Rites of Foreign Passage

Every major city in the world has its own initiation. You haven't really been in LA till you've sat in traffic, and what's a movie about New York without a surly cab driver honking at you?

Well, here are some initiation rites I've passed that I think can be described as pretty standard, if only a little traumatizing.

Paris: Stepping in dog shit.

Tokyo: Pressing the wrong button on a high-tech toilet and wetting yourself.

Osaka: Pressing the wrong button on a low-tech toilet and flooding the bathroom.

Los Angeles: Being stopped by a complete stranger who tells you smoking will kill you. That, or evangelists.

New York: Racial come-on. Even if you're white.

San Francisco: Lesbian come-on. Even if you're male.

Berkeley/East Bay: Arguing with self-important college students and homeless bums alike. Double-whammy: arguing with a homeless self-important college student.

Washington D.C.: Fuck D.C.

Boston: Being subject to a completely unsolicited rant about the Yankees.

Milan: Your decent pronunciation of a word is harshly corrected, and their pronunciation just sounds like an exaggerated mockery of the Italian language...but it's actually just the Italian language.

Toronto: This one's a little complicated. Thing is, when you arrive, everyone's going to tell you the price of things in "Canadian dollars." In other words they have to point out the fact that it's not American dollars, every time, like you're retarded and didn't know you were in Canada. The rite of passage is when people stop adding "Canadian dollars" to every fucking fiscal figure they cite you.

Beijing: The Great Wall. Seriously.

Seoul: Throwing up on a sidewalk. Seriously.

Singapore: Leaving the airport.

Bali: Realizing how crappy home is and that you want to move here, as soon as possible.

Vegas: Realizing how crappy Vegas is and that you want to go home, as soon as possible.

Oslo: Delayed currency-conversion-shock. The American dollar (fuck you Canada) is weak like a Jamie Foxx album.

Tromso: Slipping on and icy sidewalk and eating shit with the back of your head. No one helps you up. It's happened to me and I've seen it happen to at least three other people. I'm going to give Tromsons the benefit of the doubt and assume it's because they don't want you to feel embarrassed.

FML

I took a tiny little wee portion of an "anti-insomnia" pill today (like a third of the tablet). I don't know why. Just thought it might help me feel more "day-like."

After a little breakfast muesli and coffee I was sure I hadn't taken enough to do anything meaningful...But then... I promptly wrote a couple thousand words of "my novel," did 12 sun salutations, ran to the park (2 miles), did thirty pushups, attempted a dozen handstands, pullups, ran back home, "got biblical," went to the public pool, sweat in a sauna for like thirty minutes while all the children and adolescents who came into same sauna (it's a big sauna) stood or sat in the exact opposite corner and stared at me looking scared.

I was doing yoga stretches. Can't blame them.

Got dressed afterward. Elicited same gaping looks from children and adolescents in locker room that I did in sauna. Looked down and realized on my shirt is an illustration of a monkey with a boner.

Nice one, Anne.

Had dinner with both housemates (slow-cooked reindeer. MMmmmMMMmm). Reindeer meat starts to slow down my momentum. We discuss our travels. I mention trips to Italy and Bali this year. Mention I'm going to Mongolia the next.

Connie (ex-secret ops engineer for government, turned acupuncturist. No I'm not making this up) tells me that sounds exactly like Eat, Pray, Love, which, apparently, is about a woman who eats in Italy, prays in India, and loves in Bali.

My heart sinks.

I have abhorred this book, in principle, since the day the zeitgeist started handing them out to everyone in my Brooklyn demographic (mostly because everyone recommended it to me and I was just being a stuck-up publishing flack). By 2007, if someone said, "I LOVE this book," I'd roll my eyes. By 2009 I'd de-friend that person. But this whole time I had no idea what the damned book was about (except something about a woman's self-realization). I feel like a cliché. Connie says:

The book's the cliché, not you.

Adds that she hated the book because it was "egomaniacal." I thank her. Decide since Tromso isn't India, I'm not "Pray" but...

Blog?

F++k my life

What's the longest you've been in the dark?

Just reached the halfway point of my trip and wish I didn't have to go back. Does anyone want to take care of all my crap stateside so I don't ever have to leave?

People worried it'd be too cold or dark for me here but the reality is that Arctic Norway is probably warmer than a good portion of the northern U.S. and what light we do have is so other-wordly it's like watching the world's longest sunset.

