Cake

I've lived in the Clinton Hill / Fort Greene milieu for close to a year, and yet today was the first time I entered the establishment of Cake Man Raven on Fulton Street. (It happened purely by coincidence; I bumped into Helen as she was on her way there). Cake Man Raven is a specialty baker who can be hired to make cakes in any fantastical shape you wish, but you wouldn't know it looking at the storefront itself, because they only sell one item: individual slices of red velvet cake in plastic deli boxes. That's it — the entire refrigerated display case is just rows and rows of identical pieces of red velvet cake. It's worth checking out even if you don't buy anything, because it's one of the closest things to magical realism and/or Spike Jonzian, Wes Andersonian quirk that you're likely to see in real life.

Cake Man Raven Confectionery

The Greatest Dream Ever

Sarah had a dream last night that she was Nicolas Cage. That's funny already, but it gets better: in said dream, she acted in a movie wherein she had to build a bar at the top of a tree. To make things easier, she designed an apparatus for scaling the tree quickly, a makeshift pulley system that incorporated a chainsaw. When people advised her that it was a strange or impractical method, she merely replied, "So what? I'm Nicolas Cage!"

This is the greatest dream ever.

The bearer of good news

Two unpleasant things from the past 24 hours:

1) Last night, I dreamed Obama was shot. I was in a car with my mom, driving over the George Washington Bridge, when they announced the news on the radio. My mom said "My God...I hope he doesn't die." "He won't," I said, confidently for some reason. Moments later they announced he was dead, and I just thought the whole world was over. That's how I felt when I woke up; I was in a total panic. It was supreme luck that his voice happened to come on my clock radio after a few seconds, in an NPR Morning Edition story about the economic stimulus plan. It took a few minutes before I was convinced I hadn't woken into another dream (since that's been happening a lot lately too), but eventually my heart rate slowed and I deemed it worthwhile to get out of bed.

2) Tonight, I helped run the merch table for an event The L was doing at a bar on the Lower East Side. There was a tall, crusty-punk looking dude who was walking back and forth all night, and I was trying to work out where I'd seen him before when Sharon, another L intern, said, "Kid Rock just walked in." He did look an awful lot like Kid Rock, and I noted that he was much taller than I would have imagined. Two hours later I was leaving the bar and passed the guy sitting on a stool by the door. It seemed odd that Kid Rock would be checking IDs at some random bar, and when I was halfway down the block I realized where I'd really seen him before. I ran back inside and asked him, "Is your name Jake?"

"Yeah," he said politely.

"Did you date a girl named Jean for a minute, like, six years ago?"

His eyes glazed over. "Seven," he said. "Unfortunately, I still remember that."

Oops. Jean had been a friend of mine in high school, but I had never been formally introduced to Jake and certainly had no idea how their relationship had ended. Now, I could guess. "I knew her," I said, searching. "That's, uh, where I know you from."

"Right."

This was very awkward. Out of ideas, I offered, "My friend though you looked like Kid Rock."

"Yup," he replied, as though I'd said he looked like Hitler. "Man," he deadpanned, "you're just the bearer of good news tonight, aren't you?"

I couldn't argue with his sarcastic logic, so I apologized for ruining his night and went home.

This Song Is All I Feel! TS/TS Launches Tomorrow

This Song Is All I Feel! TS/TS Launches Tomorrow

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The United States of Tara

The subway posters for the show The United States of Tara are meant to outline the main character's multiple personalities: "Buck is a Brawlin' Biker," "Alice is one Tough Mother," and so on. But the one for her teenage personality , T, doesn't quite fit: it simply says "T is a Teenage Biatch." Teenage biatch isn't an occupation—it's just an age range and an insult. That's like if had a younger alter-ego and his tagline was "D is a Pre-Pubescent Dickwad."

This Happened

From: Leola
To: Recipient List Suppressed

Hi,

I want you to know that there are two weeks left to see my completed mural at the Jewish Museum. It is 11x7 feet, painted directly on the wall and on view until January 4th.

Museum is located on 92nd St & 5th Ave, on Central Park and Museum Mile. They are also showing: Dead Sea Scrolls, Chagall & the Yiddish Theater, and an installation called The Light of Sound

Admission is $12 and free on Saturdays.

Hope you get to see it.
Photos will not do it justice.
Thanks to all of my supportive friends & associates, even the ones who made fun of me when I would not hang out during design phase.
Please pass this along to anyone who may be interested.

-Leola


From: Daoud
To: Leola

Hi! You drew a picture of me on the F train a year and a half ago—August 24th, 2007, which I remember because I was on my way to play a house show in a friend's basement in Williamsburg. We both got off at 14th and I handed you a business card before you were out of sight, hoping that maybe you would send me a scan of the drawing but feeling too sheepish to ask outright. Then I forgot about the whole thing until today.

The crazy thing is, I'm leaving my job—today is my last day at work, and the last day I'll have access to my powerHouse email account. Had you sent this message out a day later, there's a good chance I'd never have seen it.

I'm going to go see your mural before it comes down; I feel like I would be violating the universe's instructions if I didn't. If you do still happen to have that drawing—a guy with glasses, rendered in blue and yellow and fuschia marker (I think), on a page in a big black sketchbook—I would absolutely love to see it again.

Yours
Daoud


From: Leola
To: Daoud

i remember of course. and of course i have the drawing. it's blue and orange, not fuschia. but orange and fucshia are not unsimilar. i'll scan it.
that's awesome. your card was in my card organizer but not in my email til the night I sent that out.

some people would say that took me too long, but they don't understand impeccable timing.
glad to be in touch!
- Leola

This Is The End

I can't think of an adequate metaphor at the moment, so I'm just going to say that if you like the people you work with, giving notice that you're quitting inspires a strange distance and heaviness in your interactions with them, one that's probably best ignored. There's just no avoiding awkwardness when a team of people united for a common goal knowingly harbors a dissenter for two to six weeks.

Baby Just Say So

I wasn't really aware of the Huey Lewis song "If This Is It" before hearing Throw Me the Statue's amazingly transformative cover. The original isn't terrible, but it certainly lays on the cheese and schmaltz pretty heavy. The cover takes the exact same words and structure but goes bananas changing the arrangement, and what emerges is a much more affecting song. That's telling of something...I'm still thinking about what.

Throw Me the Statue on MySpace

Rod Stewart

How is "Maggie May" possible? I've never harbored any deep loathing of Rod Stewart—he seems nice enough—but the dude's singles catalogue harbors some of the most embarrassing music in the pop canon. And yet, somehow, he managed to turn out this one incredibly touching number, beautiful in its simplicity and humility. Where the hell did it come from?

Off to practice

UB practice now! We play the Mercury Lounge with Jeffery Lewis this coming Friday. It's an exciting time.