Mini burgers, beers, green jell-o and good times for all on a mostly sunny Saturday at Anna's house for Janice and Lisa's Birthdays.More pictures on my Flickr page
Mini burgers, beers, green jell-o and good times for all on a mostly sunny Saturday at Anna's house for Janice and Lisa's Birthdays.





At the Preakness, Big Brown pulls off another impressive victory—one more to go for the triple crown. On to Belmont!
Bright and early Saturday morning at Floyd for the FA Cup finals (Portsmouth-1 Cardiff-0), and then next door at Chipshop for full English.
David Byrne has a good piece on The New York Times op-ed page today—a remembrance of his friend Robert Rauschenberg, who died this week at age 82: "His openness and way of seeing was contagious and inspired others in their own work — not to imitate and make pseudo-Rauschenbergs, but to see the whole world as a work of art." Musically I'm a David Byrne fan more in theory than in practice, but I have a lot of respect for his overall aesthetic and way of thinking about design and the world. It probably comes as no surprise that I am a huge fan of Rauschenberg, and this is a nice send-off. Read the rest at nytimes.com and check out David Byrne's website here.
I'm so bummed, it seems the flash on our camera is broken again. I just had it fixed in January. This proves again that digital technology totally blows. Richard Avedon dragged his Leica through the mud and paddies of Nam but if you so much as poke a digital camera in the wrong place, it just shuts down. Anyway it's going back in the shop asap and the ol' Pacific Standard will be new-photo-free for God knows how long. Here's the last picture I took, of our good buddies Jason and Aoife, at the Cherry Tavern for Jason's birthday party. Happy birthday lil' buddy.




Tom Kundig, of the Seattle architecture firm Olson Sundberg Kundig Allen, has won a Cooper-Hewitt National Design Award for architecture. I first became aware of his work a few years ago when The New York Times Magazine featured the Delta Shelter (pictured above, in Mazama, Washington), The Brain (below, in Seattle), and the Ridge House (bottom, in Eastern Washington).
Sometimes artists and architects in the Northwest are so overwhelmed by the beauty of the natural surroundings that elements of nature are included in their work in a far too obvious way. But while Kundig uses materials and shapes that respect their locations, and is clearly influenced by Northwest masters such as Roland Terry, he's not held back by these references—and in fact he uses them as springboards for all kinds of genuine innovation.
This was the first record I picked up at the flea market yesterday, and I think we can all agree, it's creepy as hell. (Literally as creepy as hell.) They're just coming right out with it, aren't they? It's like "see you when we're dead" but they're all smiles. The music is awful but I had to buy it for the cover.
Same goes for this—had to have it for the cover and the album title—but the music is great too.
The rest were $1 or $2 each, nothing to shout about but some good disco and mild psyche. The big score of the day was probably The Hot Dogs' Say What You Mean, a side project of Terry Manning that came out on Ardent, a division of Stax, in 1973 (click to enlarge the photo above, and you can see it in the middle of the top row). Manning was a prolific engineer, handling the boards for such minor artists as Isaac Hayes, Led Zeppelin, Albert King, and David Porter. I found his first record Home Sweet Home several years ago at the Orcas Island sanitation department's pay-what-you-think-is-fair thrift store, and am still blown away every time I listen to it.
Did you know that Miranda July's No One Belongs Here More Than You is now available as an audio book? We have a couple big roadtrips planned for later this year so I'm definitely snapping this up. You can too, at amazon.com, or wherever you, uh, buy your audiobooks (hey, first time for everything).
3. Who are your heroes? There are many, but last night I re-watched An Angel At My Table, Jane Campion's movie about the New Zealand writer Janet Frame. I hadn't see it for years and realized that I had really really identified with this story when the movie first came out, despite my life being totally different from Janet Frame's life. My heroes are always people who find a way to tell their story, against all odds.




