Happy Thanksgiving from TeamOFS
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Mr. Onions: Tango
I completed AP Spanish during my sophomore year of high school. It gave me joy to see my hard work pay off by completing an all senior student class. Only problem was, since I was not a senior, I could not attend the annual trip to Spain. Forreal?!? Young 15 year old Onion himself could speak, write, and understand all aspects of the Spanish language better than anyone else in the class and I had to stay home because of my age?!? I’m allowed to take the class and advance myself as a human, but when it comes to taking in the motherland, my age makes me a liability? This was bullshit. I knew it. My teacher Señor Ecklin knew it. Even the principal of the high school knew it. He said there was nothing he could do because they have "rules." Well here's a rule for you, pendejos: Premiar a los estudiantes que sobresalen en sus estudios. ¡Me cago en tus muertos, putos! After all these years, I am still bothered by this fiasco and my Spanish speaking has dwindled as such. I'd still like to visit Spain. I want to bathe in the wine, enjoy the cuisine, and dance to the music late into the night. Unfortunately for me, tapas right on the cusp of Capitol Hill is all I have.
My lady loves tapas and claims they are the smart way to drink. A little food here, a little drink there, a little more food, another drink. Repeat. Repeat. Enjoy. This sounded like fun and I figured I'd give it a try. We arrive on a Tuesday evening and immediately head toward the bar for the all night happy hour. The hostess had completely ignored us so we took it upon ourselves to find a spot. I find an empty dirty booth which appeared was no longer occupied. I asked the hostess, "Can we sit there?" She looks up with her darkly rimmed cloud smoked eyes and snarls "No." I stand there for exactly 46 seconds looking at her looking down and then say, "Why not?" Her response, "We have to clean it." Listen, I can tell you hate your life but please do not ruin my mine. I know you are here going through the motions. The stacking of menus, opening and closing of the reservation book, and staring down scraping the black polish off of your fingernails is really a trying job. I hate to inconvenience you with sitting at a table that you don't even have to seat me at. If you're not going to clean the table, tell someone else to. Do something! Put down the fourth book of The Twilight Saga, throw a smile on your face, and welcome me to this little part of the world known as Spain.
Upon perusing the menu, little did I know Tango didn't just embrace Spain. There are hints of Cuba, Argentina, and other parts of South America occupying my menu with little hints of Latin fusion. Latin fusion! Ugh! Gross! Where am I?? Something about Americanized Latin restaurants really bugs me. Can't we just pick one fucking country and go with it?! Do we need to integrate eight countries into one brand new type of cuisine? Nothing seemed to make sense as I looked around. I felt like I was deep inside the Mall Of America. The giant roman numeral clock and brightly colored paintings look plum picked right out of an Ikea catalog. The cheesy fluorescent light bulbs glared into my pupils forcing me to look down at my menu. RJD2's Ghostwriter seemed to play on repeat for the entire evening. The constant cackling of nearby downtown co-workers had taken my focus away from the menu. I'm sure you guys are having a good time, but it cannot be that damn funny every single 20 seconds. Shove a napkin in that hyena pie-hole of yours so I can enjoy this upcoming comida auténtica. Luckily, my server arrived and we could get this show on the road. ¡Vamos!
Our waiter was a nice Asian white guy with spiky frat boy hair who was way too excited about everything. He was polite but just a little too over the top for me. I really just wanted him to stop winking and shooting his finger gun at me every time I spoke. I could tell his TGI Fridays training and flair had completely taken over any real chance of seeing his true personality. He was definitely happy to be where he was which made me believe this place couldn't be all bad, can it? At the very least I knew I could get an adderall and Red Bull.
Plates then started to assemble in front of me one at a time every few minutes. It first started with an adorable wooden plate holding warm Spanish corn bread accompanied by a sweet jelly butter. I didn't ask for it, they just brought it. I like that. The butternut squash soup shortly arrived after. I've never had something be spicy and bland at the same time. How can you make something with such a kick, and then it finishes into tasting like the liquid Holy Eucharist? It's like they blended up cotton balls, a habañero pepper, and a few drops of E160b orange food coloring dye. My lady somehow enjoyed this pulpy mediocrity while I was ready for my Carnitas Del Puerco. The plate had just arrived with a bowl of shredded pork and four warm tortillas. These self made tacos were delicious. The multiple flavors were enticing. I closed my eyes and imagined myself walking through Valencia with this in one hand and my beautiful woman in the other. Mi vida era perfecta. I then continued to eat another tiny taco burrito and grease started exploding onto the table. My tortillas were oozing out of control, dripping and dropping pork juice all over. I think that first bite really had me fooled into thinking this was something that it wasn't. It basically was just a glorified taco that I had to put together myself. I was over it. This dish was getting cold now, and it had immediately lost every sense of nostalgia.
