New York I Love You But You're Bringing My Reproductive Organs Into Regions For Which They Were Not Made

You will neither read me, hear me, see me, smell me or taste me for the next 7 days as I cavort and prance at the 2007 Tribeca Film Festival. If you're in the area, say hello. I'll be easy to spot: just look for the man on the observation deck of the Empire State Building whose fear of heights have made his testicles recess into his abdomen.

Ich Bin Ein Gringo

Don't look now but there is a good possibility someone has stolen my identity and switched it with the body and face of someone who is puro mexicano. Yes, I am partially of Mexican descent but I've always thought my mannerisms (such as driving a tan Toyota Camry) put me squarely in the category of muchos gringos. However, various remarkable events have taken place in the last few days which lead me to believe I am now livin' la vida Chicano. Witness, if you will:

1. Earlier today, in the shower at my local YMCA, some guy came up and began speaking Spanish to me. I replied in English and his retort was that he assumed I was Mexican! Is it because, naked, I resemble a hairless Chihuahua? Think about it!

2. A mere three days ago, I made a dinner comprised of tortillas, frijoles y queso, all ingredients used often in Mexican cooking! Also, I am quite adept at correctly pronouncing the word Tijuana. Coincidence?? Don't be so naive!

3. Last week on American Idol, the special guest mentor was none other than Jennifer Lopez, an actress/singer/clothing line entrepreneur who speaks Spanish! And she was raised Catholic--the very religion, out of all the world's religions, which annoys me the most! Do you see a pattern here?

4. The final straw in the burros back: just a few minutes ago, I happen to acquire the Nonesuch Explorer CD Festivals of Chiapas and Oaxaca, which contains some of my favorite field recordings of Mexican folk songs! Songs like Bats’i Son Martomail, K’in Sventa Ch’ul Me’tik Kwadulupe, Son Alegre and Danza de la Malincha! The truth hurts, eh, amigo?

The entire population of la raza blanca is in danger! Do I have to draw you a diagram?

Clouds of Joy (and Weirdness) (and WTF??)

If you were hoping to catch Dave Cloud at the ground floor, you're too late. To judge from a few of the previously unreleased tracks on his new career-spanning two-fer, Napoleon of Temperance (namely Belinda Purvis, Misengendered Mulatto Squandering Abeyance to Phantasmagoria, Sudden Stop and You Missed A Damn Good Chance), he's already taking the elevator through the Glass Ceiling of Crazy and is flying far into the stratosphere. It goes without saying, therefore, that Mr. Cloud is one of my favorite artists working today. He's my American Idol and Top Of The Pops rolled into one. And did I mention that he's completely crazy?

Absence Makes the World Go 'Round

[Click on image to make it legible.]

Killer Queens

I've been up since 5:30am, unable to slumber peacefully after being awakened by 10 minutes of gunfire rounds going off near my 'hood. Eventually, it occurred to me that it was my heavily Mexican/Catholic neighbors lighting strings of firecrackers in honor of Jesus' birth. Or Jesus' death. Or whatever the hell the morning after Good Fucking Friday is supposed to represent. What else can a poor boy do--besides play in a rock and roll band-- but get out of bed and put on some Cobra Killer jams like Without A Sun and Chemie Des Alltags to get the day started right? If Cobra Killer were a liquid morning stimulant, Starbucks would already be out of business. Take that, corporate weed!

Either Way, It Feels Like I've Died And Gone To Trashy Pop Culture Heaven

How long does it take before a mentally deranged performer unleashes his delusional talents on an unsuspecting French TV audience? Approximately one minute and thirty-five seconds.

What happens to a dream deferred? It ends up with its own cable-TV show.

