Saturday, January 31, 2009

Poster Boy Arrested!



Okay, so apparently, a certain underground razor-wielding rock star has been incarcerated for his... unique brand of subway art. Defacing public property is probably more along the lines of what they're calling it but still. Do the advertisers really care, should they? Should the MTA?




In the dreary landscape of advertising, now we actually can look and engage and giggle with the re-imaginings of someone out there who seems to be commenting on the dreariness. I think it's great, and it's only made me notice ads more, not less. What do you think?






For more images go to: http://www.flickr.com/photos/26296445@N05/
For more info on how a party flyers loose lips sank ships go to: http://gothamist.com/2009/01/31/nypd_rolls_up_on_posterboy.php

-Kastoory

Friday, January 30, 2009

Where W. Went

A new post Bush era has dawned on us Americans. For those of us who have been waiting his presidency out, Bush's last day in office seemed anti-climatic. After eight years as president, what the fuck is Dubya going to do with all his newfound free time?



On Monday, January 12th, Rooftop Films presented a special farewell to W. with a screening of the documentary "Crawford", live music beforehand, and free beers throughout. The event at the Chelsea Market, took place in a large closed-off room and was crammed with people, some for the beer, some for the film, and some for the band, Matteah Balm. I couldn't hear the music or words over people talking but it had such a melancholy vibe that no one wanted to tune in and possibly ruin their good time.

Watching the film was like reliving the last eight years, but not in a bad way. The filmmaker, David Modigliani, was able to frame the events that have taken place in Crawford, Texas since Bush moved there in the summer of 2000 in a way that created a larger understanding of how his presidency has divided our country with Crawford as the microcosm. Featuring everyday people who have lived in Crawford their whole lives, the documentary was able to capture the essence of what it is like to live in a small community by the range of perspectives, opinions, ages, and positions that were put forth. The documentary wasn't highly politicized, and it wasn't about redeeming the left or rewarding the right, but about how the fate of all these people was altered irreversibly by the addition of just one high-profile citizen.

Through the Cindy Sheehan protests to the counter-protests, from visits by the king of Saudi Arabia and Vice President Dick Cheney + gang, the people of Crawford have gone through a lot in these last eight years, and have very little to show for it besides out-of-business signs and a billboard with a visual reminder of the man who brought them their fifteen minutes of fame.

Now that it is over, where from here? It seems for the people of Crawford, a return to how it used to be is much in need. For the rest of us living in the post-Bush era, looking ahead to the future is a good time, now we have that experience behind us. At least, no matter what, you can get a few free beers.

-Tyler Weedon

Monday, January 26, 2009

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Snowy Stilts




The guitarist of Crystal Stilts is an ashy young man, playing with his back to the audience. They’re a peculiar breed. Singer JB often sings with closed eyes or rolled back in his head—all whites. I went to see them on a cold, snowy January night at the Market Hotel, a new venue in the heart of Bushwick. Hoping the nasty weather would stave off crowds, I made my way to the front. The show had sold out. Being a Brooklyn band, I'm sure Crystal Stilts felt at home on their own turf at the Market Hotel. I was there to see them play from their first full length LP on Slumberland Records, "Alight Of Night.” Its wall-of-sound production and tracks like "Dazzled" and "The Sinking" remind me of Joy Division. At the show, I expected to see JB do "The Dead Fly Dance" (Ian Curtis fans will understand.) To make up for the lack of seizures, opening band Box Elders' guitarist, got naked on stage and donned a homemade loincloth.

-Diana Kinscherf

(Photos: www.dominickmastrangelo.com)

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Praise Song - REDUX



His speech wove millions of threads together, bringing the tapestry of American life to the forefront. It was nice, of course, to have someone practically shouting the Pomp mission statement out to the world, from the presidential pulpit no less. Responsibility, struggle, and how these things will ultimately lead to success and joy. I believe. We've come this far by wading through the struggle and we'll keep at it to earn something worthwhile.

I don't know about you... but I am so ready.

Top 5 TV inauguration moments:
1) speech of the century
2) if it's brown stick around and mellow yellow (serious high point, that guy may have stolen a bit of Obama thunder with his race/rhyme jokes)
3) the First Lady's outfit
4) Dick Cheney being escorted away by wheelchair
5) George W. Bush's imagined last words, are you a lip-reader? What was he saying at the end there?

Stay tuned for (further) special Pomp-ous inauguration coverage.

-Kastoory

Monday, January 12, 2009

Twinzies

2009 seems to be the year of twins so far. From awful horror movie The Unborn, to the weird copycat tactics perpetrated by persons who will remain unnamed (but will be pixelized).



