“Stomp twice for Beyonce…”

Ahhhh, the Internet. So many wondrous hidden treasures just waiting to be dug-up and shared with others. Thanks to my friend Quirine I was introduced to the YouTube sensation and bedazzler extraordinaire Leslie Hall.

Apparently I’ve been living under a rock because this girl has been around for years, modeling her empire of handcrafted gem sweaters, getting featured in Vice and profiled in just about every online pub imaginable. So, if you’ve seen this, sorry it’s nothing new. If you haven’t just watch the video and take in the awkward magic.

First and Fifteenth

A few of my friends started a themed mixtape series a while back that I’ve contributed to a few times. Twice a month on (you guessed it) the first and fifteenth, musically inclined guests post up their favorite track selections.

I was scrambling for a theme this turn when I started reflecting back on all the great live music I’ve seen throughout the year. I decided to pull favorite songs from my most memorable nights out around the city. Though I had to leave off some greats, including Sharon Jones & Morrissey, there’s still a slew of noteworthy acts on there, including White Williams, Blond Acid Cult and FM Belfast.  Check it out here and keep going back for the latest compilations.

And here’s a link back to my worldly music mix from this past Spring.

Perks & Pokey

My new job has brought lots of change to my life. Cool new people and friends, new office location downtown, different commute, more responsibility, etc. The first two weeks were also filled with some sweet new perks  – amazing new laptop, lobster lunches, free booze everywhere, candy and snacks and treats galore…you get the picture. But today I found my new favorite work/life addition, my favorite perk of all. It’s “Pokey,” the childhood pet of one of the flash developers here. And he’s rekindling a deep-down fiery love of pets and dogs in general that I thought was long dead, long snuffed out. Take a gander:

From what I’ve gathered Pokey is about 95 years old and pretty immobile. The pictures came out a little blurry though because he kind of does this slow but continuous head sway back and forth, like a real old person! Tongue is permanently out. Lots of panting. Pokey is now my obsession. I’ve already done 4 walk-bys.

Why I Love Eye Patches.

I’ve been trying to share a show-going experience from two weeks back but its surrealistic, musical glory left me reeling and I couldn’t recap fast enough. I’m talking about Slick Rick at Europa. Leave it to the pirated hiphop legend to bring together literally every colorful caricature in existence – homeless breakdancers, Staten Island guidos, clubkids, homeys, homegirls, hipsters, sleezy security guards…you name it and they were partying.

Word to the wise – if you’re ever trying to see Slick Rick perform, show up at least 3 hours after the time you instinctively think you should. 8:00 doors equaled a 1:30am start time for the ruler, so Rich and I were forced to watch the freakshow unfurl for about 3 hours in an empty club that felt the need to blast its smoke machine every 20 minutes. Fortunately the wait was worth it.

The artcrunk rap duo Bunny Rabbit and Black Cracker were openers. Part KRS One, part dirty Alice in Wonderland, these two came out with a live drummer that looked like the mom from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air and a ton of spooky electronic samples. Completely infectious, weirdly erotic and trippy – I definitely haven’t seen many live acts match the raw energy of these lady lovers. Check out their myspace for some tracks (which sound WAY better live I think) and more animated gifs like this one:

Next was a lengthy ‘let’s get this party started’ intro from Slick’s emcee (Rich referred to him as DJ Red Alert), that included 5-10 second samples of every hip hop record ever produced. Ever. If we didn’t react with the proper amount of ‘crowd respect’ for certain tracks, he called us out for not being old school enough. I felt like a poseur, and I think that was the point. Finally, it was time for Slick, who shuffled out on stage to the opening bars of “The Ruler” wearing what looked like a silken pajama set with about 25 giant gold-chained medallions around his neck and dark Wallabees on his feet. Picture this: 

And then make it a reality:

So here’s the big question: Is a hiphop icon rapping for forty kids in a grungy Brooklyn bar kind of tragic or just amazing? Maybe a little bit of both. You got the impression Slick was happy to be there but also feeling his age despite all his recent cultural-influencer-type honors. (He must have yelled “I am 43 years old!” like 3 times.) 

Sadly the pervy, misogynistic Slick wasn’t on display – I was hoping for a rendition of “Treat Her Like A Prostitute” or “Lick the Balls” – but after run-throughs of the classics like Mona Lisa & La Di Da Di and a fantastic “A Children’s Story” outro, I felt my night was more than complete.

Take in the regal genius in his glory day:

DoomsDay vs SwayzeDay

With the economy in a total 1929-style meltdown (even Wamu’s ‘woohooo’ cries are falling on deaf ears), Sarah “I Shoot Moose” Palin poised to snowmobile herself into the White House despite being a totally ignorant book-burning creationist psycho, and Galveston residents left to wrestle packs of wild dogs in pools of their own sewage, I was feeling particularly gloomy this morning with the national outlook. Then I accidentally opened this picture on my desktop, sent to me by my friend Amanda last week with a simple “Happy Friday” message attached.

And I instantly knew that we’d all be ok.

Happy Tuesday!

Sun, Gulls, Crabfest

I played hooky yesterday and took the Saturn chariot down to Rockaway Beach with my friend Chris. I highly recommend doing this if you get the chance before summer ends. I spent many a childhood day there, shoving tiny fistfuls of sand into my mouth as a baby and nervously taking on the ‘giant waves’ and deadly rip currents as a little girl. (I have pretty vivid memories of being repeatedly slammed and dragged through shell shards while attempting to bodysurf.)

