tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41696493048484333642008-07-21T19:53:49.825-07:00Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-20098124778642700402008-07-20T18:26:00.001-07:002008-07-20T18:28:26.547-07:00

Logan and I went to this place called Fat Cat last night and I can’t believe I’ve never been there before. Pool tables, ping-pong, foos ball, Scrabble, and jazz; what an unusual combination. It's located at Christopher and Seventh Avenue, and it takes up the entire cellar of a low-rise building. The place is huge. I want to incorporate it into my book somehow, but I’m not sure quite what will

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-71437420409408002562008-07-13T19:51:00.000-07:002008-07-13T20:17:45.332-07:00

Over drinks last night at the White Horse Tavern, Katie asked me if writing my blog helped with writing my novel. I didn’t hesistate to say “sure,” thinking that any exercise in writing at least serves to strengthen one’s rhetorical muscles. On reflection, though, the blog and the novel are so independent that the idea of linking them doesn’t make much sense. The blog is basically an outlet for

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-19751838002842104772008-06-09T20:44:00.000-07:002008-06-09T21:25:58.154-07:00

I always pick the Art Bar for some reason, even when it’s warm and I want to sit outside. So on Friday I was walking there to meet someone and I was walking on West Fourth Street where it hits West Twelfth at that narrow, cobble-stone intersection with Cubby Hole on one corner and Café Cluny on the other. I was a little early, so I decided to poke my head into Café Cluny, knowing that an old

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-2493368649498677622008-06-02T21:10:00.000-07:002008-06-02T21:17:35.697-07:00

Friday night revelry at Aubergine. I was surprised at the turnout, but then I’m surprised by everything these days. Yesterday I spent the early evening surviving an overly generous happy hour at Rue B in the East Village and I was surprised to find my iPod skipping directly to Ryan Adams as I wandered the Village, east-to-west, devouring the Adams oeuvre while I passed 166 First Avenue thinking,

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-29988602722376979642008-05-29T12:42:00.000-07:002008-05-29T14:49:30.607-07:00

I have to say I absolutely love the new credit card functionality that’s hit all the NYC cabs in the past few months. This is tremendously convenient for a couple of reasons. One, it means not being dependent on the availability of your bank’s ATMs. And two, the taxi card-swiper calculates your tip for you! This is a godsend for people like me who struggle with the basics of math – including, but

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-9297424610117926182008-05-26T21:21:00.000-07:002008-05-27T06:51:39.481-07:00

I recently finished a book called All the Sad Young Literary Men, written by Keith Gessen, who is the editor of the literary magazine n+1. This is not so much a novel as a series of short stories. They all center on overeducated east coast quarterlifers coping with unsatisfying relationships and hindered artistic ambitions. They are literary and they are sad and they are men, but are they young?

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-52212588792981755272008-02-19T19:30:00.000-08:002008-02-19T19:37:22.472-08:00

Behold, if you will, the greasy, post-Neaderthal countenance of your fellow man. “O what a piece of work,” as the Dane would say, profiled against an unearth’d skull, theatrically attired in melancholik black, his eyes damp with mourning. “How noble in – etc . . . “ “How infinite . . . etc. etc.” And et al and et alia. All very well, one should say, for those that are smooth of visage, trim of

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-34977331721815269772008-01-09T14:43:00.000-08:002008-01-09T14:53:32.810-08:00

The first person I spoke to when I arrived in the city on Monday night was Dave’s girlfriend Elaine, who was lugging boxes from the house on 113th Street to her car. In a nimble bit of symmetry, it turned out that she was leaving the city for Los Angeles, while I was just returning. The weather was disconcertingly warm that day, not all that different from winter in Hollywood, and I had to

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-22404860812253280982008-01-05T09:47:00.000-08:002008-01-05T10:23:24.838-08:00

Driving through Tennessee the other day, I was suddenly aware of a curious smell. Moments later, I was shocked to find smoke pluming from the steering column. While the auto was being tended by some helpful gents at the Nashville Cadillac dealer I took the chance to catch up on Writer’s Strike gossip. Best of the lot so far is a testy HuffPo post by Brothers & Sisters scribe and producer Jon

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-66290532335449708522008-01-01T12:46:00.000-08:002008-01-01T13:01:50.819-08:00

There is a massive hole in the middle of the Arizona desert and I’m not talking about the Grand Canyon. The hole is south of Winslow and can be reached by a short detour off Interstate 40 where its approach is proclaimed by a series of increasingly importunate road signs that remind one more of the cardboard placards painted by panhandlers rather than directions to the site of a serious

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-64451225297921849252007-12-08T12:36:00.000-08:002007-12-08T12:50:09.039-08:00

Last night I finished Somerset Maugham’s opus Of Human Bondage which, at 600+ pages, is lengthy even by the generous standards of the bildungsroman. The middle part of the book is occupied with what is arguably the novel’s best-remembered episode: young Philip’s miserable love affair with the horrid Mildred. In the introduction to the Penguin edition, University of Saskatchewan professor Robert

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-73770194746416818342007-12-07T11:23:00.000-08:002007-12-07T11:47:38.487-08:00

As the Writers Strike heads into its sixth week, one is tempted to quote from Joan Didion’s essay on the last Writers Strike in 1988. Didion contended that the strike wasn’t so much about money but rather “respect, and about whether the people who made the biggest money were or were not going to give a little to the people who made the less big money.” This time around, public opinion seems to

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-19609849876994423872007-11-30T16:45:00.000-08:002007-11-30T16:57:34.461-08:00

