Dunce Cap Quarterly - Daily

40 Years Later: The Greenwich Village Weathermen Explosion

Sat, 06 Mar 2010 00:00:00 -0500

Note: This post ran in a different form on March 6, 2009.

Pop quiz! Guess which of these Greenwich Village townhouses exploded exactly 40 years ago today…

a.) The one that looks different than all the others; or
b.) One of the others

Answer: a! The building with the funky-angled protruding living room.

Yes, that’s the one. A few members of the Weathermen (l/k/a the Weather Underground) apparently mishandled some nails and dynamite and…yeah, kablooie. According to ever-reliable Wikipedia, it took nine days of body part collection to determine that three people had died in the blast. Two others survived and escaped arrest, with one remaining on the lam for more than a decade before getting pinched for pulling an armored car heist with Tupac’s stepdad. I am not making this up.

A slightly more thorough reflection from Bill Ayers and Bernardine Dohrn here.

DCQ's Guide to Sneaking Shit In

Thu, 04 Mar 2010 13:52:11 -0500

Note: With baseball spring training opening this week and March Madness nearly upon us, we thought it wise to revisit a topic we originally dissected last August, lest any of you end up sober at a sporting event this fine spring. (Re-)Presenting Dunce Cap’s Guide to Sneaking Shit In:

On a sultry Friday eve last summer, DCQ’s New Yeez contingent ventured out into the wild bacteria stew of the Hudson on a decrepit ferry stocked with booze, 150 people and one RJD2. With payday a distant glimmer on the horizon and said booze bogarted behind a “cash” bar, we resorted to the familiar tactic of “sneaking shit in (SSI).”

This is an art form we’ve refined over the past dozen years, with the primary media being sports and concert venues. Our first stab at SSI came in September 1997. Giants vs. Padres. It began with a friend’s spectacular fake ID, used to procure an armload of Mickey’s 40s from the Oak Grove corner market (‘bodega’ hadn’t yet entered our lexicon) behind school. We had the angles scoped: Malt brew transferred to green 7-Up two-liters and hidden in closets overnight, then wrapped snugly in hoodie cocoons as we pulled up to Candlestick Park. This being the glorious buyers’ market of pre-South Beach Giants baseball, security shoved us through the turnstiles with nary a sideways glance. As it happened, the game was actually sold out, and we sat in the second-to-last row of the upper deck in center field — approximately 1,200 feet away from the plate. But all was good: By the third a sickly Mickey’s buzz was had, by the fifth we were bouncing off the walls of the concrete spiral stairways that encased the hulking mass, by the seventh we were taking turns calling earl in the nearest bathroom stall, and by the end of the ninth, as Barry made his famous stand atop the home dugout, we were passing out where we sat.

In the years since, we’ve become more efficient and creative. The prevailing opinion is that hard liquor’s the way to go, and a fifth is the biggest you can pull off with confidence. If it’s a day game and you’re nursing a hangover, long pants and knee-high socks filled with tall boys are acceptable. The fifth — whiskey or rum only, child — goes right-side-up directly in front of the jimmy, belt buckled as tight as possible so as to secure the bottle with the bare minimum of above-waist frontage. If possible, go for the male security guard — he’ll be less inclined to check certain essential areas. In rare cases, through extensive field research, you may uncover a unique perimeter flaw that allows you to do wondrous and otherwise unimaginable things: At the Giants’ new(ish) baseball stadium, for example, you can bring in giant beers in styrofoam cups, purchased for a pittance at the pizzeria across the way, simply by entering the park through the team store.

Large sporting events are fairly easy. The latest innovation came in the recent discovery of an MLB-sponsored DUI prevention program that doles out free Cokes to attendees who identify themselves as designated drivers. These make cheap grog more palatable. AND you get to show all the college girls your hero-status DD bracelet! Bonus. Where it gets tricky, however, is at certain music venues where organizers seem to expect most patrons to be carrying some form of intoxicant. Many a would-be SSI champ has been knocked down to amateur status here. In such situations, we’ve come to employ a tactic used for decades by certain Suburban-driving Sinaloans: The mule wave. Break the juice into as many pint-sized water bottles as possible. Give one or two to each person you’re with (better make it two or three if it’s an all-day festival). Use the same crotch placement process as with full fifth, tightening belt to keep bottle from sliding down to your ankles (mysterious bulges are to be avoided). Spread out as you enter so that security doesn’t recognize that you’re together. This way, you’re virtually guaranteed a passable stock of booze even if one or two of your homies takes a fall.

