Reviews

I wanted to write this just for you, Uncoolkids.  Our site has become so barren…so lonely…which is really apropos for uncool kids. 

Last night, Prince Street’s McNally Robinson booksellers hosted The Dollar Store Show, the brain-child of Featherproof baby-daddy Jonathan Messinger and Jeremy Sosenko, who no longer co-hosts.  Jonathan sends dollar store items - various types of cheap chutney - to the participating writers, who sit and stare at the glue stick or comic book or show insoles; and stew and wait for the muse to just stop in when it feels like it, the way annoying in-laws do.  Then they write and then they read aloud.  The show is often sold out in Featherproof’s hometown of Chicago, and the Dollar Storeys were recently featured on public radio.  The show, in other words, does not suck. 

Last night’s writers didn’t disappoint.  Scott Snyder’s story took a sinister turn, which quieted the audience enough to hear the mohawked barista churning lattes behind us.  Bryan Charles story captured the mood of the common aching in relationships so well that it seemed uncommon.  Toby Carroll’s tale was inspired by an old walking cane, propped up on the table beside him, and the story was really well-done…but who knew that dollar stores sold wooden walking canes?

Then Jonathan Messinger read “Bicycle Kick” from his newly released collection of short stories, ”Hiding Out”.  It was a funny story about a guy who discovers he is a walking time bomb with two brain aneurysms, after suffering a soccer injury from another guy who will most likely live out his life with relative ease and fluidity.  Messinger’s language blends the affectedness of the children of the eighties with the simplicity of a timeless writer.  I haven’t finished the entire book yet, but the stories in “Hiding Out” are so engaging that I actually wish my train ride was longer so I could keep reading…even Bay Ridge to the Bronx wouldn’t be long enough.     

The NY Internatonal Fringe Festival is upon us again! Ever August, earnest playwrites get the opportunity to have their works produces and performed all over New York (mostly in The Village) in the hopes that they’ll be seen, enjoyed, and maybe, picked up and launched into an Off-Broadway, or maybe even Broadway run! (Ever heard of Avenue Q? A Fringe Festival Success Story!)

So, as a recovered Boy Scout, I was excited to see a silly looking comedy called Scout’s Honor put on by Cardium Mechanicum and written by Ed Valentine, who according to the press pack has bit of experience and success in his dramatists’ endeavors.

Not that this play was any indication of his previously praised talent or success. The Fringe Festival this year is producing 187 plays. Of these, maybe 5-10 gain a high level of buzz and excitement. That leaves room for quite a few bombs. Scout’s Honor was a two-part production. Part one was about Boy Scouts, called “Snipe Hunt” which was about the common camp-out stunt of sending younger scouts out into the woods to hunt for an elusive creatuer called a “snipe” which doesn’t actually exist. The cast consisted of a nerdy Eagle scout-master, two mock-machismo Boy Scouts (named “Mike” and “other Mike”) A rich, daddy’s-boy cub scout, and a troubled, knife-wielding boy scout, an a sensitive younger scout who saves the day in the end. Most of the desperate humor in this skit derived of gay-jokes and mocking New Jersey.

The second, longer half was the girl scout story called “Becky’s Beaver” about a girl scout troop going Beaver hunting in the New Jersey woods. It starts funny, lying hevily on alliterative phrases (Well Barbara and Betty bopped the biggest and best beaver, Becky!) the obvious “beaver” entendre, being the joke that the company hoped to stretch out for a skit that was ill-advised to be stretched into a full-length play. When things get desperate, they add jokes about girls’ insecurities and social hierarchies, more gay jokes, more Jersey jokes, cripple jokes and magic mushrooms.

The acting was amateur, even if they were relying on a play that seemed like it was written up by pair of a high-school students getting high for the first time, and would have worked a lot better as a five-minute skit at a Boy or Girl scouts’ talent night, not a 75 minute offering at the New York Fringe Festival.

I fear this may be a forboding to the quality of theater we may expect this year. Choose your Fringe Shows wisely, folks.

