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Probably the greatest offspring of the Information Super Portals is Instant Messaging. Known commonly as IM, it allows you to stay in touch and keep close with your friends and loved ones.
Even though my girl and I are about 40 blocks away, I keep her close to my heart by easily sharing my daily activities with her via IM.
It was so awesome last weekend (unlike the shit weather we've been treated to this week), that I was loitering around Central Park looking at girl's boobs getting some fresh air and enjoying Central Park. This is the historic Great Lawn.
More crucial imagery after the jump...
I always thought this shit was Bocce Ball, but in actuality, it's Bowls, Lawn Bowls, or Lawn Bowling.
It seems like the main difference is that Bocce Balls are perfectly spherical, while Lawn Bowls are radially asymetrical. There's a Lawn Bowling green smack dab in the middle of Central Park. Old WASPy white people dressed in white play here. Whitey McWhitensen.
As I understand the gravity of this post, I have provided more Ultra-High Resolution Photography for your reference, after the jump...
Special Agent Michelob Scarpelski brought these to my attention today, profoundly adding, "God, I love street art."
He's right, and apparently Mark Jenkin's work is blowing up the WorldWide InterWebs like a mouse in a microwave.
I have graciously made your life easier for you, after the jump...
The Church Street Boxing Gym has a fight series called Friday Night Fights NYC. Every so often they host fights that are in the basement of The Church of Saint Paul The Apostle near Columbus Square. It's cool cause it feels all old-school, hot lunch style down there. No, not this hot lunch, but this one.
The church fights are usually around $25 and feature amateur mens, amateur women's and also Muay Thai boxing. You can buy a beer there, you can eat a hot dog there. They spin hip-hop between fights, and have ring girls who hold numbered signs.
I've been to several of these, and they're fun, but they've jacked up the ticket price despite the fact that it's usually a over sold sell out event. Weak.
But what's cool is that they have a couple of summer fights out on the pier Hudson side, fittingly called Rumble on The Hudson. This time it was at Pier 84 (44th and WSH). These events are free, but invariably they are rained out. The one last week was no exception. It was fun while it lasted. Looks like their next fight is at St. Paul's on August 10th. Matt Damon.
Nice and sunny...
...shit weather rolls in from Jersey.
My man and I take cover to finish our Buds...
...then get soaked trying to get the hell home from 44th and WSH.
I've been confronted by so much so fast this afternoon, it's almost keeping me awake. In brief:
Chillmost is getting Germaner by the second, but check out his Grilleimer!
Nudge says Paper Thin Walls is a cool, useful music blog, unlike mine...
...and thanks to them, I think I found my new favorite band...
...whom I hope to befriend on myspace...
Locally, Brooklyn Metal Fest is tonite and tomm...
...but I'm missing it tonite to see Kate Simko at Luna Lounge.
Speaking of bands, this makes me really angry...
...but so does this.
I'm not sure why, but I can't get Michael McDonald out of my head. It's horrible. But just like a festering zit that needs 'a poppin', I decided to excise this demon by confronting it.
And it's worse than I thought. It's actually The Doobie Brothers that's plaguing me, namely their 1981 smash hit, What a Fool Believes:
He came from somewhere back in her long agoThe sentimental fool dont see
Tryin hard to recreate
What had yet to be created once in her lifeShe musters a smile
For his nostalgic tale
Never coming near what he wanted to say
Only to realize
It never really wasShe had a place in his life
He never made her think twice
As he rises to her apology
Anybody else would surely know
Hes watching her goBut what a fool believes he sees
No wise man has the power to reason away
What seems to be
Is always better than nothing
And nothing at all keeps sending him...Somewhere back in her long ago
Where he can still believe theres a place in her life
Someday, somewhere, she will returnShe had a place in his life
He never made her think twice
As he rises to her apology
Anybody else would surely know
Hes watching her goBut what a fool believes he sees
No wise man has the power to reason away
What seems to be
Is always better than nothing
Theres nothing at all
But what a fool believes he sees...
Help. Me. Please. Help me.
Anyone remember Harmony Rockets? They're basically Mercury Rev (whom, after releasing All Is Dream, I've long since signed-off on) in disguise. HR released a couple of experimental/noise disks in the mid 90's.
The current incarnation featured MR's Jonathan Donahue (keys, sequencing, and ambient vocals), Grasshopper (ambient guitar), and some Other Dude (more keys, more sequencing/drum pad). They did a great job, as I'm sure much of the performance was improv. Their 20-25 minute set featured melodically keyed loops, and lots of synth/guitar layering. The "songs" were worked over a 4/4 kick sequence weaving in and out of the mix, with Other Dude beating some tribal accenting into the drum pad.
