Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Jeramy Fletcher's Landscape of Art Supplies
Come see his work in person at the Antagonist Group Show at the Mindy Wyatt Gallery!!
814 Broadway (btwn 11th and 12th Streets)
October 17th, 6-9pm
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Chiptunes Recap!
This week for Alphabet City Soup, we completely lost our minds and had an all Chiptunes show. For those who don't know what Chiptunes is, check out a detailed description HERE. We started with an open mic and then went straight into 3 hours of amazing Gameboy-music-action. It brought out a great crowd and everyone enjoyed themselves to a ridiculous degree.
We had so much fun that instead of taking only one video, we filmed all three performers. Below is a hint of what we all experienced. Intense.
Kris Keyser
DaPantz
BubblyFish
Immense thanks to Jessen for making this night happen!
We had so much fun that instead of taking only one video, we filmed all three performers. Below is a hint of what we all experienced. Intense.
Kris Keyser
DaPantz
BubblyFish
Immense thanks to Jessen for making this night happen!
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Ethan's Memoirs
The Acorn War from Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
I was 13 in 1983 and had just moved to a new neighborhood in Washington D.C.
“Help me bring in the bags from the car,” said Mother and I followed her outside. She left the trunk open and I ducked in to pick up the groceries. Then I heard a bang over my head. Something had hit the inside of the trunk lid and I saw an acorn roll to a stop on top of the bread in the bag I was holding. I swung around and held the bag tightly around my torso and kept my face down. Another acorn hit the side of the bag and I ran inside, putting the bag down in the kitchen. I walked back out with Mother to get more bags. You couldn't shoot someone’s mother, so I knew I was safe as long as I stayed close to her.
Mother’s house was in Glover Park, just above Georgetown. Our new neighborhood was middle class. The streets were numbered and lettered in a generic sensibility. In a few minutes I could walk into Georgetown or to Wisconsin Avenue. With a front porch, a small rectangular backyard with a one-car garage and tall fences to divide it from other properties, it was identical to every home on the block. Even if a neighbor made drastic changes to their townhouse or landscaped their yard, basically it was still the same as everyone else’s.
The house itself was old. The floors creaked with every step. The foundation had never quite found its comfortable state and liked to shift its weight ever so slightly from time to time. The homes were tightly packed together and, looking across the alley into back windows, I could always find someone awake. My new best friend, Ted, lived two houses away and went to high school three blocks from the Lab School’s new location.
An alley divided my block into an H in a box formation, giving it the resemblance of a castle. With the line of townhouses as the castle’s walls only divided by the alley, each section of roofs were connected since the houses were right next to each other. By popping open a hatch to our roof, I could climb up and walk across the other roofs, even look down into neighbors’ skylights. From that high vantage point, Ted and I would shoot kids with the acorns that fell from the trees that lined the block. But even if we used a wrist-rocket, we missed most of the time, since it was hard to aim from a long distance and the acorns had irregular shapes. It was a war, The Acorn War, which had been raging for weeks between three different groups: Scott’s gang, Nazi Shawn, Ted and myself.
Each kid hoarded acorns in brown paper shopping bags and hid them around the outside of their houses because each acorn had its own little green worm and no one’s mother would let them stay in the house. Sometimes you might find a squirrel peeking its head in the bag. Blocks were divided into territories. Nazi Shawn had W Street and below, Scott, his brothers and their friends had 40th Street and Ted and I had 39th Street. Scott’s gang was younger than Ted’s and mine, but made up the difference in numbers. Conducting missions on their block meant running onto the lawn of the brothers and blasting as many acorns as we could manage with our wrist rockets. You knew when you hit a kid by the screams of pain, or the vigorous
rubbing of a fresh welt. Everyone in the neighborhood knew I went to the Lab School. When I hit someone, they would yell out, “Fuck you retard!” and that just made me shoot them again.
Scott commanded his gang by crying out orders. His voice hadn’t matured yet so he sounded more like a little girl than a pre-pubescent male. Because of their quantity, they could scatter and regroup, whereas Ted and I had to stand back-to-back. There were more than ten of them and only two of us, but we didn’t care. It was something to do after 5 pm during our summer break. Kids were shooting at us from rooftops, over fences, and from behind trees. For the most part, they’d miss us, but when I got hit (especially on the nipple) it stung and left a welt the size of a quarter. Suffering through the pain meant winning. I knew I could turn the battle to our advantage by destroying the right kid. The older brother was bold enough to run up just a few yards from us, fire off his acorns, and then retreat behind the safety of a tree. He reloaded and came at us for his second attack, yelling “You fucking retard”. I was ready and aimed at his head. He was close to me and I held my nut. I waited for him to pull back the rubber tubing, fully extending his arm. I let go of my acorn. It flew in a straight line, hitting its target on the forehead, and he wasn’t able to get off a shot. “Who’s the fucking retard now,” I yelled. He fell to the ground, crying. After that, there was no resistance from the other kids, and they retreated for home. We had won. Ted and I owned their block. That summer we had many skirmishes.
