Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Note
So who was that un-masked girl dressed in her bikini?
My ex thought that that was my new girlfriend and therefore she felt "sorry" for me. Whatever.
The truth? She was a paid model. But the idea I'm trying to put forth to you is that girls love my art soooo much that they're willing to strip for me. Everyone needs a dream.
My ex thought that that was my new girlfriend and therefore she felt "sorry" for me. Whatever.
The truth? She was a paid model. But the idea I'm trying to put forth to you is that girls love my art soooo much that they're willing to strip for me. Everyone needs a dream.
Friday, September 28, 2007
YM Retreat in Brooklyn: Pat Your Back Say Hey
New/Old YM Jackson West is throwing a party Saturday afternoon that I hope goes far into the evening. Drop him a line if you're interested. I plan to get there on the late side. First I'll be teaching 3rd-6th graders the basics of blogging at the Hamilton Fish Rec Center for a Computer Creations project through New York Cares. Someone has to preserve this site's legacy.
Balk Conquers All Media with His Missive Cock
At the end of every school year, plebes at the Naval Academy check their Throckmorton Sign as a throbbing throng of thrusterfucks and attempt to scale a greased 21-foot monument in a rite of passage to the next class. It's good fun, a lot of sloppy and approximately as gay as it sounds. Just look at all the seamen covering the pole; that, whitey pants, is Navy Life.
Blogging has its rituals too, many of them even gayer, but anthropomorphizing one's cock, an old gag in frat comedy circles, dude hangouts and Mary Renault historical novels, was at once elevated and perfected by Alex Balk at Gawker.
When he accepted an editorial position at the venereal blogging institution, we had great hopes for the proud and sole member of the influential blog, The Minor Fall The Major Lift. We used to hang on his every word, not unlike a tug job video. Well, that Alex Balk never showed up for work at Gawker (not in Atlantic City either, I checked) but the one who did fought his way through one unprepared managing editor and one successor who must have crushed his spirit with mass-raping exclamation.
He turned, like most good men in despair, downward to the drawstring of his sweatpants and unleashed a monster on the New York media world - a place where the straight white male had long lost his voice and desperately needed to regain his place with a big swinging dick metaphor. We had given too much to the women and the gays in our press rooms and more so to the ones in blog towers serving lookout. But now we had Balk's Cock to groggily poke them all in the back at sunrise to say "get up you hunka-hunkas, time to play!"
Misogynistic undertones? Nah, dude's too learned for that and you clearly didn't get the joke if you tried to read that far into it. "Mommy likes!" was the general consensus and Gawker readers were delighted to be sprayed with the bounty of his Cock. Like the first ten rows of a Gallagher show, commenters showed up everyday in raincoats and plastic covering for Balk's watered-up melon squishings. As Dennis Miller once riffed, "We're part of it, man!"
Plus, who had time to ponder the pounding of clumsy feminist theory when Balk's Cock was getting squeezed daily through Julia Allison's Rump and Sklar's Rack? It was -- still is, always will be -- pure solid gold, the kind that passes the bite test, to those looking for an honest voice from a largely disingenuous medium. Because let's be real, it takes a dick to speak the truth and slap its salacious smile back to silly.
We dare say he rode that motherloaded fucker all the way to blogging glory on one wheel and two tanks of ass. So what's at the end of the Gawker Rainbow? You hope a pot of pot if you're Emily Gould, but Balk astro-slides into Radar Magazine, head first of course. Presumably he'll get Remy Stern's old desk, a musky coffin filled with Matt Haber love notes. We congratulate him, it's a great move. Actually, any shtick-n-move away from the Gawker trailer park is a great move but we have a genuinely high opinion of Radar and never shied from spit-shining Maer's horn.
As far as post-Gawker careers go, he could have done worse...but also better. Balk has a grasp of comedic dialogue and parodic twists that is unique among his peers, which led us to wager bets he would eventually land a gig as a television writer. The Daily Show, Colbert Report, 30 Rock, Greta Van Susteren or any number of scripted reality shows. We're still holding our breath, just in case.
Gawker alum have helped make shining examples of the new New York magazine and New York Observer -- oddly, no thanks to Elizabeth Spiers/Choire Sicha, the first Gawkers to roll in greener pastures, then become weeds at their respective pubs and now blow aimlessly in after (and return!) Gawker life. With a nod to Neel Shah as well, Radar will be no exception to the list.
We toast Alex Balk and his fading pet cock, may it always be remembered as something more than a fad. Just play it safe or the Jews will make sure to re-attach you with foreskin thick enough to sustain a gay Iranian bombing, which is probably a good thing considering your new boss.
Blogging has its rituals too, many of them even gayer, but anthropomorphizing one's cock, an old gag in frat comedy circles, dude hangouts and Mary Renault historical novels, was at once elevated and perfected by Alex Balk at Gawker.
When he accepted an editorial position at the venereal blogging institution, we had great hopes for the proud and sole member of the influential blog, The Minor Fall The Major Lift. We used to hang on his every word, not unlike a tug job video. Well, that Alex Balk never showed up for work at Gawker (not in Atlantic City either, I checked) but the one who did fought his way through one unprepared managing editor and one successor who must have crushed his spirit with mass-raping exclamation.
He turned, like most good men in despair, downward to the drawstring of his sweatpants and unleashed a monster on the New York media world - a place where the straight white male had long lost his voice and desperately needed to regain his place with a big swinging dick metaphor. We had given too much to the women and the gays in our press rooms and more so to the ones in blog towers serving lookout. But now we had Balk's Cock to groggily poke them all in the back at sunrise to say "get up you hunka-hunkas, time to play!"
Misogynistic undertones? Nah, dude's too learned for that and you clearly didn't get the joke if you tried to read that far into it. "Mommy likes!" was the general consensus and Gawker readers were delighted to be sprayed with the bounty of his Cock. Like the first ten rows of a Gallagher show, commenters showed up everyday in raincoats and plastic covering for Balk's watered-up melon squishings. As Dennis Miller once riffed, "We're part of it, man!"
Plus, who had time to ponder the pounding of clumsy feminist theory when Balk's Cock was getting squeezed daily through Julia Allison's Rump and Sklar's Rack? It was -- still is, always will be -- pure solid gold, the kind that passes the bite test, to those looking for an honest voice from a largely disingenuous medium. Because let's be real, it takes a dick to speak the truth and slap its salacious smile back to silly.
We dare say he rode that motherloaded fucker all the way to blogging glory on one wheel and two tanks of ass. So what's at the end of the Gawker Rainbow? You hope a pot of pot if you're Emily Gould, but Balk astro-slides into Radar Magazine, head first of course. Presumably he'll get Remy Stern's old desk, a musky coffin filled with Matt Haber love notes. We congratulate him, it's a great move. Actually, any shtick-n-move away from the Gawker trailer park is a great move but we have a genuinely high opinion of Radar and never shied from spit-shining Maer's horn.
As far as post-Gawker careers go, he could have done worse...but also better. Balk has a grasp of comedic dialogue and parodic twists that is unique among his peers, which led us to wager bets he would eventually land a gig as a television writer. The Daily Show, Colbert Report, 30 Rock, Greta Van Susteren or any number of scripted reality shows. We're still holding our breath, just in case.
Gawker alum have helped make shining examples of the new New York magazine and New York Observer -- oddly, no thanks to Elizabeth Spiers/Choire Sicha, the first Gawkers to roll in greener pastures, then become weeds at their respective pubs and now blow aimlessly in after (and return!) Gawker life. With a nod to Neel Shah as well, Radar will be no exception to the list.
