Live from Sweden

Every once in a while a surprise IM appears on your computer screen in the zipped form of a debut EP and your day, your playlist and the office air tunes are never quite the same.

Meet Lykke Li, Brooklyn transplant via Stockholm, via Portugal where she grew up jamming to Madonna on tape cassette. Produced by fellow Swede, Bjorn Yttling, expect to hear nods to Feist, Regina Spektor and appropriately, Peter Bjorn and John.

In a couple of recent interviews she admits to being terrified of fame. And after listening to Youth Novels, set to release in the U.S on August 19th, she should be scared shitless.

www.myspace.com/lykkeli

Do you hear that?

It's the sound of your jaw hitting the floor.

Gays have more fun on weekends, drugs.

My friend's friend's friend got head by security at a NYC gay club last Saturday. Not false. Show me a heterosexual who has gotten head by security. Show me female security to make the aforementioned statement plausible.

Straights are funny in that we like to have fun, just behind the same closeted doors the gays have been liberating themselves from. After brunch with some liberated gays this Saturday I have come to the conclusion that the only ones really enjoying themselves in this city are the sexually rebellious. Or security at the gay club, Splash. You know who you are! Shameful!

Heath Ledger–A role of a lifetime. Which is ironic cause well, you know.

Good. God. I loved this movie. My roommate and I were joking around this weekend about how tired the “Two thumbs up” or “Way up” ratings have become. How I wanted to create a new one that was: “If I had a third thumb I'd put that one up, too.” Now I get to use it. Ok, ok. I know I’m not a credible movie critic. But I am a pop culturally saturated, urban dwelling, twenty-something, Batman alum who fancies herself filmhip enough to objectively comment. And I can appreciate styling inspired by Pete Doherty, yummy Christian Bale, and subtle graffiti wordplays changing laughter to slaughter in the middle of a bazooka filled chase scene. It was like the movie kept trumping itself. After it trumped all other Batman movies' comparably pithy performances (the trailer alone did that), it trumped audience expectations, then critics, then God’s, until it was just trumping itself. Seriously. Like, scene-trumping. It out-did itself. One explosion better than the next, one menacing cackle better than the last, semi-flipping, mind blowing, jaw dropping, eyes wide open (except for that part where the dude gets his face slammed into a pencil), two thumbs up. Way up. If I had a third one I’d put that up, too.

Grandma's Bathing Suit Now Available in 7 Different Colors

Please, God. Don't let this catch.
Then again, I said the same thing about skinny jeans which basically turned into owning socks for me.

What's new? Nothing.

Nail Polish Names Inaccurate Description of Color
Should a color named Hard To Get really be Nails Digging In Your Back Red? And when I think of a medieval strap-on I don’t picture soft florals and baby girl pastels to get the name Pink Chastity. With colors that outnumber toes more than bunions and blisters, it’s important practice the same rule you would for finding a good bedmate: Spread it before you settle on it.

Hansen On Tour
Seriously? How many different versions of Mmmbop can you do? God damnit! Now it’s in my head.

New York City Hotter than Africa
And more like a jungle. It’s like the crazy increases exponentially with temperature. Is it really that bad in your apartments or rooms at the mental hospital that you have to make the heat real hell for the rest of us by coming outside? Do we have to share a subway platform with these people? Suddenly discrimination’s not looking so bad.

