Brilliant Guardian scribe Marina Hyde has one and two interesting things to say about the post-Cold War (now that Bush is out of office, we can declare it through) East today.
Feb 27, 2009
Party
Brilliant Guardian scribe Marina Hyde has one and two interesting things to say about the post-Cold War (now that Bush is out of office, we can declare it through) East today.
Lone Ranger
A few years ago, I was inadvertantly (items of clothing had been lost and replaced in the course of the day) dressed in this bonkers outfit with a purple mini fashioned out of a t-shirt and a neon yellow something on top and these peach platform flip-flops and my friend said, "You look like you're trying to prove a point."
Folk Art for This Weekend
Very limited back story: I know a chick whose grandmother dates this guy. She has Thanksgiving dinner with this gentleman. We should all aspire to do the same.
Feb 25, 2009
Tijuana Boob Job
Josh Freese, legendary drummer, who's played with The Vandals, Devo, Dweezil Zappa, Guns n' Roses, The Replacements, and, perhaps most perplexing, Sting, presents his manifesto on how the music industry can best hoist itself out of the gaping tunnel to Middle Earth it started digging in 1991.
This isn't the first time Freese has shown himself to be an intuitive, forward-thinking comrade. Here's a clip of his video diary from 2007.
And here, just for kicks, is a video tribute Freese composed for his friend Tommy Lee.
This isn't the first time Freese has shown himself to be an intuitive, forward-thinking comrade. Here's a clip of his video diary from 2007.
And here, just for kicks, is a video tribute Freese composed for his friend Tommy Lee.
Grant City Getdown
I've been feeling tropical lately. Maybe it's the lure of our soon-to-be neighborhood or maybe I'm just craving giant black cock but here's a dancehall throwback for Wednesday.
Keeping in line with much of the dirty, sexist, back of the school bus party jams of the early 90's, 'Heads High' by Mr. Vegas is an ode to hygienic oral sex. Girl, I don't know where that thing's been gettin' into.
Shake a move.
Keeping in line with much of the dirty, sexist, back of the school bus party jams of the early 90's, 'Heads High' by Mr. Vegas is an ode to hygienic oral sex. Girl, I don't know where that thing's been gettin' into.
Shake a move.
Let's Hear it For the W--
I really can't remember the last time I applauded a spread of pictures in a fashion magazine. This month's Steven Klein portfolio of Madonna (and her blue-eyed, 30-years-junior, ashamed-looking Latin lover, Jesus Luz) is damn fine. I love the lighting. I love the styling--Madge as we know her best: platinum hair and black eyebrows and prim and gothic lace and crosses and gloves and a rough and lean dancer's body and a general air of having come straight from a humid, Catholic country. No need for reinvention; this is essential.
Most. Jubilant. State of the Union. Ever.
The right side of the room was dazed and confused. Arlen Specter didn't even wear a suit. John McCain boiled. But lifted is the pall of Dick Cheney's sneer! I don't think Nancy Pelosi ever stopped smiling. The assembly spent most of the night on their feet, clapping, cheering, laughing, asking for autographs. And would you look at this room-workage: Obama winks at and then kisses Hillary Clinton. I'm pinching myself.
"Badly Done, Emma."
Another bit of newsies read over the shoulder of my neighbor in public transportation (and an example of the Paper of Record doing what it does better): evidently Bloomberg (Dowager Empress of Manahatta) has purchased most of the townhouse next door in order to build a little real estate monster, a proper mansion on E. 79th street. For a civilian billionaire, this would be the best moment to swoop in and buy up a much desired property from a cash-strapped seller. But for the billionaire who chooses to dabble in politics, this seems the worst worst kind of timing, just poor taste. Then again, the story reeks of journalistic digging and stirring, not so much "new" in "news." We've always known that M. B. lived in marble frieze. It's just that these days, it doesn't look so good. Our mini-guilded age is done, but a finance oligarch still rules City Hall. Can Koch run again?
Cholera
So, the internets version of this article lacks the breathtakingly tacky headline of the print version that I read over a girl's shoulder on the train this morning--Now in Brooklyn: The Nineteenth Century-- Earnest Vibe, Handcrafted Food, and Plenty of Facial Hair. It proves my theory that the New York Times, though still the Paper of Record in matters of business and politics and science and theater and so on, is blind and miserable in matters of trend. Being written up by these folks is the yuppie kiss of death. I like Brooklyn and beards and Olde New York and good restaurants, but now that the Times has invoked the "Now" and the "Vibe"--I'm feeling queasy and uncertain.
