The Blogger Takes Off One Sock And A Shoe

After a mere four posts, we find ourselves crushing under the pressure to compete with the top Manhattan bloggers. How gleeful, internally that is, were we to post about the new cleanly chic Parisian coffee shop we discovered a few days ago on 2nd Avenue in the East Village. Score one for the Blubox. Ahead of the curve, setting trends for free.

Then today while checking out the site of our fellow downtown blog enthusiast, Lockhart Steele, we see he's mentioned, oh so casually, that very same new coffee shop. Sharp pain. Left ventricle.

A few moments later we discover to our shock and awe that the coffee shop revelation was made back on Monday, before either of us, by none other than Daily Candy, that ultra-femi site that tells Carrie Bradshaw wannabes what to do with their unsexy lives when they're not obsessing about their female co-workers. The dagger cuts deep.

What's next? "Oh, that hot new coffee shop on 2nd Avenue," we will hear on the subway tonight. "The New York Convention and Visitors Bureau has a really cool feature about it on their site. It's been up there for weeks."

The city's bloggers are getting wittier everyday. They're getting more knowing by the moment. On the cusp of twenty-nine we're fortunate they haven't already sent us down from the LES to the Newark Bears a la Rickey Henderson

A grizzled veteran, we are trying to hang on to our spot among the Master Connoisseurs of Life -- what is of value and where to get it, what sucks and how to avoid it. And to be a Master Connoisseur of Manhattan is to reach the highest level of a particular way of living in the earth's ecosystem. It's religion. And at twenty-nine, it takes discipline, effort, grace, instinct, skill. It took nothing at twenty-one.

We don't know if we still have it in us to surf the big waves. What once came effortlessly now feels demanding. Like a war you fight, no longer to win, but because to stop means losing. The joy is gone. Or perhaps it has never been more than a substitute for the joy that was missing. Does the way to happiness possibly by-pass Clinton Street?

But an article in The Guardian about a British mock-metal band called The Darkness tempts me to make an emergency Kazaa download. An entry in the sharp, gossipy NYC blog Gawker about trucker hats makes me wonder how long it will be before the next headwear trend will emerge. And should Blubox be ready, armed with a withering opinion, when it does. Or maybe we need to hand in our membership card. Exile myself from the church.

Maybe only then can one lead the way to something new. And as Rickey would say, Blubox likes leading the way to something new.

Every Night In The Blog Scene Is No Worries Night

Blubox is happy to report its social debut in Manhattan’s Blog Scene went wonderfully last night. Our coming-out party dovetailed perfectly with the happy hour party thrown by Gothamist and 601am.

Anyone who is anyone in the blog world was there -- drinking and mingling outside on the back garden of Smithfield, a bar on Essex. An exclusive view of the Surface Hotel, every blog visionary’s favorite neo-structure, it’s backside towering over us, provided the ideal meta-backdrop.

Hyper-intellectual urbanites are so much more fun to hang with at the horizon of age thirty -- less verbal sparring of a desperate show-off variety and insidiously guarded-for-no-good-reason vibe. The unnamed contempt level -- self or otherwise - is reduced considerably.

Among the crowd, which we liked, notwithstanding that the freak flag was at half-mast, could be found the crème de la blog: the Flavor Pill guys who kindly endured my noobie questioning about The Blog Culture. Also spotted were the noisemakers from Gawker, Slower.net, Johnvangieson.com, as well as the street team from Lockhartsteele.com, who should be credited, or caned as it may turn out, for leading us through the rabbit hole.

The rest of the night gets freaky and zoney after the happy hour ended. Many of the blog scene’s killer elite, or rather elite killers, hippety-hopped over to that old gray mule Ludlow

Ms. Spiers, who has quickly established herself as the Gertrude Stein of the Blog Scene, held court on a couch. Our presence was overlooked (for now, for now) but alcohol afforded us the brave inspiration to cop a quick feel of her bum.

Bad sign late in the night: the bartender gives us the shortest pour we’ve seen in our lives. We give him a look. He responds: you’re barking up the wrong tree. Any amount of reflection tells us he was right and today we feel indebted, as that last drink would have surely meant The End.

It became a classic Sneaker night: when total wastedness sneaks up on you and then slams you. The brutalized by vodka blues were being sung loudly this morning at the Blubox as we searched for the answers to that eternal question: how?

Damage report included our blog-shy friend’s umbrella, which we managed to destroy when it got hung up on our Burberry raincoat -- and who knows how much mental scarring we inflicted on the ones we love (the amount just on ourselves was generous.)

We will make it up, not just to them, but to this beautiful blogging world.

Blubox Rocks

As you know, it's not like us to oversell a concept, but as concepts go this one is as sweet as honey. Think of this as the first stop on the Can't Stop The Joy Summer Rock Tour.

Broken Social Scene, which notably made the Blubox List for June, and which our third eye tells us will be one of the fascinating new bands of the Terror Alert Era (while suckers be lookin' for the next Disco Biscuits), is playing at Mercury Lounge tomorrow night.

Turns out the group Elefant is opening for them -- we're utterly dumbfounded. The band has been showered with headline-in-the-LES worthy buzz. Incompetent manager, yes maybe, or cosmic anomaly for the benefit of The People who get it?

Likewise, we have no clue how we got so god damn blessed to see BSC for $8 at such an intimate venue but it could be a result of us, once again, being way ahead of the curve -- think Blubox's Coldplay endorsement circa 2000.