Donning shades and wearing some sort of shoulder-padded 80's blazer, Donahue ocassionaly fondled a pair of facing LED trees positioned on stage in front of the group. I'd like to think that they were MIDI triggers or something, but I don't think they had a purpose other than being a theatrical medium for Donahue's flailing arms, which is sort of fisty.
The show was at The Annex in the LES, and cost $10. The Annex is funny to me because it used to be a lame ass velvet rope club(s) years prior. My girl lived upstairs, and it was really annoying to go over there on the weekend, because that spot thought it was all that. Suddenly it got shut down because people were openly caining or something. But I digress. Thinking that it may sell out, I stupidly bought tix in advance through Ticketweb, so it really cost me $13.
There were other performers too, like John DeVries (doing a decent lone man and his guitar folk-angst thing), The Silent League (who I really liked from what I heard here, and here), and Hopewell.
I gave Silent League a chance, but they seemed gay to me. Then I was tired, so I went home. I've posted one more High Resolution Photograph after the jump...
Glad you clicked, right?
Can someone explain to me the appeal of The White Stripes? The other night I endured Tea Leoni's ramblings about her 5-year-old's boner on Conan specifically to give TWS another chance.
"Surely," I thought, "The Stripes have grown as musicians, and I'm sure that these new offerings will be demonstrative of a fresh, new musical maturity..."
But of course, I was wrong. Instead, TWS hashed out the same sloppy, jagged, blues-biting crap that made them famous. And don't think you're cute by plunking down amid a gawkish audience for your second song of the show and playing some sort of white Robert Johnsonish accoustic number.
That said, my anger yet again is aimed squarely at Meg White.
Meg, after all these years and after all your success, can't you afford to take a fucking drum lesson, and quit playing like a slack-armed pussy? No amount of boob-wiggling can draw attention from a warpish beat. I understand you want to keep your style boring minimal, but at least keep it tight. I've taken shits whose plopping cadence was more rhythmic. Wake the fuck up because it's up to you to keep this shlock together.
Oh yeah, and their new album is entitled Icky Thump. I'm not sure why, but this makes me mad too.
It's been totally awesome lately. Yesterday, I noticed via iChat that a colleague was listening to a "The Who" song. Horrified, I clicked the tiny arrow to launch the track in iTunes, and re-affirm my dislike of "The Who". "This will provide catharsis," I thought, "and then I can begin the long process of restoring my repsect for this colleague again."
Then things went terribly wrong.
The Spinning Beach Ball of Death appeared. iTunes launched, sluggishly, then lagged, then froze. Force Quit came up red. More lagging, More Beach Ball. I began to perspire, and thru blurred vision I performed a Hard Restart...
...10 uneasy minutes later a User login screen appeared. Strange. Aside from the fact that my machine is set to login automatically, none of my previous User Accounts were available. Only a prompt to login as, "Freelance_Bob". Paniced, I tried all of my logins, hoping that the "Hint" option would appear. It never did. Nothing worked. I was locked out.
I called my brilliant, prat-falling, Cher-impersonating buddy MacMD for help. He advised that I boot into Safe Mode. Doing so simply froze the machine. Then he told me to boot into UNIX and try the fsck -fy prompt, which confirmed our fears — my HD was fucked.
Choking back tears, I pedaled to Tekserve and dropped a bill on Disk Warrior 4. I received DW's diagnosis 3 hours later. DW was able to create a preview of my HD, but not restore it because the disk was so severly damaged. Mercifully, I was able to pull data onto an external, and for this option alone I recommend picking up DW 4. Especially if you're an idiot like myself who thinks their machine is immortal.
And so here it sits. Dead metal and silicon. Useless. Frozen shackles to my work-weary wrists, and cold cell to my highest aspirations. I believe I will dress her in a used, cheap HD and kick her to The Curb of eBay like the fork-toungued whore she is. Harsh words, I know, but these are harsh and brutal times, friends.
I've made my true feelings about Hillary known before, and they are once again confirmed here. It's nice to know that NY State is such an easy place to govern, allowing this Park Ridgite to fuck around in some schwag diner, biting the Sopranos finale. How creative! Meanwhile, nice fucking audio mix, stunad.
As usual, Billy (seen above fondling a cigar carrot) steals the show.
Oh yeah, one more hate/deal-sealer on why not to vote Hillary, ummm, here. I would rather castrate myself and listen to my own bloodcurdling screams, than hear anything by Celine Dion ever. Dick.
It was a great show, it's just that the music was awful.