As any nimrod (that’s you, Jack) can see, we’ve had some time to fine-tune our playbook (though perfection, as always, remains elusive). Which made it surprising — nay, stunning — when the token security guy checking passengers boarding the RJD2 boat nabbed the bulk of our supply during what experts predicted would be a harmless formality. We suspect somebody dropped a dime on us because the guy went straight for the above-junk area without any attempt at acting out the proper pat-down sequence (ankles-legs-hips-ribs-arms-back-THEN abovejunk as an afterthought, if at all…everybody knows that). Luckily, despite all signs pointing to an SSI Level Green, we’d divied the stash up beforehand, and our backup made it in.

So you see, DCQ nation, the key to a successful SSI operation lies in the artist’s ability to assess and adapt — that is, to change up the strategy on the fly and, to be certain, on the sly. But even the most practiced and universally-lauded practitioners sometimes slip up.

A skeezy Little League baseball coach once told us a common off-color joke he’d blessed with a personal touch: “Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and fat chicks.” We were only 10 at the time, so we didn’t really get the last part, but the rest seemed to have some sense to it. In any case, replace “fat chicks” with “SSI operations,” and it rings true. But it still won’t make sense to a 10-year-old.

Enjoy. And use responsibly.

West Coast Launch Party TONIGHT

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 11:48:05 -0500

If you find yourself in the greater Los Angeles area tonight, drop by Red nightclub in Newport Beach as we celebrate the launch of our Preview Issue with booze, Thunderjazz courtesy of Tango & Camaro, and good times to be had by all. RSVP with us to get on the list or you’re stuck with a $20 cover, cabrones!

Who: DCQ Friends and Family

What: West Coast Launch Party Extraordinaire

When: Friday 2/26, 10pm to close

Where: RED Nightclub, 4647 MacArthur Blvd, Newport Beach

Why: Because we love you!

RSVP on the Facebook event page or to duncecapquarterly@gmail.com

World beard champion Jack Passion digs our shit

Wed, 24 Feb 2010 00:46:00 -0500

We stumbled upon this cat at Bottom of the Hill on Friday and thought he was just some dude with sturdy follicles and a “twisted” (HarHar) sense of humor.

We thought wrong.

Meet Jack Passion: part-time author, occasional bassist, and full-time furious fuzzfarmer. The Sultan of Knot. Barry Bearded Bonds. The motherfucking “Tiger Woods of facial hair competiti on.”

And he held our sticker.

Lazy Embed Friday

Fri, 19 Feb 2010 15:28:00 -0500

If you’re in San Fran tonight, go to Bottom of the Hill for Boy in the Bubble’s record release soiree. Veteran SF notables Birdmonster to headline; Girl Band and Here Come the Saviours will also make noise. Doors at 8:30.

If you’re in Brooklyn, post up at The Nest and laugh at people eat shit on the ice patch across the street (via):

These are Hospitals, Part 1.

Wed, 17 Feb 2010 07:00:00 -0500

We’re pleased to unveil DCQ’s new “Features” section, future home for an untold number of award-winning investigative articles, fictional and fact-based short stories, and longer nonsensical expositions. We’ll also post pieces that had previously been published exclusively in our print editions. Case in point: “These are Hospitals,” the first in a multi-part series chronicling one man’s exploration of public health care facilities in urban America. The story ran in our Preview Issue; to cop a copy, join us next Friday at a club in the city made famous by the Bluth Family Banana Stand.

SAN FRANCISCO - A block from City Hall, the Tom Waddell Health Center lies hidden in an alley that houses a diverse and entertaining troupe of homeless people who, lacking a convenient alternative, have no qualms with urinating on your car tire if you pick the wrong spot. The walk from my apartment takes me through Civic Center and past the $400,000 gilded dome of the Hall, cutting through groups of bureaucratic suits returning from schmoozy lunch hours. The sun is shining. Pigeons are flapping. Activists with bullhorns are protesting something. Everything’s right as rain.

Thirty seconds later, I’m straining to find a comfortable position in a scratched plastic chair in the clinic’s cramped, L-shaped waiting room. Six or seven others wait for their numbers to be called, each holding a paper slip retrieved the butcher-counter number dispenser on the wall. Everyone’s black except for me and a gaunt man sitting across from me. He pulls out a stack of wrinkled napkins as he brushes a few long strands of wiry hair from his face.

“Does anyone mind if I change the paper in my shoe?” he announces.

Nobody seems to notice.

“Why paper in your shoe?” I ask, bewildered.

“I have problem feet,” he answers, pulling off a shoe and slowly pulling out a long trail of yellowed toilet paper. “Some people mind — that’s why I asked. Most don’t.”

“Hmm,” I respond.

