"A New York Treasure" --Village Voice
Category: Arts and Culture

Morning Art

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Diebs.

New York Minute

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Ad Rock’s high school daze.

TRUE YORKERS: ALL MY CHILDREN with AD-ROCK from BTG Movement on Vimeo.

Picture by Bags. 

Beat of the Day

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Mainly what I write is for the average New Yorker…

Picture by Bags.

Afternoon Art

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Painting by Carrie Mae Smith.

Taster’s Cherce

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Nigel Slater’s Brownies. 

Taster’s Cherce

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My kinda eatin’…

Beat of the Day

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Tell it like it is.

Morning Art

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Chagall, 1919.

Afternoon Art

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Picture by Alex Toth.

Beat of the Day

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Ooh La La.

Million Dollar Movie

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Coming Soon…

New York Minute

difarrra

Way out in Brooklyn (those who come from Brooklyn know just what I’m talkin’…)

Afternoon Art

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Painting by Jessica Brilli.

Beat of the Day

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You act as if you just don’t care. You look as if you’re going somewhere.

[Photo Via: NYC Nostalgia]

Beat of the Day

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Monday Groove.

[Photo Credit: Lennart Olson]

Taster’s Cherce

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Thanks to This Isn’t Happiness for hipping me to this food fun.

Morning Art

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Portrait of Ezra Pound by R.B. Kitaj.

BGS: Redneck Rock

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Here’s a fun one for you–Robert Ward on Redneck Rock circa 1976 for New Times Magazine:

The bus floated through the Nashville streets and stopped at the James Thompson Motor Inn. I got out and walked with Tommy (the Outlaw) and Coe’s old friend, Bobby.

“It’s on the fourth floor.”

We climbed the steps and walked down a long motel corridor. Looking over, I noticed it was a good 75 feet to the parking lot. At the door, Tommy waited for me.

“Come on in, writer.”

“Sure.”

I felt frightened by his tone—soft, but mocking. I had assumed that there would be women, other musicians, and whiskey. But there was none of that. Instead, there were Outlaws, about 15 of them, sprawled around the room. I looked at their eyes, which were all trained right on my own. In the exact center of the group, like some ancient fertility god, David Allan Coe sprawled on a bed. On his lap was an ugly, trashed-out looking woman, who was laughing insanely.

Behind me the door snapped shut. “This here is the writer,” someone said in a steel-wire voice.

Everyone was totally silent.

“The writer who wrote that shit about David Allan not being an outlaw!” someone else said.

I felt my breath leaving me and tried to laugh it off. “Hey, c’mon, you guys. I didn’t write that stuff.”

A short, squat, powerful man, the same Outlaw I’d seen screaming at the Exit Inn, came toward me. “You wrote that shit, did you?”

He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a five-inch hunting knife.

“Hey, wait now,” I said.

[Photo Credit: George Tice, 1974]

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"This ain't football. We do this every day."
--Earl Weaver