31 July 2010

Let's Get Lifted.

So yesterday I had the fortune of helping
carry a truckload of film equipment up to
third floor of an old school in the
East Village (Read, long flights of steps
between landings and no lift to speak of.)
I sincerely thought I would faint.
Lets not talk of how it lasted 4 hours.

Why am I doing this you ask?

In order to get a head in the door
for possible future work in film production
in the future. Will it work? It may kill me first.

The web page however is starting to work.
So far two requests for sold work and a commission have appeared.
The start of which is included in the photo train below.

Also thinking about getting more into photos...

speaking of photos:

The most amazing thing I saw at the Capsule Show.
This hooded jacket by Remi Relief out of Japan,
I hesitate to call it a hoodie because of it's awesomeness,
is made of soft indigo cotton knit with actual knit denim
detailing along the front bottom and hood.
God is in the details.





BarNine on 9th avenue & 53rd
My Monday night dive bar cravings are now satiated.
Also some quite nice acoustic and electric guitar
sets included in the weekly impromptu jam sessions.






Dinner last week at Le Cercle Rouge in Tribeca.
Amazing Steak Tartare, despite the tiny quails egg I was given.





Subway Platform inspiration:

mixed patterns downtown


an incredibly yellow tone poem uptown



The new drawing, in it's pupa stage.

23 July 2010

Films (Double Feature)

Nuit Blanche, Arev Manoukian (2010)



Thanks to Miss B. Wyndorff

&

Bronson, Nicholas Winding Refn (2009)



Terrifyingly Alluring.
And Tom Hardy, I do say.

18 July 2010

tin, inaudable hum

So, this week.
Our house is starting to take shape.
Still largely unfurnished, but working on that.
In fact we took a trip to a "thrift" store
that was very low on thrift and very high
on hand carved romantic era and tiny ebony inlaid
empire chairs. Yes we oohed and ahhed, but alas now
is not the time. There was also a life sized stuffed
unicorn standing outside the shop.

We also managed to get both Falling for Eve
and The Shoemaker up and running.
Danny Aiello is a very nice guy it turns out.
A bit of a bragger, but seriously what does one expect.
He also looks quite well for being 77, and he's in a jazz band.

Otherwise work is fairly non-existant.
The sleepy thursday night shift at the bar is
doing nothing to counter my out-going money situation.
New York is decidedly the purgatory of resumes.
They just sort of vanish into vaults with what I
imagine to be countless other resumes submitted by
other talented and near desperate people with
advanced art degrees. Being ever pro-active (ahem.)


recent events:

I found a tiny Paddington in the "thrift" shop,
so the trip was not in vain.


Boisie explores the kitchen.


The above mentioned Unicorn.


Cherry Pie, Greek Coffee and unfortunate carpeting.


Anarchy on the Upper East Side?

16 July 2010

Crush



my Canadian friend Aaron.

13 July 2010

Another something to smile at

Rachel Zoe is nuts.
I die.

Smile

Lament of the
Imaginary Boyfriend
.
BY Brendan Flaherty
(courtesy of McSweeny's)




- - - -

As the imaginary boyfriend of an eighth grade brace-face, I have found my make-believe life to be a hell pit.

Whenever Stephanie's bored in math class or seeking refuge from the orthodontist's disappointed frown, I'm conjured and enslaved, put upon to amuse her. Not that it's that difficult. I'm an impossibly accomplished doctor, actor, hunky dreamboat billionaire, and the highlight of her week is chicken patty Tuesday. Still, everyday I want to dump Michael Jackson's entire medicine cabinet, gauze and all, down my imaginary gullet and just call it quits.

Call it quits, that is, if I had time. But I'm in the gym like eight hours a day, cardio kickboxing and pumping iron and winding down with some advanced yoga. My imagined physique (impeccable) takes hard work, and Stephanie loves envisioning me stair stepping to Sting's "Desert Rose" while she lies on the kitchen floor eating ice cream topped with Skittles and beef jerky. She has quite the appetite, and a knack for jamming her favorite things together regardless of context. Her favorite animal is a horse-dolphin. Her dream vacation is a trip to Chicago, Florida. And since she likes sexy aerobics instructors and sassy cowboys, I have to work out in bike shorts and bejeweled cowboy boots.

