THE APOPCALYPSE: CULTURE ON THE VERGE.


Flying Machines Take Off (CMJ! A Debut!) & Turn Bags of Pee into Lemonade
October 21, 2009, 3:32 pm
Filed under: Fesitvals, Music | Tags: , , , ,
FM: Evan, John, William, Kyle

FM: Evan, John, William, Ken

Ah, those drunken, ugly tales of booze, pantlessness and broken bones that pox the making of a rawk band like oozy lesions ripe with goo!

But really, are they always so bad? Only if you are a Frowny McGee. And that’s not Flying Machines, the cheerful, self-described “rock version of a piano band,” who just released their self-titled debut and play Fontana’s CMJ lineup this Thursday night.

I chatted with FM O.G. John Wlaysewski (guitar, vocals) about how FM nabbed Yahoo and Converse music awards and got a jam on USA show “Psyche.” Their secret to success? Utter chaos (re: pee, pantlessness, broken bones etc mentioned above). Continue reading

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International Pickle Day, NYC: Whut da dill, yo?
October 6, 2009, 12:29 pm
Filed under: Fesitvals, Grubbin | Tags: , , ,
Sour power.

Sour power.

On Sunday, I picked a peck of fickle foodie pals and hit up the NY Food Museum’s ninth International Pickle Day. A brine time was had by all (minus the chick dressed like a pickle, who had a real sour puss), during an hour of sampling. Bite-sized snacks ranged from kimchi to PB&P (peanut butter and pickles, natch)(oh gawd, aPOPlogies, i hate the word ‘natch’)… Continue reading



Ye Olde Tights, Ta-tas and Turkey Legs: The Last Day of Ren Faire
September 21, 2009, 7:16 pm
Filed under: Fesitvals | Tags: , ,
Unsheathe that pec-tacular babe's bodkin!

Anon! Unsheathe your bodkin, pec-tacular babe!

Huzzah for the Renaissance Fair in Tuxedo, NY!

My first Ren Faire was the season’s last. On Sunday I joined wenches, wizards, knights, gypsies, the elf-eared, horn-headed and just plain horny (corsets/bewbage+D&D nerds= level 29 erections) for a final fairy-dusted fix.

Fun? Sure. I shot arrows and threw axes and stars and knives. I drank mead (like a white Manischewitz) and munched a turkey leg (bland with BBQ sauce). I watched one guy blow glass and one smith metal. Others brawled over the size and skill of their lances.

So what if the orange ices weren’t the sugar-soaked globes one friend remembered, and the George Washington Bridge was a pain in thine arse coming home? The medieval mini-mall evoked a simpler time when layers were sexy, steak came on a stake and The Salad Toss was a bean bag throwing game and not a dirty euphemism for chamber potty-brains.

Have you got a Ren Tale to tell? A facinerous fetish of yore? Dish!