The vampire hostess then arrives with my Penn Cove Mejillones and bulls them onto the table. Her mean mugging emo goth face makes me want to stab her right through the heart. She grunts as I say thank you, walks away, and steps back into her coffin of doing nothing. I can't believe she actually lifted a finger in this joint, someone must have promised her a Marlboro Red cigarette for her sixth borrowed smoke break of the evening. It's really hard for me to not like mussels, but this place succeeded in destroying everything else that comes with them. The broth was filled with peppers, onions, and little chunks of nothing as I ate one shellfish after the next. The onions were stringy and chewy. They drowned in the broth as lifeless as the door gal. My broth lacked any type of real desire to be something. At least my soup earlier had spice! This was just a bowl of hot water with a bunch of shit and mussels thrown into it. I ate some and had Captain Sugar Rush take it away.
The Spanish Coca Flatbread and Quest Azul Souffle had arrived immediately after disposing of the crap I was just eating, and I was enthralled with trying yet another tiny plate of food. It seemed like the flatbread was there just to piss me off though. It was one giant bagel bite. Did they microwave this from a frozen box? I could have just put some bread in the toaster oven, cut up a pepper, and then call it something fancy in Spanglish. This was so stupid, I had no idea Mama Celeste had started doing delivery. Luckily we had this blue cheese soufflé to occupy us. It was so rich in flavor. Oh so airy in texture. Finally!! All of these countries have made something together that actually tastes good. The blueberry compote was a perfect compliment to the pungency of the queso. The dish was no bigger than the size of a JFK fifty-cent piece, but man, each minuscule bite was to die for.
I kept wondering when the ordering of drinks would come in to compliment my tapas, but never had a chance. I was never asked, "How is everything?" or "Would you like a nice red to pair with this dish?" To me, a little hospitality goes a long way. Granted, the food was expedited quickly and everyone besides The Blood Countess was pretty nice to me, but I'd like to know that you are concerned with how I'm feeling at your place. At that exact moment our waiter returns and pre busses our table asking me how everything was. This guy was good, too good. He made me feel like everything was okay even if my meal wasn't. We asked about the famed El Diablo dessert, and he gave me immediate jazz hands ranting and raving about it. I told him we were pretty full and couldn't handle such a big dish. He gladly obliged to make us a smaller version of the Food Network featured dessert. God, I'm actually starting to love this guy! He is taking care of me and my needs. I want to go back to his dorm room at Seattle University and do keg stands with him. I want to be his partner in beer pong. Yes, I will watch Community with you. This dessert came and it was insane. The burnt meringue was covered in lumpy chocolate goodness and then dusted with dark cocoa and chili powder. The tequila caramel on the plate was scraped up for every deliberate bite. The race was on! Neither my lady nor I wanted to lose a bite to the other and we plowed through this treat.
We decided to slow down towards the last few bites and embrace this final dish until the evil one walked by again. She was so furiously rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders at everyone. I prayed for the sun to come up at once so she could shrivel down into a ball of Hot Topic black denim and purple smoke. I wanted every emotion that she exuded to come back and haunt her like her ugly face does me. I wanted her to feel the true pain of this world. Times are so tough with your Eastside father paying your rent and buying you more black lipstick. I know you can't wait to go drink a tallboy with your boyfriend's shitty emo punk band, but at least acknowledge that I am leaving. I must get out of here! Adios, muchacha!
Mr. Onions Rating (on a 1-10 scale):
Food: 6 Service: 6 Atmosphere: 4 Spanish Professor: 0
Overall: 5.3
My lady loves tapas and claims they are the smart way to drink. A little food here, a little drink there, a little more food, another drink. Repeat. Repeat. Enjoy. This sounded like fun and I figured I'd give it a try. We arrive on a Tuesday evening and immediately head toward the bar for the all night happy hour. The hostess had completely ignored us so we took it upon ourselves to find a spot. I find an empty dirty booth which appeared was no longer occupied. I asked the hostess, "Can we sit there?" She looks up with her darkly rimmed cloud smoked eyes and snarls "No." I stand there for exactly 46 seconds looking at her looking down and then say, "Why not?" Her response, "We have to clean it." Listen, I can tell you hate your life but please do not ruin my mine. I know you are here going through the motions. The stacking of menus, opening and closing of the reservation book, and staring down scraping the black polish off of your fingernails is really a trying job. I hate to inconvenience you with sitting at a table that you don't even have to seat me at. If you're not going to clean the table, tell someone else to. Do something! Put down the fourth book of The Twilight Saga, throw a smile on your face, and welcome me to this little part of the world known as Spain.