(High Noon)

Still, I've been spending a lot of time in the comfort of a heated home. What would I know about cold and dark? (Cue vag joke)

Even in my discipline to spend as much time as possible outside, three hours of ambient haze without a car means I don't go very far. And yet I haven't felt The Need because I'm so comfortable with The Urge.

The Urge.

My Dutch housemate Maiten invited me to go with her to Sommarøy yesterday, because someone on the couchsurfing-dot-org forum she follows offered to carpool people to the remote island. The carpooler, Andrei, was a music teacher who had three lessons on the island (guitar, guitar, bass), and figured if anyone wanted to hitch a ride they may as well take the two other seats in his truck. That was Maiten and me.

The drive to Sommarøy was short but long.

Anyone who's driven up the windy roads to Big Bear or the Lick Observatory or anything similar will know what I mean. The distance isn't long but maaan is it windy. Of course we weren't driving up mountains, but along fjords. Imagine an ant traversing an a

ccordion's bellows. That was us.

When we finally got to the island, the view took my breath away.

Several times.

After my zillionth failed attempt to capture it on camera/film, I realized what made the scene breathtaking: the tenable sense of a beyond.

Before I took this trip I'd fantasized about ideas of going "north" for years. Dreams of sailing through glacial waters and looking straight up the façade of mineral deposits. Of course I've also fantasized about real estate and seven-figure book deals. I was doing nothing about any of my fantasies... That is, until I found myself prancing along the equator to Bali. Then, I had to. absolutely. without question. come up here. I couldn't put my finger on "why" until today.

When you look out from the edge of the edge of a place like Sommarøy, and see mountains, islands and waves leagues away, you get a tenable sense of the beyond. Something akin to looking up at stars and space, I'd imagine, but just close enough that you can fantasize being there.

I could fantasize being there, forever.

But that is the urge. To control that urge is key. When I went to Fløya the first time I was awestruck by the grandness of my surroundings, because I wasn't at the top of the mountain, but when I went the second time I was completely overwhelmed by having hit the summit. In Japan, you're supposed to watch the cherry blossoms fall, to appreciate the fleeting context of its splendor, whereas for most everyone else the point is to marvel at cotton candy trees.

And I guess what I'm describing is a mundane extension of Lacanian desire. I've been seduced by the North Pole!

(Anne heaves a starstruck sigh)

You sink with the heart, not with the mind.

[And I promise no more cheeseballs after this. For cheese please go to my vimeo daily video journal. I'm going back to dedicating this platform to funny.]

Thanksgiving Borealis

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Leave your baby at the door please.

So I'm walking through downtown Tromso and notice: people leave their big ass baby strollers outside of stores. I like it.

Coming from South Brooklyn, I look at this and think, "Gawd, why can't Brooklynites do this too?!"
You know what I'm talkin' about, all you Park Slopers. You're fighting your way to the bar past a heard of strollers that look more like Hummers, feeling bad for the parents who can't quite travel with anything a. smaller or b. more bar-appropriate than a baby. It's quite nice to see this honor system stroller parking outside of stores. You know, to keep wheel-traffic indoors to a cool minimum.

Then I walked past one of these strollers and noticed something inside:

A friggin' baby.

People here don't just leave there strollers outside of stores. They leave their friggin' children in them!!
Frightening. Frightening but also heartening.
Please no one steal those little things.

AURORA BOREALIS!
AURORA BOREALIS!
AURORA BOREALIS!

Really big hand job

Went to a "shoe maker" yesterday to buy some cleats/spikes for my boots so I could do more substantial mountain climbing.

The shoe maker gave me a set of rubber pull-on spikes to wrap around the sole of my boots. They were tight and I was having a hard time pulling the rubber hook over the heel, when he said in broken English:

It's tough rubber. It will be a really big hand job.

Did I mention I'm twelve?

Anyway, I really should have ponied up for bigger spikes. It could have made today's hike a lot less frightening.
All I have to say about today is, "thank God for Swedish nurses and Crossfit."

Tromso Nov. 24, 2009 from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

10 Things I learned from Norwegian MTV

I have a house-mate as of yesterday. She's a Dutch film major doing a documentary on polar nights. After dinner last night she turned on the TV and the local MTV-like channel was the only thing that made sense to either of us. Though neither of us watches it, the TV is centrally located in the living room where we both do all our editing, so I've essentially caught up on ten years worth of commercial music in the last two days.

And this is what I've learned about pop music in the last 48 hours.

1. I finally understand why people are in such an uproar about autotune. It's pervasive as hell. But you know what? It looks like autotune is keeping a lot of talented hip-hop dancers out of prostitution, so let them have it. I love watching good coordinated pop music dance. Especially a guy rocking his own version of a pop-rock-roll. I'll watch it with autotune if that's what it takes.

