Champion Coffee: Taking Greenpoint by Storm TOMORROW

Some of you may recall my profound sadness at the shuttering of TEN63, the cafe with the best coffee in the world and also the very very good and kind baristas (so good and kind, in fact, that they befriended N and me, even after we'd accidentally walked out without paying on more than one occasion)(we always came back, but still). Anyhow, that was six months ago. I still find myself wistful whenever I smell really great coffee, which is not often, I might add.*

Anyhow. It is with great pleasure, then, that I announce the opening of Champion Coffee in Greenpoint, TOMORROW, Tuesday, May 23, brought to you by the same minds and coffee-ground-stained hands as what brought yis TEN63. Boasting both indoor and outdoor seating and WiFi, this small-but-perfectly- formed cafe features the signature coffee and tea beverages, egg sandwiches, a variety of really delicious baked goods, and of course Talitha's famous homemade granola.

This might sound like I'm shilling for Champion, but make no mistake: I am speaking with the zeal of the evangelicals because this, friends, fills the TEN63-sized hole in my heart**. The day of caffeinated reckoning has come, friends. BE THERE BE THERE BE THERE tomorrow and witness for yourself.

Champion Coffee
1108 Manhattan Ave., between Dupont and Clay
Greenpoint
Open 7 to 7, 7 days a week

*Although there is a new cafe on Mercer just down the street from my office and they have pretty good coffee. Only one of the baristas is TEN63-quality good and kind, however.

**I bet you thought I was gonna say vagina, didn't you.

Pretty soon now, I will be bitter

Anyone who's looking for something non-cinco-de-mayo- related to do tonight should head on over to Christies Auction House for part two of the big Refco photography liquidation sale. (Refco, as you may recall, is a disgraced and bankrupt futures brokerage.)

Most lots are being sold without reserve. Apparently, at the first of the three auctions two weeks ago, someone bought Mapplethorpe self-portraits, estimated at $15,000, for $2,640.

Anyhow, it's a pretty amazing collection: Ruscha, Arbus, Eggleston, Matthew Barney, Mapplethorpe, Crewsdon, Sherman.

I would kill and eat someone for this Richard Avedon photo [see above] from his American West collection.

It's estimated at $30-50K. Look ma, whatta bargain!

One hundred hairs make the man

I have spent the past week feeling like Death's asshole, and then, on Friday, we got on a plane. I genuinely felt bad that I might be infecting everyone around me with my swamp flu, but I tried very hard to cough and sneeze discreetly into the in-flight magazine.

On the plus side, we flew first class. On the minus side, we flew to Chicago. So it's a bit like when a dentist tells you how pretty you are when he's in the process of yanking your tooth. Why first class, you ask? Apparently first-class upgrades are the only thing that you can use frequent flyer miles for anymore. (I mean, I suppose if we'd wanted tickets to someplace really undesirable..."Yes, roundtrip to Bangalore. Oh no, economy is just fine.") Because of all this bureaucratic spoilsportsmanship on the part of the airline industry, it meant that nearly nine-tenths of the people in first class were, like us, economy class interlopers with the same idea. On our flight home we sat adjacent to two gigantic Midwestern Hairdo types who were traveling to NYC for a doll convention. They blathered loudly nonstop the entire flight about nothing at all and for the first time in my life I felt grateful that my eustachian tubes had swollen to their usual Hubba Bubba proportions.

Another installment of The Smug Superiority Show with Bill and Dana

I've managed to offend left- and right-wingers this week. Quite an accomplishment. Like Joni Mitchell I'm comin' at ya FROM BOTH SIDES NOW MUTHAFUCKAS. I'm really glad that bmarkey has returned from vacation to discuss things with his signature bmarkey Levelheadedness©, bringin' some peace hereabouts finally. (Suffice it to say, if I had to tackle the topic of psychedelic music, Roky Erikson would come out of hiding long enough to snatch me bald.)

Meanwhile, Bill and I have a news item to discuss: Undercover detectives in northern Virginia's Spotsylvania County have their sheriff's blessing to receive sexual services at massage parlors so they can catch suspects in the act.

Punk rock died when the first kid said...

So apparently there's a new documentary coming out called Punk's [note punctuation] Not Dead.