I was 13 in 1983 and had just moved to a new neighborhood in Washington D.C.
“Help me bring in the bags from the car,” said Mother and I followed her outside. She left the trunk open and I ducked in to pick up the groceries. Then I heard a bang over my head. Something had hit the inside of the trunk lid and I saw an acorn roll to a stop on top of the bread in the bag I was holding. I swung around and held the bag tightly around my torso and kept my face down. Another acorn hit the side of the bag and I ran inside, putting the bag down in the kitchen. I walked back out with Mother to get more bags. You couldn't shoot someone’s mother, so I knew I was safe as long as I stayed close to her.
Mother’s house was in Glover Park, just above Georgetown. Our new neighborhood was middle class. The streets were numbered and lettered in a generic sensibility. In a few minutes I could walk into Georgetown or to Wisconsin Avenue. With a front porch, a small rectangular backyard with a one-car garage and tall fences to divide it from other properties, it was identical to every home on the block. Even if a neighbor made drastic changes to their townhouse or landscaped their yard, basically it was still the same as everyone else’s.
The house itself was old. The floors creaked with every step. The foundation had never quite found its comfortable state and liked to shift its weight ever so slightly from time to time. The homes were tightly packed together and, looking across the alley into back windows, I could always find someone awake. My new best friend, Ted, lived two houses away and went to high school three blocks from the Lab School’s new location.
An alley divided my block into an H in a box formation, giving it the resemblance of a castle. With the line of townhouses as the castle’s walls only divided by the alley, each section of roofs were connected since the houses were right next to each other. By popping open a hatch to our roof, I could climb up and walk across the other roofs, even look down into neighbors’ skylights. From that high vantage point, Ted and I would shoot kids with the acorns that fell from the trees that lined the block. But even if we used a wrist-rocket, we missed most of the time, since it was hard to aim from a long distance and the acorns had irregular shapes. It was a war, The Acorn War, which had been raging for weeks between three different groups: Scott’s gang, Nazi Shawn, Ted and myself.
Each kid hoarded acorns in brown paper shopping bags and hid them around the outside of their houses because each acorn had its own little green worm and no one’s mother would let them stay in the house. Sometimes you might find a squirrel peeking its head in the bag. Blocks were divided into territories. Nazi Shawn had W Street and below, Scott, his brothers and their friends had 40th Street and Ted and I had 39th Street. Scott’s gang was younger than Ted’s and mine, but made up the difference in numbers. Conducting missions on their block meant running onto the lawn of the brothers and blasting as many acorns as we could manage with our wrist rockets. You knew when you hit a kid by the screams of pain, or the vigorous
rubbing of a fresh welt. Everyone in the neighborhood knew I went to the Lab School. When I hit someone, they would yell out, “Fuck you retard!” and that just made me shoot them again.
Scott commanded his gang by crying out orders. His voice hadn’t matured yet so he sounded more like a little girl than a pre-pubescent male. Because of their quantity, they could scatter and regroup, whereas Ted and I had to stand back-to-back. There were more than ten of them and only two of us, but we didn’t care. It was something to do after 5 pm during our summer break. Kids were shooting at us from rooftops, over fences, and from behind trees. For the most part, they’d miss us, but when I got hit (especially on the nipple) it stung and left a welt the size of a quarter. Suffering through the pain meant winning. I knew I could turn the battle to our advantage by destroying the right kid. The older brother was bold enough to run up just a few yards from us, fire off his acorns, and then retreat behind the safety of a tree. He reloaded and came at us for his second attack, yelling “You fucking retard”. I was ready and aimed at his head. He was close to me and I held my nut. I waited for him to pull back the rubber tubing, fully extending his arm. I let go of my acorn. It flew in a straight line, hitting its target on the forehead, and he wasn’t able to get off a shot. “Who’s the fucking retard now,” I yelled. He fell to the ground, crying. After that, there was no resistance from the other kids, and they retreated for home. We had won. Ted and I owned their block. That summer we had many skirmishes.
Do We Have a Fan?
A book came for me in the mail on fatherhood called Fact.File For First-Time Fathers. It was sent by Richard T------- from L.A. The package was waiting for me at Black & White Bar. I work there on Wednesdays and saw the package but didn't know if was for me until Richard called me and told me. I never get things sent to the bar and most of my friends know where I live. I didn’t recognize the name, but I am a bartender so I could have met him and it just slipped my mind. Either way, I'll claim him as our first fan from the blog. That's the only place I have been writing about becoming a dad. Thanks. Send us more stuff.
