Eavesdroppings.
the cube: traveling temporary portable restaurant. currently atop the parc du cinquantenaire arch in brussels, the cube is scheduled to pop up on a series of landmarks sites across europe over the course of 2011.
File under: genius thing that could never happen in the current hyper-preservationist New York.
Disclaimer: I am pro- rational preservation.
Strange postcards gifted to the members of Sunday’s pre-press tour of the Chanel Mobile Art Museum. I was not fortunate enough to attend either the pre-press or the press tour, and from the looks of it, I probably won’t set foot inside at all. All remaining tickets will be given away at 8 a.m. each day, for same-day visits only, and there is no way I’m waking up that early.
(Racked got inside what they call the “orb of insanity” this morning - link)
Spotted on West 3rd and Mercer. First this, and now this? Is this some kind of trucker trend I’m not aware of?
Last night I was oh so lucky (…) to attend the media party for the new cocktail lounge called…Country Club. I brought Jamie’s Stomach along for the ride. My review, written through a haze of four bellinis and a vodka gimlet.
(The stage: Loveseat + flatscreen + chandelier = Country Club?)
A little-known perk of Country Club’s exclusive opening was its redirection of both the PATH and LIRR trains straight to the venue’s front door. Luckily for its liquor-deprived clientele, Country Club had plenty of free booze for everyone.
Country Club offered 4 exclusive bellinis, their signature drink - a pulpy peach, a sour pear, a cloying pomegranate-cranberry, and the night’s winner: blood orange. Additionally, they served a basil vodka gimlet, a mashup of vodka, triple-sec and a few stray basil leaves - not, as anticipated, basil-infused vodka.
(From left to right: Blood orange, peach, pomegranate-cranberry, blood orange again, pear, and the vodka gimlet.)
As for the atmosphere, the crowd fit right into the Meatpacking District. Gelled hair and eau-de-bleh for the men, mumus and fake tans for the ladies. Direct quote from one aforementioned man: “We need to get ourselves some laaaay-dies!” This stuff could not be made up by a healthy mind. The crowd’s style was reiterated by the waitstaff, clad in stripper gear and showing their trashy, trashy ass cleavage. The stand-out was the server wearing a black corset, miniskirt, and knee-high platform boots. Had they not all been wearing black, the servers would have blended right in with the B&T crowd. They were all very friendly (some overly so…one definitely sat next to me and put her arm around me while I placed my order), and though the service started out spotty, it improved over the evening.
(The horror.)
As would be expected in this neighborhood, the gays, the women who love them, and the tools who buy the women drinks all made appearances. Of note among the gays were Gawker’s favorite lolgay Kristian Laliberte and SATC’s Mario Cantone.
The crowd received an atmosphere to match their style. The single-person bathrooms affixed with full mirrors will surely please the nose-candy enthusiasts. While the designer envisioned the interior as “The Rolling Stones recording an album at a traditional English manor,” the result was a confused space that exuded a burlesque vibe with its mahogany paneling, deep red lighting, and crystal chandeliers, but also included a huge flatscreen TV behind the stage. Is this a sports bar or a speakeasy or… a country club? The evening’s soundtrack provided few answers. Flip-flopping between early-90’s R&B, Stevie Wonder, Justin Timberlake and Blur, the DJ’s set only further verified that we were in fact located in the Meatpacking District.
Eater summed up my report pretty well.
@3 years ago
I guess I’ve discovered a love of public art, because - after talking about those waterfalls… - I’m now talking about the Telectroscope, which I visited this weekend. It’s public art because the artist is claiming that he’s connected a long-lost tunnel connecting the Brooklyn Bridge with the London Tower Bridge…but it’s really just an elaborate lie. (A webcam on one end, one on the other, make it life-size, build a funky telescope thing, and call it art.) Either way, it was cool. And in London you have to pay 1 pound to look through it, and here it was free, so take that!
Great commentary on new developments in the East Village… (via Vanishing New York)
Should this many small children really be participating in Dunkin Donuts’ Free Iced Coffee Day..?
