Death of Newspaper Re-re-reconfirmed

Say what you will about his politics or his dubious interpretation of 'objectivity' -- Rupert Murdoch got it right this time around. Back in the spring, when a very few brave souls produced a muffled murmur that resembled "Newspaper Bailout," pundits praised Ol' Rupe for charging readers to browse his Wall Street Journal online -- a tactic eschewed by nearly every other daily in the nation.

Among the papers fearful of instigating a reader revolt, of course, was New York's Paper of Record. The other day, we came upon this sordid scene at a craft fair in McCarren Park:

Our photo work could stand to improve -- standing there, shooting away, we felt like the proverbial foot thwacking the proverbial dead horse -- but the sign reads "50% Off!" The Times didn't even bother to send out a proper sales rep -- the poor sap here appears to be the laid-off mother of one of their delivery boys (they can still afford those, right?). Sad, sad days for the dead tree industry...

Respectable Men do not Wear Moustache Tattoos

We're a day late on this, but the LA Times piece on Norteño-turned-faux accountant Richard Rodriguez has us mulling and pondering: a.) How long till the cop gets sent up the river? And, more importantly; b.) Is an upper lip tat necessarily detrimental to the credibility of a court testimony? Mightn't it bring in sympathy points in some cases? An example: Say you're on trial for a petty crime in Australian ranch country -- shearing sheep out of season or disparaging Chopper Read, I dunno. The jury is composed entirely of poor ranching folk whose cattle compete with kangaroos for a shrinking stock of grassland. Your upper lip reads "kangaroos are great...for dinner" in Olde English. Helpful or harmful? I say helpful. Chopper would probably agree.

The moral of the story is that sometimes growing a moustache to cover up a tattoo is not always a smart legal maneuver, though in the case of Rodriguez it would seem to be a good move because without it he basically looks like your standard-issue Dodgers bleacher fan slash Latino gangbanger. And no jury in the world likes both of those things.

For our sadistic brethren, graphic video of some fat (and hopefully soon-to-be-indicted) policeman steel-booting Rodriguez here.

You Have Corn on the Cob...

...we have fire hydrants and streetball. When the temp breaks 80, the people of Los Sures break hydrant caps.

Then grandma breaks out the oil-drum barbecue, and it's officially a summertime Saturday afternoon.

The only question is whether or not the firefighters will be able to get the thing back together. In this case, the answer was a resounding 'no'; two weeks later and it's still gushing Catskills clear onto brown pavement.

Meanwhile, next to the BQE, a team from Rodney Park is eternally playing some other team from Rodney Park. Or so say their jerseys. I don't even know if Rodney Park is a place or a man (or maybe the requirement for joining the team is you are a Rodney Park?!), but these guys can run. The teams seem to play one of only two styles: Aggressive, flashy and mistake-riddled with lots of sensational dunks or aggressive, flashy and fundamental with no dunks whatsoever. Either way, the Caucasian baller here is regarded as rare a sight as the post-Giuliani Manhattan street whore or the red panda courtship ritual.

Summertime's just the best, right guys?

Pimpin' Benches All Over the World...

From SF to BK to LA to ??? The DCQ crew gets around...

The Old Girdle Factory

A full half of DCQ's editorial team was walking south from the L train on Bedford Ave. this past weekend when it stumbled through a gauntlet of collapsible store signs that virtually funneled passersby through the glass doors lining the sidewalk and into a grungy corridor.

Inside, we found a mix of viable businesses (coffee shop, hairdresser, snobby craft beer outlet) amid empty display windows. We got the scoop from George, the manager of said beer purveyor -- a place called the Spuyten Devil Grocery that has an accompanying bar with myriad unpronounceable brews a few blocks away. George informed us that the compound was originally a girdle factory, and when people stopped wearing those things it turned into a Goodwill of sorts before its owner subdivided it into its current composition.

This latest transformation, Spuyten George continued, happened about a decade ago. The place now carries the familiar North Williamsburg air of hipster funk, but with a bit of a heroin chic nose -- if we were in a depressed I-5 corridor town that lacked a Greyhound station, this would serve as the local shoot-up spot. There was no identifiable urine scent, but twenty bucks says people pee here with some regularity.

