More Fulton Lights

Continued props to AG. This video is very cool, made long distance. Here's a little 21st century backstory from the auteur.:

A music video I made for Fulton Lights. Starring lead singer Andrew Spencer Goldman - despite the fact we've never met, and he lives in New York and I live in London. Through the magic of the internet machine and technology we overcame that slight geographical hitch.

(If it's glitchy and stuttering - hover over the video and turn off HD mode. It won't look as pretty but...)

Fulton Light's incredible new album can be listened to, and even downloaded, here:
fultonlights.com

I'd love to hear what people think of the video.

Give the director props on Vimeo.

Fulton Lights

Happy to report AG's new record as Fulton Lights is pretty damn good. You can listen to it for free, here.

Sound Travels

I'll do a short set of posts on Norway soon. But to get you started, check in on AG's travel blog, Sound Travels. The man behind Fulton Lights has taken off to see the world, spread the word, play some shows and, well, I don't know. Get up to as much no good as one can. I am envious and the swell of demand in my own soul for a third-life crisis grows stronger by the day.

MondoGDL

Life and how to live it. Friend and ex-colleague AK always seems to have a bead drawn on that one. Heck, I think I'd rate him as one of the coolest people I know. Lately, he's been living in Mexico, with his wife and two young kids, renovating a house in Guadalajara, and seeming to have an all around great time. He has started a blog, MondoGDL, chronicling the art and culture of Guadalajara. Serving half as a guide for locals to find out about art and movies, and half as a kaleidoscopic view of high art, indie music and movies, and Guadalajara's culture, definitely worth a look from time to time. Also, as a general comment, it's amazing how deeply turned on further and further corners of the world are to the aesthetics and actual art that falls outside of the mainstream. Another hash in the plus column for globalization, I suppose.

Andy, still waiting for a report from a Chivas match...

Costumed Croquet in Golden Gate Park

For MM's birthday, 2006.

Anatomy of a Socially Awkward Situation

Quick shout-out to SA, HR, and JW for the charming and funny shorts they have been creating, illustrating the Anatomy of a Socially Awkward Situation. Check out the videos. I especially like the touch of skeeviness at the end of episode 4, "Baby Busted."

July 21st, 2006

A good weekend in Lake Tahoe.

Mike Ross: Capitol Hill

Friend and sculptor Mike Ross, responsible for the monumental and mercurial Big Rig Jig, has created a bit of undeserved controversy that is apparently jeopardizing his new sculpture, proposed for the interior of a Seattle subway station. The sculpture, which would involve disassembling two decommission fighter jets and re-assembling them into a configuration that was supposed to represent (I believe) doves is clearly intended as a critique of the military-industrial complex and the war machine, in general. Apparently not what local Democratic activist groups think.

Learn more here.

Last Week, Last Year

St. John's, the US Virgin Islands...

Food Coma

Actually, not the good kind. I'm coining a new usage for the term, where I feel like I've been incapacitated for a few months and have somehow not managed to have a truly heroic meal in quite some time. There have been a handful of notable intervening moments, some even in the run of day to day life. Curried chicken sandwiches from Balthazar, arepas at Caracas, dim sum and Singaporean pan-fried noodles at Kudeta in New Haven. But nothing momentous, and no food adventures planned in advance.

Lazing in the apartment this afternoon after soccer and a stroll through Brooklyn Flea brought the sorry truth crashing down on my head, as I had the TV on as I puttered about, and the only channel worth watching was 13, since every other over-air channel had been pre-empted by La Papa rock and roll mass-travaganza in Yankee Stadium, and the only thing on 13 was a string of food shows. Two observations: while I enjoy food shows, love watching food made and presented, love the travelogue context in which most of them are presented, I don't think I would personally get along with most food writers. They just seem so pompous, badly built for TV, but also badly built for sharing a dinner table. Second, they need to re-invent smell-o-vision. When you are watching a food show, and the hosts and the guests and everybody involved is just ooh-ing and aah-ing over the aromas in the kitchen, well, how frustrating!