We toast Alex Balk and his fading pet cock, may it always be remembered as something more than a fad. Just play it safe or the Jews will make sure to re-attach you with foreskin thick enough to sustain a gay Iranian bombing, which is probably a good thing considering your new boss.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Police on my back
Apparently the white man can't harrass his ex or drink on the roof of his Bushwick loft without the Polizei getting all up in his business. In the first case, this modern-day Papillon was questioned about a complaint filed by his ex and subsequently dragged to the Tombs because he had an outstanding warrant for a ticket he never paid. (The ticket in question: Riding a bicycle on the sidewalk. Who knew the cops actually bothered with those?) Lesson learned: Pay your tickets or risk spending 36 hours in jail with only a bagel, a cup of coffee, and a slice of pizza to tide you over. Now he grasps what the noble savages experience every day. This tyranny will not stand, brothers! Do you hear the people sing?The second guy in question is crying because the cops came and took his beers away, all because some lousy church complained that he was throwing bottles at them or something, man. We can all relate.
My sympathies can extend only so far, however, because I have a bigger concern right now: the unjust persecution of Ed and Elaine Brown, a millionaire militia couple who refuse to pay their 1.9 mil in back taxes because, as any properly informed patriot knows, there's no law that says we have to pay federal income taxes.* The government doesn't want us to be free, though, so there's been this ongoing sorta-siege at the compound in Plainfield, NH. (New Hampshire, for those of you who don't know, is the Idaho/Montana of New England, a place where you can buy fireworks in hospital gift shops.) The chickens have come home to roost, people! We have another Waco on our hands.**
Those of you in the NY metro area might be wondering, "Why should I care? What does this have to do with me? Because they're coming for YOUR PIPE BOMBS too! (NB, JDL readers.) Look. If one white man isn't free, none of us are.
The Clash, White Riot
*And also: The Nazis want to kill everyone.
**BTW, I can't think of a better PR move than to invite Randy Weaver over for a brainstorming session.
YouTube's Non-Profit Push
YouTube launched a Non-Profit Program today and asked the Y to be one of the featured partners. We've had a YouTube channel for about a year and this gives us more visibility and customization features to play with. We'll be on the front page, near the bottom, through the afternoon and while I don't think we quite compete with polar bears, Kanye West or women of Darfur, it's an honor to be in the company of such great causes.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Shrinking Violet: Don't Hate the Player...
Just a few things been runnin' through my head. Couldn't bring myself to go with the easy Brett Ratner jokes after he showed up in class (or whine about Gawker not posting my stalker item). Had ideas for dissertations on either "conspicuous procreation" or "the implosion of white flight," but after last week's post, I felt they were on the dry side (though I reserve the right to get back to them in the future). I also thought about writing something just for my new BFF Sterling about just how narcissistic I really am, but if my mother taught me anything, it's not to feed the trolls.
I have to be in class at 8:00 am for, of all things, an introduction to journalism. Attendence is mandatory! You must meet deadlines! And you will not misspell names! Which, of course, as a semi-professional scribbler, are all three things that I'm really, really bad at. I bet Andrea Peyser and Michael Goodwin meet all their deadlines and spell all their names right (or at least have people for that).
What's a blogger to do? Cry into a five dollar copy of the Sunday Times, I guess. While keeping a few months ahead of their technology coverage and wondering why I bother reading cultural, culinary and couture coverage about shit I'll never be able to afford, of course. Oh, and undercutting their entire business model. There is that.
Read more...Best required reading [PDF] of the class by far has been A.J. Liebling. The four more chapters of John Stuart Mill staring me in the face tonight (and conflicting with my promise to turn in a post to my employer) don't inspire quite the way he does. I can't count the number of times my parents reminded me that "Freedom of the press is guaranteed only to those who own one" as they cranked out revolutionary socialist literature on the mimeograph in the basement.
Rather quaint when he worries about media consolidation back in the day when New York had nine dailies, some of which probably ran in multiple editions throughout the day. Good times. And while this whole freedom to publish online thing could come to an end (or at least have the level of the playing field generously tipped) if the telcos have their way, I see little difference between being self-absorbed, transparently subjective and a touch salacious in pixels instead of print.
Or thorough, accurate and objective, if that's your thing -- I'm not here to judge. I was always more process oriented than goal oriented. Being a red with no cadre, I'm pretty used to being considered inconsequential. I'm probably most comfortable, when pissing into the wind. Filling the boss's content coffers for free when I could be getting paid to write or attending to mah edumecation is practically homeostasis, physiologically. Psychologically, well, let's just say I haven't seen a therapist since I left 'Frisco.
So until next week, by which time I hope the haters have figured out how to filter me out of their RSS feeds with Yahoo Pipes. Because I'd hate to be the guy who turns people away from penises, poetry and the sublime blend of bikini-clad models and rogue taxidermy.
I have to be in class at 8:00 am for, of all things, an introduction to journalism. Attendence is mandatory! You must meet deadlines! And you will not misspell names! Which, of course, as a semi-professional scribbler, are all three things that I'm really, really bad at. I bet Andrea Peyser and Michael Goodwin meet all their deadlines and spell all their names right (or at least have people for that).
What's a blogger to do? Cry into a five dollar copy of the Sunday Times, I guess. While keeping a few months ahead of their technology coverage and wondering why I bother reading cultural, culinary and couture coverage about shit I'll never be able to afford, of course. Oh, and undercutting their entire business model. There is that.
Read more...Best required reading [PDF] of the class by far has been A.J. Liebling. The four more chapters of John Stuart Mill staring me in the face tonight (and conflicting with my promise to turn in a post to my employer) don't inspire quite the way he does. I can't count the number of times my parents reminded me that "Freedom of the press is guaranteed only to those who own one" as they cranked out revolutionary socialist literature on the mimeograph in the basement.
Rather quaint when he worries about media consolidation back in the day when New York had nine dailies, some of which probably ran in multiple editions throughout the day. Good times. And while this whole freedom to publish online thing could come to an end (or at least have the level of the playing field generously tipped) if the telcos have their way, I see little difference between being self-absorbed, transparently subjective and a touch salacious in pixels instead of print.
Or thorough, accurate and objective, if that's your thing -- I'm not here to judge. I was always more process oriented than goal oriented. Being a red with no cadre, I'm pretty used to being considered inconsequential. I'm probably most comfortable, when pissing into the wind. Filling the boss's content coffers for free when I could be getting paid to write or attending to mah edumecation is practically homeostasis, physiologically. Psychologically, well, let's just say I haven't seen a therapist since I left 'Frisco.
So until next week, by which time I hope the haters have figured out how to filter me out of their RSS feeds with Yahoo Pipes. Because I'd hate to be the guy who turns people away from penises, poetry and the sublime blend of bikini-clad models and rogue taxidermy.
Muldoon: The Pontoon Poet
A mysterious commenter responds to Behrle's Muldoon musing and I think I know who this is but I'm not prepared to reach across the aisle for confirmation. Let's make it a straight up-or-down vote of approval. I abstain.
I disagree with nearly everything in the above post.
It's my right as a faithful YM sub to dissent -- toward everything but the pink (no arguing from the whitey with the Jeep beats -- boom, boom). The New Yorker is not a place to break new poets. That honor is reserved for the far stall of the Magician, where, in addition to AK leaving sonnets dedicated to his own unidentified young man with outstanding physical and intellectual attributes -- the bean burrito molder across the street -- new, break-through verse from the underground can be found. Zines be damned. The avant-garde shits on the glass of the Xerox those rags are created with.
The New Yorker is for the establishment. Sure, hip young things like John Updike and Seymour M. Hersh chose to grace its pages rather than, say, Vice, but they're the exception, not the rule. The real cool kids sub to such out-there, outre pubs like Chicago, Poetry, and Verse. (Mono speaks louder than deadpan.) Kidding. The cool kids are too busy fucking. Poetry is for wankers who think being puked on by Buk is an honor. If he duked on you, I'd agree.
Just know your venue, that's what I'm saying. Despite how much it's really where he deserves to be, you wouldn't look for Bansky in Highlights for Children.
Poet Boreate | 09.26.07 - 11:39 am
Meeting the Mets
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Muldoon Blooms
Affable Floppy Bunny Poet Paul Muldoon has sent Wicked Witch of Midtown Poetry Alice Quinn packing. The New Yorker has decided to switch Poetry Editor horses this Fall as Quinn goes out to pasture and now Muldoon is handed the distinct honor of placing 3 poems on pages instead of cartoons. A tall honor--to survey all that World Poetry has to offer and then put up the work of 2 pals and a New Yorker intern that someone is banging.
