It's hard to believe that yet another year has flown by quicker than I can translate "Feliz Año Nuevo" into French. And as the remnants of 2006 float out of memory and into the history books, I've decided to pack it up for my final curtain call...













Silly wabbits! I'm far too entrenched into this online addiction thing to give up blogging entirely, especially since my laptop's holding on for dear life with Scotch tape and paper clips. But... I *am* relocating Just Another Girl On The IRT to another web hosting service. Blogger jumped the shark into 3rd-season-of-Lost-like proportions and the beta transition merged into my prior template is about as compatible as a Palestinian/Jewish dating service. It's time to take this show on the road.

The new site isn't fully functional yet (who would've known that exporting old posts would be such a pain in the ass?), but it's almost ready to be unveiled. To those who know who you are, expect to get an e-mail from me with the details. And not forgetting the 5 people out there who constitute my regular reading audience, check back here within the next few days for the forwarding address before the imminent Mission: Impossible-lite self destruction. In the meantime, I extend a sincere wish to all my fellow writers, lurkers and passers-by: here's to a happy & healthy 2007. Catch ya'll on the flip side.

I hardly ever do random picture posts, but I can't help but be suckered into taking the trusty Sony Cybershot out of storage to get click happy around this time of year. Take for example these gorgeous poinsettias from my office lobby. Hell, half the time I don't even stop to notice whether the poor squeegie cleaners are in my way as I barrel through Starbucks in one hand, handbag & two newspapers in the other. But sometimes it pays to stop and smell the holly & ivy.

Of course the Christmas tree in the middle of South Street Seaport is no Rockefeller Center, but considering the utter death wish Midtown is looking like, I'll take downtown Manhattan for $200, Alex. The roving photog will be adding more editions to this as the 12 days of Xmas tick down to the final days. Stay tuned...

Labels: Christmas, holiday, Lower Manhattan, New York City, photos

Mother Nature's a fucking bitch. There's no other way to get around it. How else to explain when the weather's still so unseasonably mild in mid-December and my open toed Miu Miu slingbacks are mocking me from the closet door since I'm sitting on the bench when it comes to getting my devil wears Malandrino on around the office. When my temples feel like Matthew McConaughey's playing bongos with an extended encore all night and day, the last thing I wanna do is get all dolled up. So here I am, wallowing in self-pity, sinuses in full on rush hour gridlock and my hair's stuck resembling something that got caught in a drain.

I. Can. Not. Be. Sick. Now. I haven't even put together a rough draft of an Xmas list. Gotta risk spraining a ligament to get icicle lights perfectly symmetrical around my awning. I have places to go and about 4 more entries to type. This can't be happening. I cannot get sick, you hear me, body? WE cannot get sick.

But we are.

I used to know how to be sick gracefully. I would simply accept the inevitable, guzzle down enough Robitussin to tranquilize a wilderbeast and curl up with a good book or two.

Three days later, I'd be back to my footloose and fancy free self with Boy George cooing, "it's a miracle!"

Now it's a task easier said than done. I'm seriously lacking sleep, e-mails are piling up. Just thinking about the deadlines I've already missed jacks my temp up another degree and a half. I start swilling poppin' Benadryls like Lindsay Lohan after dark and giving myself pep talks.

Come on, stop being a baby and pull yourself together. Look on the bright side, sippin' on that DayQuil sizurp has made small talk at the water cooler like an outtake from Half Baked.

But so far the pep talk isn't working nearly as hard as the germs are. You'd think those stubborn mucus membranes were being paid overtime or expecting Christmas bonuses.

So my whining will be brief. This is what happens when the cold and flu season smacks you behind the legs with a baseball bat. YOU FALL THE FUCK DOWN. On some real Donnie McClurkin shit.

All chicken noodle soup donations (without the soda on the side) are accepted.

If, as has been said, one can gauge the health of the industry by the quality of the Grammys, it's far past time to write the obituary of popular music as a means of mass communication.

In all seriousness, how are the Grammy Awards truly relevant in this day and age? Maybe in the pre-iTunes era, when everyone had the same outlet for music — making mixtapes courtesy of timing the pause button just right from the radio and showing up on record release Tuesdays. I'm not playing the I-hate-all-music-that's-popular über snob card, but isn't that who profits the most from payola nominations? It's a foregone conclusion that those nominated aren't really the best out there. It's just weird that in spite of the biz limping on into the sunset, the Grannies still managed to stick around in existence. And nothing is ever groundbreaking, edgy, or God forbid — has some f-bombs thrown in for good measure. I think they also send nominee ballots to Mormon clergy and Murder She Wrote fan club members.

