Saturday night I went to Cameo in Williamsburg to see Fall On Your Sword, a rather awesome band featuring my pals James and Wills. While they defy easy genre classification (overheard throughout the evening: “sci-fi lo-fi,” “progressive geekcore,” “gay German disco”), two things are for damn certain - they get a crowd dancing, and David Hasselhoff eating a cheeseburger is even more glorious when seen on the big screen. Each song is accompanied by a video mash-up of science fiction gems (Leia in her gold bikini, lots of Shatner, The Hoff in Knight Rider AND Starcrash), and last night’s show featured a very special tribute to Michael Jackson. I’m not sure how I missed this, but apparently Jacko starred alongside Anjelica Huston in a Francis Ford Coppola film shown exclusively at Disneyland. Captain EO can be viewed in its entirety on YouTube, but here’s a link to the climactic musical number, "We Are Here To Change The World," which is a little bit like Star Wars meets Care Bears.
Also, somewhat inexplicably, Billy Zane was at the show. If it’s good enough for Billy Zane, it’s good enough for me.
Mark Rothko, or unused subway station ad space? Either way, this is what I felt like on the inside this weekend. No more details to come.
Meringue FAIL. Sure, they look pretty, but those whimsical white tufts belie unacceptably chewy centers. I blame the continuing inclement weather - we’ve had 17 days of rain so far in June. Does this look like LONDON? Do I choose to live in PORTLAND? If I wanted gross, chewy meringues, I’d live in Ireland, now wouldn’t I? The meringues were supposed to be the dessert course of a lovely meal featuring the first produce of my CSA season (radishes with buttered bread, sea salt; roasted chickpeas with chard, garlic scapes, shallots; chicken thighs with mustard, dill, and homemade yogurt), but instead I closed the meal with the bitter taste of failure. Not delicious.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again⎯New York City has some of the most witty, intelligent, poignant and beautiful graffiti.
Behold the pitiful state of my bike circa Saturday. Last fall, my front wheel was unceremoniously stolen from the foyer of my building (Apt. 4L, I’m looking at you), and I couldn’t be arsed all winter to replace it. But with summer in partial swing, I finally got my act together and trotted down to my local bike shop. I’d say the intimidation factor was somewhere between walking into a weightroom full of ‘roided out meatheads and finding myself on a job where everyone else is a Teamster. I don’t know anything about bikes (did you know wheels come in all different sizes??), but Henry at Brooklyn Bicycles managed to get me sorted with a new wheel, an extra tube, and perhaps most importantly, a cute wooden basket. So now I’m ready to hit the streets, and by streets I mean only those that are flat or downhill.
If you told me in the fall of 2007 when I was leaving New York for L.A. that I’d be back in a few years living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn I’d have said, “Let me borrow your blank prescription pad, because you’re CLEARLY on something not over the counter.” And yet, here I stand, on the corner of “loud music emanating from a car swaddled in an oversized Puerto Rican flag” and “overpriced brunch place that won’t hire me as a server even though I have a college degree, infested with bearded yuppie hangovers.” I don’t recognize this New York, but I’m looking forward to getting to know it this summer.
My cousin Jenny (http://blog.shopacrimony.com/) arrived in New York Sunday night. As any good Chung does, she dropped her bags off at her hotel and proceeded directly to Momofuku Ssäm Bar. The meal was uncharacteristically uneven, with very high highs (spicy sausage and rice cakes, pork buns, duh) and disappointing lows (overly smoky asparagus and snails). Entertainment came courtesy of a nattily dressed couple who decided to conduct an impromptu photo shoot in front of the graffitied wall next to the restaurant. Much pain was taken in the posing of every photo - move your left foot an inch to the right; slouch; give me more disaffected; would you waste Terry Richardson’s time with that pout? A good ten minutes of this, but then again, what’s ten minutes in the quest for Facebook profile pic glory? Jenny’s and my attempt to recreate the magic is above.
This is, quite possibly, the most beautiful home I have ever seen. It’s art deco, it’s on the beach, what more could one want? The only problem: it’s in Playa Del Rey.
The BF desperately needed new shoes, so I took him to buy these snazzy little leather numbers.
Later on, we went out to a club with his friend Adam who was in town for the weekend.