-Ethan H. Minsker
-Ethan H. Minsker
Thursday, September 24, 2009
U2 at Giant Stadium
Last night I went to the U-2 concert at Giant Stadium. I am a fan of everything from the first album to "Achtung Baby". I think everything after "Achtung Baby" sucks especially their most recent piece of shit. I went to the show hoping the music I did not like would come alive in concert. My evening began waiting in the parking lot for my friend (stuck in rush hour traffic) to show up. I had his ticket and could not enter early. I really had to use a restroom and had no choice but to use the port-o-potty. ( I used the woman's port-o-potty...my friend Harry says it is legal for anyone to use any toilet...Harry knows lots of things.) I always have worries when I use the port-o-potty like I am going to drop my wallet, cell phone, or house keys into the toilet. Last night the worst possible thing, besides falling in, happened in the port-o-potty. As I was squatting and relieving myself I got the fucking SPLASH BACK!!! What the fuck? Is there a God? Does God exist? Is God fucking with me? I can only imagine what was in the splash back....a combination of urine and feces from 113 U-2 fans? Jesus fucking christ. As my pal Scott would say...."this is how god FUCKS you." The concert was pretty good but the new songs still sucked.
-Brother Mike Cohen September 24, 2009. NYC
-Brother Mike Cohen September 24, 2009. NYC
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Ethan's Memoirs
From Rich Boy Cries for Mama by Ethan H. Minsker
I was eleven in 1981. I am dyslexic.
Plywood propped atop cinder blocks provided a ramp for us to jump our BMX bikes over. Taking turns, we would lay down in the path as bikes hopped over us. Tying a rope to the bike seat made a towline and keeping balance on a skateboard was near impossible when the bike jerked to a start.
“Come on retard,” yelled Dickey, holding the rope when I was on the bike. There was a new girl there that I didn’t know. When Dickey was on the skateboard, calling me retard, I felt my face flush. Telling him to stop calling me that would just make it last longer. I peddled slowly, then with a burst of energy, I yanked him off the skateboard and he fell, cutting up his arms.
“You fucking retard. I should have known better than to let a stupid fucking retard pull me,” he said, walking off in the direction of his home. I didn’t care. It felt good hurting him.
I was eleven in 1981. I am dyslexic.
Plywood propped atop cinder blocks provided a ramp for us to jump our BMX bikes over. Taking turns, we would lay down in the path as bikes hopped over us. Tying a rope to the bike seat made a towline and keeping balance on a skateboard was near impossible when the bike jerked to a start.
“Come on retard,” yelled Dickey, holding the rope when I was on the bike. There was a new girl there that I didn’t know. When Dickey was on the skateboard, calling me retard, I felt my face flush. Telling him to stop calling me that would just make it last longer. I peddled slowly, then with a burst of energy, I yanked him off the skateboard and he fell, cutting up his arms.
“You fucking retard. I should have known better than to let a stupid fucking retard pull me,” he said, walking off in the direction of his home. I didn’t care. It felt good hurting him.
Brother Mike at Fahrenheit
Check it out folks, you could be a star for 5 minutes. That's more than Warhol wanted to give you.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Ethan's Memoirs
For the past nine years, I've been working on two memoirs. I'm now at the stage where both books are being edited-down. This section is being cut out of my first memoir to make the book shorter and more concise. In this story, I'm about eight years old and my sister is seven. And, hey, if you are a big famous publisher, let me know. This is all true.
Cut from Rich Boy Cries for Mama, a memoir by Ethan H Minsker
“Brother? Don’t stand so close to me,” said Sister. It was the next morning. “If you fall, I will fall.”
I was afraid to move so I didn’t. The instructor was standing behind me. “Now remember, making an “H” with your skis will make you go faster.” I looked for my parents but they had left us there hours before. The sun’s reflection off the snow made everything on the ground blinding. If I closed my eyes, I could still see light blue mixed with the red of the inside of my eyelids. “Making a “V” will slow you down. Let’s try it.” I made my “V’s” and “H’s” and fell a few times. “Brother, look, every time you fall, you leave a blue spot in the snow.” My sweater was a deep blue, and the dye colored the ground
where I landed. The teacher laughed, “Well, at least we will be able to follow you if you get lost”. The blue spot made the snow look like shaved ice. I wondered what it tasted like.
The bunny hill had a rope that yanked us to the top. The first time I held on too long and almost got eaten by the pulley. We made many runs and I felt comfortable with my efforts. The parents collected us and we rode the lift to the top of the beginner’s trail. Sliding off the lift, I fell and they had to stop it so the next group getting off didn’t run me over. I left my blue spot and rolled a bit, trying to make it larger. Sister watched me. She shook her head and I imagined a moon orbiting her that read “Dumb ass Brother” and even if I couldn’t read it, I understood what it meant. Standing at the top of the mountain, I watched the other skiers. Some were moving fast by crouching down and tucking in their poles. Sister went on without me.