That was that.

I fill out the registration forms and pass them through a smeared plastic window to one of the administrative workers. An hour and twenty minutes pass. There’s a little kid across from me, probably four or five. The man he’s with is talking loudly with a pal who just showed up. Everyone seems to know each other here. Eavesdropping, I gather that these two have a substantial history — they’re playing the catch-up game. Thus far, the conversation has centered on which friends are in jail, which are out on parole, and which are headed to court. They’re both cursing up a storm, albeit in a jovial manner. Still, there’s children and shit. I consider objecting, but my instincts tell me these fellows might know fellows who do bad things to fellows like me.

The party breaks up and, once again, the room is quiet, save for the low moans emanating from a withdrawing addict to my left. The woman twitches constantly, fiddles with a stack of documents, mutters to herself about a friend who done her wrong. Hazy light filters in through a thick, rectangular window, the kind, threaded internally with chicken wire, that is omnipresent in urban gymnasiums.

Another thirty minutes pass. Counting downward, the voice over the loudspeaker lethargically draws closer to my number. Just then, the clinic’s front door creaks open, and a moment later, a jittery, smiling man pops his head into the waiting room. He saunters into the cramped space, pulls a blue Nalgene bottle out of a filthy backpack, and begins filling it under the Alhambra machine in the corner.

“Nice little watering hole they got here,” he says to nobody in particular.

Nobody answers him. Nobody cares about his watering hole.

Impervious, he adds, “One thing when you come to this part of town is you always got fresh water.”

He throws the knapsack over his shoulder, clad in a ripped denim jacket, and walks out the way he came. I gather this is a routine stop along our cowboy’s daily Market Street bushwhack.

The loudspeaker crackles with more numbers. Eventually it says mine, and I follow a curt Asian nurse through corridors to an airy room with a steel surgical table in the middle. The doctor will be right in.

Twenty minutes pass, giving me time to study every corner of the space. There’s a large, angled skylight at the apex of the ceiling, thirty feet above me. The room must be forty feet long and twenty-five feet wide. The air is cold. So is the steel. Glancing at my watch uneasily, I grimly consider the types of surgeries that might have come to fruition on the table I now sat upon. Autopsies? Where the fuck is this doctor?

She arrives and, in the absence of a simple fucking hello, asks me to pull up my pant leg so she can look at my injured knee. It’s been hurting for six months, I explain. Rest hasn’t helped, nor has exercise.

Three hours after I first took my seat in the waiting room, Doc quickly fills out a small form and hands it over, referring me to San Francisco General Hospital for an X-ray a month out. Then she’s off, leaving as silently, as frigidly as she came.

Back in the waiting room, sick people are literally crying out for help. Meanwhile, a McCovey longball away, San Francisco’s anointed leaders spend taxpayer millions examining Golden Gate Bridge barrier designs intended to prevent people who actually want to die from achieving their goals.

This is…the San Francisco Public Health System.

West Coast Launch Finally Here!

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 00:54:00 -0500

If you’re in the greater Los Angeles area, be sure to join us on the 26th as we celebrate the launch of our Preview Issue with booze, Thunderjazz courtesy of Tango & Camaro, and good times to be had by all.

Who: DCQ Friends and Family

What: Launch Party Extraordinaire

When: Friday 2/26, 10pm to close

Where: RED Nightclub, 4647 MacArthur Blvd, Newport Beach

Why: Because we love you!

To avoid cover charge, please RSVP on the Facebook event page or to duncecapquarterly@gmail.com.

No, Studio B isn't moving to Burlingame

Sat, 13 Feb 2010 00:12:00 -0500

Disclaimer: This post will be relevant to almost nobody who reads DCQ.

A couple Dunces grew up in Burlingame, Calif., a “leafy” suburb south of San Francisco. The town is known for its politely progressive vibe and for producing an abundance of garage bands and a sum total of one professional athlete. Over the past decade, Burlingame also gained a reputation for fostering a slightly more lively bar scene than the slightly more boring suburbs it is wedged between (the Bay Area beyond San Fran proper being one oval-shaped clusterfuck of unbroken suburbs).

Thus, it would seem somewhat less than entirely impossible that a nightclub in Burlingame would find a way to commandeer the artists behind the marketing for Studio B and Santos Party House in New York:

Not the case: SonicLiving, through a partnership announced last spring (yeah, we know, we’re slipping) with burgeoning urban clothier/art space Upper Playground, provides poster templates created by UP-backed artists for anyone who lists an event on the site. More examples below.

As for this “Club 261,” I still say it sounds fun. I’m in. We’ll reminisce on the good old days and talk about Vegas and real estate. Don’t forget your Giants hat and Tapout tee.