If however, you do not know how to do a perfect neck jerk, snap, coordinated kick-step or rock nod, you do not deserve autotune.

2. Speaking of autotune... Lil' Jon autotuned? Really? That's like auto-tuning Gilbert Godfried. Come to think of it that could be pretty sweet. (Calling his agent)

3. The Black Eyed Peas suck my big black balls.

4. Dr. Dre is way hotter than Jay-Z, which settles the age old debate of West Coast versus east Coast for me.

5. Never watch Lady Gaga while eating food.

6. I finally understand why Time magazine named Kanye black Jesus (pre-Obama). His videos are facsimiles of every pop cultural phenomenon they've reported on in the last thirty years.

7. Kelis. Yes.

8. Music videos could be a great avenue for fashion marketing. Why isn't it happening?

9. Don't show off your tattoos in slow motion. It's really lame.

10. Someone please send Norway some better music. They're rolling in klondikes and won't blink if you charge them $60 for a CD.

But it's like $241!

Yeah... This is the difference between us, in a nutshell.

We got Snuggies.

They got this.

Fløya

Today, I wish I had ever been skiing or to some place like Aspen before, so I could say without any question that walking/hiking to Peak Fløya was so many many more times better. The hike itself was really mild (several children were out at least in the first half), and the peak not very high, but it was freeeeezing. And to be able to see the Norwegian Alps in the split-second of direct sunlight I had, from up here, was mind-altering.

Add the wind washing through every exposed inch of skin and... I think I'll go ahead and draw comparison to a baptism since it's Sunday after all.

I could have walked straight into another universe. It was nice.

Tromso Nov. 22, To Fløya Peak from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

FOOD

This is what happens when you have the flu in Tromso and can't ingest food for four straight days.

The very MILI-SECOND I was back on my feet I speed-skated through town and purchased my way through a list of things I'd started to crave. Including:

+The biggest brick of national cheese I could get my hands around.

+Two pieces of cheesecake. One chocolate and covered in marshmallow, the other, chocolate and covered in lingonberry jam.

+2 inches of some kind of beef salami. (I seriously did a double-take walking past a butcher. Went in, asked the clerk to cut about "that much" off the thing I was pointing at)

+1 leg of chicken, prepared (because it just looked correct)

+5 pounds of Basmati rice

+1 pound of fresh shrimp caught on the water that morning (also because it just seemed right)

+Beef Bouillon cubes

+A bag of Anise stars

+Rice Noodles (If you guys are predicting Pho night, you are RIGHT)

+Cans of peas

+High fat milk

+Chili peppers

+Carrots, mushrooms, lemon

+More apple juice and seltzer

Once I got over my hunger high I remembered to buy postcards and stamps, then promptly ran into the woman who drove me to the ambulance when I was convinced my flu was actually Death.

Sitje: Hello! You are doing alright?

Anne: I'm doing great! I'm about to buy two pieces of cheesecake. Thanks again for taking me to the ambulance.

Sitje: Good good. OK.

Anne: Takk.

German Scientists Gone Innuendo

I'm staying at a boat house (not to be confused with a house-boat, or... a boat), where currently there is also a trio of German virologists and seal researcher in Tromso presumably doing, well... research on viruses and seals. I believe their last night here is tomorrow. They're doing dinner altogether in the communal living room, which makes me the apologetic mole in the corner.

But let me set the stage.

It's two German men, one Norwegian man (all robust, all Wintered and strong-looking), and one abnormally hot blond German woman at least ten years younger than all of them.

I'll give you a second to do the math.

Conversation here has been excellent. Hot Blond with her Dietrich eyes asks the Norwegian to teach her how to say numbers. Bigger German waxes arrogantly about everything from yogurt to who gave the best talk on small pox at last year's virology conference (not Bernie Moss, oh no...). Smaller German offers to go buy the cheese they need for the lasagna they're cooking together (which btw, is the most swinger-ish dish ever!).

Best snippet of conversation so far, between the two men most likely to get into Dietrich-eyes' pants:

Bigger German: If this whole virology thing doesn't work out I'm going to open a restaurant in Tromso and make a lot of money.

Norwegian: I don't mean to insult you but German food isn't very reputed around the world. It's just sauerkraut and sausages.

Bigger German: (Dead stare into Norwegian's eyes) I haven't had sauerkraut in a year.