On that note, a few food-related links on the Interweb:

- Chocolate and Zucchini, a Paris-based food blog which I was introduced to while watching one of those shows on 13;
- AR's delightful Treat A Week recipe blog, which was featuring donuts, the last time I checked;
- The Moko's ridiculous and charming candy blog. It's bizarre that she is one of the most influential women in Europe, but she has a secret sugar problem;
- Food Candy, dB's epicurean side-project, which I woefully under-use.

With that, any recommendations for great NYC food resources? Or anywhere I should go eat?

Last Exit

Ah, envy. That wonderful slightly flushed and slightly bilious feeling that you wish you didn't get when your friends have off and done something wonderful. So, without much prologue, I present the latest effort from Keach Hagey, who is putting together the very interesting Last Exit Magazine. The material ranges from truly compelling and strange adventures from far flung lands that are becoming simultaneously more foreign and more similar to our own to the slightly precious Brooklyn-indulgent adventures of strange and sometimes compelling hipsters. And sometimes, the twain shall meet.

I can only endorse wasting your time reading this piece by another friend (yeah, it gets kept in the family, it seems) NW. And the joy of this piece is that it reads like she lives. Manic. To wit:

This is the story of three jackings, numerous near-death experiences and the good fun had by everyone in Southeast Asia but me. I needed to break out of New York a few years ago. I had been trying to dig a hole out of the city for months, but had only gotten grave depth; so the options were drop in or leave town. A friend had just backpacked around the Golden Triangle and returned raving about the magical time she had there: cooking classes in Chiang Mai, oil rubs on the beach, incense stick dipping with locals. It sounded like the opportunity I needed to clear my mind, meditate on the minutia. What’s more, it fit snug into my limited travel budget. A simple Internet search would have spared me the now cirrhotic liver, however. Turns out, S.E.A. is more like S.A.E. than I imagined. You will run into the same English or Australian frat boy while he’s body-surfing an elephant in Thailand, carving his initials into Angkor Wat ruins, posing as tank gunner in Vietnam, or firing old Khmer Rouge rifles at Cambodian chickens. And each time he spots you he’ll scream “Shots!” The entire well-trod tourist loop might as well be paved in Tsingtao labels, debauched as it is. But I neglected to type “bender” into the search engine, and bought the ticket with vague thoughts of better days ahead.

My boyfriend, Michael, decided to travel with me for the first week, and then I would go it alone for the next two months. He is something of a delicate flower when it comes to sunlight. We’ve worked entire travel itineraries around the fact that he’s awfully pale and burns badly. The one time we visited Brazil’s famed Ipanema beach we caused quite the commotion. I lay on the shore while he went for a swim. A few minutes passed before I heard the incredulous calls and laughter. I looked up in time to see a throng of people gathered and pointing at the water. And what emerged from the sea but my boyfriend incandescent—like a mighty florescent office light (he prefers “god”) bobbing to the surface. I flipped over and tried to look local. Needless to say, his pallor would also affect our trip to Thailand in a few significant ways, which I will shortly describe (mainly in an attempt to blame him for the first mugging, though I handled the second and third fine all by myself).

Bangkok is blazing in the dry season, and in a move to exacerbate this situation the temples are embroidered lovingly with gold leaf and pieces of embedded mirror. An ant in the desert under a magnifying glass comes to mind. All told, this made sightseeing a little less full of sights for us. We had to take unorthodox pathways to avoid the bright buildings. We clung to walls under eaves, biked at night, and visited the Patpong district’s seedy nightclubs, where middle-aged white men and Thai sex workers meet over a few ping-pong balls. For those curious, the act is less athletic and acrobatic than you’d think. After puffing some cigs with her precancerous vag, the bored woman in a glowing bikini stands up, shoves the lubed ball in, squats like she’s going to crap, and out it slowly drops into a waiting cup. By the time it’s over, a 45-year-old Australian club patron next to you will have already managed to get his erect dollar-wrapped penis out without your notice, then turn from the performer to you with a “See, you never know what you could do.” “Yes, dreams do come true,” you might tell him, and then go to the filthy bathroom to pad your clothes with baby wipes. This is to say, for all you ladies out there planning a little Bangkok getaway, either prepare to check your righteous indignation at customs, or waste your time arguing with a bunch of throbbing dicks.