Upon perusing the menu, little did I know Tango didn't just embrace Spain. There are hints of Cuba, Argentina, and other parts of South America occupying my menu with little hints of Latin fusion. Latin fusion! Ugh! Gross! Where am I?? Something about Americanized Latin restaurants really bugs me. Can't we just pick one fucking country and go with it?! Do we need to integrate eight countries into one brand new type of cuisine? Nothing seemed to make sense as I looked around. I felt like I was deep inside the Mall Of America. The giant roman numeral clock and brightly colored paintings look plum picked right out of an Ikea catalog. The cheesy fluorescent light bulbs glared into my pupils forcing me to look down at my menu. RJD2's Ghostwriter seemed to play on repeat for the entire evening. The constant cackling of nearby downtown co-workers had taken my focus away from the menu. I'm sure you guys are having a good time, but it cannot be that damn funny every single 20 seconds. Shove a napkin in that hyena pie-hole of yours so I can enjoy this upcoming comida auténtica. Luckily, my server arrived and we could get this show on the road. ¡Vamos!
Our waiter was a nice Asian white guy with spiky frat boy hair who was way too excited about everything. He was polite but just a little too over the top for me. I really just wanted him to stop winking and shooting his finger gun at me every time I spoke. I could tell his TGI Fridays training and flair had completely taken over any real chance of seeing his true personality. He was definitely happy to be where he was which made me believe this place couldn't be all bad, can it? At the very least I knew I could get an adderall and Red Bull.
Plates then started to assemble in front of me one at a time every few minutes. It first started with an adorable wooden plate holding warm Spanish corn bread accompanied by a sweet jelly butter. I didn't ask for it, they just brought it. I like that. The butternut squash soup shortly arrived after. I've never had something be spicy and bland at the same time. How can you make something with such a kick, and then it finishes into tasting like the liquid Holy Eucharist? It's like they blended up cotton balls, a habañero pepper, and a few drops of E160b orange food coloring dye. My lady somehow enjoyed this pulpy mediocrity while I was ready for my Carnitas Del Puerco. The plate had just arrived with a bowl of shredded pork and four warm tortillas. These self made tacos were delicious. The multiple flavors were enticing. I closed my eyes and imagined myself walking through Valencia with this in one hand and my beautiful woman in the other. Mi vida era perfecta. I then continued to eat another tiny taco burrito and grease started exploding onto the table. My tortillas were oozing out of control, dripping and dropping pork juice all over. I think that first bite really had me fooled into thinking this was something that it wasn't. It basically was just a glorified taco that I had to put together myself. I was over it. This dish was getting cold now, and it had immediately lost every sense of nostalgia.
The vampire hostess then arrives with my Penn Cove Mejillones and bulls them onto the table. Her mean mugging emo goth face makes me want to stab her right through the heart. She grunts as I say thank you, walks away, and steps back into her coffin of doing nothing. I can't believe she actually lifted a finger in this joint, someone must have promised her a Marlboro Red cigarette for her sixth borrowed smoke break of the evening. It's really hard for me to not like mussels, but this place succeeded in destroying everything else that comes with them. The broth was filled with peppers, onions, and little chunks of nothing as I ate one shellfish after the next. The onions were stringy and chewy. They drowned in the broth as lifeless as the door gal. My broth lacked any type of real desire to be something. At least my soup earlier had spice! This was just a bowl of hot water with a bunch of shit and mussels thrown into it. I ate some and had Captain Sugar Rush take it away.
The Spanish Coca Flatbread and Quest Azul Souffle had arrived immediately after disposing of the crap I was just eating, and I was enthralled with trying yet another tiny plate of food. It seemed like the flatbread was there just to piss me off though. It was one giant bagel bite. Did they microwave this from a frozen box? I could have just put some bread in the toaster oven, cut up a pepper, and then call it something fancy in Spanglish. This was so stupid, I had no idea Mama Celeste had started doing delivery. Luckily we had this blue cheese soufflé to occupy us. It was so rich in flavor. Oh so airy in texture. Finally!! All of these countries have made something together that actually tastes good. The blueberry compote was a perfect compliment to the pungency of the queso. The dish was no bigger than the size of a JFK fifty-cent piece, but man, each minuscule bite was to die for.
