Girls Suck, So Do Boys

Frustrated by the singles life in New York, music blogger Casa De Punk, has decided who he should be dating from now on — lesbians. Mr. Punk writes:

Brett is the best girlfriend I've ever had. We never have sex, we don't even kiss. I'm a guy after all; I'm about as interesting to her as a lamppost until she's had 10 or 15 cocktails.

Mr. Punk, take solace in knowing this: you’re nervous breakdown bordering bitterness had earned you membership into a privileged club – you’re officially a New Yorker.

Until you’ve known spirit-ripping pain and suffering, until you’ve hit the cynical low that Casa de Punk has (see the female version here), you’ll never understand this city and this city will never understand you.

We earned the right to call ourselves a true New Yorker back in 1998, after a particular harsh rejection from a hot Brooklyn bartender who told us “she wasn’t coming home with us” and that “she was more into black guys.”

Of course, this bitterness is eventually replaced by something else. If you stay here long enough you will see.

Then you will look back at the days when you swore you were utterly effing done with dating and you will thank God that this sadness is gone, but you will always keep a place in your heart for that sadness.

Looking back, that sadness will feel strangely beautiful, and unique to you, and to this city, and after that, you will forever love single people in Manhattan, those who hilariously curse the opposite sex, jadedly write about romance, freak out, give up hope, fall head over heels, and seriously question the existence of God.

The Lower East Side was built on godforsaken taxi rides home.

Two Club Sodas With Lime, Please

When we compare these two New York Post stories, published fifteen days apart, it becomes clear that former Celtic bum and recovering alchie Vin Baker has not finished growing a support system in his new city.

Vin Wants To Learn From Isiah & Dolan
New York Post, March 15, 2004

Vin Baker said he's in the process of "finding another home group" in New York and had a couple of meetings two weeks ago in New York in anticipation of signing with the Knicks.

“Right now everything is going well on the floor. But I want everything - most importantly - to go well off the floor," said Baker.

Page Six Sightings
New York Post, March 31, 2004

Newest Knick Vin Baker partying with Mariah Carey and Treach (Naughty by Nature) at Dorsia.

Hey, looks like Vin wants to learn from Mariah too. Now things are guaranteed to go well off the court.

More Musical Insight Than You Can Handle

Franz Ferdinand: Franz Ferdinand

East Village Music Store Clerk remarked to us: "They're Scottish." So is Arthur Conan Doyle, home slice. Too much Stroke, not enough Coke.

Von Bondies: Lack of Communication

We'll give the nerdy Music Bloggers the Von Bondies. The song C'mon, C'mon is raw and addictive. Stuffing his classic art-scene coolness down the band’s nouveau-hip jeans, producer Jerry Harrison, whose resume boast The Talking Heads and Modern Lovers, works magic. Minus points: they're not Scottish. Expect to play the CD as long as you did your last Hives album. You'll never, or almost never, listen to it after that.

N.E.R.D: Fly or Die

Good. Not good enough to buy. Good for a loft party. Like, um, in Carroll Gardens.

Ted Leo and The Pharmacist: Hearts Of Oak

We heard a song coming from our roommate's bedroom. We asked who he was playing. We don't ask that often. Major worry: Leo’s newest album isn't his best. We will be obsessed this week. We will hate ourselves every moment we don’t know exactly what Ted Leo’s last two albums sounds like. Tell us there is a third and we’ll kill ourselves.

Blubox presents:

A Brief Timeline of Miramax Press Releases for Jersey Girl

Feb. 4, 2002

Academy Award Winner Ben Affleck To Star In Miramax’s Jersey Girl

April 13, 2002

Miramax Signs Maid In Manhattan Star Jennifer Lopez To Romantic Comedy Jersey Girl

Aug 20, 2002

Miramax Begins Principal Photography On Jersey Girl; Affleck and Lopez Co-Star

Sept. 18, 2002

Affleck’s Character Falls in Love On Screen; Stars Falls in Love Off

"If you're ever shooting a movie about two people falling in love,” says the Jersey Girl director. “I can't urge you strongly enough to cast a pair of people who are actually falling in love. The chemistry between Ben and Jen is so palpable, you could almost bottle it and sell it as an aphrodisiac. Take after take, we watched Ben and Jen flirt through a rapid-fire-dialogue dance of movie meet-cute. But this wasn't just art imitating life; somehow in the midst of all that smolder, they managed to provide us with a pair of performances which were nothing short of spellbinding."