Loving Isabella Rossellini’s “Green Porno,” on the Sundance Channel website. The web series documents the mating habits of a variety of nature’s creatures in a quirky, creepy, but consistently gripping fashiion. Each episode is around 2 minutes long, and leave me feeling like I have learned both a lot and far too much all at once. One of my favorites: The Bee.
Spotted on the corner of Bowery and Houston. Fire in SoHo.
Bloomberg held a press conference last week to announce the new annex of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Soho. I stumbled upon it, him, and Billy Joel, randomly on a lunch break.
An ad for the new season of Bridezillas on a bus stop, spotted on 23rd St. and 3rd Ave.
(Image via Curbed)
This summer is going to be awesome. Hopefully this public art project isn’t as hard to put together as The Gates were. (Central Park Conservancy had to deal with Christo and Jean-Claude, and I’m told they were real jerks who, along with having no consideration for the park, were really just doing it for the cash-moneys.) Olafur Eliasson is the guy behind this one - in 2003 he did “The Weather Project” at the Tate Modern involving 200 yellow lamps, mirrors, and mist. Awesome. Anyway, you can check out more about the waterfalls at nycwaterfalls.org. These puppies will be up from June 26th to October 13th.
call numbers that people have scrawled on tables at bars just to be friendly and let them know that someone has done so. It will probably seem like a lot of fun, and a nice alternative from drunk-dialing friends, but it isn’t fun when they call you back over a month later from a Restricted number and sound old, lonely, and desperate.
Needless to say, I did this. The person whose number I found with some friends at Doc Holliday’s (and I called only once! just to say that someone had written their number on the table!) just called me back, and … wow. First of all, he remembered more about this phone call than I did, because, obviously, I was drunk. However, he didn’t seem to recognize the name of the bar or its location, which was my first indication that I should be TERRIBLY FRIGHTENED.
It only got worse from there. He asked if there was “anything he could do to help,” if DH’s was “a gay bar,” and if I was a student. FEAR FEAR FEAR. In his offer to “help,” (which I had already declined…) he said he had friends who owned a restaurant on Park Ave. that I searched, only to discover that it DOES NOT EXIST. I could have just hung up, but, being the narcissist that I am, I went ahead and entertained myself by lying about every aspect of my personality. (No worries, I didn’t let the conversation go too far. All he knows about me is that my name is Andrew and that I go to SVA for Graphic Design…)
Once the conversation began going in circles (he started asking if there was anything he could do again, he said it’s very hard to meet people in New York ), I went ahead and pretended like I had to go. Overall he seemed harmless, but creepy enough that I realized that it was entirely possible that he wrote the number on the table himself. You know, so that people would actually call him and he could converse with other human beings, since it’s apparently so hard to meet people here.
This is by far the creepiest thing to ever happen to me since coming here, which is saying a lot. I usually don’t answer calls from Restricted numbers, and now I remember why.
@4 years agoLast night I was oh so lucky (…) to attend the media party for the new cocktail lounge called…Country Club. I brought Jamie’s Stomach along for the ride. My review, written through a haze of four bellinis and a vodka gimlet.
(The stage: Loveseat + flatscreen + chandelier = Country Club?)
A little-known perk of Country Club’s exclusive opening was its redirection of both the PATH and LIRR trains straight to the venue’s front door. Luckily for its liquor-deprived clientele, Country Club had plenty of free booze for everyone.
Country Club offered 4 exclusive bellinis, their signature drink - a pulpy peach, a sour pear, a cloying pomegranate-cranberry, and the night’s winner: blood orange. Additionally, they served a basil vodka gimlet, a mashup of vodka, triple-sec and a few stray basil leaves - not, as anticipated, basil-infused vodka.
(From left to right: Blood orange, peach, pomegranate-cranberry, blood orange again, pear, and the vodka gimlet.)