She swung from one side of the trail to the other, making a large zigzag, practicing her “H’s” and “V’s”. I can beat her to the bottom. She could read, but I could go faster, I thought. I needed to beat her in something. I turned and made my H as I picked up speed. Sister was making it half way down the mountain. I needed to pick up speed if I was going to beat her to the lift. I crouched down, pulling my poles in tight. I passed Father, who watched me and smiled. I went faster, passing Mother. I was a racer, a bullet, a hawk swooping in on the prey. I could see the lift and was catching up to Sister. Chewing my tongue, I concentrated and made myself into a tight ball to pick up more speed. My tongue hung out the side of my mouth as I noshed it with my teeth. I flew past Sister and I laughed. She didn’t notice, looking down at her skis, working her V and slowing down to a controlled stop. I looked forward, and saw the lift and the wooden pole standing next to it. I blinked and the pole moved closer. I needed to stop but the V wasn’t working fast enough. The pole wasn’t moving away. In fact, it stood in my path. I blinked again just before hitting it. I had wrapped myself around the pole and was knocked out. Sister reached me first and made a stop with her V.
“Am I dead?” I said, but my tongue was mangled from the impact of wood against my jaw and my teeth clamping down on it. I looked up at the sky and Sister looked down on me with her curly hair as her head blocked the sun and the light looked as if it came from her. When the ski patrol carried me off, the snow around the pole was stained blue.
They put a bandage on my head and chin. My tongue was swollen and it felt like a dead fish was stuffed in my mouth. “Brother, you almost bit your tongue off.” Her eyebrows were lifted above her eyes and I could see her moon again. I tried to say something but the words didn’t come together with my tongue being double its natural size. I had almost killed myself, I thought. I try so hard not to die and I almost killed myself. They gave me a white motorcycle helmet to wear the rest of my trip. I liked it and was allowed to wear it to dinner. I pretended I was in the army. I couldn’t speak because of my tongue and when the hostess asked how I was doing, I mumbled “Fine”. She couldn’t understand me.
“Look at the great table we got,” said Father. “It’s packed in here and we had no problem getting it.”
“Of course we got a good table.” said Mother. “Everyone here thinks our son is retarded.”
-Ethan Minsker
(cover art)
Cut from Rich Boy Cries for Mama, a memoir by Ethan H Minsker
“Brother? Don’t stand so close to me,” said Sister. It was the next morning. “If you fall, I will fall.”
I was afraid to move so I didn’t. The instructor was standing behind me. “Now remember, making an “H” with your skis will make you go faster.” I looked for my parents but they had left us there hours before. The sun’s reflection off the snow made everything on the ground blinding. If I closed my eyes, I could still see light blue mixed with the red of the inside of my eyelids. “Making a “V” will slow you down. Let’s try it.” I made my “V’s” and “H’s” and fell a few times. “Brother, look, every time you fall, you leave a blue spot in the snow.” My sweater was a deep blue, and the dye colored the ground
where I landed. The teacher laughed, “Well, at least we will be able to follow you if you get lost”. The blue spot made the snow look like shaved ice. I wondered what it tasted like.
The bunny hill had a rope that yanked us to the top. The first time I held on too long and almost got eaten by the pulley. We made many runs and I felt comfortable with my efforts. The parents collected us and we rode the lift to the top of the beginner’s trail. Sliding off the lift, I fell and they had to stop it so the next group getting off didn’t run me over. I left my blue spot and rolled a bit, trying to make it larger. Sister watched me. She shook her head and I imagined a moon orbiting her that read “Dumb ass Brother” and even if I couldn’t read it, I understood what it meant. Standing at the top of the mountain, I watched the other skiers. Some were moving fast by crouching down and tucking in their poles. Sister went on without me.
She swung from one side of the trail to the other, making a large zigzag, practicing her “H’s” and “V’s”. I can beat her to the bottom. She could read, but I could go faster, I thought. I needed to beat her in something. I turned and made my H as I picked up speed. Sister was making it half way down the mountain. I needed to pick up speed if I was going to beat her to the lift. I crouched down, pulling my poles in tight. I passed Father, who watched me and smiled. I went faster, passing Mother. I was a racer, a bullet, a hawk swooping in on the prey. I could see the lift and was catching up to Sister. Chewing my tongue, I concentrated and made myself into a tight ball to pick up more speed. My tongue hung out the side of my mouth as I noshed it with my teeth. I flew past Sister and I laughed. She didn’t notice, looking down at her skis, working her V and slowing down to a controlled stop. I looked forward, and saw the lift and the wooden pole standing next to it. I blinked and the pole moved closer. I needed to stop but the V wasn’t working fast enough. The pole wasn’t moving away. In fact, it stood in my path. I blinked again just before hitting it. I had wrapped myself around the pole and was knocked out. Sister reached me first and made a stop with her V.
“Am I dead?” I said, but my tongue was mangled from the impact of wood against my jaw and my teeth clamping down on it. I looked up at the sky and Sister looked down on me with her curly hair as her head blocked the sun and the light looked as if it came from her. When the ski patrol carried me off, the snow around the pole was stained blue.
They put a bandage on my head and chin. My tongue was swollen and it felt like a dead fish was stuffed in my mouth. “Brother, you almost bit your tongue off.” Her eyebrows were lifted above her eyes and I could see her moon again. I tried to say something but the words didn’t come together with my tongue being double its natural size. I had almost killed myself, I thought. I try so hard not to die and I almost killed myself. They gave me a white motorcycle helmet to wear the rest of my trip. I liked it and was allowed to wear it to dinner. I pretended I was in the army. I couldn’t speak because of my tongue and when the hostess asked how I was doing, I mumbled “Fine”. She couldn’t understand me.