Thus, the trip was off to a promising start! After spending a few days in this fashion we left the city for less reflective climes. On a sweaty windowless northbound train we met an English girl who promptly told us her tale of traveler woe. She had only been in Thailand for three days when she’d been bitten by a stray dog. She broke a cardinal rule—never pet a pooch, no matter how innocent his wag. The night before the assault she sat with a local proprietor and his dog. She was assured the animal was friendly and healthy, and pet him without incident. Catastrophe struck when a dog she mistook for the owner’s sidled over the following eve, and she extended a hand to him. He lashed out snapping and drew blood. I gasped. South East Asia accounts for sixty percent of worldwide rabies deaths per year. And now here she was bit by a feral dog in her first week. She had neglected to get the rabies vaccine before traveling, as had we, but given the recent turn of events she decided that she didn’t like that statistic. Thus, she returned to Bangkok for emergency treatment consisting of five long needle injections straight in the stomach. After enduring four she was told by the nurse that they didn’t have the fifth, but that it was probably fine. Probably fine? Rabies has been known to gestate for up to two years, she anxiously told us. She was terrified that at any moment she would manifest the initial symptoms, which like many a plague begin benignly: cough, achy feeling, sniffles, and then bam, within days of developing the common cold you die the most wretched death imaginable, frothing at the chomp. We offered meager assurances, “don’t worry,” “the nurse knows what she’s doing,” etc. But needless to say, we didn’t french her.

After hearing her tale, Michael and I couldn’t help but feel pretty good about our own abilities, nourished by a steady diet of NYC streets smarts and a natural disinclination for canines. Five days into it, so far so good. We parted ways with the English girl, with promises to meet up again if she remained rabies-free. And on we went to Ayutthaya, where everything began to go horribly wrong. At this point, a number of factors conspired to make me lose my passport, $200, some beloved earrings, my credit card, and a bunch of those mesmerizing t-shirts, with mistranslated textual gems like “Enjoy With Profitable Drip” or “Unique Nut Elsewhere.” Had any link in this disastrous chain been different I might be wearing those shirts or flashing that passport. But no, I was trapped in a Rube Goldberg-like robbery of soggy seats, full purses, bike chases, sudden ambush, and foul, foul luck.

Please, continue...

Last Tango

Why should a city you've never been to have a pull on you? Buenos Aires has that pull on me, and I can't account for it. It is the pull that probably Berlin should have on me, except that I have somehow convinced myself to align with the South and the East, rather than the West.

What is that pull, exactly? Sadly, it's not from the tango, or from Boca Juniors. It is not borne out of Argentina's great plains stretching down to its foreboding, icy extremity. And as much as I love Borges, it is not born of the strange logic of Argentine literature.

It is, I suppose, finding that place that can re-name itself as Brooklyn, in its ease, urbanity, and pretense to artistry. So, it was with double delight, and I suppose, regret, having recently deferred my decision to leave New York City (once again) that JS, who is currently living the high-life in Buenos Aires, sent me this article from the New York Times, featuring an old friend from past lives. With a large picture of the man himself, engrossed in a dance. I'll quote at length:

Comparisons with other bohemian capitals are almost unavoidable. “It’s like Prague in the 1990s,” said Mr. Lampson, who is perhaps best known for winning a Bravo TV reality show, “Situation: Comedy,” in 2005, about sitcom writers. Despite his minor celebrity, he decided to forgo the Los Angeles rat race and moved to Buenos Aires, where he is writing an NBC pilot, along with his Web novela, www.historyandtheuniverse.com. “Buenos Aires is a more interesting place to live than Los Angeles, and it’s much, much cheaper. You can’t believe a city this nice is so cheap.”