Here's a fun little game: Go to the cast page, and then imagine the bands pitted against each other in a deathmatch scenario. My favorite combo so far is Sham 69 v. Simple Plan.

I'm ready for my extreme close-up, Mr. DeMille

Tonight is your last chance to see the Without Papers Productions documentary entitled The Exhibitionists Are, the subject of which is a women's arts collective in NYC and its members. It is also, in all likelihood, your last chance to see my big face writ even larger on the big screen (I've heard rumors that the theater actually had to nail a tarpaulin up just to accomodate the scenes I'm in). It's playing at 8 pm at the Village East Cinemas as part of the New York Independent Film and Video Festival. Congratulations, Santino and Luigi! Considering how much they argued during the making of the documentary, it's a wonder this wasn't released posthumously.

Time Is a Game Only Children Play Well

So last night was a banner spectacle in the R--- household (well, technically I'm the only R--- but see I inherited this ugly-ass placard from my grandparents that says "The R---'s"--their punctuation, not mine--which I insist on displaying prominently) what with the 9th inning miracle and all. I have never heard N scream so loud. It's the kind of scream one would use to finish a speech that contains the line "...and the lamentation of the women." He also hopped around the room like a bunny rabbit.

Similarly exciting, today Tanglewood Numbers is released. And you can watch the video for "How Can I Love You (If You Won't Lie Down)" here! Rejoice!

What you need is an imitation of home

As you can see from this exquisitely framed, expertly taken photograph, last night Tony and I went down to TriBeCa to see a play written and performed by David Berman, with special guest star Will Oldham. Sets by Steve Keene. It's amazing what you can glean from a truly great photo, isn't it?

Jesus Gonna Be Here

Tonight I have the pleasure of seeing Searching for the Wrong Eyed Jesus, a documentary by Andrew Douglas and musician Jim White that "examines the meaning and consequence of religion for people who were born and raised in poor Southern communities." I love the way British folks regard American culture...we all end up looking like trained circus bears. Not unjustifiably. Anyhow, I'm eager to see SWEJ, having already listened to the soundtrack, which includes the stylings of proper Southern Gothic folks like The Handsome Family, 16 HP, Trailer Bride's Melissa Swingle, and my lord and savior Harry Crews.

I hope to have a review up tomorrow. And maybe another unrelated review. In the meantime, have you read bmarkey's review of Spoon's latest? Please do.

The Boldtype According to RZA

Boldtype's new spirituality issue is out, with guest editor RZA. In addition to discussing the books that most influenced him, he also gives an insightful interview. Cool.

Worth sitting through the day pass

Now imagine giving your daughter a camcorder! Imagine that your filthy slut daughter spends a year traveling the world, and gets married to a trashy young fellow along the way. Now imagine that she returns home and, in typical self-involved fashion, forces you to watch several hours of her self-recorded aimless banter, bad jokes and sexually suggestive idiocy.

If you go to the city then you will find me there

There are some fantastic portraits to be found in Honky Tonk: Portraits of Country Music, 1972-1981 So good I liked to have died. Go poke around. (Via krimur.)

To really find me, I gotta look inside me

This week has been a blur. Who knew I was important enough to actually be busy? Most weeks, my day is spent Apple+Tab-ing between CelebritySkin.com and a HILARIOUS fake pie chart I downloaded from College Humor.

Yet somehow this week I've been too busy to be at my computer. This is probably a good thing, and in the long run will forstall for a few minutes at least the inevitable cataracts and ovarian cancer I'll contract from extended contact with the heavy metals in my CPU.

IN THE MEANTIME, I just want to tell you all that We Jam Econo is playing at Lincoln Center on May 24. (Thanks, Krimur!)

Buy your tickets early, because they will sell out. I learned my lesson the hard way with tomorrow night's Wedding Present show. (Does anyone have an extra ticket? I need a miracle, man.)

"Greater New York?" More like "Greater Continuing Ed National Masters Degree Salon Thesis Show"*

According to protesters outside of PS1 on Sunday, only 33% of the Greater New York artists were women. To me, a lot of the more memorable art was genderqueer, although there was some interesting Sculpture Jock** stuff...the mechanized drum-beating-record-scratching installation that I couldn't get close enough to read the accompanying placard and Matthew Day Jackson's "Sepulcher."