Gregg Gillis does not have Attention Deficit Disorder. Girl Talk does. And his entire DJ (Don’t call me a DJ) career can be classified by the progression of his affliction from diagnosis, treatment and recovery. His debut album, Unstoppable, should have been called Unlistenable, where we heard a symptomatic DJ try to make sense out of jumbled, three second samples to barely conceivable beats that made everyone want to swallow their tongues. It was smart, but it was lacking in focus and therefore hard to comprehend, much like a stuttering child. Girl Talk sought help in the next album, Night Ripper where he treated the dyslexic cacophony and channeled its hyperactivity into more melodic juxtapositions where we could actually hear the samples this time. Some even long enough to exclaim, “No he DID NOT just put Biggie to Tiny Dancer!” Yet still just short enough to have us begging for more. Now the disorder has fully progressed into controlled chaos. And in its latent stages, still refusing to stay still for too long, Feed the Animals is like A.D.D. on Adderall. It’s trendy if you have it and everyone else wants it so they can take your drugs. Original mash ups, newer hooks, faster fades, ear friendly transformations with the same bounce around and off the wall sampling hip-hop, pop hits from the 80s and 90s, old school, new school, give me a mother fucking beat. Thank you may I have another? Listen for Busta with the Police, Britney with Air, Hot Chip with Cardigans circa Romeo and Juliet soundtrack, Roy Orbison, Chilli Peppers, Sinead O’Connor, Kelly Clarkson, TI, Luda, Mariah, UNK, Radiohead, Knife…Starting to sound like this generation's Sergeant Pepper album cover on play? That’s because it is. And incidentally, much like our quick-to-diagnose-with-A.D.D youth (Whoops! Hand over the Ritalin, kids) Girl Talk isn’t learning disordered, he’s musically bisexual. And so long as Billboard Top 40 hits and vinyl exists, here’s to musical exploration.

Get Feed the Animals here. And pay for it for god sakes. Musicians like this are a dying breed.

Rock is hard

I can't embed this because it's too awesome. How MTV talks birds and bees: Here.

Not really sure what it has to do with Don't Kill the Music, but who cares– sex rocks.

Fierce

Except she kind of looks like a uterus. Ugh. I bet Oprah's loving this. Sitting on her dark set, stroking one of her schnauzers, saying to herself in a husky voice, "I made her."

Good for T-Banks, though. I was wondering when seeing her face all over the damn place was going to come to a head. That smile is very, "Look out, hags. I'm next."

Did she come out like that?

I'm jealous of a two year old. You do realize we'll still be hearing about Shiloh when we're 50? When she has a horrible cocaine habit and steals Suri's boyfriend, her own brother, Maddox, once she learns they aren't blood related. But only after a brief lesbian encounter with Apple Paltrow-Martin.

You haven't seen this many women in line since they were allowed to vote.

Tomorrow. It's here. May 30th. When every female in the city syncs up and estrogen fills the theaters faster than day 14 of the cycle. Fandango has already reported an astounding 90% of advance sales for a bunch of crazy bitches that don't want to have to pull hair to get in. Still don't know how to get out of work? You're a woman. You're full of excuses. Feign a menstrual headache. Fake cry. Come up with a sexual harassment charge on your co-worker and bolt. Whatever you have to do, do it. And celebrate being a woman by passively aggressively making your friends feel bad they didn't see it opening night.

Prediction spoiler alert: I think Big dies.

Pork and beans

Not just a midwestern dinner, anymore.

Look at these assholes

Posers.

Please, god. Make it go away.

I'm going to close my eyes and count to ten....Fuck, it's still there. And it's on tonight. That means I'm going to have to cut all my Memorial Day plans short just so I can tune in and and make fun of mo'lo's drag voice. God damnit. Good tag, though.

Learn how to drown

Meet the thirty-year-old captain by day, hero by–whenever he sees a distressed swimmer, Kevin Campion. I actually heard nothing about this, and had no real interest in it until I saw the CPR certified dreamboat captain (what I would give to be the dummy he practiced on) on gawker.com today. Would you look at that face? And as far as Seattle flannel goes, not bad! Oh, the story: He rescued someone from drowning and is humbly refusing a reward. Even hotter. He doesn't want your money, he just wants to surf. This story is just proof that nobody cares what's going on in the world unless you're hot. Just ask Natalie Holloway when you find her.

Here's a pic of the hot hero. Look, there's just enough space to Photoshop yourself next to him.

Why you should hate Oprah

Good reasons coming soon.

I love/hate NY

haha, boo.

It's true. Wherever you are, I want to break-up.

Anyone who refers to their own vag as "clit" deserves to lose part of it.

Bringin it back:

bogue

Blu

Gawker saw it first. My roommate saw it before me. I'm always the last one to the party. Rad, nonetheless.