Sept. 18, 2003

New “Grown Up” Comedy From Director Kevin Smith To Be Released In Spring 2004; Ben Affleck and Liv Tyler Star

Feb, 25, 2004

Miramax Announces March 26th Release Date For Jersey Girl Starring Ben Affleck and Liv Tyler

"If you're ever shooting a movie about two people falling in love,” says the Jersey Girl director. “I can't urge you strongly enough to cast a pair of people who are actually falling in love. The chemistry between Ben and Liv is so palpable, you could almost bottle it and sell it as an aphrodisiac. Take after take, we watched Ben and Liv flirt through a rapid-fire-dialogue dance of movie meet-cute. But this wasn't just art imitating life; somehow in the midst of all that smolder, they managed to provide us with a pair of performances which were nothing short of spellbinding."

March 7, 2004

Miramax Premieres “Grown Up” Comedy Starring American Pie’s Jason Biggs*

Sept. 19, 2004

Jason Biggs Comedy Roars Into Home Video; George Carlin Co-Stars


* see Saturday’s NY Times Print Ad. The most prominent face is Jason Biggs. There’s a smaller sideview of Ben Affleck. PS: Please send me this movie ad if you find it.

Hello, you fine Japanese ladies.

The Hot Corner

You know about Bernie Williams’ talent for playing the guitar, but are you aware of A-Rod’s skills as a rapper? Just listen to his new hip-hop song Hot Over Herre.

Hot over…
So hot over here…
So hot over…

I was like, good gracious too few spaces
Stripper faces, Have to play third bases
Lookin for the right time to help my team
Lookin for the right time to flash them G’s
Then um I’m leavin, please believin
Jeter wants short, ya see me seethin?

But fears be growin and growin
Get me a catcher’s mask, Matsui’s throwin
Grounders come quicker, gettin sicker
Lookin’ like Boomer after a night of liquor

I need you to get the hell out of my natural position
Give the fans what they’ve been wishin
Cuz I feel like bustin loose and I feel like turning two
But Jeets is such a cry baby tell me what’s the use

(I said)
Its gettin hot over here (so hot)
So take off all your rings

I am gettin’ so hot, I wanna take my position back

(I said)
It’s getting hot over here (so hot)
So take off all your rings

I am gettin so hot, I wanna take my position back

New York Steps Up Security

One week after the Courtney Love train wreck that injured one fan, NYPD has mounted an unprecedented security effort in the hopes of thwarting another massive attack by a spiraling out-of-control celebrity.

Teams of officers have been doing surprise “security sweeps” of all black luxury SUVs before they enter New York City to make sure they aren’t carrying Tara Reid.

Some of the other anti-celebrity terrorism measures include:

* Equipping over 3,200 cops with a lightweight, military style gas masks, which can withstand prolonged exposure to face-scolding vodka breath.

* Deploying cops outside Shannen Doherty’s hotel room to establish a presence.

* Spot checks of rock stars at concerts, especially those with plummeting record sales or beefs with Jack White.

* Checking suspected party girls for the absence of underwear, using special mirrors to view underneath barely there mini-skirts.

* Placing shoebox sized sensors in nightclub bathrooms that would analyze the air and would sound a silent alarm in the event a wasted party girl unleashes a biochemical vomit attack.

* National Guard soldiers, equipped with skank-sniffing dogs, unexpectedly swarming fast-food joints after 2 AM, in a bid to thwart a whacked-out diva from unleashing another surgically-altered body part

* Towing away suspicious-looking celebrities in “VIP lounge areas”. On the NYPD Watch List: coked-out blondes with exposure-starved eyes, C-Listers desperate to revive/maintain their career, all reality television personalities, Michael Pitt, Natasha Lyonne, Asia Argento, any offspring of The Rolling Stones.

* Cops look for suspicious behavior on stage, and are trained to read body language, patrolling for wobbly posture, vulgar physical gestures, and trouble stripping down to underwear.

These security measures are part of a larger plan to keep all New Yorkers safe. While the NYPD feels the threat has lessened -- based on intelligence reports (faulty, of course) that Courtney Love has flown back to Los Angeles -- they encourage the populace to stay vigilant.

Move over Scarlet Johannson. There's a new IT girl in town.