Poetry is the least popular of all in the New Yorker's bag of tricks, coming in somewhere after ads and Yeah Yeah Yeahs' reviews. And Ms. Quinn had iron-fisted her way to a very forgettable legacy of publishing poems that vaguely had something to do with water or were written by people who were born in Poland. The New Yorker publishes bad poems by famous writers and that will no doubt continue. Muldoon seems to favor the goofy over the italicized, something he and I *do* agree upon. And I think Paul Violi and Jennifer L. Knox should be in the New Yorker at least once a month, I do. Sharon Olds has a rifle in her mouth right now, no doubt.
My fondness for fucking with Alice Quinn knew few bounds, and I am sorry to see her go if only because she was an easier target than a pickle in a martini glass (and because she was always fairly good-sporty about it, at least to me). For how she dredged up lost Elizabeth Bishop's half-written poems and published them for all the world to shrug at we should forever be grateful. My favorite recent tale of New Yorker poetry's low standards was that when Ashbery's then-assistant alerted him to another requested poem from the monocled mag Obfuscation's Elder Statesman went to the rubbish and uncrinkled a no-doubt-classic piece from the wastebasket. No doubt many other poets dug deep to find the perfect poem to go unread on their glossy pages.
I pour a 40 ounce lemonade on the grave of Quinn's poetic taste and look forward to Muldoon's reign if only because he looks like he'd make a great cartoon character and you ought to stay tuned here to see how that might turn out.
Monday, September 24, 2007
FiDi Sense: Don't Yell Stop
Speculators take note, there is still incredibly cheap and vacant space in New York City. It's in the Curbed.com newsroom! Act quick before editors fill the rest of it with more content from Brian Van. All shelf-life depreciating jokes aside, we think this comment is exceptional.
#1-#105:
me? born, raised, still living in manhattan and will be till the day i die, unless my dick goes limp before then. i'm a stay-at-home estate planner (my own) and i'll never apologize for that but i will throw everyone a boner by letting you know that i also get a criminal amount of barely legal pussy. sublime trim rates. i'm not sorry about that either.
do you know who worries about real estate economics? poor people. fuck you all. please leave my city.
By my other father is a record producer at September 24, 2007 1:37 AM
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Slow Blogging Transylvania: Here's Where the Stringers Come In
View from the Braşov "Hollywood sign": I should note that even the stray dogs smoke in Romania, probably because it's still an affordable pastime.
The Edge Of The Forest - "Hore: Cine m-o Dat Dorului"
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
How do you like your blue-eyed boy, Mr. Death?
I slacked off this past week. Can I blame the Jewish holidays? Anyhow, I posted over on metafilter about the best Republican-gay-sex-lustmurder you haven't heard about and the assclowns are on my jock. Anyhow, I found the above video of Harry Crews on the Dennis Miller Show. I'm sure you'll hate that too.
The Hard Feelings, You're Not Gonna Like It
Shrinking Violet: Never Pay Retail
My father, while visiting during my first attempt at undergraduate achievement, sagely pointed out that in New York, class is literally worn on your back. On the left coast, class is about what you drive or the manse you maintain. Since the vast majority of New Yorkers have neither cars nor manses, conspicuous consumption manifests in the cut and color of your trendy couture and the labels you'll whore for.
Hence, when I arrived for this extended stay, all I brought was a laptop and a bag full of socks, underwear and the cream of my tee crop. My one extravagance with the balance of my Sallie Mae loan was going to be clothes. So if I've come off as some sort of breeder Blackwell the last couple of weeks at YM, it's because I've keeping a keen eye on the latest looks around town. And true to form, the non-conformists are the most thoroughly conformed of the lot.
Since I can't help but see the geopolitical in absolutely everything, I've come to some conclusions that connect two New York City passions that wouldn't normally be seen in a room together -- menswear aficionados and sustainability nuts. There's little in this world I like more than to dress down hypocritical pretensions to liberalism by moderate Democrats, so to all you trucker hat-wearing environmentalists who've friended Obama on Facebook that would scoff at someone showing up to one of the boss's favored hipster revues in a DKNY 3/4 coat, I'd like to present an argument that the truly radical should embrace the conservatively tailored suit.
Read more...Fashion is almost the apotheosis of consumer capitalism. It's no coincidence that the first fashion magazines began to appear around the time of the American and French revolutions, when the bourgeoisie took the reigns of power. Fashion trends create demand for otherwise excess supply. That calico coat that was sooo 1787 would have kept you plenty warm, and already coordinated so nicely with your breeches, but who would proffer their dance card at one of Madison's balls to someone so out of touch with current styles?
Fast forward to post-industrial capitalism, where disposable culture and cheap developing world labor are wreaking havoc on everything from good taste to third world economies. The rococo embellishments on that screen printed hoodie from a boutique in Hollywood are a form of planned obsolescence. They are a way of writing on a piece of clothing otherwise serviceable for years a destiny that ends in the global south where it will serve to undermine traditional handcrafts such as textile manufacture and tailoring. And while containers ships full of cast-offs from the first world steam south, Kente Cloth, Batik prints and ancient Aztec weaving fly north in the carry-on bags of tourists.
Right here at home, walking down to the local cupcakery run by an investment banking dropout with a law degree in one of your dozens of pairs of wildly colorful sneakers to go with that knockoff Vuitton a la Takeshi Murakami means that you're singing the notes of actual craftsmanship horrifically off-key. The hipster-infested Lower East Side used to be full of skilled and dedicated tailors who could support an entire family on their labor. Where once there were haberdashers and hatters and cobblers, there are now underemployed petit-bourgeoisie with advanced degrees and drinking problems.
A well-tailored suit involves dozens of hours of skilled manual labor to create and maintain, but will last a lifetime. As will a pair of handcrafted leather shoes. And while the width of the tie or the gather of the waist might change, there is little difference in the sensibility of Jack Reed or Eugene Debs' taste and that of the mid-century modern Mad Men. And don't even try to tell me that your new media entrepreneurs in schwag tees, jeans and Crocs have a shred of the attractive dignity that once came with wearing a fitted suit.
Hence, those wishing to drop out of disposable culture aren't buying the recycled fashion mistakes the previous generation, but are carefully picking over thrift stores for cast-offs from Wall and Montgomery streets while they bide their time in the hopes of investing in something from Saville Row. Three piece worsted wool pinstripe suit at Salvation Army? $40. Alterations? $25. Value? Probably $800 at Brooks, new. And if I gain or lose a few inches, I take the suit and my money back to a family-run neighborhood business for another bout with confidently wielded pins and thread.
So the new revolutionary isn't wearing tie-dye under army surplus and flair from a range of ideological sects and identity politics groups, but a silk tie and matching pocket square. And the drape of his coat is as individual as the lines of your jeans are stereotypically a la mode. You can scurry from under the boot-heel of oppression in flats if you like, or you can get your own pair of boots. Speaking of which, can anyone get me the name of Fidel's tailor?
Hence, when I arrived for this extended stay, all I brought was a laptop and a bag full of socks, underwear and the cream of my tee crop. My one extravagance with the balance of my Sallie Mae loan was going to be clothes. So if I've come off as some sort of breeder Blackwell the last couple of weeks at YM, it's because I've keeping a keen eye on the latest looks around town. And true to form, the non-conformists are the most thoroughly conformed of the lot.
Since I can't help but see the geopolitical in absolutely everything, I've come to some conclusions that connect two New York City passions that wouldn't normally be seen in a room together -- menswear aficionados and sustainability nuts. There's little in this world I like more than to dress down hypocritical pretensions to liberalism by moderate Democrats, so to all you trucker hat-wearing environmentalists who've friended Obama on Facebook that would scoff at someone showing up to one of the boss's favored hipster revues in a DKNY 3/4 coat, I'd like to present an argument that the truly radical should embrace the conservatively tailored suit.
