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The National Portrait Gallery does caricature. Its collection is incomplete though—no Jeff Wong. Yet.
Okay maybe Kate Moss wasn’t so far wrong.
Give Pete Doherty (Babyshambles) credit. Rock 'n' roll's latest self-destructive showoff—which don't get me wrong rock n roll needs at all times to stay healthily corrupt—has got charm. Some kind of powerful persona. A full-on case of bat those eyes, mumble that profanity, flash an impish grin rock pirate persuasion.
This week young Pete, whose been caught it seems like 20 times now for possession of every fun/evil substance known to man, was "spared" (according to the AP) time behind bars by a judge who felt jail would be "…
We stop to look into the long, long darkness.
And JA wonders:
Where
does it
go?
"It's a mystery," I reply.
We keep up with the rest of the blue and gray crowd, adding our footsteps to the dirty song. Transferring from the Time Square shuttle to the 1 train is no big deal. Getting off at 59th Street is as easy as being wrong. You'll climb the filthy stairs and step into the day, surrounded by glass towers and golden doors. You'll walk into the millionaire's hotel and be directed to the appropriate floor, where food and drink and news…
As Dave Barry points out, there apparently is something worse than driving while talking on a cellphone.
Yes, it's the fifth anniversary of 9/11 and the media coverage is relentless. However, despite all the hoopla, the solemnity of the day can still sneak up on you—it happened to Jeff Wong and me this morning as we completed out daily bike ride and came upon a memorial service for firemen and policemen from our neighborhood who died that day.
And that was on our way back from the 25' bronze statue of a firefighter's horn at the 69th street pier.
I'm linking to what I consider the most moving piece of writing on 9/11: Dave Barry's "On Hallowed Ground." What an amazing rumination on…
On my way to work this morning, I noticed that the cool air felt like the first days of school. Though I often hated those first days of school, I enjoyed the feeling of this morning's cool air.
At work, this morning, I found a video, which seems to be part of a school project. If this is what people are doing in school these days... well, I just don't know, man.
I lived with Richard Bednarczyk for an entire year. He's a talented, intelligent, and interesting dude. During the time we lived together, however, I never saw him dance like this.
Right now,…
I was ruminating on the Dave Barry "On Hallowed Ground" essay, wondering if there was another example of great war or crisis writing I could link to, when I thought about A. J. Liebling's WWII work for The New Yorker.
Liebling was an unlikely choice for war correspondent, and he had to battle Harold Ross to get the assignment, but his writing was the exact opposite of the Hemingway school of macho front line reporting. For one thing, you were never in doubt that Liebling did not want to be there—which is something he had in common with the soldiers and civilians he wrote about. Liebling…
For as long as I live, like it or not, I'll remember 10:28 am 9/11/06 like it was yesterday. I remember the roar and the sight of the giant radio antenna on the last of two towers standing disappearing into the massive clouds of gray smoke. I remember the emergency room personnel at St. Vincent's out in the street waiting for survivors that never came and the clouds of gritty smoke and 8 x 11 sheets of paper blowing up the streets of Brooklyn. And then I remember the jumpers, those who'd rather jump than burn.
I also remember Bin Laden saying at the time that his strategy was to bleed…