For the record, I wrote the piece on RUBULAD to praise its ingenuity, not to advertise it. This is specifically why I did NOT list the address or when it occurs.

For the commentators who posted the address, this is why the review was deleted.

For those who claim that it “sucks” now, get over yourselves. Sometimes its good, sometimes its not, it all depends on what YOU make of it. Dress up, dance, drink, flirt, and have a good time. Or not, it doesn’t matter to me.

I still have a good time.

Be like the Beckhams: eat cupcakes.  Sugar Sweet Sunshine is your best bet for your cupcake fix. Last week, The New York Post broke the news that the latest installment of Zagat rated Sugar Sweet Sunshine as the winner of its new Best Cupcake category.

My sister, who is obsessed with all things cupcakes, has long extolled the virtues of Sugar Sweet Sunshine, and I have to agree it takes the cake. She likes the Sunshine (yellow cake with vanilla buttercream) and I like the Ooey Gooey (Chocolate cake with chocolate almond buttercream) because not only is it yummy in my tummy but it’s also fun to say. Pumpkin (Pumpkin cake with cream cheese icing) seemed to be the crowd pleaser on our most recent indulgence, and we’ve noticed that the Red Velvet and Pistachio are also ordered a lot. Cupcakes are $1.50 each.  We don’t like the coffee, though, which is unfortunate.

Nestled in at 126 Rivington Street (between Essex & Norfolk), the store has a vintagey seventies vibe that is more chic than kitch. It doesn’t have a lot of seats, but there are a smattering of chairs and ottomans. There’s also art by local artists hanging on the wall.

One of the best things about Sugar Sweet Sunshine is that they’re open late. Here are their hours: Monday-Thursday, 8am-10pm, Friday 8am-11pm, Saturday 10am-11pm and Sunday 10am-7pm. Sugar Sweet Sunshine is a delicious alternative to the bar scene that’s so prevalent on the Lower East Side.

Free admission I mean, to the Summer of Love exhibit, the blend of late 60’s music, art, and literature that’s on display now through September 16 at the Whitney Museum.  Admission is usually $15 dollars for uncoolkids but if you hit up the Whitney between 6 p.m. and 9 p.m. on Friday nights, you’re just asked to give a donation. 

The exhibit occupies the third and second floors of the museum and its suggested you begin on the third and work your way down.  There we were greeted with a brief written explanation of the collection, which names San Francisco, New York, and London as the centers of the counterculture era.  The first artwork on display is an array of old concert posters from the Fillmores East and West.  The friend who joined me at the museum works in the music industry and is also involved in a film right now about the life of Brian Epstein, who managed the Beatles, so he was alot more knowledgable about the “Bill Graham presents” collection.  Apparently these posters were given away for free at the end of the shows and now are worth some money. 

The San Francisco section of the exhibit was a spectrum of colors coating political agendas, with a few key phrases thrown in for good hippie measure, like “Plant a flower child” and “Turn on, tune in”.  There were pictures from protests hanging next to photos of colorful Victorian homes (some call them “painted ladies”).  Also shown were Jefferson Airplane albums, multiple portraits of Jimi Hendrix, an homage to Janis Joplin, the advent issue of Rolling Stone. 

It was also rich in anti-war parephernalia, beginning with the large haunting oil painting of a Vietnamese woman being raped by “white boy soldiers”, and working its way towards flower children flashing peace on rally posters.  It was a fitting representation of the dichotomy of carefree appearances and underlying anxieties - a motto of peace mixed with the irony of the fervor of protest.  One of the rally posters asked: “Haven’t we learned from our past mistakes?”

On the lighter side, if you’re into nudity, because who isn’t, you should spend a little extra time checking out the San Francisco displays.  There are as many naked bodies in the artwork as there are dandelions.  There’s even an orgy film, complete with headphones and a “Warning!  Sexually Explicit Content!” placard.