Bronx Bred Butta

He hails from Fort Lauderdale, Florida but Butta Verses (aka John Cullun) is NYC through and through. A lyrically conscientious rapper, Butta was raised on the inner city streets of the Bronx where he picked up hip hop from battle rap freestyles and local ciphers. Uncertain if this was the life he wanted, Butta relocated to Fort Lauderdale to pursue surfing. But as fate would have it, rather than meet surfers, Butta met more MCs. It was then that he decided to put together a collective tape of prospective artists and DJ’s who supported each other getting heard. They named it Glee Club Detention and it landed in the lap of no other than rap headmaster, DJ Maseo of De La Soul. Maseo signed Butta to his Florida-based Bear Mountain record company and it wasn’t long after that De La Soul’s Posdnuous and Trugoy the Dove were spitting his praises, too.

His debut came in early two thousand when Butta was given a once in a lifetime opportunity to perform rhyming back to back with Posdnuous off the track “No.” After that, it was hell yes. Butta began opening for several artists like John Legend, Common, and of course De La Soul. But without receiving proper distribution or promotion for his first album, Brand Spankin, the protégé and Bear Mountain decided to part ways. And with a new 12” single, “Jones in Ya Bones” in his back pocket and De La’s endorsements at his back, Butta smoothly released Six Minutes to Ten in 2007.

Check it : www.myspace.com/buttaverses

Gossip Girl is SFGICFTI

(Gossip Girl is so fucking good I can’t fucking take it)
It took me so long to figure out an acronym I accidentally forgot to watch it tonight. But last week’s episode? RUFKM? (r u fucking kidding me?) Serena’s a murder, Georgina's a c u next cuntday and Little J’s a fag hag! Damn ladies. All I had to worry about in high school was a gigantic overbite and if my Chevy Cavalier was going to start. Poor kid! Oh Snap!

O face

Uhohhhh. Someone get me an online ticker to post on my Facebook page. Countdown to August. All Points West and Virgin Fest. Coming soon. Enough music to make my ears drool in the sexual equivalent to pre cum. That was really gross and unnecessary, but needless to say I’m excited. Leading up to climax (last one, promise) Gogol Bordello, Does it Offend You, Yeah (no. not at all. I actually kinda like it) and Ladytron. See ya later, Starbucks and frequent purchases of little baggies…Ticketmaster’s my pimp these summer months. Holla. Wear a condom.

Nada Surf at Terminal Five. Nadagonnagoagain.

‘Saw Nada surf in concert last night at Terminal 5. Superdrag opened. And you know it's bad when you find yourself trying to remember what song the opening band played while the headliners are on stage. I still can’t think of it either and its bugging the shit out of me…was it off of Regretfully Yours or Head Trip in Every Key..? Back to Nada Surf. Maybe it was the venue (although I like Terminal 5, I have to admit). Maybe it was the crowd (which ruined it for me when I saw Wilco in Athens, GA. But then again, it was Athens, GA.) But the experience was rather…how do I say this…lame. And one lighter going up away from being overall cheesy.

They put on a great show, don’t get me wrong. I think they played for almost two hours last night. I remember because I kept yawning and checking my phone. (10:36, 11:21, 11:29, 11:59…yep two hours.)

I have to give it up to Matthew Caws, though. Dude can sing. And without excessive use of alcohol or frequent prima donna exits off stage. But he put on a fox hat. A fox hat. Not like a Davey Crockett hat with the tail that hangs down in back. Like a hat with a stuffed fox on it. A fox hat. Repeating it only makes it worse. I looked around to see if any one else noticed how utterly ridiculous he looked. Cue, Chris our new receptionist from Manchester: “Oh wow! What a wanker!” Agreed, except I would have called him a douchebag, but all’s fair in love of name calling. The other wanker douchebags in the crowd didn’t seem to flinch, though. Like good little groupie puppets they waved there hands from side to side on Caws command, they lit up the same time dirty bass player, Daniel Lorca did, and some even forgot all about the cell phone they lost when jumping up and down on my friend, Melody’s, toes, to respectfully pay homage to the once indie cool Brooklynites who sold out for teenage assholes as soon as they got, well, Popular.

A B, see?

Proof that getting out from behind your computer and seeing the sights has its creative merits.
Now turn it into a typeface and post it on Dafont.

