Wednesday 03.23.2011 | 3:23 PM EDT

Weather Report: Shitty

iPhone 4G + CameraBag

After a couple of glorious spring teases this weekend, Brooklyn’s back to its typical “wintry mix” of snow, rain, wind and cold. There should be a simpler meteorological term for this kind of day: Shitty. Perfect for a long, gloomy record from the late 80′s as I spin Disintegration on repeat all day long. At least my wall’s not leaking any more.

Enjoy the misery, friends. It will soon be over…

“Same Deep Water as You” | The Cure

Thursday 03.17.2011 | 12:23 AM EDT

Coming Soonish: NYC At Your Feet

…

Well, I’ve been talking about it for almost 10 years, but it seems I’ve finally got my ass in gear.
And thus begins the early campaign for a decade’s worth of from-the-hip, below the waist photo treats going public in print and digital this spring. And by public I mean anyone who stumbles across maunet or happens to be friend or family enough for the book to bear out as gift or purchase. And by spring I mean probably early summer. You see, with the help of the good folks at blurb.com, this is a self-published affair. Voyeuristic, narcissistic – what’s the difference…

“Walk On The Wild Side” | Lou Reed

From the introduction:

The idea for this book began taking shape in October 1999 upon moving to New York City,
a town renowned equally for it’s eclectic style and harshness of character.

A place where, generally, we don’t make eye contact.

Sitting in a subway car, we follow protocol. Hunched against the winter wind,
our gaze drops to the ground beneath our feet. Our field of vision is self-limited
to that narrow frame between the pockmarked sidewalk and the waistlines of
our fellow New Yorkers. Through this lens we gather our first concrete observations,
draw initial conclusions about the kind of person passing by us might be.
Where they dine. Where they dance. Where they work and play.

Ok, so it needs some work. That’s what I’m doing. I’ve made enough contact prints to paper the wall of my apartment. Becca Black and Brady Spud have graciously helped me edit down from 500 shots to a mere 50 spreads celebrating the fashion foot. Building the layout’s a bitch. Sequencing it ain’t nothin’ like making a mix tape. Ok, something like it, but, um, harder. And there’s this whole InDesign thing, which quite unlike Photoshop, makes me feel small and stupid.

But it’s well on its way. Check back soon-ish.

…

Friday 03.11.2011 | 12:23 PM EDT

Weather Report: Torrents and Leaks

iPhone 4G + CameraBag

“Whiskey & Water” | Tindersticks

It’s 11:30PM and I’ve been dicking off upstairs all night, sipping whiskey, making prints and listening to fresh 180 gram vinyl. It’s an hours-long downpour outside, winds wipping grape-size raindrops hard against the window panes.

I head finally downstairs, presumably to bed, where I’ll pick back up on the early pages of The Brothers Karamazov, a daunting read I feel compelled to attempt for hope of some rich reward. I put out lights one by one before noticing a triad trickle of water snaking its way down the long loft wall. A lateral beam has cracked the drywall, an ironic misnomer as streaks of water inch steadily towards the floor. Seems the Brothers will have to wait.

Wiping the wall with a towel, I ponder how to patch the levee, lest it break. Duct tape. Duct tape fixes anything. But not even several layers of rugged silver adhesive stems the trickling tide. I haul out the iron WWII munitions case that houses sundry household hardware: wood saw and ratchet set; filament, twine, pliers and wire; hammers; wrenches; nails, fasteners, screws and bolts of infinite variety. Alas, no spackle, no blade. Where the hell is that? Ah, but here we go: caulk and caulking gun. Manly.

After a puzzled minute or two I manage to load the phallic plastic tube into its steel housing. Locked and loaded, I feel competent and self assured. Who needs a landlord when you’re so well equipped? I snip the tip and squeeze, expecting the orderly clean line of sealant to conform neatly to the long cracked line of wet flaking paint and drywall. Nothing. Squeeze as I might, I cannot coax a drop. Snip and squeeze again. Nothing. Seems the unused tube has lain fallow too long in that old munitions box, dried up solid as granite. Tindersticks sings “Whiskey & Water” as I defeatedly return the tools to their heavy metal home, resolved to the forces of nature, watching helplessly as the injured wall cracks, streaks and peels into the night.

iPhone 4G + CameraBag

Saturday 02.19.2011 | 3:23 PM EDT

Drifting Off at The King’s Speech

Prior to last night’s showing, in 30 years I’ve fallen asleep in a theater exactly two times:

1.1995, GoldenEye, because Pierce Brosnan is a bloody boring 007. Hey Brosnan, the 80′s called.
It wants Timothy Dalton Back
2. 1998, Elizabeth, with mom, who loves period pieces. Love me some Cate Blachet, but sorry, the walls were breathin’ after 48 consecutive hours without sleep.