Read more...Fashion is almost the apotheosis of consumer capitalism. It's no coincidence that the first fashion magazines began to appear around the time of the American and French revolutions, when the bourgeoisie took the reigns of power. Fashion trends create demand for otherwise excess supply. That calico coat that was sooo 1787 would have kept you plenty warm, and already coordinated so nicely with your breeches, but who would proffer their dance card at one of Madison's balls to someone so out of touch with current styles?
Fast forward to post-industrial capitalism, where disposable culture and cheap developing world labor are wreaking havoc on everything from good taste to third world economies. The rococo embellishments on that screen printed hoodie from a boutique in Hollywood are a form of planned obsolescence. They are a way of writing on a piece of clothing otherwise serviceable for years a destiny that ends in the global south where it will serve to undermine traditional handcrafts such as textile manufacture and tailoring. And while containers ships full of cast-offs from the first world steam south, Kente Cloth, Batik prints and ancient Aztec weaving fly north in the carry-on bags of tourists.
Right here at home, walking down to the local cupcakery run by an investment banking dropout with a law degree in one of your dozens of pairs of wildly colorful sneakers to go with that knockoff Vuitton a la Takeshi Murakami means that you're singing the notes of actual craftsmanship horrifically off-key. The hipster-infested Lower East Side used to be full of skilled and dedicated tailors who could support an entire family on their labor. Where once there were haberdashers and hatters and cobblers, there are now underemployed petit-bourgeoisie with advanced degrees and drinking problems.
A well-tailored suit involves dozens of hours of skilled manual labor to create and maintain, but will last a lifetime. As will a pair of handcrafted leather shoes. And while the width of the tie or the gather of the waist might change, there is little difference in the sensibility of Jack Reed or Eugene Debs' taste and that of the mid-century modern Mad Men. And don't even try to tell me that your new media entrepreneurs in schwag tees, jeans and Crocs have a shred of the attractive dignity that once came with wearing a fitted suit.
Hence, those wishing to drop out of disposable culture aren't buying the recycled fashion mistakes the previous generation, but are carefully picking over thrift stores for cast-offs from Wall and Montgomery streets while they bide their time in the hopes of investing in something from Saville Row. Three piece worsted wool pinstripe suit at Salvation Army? $40. Alterations? $25. Value? Probably $800 at Brooks, new. And if I gain or lose a few inches, I take the suit and my money back to a family-run neighborhood business for another bout with confidently wielded pins and thread.
So the new revolutionary isn't wearing tie-dye under army surplus and flair from a range of ideological sects and identity politics groups, but a silk tie and matching pocket square. And the drape of his coat is as individual as the lines of your jeans are stereotypically a la mode. You can scurry from under the boot-heel of oppression in flats if you like, or you can get your own pair of boots. Speaking of which, can anyone get me the name of Fidel's tailor?
Your Wonderbra World of Disney Was Just a Make-Over Away
I hope you are enjoying YM's latest incarnation as an events calendar. Here's today's hotness!
Wednesday, September 19th, 2007The kids over at Dr. Frank's place are requesting "Hey Emily" but if he's gonna go the Alcatraz route, I suggest "Naomi" (lyrics) for its punch, bomp and circumstance. It also happens to be the unofficial Jezebel theme song, as determined by me this morning.
FREE SHOW
Rooftop Films and The Independent Feature Project present
Sneak Previews from the IFP Narrative Rough Cut Lab
8:30 - Live music by the legendary Dr. Frank of the Mr. T Experience
9:00 - Movies Begin
10:00 - Reception with $3 Brooklyn Beer at Hi Fi
Venue: On the lawn at Open Road Park
Address: E. 12th Street between 1st Avenue & Avenue A
In the event of rain the show is indoors at the same location.
Mr. T Experience - "Naomi"
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Days of Aw Yeah
BY BRIANVAN AT 09/14/07 04:10 PMThe lesson? It probably has something to do with Karl Popper and Plato's Cratylus but what the fuck do I know? I went to a land grant university. While it's way past expiration for Choire and the rest of Gawker to achieve the same, they can at least learn from Balk who wisely hides his dignity in one of those shit-filled pillowcases and wouldn't dare come out to acknowledge a pencil-stabbing detractor with subtle or sharpened points.
Awards are for people who need awards.
Assholes like me don't need recognition to be a smug hungover motherfucker who thinks you can all suck my dick in a clown suit if you really want to make me laugh. If I were in charge I wouldn't just execute all of you, I'd find your houses and shit in your pillowcases. And fuck your sisters.
Don't bother to give me an award, I'd just send an indian to pick it up.
BY CHOIRE AT 09/14/07 04:14 PM
@BrianVan: "Assholes like me don't need recognition to be a smug hungover motherfucker"
Wow, Brian Van achieved self awareness only days later than Britney Spears did. Mazel tov.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Silver Jew + Heavy Metal Jr.
If I didn't have SAT Tutor training tonight, I'd be middle to back row for "An intimate portrait of reclusive poet/musician David Berman and his band the Silver Jews" and "Hatred, a heavy metal band from Scotland whose average age is 11."
Monday, September 17 @ 7pm. FREE.
Barbés, 376 9th St (at Sixth Ave)
Park Slope, Brooklyn
The Eventual Return to Fatblogging
Dumpster Divine: On the outskirts of a Roma community behind the Eliana Mall in Braşov.
Pinhead Gunpowder - "Beastly Bit"
Previously: Taxi-a-Yo-Yo and Back to Basics
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Great World of Sound
Reading blogs on a Sunday? Of course you are! When you're done "mashing up" presidential "debates" and "diagnosing" Britney Spears' "mental" condition, here are two "non-blog" activity picks: 1) 92nd Street Y Street Festival. I'll be working a video booth to record anyone's New York stories, etc. 2) Great World of Sound. Amazing film. Go today. About the story:
Song Sharking is a pervasive music industry scam. A fly-by-night company places ads in newspapers luring aspiring musicians to an audition. At the audition the Song Shark tries to sign the musician whether they're good or bad. He then skips town with the money leaving the musician with little or nothing in return.Presumably, those who didn't end up on the cutting room floor were then paid for their appearance or at least got their bus fare back.
To illustrate the tactics of this scam, this film was broken into two parts: a conventional narrative and a more reality-style approach. The story is a traditional tale following two characters as they audition would-be musicians. However, instead of casting actors to play these musicians, advertisements were placed in local newspapers enticing genuine musical acts to try out- just like the shady company does in the story.
The result: real people performed in the audition scenes without knowing it was actually a film shoot. With hidden cameras, the interaction was recorded between the lead actors and the unsuspecting musicians. This documentary-style process was integrated into the final narrative, creating a unique blend of fact and fiction that will expose audiences to the dubious nature of all "undiscovered talent" schemes.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Civic Dusk
Last Sunday, rolling eventide in the final hours of the Yorktown Grange Fair with a little Johnny Winter to end the summer.
The Techcrunch40 Took My Baby Away
iPod baby clothes from iPop My Baby
Related: Nick Denton & Dave Winer Plotting in Berkeley? [the IT blog]
Supersnazz - "Baby Love"
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Michael Showalter: Quirkin' His Chicken
I woke up early this morning, the hour was not ungodly but my faith in the body's natural restorative powers was a little shaken. Still feeling the fuzzy edges of a L'Shana Tova food coma (courtesy of Ariel Beery and his white-clothed Shamanistic family) and no longer aroused from The Library's showing of a Japanese bikini girl gang movie (not exactly courtesy of Eli Valley but I think he helped set the mood by not offering to buy a 2nd round of drinks), I decided to pass dawn's early blight with an advance copy of Michael Showalter's debut comedy album "Sandwiches & Cats" on JDub Records.
Now I'm in a utility bathtub covered in honey, pieces of abortive red fruit (don't eat the skin! it's like chocolate to dogs or something) in my hair, apple slices just out of bad back's reach, past second-guessing my mention of Abe Foxman and the ADL's Armenian Genocide denial at last night's dinner (I think I made a British guy cry), realizing now that my "chai tech" remark was not original, but with a little help from Michael Showalter I'm ready to welcome the new year. Happy or not, here we come.
