Author Archive

EXCELSIOR!!!

And Welcome to the introduction to Uncoolkids’ weekly comic book geek-out, hosted by your own Geek on the Street.

I must preface this with a bias warning: I am a Marvel Comics partisan. Marvel, in it’s recent format, is much more real-world that DC.

Where DC Comics relies mostly on mythos, cosmic and intergalactic conflicts and mining the same handful of heroes for as many knock-off characters as possible (The Superman “family” the Batman “family” the Green Lantern “Corps.” The same rehash since the 1940’s.)

Marvel, however, has stood on and expanded brilliantly from the four pillars of Stan Lee since the 1960’s: (Fantastic Four, X-men, Avengers and Spider-man) and focusses on the character in comics, and how these super-powered beings fit into a world of politics, militarism, prejudice, vulnerability, and the basic ethical dilemas of power vs responsibility.

I’ve been a comic book stalwart since my tweens, in the era of the deeply psychological Spectacular Spider-man and Jim Lee’s X-men, but the late nineties were a sad, sorry downhill spiral for Marvel, A.K.A. “The House of Ideas” storylines bogged down with too much drama, over-hyped storylines and the endless piling up of unanswered mysteries.

After a nearly catastrophic downturn right about millenium-time, Marvel got serious about revamping its image, just in time for the blockbuster hit X-men. All glossy pages; condensed, easy to follow storylines; dialouge that you’d expect from a prime-time hit TV show, rather than a Sunday afternoon B-movie and: “previously in” page before each issue, to help neophytes learn the ropes.

And so, each weekly “issue” of PANELGEEK will have two features:

ONE: A piece about what’s going on in comics now (or an editorial)

TWO: PANELGEEK’S Book of the week (either a particular issue, or a TPB)

STARTING TOMORROW: PANELGEEK #1: Know your Comic Shops, and Civil War. . .

It’s exciting to see a young actor grow from childhood sitcoms to serious films, and I’m proud of the strong choices that Joseph Gordon Levitt is making.

From his hillarious romps with his fellow covert aliens in 3rd Rock from the Sun to his intensely powerful turn in the High School Noir film Brick, which I consider the sleeper of 2006.

And now he continues on that trend with the small-town, lonely winter bank heist film The Lookout

The film begins with beautiful tragedy. Gorgeous teens on prom night, driving down farm roads in search of a specific type of beauty that can only be found in small farm towns. Then tragedy strikes.

Chris Pratt, played by Levitt is now, four years later, still re-learning basic sequential functions like remembering to grind the coffee before making it, and where to find, (and how to use, and what the hell is a. . .) can opener. He’s helped along with his clever, blind roommate Lewis, played by the always wry and brilliant Jeff Daniels.

Chris also works as the night custodian of the local bank. Which is just a coincidental convenience for the local seductively charming bad-boy. Gary

The bank-heist formula is familiar: patsy gets sucked in by Gary’s charisma. As well as the chance to somehow get out of this “trap” that the accident put him in, (because money solves everything. . .) and of course, the chance to be “cool” again.

The tender folds of a former stripper named Luvlee Lemons (named WHAT? hahaha) of course helped as well.

The bank heist unfolds as movie bank heists often do, and the writer/director Scott Frank doesn’t score any major points in that department. He really shines in his artistry in revealling how this flawed man, struggling just to keep up with the world and weighted down by his guilt can rise to the call of heroism.

The Lookout is a beautifully crafted and magnificently acted, if predictable film. In the deluge of celluloid shit that comes out in theaters from January through March, The Lookout might just be the first good film of 2007.

Although. . . if you’ve seen Momento, as I’m guessing Mr. Frank has many, many times. . . well, I’m just saying you might also experience a strong sense of Deja Vu. . .

Tuesday night at Smith’s Bar on West 44th and 8th ave is a fascinating slice of New York. But it’s more than just New York, it’s America. But of course, it’s more than just America: It’s the Whole Wide World.

