God bless Michael Musto. In an homage (we'll choose to call it that) to New York's recent nude Lindsay Lohan photo spread, the Village Voice columnist decided to stage his own version. He painstakingly re-created each pose, which Lindsay had, in turn, re-created from the original Marilyn Monroe series. (Bert Stern, who photographed both Lindsay and Marilyn, did not work with Musto.) Writes Michael:
I've long lived quite dangerously myself, and so, anxious to share my desperate man-tits with an audience beyond Chelsea, I gleefully agreed to star in an homage to an homage: Musto as Lohan as Marilyn. That's three generations of loveliness, and I prepared for it by not shaving or waxing a thing, just letting it all hang in the wind as both a nod to history and a means of reclaiming control. Just like with Marilyn and Lindsay, people have always grabbed at me, wanting a piece of my piece and a slice of my soul, but usually with more pepperoni and less cheese.
Oh, the excitement back in January, when Freedom Tower construction finally — five-plus years after the attacks — reached the towering height of eight feet below sidewalk level. The milestone was marked by a festive "Metro" section article in the Times, explaining just where you had to stand, and just how you had to crane your neck, to get a view of this feat of construction. So it's with even greater exultation that we discovered this picture on Curbed today, which seems to indicate that construction has — are you sitting down? — actually progressed to above ground! Of course, the Curbed boys speculate what we're seeing is merely a few Portajohns. Perhaps. But, even so, hey, we'll take what we can get.
WTC Chaos Update: Something Rises Above Grade! [Curbed]
Earlier:The Freedom Tower Exists for Anyone Who Truly Believes In It
Yesterday was the 62nd anniversary of V-J, and to commemorate this country's hard-fought military victory over Japan in 1945, a bunch of guys dressed as sailors descended on Times Square to kiss a bunch of girls dressed as nurses, as they've been doing — or at least as we totally feel like they've been doing — every year on this anniversary for more than a few years now. It was a stirring, patriotic moment — or else just a chance for people who've never met before to engage in cheesy public displays of affection encouraged by a BID milking iconic imagery for its own marketing purposes. One of the two.
Aha! We searched all the photo services this morning, but no one — not AP, not Reuters or Getty, not Polaris or Retna — had a shot of midtown's collapsed sidewalk. Curbed, however, does. Herewith, the south side of West 36th Street yesterday afternoon. Thanks, Curbed kids, and bless you, Internet.
Crumbling of NYC: View to a Sidewalk Collapse [Curbed]
As of mid-afternoon, today's storm had dropped 1.27 inches of rain in Central Park. And the forecast says it's supposed to keep raining all night tonight. But there's some good news: It looks like it's going to be freaking gorgeous this weekend, whether you're in town or on the East End or down the shore or upstate. Also, at least you don't have this guy's job.
We're not quite sure why, but Polaris Images sent us a set of photos of Ana, a Russian immigrant, picking wild boysenberries yesterday in Central Park. So there you have it: There are fresh wild boysenberries, ripe for the picking, waiting for you in Central Park, apparently on the West Side near 106th Street. You know, in case you haven't been feeling enough like a sharecropper lately. (Which is not to say we'd ever say no to a nice cobbler.)
The big yellow-and-pink words "To Do" that turned up Sunday night on the corner of 6th Street and First Avenue are, interestingly enough, just that: to-do lists. The public-art collective Illegal Art installed some 3,744 three-inch-by-three-inch Post-its on two street-level billboards, and passersby are encouraged to write their own to-do lists on the stickies. (Illegal Art collects the lists and replenishes the Post-its each day.) So what do New Yorkers need to do? "E-mail Vinnie." "Eat gummy bears." "Nap." "Samba." And a lot, apparently, need to "Call my mom." —Matthew Fishbane
Not that we'd pretend to understand how Rupert Murdoch thinks, but a question: If you're leaving the board meeting of your global media behemoth at which the board has just voted to approve your deal to buy a company you've aggressively pursued, if you're successfully buying the company after you didn't budge an inch from your initial offer a few months ago while all the people who'd publicly said they hated you eventually came around and sold their family company to you, if you've said for years, even decades, that you wanted to buy this company, and if you've intentionally left the window of your SUV open so that photogs could get a good shot of you reveling in your victory, well, shouldn't you at least try to look excited? Just asking.
So we've actually been a little troubled by this whole electronic-doohickey-thingy they're planning to install in cabs, the one that the cabbies group is threatening to strike over. We're not sure we like the idea of a GPS system tracking us, either, and there's nothing more obnoxious than a cheery video playing in the back of a taxi (didn't they try that a few years ago? To universal disdain?). Either way, it'll really be a bitch if the cabbies go on strike. Then yesterday we hopped in a cab and discovered one of the gizmos already installed. (Apparently there are already something like 700 in use, the TLC told us, and more are going in every day. Which would seem to us to sort of moot a September strike, but what do we know?) And we were pleasantly surprised to discover the things are actually pretty cool.
The front page of yesterday's Times offered a photo of President Bush and British Prime Minister Gordon Brown merrily golf-carting around Camp David. We glanced at the shot, amused by the cowboy president's attempt to do his squinty-eyed tough-guy look while piloting a conveyance most often used on the manicured fairways of Shinnecock or in the retirement communities of Boca. We were about to flip the page when we noticed something: A placard on the front of the vehicle labels it "Golf Cart One." We chuckled to ourselves, and we thought that it's sort of the perfect presidential vehicle for this particular commander-in- chief, for his underpowered golf cart of a presidency. Then we got worried; were we being unfair? Perhaps this isn't Bush obnoxious frat-boy humor ("I'm the president, and it's my golf cart, so it's Golf Cart One. Heh heh heh.") but rather a longstanding tradition. So we asked President Clinton's spokesman. Did that administration, too, call the presidential scooter "Golf Cart One"? The e-mailed reply came late in the day: "Nope." Good.