Saddened over the recent loss of HBO's hipster mystery (mipstery?) Bored To Death? So is Jonathan Ames, the guy who created it. But what's the point in wallowing in self-pity, if you can wallow in self-pity while drunk and surrounded by dozens of sympathetic fans? Wait, did I say dozens? How about hundreds! Thousands! No wait, dozens is probably for the best. Ames hopped on to Twitter tonight to announce that all fans of the series in the area should meet him at the Brooklyn Inn on Wednesday night for a drink on him. And he promised John Hodgman will be there! There is literally no down side here, people. Except the loss of Bored to Death, and the possibility of a fire hazard. But free drink! So... [@JonathanAmes]
Like a nude Hitchcock, Jonathan Ames made a brief appearance in last night's Bored to Death. He may not have a lot to show off, but for a streaker on cable television his manners are impeccable. [NSFW]
Their breakup may have finalized last weeks episode, but this week Ray (Zach Galifianakis) and Leah (Heather Burns) had been broken up for "three weeks." Ray shows up at his ex's place, but Leah's doorbell is broken, and as Ray has a mixed CD and a comic book to deliver he makes use of his still working key. What Ray finds is his own creator in post coital shock.
HBO's new series Bored to Death has a self-referential hero, tons of inside New Yorker jokes, and heaps of self-conscious cool. But it's also a mystery series. Just who is going to watch Miss Marple meets Arcade Fire?
Keri Russell turns 33 today. Kenneth Cole turns 55. Chef Tom Valenti is 50. Author Jonathan Ames is 45. Ex-con shoe mogul Steve Madden turns 52. Real estate broker Leslie Garfield turns 77. Actress Catherine Keener is 50. Disgraced ex-Times reporter Jayson Blair is 33. Chaka Khan is turning 56. Actress Michelle Monaghan is turning 33. Perez Hilton is 31. Ric Ocasek of The Cars is 60. Princess Eugenie, the daughter of Sarah Ferguson and Prince Andrew, is turning 19. And John Bobbitt—remember him?—turns 42 today.
♦ It was the Metropolitan Opera's 125th opening night on Monday and so naturally a long list of recognizable faces trooped out for the occasion. In floor-length gowns and tuxes to walk the red carpet and watch Renée Fleming: Barbara Walters, Howard Stringer, Michael Bloomberg, Helen Mirren, Christie Brinkley, Faye Dunaway, Molly Sims, Taylor Momsen, Martha Stewart, Hilary and Bryant Gumbel, Henry Kravis, Mercedes Bass, Ann Ziff, Georgina Chapman (left), Helena Christensen, Jane Fonda, John Lithgow, Juliana Margulies, Joy and Regis Philbin, John Turturro, Parker Posey, Peggy Siegal, Ellen and Chuck Scarborough, Deborah Norville, Julie Macklowe, and Tory Burch. [Park Ave Peerage, NYSun, Wireimage, PMc]
Last night in the sweaty morass of Gleason's Boxing Gym, a crowd of weird literary types gathered around a boxing ring. Famous pervert-alcoholic-author Jonathan Ames was set to fight Craig Davidson, Canadian author of pugilist novel "The Fighter." At 43, more than a decade older than his opponent, Ames was technically the underdog. But the crowd was in his corner. His friend Mangina was there, with the fake leg, wearing a flesh colored unitard and a fake vagina. Sitting in the front row was none other than 90's chanteuse Fiona Apple, looking anxious. Why was she here, we wondered to her face. "Because Jonathan is my boyfriend." Oh? It looks like Ames won before he even started. But Fiona couldn't help him when the bell rung for the first of three two-minute rounds. But maybe she helped him win! Laurel Ptak was there to capture the carnage, the victory and the moments of tendresse.
So on accident I went into the Gawker office yesterday and, bored, I picked up the June Spin, which apparently is still being published. The cover story on Marilyn Manson turns out to be written by New York hero Jonathan Ames, he of the old infamous New York Press debauchery 'n' self-hatred column and a few fine novels. (Some of the story is online.) So Jonathan goes out to L.A.—excuse me, Chatsworth, for real— and Marilyn Manson's manservant lets him in and serves him a goblet of absinthe. How goth! And uh oh!
This Saturday, we sent resident nightlife photographer Nikola Tamindzic and our in-house Expert on Physical Activity, Gabriel Delahaye, to the 29th Annual Empire State Golden Arm Tournament of Champions, in Flushing, Queens. Why? Fuck you, that's why. Here's the photographic proof. After the jump, Gabriel gets all Lincoln Hawk on us, and Nikola steals people's souls with his magic picture machine.
Last time we checked, writers got paid shit, and no one was reading anything besides US Weekly. Nevertheless, the honorable folks over at The Moth have set up a reading series so successful that they've managed to parlay it into a national tour, a mentoring program, and a functional charity. Their annual Moth Ball fundraiser is able to draw the likes of Moby, Malcolm Gladwell, Darren Aronofsky, and a guy who looks like Lex Luthor, not to mention our own Nikola Tamindzic, and Gabriel Delahaye. Journey through our action-packed photo gallery, then step after the jump to discover who prevailed when Gabe met Jonathan Ames on the manly field of arm-wrestling.
Choire relives childhood nightmares by subjecting himself to an adult spelling bee on the Lower East Side with the likes of Jonathan Ames ("the writer and total snack."): "A hundred people stared at me expectantly from their creaky butt-shaped wooden seats. The man with the Oxford English Dictionary gave me a single-eyebrow raise. To my right, four people had been knocked out of the spelling bee on everyone's favorite goatsucker, the whippoorwill. I mean, c'mon. Whip. Poor. Will. Get a grip, people."
History, repeating [East/West]