Review: I laughed and punched my pillow through the whole CD. It's quirky!
Now I'm in a utility bathtub covered in honey, pieces of abortive red fruit (don't eat the skin! it's like chocolate to dogs or something) in my hair, apple slices just out of bad back's reach, past second-guessing my mention of Abe Foxman and the ADL's Armenian Genocide denial at last night's dinner (I think I made a British guy cry), realizing now that my "chai tech" remark was not original, but with a little help from Michael Showalter I'm ready to welcome the new year. Happy or not, here we come.
Review: I laughed and punched my pillow through the whole CD. It's quirky!
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Shrinking Violet: Style and Structure
Alright, since my last post had about as much coherence as one of the boss's more opaque exercises in allusive prose poetry and as sharp a point as a ball-peen hammer, I figure I'll go with a series of short items a la San Francisco's hero of fishwrappery Herb Caen (who, according to my favorite living but now non-practicing local gossip columnist was not necessarily the nicest of guys -- but great to read nonetheless). And in a further nod to our ink-fingered foremothers, what follows is link-free.
What is it about shade trees and a wall of brownstones under a warm sun that's so aesthetically compelling? All the more compelling when for the first day I could enjoy them with eyes clear of Summer's sweaty, humid haze...Amidst a group of nerds klatching at a local startup last night, the conversation turned to singularity -- the great melding of man and machine eagerly anticipated by the likes of Ray Kurzweil and the family Wachowski -- but in the debate over hippies versus geeks and who would save humanity, all I could think was, "I hope our meatbag free existence means an end to honkies with fauxlocks."
Read more...Speaking of fashion victimhood, what's with galoshes? During our little rainy spell, a sudden bloom of women shod like some sort of New Wave Paddington Bear emerged from the ground. I even saw a man wearing rubbers like a pig in shit matching them with a dashiki in some sort of pile-up on the fashion cycle turnpike...Gents, don't bother with the Salvation Army on West 8th, I picked it over last week and there hasn't been a new shipment since. But ladies, I saw someone drop off three pairs of Manolos while checking out last time...Waiting at the bookstore to return a mistaken purchase, I found myself behind an obvious case of late-stage anorexia nervosa, including the distinctive "fur," which is not something I remember from my first four years of undergraduate study. Now that's truly tragic.
During a class Q&A with Ezra Sacks, a scribbler behind such hits as the Goldie Hawn vehicle Wildcats, I asked, "What's with the cliche that no one in Hollywood reads? Do they all have people for that?" He blamed studio executives with motivations and interests beyond just making movies, but if you hand someone a script with Brad Pitt attached, "you can be damned sure they'll read it"...Did anyone besides the trendizens at Fashion Week notice the taxi strike? I was busy reading on the F train...Playing reporter on a story, I was thoroughly chastened by a woman at the East End Temple when I called looking for quotes from a rabbi the afternoon of Rosh Hashanah. Any suggestions on how a mishegoyim can atone for such a sin next week?
A friend recently remarked, "You know that your 'hood has been completely gentrified once you start seeing nannies." So I'll stop making fun of Park Slope -- at least they push their own kids around...Back to the left coast for a blindish item: Which web-enabled cultural phenomenon was seen dispensing black cock cakes on Curb Your Enthusiasm's season premiere?..And the only thing that came near to moving me to tears Tuesday was a theoretical physicist praising science and critical thinking as the only hope for the humanities. "Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"
If you've made it this far, your reward is one link. If you follow the allusion to its conclusion, yes, I'm comparing my current stay with the bittersweet time Willie Mays spent in a Mets uniform.
What is it about shade trees and a wall of brownstones under a warm sun that's so aesthetically compelling? All the more compelling when for the first day I could enjoy them with eyes clear of Summer's sweaty, humid haze...Amidst a group of nerds klatching at a local startup last night, the conversation turned to singularity -- the great melding of man and machine eagerly anticipated by the likes of Ray Kurzweil and the family Wachowski -- but in the debate over hippies versus geeks and who would save humanity, all I could think was, "I hope our meatbag free existence means an end to honkies with fauxlocks."
Read more...Speaking of fashion victimhood, what's with galoshes? During our little rainy spell, a sudden bloom of women shod like some sort of New Wave Paddington Bear emerged from the ground. I even saw a man wearing rubbers like a pig in shit matching them with a dashiki in some sort of pile-up on the fashion cycle turnpike...Gents, don't bother with the Salvation Army on West 8th, I picked it over last week and there hasn't been a new shipment since. But ladies, I saw someone drop off three pairs of Manolos while checking out last time...Waiting at the bookstore to return a mistaken purchase, I found myself behind an obvious case of late-stage anorexia nervosa, including the distinctive "fur," which is not something I remember from my first four years of undergraduate study. Now that's truly tragic.
During a class Q&A with Ezra Sacks, a scribbler behind such hits as the Goldie Hawn vehicle Wildcats, I asked, "What's with the cliche that no one in Hollywood reads? Do they all have people for that?" He blamed studio executives with motivations and interests beyond just making movies, but if you hand someone a script with Brad Pitt attached, "you can be damned sure they'll read it"...Did anyone besides the trendizens at Fashion Week notice the taxi strike? I was busy reading on the F train...Playing reporter on a story, I was thoroughly chastened by a woman at the East End Temple when I called looking for quotes from a rabbi the afternoon of Rosh Hashanah. Any suggestions on how a mishegoyim can atone for such a sin next week?
A friend recently remarked, "You know that your 'hood has been completely gentrified once you start seeing nannies." So I'll stop making fun of Park Slope -- at least they push their own kids around...Back to the left coast for a blindish item: Which web-enabled cultural phenomenon was seen dispensing black cock cakes on Curb Your Enthusiasm's season premiere?..And the only thing that came near to moving me to tears Tuesday was a theoretical physicist praising science and critical thinking as the only hope for the humanities. "Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"
If you've made it this far, your reward is one link. If you follow the allusion to its conclusion, yes, I'm comparing my current stay with the bittersweet time Willie Mays spent in a Mets uniform.
YM Staff Pick: The Sway Machinery
First, this is not Y-related at all, but as a judge on the Jewish-themed Six Points Fellowship music panel, I was most impressed by Jeremiah Lockwood of The Sway Machinery. He plays a free concert tonight with members of Antibalas, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Balkan Beat Box, Arcade Fire AND an open bar. Expect Jews, downtown music types, the cross-section and extension of people who are enticed by "free" anything.
Hidden Melodies Revealed--a celebration of Rosh Hashanah with Jeremiah Lockwood and The Sway Machinery
September 12, 10PM, Free
Angel Orensanz Foundation
172 Norfolk Street (between Houston and Stanton)
There will be an open bar from 9:45-11pm featuring Ardbeg Scotch and Greenpoint Wine courtesy of the Moet Hennessy Company.
More info here.
Related: Nextbook's Sara Ivry talks with Jeremiah about his music and grandfather, the legendary Cantor Jacob Konigsberg from Cleveland.
Hidden Melodies Revealed--a celebration of Rosh Hashanah with Jeremiah Lockwood and The Sway Machinery
September 12, 10PM, Free
Angel Orensanz Foundation
172 Norfolk Street (between Houston and Stanton)
There will be an open bar from 9:45-11pm featuring Ardbeg Scotch and Greenpoint Wine courtesy of the Moet Hennessy Company.
More info here.
Related: Nextbook's Sara Ivry talks with Jeremiah about his music and grandfather, the legendary Cantor Jacob Konigsberg from Cleveland.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Too soon?
Look, you can’t change the past and all the past that matters on this day is this: I went to Burning Man. No matter how you feel about that, it happened. The only thing left to consider is how to respond to it, how to mitigate the damage and perhaps even wring something positive out of it. We have to face reality. We can’t just pull out and pretend it never happened. Yes, my attendance at Burning Man 2007 is a long national nightmare that has changed the psyche of this blog. It was unexpected, out of character, even. And yet, there it is.
