“It’s an heirloom, it’s a treasure, it means the world,” he says. “That I have a chance to have my bakery be in it is a gift.”
Score one for retrofitted New York nostalgia. Click here to read the whole piece about Birdbath's Vesuvio takeover.
This is really beautiful. Artist Judith Supine climbed to the top of the Williamsburg Bridge and installed this:
The episode centers around 2 clients, and a Betty family skirmish, so let's attack it in that order, ay? First client is Patio, which was Pepsi's first foray in the Diet Soda world. The drink looks and sounds decidedly unappealing, but Cosgrove tasks Peggy with coming up with an ad that features an Ann-Margaret type, which of course gets the Mad Boys all excited about the prospect of a casting. Peggy tries to think of something a bit more unconventional, but Don shuts her down. So she goes out to a bar, picks up a dude, totally goes home with him and gets to third base.
A long-awaited internal report from the Justice Department, released today, recommended the appointment of a special prosecutor to investigate detainee abuses carried out by the CIA during the Bush years.
Your boyfriend/president Barack Obama is on vacation on Martha's Vineyard this week, of course. So, according to a spokesman, he will let his magnificently mustachioed Attorney General, Eric Holder (previously confirmed as president of not torturing people), decide whether to follow through on the recommendation, while the president wears a straw hat and tells his Secret Service detail not to turn the burgers so often, let 'em sizzle a bit.
We've never seen the Williamsburg Waterfront quite as packed as it got yesterday for Girl Talk's show (with openers Max Tundra and Wiz Khalifa) at the Jelly NYC Pool Parties (which concludes Sunday with Grizzly Bear and Beach House, in case you'd forgotten). Just look at these wild, sexy pictures of the event shot by L Magazine photographer Adam Au.
Both are produced by Timbaland, who has provided Jay some of the best beats of his career ("Big Pimpin" anyone?), and they seem to get him out of his funk. The best is "Reminder," which is classic sci-fi Timbo (the other is embedded after the jump):
I've been putting off forming an opinion of Asher Roth (who a friend insightfully refers to as "Eminem Light"), but with this awful new video for this awful song from what I presume must be an awful debut album (Asleep in the Bread Aisle, which came out in April), I can't help but get the feeling that the Morrisville, Pennsylvania MC is as bad (lyrically, politically, culturally) as everyone whose opinion I respect has been saying he is. The new video for "She Don't Wanna Man" is like an unfunny 3-minute version of The Hangover that manages to be extra-offensive for completely squandering the talents of Keri Hilson, whose capable vocal chords have provided some of the best rap song choruses of the last couple years. Congrats to Asher Roth for making white rappers embarrassing again.
Yesterday the Times took momentary respite from stories about insufficient forces in Afghanistan and a fatal shooting in the East Village to regale us with this thriller about one man and one bird re-enacting a vintage Warner Brothers cartoon. You can tell that reporter A. G. Sulzberger had a really great time writing about Frank Guido, who chased his girlfriend's vacationing boss's parrot, a macaw whose name was not released, all over Midtown Manhattan this weekend. You could read the whole account of the ordeal (which ended happily), or you could watch the cartoon version:
Personally, I think it should be illegal for people to wear t-shirts off the playing field, and shorts are for children. Also, dogs shouldn't fraternize with cats.
Slate's Todays Papers morning briefing was, at its inception, an early nod to the way we read news now, online from more sources than previously available; over the past twelve years, though, the concept of an actually written — like, in actual paragraphs of prose — aggregator of the morning newspapers has become kinda quaint: Today's Papers seems increasingly the type of article that today's aggregators would link to with, perhaps, a line of commentary.
So, chalking it all up to the ever-accelerating news cycle, Slate has decided that the time is right for "unplugging grandpa from the ventilator", discontinuing Today's Papers in favor of "The Slatest", which is, so help us, a "responsive to the news cycle" media-mashup remix interactive Twitter-fed Facebook-followed bricolage of hot sexy up-to-the-minute decontextualized information and shit. We are all the news.
Let the record reflect that the last Today's Papers ran on Sunday, August 23. The lead story concerned the Pentagon's decision to release the names of some detainees to the Red Cross; the last graf, generally reserved for man-bites-dog stuff, concerned people infecting pigs with the swine flu at county fairs.
Of course, the idea of a big old party that might attract as many as 10,000 people didn't sit so well with residents near Fort Greene Park, so a kerfuffle was raised, and now the party has been moved to Prospect Park. The event will still be free at 5pm on August 29 and feature music by DJ Spinna, but it will be held in Nethermead, which presents obvious marketing fodder for comparisons between Neverland (Jackson's amusement park ranch) and Nethermead. Like, for instance, "Remember the man from Neverland at Nethermead," and "Brooklyn's own Neverland at Nethermead." Spike Lee promises: "All over the world, people are going to be celebrating his birthday. But he's going to hear Brooklyn; Brooklyn is going to be in the house. Deep."
The porn industry is suffering, because now you can get porn on the internet for free. In this, as in all things, the porn industry is just like the newspaper industry, the music industry, and film criticism.
