i get yelled at by marcel for being too old to see his band and hurt my eyes
looking at his chest hair, past fatlas even where i'm pretty sure the entire weirdbeard/bike messenger/don't flush the toilet/use one washcloth instead of tp for our assholes philadelphia constituency was having a convention. it was grotesque and i didn't open my wallet all day lest one of those douches ride up on a track bike, take the few bills i had and give them to mumia. my friend mark mcadam was nice enough to escort me home so i wouldn't be roughed up at all by any of these badge-wearing lowlifes. walked buzz and then watched freaks and geeks all night until my eyes bled. crocheted myself a life-sized martin starr and we ate mac and cheese and ding dongs while watching gary shandling and then held each other and cried.

in summing up, shirley says i know a lot of people but whatever, i'm old, so old that i have to fight to not think like ally mcbeal while writing a song about how miami is cuter than an interuteran and/or crocheting myself my lost soul. also fuck cmj a lot and free cindy sheehan.




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