Los Angeles averages about 15 inches of rain a year, which is roughly equal to the average annual snowfall in Washington, DC. This morning, two strange things occurred nearly simultaneously as I lay in bed emerging from a dream about acting in a play. The first thing was the sound of my housemate’s footsteps and then the unlocking of the front door. The predawn hour of his departure was highly

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-14718455920462240742007-11-25T10:56:00.000-08:002007-11-25T11:22:40.060-08:00

I wanted to talk to Katherine on the phone but it was late and I couldn’t reach her. I didn’t want to talk in my parents’ house, where I was visiting for Thanksgiving, so I grabbed my phone, got into my mom’s car and drove. I drove to the south side of Reston, which is the older side, or at least the side on which fewer new development is occurring. It is also the older side of Reston as far as

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-1248323202057579472007-11-24T15:56:00.000-08:002007-11-25T11:23:06.429-08:00

Well, it’s happened at last. I am blogging tired. What is blogging tired? Well, it’s kind of like blogging drunk only a yard more irritable. Let’s see if I can pull it off. What did I do today to make me so tired, you ask? Well, first of all, I woke up in Virginia at five in the morning, which, as my internal clock has now adjusted to Pacific Time, felt more like two in the morning. I was not

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-71091713184574436952007-11-17T10:36:00.000-08:002007-12-07T11:36:32.833-08:00

Here’s what the writers strike is like, for those of you who were wondering. It’s festive. Outside CBS Studios in Studio City, a Gatorade truck pulls up and delivers bottles for free to picketers. On Veterans Day, writers brought their children to the picket line. If you approach these strikers you will hear, mixed in with the chants, the unmistakable murmur of gossiping and, yes, networking.

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-42178878651568540912007-11-15T11:02:00.000-08:002007-11-25T11:20:00.504-08:00

I arrived in Flagstaff, Arizona as the sun was setting and after finding a motel on Route 66, I headed downtown to get a drink. I gave myself a quick walking tour and then ducked into one of the many sports bars and I sat at the bar and read The New York Times on my iPhone. It got dark early and when it did it became very cold. Although the high temperature that day had been in the 60s, the

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-36314686552321451002007-11-09T09:09:00.000-08:002007-11-25T11:19:17.707-08:00

My mother spent a portion of her childhood in Little Rock, Arkansas, but when I stopped there around noon on November 1st, I was unable to locate the street she lived on. She had told me it was near the Governor’s Mansion, which I did manage to find—a modest two-story Colonial behind a wrought-iron fence in an otherwise iffy neighborhood. She also remembered that it was close to Little Rock

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-82890751169418752852007-11-07T08:47:00.000-08:002007-11-25T11:18:46.256-08:00

Last week I drove from my parents’ house in northern Virginia to Los Angeles. The trip took six days and covered about 2,700 miles and seven states. I started on Tuesday, October 30 around noon. Earlier in the day, I’d stopped at my mother’s sixth grade class to say goodbye to her. She introduced me to her students and told them that I was moving to Los Angeles which, I was disappointed to note,

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-76260006919972712682007-10-18T15:01:00.000-07:002007-10-18T15:21:33.457-07:00

Well, it’s not for the weather, that’s for sure. LA weather basically sucks in my opinion because it’s too goddamn nice out all the time. If I could I would move someplace like Manchester or Dublin or, ideally, one of the darker pits of hell where it’s perpetually gray, gloomy and rainy out and people huddle up over pints in old stone taverns and have a generally pale, miserable look about them.

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-44024861876801418652007-10-18T10:40:00.000-07:002007-10-18T13:36:37.016-07:00

So, I was reading Le Monde today, even though I don’t understand French and here’s what I learned: surprisingly little. French is really hard to read when you don’t know the language. Anyway, I did pick up a few things here and there, which I will attempt to share with you. PLEASE NOTE! This is my translation of a newspaper that was written in a language with which I have almost no familiarity,

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-43519647250914980832007-10-17T12:09:00.000-07:002007-10-17T14:58:07.392-07:00

Vanessa Grigoriadis has a 6,300-word piece in this week’s issue of New York Magazine about the web phenomenon known as Gawker Media, a digital empire founded by English recluse Nick Denton. Gawker’s holdings include Gizmodo (consumer electronics), Wonkette (Washington politics), Defamer (the entertainment industry), and Fleshbot (pornography). Grigoriadis’s sole focus, however, is Denton’s

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-23594373491809090212007-10-15T13:29:00.000-07:002007-11-24T16:09:03.866-08:00

Moving is such an unbelievable pain in the ass. By the end of this week, give or take a few days, I will be out of New York for good, which, although I’m doing it for reasons that have nothing to do with the city per se, still feels like a betrayal. And I’m really gonna miss my house, a completely illegal NYC real estate anomaly that I landed in by pure happenstance, the details of which I will

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-19757769662327873672007-10-14T18:54:00.000-07:002007-10-14T19:15:58.344-07:00

It’s hard, really, to know what will become of the movie industry, the recording industry, and the entertainment business in general, considering the ubiquity of piracy and the increasingly splintered target markets for products. As Washington Post columnist Marc Fisher noted in his blog last week, “The economics of the new model are uncertain . . . Goodness knows nobody pays for content anymore

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4169649304848433364.post-31858830435284442222007-10-13T09:12:00.000-07:002007-10-14T19:16:43.698-07:00

1. Anxiety. Mainly about my own life and the directions it may or may not take, but other sources that contribute heavily include: the 2008 Presidential Election, NYC congestion pricing, supply-side economics, the Electoral College, Internet piracy, faith-based education, flash floods, and urban blight. Although puffing on a cancer-stick is hardly the same as popping a Xanax, it’s certainly

Keith Lubeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06221162728920782348noreply@blogger.com