“Look at the great table we got,” said Father. “It’s packed in here and we had no problem getting it.”
“Of course we got a good table.” said Mother. “Everyone here thinks our son is retarded.”
-Ethan Minsker
(cover art)
Friday, September 18, 2009
Dolls of Lisbon Part 2
Interview with Marthalicia, one of our Doll artists!
We have given out 40 Dolls of Lisbon to artists in and around NY for the artists to use to create their own awesome art. The deadline for returning the finished Dolls of Lisbon was the end of August. At the request of some of the artists, we extended that deadline by a little bit – but now time is running out!
On October 17, as part of the larger Antagonist Artists Group Show at the Mindy Wyatt Gallery, we will be showing some of the completed Dolls of Lisbon. This will be a preview of our upcoming overseas show in Lisbon plus, once we have all the dolls turned in, we will try to do a full show here in NYC after May 2010.
Two of the dolls shown in these photos are from our artists in Baltimore. Not only did they finish all their artwork, but they also shipped them back to us by mail.
We have given out 40 Dolls of Lisbon to artists in and around NY for the artists to use to create their own awesome art. The deadline for returning the finished Dolls of Lisbon was the end of August. At the request of some of the artists, we extended that deadline by a little bit – but now time is running out!
On October 17, as part of the larger Antagonist Artists Group Show at the Mindy Wyatt Gallery, we will be showing some of the completed Dolls of Lisbon. This will be a preview of our upcoming overseas show in Lisbon plus, once we have all the dolls turned in, we will try to do a full show here in NYC after May 2010.
Two of the dolls shown in these photos are from our artists in Baltimore. Not only did they finish all their artwork, but they also shipped them back to us by mail.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Professional Sports
After purchasing tickets at the Beacon Theatre for the Aretha Franklin show at Radio City Music Hall, I got on the subway today at 72nd and Broadway I noticed all the fucking assholes on the train wearing New York Yankees hats.
What is the obsession with the fucking New York Yankees? How come people that live in this city are SO FUCKING into the goddamn baseball team ? Do these people not listen to music? Do these people not have sex? What the fuck? PROFESSIONAL SPORTS? Are these people in the New York Yankees hats fucking serious about rooting for a fucking team??? I do not understand the obsession with the New York Yankees, (a bunch of men getting paid to hit a ball, catch a ball, and run around a little diamond).
What happened to the people that used to get in their pal's volvo in college and drive 8 hours to see the Grateful fucking Dead? Or the people that get on a fucking airplane and fly to Dublin to see Bob Dylan? Who are these people with the fucking New York Yankees hats? Jesus fucking Christ. I hate people. I hate sports. I hate the New York Yankees.
-Brother Mike Cohen September 16, 2009. NYC
What is the obsession with the fucking New York Yankees? How come people that live in this city are SO FUCKING into the goddamn baseball team ? Do these people not listen to music? Do these people not have sex? What the fuck? PROFESSIONAL SPORTS? Are these people in the New York Yankees hats fucking serious about rooting for a fucking team??? I do not understand the obsession with the New York Yankees, (a bunch of men getting paid to hit a ball, catch a ball, and run around a little diamond).
What happened to the people that used to get in their pal's volvo in college and drive 8 hours to see the Grateful fucking Dead? Or the people that get on a fucking airplane and fly to Dublin to see Bob Dylan? Who are these people with the fucking New York Yankees hats? Jesus fucking Christ. I hate people. I hate sports. I hate the New York Yankees.
-Brother Mike Cohen September 16, 2009. NYC
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Art Show and Screening!
Does everyone remember that movie about Berlin that we made? On October 17th, as part of the Royal Flush Film Festival, not only will the Antagonist Art Movement be having a gallery opening with art, music, booze and fun, but we will be having a screening of This is Berlin, Not New York.
Dear god, what's the location!?
Royal Flush Festival at Anthology Film Archives
32 Second Avenue
Manhattan, NY 10003
How the hell do I get tickets to this!?
You go HERE.
But wait, did we say there's a gallery opening too?!
Is there ever. There is an Antagonist group showing at the Mindy Wyatt Gallery from 6-9pm, and afterwards we'll all be going over to the screening. Our artists will include many of our favorites:
Ted Riederer
Pat Conlon
Jeffrey Beebe
Jeramy Fletcher
Sylvia Ortiz
Daniel York Krupin
and more!
The gallery is located at 814 Broadway on the 2nd Floor, between 11th and 12th streets.
The gallery show is free, but remember, you need to get your tickets for the screening...HERE!!
Don't worry, we'll remind you again. And again.
Dear god, what's the location!?
Royal Flush Festival at Anthology Film Archives
32 Second Avenue
Manhattan, NY 10003
How the hell do I get tickets to this!?
You go HERE.