Copywriter for sale

Doree Shafrir said it. The world of magazine writing is officially over and harder than ever to break into.

So that’s it? There’s no hope for the wannabes, the hacks, or the idealists? The romantic dream of becoming a writer for a prestigious New York magazines is yesterday’s news? (Yes, pun intended. As a disgruntled writer, it’s all I’ve got.) I refuse to believe this libel propaganda. I refuse to believe that a small misstep down the advertising path deems me a career hopelessly writing headlines for banner ads and sign off copy for the rest of my life–or at least until I’m forty which, in my opinion, is when it’s all over. No one wants a 40-year-old blogger. (Do I hear a new Steve Carell sequel?)

There has to be more. Everyone comes to New York to chase a dream, so they say. Sometimes that dream takes on a different form due to compromises made on behalf of the city’s extreme real estate conditions, but there’s still a way of keeping it alive. Or is that a naïve, sophomore New Yorker talking? Because it’s true, I’ve met the wannabes, the hacks and the idealists. I’ve seen them for my very eyes. Hell, I’m one of them. Plugging away at a friends-only-fan-based blog every day in hopes the eyes of an editor from the Times happen to fall on it (and in love with it.) The countless stories submitted with only a rejection letter to show for it. It’s tough work, these word jobs. If talk is cheap, than writing is poverty stricken. Which I guess is nothing new or else the cliché of a dark, musty studio apartment in the West Village containing only a typewriter and canned beans wouldn’t exist.

I just refuse to believe that success in this industry lies only in the ability to draw Chlamydia drips off celebrity genitalia, or a really large trust fund tiding you over while you beat away at the keyboard for $2 an adverb.

I’m not asking for the world. I’m asking for a byline. And if that byline somehow unfolds into a 2500 square foot loft in Soho and a life fully realized only then I will have officially run out of words.

The New York Observer article by Doree Shafrir, herself.

Dylan hears a wha?

A while ago I stumbled upon (literally stumbled–using the stumble tool on the interweb. If you don’t have it, look into it. It can be a both a boredom fighter and a procrastination technique, you’ve been warned) the website, Dylan Hears a Who? Bob Dylan, or the likes of him, singing Dr. Seuss books. Tracks include: Green eggs and Ham, The Zax and The Cat in the Hat, to name a few. Yesterday I went back to check it out and came across this:

"At the request of Dr. Seuss Enterprises, L.P, this site has been retired. Thanks for your interest."

Looks like the Grinch steals creative interpretation, too.

I caught it before he did, though, and would liken it to a literary mashup. And parody or satire, Dylan or really good impersonation, it’s pretty genius. What if all our favorite artists got together to composite a fairy tale album? Fiona doing nursery rhymes in her haunting childlike voice; Del spitting the Goldilocks and the Three Bears; Radiohead remixes The Little Match Girl...

Oh, the things you can think!

Get nude

Remix Radiohead's Nude

Download the stems from itunes.
Remix in Garageband or Logic.
Upload for the public to vote.
Listen to Holy Fuck and realize you don't have a shot in hell.

Rad, rad, really rad.

radioheadremix.com

Raw talent

Mark Ryden is an artist from California whose influences include “Bosch, Bruegel and Ingres with generous nods to Bouguereau and Italian and Spanish religious painting,” to quote from his website bio. Plainly stated, his work is like Precious Moments if Precious Moments cried blood and played with raw meat.

markryden.com

Death and Taxes

Both occurring last week. Yep, life's a trade off. You say goodbye to a loved one and you say hello to almost two grand from the federal gobment. My first real experience filing this year (and coincidentally my first family funeral, too) and I didn't think I'd say this, but it was quite delightful (the filing, not the funeral.) Being in advertising one gets to reap (not to be confused with its grim homophone and ironic theme of this post) the benefits by the plenty. Netflix? Write-off. Cell phone, take it off. Magazine, books, cable, drinking, clothes. Take it allll off. Only instead of throwing money at it, the money gets thrown back at you.

