Watching the Grammy's tonight while Mambo and the little Miss act like static cling.
Lady Gaga opens the show with a genius performance of "Poker Face." It doesn't quite achieve the level of art that she hit last fall with the blood and suicide on the VMA's, but she more than holds her own performing with Sir Elton.
Poor Beyonce has to follow her, thereby spotlighting the glaring difference between art and commerce.
Lady G is for all the weird kids and outcasts. Beyonce plays to the cheerleaders.
Lady Gaga is Dom Perignon. Beyonce is a Bartles and James white wine spritzer.
Lady Gaga is Coney Island. Beyonce is Disneyworld.
Lady Gaga is the White Roses hanging on the wall of the Met. Beyonce is Thomas Kinkade being hawked on HSN.
Lady Gaga is Peter Luger. Beyonce is Hamburger Heaven.
Now understand, I don't hate Beyonce. I like her just fine, the way I like Lays potato chips. I find her perfectly likeable, palatable, and well, easily consumed.
When I watch Lady Gaga I get a slightly queasy, uneasy feeling. I'm being challenged, and I don't know what's challenging me. It's not that her songs are so exceptional, they're you're basic singalongable dance-pop, but damn, her performances kick serious ass.
That's all I have to say about that.
Besides how much I loved that T-Pain joint, with Slash tearing it up with "November Rain" at the end. Sweet.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Professor Obama Schools the Republicans
If you hadn't already heard, President Obama met with 140 Republicans yesterday and while they came armed with their best talking points, he politely and elegantly took them apart. It was thrilling to see. That was the guy we voted for. Best of all, it looked like he was having fun while he dismantled them.
Can you imagine George W Bush in the same situation? He would have been undone.
I can't wait to see the Sunday shows to see how the repugs try to spin this. You can bet that their leadership is huddled in a bunker somewhere with Karl Rove frantically planning their Sunday morning blitz.
Don't you love a good rope-a-dope?
I'm not sure who arranged this, but something tells me the return of David Plouffe just might have something to do with it.
Welcome back, Dave!
Unrelated side note: what the hell happened to the Rangers? They are down 3-0 after the first period against the Coyotes!
Can you imagine George W Bush in the same situation? He would have been undone.
I can't wait to see the Sunday shows to see how the repugs try to spin this. You can bet that their leadership is huddled in a bunker somewhere with Karl Rove frantically planning their Sunday morning blitz.
Don't you love a good rope-a-dope?
I'm not sure who arranged this, but something tells me the return of David Plouffe just might have something to do with it.
Welcome back, Dave!
Unrelated side note: what the hell happened to the Rangers? They are down 3-0 after the first period against the Coyotes!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Gimme Shelter(box) -- Help Haiti
My friend (who is much cooler than any of us, face it) is a volunteer for Shelterbox.
I don't know if or when she may be deployed to Haiti, but this type of aid is exactly what the citizens of that destroyed country need right now.
Please go to their site and make a donation today.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Lunch Outside the Office
You never know who you might see.
Today at the Friar's Club:
Yes, Tessio was there! Nattily dressed in a pair of gray slacks with a lavender cashmere cableknit sweater, if I may say so. (If I have to explain who Tessio is, we can't be friends anymore)
Also putting in an appearance as we were finishing up coffee:
So as Paul Sor-fucking-vino passes our table he looks at us and says, "The ladies who lunch!" We all got a little starstruck, honestly. The guy has charisma. Plus, he's what you'd call "my type." Sorta big and rough around the edges. Still pretty hot, if you ask me.
So between Tessio and Big Paul Cicero, plus another silver-fox, chiclet-toothed guy in a pinstripe suit being greeted as he came into the Club, "Hey, it's Peter DeCarlo!", it felt like a retirement party for phony wiseguys.
It was fun.
Today at the Friar's Club:
Yes, Tessio was there! Nattily dressed in a pair of gray slacks with a lavender cashmere cableknit sweater, if I may say so. (If I have to explain who Tessio is, we can't be friends anymore)
Also putting in an appearance as we were finishing up coffee:
So as Paul Sor-fucking-vino passes our table he looks at us and says, "The ladies who lunch!" We all got a little starstruck, honestly. The guy has charisma. Plus, he's what you'd call "my type." Sorta big and rough around the edges. Still pretty hot, if you ask me.
