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The other week, as I waited for my old San Jo’ friend Derek to use the can in Cafe Habana, I spotted Terry Richardson and Bobby Gillespie walking down Prince street. I thought to myself “Geez, do all the cool dudes just like hang out?” Apparently so. I was instantly struck with a sudden longing to be more Fonz-like. Of course, since Derek was inside taking a leak, there was no one to share my feelings of inadequacy. To further exacerbate my condition, I saw this pic in a UK magazine our couch surfers Ronnie and Leon left behind. The Fonzarelli Deficiency Meter hit the roof. Though there may be little hope in treating my condition, I will take comfort in the fact that the individual cool quotient of Richardson, Gillespie and Obama combined would probably induce a similar condition to many a by-stander on Prince Street.

There will inevitably be the day when the words “Jeezus. What the fuck is Obama doing?!” will pass my lips. But nearing 100 days into his presidency, that particular sentiment has yet to enter my mind. In fact, quite the contrary. According to Fox News, millions (probably more realistically thousands) of tea baggers disagree, yet I look at the trajectory of our current economic outlook, our standing in the world, and our national psyche all pointing, if only ever-so-gradually, upward.

As I sit here jobless this week, with only faint prospects on the horizon I’m forced to ask myself: Could it be better? Possibly. But could it be worse? Most definitely. To put things in perspective I imagine a scenario in which Palin-mania had infected a few more million minds and John McCain is currently steering the boat. Would we be further adrift in a his self-conflicted urge to be a ‘true conservative’ and actually doing the right thing? I can only deduce being three months further down a long, dark, 8-year-old spiral, with our best hope being an administration that would have some grasp on the concepts of ‘responsibility’ and ‘accountability’. And on this rainy spring day in April 2009, my world outlook, professional prospects, and 401k would be facing future that was very different.

Have I consumed too much Kool Aid? I am a blind to the fact that the monumental spending government spending occurring right now is going to fuck us and our children over for years to come? I guess only time will tell. But I look outside my window, and even though it’s gray and rainy outside, it definitely is a different season. How fucken cool is that?

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Maybe it’s because I just got back from Brazil, or maybe it’s because I am in total denial that it’s 32 degrees F outside my window in Brooklyn, but I am gagging to see this. It’s a new doc, brought to you by Wesley Pentz (Diplo) about the music scene that’s been bubbling out of Rio de Janeiro’s favelas. Yes, please! If anyone would like to fly me to Austin tonight, or even better JFK to GRU, please contact me immediately. Muito obrigado. Tchau!

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Every woman wants one, but only one lucky lady gets to take it home. Congratulations, Dot!

During his time at Arsenal, Julio earned the unfortunate nickname “Craptista”. I, on the other hand, will remember him as “The Beast”.

The world instantly became cooler last Novermber 5.

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Better late that never, right? But you don’t really come here to read something hot that’s happening right now anyway, do you? At this moment, I am almost exactly one year behind in my flickring. Look at me go! I remember this Sagmeister show quite well. I met Jon and Emily down at Deitch and it was packed full of kids from Pratt and Parsons. I remember thinking, crap! I want to make a whole wall of bananas. I want to make a giant inflatable monkey. But I don’t. That’s why I’m not Stefan Sagmeister. He’s way smarter than I am.

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Sunday night, 10pm bitches! Whose couch am I going to make myself comfortable on?

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Remember how I said I had a crapload of photos to upload? I’m still trying to get through a zillion japan pics. It’s almost 2009. As you might be able to extrapolate, I have a lot of catching up to do. When I go through all my pics, I always stop on photos like this. They make me think of times when my life isn’t dictated by calendar-maker, emails, the B train, text messages, what I promised someone I would do, this week’s issue of Time Out, etc. I’d probably be lost without all that stuff, but then maybe I wouldn’t. I think I want to go back to Kyoto.

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Do you remember 1996? I do. I think it was one of my favorite years. By sheer serendipity, I found myself sharing an East London flat and working off Old Street smack dab in the middle of one to those times when the stars of all cool things align. Twelve years later, I look back with fondness but realize that everything moves on. These days I find myself on the opposite side of the long forgotten Blur/Oasis beef. Not often do I wonder what Goldie has been up to or if Patsy Kensit is still hot. But one thing that has stuck with me for all these years is my fascination with Danny Boyle’s movies. I found out about Danny Boyle at the same time everyone else did. When I arrived in London, everybody was talking about Irvine Welsh and this gritty movie about junkies in Scottish council estates. Of course I had to go see it. After that I watched Shallow Grave and I was hooked. I think I saw Trainspotting four times that year, including a couple shows at the Prince Charles. The latter viewings we motivated partly by poverty (the Prince Charles was about the only thing in London less than 2 quid) and partly because it took me four viewings to finally understand the what the hell Begbie was saying. But each time, without fail, I was mesmerized by the humor in the tragedy and the joy in the bleakness that was this amazing combo of Irvine Welsh’s story and Danny Boyle’s craft. The first chords to Born Slippy still give me a little shiver to this day. Choose fookin life meyt.

Since then I’ve always felt compelled to see whatever Mr. Boyle puts out. But being a fan is a coasting ride with anxious dips. Though my nervousness about his foray into big commercial flicks with Hollywood stars (A Life Less Ordinary and The Beach) might have proved rightly so, looking back, I’m glad he never stopped making movies. I’ll admit there was concern. After the burn of a couple big budget flops, I worried his esoteric projects like Strumpet might be a recoil or attempt to latch on the dreaded Dogme 95 bandwagon. Luckily, I was wrong as usual. His second match-up with Alex Garland (28 Days Later) made me a fan of two things I would have never admitted before: DV cams and zombies. Since then Mr. Boyle has helped me open up to kids’ flicks (Millions) and sci-fi movies that are not Star Wars (btw. Watch Sunshine again. Way under-rated).

The other day, I watched Slumdog Millionaire. As a tightwad in a season when everybody is feeling busted and movies cost 11 bucks, I can tell you it’s worth every penny. As a Danny Boyle fan of a dozen years, I am pleased to say my boy is on top form. Now…about that Arsenal…….ooof…….

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What a great fucken week.