Now, The King’s English. Why the bloody hell is everybody standing at attention for this movie? I’ve seen neither a negative nod nor an ironic wink from those in the cinema Circle of Trust (or outside of it for that matter). I don’t get it. So there’s a few moments of droll British humor. Who doesn’t like that. And the camera work is interesting (if not a bit overwroght, like Tom Ford’s A Single Man). And sure, the acting is superb. Duh.

But it’s soooo boring! Now, I’m a fan of the deliberately paced film (McCabe & Ms. Miller, The Assassination of Jesse James, , Marie Antoinette, Paris Texas). But this film is billed as “Makes your spirit soar?” and “Crowd Pleaser?” Puh-puh-puh-please, but this puh-puh-puh-plodding story left me neither soaring nor pleased. Just sleepy. Woulda made a great short film. There, I said it.

Bugger off , Your Majesty. Hope Black Swan pecks your eyes out.

Saturday 02.19.2011 | 2:23 AM EDT

Weather Report:
Spring Seagulls Tease Brooklyn

© Ben Curtis 2011 iPhone 4G + Hipstamatic

On the most temperate day we’ve had months, all manner of species where drawn out by a cruel tease of Spring. One result is these stunning photographs by buddy Ben Curtis, taken on a balmy 67º Brooklyn winter day. That ain’t gonna last for long…

But look at ‘em. It proves again iPhone + on-board processing apps is the Polaroid
of our generation.

“Wishing: (If I Had a Photograph Of You)” | Flock of Seagulls

And speaking of how kick ass the iPhone is (not), it can’t listen to any of the audio on this site. Lame.

© Ben Curtis 2011 iPhone 4G + Hipstamatic

Monday 02.14.2011 | 3:23 PM EDT

Looking for Snodgrass

An unnervingly familiar recount of a wandering mind that looks but cannot find:

Looking
by W.D. Snodgrass

What was I looking for today?
All that poking under the rugs,
Peering under the lamps and chairs,
Or going from room to room that way,
Forever up and down the stairs
Like someone stupid with sleep or drugs.

Everywhere I was, was wrong.
I started turning the drawers out, then
I was staring in at the icebox door
Wondering if I’d been there long
Wondering what I was looking for.
Later on, I think I went back again.

Where did the rest of the time go?
Was I down cellar? I can’t recall
Finding the light switch, or the last
Place I’ve had it, or how I’d know
I didn’t look at it and go past.
Or whether it’s what I want, at all.

–

Grief has a way of stealing your memory. In response:

Looking
by M.C

Looking
I saw the calendar has passed three weeks, like wind
I’ve been flying better, better still
better living still through chemistry

I see my books are off the racks again, birds uncaged
Swooping back I peck at Snodgrass’ verse on memory

I see how close it all still is, like thugs
Mugging bright thoughts down dark alleys
I see how veiled it all remains, like smoke
Suffocating vivid thoughts to whispers

Looking
I saw how lost I still may be
In this addled high fake energy

Monday 02.14.2011 | 12:23 AM EDT

Jack + Ginger: A Sourmash Valentine

three hundred women in three hours
told me, boy forget the flowers

–Violent Femmes, Dating Days

…

You know what today is? It’s the 10th anniversary of what might be the finest compilation by maunet ever. Oh yeah, it’s Valentine’s Day too. So in honor of both, the royal we is spinning a record ripe with funny, angry, bitter-teary, drinking blues songs that’ll leave you seeing red.

Yes, it’s a self-pitying, maudlin, adolescent collection of tracks–that’s what love lost does to the best of us, no? But you can’t knock late 60′s Rod Stewart drinkin’ and raspin’ with the Jeff Beck Group. Or the R&B awesomeness of Leslie Miller, courtesy of the Midnight Cowboy soundtrack. Love’s performance of Burt Bacharach’s “My Little Red Book” sounds not like a Charlie Manson-era hippie trip but more like the conception of the Cure’s Boys Don’t Cry. That 1920′s Bessie Smith song? Woo papa, Rap ain’t got nothin’ on her dirty lyrics. And who else follows Chet Baker with the Soft Boys? C’mon, you’re gonna love it.

For you fools in love, really: Happy Valentine’s Day. You need this record, if only to remind you just how brown the grass can be on the other side.

For the rest of you sad single bastards, press play, mix equal parts bitterness and heartbreak with one shot straight Kentuky bourbon, consume and repeat.

cheers!

…

…

photography + cover art © maunet.com