Stacy Horn

A friend just told me about this great, very affordable weekend conference about social media—it’s just $150 for the whole weekend. You can go for the whole weekend or a day or just part of a day. It was organized by Columbia’s Journalism School Continuing Ed division.

More information here, and tickets can be purchased here.

Last night’s Bones episode. Honestly, I’m not sure what it is, but I can’t take TV heartbreak like this anymore. The only thing I can think of is, I’ve exceeded my life’s allotment of sadness and just can’t take any more, even if it’s only tv. I won’t say more. I don’t want to spoil it for people who haven’t seen it, and for people who have, you know what I’m talking about. I know I’m insane. No need to point it out.

That said, the writers of that scene and the actors did a great job. I don’t know if there’s anyone left who is insisting that television can’t rise to the level of great art (anyone worth listening to) but last night was a terribly poignant expression of what is most difficult in life, saying goodbye to this, for all that sucks about it, saying goodbye to those we love, saying goodbye period. But still, don’t fucking do anything like that ever again everyone over there at Bones. Oh God. Remembering the character’s last words. Now I’m mad again. Yeah, I’m insane.

Look at the top of this building! What an enchanting place to live.

Someone asked me for helping finding the name of a bar in Alphabet City, from 1999/2000 or thereabouts. The consensus on Echo is that it was a place called the Wah Wah Hut.

I thought I’d check here as well. Does anyone know what place this was (or is):

“The place had/has a photo booth, a small place for live music and a fresco or mural inside with—a painted heart with a spear through it—and a caption that reads something similar to ‘Well, it’s in my back, but you’re going to have to face it.’”

The last time I walked up Park Avenue South that billboard was for Little Red Riding Hood (or whatever that movie was called).

My book is due in September and the chapters aren’t coming along quickly enough. Doesn’t it seem like only recently I was writing a book about parapsychology? And now, two seconds later, I’m coming to the end of writing a book about singing? How did that happen?

I was thinking how so many people think they can’t sing and they actually can. They’re like me, they may not have the most beautiful voice in the world, but they can mostly sing in tune and they don’t suck. Except they think they do. So, what? Were they surrounded by mean teachers and parents telling them they couldn’t sing?

Then there are the people who really can’t sing trying out for American Idol without a clue as to how bad they are. They had overly kind teachers and parents, I guess.

Well, time to get to work Buddy. I’m working on three chapters, one about singing coal miners, one about a long dead and forgotten composer named Francis Boott, and one about a piece by Morten Lauridsen. What are you working on?? (Buddy’s answer: “My tour of the nap spots in this establishment.”)

When a building is torn down a fence goes up, blocking the view while they build whatever they’re going to build in that spot. I always look for a hole in the fence to see what’s back there. Obviously I was very influenced by The Secret Garden.

This is what I saw when I peeked through a fence yesterday, two guys just hanging out in the rubble. The one in the back is hard to see, he’s wearing black and he’s sitting in front of a black wall, but if I didn’t pull back you wouldn’t be able to see where they’re sitting in context. They’re nicely dressed, doing whatever they’re doing with their iphones, or whatever device they were holding. It was just a little odd. I was also jealous. There was something inviting about the spot. Maybe it was a throwback feeling to childhood. “Let’s build a fort!”