The New York section focused primarily on Woodstock, with several great photos from Bethel, NY, back when the Boomers looked suspiciously…like us today.  There were several Exploding Plastic Inevitable albums produced by Andy Warhol on display (the museum is also showing Warhol films in the Kaufman Astoria Studios Film and Video Gallery; check the Whitney schedule online).  The literature of the era included pulp about psychedelia and guides to tripping out, as well as off-beat papers like the East Village other, the cover of which chronicled poet Allen Ginsberg’s arrest for possession of pot.

The London section featured photographs of a very young Mick Jagger with his full lips and lineless face, and his most notable leading ladies like Marianne Faithful and his ex-wife Bianca; Keith Richards with cocain drawn up to his nostril; Eric Clapton in all his red-pants, big-hair glory.  We watched a video of the inflation of the massive pillow at Altamount.  There was a how-to guide for swingers in England, black and white photographs from poetry readings in Hyde Park, and a cloth-covered, Epcot-center-like display, a weird little room which we could enter only after removing our shoes and which gave me a foot cramp because of the rolling surface inside (I still can’t figure out the point of that thing).

If you’re really into trippy stuff you’ll probably enjoy the strobe light displays, swirling circles and amoebas pulsating on the walls in dark rooms. 

And there are several photos, portraits, and album covers of those buggy little guys who sang “All You Need is Love”. 

So the exhibit shows that the summer of love was celebrated differently in different parts of the world, whether it was through sexual, spiritual, political, or artistic liberation.  Some call the participants non-conformists; others laud them as visionaries.  The artwork leaves you with a wealth of information, a heady feeling, and a few more curiosities about an era which we as Gen X or Y kids can’t really understand.

There are parellels though.  There were musicians that lived hard and died at twenty seven, there was unabashed nakedness which has translated to a naked fear of AIDS, racial tensions are still rampant, there are still school shootings and alot of the drugs have remained the same.  And the one thing we’re still digging, unfortunately, is the uncertainty and unrest festering like bacteria in the petrie dish of a seemingly senseless war.  Which begs that question: ”Haven’t we learned from our past mistakes?”

If you’re at all into the music and pop culture of the late 60’s, check out this exhibit.     

Atrocity. The word alone conjurs up brutal horror laced with sadness. The Atrocity Exhibition crashed into Thierry Goldberg Projects (5 Rivington Street, NYC) on June 28 and will continue to break you out of your sense of disillusionment until August 28.

For Ahmed Alsoudani, atrocity is the violence of war going on in his homeland of Iraq.

For Ben Grasso, it’s an explosion.

For Molly Larkey, it’s the atom bomb.

For Wendy Heldmann, the aftermath of an atrocity can be just as devastating as the actual event.

As if to extend their disparate examples of atrocities, the artists use different mediums — drawing, sculpture, painting — to make their statements. Some are brutally lifelike, others are abstract. No matter what the subject matter, method, or style, the result is always the same: the works underscore our own humanity in the face of terror.

Its good to be on top.

Is the central message in AMC’s new, heavily hyped and well-worth the buzz drama “Mad Men” the most important line in every marketting ploy is: “By Writer/Producer Michael Weiner of The Sopranos” And Mad Men is all about advertising, and makes no qualms issues or petty feints about it.

Because in 1959 (or thereabouts. The general message seems to be leaving the prudish sensibilities of the 50’s, but before the outright social revolution of the 60’s.) We were on top. The Depression was our parents’ woe, The War was drifiting comfortably into the nation’s memory, and we had WON. It was a victory like we hadn’t seen since the birth of America, and the men on in the advertising industry were reaping the benefits of our macho, modern, swagger a good fifteen years later.

On top of the economy, on top our vices, (cigarettes, booze, and sex being the trifecta of choice) and mopst importantly, they were on top of whatever America wanted. It was up to the Men of Madison avenue to decide what America wanted.