Dick Morris has more political acumen than anonymous blogger TMFTML has RU-20’s stashed in his office desk. So when the former Clinton campaign advisor starts talking about a blowout in the making, Democrats should begin handing out the plastic cups of Kool-Aid and cyanide. Sadly, Morris illuminates our deep, unspoken fears about JK:

His campaign advisers are hoping that a few hours extra sleep on his ski trip will restore his political judgment. But they ignore the fact that he never had a lot to begin with.

Blubox Recommends

Like your fish and chips with extra vinegar? Check out Eurotrash’s scathingly funny appraisal of Amanda Hesser’s restaurant review in the New York Times. Also, there’s plenty of incestuous hardcore blog-type comments, if that’s your bag.

Like sexy barely legal photos of messenger bags that double as man purses? Read Lockhart Steele’s review of the free promotional product he received for subscribing to meterosexual shopping magazine Cargo. That subscription: we gather it was purely for “purposes of research”. At least do us a favor and tell us that.

Like discovering rare albums that are so bizarrely awesome that they shouldn’t even exist? Go to Stereogum and you can cancel the Indiana Jones-style expedition you had planned to every second hand music store from St. Marks to Park Slope.

Blubox loves that...

The first seven and a half minutes of Shine On You Crazy Diamond is instrumental.

In possession of such an undeniably great hook, we wonder if Pink Floyd had been tempted to craft its ode to ex-frontman Syd Barrett into a radio friendly hit.

It doesn't matter if they opened the song with a haunting Saturunian instrumental out of principle, bravado, or a declaration of autonomy, we're glad they gave the full moon to the potential seducement.

It's rare nowadays to enter a rock song in this way -- slowly, gently, like entering through a long dark tunnel. The words don't begin until you have passed fully into the unknown world.

Relaxing music used to play at the theater while you waited for the movie to begin. At least that's the way it was at the Jax Jr. Cinema. And a curtain would open just as the opening image flashed on the screen, another signal to the mind that it was leaving home.

What do we get before the movie now? Commercials. We go from noisy images to noisy images, and no longer does a curtain open. Lost is that time for adjustment, those first steps into the tunnel, that unmistakable sign that the moment has come to leave where you are and go somewhere else.

Living in New York, this time of adjustment -- when we leave our world and enter into another -- often feels non-existent, or if it does exist than overlooked. And yet the quiet anteroom between journeys, between thoughts, between activities -- they feel even more necessary.

But in the non-stop environment of the city, escaping the shackles of our inaccurately understood life and gliding into an existence that is normally unseen can feel impossible.

Then again, maybe we just need a seven and a half minute intro to everything we do.

Stars Go Retro

Celebrities are wearing vintage rock T-shirts reports Billboard Magazine.

In the article Vintage T’s Fit The Bill, we learn that Meg Ryan wears Motley Crue and Strokes guitarist Nick Valesi wears Billy Idol.

“Vintage is hot,” explains Brad Beckerman, the CEO/creative director of the parent company that makes the retro garb. “When people wear vintage clothes, it’s not about being trendy. It’s about a lifestyle.”

In other news, the ghost of Jim Morrison has risen from a Paris grave to kill Nick Lachey. Police believe The Lizard King was retaliating against Simpson for her grievous offense of wearing a Doors T-Shirt at a concert in Georgia last year.

Sophie Who?

We've tabulated the results -- Plum Sykes will have more haters upon the release of her first book Bergdorf Blondes than Dave Eggers. We say, in advance, quit moaning and RSVP plus 1.

Maybe that doesn't make any sense. Maybe nothing makes sense in this dirty town but a British accent, twin sisters, and first-time writer who looks like this.

And, finally, to those who are charged up and ready to hurl snark at her, we ask this: How can you have any plum pudding, if you haven't eaten your meat?

Getting arrested, flashing her ta-tas on TV, then adding them to the value menu at a Wendy's in Union Square. In the last couple of days, it seems Courtney Love has been seeking publicity. But now we think she's finally getting a little desperate.

Just moments ago, Courtney Love was seen dangling her baby out a window.

When the crowd of fans yelled up to Ms. Love that the baby she was dangling was "imaginary", she broke into a violent rage, then into a fit of shy giggles, and finally into a high-pitched yelp. Her fans stood quiet and motionless as she then stared off into the distance for a moment. She then flashed them her boobs.

JukeBlubox

Which of these lyrics speaks most to you today? While America votes, we’ll be trying to regain control of the situation, having lost it late last evening while at a lovely little bar on Avenue A.

Geezers need excitement.
If there lives don’t provide them this they incite violence.
Common sense.
Simple common sense.

