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FOOD PORN - KATZ’S DELI, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Cliche as it may be, LCF and I pledged to get in rock star shape together this year. So it is with a heavy heart that I bid a bittersweet adieu to the massive munchies that comforted me throughout 2006, like these mouth watering pastrami sandwiches we scarfed down at Katz’s. Farewell my slow-cooked friends. With every bite of raw produce I take, I be missing you. Sniff.

HO HO HOS, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Some people are depressed that the season of sexy santa outfits has now passed, but not me. My favorite month is always January because that’s when all the sexy Martin Luther King Jr. window displays go up. After all, NYU freshmen have a dream too…to tart up in rayon novelty outfits at Ricky’s.

Niagara 23, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Been too busy on deadline to blog, but thought I’d take this brief moment to announce that the internet has deemed me “smart.” Not just smart, mind you, but “12.4% smarter than average.” I’d hoped to fare a bit better, but whatevs - timed exams always drag me down. Find out how much smarter you are than me here.

Smith/9th BKLYN, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Whenever I pass this area just past the Smith/9th St. stop in Brooklyn on my way to my drum lesson with Caryn, I crack up because it reminds me of the Billy Collins poem below. Years ago, my BFF Johanna put a recording of Billy reading it on a mix tape she made for me, back when I was still embroiled in the excruciating world of poetry workshops. The part of this poem where he talks about “the slow industrial canal below” always struck me as especially funny, and I think about it every time I walk past this spot and laugh to myself like a psycho.

Workshop
by Billy Collins

I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now
so immediately the poem has my attention,
like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.

And I like the first couple of stanzas,
the way they establish this mode of self-pointing
that runs through the whole poem
and tells us that words are food thrown down
on the ground for other words to eat.
I can almost taste the tail of the snake
in its own mouth,
if you know what I mean.

But what I’m not sure about is the voice,
which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans,
but other times seems standoffish,
professorial in the worst sense of the word
like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face.
But maybe that’s just what it wants to do.

What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas,
especially the fourth one.
I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges
which gives me a very clear picture.
And I really like how this drawbridge operator
just appears out of the blue
with his feet up on the iron railing
and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging—
a hook in the slow industrial canal below.
I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s.

Maybe it’s just me,
but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem.
I mean how can the evening bump into the stars?
And what’s an obbligato of snow?
Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.
At that point I’m lost. I need help.

The other thing that throws me off,
and maybe this is just me,
is the way the scene keeps shifting around.
First, we’re in this big aerodrome
and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles,
which makes me think this could be a dream.
Then he takes us into his garden,
the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose,
though that’s nice, the coiling hose,
but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be.
The rain and the mint green light,
that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper?
Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery?
There’s something about death going on here.

In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here
is really two poems, or three, or four,
or possibly none.

But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite.
This is where the poem wins me back,
especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse.
I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before,
but I still love the details he uses
when he’s describing where he lives.
The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard,
the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can,
the spool of thread for a table.
I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work
night after night collecting all these things
while the people in the house were fast asleep,
and that gives me a very strong feeling,
a very powerful sense of something.
But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that.
Maybe that was just me.
Maybe that’s just the way I read it.

Billy Collins, “Workshop” from The Art of Drowning. Copyright © 1995 by Billy Collins