My accountant (Richard Prinzi but i'll call him Dick Pee) asked that i look through all my banking transactions which I environmentally unconsciously printed out before I went, to decide where i was spending most of my money. It went a little like this:

Dick Pee: take a look and see if anything pops out.
Me: hmm...bar, restaurant, starbucks, restaurant, american apparel, bar, bar, starbucks, restaurant, restaurant, american apparel.
Dick Pee: ok so basically eating out and drinking.
Me: and buying new hoodies.

Thanks to Dick Pee and recent loss in family member, I have decided to change my ways and change my spending habits. and with spring just around the corner and plenty-a-bar opening up its garden seating and patios that should be the hardest fucking thing I do. but there's a flat screen tv my bare white wall has been mocking me for and a trip to DR I'm dying to take this year. We'll see where the write offs and government issued six-ho-ho will get me.

life is short, spend it happily.


in loving memory of Grandpa Smith

An elephant never forgets.

The Elephants are here! No that's not anthropomorphically kind way of saying Kristie Alley and Oprah are in town. Really, the elephants from Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus walk through the Midtown Tunnel tonight at midnight. And you can go watch them, lots of people do. But is it just me? Did the movie, Dumbo, ruin it for anyone else? I can't help but get a little sensitive and think about Dumbo’s mom and the other lady elephants lumbering tail to tail into the bizarre and unnatural world that is the circus. Remember when they all had to sit on each other’s heads all sweaty, wearing ridiculous costumes, while getting whipped? Now I wish we were talking about Kirstie Alley and Oprah. Ah well, I guess anything’s better coming from Queens.

Casual sex makes my foot fall asleep.

Ahhh the fuck buddy. I’m not sure why I onomatopoeia-sighed just then. Like the overused and almost consistently ill-fated pop culture term is an any way relieving. Because it’s not. I’m speaking on experience both personal and vicarious. Too many times we go into a relationship hoping to keep it casual and friendly as it indefinitely and inevitably always seems to turn into a big, sloppy, mascara-running-down-your-cheeks, walk-of-shame-mess. Or a publicly addressed resignation. Or a political impeachment.

Either way, it’s bad no matter who’s involved. Those strings? Or there lack of, do really become attached. So much so that you’re actually tangled in them and cutting off blood supply to important parts of your body. Sort of like that tingling feeling you get back in your foot after you sat on it for too long. It’s kind of your foot's way of saying: What the fuck, asshole? Thanks for just now realizing that I’ve been underneath your worthless, fat ass for so long. Too bad complaining was the only way to get you the fuck off me and let me BREATHE.

Not that that has some double meaning, or anything.

But it’s the tingling sensation equivalent to the bad conversation where both of you pretend you didn’t know what was going on, and try to leave it as casually as you started. And only when you get the feeling back do you say: What the fuck happened? Why was in that position for that long? Which is exactly the irony of it all. You go in not wanting to get hurt, you go out a little numb and gimpy.

And now we watch the term go from literal descriptor to ironic double entendre:

Before: “Fuck buddy!” After: “Fuck, buddy.”

The latter is usually followed by a few solid condolences and binge drinking. The important thing is to just make sure the double vodka tonic haze isn’t the condition you meet the next potential “blank” buddy. Because no matter what word you put in front of it, a buddy is still just a buddy. No matter how long you sit on him.

Today was awesome and it's not even noon.

Human Giant keeps promo promises.
Finally a show that's just as crass as its trailer. Human Giant aired the other night. And just when you thought butt sex and gay jokes were the victims of reverse discrimination, alas they’re alive and just a raunchy and homophobic as ever. Where’s Will Arnett? He’s my only reason for living. And watching.

Kristen's a whore, but doesn't look like one!
Surprise! "Kristen’s" not a trashy cunt with acrylic nails OR hair! Way to go, Spitzer. Guess if you’re going to F up your career, marriage and reputation royally ( not to mention publicly) might as well do it over a 22 year old swimsuit model.

Thank God Heidi’s Spencer (he doesn’t need a last name, just Heidi’s before it) will be dishing out relationship advice for Radar magazine. Maybe the Spitzer Scandal can be his first topic:

Dear Love Gov,
Break ups are hard. Might I suggest the Douchebag First Aid Kit. In there you’ll find bleach, whey protein, Neutrogena Self Tanner, Crest White Strips, and a signed copy of: How to Get Everything You Want by Acting Like a Chatch. And if you can’t find another woman you can always stage a relationship like I did.
Stay up, braw.

