The L is the only real job I've ever had, and my timeline here is also, in many ways, the timeline of my life in the city; I'm tempted to make this into a memoir, but I sort of suspect that not enough time has elapsed yet to make my personal, urban-anthropological and institutional memories as interesting as, say, J. Hoberman's. Still, settle in for a pretty long post: I may never have a better opportunity to try and remember all this stuff for myself. And now would be a weird time to start choosing my words carefully.
I started picking up The L in the lobby of my NYU dorm during its first year of existence. The L, for the benefit of our younger readers, was once more than 100 pages of predominantly Manhattan-based event listings, in tiny type, with mostly filler ads. What feature copy there was consisted of surprisingly well-written long-form reviews and political arguments (someone named Audrey Ference also had a column called "Zeitgeist Jamboree," about bars and hipsters and newly retro 90s pop-culture references, which I quite liked); quirky items about New York City history filling sidebars in the back of the book; and brief but often typo-garbled features, generally composed in a self-referential, hectically clever first-person plural.
The top slots have been distributed pretty much as expected, meaning dear New York is in at number one—we have lots of agents swarming about, a strong presence of publishing houses, the Pulitzer Prize, yada yada—with London closing in at a seemingly close second. The remaining ranks are a little bit more surprising, however: Reykjavik, Iceland and Norwich, England are in the mix, as is a place in Wales that I never heard of before, but, upon Googling, learn that it's often referred to as "the town of books." Now I feel dumb.
As they say, if it worked for Carrie Bradshaw, it can work for you! And this concludes today's segment of "Inspiring New York Tales."
Follow Lauren Beck on Twitter @heylaurenbeck.
Yesterday, New Yorker pop-science wunderkind Jonah Lehrer (already wobbly from a "self-plagiarism" scandal earlier this summer) finally resigned when he was totally nailed on the fact that his best-selling book, Imagine: How Creativity Works, was filled with slightly too perfect, and thus totally fabricated, quotes from America's most beloved singer/icon/mumbler, Bob Dylan. And while part of us thinks that an overactive imagination is pretty apt given his chosen subject, it was what is typically known in journalistic ethics circles as "a dipshit move."
But we can definitely sympathize with the desire to bend occasionally inarticulate rock stars' words juuuuust so until they fit whatever subject we are trying to comment on. After all, if a rock star said it, it must be sexy/true. And while that sort of thing might get you canned from an apex of respectability like The New Yorker, we've got a little more leeway. (We hope?)
So let's try it out on a variety of hot topics...
Word is just now beginning to spread that Bill Doss, co-founder of the Athens-based Elephant6 Recording Company and influential psych-pop band Olivia Tremor Control has died at the age of 40. No cause of death has been disclosed.
Art and food have always been cozy with each other, but when artists embark on culinary adventures, the results are rarely ever appetizing. From real-life rat dinners to the online antics of Kool-Aid Man in Second Life, our culture’s obsession with food is currently playing out in lavish feasts and online stores. With this list, I bring you the super-sized, jiggly, and greasy art of this century, not for the faint of stomach.
For this reason, Vertigo is a fun film to play around with: it's already so strange, no eccentric interpretation can undermine the force of his drama. Quite the opposite, in fact, for its strangeness is the source of its profound and eerie resonance.
Inspired, I started to advance my own fanciful counter-reading of the film on twitter yesterday afternoon, and want to follow through with it here.
So, I'd like to propose a thought experiment: The next time you watch Vertigo, try watching it under the assumption that the real Madeleine Elster and her working-girl doppelganger Judy Barton have traded places before the start of the film, a fact never uncovered by the men on screen.
If you assume this, the plot still works, but the meaning and inflections change considerably. In that case, here is what Vertigo is a film about:
What’s that? You want more SummerScreen? As you wish. This Wednesday, August 1, we’re back in McCarren Park screening the fairy tale that we all wish Columbo would read to us: The Princess Bride. Get ready to hear many an Inigo Montoya impersonation. But even more incredible than our recitation of Inigo's revenge speech is the fact that we're offering 10% off our VIP tickets.
Go ahead—live like SummerScreen royalty! You'll get a seat up front and center, plus food vouchers good for a meal with any of our vendors, Sixpoint beer vouchers, and a free dessert from the legendary Coolhaus truck. Plus, you get an invitation to an exclusive after party at King and Grove after the movie. To get your discounted SummerScreen VIP tickets, just click here and enter the promotional code "LMag" to buy yours!
And did we mention we'll have Chris Sarandon, otherwise known as Prince Humperdinck himself, on hand to introduce the film? But please, no swordfighting. He only played the evil prince.
And as always, it’s not just about the flick. We’ve got more music courtesy of Todd P and SHOWPAPER. This week's offerings include noise-techno-pop band Extreme Animals, experimental synth outfit Soft Circle, and fuzzy psych rockers PC Worship.