I kept wondering when the ordering of drinks would come in to compliment my tapas, but never had a chance. I was never asked, "How is everything?" or "Would you like a nice red to pair with this dish?" To me, a little hospitality goes a long way. Granted, the food was expedited quickly and everyone besides The Blood Countess was pretty nice to me, but I'd like to know that you are concerned with how I'm feeling at your place. At that exact moment our waiter returns and pre busses our table asking me how everything was. This guy was good, too good. He made me feel like everything was okay even if my meal wasn't. We asked about the famed El Diablo dessert, and he gave me immediate jazz hands ranting and raving about it. I told him we were pretty full and couldn't handle such a big dish. He gladly obliged to make us a smaller version of the Food Network featured dessert. God, I'm actually starting to love this guy! He is taking care of me and my needs. I want to go back to his dorm room at Seattle University and do keg stands with him. I want to be his partner in beer pong. Yes, I will watch Community with you. This dessert came and it was insane. The burnt meringue was covered in lumpy chocolate goodness and then dusted with dark cocoa and chili powder. The tequila caramel on the plate was scraped up for every deliberate bite. The race was on! Neither my lady nor I wanted to lose a bite to the other and we plowed through this treat.
We decided to slow down towards the last few bites and embrace this final dish until the evil one walked by again. She was so furiously rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders at everyone. I prayed for the sun to come up at once so she could shrivel down into a ball of Hot Topic black denim and purple smoke. I wanted every emotion that she exuded to come back and haunt her like her ugly face does me. I wanted her to feel the true pain of this world. Times are so tough with your Eastside father paying your rent and buying you more black lipstick. I know you can't wait to go drink a tallboy with your boyfriend's shitty emo punk band, but at least acknowledge that I am leaving. I must get out of here! Adios, muchacha!
Mr. Onions Rating (on a 1-10 scale):
Food: 6 Service: 6 Atmosphere: 4 Spanish Professor: 0
Overall: 5.3
Slow Dance - Risk It All
These two wild and crazy guys have finally put out their album and will celebrate that later this week at Nectar. CLICK HERE for free download.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Scanwiches
If you know me, you know I love sandwiches which is why I cannot stop staring at these gorgeous scans of sandwiches. That, and I haven't eaten anything today yet. These scans as well as the sandwiches are visual works of art and they all look soo fucking tasty. MORE INFO
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Lou Pal
Is at my house. Omar was here last month. Thanks, gentlemen... I love ya'll motherfuckers.
Cowboy Boogie/Ron Ceasar from Emerald Gold on Vimeo.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
MACKLEMORE - Bumbershoot 2011
Just in case you didn't make it into Key Arena at Bumbershoot this year, I got some footage of Mack and Ryan killing the Main Stage.
They murdered it. Makes my job real fucking easy to be honest. It makes it even easier with the crew I had. Billy Summers, Zak Downing, Bret Seeger, Daniel Torok, and Jordan Nicholson all contributed on this piece. All of them were on point.
Peep Mack, Ryan, Owour, Andrew, Ray Dalton and many others, doing big things for the town this year at Bumbershoot in this video.
Steve Powers x Vice
Remember this Love Letter from two years? The artist formerly known as ESPO, Steve Powers, talks about his continued work now.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Metal Chocolates "Opium Of Love"
This is just gorgeous. Take Rik and Otis fill their lungs with opium and surround them with beautiful women? I knew I should of went down there for this shoot!! Never again will I miss one. Stephan Gray captured this beautifully. More brilliant work by Metal Chocolates, Stephan, and team OFS.
METAL CHOCOLATES - "Opium Of Love" (Official Music Video) from Stephan Gray on Vimeo.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Silver Jackson Cover Art
Just finished the album art for Silver Jackson's debut album due out in the next few months. Silver, aka Nick Galanin, is the homie up in Alaska that runs Homeskillet and has helped get a lot of Seattle talent up into the North Northwest. He is also a very talented fine artist ranging from sculptures to paintings to jewelry. I'm real excited for him to get this music out to the world after making it during such trying times. The project was created as a way for him to get through some very dark times which included divorce and the loss of loved ones. The alterna-folk psychadelic thing is working for him musically and I wanted to embrace that visually.
He just recently dropped a video for his song "On A Boat" which is gorgeously shot on Super 8 film.
Here's a song he did on his upcoming album with our very own OCnotes.
Silver Jackson - "Our Love" by RPMfm
He just recently dropped a video for his song "On A Boat" which is gorgeously shot on Super 8 film.
On a Boat by Silver Jackson from Cassandra Bull on Vimeo.
Here's a song he did on his upcoming album with our very own OCnotes.