As Seen on the MTA...

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 12:16:00 -0500

Foto del Dia goes to Queens straphanger and DCQ pal Todd Obolsky, who swears he remains neutral on the flashpoint issue of guys sitting wide-legged and taking up two seats on the subway:

Renegade Night Fishermen Run Amok in Brooklyn

Mon, 08 Feb 2010 05:25:00 -0500

Brooklyn resident Ben Sargent has attracted a rumbling of local press over the past week for running an underground (in both the “unlicensed” and “in his basement” sense) lobster roll joint in Greenpoint; the buzz seems to have emanated from Liza Mosquito de Guia’s fun video profile of The Underground Lobster Pound for food. curated.

Upon further investigation, it turns out Sargent hosts a weekly online radio show called “Catch It, Cook It, Eat It” for Heritage Radio. On said show, Sargent recently interviewed a memorable group dubbed the Night Crawlers: As the name suggests, the Night Crawlers are fishermen who prefer to spin their reels under cover of night. Armed with a simple motive — “to find the best fishing possible” — and a shared frustration over the dearth of public shore access, the Crawlers duck under barbed wire fences and pogo between rusty pier pilings to find and exploit underutilized fishing spots along the East River waterfront in Brooklyn and Queens.

There’s nothing especially remarkable here thus far — after all, Brooklyn seems to have become ground zero for urbanites who harvest their own food within murky legal parameters. What makes the interview indispensable Monday-morning jackoffery, rather, is the Crawlers’ approach to the taping: They arrived at the studio resembling a gaggle of Zapatistas, donning hoodies, ski masks, dark shades and bandanas while insisting on using voice distortion technology throughout the recording. The “Fish Slayer” and a couple of his sidekicks spend a half-hour schooling Sargent on the nuances of NYC trespassing law, the joys of falling into the soup (“I was lucky enough to fall in at high tide”), and the thrill of the potentially carcinogenic chase (“It’s sort of like a video game. There are, like, different stages, (and) the stakes are higher and it gets more and more difficult the deeper you get in…Yeah, it’s really fun because it’s a balancing act: You literally jump over stuff. I mean, it’s just like Donkey Kong sometimes”).

The highly-recommended full audio interview lives here. To put ~~faces~~ disguises to the voices, jump to the 4:25 mark in the video below:

First Annual Brooklyn Fishing Derby from Brooklyn Chowder Surfer on Vimeo.

The Importance of Proper Dog/Bun Ratio

Fri, 05 Feb 2010 05:32:01 -0500

(Note: Yes, another re-run. At least we can call this an anniversary commemoration. The bulk of this post originally ran on February 5, 2009. Yes, it’s completely obsolete at this point. Read the part about the celebrities — it’s okay. At the very least, you’ll be four minutes closer to happy hour by the time you finish. Dicks.)

We were in the rafters at MSG last night to watch BronBron dump 52, 11 and 10 on the Knicks. Among the highlights:

The Celebs: The second quarter is apparently when the arena Jumbotron guy decides to get close-ups of all the famous pretty faces and pretty famous faces in attendance. I think my grand total from last year (in only like three games, but still…) was James Blunt, who warranted a couple “oh, that guy”s from a 60 percent-full house. Last night’s game was sold out, and the celeb faction repped hard: First up on the big screen was Chris Rock, ten seats down from Spike Lee near the scorers’ table. Today’s tabloids ran a photo of Lebron taking a break to give Spike dap. I’d accept said dap too if I thought it might convince the dapper to sign a megalo-contract with my team come 2011. Two minutes later they flashed to the token black Spice Girl, who’s a.) still alive; b.) promoting an exercise video or some shit; and c.) much less scary in real life. She scored courtsides as well. THEN they scanned up to Willis Reed, the one guy in the building who’d have a legitimate claim to a lifetime of comp courtside tix…and he’s in like the third tier. It was kinda sad. Apparently Whoopi and Jay-Z and Puff fucking Daddy were all in the mix as well (check out the ridicu-fotos of Diddy flashing cash to buy kettle corn and poor Bobby Bacala sitting next to Whoopi and Ciara but nobody gives a shit; come to think of it, Bobby actually got Jumbotron Love at a game I was at last season versus the Bucks or some embarrassment. They probably just comp him seats so the Jumbotron dude has a reason to get paid on slow nights). Apologies for this fanboy rant — it was just cool to sit and look down from the 12th deck while sipping on a fine spiked beverage and be like, “Hey, Chris Rock’s scratching his nose, maybe. Spike Lee’s baggy sweatsuit looks really comfortable.”