But wait, did we say there's a gallery opening too?!
Is there ever. There is an Antagonist group showing at the Mindy Wyatt Gallery from 6-9pm, and afterwards we'll all be going over to the screening. Our artists will include many of our favorites:
Ted Riederer
Pat Conlon
Jeffrey Beebe
Jeramy Fletcher
Sylvia Ortiz
Daniel York Krupin
and more!
The gallery is located at 814 Broadway on the 2nd Floor, between 11th and 12th streets.
The gallery show is free, but remember, you need to get your tickets for the screening...HERE!!
Don't worry, we'll remind you again. And again.
Sneak Peeks at Our Treats
Why should you come to Fahrenheit and Alphabet City Soup? Because we have musicians like Lisa Jaeggi (who is performing on September 21st) and writer's who do antics like Mr. Katzban.
See you at Niagara!
See you at Niagara!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Antagonist Movement for Dummies
Alright kids, we've made this lesson REALLY simple for you...
The Antagonist Art Movement - For Dummies from Anthony Ferraro on Vimeo.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Baby Blu
Some of you may know that “Blu” is the name of our coming baby. From the start, I plan on gathering as much blackmail as I can. My wife will be at the ready with a camera in case I get poop all over me during diaper changes. Or a video tape getting peed in the face. Then when he is a teenager, I can hold it over his head. "What! You don't want to do your homework? Okay. I'm going to have a screening of your video with all those too-cool friends of yours." At a party last Sunday, a friend pointed out that someday I may need him to wipe my own ass. Good point. I better start saving for a nurse.
-Ethan Minsker
-Ethan Minsker
Boy or Girl
Next Tuesday we find out if our baby is a boy or girl. I want a boy and my wife wants a girl. This is no secret since everyone asks me. John Bush says, "If there is a god, you will have twin girls." He is referring to all the evil things I have done to girls I've dated. My father says, "I don't care what it is, as long as it's healthy." My wife says, "Boys aren't fun." But I think she just wants something to dress up. She can dress up our little boy for all I care. I've been asked, "What if he's gay?" I don't care what his/her sexual preference is, as long as it's not Republican. Boy or girl, we already know the name: “Blue” or “Blu”. Note to my friends: Not after the Blue we grew up with, though I did like his name. When I was a kid I knew a girl named Twelve. But if you have a kid with a name like that what happens if you have a second one, do you name it Eleven, as if you are working backwards? I came up with Blue after watching a show on PBS. It was an interview with a 92-year-old animator named Grim. He had been an animator on the Betty Boop cartoon and hadn't gotten credit until now. But this old man was the happiest guy I had seen in a long time. It had to be his name. As if everything would have been the opposite if he had been named Happy or Joy. Before I got married, I told my fiancé my first born had to be named Blue. She said okay, but recently she informed me that, if I picked the name, she got to pick the spelling, and it's going to be “Blu”. So now we are having a French baby. That's okay. I'm sure it's a boy.
-Ethan Minsker
-Ethan Minsker
Proud Moment #1: Goldschlager
In 1992, I went to San Francisco for the second time to see my old friend Max. There I met John Bush. Neither name is important for the story but people seem to like it when I add the names. They lived on upper Haight Street in a three bedroom apartment. Across the street was a liquor store. Max and John sent me to pick up something. I came back with a six pack of Bud Light. It was the special. And a bottle of Goldschlager. Goldschlager has flaks of gold suspended in peppermint nectar of the gods. In the store when I pointed it out to the clerk, he said, "It's something frat boys and white girls drink." "You can't drink that," I said."It's got crap floating in it." Later that night we went to a show, Screw 32 and the Swinging Utters. Max was in the Swinging Utters so no one bothered me as I danced and spun around with my bottle of Goldschlager. After the show, back on Haight Street, the Goldschlager came back up and out. Between vomiting. I kept shouting, "It's the most expensive punk in the world. It's got gold in it. It’s worth money. We should save it!"
-Ethan Minkser
-Ethan Minkser
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Fahrenheit!
WHAT: FAHRENHEIT - the open mic/spoken word/comedy/ storytelling/poetry/music thing do twice a month in the East Village
WHERE: Black and White Bar located on East 10th street between 3rd and 4th Ave in the East Village in Manhattan
BROUGHT TO YOU BY WHO? The Anatagonist Movement and the "T" brothers. (Johnny+Crispy)
WHAT TIME: 9pm-11pm
HOST: we have new host, his name is Matt and he has a beard. He has replaced Nick who has left NYC to learn how to write on the left coast.
CAN I GET ON STAGE? Sure, fuck face, you get only 5 minutes. Thats 5 minutes.
WILL ZEKE TEWILLEGER BE THERE? no, he hates all of us...but Richard Allen and Brother Mike Cohen will be there.
ADMISSION: Free, but you should buy some drinks and leave your poland spring at home.
WHEN IS THE NEXT READING IF I CANT MAKE IT ON SUNDAY? Thursday September 17, 2009 at Niagara....dont worry, I will send another email.