(Long pause)

Update: OK, now all three of them are staring at her as she eats a piece of chocolate cake. Brilliant.

Count All Fifty-nine Failures in This Ad

Sorry the image is so tiny. Let me magnify it for you:

iTunes Essentials recommends (as I listen to Animal Collective) that I download "Indie Rock Love Songs." Incredulous, I follow the Genius Bar's link and read the description:

Not all indie rock songs are about anger and boredom. In fact love songs are what we think indie rock bands do best.

The very definition of "ecstasy"

I just had my very first bite of real food. After three days of nothing but apple juice and seltzer, my stomach has finally stopped convulsing long enough for me to brave the ten minute walk to the soup cafe.

Homemade cream of broccoli soup. Holy shit was it delicious. I felt as each molecule of chlorophyl in the broccoli and each cellulose gram of creamy fat digested and oh my god oh my god real food is so friggin' good.

The definition of a bad tourist: On my way back to the house, I came across an "internasjonalmathuset" (International Food House). Basically an Asian sundry grocer but with an entire aisle devoted to ramen!!! Have I died and gone to heaven? The good tourist is just entertained by this occurrence. A bad one (me) buys out their stock of Kimchi Ramyun.

The photo above, btw, was taken at 9:30am. I still haven't seen the actual Sun, but I presume it should happen any second now.

Tromso Nov. 20 2009 from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

The very definition of "frustration"

I'm being told today that last night was the best night to see the Northern Lights because of the Leonid Meteor Shower that took place the day before.

What was I doing last night at the peak of this Northern Light show? Feverishly sleeping out this damned flu.

They (a group of German veterinary scientists staying on the lower floor) keep reiterating that last night was the night to catch the lights.

Gah. Well, I think I caught part of the meteor shower... I guess there's that...

Tromso Day 1, Take 3

It's humbling to be in a place like Tromso, a place so far into the North of the Earth that the sun is out for only four hours of the "day." It is not humbling simply because of the change in environment, but because when something like the motherfucking flu hits you, you realize you can't really ever do anything totally alone. Without phones or friends, I ended up emailing the owner of this house, and they sent their daughter to fetch me. Sitje is basically my new best friend.

So my first three days into the four week sojourn to Arctic Norway have been addled by all the flu symptoms we know and love. Try them alone in the dark. You will seriously begin to wonder if you haven't just lost your mind. Fortunately, the respite has been worth the pain.

The sky here is beyond words.

Black Metal Which Sucks, Which Does Not Suck

I should have known that a Black Metal show at Union Pool would be problematic. Here's what I learned.

You should not have a black metal band if:

+One of your instruments is sleigh bells. [Seriously.]
+Your audience consists mostly of really hot chicks. [I'm sorry, but it's like when white people "know" a good Asian restaurant by how many "actual asian" patrons are in there. Black metal is for plain janes and dudes. Period. You don't go to Panda Express for quality Schezuan. Don't go to Contempo Casuals for quality noise.]
+You still think playing with the word "Christ" is clever.

You should have a black metal band if:

+Your drummer can do the tap dance from hell on a double-bass drum for an hour straight.
+You can gut your pharynx like a Tyrannosaurus Rex for five minutes. Then between songs, in borderline radio DJ voice you can say, "could you turn up the drums on my monitor?" Then go right back to jurassic war with your microphone.
+I say so.

B'doun O'mr (Ageless)

If you like black metal you will love Nader Sadek, who joins art with Arabic elements and well, metal.

Go to this.

Just go.

It will blow your mind.

Nader Sadek.

Wisdoms

Paula Scher, on introducing ideas to clients:

"I used to always bring in three design options to a client, and deliberately have one bad option in there, thinking that would force them to choose one of the designs I actually like.

The client always chose the bad one."

Clients, get on your marks.

Norwhere

The first time I went to Tromso Norway it was with Kaori Ekuni, for Ördkalotten. Accompanied by a gay Oslowegian, we were like Three's Company-Version Linklater. I'd been five months out of an epic June filled with tragedy. Five days out of a much less meaningful milestone of ennui.

The trip was other-worldly and mundane all at once. I did not see northern lights or consume any exotic food or drink, but I spent a lot of time outdoors with Ekuni, talking about relationships. We had one memorable walk by a fjord that ended with dinner at a local family's home, replete with a lanky goth teenage son who shit on everything his dad said.

Now, I know that talking about relationships on a blog is sort of like...well it's stupid and no one should do it. Ever. However talking about talking about relationships is fine, I think. And trust me, with a gay Oslowegian, it's even better. And believe it or not, the following exchange between us as characters (heartbroken, heart beat, heartbreaker), about sums up everything you'll ever need to know about love.