It’s so easy when everybody’s tryin’ to please me.

I suppose I could collect my books and go on back to school.
Or steal my daddy’s cue and make a living at playing pool.

I wear black on the outside ‘cause black is how I feel on the inside.

I hope you choke on your Bacardi and Coke.

I spent four years prostrate to the higher mind
got my paper and I was free.

Give me your hungry, you’re tired, you’re poor – I’ll piss on them.

Walk tall or don’t walk at all.

Cherry ice cream smile
I suppose it’s very nice.

You been tellin' me you're a genius
Since you were seventeen
In all the time I've known you
I still don't know what you mean

The refresh feature on our ESPN.com's NCAA Basketball Tourney Scoreboard page is set for 60, sending the crows of anxiety flying off our cubicle, and landing on to someone else's cubicle in some other midtown highrise.

Wouldn’t the Lower East Side (the outskirts, not Clinton Street) be a much more appropriate place to get arrested for a nightclub incident involving reckless endangerment with a microphone stand?

We guess Courtney Love failed to get the memo about the East Village. She’s living in 1996 when its streets oozed the kind of weird grungy glamour not found in any other part of the city. Where did she go after being released from custody – 7A?

Stop Me If You Think That You've Heard This One Before

We went to Lindsayism's birthday party at Siberia and can report that it was a total blast.

We drank and drank and drank. So, yes, it could have been the booze, but we totally think we saw Ultragrrrl dancing with that hot mystery boy in the fatigue pants!

So great to catch up with Jenyk, Melody Nelson, Scott Lapatine, Whitney Pastorek. And if that wasn't cool enough, we ran into Bruner, Choire, Deckie, Catherine’s Pita, Casa de Punk, The Wicked, Soviet Panda, F Train, Generationgrrl,Krucoff, rion, Cup of Chica, Terry Teachout, Andrea Seigel, Bloggy, Neurotic Jew, jvg.com, Bluejake, Bazima, Everythingny.com, Low Culture, Lightening Field and I totally think we spotted TMFTML pummeling a delicate hipster boy behind the Ms. Pac Man machine? He’s such a crack addict! Honestly!

We also saw one of those witty hedonistic British blog chicks, we believe it was either Eurotrash, Maccers, or Joyce Leslie flirting with Felix Salmon , who seemed more interested in giving eyes all night to Maud Newton. Crazy scandal!

But the highlight had to be meeting NewYorkish, Memefirst, Greg.org, Jen Bekman and bookslut. We also scored big hugs from the hotness that is Jen Chung, 601am, Anil Dash, Bunsen, Boingboing, Old Hag, Belle de Jour, Smitten, Paul Frankenstien, Sarah Weinman, Elegant Variation, Twinkle Twinkle, Sarah Space, Rachelleb, Oblivio, Molly, Eliot, GirlNYC, babealicious, Janelle, Tale Of Two Cities, EBway, Nick Denton and Blind Cavefish.

And we can’t believe we almost spilled our drink on Liz Spiers. It was all Lockhart Steele's fault. Cross my heart and swear on it!

Luckily, our friends got us in a taxi before we passed out in a pool of magazine queries, piling up near the DJ booth. A big thanks to all our pals who helped us make such a graceful exit. You know who you are, Avec Les Boucles, Ashlybrooke, Jelena Earlash, New York Doll, Ikeepadiary, Octavia, Margaret Cho, Neil Gaiman, Jennifer Weiner, Jeff Jarvis, Amy Langfield, Information Leafblower, The Alley, D-Nasty, megnut, Coolfer, Aeki Tuesday, jinners, Kittymagik and Bond Girl.

Did we mention that HALF of The Proclaimers were there guest DJing? At least, I think that's who they were. We would definitely walk 5,000 miles to see those guys DJ a blog party as super fun and silly as this one. I heart them so much. Obvs.

Stores Are Strange, When You’re A Stranger

Our friends over at Lockhartsteele.com wonder what this city would be without its many wacky stores and conclude not the one we love oh so dearly.

We lay down this little wreath on the monument of affection for our little Gotham: last weekend, as we walked down Orchard Street, the Blubox Intern told us she had a craving for a pickle and we found ourselves uttering these words: "I believe there's a great pickle shop somewhere around here. Actually, I think there's two of them."

The Eternal Sunshine Of The Lower East Side

Every time we pass by the Angelika, that once great bastion of independent film for downtowners, we look to see what’s showing.

