Before
Today, i saw two characters from neighborhood, Jules and Dave Weston. Jules is 41, an artist, grew up mere blocks from here as a child, and has done and seen a lot of interesting stuff. She's an incessant doodler, lives in a warehouse with a recording studio in it, and is pondering changing the color of her blonde hair, because "everyone is blonde around here." Dave Weston is heading into the city as we speak to work on mixing his record with ex-Ramone producer/writer Daniel Rey. Dave Weston was once the leader of nu-punk band Weston, who Gut played a show with back in the day. Santa Fe Blvd., Denver, i'd say 1993? So, a decade ago. I recently asked Dave if he remembered meeting me, and he confessed he didn't. I reminded him about his cover of "Yankee Rose" and the fact that he very readily shared with me at what point in the day he masturbated before a show. Anyway, we decided today we're going to start a cover band. He's gonna sing, i'm gonna play bass, and whoever else shows up will play whatever is around. And, we're gonna play exclusively at the coffeeshop. Covers include "Green Eyed Lady", "Brandy", "Smooth Operator", "We Built This City (on Rock and Roll)", "The Fez", "I'm Still Standing" and "Pet Semetary" among others. Tell me if you notice any Cover Me Badd influence in those suggestions. Anyway, sounds like fun, if you ask me. Between the three of us, we also did a couple of corpses exquisites (sp?), where you make a monster by folding a piece of paper into three sections, and each person blindly draws a body part. We left our work in the drawer of one of the desks of the coffeeshop, in hopes someone finds it someday. Man, not working is a blast!
There are seriously too many of these to keep track of, but here goes anyway ...
Funny junk e-mail name o' the day:Inez Lewis, who wins out over Pauperize K. Upheld for sounding more like a real name.
Saturday, March 2th, 3 am. - Just for fun, i'm going to write an entry while kinda drunk. I saw the break-up tonite. It's too bad they were sabotaged by the soundman. Good ol' Mercury Loungy for you. I remember seeing the Tindersticks there, or Jonathan Richman, in front of maybe a 2/3rds full house. Now, soundguys there will find any excuse to be a compltee creep to you. Seriously. It's bad enough Creme Blush's bass was so undermixed, but tonite was unprofessional and inexcusable. Poor Jay H. had to deal with not having a single not of his being heard, then having his fingers slammed in the bathroom door by accident. Christ. If that was me, i woulda flipped out. Instead, i had a coupla to go margaritas from the hat, then made my way b ack to Brooklyn, where Satski (Creme Blush) and Pierre were DeeJaying. This meant at least one free beer, then one more when roomie and i went ot the Broklyn Ale House with a coupla nice Polish dames, one of which is a regular at the Ale Hizzy, and got the whole rounda drinx for $5. So, sweet. And now, here i am. I think i may have blown a MySpace date, with a very articulate, attractive woman, by saying in a journal entry that "girls are dumb." People pick the strangest times to take me seriously now. I mean, NOW, is pretty grave. But if i say things like "girls are dumb", you'd figger, "okay, that Jens, he's really up to something." But you know, fuck it. Dames. Yessh. I'llp robably regret this too. But, you know. Hic.
Funny junk e-mail name o' the day: Perms L. Roth.
Thursday, March 25th - Most recently i've been working on another pilot for Tad, and preparing for the recently-played Creme Blush show and upcoming recordings, both with varying degrees of success. I've also been training for spot shifts at the coffeeshop, and perfecting my version of Cahoots, now called Jerks (Jesse's now radically different version is called Elevened. Which is to say, i've been busy, or more accurately, preoccupied. Actually, the only reason i'm really writing is to give you this ...
Funny junk e-mail name o' the day: Darnell Snell.
Monday, March 22nd - I enjoy the term "calling bullshit", as to call bullshit on someone or something you find lacking in credulity. I believe this term was first popularized in a Vice Magazine article a few months back. But, sad to say, calling bullshit doesn't really work. Now, "bullshit" has 8 letters, so i assumed the first letter is actually the last number of the area code. Therefore, those wishing to "call bullshit" in NYC, well, it must be a Manhattan (212) number, as the other local exchanges in the tri-area region are 718, 347, 917, 646, 908, 516 and 201. So, i just dialed 212-ULL-SHIT, and, nothing. Meaning, "calling bullshit" has roughly the same effectiveness as calling Verizon.
