Back to food, art, and stuff to complain about

So, this past weekend we were blessed with some semi-normal weather. Meaning, it was fairly warm and the air was filled with a light scent of winter’s death. Meaning it felt as if spring is fairly close. And this time is always exciting. Because biological rhythms or whatever, but you do tend to feel more uplifted, and hopeful, and maybe even nicer. Or not. You might very well just remain an uplifted asshole.


Sunday, we decided to go to Manhattan to check if our walking abilities were still there, and didn’t rot away over the winter. Chinatown we went to. And I haven’t been to Chinatown in a long time, and can’t say the reunion was sentimental. It’s just the same –  loud and crowded. And no a place for a lady, unless you need to buy cheap souvenirs. We did stop by  to have some Vietnamese soup at this place Pho Viet Huong. And it was exactly the perfect experience to have on that day, in that place.


Then from Chinatown we went through Little Italy. And the streets, buildings, and scenes – changed immediately. Like some mystical magic, or more like a really large number of immigrants trying to live with each other. But hey, this Mulberry street had a number of some cool street art graffiti. Not sure if they’re recent, or I just never came across these before. Here, Feast your eyes






Then we had a deliberate intension of visiting this New Museum. And it had a cool roof top on the top floor. But no drinks. So you’re better off visiting some type of roof top bar. View is the same plus you’ll have a drink in your hand. Just saying.

The exhibition was cool/weird/annoying at times. Anri Sala: Answer me – a compilation of video screens with sound effects. And most of the rooms and stuff on display were ok-ish. Because at times I found people watching the exhibition more interesting.


Then the main room (I assume it was main because it was the largest) also had the biggest screen, and played 3 back to back clips. And all I can say we were glued and watched them all. They were strange, and metaphoric, but in a way you understood. Or thought you understood, you could be all wrong. Like really wrong, so keep your assumptions to yourself. Nobody wants them. In the end, the music got to me. It was non-stop, loud, with sometimes high screeches, and I was so done with it. Thankfully the exhibition ended right at the point you were ready to stab somebody. I’m not sure if art is supposed to do that to you.


Then we desperately needed some drinks and found this bar and I’ll give you its name, but just so that you don’t visit it. It was called Proletariat (East Village) and counter-intuitive to the name, it had a collection of the highest priced beers in the tri state area. I mean, I have nothing against craft beer and all that nonsense, but then call yourself Aristocrat, or Bourgeois, or Very Expensive Beer, or some shit that would make sense.


Can stuff just make sense, or is that too much to ask?

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