Sabrina, the karaoke mistress has been rocking the mic and turntables at Smiths for nearly 4 years now, and has seen a little bit of everything. The locals, the tourists, the greenhorns who came to New York to make it on Broadway, or at Juliard, the drunken bums who stroll in off the street, heck, sometimes the occassional methadone-junkie from the Times Square of old.

8th avenue in the 40’s is a fascinating creature in the urban jungle. Evidenced by the DVD and Peep-Show shops, it still clings to the seediness of the Times Square of Travis Bickle and Ratso Rizzo directly to it’s East. (Now home to Disney and MTV)

Evidenced by the Irish Pubs and grills up and down the avenue, it still remembers the Hell’s Kitchen history of The Westies, the Irish gang that laid claim to the down and dirty ‘hood throughout the late 20th century.

Smith’s, who has been around since 1954 and I’m sure saw more than it’s share of The Kitchen’s stories its heyday still serves up greasy Irish Pub fare to go with it’s $5 pints and liquor bar, graciously keeping the boozy karaoke madness on one side of the establishment, and the dining quarters on the other.

On one random Tuesday night when Karaoke is really popping, I encountered a pack of Australians on an Ameircan walkabout who after enough Jagerbombs, treated us all to a horribly off-key rendition of Land Down Under.

A corporate automotive business team from L.A. decided to make Smith’s their location for a night in New York, and a very pretty blonde named Yvette finally worked up the gusto to treat us to her very personalized version of Shania Twain’s Feel Like a Woman.

The Smiths regulars are a jolly, friendly bunch who’ve turned their love of singing to pre-recorded music into friendships outside the karaoke joint. My own karaoke buddies Sarah and Drew, a preciously cute couple who work on various Broadway shows treated us to Nina Simone’s Feelin’ Good.

And I headed out right after some old timer I’ve seen once or twice before brought the real spirit of the night home with none other than Billy Joel’s ballad to Gotham: New York State of Mind (A Smith’s staple.) Thank God the drunk with stains on his jeans couldn’t read the number-code for Freebird in the song-book.

Though Sabrina could focus a little more on hosting the karaoke, and less time flirting with patrons and asking people to pose for pictures, if you want a slice of everything that Times Square once meant and what New York will always mean to the world; (a place to SHINE!0 then Smith’s is your destination to sing your heart out to the Greatest City in the World.

Its a familiar paradigm:

The Yin Yang of Art imitating Life, and Life in turn imitating art. Seinfeld even once pulled the meta-tasticly ironic quadfecta of Art-imitates-Life-imitates-Art-imitates-Life in the brilliant episode #155 known as “The Muffin Top” (The show’s Cosmo Kramer hosts a Jay Peterman reality tour -which is based on Real-world Kenny Kramer hosting a Seinfeld reality tour based on The TV show Seinfeld, which is based on the real lives of Jerry Seinfeld and Kenny Kramer. Whoa.)

In attempting to apply this to the Barefoot Theater’s performance of “Dog Day Afternoon” I found an even more complex display of the spiral: It seems I’ve stumbled upon Art imitating Art imitating Journalism imitating Life. Or is Journalism a bridge between Life and Art? . . . Christ I need an aspirin.

In 1972, two men held up a Chase Bank on Ave P and E3rd st. in Brooklyn NY. What ensued was a bizarre 14-hour Urban Dramedy in which it was discovered that the cause for the hold-up was so that the “mastermind” (if he could be called one) needed money for his male-wife’s sex change.

Only in New York, right? Well, only in Brooklyn to be exact.

The story was unique and fascinating enough to inspire journalist P.F. Kluge to write a feature article in Life Magazine entitled “Boys in the Bank” as if the sex-change bank-robbery weren’t enough, the other factors that simmers in the stifling heat and tension of the summer of 1972 in Brooklyn, seeped through every inch of the Brooklyn streets on that strange, strange day.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Light Inside is a 35 minute play with three actors with the narrative set in three different realms.

