Jonquill's

StayCation 2: Electric Boogaloo, Just Cause I Had To.

In Uncategorized on November 8, 2010 at 1:04 pm

My Friend Kevin: Don’t forget to turn your TARDIS back 1 hour Saturday night to allow for the Standard Time Vortex.  Allons-y.

Me: That text actually went back in time and removed one instance where I slept with a woman from the space time continuum.  That’s how nerdy that was.

I’m not sure if it makes it better or worse that Kev forwarded that from thinkgeek rather than invented it of his own volition.

The sunlight tends to attack me in the morning.  In some ways I don’t mind, it’s a secondary system to my alarm, assuring I actually get to work on time.  On a morning where I don’t have a commute to look forward to, I’m very tempted to curse out the burning ball of gas.  Sunday morning I was insistent on sleeping at least until ten o’clock, no matter what Mr. Sun had to say on the subject.

Discovering that despite the reporting from my alarm clock, it was in fact nine o’clock when I shuffled into the shower suddenly bolstered me into a feeling that the morning of StayCation day two would be terrifically productive.  After all I had no where to be for almost five hours. I would do laundry!  And write!  And read!  And maybe try a push up!  Like, just one!  And maybe do a little work on the abomination.

I have a pretty floor.

One of my friends was considering going to a Halloween party dressed as Buffy.  Other than carrying a stake, I wasn’t sure there was much that would identify her.  Unless she had the scythe.  Moments after saying that, I was taken by an utter need to make the damn scythe.  And it is the damn scythe.  I won’t bore you with the details of the construction, but I will say this.  Fucking Cell-u-clay takes forever to dry.  I put it into the mold in the first picture three days before Halloween, but it didn’t dry until The following Wednesday.  Now, just to hold the damn thing together, there are least five substances intermingling.  (Hence, the “Abomination.”) God knows what I’ll do with it, if I ever finish. 

After applying spackle to the abomination – yes spackle – I did attempt laundry, but no such joy.  We have a machine in my building but the queue was three people deep.  My productivity was held to simply finishing the Jennifer Egan book.  (Good thing too, I’m planning on seeing her read on Wednesday.)

Time travel didn’t agree with me as much as one would have hoped.  But how could I worry much over that, when Dog Dick lay in my future.

Behold the world’s tiniest Vuvuzela!

The New York Art Book Fair was a little different than I had expected.  For some reason, I had in my head images of coffee table books with endless color pages of Magritte and Picasso.  This was more books as art.  There was a lot of reverence for the Factory era collages and the peak of the zine era in the eighties.  The entire place was thick in counter-culture-dom. But that really should have been expected from PS1.

Sweeping with shards of Sartre would be so serene.

Thanks to the general ART vibe, there were a lot of artifacts of weirdness from every era and point of view.  The vibe excused even non-book related bits of off-center thinking.  One booth sold a collection of snow globes with words like “Fuck,” and “Resist” floating inside.  Problem is, there’s more than three ounces of fluid in each, so no one traveling could sneak these past security.  They made business cards to that effect, and couldn’t resist blowing up the image to poster size.

Left: Rush Limbaugh is Sick.  Center: Fuck.  Right: Cocaine and Heroin salt and pepper shakers.

As you can see from the image on the right, the quintessential adage about art still holds true.  No matter the style, the tone, the message, or the medium, putting a naked lady in your art will always help.  Every room had at least one example of nude lady bits, sometimes with her cooter blotted out by text, and sometimes just…hanging out next to a album review.  Naked ladies.  They make art.  The men were not as well represented, but upon entering one room some lucky nude bear was blown up to mega-poster size which will do wonders for any dude’s self esteem.

You could find a bearded Waldo in every room of PS1.

Feeling the churn of the gathered hipsters and art-lads was more than palpable inside each exhibit.  The floors of PS1 must be ancient. The wood groaned with each and every moment, under every single attendee.  With a solid forty people squirming around every room, the floor bellowed out whale song to the entire assembled mass.

Like the layout?  I can get arty too, right?

I’m actually kind of surprised DJ Dog Dick didn’t sample that right into his set.  I can’t say I understood a word of his self-described emotronic set.  I can’t say I understood how all the equipment pouring out of his suitcase worked, or if it did.  I’m also not sure what to make of the gent in an overcoat, pj’s, and the  aforementioned tiny vuvuzela, but when Dog Dig got him on the mic, the assembled clan at his feet attempted a mosh pit by the stairs at PS1.  That alone is an achievement.  I did have a few flashbacks to every fight that ever happened at my grade school.  Not just because of the pit, but because everyone within range of a window throughout the old school was peeking out to watch the wackiness ensue.  Personally, I had a mixed reaction.  Half of me wanted nothing better than to mock the man in the paint dappled overalls and the worst blond dye job ever, and the other half couldn’t help but respect the sheer brassiness of his performance.  The man could not have cared less what went down.  He was going to rock his shit, and if you didn’t dig it, well then, you just don’t get it.  On to the next.  I have to tip my cap to that.

That’s a weeping willow on the right.  I’m not sure how it’s survived Queens.

I was definitely more in line with Ian Whitty.  I mean, come on, the dude’s last name is Whitty, and his lyrics definitely kept up with the moniker.  It didn’t hurt that he was at the LIC bar.  While it’s well out of my general stomping grounds, it’s certainly my favorite bar in Queens.  The back garden is fantastic, as is the performance space out there.  While the vibe inside was quite cool, I did wish it was warm enough to have held the mini-concert outside.  Still, I’ve got Ian’s CD spinning as we speak.

The rest of the evening was spent gloriously unproductively, downing a bottle of six year old bourbon, and grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup with the Queens contingent of my urban family.

We won’t mention that I fell asleep on the subway and ended up getting off at Court Street in Brooklyn, rather that Court Square in Queens.  What would be the point in that be?

Monday: I know it’s not high on the weird factor, and it’s become something of a staple for Willy-b, but I’ve never been to the Spelling Bee at Pete’s Candy Store.  So there’s one thing I’ll be knocking off my bucket list this evening.  And no, I won’t be participating.  My Dad e-mailed me yesterday to correct my spelling of porcelain. That doesn’t bode well for me in that competition.  If I have the time, I may peek in on Word’s Greenpoint Writer’s Group.  I wouldn’t be able to jump into this round, but it might be something to try out some time soon.

(Wondering what all this StayCation business is about?  Read from the beginning.)

My favorite picture from yesterday.


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  1. […] did manage to slap another layer onto the abomination, but when I looked to my laptop sitting there awaiting my typings expectantly, I wilted like a prom […]

  2. […] 2. The books themselves are enough. The snowglobes say fuck. DJ Dog Dick. Yeah. #nakedwomenmakeart […]

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