If you haven't had a chance, check out the trailer (?) for David Lampson's History and the Universe, featuring, among others, John Wright. And why not me, Mr. Lampson? If all you needed was a man who could beat box?

Distilled in New York / Fashion Photographer

MM makes clothes for the hip and stylish. He was kind enough to offer me the opportunity to be a fashion photographer at a real live New York City fashion show last Sunday -- at the Blue Collective men's fashion show. It was awesome. I'd ask you to support Distilled, but, heck, he doesn't even need it any more. He's got clothes in Bloomies!

MM backstage, running the show.

My fashion photographer look

Shreddin' (and Puzzlin')

RM, JWW, JZ and I headed up to Windham Mountain for a little snowboarding 101. A little boarding, a lot of falling, a lot of being sassy wise-asses to our hapless instructor. We did ourselves as proud as we could. At least we weren't as obnoxious as this guy (I don't think).

Later that evening in Cold Spring, JWW showed me this one-of-a-kind, hand-made puzzle of personal Brooklyn landmarks that he received from JZ. How cool is this?

Another Night of Vomiting With Yo La Tengo

ED, TL, and LC drove out to Maxwell's on a cold and rainy evening to see the 6th night of YLT's Hanukkah celebration. After circling Hoboken twice in search of parking, we finally made it to the club. We grabbed a bite to eat, and then ducked into the backroom to catch the last three or four songs of Redd Kross' set. Heather Lawless then came on, and she was OK (the Variety Shac stuff is more charming, I think). TL slipped out mid-set. Then YLT came on. It was hot in the club. TL had come back, but LC left. After a while, TL went to find out what was wrong. YLT opened with a cover of "Eight Days A Week." They played a great version of "Autumn Sweater" and the droned-out but rhythmic sprawl of "Pass the Hatchet." TL had not come back. LC had not come back. ED and I went to find out what was wrong. Food poisoning!

If this was the first time that a guest had been poisoned at a YLT show, I wouldn't hold it against them. But it's not! (We don't blame Maxwell's. ED and I were fine. We blame Joe's Pub.)

In the meantime, satisfy yourself by reading Ira's blog about the shows, or this interview with James from AllMusic.com. Key quote:

JM: It's pretty shocking. In America, maybe above any other country in the world, people will just talk during a show. When I go out to see bands play, people will just talk through the whole thing. And text. Actually, texting isn't so bad just because it doesn't make any noise. It still boggles my mind that people will pay $20 each to get into a show and talk the whole way through it. When I'm elected mayor, I will make that...well, certainly a ticketable offense. Maybe more. I haven't decided exactly what the punishment would be for that.

And, yes, I can refer to them by first name like I know them because, goddammnit, I once awkwardly introduced myself to them at the Commonwealth bar. So there. And now I'll fall asleep to "And Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out."

Inside Fashion

"Sales are more important than media" - MM, Fashion Designer.

THAT'S MY BOY!!!

Get Hip!

The new fall line of Distilled Spirit is hitting a shop near you. Congratulations to the Ms! And if you're not hip, hey, drop a buck, and get hip ...

The Jig Is Up

Ran into NW out at the bars last night, back from Oakland and Black Rock where she was helping MR with the Big Rig Jig installation. By all accounts, it went off very successfully - and it looks beautiful in the desert. The only negative, according to NW, were the hippies. But at Burning Man, how can you avoid them?

Photos from Laughing Squid, where there is also a great write-up.

Happy Birthday, HP!

On the occasion of her 30th, CC made this video for HP. Does it get much cuter?

Blowing Up! That's My Boy!

Have you watched the show, Beauty and the Geek? You’d be great in the makeover episode.
MM: We’re keeping the geek in the geek. I think the geek himself is beautiful and he should stay that way.

Read the interview. Then read this review. The check out the Distilled site.

If you are a skinny, geeky, fashionable man, pimp yourself out with Distilled gear. I've got a few things, and I swear to god, non-stop ladies. And I'm not skinny, geeky, or fashionable. It is crazy.