Google Has Found Us (Almost)

Front Yard

Above, our front yard; below, the driveway.

Driveway

Police Blotter

Fake Turkey

  • Ryan Halverson was being booked for public intoxication in Freeport, Texas when he leaned forward and licked Sgt. Jay Newton on the face. Halverson evidently found Sgt. Newton to be tasty, because he tried to lick him a second time before the sergeant stepped out of the way. [Link]
  • Body Of Christ snatched from church, held hostage by University of Central Florida student. [Link]
  • 5,000 gallons of healthy, all natural molasses spilled on highway in Sugar Land, Texas. [Link]
  • From Utah: After gesturing to the 22-year-old Vitaly Kovtun to roll down his window, passenger Stephen Cox asked, “Excuse me, sir, do you have any Grey Poupon?” Kovtun responded, police charge, by pulling a handgun from his glove compartment, cocking the weapon, and leveling it at the prankster’s auto. “Here’s your Grey Poupon, roll your fucking windows up,” Kovtun said, according to a probable cause affidavit. [Link]
  • “According to a Lebanon, IN Police Department news release, Katherine Gunther, 36, was performing a Wiccan “ceremony of thanks” in Oak Hill Cemetery around 12:15 a.m. Saturday when she ran the blade through her left foot. She said in an interview Monday that she’d had a run of good luck recently and wanted to give thanks with the rite.”
  • Police have arrested 18-year-old James L. Harris for stealing at least three county buses and driving them on their routes. According to Miami-Dade police, Harris would take the buses from several Miami-Dade Transit bus depots in the county and drive the buses on their routes, picking up and dropping off passengers along the way. He would then return the buses at the end of the day. [Link]
  • The son of former New York City mayor Rudy Giuliani is suing Duke University, claiming he was wrongfully kicked off the golf team. The lawsuit claims the coach has interferred with Giuliani’s efforts toward becoming a professional golfer. [Link]

The Gay Agenda

[Link]

the word I allowed to be written

Chinese Lotus (bound) Foot Cake

Where it says snow
read teeth-marks of a virgin
Where it says knife read
you passed through my bones
like a police-whistle
Where it says table read horse
Where it says horse read my migrant’s bundle
Apples are to remain apples
Each time a hat appears
think of Isaac Newton
reading the Old Testament
Remove all periods
They are scars made by words
I couldn’t bring myself to say
Put a finger over each sunrise
it will blind you otherwise
That damn ant is still stirring
Will there be time left to list
all errors to replace
all hands guns owls plates
all cigars ponds woods and reach
that beer-bottle my greatest mistake
the word I allowed to be written
when I should have shouted
her name
      Charles Simic, “Errata

Yiri Yiri Boum


In this context, pray interpret the word ‘artist’ in a very narrow sense, and the expression ‘man of the world’ in a very broad one. By ‘man of the world’, I mean a man of the whole world, a man who understands the world and the mysterious and legitimate reasons behind all its customs; by ‘artist’, I mean a specialist, a man tied to his palette like a serf to the soil. M. G. does not like being called an artist. Is he not justified to a small extent? He takes an interest in everything the world over, he wants to know, understand, assess everything that happens on the surface of our globe. [Link]

I discovered Gnonnas Pedro back in the fall, thanks to WFMU.

I love Ellie Covan.

Dixon Place

And you should love her too.

I read over on Colonnade Row that Dixon Place is moving to a larger space on Chrystie Street in October. I stumbled into Dixon Place back in the 80s, when it was Ellie Covan’s storefront apartment. There was the living room, which was filled with chairs and couches that looked like they had been pulled off the street. There was a bathroom in the rear, which Covan shared with the public. There was a bedroom that doubled as a dressing room. Oh, and there was a small kitchenette cut out of the living room, which served as a refreshment bar during intermission. (I remember juice mainly, but one night, when Nicky Paraiso was telling stories and singing Filipino songs, he cooked us all some — what’s Filipino for schnecken?) That was Dixon Place.

When Covan wasn’t at Dixon Place she was often over at P.S. 122. My vividest memory of her there was leading the Dixon Place Ukelele Ensemble, which I seem to recall performed routinely in their underwear, or less.

When they moved to the Bowery I went less often — I do remember Reno performing there, and her spotting me in the front row, and trying to remember how she knew me. (Answer: from Aggie’s). I seem to recall this was also Covan’s home, but it was bigger at least.

Dixon Place should not exist. Larger arts organizations with access to far greater resources fold all the time. Dixon Place has been sustained for over 20 years now through the love of Covan, by her love for her community and by the love they return, with interest. You can make donations on their website: please send them everything you have. Covan, as great a national treasure as we have, will know how to use it.

Kittehs Gone!

Llamas

Actually, while I was at work the other day, their Mom moved them to an undisclosed location, which I thought at first was under the floorboards beneath the sink, but that turned out to be a different litter. (Please don’t ask.) Today I managed to track them down to the closet in the guest bedroom, behind a stack of paintings. Everyone appears fine still, eyes still closed, but I think they’d like some privacy for the time being. So above, in their place, are pictures of the llamas I took last summer.

This is My Blog on Wordle

Word Cloud

Wolinnin Funeral Home

The Naked City

Hunter-Gatherer has been mining old episodes of “The Naked City” for vintage New York scenes, and the one above, featuring Jack Klugman and East 7th Street, has a shot with Wolinnin Funeral Home. More madeleine moments.