(Tunde Adebimpe of TV on the Radio in the movie Jump Tomorrow)


(DON'T TEXT)

What does everyone think of the new album? Headphone bliss? or trying too hard?

-The Editors

PS: Y'all know that this is just a matter of personal opinion right? Because it is... in case that wasn't perfectly clear.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Where My Gays At?

In a backwards mode of thinking I don’t ascribe to, all girls are destined to fulfill a particular station. Some are destined to become wives and mothers, successful business ladies, or have it all: man, kids and career. I was born into this world to excel at the art of faghag-dom.

To paraphrase my main bitch Jane Austen, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of an Absolutely Fabulous box set must be in want of a gay BFF."

Well, color me Mr. Darcy.

The day I realized I was most likely to succeed as a bestie to the gays was in high school. The cutest boy ever was a junior and I loved him sooooooooo much. He was artistic, funny, cute, adventurous and like, the best actor ever. He gave me butterflies in my tummy and I wanted to die when I saw him. Eventually, the crush blossomed into a close, fulfilling friendship, culminating in his coming out to me. This happened a couple more times in my teen years. A pattern was developing. I didn’t choose to be a fruit fly. They chose me.

My grooming began at birth. Mom and Dad were still kids when I danced myself out of the womb, and so was MTV. Brash, loud and tacky as hell, the fledgling music channel aired videos by gay icon Boy George, fellow fruit fly Cyndi Lauper and Madonna. The sugary pop music went down like a bowlful of Applejacks, and Cyndi’s hair colors far outshone any color in my crayon box. I was in love. Unlike my fellow Catholic grade school kindergarteners whose square folks enforced rules and structure, cable TV was not verboten to me. I had young, cool parents.

In fact, cable is responsible for just about everything I learned way too soon. Shows like HBO’s titty-thriller and the Hitchhiker taught me every usage of the word “fuck.” While I took in an HBO airing of the first Police Academy movie I became aware of just what homosexuality meant. Remember that scene where those ridiculously stereotyped leather daddies slow-danced at the Blue Oyster Bar? At first, five year-old me was a little puzzled. Then slowly, I figured it out. It was easier for me to accept homosexuality than it was for me to accept Steve Gutenberg being cast as a loveable cad, I’ll tell you that much.

When I wasn’t subjected to highly inappropriate adult content, I was dancing. I love to dance. Always have. While the future homemakers of America played “house,” I was in my room wearing out my Madonna cassette. I replayed “Burnin’ Up” over and over again so I could perfect its choreography. I’d pay a queen’s ransom for footage of six year-old me in Mom’s bra reenacting Madge’s moves. “Do you wanna see me down on my knees, bending over backwards/Now would you be pleased?” Paging Humbert Humbert…

After high school, I took my dance moves out of the bedroom and onto the dance floor. Every Sunday, my older cohorts snuck my underage ass into the Cabaret, Kansas City’s biggest and best gay club for the drag show.



In between stuffing dollars down queens’ stuffed chests as they mouthed Donna Summer and tireless dance sessions among sweaty shirtless hunks, I downed rum and cokes with three limes. This was my first foray into drunky town, so it never occurred to me to hydrate myself. I spent many nights facedown on the cold linoleum of my friend’s bathroom, swearing to gawd that some jerky twink drugged my drink. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the case.



Shortly after my 21st birthday, Club Cabaret closed its fabulous doors. Now, there are plenty of other gay bars in Kansas City, but none quite as magickal as the Cab. With no truly inspirational dance parties to turn to, I discovered the theat-tuh.

Kansas City’s Late Night Theatre featured a cast of beautiful drags who excelled at bitchy satire, recreating cult classics like “Valley of the Dolls” and “The Stepford Wives,” as well as their own original productions. My wicked, pop culture-saturated self ate it up. The Late Nighters were fun, genuine, flippant and clever. They threw parties where everyone was a star. It was Kansas City’s answer to a modern day Factory, but with better art and kinder drugs.



But, like the Cabaret before it, LNT too had to close its doors. Fortunately, I maintained lasting friendships with its members. The day Late Night Theatre folded, Kansas City lost a lot of sparkle, and I was ready to move to more thrilling pastures.

Now I live in New York City. The home of Stonewall, Christopher Street and Lady Bunny. And I have like no gay friends. What the hell? Where my gays at? Sure, I’ve been to parties and met some lovely boys who’ve found me adorable and charming and blah blah blah, but they never call like they say they will. I’ve considered taking out a Craigslist ad: “Fruitfly desperately seeking fun-but-not-flaky gay boyfriend for drinks, dancing, ANTM marathons, trips to the MOMA, karaoke and smack talk.” If anyone reading this knows of anybody, hook a sister up.

-Megan Metzger