Murray Hill, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Whew! Just woke up from a fucked up nightmare and the sweat is still drying all over my arms and legs and face. A few minutes ago, I was dreaming that I had been sent on a press junket to a remote tropical island with a bunch of unbearably too-cool-for-school journalists to take in the local color. It was our first night there, and I was standing around by myself uncomfortably by a big BBQ pit in a lush clearing where we were scheduled to dine when I saw drag king superstar Murray Hill (above) walking towards us. I was so relieved to see Murray because I adore him and I was hating everyone else on the trip so far, so I rushed over to him. He was looking hilarious and dapper in an elaborate tan safari get up, and I had just had a chance to say hello, when a tall guy came over to us and told Murray he had something to show him, so Murray and the guy left together. After that I sat around and waited for a long time not talking to anyone. Eventually smoke started rising out of the BBQ pit and drums started playing from somewhere and clay bowls started being passed around filled with rice topped with some kind of roasted meat. I tried a little of it and didn’t like it, and then waited until I saw the tall guy again. When I spotted him, I walked over to where he was happily eating and asked him where Murray was. He gave me a funny look, took a bite, exchanged glances with some hipsters nearby and said something like “Well, I believe he’s very close by…” and then took another bite and started laughing. That’s when I knew that I was surrounded by cannibals, that I had actually just taken a bite of Murray, and that since I clearly didn’t fit in with this crowd, I would probably be next. I ran to a nearby cabin to get my stuff, stole a car, and somehow drove from the cabins all the way to my parents’ house in Virginia to hide from the cannibals. As I was unloading my stuff from the car, I realized I had with me a big paper shopping bag that I didn’t have before. I opened it up, and inside was Murray’s head, severed at the neck with a look of shock on his face. I was surprised and scared and started screaming. My mom was very calm and told me to be quiet. She asked me if I had killed Murray and I said no - that I was being framed, and if the cannibals caught up with me they would probably eat me too. I told her I thought that I should call the police, or at least call some of Murray’s friends in NY and tell them what had happened anonymously but my mom said I was being stupid. She said to hide out and not call attention to myself. I went upstairs to lie down and my bedroom was full of cats. A bunch of black ones and one white one. I cried for a while and then came downstairs determined to get help from the authorities when I ran into my mom, standing in our front doorway, dressed as Murray Hill. She looked ridiculous so I laughed, but then asked what she was doing. She said she was going to pretend she was Murray so people wouldn’t know he was missing. I told her I had to get out of there and went to find the car I had been driving, but the vehicle was in the garage being taken apart by mechanics who were buying the parts. I looked in the back seat and saw all kinds of burlesque promo materials and realized that I had stolen Murrays car, the car was now being sold for parts, and I still had his head in a shopping bag. All signs of guilt pointed to me. At this point I woke up briefly, totally upset and disoriented, then immediately fell asleep again and began dreaming I was riding the subway in NYC. Everything was fine until I stepped away from my purse and shopping bag to see what stop we were at, stepped outside onto the platform, and then heard the doors slam behind me. I saw my purse and shopping bag start to disappear into the subway tunnel, and I saw through the window a woman who had been sitting next to me start to look through my stuff. I realized that the shopping bag I had left on the train might have Murray Hill’s head in it - so I started to freak out and run after the train. As the cars slowly disappeared into the tunnel, I saw the conductor’s car go by with the number 735 on it, and I saw I had been riding the C train. Just before the last car disappeared into the tunnel, someone pulled the emergency break and the whole train lurched to a halt and the lights went out. I assumed it was because someone had found the head. I started shaking all over. I didn’t know wheather I should stay or run, considering they had the head, my purse with my wallet and all my ID, and eye witnesses who had seen me carrying it. That’s when I woke up in a sweat, whispering the words “735C” over and over to myself.

JW to the Max, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I just talked on the phone for half an hour with my #1 pop culture hero of all time. He was so awes and easy to talk to and wonderfully kind I sorta feel like I might cry. Honestly we got along so well, I’m afraid I may start fantasizing that we are actually friends in real life. Forgive the gushing, but I had to hold it together until I hung up the phone two seconds ago, so now I’m all like “blaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!!”

My Best Friend’s Wife, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I found this sign hanging on a post in Union square. Hopefully the fact that it was just chillin’ there with nobody around means that the non-aspirational performer in question made enough to go to the funeral. I was gonna take the sign and send it to FOUND magazine, but I was too superstish that the misfortune would rub off on me..

And I need all the good luck I can get. I’m interviewing my hero tomorrow, and chances are extremely high I might geek out.

Rems Floor Tom, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Royal Pink is kicking out the jams tonight at 10 PM at Niagara - Ave. A @ 7th St. NYC. We’re part of the Antagonist Art Party, and the jam is free so come on down and get loose to our prodigeous set which is now up to an incredible eight songs!

As ushe, I’m nauseous with nerves, so I was psyched that today is the day my shrink chose to come back from maternity leave. I was in the brown leather chair bright and early at 9 AM ready to spill my guts, which I did, but I guess a lot of bad feelings had been building up while she was away, because they all came gushing out and then I had to leave and go straight to work with puffy red cry face.