The Rifle Man

At my local gym, the race to secure locker 15 is a battle over who begins their lunch hour sooner and arrives at this coveted spot first. I choose it because it mirrors my birthdate and is thus easy to remember each day, whereas my fellow athletes merely rely on its proximity to the showers. My chief rival is a gentleman about my age but much more bald. Although a comb-over is not yet on display, he does sport a Grateful Dead dancing bear tattoo on one arm, which fills my heart with gloom. Worse still, rather than update his life to today's technology, he still exercises using a Sony Discman. When he's in the shower, I always spy into his gym bag to gather evidence reinforcing my harsh opinions about his lackluster music taste rather than just hate him for his ill-informed inky accessory alone. Last week, it was Steely Dan's Aja; this week, the Meat Puppets (and not even from their interesting early period--he was listening to Monsters, an album which demeans all who listen to it). At the exact moment I was rudely rifling through his sweaty gym clothes and C-grade music collection, my iPod was rocking Sun OK Papi OK, and it's my feeling that the Japanese glitch grime, fractured electro-grunge and playful nonsensical fart-ness of each track reversed my transgression into a victimless crime. If you're reading this, balding work-out guy, please be aware that while my actions against your privacy might make me ripe for a lawsuit, I still have your sweaty disgusting underwear in my possession, and I'm not above introducing it as evidence in my defense.

A Short Reprise For Sufjan Stevens, Who Got Annoying, But For Very Good Reasons

Owing to a growing scarcity of twee/Americana costume themes, prominent musicologists have recently taken note of Sufjan Stevens mixing his metaphors (butterfly wings...with Boy Scout shirt???), a blatant desperate cry for help from a beloved performer who always seemed to possess an infinite grab-bag of folksy symbolism for each worldwide tour. In an effort to assist Mr. Stevens' in maintaining his place in pop history, Disco:Very herewith offers alternative suggestions for him to use as he sees fit:

Dress up as a cucumber fresh off the farm, accessorized with oversize Disney-style white gloves.

Outfit yourself in a cute Little Black Sambo outfit; refer to self as "wog".

Emulate the look and syntax of The Little Red Hen; complain that everyone in the band has refused to help write the songs; make off with entire take of ticket sales to teach musicians a lesson about the American roll-up-your-sleeves work ethic.

One half of the band is Confederate, the other half Union; Civil War battle reenactments take the place of between-song stage banter.

Wear giant tortilla costume with faint imprint of Jesus on it.

Outfit the entire band as Puritans; scold audience for immoral behavior, reenact the Salem Witch Hunt; lead entire audience to the gallows during encore.

Portray yourself as chitlins, drape entire body in pig intestines.

Sufjan is the White plantation owner, the entire band his slaves; lynchings occur upon audience request.

Dress up as praying mantis; wait for audience to come within striking distance, feast on prey.

Sufjan emulates President James Polk; dies after third song.

Concoct an entire suit made of snowy-white Marzipan; invite audience to eat it off you during the show.

Sufjan and the band dress as The Donner Party; eat one another by the end of the show (no encore).

Mimic the late Helen Keller, perform entire set deaf/mute.

Dress up as the Poky Little Puppy, prepare for role by consuming entire bottle of Valium before each show.

Dress up as the Indian Removal Act of 1830; negotiate land disputes with audience members residing west of the Mississippi River (if river not available in concert venue, substitute with nearest men's public urinal).

Impersonate the look/sound of P.T. Barnum; entire band dresses as circus freaks (bearded lady, man with no legs or arms, pinheads, conjoined twins, etc).

Band dresses up as sperm, Sufjan dresses up as egg; conception ensues during encore.

Sucking In The Forties

Will someone please hurry up and invent a time machine so I can skip ahead to the future of Two Weeks From Now when my new favorite CD Sucks Blood by The Ohsees finally arrives in the mail? Also, can anyone out there invent a pill which makes me feel as elated as I do when listening to It Killed Mom, the current runaway favorite on my Urinary Hit Parade of Excitement? This song is why God invented the repeat button (and the urinary tract). Sad though I am to know that The Ohsees were only resurrected to spit on the grave of the now-dead Coachwhips, in my gut of guts, I am certain that if the future is going to be this bright, I gotta wear shades (that whoosing noise you hear is the sound of my jokes flying over the head of my 8 to 15-year-old target market.) (I suck.)