Considering we haven’t visited their cramped, crummy theaters in ages, it’s a quixotic little habit – like keeping abreast on who your ex-girlfriend is dating, even though you haven’t the slightest interest in ever returning to her bed (which, as we recall, was also cramped and crummy.)

What was the last movie we saw there? The Tao of Steve? The House of Yes? Who can recall?

We’re just glad that the requirement for seeing a movie no longer includes "breathlessly" waiting inside a velvet roped maze to be admitted to our seats, or sitting in a “hauntingly” drab café that sells “thrillingly” over-priced chocolate brownies that “take your appetite away”.

Now we can go to the Sunshine Cinema on Houston Street, where not only is seeing an indie film on the weekend much less of a hassle, but they have eight different kinds of popcorn seasoning. You heard me right. Eight kinds! That includes white cheddar!

Yesterday, we went to the Sunshine and saw the documentary Touching The Void – and, you know what, we had a remarkably pleasant movie-going experience.

Some credit has to be given to the fact we went to see a film that was a few weeks into its run and had suffered no Oscar attention. “We avoided that whole Triplets of Belleville mess,” we explained to the Blubox Intern.

But we were also blessed by a smaller than usual crowd for a Sunday afternoon – we chalked it up to Madrid-inspired fears of riding the subway or everyone finally moving to Los Angeles for the weather.

We found our seats, two beauties half way down that failed to set off our acute talker-detection telepathy. We put our coats on an empty seat, which we shared with another adorable downtown couple.

Some might not like the theater’s seminar-like seating, but it warmed us with the nostalgia of sitting through bullshit American Civilization classes, while recovering from a Thursday night hangover.

We loved the movie, which was a documentary about two climbers and the gruesome agony they suffered descending an untried mountain in Peru.

We got a lot of sick pleasure applying the lessons of their ordeal to our lives in New York. For instance, paraphrasing one climber, as he describes the strange voice that kept him moving despite a broken leg, severe frostbite, and no realistic hope of surviving: “This part of me. It was unsympathetic, almost cruel. Telling me I had to keep moving. I couldn’t stop to rest or I would die.” Dude, that’s a Monday at the office.

We highly recommend this gorgeous, briskly-told picture, which avoids all the usual conventions of the true-life disaster tale.

Absent is the prerequisite subplot about the inspiration of loved ones; you don’t hear anyone say, “if only to see my child’s face one more time, I knew I had to keep going.”

One of the best lines of the movie comes when one of the climbers finds himself stuck in a crevice, his situation hopeless. He tells us: “I’ve never been a big believer in God, but I always wondered if I got in jam like this if I'd start doing a few Hail Marys and start praying like crazy for help. But I didn’t, which told me I was right. There is no God.” And then he survives anyway.

The only sour note occurred soon after we left the theater, when the Blubox Intern realized she was without her black leather gloves.

We returned to the theater in an attempt to recover the items. The dopey kid in the box office told us he had found one black leather glove.

We waited five minutes for him to retrieve it from his garbage bag full of lost crap. (Why are we waiting? What is one glove going to do for us, even if it is hers?)

After locating the glove, the kid passes it (skeptically) across the ticket window for us to examine. The glove was not hers – which was an odd relief. One glove would serve only as a reminder to the self-incriminating carelessness of the owner with regard to items of clothing.

But even with no gloves, the Blubox Intern knew she had to push on. And so she bravely walked down 2nd Avenue, fighting the elements, the cold wind numbing her soft little fingers.

Then she said to me “I’m cold. I don’t like this” so we flagged a taxi for her, which drove us both back to Blubox.

Blubox Sports Wrap-Up

Knicks sign Vin Baker. Ha. Sheff removes Cashman from his Evite list. Ha ha.

Boston Globe article tells how Johnny Damon is trying to convince Sox manager Terry Francona that he's not an insistent partier. The stoner-biker hair isn't helping, dude.

Speaking of party animals, the Yankees spokesman had no comment on the tabloid report that Alex Rodriguez has been a regular at the VIP strip club on West 20th Street, where he enjoys $1000 lap dances from a certain Brazilian hottie. Team captain Derek Jeter did speak out, however, reportedly telling his new teammate, "Whatever, bro. Just don’t start showing up at Orso, understood?"

They're blowing up Madrid and meanwhile the daughters of Keith Richards and Mick Jagger are making out with strippers in Chelsea.