Then to top it off, she left the office at the same time I did, so we said goodbye in the elevator, and then I went to the deli on the corner and two seconds later she was there too getting coffee. I don’t know why, but seeing the shrink outside of her Designated Shrink Zone is super spooky. I hate it, so I ignored her and she quickly got on her cell phone. I wonder if seeing patients in the world is weird for shrinks too, or just for us crazy folk. After all, there’s more of us crazy folk then there are of them. We’re fucking everywhere.

Dark Shadows Cast, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I’m still in way over my head for Mickey Avalon, but so far this week my attention has been totally dominated by Dark Shadows, the awes ’60s occult soap opera that has begun arriving at my door courtesy of LCF’s Netflix que. We haven’t been getting it in order, so right now I’m embroiled somewhere in the 1968 season’s saga of the witchy Angelique’s return to Colinwood and her endless schemes to torment poor vampire Barnabas with her relentless curses. Needless to say I’m breathless with anticipation wondering how he’ll fare. It’s easy to love the show for cheese reasons like it’s blinding (and often green) mod wardrobe pieces, the endearing way people flub their lines every few minutes, the equally endearing way the boom mic makes a special guest appearance in every other shot, and the terrifying propensity for the flimsy set to sway when a door is slammed and when people run. These of course, were the reasons I wanted to watch it in the first place, but despite myself, I’ve gotten totally sucked into it’s circuitous story lines and even may be harboring a small crush on ole Barnabus despite his agrresive use of rouge, his Hitler Hairdo, and the unfortunate fact that the actor who played him now resides in Canada of his own free will. As a joke, I was bragging last night that next year I’m totally down for going to the annual Dark Shadows Festival. But I may actually not be joking. If I do decide to go, I wonder if anyone will even admit to knowing me upon my return…

Borsht, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I’ve always been Jewy, but last night I crossed over into a heretofore undiscovered realm of cranky-old-Jew-ness when, for the first time, I deemed it appropriate to consume a giant bowl of cold Borsht for dinner. I’ve documented the remaining dregs that I couldn’t quite finish here for posterity to discourage any naysayers who may be tempted to deny that I am, in fact, now elderly. The minute that sweet, ruby-red soup started sliding down my throat (and off my spoon, and down the front of my shirt), I was seized with the urge to write an angry letter to my local newspaper, argue over the price of produce at the market, and drive all over town looking for the absolute lowest gas price (odd since I don’t have a car.) So there you have it. I am now old. And I’ve got the Borsht-stained shirt to prove it. Gay gezunt areit!

Mickey Avalon, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

My fave album of the month is totes MICKEY AVALON’s self-titled debut. If I don’t get my fix at least once a day I’m positively twitchy and must resort to singing the best track, “Jane Fonda” to myself whilst bouncing up and down. I didn’t think it was possible for my obsession with him to deepen, but I just read an incredible feature on him in LA Weekly and am now more entranced than ever. Think I can convince my parents to let me play his super-fly tracks about gay hustlin’ in LA at Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow? Maybe if I point out that he’s Jewish…

Michael Richards is a douchebag, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

OK - so I’m not naive. I know that tons of people are still totally fucking racist. But I HAD thought that it was deemed distinctly NOT OK to show your racist colors in public. I know if I were a racist piece of shit, I would hide my prejudice under the counter like a ’50s stroke mag, for fear of societal persecution. So why is this stuff suddenly falling so trippingly off people’s tongues in public? Like, was anybody even the slightest bit surprised to discover that Mel Gibson is Anti-Semetic? Hardly. We were all surprised, however, that he was so willing to shout about it in public. Which makes Michael Richards’ little stunt at the Laugh Factory so unfathomable. As far as I know, he wasn’t even drunk. Just a little provocation from some hecklers, and the ugliest kind of racial bigotry easily come spewing out of him. Not on the street, mind you. But in front of 300 people with cameras rolling. Then he goes on Letterman to inarticulately and half-assedly apologize for making a mistake. Like it was a wrong answer on a math test or a dent he made in someone’s car. Again, I’m not surprised that someone could still be so racist in this day and age, but I am surprised at how EASY these people find it to blow up their own spots.