Also returning is our caravan of food vendors, which includes: V Spot, Cemitas, Little Muenster, Brooklyn Bangers and Pizza Moto. That’s enough to fill even a Fezzik-sized appetite.
So make sure to be at McCarren Park this Wednesday, on the corner of North 12th and Bedford. Doors open at 6pm, the bands will be on at 6:30, and we'll have the movie rolling by sundown. Missing this would just be, well, inconceivable.
This week, we'll be heading to a screening at Heather's Bar, eating brunch in Baltimore, and picking up the arts and labor conversation with a few group shows.
Nevermind Ryan Lochte's diamond-studded American flag grill or any of the dozens of athletic feats that went down over the last few days. In a weekend crammed with Olympic coverage from every conceivable corner of the media, this clip takes the cake. In it, we watch the parents of U.S. gymnast Aly Raisman reacting to their daughter's bar routine, which, to the benefit of their mental and physical health, was strong enough to advance her into the individual all-round competition later this week. They might also be driving an imaginary race car? Hard to tell. Deadspin has the video in HD, but for a quick peek, watch above.
What's that thing that Morgan Freeman always says? Oh, yes. Go world.
Follow Lauren Beck on Twitter @heylaurenbeck.
I know "that person who loudly hates the Olympics" is way more tiresome than "the person who is suddenly a gymnastics expert once every four years" and "the person normally critical of American foreign policy drunkenly chanting USA at a bar television," so if watching the games is your thing, have at it. But lest you start to feel bummed that it could've been us on the teevee, enjoy reading these tweets of miserable Londoners, totally not keeping a stiff upper lip about how much hosting the Olympics sucks.
I do not need to refresh your memory about "Call Me Maybe." Deceptively full-adult-but-still-teenish Canadian Carly Rae Jepsen's massive, massive pop hit is playing right now in your local grocery store and also in your parents' car. It is a gym jam. And weirdly, most everyone agrees that it deserves to be. (I've had surreal conversations with seriously bearded, obscure noise-heads about how well made it is.) It's got a slick, relentlessly forward-moving construction plus an aw-shucks girliness that splices Kylie Minogue and Taylor Swift strains into a single pop-radio neutron bomb. Just reading the title again started its loop playing in your head, didn't it? That sort of brain-burrowing goes beyond catchiness. The song might be haunted.
Which is why her follow-up single, the misleadingly tilted "Good Time," is such an enraging bummer of a fucking terrible song. (Listen, I didn't expect to be this emotionally involved in Ms. Jepsen's career choices either, but here we are.) "Call Me Maybe" created an expectation, if not for novelty or ground broken, then for sharp craftsmanship and simple, relatable giddiness. "Good Time" is dead in its eyes.
Let's walk through it:
New Yorkers flocked to New Museum earlier this week, for a look at the museum’s new Ghosts in The Machine exhibit, which turned out to be the art world’s version of P. Diddy’s “White Party.” Guests wandered around decked out in all white threads, sipping white-themed custom cocktails and complimentary beer from Beck’s, all while listening to music provided by DJ Jack Greer. Photographer Sam Polcer captured some of the nights most memorable moments.
By pretty much any estimation, Wednesday night marked the best Summerscreen ever. First, people came, rocked out to Telepathe, Prince Rama, and Vaz, and then they settled in for Dirty Dancing, which, newsflash: every single person in Brooklyn really, really loves, like, to the point where everyone stood up and danced to the finale... twice, because of some technical difficulties. So in case you missed the fervor surrounding shirtless Swayze, here’s some of our favorite shots from last night in McCarren Park.
And don’t forget to come out next week for Princess Bride, or any of our remaining screenings. Check out the schedule here.
We’re maxing. We’re relaxing. We’re doing the bouncy house with our work friends. But mainly, we’re gettin’ outta here. The next few weeks hold a few art getaways in store, while New York slumbers. But not to worry; those of us remaining can still check out a zine fair and a must-see screening.
Facebook just got its first art gallery, #0000FF, an online-only project started by net artist Georges Jacotey. Net art is shockingly easy to get into: if you’re on the Internet at all, you know just how much of your daily life takes place in this strange, placeless place. To get over this strangeness, artists like Antonellis are trying to make this place a little more user-friendly.
Into this fray jump a bizarre all-star team: Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, and Jonah Hill, joined by The IT Crowd's Richard Ayode, star in The Watch, from a screenplay at least rewritten by Seth Rogen and Jonah Goldberg, and directed not by Shawn Levy (though he did produce it), but Akiva Schaffer, the Lonely Island cohort who previously made Hot Rod, a movie I like very much that nonetheless gave absolutely no one the impression that its makers would be allowed to make another one.
Entries, evasions and variant egresses make up the thematic mix in the current exhibition at Valentine Gallery.
Full review below.
Theon's penis was visible in one episode, I think.
Reading and deciphering this takes longer than actually watching the show. It's a recap, not…
What exactly is the point of this? Such bad writing....And if we want to know…