Daily View, 12/16, Gothamist Edition

Many of my news feeds were neglected this week, which proved to a be a nightmare marathon of 12-16 hour workdays (except for Apocalypso night—thanks Kenbe!). Now, finally able to catch my breath here on a sunny Saturday, I've just caught up on some of my news. A troll through a week's worth of Gothamist has yielded enough for a separate Gothamist-themed post:

• Table for One: the world of the solo diner. I have always felt like I should be better at dining alone, since I'm usually wandering around by myself. But I suck at it. (Rather, I suck at it when I'm on my own turf—when I travel I have zero problem sitting alone in a restaurant.) I hate sitting at the bar, much less eating there, so the usual routes of camouflage don't work for me. But I'm glad to see proud solo dining is on the rise. Maybe I'll take myself out to dinner. Meanwhile, the comments on this one are pretty interesting—a guy took himself out for a four hour, 24 course meal??


• Damn, I'm always late catching on—this weekend is the three-day only open house for the Wooster Collective, a house entirely covered in street art (inside and out). After tomorrow, all art will be destroyed. Apparently it's quite a site. I may try to rush down there now...


• Also this weekend: Lebowski Fest. Don't miss the "two minute symphonic f-bombardment" video at the bottom of the page—the entire movie, summed up in a continuous string of fuckenfuckenfuckenfuck.


• Oh, Rosie... Gothamist makes fun of her non-apology ("at least she didn't say 'solly'") and wonders what people in China have to say, if anything. Meanwhile, the comments on this one run the gamut of wrong.


• Bob Dylan protests Factory Girl, further delaying the it-girl buzz vehicle for overrated non-actress Sienna Miller. Hayden Christensen as Dylan? Come on, that's got to be a sign of the apocalyps...o. More from Gothamist on the film and the Dylan/Warhol/Sedgwick thing.
  
  Meanwhile, side note: Life on Mars is used in the Factory Girl trailer, further cementing David Bowie's status as a whore and a genius. Let other artists be protective of their usage rights—Bowie seems to let his stuff be used whenever, wherever, and it's paying off. He's creating a nice modern presence for his past persona, while at the same time living his current less-visible life as Mr. Iman and mogul. He's everywhere, effortlessly, and seems like a fresh fit. Makes other older artists who are hovering protectively over their catalogs seem like dinosaurs. Personally, three years ago, I knew one Bowie song (two if you count the muppetty stuff from Labyrinth). Today, simply through soaking it up through film and media, I have learned quite a bit about Bowie. My point: I have not sought him out. He has been delivered to me. Bowie, cheerfully allowing his fans to infuse the modern media with accessible entry points to fandom... sly. Life on Mars wasn't released until 1973—Sedgwick had been dead for two years already. Yet here's Bowie on the soundtrack of her life. Most people don't pay attention to the details, further lining his pockets and legacy. Kinda brilliant. Wrong but brilliant.


• The 29 most important families in New York include the usuals (Trumps, Hearsts, Laurens, Huntzbergers Sulzbergers) but also throws a bone to the Schnabels (which the art world knew already) and—really?!—the Foer brothers (as in Jonathan Safran).


• RIP Peter Boyle.


• And finally, One Punk Under God, the reality show about Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker's alterna-thumper kid, has hit the airwaves after much buzz and argument about whether this is legit or just more bullshit exploitation.