Stay tuned for an announcement of the return of the DJ Fresh Jens. Makin' lemonade out of lemons, once again.
Funny junk e-mail name o' the day: Vivian Y. Peoples.
Funny junk e-mail name o' the day: Elmo Hilton. Maybe he has my records.
Friday, March 19th - It's been a good week for pins, that's for sure. Josh just gave me a "I (heart) Kylie" pin.
Who doesn't love a good confessional rant?: Hi there. Don't read this if you don't want. But, you tune in for a reason, so no need to be cagey. Besides, it's snowy, and listening to "More than This" 20 times in a row is starting to have an effect on me. And not the effect of Eliot listening to "Shrivel Up" 20 times in a row on his and Josh's road trip out to Denver, shouting "This Song Is Fucking Amazing" the whole time. No, this is different. Recently, i made a discovery about myself and my relationship to my city, my surroundings and posssibly my genetic history, not to mention my bloated sense of self-importance. I think i'm in love with the idea of bottoming out. I must be. At the age 33, i have only sporadic work, i'm more than willing to get lachrymose over an old girlfriend, while for the first time in my life, am geniunely interested in making out with or sleeping with just about anybody. I went to bed in my clothes last night, and am still wearing them, and probably will tonight. My apartment is a laughable shithole. I'm almost flat broke. All i want to do is work in a coffeeshop, have awkward flirtations on-line or in person, and re-read Moby Dick. I'm not saying any of this out of pity, and this is what i find to be the critical point ... i'm actually happier than i have been in ages. I've been writing and recording music of late, i've been playing drums again, i'm actually looking forward to the Creme Blush show. I don't know how to describe it. Most people have a need for approval, due to some strange parenting. All of my life, i've been supported, my parents made me feel loved, like i was a special little shitpants that can do what ever i pleased with my life. And, obviously, this is an enviable gift. But, really, no one wants to be a disappointment. You know, i was in GIRL HARBOR, i'm a TEEVEE WRITER, blah blah freakin' blah. So - and this is not a gripe - i do have a constant internal need to live up to people's expectations. Well, maybe not so much lately. You can be an adult in two ways: you can be a responsible member of society, or you can just accept the fact that you don't give a crap about much. I'm clearly chosing the latter right now. I trust there will be plenty of people to make sure i don't do anything too outlandish. And besides, all i ever do is drink. So, my concept of debauchery and unhealthy living is pretty effing tame. And if the weather was nice, i would be riding el biko. Maybe i'm just a layabout. This rant is losing steam. Aw, poo.
Oddly enough, Stay Positive by the Streets just came on. Ironic, yet horrifyingly cheesey. Alright, i really need to get cracking on some work or something, before i end up having to move in with my uncle.
Thursday, March 18th - So, when you get pictures, you get pictures. I still haven't finished off the disposable camera i started a week ago. I intended to take it to Plaid last night for the Giraffes show, but i forgot it, which may have been semi-regrettable. I found out when i got in that none other than Courtney Love was doing a "secret" show. It was so secret, in fact, that everyone i saw there that i knew only knew about it for, like, 2 or 3 days. It would've been a great show to take Giraffes photos at; their performance, perhaps being egged on by the soundman repeatedly asking them to cut their set short, was really inspired. Strangely, there was a bale of hay on stage for some reason, and this obviously didn't survive their set. Keeping in the spirit of publicly dissing bands i don't know, i'll say Alabama Black Snake could use 2 fewer members and some more practice. But, that's just me. Unclefucker ("Aunt" would be a good alternate name for this band) was pure rockabilly-metal spectacle. And, as you know, i dig spectacle as much as the next guy. Which may help to explain why i even stayed for Courtney Love. Actually, nothing, not even $3 beer could explain that. And, predictably, her performance and band were beyond bad. To show you where she is at musically lately, well, everyone in her band has the same color blonde hair, there's a viola* player (Holly of the Hissyfits must be hanging herself over that one), Courtney's 2nd song was a cover of "Voices Carry", and mostly, i don't really need to go much further to give you the idea of just how awful it was. Put it this way: if i lead you in blindfolded, the first question you'd ask is "okay, why did you just take me to the Continental?" At least half the crowd was pretty enthusiastic, though, proving once again that the 90s still haven't ended. But, you know, St. Patrick's Day and such, i guess i had fun. Jesse (Blockton) earlier in the day gave me a green pin that read "Kiss Me, I'm Desperate." He said he thought of me when he saw it. I said "thanks?" The pin didn't work, though. Neither did the L train. And, i got stuck listening to Courtney Love. Hey, wait, it's 1 in the afternoon now, and i'm just realizing how much i hated last night. Ah, well. Time to start writing funny television again.
