The Brooklyn Museum has a show up featuring Warhol’s later work, including a wall of Interview covers from the late 70’s and early 80’s. Just like I picture the 1930’s and 40’s in black and white, in my mind’s eye everyone in 1980 is airbrushed and 2D. This one’s for you, Marcos.
Spent the weekend in Newport at a beach house with the ‘rents and found this scrumptious little paperback on the nightstand. It’s like the universe is validating my life choices via trashy supermarket literature. Needless to say, the classy book (Amy Hempel’s “Tumble Home”) I’m in the midst of reading took a backseat to this little gem.
On Sunday I pregamed for the World Cup at Meatopia - a bacchanal of carnal love out on Governor’s Island - cause that’s how gluttons roll. If you’ve never experienced the meat sweats, I recommend you man up and and buy yourself a ticket for next year’s event. Above you see Mary’s little lamb, naked and oh so succulent, courtesy of Seamus Mullen from Boqueria. Speaking of things from Barcelona, INIESTACULAR finish by my boys in red. Now what do I do for the next four years?
I live in what my elitist city friends like to call, the burbs. Or more specifically, I don’t live in San Francisco, so my city is irrelevant. Rather than fight the stigma I’m trying to embrace suburbia with open arms. This means I spent my weekend in Target and Costco buying in bulk, alongside screaming babies and a lot of fellow Israelis. Of course, Sunday was dedicated to the World Cup. This is a shot of my indoor-mediterranean-picnic, complete with cous cous, hummus (pronounced hoo-moose with a throaty Hoo, not hum-us) topped with olive oil and paprika, carrots, Israeli chopped salad, pita chips and a little smoked gouda for good measure.