This year's edition continues the tradition of much ado about nothing. I'm thrilled that Mary J. Blige is getting the mainstream respect that's been long overdue and I'm sure they'll be more additions to the mantle since it's official that she's having her best year ever with a field leading 8 nods. Let's just hope James Blunt wins Best New Artist and subsequently disappears. There's nothing the voters love more than a fresh faced ingenue who taps into easygoing soul, so score a huge win for Corinne Bailey Rae. The old geezers at NARAS are getting the Dance/Electronica categories almost right this year. I'm totally tickled pink to see Goldfrapp and Pet Shop Boys on the same ballot. Also pumping my fist on the love shown to Gnarls Barkley, Lupe Fiasco & Kelis. But for every step forward, I've learned to brace myself for the inevitable five steps backward and one sideways. Pharrell's shiteous In My Mind alongside The Roots' Game Theory for Best Rap Album? Surely you jest. Chris Brown instead of the totally deserving Ne-Yo as the Best New Artist of 2006? He's a cute kid and his MJ impersonation is admirable, but come the fuck on. Or better yet, how can voters justify the blatant omission of KT Tunstall? In a year rife with Johnny-come-latelys, the smoky voiced Scot was a welcome addition to the post-Lilith crew of female singer/songwriters. And isn't it time to redefine what a "new artist" is already? It can be titled the Shelby Lynne amendment. I heart Imogen Heap to death, however.... when you've released an album in '98 and were a member of a group that cut a disc in 2002, your record release hymen was broken long, long ago.

Largely overlooked this year were Nelly Furtado, whose inescapable hit "Promiscuous" was banished to the Pop Collaboration by a Duo or Group category, and Bob Dylan, whose Modern Times had been expected to be vie for Album of the Year, but has to settle for a nomination for Best Contemporary Folk/Americana Album.

Biggest upset has to be that Timbaland was snubbed for Producer Of The Year. I guess laminating ghetto passes for former mouseketeers doesn't always have its privileges.

A round up of the major contenders in the big 5 are listed after the jump.

Album of the Year:

Dixie Chicks, Taking The Long Way

Gnarls Barkley, St. Elsewhere

John Mayer, Continuum

Red Hot Chili Peppers, Stadium Arcadium

Justin Timberlake, FutureSex/LoveSounds

Record of the Year:

Mary J. Blige, Be Without You

James Blunt, You're Beautiful

Dixie Chicks, Not Ready To Make Nice

Gnarls Barkley, Crazy

Corinne Bailey Rae, Put Your Records On

Song of the Year:

Be Without You, (performed by Mary J. Blige), written by Blige, Johnta Austin, Bryan-Michael Cox and Jason Perry

Jesus, Take the Wheel, (performed by Carrie Underwood), written by Brett James, Hillary Lindsey and Gordie Sampson

Not Ready To Make Nice, (performed by the Dixie Chicks), written by Martie Maguire, Natalie Maines, Emily Robison and Dan Wilson

Put Your Records On, (performed by Corinne Bailey Rae), written by John Beck, Steve Chrisanthou and Bailey Rae

You're Beautiful, (performed by James Blunt), written by Blunt, Amanda Ghost and Sacha Skarbe

Best New Artist:

James Blunt

Chris Brown

Imogen Heap

Corinne Bailey Rae

Carrie Underwood

Labels: award shows, Grammys, Mary J. Blige, nominations

Who says you can't go home again? It took 3 years to do, but the Yankee brass has finally righted a wrong that shouldn't have ever happened to begin with. That intense glare from the mound. The John Travolta chin cleft. That cutter which baffled batters in the postseason. Ah, what a trip down memory lane. Welcome back, Andy. Oh yeah, and try convincing the Rocket to make his way back to the Bronx as well.

"Sisters get respect, bitches get what they deserve
Sisters work hard, bitches work your nerves
Sisters hold you down, bitches hold you up
Sisters help you progress, bitches will slow you up
Sisters cook up a meal, play their role with the kids
Bitches in the street with their nose in your biz
Sisters tell the truth, bitches tell lies
Sisters drive cars, bitches wanna ride...

