Brian aka Brat Boy gets his own cartoon. Whatevers! I want one.


drawing of Super Brat by Lyman Dally

Ridiculous.

Went to the Apollo around 5pm. The line was so long that a friend had moved from 128th to 125th St. in a mere 3 hours and still hadn't turned the corner. I don't know if she made it in. Outside people seemed happy to just hang out.






Loved the guy with the JB ventriloquist dummy.


We got a t shirt





At the end, we went to Amy Ruth's to eat southern food. We ordered every kind of southern fried chicken, every side, including mac and cheese and collard greens. There was a point when we were tearing chicken pieces apart and I said, "It's like we've never eaten food before."
You might've had to be there.


For more (better) pics see Cary Conover's shots at the Voice.

They will figure prominently.

Pnut: the Sizza's dog. I borrow /steal her all the time.


That's her coy look.


Meet Esmerelda.
My fatty.


Be very afraid.

Year-end wrap up, featuring Justice, The Stills, and Murray HIll. My fave moment —Bon Jovi at Giants Stadium.

http://www.villagevoice.com/music/0652,romano,75405,22.html

Please. Please. Please.

Jody Rosen on the man in Slate, declaring "Forget Dylan and Elvis. James Brown was the important American popular musician ever."

Anyone going to the Apollo tomorrow?

DJ Rekha is paying tribute to the man on Friday .

Launching Beat Bazaar-Weekly Friday Night Party
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beat Bazaar is a weekly Friday Night Party at the Canal Room.
This Friday December 29th, is a tribute to James Brown.
A global mix of urban sounds. DJ Rekha and Eddie Stats dig through their crates and other forms of musical media to take you on a global journey of their favorite rhythms. Everything from Baile Funk to Desi Crunk from Akon to the new Don to the Don Raja.
For Large groups, Birthdays, guest list, after parties and festivals please contact rsvp@sangament.com.

"Every year I arrive at my parents’ house in Springfield, Va., armed with my healthy self-edifying projects — big leafy Penguin classics, Chomsky-explains-it-all books and a backlog of fortifying magazines. And every year I think I am going to actually read a paragraph of one of these things. But then I walk in the front door, say ‘hi’ to my mom and dad, stand at the kitchen counter and start eating cheese."

Yes.


Stultification: How Sweet It Is
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/24/fashion/24Home.html

My Fly Life column last year featuring the man.

It's Christmas weekend, and I do what I always do: gorge on TV. Around midnight on Christmas Eve, my cousin Tommy suggests that we watch Meet Joe Black, otherwise known as a Moving Picture Vehicle that Exists Solely to Gaze at Brad Pitt in the Prime of His Youth for Four Hours.

Actually, it was only 3, but with commercial breaks coming every five minutes, I was forced to stay up till 4 a.m. just to see how they ended this ridiculous charade, in which the Grim Reaper is played by Brad Pitt, who's stolen the body of a mere mortal to come and take Anthony Hopkins' character away. Hopkins gets to 'leave' at the end of his 65th birthday bash, see to it that his business in order, and says deep, meaningful things to his two daughters. It was as if he was about to take a long vacation, not croak. Absolutely ridiculous.

But not as ridiculous or maddening as the idea that death is this nice tidy thing, where we get swept away to the next place, which surely resembles a high-class hotel with luxurious linens. It's a total fallacy, of course, but one that we all indulge in. I found myself saying to my four year old niece when we came upon a picture of Grandma, who died last year, after she asked if Grandma was in heaven, "Yes, let's wave to her!" Then, we waved.

Truth is, as I learned watching my father rasp his last breath, shaking and shuddering with a force he hadn't exhibited for many months, that you do not go away peacefully into that good night, there is no next place, it doesn't look like a luxury hotel, and death most certainly doesn't look like Brat Pitt.


Nope.

The long overdue screed against bottle service clubs. Enjoy.




http://www.villagevoice.com/nyclife/0651,romano,75335,15.html

Global warming means less evil New York winters. Coming from Las Vegas, I hate anything less than 60 degrees. Ideally, I would be locked in a climate-controlled environment that stays between 70 and 77 degrees, with no humidity and no wind. Since this is impossible, I just don't leave the house. Works better for everyone.

This is a NYTimes article about how no one's buying overpriced, ugly winter jackets because it's been so warm this winter. Boo hoo. What this means for me is that The Puffy— the giant sleeping bag disguised as a coat that I normally wear for six-seven months straight, and relegates my fashion to that that of a homeless ewok—has gotten very little use.

This person needs his head examined— “I am still running in shorts,” Mr. Kay said of his morning jogs through Central Park. “That is not a good thing.”


http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/23/business/23warm.html?ei=5065&en=874c9936c0f905f5&ex=1167454800&partner=MYWAY&pagewanted=print

For my usual feeling on fall/winter/spring, anything but summer, see Chelsea Peretti's hilarious post from last year.

http://chelseaperetti.blogspot.com/2005/10/do-you-love-fall.html

i leave you with....

RANDOM CUTE ANIMAL PICTURE.