I remember one fall day I developed a craving for apple stack cake. I knew a place on Canal Street where you could pick up bags of dried fruit real cheap, and I called my neighbor Nancy to see if she wanted to come along. Like me, Nancy loved food, but unlike me, she had the kind of metabolism to support a real passion.

After picking up the dried apples, we found a hole-in-the-wall somewhere along Mott Street (I think) and had bowls of congee. Why not, since we’re in the neighborhood, run by DiPalo’s? I’m thinking we must have also picked up canolis at Ferrarra’s across the street. After all, we were in the neighborhood. Oh, and pasta from Piemonte.Then we decided to walk off the congee and the DiPalo’s samples. We headed up Mulberry, past Old St. Patrick’s, and in no time we were on East Houston. Yonah Schimmel’s! Their knishes always seemed like lead to me, but their yogurt – I never had had fresh yogurt before. Then we headed down the block to Russ & Daughters – more samples! And Ben’s Cheese Shop, which had the best baked farmer’s cheeses, and where you could still get your butter sliced to order from a wheel. (When I first moved to the Upper West Side, in 1976, you could also get tub butter from the Daitch Dairy Store, a dark musty holdover, and for a while after, when the Dairy Store was folded into the new Shopwell.) Oh, and onion board from Moishe’s Bakery. I mean, to go with the butter.

By this time we’d worked up an appetite, and we both thought potato pancakes at Leshko’s, with sour cream and apple sauce, would make a great late lunch. And we were only a few blocks away at this point. But first there was Kurowycky Meats! Dry-cured ham!

After the pancakes, we were both a bit, overfull, and moving pretty slowly. Leaving Leshko’s we paused just around the corner, in front of Wolinnin’s. Being a good southern boy, Wolinnin’s was a bit exotic – the Infant Christ the King parlor lamp, the stuffed parrot. As Nancy and I enjoyed a memento mori moment, an old woman came out of the office and asked if we would like a tour. I have no idea how much walk-in business Wolinnin’s got, but I think we both felt our being there was providential.

The tour passed, as did our brush with death, and we headed back to the Upper West Side. Nancy, as I recall, cooked up some linguini carbonara for supper, but I was too worked up to cook, and instead got back on the subway and headed off the Junior’s for their corned beef and pastrami mini-sandwiches and the cheesecake of dreams.

Junior's, Brooklyn

More Geek Humor

Stay-at-Home Server

Guernica in 3D

Guernica in 3D

(via Laughing Squid)

Frosting Shots

Top 10 Most Tasteless Cakes

The Associated Press reports on what may be the most off-putting new food trend of the 2008 season: frosting shots. For a small fee, customers get a dollop of their favorite frosting in a paper or plastic cup, about the size of a frozen yogurt sample. [Link]

Sex and Blogs

My Luxuria, Alex Sandwell Kliszynski

I came upon a new blog the other day, Sex and Blogs (Sexblo.gs), and they featured some images from a recent exhibit at the Photographers’ Gallery in London, freshfacedandwildeyed 08. Above, an image from Alex Sandwell Kliszynski’s photo series, “My Luxuria”, which explores the idea of the human/doll composite. Below, Philip Ewe, from his series, “Sex Positions for Singles.”

Sex Positions for Singles, Philip Ewe

Cucurrucucu Paloma

James Marcus reviewed a live performance of Caetano Veloso performing in 2007:

Veloso is a splendidly theatrical performer. His hand gestures alone are probably worth a scholarly monograph. (My favorite: the sideways fluttering that seems to indicate that his fingertips are on fire.) His energy belies his age, as do the abs he briefly, comically flashed to the adoring crowd, not making any attempt to hide the love handles, either. But despite the agile accompaniment and his pogo-stick levitations from one side of the stage to the other, I was probably most captivated by Veloso’s brief solo turn. There’s no doubt he could spend the rest of his life touring with just a stool and an acoustic guitar. The fact that he doesn’t is one more proof of his restless artistry. Yet that feathery tenor, with its subdued laughter and subdued tears and its winking, mercurial falsetto, remains a marvel–and you can hear it best when it’s just Veloso and his guitar, plus the thousands of audience members haloing his every phrase. Last night he did “Cucurrucucu Paloma,” and had the entire theater eating out of his hand.

Above is Veloso performing “Cucurrucucu Paloma” in Almodóvar’s Talk to Her. One of the sexiest solos I think I’ve ever seen.

Stop the Insanity!

Starbucks Closing Protest

Forget about Iraq. Forget about Iran. Forget about the collapse of the US banking system. A STARBUCKS NEAR YOU MAY BE CLOSING! Find out which ones, and then let your voices be heard. Today they take away our Starbucks, tomorrow it could be WalMart!

Red State Update

Our beloved Red State Update is now internationally famous.

Bedjump.com

Bed Jump

Bedjump.com is a whole site dedicated to photos of people (mostly adults) jumping on beds in their hotel rooms. (via Nathan Exposed)

Sweet Justice

George Lucas frozen in carbonite

Green Snake

Green Snake

When I was pulling the pictures of the new kittens off the camera I found some pictures left over from last summer. Above, my sister and I had been sitting on the front porch when we noticed that one of the hanging plants was beginning to move toward us. It turned out to be this green snake, which was using the hanging baskets and flower boxes as a hamster run. He moved out and hung in midair, sniffed us, and went back to playing by himself. We never saw him again for the rest of the summer.

It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by.


It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? for the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop. Growth is exciting; growth is dynamic and alarming. Growth of the soul, growth of the mind. Vita Sackville-West, “Summer,” The Land