Feb 24, 2009
(Ugly) Verses
Tearful Atlanta Cops Express Remorse for Shooting 92-Year-Old Kathryn Johnston, Leaving Her To Bleed to Death in Her Own Home While They Planted Drugs in Her Basement, Then Threatening an Informant So He Would Lie To Cover It All Up
—Atlanta Journal Constitution headline, Tuesday February 24, 2009
Rooty
My recent rehash of the mid-nineties is not just about following up early nineties redux in an orderly manner; it's also about some serious middle school memory rambling. The other night I was in the midst of one of those brief, cursory conversations about how awful and damaging middle school can be. And word, it was brutal sometimes, but it also marked the beginning of a particular kind of experience--secret-keeping, in-cahoots-ing, cigarette-and-liquor-stealing, drop-me-off-at-the-mall-ing friendship. Sure, I have a criminal tendency toward rose-colored glasses, but I'm pretty sure Pillow and I had a good time shopping and staying up late and making up languages and rumors and generally trying to look older and cooler. I've previously touched on pop cultural stylings of that moment (stuff we gathered from MTV), but we, being wildly smart and sophisticated, spent a lot of the middle school middle nineties gearing up for the mad reduxing of the next millennium.
Although we were in a certain amount of isolation from burgeoning "hipster" ideas, we shopped vintage and generally became obsessed with the seventies and eighties in film and song. I recall a pair of dark denim late seventies Gitano jeans I loved to wear with my inherited seventies concert tees and a load of bright, big eighties and raver jewelry. After three years of art school, I hate to use the word "organic"; but I look back at that time, and think, we were organically finding this future style. We just knew that it was correct to look backward.
Pillow used to live across the street from me in a big, lovely, dark, haunted, Victorian house that was much easier to get lost in (lose parents in) than mine, which was lovely too, but bright and circular and sound-carrying. So it was the site of most of our ecstatic, sleepless sleepovers. I recall the day she first played Blondie for me. "Heart of Glass" positively blew our minds. I recall the day I brought over a copy of T. Rex's Electric Warrior. It was all new to us, a window onto tight glamorous and shabby clothes, slim, slow sliding, drugs, decadence, something totally removed from the pink and green we were presented with at school and club and such. (Though, I should note that a lot of this stuff came directly from our parents, not always the pink and green types. Por ejemplo, as a yout', Papa Able wrote for Creem.)
These days, those first redux loves are so much in the/our canon that I've been dismissive or disinterested. It's not like I've ever not loved them; I just get full of other stuff. But lately I've listened to "Life's a Gas" and been muy moved. I'm hearing Marc Bolan as I did in 1997, in Pillow's living room, as a damn revolution of a voice, as an aesthete hippie (just like us, a brother, a key). Below, I've included a performance from 1971(ish). And the color scheme is right in step with my memories of all those, much-posted-about middle nineties MTV images . . . hmmmm. Pillow and Able--endlessly onto something.
Although we were in a certain amount of isolation from burgeoning "hipster" ideas, we shopped vintage and generally became obsessed with the seventies and eighties in film and song. I recall a pair of dark denim late seventies Gitano jeans I loved to wear with my inherited seventies concert tees and a load of bright, big eighties and raver jewelry. After three years of art school, I hate to use the word "organic"; but I look back at that time, and think, we were organically finding this future style. We just knew that it was correct to look backward.
Pillow used to live across the street from me in a big, lovely, dark, haunted, Victorian house that was much easier to get lost in (lose parents in) than mine, which was lovely too, but bright and circular and sound-carrying. So it was the site of most of our ecstatic, sleepless sleepovers. I recall the day she first played Blondie for me. "Heart of Glass" positively blew our minds. I recall the day I brought over a copy of T. Rex's Electric Warrior. It was all new to us, a window onto tight glamorous and shabby clothes, slim, slow sliding, drugs, decadence, something totally removed from the pink and green we were presented with at school and club and such. (Though, I should note that a lot of this stuff came directly from our parents, not always the pink and green types. Por ejemplo, as a yout', Papa Able wrote for Creem.)
These days, those first redux loves are so much in the/our canon that I've been dismissive or disinterested. It's not like I've ever not loved them; I just get full of other stuff. But lately I've listened to "Life's a Gas" and been muy moved. I'm hearing Marc Bolan as I did in 1997, in Pillow's living room, as a damn revolution of a voice, as an aesthete hippie (just like us, a brother, a key). Below, I've included a performance from 1971(ish). And the color scheme is right in step with my memories of all those, much-posted-about middle nineties MTV images . . . hmmmm. Pillow and Able--endlessly onto something.
