When Dan Wuebben and his friend wanted to go from New York to LA, they decided they would do it New York style, in a real New York yellow cab driven by a yellow cab driver. And once they found a cabbie that was willing to do it, they paid him $5000 and were on their way. Six days, 3000 miles, hundreds of tweets and videos later, they made it.
Print out this invitation and bring with you to save $5 off the regular admission price of $20. Discover high styles from the last century that inspire today’s fashion trends.Friday, April 29: 1pm-8pm Saturday, April 30: 11am-6pm
Metropolitan Pavilion 125 W. 18th St. (Btwn. 6th & 7th Aves.) New York, NY 10011
I run from the setting son and head to the East, seeking enlightenment from dawn. But it is dusk and crashing all around me is the day’s possibilities. The cold vacuum of night is ensnaring me in the promise of union. They sleep soundlessly, resting and interacting in the astral chat rooms of symbolic imagery. Mathematical equations running psychological storytelling through pop culture lenses. Novel lives.
Life is fun when you’re remaining detached and aloof, riding along, absorbing the rollercoaster simulated sensations and channeling them into concentrated fiction. A story about how exciting life can be as you unravel your identity, strip away your self, expose yourself naked and raw and reeling before the cold hard stare of the frightened masses.
But life is discomfort, upsetness, awkwardness all spinning in a mad Shiva ballet. Collisions of ourselves against the others in our lives, bumper car disasters pushing us off in a new direction.
Run and hide behind broken sentence structures, grammatical shrapnel, and a vocabulary enmeshed in babbling incoherency. A false promise of exposed obscurity, hidden in the fog of poetic phrases, I am naked and shivering. I hope these words can save me.
I’m thinking about suicide again for the first time in two years and I have come face to face with the life that exists above and beyond these words. Who do you call when you’re sitting alone, more alone than ever? What friend or family member do you call? Who will deliver to you your salvation from this pain that is called living?
I daydreamed longingly of my funeral as a teen. Wiped out of existence forever leaving behind a dead body in the ground. People gathered around in a much too late show of support, with murmurs of regret passed among them. What could they have done? Why did he do this? Would any of them try to see into my life and get to know me? And would they let me know if what they found was worth keeping here?
Fantastic images of self-obsessed, morbid, decadence adrift in the possibility of some deeper connection with someone, anyone, even posthumously. Why do I need to deny them my presence to get their attention? What do I need that their mere presence can’t give me? Why aren’t their words enough? Selfish, egotistic self-termination can not be the only answer to my longing for a soul deep connection.
Endymion dreaming eternally, seeking respite and the continual hum of divine lucidity. What is this poet’s longing that aches deep within me? What true love can fill this hole, so profoundly unfathomable it defies explanation and exorcism? A tumor of need, desire, and longing grows at the bottom of my soul. I seek relief at every oasis of consciousness, stumbling mad and dry through mirage after mirage.
My cross is blazing behind me in the distance. Ahead is a fortified structure jutting out from the sands of space/time. A private building standing indignantly alone amid the wasteland. The X of my genetic map points to this Oedipus Complex.
I sit outside the doors for years, my skin growing thick as layers of dead skin push their way to the surface. I’ve waited so long that I have forgotten if I ever even knocked in the first place.
I know I visited the many small huts and shacks along the way. Paying my stay with the labor I gave. Empty priestesses cuff me down to the bed frame, begging to be loved. Loved? A mission, a quest for love is where I began this journey, crossing the landscape delivering lessons of vulnerable opposition.
I don’t know love, nor life, nor anything at all. I have learned the mechanics of our search, seen the revealed puppetry of falsity and obsessive need. Psychological leeches seeking comfortable symbiotic life. Where is the spirit and beauty of love everlasting?
Lovers always have poems. Boyfriends write poems to girlfriends and girlfriends write poems for boyfriends and boyfriends write poems to boyfriends. But until now, no one writes good love poems for virgins. And as an added bonus, it will in no way elicit laughs from your friends when it’s sitting on your bookshelf. They’ll think it’s super cool, I promise.
The Tribeca Drive-In® is back! This year’s films feature Muppets in the big city; the return of Fame, preceded by a talent contest; and Septentrional, the Haitian band that has thrived for decades. Don’t miss these free outdoor screenings, which turn into community parties!
I think I’m going to only write articles with “Death” in title.
Over the past few episodes of the Paperkeg podcast, we’re talked about where the industry could be in 5, 10, or even 15 years. Over the past few episodes at least one host has come to the shocking revelation that J. Michael…
A bit of character sketch artwork by Tyler Crook from the upcoming graphic novel PETROGRAD. Pre-order it now from amazon or go to your local comic shop and demand that they stock it.
The book is about the assassination of Rasputin by some of these gentlemen. The rabbit, sadly, didn’t make it into the final version. But you can feel him in some panels, lurking, waiting, whispering “you’re to be next, dear reader.”
“I think it’s insane that DC have spent 70 years making Superman as big as Mickey Mouse, and branding him to be understood by parents as being pretty much as kid-friendly as Mickey Mouse, only to piss that brand away in a decade. Nothing wrong with doing mature content in comics – in fact, it should be encouraged as often as possible – but doing it with characters who are on your kids’ lunchboxes is kind of moronic. Take a lesson from Watchmen and come up with new characters for that stuff. And then go back to Superman and Batman and put the same kind of love and effort and craft and intelligence you’ve been putting into all those rape scenes and body mutilations into something kids can read, and adults can also be proud to read because of all the love and effort and craft and intelligence you’ve put into it, and make those the “real” versions.”—
Here at Rooftop, we’ve been burning the midnight oil, watching thousands of films, finding gorgeous new venues, and planning exciting special events filled with robots, wrestlers, lesbian space aliens, and more.
And now we just can’t contain our excitement any more. It is our pleasure to announce the lineup for their 15th Annual Summer Series, presented by IFC and New York Magazine, featuring:
Over 50 shows: every weekend from May 13th – August 20th
23 feature-length films including 2 World Premieres and 15 US or NY Premieres
183 short films from 26 countries, shown in themed programs such as Romance Shorts, Thriller Shorts, and New York Non-Fiction
Fiction, documentary, comedy, drama, animation and more
15 spectacular outdoor venues with stunning views across Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens & The Bronx
Live music, filmmaker Q&As, and after parties with complimentary drinks
Special events such as a live wrestling match at the screening of Robert Green’s Fake it So Real, featuring the semi-pro wrestlers from that film, and a sneak attack performance by the musical guerillas from the Swedish comedy The Sound of Noise