We stand in the crowded bar, drinking our Red Stripe, all the while just trying to keep from crashing too early.

The momentum for this evening has zig-zagged wildly, hitting its peak earlier this week when we emailed the Blubox Intern with an idea for Going Out On Thursday and she responded with a cute email saying she liked our Plan.

Sending the email was easy. Now we both had to fulfill our obligations to the Plan. Going out sounded fun and we needed to go out, but there was one catch -- we actually HAD to go. Finish up at work, grab dinner, get in a cab, meet her inside... must respond, can't crash.

We’re thirty (twenty-nine, same thing) and we’ve done what needs to be done in this city and if there’s something that we haven’t done that we should be doing we’re sure people with friends know about it; once again we have failed to get the mass email.

What can we say? We didn’t eat dinner beforehand down the block at El Sombrero with people who we were trying to impress with jaded wit and cool band IQ.

Our dinner beforehand, wrapped-in-aluminum, was consumed in Blubox, on a tray so we wouldn’t spill crumbs on the floor, trying to put the crap from work out of our heads with the tranquil visions that come everyday at 7:30 PM.

Just as we reach Pianos' packed front bar to order our second Red Stripe, Blubox Intern asks us: “Do you want to stay?”

We answer, “Yeah." T-Rex can be heard wafting above the multitude of conversations and chic rock-and-roll haircuts. "Do you?”

She answers, “Yeah.”

In other words we both want to leave. Or at the very least, we both could go home anytime – guest DJs from new wave/pop/punk bands we dug for a moment three years ago isn’t keeping us from going, neither is the crowd of hipsters or scenesters or jeepsters or whoever gives a fuck.

Why were we here in the first place? Oh, yeah. The all-female Depeche Mode cover band. We knew that the Blubox Intern was a hardcore Depeche Mode fan back in the day – this estrogen-fueled homage felt like a must-see.

Done up in fishnets, mini-skirts, and thigh-high leather boots, the band’s outfits far outshined their version of Strange Love, but girls who can play the guitar while striking disaffected poses in killer knee-high socks are worth the trouble of getting stamp marks off our hand the next morning. And God has a place just for female drummers in heaven.

The band concludes their set and we decide to go upstairs, where there's another, ostensibly chiller bar, one in which the Blubox Intern once straddled us.

Passing the new wave doofus in the white leisure suit on the stairs incites irritation. We want to knock off his silly glasses.

Maybe if that all-girl rendition of People Are People was a little better, we would have been more tolerant and understanding.

We’re not sure why we should get along so awfully – we’re sure all these whiter-than-white post-punk posers are really wonderful once you get to know them.

It's time to blow: we’re yawning and we can’t afford to get tipsy considering that guy who fills in for us at work when we're too hungover to come in never returned from his long weekend in Costa Rica.

Maybe next time will transcend all our narrow-minded biases and it will be us who straddles all of Ludlow Street with our love.

I am Georgia, I am Gucci

At Miami’s Winter Music Conference, Paris Hilton was named Best Celebrity DJ, beating out 5th Avenue scaffolding-model Adrien Brody. After the competition, we hear Paris was all, “stick to the piano, bitch” and “you been served, Christ killer.” Meow.

We’re now counting on Paris, having won this award, to dump her lame plans to launch a solo music career and do what we all know she should -- join up with Kid Rock as his new mix-master.

Imagine for a moment: The Kid cranking up the bad ass rock, Ms. Hilton throwing down the massive VIP club beats.

Just the two of them – a bastard-cousin to The White Stripes. Hillbilly-stomping, Jet-set cruising. Her DJ Jazzy Jeff to his French Prince. Indecent, glamorous, sleazy, funky.

The album cover. A suite at the Hilton hotel. Kid Rock walking out of the bathroom, cigar in mouth, towel around his waist, grinning like a Cheshire cat at the sight before him: Paris, dressed in a house-cleaning uniform, bent over, picking up empty beer cans off the floor, unaware she’s being watched.

Album Title: Pimps In Paris.

Just a dream, folks. Just a dream.

In perhaps his boldest move to rachet up the competition for most unhinged front-office, leaving his rival, the Celtics' wild-west trader Danny Ainge in the dust, Knicks President Isiah Thomas is trying to bring Vin "Bacardi and Coke" Baker to New York. Shine on you crazy diamond!

Would you buy an album that sounded like Air if they had been produced by an acoustic-version Beck who had grown up in Liverpool and was channeling a very young, tan, and star-dusted Joni Mitchell? Thought you might.