Silver Jackson - "Our Love" by RPMfm
Sunday, November 13, 2011
djblesOne Mixtapes
Every mixtape ever by the true bboy of Seattle? Fucking YES PLEASE. Christmas comes early this year, my friends. Bles had this to say:
"Today I’m releasing all my djblesOne BBOY/BGIRL mixtapes in their original entirety on my http://soundcloud.com/djblesone ! Because we just finished our new DON’T TALK TO THE COPS! album: “Let’s Quit” (coming soon!) So I want to start giving everyone the some of the history behind the bboy of the crew that led to DtttC! starting with grimey cassette mixtapes from 1996 & on… The first wave is the BBOY/BGIRL mixtapes that I made for dancers around the world. These were the training grounds for DtttC!’s style of production & vibe to make you move! They’re heavy in digging, skratching & different samples, always on a mission to find new music to get down to, now we’re trying to make that new music to get down to with DtttC! Here we go…"
This is Bles' favorite mixtape he ever made.
djblesOne - Straight Outta West Coast (bboy/bgirl mixtape 2005) by djblesOne
CLICK HERE FOR ALL HIS MIXTAPES
"Today I’m releasing all my djblesOne BBOY/BGIRL mixtapes in their original entirety on my http://soundcloud.com/djblesone ! Because we just finished our new DON’T TALK TO THE COPS! album: “Let’s Quit” (coming soon!) So I want to start giving everyone the some of the history behind the bboy of the crew that led to DtttC! starting with grimey cassette mixtapes from 1996 & on… The first wave is the BBOY/BGIRL mixtapes that I made for dancers around the world. These were the training grounds for DtttC!’s style of production & vibe to make you move! They’re heavy in digging, skratching & different samples, always on a mission to find new music to get down to, now we’re trying to make that new music to get down to with DtttC! Here we go…"
This is Bles' favorite mixtape he ever made.
djblesOne - Straight Outta West Coast (bboy/bgirl mixtape 2005) by djblesOne
CLICK HERE FOR ALL HIS MIXTAPES
BLU - Doinnothin; ft. U-God
Such filthy visuals to go along with this Flying Lotus produced track.
via Soulever Lift
BLU - DOINNOTHIN' FT. UGOD (PRODUCED BY FLYING LOTUS) from david m. helman on Vimeo.
via Soulever Lift
Friday, November 11, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Slow Dance - Fever Sleep
New video by the new duo. This one a little more epic and the visuals a bit more trippy. Catch them Nov 25th at Nectar with P Smoov & Type for their album release.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Mr. Onions: Toulouse Petit
I am constantly told that I’m the absolute worst person in the world to dine out with. There's always something for me to complain about, whether it be the food, the service, or the person next to me. I'm no critic. I'm just right. After talking with Trent, he felt I should take my cynicism to the blog and start writing restaurant reviews. So, as Mr. Onions, I will be venturing out to various Seattle eating establishments and reporting back. These restaurants better have their shit together because I'm going to make someone cry.
First stop: Toulouse Petit. I was, as always, very much excited to get lunch with my lady there. We usually try to make it before the breakfast happy hour ends, but on this day we decided to sleep in. We arrived around 2:30pm to an almost empty restaurant. I can’t believe there was an actual host needed to seat us. I ask for a booth. A request that causes this poor, miserable host to roll her eyes. This place has like 30 booths. I can't sit in one??! What the fuck?? I know you’re busy, with this huge line of imaginary people waiting at the door for a table. I'm sorry to take you away from reshuffling unused menus, looking out the window twisting your stringy hair, and thinking of where to put your damn "Q" on Words With Friends. But you know what? I want this big comfy golden velvet booth, and I'm taking it. Put your fucking “Q” on Quat, bitch.
We sit, and nothing about the place screams New Orleans meets the French Quarter. There's two overly vibrant televisions playing SportsCenter on loop and Marcy Playground's Sex and Candy blares through the overly trebled speakers. The golden wallpaper sparkles, reflecting the sun, and the light fixtures are reminiscent of Tim Burton's Beetlejuice. The bartender is "freshly squeezing" orange juice as she pours it from the gallon that it came in. Authentic right there. The decor bothers me. Can I get some French doors or maybe a chandelier? Perhaps a fucking fleur-de-lis?!? They tried really hard, but had no fucking idea what the hell they were doing. That, and I'm fucking starving.
Finally! Water! I'm sure glad her whipping boy busser was here to fill it four times because I know she's terribly busy right now with her combined two tables. She needs to be in the back with a wad of scotch tape wrapped around her hand getting all of that cat hair off of her red ragtag v-neck sweater. I can't stand dealing with this "B" team. Can't I just deal with the busboy? At least this guy is here to actually do something for me.