As for the atmosphere, the crowd fit right into the Meatpacking District. Gelled hair and eau-de-bleh for the men, mumus and fake tans for the ladies. Direct quote from one aforementioned man: “We need to get ourselves some laaaay-dies!” This stuff could not be made up by a healthy mind. The crowd’s style was reiterated by the waitstaff, clad in stripper gear and showing their trashy, trashy ass cleavage. The stand-out was the server wearing a black corset, miniskirt, and knee-high platform boots. Had they not all been wearing black, the servers would have blended right in with the B&T crowd. They were all very friendly (some overly so…one definitely sat next to me and put her arm around me while I placed my order), and though the service started out spotty, it improved over the evening.
(The horror.)
As would be expected in this neighborhood, the gays, the women who love them, and the tools who buy the women drinks all made appearances. Of note among the gays were Gawker’s favorite lolgay Kristian Laliberte and SATC’s Mario Cantone.
The crowd received an atmosphere to match their style. The single-person bathrooms affixed with full mirrors will surely please the nose-candy enthusiasts. While the designer envisioned the interior as “The Rolling Stones recording an album at a traditional English manor,” the result was a confused space that exuded a burlesque vibe with its mahogany paneling, deep red lighting, and crystal chandeliers, but also included a huge flatscreen TV behind the stage. Is this a sports bar or a speakeasy or… a country club? The evening’s soundtrack provided few answers. Flip-flopping between early-90’s R&B, Stevie Wonder, Justin Timberlake and Blur, the DJ’s set only further verified that we were in fact located in the Meatpacking District.
Eater summed up my report pretty well.
I guess I’ve discovered a love of public art, because - after talking about those waterfalls… - I’m now talking about the Telectroscope, which I visited this weekend. It’s public art because the artist is claiming that he’s connected a long-lost tunnel connecting the Brooklyn Bridge with the London Tower Bridge…but it’s really just an elaborate lie. (A webcam on one end, one on the other, make it life-size, build a funky telescope thing, and call it art.) Either way, it was cool. And in London you have to pay 1 pound to look through it, and here it was free, so take that!
(Image via Curbed)
This summer is going to be awesome. Hopefully this public art project isn’t as hard to put together as The Gates were. (Central Park Conservancy had to deal with Christo and Jean-Claude, and I’m told they were real jerks who, along with having no consideration for the park, were really just doing it for the cash-moneys.) Olafur Eliasson is the guy behind this one - in 2003 he did “The Weather Project” at the Tate Modern involving 200 yellow lamps, mirrors, and mist. Awesome. Anyway, you can check out more about the waterfalls at nycwaterfalls.org. These puppies will be up from June 26th to October 13th.
call numbers that people have scrawled on tables at bars just to be friendly and let them know that someone has done so. It will probably seem like a lot of fun, and a nice alternative from drunk-dialing friends, but it isn’t fun when they call you back over a month later from a Restricted number and sound old, lonely, and desperate.
Needless to say, I did this. The person whose number I found with some friends at Doc Holliday’s (and I called only once! just to say that someone had written their number on the table!) just called me back, and … wow. First of all, he remembered more about this phone call than I did, because, obviously, I was drunk. However, he didn’t seem to recognize the name of the bar or its location, which was my first indication that I should be TERRIBLY FRIGHTENED.
It only got worse from there. He asked if there was “anything he could do to help,” if DH’s was “a gay bar,” and if I was a student. FEAR FEAR FEAR. In his offer to “help,” (which I had already declined…) he said he had friends who owned a restaurant on Park Ave. that I searched, only to discover that it DOES NOT EXIST. I could have just hung up, but, being the narcissist that I am, I went ahead and entertained myself by lying about every aspect of my personality. (No worries, I didn’t let the conversation go too far. All he knows about me is that my name is Andrew and that I go to SVA for Graphic Design…)
Once the conversation began going in circles (he started asking if there was anything he could do again, he said it’s very hard to meet people in New York ), I went ahead and pretended like I had to go. Overall he seemed harmless, but creepy enough that I realized that it was entirely possible that he wrote the number on the table himself. You know, so that people would actually call him and he could converse with other human beings, since it’s apparently so hard to meet people here.
This is by far the creepiest thing to ever happen to me since coming here, which is saying a lot. I usually don’t answer calls from Restricted numbers, and now I remember why.
