emilyrems.com

Central Park South, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Truly whatever deity looks after worn out journalists is feeling benevolent today. Not only do I get to leave work early, but thanks to the awkwardly placed national holiday on Tuesday, I don’t have to return until Wednesday! Yeah. Hell yeah. So many things to do! I wanna go to Laura’s roof party, eat brunch, clean my gross house, get an AC, maybe see the Bodies exhibition, go to the aquarium, do some writing excercises, drink some iced tea, go to the gym, clean out my closets, donate all my shit to the fat girl flea market, take a big girl hip hop dance class, go to midnight movies at the Sunshine… I deffo want to hang out in Central Park after all the yuppies empty out of it so all us degenerates without beach houses can hang out in peace. We’ll see how many of the aforementioned activities can actually motivate me up off the couch and away from the unrelenting bounty of LCF’s Netflix cue. Only time and my beloved friend le blog will tell.

5th and 55th, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I so did not even go to churchsigngenerator.com for this one! This is actually the real deal. I know many New Yorkers head for the hills (or the Hamptons) over 4th of July weekend, but just look at what you’ll be missing if you don’t stick around! The Rev. Paul T. ROCK doesn’t just trot out his “Worshipping the Sparkles” sermon every week ya know! I say, lets strap on our ice-encrusted four finger LOVE ‘N’ HATE rings, mosey on over to the 5th Ave. Preb, and let the Rock know he’s speaking our language. Who’s with me???

Men of Mortuaries, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Look what landed on my desk! Jealous much??? Don’t cry babygirl, you can reserve your copy here!

Flea Market, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Everyone is totes working their ACs to the max this week, which is causing all kindsa power shenanigans like the blackout pictured above at Flea Market on Ave A. There were actually two short blackouts that went down just during the time that Alison and I were eating there. As soon as the first one happened, I was like, “Yeah! Riot! Anarchy on Ave. A! Alison, you take the register! I’ll start scooping up the stupid French knick-knacks!” But Alison was like, “Uh, It’s daytime.” So I was all like, “Oh. Merde.” Not that I want to be part of the problem or anything, but if I don’t suck it up and buy an AC soon, I fear I may perish. Take it from me, nothing makes a girl feel like turning the world on with her smile like waking up from a nightmare to find the whole underside of her tits on fire with heat rash. Rowr - sexy!

Pride Peeps, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Yesterday was a festive but damp culmination to a super-soggy weekend, as LCF and I marched in the NYC Gay Pride parade with the Green Party. We were there to support our friend Alison Duncan, who is currently running for Lieutenant Governor, so we worked the edges of the parade route, handing out her rainbow-striped literature and waving the earnest, hand-lettered sign pictured above as the honorable Ms. Duncan turned on the charm, smiling and waving to all her adoring potential constituents. I’ve always found that parades are way more fun to be in than to watch from the sidelines. There’s less pushing and shoving, and interacting block after block with cheering revelers is totally fascinating, whereas shifting from foot-to-foot in one spot as endless advertisements for things roll by is less so. I’m not drinking hata-ade or anything. Folks really do turn it out for pride, but I think New Yorkers have no idea how bizarre and beautiful they look to the people waving back at them.

Clark-Novella, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I’m the luckiest girl in the world! Last night, just as I was wrapping up a positively harrowing work week, LCF surprised me at my office with this little baby right here. I’ve named her Clark-Novella, since she’s a slightly more ladylike version of Burroughs’ bug-powder-fueled beauty in Naked Lunch. I especially like her powder blue chassis - oh-so-reminiscent of the tuxedo William Katt wore when he took Sissy Spacek to the prom in Carrie. It also bears a striking resemblance to the model my mom would click away on deep into the night when I was little girl and she was just embarking on her own insane journalism career. I remember fucking around with it when she wasn’t looking and feeling very important, like my misspelled words had more weight and permanance when banged out in inky black. Now of course, anything I write on it will feel frighteningly fragile, without a disk or a drive or a space out in internet land to hold it for safe keeping. But these days that also feels kind of comforting. I’m reminded of those famous descriptions of Michaelangelo, searching the Italian countryside for only the pieces of marble that had beautiful sculptures locked inside of them. I wonder what novella has locked inside of her? Maybe It’ll be dirty.