* (it may have been a violin. I couldn't tell.)
Funny junk e-mail name o' the day: Boris Lindsey
Oh, this just in. I miss all the fun.
Wednesday, March 17th - The reason i haven't posted anything recently is because i still haven't finished off the disposable camera. I may take it to the Giraffes show tonight, or i may continue to take pictures of broken furniture in my house. You know, either way. More soon ...
Funny junk e-mail name o' the day: Enoch Commer
Friday, March 12th, aka, "Art for Art's Sake" or "I'm gonna kill Sheri Barclay, Part I" - First of, i'll start by saying that for the 3rd time in the last year, i've had a camera stolen. I must've this time too, because it's nowhere around here. It was in my bag one day, and then it wasn't. I'm not that upset about the Nikon, because i really thought that camera sucked. I just wish i hadn't bothered to spend the money. But, what to take pictures with, eh? And, for the first time in a spell, i actually felt like taking some, at the Break-Up show last night at the always-visually interesting Coral Room. So, i decided i would buy a disposable - the one i bought in this instance is adorned with an American flag pattern across the cardboard cover - scan in the results and see how that went. I was excited too that it was at least somewhat nice out yesterday evening, and having picked up my bike, which is now running like a top, from the Bicycle Doctor, i headed into the city around 6:30. The aforementioned Sheri Barclay as kind enough to tell me about this art show, adding this might be an opportunity to get a free drink or 6 in before heading to the overpriced Coral Room. Nonetheless, since i was on my bike and in the L.E.S., i stopped into El Sombrero for a delicious to-go Margarita and watched an inning of the Mets game on teevee. I arrived, with half a margarita left, at the gallery, located on 20th by the West Side Highway, shortly after 7. I locked up my bike, and shared an freight elevator ride with some of the least attractive rich people i've encountered in a while. Anyway, if you clicked that link above, you may have an idea of the works on display. If not, i'll soon have photos. And that's of course the catch with the disposable camera: i still have 18 exposures left. So, i'll snap away at that party i'm bartending at tonight, and you can see what i mean tomorrow. As for the show, though, the free hooch in question was white wine. There were about 15 or 18 pieces on display, none of them any bigger (or much better) than my painting of Tug McGraw. And no Sheri in sight. Because i've been feeling so wonderfully cantankerous lately, i sign the guestbook with this URL. I thought of my mom quite wistfully last night. If she were there, i probably could've coaxed a wonderful tirade out of her last night. Half-assed art offends her as much or more than half-assed music offends me. Sometimes New York really picks a guy up, sometimes it hurls shovel-fulls of uninspired BS at you. At one point, i decided to stare at one painting - i think it was "Inverted Coffee Cups" - as long as i could, to see if anyone would start talking to me, or to see if Sheri would show up. That lasted a minute, my margarita was gone, and it was still over an hour before i was due to meet up with Josh at Rudy's at 45th & 9th ($8 pitchers and free hot dogs!). So, backdown stairs and out i went, not realizing Sheri and some other pals were on the 4th floor, where they at least had food.
