Nada Surf at Terminal Five. Nadagonnagoagain.

‘Saw Nada surf in concert last night at Terminal 5. Superdrag opened. And you know it's bad when you find yourself trying to remember what song the opening band played while the headliners are on stage. I still can’t think of it either and its bugging the shit out of me…was it off of Regretfully Yours or Head Trip in Every Key..? Back to Nada Surf. Maybe it was the venue (although I like Terminal 5, I have to admit). Maybe it was the crowd (which ruined it for me when I saw Wilco in Athens, GA. But then again, it was Athens, GA.) But the experience was rather…how do I say this…lame. And one lighter going up away from being overall cheesy.

They put on a great show, don’t get me wrong. I think they played for almost two hours last night. I remember because I kept yawning and checking my phone. (10:36, 11:21, 11:29, 11:59…yep two hours.)

I have to give it up to Matthew Caws, though. Dude can sing. And without excessive use of alcohol or frequent prima donna exits off stage. But he put on a fox hat. A fox hat. Not like a Davey Crockett hat with the tail that hangs down in back. Like a hat with a stuffed fox on it. A fox hat. Repeating it only makes it worse. I looked around to see if any one else noticed how utterly ridiculous he looked. Cue, Chris our new receptionist from Manchester: “Oh wow! What a wanker!” Agreed, except I would have called him a douchebag, but all’s fair in love of name calling. The other wanker douchebags in the crowd didn’t seem to flinch, though. Like good little groupie puppets they waved there hands from side to side on Caws command, they lit up the same time dirty bass player, Daniel Lorca did, and some even forgot all about the cell phone they lost when jumping up and down on my friend, Melody’s, toes, to respectfully pay homage to the once indie cool Brooklynites who sold out for teenage assholes as soon as they got, well, Popular.

A B, see?

Proof that getting out from behind your computer and seeing the sights has its creative merits.
Now turn it into a typeface and post it on Dafont.

Copywriter for sale

Doree Shafrir said it. The world of magazine writing is officially over and harder than ever to break into.

So that’s it? There’s no hope for the wannabes, the hacks, or the idealists? The romantic dream of becoming a writer for a prestigious New York magazines is yesterday’s news? (Yes, pun intended. As a disgruntled writer, it’s all I’ve got.) I refuse to believe this libel propaganda. I refuse to believe that a small misstep down the advertising path deems me a career hopelessly writing headlines for banner ads and sign off copy for the rest of my life–or at least until I’m forty which, in my opinion, is when it’s all over. No one wants a 40-year-old blogger. (Do I hear a new Steve Carell sequel?)

There has to be more. Everyone comes to New York to chase a dream, so they say. Sometimes that dream takes on a different form due to compromises made on behalf of the city’s extreme real estate conditions, but there’s still a way of keeping it alive. Or is that a naïve, sophomore New Yorker talking? Because it’s true, I’ve met the wannabes, the hacks and the idealists. I’ve seen them for my very eyes. Hell, I’m one of them. Plugging away at a friends-only-fan-based blog every day in hopes the eyes of an editor from the Times happen to fall on it (and in love with it.) The countless stories submitted with only a rejection letter to show for it. It’s tough work, these word jobs. If talk is cheap, than writing is poverty stricken. Which I guess is nothing new or else the cliché of a dark, musty studio apartment in the West Village containing only a typewriter and canned beans wouldn’t exist.

I just refuse to believe that success in this industry lies only in the ability to draw Chlamydia drips off celebrity genitalia, or a really large trust fund tiding you over while you beat away at the keyboard for $2 an adverb.

I’m not asking for the world. I’m asking for a byline. And if that byline somehow unfolds into a 2500 square foot loft in Soho and a life fully realized only then I will have officially run out of words.

The New York Observer article by Doree Shafrir, herself.

Dylan hears a wha?

A while ago I stumbled upon (literally stumbled–using the stumble tool on the interweb. If you don’t have it, look into it. It can be a both a boredom fighter and a procrastination technique, you’ve been warned) the website, Dylan Hears a Who? Bob Dylan, or the likes of him, singing Dr. Seuss books. Tracks include: Green eggs and Ham, The Zax and The Cat in the Hat, to name a few. Yesterday I went back to check it out and came across this:

"At the request of Dr. Seuss Enterprises, L.P, this site has been retired. Thanks for your interest."

Looks like the Grinch steals creative interpretation, too.

I caught it before he did, though, and would liken it to a literary mashup. And parody or satire, Dylan or really good impersonation, it’s pretty genius. What if all our favorite artists got together to composite a fairy tale album? Fiona doing nursery rhymes in her haunting childlike voice; Del spitting the Goldilocks and the Three Bears; Radiohead remixes The Little Match Girl...

Oh, the things you can think!

Get nude

Remix Radiohead's Nude

Download the stems from itunes.
Remix in Garageband or Logic.
Upload for the public to vote.
Listen to Holy Fuck and realize you don't have a shot in hell.

Rad, rad, really rad.

radioheadremix.com

Raw talent

Mark Ryden is an artist from California whose influences include “Bosch, Bruegel and Ingres with generous nods to Bouguereau and Italian and Spanish religious painting,” to quote from his website bio. Plainly stated, his work is like Precious Moments if Precious Moments cried blood and played with raw meat.

markryden.com