The Howling Betty: The St. Valentine's Case

February 14th. Couples' Day. 

Baltimore is alive. I am waiting for a phone call. The phone rings - I grab my coat and step outside. It's night and the air is brisk. Biting. Like a teenage pooch, teething without the need. Whimpering isn't my style. And I don't feel the urge. The phone rings. Another call tells me where to meet. A second voice is in the background. Male. Early twenties, maybe. An unknown element. My intrigue piques. I walk down the street quickly. Black car. Maryland plates. Hazards on. A warning? I cross the the street. I open the door and sit down.

Two men are in the car. Driving, Jason Schlafstein, a.k.a. "The Heat." The unofficial ringleader of a group known only as "These Gentlemen."Jason is known for his passion in pushing The Gentlemen to do what they do best. What exactly that is, well, should be left to the imagination. To his right sits Adam Winer, his associate. The second voice. A calm, collected man. But, wary. Greetings are exchanged. A joke passes around the car. Homoeroticism means trust. "Do you know where we're going?", the Ringleader asks. I say, "Yeah, its just within walking distance." They trust me. Had I entered another car, the night probably would have turned out differently.

Jason parks shortly. We emerge, pressing forward down the harbor. A pack of love hounds on the prowl. Hungry. The Ringleader bays in excitement. Adam and I choose a more reserved approach. A couple walks by awkwardly. Silent. Hands clasped. Hard. Unromantic. I wonder if we bothered them. Rita's up ahead. "I don't want anything they have tonight," I exclaim. The response, "Ice. Custard. Happiness? On Valentine's Day?" We bark with enthusiasm. Still hungry. Food is scarce, funds are low. We sniff the air and search. We don't like our choices. A "family" establishment. Kids are here for Valentine's. I wonder if they're visiting their mothers. We enter, ashamedly. "The line's supposed to begin at the door. But, since you walked right in, I guess we're not doing that," growls a tall femme fatale. She storms off. Jason receives a call. We decide to take our chances on starving.

Market Street in the dark. We approach our rendezvous - "Howl at the Moon," a piano bar near the edge of the lot. Two men in sailor outfits go inside. We wait.  The pack barks in frustration - rabid. Wanting. An angry, drunk man in a white tee stumbles outside. He snarls, "Where the fuck did she go?" I wonder what a "love grenade" is. We formulate a plan to work our way inside. Jason fronts the cash and enters to meet our contacts. Adam and I wait with the pack.  Jason returns in short time, successful. He hands us the vouchers and we enter. Inside, the bar is filled. Bars, actually, there are two - one in the front and one in the back. In the center are circular tables and high hairs - all filled - surrounding a stage where two piano face one another. Members of the armed forces flood the stage in celebration. The sound of pop-country emanates from the pianos. The sailor outfits make sense.  Jason introduces us to his contacts, who introduce us to the rest of the group - two dames and a couple. Adam and I leave for one beer. And then a second. 

The second beer is my round. I turn to the bartender to buy. A girl in a black dress scoots in behind me, to Adam's front. She giggles, "Do you have a girlfriend?" That was fast, I thought. She shows him a pink slip, grabs his hand, and drags him off. He looks confused. I look confused. I bid my regards. I order the drinks. Adam returns a few minutes later, bemused. He tells me about the bachelorette party. Games are involved. Men and women are socialized very differently. Two girls approach us during his tale. An embarrassed girl in a green tee dragged by a betty in a red halter - howling drunk. The howling betty throws her arm around me. The group of us exchange introductions. Twice. "Do you have a girlfriend?" she blurts out. "No, I don't", I say. She looks confused, face red, and asks, "Why don't you have a girlfriend on Valentines Day?" I don't know what to tell her. "I'm gonna be honest, I really don't have an answer for that." She grabs her friend's hand and stomps away. Did I say something wrong? Why is this happening? We drink our drinks amusedly. And head back to the table to tell our tales.

The night progresses. A swirl of PDA, karaoke, dancing, N-Sync, and Jello Shots. Jello shots come in syringes with whipped cream now. Less mess is a plus. Jason's having a good time. I've been entertaining one of our contacts for quite a while. Adam's made contacts elsewhere, looks bored, but isn't. A blonde dame tries to make eye-contact with me across the room. I'm not interested, but she seems nice. She tries to force a romantic cliché. I'm resistant. She walks over to Jason and me. She asks, "Are you guys Eagles fans?" I think she's talking music. "Football," she says. Jason explains, "I don't really like sports." She's confused - it doesn't compute with her. She turns to me. "How about you? Are you an Eagles fan?" I smirk, "I like the Pats." Her face scrunches into a ball. Disgust. Abhorrence. Other negative emotions. She skulks away to her pack. I should have wounds to lick, but I don't. I find it funny. Why is this happening tonight?

