I couldn’t wait…

Today marks the 50th anniversary of the Stones’ first concert.

Here’s a cool article over at Slate by my man Dave Tompkins on why the Fat Boys still matter.

And check out Jesse Serwer’s 2008 interview with Prince Markie Dee.

That cool, refreshing drink.

Saveur gives us lemon shake ups.

[Photo Credit: Food Addict]

[Photo Credit: Sumeja Tulic via Je Suis Perdu]

Elektra via Comic Book Artwork.

Listen to William Faulkner’s Nobel Prize Speech.

Simple.

From Serious Eats, lemon polenta cookies.

[Photo Credit: Carrie Vasios]

…Found?

Edward Steichen, 1936

Then I rose, wiping a blunt’s ash from my clothes, then froze only to blow the herb smoke through my nose.

Lyrical masterpiece.

I never liked Madonna’s records or her acting. Watching her being interviewed is painful. And as a sex symbol I’ve only occasionally been drawn to her. I’m not turned on by the women-pretending-to-have-balls schtick, at least not in her case. So when she was in her prime, I didn’t dig her.

That said, I admire her for sticking around so long and for all that she’s accomplished as a pop icon. And I learned some more about appreciating her after reading this 2002 GQ article by Jennifer Egan:

For Madonna, it’s fantasy only; even when her moves have looked self destructive, she’s always emerged unscathed. To be loved as a celebrity, she once said, “You need to disappear, run out of steam, run out of ideas…You need to have a drinking or a drug problem. You have to go in and out of rehabs so people can feel sorry for you. Or you need to kill yourself, basically.” But Madonna has avoided all of that: no rehabs or suicide attempts, no arrests or collapses or devouring lawsuits or serial divorces or appalling plastic surgery — scandals, yes, but always of her own making and always, finally, to her own advantage. Sometime very early on, Madonna learned a different way to subvert her rage and quell the fear and pain that are usually handmaidens to an ambition as ravenous as hers: hard work. “I ultimately end up making my own work,” she has said. “I don’t sit around waiting for other people to give it to me. I’ve had to do this to ensure myself constant employment.”

Morton’s account of Madonna’s early performing years is a litany of wrong turns (including the fact that her first single, “Everybody,” was marketed as the work of a black artist) that could have terminally discouraged a less tenacious and resourceful performer. But no matter what went wrong, Madonna always had a next move. She kept producing good material by playing to her own strengths and finding people to compensate for her weaknesses. This ability to create year after year in the face of loud and persistent nay-saying is the single thing that has ensured Madonna’s ongoing success. I can only admire it.

Now comes the point where the writer is supposed to indulge in a bit of prognostication: what’s next? I could do this–ruminate sagely over the staying power of her marriage to a macho guy ten years younger or tsk that those tank tops might not cut it when she’s 50. But by defying twenty years’ worth of such speculations, Madonna has made a lot of smart people look like dummies. So I’ll pass. Better to admit that I have no idea what she’ll do, except that I can’t imagine her stopping. There’s pleasure in not knowing–especially when term limits on fame seem shorter than ever and the surprises we get from celebrities are rarely pleasant. Madonna hasn’t exhausted us because we haven’t exhausted her, which is another way of saying that she hasn’t exhausted herself.

[Photo Credit Via Village9991]

The Wife loves gazpacho. I make it for her all the time. Here’s a good recipe over at Lemon Fire Brigade.

Photograph by Amanda Marsalis via Rustic. Meets. Vintage.

All the nightmares came today/And it looks as though they’re here to stay…

[“Learning to Fly,” by carlybartel]

Over at the Atlantic dig this from Elmore Leonard (and stick around to watch the video):

THE DAY VICTOR turned twenty he rode three bulls, big ones, a good 1,800 pounds each—Cyclone, Spanish Fly, and Bulldozer—rode all their bucks and twists, Victor’s free hand waving the air until the buzzer honked at eight seconds for each ride, not one of the bulls able to throw him. He rolled off their rumps, stumbled, keeping his feet, and walked to the gate not bothering to look at the bulls, see if they still wanted to kill him. He won Top Bull Rider, 4,000 dollars and a new saddle at the All-Indian National Rodeo in Palm Springs. It came to … Jesus, like 200 dollars a second. That afternoon Victorio Colorado, the name he went by in the program, was the man.

He left the rodeo grounds as Victor to celebrate with two Mojave boys, Nachee and Billy Cosa, brought along from Arizona when the boss, Kyle McCoy, moved his business to Indio, near Palm Springs. The Mojave boys handled Kyle’s fighting bulls, bringing them from the pens to the chute where Victor, a Mimbreño Apache, would slip aboard from the fence, wrap his hand in the bull rope tight as he could get it, and believe he was ready to ride. He’d take a breath, say “Let me out of here,” and the gate would swing open and a ton of pissed-off bull would come flying out.

“His mind made up,” he told the Mojave boys at Mi Nidito in Palm Springs, “to kill anybody’s on his back. See, he behaves in the chute. What he’s doing, he’s saving his dirty tricks till he has room to buck you off and stomp you, kick out your teeth.”

[Featured Image by Travis R. Wright; Drawing by Brett Weldele]

Lime on my mind.

The Sprouted Kitchen gives us:  pasilla chile and lime cabbage slaw.

From Smitten Kitchen: cold rice noodles with peanut-lime chicken.

“Quantum Leap,” by Craig Wylie  (Oil on Canvas”

Here’s some Monday morning soul to ease you into the week…

[Photo Credit: Jason Travis]

Rest in Peace, Ernest Borgnine.

Over at Esquire, our pal Scott Raab interviews Sarah Silverman:

SR: Out of all the different performing arts, stand-up to me is by far the most fascinating — the idea of one human being standing up and the audience saying, “Okay, kill me.” And you have lived that life for years.

SS: I can’t believe how much time has passed. The first time I did stand-up I was 17, and I was really a stand-up once I was 19 in New York, and now I’m 41, and I still feel like I haven’t found myself onstage. Earlier in my career, I was really tight, really together, and knew who I was and I was confident. I kind of feel in between now.

SR: Is that because you’re taking on other jobs and not doing as much stand-up?

SS: I’m doing a lot of stand-up, but not like when you’re living in New York and you can do three sets a night and it’s your life, and you sleep all day and you wake up and you eat with a bunch of other comics and then get ready for the night. I’m doing it a couple times a week at least, but I’m still just finding myself, you know? I don’t think I’ll ever feel done. I’ve realized that being beholden to some sort of character you found success in just makes you a caricature of yourself. I feel bad naming names because it’s not their fault, but there are great, famous ’80s comedians — Dice comes to mind — who found wild success and now still go on the road, and they want to kill and they want to give the audience what they want because that’s inherently a comedian’s desire. So he puts on the jacket, you know? To not grow and change and be so different from 20 years ago, to still be in that place because you’re afraid? It gives the audience what they want, what they’re expecting, but it’s not current. I wish those comics would take the chance to be who they are now onstage. You have to be willing to disappoint the audience for a while.