The Delicacies: The biggest hot dog on the menu is, indeed, impressive. Concessions people’s approach to the bun, however, is one-size-fits-all. Which it most definitely does not. The result is like squeezing a whale into a pair of Tic-Tacs connected by another Tic-Tac. That hijacked and bastardized analogy worked better in its original form. They also sell delicious Cokes that are complemented exquisitely by most brands of mid-range Kentucky whiskey, the latter preferably served in a reused plastic Tropicana orange juice bottle.

The Last Rebound: Win in the bag, Lebron had his teammates clear out on the last Knicks shot of the game, then almost broke an ankle falling out of bounds after lunging to grab a meaningless 10th board. People cheered like we all got free tacos or something, which we didn’t. He became the first player to score 50 in a triple-double since the 70s with that rebound, which was essentially the basketball version of Michael Strahan’s record-setting “sack” of Brett Favre in 2002. And speaking of Fav-rah, check out his douchey cousin, Trent. He’s into sexy shit like “Premises Liability Defense,” proving that the family is good at offense and defense! Ugh. Somebody smack me with a frozen Eggo.

Happy happy weekend, friends.

A Tribute to Puerto Rican Day and the Return of Summer, Part 1

Wed, 03 Feb 2010 14:09:48 -0500

(Note: Every so often, we run short of rational ideas and dip into DCQ’s archives. The bulk of this post, intended to remind our East Coast followers that the specter of the eternal winter is so much peacenik propaganda, originally ran on June 20, 2009.)

Puerto Rican flags and bandanas were flying off the shelves in Los Sures and Spanish Harlem and on D-Block over the last few weeks. On recent weekend days, you couldn’t round the block without catching Big Pun blaring from a passing SUV. The PR trinket hawkers crowded out the Halal cart guys and the Mexican mango stands, pushing them off the corners with sprawling setups dripping red, white and blue. Then, finally, Sunday came: The one day of the year when browns outnumbered whites on 5th Ave. With the JAPs and WASPs retreating to their Hamptons cottages, the Upper East Side belonged to the Boriqueños.

Def Jam’s street soldiers came out:

As did the hooptie crews:

And the merengue fellas, with the requisite porcine drummer man:

Then there was this guy; photos don’t do it justice, but as you’ll pick up, the owner’s clearly a fan of vintage Pacino:

Backside detail: so excessive, it just might be genius. Or a ludicrous waste of money — jury’s still out:

Chicken trike man rocked a picture of his chicken trike ON his chicken trike! A proud fan of fowl:

Jewish Hipster or Hip Jewster? Hewish Jipster? (Did we manage to offend TWO long-persecuted ethnic groups with the latter? Awesome.):

Puerto Ricans do MDMA, too:

Warning: NOT a real horse:

Make Yourself a Dunce Cap, Dunce

Mon, 01 Feb 2010 11:52:00 -0500

For those who missed the Preview Issue launch party in NYC last month, a communist message under the guise of a schematic tutorial from DCQ creative director Dusty Mendes:

A National Embarrassment: America's Forgotten MYRABWWs

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 05:24:00 -0500

Photo courtesy Iris Weiss, via

We know, we know: The State of the Union played its typical role as an irrelevant exercise in smarminess and manufactured etiquette, and the iPad cooks blueberry pancakes while producing orgasms on command. We’re not going to talk about these things — we’ll leave that to everyone else in America.

We want to instead bring attention to a deserving topic the mainstream media has unconscionably abandoned in recent times: the plight of the Missing Young Reasonably-Attractive Blond White Woman (MYRABWW). The fact that most sane American media consumers suffered Natalee Holloway overload years ago hasn’t deterred Western Hemisphere evildoers from creating MYRABWWs (evildoers from other parts of the globe being more egalitarian in their kidnappings and slayings of Westerners). No, the epidemic has carried on with nary a stumble. After all, there are, like, other things going on. But while Anderson Cooper and his ilk have moved on to maintaining spectacular muscle tone (nohomo) in way-less-pretty Caribbean locales, one news outlet has steadfastly maintained its toehold on the stories that matter. It should come as no surprise that this outlet, as the only collection of newsgatherers brave enough to regurgitate the same below-the-fold story for three straight years, also happens to represent America’s last bastion of objective journalism; its last semblance of an independent media unshackled by governmental censorship; its last bearer of the torch of free speech; its last source…of hope. These descriptors can, of course, apply only to one Fox News.