Anne: I have a joke. What do you call pussy that tastes like shit? (Repeats joke in Japanese)
Ekuni: What?
Anne: An overbite.
Arild: That joke doesn't apply to me.
Anne: OK. What do you call dick that tastes like shit? (Repeats joke in Japanese)
Arild: Success.

I'd taken hundreds of pictures but they were all lost in one of my last three hard drive crashes/thefts, so I'm considering my next trip to the North Pole, recompense.

Thank you, Nick, for the extra cameras. I'm ecstatic to show the results of my Digital Ari. I have also started a Vimeo account for video updates. Hammertime.

Candelaborate from Ill Iterate on Vimeo.

dickchicken and the french

This week I host a pair of French friends visiting New York: Oz and Julien. Both are hard-core kids turned social workers, which makes sense in exactly the same way that mean kids turn into cops in the U.S. Last night we walked from Giant Robot NY in the East Village (which you allllll know), to Williamsburg and had The Convergence Crazies.

Part I: The three of us stopped at Village Yokocho for some Calpico--a sublime beverage that hasn't made its way to France yet. The last time Oz was in NY he came with his mother, and we three did the same exact thing at Go on 8th St.

Unbelievably, the table seated next to us at Yokocho...was the same exact group that sat next to us at Go last time. The. Same. Exact. Three. People. (We remember them perfectly because they all had very distinguishing characteristics, not the least of which was a tie-dyed afro.)

Part II: After we downed some Calpico and onigiri we headed out for the walk of hipster champions. Julien started talking about a show in France called "New York: Unité Investigative Speciale." I told him I had no clue what he was talking about. Julien was making the point that being in New York walking around at night he couldn't help but sing the theme song to himself.

Duhn-DUHN ba ba ba-da daaaa

Anne: Oh my god you're talking about LAW&ORDER.

We cross the Williamsburg Bridge, singing every single note of the theme song. With two singers you can capture every single note. We're annoying everyone on fixed-gear bikes or wearing Girlfriend Jeans on the way. Oz keeps telling us we're stupid. By the apex of the bridge, we are actually belting out the song top volume.

When we land on the other side of the bridge we are exhausted. We head to the waterfront for picture ops, have a few cigarettes, talk about our friends. On our way from the waterfront to the bars, we come across a "dickchicken" tag. Julien stops dead in his tracks.

Julien: It's Dick Wolf's son!

Carrying the Coke Zero

Just got a reference to "fluorescent beige" ("Precious") from a Charlie I thought I knew, but turned out to be a different Charlie who I don't know at all. Made the same mistake with two different dudes named Shane, a couple weeks ago, sending one of them a very confusing and obscene email. A frenchman just told me through a pay phone to meet at Grand Central but I thought he said Parc Central and now I'm supposed to find a statue of an eagle or wings. I have no idea what I'm hearing anymore.

I need a flux capacitor and a coke.

Crapsical Musicians

I was just being apprised of a string quartet famous for performing with rappers (Osso), and it made me think...
Where are the bastard children of rap and classical music?

Crappers:
Ice Cubist
Chuck D Minor
Eazy E Major
Beastie Boys Choir sings "No Sleep Till Harlem"
Lil' Kim (the Korean violin prodigy)
Tupac: Piano for Four Hands, performing "Tupachabelle's Canon"
Dr. Doremi
The Suzuki Method Man

Craposers:
Steve RZAich
J-Zorn
Busta Brahms
Red Schumann
Scarlatti Face
Da Bussy
Run-DMC performs "U Bee Thoven"
Stravinskee-Lo performs "I wish (I was a little bit Mahler)"

The Best Story Ever I Will Have Ever Told About Children.

Preface: My friend Matt is a private school teacher of general music and jazz at a private school. Said school, The Little Red Schoolhouse, is a very progressive institution with none of the rules you and I engaged in at public schools. Run in a horizontal hierarchy, all the adults--from janitor to director (principal)--are on a first-name basis and get equal credence. They have a board of directors composed of professional saints. Though the Little Red credo benefits from this in the strange celebrity student body it attracts, stories like this could take place anywhere.

Recently, Matt was co-teaching a third grade class of about 20 eight year olds. They were standing on choir risers learning Pete Seger. Matt was at his laptop preparing the next class and Lidell (the other co-teacher) was conducting a melody. All of a sudden, Cameron Glass (son of Philip) starts sobbing quietly.