-Brother Mike Cohen
WHERE: Black and White Bar located on East 10th street between 3rd and 4th Ave in the East Village in Manhattan
BROUGHT TO YOU BY WHO? The Anatagonist Movement and the "T" brothers. (Johnny+Crispy)
WHAT TIME: 9pm-11pm
HOST: we have new host, his name is Matt and he has a beard. He has replaced Nick who has left NYC to learn how to write on the left coast.
CAN I GET ON STAGE? Sure, fuck face, you get only 5 minutes. Thats 5 minutes.
WILL ZEKE TEWILLEGER BE THERE? no, he hates all of us...but Richard Allen and Brother Mike Cohen will be there.
ADMISSION: Free, but you should buy some drinks and leave your poland spring at home.
WHEN IS THE NEXT READING IF I CANT MAKE IT ON SUNDAY? Thursday September 17, 2009 at Niagara....dont worry, I will send another email.
-Brother Mike Cohen
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Ted Riederer's Studio Visit
Come along with us as we catch a glimpse of the magic inside one of our Antagonist's minds. Ted Riederer shows off his art, music and philosophical ideas of the world. Not only are we Antagonists, but we are worldly Antagonists.
Buy some of Ted's stuff if you like it! He has a website too! HERE!
Buy some of Ted's stuff if you like it! He has a website too! HERE!
Saturday, September 5, 2009
GRINDYR
Last night I was out for dinner at Cafeteria in Chelsea. Yes, the famous restaurante that the Sex and the City girls were often eating brunch. I watched "Sex and the City" on dvd from the first episode to the last episode and completely enjoyed it. You may think I am kidding but I am not kidding. Anyways, this was my second time at Cafeteria and I really fucking enjoyed it!!!!! GO TO CAFETERIA located on the corner of 17th Street and 7th Ave and eat!!! Dont forget to get the deep fried oreo's for dessert.......while dining at Cafeteria I learned that there is a web site called "GRINDYR" and it was founded by gay men for gay men to cruise and get the instant hook up (what a great idea). I think you have to join and be a member or something. If you are a gay man looking for some action you go to "GRINDYR" and type in what radius you are willing to find another gay man looking for action. You can type in 1 mile or 700 feet and all of a sudden a picture of a fellow fruit will pop up who could well be across the street at another restaurante willing to ditch their deep fried double stuff oreo's and meet you for a little man on man action. What a great web site? How come straight people don't have these wonderful web sites? The homosexual community is light years ahead of the rest of us in social/screwing networking.
-Brother Mike Cohen, 4:45pm Dunkin Donuts at 2nd ave and 11th street NYC.
-Brother Mike Cohen, 4:45pm Dunkin Donuts at 2nd ave and 11th street NYC.
New Shirt!
I spent all day hand-printing the new shirt. The entire time I had Brother Mike hovering over me, asking me questions while I was trying to print. "Fuck man, I just don't get this. When I was in school, we had typewriters." Mike is working on a script for an animated pilot, based on Mike's crazy life, called "Somewhere between a Punch and a Handshake". Mike hates computers and would rather write everything out on toilet paper, like he was in prison.
The new shirt was designed by Doug McQueen during the Antagonist Beach Retreat in '07. Doug is a talented apprenticing tattoo artist. His work is a mix of odd pop images with elements of white trash. The artist's retreat is modeled after the vacations, written about by Henry Miller and Ernest Hemingway, in which a group of painters, dancers, writers and all sorts of creative types would vacation at the shore. Change your environment, relax and bond with other artists; drink and be merry. On our artist's retreats, I always bring a large pad of sketch paper and leave it in the screened-in porch. One night, in between shoot-gunning our seven mini-buds, Doug started sketching the work. By the next night, there were more than a dozen images of our logo. I picked this one since it reminded me of Rat Fink. This logo has a special meaning for me since it was designed in the same year that I asked my wife to marry me. But that's a different story.
Every few years, we redesign the Antagonist ninja logo but a few elements stay the same. The colors are always black and white with a red background. It's a black, masked ninja within a circle, with the text "Antagonist Movement" in a band.
You can pick up one of our new shirts at 99x, located at 84 East 10th Street NYC between 3rd and 4th Avenues, or come to one of our art shows. The shirts are in all sizes for men and women. The money goes right back into making more Antagonist Art. I've got to go. Mike is bothering me about format even though I have already shown him 10 times. I think he just likes having me lean over him so he can sniff my stink.
-Ethan Minsker
09/03/2009
The new shirt was designed by Doug McQueen during the Antagonist Beach Retreat in '07. Doug is a talented apprenticing tattoo artist. His work is a mix of odd pop images with elements of white trash. The artist's retreat is modeled after the vacations, written about by Henry Miller and Ernest Hemingway, in which a group of painters, dancers, writers and all sorts of creative types would vacation at the shore. Change your environment, relax and bond with other artists; drink and be merry. On our artist's retreats, I always bring a large pad of sketch paper and leave it in the screened-in porch. One night, in between shoot-gunning our seven mini-buds, Doug started sketching the work. By the next night, there were more than a dozen images of our logo. I picked this one since it reminded me of Rat Fink. This logo has a special meaning for me since it was designed in the same year that I asked my wife to marry me. But that's a different story.
