Ad Rock’s high school daze.

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

Picture by Bags. 

Mainly what I write is for the average New Yorker…

‘Picture by Bags.

Painting by Carrie Mae Smith.

Nigel Slater’s Brownies. 

My kinda eatin’…

Tell it like it is.

Chagall, 1919.

Picture by Alex Toth.

Ooh La La.

Coming Soon…

Smitten Kitchen gives Spaghetti Pangrattato with crispy eggs. 

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

Painting by Jessica Brilli.

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

[Photo Via: NYC Nostalgia]

Dig this tasty oral history on the Ultimate Breaks & Beats records. 

Monday Groove.

[Photo Credit: Lennart Olson]

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

Portrait of Ezra Pound by R.B. Kitaj.

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]

This is so cool.