The first realm is a series glimpses into our protagonist Lily. (played by the deeply inpsired and very skilled playwright and producer of the show: Lindsay Wolf). Lily is a young girl in therapy sessions. Sessions that begin in early age, maybe 5 or 6 and progresses through early adulthood.

The second realm is Lily in her winter years. Rocking chair and sweater, with a photo album of joyous days and years past. Her loving husband Samuel pacing back and forth behind her muttering “Yes, dear.”

The third realm is a dance. A dream. The girl and some phantom boy, trying to engage, trying to be close, and in each repeatition of the dream they grow closer. Sometimes further away.

Something happened to Lily as a child. Specifics of it aren’t important, all we know is that she was abused by someone close to her. It’s hinted at early, perhaps as subtly as the playwright seemed to be able to muster. But as a focal point of The Light Inside, the audience needs to know: Lily is damaged, and can’t find her way out of the nightmares and the alienation that have come from it.

The “Elder” scenes however showed an old woman who could remember nothing but joy in her youth with her loving husband.

What bridged the gap between these two women? The dance-dreams hint at it, nudge us toward the answer through a series of silent steps. that gulf that at the end of the 35 minutes was filled with a comforting, inspiring revelation.

Lindsay’s performance as Young Lily, through three stages of her youth, growing up byt forever trying to eleviate her herself of the pain of her dark secret was marvellous.

Elder Lily, however was somewhat forced. With a grating, senility-tinged voice and her hunched, slowly pacing husband Samuel. It can be difficult for a pair of twenty-somethings to play octegenarians without it seeming like a mockery of old age. But in a brief, sweet play, we walk away from The Light Inside with the comfort that no matter how broken we may feel, there’s still the hope, and the determination that we can and we do get better.

Editors NOTE: It’s VERY IMPORTANT to support small community theater. Even when confronted with a “perfect storm” of bad PR.

By this I mean a Theater company called FRIGID, putting on a show at the end of winter in a black-box theater with bad heating. But it’ll be 50 degrees this weekend!! So get out there and support FRIGID

It was a Wednesday night, and I spent a lousy day yapping to idiot tourists on an open-top bus. I made some pretty good tips though and figured it was worth $10 at the door to see some titties.

WAIT, NO! That’s not what Burlesque is about! It’s supposed to be a clever and ironic throwback to the 1920’s and 30’s where sexual performance was still new and scandalous! Neo-Burlesque is, of course, a self-counscious modern interpretation on a distinct early 20th century art-form, a fusion of costuming, dance, seduction and humor all while weaving a narrative through music and pantomime, topping it all off with. . . well, yes, Titties! With pasties! And tassles that swirl!!

But, as my first paragraph illustrated, sometimes a fella can dilude himself into believing that he’s attending a subtle, layered, performance piece when in truth, it’s a lot more like a glorified strip-tease.

Which is what my experience seeing The Peach Tartes at Don Hills was like last night. Don Hills, which can be found at Greenwich and Spring sts, in the above Canal st part of TriBeCa (wait a second. . .) and The audience seemed to be mostly made up of the Wall st. types, (both guys and girls) looking to get their jollies off at the sight of pert young female flesh shaking their goodies for the whole crowd to enjoy.

The show was well composed, the ladies very, very sexy all of them with very clever burlesque names and sexy outfits. The loose plot of the show was that these six young ladies were all guests at the Heartbreak Hotel, acting out the five stages of grief (Denial, Bargaining, Anger, Depression, Acceptance) through burlesque acts some (Denial, Depression) more inspired than others (the rest) along with the most fun, often forgotten stage of overcoming grief: REVENGE!

Though in most of the cases, when not sure of how to take the flimsy story-line of each of their acts further, just displayed some spinning kicks and splits, opting for some easy applause from the audience.