This isn’t to say that others have failed for lack of effort: CNN, via a series of ever-dumber website redesigns and an increased focus on Anna Nicole Smith and her pitiful troupe of supporting characters/survivors, tried valiantly. I mean, they really tried. NBC fortified its all-news cable offerings with more talking heads, some of whom can scream almost as loud as Glenn Beck — the key word, however, being “almost.” No, the reasons for Fox News’ emergence as the paragon of free press become apparent as soon as one scoots over to their easy-on-the-eyes (read: a few giant words and a plethora of shiny photos) website: Awash in patriotic colors (signifying love of country manifested in intense scrutiny of a few America-hating politicians), the homepage alone betrays Fox News’ unmatched tenacity in thoroughly reporting stories (the ACORN Pimp, Sarah Palin) the whole lot of its capricious competitors have long since abandoned in pursuit of…whatever. So dominant, in fact, is the network in its coverage of breaking and long-since-broken news that it has seemingly set its sights on a burgeoning form of new media — fake news.

For the moment, however, Fox News’ looming standoff with The Onion is neither here nor there; this is about the MYRABWWs. And nowhere is the network’s MYRABWW prowess more evident than in its U.S. news section, a cornerstone of FOXNews.com that comprises unrivaled coverage of the Supreme Court, the H1N1 flu virus, and, in America’s Future, the four most important issues we’ll face going forward: Water, Security, Islam in America, and, of course, Textbooks. But the domestic news section’s ticket-puncher has long been and will, God-willing, continue to be, Crime. This is where you’ll find the news that shapes America. This is where you’ll find the MYRABWWs.

On that note, we’re pleased to report that, as observed in a random sampling taken earlier today, Fox News continues to hold itself to the same standards that brought us groundbreaking pieces on JWoww’s wardrobe transformation and the status of the eight-limbed Indian girl: Front and center on the domestic Crime page — nay, the entire U.S. homepage — is an update on the latest tragic twist in a case involving a Virginia MYRABWW. Kudos, Fox News. Keep us in the know (unless the victim’s black, brown, pudgy, big-nosed, brunette and not super-hot, over 30, freckly, foreign, or a man).

Ms. Nina Nilssen, rest in peace. Middle America never knew ya.

Chicago's New 'Aqua' Stokes Debate over Gender's Role in Design

Tue, 26 Jan 2010 12:54:00 -0500

Much arch-world attention has focused recently on the femininity of Jeanne Gang and Studio Gang Architects’ Aqua, completed several months ago in Chicago’s Lakeshore East neighborhood. The 82-story multi-use skyscraper was the fifth-tallest edifice built worldwide in 2009, and is allegedly the tallest building in the United States designed by an architecture firm headed by a woman. This latter assertion, by default, invites debate over whether the design is influenced significantly — or at all — by the designer’s gender. As stereotypes go, organic and curving lines are generally associated with feminine forms. Thus, the functional undulating balconies are quoted as having “a feminine touch” by the Los Angeles Times’ Christopher Hawthorne.

It seems, however, that the wave-like shapes enveloping Aqua are more evocative of the waters in nearby Lake Michigan than of any female convention. In Hawthorne’s defense, it’s plausible that he settled upon his comparison based upon the historically hard-edged and “masculine” skyline that Chicago possesses. Belying that long-held impression, however, is one of Chicago’s most iconic contemporary landmarks, Frank Gehry’s Pritzker Pavillion, which contains the very same curvaceous elements that are considered by some to be feminine in Aqua. Obviously, the structures’ proportions are starkly different, but the repetitive undulating lines strike a similar chord.

More immediately relevant than any dialogue over gender distinction, however, is the fact that Aqua’s exterior curvatures function as balconies of varying sizes for the hotel rooms, condo units and apartments within the building. In other words, as with other projects by Studio Gang Architects (such as the South Pond of Chicago’s Lincoln Park Zoo), function drives every element of the design.

For all the stylistic moxie and apparent functionality the building exudes upon first glance, though, Aqua’s interior spaces are incongruous with the building’s striking exterior. Held up against the public face of the building, the interior layout appears rather ordinary, and fails to utilize space in any unique manner. With the noteworthy exception of the aforementioned balconies, it seems you’d have no trouble finding similar living quarters in any number of new urban high-rises across the country. Not surprisingly, then, the question of whether femininity can be intrinsic in design becomes moot upon examining the interior, as the space is essentially devoid of any particular design fingerprints. The source of this interior/exterior discord is easily identified: Loewenberg Associates, a firm that specializes in such urban high-rise residential projects, designed the building’s internal spaces, while Studio Gang took the reins for the building’s exterior.