Billy Blast, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

OMG - I’m so excited I’m practically peeing myself! Willie Mae Rock Camp for Girls is having a special 3-day rock camp for grown-up ladies this summer and I’m totally gonna go and learn the drums! Yeah! Rock! I’ve seriously been wanting to play the drums forevs, but my city livin’, no-car-havin’ ass was always too afraid to take the plunge. Now, I get to try it out without having to buy all that gear, and I’m even gonna perform in a showcase at the end of three days with my very own band! Aaaaaah! Perhaps I should sport a killer fake mustache for the occasion like Billy Blast’s . A skully do-rag will def be in effect. Plus, according to LCF, “Drummers get tons of pussy.” Awes. Anyways - here’s more deets:

First Annual Ladies Rock Camp
July 28 - 30, 2006

Willie Mae Rock Camp for Girls is pleased to announce the inaugural session of a special “weekend editionâ€? of rock camp — for adult women! Ladies Rock Camp will feature all the fun stuff of rock camp – instrument lessons, band practice, workshops – plus special appearances by amazing women artists, and more…and, of course, the weekend will culminate in a big showcase concert at a cool venue on the Lower East Side featuring the women of Ladies Rock Camp in their new bands. The program is a fundraising event for the 2006 summer sessions of Willie Mae Rock Camp for Girls.

There are still spots available BTW, so if you’re creaming over this as much as I am, check out williemaerockcamp.org.

Grocery Bag, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Damn you Al Gore! Because of you and your stupid movie, I now own a re-usable canvas shopping bag from Trader Joes. It’s just big enough for the six organic groceries that I buy there most days on my way home from work because I’m too impatient to wait on anything longer than the “six items or less� line at that hateful home for wayward yuppies. What’s next? Patchouli stink? Ankle bells? A Patagonia vest perhaps? Will your film eventually drive me back to Birkenstocks? (Insert involuntary shudder here.) I’m even toying with going back off the red meat because of you, which sucks because red meat is delicious. It’s only been a couple of years since I started eating it anyways, but it tastes way less awes now that every bite carries with it the drip, drip, dripping sound of Greenland melting in my brain because the yummy cow I’m chewing on farted too much before she was done in by a mechanized sledge hammer. This is all so crazy too, because I’m really not such a big fan of nature. Ask anyone. I love the ocean, but prolonged time spent away from urban areas freaks me out and makes me think of all the horror movies set in remote rural places where “No one can hear you scream.� The real reason I’m getting all ecologically panic-stricken is that I LOVE CITIES, and the really good ones tend to live on coasts. If Greenland and/or Antarctica goes, all us city slickers will be fucked, and will have to move inland to some godforsaken dirt pile in the middle of the country where rising flood waters and pop culture will never find us. So c’mon fellow snotty urbanites, follow some of these guidelines with me (you don’t have to tell anyone you’ve gone soft), lest we ever have to set foot in Nebraska for un-ironic reasons.

ER & Joe at 6th St Garden, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Last evening started all festive, with a loverly jaunt over to the community garden on 6th and B for free pizza and soda among the fireflies with Joe “Sugar Daddy” Ferrelli and the gang from the Pioneer. We gabbed about Barbra Streisand and Grey Gardens and Come Back To The Five And Dime Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean, and that movie where Barbara Hershey keeps getting molested over and over by an invisible demon and Sandy Kane’s Blew Comedy Show, and other matters of vital importance until they kicked us out at 10. While figuring out what to do next, Joe hooked LCF and I up with free tix to see a late show of An Inconvenient Truth at the Sunshine, so we went and it was super, super scary. Like, scary enough that when Al Gore got to the part where he showed what would happen to Manhattan if Greenland doesn’t stop melting, I seriously thought I might puke. That’s how scared I was. Am I easily manipulated by the media? Probs. But now I’m totally freaked out about global warming and was up ’till 3 AM with LCF brainstorming strategies for how we can stick together and survive in the event of an environmental apocolypse. If any of y’all out there are feeling particularly socially conscious, and/or feel like staring into Al Gore’s hypnotic robotic eyes until he scares you so bad you crap your pants, this is the flick for you.

