You were never cooler than this moment in 1984, when for the first time during primetime a pop song was featured (nearly full length) as an integral part of the show, merging music and TV in one brilliantly tough sequence. Of course it was Michael Mann who put that shit together, but you were in the right place with the right song Phil, and that’s good enough for me.
The Whisk and Ladle is a private supper club in Williamsburg, near the river, in one of those buildings where magical shit still happens. I went there recently one snowy night with three of the most attractive and brilliant people in Brooklyn, trying to pull my weight. Christina twinkled, Daniel did a dance, Allie entranced everyone with her veiled dinner party hat.
We were greeted first by Mark, a charming host who catered to all our whims and inquiries. In the open kitchen we met Danielle, spatula in hand and a large silver cleaver dangling from her neck. Amazing placement. She must be responsible for the magic. Other “staff” include a changing roster of cooks (we had one from Momofuku) with changing culinary themes.
The place itself is a mélange of good lighting and great smells. A bi-level loft, the interior is both cozy and spacious, with most of the bedrooms upstairs and the entertainment downstairs…unless you’re a naughty customer (I was upstairs).
Cocktails are served at a small bar that fancies a bit of cocktology… rye, rum, tequila concoctions. There were little squishy rice cakes covered in a slightly spicy sauce, absurdly simple but great. Everyone seemed happily buzzed during the long cocktail hour, om noming appetizers and making new friends.
Amid the mingling, Mark showed us some kind of cooking device that looked like a science experiment. It was cooking a sealed cut of beef in gently bubbling, cool water. Something about ions. The idea was that the beef never touched air and thus did not oxidize until the moment it was served. The whole thing made me feel like a buck-toothed Klingon.
By the time we were seated and served wine people were starving and sizing each other up. We sat at a table with two girls who seemed ready to eat each other. One had lost her voice and the other spoke in strange rhythms I did not easily comprehend. My companions did most of the talking but after a time I developed a rapport with the voiceless girl next to me, gesturing and tying to “sign” things while becoming increasingly intoxicated. The soup came just in time, but was a single wonton in a spoonful of broth. Though incredibly delicious, it served only to wet appetites that were already drenched.
Ladies and gentlemen, Democrats, Independents, and Republicans, we have a President worthy of the title! One who sees in full color, not black and white. One who would rather problem solve than fight. A man for all not the fotunate few. A man for me and you.
one time only:
Snug as three bugs. But then there were only lovers.
There is something about being around two people who are truly in love that’s as terrifying as it is wonderful. And I mean real, inconceivable, fire swamp, six-fingered man, miracle pill true love, not that codependent baby-spewing wreckage all around you. It’s terrifying in it’s beauty, and because once you glimpse it, you must have it too. Yes precious.
Craig Klein (and his band The Race) made a record a few years ago, that seemed to be at once celebrating the joy and lamenting the pain of such a love. If you know him, you probably know what I mean. If you don’t, put on your headphones…
“Out Like A Lamb”
That’s off 04′s If You Can, I’ll follow up soon about Craig’s forthcoming release. In the meantime, I hear he’s finally married that love. Congratulations!
ps. Really, listen to it on headphones, not many records are produced as such a crisp dream these days, independent or otherwise.
Fashionably late to the post…. Last New Year I rode a roller of emotional highs and lows for days before and during the big event, desperately trying to hold onto someone who was once dear to me while taking a whip to my privates over world events.
No more! Or maybe lots more. But right now, I have hope in my heart, a mind like the cutting edge of a katana, and the physical vigor of a Panther.
Here’s to 09…
The threesome I’d most like to sit in a park and blow bubbles with.
I love Conan, even if he’s lost his edge a bit. I made it through several years of schmoozing in the music business by privately pretending, night after night, that I was him. If there was a live show I had to be at (sometimes 5 nights a week) I always made an ass of myself to liven things up and then walked up to the stage and said “thanks, that was great!” just like him.
So thrilled I was when my guy affiliated with Bon Iver brought me along to the taping a few months ago. But the show wasn’t like it is in my dreams. Conan didn’t invite me to come down and host with him, nor did Max wink at me. Also Howie Mandell’s wife jokes just rubbed me the wrong way (was he electrocuted before he came out?).
Still, it was an adventure, and Bon Iver impressed. I bailed on drinking heavily with them afterward because of some fool obligation or other but the music intoxicates me now..
courtesy of Jagjaguwar
Thanks Kevin D!