At this point (and anyone who's had a margarita from the hat can attest to this), i was a little loopy. So, what better to do than walk across the highway to Chelsea Piers and do something i failed to do in two attempts last summer: hit the batting cages. Which i did, going 1 for 10, effectively whiling away about 5 minutes. So, i did the only sane thing at this point: i hopped back on el biko, rode 25 minutes back to the L.E.S. and got another margarita. This one *really* did the trick. And so, i rode back up 10th Avenue, wondering if there's anything better than bicycling in New York City at night drunk on really strong to-go margaritas, and i decided no, there isn't. I arrive safely at Rudy's, and Josh has just gotten there. He's in splendid spirits, as he's just been offered a job at an audio-restoration place, as well as an $800 drum machine/synth/sequencer, gratis, if he can recover some long lost sounds from it. So, i said "nice going, Roomie" and we went inside and joined Uncle Kev, where we reprised our political discussion about Darth Nader. I drank a lot of beer. My buzz was somewhat ameliorated by eating 2 free hot dogs, but still. We decide to head to the show. Kev and Josh drive, i ride el biko. I win. We go see the show. The Sparbers are in the house! and they invite me down for Easter Dinner. I know that Easter is also Opening Day for Brooklyn Kickball, but still dinner with the Sparbers is a difficult thing to pass up, even if it does mean driving 4 hrs. to do it. So, we'll see. That band Mob Stereo, who i'd disparaged in an entry from about a year ago, was opening. They have a bass player now. Heh. The Break-Up are continuing to phase out their old material (yet still insist on playing that damn "Life of Crime" song), and for the first time in Mensch/Sparber history, no one in the band is wearing a tie. How times change. Kid Congo Powers closed the evening, and he was entertaining as usual. The crowd may have been sizable, but it's impossible to tell in the vast confines of the Coral Room. I bust Sheri's balls mercilessly. I talk about Craig's List dates with my friend(ster)s Greg and Sam (who needs a roommate). I payed for approximately one drink the whole time i was there. Then, without saying goodbye to much of anyone, i rode my bike to the 7 train and back home, arriving to an e-mail from Jesse (Fuchs) stating the bassist of the Dead Milkmen committed suicide. There's some sort of poignant twist/ironic resonance to this fact that i'm currently too hungover to suss out. My throat is sore. I'll post some pictures soon. I think i need a nap.
Lastly, here's one for your "Get This" file: I'm probably getting back on stage at last on March 23rd. Behind the drumset. At the Mercury Lounge. For Creme Blush. Fire away.
Let it never be said that Jens won't extend a hand to a complete stranger in need. Unless it's one of those "flat in the rain" kind of situations. Then you'd better be showing some leg ...
----- Original Message -----
From: "Mark Johnson"
To: rapmasterjc@hotmail.com
Sent: Wednesday, March 10, 2004 3:25 PM
Subject: Hey, What's going on? Can you link to us?
My name is Mark Johnson. I work for Carson Daly and Jon Rifkind's record label - 456 Entertainment. I caught your email on a webpage and was wondering if you could link to us or knew a webmaster who could link to us. I am trying to build relationships with various web owners, and this is my first step.
If you could link to www.456entertainment.com that would be great, and please don't forget to mention it's Carson Daly and Jon Rifkind's record label. We would of course return the favor. Just reply back and tell me what you would like your website address to say and the address itself.
Anyway, check out our label and website at - http://www.456entertainment.com.
Thanks for your time,
---------
Mark Johnson - mark@456entertainment.com
Online Development
456 Entertainment
Wednesday, March 10th - Last night, after rock trivia nite, i got home and drunkedly started writing a song called "I Wish I'd Found Spalding Gray." The first lyric was "I wish i'd found Spalding Gray / cuz then i'd finally have something to say / to you." That was as far as i got. It was going to be about being lonely and sad, but i decided, even then, that perhaps it was in poor taste and ditched it. It was in G#.
I bet you're wishing i'd find my camera, aren't you?