Supreme Creme, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

On the grounds that it might incriminate me, I refuse to testify to how long I spent this morning admiring this antacid bottle’s use of the french spelling of the word “creme” on their label, providing the perfect visual counterpoint to their assertion that their product is, in fact, “supreme.” To admit to the duration of my admiration would out me as the biggest loser evs, so methinks I shall be keeping such info to myself. Seriously though…”Supreme” (in initial caps) and “CREME” (all in caps), much like Ebony and Ivory, live together in perfect harmony.

666, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Not to be all gross or whatevs, but I just wanted to give a shout out to my main squeeze for being the most awesome awesome that ever awesomed. This weekend we made some art togeths (he was painting, I was making collages), we went to the gym and chatted about Jim Morrison while on the elliptical machines, we ate pie on the couch in front of the fan while watching Grey Gardens (even though he hates movies about shrill ladies), we read together, we went for long gritty city walks, and most fun of all, we ran through the sprinkler in the playground on 4th between 1st and 2nd late at night while the air was all heavy and humid all around us. Things are just better when he’s around. Sorry for the mush fest - I will now resume my cynical programming already in progress.

Jade Mountain, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Living in NYC often feels like living in a constant indie movie where the director never yells “cut.” Maybe its because some mornings while staggering towards coffee, one will spy Andrew McCarthey jaywalking through traffic on 5th ave with a toddler in his arms, or because the streets are often lined with makeup trailers and officious production assistants in swanky headsets trying to bully pedestrians into crossing to the other side of the street. These days though, my neighborhood feels much more organically cinematic. Like, I just love the way the 70-year-old Chinese relic Jade Mountain has a neon sign that makes that buzz buzz buzz sound under the broken OUN part, making my evening walks feel Oh so noir-y and ready for my close-up. I dunno. I guess these days I’m just into noticing the small stuff.

I Love Rock ‘n Roll, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Another thing I neglected to mention during deadline (with a capital DEAD) is that I managed to unshakle myself from my desk on 6/7 just long enough to see JOAN FUCKING JETT at CBGB!!! Aw yeah baby. You know I’m so gay for her. Even though I am extremely old, LCF and I managed to shove our way to the front and held our own in a mosh pit full of drunk 40-somethings from the Jerz looking for a beat down. Afterwards, Joan’s publicist Jenn who was responsible for my recent foray to the promised land, kindly brought us back stage for an actual audience with the Runaway herself. Compared to her onstage glamazon goddess persona, she was much smaller and paler and I guess more regular looking in person under the shitty flourescents of the shitty little CBGB dressing room. She was smoking with Bob Gruen and Kenny Laguna and some other industry types, and of course I wanted to tell her about how when I was in kindergarten, I used to go to the library with my dad so I could take out her albums on vinyl and I would play Crimson and Clover over and over and over again at home while running around in circles and doing dramatic interprative dance moves until I collapsed in a lil’ heap. I wanted to tell her, but considering how aged I am, I figured that would make her feel even older, so I just shuffled my feet and muttered something incomprehensable about how the show was good and stuff. LCF was way more laid back and talkative as usual. Probably because he’s the only person I know who’s actually read “How To Make Friends and Influence People.” Classic.

Brooklyn Dresses, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

One of the worst things about the deadline zone (besides the fact that it keeps me away from my beloved blog) is how un-fancy I become as a result of it. Two weeks of sleep deprivation, combined with the general hopelessness that comes with shouldering a task just barely too big to actually get done on time have a way of hitting me right in the closet. As the days wear on, and I drag myself out of bed later and later, I’m lucky if I’m even washed when I hit the street. Forget about good looking outfits. I’m rocking the loosest, baggiest, I-don’t-give-a-shit-cuz-life-no-longer-exists-cuz-I’m-on-deadline drama school reject rags ever, just trying to make it to the desk and back before anyone can peep my sub-standard style. Deadlines are fashion death, no matter what “The Devil Wears Prada” has to say about it.