It turns out that a lot of our road safety practices are counterintuitive — red lights, for starters — and cheaper solutions are readily available, like lane barriers (but then how will we pass?).
This thumbnail portrait of our ambassador to Afghanistan opens onto a view of the different spheres of government influencing that country, and looks forward to the administrative and communicative challenges to come after the election and during the troop build-up.
Then there was that time Ford asked Marianne Moore to name their new car. ("The Ford Utopian Turtletop.")
Old clip: Frank O'Hara, who does not sound the way you expect him to, reads "Having a Coke with You". About thirty seconds in, the camera pulls back to reveal his awesome pattern baldness. It looks like he has a Mario Bros. mustache plastered to his scalp.
Before each session, rowers and paddlers are given an introduction, and are required to wear lifejackets and sign waivers. It's all free (and totally safe, really), and offers a breathtaking new way of looking at New York City. Click here for more information, and then head down to Dumbo Cove on August 22 (11-3pm) and August 29 (2-6pm).
(photo by Nadia Chaudhury)
News of this book comes to us from Grist, who have many more pages where the pictured one came from. The "things coal helps power" page is a personal fave.
After undergoing a thorough cleaning, toys are inspected and sorted according to their material. The rubber, silicone, hard plastics, metal, e-waste and motors will be sent to recycling facilities that process the materials for reuse. Did you leave the batteries in? Don’t worry, we dispose of them responsibly.
Click here for more information and the Sex Toy Recycling Program's mailing address.
At any rate, looking at his work (pictured) you can understand why it wouldn't fly in the early 20th century (except with tourists, to whom he would sell watercolor copies of postcards). It's not nearly edgy or inventive enough to pass in an Expressionist or Cubist salon, but also not sufficiently academic to get him into a state art program. Which begs the question: why are people spending more and more money on his paintings? (In 1960 two pieces were sold for $1,000, and in 1991 two more went for a total of $5,300.) Is it some kind of macabre fascination with evil? Do these collectors just have terrible taste? Is it a neo-Nazi scheme to launder money into Hitler's estate? Whatever it is, it's creepy.
The Brad and Angelina of post-Kruschev-thaw Soviet moviemaking, Elem Klimov and Larisa Shepitko were a gorgeous married couple of uncompromising artists made even more glam by their thorny run-ins with the censorship bureau and, most of all, by Shepitko's tragic 1979 death in a car wreck. Klimov's terminal film, Come and See, will never go out of print, and remains a standing affront to all American depictions of war, while Shepitko's best features have been beautifully Criterionized. But Klimov's Agony, made in 1975 but closeted by the Soviets until 1981, is less known and rarely seen, a seething, hair-pulling account of the last year or so in the life of Rasputin, as revolution brews across Russia and the Romanovs melt down. Orchestrated, acted and post-dubbed with the frantic brio of a 1960s Italian horror movie, the film dared to sympathize with the ineffectual Czar (hence the censorship) as well as with Rasputin himself, who's an unpredictable admixture of savvy politico and delusionary extrovert, but is the story's hapless victim. Still, the movie's canvas is vast, its attention to history fanatical (everyone's name and position gets a subtitle, even the 400+ bureaucrats of the Duma), its survey of the madness of power unflinching, if sometimes inscrutable and so close to Zulawski-style screaming mimis that you expect the actors' heads to explode. Alexei Petrenko (last seen here in Mikhailkov's 12) plays Rasputin as a unblinking, looming whirlwind, and he's rather unforgettable.
Agony: The Life and Death of Rasputin plays Saturday and Sunday at Anthology Film Archives, as part of a Russian film series beginning this evening with Come and See.
Of course, saying something is a good fit and actually making it fit are two very different things, and this by no means suggests that New York will actually get a bike-share program. Still, assuming the Bloomberg monarchy lives to implement this vague campaign promise, what should the bike-share program be called? The system in Montreal, Boston and London is called Bixi (pictured), Paris has Vélib’ and other cities have things called CityByke, B-cycle, Smoove, Vélomagg' and Vélopop'. Besides, if we give it a cute name, how could Bloomberg possibly cancel it? I propose Nyxi. Anyone got something better?
Despite its brazenly misspelled title and the amped-up Spaghetti Western score that plays over the opening credits (and throughout much of the film), what do you think the odds are, Henry, that people will still manage to take offense at the gleeful disregard for historical accuracy and period detail in Tarantino's new film? After all, the incredible fifteen minute-long first scene — a tense conversation between a French farmer and SS agent Col. Hans Landa (a superb Christoph Waltz) in 1941 that becomes a thousand times tenser halfway through — presents a fairly plausible, if slightly poppy World War II scenario. Or, to be more accurate, it’s a virtuoso (Hitchcockian, even) revision of a classic WWII movie convention: the calculating Nazi officer disarming the honorable simpleton as the terrified Jewish fugitives hide in horror under the floorboards.
Now I'm just going to listen to "Hello in There" all day. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJ85Hep0kD0…
This just convinces me even further how repellent BDSM is. You must be mentally ill…
elvis costello perfomance link (the published one here is not working) http://videos.mediaite.com/video/Elvis-Costello-Radio-Radio-1977