The night ends. Our pack leaves. We prowl into the night for home.

If I Hear That Phrase One More Time...

It happened again. That phrase! It's always that phrase. It irks me every time. It really does bother me.

And here, I'm going to dissect it

But first, the most recent example:
"Are you Jewish?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Well are you?"
"What's it about"
"No nothing. You just look Jewish?"
"So?"
"I don't mean anything by it. I mean, I guess you could be Italian. [I've heard Italian, Greek, 'Middle Eastern,' Turkish (yes, John, Turkish), Argentinian, Egyptian, and others. I'm none of these. Does that matter?]"
"Yeah, I've gotten that before"
"But you're Jewish right? You just seem like a nice Jewish boy."

Something about the whole phrase "nice Jewish boy" really bugs me. Maybe it's because someone is telling me to my face that they are judging me based on my looks.

It's an identity thing too. I don't walk around thinking of myself as a Jew. I'm just me, with my personality, and my interests and my friends. Yes, knowing I'm Jewish will tell you something about my background and my cultural upbringing, but it certainly doesn't define me. Judaism is different than many religions because unlike Christianity for instance, I believe that even if you don't practice the religion, you are still Jewish - it's a cultural/ethnic thing, and I understand that. But that really won't tell you who I am, I hope.

And I'm sorry, yeah I guess it's a relatively good stereotype to carry so maybe I shouldn't complain (ha) but what the hell is a "nice jewish boy" anyway? What about being a young Jewish male makes me nice? I don't get it.

On the other hand, I can't really argue the label.
Am I nice? Usually.
Am I Jewish? Unavoidably.
Am I male? Can't argue with that one. Just look: CLICK HERE. (no? don't want to click? Are you sure?? I wouldn't show something naughty would I? would I? click it. CLICK IT. CLICK IT!)

So what's the problem? I think my gripe comes from the fact that I don't want to be liked, or not liked for that matter, based on my religion. I certainly don't want to be judged negatively by being Jewish, and so that goes both ways.

It's been suggested I'm a self-hating Jew, and I rarely deny it. I think that's irrelevant though. Of course, maybe I'll learn the hard way that I'm not that likable in the first place, and I should rely on that -- that phrase. I hope not.

The Patterns of Pop

I've been listening the hell out of the new Lily Allen album and pondering pop music, or least the weird little anglophile-centric corner I frequent. I warn in advance, this is all tangents below.

* British people doing fake country has improved greatly since Kyle Minogue's "Cowboy Style," which is one of the strangest songs ever written. It seems to shoot for half-Country half-Bollywood and achieves neither. It's kind of awesome or terrible, (I remain undecided), but it's certainly not very cowboy style. Lily's "Not Fair" isn't going to get played at any square dances, but it incorporates elements of country seamlessly and still sounds like a Lily Allen song.

* There have to be hundreds of "DJ Play That Song" variants at this point. Madonna, Rhianna, J. Lo, Kylie, Robbie Williams and plenty that I can't think of have all had one of those "Please keep playing this song because I like dancing" songs. And yet I somehow imagine a compilation of these would be torture. There's a certain one-note-ness to all these songs that would make me want to listen to anything else after four or five of them. Points go to Robbie, though, for "Rock DJ," one of the stranger videos ever made.

*The easiest cop-out musical elements for ballads these days seem to be acoustic guitars or slow overblown slow r 'n' b. There have got to be better, more interesting ways to construct ballads. Why can't there be a "Drop It Likes Hot" of ballads? "Cry Me A River" is a good start.

* Conversely, and unsurprisingly, faux-new wave seems to be the go to element of uptempo tracks, and with the exception of Gwen Stafani and Pink, this is generally a pretty good thing (this video is a PG-13 parody of something very NSFW).

* Pop albums should absolutely be shorter. As you can tell from the three thoughts above, too often pop music feels like a series of boxes that need to be ticketed. Break-up song? Check. Back together song? Check. Boudoir jam? Yup. "Hey DJ" song? Of course. Sure, pop music is commerce, but I think Beyonce's poorly executed split-album was actually a step in the right direction. But let's take it further. I'd love to see pop groups just put out their six best songs each year, in digital form. Then every few years, bundle it all together with some bonus tracks for good measure.