Sisters tell you quick "you better check your homie"
Bitches don't give a fuck, they wanna check for your homie
Sisters love Jay cuz they know how 'Hov is
I love my sisters, I don't love no bitch..." - Jay-Z

When I decided to air out my utter disgust over the whole Superhead quagmire, I didn't think I'd still be getting residual clicks from people searching for any trace of dirt this long after the fact. But then again, this is the Internet and searches for the desperate and salacious know no bounds. Besides a couple boosts to the ol' Site Meter isn't a bad trade off. Fast forward almost two years later and history's repeating itself in such an opportunistic way, that time honored cliche "birds of a feather flock together" seems all shiny and brand new again. Following in the skid marks of her sistren in slutdom, Karrine Steffans, now angling for her 15 seconds of gossip glory is Carmen Bryan. Better known as Nas' baby momma and infamously name checked in Jay-Z's Super Ugly freestyle rebuttal during his steel cage tussle for King of New York supremacy with God's Son over the airwaves back in the summer of 2001. Why she decided to divulge so many details of her personal life as a means of "survival" considering her daughter is old enough to flip over to chapter 5 and read about how Mama got her back blown out with A.I. is beyond me. The aftertaste of watching the next chick get wifed up and being left to hawk the hygiene secrets of your conquests on the radio chitlin circuit has to hurt.

It's gotten to the point that any random bird from Camden to Compton feels like she can just slurp and burp her way to stardom. Is this why our mothers went along with burning bras for the cause so the end result would come to this? The Art of Whoredom has flipped many a fragile girl into an industry groupie, turned some artist's baby momma bitter like curdled milk. They don't get platinum plaques for all the times they've put scuba instructors to shame with nonstop suction, all the quickies in the studio that helped MC Such & Such write their smash hit. Dare I say it: they are the backs on which the very foundation of rap is supported. Without them who knows how these men could deal with the stresses of the industry.

Bitch please.

These side dishes of poultry who sell the skeletons in their closet in exchange for gas money shouldn't be acknowledged, much less validated. When did public interest stoop so low to the point where these women can become some sort of twisted folk hero? Why are we condoning this broad spreading her chlamydia-crusted coochie like peanut butter for any and everyone? Is she deemed special because the men in question happen to be rappers and a basketball star? That warrants a gold star and a pat on the back for a job well done? I suppose freeloading off the profits of others is such an extraordinary task that she's dubbed herself (without a hint of irony) "Hip-Hop's Helen of Troy." Someone hand this self-righteous skeeze a torch in salute to her worn & tired masses.

Far be it from me to give these two tramps credit for anything, but Paris Hilton and Britney Spears certainly had the right idea by bailing on Monday night's 2006 Billboard Music Awards. if you missed it, consider yourself spared by the clusterfuck of mediocrity. So the show already on a wing and prayer when it came to public interest went hostless last night, save for occasional voiceover from the the Mr. Moviefone school of TV announcers. On the plus side, that meant that the Bill-bored Music Awards could just concentrate on the music. On the negative side, that also meant that the Bill-bored Music Awards could just concentrate on the music. It's bad enough that they're dished out to the retail darlings who dominated the charts all year, so even a deaf-mute could predict the results long before the "nominees" are even made public. But yet, lack of comparable alternatives on the tube usually reels me in for the annual snoozefest despite the danger signs flashing before my eyes. Aside from Mary J. Blige walking away with everything but the kitchen sink, this year's edition was no exception.

Opening the show was the FCC's favorite target, Janet Jackson oddly juxtaposing a classic in The Pleasure Principle with her cold and buried 2nd single, So Excited. What would possess her to take an anthem that had arguably the most memorable video routine of the 80's and amputate it as an opener for a song that's been performed ad nauseam on Oprah, the Today Show & Ellen already? And to make matters worse, using the godawful remix with Fatman Scoop's constipation wails drowning out the minimal trace of vocals (and I use the term loosely in this case) rendering the entire segment inaudible. Thankfully, her footwork proved that she still hasn't lost her touch, but for the love of all that's holy.... please hand Gil his walking papers as a choreographer already! The luster to the formerly showstopping steps have now dulled to a rusty halt. His fondness for that rigid poplocking only serve to make you appear like the next spokesperson for Icy Hot and far removed from the sultry stage presence we know and love you for. Reach out and dial Fatima Robinson's number. It's not too late.

