The Sea and Cake

The Sea and Cake are featured as the music in the newest Target add. I forgot how much I like them. So groovy. It always reminds me of summertime on my porch in Chicago.

Ahh, Mischa. The arbiter of cool.

Mischa Barton's new campaign for Keds is plastered all over the Union Square station. It's a series of photos which feature doe-eyed Mischa glancing knowingly into the camera whilst the captions school us about "cool."

Love Scraps.

Leftovers from Valentine's Day in some trees on West 4th Street.

Market Review

There are two grocery stores near my apartment. They both suck, but the Associated is considered slightly more high-end than Gristede's. I have lately been frequenting the latter, as it is never crowded and the prices are lower.

It first must be noted that several of the items on the shelves of Gristede's are, in fact, quite old. Take this Armour ham, for instance. The tin is aged enough so that the picture of the ham has faded and taken on a greenish hue.



The service at Gristede's is above par. The cashiers will look you in the eye more often than not, and will frequently see you off with a "Have a nice day." These niceties are somewhat of a novelty in New York. I really appreciate the change of pace.

Watersheds of any thorough market appraisal, Gristede's seems to have a passable selection of freshly baked goods, deli items, and gourmet cheeses and meats. These goods are reasonably priced, if not tucked in an odd corner of the store.

The final assessment: It may be a bit dusty and the advertisements may be low in quality, but Gristede's earns 3.25 out of 5 stars.

Gates.

And more Gates.

Her brand of justice really matters.

This is Judge Hatchett. I find her to be the fairest and most prudent of all the TV justices. She is exacty what our court system needs more of.

Burrito Debacle.

Why oh God why are there so many damn Mexican food delivery places that are run by Chinese folk in this town? They trick you, they trick you damn it, into ordering a cheap, quick burrito, nature's perfect food, and then they F it up EVERY TIME. And it's not an isolated location. There are a rash of these places, each more insidious than the one before it.

Chinese Mexican masqueraders! Stick to egg rolls and dim sum! Damnit!

Mr. Walken. Correction: Mr. Badass.

All those who fail to acknowledge that Mr. Walken is the man better just step off.

Grammy Whammy

I tuned into the Grammies for exactly 1.5 minutes last night, just enough to hear the execrable John Mayer sing his song, "Daughters."

Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too


Let me paraphrase:

Parents, be super good to your little girls so that they can grow up to really give their all in relationships. This helps me because someday, I'll be screwing those daughters of yours, and I'll get more out of it if they're really invested in "us." Get it? Thanks.

So why does this song bother me so much? First of all, it's completely patronizing. Second, any man who has that much concern for women in general - that is, not a particular woman, but the whole lovely lot of us - is a sentimentalizing fool who will always end up screwing girl X over for girl Y for some reason like "the heart wants what it wants."

The Gates

Christo and Jeannne-Claude's Gates opened yesterday in Central Park. I got there early so that I could see some of them being unfurled. The fabric was rolled up on long cardboard tubes and secured at the top of the stucture by a polyfiber cocoon with a velcro seam sealer ending in a loop. To loose the fabric, the velcro was rended from its two parts by pulling on the loop with a long pole with a hook on the end.

Christo and Jeanne-Claude make no pretentions about an intellectual context for their work. That's part of that I love about it. It's purely about creating a temporary, joyful environment.

Gates

Gates

Gates

Gates

Gates

Last Night's Dream.

The sign that I am really becoming a New Yorker is that I am now starting to dream about the city. I don't dream about places unless they've really worked themselves into my brain. Last night's adventure was attending a fashion week show with Amy Sedairs. She shared all her hopes and fears with me as we listened to a Nina Simone CD. It was really very touching. I read somewhere that dreaming about celebrities, which I do all the time, means you're very imaginative or very shallow. I can't remember which one.

At the Music Festival

Hand in hand the lesbians in kneesocks
Stroll along the Coney Island boardwalk.
Pigtails, army bags, cool white skin,
Black rimmed glasses, arms too thin.
Out among us for the day.
Observing the crowd observing them,
Proving they’re not without what they think they’ve never been.
Compunction holds no right, no grace
For those who will not look them in the face.

.

Death of a Dream

Drape the mirrors dark.

My love has passed me by and wed another.

Julian Casablancas married Juliet Joslin, that skanky ho.

I saw them on my corner once. He was walking a tiny dog, obviously hers, while she was bitching at someone on her cell.

Yes. You and me, Julian.

B-Day Party.

I went to a b-day party on Saturday night. The first bar we went to had many, many Asians. It was good, but too crowded. Maybe not for the Asians, but definitely for me.

Kevin ponders the high number of Asians while I just think, "People are people."

B-Day Party Cont'

Because the first bar was so crowded we went to a different bar down the street, just a few doors down from my apartment. I'd always avoided the place because in general, I think that Irish bars are pretty lame - always full of obnoxious frat-type guys. That, and I'm kind of a bar snob. The place was, in fact, not very cool - and it smelled like ass. I felt bad for the b-day girl because she was pretty frustrated with the whole affair.

Kevin, Freddy and I enjoy camaraderie even in a bar that smells like ass.

Low

I went to see Pedro the Lion and Low on Friday night at the Bowery Ballroom. Low's bassist is hot. He likes to play with his back to the audience.

Low Part II - My ass almost gets kicked.

The show was good. There seemed to be a high percentage of lesbians and guys with overgrown, furry beards in attendance. During Pedro's set, I was standing next to a guy whose date, I surmised, had never seen a concert that wasn't performed by Dave Matthews and his shit-dumping band. She kept speaking really loudly and saying things like, "Yeah, I really like this band! Their music is so melancholic. I mean, like, self-indulgent. You know. Really simple. It's good."

After the show, a very butch, drunk lesbian threatened to kick my ass because I accidentally cut in front of her in line for the coat check. I've never been in a fight before, and never had the desire to be in one...until just then.

More Mormon hotness.

Funeral Home Hook Up

I was walking past a funeral home yesterday and through the glass front door, saw a guy and a girl totally macking on each other... It was very Six Feet Under, but still kinda gross.

Cred.

Let it be known that I loved Death Cab before The O.C. Ask anyone.

http://www.filter-mag.com/media/interior.235.html

Uptown.

Seventy-ninth Street Station, Westside.

Grand Central 1.

Grand Central 2.

I rarely see anyone sit on these benches.

Bookshelf 1.

Bookshelf 2.

The New Hot Spot.

Last night, I went to this rockin' show at McDonald's. What? You didn't know it's the coolest new venue? Well, it is. The employees got together and put on a bitchin' set. They started with "Love Train." Awesome.

Banana girl on Park.

Lexington and 21st.

Off to the Bronx...

Because I had to run errand this morning, I took a subway line that I don't normally ride. I got into the uptown 2 train at the 7th Ave. stop, and just as the doors were about to close, an arguing couple go on the train. My guess is that she was some kind of low-grade hooker and he her boyfriend/pimp. She kept yelling at him in a Spanish/English hybrid, screaming, "What are you going to do?! Hit me again?! In front of all these people?! I told you - I don't go into that building since you broke my arm last time!!" He was talking low and in Spanish, so I couldn't understand him at all. On the ride from 14th St. up to 72nd, she accused him of being a child molester, a loser-janitor who can't pay the rent, and a junkie "because [his] brother died of AIDS." Wow. I haven't seen such a display in a long time. Especially not at 9:00 in the morning. I know it's sick, but it's part of what I like about living here.