The newly opened Double Windsor in Park Slope serves Jameson on the rocks in bucket-sized glasses for a reasonable price. If this is how they like to attract customers, I’d say they’re doing a damn fine job.
Here’s to a blurry Rocktober.
I built this show up to mythic proportions in my mind. I’m not sure why. I find drone metal boring in most cases, but I couldn’t wait to see Sunn O))). I was looking for a unique experience. Their performance was definitely like nothing I’d ever experienced. Their music had such an intimidating physicality about it. But the theatrics were a bit much. I mean, I get it. You’re creepy, and the first five minutes of deep chanting and fog machine got under my skin. After a half an hour of it, I almost left out of boredom. Still, black metal legend Attila Csihar was unreal; like a living nightmare.
I really loved the show, but I actually wanted to have more of a visceral reaction to it. I wanted to either fall into a trance or run out of the room screaming in tongues and vomiting. I guess that’s a pretty tall order, though.
Sunn O))) live: a visual reinterpretation.
Tomorrow night = doom.
I wish I had one of them fancy cameras everyone else on Tumblr seems to have. One day. In the meantime, I’ll be taking blurry photos and trying not to look like a dork as I jot down notes at rock shows in the New York area. This is only the third concert review I’ve written in the past 5 years, so I know I’m rusty, but this one gave me hope that I might be headed in the right direction.
This show was a blast. I’m ashamed to say that I wasn’t that familiar with The Zeros, before Tuesday, but they really wound up the crowd. Jemina Pearl is a lot of fun to watch also—very expressive. Good times at Southpaw on a lovely night in Park Slope.
Outside the Feast of Santa Rosalia (I think that’s what it was called) on 18th Ave. in Brooklyn, a father watched as his daughter rode one of those coin operated mechanical horses. It whirred and shook and rocked in the most unimpressive manner imaginable. The father watched glumly. The daughter looked like she was having a remarkable time.
I remembered a time I rode a similar contraption. It was parked outside of a Shop Rite, as is often the case, but instead of a horse, it was fashioned in the shape of a dragon, which is my second favorite creature—real or imagined—ranked just behind narwhals. I begged for a quarter to ride the thing and ignored my parents’ warnings that I’d be disappointed. Eventually they cracked, and I got a quarter.
The ride was brief and unsatisfying. It shook and shimmied, and I think a warped soundtrack accompanied its gimpy movements. Nevertheless, I convinced myself that the experience was an enjoyable one. I sat with the dragon long after the ride was over, because it looked so cool, and was so brightly painted. It was designed to amuse, and I couldn’t blame it for not having much to work with.
Score one for our friends the manta ray and whale shark. Plankton’s getting fucked, though.
I really can’t wait to go to the Brooklyn Aquarium tomorrow.
Outside the Austen House, looking out to the Narrows, just when the snow started mixing with a torrent of ice pellets. It was gray and beautiful, but here it looks like a scene from the trailer of The Exorcism of Emily Rose, which I’ve never seen because I can’t handle movies about demonic possesion.
I’ve heard it’s very good, though.
I started volunteering at the House today. I’m starting out doing data entry, but I also edited a transcript of an audio tour of the house. The accent of the woman on the tape was peculiar. We were sure she was making up words as she went. But the good thing about editing a transcript of audio tours is that there are plenty of pauses, to allow visitors time for walking.
If you didn’t know, Alice Austen was a documentary photographer during the late 1800s to early 1900s. She is notable for capturing immigrants who landed in New York. I really like her work, I think she’s a fascinating figure and I love anything that involves the history of the city. But I’m volunteering, because she’s from my neighborhood, and back when I was a pothead kid, the rocky beach beneath her home (Penny Beach) was my favorite place to smoke up. I’d watch the ships come in, cars merge on to the Belt Parkway and stare at the city skyline until I got the hungry and walked up Hylan Boulevard to the Convenient Store, where I’d buy Little Debbie Fudge Rounds for a quarter. I still go there and watch the Narrows, but nowadays, I just bring a few White Castles.
This is my way of saying thanks.
Oh, Brooklyn… Thanks Dap1 for the link.
The East Coast is far superior than the West in terms of sandwiches. Last night, after the comic convention, I ended up in Brooklyn at the famous L&B Spumoni Gardens and had half of chicken parmeggiana hero (with some grilled onions and peppers thrown on it for kicks), and it was probably The Greatest Chicken Parm Ever. I can’t overstate this enough. It’s difficult to write about it without staring longingly out my Staten Island window toward Brooklyn. I know we’ll be together again. One day. Dear, dear sandwich.
That may seem a bit much, but keep in mind that for seven years I lived in a place where sprouts were a common sandwich topping.
What was I saying? The beer? Yes. The West Coast does seem to trump the East when it comes to microbreweries. Back in sleepy lil’ Chico alone, we had two breweries: the well known and respected (for good reason) Sierra Nevada Brewing Co. (I only really like their winter seasonal Celebration Ale and Pale Bock, which is a smooth malt liquor beverage that will turn you into a raving lunatic) and Butte Creek, a less-sexy all organic brewery that makes Mt. Shasta Pale Ale and other personal favorites. And that’s just scratching the surface. There are great brews all over California, Oregon and Washington. Must be all the hippies.
The East Coast has Sam Adams (eh) and Yuengling, which makes a damn good lager, but I’m more of an ale person. On a recent shopping trip to Walbaum’s, I found a six pack of Smuttynose Old Brown Dog Ale (brewed in New Hampshire), and my curiosity got the better of me. It’s sort of like Moose Drool, but not as sweet—a thick, heavy brown ale that packs a bit of a punch. I’m looking forward to trying more of what they have to offer, and not just because I’m a drunk.