Always something cookin' at the Lazy J Ranch
Saturday, March 6th - I was at a very strange wonderful party last night. Well, first i took an inexplicably heavy nap from about 8 to 11:30 last night. I wonder if i'm going through another one of those manic phases the likes of which i went through when Robin and i split up, the one where i would sleep for 2 hours at a time, twice a day. But, enough about that depressing crap. The good news is, boy was i well rested to party. It was at a benefit for some guy who - i'm not kidding here - blew his face off in a freak confetti cannon accident. The poor fellow. If it's any consolation though, he had about 2000 well-wishers and friends at his party. It was at that club Volume i made it to last week, not knowing at the time, the club is MUCH bigger than i initially expected. Having just woken up from a slumber, i wasn't sure what to make of a party with 3 different dancing rooms, an inflatable nuclear reactor, a "magic cookie" booth, 5 different bands that all sounded like they were from L.A., and a throng of unabashed revellers and maker-outers, most in costume, who presumably live right here in my neighborhood, yet none of whom i even recognized. It was like a 90s theme park, or maybe like Lollapalooza with out all the crappy bands, or just different crappy less-known ones. The dance music was great, though. I tried calling James at one point to tell him about the party - he likes to pary, you see - but he may have been discouraged by the line outside reported to be 3 wide and around the block. Got there just in time i did. And, i vowed to stay until the end, just for fun, and i made it, leaving with exactly $1. So, that's what i did last night, whatever it was that i did.
Friday, March 5th - I was briefly pondering the universe yesterday. No, not the "what was there before the big bang" aspect of the universe, but the universe in a more mathmatical sense, the fact that since the universe is pretty big, and will be around forever, then it stands to reason that anything that has even the smallest, most infantesimal mathmatical chance of ever happening necessarily *will* happen at some point. For instance, a lotto drawing someday will be "1-2-3-4-5-6", merely because there's really no deadline for it to occur. Does this make sense? Hope not. But, maybe this sheds a little light on my state of mind last night, as i went to the Coral Room to see some bands and hang out with some pals (and i'll recommend The Big Sleep in this forum right now). But, i brought up that parable about the universe so you can in your mind try and attribute a percentage/odds of getting dolled up and going to an at-least semi-swanky NYC night club, and leaving with a 20 lb. aluminum container of cajun chicken wings. Not the sort of thing you prepare for, is it? But, yes, that's exactly what happened last night. I got there too late to see which event of the 5 or 6 that evening was being catered, but either it was a flop, or they have very non-hungry fans. Or vegan ones. Because, around 1:30 in the a.m., on a small round table, sat a forlorn batch of quite tasty blackened cajun chicken wings. I know the bartender Ben from the old LUXX days, and as we were among the last to leave, he encouraged me to take the chicken wings home. I'm not kidding, there's 20 pounds of chicken wings in my refrigerator. Along with a handy set of serving tongs. Kevin drove us home last night, and i was good and polluted, so naturally i dove heroically into the deliciousness that was the Brobdangnagian foil sheetpan of blackened cajun chicken wings. Of course, this leaves me feeling not-so-good today, and certainly not in the mood for chicken wings, or anything else in my refrigerator, which now smells like blackened cajun chicken wings. Instead, for breakfast, i had a pot of tea. You know, the universe is a funny place.
Some updates: After reading this, i'm feeling pretty smart about my rant against the JFK AirTrain.
... And, with friends like this, who needs friendster?
----- Original Message -----
From: "jeff mensch"
To: Mr. Jens Carstensen
Sent: Thursday, March 04, 2004 12:09 PM
Subject: dude
let me preface this with the fact that i am still very drunk at work right
now (somehow wound up hanging out at odessa all night drinking 3 dollar
jamesons)
BUT
I'm Burnin' For You is the best song EVER
EVER!!!
Thursday, March 4th - Oh, hey, it's March. So much gone unrecorded in the last week, and for no reason, really. I've been writing some stuff for Tad while awaiting the result of a "high-powered" meeting at MGM who are fretting over the content of my Pop-Up Showgirls script. I ruined my life for a week and a half to meet a ridiculous dead line, and typically, they've taken longer than that to even get around approving it. The final product was due to be finished March 9th, but that's obviously not happening. So, i keep myself busy with other things and hope for the best.