The most enjoyable part of the evening had to be the first act, the Tartes signature piece, all six ladies, in three sets of Dom/Sub duets, tight bodies in slinky lingere performing a very, very naughty dance piece set to Chriss Isaac’s “Baby did a Bad Bad Thing”

Sure, it got my jolly-jim all nice and pointy, but I’m the type to call a spade a spade and if it looks like a strip show, it acts like a strip show, and the skanky bar it’s in smells like a strip show, well then

Don’t call it “Burlesque”

M!stakes.

Never heard of ‘em? Now you have. Never listened to ‘em? Go. Listen. Now. Before it’s too late, go listen to the greatest Brooklyn band that no one’s ever heard of, so you can say you knew them way back when they lived in an apartment one floor down from your brother’s apartment in the way-out-freakin’-east coast of Bushwick like I do.

Well, maybe not just like I do, just. Just listen to them. Now. Take a break from this review, and come back, I’ll still be here.

See? Wow.

M!stakes aren’t revolutionary, they’re just good. Fantastically good without being too inaccessable. And difficult to describe. That too. Perhaps because they’ve found a way to emulate some of the best aspects of just-slightly-above-the-public-radar rock, new-wave, grunge, pop and punk music from the 80’s, 90’s and 00’s. (Ed: This decade is known as the aught’s. It’s 2007 people, we need to decide on a name here, and The Aughts was good enough a hundred years ago, it’s got some classy charm, and it sounds good. There. It’s decided)

Some of the first bands that come to mind to describe M!stakes would be are The Clash, The Smiths, Depeche Mode, with slight streaks from the grunge era like Stone Temple Pilots and perhaps a dash of Soundgarden, but with compositions that you may expect from Radiohead, just without their level of weirdness and alienation. There. That describes it. I think.

M!stakes, are understandably often misspelled as Mistakes, and improperly prefaced with “The” (They’re not The M!stakes, they’re M!stakes) which may make them harder to find than other bands, but when spelled right, they’re easy to Google.

Read the rest of this entry »

Boy, I gotta tell ya. It feels good to be the best dressed fella at a party.

Not so much when you’re in a 3-piece pin-stripe suit and everyone else was bedecked-out in bikinis and speedos. Sigh. I guess being the UNCOOLKID in any hip scene is my inescapable destiny. This past Wednesday was Valentine’s Day. The day in which we are to commemorate the Roman saint who married early Christians before being jailed and beheaded by Emperor Claudius II. He did, however get one last note out to a blind chick he had the hots for: The first ever Valentines card.

For those of us in relationships, it’s that merry time in which we are supposed to fret, and wonder and worry and SPEND in the hopes that we find the perfect blend of words and easily purchasable items that reflect the exact level of feelings we may or may not have for our special others. For those of us not currently betrothed, it’s a time to sit, sulk, dodge the inescapable the cupids and hearts and arrows and flowers and other that gives us all a case of the uncontrollable projectile vomits.

Or, we go out and try to get laid. And the girls at Gemini and Scorpio were at the East Village Russian Bath house on E.10th st to help us! (Not like THAT!)

Read the rest of this entry »

Ah. There are some things that I think I may never, ever tire of.

A well cooked meal, a beautiful summer afternoon in Prospect Park, a well-written, well-drawn comic book and titties.

Titties!! With some many different shapes, sizes, colors, and jigglability, how could anyone ever tire from nice pairs’a juggs? But, with the proliferation of implants and internet porn, sometimes something is needed to enhance the appeal of a fine set of tetons.

Burlesque offers us real, tangible breasts, but with a classy, artistic veneer to cover up such a base desire. Some refer to it simply as Striptease but with fancy costumes and comic elements. Burlesque is said to have originated in France in the 1890’s with a woman slowly removing her clothes is search of a flea crawling across her body.
The art form has expanded and evolved a fair amount since the heyday of Gypsy Rose Lee and Mae West in the 20’s and 30’s. Here in New York in the past decade or so, Valentine’s Day Red-Headed Hunnies show at Galapagos Art Space in Williamsburg. Starring: Gal Friday, Ginger Fringe, Roja Rouge, and the organziner/manager of Monday Night Burlesque, Galapagos’ resident Red-hot Redhead: Miss Allison!

