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Catch Kathleen Hanna in Conversation With Meredith Graves of Perfect Pussy

(Flyer via Talkhouse)

(Flyer via Talkhouse)

If you’ve seen the 2013 documentary The Punk Singer, you know Kathleen Hanna was stuck out at sea for a long time when she was creatively paralyzed and overwhelmed by the day-to-day challenges of Lyme disease. One of the harshest consequences of her illness was profound fatigue, something that severely limited her capacity to write or perform music. At times, she found it difficult to even speak.

Lucky for us– oh, and for Hanna too– she’s doing much better these days, so much so that even though her band The Julie Ruin, like, just released their new album, Hanna is making an appearance this week at a speaker store in Soho, of all places, called Sonos.

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Blurry Backpage Girls and Liquor Bottle Swirls: Paintings for Bukowski

"Bather" (2014) by Walter Robinson (Image courtesy of Owen James Gallery)

“Bather” (2014) by Walter Robinson (Image courtesy of Owen James Gallery)

We’ve all seen the “massage girl” advertisements lurking at the back of alternative weeklies and the grainier budget versions of escort ads spamming the nether regions of the internet– signs that a legitimate underworld of body-business is still solidly stuck to the underside of the white market. It’s ever-present, and in some ways unchanging. These familiar “backpage ads” are the source images for art-critic-turned-artist Walter Robinson‘s blurry acrylic renderings on view at There’s a Bluebird in My Heart, a new show opening Friday, April 8 at Owen James Gallery in Greenpoint.

The paintings depicting doe-eyed girls wearing slinky loungewear, long tresses, and pouty demeanors, account for about half the show, while the rest consists of still-lifes of liquor bottles, cigarettes, and pill bottles. “It’s basically a two-artist show,” explained Owen Houhoulis, owner of Owen James. “One is a longtime New York artist and the other is the well-known poet Charles Bukowski.” Really, though, the show is a three-way effort between curator, painter, and the late, great drunken poet, as well as a way for Houhoulis to realize a longtime dream of putting together a curatorial homage to Bukowski.

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TFW, A Reading Series That Welcomes All Genres and All The Feels

Nina (L) and Gabriela (R). (photo: Eli Lehrhoff)

Nina (L) and Gabriela (R). (photo: Eli Lehrhoff)

Ever wonder what your writer friends get up to in their spare time? Do you have some old journal entries or essays collecting dust in a drawer you’ve always secretly wanted to share with the public eye? If so, The Silent Barn could have just the thing for you. TFW is a new monthly reading series co-curated by writers Gabriela Tully Claymore, 22, and Nina Mashurova, 26, that celebrates and welcomes material untried and unexpected: journalists reading their poetry, musicians reading their essays, and so on.

Both of TFW’s curators write predominantly music-centric cultural criticism (Gabriela is an assistant editor at Stereogum and Nina has edited for Impose Mag and written for outlets like Pitchfork). They have both consistently written poetry or prose for years, but found their professional identity as writers could sometimes make it difficult to share that work.

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Meet the Man Behind Blish, Who Admits He Went ‘a Little Overboard’ With All Those Flyers

Blish3

If you’ve noticed these incendiary posters hung around Brooklyn, you’ll be happy to know we found the man behind the curtain. Mark, who opted not to share his last name—“because I’ve been putting down so many blogs”—is a 25-year-old reality-TV producer with (no surprise here) a history of rejection and a big-ass chip on his shoulder.

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At the Inkwell: Playwright Night

At the Inkwell, an NYC organisation dedicated to promoting authors and their work, brings you Playwright Night at KGB Bar. The writers appearing on Wednesday are Ross Klavan (known for the novel Schmuck and a slew of film, stage and TV projects), Bonnie Culver, Gregory Fletcher, Jan Quackenbush and Sam Viverito. Sip vodka among the Soviet-inspired furnishings, and listen up.