I've never been let down by the food at Toulouse Petit. For our edible selections, we start with their Fried Chicken Gumbo. Holy lord, it's some good shit. Huge succulent slices of spicy sausage, delicate chunks of fried chicken, onions, potatoes, and everything but the kitchen sink thrown into this little bowl of mine. Goddamn this is so good! I can only let my lady take one bite. Definitely not two.
After that quick demolishing of liquid aperitif our server resets our table with a steak knife and a bottle of ketchup. A bottle that is almost empty and covered in gross dried up bits of ketchup. Looks like someone forgot to do their side work today, and I’m the one that has to suffer. There's only one other table in here and you give me a disgusting dirty bottle of ketchup? Did you notice how filthy it was? Don't worry, the 4pm night crew will be here soon, and you can hurry off to your mangy-ass apartment with your boyfriend to watch the new episode of House followed by Dancing With The Stars or whatever goddamn shitty television programming you are Tivoing right now. Shit, just pull a seat up at the bar. Watch TV. I'm sure they won't mind changing the channel for you.
Next, is the meatloaf sandwich. I missed Thomas Gray's amazing meatloaf night earlier in the week. Something was still inside of me yearning for the loaf that is of meat. I take my first bite… and it’s tasty. The red peppers resonated on my palate and embraced all that is cow on bread. The sandwich was lukewarm though, at best. The server said, “Yeah, it's supposed to be served at room temperature.” Room temperature meat loaf?!? What?! Who in the world serves room temperature meatloaf?!?!? This gal is trying to sell me on it because she's lazy and was too busy sexting with her significant other. Isn't that in the food danger zone? I don't know what your mother told you but you should never serve meatloaf cold. That's fucking retarded. Your mother is probably just as mangy as your apartment. I ate half of my cold sandwich and asked for a box. I later reheated it to 165 degrees fahrenheit, the way it should have been in the first place.
Our chocolate torte arrived to much fanfare by myself and my lady. It was sooooo rich and chocolaty, and oh so soft and caramelly. Damn, this was some quality dessert. The little hints of sea salt floated on my tongue like a bee pollinating a flower. It was the perfect combination of PH balance, and my mouth was applauding me. As we were finishing up, our server returned and put our check on the table. She didn't bother cleaning off the dirty plates, sauce filled ramekins, and crumbled up napkins. Can you actually be this shitty of a waitress?! You’re pushing me out of the door and you don't even bother to pre bus my table?! It really pisses me off when I get a check at a dirty table. Don't worry, I’ll pay right away and get out of here so you and little miss hostess can tag photos of each other on mobile Facebook. I get it. You two went to a Sounders game with your stupid Xbox-green scarves, drank a few pale ales, and you must remind every one of your friends how consistently lame you are.
Thanks, Toulouse. You are delicious, but I'll remember to come back when your all-stars are working.
Mr. Onions Rating (on a 1-10 scale):
Food: 8 Service: 3 Atmosphere: 4
Overall Experience: 5
First stop: Toulouse Petit. I was, as always, very much excited to get lunch with my lady there. We usually try to make it before the breakfast happy hour ends, but on this day we decided to sleep in. We arrived around 2:30pm to an almost empty restaurant. I can’t believe there was an actual host needed to seat us. I ask for a booth. A request that causes this poor, miserable host to roll her eyes. This place has like 30 booths. I can't sit in one??! What the fuck?? I know you’re busy, with this huge line of imaginary people waiting at the door for a table. I'm sorry to take you away from reshuffling unused menus, looking out the window twisting your stringy hair, and thinking of where to put your damn "Q" on Words With Friends. But you know what? I want this big comfy golden velvet booth, and I'm taking it. Put your fucking “Q” on Quat, bitch.
We sit, and nothing about the place screams New Orleans meets the French Quarter. There's two overly vibrant televisions playing SportsCenter on loop and Marcy Playground's Sex and Candy blares through the overly trebled speakers. The golden wallpaper sparkles, reflecting the sun, and the light fixtures are reminiscent of Tim Burton's Beetlejuice. The bartender is "freshly squeezing" orange juice as she pours it from the gallon that it came in. Authentic right there. The decor bothers me. Can I get some French doors or maybe a chandelier? Perhaps a fucking fleur-de-lis?!? They tried really hard, but had no fucking idea what the hell they were doing. That, and I'm fucking starving.