Brooklyn Is The New East Village

Standing outside J&R Music World last night, we needed to transform from Manly-Boyfriend-In-Charge-Of-Stereo-Shopping to Sophisticated-Boyfriend-Who-Knows-Great-Place-For-Dinner.

We couldn't help but notice the vicinity around the World Trade Center wasn't awash with cute Italian restaurants. We needed to formulate a plan quicker than the Republicans had to pull the president's new feel-good ads that included an image of a flag-draped body at ground zero.

Hm, perhaps this wasn't the ideal block to have our adorable, romantic dinner.

The epiphany came. Take the A train to Spring Street. From there we were golden: Bread. Lovely Day. Casa Del Portal. Rice.

Our dinner plan was flawless, but a greater vision called to us, challenging us to act daringly this Sunday evening.

Our mission was as unmistakable as it was hazardous: leave the safe confines of our self-imposed prison, to escape our personal Below 14th Alcatraz.

Sure, waiting in possible defeat was the devestating self-contempt only a foodie boyfriend who has stupidly taken his non-foodie girlfriend to an ill-fated new restaurant can appreciate. But we couldn't let the fear of a dining catastrophe stop us. To hell with the risk.

Not knowing if this was the biggest mistake we could make, if we were sabotaging a perfectly nice weekend with a last-second Grady Little blunder, we boarded the train to Williamsburg.

Upon exiting the subway, our feet touching the sidewalks, The Blubox Intern deadpanned: "So are we hip?"

We asked some young people standing outside the subway where we could find the main strip and -- God bless their little worn, miss-match fashioned hearts -- they told us to walk down to Bedford Street.

Getting there meant navigating dimly-lit streets, eerily quiet for New York, foreign in feel and look, and sketchy enough to wake the senses, but not cause Blubox Intern go into a full panic.

We came upon Bedford Street and there was a moment of celebratory relief, the kind that a traveler enjoys when he steps back into civilization just as he begins to wonder if he'll ever see it again. The joy of stumbling upon.

Walking down the bustling, funky, illuminated street, we felt a slightly out-of-control and vulnerable intoxication brought on by the mystery and freedom that a newly discovered neighborhood offers. You will never see something for the first time again.

And then we did what we would have done if we were wandering around a Tuscan village or a Spanish city. We asked a perfect stranger -- in another life, a friend of a friend -- if she could recommend a place for dinner. "Mexican... French... Italian?" she asked. An encouraging response.

We told her Italian and she told us about a local trattoria called Acqua Santa. It wasn't far from where we stood.

Before we parted ways with the stranger, she said there was a chance she'd be at the neighborhood eatery later with friends -- and we shouldn't think she's stalking us.

True to her word, she did arrive partway through our meal, a lovely memory held together by a pleasing and affordable bottle of Pinot Grigio.

The warm and inviting dining room accomplished the rare feat of not attracting too much attention to itself -- in the East Village this very act is considered an almost unpardonable sin -- while the homemade pappardelle was heavenly.

The only negative: the owner-chef -- or so we presumed -- sat at the table beside us with a group of boisterous Soho-shopping, poker-player types, talking about nothing except his Ferrari, which was parked out front for all the neighborhood to admire.

After finishing our meal (is there a more excellent surprise than finding yourself on a date with a girl you've been dating 11 months?) with cappuccino and tea, we took the L train back to Manhattan. And neither of us could think of a reason why we had never done that before.

And then departing from the low-key manner a New Yorker should always possess, we openly discussed how there was no reason we shouldn't do that again, going so far as to compare the number of subway stops from her place to Williamsburg and the number of subway stops from her place to Chinatown or Uptown or the Meat Packing District or Below Delancey.

It's all been one big illusion! How did we get caught up in the myth of our own lives, so restricted by the confines of an exhausting routine? Mind-blowing! Simply fuckin' mind-blowing!

But then you're reminded, as we were last night, of what is so great about this city and why you came here in the first place -- your whole world can grow in a single evening.

And sometimes all you have to do is take the subway in a different direction.

It's like our mom used to tell us when we were kids. All the people who you treat like crap on the way up, will rape you in prison on the way down.

Breaking news. Moments after arriving home from court today, Martha Stewart filled her shopping cart.

What is it mean to reach the age when you wake up with a hangover and you didn't even drink the night before? Pass the orange Gatorade, please. Thank you.