A wave, we sense strongly, is gaining momentum (the universe speaks, we listen, we report); feel it this Friday at a Lower East Side near you. Fuck the "I can't promise you a good time" disclaimers. Dude, we serve it up with a nice Pinot Grigio and a side of mussels from Lucien.

We already made a pitstop at Mercury Lounge today (beats looking for a job in a hilariously destructive-to-your-well-being society) to gather intelligence. Got the scoop from cute pale indie-chick sitting at bar with clipboard, copy of The Onion, and a "How can I help you?" i.e "Can you help me find the keys I dropped in the basement behind the new shipment of Brooklyn Lager kegs?"

She explains:

The show will be sold out.
Can't buy advance tickets (why you're not already shit out of luck).
Smart move, one gathers the only move, is to come between 7-8 PM. No tickets - a stamp on the hand, you're in, no reentry.
Elefant goes on at 10:30 PM.
Broken Social Scene goes on at 11:30 PM.

We forgot to verify the cost -- no matter, this is the wrong night to use the icky lack of funds excuse to your friends. Deal with Life the following afternoon when you commence functioning. Show up to Play before your mind calls child services to report the mental abuse it’s suffered lately at the hands of you.

The Blubox Advisory System puts the Threat of Shanking Condition at Guarded. That’s Blu, a condition that declares a general risk of shanking.

Wednesday, June 18th 2003


Good call, bad form: Ashton "Yo, Diddy. We're running low on model punani" Kutcher dating Demi Moore. Our tapped-in friend Court Star comments: "Remember back in St. Elmo's Fire when she was fat?"

Bad call, good form: Kutcher spotted last week at The Standard Hotel lip-locked with ex-gal Brittany Murphy unbeknownst to new flame (read: much older career-obsessed girlfriend with three demanding kids and early morning yoga classes.)

Gossip like this is why we haven't moved to Reykjavik yet. The scoop came by way of a US Weekly knockoff we were perusing while waiting in the magazine section at the Park Slope CVS for a heavily-tattooed film delivery guy to arrive (twenty minutes late) with my prints.

The CVS Photo Clerk informed us she was not authorized to call in a complaint until the Film Delivery Guy was an hour late. The way she said it, unprompted, with one eye on the photo lab phone, we imagine she's been waiting, patiently, very patiently, for that day to come.

When the Film Delivery Guy did show, she made no mention to him of the fact he was late at all. It was painfully cordial on both ends.

Back before Blue Box, when we were in the uptight and wanky mode of our twenties, living inside our own heads, contemplating our monumental failure at life, sinking under the weight of desperation, we were headquartered in West Hollywood, the LA Season for those fond of using Real World parlance.

Under blue sunny skies, we would cruise down the Sunset Strip in our sexy-white Subaru Forester and pull up to the front of The Standard, minus turbo-nitrous button or Devon Aoki. Forgoing the underground valet parking, we'd park on the street, directly in front of the swanky white-concrete building.

Taking from the car with us our towel, our cellphone, and a swim-truck pocket full of quarters, used to fill the parking meter, which we had to dash from our chair poolside, through the shag-carpeted lobby, slaloming the inflatable sofas and beanbag chairs, past the barely-dressed women in the display case behind the check-in desk, and across the blacktop driveway to fill every hour.

We developed a highly-attuned mental power to know when the meter was on the verge of running out - a critical skill to possess as the LA Parking Cops are the most elite ruthless force working in the transportation enforcement industry.

The Standard pool area was our "offices" for daytime networking, i.e. make two or three going-nowhere phone calls to industry contacts and nurse the iced tea we felt obliged to order so that the aggresively blonde waiter in bright-white shorts wouldn't give us the boot.

The rays were easy to catch by the pool where bikini-clad scenesters and starlets (think Marlboro Lights, Gucci sunglasses, night-shift starts at 6:30 PM, pseudo-mod friends play in pseduo-model band) sun their organic-fed bodies next to manicured-messy sk8ter dudes chomping on french fries too pricey for industry toejam like us.

It's kind of a hard-to-swallow story -- the Ashton/Brittany backslide hook-up at The Standard. On the other hand, easy access to a moderately expensive hotel room, plus word has it Winona "Bright Eyes is so much more tapped-in than Coldplay" Ryder religiously attends the all-day rooftop service offered every Sunday.

And we'd like to think Kutcher is the kind of guy who is going to mix-it up. The world is all but getting on it's knees and begging him to display good form with a few bad calls - we only pray he knows it. Thankfully we get the sense he does. Playing it safe would be his worse call -- his job is to embrace the joyous chaos that the universe is begging him to surrender to. And joyous chaos, thy name is Brittany.

Blu Box List Mid-June 2003
1. Electric Six
2. People @ Allen St.
3. Steve-0
4. Blu Boxers (perky-dark kindergoth Japanese-cute Blade Runner cybersexy
culture)
5. The Darkness
6. Hip-Hop Conversion by Electronaflirts (electronaflirts are former
alt-rock-indie listeners, hitting their thirties, who discovered electronic
music through Blue Lines and Portishead. Eminem and The Streets are the
gateway drug.)
7. Bondage Skirts
8. I'm With Busey
9. Broken Social Scene
10. Futureheads
11. Nublu
12. To Live and Date in New York 2
13. Can't Stop The Joy
14. Hawian Print Shirts
15. Grandaddy
16. Pianos
17. Ms. Dynamite
18. Paradise Island
19. Search for the golden Outdoor Garden in downtown NYC
20. Rock Your Body