So where do we go from here? No matter your political leanings, my attendance at Burning Man 2007 is an issue we must deal with. Granted, the decision to purchase the tickets was a unilateral one and I take full responsibility for that. I didn’t consult with any of you, not even Krucoff. And yet in taking responsibility, I assume no accountability. I’d fire someone if I thought it would do any good. Hell, I’d fire myself. But that’s living in the past. It doesn’t matter how I got there, all that matters is what to do now that I’ve gone. Stop pointing fingers and get to work, that’s my mantra. Not really, but damn, it’s a good soundbite.
Some of you may be thinking that I should have known better than to attend Burning Man 2007, that it was obvious it would turn into a quagmire. My response to that is: I can’t predict the future, people. Sure, there have been other events in the past that Burning Man could be compared to. I’ve heard some of you invoke the horrors of Altamont and the lessons we learned on that tragic night. But come on, I was a barely a year old when that shit went down. Am I supposed to remember that? Or read about it in a history book? Preferably one with lots of pictures? I don’t have time for that kind of reflection. Ours is a time for action.
In closing, I’d like to offer up this glimpse of my time in the desert. (The real desert, not some candy-assed metaphorical one like 99 likes to pretend he is exiled to.) Goddamn, that looks like fun, doesn’t it? You all wish you could have been there now. I know. Let the storm in that picture represent the whirlwind of emotions you are experiencing on account of my revelation.
Burn-elujah, people.
So where do we go from here? No matter your political leanings, my attendance at Burning Man 2007 is an issue we must deal with. Granted, the decision to purchase the tickets was a unilateral one and I take full responsibility for that. I didn’t consult with any of you, not even Krucoff. And yet in taking responsibility, I assume no accountability. I’d fire someone if I thought it would do any good. Hell, I’d fire myself. But that’s living in the past. It doesn’t matter how I got there, all that matters is what to do now that I’ve gone. Stop pointing fingers and get to work, that’s my mantra. Not really, but damn, it’s a good soundbite.
Some of you may be thinking that I should have known better than to attend Burning Man 2007, that it was obvious it would turn into a quagmire. My response to that is: I can’t predict the future, people. Sure, there have been other events in the past that Burning Man could be compared to. I’ve heard some of you invoke the horrors of Altamont and the lessons we learned on that tragic night. But come on, I was a barely a year old when that shit went down. Am I supposed to remember that? Or read about it in a history book? Preferably one with lots of pictures? I don’t have time for that kind of reflection. Ours is a time for action.
In closing, I’d like to offer up this glimpse of my time in the desert. (The real desert, not some candy-assed metaphorical one like 99 likes to pretend he is exiled to.) Goddamn, that looks like fun, doesn’t it? You all wish you could have been there now. I know. Let the storm in that picture represent the whirlwind of emotions you are experiencing on account of my revelation.
Burn-elujah, people.
By Popular Demand: The Text Is Now Black
While I was getting "back to basics" with Roma kids in Brasov, Young Manhattanites were having the best week ever!
Maybe. Afterwards, he caught Fox's Red Eye for the first time and had another revelation: "Man, I've never seen that show until now. Horrendous. More importantly, Julia Allison's personality trumps her unbelieveable physical hotness. Does that mean I've grown up?"
I dunno, but somehow this unique assembly of miserable people (Red Eye, not Burning Man) manage to make suicide unfunny. Weird, right? That shit usually kills.
Monday, September 10, 2007
The Ecstasy of St. Krucoff
We've all been anxiously awaiting Krucoff's return. He's back, and he doesn't even have a mail-order bride in tow. (I lost $20 on that bet.) I'll be the first to commend him on his good works. But before he gets too high and mighty, I thought I'd offer him a little bit of perspective.
I studied many things in college, none of them practical. Ultimately I got my degree in art history from a less-than-stellar college (which, as 99 observed before he went out into the desert, is a bit like getting your law degree in prison). My thesis topic? The portrayal of Christ in medieval and Renaissance imagery. Fascinating subject, and let me tell you why: the devout were shithouse-rat crazy. Crazier even than today. And they were willing to go the extra mile--unlike charity workers these days, Krucoff. (You wouldn't know about that, though, because your people are too busy making matzoh out of Christian baby blood and bringing about the End Times.)
I'm a big fan not only of saints, but of mystics and ascetics (aka the second-string players) as well. Forthwith, my favorites*:
St. Maria Maddelena de' Pazzi had "raptures" and would shout out "wonderful maxims of Divine Love, and those counsels of perfection for souls, especially in the religious state."** She helped out the lepers, which was the cool thing at the time. Catherine of Siena also helped out the lepers, favoring the ones no one else would come near.
In addition to screaming and thrashing about, they also licked the lepers' open sores and putrid flesh,"wherever the pestiferous disease afflicted [them] the most." Yes! And also: They ate shit. And they walked around beating the hell out of themselves and everyone else. Suck it, GG Allin. (See also: Catherine of Bologna, St. Juliana)
I like St. Lucy and St. Agatha, because they were martyred in part by having their eyes gouged out and breasts cut off, respectively. (Holy Titclamps!)
Also notable: Christina the Astonishing because she supposedly subsisted solely on the Eucharist, and she could fly, and she went into the desert and survived on her own breast milk. (The Low Country saints and ascetics are the best and surely this is historical proof for why Scandinavian heavy metal is so much better than ours.)
And every one of these Gorgeous Ladies of Piety healed the terminally ill and turned vitamin pills into amphetamines.
In conclusion, this is what we call "comin' at ya big dick style" in contemporary parlance. So tell me, Krucoff, what have you done for me lately?
*Oh, and clicking on the following links isn't really necessary and will probably prove to bore you more.
**This reminds me of my neighbors. I wonder if Maria also kept her blinds open.
I studied many things in college, none of them practical. Ultimately I got my degree in art history from a less-than-stellar college (which, as 99 observed before he went out into the desert, is a bit like getting your law degree in prison). My thesis topic? The portrayal of Christ in medieval and Renaissance imagery. Fascinating subject, and let me tell you why: the devout were shithouse-rat crazy. Crazier even than today. And they were willing to go the extra mile--unlike charity workers these days, Krucoff. (You wouldn't know about that, though, because your people are too busy making matzoh out of Christian baby blood and bringing about the End Times.)
I'm a big fan not only of saints, but of mystics and ascetics (aka the second-string players) as well. Forthwith, my favorites*:
St. Maria Maddelena de' Pazzi had "raptures" and would shout out "wonderful maxims of Divine Love, and those counsels of perfection for souls, especially in the religious state."** She helped out the lepers, which was the cool thing at the time. Catherine of Siena also helped out the lepers, favoring the ones no one else would come near.
In addition to screaming and thrashing about, they also licked the lepers' open sores and putrid flesh,"wherever the pestiferous disease afflicted [them] the most." Yes! And also: They ate shit. And they walked around beating the hell out of themselves and everyone else. Suck it, GG Allin. (See also: Catherine of Bologna, St. Juliana)
I like St. Lucy and St. Agatha, because they were martyred in part by having their eyes gouged out and breasts cut off, respectively. (Holy Titclamps!)
Also notable: Christina the Astonishing because she supposedly subsisted solely on the Eucharist, and she could fly, and she went into the desert and survived on her own breast milk. (The Low Country saints and ascetics are the best and surely this is historical proof for why Scandinavian heavy metal is so much better than ours.)
And every one of these Gorgeous Ladies of Piety healed the terminally ill and turned vitamin pills into amphetamines.
In conclusion, this is what we call "comin' at ya big dick style" in contemporary parlance. So tell me, Krucoff, what have you done for me lately?
*Oh, and clicking on the following links isn't really necessary and will probably prove to bore you more.
**This reminds me of my neighbors. I wonder if Maria also kept her blinds open.
Song for Cati
This week we'll be lubricating the bar on boring self-important mediocrity and hanging our necks from it. Stay tuned for the usual.
A Hawk And A Hacksaw - "The Way The Wind Blows"
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Kermit The Blog, Cont.:
Wherein We Continue To Refuse To Make Mention of Fashion Week.