Feb 23, 2009
Assorted Colors: A Progression
Again with the 1996. I can't help it. I had a strong desire to watch the "Crush on You" video this afternoon. And, after some reflection, I decided that Lil' Kim's wigs directly affected Apple's late nineties design choices (like the candy-colored iMacs seen above, which were produced in 1998). This video also directly affected Pillow and me all the way to a beautiful stripper resale store called Betty's, a 6th grader's dream in fishnet, patent leather, glitter, fake hair and platform shoe. Watch and enjoy.
Chinese Democracy
I've only seen a few of these on the train, but each time, I've glared and glared. We should never stop printing and buying books, ever. Shame on you Amazon (plus, does anyone else think "kindle" sounds Third-Reichy?).
Happy Birthday, Loves!
I'm an astrologically consistent girl; my two best friends were both born on February 23rd--imagine that! This "virtual reality" video is a little much, but it's such a birthday song and it makes me think of both of yous. Love!
Feb 22, 2009
Break Time
Let's all prepare ourselves for the coming week with this precious little scene from 1988 surrealist triumph, The Bear.
Newsies
There have been rounds of recognizing big "High and Low" news lately, and in the wake of my mildly anti-NY posting about pink-colored melodrama and defecting to Virginia (and eighth grade) this morning, I had to recognize a very good thing about to happen within this city's limits. Pillow, Petrova, and myself are moving into a block and building with the most lyrical history and lobby in Flatbush (Flatbush!). From the Dutch to the Knickerbockers to young Barbara Streisand to absolute West India, our future home is an other-worldly thrill, old Brooklyn by way of the islands (with three bathrooms!). Luck abounds.
"How was your flight?—Fabulous!"
That, I think, is the first instance of the word "fabulous" in last summer's big, pink, glittery, alcoholic film version of Sex and the City. Girls to Samantha (fresh from Malibu): "How was your flight?" Samantha to Girls: "Fabulous!"
From 1998-2004, like it or not, the HBO series had a relatively massive impact on culture. In 2009, its phenomenon is the object of derision, yet many (at least of our generation) have encyclopedic knowledge of its content, from original air date to DVD to On-Demand to censored TBS syndication.
I moved back to New York (after a longish, wonderful hiatus) around the time of the film's release in May. Moving here is always difficult, no matter how many times you've done it. But the dread and anguish and bile of this place at that moment, right before the banking implosion and an election that meant something, that called for sobriety and celebrated Chicago and Washington, were palpable. The show about drinking cocktails and wearing costumes and being single well into your forties in Manhattan's big, old, unburst bubble survived September 11th. But the movie could not reverse New York's ugly forecast in 2008. I mean it worked; it was wildly popular. (Off the record) I saw it twice in theaters (and then once more last night), but each time I had a violent reaction. I wept. I went straight to the bottle. I positively reeled. Because it was humid and grey (or windy and cold) and everyone was in a bad mood and the city (that I thought I knew) felt perceptibly different everyday and Sex in the City was the same as ever and it's not like Sex and the City ever presented an idea of New York that was subtle and beautiful and complicated enough, but it was about a place that esteemed itself, not one that was sputtering and nervous and off-balance, not one where "fabulosity" made a girl feel sick. How the fuck can a five hour flight be fabulous?
From 1998-2004, like it or not, the HBO series had a relatively massive impact on culture. In 2009, its phenomenon is the object of derision, yet many (at least of our generation) have encyclopedic knowledge of its content, from original air date to DVD to On-Demand to censored TBS syndication.
I moved back to New York (after a longish, wonderful hiatus) around the time of the film's release in May. Moving here is always difficult, no matter how many times you've done it. But the dread and anguish and bile of this place at that moment, right before the banking implosion and an election that meant something, that called for sobriety and celebrated Chicago and Washington, were palpable. The show about drinking cocktails and wearing costumes and being single well into your forties in Manhattan's big, old, unburst bubble survived September 11th. But the movie could not reverse New York's ugly forecast in 2008. I mean it worked; it was wildly popular. (Off the record) I saw it twice in theaters (and then once more last night), but each time I had a violent reaction. I wept. I went straight to the bottle. I positively reeled. Because it was humid and grey (or windy and cold) and everyone was in a bad mood and the city (that I thought I knew) felt perceptibly different everyday and Sex in the City was the same as ever and it's not like Sex and the City ever presented an idea of New York that was subtle and beautiful and complicated enough, but it was about a place that esteemed itself, not one that was sputtering and nervous and off-balance, not one where "fabulosity" made a girl feel sick. How the fuck can a five hour flight be fabulous?
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