For those that made it to the recent Fuck the Recession Party or the release party for my SF book, you’ll remember the inimitable Richie Cunning.  He blows me away every time I see him play, so I’ve kinda taken up stalking him.  It’s nothing too crazy, I’m not like driving by his

In 1970,  Scanlans ran a the first piece of Gonzo jouralism about the Kentucky Derby titled “Decadent and Depraved” by Hunter S. Thompson.  Even when I read it a few years ago, the strange mixture of the crowd’s high society posturing and lewd, whiskey swilling conduct made a powerful impression. 

This marks the THIRD time I’ve mentioned the Blue Owl because, well, this is also about as classy as you can get without feeling like a two-bit hack; a lowly fraud; a slimy chameleon; a really fucked-up, wart-backed, two faced (1 face toad, the other a mustachioed weasel wearing sun

Art Bar: a place I spend practically half my life in due to its proximity to the L train in the West Village, and 2-for 1 happy hour.  Apparently, it’s a West Village staple, having been around for the past 15 years,.  For me, it’s a beacon of light surrounded

I haven’t had a chance to go to Le Poisson Rouge, but I really want to.  I don’t really know why.  I think there is just an ambient buzz that you feel; like when you walk into a house and you just KNOW the VCR is on even though the

  Open studio strolls are a great way to see a broad cross section of local art and down a wide array of  cheap beer and spirits.  I don’t need to tell you it can be an art-appreciating scavenger’s paradise.  So, I’ll tell a story instead.   Although I’m writing

I’ve spent the past few days neglecting your pickled livers with posts about filmmakers, workshops, and literary panels so I guess I need to reel some of you back with a bucket of chum and a dash of glam.  The problem is, I’m finding free a little hard to track

  The good thing about class is that since you can’t buy it,  you can fake it.  It’s not like an apartment.  No un-roofied date will believe you when you say the junkie passed out on the stoop is the doorman and, ahem, his uniform is in the wash.  Or