Me and my boy made it out to Cake Shop last night to see the Charalambides, a Texas-based psyche-folk duo. They fall in line with bands like Flying Saucer Attack and Windy and Carl. Spacey, out, yet pretty and melodic. But not anymore, I guess, evident via Christina Carter's off-pitch howls, and Tom Carter's metalish guitar work. The couple seemed to be performing in opposition; trying to unravel what the other created. Most of all, both deliveries were curiously devoid of any effects. It would've helped if the two would have slung that shit through some delay for chrissakes.
Special mention goes to La Otracina, a Brooklyn-based post-metal noise trio, with a hilariously spastic powerdrummer that resembles an unholy marriage of Garth and Animal. Guitarguy needs to take the annoying super grating feedback/short hum out of his signal line, but hey. They're were great to watch.
The real star of the evening was Cake Shop itself. Cake Shop is a bakery, cafe, record store (new and used), as well as a bar and venue. Typically there is a hefty amount of indie cred one needs to even get near Cake Shop, located just down from Piano's and Living Room in the LES. But last night was different, and it was a school night, so the kids were mellow, friendly even. The bakery has this delicious coconut-brownie square thingy called a Lamington that's worth fending off the hippest hipsters to get hold of.
...Burgers!
I've been a vegetarian for 14 years now, and the quest for a truly great veggie burger is certainly an epic one. Lucky's Famous (Burgers) on 52nd Street near 9th Ave, serves up a pretty worthy offering. They make their own VB's and have a bunch of good sauces to spice things up. They stock fries, cheese fries and onion rings, too. My guess is that their carrion burgers are banging like Lois from Family Guy.
If you S.O.L in Hell's Kitchen, it's worth stopping. Plus, the joint is done up in orange and yellow. Luckys! More High Resolution Photography after the jump...
I would like to help every music zine everywhere by offering various ways to marry Conor Oberst with Bright Eyes. The following is public domain, and has been approved by the artist himself:
Conor Oberst is Bright Eyes
Conor Oberst as Bright Eyes
Conor Oberst (of Bright Eyes)
Bright Eyes. Conor Oberst.
"XXXXXXXX" Chats With Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes
Bright Eyes' Conor Oberst
Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes Fame
Conor Oberst aka Bright Eyes
Conor Oberst ala Bright Eyes
Conor Oberst = Bright Eyes
Bright Eyes Revealed! Conor Oberst Tells All...
Conor Oberst; The Man Currently Know as Bright Eyes
Conor Bright Oberst Eyes
Who is Bright Eyes? (Conor Oberst)
Who is Conor Oberst? (Bright Eyes)
Bright Eyes Oh Bright Eyes, Let Conor (Oberst) Come Over.
Bright Eyes/Conor Oberst Revealed
Conor Oberst Speaks About Bright Eyes (in that he actually is Bright Eyes)
Bright Eyes says, "Who Am I?"
Conor Oberst replies, "You Are Me."
A Profound Look Into The Conor Oberst (read) "Bright Eyes" Enigma
No, not your perverted Uncle Rico, but Mo' Wax founder James LaVelle's U.N.K.L.E. They're about to drop a new release called War Stories (pft., ummm, what?), and I feel obligated to tell my millions of readers just how much it sucks ass.
I can't overstate how seminal Mo' Wax was in the early/mid nineties. This label released my first exposures to (good) acid jazz like Dee C. Lee, Palm Skin Productions, The Federation, and Major Force West. Mo' Wax releases also caught my attention because of their excellent design and art direction by Swifty and Futura. As the 90's rolled on, Mo' Wax exposed me to DJ Shadow, DJ Krush, RPM, La Funk Mob, Attica Blues, Luke Vibert, Andrea Parker, Urban Tribe, Air, and of course U.N.K.L.E. These are the artists that defined trip hop. Bizzarre side note, mowax.com now redirects to some sort of community board...
LaVelle was also a legendary DJ that could move effortlessly between genres — a reflection of his brilliant label. But then, of course, something happened in the late 90's (well after LaVelle sold partial ownership to A&M, soon to be swallowed by Universal) that caused LaVelle to become a boring 4/4 DJ. Perhaps audience tastes "change" or perhaps it was his affiliation with the prog house label Global Underground, but LaVelle's sets featured almost none of the style and depth that he and Mo' Wax were known for. I even spun with him once at Smart Bar in Chicago, and all I heard out of his crate was a bunch of queer, vocally house and stock techno.
I guess the writing was on the wall with the release of laughable Psyence Fiction, what with "collaborators" like Badly Drawn Boy, Richard Ashcroft, Thom Yorke, and even Metallica's red-haired stepchild, Jason Newsted (!). PF featured weak beats and sissy vocals galore. If you dig that, then you'll be served up an extra large, steamy helping of the same by War Stories.