IMG_0268, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

As a card-carrying pussy-haver, I can personally attest to the fact that this shirt is not true, and is in fact, jive. I hate cheeky fake-ass feminist stuff like this. We all know that in terms of society, having a pussy puts a human at a distinct disadvantage as far as rule making is concerned. And if the shirt is speaking strictly sexually, its still totally stupid and annoying. I hate when girls pretend like they’re sitting on a gold mine or something just because guys are allegedly so horny. Making distinctions about how precious and power-hungry our vaginas are just helps perpetuate the idea that women are this strange “other” that can’t possibly function in the same capacity as men. I know, I know. I need to take a step back and not get riled up by a display in a store called Foxy Lady. But still - chicas need to recognize that this kind of shit doesn’t help. It’s mainly being manufactured so guys can get off on the fact that the word pussy is on some girls’ chest. I imagine the inner monologue that happens when your average gent stares at the wearers tits goes something like this: “Uh, words, words, words, PUSSY!!!!!!, words, words, words, words, words.” Call me a cranky third-waver. See if I care.

Chelsea Pier, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

At the office on a Sunday and feeling low. Everything I do these days at work is boring and seems to take 10,000 times longer than I think it should, like I’m moving through mud. Plus, there never seems to be any finish line to look forward to either. Stomach problems plague my office, and yesterday when he came here with me, LCF instantly got a stomach ache and swore never to return. He says the place is haunted by some kind of ghostly, imperceptible “brown noise” or something, which is bad, since there is only one toilet for all of us. Days like this make me think back fondly to the investigative report I did on Twin Oaks. Hmmmm…I wonder if they would let me keep my digital camera…

Batwoman, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Yesterday I got a totally last minute call from one of the producers of The Brian Lehrer Show on WNYC asking if someone from the mag wanted to talk on the air about the new DC comics resurrection of Batwoman as a “lipstick lesbian socialite.” I took the plunge and went live on the air with only about 25 minutes warning, and the peeps who heard me said I didn’t sound too dumb, so that was cool. I had thought of many many brilliant and hilarious things to say, but once I was on the show, I felt all scared and dry mouthed, so I think my comments came out a bit more stodgy and hesitant than I wanted them to. Basically, they asked what I thought of the new character, and I said it was a blatant marketing ploy being directed at male fans who are turned on by lesbians, so to think of this as an important moment for women or lesbians would just be naive. I’m not gunning to be the killjoy feminist or anything, I just think its stupid of them to play the “Look! Were so culturally diverse!” card with a character completely made to titillate the dudes. In the end, I think it made me reconsider my secret dream to have my own radio show. I had no idea it would make me so nervous to be on the air!

Hugs not Drugs, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

There was an odd huggy vibe on the street last night, which was weird because it was wikkid humid, so you would think people would fear each other’s city slime. Not once, but twice on my way to the gym, I saw androgynous punks in full regalia embracing old women. Is this some kind of trend I should be monitering closely as a member of the youth-obsessed media? Quick! Call the office on the red phone and put them on high alert! Old ladies are THE accessory to have this season among style-conscious urban hipsters-on-the-go!!! Yeah!!!!

A while later, I emerged from the gym and onto the street again, and even though I had changed back into my street clothes and stuff, I was still pouring sweat and couldn’t stop (oh, the glamor). LCF chivalrously stepped into a doorway, pulled a towel from his gym bag, and covered my face with it, saying he “wanted to make a Shroud of Turin out of my sweat.” Nice. Anyway, while this heartwarming display was going down on East 4th, yet another even more compelling social exchange began unfolding before my partially-covered eyes. Two strapping young homosexual gentlemen stopped in front of the doorway where I was quietly oozing moisture and said the following:

Dude #1: I had a really nice time, hope it wasn’t too weird.
Dude #2: Nah, it was OK.
Dude #1: Can I get a hug?
Dude #2: What?
Dude #1: Can I get a hug?
Dude #2: Nah, I’d rather not
Dude #1: OH MY GOD!!!! I can’t believe you WON”T even give me a HUG! GOD! UGH!
Dude #2: Sorry. I just don’t want to. (Extends manly hand for a shake)
Dude #1: Oh OK. Bye. (Shakes hand sullenly)
Dude #2: Bye.

The two part. Possibly forevs. Such are the perils of an unrequited public hug request on a muggy evening. Too bad, so sad.

FIN