"A New York Treasure" --Village Voice
Tag: kottke
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Million Dollar Movie

GODSSA

Via Kottke, dig this funski:

Taster’s Cherce

frantoia

Oh, man. Kottke delivers with this post on how to buy olive oil. It stars Tom Mueller who wrote an absorbing book about olive oil (birthday gift from mom).

I use a basic Fairway brand for cooking and then have a couple of nicer ones for more delicate things like salads. Frantoia does me right though I’m far from an expert.

 

New York Minute

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Swiping more wonderfulness from Kottke, dig Greg Alessandrini’s NYC photographs…

Studs and Bob

terkelspan

Via the always nourishing Kottke, check out Studs Terkel’s 1963 interview with Dylan. 

All I Want for Christmas…

home-mariano

Dig Kottke’s holiday gift guide. 

Taster’s Cherce

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Found via the always-amazing Kottke: the NYC Ramen Map.

[Photo Via: Joe Burgers Pdx]

New York Minute

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Via Kottke comes Rebecca Flint Marx’s sweet post about the joys of  being a regular. The place: Russ & Daughters.

Taster’s Cherce

balthazar

Twenty-two hours in Balthazar. 

[Photo Credit: Raul Gutierrez]

New York Minute

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Found over at Kottke, this map of midtown Manhattan circa 1890.

American Beauty

steinway_pianos

Head on over to Kottke and check out the two videos on the making of a Steinway grand piano.

Snap Happy

Photography was once an act of intent, the pushing of a button to record a moment. But photography is becoming an accident, the curatorial attention given to captured images.

Kottke curates a thoughtful post about the state of photography in an Instagram world.

Modern Times

Again with the Kottke because it’s beautiful and I can’t stop reading and loving it.

[Photograph by Stanley Kubrick]

New York Minute

 

So very cool.

The King is Dead

From Kottke, here is a link to Lester Bang’s obit for Elvis:

It was the autumn of 1971, and two tickets to an Elvis show turned up at the offices of Creem magazine, where I was then employed. It was decided that those staff members who had never had the privilege of witnessing Elvis should get the tickets, which was how me and art director Charlie Auringer ended up in nearly the front row of the biggest arena in Detroit. Earlier Charlie had said, “Do you realize how much we could get if we sold these fucking things?” I didn’t, but how precious they were became totally clear the instant Elvis sauntered onto the stage. He was the only male performer I have ever seen to whom I responded sexually; it wasn’t real arousal, rather an erection of the heart, when I looked at him I went mad with desire and envy and worship and self-projection. I mean, Mick Jagger, whom I saw as far back as 1964 and twice in ’65, never even came close.

There was Elvis, dressed up in this ridiculous white suit which looked like some studded Arthurian castle, and he was too fat, and the buckle on his belt was as big as your head except that your head is not made of solid gold, and any lesser man would have been the spittin’ image of a Neil Diamond damfool in such a getup, but on Elvis it fit. What didn’t? No matter how lousy his records ever got, no matter how intently he pursued mediocrity, there was still some hint, some flash left over from the days when…well, I wasn’t there, so I won’t presume to comment. But I will say this: Elvis Presley was the man who brought overt blatant vulgar sexual frenzy to the popular arts in America (and thereby to the nation itself, since putting “popular arts” and “America” in the same sentence seems almost redundant). It has been said that he was the first white to sing like a black person, which is untrue in terms of hard facts but totally true in terms of cultural impact. But what’s more crucial is that when Elvis started wiggling his hips and Ed Sullivan refused to show it, the entire country went into a paroxysm of sexual frustration leading to abiding discontent which culminated in the explosion of psychedelic-militant folklore which was the sixties.

I mean, don’t tell me about Lenny Bruce, man – Lenny Bruce said dirty words in public and obtained a kind of consensual martyrdom. Plus which Lenny Bruce was hip, too goddam hip if you ask me, which was his undoing, whereas Elvis was not hip at all, Elvis was a goddam truck driver who worshipped his mother and would never say shit or fuck around her, and Elvis alerted America to the fact that it had a groin with imperatives that had been stifled. Lenny Bruce demonstrated how far you could push a society as repressed as ours and how much you could get away with, but Elvis kicked “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window” out the window and replaced it with “Let’s fuck.” The rest of us are still reeling from the impact. Sexual chaos reigns currently, but out of chaos may flow true understanding and harmony, and either way Elvis almost singlehandedly opened the floodgates. That night in Detroit, a night I will never forget, he had but to ever so slightly move one shoulder muscle, not even a shrug, and the girls in the gallery hit by its ray screamed, fainted, howled in heat. Literally, every time this man moved any part of his body the slightest centimeter, tens or tens of thousands of people went berserk. Not Sinatra, not Jagger, not the Beatles, nobody you can come up with ever elicited such hysteria among so many. And this after a decade and a half of crappy records, of making a point of not trying.

Million Dollar Movie

Via Kottke how about The Movie Set Museum?

Big City of Dreams

Thanks to Kottke for pointing out the dope Tumblr site: NYC Past.

New York Minute

Snow! Holy Cow, gettothestoregetfoodhurryhurry. Do you think we’ll make it?

Eh, it’s iffy. In the meantime, I saw this picture over at the always great site, Kottke. Like the shot, especially because it was taken in father’s old neighborhood.

Penny Arcade

Over at Kottke, I saw this story by Laura June on the life and death of the American arcade.

Man, this brings back memories. I was nine-years old in 1980 so I remember all these games–Space Invaders, Asteroids, Galaxian, Defender, Pac-Man, Donkey Kong–being a big deal.

Centipede was my favorite.

Check it out.

[Photo Credit: Retronaut]

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