If she could spell better, maybe Stephanie could find true love in a chat room. Or at least attract a halfway decent predator. Whatever happens, I just need some rest.

In the gym locker room, between fitness routines, I'm busy composing love sonnets for my girlmaster on scented parchment, which I send to her bedroom by way of my kind falcon, Jonathan—named after Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Her choice.

Curled up in her stained Smurf sheets, Stephanie wants assurance I will always be there to indulge her every flight of fancy and sub-human craving. Yesterday, for example, I bought her a chocolate helicopter. She ate the whole thing after we toured craters on the moon. Little snacks like that mean I have to take a timeout from Jazzercise to buy and sell islands in the Aegean Sea. She learned there was an Aegean Sea in social studies. Lucky for me, buying and selling islands there only takes a few minutes each day.

I end my fun day at the gym with like a thousand crunches, then I pop in at my dear friend Jean-Luc's vineyard to get Stephanie a rare bottle of taffy-flavored wine from the private collection of some artist or famous cartoonist. Jean-Luc and I rib each other about our fencing rivalry and the stint we spent in the Peace Corps, selflessly building houses for whales or something. I offer to pay him half a million dollars for the wine, because I carry that much in my wallet, but he won't accept the money because he's sophisticated (all my friends are).

As the sun sets on my pretend day, I bid adieu to Jean-Luc and drive through miles of lilac fields in my Aston Martin to my mega yacht. There, Stephanie is waiting for me to cradle her huge head and watch The Notebook again. After her tears dry she'll violate me missionary style.

I want to die. I want to swan dive off the yacht and inhale as soon as I hit the water, ending the searing agony and boredom of a crackpot fantasy life inside an eighth grader's brain. But I don't have that luxury. I don't have that power. I'm just an imaginary boyfriend.

If I were a real boyfriend I wouldn't talk to vineyard owners or go to the gym. I wouldn't be governed by emotional spin cycles that have me dressing up like Stephanie's long-lost father one second, then growing a blonde ponytail and going big-wave surfing the next. I'd sit on the couch all through the weekend, watching other people do stuff on TV, like play sports and build houses. I'd imagine my own sports victories and the houses I'd build. Then, I imagine, I'd imagine steamy (perverted) adult situations with exotic women, until some unrecognizable female frump walked into the room and told me I had to fix the garbage disposal. But it wouldn't bother me, because in my mind I'd be in a tropical lagoon, drinking beer and shooting skeet from a jet ski with ten naked make-believe girlfriends. If I were real, I imagine, that would pretty much be heaven.

10 July 2010

08 July 2010

Featured Artist: Glass Candy

Fireworks on 42nd Street

A late posting from July 4th.
Quite a nice show.
Almost worth swimming through the
human sea and waiting for three
trains to go by to get home. video video

07 July 2010

Smile



Thanks to Jason

03 July 2010

Where I am

What am I up to.
Not sleeping very much.
I usually see the sun set and rise before falling asleep.
I volunteered a day helping paint the set of
Falling For Eve at the York.
That quickly became a week long series of 10pm - 5am work calls.
Still I managed to get to Cental Park with my bestie from Highshcool,
and visit the Charles Burchfield exhibit at the Whitney.

Still deciding what to do for the Fourth of July.
(aka, the War of American Insubordination)






Creating Beowulf Boritt's late 60's Heaven for Falling For Eve at the York Theatre



(photo from Broadway World)



Polar bears in the 5th Avenue/57th Street station.


Sleeping under bay windows in Astoria.


My favourite pic of me Nephew, Phoenix.



At the Albatross Bar
(read backwards, sSorta Bla)





Central Park