“NorthWest Bank and Trust is the 104th FDIC-insured institution to fail in the nation this year, and the 11th in Georgia. [..] The FDIC estimates that the cost to the Deposit Insurance Fund (DIF) will be $39.8 million.”—FDIC Press Release PR-2010 (via ericmortensen)
This Tumblr was not a day old when a picture of four beautiful young women in cocktail dresses seated on a white sofa effected outrage among its subjects; I took it down as a courtesy to the evening’s hosts. The women in the picture objected to the Tumblr title, a reference to DeLillo’s great quote in White Noise, “I feel sad for people and the queer part we play in our own disasters.” And also, I believe, to the caption, “Anyone will do the most horrific things for just another minute of life.” It came from BBC’s World at War documentary, there spoken by a middle-aged death camp survivor recalling midcentury hell from the Panavision 70’s.
One of the women was looking directly at the camera, her face dark-shadowed, which to me seemed terrific and primal: fight, flight, mascara.
The broad statement of the picture was that human history is brutal and its brutality unceasing. That the 21st century is, if anything, shaping up to be worse than the 20th. Even in Manhattan, the great American triumph of will over nature, our lives and minds remained governed by dark and creaturely drives, the same survival-imperatives that pushed our ancestors lopingly from gorges into trees, bloody-mouthed. That we are ancient, brutal machines and manners and protocol and beauty encourage us to forget this but, as a matter of life and death, we must not forget it because if we do we will be reminded in ways large, small and violent.
But our images cloud our vision.
Which makes me sad.
Dana Vachon, on Tumblr, on Twitter. Follow for rollicking good times in the vein of Toy Story 3 or The Runaways.
Every day, Ed McFarland kills 400 pounds of live lobster. Starting at 8:30 a.m., white vans splashed with bright-red lobster illustrations on the side roll up outside his restaurant, Ed’s Lobster Bar on Lafayette Street in SoHo.
Drivers drop off 50-pound cardboard boxes filled with lobsters, which are snoozing on beds of ice after an overnight flight from Maine or Nova Scotia and a long drive from one of McFarland’s two distributors, Two Cousins in Freeport and Jordan Lobster Farms in Island Park. Most of the lobsters were hauled up from the ocean about a week or so earlier, lured by herring bait in the traps. Then they’ve been hanging out in plastic holding tanks filled with salt water in processing plants, waiting to be wrapped in newspaper and ice and put into portable refrigerators for the trip to New York. “They’ve got to be live when they come in,” McFarland said, “otherwise they’re not going to be any good.”
So whenever I get off the train at a certain hour on Thursdays in Virginia Square there is always this semi parked at the corner of Fairfax by the 7-Eleven where I stop in to buy a ___ or a ___. It’s a large, refrigerated trailer in back and I figure the guy is restocking said Slevin or the Cosi next to it, blaring his stereo to whistle while he works.
And it’s always this godawful country music. You know what I mean. America Music. With all the talk of eagles but not like Priest ever would and the flags and the FREEDOM and I’m always like, “Fuck that. Fuck AMERICA.” Except only in my head, you know, because I’ve worked that type of shitty job before and while I may have blasted Public Enemy at the pool store like any good lily white-guilt privileged basketcase of a shitshow would, who am I to begrudge this dude his tunes? Plus he’s big and grizzled and I don’t really need that in my life.
But tonight it was different. It wasn’t the mid-tempo, shoe-polish-gleaming calcudrawl of the robots. It was some down home, finger-pickin’, jug-huffin’, shit-hot spitfire music. And also! His system was cracking for all the abuse he’s put it through and combined with the static from the heavy cloud cover, it distorted the fuck out of the whole melange until is sounded as if “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” had actually been performed by the Devil himself. And I mean Satan, Lucifer, king of all that is not in any way kosher.
And it was alright.
Fort Reno was really good too! Had my first Ian sighting in the Whole Foods with the kid! Then I remembered that one of the great things about DC is that a summer shower actually makes everything hotter and also collapses your lungs in on you soon as you walk outside.
But Color School put on some great late-Minutemen style buoyant and tight pop-punk (from before that denoted genre), Black Telephone seems like they could gel into something really nice for the interplay (although it took all I had not to heckle, “Why not ‘Malcolm X’?!” when they introduced the song “Meridian Hill”) and Mary Timony and Soft Power were, as ever, sonic architects that make Led Zeppelin at their most baroque sound like some backwater bar band struggling to stand up for all the pitchers of piss water.