So between Tessio and Big Paul Cicero, plus another silver-fox, chiclet-toothed guy in a pinstripe suit being greeted as he came into the Club, "Hey, it's Peter DeCarlo!", it felt like a retirement party for phony wiseguys.
It was fun.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Follow Directions!
Have you ever read a cookbook just for the fun of it? They're up there with atlases for pure, time-wasting bliss.
Earlier I was idling through my copy of "Talk About Good! -- Le Livre de la Cuisine de Lafayette," half-thinking tonight might be a good night for jambalaya, so what better place to turn than a bunch of Louisiana Junior Leaguers?
I love this cookbook for many reasons, among them the fact that all of the recipes have been submitted by locals and are attributed to women with names like "Mrs. Jefferson Davis Beauregard Ashley Wilkes IV." (Apparently Southern women give up their own first names when they get married.) Many of the recipes are unashamed of their canned ingredients and dairy fats ("1 Block of Butter," "1/2 pound Velveeta cheese"). Some assume a readership familiar with local cooking customs ("Make a roux.") A lot of them don't even require cooking!
Today I'm going to share -- verbatim -- a recipe from the "Mardi Gras" section of the book. Them Southerners do like to get their drink on!
BOWLE A LA KUMP
(A Festive German Wine Punch)
Submitted by Charles H. Stewart, M.D.
At 8 A.M., take one liter of German white wine (Zellar, Schwarte Katz, or Niersteiner Domtal, etc.). Pour into a large pitcher over 2 pints of fresh strawberries. Place in refrigerator. Three hours prior to serving, place 2 liters of white wine, 1 liter of champagne in the freezer. Immediately prior to serving, add these to the original strawberry-wine mixture. Place all in a large punch bowl. Dry ice may be added for effect -- but does not alter the flavor. Serves 4 lusty drinkers, or 8 bon vivants, or 16 "party drinkers".
Earlier I was idling through my copy of "Talk About Good! -- Le Livre de la Cuisine de Lafayette," half-thinking tonight might be a good night for jambalaya, so what better place to turn than a bunch of Louisiana Junior Leaguers?
I love this cookbook for many reasons, among them the fact that all of the recipes have been submitted by locals and are attributed to women with names like "Mrs. Jefferson Davis Beauregard Ashley Wilkes IV." (Apparently Southern women give up their own first names when they get married.) Many of the recipes are unashamed of their canned ingredients and dairy fats ("1 Block of Butter," "1/2 pound Velveeta cheese"). Some assume a readership familiar with local cooking customs ("Make a roux.") A lot of them don't even require cooking!
Today I'm going to share -- verbatim -- a recipe from the "Mardi Gras" section of the book. Them Southerners do like to get their drink on!
BOWLE A LA KUMP
(A Festive German Wine Punch)
Submitted by Charles H. Stewart, M.D.
At 8 A.M., take one liter of German white wine (Zellar, Schwarte Katz, or Niersteiner Domtal, etc.). Pour into a large pitcher over 2 pints of fresh strawberries. Place in refrigerator. Three hours prior to serving, place 2 liters of white wine, 1 liter of champagne in the freezer. Immediately prior to serving, add these to the original strawberry-wine mixture. Place all in a large punch bowl. Dry ice may be added for effect -- but does not alter the flavor. Serves 4 lusty drinkers, or 8 bon vivants, or 16 "party drinkers".
Friday, January 8, 2010
Why I Love New York, Reason # 1,734,156
Union Square Subway Station, 1/7/2010, 8:41 pm
You got it right -- this guy wheeled a real, live piano to Union Square, then found an elevator, then got onto the N/R/W platform, then wheeled that sucker to ANOTHER elevator, and took up residence on the L platform.
While I waited for the L train to Brooklyn, I heard Rachmaninoff Symphony No. 2, "Mad World" by Tears for Fears, and "Nessun Dorma." All segued perfectly into one another.
It's a beautiful thing.
Take that, LA.
A Private Aside to Mr. Archer
Yeah, I'm callin' you out, sir.
I may be hopelessly lowbrow, but I, for one, LOVED this story:
I may be hopelessly lowbrow, but I, for one, LOVED this story:
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Best Vendor Christmas Gift -- EVER!
I almost forgot to post about this.
You have to imagine me opening the box from our Italian vendor, and being assaulted by the smell of dirty feet and thinking, "What. The. Fuck?" Then gingerly peeling back the paper to find this:
The Coke can is there for scale.