Wherein We Continue To Refuse To Make Mention of Fashion Week.
It's Thursday and Krucoff's reign of benign negligence shows no sign of abating. To fill the void, Mike Dobbins has been kind enough to let us grant an insight into the inner life of someone who took Manhattan long before YM even thought of coming to town. Let's watch:
June 5th, 2007
Martin will be released from the hospital this Friday. Piggy had a fit at Spiderman 3 in the movie chamber because I told Martin that my first boss was only 2 years older than me and that my first job was at a movie theater like this.... and that my boss's name was Jan. Piggy lost her mind over this verbal recollection... me telling Marvin about another woman, regardless of the context. Marvin choked on his nachos out of sheer terror when Piggy screamed 2 inches from my face then running out yelling at the audience. You haven't experienced anything like the scorn of Piggy and neither had Marvin. Luckily, a large man carried "my little brother" to an usher and then to the manager's office for CPR on account of my bad right arm. I have to have a sit down with the director of the Big Brother program on Wednesday to explain how I could have jeopardized Martin's welfare as a big brother supervisor. Luckily, Marvin's alright but not to sound callous, that doesn't solve the hospital bill issue. He's not insured by Big Brother and he obviously isn't covered by my HMO since he's not actual "kin".
Piggy's in hiatus aka at Rhoda's, her god-sister.... to strengthen "Hurricane Piggy". I am tired of cleaning up after the storms. I get angry when she mentions divorce, but the fiascos....they're piling up on my soul.
June 6th, 2007
No sign of P. No phone calls. No texts. No one's answering at Rhoda's. God forbid I drive over there.
What am I doing in this relationship? Robin's 18 and lives in Peoria with his girlfriend Staci. He's gone with a chance. Man what I wouldn't give to be able to start over and be in Robin's shoes. Of course I would want to know what I know now. Man this is a good song, "Thunderroad". I feel like "Thundertoad".
The front door lock has a key broke off in it. This time it is my fault. No, f that! Piggy's intolerable bullshit! Piggy's act outs! How much am I supposed to handle? I bought this house, that lock regardless of who I married and who's part owner by law. I can hear my sister now. Spinster! I love how people who've never been married love to tell you how to do it right. Lifetime network and a vibrator doesn't make you an expert on marriage. There's nothing in the fridge. Another Taco Bell night. Then some ice cream and chocolate bars from Walgreens. Then watch Robert DeNiro play a bounty hunter. Somebody's got to be a f'n man!
Tomorrow: Piggy needs a bail bond, and K. finds back to himself.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Shrinking Violet: Future Shock
Well, this may be my first and last post as a Young Manhattanite, since four nights living between the boss's sheets reminded me that a) the working class Lower East Side of my youth is no longer, b) the East Village has become stroller central (see: Hopscotch, nee Alt.Coffee) and c) I refuse to live uptown from Union Square for reasons that even I can't really explain. Plus, while no one else around here seems to mind, I'll be 31 by the time I leave, and I stopped feeling young ten years ago.
While I briefly considered a windowless cubbyhole in Chinatown, where the pegged jeans and white canvas loafer quotient was nearly nil, I ended up in Brooklyn where I don't have to put up with the drama induced by everyone playing out their The Factory fantasy where cocaine and bad haircuts are still considered cool. Maybe if I lure the boss out to my borough and ply him with beer he'll agree to let me continue posting from the comfort of my Carroll Gardens garden.
I'll still be making the milk delivery run on the F train to join actual Young Manhattanites in class at NYU three days a week. Yes, I'm "that guy," the thirty year old, fifth-year senior. A fucking film major, no less. And since I've gotten my homework done for physics class (good math prep for the GRE) and my reading done for Journalism 101 (I had to see how Jay Rosen was molding the curriculum), I've got some time to muse before getting back to real work.
Read more...First, for all you kids who have visions of becoming auteurs, give it up -- and if you don't believe me, believe the faculty, who told my class as much when I arrived thirteen years ago. The chances you'll be the next Martin Scorcese or Spike Lee came and went with Martin Scorcese and Spike Lee -- and the fact that introductory course Sight and Sound Film is still taught on 16mm black and white reversal film ("The same as when Marty took it!") makes it an annoyingly expensive throwback that will leave you wholly unprepared for an industry moving to digital much faster than the written word.
On the other hand, the chances that you'll become the next Brett Ratner, or at least one of his hacky minions, are still pretty good -- just set your sights on a job answering phones in a production office and a never-ending life of reminding industry types that you paid your $200,000 to join the old boy's network, and you may just make it in LA after all. But take it from me, the 'A' in 'BFA' is the closest you'll get to being an artist. Personally, I have a much more self-deprecatingly vulgar translation of that particular acronym.
Sitting in my first film class of the term, a single credit lecture series dedicated to giving graduating seniors tips on how to land a job in "the biz," I was struck at how frighteningly like my own senior class of ten years ago everyone looked -- only the slogans on the ironic tees and the cut of the designer jeans had changed. I have a feeling Grindhouse was as highly anticipated amongst the department this year as Pulp Fiction was in my day. The only hint of modernity was when the professor remarked, "I bet this class is already up on YouTube."
But you see, Tarantino and Rodriguez got their start by, you know, writing scripts and making movies, not working for free as interns on non-union shoots and sucking up to the producer of Chud II. It seems the best that the department has to offer is job security for the faculty -- while I figured that the sixties-era cameras would still be there, I didn't figure that I'd recognize the names and faces of almost every single professor on the staff from my tenure.
And it's not just the film department. I worry generally about what academia is teaching the youngsters when I use the fancy new "Blackboard" system on NYU's intranet to follow links to blog entries which I am required to print out and bring to class. The industrial-grade office laser printer at the Tisch Hall computer lab was working non-stop spitting out dead trees, surrounded by an anxious ring of half a dozen students awaiting hand-written notes scanned into PDFs, PowerPoint slides and assignments just as easily emailed as delivered by hand.
When this aging throwback to the days of using command line operating systems to access BBS systems with a Commodore 64 and an acoustic coupler modem is whining about the lack of technological sophistication at an American university, is it any wonder that the film and publishing industries are struggling to cope? I never thought I'd say this, but maybe those delusional optimists who think Silicon Valley will become a new media capital actually have a point. At least they never ask me to fire up a goddamn printer.
I digress -- this turned into a technology rant, when my goal is to introduce you into secret world of fresh-faced kids from the hinterlands with parent-backed credit cards and drug problems, like I was once upon a time. Though since I've opted out of the overpriced, overstuffed hell known as the NYU Housing system, the chances that I'll meet the modern equivalent to the ecstasy dealing club kids of the Peter Gatien-Michael Alig era I lived with back when are slim. Maybe I'll give Larry Clark a call and get some tips on how to infiltrate and sexualize the latest underage subculture for fun and profit.
While I briefly considered a windowless cubbyhole in Chinatown, where the pegged jeans and white canvas loafer quotient was nearly nil, I ended up in Brooklyn where I don't have to put up with the drama induced by everyone playing out their The Factory fantasy where cocaine and bad haircuts are still considered cool. Maybe if I lure the boss out to my borough and ply him with beer he'll agree to let me continue posting from the comfort of my Carroll Gardens garden.
I'll still be making the milk delivery run on the F train to join actual Young Manhattanites in class at NYU three days a week. Yes, I'm "that guy," the thirty year old, fifth-year senior. A fucking film major, no less. And since I've gotten my homework done for physics class (good math prep for the GRE) and my reading done for Journalism 101 (I had to see how Jay Rosen was molding the curriculum), I've got some time to muse before getting back to real work.
Read more...First, for all you kids who have visions of becoming auteurs, give it up -- and if you don't believe me, believe the faculty, who told my class as much when I arrived thirteen years ago. The chances you'll be the next Martin Scorcese or Spike Lee came and went with Martin Scorcese and Spike Lee -- and the fact that introductory course Sight and Sound Film is still taught on 16mm black and white reversal film ("The same as when Marty took it!") makes it an annoyingly expensive throwback that will leave you wholly unprepared for an industry moving to digital much faster than the written word.
