"Meanwhile..." tomorrow (4/25/06). Panic in New York City.

Tuesday night in Manhattan, it's party time at Lit. I'm spinning with my good pals Denny Le Nimh and 24 Court of Hot Pink, and insanity will doubtless ensue. Insanity of the type that involves hot people jumping around, drinking, loud music, and general excessive good times. (Because this is New York Goddamn City, and that's how we roll.)

-PAR

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Farewell, Matthew S. Farrell

Matthew Farrell. Self-created raconteur, impresario, dandy, sponsor of the arts, cheerleader of creativity, perpetual inspiration. Our dear ice cream server Grace once jokingly referred to him as “the winner, and only contestant, of Charlottesville’s Oscar Wilde Lookalike Contest”, and y’know, she was pretty spot-on. Matt (I was told at various times to call him Matt, Matthew, or “just Farrell”, so to this day, I call him all those things) had his own style that was clearly modeled on his platonic ideal of a perfect gentleman. And this gentleman dressed like a Fitzgerald character, talked like a continental aristocrat who summered in some undefined New England coastal village, and walked like Groucho Marx. He smoked unfiltereds, often two at once, just for kicks, which he would hold when gesticulating excitedly as he greeted dear friends or total strangers. Pretentious? Yeah, a bit. Sincere? Always. Distinctive? Absolutely. At some point, I think I recall him saying someth...

On David (DC, Dave) Berman.

David Berman has left the stage, made his exit, delivered his final observations on the state of existence. I feel like it’s dumb to be tearing up at the thought of a Berman-less world, so I guess I’m dumb, and I guess I don’t really mind. I can't claim I knew him very well, but I thought of him as a friend. You know, the sort of friendships that form when you're both part of an amorphous social circle of weirdos in a small town at a certain point in time? Like that. Actually, exactly that. Everyone ends up at the same places, and it’s all a sea of get-togethers where everyone ends up in the kitchen, and a tiny club and a sushi bar and a Thai restaurant and a coffee shop and a bunch of patios in the summertime. You see different combinations of the same people, and there’s always beer and whiskey, and every wall is decked out with Steve Keene paintings, no matter which house or shop or café you’re sitting in. Now, a couple decades removed, defining specifics is onerous, an...

Dumpling Imposter.

As in all things, success will bring imitation. Nowhere is this more apparent than here in New York, where you can walk down the street and be assailed by endless tables filled with "designer" handbags and genuine "Hilfigger" sunglasses for sale. It's an inevitability that any product that does well will be aped by those who're looking for a quick buck. Ofttimes, the knock-offs can't be spotted without careful inspection. The average passerby wouldn't know the difference. So, do not be fooled. This is the real thing: This is not: Yes, it's true. There is a Dumplinganger. An upstart that not only moves into the same business that Lucas (the Dumpling Man) has so carefully cultivated, but rips off the distinctive logo. It's an incredibly brazen attempt to cash in on the goodwill and business that Dumpling Man has earned over the last six months. And whomever's behind it is so blatant as to position themselves only three blocks awa...

And... Go.

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