ugh.

The NYC Antihoot, hosted by Lach at the Fort at Sidewalk Café, sucks. And let me tell you why.

First, there's Lach. A self-serving little wanker of a man*, referencing him on your weblog (which he finds while he ego-surfs) will result in your e-mail address being added to his mailing list. Apparently he does most, if not all, of the scheduling at Sidewalk, so if you're looking for a starter gig in NYC, you're somehow obliged to suck him off repeatedly until he graces you with a tips-only hour show with a few lovelorn bill-mate miserables half-listening to you. Their sole purpose is to stroke your ego and his with a few seconds of meager applause and a buck or two in the tip mandolin.

Second, there's Lach at the antihootenany, which probably used to be fun and interesting but now is just part of an increasingly dead scene. The way it works is this... A bunch of people show up with guitars and ratty notebooks and tophats and Lach gives a big hearwarming speech about how the order in which people play won't matter, how a number's just a number and how he doesn't want anyone to fixate. Then Lach passes out numbers. Then a whole bunch of Sidewalk regulars stumble in and Lach inserts them ahead of you in the lineup. Once the regulars are done playing, the format switches from two songs per to one song per. Lach enforces this format by literally yanking the plug from the soundboard after each performer's act.

Everyone pimps their upcoming show at Sidewalk. Lach tells the same jokes he's been telling for at least ten years. Two-thirds of the crowd takes off to catch the F Train before it stops running. This includes many of your so-called friends. After an act finishes, you overhear someone ask the performer what number he was: "Twelve." Things started at 8, and it is now 11:30. This man replies: "Really? I'm forty-seven." You are fourteen, and it takes 8 more performers to get to you. Lach sits up front at the sound board and tries to make eye contact with the people in the back while holding his finger up in what's probably meant to be the universal sign for "shush" but which comes out looking like the universal sign for "I'm number one, you cocksucker".

To make things worse, someone apparently forgot to inform 90% of the acts that there was supposed to be some anti in their antifolk. Can you sing and play guitar like Ani Difranco? Great! Go do it in your living room. Angst is best served unaccompanied. Having dreams where you're reborn as James Taylor? Fantastic. But please realize this -- we already have a James Taylor.

The icing on the cake is the tip (jar) mandolin, which is passed repeatedly and which you may see Lach emptying into a big wad of bills which he will stand in the bar area and count while not listening to any act after midnight. These funds go toward keeping the Antihoot running, whatever that means.

Save your time (not to mention your dignity). Go to Philly and peep Adam Brodsky's antihoot. Draw number 8 and play three times: 8th, 16th, and as part of the big ugly circle jerk at the end of the night. Make it home by 2 AM. Adam's a far nicer guy, runs a much dirtier hoot, and will never, ever, make you feel like you paid to play.

And fercrissake, if you've got to go to NYC, rock the fuck out. And don't just stay to see Kimya and Drew. If you're lucky, maybe Lach'll offer you a gig. Wheee!

* This name-calling, and, for that matter, this rant in general, were a lot more scathing when I wrote them at 2 AM after I discovered that my cable modem was down. Thank you Comcast! I toned things down once this morning before I discovered my car was frozen shut, and then toned it back up again when I arrived at work an hour late only to discover that Blogger was down. So, I may be projecting just a bit.