*Xenomania are the best hit-makers in the world right now. Not only have they been the people behind the curtain for Girls Aloud (as I look through You Tube, I think most of their videos are kind of crap), but they're collaborations with Saint Ettienne show how great uptempo dance music can also be mature and clever. "Action" is about as good a song as has ever been written.

* Similarly important, and with perhaps a broader reach are Timbaland and Missy. Imagine for a second Nelly Furtado and Justin Timberlake without Tim's work on their last albums. Nelly would still be working on "Fly Like A Bird Part 2." And I think JT's album could have potentially been a career killer. Think I exagerate? I watched five minutes of his live show when it was broadcast on HBO, and it was all pointless vamping. His album would have sounded like a D'Angelo album without the actually, y'know, talent.

* I still don't know if I like or hate Max Martin. He's like the wind now, and I don't know how he writes so many songs, but for the dozens of terrible Backstreet Boys songs, there are still gems like this.

* Goldfrapp is proof that great pop can be influenced from the wings. Plenty of people have ripped off Goldfrapp's sound for good (Rachel Stephens) or for ill (Christina Aguilera). Pop music operates like the major political parties and although it will still bulldoze toward the middle ground, sometimes fringe groups can influence the proceedings, and Goldfrapp is like the Green Party ... in a good way.

* A Pet Shop Boys curated festival would be fantastic (or even one by Erlend Oye).

* Lyrics can still matter. Lily Allen is proof of this, and much of Robbie Williams's remaining charm is in how brutally honest he is.

* Alan Braxe and Fred Falke should remix everything.

Stuff I Love-Fourth Edition

STONE COLD STEVE AUSTIN'S ENTRACE-SOMETHING I LOVE



Wrestling has really lost a lot of its pageantry. Gone are the days of developed, story driven characters, such as the Rock, the Undertaker, etc, replaced with cheap gimmicks (see Hornswoggle) and soft core porn (see entire WWE Divas section). But back in the late late 80's and through the mid to late 90's, Vince McMahon knew how to put on a show worth watching.

There are a few factors that go into the perfect wrestling entrance, and Austin's entrance has them all. The sound of breaking glass immediately grabs your attention, the music is loud and in your face, but not obnoxious, and of course, there's the swagger. Guys like Austin or The Rock just move differently, they carry themselves in their own unique way, it's part of what makes them so memorable. Then, there's the double kickstands on each turnbuckle, giving each corner of the building a chance to use their disposable cameras (hey, it was the 90's). Man, it just doesn't get any better.

I tried to emulate the entrance myself, when I lead my high school's homecoming pep rally. And let me tell you something. It's better left to the pros.

And Now We Know

Yesterday my friend Heather joked as we walked into the comic shop that she wanted to see me at my most dorkiest. I said simply walking into the comic shop would in no way be that, that's just me doing errands. There's just so much further to go.




But finding this -

LolCats + comic books? That could be the peak.

Oh, who am I kidding? We all know it was the Star Trek Bar-Mitzvah...

I'm Sure She'll Make a Great Wife

The setting:
Valentine's Day.
Baltimore.
Inner Harbor.
A piano bar.
At the bar.
With a beer.
Miller Lite if you really cared.
With fellow Gentleman John Oz.

The story:

Girl walks right up to me.
"You have a girlfriend?"
"No"
"My name is Christina"
"Adam"
"My best friend is getting married and we're having her bachelorette party. [shows me a playing card that reads - find the cutest guy in the bar and take a picture of him kissing the future bride].
"Ah wow, I'm flattered."
"You're coming with me"
"Ozzzz??"
"Good luck"

I'm grabbed by the hand and dragged across the bar. I'm brought to a group of girls all wearing nice black dresses. Bride-to-be is wearing one of those 'miss america' shawls across her dress. We meet, its sufficiently comically awkward. Christina takes out camera, I kiss future bride. I'm still confused. They thank me. I say to Christina, so do I get a kiss now? She says 'fine,' and I get a kiss as well.

Pleased and still confused, I walk back to John Oz.
He hands me back my beer.
I begin to explain to him what just happened.
I'm still explaining, when:

A girl walks up to Oz.
Says hi, and introduces herself and her friend.
"So do you have a girlfriend?"
Oz, "Um, no I don't"
"What kind of guy doesn't have a girlfriend on Valentine's Day?"
Oz, "I..."
Two girls walk away.

I couldn't be laughing harder at this point.
This is an odd place.
I'm having a good time.
What kind of guy doesn't have a girlfriend on Valentine's Day?
The kind that doesn't date based on what day of the year it is.

----------------------
And for those who were in attendance:

Just one question...

HOW DOES THIS MAKE YOU FEEL?