The girls were in top form. Gal Friday kicked off the night with a sultry old-fashioned long-hemmed dress with a hip-level split which she removed, revealing a Heart-Shaped “Box” (complete with a furry red bush) which she opened to reveal a delicious chocolate inside. An almost immaculate performace, if the box didn’t jam at the end and when she broke it open, the chocolate fell to the floor. It’s all right, happens to the best of us at times.

Ginger Fringe followed with one of her trademark jump-blues, fast-movin’ strip-teases. A pefect compliment to her kinky red curls and sparkle-red lipstick. Ginger’s moves are always fierce!

Miss Allison followed, offering us a classy, old-fashioned throwback of the classic days of burlesque: Her hair bobbed, her eyes done up in enormous fake lashes and sparkling eye-shadow. She offered to her adoring crowd, one of her personal classics: the feather fan-dance. Of course, her elaborate birds and skulls tattoo across her back reminded us that we’re definetely NOT back in the roaring 20’s.

Finishing off the first half was an act to remember! Roja Rouge blew the audience away, coming out on stage dressed as a naughty schoolgirl, and set to S.O.S. by Rihanna (that addictive “Tainted Love” dance

floor remix you may or may not hhve heard on Z100. . . What?) And engaged in a absolutely shameless ode to narcissism by writhing around stage practically making love to a mirror with professional stripper-level jumps and splits before whipping open an envelope full of headshots, signing one of them, and flinging them into the crowd! (complete with her myspace profile written on back.)
It’s amazing what some girls will do for fame. In this case, it’s awe-inspiring what some girls are proud to do for a little local celebrity.

Bravo ladies. And yes, the drapes match the carpet.

“A refreshing new reason to LIVE!” Is how they describe themselves. Well, maybe a little hyperbolic, but glam-pop quintet The Fabulous Entourage is definitely a reason not to give up on the New York LES rock scene.

The Fabulous Entourage has been grafitti-bombing their logo across Williamsburg streets, and if it weren’t so clever, I might be put off by it: A mushroom cloud in the shape of a heart. See, the word “sensation” likes to get thrown around in the arts-world far too often, lot, and whether or not its deserved, The Fabulous Entourage treat themselves as a sensation, and often that can make all the difference. Their stage dress includes in black and white (shirts and slacks for the boys,skirts and blouses for the girls), accented with day-glow pink and green, complete with boas, bouffant wigs and striped pants. Thankfully they do it with coordination and class. Much like their music.

Comparisons have been made to Devo for image,but musical style seems more of an evolution of the Elton John vein of operatic rock, (complete with retro-kitsch outfits, lyrics and passionate delivery.) But I’d be more inclined to see them as a beautiful but shamed lovechild of the B-52s and The Cure.

Front and center are Kyle Jarrow, the lead keyboardist and vocals, with Travis Chamberlain on Bass and back-up vocals, and on dual accompanying vocals, the beautiful duet Libby Winters and Pamela Quinn on accompanying lead vocals.

If that’s not all, it’s not unknown for Libby to pick up a guitar as well, Pamela to break out a flute and Kyle, during one of their more spirited jams to pull out a small trumpet for the bridge. Though their image is right out of Love Shack, the spirit and sentiment of most of their songs’ lyrics seem more along the lines of The Cure, or Heart.

“Woe” would be the best word for the F.E.’s general demeanor. Woe to this sad, painful life of unrequited love! Woe to this world of want and desire and war, but of course, beneath it all, is a deep satisfaction that if we have to face a world of anguish and desolation, you’d better BELIEVE that we’re going to look good while we do it!

And they look damn good.