At the height of the American Advertising Industry, Madison Avenue was the beating heart. Television, Radio, Magazines and Movies were all America had to concern itself with in the well-earned salad days of the 20th century, and someone had to send out the message to America, telling all the fellas and dames what they were supposed to buy. It’s no surprise then that the machismo, arrogant nature to these men is what feuled the industry.
And at the center of the story is Don Drapper, or it seems more fitting to drop the R and call him what he is: Dapper. Slick black hair, chizelled jaw, exactly what America was buying in the silver age of cinema. He is however, smart and comlex enoguh not to be overconfident. The opening scene is of Mr. Drapper jotting ideas down on a cocktail napkin on how to sell more Lucky Strikes. He asks advice of the silent, aging black waiter, who is then chided for being too “chatty”.

It’s not easy to keep one’s balance at the top, and Mr. Drapper is down-to-earth, cautious and wise enough not to get too confident and rock the boat. A lesson his piggish, smug, and about-to-be-married , and still chasing skirt 26-year old co-worker Pete could bear to learn from.

At the other end of the spectrum is Peggy, played by Elizabeth Moss. (Whom I’ll always remember fondly as President Jedd Bartlett’s youngest and most beloved daughter Zoey) She’s the new secretary at the Sterling Cooper Advertising Agency, assigned to Mr. Drapper. She’s shy, demure, but in no way naive, simply ready to work hard and achieve. Her new “friend” and supervisor Joan, a heady, fire-haired dame who wears her curves tight to her dress is ready to give her all the advice she can handle in one mouthful, including what types of gifts to give to the receptionists, and what parts of her figure she should “advertise” most. Joan, it seems, knows how to move up in the world, if you’re of the “weaker” sex.

If you’re already disgusted by the sexism, it gets better. The (male) gyneocologist who smokes in the examining room, and spends most of his time telling Peggy the virtues and vices of contraceptives without becoming “one of those types of girls.” Peggy’s so overwhelmed by the new normal, she simply nods and complies.

By the end of the first episode, Mr. Drapper rises to the occassion of holding on to his clients at Lucky Strike, in sight of Readers’ Digest’s ludicrous claim that smoking cigarettes is linked to cancer and without resorting to the psycho-babble suggested by a German psycho-analyst that humankind, deep down has a desire for danger and all things dangerous

While also just barely holding on to a troublesome, yet intriguing client: Troublesome partly because she’s Jew, trying to branch into the WASP market and troublesome but also intriguing because she’s a She.

Sure, Mad Men gives us what we know is bad for us. (Alcoholism, sexism, racism, anti-semitism, cigarettes, chauvanism, capitalism, and the list goes on. . .) but like any good advertiser, it knows the number one rule: Give the people what they want.

Tune in, you might learn something about how to sell a good show.

American Movie Classics, Thursdays at 10pm

Only at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre can you start a show 30 minutes late & nobody gives a damn! My only guess is that everybody knows they’re about to see a raunchy, hilarious show- and this was no exception.

UPLATE! with Lord Voldemort was a Harry Potter spoof in the form of a late night talk show to celebrate the long awaited release of the final Harry Potter book. This “live taping” was complete with Lord Voldemort as the host with his trusty sidekick Wormtail at his side and (of course) the obvious late night talk show band.

The costumes & makeup were horrible & atrocious in the BEST possible way- smiles were beaming at the campy & half-assed quality of it all.

So, Voldie was convinced that the Harry Potter series was his own biography (not a story about our beloved HP) & he hasn’t even read the books! He must be the only one in the entire world (including Muggles & Wizarding folks). He & Ms. Rowling had a little disagreement over who’d been through the darkest times.

According to He Who Must Not Be Named, the studio set was actually IN Hogwarts, but “it was enchanted to look like a comedy theatre set in a grocery store basement”. The audience was seated in the four houses of Hogwarts. (I was in Slytherin- gulp!) The show’s producer kept having to interrupt the Dark Lord to remind him that the word Mudblood was not politically correct and, of course, to keep giving airtime to the important corporate sponsors of the wizarding community.

Special guest stars included J. K. Rowling, The Boy Who Lived (aka Harry Potter), Ron & Hermione, the Weasley Twins & Professor Snape. Oh & guess what?!- Sirius Black had a makeover into a dancin’ pimp daddy & was working for the show as a bodyguard.