Brooklyn's Sad Red Releases Moody, Melodic, Eclectic "Elder"

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 04:20:00 -0500

Watch out, everyone — Sad Red may be actively channeling Philip Glass rocking out to Nick Drake on the Brooklyn band’s latest record, Elder. Give ‘em some space.

That may seem like a simplistic aural comparison, but it’s an accurate one. Besides, it’s not like such a course of action would necessarily be a bad thing. (And frankly, who wouldn’t want to watch that? Especially if there’s a musical exorcism involved.)

But make no mistake, Sad Red’s influences aren’t limited to one arena or genre (and you’re right if you’re thinking that a Glass/Drake one-two punch is a pretty heavyhanded move). Rather, they’re all over the map. Elder isn’t shoegazer at all, but fans of the genre are likely to enjoy this album (also, just a hunch, but Alice in Chains fans may be besides themselves).

Minimalism can be a lazy label, but not when applied correctly. Sad Red’s latest effort is moody and dark, yes, but it’s also evocative. Not a lot of bands can say that. The genre got its sea legs with bands such as Stars With Fleas and saw its torch carried on — in part, and in a big way — by groups like Grizzly Bear.

As for breakthrough potential, Elder’s album-closer, “Glass,” easily lends itself to radio play (but on a radio station that’s plugged in enough to truly “get it”), while “The Garden and the Lemon Tree” (stream below) successfully embodies the airy nostalgia of the childhood memories described therein. In short, the good gospel of Sad Red possesses the basic qualities it needs to spread further — perhaps beginning tonight at Brooklyn’s Union Hall, where the band celebrates the record’s street release with fellow locals Hungry Hands and Dusty Brown.

Doors at 7:30.

MST3K Roars Back to Life as "Cinematic Titanic"

Mon, 18 Jan 2010 23:45:00 -0500

Joel Hodgson, creator of Mystery Science Theater 3000, singlehandedly managed to make a robot-and-human silhouette appearing at the bottom of millions of TV screens a phenomenon that has since morphed into an instantly recognizable icon. For fans of the show, the sometimes droll, sometimes incisive, but consistently smart commentary on bad movies has more than stood the test of time, and now, more than two decades after its debut, the show continues to draw new devotees. The show’s DVDs, released by Rhino, are selling briskly — proof-positive of the show’s lasting power.

Now, Hodgson has reunited with former MST3K castmates Trace Beaulieu, Mary Jo Pehl, Frank Conniff and J. Elvis Weinstein to create Cinematic Titanic, a similar movie-riffing experience (sans robots this time around). The cast comments on a movie shown in real-time to a live audience, silhouettes and all. Cinematic Titanic, which was originally sold online in a straight-to-DVD format, has recently evolved into the live audience experience and has garnered critical acclaim.

Dunce Cap Quarterly spoke recently with Hodgson about how Cinematic Titanic came about, his work with MST3K, and what pop culture commentary means in 2010:

Thanks for taking the time to talk with us. How’s the Cinematic Titanic tour been going so far?

It’s good. But it’s not really a tour necessarily; we go out about once a month. We were just in Philly for New Year’s, and that was really fun. We’re going to be in San Francisco the beginning of next month, and then Milwaukee and Detroit and L.A.

In Philly for the New Year’s Eve show, you guys did three movies in a row in one night, right?

That was something the venue suggested — we kind of did what they said. We had never done it before. The first two went great and the third one, well, I read about Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic and starting to see demons and stuff after a certain point, and I sort of felt a little bit like that during the third one. Two I’m good with, two I really enjoy actually, but three is too much.

What has the fan response to Cinematic Titanic been like? Have you received a positive response from MSTies at shows?

Yeah, absolutely. They’re really loyal fans and they’re really great. I’m really happy with them. Lots of them grew up watching the show with their folks, or someone gave them DVDs or tapes. I have some friends that are really truly famous, and their fans are way different than my fans. My fans of MST3K, they all found it, because there was never a big sales push behind it. Most people found it on their own, and they have a different relationship with it. They’re really cool. And almost every show we do (at Cinematic Titanic), we stay behind to sign things afterwards.

How are you going about choosing the films to riff on during the live show? Do you have any on your wish list?

It’s peculiar, we kind of are fixing up houses that are broken down. We ask, “Can we fix it? What can we do with it?” We have to kind of look at the movies and kind of see. Usually I find the movies right now and I do a certain amount of looking at them, and after I’m done I have everyone look at them and they sign off on it before we kind of get into it. It’s not quite that fun as far as having a wish list, though. Although it’d be awesome to do Flubber or something like that.

What’s the process like for writing for the Cinematic Titanic shows?