Finally! Water! I'm sure glad her whipping boy busser was here to fill it four times because I know she's terribly busy right now with her combined two tables. She needs to be in the back with a wad of scotch tape wrapped around her hand getting all of that cat hair off of her red ragtag v-neck sweater. I can't stand dealing with this "B" team. Can't I just deal with the busboy? At least this guy is here to actually do something for me.
I've never been let down by the food at Toulouse Petit. For our edible selections, we start with their Fried Chicken Gumbo. Holy lord, it's some good shit. Huge succulent slices of spicy sausage, delicate chunks of fried chicken, onions, potatoes, and everything but the kitchen sink thrown into this little bowl of mine. Goddamn this is so good! I can only let my lady take one bite. Definitely not two.
After that quick demolishing of liquid aperitif our server resets our table with a steak knife and a bottle of ketchup. A bottle that is almost empty and covered in gross dried up bits of ketchup. Looks like someone forgot to do their side work today, and I’m the one that has to suffer. There's only one other table in here and you give me a disgusting dirty bottle of ketchup? Did you notice how filthy it was? Don't worry, the 4pm night crew will be here soon, and you can hurry off to your mangy-ass apartment with your boyfriend to watch the new episode of House followed by Dancing With The Stars or whatever goddamn shitty television programming you are Tivoing right now. Shit, just pull a seat up at the bar. Watch TV. I'm sure they won't mind changing the channel for you.
Next, is the meatloaf sandwich. I missed Thomas Gray's amazing meatloaf night earlier in the week. Something was still inside of me yearning for the loaf that is of meat. I take my first bite… and it’s tasty. The red peppers resonated on my palate and embraced all that is cow on bread. The sandwich was lukewarm though, at best. The server said, “Yeah, it's supposed to be served at room temperature.” Room temperature meat loaf?!? What?! Who in the world serves room temperature meatloaf?!?!? This gal is trying to sell me on it because she's lazy and was too busy sexting with her significant other. Isn't that in the food danger zone? I don't know what your mother told you but you should never serve meatloaf cold. That's fucking retarded. Your mother is probably just as mangy as your apartment. I ate half of my cold sandwich and asked for a box. I later reheated it to 165 degrees fahrenheit, the way it should have been in the first place.
Our chocolate torte arrived to much fanfare by myself and my lady. It was sooooo rich and chocolaty, and oh so soft and caramelly. Damn, this was some quality dessert. The little hints of sea salt floated on my tongue like a bee pollinating a flower. It was the perfect combination of PH balance, and my mouth was applauding me. As we were finishing up, our server returned and put our check on the table. She didn't bother cleaning off the dirty plates, sauce filled ramekins, and crumbled up napkins. Can you actually be this shitty of a waitress?! You’re pushing me out of the door and you don't even bother to pre bus my table?! It really pisses me off when I get a check at a dirty table. Don't worry, I’ll pay right away and get out of here so you and little miss hostess can tag photos of each other on mobile Facebook. I get it. You two went to a Sounders game with your stupid Xbox-green scarves, drank a few pale ales, and you must remind every one of your friends how consistently lame you are.
Thanks, Toulouse. You are delicious, but I'll remember to come back when your all-stars are working.
Mr. Onions Rating (on a 1-10 scale):
Food: 8 Service: 3 Atmosphere: 4
Overall Experience: 5
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Kid Cudi ft. Cage "Maniac"
A film crew follows two serial killers as they kill their prey. This short film is directed by Shia LeBeouf, you know from Transformers and other movies? Regardless, I think he does a pretty good job on this. It is not for everyone, my lady was disturbed, but I think you can take it for what it is and embrace it. Cage is just excellent. Kid Cudi is still kind of an idiot to me but at least he's trying. I'm not sure why the song was played much in the video but I have added it for you to peep.
Maniac - Kid Cudi by musicblogger
via Swipelife
Maniac - Kid Cudi by musicblogger
via Swipelife
Friday, November 4, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
POB for Le Mellotron
Prince Of Ballard has been putting me onto lots of great music lately and I truly commend him for putting out feel good mixes. All of this is just the perfect recipe for me grooving alone working on posters, vibing with my chick, smoking weed, or having a nice little get together. POB has style, a lot more than most of you could ever conjure up. He might be most notable as of late for pumpkin carving, but for me it's all about the mixtapes he drops. I love when you can hear how knowledgeable a DJ is. I even love it more when those favorite songs of theirs are intertwined with their personal edits. This one was for some Frenchy blog Le Mellotron and has lots of worldly grooves on it. Le Mellotron indeed.