A few crowd favorite moments were:
1) The sorting hat, which was rigged on a simple rope & pulley system & just ALMOST worked. A few lucky audience members were selected to be sorted into the appropriate Hogwarts houses.

2) Erotic Reading by Professor Snape, which believe it or were dirty stories taken from real internet postings of X-rated adventures betwixt our Hero Harry & the despised Draco Malfoy. It’s kinda funny to see what people write about on the internet, a bit disturbing, but quite funny nonetheless- crowd was groaning, grimacing and smiling all the way through.

3) Those jokester Weasley twins were at it again with their own rendition of Who’s On First, but of course the sport in question was Quidditch. What’s on the Quaffle?! And, Who’s the Seeker anyway?!

And I can’t forget…

4) The Video Tribute to Albus Dumbeldore set to Boyz II Men’s “It’s So Hard To Say Goodbye to Yesterday”, detailing his life through the familiar JK Rowling inspired events & then some epic events that I didn’t remember him attending, but I’m sure were completely accurate (MLK speech, Tenement Square, Abu Ghraib & so on)

Overall, OMG, seriously- why was it one night only? It was so funny I would see it again. Do it again! Do it again! Do it again!

When an art exhibit gets extended, it’s worth taking notice. That’s the case with Sarah Peters’ Being American. The exhibit was supposed to close at Winkleman Gallery (637 West 27th Street, New York) this Saturday, but it’s been extended until next Friday, July 27. For her first-time having a solo exhibition in a city that eats, sleeps, and breaths art, that’s a noble accomplishment.

What makes Being American impressive is Peters’ ability to look past herself as a comtemporary American artist to argue that it took a lot of bad art to get to where we are today in the art world. She question the very foundations of art in the United States as she considers the failed aesthetic ideals of the eighteenth century.

Through a series of hurried black-and-white drawings, Peters shows the rejected, castaway works of time gone by. It’s a landscape of passionate yet abortive attempts to create beauty that was based on European eccentricities. She even includes a bust that although is a self-portrait actually references William Rush, America’s first classical sculpture.

Being American has been getting rave reviews from critics, so go see for yourself what all the fuss is about. And we want to know what you think: Apart from its critique on early art, does Being American aesthetically hold up its own values?

Off with their heads! …Okay, so Bastille Day isn’t actually about decapitating people. On July 14, 1789, the citizens of France had had enough of Louis the 16th’s tyrany. They stormed the Bastille, a prison that held people who were outspoken enough to oppose the French monarchy. (Imagine all the American citizens that would go to jail today for criticizing Bush….) As it turned out, there were only seven people in the jail at that time, and none of them were famous. Still, it was a symbolic gesture that marked the start of the French Revolution.

Bastille Day celebrations were held around the world this past weekend, and New York got in on the action with a “Street Fair with French Flair” on Sunday. Unfortunately, that’s about all it was. Held on Sixtieth Street from Fifth to Lexington Avenue, it was your typical ethnic street fair. The main draw seemed to be the food tents, which had long lines. They served up typical French fare, typified by crepes and pastries, including the decadent and pricey chocolates by Payard.
There were also a few French bands — The Penelopes, Poni Hoax, and Frustration – along with DJ sets. The acts that were playing whenever I walked by were really unimpressive. They were loud and looked very indie — not the cool, we’re signed to Saddle Creek or French Kiss type of indie, but the “will play for food” type of indie. They looked cool from their promotional photos, though, so maybe I’ll check them out on MySpace next time I get bored.
There were also some sports things, which I ignored. If you’re interested in soccer and cycling, check it out on your own time.
The radical, activist spirit of Bastille and the beautiful culture of France were missing from the street fair.

Anyone else attend the Bastille Day street fair? Were the bands any better when you saw them? Did you see the Cancan dancers? What was the best crepe?

There was also a celebration in Brooklyn? Any feedback on that one?