Shit or get off the pot.
Seriously. Or your ass will stick to it. Like the woman in Kansas who was stuck to hers for two years. Fine, don’t believe me:
Woman Stuck on Toilet

“Mr. Whipple, stop squeezing the Charmin and get my ass out of the toilet!”

In other news: Spring forward still sucks.

Exactly

My sister used to hang her naked Barbies by shoelaces off doorknobs in our playroom. This is way better.

The Avalanches, PhD Psychovinyltherapy

Screw, Go with the Flow. Ok Go! can eat it. The Frontier Psychiatrist music video makes my eyes roll in the back of my head and my ears have an orgasm.

Client #10

I, too, want to do unsafe things.

Those Dems really know how to have some fun while in office, no? This alleged affair (neither really alleged, nor an affair, I suppose. Dirty sex with a prostitute is more of a hobby–sorta like golf.) Trying again: This repeated business transaction between Client #9 and "Kristen" is said to have pulled in nearly $5,500/romp. According to the Associated Press, "Kristen" was part of some high class prostitution ring that charges the price of a Soho loft every time she has her hair pulled.

Cut to Kristen and a Realtor in a spacious apartment.
Kristen: Ok ! I'll take it!
Realtor: Great. I'll need 20% now before i can give it to you.
Kristen: (angry) Fuck you! I didn't put 20% of my mouth on your ****, did I?

I guess that would mean she'd rather pay in full. Whatever, she's a stupid whore, anyway. This is probably how it'd go down. (ha. go down...)

And now we wait for the resignation. Don't resign, Spitzer. That's like a rad Law and Order plot that someone was like, "ah fuck it" and turned it into a Lifetime movie, instead. Handsome Governor resigns, retires and lives the simple life in boring-ass Connecticut where he tries to become a better father and husband while taking up sailing. Stand tall, Spitzer. And after your trial, stand on the courthouse steps, flail a gun in front of Detective Stabler yelling, "I did it," blow your wife a kiss, and shoot yourself in the face.

Dick Wolf

Alice in Tim Burton's land

Tim Burton will be directing a 3D stop motion animation version of Alice in Wonderland. I wonder if Johnny will be making a cameo? Or Christina Ricci as a big foreheaded Alice? Personally, I would rather see Baz Luhrmann's take on the story with LSD induced color saturation and euphoric plot line. But I guess when your job list includes working with a crazy, chocolate-eating pedophile and a headless asshole (both with J. Depp) only one director could pull of a ruffied tween, stoned cat and a couple of alcoholics uncelebrating an unbirthday party.

"Cheshire-Puss," she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. "Come, it's pleased so far," thought Alice, and she went on. "Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"
"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.
"I don't much care where-" said Alice.
"Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat.
"-so long as I get somewhere," Alice added as an explanation.
"Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."

Bums are cool. NYC bums are rad.

Seriously. If you’ve ever taken the time to talk to them you know what I mean. Sure the smell of shit and body odor make it hard to carry on conversation without gagging, and chances are they’re too fucked up on something to make any real sense. But talk to one for a minute and you realize that they are the most in tune sons of bitches you’ll ever meet. They know the city inside and out. Riding the subway all day long just because you’re bored and it was free will do that to you, I suppose. And they’re resilient survivalists. We complain when we have to walk in the rain. These mother fuckers sleep in it. Not to mention on the pavement while wearing everything they own or using it as a mattress depending on the season. My only question to them is why New York City? If I was a bum I’d pack up the proverbial bag on a stick and take someone else’s bike to Miami, or Mexico even. Somewhere that isn’t snot-freezing, gangrene inducing cold in the winter. Somewhere where there isn’t winter. Imagine: Florida, your grandparents walking the beach past some Schizo simulating oral sex with a conc shell screaming, “Jesus hates you!” Now that’s retirement. We’d miss them, though.

Here’s what a few bums (to be p.c: the housing and employment challenged) had to say about living in the Big City, or at least staying alive here:

"Got a smoke?"

