The first of those books has arrived, and it’s called The Selfishness of Others: An Essay on the Fear of Narcissism, out this week from Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, and while an essay might have a hard time making a splash in a media ocean churned by Trumpty Dumpty and the Olympics, the book has already drawn praise from the Times. More →
The Craters of the Moon National Park in Idaho is a bleak, desolate landscape that reminds one how ineffectual words can be when describing a landscape truly bleak and desolate. The remains of a volcanic eruption 2000 years ago, the vista is perhaps better described more symbolically. A Shoshone-Bannock myth, recorded by Ella E. Clark, describes an immense serpent that coiled its body around a mountain. Angered by lightning, the snake tightened its coils until the stone of the mountain melted; the serpent squeezed out liquid rock until it caught fire and was killed. More →
John Colapinto has been a staff writer at the New Yorker since 2008, and is responsible for this brilliant piece on used cooking oil theft, among others. He also rocks venues like the Bowery Electric (and the White House Correspondents’ dinner) as keyboardist for the Sequoias, a cover band (think: Stones and Neil Young) made up of media insiders, led by John Seabrook and including Colapinto and Seabrook’s boss, New Yorker editor David Remnick. Colapinto’s latest novel, Undone, is about a former schoolteacher getting his underage girlfriend to pose as a bestselling memoirist’s long-lost daughter, and seduce him.
The yellow Blue Bird school bus creakily climbed the ascent of the Williamsburg Bridge, the vinyl seat was hot against my legs, the air from the half-open window crisp and sprung. The kids in the back of the bus stomped the floor, and sang together: “Nothing good happens past 2 am.”
The Rosemont, the new one from Aaron Pierce of bygone Trash Bar, has soft-opened in anticipation of a grand opening in May. For those who remember the Trash Bar (however fondly), The Rosemont (a play on its Montrose Street location) is more than a distinctive step up—it’s really nice, by any standards: gorgeous banquettes, a lovely bar with chic padded barstools, an inviting outdoor courtyard, and spiffy bathrooms. The venue still has live music, but the narrow stage in back will cater to jazz rather than drunken rock, and the specialties behind the bar tend towards bespoke cocktails that have more ingredients than “PBR and a shot.” (Try the ‘69 Camaro, a nice turn on an Old Fashioned.)
The first email I received about the new video for The Adventures of the Silver Spaceman (TAOTSS) from frontman Zachary James Ellis said something about a “yurt” with no cell service. When I caught up with Ellis via phone, he told me he was on a retreat, writing songs in Paonia, in western Colorado. With the Rockefeller tree about to be lit, tourist crowds reaching saturation levels, the L train acting like a jilted lover, and a drizzle erasing what few hours of daylight exist at this longitude, we could all be a little jealous. More →
Everyone has a St. Marks story — my first was smoking free hash after getting ripped off on bunk X. “And since the middle of the twentieth century, kids from all over the country, and the world, who wanted to be writers or artists or do drugs have come to St. Marks Place to find one another and themselves.” So says St. Marks Is Dead: The Many Lives of America’s Coolest Street, the dizzyingly fascinating mostly-oral history by Ada Calhoun, which launches Monday, Nov. 2, at Cooper Union with free beer from Brooklyn Brewery and a punk cover band—the St. Marks Zeroes—featuring Ad-Rock.
I was sitting in the Olive Tree Cafe, upstairs from the Comedy Cellar, flipping through Judah Friedlander’s new book. Largely single-panel cartoons, the book’s drawings run the gamut between The Far Side and The New Yorker, offering plenty of belly laughs and a few head scratchers. My favorites include one captioned, “Then one night, the dishes did Jeffrey,” a dark mass-jumper routine about a “building’s semi-annual suicide race,” and a sketch of where to meet women in Manhattan: yoga studios and $50 cupcake shops.
The Barnes & Noble at Union Square was packed to the gills last night, with a line already forming on 17th Street long before Patti Smith was due to appear.
Riding the escalator up, we saw kids crowding every floor, sitting amongst the stacks in the hopes of hearing Smith read, even if they couldn’t buy a copy of her new book to get a wristband and get into the seating area and be guaranteed a signature in Smith’s new book, M Train.
Most downtown Doc Marten stompers probably connote the name Richard Hell with his former bands—Television, the Heartbreakers, Richard Hell and the Voidoids—but for the last 30 years he’s mostly been writing. Hell essentially retired from music after 1984’s compilation album R.I.P., with the exception of 1992’s Dim Stars experiment with Thurston Moore et al., and he told us, “People have lots of reasons for going back on the road. It’s not tempted me for a long time.” Instead, he’s produced a stack of books, including the well-received autobiography, I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp, and the collection of poetry, prose, and essays (and lovingly-produced penis drawings) Hot and Cold. Hell’s latest is a collection of his nonfiction writings, Massive Pissed Love: Nonfiction 2001-2014. We caught up with Hell (see bottom for info about upcoming local appearances) to talk about the new book, analog versus ebooks, and people stealing his haircut.