Fergalicious? More like utterly Ferg-ettable. Wearing a blue-green plaid petticoat/tutu fiasco, the poster child for iceheads ambled and staggered awkwardly through what's sure to be the newest addition to YouTube's greatest hits. Was she: A) battling a pesky urinary tract infection?, B) wearing the wrong heels or C) hallucinating at the hired help in blackface doing the Stepin Fetchit? My guess is D. She knew that Gwen Stefani was watching her swagger jacking from stage left and the poor muppet got scared back into a drunken stupor her sidekick (schlepping as the Black Dr. Seuss) couldn't snap her out of. It's one thing to lose the coordination with heavy dance moves, but to be afflicted with rigor mortis with the personality of a cactus? She can shake her ass and her boobs in the camera for music videos, but when it comes to stage presence, girl ain't got none. The director couldn't even minimize the damage with a bunch of zooming camera shots. About two-thirds into her song, she seemed to forget the words. But then again, it can't be easy to dance and jump around a lot when you're desperately trying to hold your bladder. I sure hope this chick's 15 minutes are up.

The only thing she has going for her is the ability to hammer nails with her forehead. That's more of a circus talent so how the hell did Mumm-Ra wind up in the winner's circle as Female Artist of the Year? Maybe her #1 fan in Jigga Christ had a little something to do with that outcome. Ah well, jumpoffs of the world rejoice. Score this one for the side chick. Somewhere I think wifey's keying the bumper of the Maybach out of frustration.

When the entire free world's analyzed your left mammary in high definition, a bit of restraint is a good idea for walking the red carpet. However, raiding the boys' department at Bloomingdales? Not so much. The bat mitzvah-sized neckwear. The dinner napkin cufflinks with matching tranquilizer dart. The dated matte lip liner. And for Chrissakes, missing the memo about a month late in hopping onto the Anna Wintour bob bandwagon? S.O.S., please someone help!

So, how long did G-Stef have to jerk off that yummy hubby for just the right amount of protein to give the Judy Jetson 'do its Aqua Net hold? All of a sudden I've got the munchies for a Little Debbie swiss roll.

There's a rationale behind Denise Richards deciding to throw some goodwill towards birds flying south for the winter in that hornet's nest. And Heather be thy name.

Is there another pop superstar who blurs the lines between mega-watt likability and platinum blond vacuousness with as much joie de vivre as Gwen Stefani? Try as I might in vain to hate her, but the truth is, I love her and all the blissful band camp dorkiness that she encompasses. Well, at the least, I can settle on our relationship skewing love/hate because she makes being utterly annoying the car wreck I can't help but rubberneck for a peek.

Case in point: Lead single "Wind It Up", championed by frat girls coast to coast who've had one too many shots of Jagrmeister and should be in a taxi on their way to bed but instead choose to channel their inner Coyote Ugly for passed out bar patrons instead. As radio singles go, it's an absurd-sounding concoction that lederhosens to the brink of utter ridiculousness, but there's something almost admirable about this "throw the wackiest shit on the wall and let's see if it sticks" approach. I mean, let's be real...this is limburger cheese, not War & Peace. It takes a certain sort of quirky finesse to mine show tunes for inspiration, first with Fiddler On The Roof and now in full Swiss Miss glory with The Sound of Music. What's next? West Side Story? Unlike most singers, Stefani aims to please with style over sex appeal and oddity reigns supreme. Early Winter is probably the closest to her past rumblings with No Doubt, scaling above indie-rock, college radio circa '88 to epic power ballad heights with an assist from co-writer, Keane's Tim Rice-Oxley. But you'd better off advised to fast forward through filler like Orange County Girl, in which the SoCal sweetheart gets all Jenny From The Block to prove "a lot of things have changed but I'm mostly the same." Uh huh.

