Man In A Panic

Roll Up, Roll Up, Get Your Printers 'Ere!

Here I am again, shamelessly flogging printers with some PAPER IN YOUR FACE!

For all my American readers that want the full collection, you're looking at 179 publications.  This week's Business Week has a spectacular double page spread and then I'm ALL OVER the Washington Street Post and New York Times next month...

There's going to be a scrum for HP printers, so you might want to get in early.

Hoping to cross The Pond before too long...

Blowin' In The Wind

OK - you can rotate your heads back this way now.  I hope the video played - I've been having teething troubles. 

Sorry to go all 90 degrees on you, but I filmed this surreptiously on the number 5 to work this morning.  To set the scene, the old guy sitting next to the 'musician' is your run-of-the-mill 'Frisco conspiracy-theory-loony.  He'd just spent 10 minutes publicly positing that The Moonies were using Ipods to broadcast subliminal recruitment messages.  And then Mr.Mouth Organ got on and started blowing.  It's always fun when a loon gets out-looned.  But we all sat wide-eyed in amazement at this guy's impromptu performance - sadly, I didn't capture the best bits, when he was using his fist to bang out an accompanying rhythm on his own face.

Anyway, this was the final straw for me and public transport in Mental-ville, so I finally bought a bike.

Now I know what you're thinking - it looks like KITT.   And I must say that I feel a little Michael-Knight-esque when I'm:

(a) going very fast downhill
(b) talking to it

But then I feel far less Hoff-like when I hit the slightest incline, or when the wind blows.  And when I hit one of the city's comedy hills, it's all I can do to mutter under my breath 'what's wrong with the bus, Michael, what's wrong with the frickin' bus?'

Anyway, I'm chuffed that I ignored the cycling nazis and bought a hybrid. 

Who looks more ridiculous?  Me with my straight handlebars (I reiterate - straight, not bent) or the legions of middle-aged-porkers clicking around town in spandex and special shoes....

A huge bird shat on my head as I cycled home last night, so I expect nothing but good luck in my bicycling endeavours.

Clap Your Hands Say Yawn

So I went to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah at the Great American Music Hall.

I like the album but this show fell flat.  A great venue but there was no performance, just a surly trot through the songs and then they were off.  And the lead singer's voice grated live.  As did his hat.

Dad style rant:  this seems to be what young bands do.  Kings Of Leon, The Arctic Monkeys, The Editors... the same onstage sulk.  A gig is a visual medium - if we just wanted to listen, we'd be horizontal with our headphones on.  Smile lads, you're rockstars.

It seems odd to me.  In an age when the live show is more important than ever - a guaranteed money-spinner in the era of pirated downloads - you'd think showmanship would rise to the fore. 

Hot Chip, on the other hand, are hot shit live.  Even seeing them at a record store in the middle of the afternoon was fun.  Lads let loose with synths and loving it.  Chancers, perhaps, and certainly less 'muso' than many bands-of-the-moment, but everyone left with a smile on their face...and tingling ear drums.

Pants

Right then - it's been a long time.  Anyone still out there?  Holler y'all.

This is a quickie.  I'm still alive.  I blog, therefore I am.

The thing is, these days, I'm short of time and I'm short of idle observations.  Both are symptomatic of this thing I have called 'a job', whereby I'm contracted to have an interesting point of view on advertising/brands and their role in broader society/culture....which is, apparently, best achieved by sitting in an office squinting at Powerpoint presentations all day...or by shouting at cube-loons via a Polycom.

The other reason I'm not writing so much is that (a) I've been here six months now, so the computer is no longer my only friend and (b) I just can't stop watching this bloke robot dance.  Go on, get to a mirror and give it a go - you can get lessons and everything.

And...ooo look....I've segued seamlessly into the intended subject matter of this entry.  Namely, the modern dance 'taster' programme that I treated my client to last week.  Now, admittedly, the whole thing was planned as a bit of a wind up - I can't pretend I've suddenly gone all 30-something gaymosexual on you.  The Texan client in question - let's call him Cultural Void - wanted to go for fried chicken and a game of skittles, so I thought I'd help flex his cultural muscle instead.

It was 'modern dance light'.....4 bite-sized dances of about 15 minutes each...wine and nibbles....all done by 9pm so that we could roam the city in search of a bucket of Gallus Domesticus and a mechanical bull to ride.

So anyway, here are the conclusions Cultural Void and I reached with a few post-prancing pints:

Dance one:
Theme:  Some people walking about for a bit.
Verdict: A bit pedestrian.

Dance two:
Theme:  Two lovers meet and a hot wind fires their ardour.
Verdict: Loved it.  Especially her arse.

Dance three:
Theme:  Seven men lumbering about in their underpants.
Verdict:  Made me feel a bit sick.  Cultural Void seemed quite excited though.

Dance four:
Theme:  Some nonsense about a Siren's message that 'came from the sea' and that apparently makes people twirl about for 30 secs before falling over, faces contorted like they're chewing a Curly-Wurly.  Actually, the plot for this one was explained to us before the dancing began, which just defeats the point for me.  Hmmm - how the Modern Dance World trembles at my critique.  But I reckon dance shares much with poetry - it should be experienced rather than defined.....a dance should not mean, but be.  Or so I tell myself as I krump on Friday nights.
Verdict:  Seven men lumbering about in their underpants.

All in all, I enjoyed it.  And that, for now, is all I have to say.

My parents arrive on Tuesday for two weeks - I might get Mum to 'guest blog' for a couple of days...I have no idea what they'll make of this city.

Toodle pip!