Anyhow, today's featured scribbling from my notes: The sinister imagery and the POV of Anna Conway's oils remind me a bit of early 19th-century folk art paintings of courageous firemen. I would go back to PS1 just to see her two paintings.

*Spoken with true bitterness by my talented artiste friend who's wintering in SoCal. Come back to the five and dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean!

**Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Fuck you, clown

Yesterday was the opening of PS1's enormous Greater New York show, which we attended in an eleventh-hour dispute settlement on the admission line, scissors ("see the show") trumping paper ("get drunk instead").

[Ed note: Turns out they were serving beer inside. Score!]

A lot could be said about this show: Its enormousness, its diversity of media (if not subject matter), its ambition. I will say this: It was fucking crowded.

I saw only a fraction of the galleries. Took some notes while I was there, which I'll try and translate as I have time.

On Robert Melee's installation: Clown Torture, John Waters.

His work took up an entire room, which was brightly lit and psychedically-painted, with plaster curtains and wood paneling. An entertainment center sat in the middle, laden with several TVs and photographs, which featured Melee's video and photography work. Anyhow.

Many of the videos featured a scary Karen-Black-looking woman in her 50s wearing clown make-up and little else. In one video, a hand paints her naked body. In another, she drinks a Miller High Life 40-oz. Naked.

I wasn't familiar with Melee until I looked him up this morning, and it turns out the woman in all his videos is his mom, which, of course, cranks the creep-factor into the stratosphere. Is narcissism driving her participation in his work, or is it something more malevolent? It was upsetting but oddly fun to watch, feeling that unpleasant back-of-my-bellybutton twinge the entire time.

The Beauty! The Beauty!

Moorish Girl posts two readers' reports on the Junot Diaz reading last night. One of the attendees mentioned that his neverending-work-in-progress bore a similarity to his short story, "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao," which is one of the only stories I've ever read that made me weep openly.*

Anyhow, I'm not the only one anxiously awaiting Mr. Diaz's second book. And this reading is the first indication that we haven't been carrying the torch for naught. (I couldn't bear another heartbreak like the one I endured over Ellen Miller's failure to thrive.**)

*The other one being Pat Conroy's Beach Music, and I do wish I were kidding, but I'm not.

**Though she appears to be doing better lately, what with her excellent story in Brooklyn Noir.

The typewriter's on, but my head is empty

Holy crap. After an entirely too long (but unavoidable) wait, We Jam Econo is premiering February 25 at the Warner Grand Theater, presented by Rocket Fuel Fims and the San Pedro Film Society.

I'm very tempted to go. Anyone out there got room for some Kato Kaelin action?

Though I'm sure you don't really care, I hasten to add: This ain't what the kids are calling linkola. First of all, well, duh. Second of all, even if it were linkola, at least my taste in music, unlike some people's, doesn't suck.

Which reminds me: I know I'm 5 years late to the table on this, but I finally heard Death Cab for Cutie this weekend, and wow. I am shocked and amazed that Vivian Stanshall hasn't jumped up from the grave to snatch Ben Gibbard bald-headed.

I know where Syd Barrett Lives

This weekend I read Breaking Open the Head, "a psychedelic journey into the heart of contemporary shamanism" by Open City founder Daniel Pinchbeck. It's about his search for greater spiritual meaning &c and contains enjoyable anecdotes about traveling to exotic climes to partake of the entire Erowid catalog.

There are also a number of chapters devoted to his examination of the occult and mysticism and philosophy, which aren't as much fun to read, because while Pinchbeck decries those who hand-pick selected bits of tribal wisdom and folklore in order to justify their own spiritual travels/travails, it seems that this is exactly what he's doing, often referencing the same Benjamin or Gurdjieff quotes in different chapters. This could be due to the fact that some of the chapters appeared in magazines and newspapers as stand-alone pieces, but this could've been remedied by some astute copyediting.

Anyhow, I was generally appreciating much of his rumination until I hit page 106, where he wrote

I returned to New York City. Ten days after the spectacular burning of the "Temple of Tears" [at Burning Man], Laura and I were caring for our three-week-old baby when we heard the loud thrust of a low-flying airplane and then a sickening thud.

It was past 11 am. Up in the blue sky, between two towers, a two-thirds wedge of lunar opal was clearly visible, beaming over the city....Suddenly, I realized what was happening, if Gurdjieff was right: The moon was feeding.