A political discussion: The roundtable in this case featured Jesse Blockton, Josh, Jeff and newest friend(ster) B.A. - frequent Black Betty party-goer and rock trivia finalist - all berating me for saying i'm going to vote for Nader. You know "a vote for Nader is a vote for Bush" and those sorts of shopworn, depressing platitudes. My point remained: if the democratic party is going to give me John Kerry, that doesn't mean i'm obligated to vote for him. From the very beginning, i thought "anybody except Kerry", much like when the Colorado Avalanche was coming up with nicknames and the entire city thought to itself "anything but the Avalanche" and sure enough ... oh, and i would take Kerry over Leiberman. But, anyway. John Fucking Kerry. And so it is in this culture of fear that i'm being made to feel as if i need to marginalize myself, hold my nose and pull the lever for a candidate i have no desire to see become president. I'm not a terribly political person - rather a terrible political person - but my vision of democracy isn't everyone hedging their bets. This is how the Al Gores, John Kerrys and George Bushes of the country even get elected, how Howard Dean's 20 point lead can vaporize based on 7 seconds of tv footage. Americans blow. Imagine if people just simply voted for the candidate they felt was closest to their political beliefs, instead of having to factor in "electability" and front-running. I was told this was a very idealist belief, and it is. And i said "where would the world be without idealism", which is something i would've never said even 3 or 4 years ago. Personally, i think this is a grand time for idealism. Go with it, people. Darth Nader.
I might also mention it was truly a round-table. Smallish, covered with spilled beer, in Union Pool.
But best of all was friend(ster)/Book Club(ber) Heather Sparks, who sent a comprehensive, informative e-mail, including links about the "two" candidates (okay ...) to all of her friends, then admitted with a laff that she didn't even bother voting. My voting experience was a fun little adventure, riding to three different locations on el biko on an unseasonably warm evening. My polling place was moved to an old-folks home, a mere two blocks from my house. But, of course, i had to go a mile out of the way to find this out. At the first station, one lady diligently looked up my address and name, and informed me where the new station was. But, all the while, talking to me *at the exact same time* was another older woman, sitting close to the first in proximity if not body language, reminiscing about her childhood home at 66 Freeman St., just 2 or 3 buildings down from the Lazy J Ranch, if her childhood home still existed, which it doesn't, as it was knocked down to make way for the warehouse for trucks to back into our building. The demise of 66 Freeman St. was a source of great sadness for this woman, who told me all about it, while the other lady just wanted to tell me where i was supposed to go vote. Finally, the dual conversations subsided, and i left with a "referral slip" to go to the new polling place at 80 Dupont Street (shoulda packed a lunch). So, i bike up, and the address they gave me had a big "This entrance closed" sign, and i finally sussed out that the real entrance was on the next street, all the time wondering if there's some conspiracy to make voting so convaluted and inconvenient that people will just keep giving up. Upon arriving at the correct polling place and entrance, a table of four *very* dim volunteers tried to surmise which was my last name (after of course, looking through names under "J"), *and* wondering why they can't find my home address of 80 Dupont St. in their list. Yes, i had to point out that i do not, in fact, live at the polling place. Yeesh. After at least 5 minutes standing at a table, i finally got to vote by penning in my selections behind a cardboard viser. Okay, it was no "Greg Altman getting drunk and breaking the voting booth" story, but still.
Jesse (Fuchs) and i finally perfected a card game he started to show me about 5 years ago. It was originally called "Sandcastle" (which is still a suitable name), but we both laughed when he suggested "Icarus" and so we kinda ran with that. The game is simple, strategic, nerve-racking and mathy as shit, as it's based on prime numbers. So, in other words, no one except us will ever want to play it. But we love it, and it is a *great* game. I know because Jesse consistantly beats me at it. I'll attempt the rules at some point soon. Jesse is correct in being puzzled as to why card games (beyond poker) aren't more popular. What could be a better target for hipster canonization? Well, i guess there was a recent article in the New York Times about the comeback of Bridge amongst the youth of today. But, A) since it was in the Times then the resurgence is probably comprised of 3 or 4 people, and 2) Bridge sucks anyways. So, we began talking of starting a card-game website with the games he/we have invented thus far (Spooneye!, Icarus, Rumpus, 13th Floor), which if you ask me, is an even more worthwhile pursuit than a rock band. And, the money's about the same.
I have no idea where my camera is. Again. Well, i know where that ancient Mavica is. I could always use that if i'd felt like taking a picture in the last month. I'm not so sad about the camera if it doesn't turn back up. But i am sad about the money i spent on it.