Every few years, we redesign the Antagonist ninja logo but a few elements stay the same. The colors are always black and white with a red background. It's a black, masked ninja within a circle, with the text "Antagonist Movement" in a band.
You can pick up one of our new shirts at 99x, located at 84 East 10th Street NYC between 3rd and 4th Avenues, or come to one of our art shows. The shirts are in all sizes for men and women. The money goes right back into making more Antagonist Art. I've got to go. Mike is bothering me about format even though I have already shown him 10 times. I think he just likes having me lean over him so he can sniff my stink.
-Ethan Minsker
09/03/2009
"Anything Boys Can Do" at Brooklyn Museum
"Anything Boys Can Do" at Brooklyn Museum
Please pass this on to anyone you think would be interested. It's on Halloween so I want to make sure people know it's going on.
If you write a blog, please re-post it. Or if you think you can make it, stop by. There is no cover once you are inside the museum.
This is an old film I did in 1996. I think you will like it.
We are releasing it on DVD October 20th
Thanks
Ethan
Please pass this on to anyone you think would be interested. It's on Halloween so I want to make sure people know it's going on.
If you write a blog, please re-post it. Or if you think you can make it, stop by. There is no cover once you are inside the museum.
This is an old film I did in 1996. I think you will like it.
We are releasing it on DVD October 20th
Thanks
Ethan
Niceness
Today I have been slaving over a computer at Ethan Minsker's place. I have been re-writing the 4th version of the pilot script for the cartoon we have been working on based on my short stories. The pilot is an updated version of my story "Stones in Canada". The idea is to pitch it to adult swim when the script and animation are fully tweaked. Ethan has been making antagonist t shirts all day and forcing me to help. I tried to tell Ethan I was busy working on the script but he did not seem to care and made fun of me when I needed help with the formatting and margins. He said "do it yourself, I am not your mother." Sometimes he is not very nice. He was nice enough to let me eat my dinner (sushi) in the bathroom while he and his wife ate their dinner in the living room. Ethan will be having a birthday party on sunday at Ted's place and I will be reading the new version of the pilot script in front of people for the first time. Hopefully Ethan will give me permission to eat a hot dog and a hamburger in Ted's bathroom.
-Brother Mike Cohen
09/03/2009
-Brother Mike Cohen
09/03/2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Ethan Minsker's Doll!
Well, technically Ethan makes most of the dolls, and then he gives them to artists to dazzle up. But this is his special one. It's called "Overgrown."
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Fromage!
My girlfriend and I are very possibly going to Paris in the fall. I have never been to Paris. I usually do not like to travel unless I am going to see at least 2 Bob Dylan shows. I studied the language for 3 years in high school but dont remember too much. I know how to say "FROMAGE" loud and clear and when we get to a restaurante I will be screaming "FROMAGE FROMAGE!!" as soon as we walk in the door. (In the same vein I would enter a bookstore and scream "SELF HELP SELF HELP!")
I love to eat fromage and that is why my cholesterol is so high. I see a heart attack on the horizon. I will not have health insurance for the month of September due to complications in the health insurance companies and laziness. It would be ironic if I have a goddamn heart attack while uninsured. My father did not have a heart attack until he was in his 70's which is pretty good AND my mother NEVER had a heart attack her whole life!!! (too bad I am adopted -LOL!!) Both of my parents enjoyed fromage often.
My favorite fromage is muenster with Brie running a close second. I could eat fromage on crackers all day. (low sodium crackers of course). I heard Vienna is very nice in the fall. I was watching a Patti Smith documentary from 1978 where she goes to Vienna for 20 hours to record and find some inspiration and magic. She mentions that she really likes the statue of Mozart especially "his big cock". Maybe we will not go to Paris but go to Vienna to look at Mozart's big cock and eat Austrian fromage.
-Brother Mike Cohen
I love to eat fromage and that is why my cholesterol is so high. I see a heart attack on the horizon. I will not have health insurance for the month of September due to complications in the health insurance companies and laziness. It would be ironic if I have a goddamn heart attack while uninsured. My father did not have a heart attack until he was in his 70's which is pretty good AND my mother NEVER had a heart attack her whole life!!! (too bad I am adopted -LOL!!) Both of my parents enjoyed fromage often.
My favorite fromage is muenster with Brie running a close second. I could eat fromage on crackers all day. (low sodium crackers of course). I heard Vienna is very nice in the fall. I was watching a Patti Smith documentary from 1978 where she goes to Vienna for 20 hours to record and find some inspiration and magic. She mentions that she really likes the statue of Mozart especially "his big cock". Maybe we will not go to Paris but go to Vienna to look at Mozart's big cock and eat Austrian fromage.
-Brother Mike Cohen
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