DOWNLOAD HERE
1. Prince of Ballard – Le Mellotron Intro feat. Rick Ross
2. U.S. Warren and The Genghis Pea – Hard Headed Woman Part I
3. Joe Bataan – What Good is a Castle Part II
4. Galt MacDermot – And He Will Not Come Again
5. Timothy McNealy – Sagittarius Black
6. Frankie Lymon – Itty Bitty Pretty One (Prince of Ballard Edit)
7. Clout – Sunshine Baby
8. Larry Robins Sport Studio Band – Are You Free
9. Orquesta Riverside – En Casa Del Trompo No Bailes
10. The Bacao Rhythm & Steel Band – Pimp
11. Kelenkye Band – Jungle Music
12. Rye Rye – Bang (Prince of Ballard New Jazz Remix)
13. The Equals – Helèna
14. Sammy Brown – Vietnam (You Son of a Gun)
15. Julius Brockington & The Magic Force – This Feeling
16. Inell Young – What Do You See in Her ?
17. The Emotions – I Like It
18. Louie Ramirez – The New Breed
19. Brothers of the Ghetto – Rockin’ Chair
20. Marijata – No Condition Is Permanent
21. Richard’s People – Yo-Yo
22. Outkast – Rosa Parks (Prince of Ballard Remix)
23. Osvaldinho Da Cuica E Grupo Vai-Vai – Vendaval
24. He 6 – Get Ready (Drum Break)
DOWNLOAD HERE
1. Prince of Ballard – Le Mellotron Intro feat. Rick Ross
2. U.S. Warren and The Genghis Pea – Hard Headed Woman Part I
3. Joe Bataan – What Good is a Castle Part II
4. Galt MacDermot – And He Will Not Come Again
5. Timothy McNealy – Sagittarius Black
6. Frankie Lymon – Itty Bitty Pretty One (Prince of Ballard Edit)
7. Clout – Sunshine Baby
8. Larry Robins Sport Studio Band – Are You Free
9. Orquesta Riverside – En Casa Del Trompo No Bailes
10. The Bacao Rhythm & Steel Band – Pimp
11. Kelenkye Band – Jungle Music
12. Rye Rye – Bang (Prince of Ballard New Jazz Remix)
13. The Equals – Helèna
14. Sammy Brown – Vietnam (You Son of a Gun)
15. Julius Brockington & The Magic Force – This Feeling
16. Inell Young – What Do You See in Her ?
17. The Emotions – I Like It
18. Louie Ramirez – The New Breed
19. Brothers of the Ghetto – Rockin’ Chair
20. Marijata – No Condition Is Permanent
21. Richard’s People – Yo-Yo
22. Outkast – Rosa Parks (Prince of Ballard Remix)
23. Osvaldinho Da Cuica E Grupo Vai-Vai – Vendaval
24. He 6 – Get Ready (Drum Break)
Nick Georgiou
An impressive exhibition with all the portraits and sculptures by the artist Nick Georgiou. Work composed with paper printed and trained primarily with collections of books and newspapers. Most of these are pretty big pieces with stacks on stacks on stacks of paper. I fucking love it. Nick Georgiou is a Queens-born artist known for his use of the printed word as an artistic medium, but not in the way you think. He creates creatures and art pieces out of discarded newspapers and books, and has a penchant for depositing them in random locations throughout New York City. He creates anything from delightfully odd critters to eerily depictive portraits. Here are some of his most interesting works. Click his name to see more, dummy.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Garan, Santa Sofia, RIP Mama Bruno
Garan by Cookie Snake
I toured Italy with the violist from a band called Rachel’s. He put together “FW”, a four-piece: viola, bass, drums, and a scratch DJ. (Dominic Johnson, Jason Wood, and DJ Pablo.) One show was in the southern, Calabrian mountain town of Santa Sofia D'epiro. Music there curved predominantly Rastafarian. The promoter put us in a marble floor home overlooking the tightly rolled, spliff-filtered, stained glass canopy of the Sila plateau. His family’s restaurant cooked gnocchi, and at dusk he lead us through Santa Sofia‘s main street to the amphitheater like the Pied Piper, signaling everyone to follow. En route, there were espressos, and the mountain air gnawed fresco faces into ganglia and skin. We arrived at the club satiated and arranged. The town was there and out. Old, young, molded, unmolded. Every window open. Every scent binary and sent. Nuns were there and dancing. A hallucinated beetle-monster the size of a schoolbus with mollusk, whale teeth rose out of hillside shrubs and consumed the scene. In its jaws, it aerated, animated, and saw its own life. Someone in the audience pressed record on a portable recording device, and we began to play the song above. (Dedicated to Mama Bruno, who taught me Italian, Italian soap operas, and life. RIP.)
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