On the other hand, the chances that you'll become the next Brett Ratner, or at least one of his hacky minions, are still pretty good -- just set your sights on a job answering phones in a production office and a never-ending life of reminding industry types that you paid your $200,000 to join the old boy's network, and you may just make it in LA after all. But take it from me, the 'A' in 'BFA' is the closest you'll get to being an artist. Personally, I have a much more self-deprecatingly vulgar translation of that particular acronym.
Sitting in my first film class of the term, a single credit lecture series dedicated to giving graduating seniors tips on how to land a job in "the biz," I was struck at how frighteningly like my own senior class of ten years ago everyone looked -- only the slogans on the ironic tees and the cut of the designer jeans had changed. I have a feeling Grindhouse was as highly anticipated amongst the department this year as Pulp Fiction was in my day. The only hint of modernity was when the professor remarked, "I bet this class is already up on YouTube."
But you see, Tarantino and Rodriguez got their start by, you know, writing scripts and making movies, not working for free as interns on non-union shoots and sucking up to the producer of Chud II. It seems the best that the department has to offer is job security for the faculty -- while I figured that the sixties-era cameras would still be there, I didn't figure that I'd recognize the names and faces of almost every single professor on the staff from my tenure.
And it's not just the film department. I worry generally about what academia is teaching the youngsters when I use the fancy new "Blackboard" system on NYU's intranet to follow links to blog entries which I am required to print out and bring to class. The industrial-grade office laser printer at the Tisch Hall computer lab was working non-stop spitting out dead trees, surrounded by an anxious ring of half a dozen students awaiting hand-written notes scanned into PDFs, PowerPoint slides and assignments just as easily emailed as delivered by hand.
When this aging throwback to the days of using command line operating systems to access BBS systems with a Commodore 64 and an acoustic coupler modem is whining about the lack of technological sophistication at an American university, is it any wonder that the film and publishing industries are struggling to cope? I never thought I'd say this, but maybe those delusional optimists who think Silicon Valley will become a new media capital actually have a point. At least they never ask me to fire up a goddamn printer.
I digress -- this turned into a technology rant, when my goal is to introduce you into secret world of fresh-faced kids from the hinterlands with parent-backed credit cards and drug problems, like I was once upon a time. Though since I've opted out of the overpriced, overstuffed hell known as the NYU Housing system, the chances that I'll meet the modern equivalent to the ecstasy dealing club kids of the Peter Gatien-Michael Alig era I lived with back when are slim. Maybe I'll give Larry Clark a call and get some tips on how to infiltrate and sexualize the latest underage subculture for fun and profit.
We haven't known each other for so long
But as a confidential to the boys who came here from Dealbreaker, I thought I'd sweeten the pot and post a video bonus from Wednesday's activities. Too hot for TV!
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Kermit The Blog.
Or: It's Tuesday and We'll Phone It In
If We Want To.
Or: It's Tuesday and We'll Phone It In
If We Want To.
The author in less conflicted times.
Krucoff's out, doing the right thing, as is his wont. In his absence, girl Dana has been charged with keeping our traffic within an acceptable range of measurable fractions. Word was there would be little more than what she could gin up (and maybe some dead animals, too) to keep you otherwise occupied this week. We decided to take the bait, but since we were too lazy to come up with anything original to say ourselves, we figured it would be easier to cull our favorite entries from the diary of one Kermit T. Frog. It is hoped that new YM Friend® Mike Dobbins will let this blatant rip slide.
June 1st, 2007
Piggy is sleeping upside down in the closet again. I've told her that she has to face the fact that we are not bats. I brought her coffee and a scone and tried to talk to her about her frustration with what kind of animal I am. She angrily said that it was no use talking since I did not have bat teeth or bat wings. She mentioned divorce and I just threw the scone and broke a picture of me, Robin, and Piggy fishing in Utah. I tried to cool down out on my backyard deck. I used to talk to Robin out there about Piggy. Shouldn't have fogged his mind with me and Piggy's disfunction. He was just a kid.
The market just hit 13,000 points. So officially, I'm a millionaire. I still feel like crap about Piggy.
June 4th, 2007
Just got back from Costco. I was in and out unusually quick. It was uncomfortably quiet in the store and that freaked me out. I called Piggy to see if we were still going to take Marvin to Spiderman 3. Marvin is in the Big Brother program which unless I forgot, entails a male mentor and a little guy...no Piggy. But because she doesn't trust me in front of other males when females come around, even concession stand attendants, she will be accompanying us. But I can drive to Costco and buy bulk Kotex (humiliating and embarrassing) f'ing up the whole Big Brother image thing. It really boils me up inside. I caught her with soo many.......what does it matter. She wins.
Off to watch Spiderman 3, whenever she gets home from Sears with whatever private verbal exchanges she harbors in her memories from her flirtatious encounters with appliance salesmen.
Tomorrow: Piggy acts out at the movies, while Kermit takes solace in the sweet, sweet sounds of The Boss.
While the Roma Children Sleep and Dream of Multiplication Tables and Toothbrushes
If it weren't for others (via email from YM's one regular reader, blog posts by Rex and LHB and oh yeah...THE VANITY GOOGLE ALERT on my unique enough last name) I would have missed this NY Times article:
Although I didn't say it in so many, or any, words, all I could think was "fuck you and your chance to get mentioned in the NY Times when they write about this groundbreaking magical punk rock blog book tour!!" Of course I don't really mean "groundbreaking" but goddamn, it did combine some unparalleled multimedia-ness at the time with a video trailer plus different MP3 audio readings and song clips accompanying a new Q&A each day. Screens practically exploded from the content excess.
The out-of-town replacement turned out to be the biggest boon for the tour because Largehearted Boy was probably the best fit for mixing music and books. Stereogum and Lindsay Robertson's Jane Mag guest blog were the others not mentioned above. (Ha, just realized the Jane one is gone now that the mag and its website are defunct. I guess I should back it up on YM at some point. And look, Lindsay's best bud John Green is on the cover of the King Dork UK edition.)
Well, thanks but no thanks to Warren St. John (I'm looking at your Bama RV and dude, it's dirty), it only took a year and a half for the Times to mention it.
Previously: King Dork I & II
But the results can be impressive. When Frank Portman, the frontman for the band the Mr. T Experience, published "King Dork" in 2006, he teamed up with Andrew Krucoff, a popular blogger, who created a video "trailer" about the book's main character, an alienated boy who dreams up imaginary bands, and asked Mr. Portman questions for a Q. and A. These files were posted on Web sites like Gawker, Largehearted Boy and BrooklynVegan, along with a recording of Mr. Portman reading from the book and performing songs he had written for it. The goal, Mr. Portman said, was to generate "links and Google-ability."Funny thing, when I originally organized the blog tour I had hoped a certain New York blog (oooh, can you guess which one? yes, that's right!) would be one of the participating sites -- I had tried to focus on people I knew locally -- but an initial "yes" was later followed by a kinda-assholish and ridiculously explained "no" at the last minute.
Although I didn't say it in so many, or any, words, all I could think was "fuck you and your chance to get mentioned in the NY Times when they write about this groundbreaking magical punk rock blog book tour!!" Of course I don't really mean "groundbreaking" but goddamn, it did combine some unparalleled multimedia-ness at the time with a video trailer plus different MP3 audio readings and song clips accompanying a new Q&A each day. Screens practically exploded from the content excess.
The out-of-town replacement turned out to be the biggest boon for the tour because Largehearted Boy was probably the best fit for mixing music and books. Stereogum and Lindsay Robertson's Jane Mag guest blog were the others not mentioned above. (Ha, just realized the Jane one is gone now that the mag and its website are defunct. I guess I should back it up on YM at some point. And look, Lindsay's best bud John Green is on the cover of the King Dork UK edition.)
Well, thanks but no thanks to Warren St. John (I'm looking at your Bama RV and dude, it's dirty), it only took a year and a half for the Times to mention it.
Previously: King Dork I & II