Lidell: What's wrong, Cameron? (Gives Matt a bewildered look)
Cameron: (sniffling) I'm sad that Michael Jackson is dead.

Lidell looks at Matt, unsure of what to do or say here. The kids standing next to Cameron gently stroke his back and say, "it'll be OK." I like to think the neighboring children were Bowies and De Koonings.

Cameron: My dad bought tickets to his concert but he died two weeks before! (Sobbing louder)
Lidell: Well, we can still listen to his music. Matt, do you have any Michael Jackson in your computer?
Matt: Yes. (Laughs) Yes I do.

Matt starts foraging his library for Michael Jackson tunes and starts with "A,B,C" at maximum volume.

The kids go nuts.

Lidell: (Looks at Matt) Let's have a Michael Jackson dance party.

All the kids start dancing. The teachers start dancing. Matt plays "Thriller," "Billie Jean," "Beat it," "I Want you Back." The whole room is now bursting with Michael Jackson and a room of children and adults are pointing in the air, waving their arms, jumping up and down. Cameron slowly gets into it, swaying side to side and then eventually wipes the snot off his face and smiles. By "Beat It," all his cares are gone. As they are dancing, the kids start requesting "Bad."

Now, "Bad," for those who don't already know, was released in 1987, at least ten years before any of these children were born. The opening lyrics are:

Your butt is mine,
Gonna take you right,
Just show your face.
In Broad Daylight
I'm Telling You
On How I Feel
Gonna Hurt Your Mind
Don't Shoot To Kill
Come On, Come On,
Lay It On Me All Right...

According to Wikipedia, in his 1988 memoir, Moonwalk, MJ said of "Bad":

"Bad" is a song about the street. It's about this kid from a bad neighborhood who gets to go away to a private school. He comes back to the old neighborhood when he's on a break from school and the kids from the neighborhood start giving him trouble. He sings, "I'm bad, you're bad, who's bad, who's the best?" He's saying when you're strong and good, then you're bad.

Beautiful.
"Bad" comes on the speakers and the kids are now all over the room, doing their Michael Jackson impersonations, replete with castrati-style "hooo!"s, "shamow!", and of course, moonwalking.

I wonder when they learned these things but mostly I marvel at the irony of rich 8-year olds (Mike's favorite kind of person) celebrating his music and begging for "Bad."
This story makes me really happy.

Bad.

Good morning, Long Beach

The beach made for the one-hour experience: speed walkers, joggers, waiting out the morning on a bench.

Virgin America

If I wanted to be inside a dating website apholstered by CaseLogic in a color-scheme of iPod white and vagina pink (if this vagina were shot on the set of Tron), and populated with nothing but smug flirts, I'd just move to San Francisco.

Instead I took a Virgin America flight to Los Angeles.

Carsick Cars Guests at Museyon Launch Party

Museyon Guides is having a launch party on Nov.4 (6-8pm) at Von (3 Bleecker, off Bowery) for the upcoming release of Museyon:Music+Travel.

12 Cities, 12 Scenes:

Addis Ababa, Ethiopop

Chicago, Jazz

Los Angeles county/Laurel Canyon, Country

Beijing, Experimental

Istanbul, Classical

Mumbai, Pop

Berlin, Electronica

Dublin, Punk

Buenos Aires, Cumbia

Paris, Hip-Hop

Melbourne, Art Rock

Moscow, Chanson

I'm gonna say it, but I'm more excited about the Music book than the Film trilogy, only because it's been curated down to 12 really choice experiences. The Film books are more like a history lesson. You can actually take Museyon: Music to your damned bucket list and come out blown away. This is not a diss on all the wonderful writing and photography and design in Film+Travel. Just that Music+Travel is more compact and episodic.

And as far as the launch party is concerned, you would be completely, absolutely, horribly remiss to ignore the opportunity to see members of Carsick Cars (Xiao He and Jeffray Zhang Shouwang) do a special performance before they go full out on their first North American tour.

If you haven't heard or heard of the Carsick Cars, you haven't been pretending to keep up with back issues of The Wire. And that's fine.

But let's put it this way: Carsick Cars will be for Beijing-NY relations what the Boredoms were for Japanese "noise" and the rest of us still pretending we've kept up reading The Wire. And you don't want to say you missed that chance.

GO.

Things I will never do:

1. Run my hands through a mohawk

2. Buy Uggs, Gladiator Sandals or a Coldplay CD

3. Dress up as a sexy maid or a fart for Halloween