Last week we shared some details of the summer offerings at Sunset Park’s Industry City – including mini-golf, ping-pong, and a satellite eatery of the Frying Pan, the wildly popular floating restaurant at Pier 66 Maritime in Chelsea.
“As the hour grew late and working people around Tompkins Square Park began turning out the lights on Memorial Day 1967, police asked several hundred music lovers to turn down the volume of a guitar-and-bongo concert in the park,” reported the New York Daily News. “The crowd’s reply … was a barrage of bottles, bricks and fists that left seven officers injured.
“And thus began the Summer of Love.”
Tomorrow is 4/20 and although B+B of course does not condone the use of (for some reason still) illegal substances, we thought it only right to share some events one might be interested in if they were to indulge.
Mayor de Blasio rode the first NYC Ferry into Brooklyn Bridge park this morning. The ferry is the first of 20 coming to New York harbor on May 1 that will shuttle New Yorkers across the East River for just $2.75 a trip, the price of a subway ride.
Panteha Abareshi specializes in cutthroat portraits that pair the rawness of ecstatic creation with the realness of first-hand experience. As a young woman of Jamaican and Iranian descent, it seems only natural that she paints other women who look like her. But according to Abareshi, there’s much more at stake than the physical appearance of her subjects.
“I draw women of color only,” she has said of her effort to bring greater visibility to women who are so often left out of, or invisible, in the art world (not to mention under- and misrepresented everywhere else, too). But there are no smiling models or perfect angels in any of the paintings on view at The Girl Who Loves Roses, a show of Abareshi’s work at the new downtown gallery Larrie, NYC (“It’s a women’s space,” founder Emily Spitale told me). Instead, the women you meet are brooding, suffering, and embattled. Often they are splattered in blood, wearing a vacant expression, and seemingly staring at a target point that hovers right between your eyebrows.
Let’s face it, ramen has had its day in the noodle-soup limelight. Now it’s time for mixian to take its rightful place among NYC’s noodle royalty. And who better to make this happen than chef Simone Tong, graduate of Wylie Dufresne’s old Lower East Side spot wd~50. After a series of pop-up preview dinners, Tong opens her mixian restaurant, Little Tong Noodle Shop, today in the East Village.
Looks like throwback anti-Trump comics are officially a thing.
At the Spring/Break show earlier this month, Mr. Vinyl’s pop-art series, The Cisco Kid Vs. Donald Trump, paired Trump takedowns with images pulled from the 1950s comic strip. Tonight at The Living Gallery, “Pussy Grabs Back: A Night of Anti-Trump Comics” will feature the work of Christine Stoddard, a self-proclaimed “fairy punk” who pairs anti-Trump sentiment with fairy tales.
Last time we spoke with Jeremy Nguyen, he had created a custom crayon for his newly released book of cartoons, Stranger Than Bushwick. The crayon’s color– Gentrify White— spoke to the wry satire found in his comics for Bushwick Daily. Volume three of Stranger Than Bushwick will debut this weekend at the MoCCA Arts Festival. It’s longer than the others, but will be “the last issue I publish for a long time while I move on to other projects,” according to the 27-year-old. That’s sure to disappoint his many local fans, but it’s hard to blame Jeremy for moving on. In January he started submitting cartoons to the New Yorker, a process that is notoriously selective. Incredibly, he sold his first one three weeks later, after pitching just 30 pieces. Since then, he has sold two more.
Danny Teran’s first business in New York was the Bongo Brothers, a food truck he operated with his brother Albert. After several years, they moved on to another truck, Miami Food Machine. Now photos of the trucks hang in Millie’s, Danny’s new brick-and-mortar spot. When it opens Monday, it’ll offer Cubanos, chimi-chicken sandwiches, yucca fries, empanadas, and cafe con leche, made with salt and butter.
You wake up in a hospital. There is a doctor standing over you in scrubs, running his hand down a clipboard, a mask pulled tight across his face. There’s a vague beeping behind you and the sounds of miserable sobbing coming from somewhere. The beeping grows longer and louder until, all of a sudden, it flat-lines and your consciousness (soul? being?) rises up out of your body. “Let me tell you a secret. . .” a calm, female, British voice says from somewhere as your consciousness floats into a cosmic, hallucinogenic light show on the way to your alien afterlife.