We all just take the films ourselves and go through them. We do what we call a joke-pass. We’re just doing riffs and figuring it out. We make a master list of all our riffs and we basically get a section to work out. And the next one, it’s my turn and my job to make sure the first section works. Conceptually, it kind of flows, and you’re kind of in a position to shape the material. Once you get it on its feet, there’s changes. There’s certain bits that become favorites for the audience, and all those things do merge from the audience and give us confidence. It makes us realize, “Oh, people are laughing — we’re in the right direction.” We have enough people coming out and a nice audience, so right now we’re kind of in the mode where we’re trying to improve and figure out what movie riffing is in 2010.

I’d heard that acquiring film rights for movies originally shown on MST3K was easier than acquiring DVD rights for the movies, which means some of the episodes of the show will never be released. Are there more episode volumes on the way from Rhino, or has all been released that will be?

We made 200 shows, so there will always be new MST3K episodes released; I think there’s just a lot of them. Granted, we just didn’t know — we couldn’t see at the time that those kind of rights would be meaningful. We weren’t really that alert to it and it just wasn’t clear. I don’t want to speak out of turn ‘cause I’m not certain, but we made so many. But there are movies that aren’t available, we’ve been told. The Godzilla movies, the Gamera movies — those are pretty hard to get because they realized that those properties are big. Godzilla is Japan’s Mickey Mouse.

You’d said that you didn’t want to leave MST3K when you did. Ideally, if you hadn’t come up against creative differences involving the show, would you have liked to have stayed on board and ultimately been involved in the feature film?

Oh, absolutely. I loved doing it and I kind of said, “Oh, I’ve got other things I want to do,” but that was kind of a dodge. I did that deliberately so it could keep going because I really wanted the show to keep going.

How is the cast chemistry for Cinematic Titanic compared to MST3K? Did you find you all picked up where you left off?

Yeah, we remained friends ever since we all left the show, so we’ve all been kind of trying to work together over the last four years. And in the last two, we decided we should do this, and I figured out a way where we could still riff (on films). I saw Philip Glass do music for Dracula, and I kind of got the idea from him because he’s hilarious. I saw him do that and then realized our tour could kind of become doable, and we realized we could travel without props and puppets, and it became easier to get it on its feet. So it’s been good. We’ve been doing it the last 14 months, so we’re kind of getting there as far as our chops go. Performing live has been the best way to get better.

How have you found the live experience to be versus the previous straight-to-DVD experience for Cinematic Titanic?

Personally, I really like it. It’s kind of state-of-the-art to me. The world has changed a bit since MST3K started; there’s a lot more media that people consume. With the commentary, the medium is the message.

It seems like MST3K foresaw a lot of the commenting on art as an art form that’s happening now.

People talk about movies when you watch a movie with your friends or if you’re in your home. So with MST3K, movies were the most logical thing to riff on, and it was thematic with the theater seats. And I think more than anything, everything’s available in your home now, and the only way you can function is to comment about the media. It’s the only way it could exist. People send links, and make remarks and they share it. I didn’t really it see it coming, or foresee, commenting on stuff. I just thought it would make a funny show. I was just trying to be funny.

Tickets for Cinematic Titanic are now available through Ticketmaster for the show’s April 17 stop at Nokia Theater in New York City.

Preview Issue Arrives, NYC Rejoices

Mon, 18 Jan 2010 00:28:00 -0500

Thanks to all who came out to Teneleven in Alphabet City on Saturday night for a Preview Issue launch party I will hazily classify as a smashing success. Hans Blix killed it, only one party was bounced for attempted arson, and the bartender knocked $10 off my tab for forcing you all to pound PBRs. The issues themselves even arrived from our printers in Alabama (long story) in time for the festivities; sample Preview Issue page pics at bottom.

Next stop on the Published for a Fucking Party Tour: California.

Dunce Cap Launch Party TOMORROW

Fri, 15 Jan 2010 12:57:29 -0500

The Preview Issue drops tomorrow if UPS doesn’t mess up!

Pat Robertson, You Blow Hard

Thu, 14 Jan 2010 14:39:49 -0500

Another international catastrophe, another repugnant remark from Pat Robertson. Aside from revealing that Familia Robertson has never spent a tropical dime that wasn’t minted by Club Med — “(the) Dominican Republic is prosperous, full of resorts, etc.” — he gloated over the prospect of 100,000 deaths serving as further evidence that his laughably anachronistic interpretation of The Book is the definitive take.

If any 700 Clubbers still take the guy seriously after this one, it’s time for them to kick-start that secession movement. And as for Robertson himself, do the world’s rational ultra-majority a favor and die. Just die. Like now.