"I thought it would be dirtier."

Low Culture reveals the punchline of the infamous "Aristocrats" joke.

Wishing in the other

Even though Maud and I don't seem to agree on Sideways, we do both love us some Harry Crews. Thankfully she keeps better track of him than I do, noting that Paul Giamatti's starring in a film adaptation of Crews' immortal (well, not quite, seeing as I've never been able to get my hands on a copy of it) The Hawk Is Dying. The exciting thing is that this movie seems to be happening, unlike other stalled Crews projects. (I can hear Patrick bitching now...."Why don't we ever get any good-looking movie stars down here?")

I wanna hear the new sound, I wanna see my new girl

(Dammit, I will post something before lunch if it kills me!)

After a weekend spent watching a lot of useless television, last night was redeemed by the amazing Charles Atlas documentary about Leigh Bowery on the sadly terminal Trio Network.

Leigh Bowery, a performance artist/fashion designer/musician/professional nose tweaker (NTM Lucian Freud's best-known model), died in 1994. Watching the documentary made me think about how avant garde he was. I wish he were still alive. He would've been in the fucking Venice Biennale by now. Though given an extra decade on this earth it'd be surprising if he hadn't alienated everyone in the world by now.

The documentary repeats on January 25, so mark your calendars.

Oh, and here's an mp3 of Bowery's band Minty singing "Useless Man."

Speaking of mp3s, I watched Napoleon Dynamite on Friday, partly based on this guy's recommendation. JPo, you have some splainin to do. I will admit going into this movie with extreme prejudice beforehand. I'm actually surprised that I hated it less than I expected to. But I can't help but feel like the movie was a big long rumination on nothing, and also rather heartless mockery of just about everyone.

Kind of like this blog, eh? Oh, except for the fact that I'm not Mormon, which everyone in this movie apparently is. Why do Mormons hate America? WHY? (Neil LaBute, I'm looking in your general direction.)

I will credit this movie with one thing: Reminding me of the totally forgotten pop gem "The Promise" by When in Rome.

And you know what's better than an mp3 of the actual song?

AN MP3 OF THE RINGTONE. w00t.

Fuck Me Gently with a Chainsaw

I knew my shameful addiction to "Gilmore Girls" would pay off. I just found out, during a commercial break, that my absolute favorite teen movie is on the WB Thursday night at 8. Wheee.

We'll find out where the woozle went

It's old codger's day here at TTBBBE. NPR had an excellent interview this morning with Neil Innes, the comedic and musical genius known for many things but most importantly The Bonzo Dog Dooh Dah Band.

55 years ago today, in the back of a taxi

Happy Birthday, Tom Waits.

Tomorrow Night at KGB Bar

Hey, tomorrow night at KGB Bar my talented friend and sister-in-crazy-ethnic-hair Jennifer Traig will be reading from her memoir, Devil in the Details. (She is also the author of Judaikitsch and will be bringing along various tchotchkes proffered by her dear mother.) I'm certainly going, and you should too.

LIC Open Studios

Check it. This weekend is LIC Open Studios weekend once again. As you'll recall, I rather enjoyed myself last time around, and I think you would too if you'd just give it a try for one goddamned minute. If you go here you can download an exhaustive brochure outlining every participating open studio, or if you'd rather not go running around the mulberry bush you could simply go to Crane Street Studios, which contains 4 floors of artistes, most of whom are superbly talented and friendly. Also, some will be serving cheese and crackers. (I drew a Venn diagram of that particular Talent vs. Foodstuffs overlap, but I accidentally used that napkin to blow my nose.) Anyhow, you should go, it'll be fun.

Um, Hi.

Here's a question that doesn't pertain to 99% of my twelve daily readers, but which one of you is looking for "jenojenny"? If it's important, please email me. Thanks.

Creativity!!! N0\/\/!!!11!!1!

This weekend is the second annual Creativity Now conference. Last year's was fun (the bourbon helped), though the theme could've been "I Am a Creative Professional With a Castro Hat and a Japanese Girlfriend."

My friend P and I are going tomorrow, but forgoing Sunday. It's decided that we don't give a fuck about Brian Eno or Asia Argento. Mostly I'm just stoked to hear Ray Pettibon.

Ray Pettibon could kick their asses any day.