The rickety sidewalk tree structure supported our asses, which were probably a few years too old to be outside this show. The headliner? A quirky acoustic singer known as The Mountain Goats.

Nonetheless, we waited outside the entrance of the Knitting Factory, trying to spot someone along the brick-faced street with a ticket to sell us.

My friend noted that the girls were young, but were put together in a way that would make you think they were older. He had read somewhere that the name for this emerging species of Manhattan female was a kitten. "Young is the new old," my friend concluded.

We were fascinated by this new incarnation of youth displayed around us on the sidewalk.

This was as close to “counter-culture” as you could get and still there was a sense that the clothes, the style, the love for The Mountain Goats – it was simply a way for insecure misfits to get laid, have friends through supposed-indifference; a cool-looking, but rather culture-supporting social class, nothing more than a mirror to the far more popular scenes at their high school, colleges, first New York jobs.

The look: it wasn't quite hipster or mod or bohemian, and banished were the eighties touches, the scruffy dirtbag quality, the electroclash strokesyness.

The style was clean, quiet, sharp, innocent. Nostalgic but not vintage. Faded but not worn. It had the feel of life before LSD; this was a world of amphetamines and tailored skirts and Port Huron Statement slacks. This wasn't 1976, it was 1963.

Holy shit! Three hours standing around like idiots -- for what? effing Mountain Goat tickets? -- it suddenly made sense. This is why we came.

We figured out what this was -- the girl eating her dinner from a Tupperware container ("babaganoush is the new cocaine," pronounced my friend); the guy bringin' it back home in the sheep-skin collared jacket as he talked on his T-Mobile; the girl in the cute psychedelic, but conservative white and green-turquoise school outfit; the shoe-gazing kitten in the rainbow sweater shall and form-fitting jeans; the dude who was part John Kerry student protest look, part Wilco, part Mid-West basketball player.

This, people, was Wonder Years Chic. Yes, now you can rest easy, as shall we.

All we needed to do was realize we were surrounded by a hundred Winnie Coopers, all too fine too last, and the universe was happy to reward us with tickets to the show.

We scored them not from the shoe-gazing kitten, but a dull-looking guy who, with his mid-thirties 9-to-5 stench, looked even more out of place than us.

The Manhattan restaurant world is abuzz as meat-packing district bistro Pastis announces they will offer patrons the option to super-size their fries. When asked if this addition to their menu was in reaction to McDonald's announcement they were dumping super-size portions, a Pastis rep squinted his eyes while deeply inhaling a cigarette and, in a languid French accent, said: "You think we forgot about that whole freedom fries thing? Payback's a bitch, Ronald Mcdonald."

Elton John says he has no plans to marry his longtime partner, David Furnish. In related news, Derek Jeter will be wedded to his middle-infield partner A-Rod during the seventh-inning stretch of the home opener against the Red Sox on April 16th. The ceremony will be performed by ordained minister and former Yankees third baseman Scott Brosius. Heh.

New York thinks they’re so great for getting A-Rod. Well, our home state of New Hampshire could be landing the town of Killington, Vermont. The blockbuster move would include one mammoth ski mountain. No hard feelings, VT. You still have Ben & Jerry’s and, uh, Howard Dean.

Twenty detectives at the NY Hate Crimes Unit were ordered to see The Passion of The Christ. None were ordered to see Welcome to Mooseport. What gives?

Before running off to the coffee shops of Amsterdam, Lockhart Steele commented on Cosi's amusingly blasé approach to serving the needs of their customers. We'd like to point out Starbucks' slightly less-amusingly blasé approach to serving the needs of its toilets. The 'Bucks corporate plan for Manhattan locations is nothing less than inspired-- faux-quaint cafe eating areas, squalid punk rock lavatories. Half-cafferific!

She picked the hunk! We can't believe it! Uh, not.(Go to February 11th post for our Average Joe conspiracy theory.)

Ex-Gawker Editors Wanted: Dead Or Alive

Can you believe the whole No One Called Liz For Verification story has reached such scandalous proportions in the blog universe? Only in New York, kids, only in New York.

Just in case certain British bloguls are asking, we only charge $24 an hour for our freelance factchecking services.

And Here's The Kicker

Our dream was simple: bring together two of the biggest names in blogging for a daytime talk show. The name of this show? Living it Down! with Choire and Liz. Now it appears that our dream is threatened by an unfortunate dust-up between the two New York blog elites.