I was just contemplating this idea this morning when I walked into the deli downstairs from my office and inadvertantly walked into a potentially dangerous altercation between a crazy yelling dude and the entire staff and clientele of the deli. He somehow felt wronged. Said one of “those mexicans” in the back had threatened him with a knife - and then started going all racial on everyone in the place. The funny part was, the deli just happened to be full of peeps hailing from most continents of the world, so the guy had his hands full trying to racially insult everyone. By the end he was mostly bouncing back and forth between calling the Mexicans rapists and telling the Korean owners to go back to their own country, while a couple of big black dudes waiting for breakfast sandwiches closed rank in front of him before he could get further into the store.

So I guess my Thanksgiving wish this holiday season is simple: Racists of the world - we know y’all are out there, and we don’t expect your ignorant asses to change, but please, have some fucking sense and keep your ugliness to yourself.

Graffiti @ 2nd & 2nd, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Here’s my Nightmare du Jour - My dream this morning started with me waking up in bed, so I really had no idea I was dreaming. I got up and LCF sat up too and put a hand on my belly and said he was worried. He said he read that if you sleep too much on your stomach, you can get tumors, and that he said he could feel tumors when he touched my stomach, so he wanted to take me to the hospital. We got dressed and walked to the nearest hospital, and when I got there the ER was in chaos, but in the masses of people I saw my mom walking around with a clipboard. I ran over to her and tried to tell her what was wrong, and how scared I was, but she said she was too busy working at her new job in the hospital to talk and walked away. I turned and saw my dad sitting at a nearby table waiting for my mom to get off work, so I tried to tell him what was wrong, but he just said that I should tell my mom. Then I went to the triage nurse and told her what was wrong, and when I told her my name, she said she knew my mom so she would bump me to the front of the line. I had to wait outside in the cold for them to call my name because the ER was too full, and when I looked around, I saw that I was surrounded by pregnant teenage girls, standing around shivering, so I was suddenly afraid that I was pregnant too and didn’t know it. When they called my name, a lady doctor led me over to a weird contraption that was a treadmill on the bottom and a red metal photo booth on top. She made me get on and start running much faster than I felt comfortable with. Through my panting and wheezing, I tried to tell her that I was there because I thought I had tumors, or might be pregnant, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She just kept staring at the little slot in the photo booth waiting for some kind of results to pop out. After a few minutes of me running, a whole bunch of pictures started popping out of the slot - pictures of friends and lovers and babies, people I had never seen before in my life, kept popping out of the photo booth slot as I ran. The doctor examined each picture and shook her head, saying “This isn’t right.” I tried to tell her that I couldn’t run any more, and that I couldn’t breathe, but when I tried no words came out. Then I passed out. When I woke up, I was really waking up in my bed, out of breath and covered in sweat.

LadiesRockCamp 1.JPG, originally uploaded by Willie Mae Rock Camp for Girls.

Check me out - I’m now the poster girl for Ladies Rock Camp, or at least I’m the opening photo in their flickr photo stream. You can tell by the unmitigated glee on my face that I didn’t have to carry or set up these drums. If only I lived in a lovely alternate universe in which a small army of stylish and wildly talented riot grrrls with a van went everywhere I went before I got there, and set up black cherry-colored drums in anticipation of my arrival like those dreamy volunteers did at rock camp. In that world, all the clouds would be made of cotton candy, and the Colbert Report would magically be on the “cardio theater” screen every time I dragged myself to the gym. Commercial free - natch.

EODM 11/15/06, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Ray Ban had a party last night at Irving Plaza featuring the Eagles of Death Metal, so LCF and I were all over it. We sloshed our way through what felt like hours of free drinkies and fancy tiny food on fancy tiny trays passed around by fancy tiny ladies, and fended off the very physical advances of a suave, self-proclaimed “hedonist” dude who kept grinding against us while we danced and very subtlely screamed in my face “I want both of you!” while waiting for the rock to begin. When the Eagles (sans Josh) took the stage, we were all liquored up and front row center for all of hottie frontman Jesse Hughes’ macho mustachioed antics. Unforch, the sound at Irving sucks, and even though we were as close as any human could get to the stage we couldn’t hear the vocals. AT ALL. I kept reading Jesse’s fuzzy lips and checking the set list on the floor by his big black motorcycle boots to see what song they were playing because the show was completely Karaoke style. At one point, Jesse asked the crowd how we were all doing, as LCF yelled up to him that the vocals really needed to be louder, and Jesse kind of sneered down at him and said they’d try to fix that up or something. but nothing ever happened.