Appearantly, LaVelle has taken some cues from fucking Moby and later era Air. Suddenly he has a straight up live, "rock" band. There's wanking guitars (which I bet he "plays" live) and lackluster vocals — his vocals, no less.
Maybe he's jealous of default success of TIm Goldworthy's (yaaaay!) DFA (ala the track, Restless, featuring Queens of The Stone Age douche Josh Homme), or maybe all these dudes are no different than everyone else in wanting to be rock stars, but the result is something that sounds like U2 (ala the track, Keys to the Kingdom) vs. She Wants Revenge (ala the track, Hold My Hand). Come on dude, you wrote a track called "Hold My Hand"? (Lyrics: Hold my hand, I need you now, throw me down, I don't know how...) Even the help of Autolux on the track, Persons & Machinery, can't create something that doesn't blow.
Anyway, it's too bad. I know things change. If you'll excuse me, I have a small puppy to kick.
Paintballs hurt. They really do, and at 90 feet per second, they're fast too.
Last weekend I went paintballing at Liberty Paintball with a school bus full of Brooklynites. We had 34 people, creating 2 teams of 17. It was hot as hell.
Liberty is about 1.5 hours upstate, just south of the Catskills. The game is equal parts Capture the Flag, and Try Not to Get Lit the Fuck Up by Agro New Yorkers. Liberty Paintball has 12 courses, all outdoor. Some of the courses are crazy, like The Crypt, or just plain army-sim tactical like The Ravine. The toughest one postioned the flag at an open crossroads with no cover, so to defend it was to stand exposed, like a dumbass.
It's a very serious affair. We were strategizing, running plays, providing suppressing fire, etc... I saw a guy get shot in the dick and stumble off the field, collapsing in pain. One girl was left alone to guard our flag, but then got blasted by 3 dudes from Blue Team who snuck up around the perimeter. At one point it was just me and this 10 year old kid on the Red Team. I bought a paintball grenade, but fumbled the throw. All sorts of action, and a bunch of pics after the jump...
Unfortunately, I had to go to the upper west side today. I had some time to kill, and remembered this great place that I had eaten lunch at prior. EJ's Luncheonette isn't an original, old-school diner, but who cares. It looks like one, and serves great food.
If you're stuck up around 81st and Amsterdam, check it.
My brah informed be that The Firebelly Art Market is going on in Chicago.
It's tommorrow, Saturday June 9th.
It's at 2701 W. Thomas.
It's from 11am-5pm.
It's donating 50% of proceeds to fight Lung Cancer.
It's featuring wares from the talented Qylaar duo, who make stuff real nice-like.
It's awesome.
I was riding the train with my boy, when I noticed this antique-Christmas-ornament-looking thingy laying between the tracks. It had a blue LED that was pulsing once every 2 seconds or so. I was going to report it until I realized there was potential that it could single-handedly rid the world of the useless JMZ lines. The demise of JMZ would be GoodTimes.
Yet another Random Dope Image for you. Don't worry Dr. Smith, it's not what you think, so go on back to your inappropriate relationship with young Will. It's the air-con for New Roma Pizza in LES!
It's good to know that the trains are still quite accomodating for clowns, even if they may have to cough up a few more peanuts for future riding...
Headroom usually isn't a concern for most, but Everyman isn't rocking a 3ft diameter wacky flower wig. Navigating the subway in hot-pink vinyl foot-tall platforms is indeed a challenging task even for a professional like Shakes (pictured above). Still, anyone can bust their weave, or catch a heel. But no worries, the MTA's got ya covered with ample headroom, and flush, flat surfaces. You can even board with your favorite balloons in hand, as there's no reason they should float about at home missing all the fun!
So rock on, clowns. Straighten that ruffle, and freshen up that whiteface as you ride high with the poise and confidence that only a world class transit system like the MTA can bestow.
I just remembered TCSC now, and had completely forgot how gay the theme song was. Holy shit! La Linea. Great Gnus!
We are so fucking stupid...
BOA sucks ass too. Ha.
If you do, go see Brian Foote, aka Nudge, aka DJ BJF, aka Leech, aka Leechaggregates, aka Fatass.
June 1, 2007
New York City, NY
To Whom It May Concern,
You stole my bike in broad daylight yesterday, in front of One Worldwide Plaza, while I was working inside. I know it was locked to the scaffolding, but I did not think you would take it apart and take what was not yours.
I fucking hate you, and mark my words, I will find you and kill you.
Sincerely,
Bob
