supa suppa club kids

11.18.09

I just attended a supper club and decided to write about it. Not a food critic. Don’t have the descriptive vocabulary, knowledge of culinary anthropology, jazzy conversation skills to chat up hot-shit chefs, or multi-sensory memory for the innumerable intricacies that distinguish flavors. However, I breathe in/savor balanced, complexly flavored dishes from anywhere with as much subtle gusto as the most hardcore food snobs (except for when food is looking at me like it was that one time in Chinatown, then I puss out).

A revelation, the past two weeks provided witness to some of the stages of a supper club. The prep kitchen is like a time-lapse sculptural installation. There is O.C.D. preparation on one of those loco-socio planes that takes hearty, voluminous farm deliveries, and diminishes them into mysterious sauces. I saw still life accidentally arranged in an almost absurdly surreal Renaissance style. Various vegetables, herbs, fruits, exploding colors surrounding a massive pile of greens rested in the winter light of the prep kitchen. The smell of onions, caramel, the weirdly masochistic rhythm of herky-jerky blenders, and heat filled the building. You might guess the menu was tied into Fall.

The working concept of this supper club was to embrace the experience of intimate dining. It had the effect of shelving the expectations that come with restaurants-basically all out efforts to consolidate everything into a tight theme that seems to end up taking the soul out of the place. Really old-school principles of work exchange are the driving force of a supper, except that those involved seem to not think of this as work, but really art as life/art of living. The place is limited, because it is someone’s apartment, but it expands backwards in time. You feel like you have gone back to the old American concept of having house and hold, pleasure and business, in the same place. Normally, nowadays, anyway, you keep work at work, because work sucks usually. Here, work has some other purpose amongst all of the participants and envigorates them.

Supper club means you might be socializing over the course of 3 to 4 or so hours, but when was the last time you did that without regretting the tab and spending a shitload? You can spend way more time with your friends without acting like an shithead and have just as much fun. This is a setting where some cool, interesting people get together on a level that is not so easily obtainable in the city most of the time, and it doesn’t cost too much fuckin money.

Being stuck inside your head by: Brandon Schreck

Being stuck inside your head by: Brandon Schreck is like being a rabbit who cuts off his own lucky foot to jumpstart hunting season. It is irrational rationalizing to the extent that voluntary and involuntary muscles seize up kind of like as in a duel that decides which one gets to decide first. It is riding a bicycle with no seat, just the seat post, down stairs, weak ankles, and no/total state of fear. A champion diving slug addicted to sea salt swimming in a pool of boiling lotion to sooth intense sunburn on a baby’s ass/your face cheeks, just waking up from a dream of paradise and peaceful seclusion as a happy pink muffin. It is not that bad, it’s just the thoughts that go along with it.

Zeus dog

Once when walking with a friend out the door and down the stoop a steroid-fueled cokehead Brooklyn redneck was calling “Zeus, Zeus!” to his lost dog. This is the guy who polishes his Buick like a giant metal traffic dildo every Sunday, and he calls my friend a faggot while we are walking out of my apartment. His car has an oversized blower seamlessly stuck to the hood and carefully smoothed and buffed bondo. My friend and I think this Zeus thing is kind of funny, but can not even smirk under the paranoid-aggro gaze of a not-so-good old Brooklyn fuckhead. We went on our way instead of standing there smirking.

Instructions for typing with your forehead or cranium

Example:

G fbbhhgfvfgbtmnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn006Elkkt6bgklgtfrrfddddhjuyy.

Press your forehead into the keyboard in intervals governed by impulse. Repeat this, only making sure to change the positioning of your face enough to ensure that the clusters and strings of lettering and numerical combinations that occur will have some variance. You may wish to pick up your keyboard or laptop and gently smash your face into it.

Do not laugh or think of yourself as being ironic. Do not think about yourself at all. A fourth wall of disaffected calm is necessary for successful poetry. It’s the principal of avoiding the self until a trance of awareness denies all fear-based logic and instead zenlike transmutations occur without physical manifestation.

Make sure that you have no feelings of guilt. This may appear to be an unproductive activity, your father would have spoken against it. Your boss would look at you like you were a stupid idiot. It is imperative that you have no connection to that part of yourself that needs to feel productive or relevant to the world in some way or has to make it’s own “ism” to impress the intellectual community. Although good poetry can not be forced, circumstances can be set up so that it can take flight and soar above the poor state of the world or your perception thereof.

Chicago is in two weeks. I am nervous as hell.

Art-making format has become much smaller. There are lots of sketches happening. Without studio space temporarily, I am forced into a corner but somehow a little bit more free with low stakes drawing that is fun and intense. It changes the focus to smaller, but dynamic, productive, prodigious, quick works.

My career choices include making a career out of bad choices, sometimes convincing others not to then watching them make bad ones. I grew up kind of German and now must face my Protestant capitalist guilt at never accomplishing enough to satisfy the ego and give the self a trophy. This is like pedaling in a rainstorm with tireless rims on a ghetto bike, ubiquitously being noticed but not noticed. Ubiquity-swimming in it.