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

Morning Art



New York Minute


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


Mainly what I write is for the average New Yorker…

Picture by Bags.

Afternoon Art


Painting by Carrie Mae Smith.

Taster’s Cherce


Nigel Slater’s Brownies. 

Taster’s Cherce


My kinda eatin’…

Beat of the Day


Tell it like it is.

Morning Art


Chagall, 1919.

Afternoon Art


Picture by Alex Toth.

Beat of the Day


Ooh La La.

Million Dollar Movie


Coming Soon…

New York Minute


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

Afternoon Art


Painting by Jessica Brilli.

Beat of the Day


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


Monday Groove.

[Photo Credit: Lennart Olson]

Taster’s Cherce


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

Morning Art


Portrait of Ezra Pound by R.B. Kitaj.

BGS: Redneck Rock


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.”


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