Listening too closely will only force you to confront lyrics that were obviously jotted down in her DayTimer instead of her diary en route to the Beat Factory and never looked at again ("Don't know what I'm doing back in the studio/Getting greedy cause he said he had another sick flow/So I had to hollaback cause I didn't get enough/Still feel the Wonderland, Alice and the tick tock"). But if you just slip on your tortoiseshell J.Lo sunglasses, pour yourself a Smirnoff Twisted and get lost in the beats, The Sweet Escape delivers on its name and continues in Stefani's proud tradition of being caught in the middle between the vanguard and the superficial. Few mainstream artists can hope to produce an album as effortlessly eccentric as this, so here's to hoping that the next screwball chapter is just around the bend.




Rating:

Download this: Early Winter, Now That You Got It, Yummy, 4 In The Morning, Fluorescent, U Started It, Don't Get It Twisted

Labels: album review, Gwen Stefani, music

Okay, so I'm probably gonna get my platinum hag pass revoked for admitting that I just can't fully grasp the whole Beyoncé thing. Pretty in the conventional Black Barbie sense, check. Above average chops, check. Overrated, check. I already hear the angry stampede of bitter twinks in the offing ready to stab me with a Bandolino heel for daring to disparage of Our Lady of Knowles. Nowadays you can't swing a Fendi purse without knocking over four bottoms who'll scratch your eyes out for throwing shade to the diva-in-training who single handedly made the Bedazzler relevant again. But I'll take my chances.

She's the kind of artist that I want to like, but I just can't bring myself to actually drinking the laced Kool-Aid and succumbing to the madness. I mean, the whole all-girl backing band yet only strumming about 3 chords max was a good idea, I suppose (in theory only) and a step in the right direction. My beef with Bey — as cohorts who've heard me riff on the topic know — is that she doesn't usually sing complete songs, either on her own, or with Destiny's Child. If the hallmark of a truly great singer is their ability to shape a piece of material and make a song work from beginning to end, then the road from mere talent show trills and onto soul with sincerity is yet untraveled.

Maybe if she wasn't such an android of stage parenting, I'd be a wee bit more accepting of Sashabot-TX3500. But hey, I'll admit that the dip 'n pop strut of that damn Chi-Lites sample had me looking so crazy right then in the summer of '03. But then came the inevitable oversaturation. You couldn't open an awards show envelope without her lion's mane front and center to stop, drop & roll around center stage for comic effect. On top of that, the inexplicable 5 Grammys for an album weaker than 2-ply soaked in battery acid. The excruciating massacre of the English & French languages at the 05' Oscars in count 'em... three different performances. The reconvening and subsequent disbanding of DC3 on a farewell tour that lasted longer than The Pink Panther's box office run. The transformation from kitschy mallrat playing dress up in Mama's glad rags to Roc-A-Fella's gangsta's moll, surgically attached to the hip with her svengali, Jay-Z from South Beach to St. Tropez. I. just. couldn't. take. the. shit. anymore.

And apparently, neither could everyone else. The first single aptly titled Deja Vu was little else than pop's prom queen & king rehashing to lesser effect what made their earlier collab so successful. Looking like a crazed maniac possessed by a Yoruba spirit in Revlon's Fire & Ice lipstick on the estate of Tara, the video was a giddy slice of unintentional slapstick. The decibel shredding follow-up in Ring The Alarm which was chock full of Basic Instinct parodies did little else to restore the luster to Daddy Warbucks' longterm investment. However, with the release of Irreplaceable, Bee comes full circle back to the neck rolling badass she longs to be. And a welcome return it is. The instrumentation stripped to a mere acoustic guitar, percolating 808 and a simple verse/melody arrangement manages to encourage the most restrained vocal performance delivered from a chronic caterwauler in like.... ever. Leave it to those crafty Norwegians better known as Stargate and R&B's rookie of the year in Ne-Yo for crafting a chorus so catchy it'll take a lobotomy to stop you from singing it. Wrapped in pretty packaging, you'll find a trifecta of her most go-to songwriting trappings: Woman Done Wrong (Bills Bills Bills), Woman Thou Art Loosed (Independent Woman Part 1), Woman With Closet Full Of Shit (every damn song with her singing lead).

The number-one song on the R&B, pop, and iTunes charts, not because of its hell-hath-no-fury sentiment, but because it's more infectious than a flu shot gone bad. You'd be hard pressed to find a man, woman or drag queen who ain't uttering "to the left, to the left."