Yes.
That's a giant block of Parmesan cheese, which was cut that morning and delivered to my office in all of its stinky glory. It weighed about 10 pounds, no lie.
How do you like them apples?
You have to imagine me opening the box from our Italian vendor, and being assaulted by the smell of dirty feet and thinking, "What. The. Fuck?" Then gingerly peeling back the paper to find this:
The Coke can is there for scale.
Yes.
That's a giant block of Parmesan cheese, which was cut that morning and delivered to my office in all of its stinky glory. It weighed about 10 pounds, no lie.
How do you like them apples?
Breadcrumbs
In New York, there are some annual events around which we build our schedules, which give our lives structure and send us the necessary signals on how to live at that moment. A few are...
The Christmas Tree lighting in the first week of December tells us to stay away from the Rockefeller Center area lest we get caught in a herd of tourists lowing and shouldering each other aside to take a picture of a giant murdered evergreen.
The sound of bagpipes on 5th Avenue on St. Patrick's Day tells us we should stay away from 2nd Avenue from 11 am onward or risk slipping and falling in vomit. At the very least, someone will take a swing at you for no good reason other than you are not Irish enough or don't know the words to "The Wild Rover."
Ashy smudges on male foreheads in the spring told me, the (former) Catholic girl, whom to avoid at the bars that night, as they are the ones with mommy issues and though they enjoy all the filthy sex, they always felt guilty about it afterward. (Though I must admit, it's the Catholic guys who are the most pathetically grateful when they get head.)
The approach of Memorial Day is our signal that reservations are not really necessary at all the fantastic restaurants in the city from Thursdays through Sundays, because the douchebag population of New York City will be reduced by approximately 100% as they flee to A) the Hamptons, B) the Jersey Shore, or C) their oh-so-twee perfectly renovated Victorians in the Catskills.
The end of June hails, and that tells me one thing, and one thing only: It's time to get out the glitter makeup, sparkly clothes, and my blue wig. No, I'm not dressing in drag for the Gay Pride Parade, I'm gettin' myself up in MERMAID drag for the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island!
Each September 10th, beginning at dusk, everyone in a 60-mile radius of New York has to be reminded to feel very sad for the next 24 hours and no one is allowed to make a joke about anything at all, because as we all know, irony was murdered on September 11th.
For the last decade, our signal that we're halfway through winter isn't the appearance of Punxsatawney Phil dragged by the scruff from his hole by a man in a Pilgrim suit, but instead, it's the Allman Brothers Band propping Gregg next to his keyboard and taking up a weeks-long residency at the Beacon Theater. It wasn't midwinter until you'd paid your money to air-jam to "One Way Out."
Alas, it appears that tradition has been cut off in one swoop -- according to Gregg Allman, Cirque du Soleil has bought up the Beacon for the next six months, and the ABB has been kicked uptown to Washington Heights. I'm kinda looking forward to seeing the ABB fanbase "in the Heights" -- and I guess the ABB has had the same thoughts, as they're thinking about renting a bar out for the full run of their shows so they have a "safe" space to "get loaded and talk to the pretty women." I think there may be some coded racism in that statement, ya think?
Though to be honest, you're average ABB fan is far less racist than, say, someone at a Lynyrd Skynyrd show. Those shows are practically Klan rallies.
BOOOOOOOO, Cirque du Soleil!
The Christmas Tree lighting in the first week of December tells us to stay away from the Rockefeller Center area lest we get caught in a herd of tourists lowing and shouldering each other aside to take a picture of a giant murdered evergreen.
The sound of bagpipes on 5th Avenue on St. Patrick's Day tells us we should stay away from 2nd Avenue from 11 am onward or risk slipping and falling in vomit. At the very least, someone will take a swing at you for no good reason other than you are not Irish enough or don't know the words to "The Wild Rover."
Ashy smudges on male foreheads in the spring told me, the (former) Catholic girl, whom to avoid at the bars that night, as they are the ones with mommy issues and though they enjoy all the filthy sex, they always felt guilty about it afterward. (Though I must admit, it's the Catholic guys who are the most pathetically grateful when they get head.)
The approach of Memorial Day is our signal that reservations are not really necessary at all the fantastic restaurants in the city from Thursdays through Sundays, because the douchebag population of New York City will be reduced by approximately 100% as they flee to A) the Hamptons, B) the Jersey Shore, or C) their oh-so-twee perfectly renovated Victorians in the Catskills.
