Will Hines Dot Net

Todd Sentz sent me this hilarious video called “Jake E. Lee Shreds” — it took me a bit to get it, but then I couldn’t stop laughing. The clapping by Ozzy is genius.

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Also, this video of Michael Conley’s dribbling warmup is awesome in a completely non-ironic way (via Kottke.org).

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When my subway arrives at the Rockefeller Center stop each morning I hear the train conductor make an announcement something like this “Now arriving Rockefeller Center, transfer to the B,D,F,V; Top of the Rock.”

“Top of the Rock?” I know what that is — that’s where you can buy a ticket and go to the top of Rockefeller Center and take in the view of NYC. It is a classic Tall Thing to Climb — great for the many tourists who mill around Rockefeller Center hoping to see Al Roker. But how did they get it so that the MTA is advertising for them? That’s such odd product placement. They don’t mention Central Park, or MoMA, or the Waldorf-Astoria or even the ice rink — just this overly-branded, kinda lame, overly-priced TOP OF THE ROCK. It’s not even the best “Tall Thing” in NYC. Besides the Empire State Building, even the view from the Citibank Building in Long Island City is better.

How much money would it take for me to get the MTA to announce “Will Hines’ house” whenever the L train pulls into Lorimer St?

Brian and I call short haircuts “honest” because they reveal how far your hair has receded. He emailed me a few weeks ago to tell me that he had given himself the most honest haircut he had ever received. The email had a photo attached which showed his skull nearly but not quite shaved — indeed, the most sincere I had ever seen his hair. I responded that my hair could stand to be a bit more truthful. So I went to Astor Place and thumped down the stairs and had them clipper my hair to a decently genuine shortness. It’s jarring to have your hair cut shorter, but it does feel clean and neat.

Basically, putting a friend on hold continually is perpetually fun. It went like this when my brother phoned me last week.

(phone rings)
Me: “Hello, this is Will.”
Kevin: “Hi, it’s me.”
Me: “Are you looking for Will Hines?”
Kevin: “Um, yes.”
Me: “One second.” (hold button) “Hello?”
Kevin: (resigned tone) “Yes, I’m looking for Will.”
Me: “Great. Hold on, please.” (hold button) “Hello?”
Kevin: “Will?”
Me: “You’re looking for Will Hines? One second.” (hold)

You need a tolerant friend on the other line, but I think that stays fun forever.

This blog is ridiculous.

Everyone at work is searching YouTube for “taser videos” now. Another popular search topic: wedding fights.

That is the music video for the Elvis Costello song “The Only Flame In Town.” Among the many things disturbing and uncomfortable about this video:

• The saxophone
• The presence of Darryl Hall
• The idea that any women would be excited about winning a date with Elvis Costello or the Attractions. I mean, some women would. But not the women hired to be in this video.
• The terrible acting of each of The Attractions when presented with his date.
• The idea of doing a video for this song at all, because this song is a terrible, super-80s version of what otherwise might be a Good Song. The acoustic demo for it is on the bonus disc to All This Useless Beauty, and it’s a really pretty version.
• Elvis Costello and Darryl Hall holding microphones and singing the song to each other.

Better to just watch them sing Radio, Radio on SNL in 1977 (with the false start of ‘Less Than Zero’):

For those of you who prefer me to write about my actual life, rather than just list things I have read or listened to:

• We shot and edited three videos at work this week
• I did a web site for my ex-boss
• My improv team did a Harold in which I straddled Gavin Speiller
• I taught a class
• I’m preparing to go rehearse for Seven Fights. I made a quick-and-dirty web site for Seven Fights.

For those who prefer a list of interesting but unrelated words:

• middling
• joyfully
• tundra
• versimillitude
• lakewater

The following video is in Matt DeCoster’s and my sketch show Seven Fights:

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Seven Fights is up this Saturday the 15th at 7:30pm at UCBT. Think about it! We’re up with Rob Latham’s Get Psyched.

In my car on the V train, heading into Rockefeller Center, people were reading the following books:

• Cathedral by Raymond Carver
• The Naked Civil Servant by Quentin Crisp
• The Diary of Peter Ginz
• Love and War by John Jakes
• Acres of Diamonds: The Russell Conwell Story by Gregory A. Dixon and Russell H. Conwell

Pretty literate group overall. It’s fun to do this but I’m probably going to stop. It’s hard to identify what everyone’s reading without lurking. To identify The Naked Civil Servant, I had to stand right next to the girl reading it. Right as I was thinking “I bet I should not be doing this,” some older guy by the door on the other side of the car said very loudly “Just say hello to her.” Point taken, society. I had crossed a boundary.

I briefly interviewed Quentin Crisp in 1994. I was a reporter for The Ridgefield Press, and Crisp had been the voice over for an independent horror film (Natural Born Crazies) some local kids made. In the pre-digital world, making a movie was a momentous occasion, so this was a story. My editor thought Crisp would be a good interview — warmly sarcastic with wry, knowing barbs.

He was exactly that — so much that the interview lasted less then 3 minutes. I called him at his New York apartment. He politely confirmed that he had done the narration. So I asked “What was it like?” And he sensibly answered something like “Well, I mean, it wasn’t really ‘like’ anything. They contacted my agent and offered a fee. I agreed, and went to a recording studio and read their script into a microphone!” He had a warm tone, but sarcastic enough that I felt stupid for even calling him. He was right: he spent maybe a day on this project; he had nothing to do with the movie really. Suddenly, I didn’t care about his involvement or the movie itself.

So I agreed that that was all there was to it, and thanked him and said good-bye! He said “Oh, is that all?” And I said “I think so.” And that was it. I went on to write a story about a woman who had taken Poloroids of her neighbors running illegal businesses out of their homes.

I wasn’t a great reporter, really.

But I’m sure Quentin Crisp was indeed a wry and observant storyteller. A girl was reading his book this morning on the V train.

Today on the subway in, I saw people reading the following books:

• One Man’s Meat by E.B. White
• Baby Laughs by Jenny McCarthy (why?)
• V for Vendetta by Alan Moore/David Lloyd
• On the Road by Jack Kerouac
• Miles by Miles Davis

If I remember I’ll take more careful note tomorrow. I remember a few weeks ago, right after the last Harry Potter book came out, I saw FIVE different people reading that book on one subway car. Amazing.

The workmen have come to my apartment for the past four Saturdays. In that time they repaired the leak in my ceiling and replaced the soggy rotten tiles with bright white ones. They replaced the buckled section of the kitchen floor. The repainted my bathroom, and re-spackled (or re-glued or something) the creases in between the tiles along its walls. The replaced my shaky doorknob. They determined that my refrigerator had a leak and told my landlord to get me a new one. The place looks great!

A tiny wrinkle: I have no idea if they’re showing up this Saturday. I’d really like to sleep in, but when they show up they show up at 8:30am on the dot. The price of having capable people fix your place.

I had a lovely birthday. Brian and Erin came down from Connecticut and joined Kevin, Cat, me and a bunch of others at the venerable Pete’s Candy Store where I sat and held court from 9:30pm until about 4am. I even knew two of the bartenders (because they do improv, not because of the bar — I rarely go to that place actually) so I felt like a mob lieutenant being waved at and smiled at by the staff. And this was all preceded by Matt and I presenting a decent performance of our sketch show. So there.

Finished Season One of the Wire. And Mr. Majestyk by Elmore Leonard. That’s pretty cool.

Good night.