Aside from the three pruned old-timers doing laps (one called us cowards, or ‘cowaads’ in Queens-speak, for not swimming) and some brawny guy doing push-ups on his beach chair, it was just us and a thousand nosy seagulls. Like this little guy below, who planted himself by our towels, eyed up our sleeve of Ritz crackers and slowly inched his way closer each time we turned our backs.

Yeah, we see you. Jerko.

In keeping with the ocean/beach theme, friends and I had reservations that night at Back Forty for their weekly blue crab boil, where they sit you down at communal tables covered in newspaper, hand you little wooden mallets and literally dump giant trays of crabs onto your laps. Our waiter offered us a proper-method tutorial when we all started wildly smacking the shell tops like idiots. Then we set to work inhaling crab. I was completely overwhelmed for a few minutes and totally covered in a thick paste of brownish, wet crab/spice residue, but the dim lighting and jovial crowd kind of helped me forget that I was de-shelling and sucking on fifty dead crustaceans.

Messy, intense and sort of exhausting – but deliciously so.

If any of the following quotes kind of gross you out, maybe avoid this place. Otherwise, go for it.

“ahhh! you just sprayed crab juice directly into my eye”
“just scrape out the lungs i think they’re poisonous”
“suck on the leg, there’s good stuff in there”
“shit i think i just ate lung”
“shit i think i just ate intestine”
“i dare you to scoop out…wait, are those brains?
“you have yellowy mushy stuff on your lip. guts…it looks like guts.”

Bon Appetit!

Octopi & Gold Bars

We tried to get into this opening on Thursday night to support a few friends involved with the project, but were met by a ridiculously long line that wasn’t moving and a sweaty, sardined interior. LOTS of loud skate kids and the ladies who love them though.

Dejected, I followed friends to GoldBar. Now, I’m waaaay too lazy & ignorant to make a full effort to end up at places like this, but with a friend of a friend waitressing inside, we got past the apparently psycho door girl (people seriously loathe this lady, some reviews are pretty hilarious) and settled in for a few rounds of free drinks. Creepy gold skulls, bar prices that made me feel like a common pauper and crappy music abounded. My favorite pieces of overstated decor were the ironic, baroque-y oil portraits hanging about. (I got yelled at for taking this photo.)

Jess was convinced they had something to do with Adam Wallacavage, but upon further investigation…in fact, did not. This did lead me to explore more of Adam’s work and sites (there are a few). A Philly-based photographer, sculptor and all-around curator of the weird and the fringe, his photos cover everything from skate and art culture (Jim Houser, Steve Powers, Mark Gonzales and Ryan Dunn make appearances) to music documentary (Ween, Slayer and a sick picture of Andrew WK among the best) to random odd shots of melted baby doll faces, mullet-ed bystanders and flea market misfits.

Just missed him and his insane octopus chandeliers this summer at the Jonathan Levine gallery, but hopefully he’ll be back with another ornamental oceanic art explosion sometime very soon.

Sneaker Monster Letters

Alex Trochut is a graphic designer from Barcelona who has some awesome type illustration up on his portfolio site. Check out his page if you have some extra time and want to feel really shitty about your artistic abilities, cause that’s what I do. When I was little I wanted to be an architect, professional basketball player, re-enactment actor or a graphic designer. Now I help make spam. Ahhh, c’est la vie.

He’s done work for huge Clients like Nike and Budweiser & cover design for Beautiful Decay, but some of my favorites are from smaller or personal projects:

Also, check out the work of Jethro Haynes for some equally cool illustration work. Plus he does these miniature, apocalyptic sneaker sculptures with crazy monsters wreaking havoc. I want to live in them.

Vivian Girls @ Death by Audio

Last night I walked over to the smoky art den Death by Audio to check out the Vivian Girls, the much-blogged-about and much-loved NYC trio who’s singles I’ve been a little obsessed with the past few months. With spooky, echoing girl harmonies, meaty basslines and simple, driving backbeats, they’ve definitely got the whole low-fi pop-punk thing working in their favor.

Comparisons are all over the map, from bands like Black Tambourine and the Vaselines (pretty apt) to the Shangri-Las and JAMC (stretches I think). To me they’re like a stripped down, lazier version of a more mature band like Electrelane or even the Breeders, which may offend the die-hard Deal fans out there, but oh well. Bottom line is that no current act is doing what the Vivian Girls are doing. The warm, noisy sound wave the ladies rolled out more than lived up to the hype and would soak out the stiffest of cynics.

Vivian Girls: Tell the World

Electrelane: On Parade

Before the good stuff began, we had to bear witness to the painful rap-prance posturing of Hawnay Troof, the spazzy by-product of way too many alternative art classes. Imagine if Dan Deacon, Beck, Har Mar Superstar and the Beastie Boys took a bunch of methamphetamines and had sex with JD Samson. Orgy-style. The resulting spawn would be Hawnay Troof. And the kids were loving him.

But don’t take my word for it when there’s video:

Soggy Stromboli

I was eating a salad on 51st and Park yesterday when I noticed more than the usual lunchtime puff of smoke wafting from the nearby pizza truck. Turns out Jianettos Pizza & Catering cart was ablaze! Midtown bystanders looked on with their classic “wow that looks bad, hope someone does something” poses.

Fortunately NYC’s finest arrived in moments and set to work drenching and smashing the shit out of the cart.

Here, they pause for a meatball sub order.

I was genuinely impressed with the response time, considering all the recent hubbub over the FDNY letting things like this go down. Fallen grannies verses burning pizza wagon?

Pizza wagon wins.