Oh and the Points are headlining a Windian Records anniversary extravaganza on Friday and Saturday at the Velvet and I will throw a beer on you.
My dad’s on tour with a rock band in Northern California. He’s been sending me updates via text: “’Green’ hotel with swans today, Motel 6 w/rednecks & tweakers yesterday”; a blurry crowd of 5,000 snapped from stage; claims to the mass deafening of whole crop-dusted towns.
I’m back where I was born, in Brooklyn, a few miles from a house that once made room for Tonka Trucks and pianos and a vine of morning glories wending across chain-link like schooldkids with their shoes untied.
We’ve both been plucking t-shirts from suitcases that lie on the floors of temporary homes.
On August 15th, 1991, Paul Simon played a concert in Central Park — I was six, and my brother just barely three. My family camped out in the backyard with a radio, broadcasting the show for mosquitoes and a pissed-off bunch of sleepy morning glories. During the night the rest of my family retreated to proper beds: one parent carrying my brother up a flight of stairs, the other stumbling in confused an hour later. Nobody realized I was still out there, covered in bug bites and asleep beneath a thin sheet.
I woke up alone, entrenched in the sticky morning heat of a New York summer. Graceland is where the heart wants to go, even if that heart is a little confused and indecisive and might be dooming itself to a Demerol-laden explosion on the tiles of a well-known dream house floor.
I have had 2001 in my disc drive for about three weeks but every night I fall asleep at or around the moment the bone turns into the spaceship. Maybe Eyes Wide Shut will ever remain my only Kubrick film seen!
Oh, right, he also made Dr. Strangelove, but fuck that movie.
Dr. Strangelove auto-reblog, mostly to say this person is headed in the wrong direction.
“The four actresses left in the running are Rooney Mara, who recently finished working for Fincher on his upcoming film The Social Network; French actress Lea Seydoux, who appeared as Isabella of Angouleme in this year’s Robin Hood, as well as last year’s Inglourious Basterds; and two Australian actresses: Sarah Snook and Sophie Lowe. Snook recently starred in Julia Leigh’s erotic fairy tale Sleeping Beauty while Lowe is a more established actresses in her home country, appearing in a number of local productions, including Blessed and Blame. Fincher had also been pursuing South African singer/rapper Yo-Landi Vi$$er from the group Die Antwoord, but the artist isn’t interested in an acting career.”—‘The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo’: Lisbeth casting down to four | EW.com (via marrina)
I’m currently reading this awful book, and wow, the Die Antwood chick would be GENIUS casting.
Friday’s shaping up to be the perfect day for Critical Mass.
That’s right, pigs! You won’t ruin this for me.
I don’t want to turn this into a “thing,” but referring to cops as “pigs” is equivalent to dismissing all those who participate in Critical Mass as unruly and disruptive. I love you B, but I wish people would choose their words more carefully on the Internet.
“WASHINGTON (AFP) – With BP’s broken well in the Gulf of Mexico finally capped, the focus shifts to the surface clean-up and the question on everyone’s lips is: where is all the oil?”
NEW ORLEANS (Mother Jones) – I don’t know who the fuck these everyones are, but I’m happy to help out them, and ABC, and this AFP reporter writing that due to BP’s stunningly successful skimming and burning efforts, “the real difficulty now is finding any oil to clean up.”
Are you still reading mainstream media for your primary news sources?
Just got back from lunch (PST y’all!). While eating, two cute mostly because they were teenagers walked in. I was about to gin up some PG-quality (one of them was, like, fourteen) internal monologue when their mother, who was trailing, came around the corner.
As they walked in, I thought quite clearly to myself “Dude, you should be checking out the Mom, because that’s who you are now.” So I did my portion and shot a leer at Mom. And it was alright. She was pretty hot.
“Kyle Pope just doesn’t have enough experience or wisdom to understand that the web is a real big place and that a rising tide lifts all boats. Having great folks like those at Capital New York in our neighborhood — and it’s a very big and very fun neighborhood! — is terrific for us.”—Choire Sicha, on The Observer’s Kyle Pope’s assertion that Capital New York’s biggest competition is The Awl [in Ad Age] (via whatevs)
Having absolutely proven the elitists at Young Manhattanite were fomenting the Target backlash with a blink tag, we are going to repair to our CSA stocked kitchen and make ramps with organic hoozles (look it up, all the rage this year) and take a bunch of pictures. Maybe add in some casual racism because that is how we roll knitta.