Hooks? I lost count at approximately seven — mainly the maddeningly catchy "keep talking that mess, that's fine/but could you walk and talk at the same time," which doesn't fully explain the record's worldwide popularity. Taken at face value, you'd think that everyone on the planet's going all Waiting To Exhale on their lovers, regaining their backbone and calling up the locksmith to make sure the creep stays out for good. Me, I think it represents the best of what finely crafted pop gems have to offer because it connects us in a way that hardly anything else on the dial bothers to anymore.

So after all the catty punchlines and putdowns, I'll grant her a temporary reprieve simply because my defenses are worn ragged and resistance is futile. I'm diggin' this a lot. But not nearly enough to cop that two week stream of unconsciousness touted as her sophomore album though. No sir.

Hell, I gotta draw a line somewhere.

Labels: Beyonce, guilty pleasure, music

Charlotte: Is it so much to ask that you not wear your dress up around your "see you next Tuesday?"
Samantha: My what?
Charlotte: (drawing characters in the air): C - U - Next...
Carrie: Tuesday? Oh my God! Was that a Schoolhouse Rock I missed?

A day without a Britney Spears fuck up is like trying to keep a Kennedy from open water. Despite being a singer who hasn't released a new album in 3 years, people still talk about her now more than ever. In the media-dominated, starfucking shithole our society's come to, that old adage rings more true now than it ever has been... no publicity is bad publicity. Just when you thought the Access Hollywood generation couldn't possibly sink twenty-somethings any lower, we've now reached a new low. Twat is the new black. Oh, how I long for the innocent age of the planned nip slip at sporting events.

As it turns out, all those Catholic schoolgirl come-ons couldn't get her any further than a K-Mart weave, an ugly C-section scar, and a swollen, stretched out clam flapping in the breeze. What a way to roll the dice: panty-free and sharing car seats with Paris Hilton. Why not just ask a homeless guy to shove his feet up your birth canal? At this point, there's not much left for Clitney to do but stagger over to San Fernando Valley and start baring that beat up beaver for the hot lights of pornucopia full time. In the meantime, the pox-riddled pussy posse of Brit-Brit, Parisite & Blohan might as well get together do some Bangkok-brothel ping-pong act for the masses at this point. Except they probably no longer have the elasticity to make it work. Nicole Richie is feeling so left out right now.

Can the legions of waifish preteen boys with delicate features watching VMA performances past in their Midwestern farmhouse on YouTube, lips pursed and glossy mouthing along to every word to I'm A Slave 4 U catch a break? Her fan base had high hopes for snapping out of her white trash haze and crawling out of the dumpster with rugrats in tow. If they only knew the downward spiral was yet to come.

Had the wind blown one degree in the other direction, Britney would still be in Bumblefuck, Louisiana, freshly divorced from Billy Joe after cranking out a village of inbred brats and flashing her vag in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly while getting out of her 1985 Ford Escort. Oh, how I can't contain my glee in anticipation of her next tear-soaked interview with Matt Lauer, when she smacks on Bubble Yum and her mascara's streaked to Tammy Faye-like perfection, all while wearing just a tube top with her legs prepped for an inebriated pap smear pleading for the paparazzi to leave her alone. She's a mess and will continue to be a mess. I'm just holding the confetti and balloons for when she cracks completely. You can take a girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the barefoot yokel outta the girl.

Labels: Britney Spears, media

However, lunch takeout is so delightful... (I'm going Mexican to wind down the work week, if you even care.) In spite of the skyline resembling a snapshot of Hades outside my office window, the pressure systems have to be working voodoo over the Eastern seaboard. My brother's practically buried alive over in Colorado with the pummeling the Midwest has taken, yet the thermostat is flirting with 70° here in the city. Can't remember the last time I've needed to keep my desk fan on through November.

For the Angelenos on the Left Coast, seeing folks stroll around in 3" miniskirts and Ugg boots and little else is relatively normal this time of year. But not on December first in New York! Here we are, ready to barrel into the heart of my favorite season full throttle and I've gotta contend with a tasteful way to peel off layers short of sitting in my cube half naked. Needless to say, I'm not pleased. Will the assholes who think global warming is junk science and basically spit on the impending clusterfuck of Antartica slip sliding into Dorney Park please go kill themselves?

Al Gore, please keep those frequent flyer miles handy to continue spreading the word. They ain't trying to hear you.