The end of June hails, and that tells me one thing, and one thing only: It's time to get out the glitter makeup, sparkly clothes, and my blue wig. No, I'm not dressing in drag for the Gay Pride Parade, I'm gettin' myself up in MERMAID drag for the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island!
Each September 10th, beginning at dusk, everyone in a 60-mile radius of New York has to be reminded to feel very sad for the next 24 hours and no one is allowed to make a joke about anything at all, because as we all know, irony was murdered on September 11th.
For the last decade, our signal that we're halfway through winter isn't the appearance of Punxsatawney Phil dragged by the scruff from his hole by a man in a Pilgrim suit, but instead, it's the Allman Brothers Band propping Gregg next to his keyboard and taking up a weeks-long residency at the Beacon Theater. It wasn't midwinter until you'd paid your money to air-jam to "One Way Out."
Alas, it appears that tradition has been cut off in one swoop -- according to Gregg Allman, Cirque du Soleil has bought up the Beacon for the next six months, and the ABB has been kicked uptown to Washington Heights. I'm kinda looking forward to seeing the ABB fanbase "in the Heights" -- and I guess the ABB has had the same thoughts, as they're thinking about renting a bar out for the full run of their shows so they have a "safe" space to "get loaded and talk to the pretty women." I think there may be some coded racism in that statement, ya think?
Though to be honest, you're average ABB fan is far less racist than, say, someone at a Lynyrd Skynyrd show. Those shows are practically Klan rallies.
BOOOOOOOO, Cirque du Soleil!
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Whatever Happened to Scott Bryan?
On Wednesday night I had dinner at Apiary with my friend Judy.
In case you were wondering, Apiary is where the culinary wunderkind of the '90's, Scott Bryan, ended up. You may remember him from the luminous Luma, the shimmering jewel of the West Village, Indigo, or more recently, the renowned Veritas.
Picking up where he left off, Chef Bryan is still doing what he does best, great food, well-prepared, in a really sweet room in a surprising neighborhood. Surrounded by NYU dorms, I wonder if the come-lately grownups of the Village are aware that they have a genuine culinary star in their midst. Guy rated a whole chapter to himself in Anthony Bourdain's first book, fer chrissakes. Look it up. Chapter was called "Life of Bryan."
I always wondered why he didn't sell out and become one of those Food Network hoors like Molto Mario or Emeril Lagasse. On the one hand, I think he totally missed out on making some serious-ass money. On the other hand, I respect him more for not selling out. From a purely selfish standpoint, if he had sold out, he'd probably have some bland eponymous restaurant, serving bland food, filled with tourists and we regular folk wouldn't be able to walk in and ask, "is Chef Bryan in the kitchen tonight?" and get an affirmative answer because he isn't off shooting Iron Chef or something, and thus are able to enjoy his food and (frankly) fantastic wine list whenever we want to.
So, to Chef Scott Bryan, this New Yorker thanks you for not selling out!
In case you were wondering, Apiary is where the culinary wunderkind of the '90's, Scott Bryan, ended up. You may remember him from the luminous Luma, the shimmering jewel of the West Village, Indigo, or more recently, the renowned Veritas.
Picking up where he left off, Chef Bryan is still doing what he does best, great food, well-prepared, in a really sweet room in a surprising neighborhood. Surrounded by NYU dorms, I wonder if the come-lately grownups of the Village are aware that they have a genuine culinary star in their midst. Guy rated a whole chapter to himself in Anthony Bourdain's first book, fer chrissakes. Look it up. Chapter was called "Life of Bryan."
I always wondered why he didn't sell out and become one of those Food Network hoors like Molto Mario or Emeril Lagasse. On the one hand, I think he totally missed out on making some serious-ass money. On the other hand, I respect him more for not selling out. From a purely selfish standpoint, if he had sold out, he'd probably have some bland eponymous restaurant, serving bland food, filled with tourists and we regular folk wouldn't be able to walk in and ask, "is Chef Bryan in the kitchen tonight?" and get an affirmative answer because he isn't off shooting Iron Chef or something, and thus are able to enjoy his food and (frankly) fantastic wine list whenever we want to.
So, to Chef Scott Bryan, this New Yorker thanks you for not selling out!