Which leads me to a rock ettiquette question. Is it OK to mention technical issues to a performer whilst s/he is on stage? We didn’t interrupt the set or anything. LCF totes waited for a banter moment to shout it out, but Jesse seemed a little peeved and totally ignored it. I know if something like that were going on with my band, I would want to know about it. But maybe any comments like that once the show has begun are hard to remedy. I wonder if there is a “Miss Manners” for rock shows I can consult…

skullhead, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Think you’re goth, punk??? Check out the TATTOO this Canadian dude got on his face! As far as distracting the public from his sadly receding hairline goes, I think he’s doing a genius job, but how many times a day do you suppose this guy has to answer the question, “Gosh! Did it hurt?” Hopefully, he has an appropriately maudlin comeback already picked out, like, “The pain of the flesh is nothing compared to the pain that I feel in my SOUL.” Or perhaps he just opts for gouging those people’s eyes out with his thumbs. One thing is for certain, his family pictures around the X-mas tree are gonna RULE this year. Big ups to Jennigirl for bringing this fine specimen of gothliness to my attench. Not just because he looks insane, but because this photo further confirms my geographically biased assertion that all Canadians are fucking crazy.

LES Cougar, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

I hardly ever think about the fact that I’m four years older than LCF, but yesterday, in passing, he made some comment about having a “thing” for older women, and I got all bent out of shape about it until I realized that he meant me. Since when am I an older woman?? I’m 17 4-evs!!!!

RP’s First Panties, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Royal Pink’s gig at Alphabet Lounge on Saturday was notable for many reasons.
1. The harsh reality of what it means to play a venue with no drum setup at all became abundantly clear when my valiant mentor Caryn and I, aided by LCF, dragged everything to Alphabet City from Bushwick. Even more troublesome than getting it there was tryng to load an entire kit out through a knot of bachelorettes dancing dreadfully in the middle of the club to Belinda Carlisle’s “Heaven is a Place On Earth.”

2. Our set was so hot, we got panties thrown at us for the first time (pictured above). They are striped, and of the ladies thong variety. Nice.

3. Lots of rad peeps came, including recent Lt. Gov. candidate Alison Duncan, intern Lauren, Errin’s mamma, and my excellent friend Ian, Who surprised me with a pretty purse with the giant desert-bleached jaw bone of some large deceased animal inside. He says he found the bone in Utah in a part of the desert that used to be a nuclear testing site. I hope merely owning it doesn’t make my ovaries shrivel up and turn black or something.

4. Last but certainly not least - we got paid! Royal Pink got paid! Money! For the first time evs! To rock out! We had no idea this was even part of the equation, so when the door chick handed over the bills, we started jumping up and down and shrieking in a manner that put the bachelorette party to shame.

5. To cap off the evening’s festivity, while we were waiting for the car service outside the club to load up the drums, a super-extra-crazy dude started trying to menace all the people and cars on the corner of 6th and C by screaming “Leave Me Alone!!!” over and over and over, and occasionally switching his screams up so he was yelling “I am the wolf!” instead. At first I thought it was hilarious watching the guy scream in hipsters’ faces that they should leave him alone when everyone was obviously staying as far away from him as possible, but it got less funny when he came over to us. We just turned our backs and he moved quickly on, but Caryn, whipped out her Leatherman and was brandishing it impressively just in case he returned. Eventually someone called the cops, and Alphabet City was made safe for drunk NYU freshmen once more.

Jesus’ Taco, originally uploaded by emilyrems.

Last night in Royal Pink’s darkest, hungriest, mid-practice hour of need, four ravenous punk rock girls were saved. Not by Jesus. But instead, by his taco. It was indeed a divine visitation. And saints be praised - they’re open 24 hours!