[Kissing noises]

"The ting is you dunno, you know? You dunno what chu got until you lost it playing turkey crash banks on the boome dumb street war back in ‘78. Big fire down der and shit ass bitch fuck you din’t know it cause it was so cold, it was too danger e’rybody left and fuck shit ass piss bitch, no one knew. Day all gone still."

"New York is beautiful. Fuck LA."

"I make more money off the street here than I ever did working for the government."

"New York is alive. The street keeps you sustained, even if it’s sub zero weather and your dick's about to fall off it’s so cold, the city that keeps you alive."

"Because."

"If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Whoever said that was right, but he was also making a fortune or else we wouldn’t be quoting him. If you can make it here without knowing where your next hand outs going to be then you really can make it anywhere. Now that’s true. But I wouldn’t want to do it anywhere else. Anywhere else isn’t as rewarding."

"Now why the fuck would I want to go to Miami?"

Vandalism rocks

New York can be a piece of shit some days. Most days actually. It’s polluted with trash, junkies, meth heads and nasty whiffs of sewage piss air, but it's fucking rock and roll. And like good New Yorkers rather than clean up the trash, we pick up a can of spray paint and trash talk over it. Graffiti is nothing new, but one artist has redefined its deviance with some sidewalk chalk and an inspirational message as a tag. I had the pleasure of sitting down and talking with James De La Vega, a New York street artist who's as fucking New York and street as they come.

Sitting down to interview James De La Vega in his St Marks Place gallery where the once sidewalk chalk drawings have been transferred from the street to canvas and pictures of his “Mom as Picasso”, or his mom just plain hating on him hang throughout, we are interrupted by a woman with a stroller.

"Excuse me? Do you know what grades that school is down there?" She asks referring to the elementary school a few doors down.

He answers her as politely as he could, both of us expecting her to apologize for interrupting.

Instead she says, "Thanks. I'll be back," as if it offered some sort of consolation for not coming in and browsing. As if that's what most artists would want to hear. But De La Vega isn't like most artists.

"I'll be here waiting," he replied smugly as she shuts the door.

He snickers for a minute, then feeling the need to explain himself he says, "It's not so much arrogance as it's brutal honesty."

And it was honest. As is his work, as is his gallery which stands as what he refers to as an NYC institution. To cut through all the bull shit, to actually reach people- and not just any people, New Yorkers–on another level. It's that kind of keeping it real De La Vega expresses and embodies both in every day life and in his art.

"Pressure to survive in the big city can make you lose sight of your dream. Hang in there." Chances are you've heard this message before, perhaps in inspirational tear-off calendars or coffee table books, but never as graffiti. And according to De la Vega, it's not.

"I never identified with the graffiti movement, there's a certain amount of deviance and negativity that comes with the connotation," he says.

And since avoiding jail time for one graffiti related incident back in his Spanish Harlem days, the artist is sensitive when it comes to the name graffiti artist. Instead, he's a self proclaimed Sidewalk Philosopher or guerilla performance artist, which he admits to not really understanding. When I explain it’s a form of expression that takes on a non traditional outlet, he complies and says, "I guess that's true..."

What challenges De La Vega in his quest for positivity is the audience he's reaching out to. New Yorkers have long history of callous thick-skin. Where messages of "becoming your dream," and "hang in there" are lost in a concrete sea of huffs, puffs and “whatever’s.” But regardless of the message, it seems to be working. De La Vega is an icon in the Spanish Harlem neighborhood where he first started out, and now that very same street cred has followed him down to the village where he now reigns as a kind of St Marks Confucius.

There's a level of hard core no-nonsense that makes New Yorkers listen, or stop to read depending on where the message is coming from.

“I'm not trying to Walt Disney or Sesame Street this shit. That's not De La Vega, but it's creating a unique language that reaches people to tell them to do something with their lives. To push forward. To fight back.” Which is something many New Yorkers already knew or else they wouldn’t live here, but all could stand to hear it more often. And when we’re ready, like the lady with the stroller, De La Vega will be waiting.

Fuck yeah

The snowboard-inspired Balenciaga Sportiletto from last fall's collection. If they make one that actually straps on to a board i think my face will explode.