Joe Newton, who some of you know as the drummer from Gas Huffer, or as former art director at The Stranger and Rolling Stone, or as the guy who does all the illustrations for Dan Savage's syndicated sex advice column Savage Love, or as just an all around good-timey dude, is now over at Veer, heading up their illustration department. Yesterday he sent me a link to a new animated film, The Control Master, which Veer put together with Run Wrake, a London-based animator and illustrator. The entire thing is assembled from Charles S. Anderson (CSA) images—and when you see it you can only imagine how much time went into making that work as smashingly as it does. Check it out at ideas.veer.com/features/controlmaster
I was instantly hooked on the Cave Singers when I heard them last year on KEXP, courtesy of guest selector Cherry Canoe (aka Kerri Harrop, from whom I have learned about 900,000 other interesting things, via her phenomenal blog General Bonkers). The Cave Singers are three dudes, formerly of other good bands such as Murder City Devils, Pretty Girls Make Graves, and Hint Hint, who play a unique brand of rock-and-roll that is actually best described as music you might expect to hear in a cave in the middle of Kentucky, or the North Cascades, for that matter. They played last night at Union Hall, one of my favorite venues, and it was cool to see them in such a small place—a cave-like place, if you will.
My good buddy Susan has a Kentucky Derby party every year at her apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Her family is obsessed with the ponies and she has a complete set of Derby glasses to prove it. Susan's a great hostess and it's always super fun times. The pictures above are completely blurry because for whatever reason I didn't want to disturb this groove by using a flash all over the place. The blurry view is kind of what we were all seeing anyway, several juleps in. Consider it reality-blogging.
The race was actually one of the less spectacular of recent years, and tragedy struck when the lone filly had to be euthanized immediately after breaking both front ankles. Still, I'm excited to see how Big Brown does in the Preakness—he's all anticipation and dreams right now, with the chance to join Seattle Slew as the only undefeated horse to win it all. I don't know that much about horse racing but the hope for the Triple Crown has become for me a measurable part of what makes late spring a great time of year.
There are a couple things I always like to review when Derby Time rolls around every year. One is this book by a dude I used to know name John Jeremiah Sullivan—Blood Horses: Notes of a Sportswriter's Son. Sullivan moved back down south a few years ago and regrettably we all fell out of touch. He had been an editor at Harper's and the book sprang from an award-winning piece he wrote for the October 2002 issue—Horseman, Pass By: Glory, Grief, and the Race for the Triple Crown. Here's an excerpt, from his experience at the Kentucky Derby:Ivana Trump is here, too, in a tasteful feathered hat. A heavyset frat-looking guy in a white T-shirt and a white cap is screaming at Ivana, and people actually quiet down to enable him. "Ivana!" he bellows. She goes on chatting. "I-V-A-N-A! We love you, Ivana!" She keeps her back to him, but it is clear to all that she is now consciously keeping her back to him, which is fun to see. He has pierced the veil. Emboldened, he switches to Puffy, who now goes by P. Diddy. "P. Daddy! P. Daddy!" he cries. A woman walks up and starts giving him a good slap on the back every time he lets loose with one of his wild namings. I hear her refer to him, in conversation with another bystander, as "my son."You can buy Blood Horses here or at your local bookstore. No matter if you're into horse racing or not, it's a thoroughly enjoyable read.
The behavior of this lunatic and his dam raises a question about the people inside the paddock, which is, What kind of person would voluntarily endure what is essentially a foodless outdoor cocktail party of strangers in heavy sun, in a concentration-camp-style enclosure, wearing outlandish clothes and trying to appear relaxed while being gawked at and openly insulted by hundreds if not thousands of drunken hill people? It is sad to be reminded, once again, that all this horse racing business is about the rich, for the rich are hideous. There is nothing they cannot ruin. And, of course, if there is one other thing that horse racing is all about, it is people who do not have money to lose—the bettors—losing it.
So it is beautiful when the horses themselves appear, in their ignorance and their majesty, and assert their presence amid all this crappiness. "Oh Horse, Horse, Horse," wrote D.H. Lawrence in a letter, "when you kick your heels you shatter an enclosure every time," and now I know just what he means. Only those with souls most thoroughly hollowed out by fame fail to turn and watch the three-year-olds when they take their slow lap around the paddock. And the jockeys! Who could not love a sport with its own paid battalion of wee men, their bright, gay silks, their young faces, their ambiguous quasi-midgetry. We have had to evolve a special race of human beings, when you think about it, so that the thoroughbreds may have riders.
The other thing I like to revisit at this time of year is a recording I made of the 2004 Preakness Stakes. Having won the Kentucky Derby, Smarty Jones more than delivers on all the excitement and anticipation with a massive win at Pimlico. Of course, we know now that he was not able to close at Belmont—but every time I listen to this, the excitement and the feeling of hope still gives me chills.
I'd been looking for this record forever and had never seen it for less than $40. Yesterday at the Fort Greene flea market I was lucky enough to find a clean copy for a pittance ($11). The weather turned from foggy to sunny and warm after I found it. Coincidence? Don't think so.
The back cover of The Smiths' final album is cool too—yet another reason to buy records. Once or twice a week when I was in high school I would walk over to Rubato Records and look through used vinyl and tapes before taking the bus or walking home through what seemed like ground zero for everything crummy in the world: Bellevue, Washington. The guys who worked at Rubato were several years older than me, and as far as I was concerned, they knew everything there was to know. I learned a lot of stuff about music just from eavesdropping and occasionally getting up the nerve to ask them some extremely calculated question. Anyway, I bought this on cassette from Rubato but never had the record.
I picked up a couple other random things, including the Triumvirat record that I have been looking for since Chad hipped me to it, and Fonda Rae's "Over Like a Fat Rat." All in all nothing to get too worked up about, but the Nico record made it feel like a huge success.
Doing research for another project recently I realized that there is a fairly extensive website for one of my favorite photographers, Jeanloup Sieff (Paris, 1933–2000). Sieff was most active in the mid-sixties, shooting for Harper's Bazaar, Vogue and other fashion magazines. I particularly love his outdoor fashion and portrait shots. The images above (click to enlarge)
are from the site and from this 1968 book I found at the ICP book sale several months ago (a steal at $5, even if the pages are a little yellow). Taschen produced a much larger book a few years ago and you can buy it on sale here.
As Chad mentioned yesterday, our good buddy J. Ralph Phillips just launched his new website. I talked about some of his dioramas before and now you can check out his equally captivating illustrations and music. Click here.