The timing of the building's renovation again became relevant a few moments later, when we noticed this sketch, covered with scuffs and adorned here and there with old gum wads, in the corner. Early, overlooked Sam Flores? We need Art Direction here.

In any case, tenants like the place because rent is significantly cheaper for everyone except the coffee shop, which fronts the street. Additionally, more petty operations can take out smaller lots than one would find in street-fronting retail in the neighborhood, creating a few select opportunities for small businesses to establish a physical presence in a neighborhood that's only a couple of credits short of max gentrification (though Hipster Heaven becomes Trinitarios Slashing Your FaceVille real fast a couple blocks south of the Factory).

Telefon Tel Aviv, coming soon to a smallish venue near you

Telefon Tel Aviv is half the band it used to be: Charles Cooper died in January in Chicago at age 31, with media reports suggesting he may have committed suicide. TTA's surviving member, Joshua Eustis, has remained mum on the circumstances surrounding his bandmate's death. In any event, Eustis recently tapped a longtime friend and collaborator to join him on tour this summer. Telefon's playing a number of September shows in DCQ territory -- find a way to get there (dates below). And if you still don't have Immolate Yourself, cop it stat or follow the album's instructions.

Sept. 11th: Bell House, BK

Sept. 12th: Mercury Lounge, Manhattan

Sept. 25th: Spaceland, LA

Sept. 26th: Bottom of the Hill, SFC

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS DCQ???

Hint: It may be one of the locations in the opening montage of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, which we're not saying we've seen, but we might have talked to someone who's seen it, so don't even go thinking what you're thinking of thinking. Because really. Have some faith.

Lenny's Down!

The man-boy who bragged last fall (while chewing on a gob of Twizzlers for dramatic effect, mind you) that one of the myriad entities suing him had "folded like Mitch Williams in the ninth" in settlement negotiations has pulled the ultimate fiscal implosion: Lenny Dykstra is bankrupt.

Dykstra's well-documented rise from scumbag athlete to Wall Street darling for bored bankers in desperate need of cocktail party fodder begs a number of questions:

a.) Why does anyone listen to Jim Cramer anymore? Or, more accurately, why did anyone listen to Jim Cramer up until Jon Stewart reduced him to a blubbering, goateed effigy for financial media's rather long shortcomings during the subprime buildup and collapse?

b.) Who brings Twizzlers to a closed-door meeting in a federal courthouse? During which hundreds of thousands of dollars are at stake? "Ashtray money" aside, Lenny either planned out his Twizzler feast hours in advance and stashed the goods in his briefcase, pockets, underwear and/or socks, or employs an assistant whose sole duty as such is to keep Mr. Dykstra with Twizzler-in-hand at all times. "Where's my fucking Twizzler brick, dude? I didn't hire you and buy probably one of the top-five most badass Twizzler briefcases around for you to carry everywhere I go and not open and give me Twizzlers LIKE NOW!!!!"

More to come, without a doubt, sooner or later, but hopefully frequently for the rest of our natural lives.

So Longo, Bongo

A long-overdue RIP to former Gabonese president-for-life El Hadj Omar Bongo Ondimba, who died of what may or may not have been advanced intestinal cancer in Barcelona on June 8th. In a sequence of events that should register as eerily familiar to Eazy-E fans, Papa Bongo didn't seek international (read: first-world) medical care until early May. It clearly didn't take.

Under Bongo, who rose to power in 1967, Gabon proved anomalously tranquil amid the ever-convulsing border lines of West Africa. As Gabon's neighbors in the continent's armpit slaughtered each other, Bongo built one of the world's most prolific kleptocracies, rooted in his country's substantial oil reserves (at present, Gabon still has more miles of pipeline than of paved road). While no conclusive estimate of his total wealth exist, Papa hung his hat in an $800 million palace and owned properties in Nice, Malibu and the like. At 4'11", Bongo may, indeed, have boasted one the highest dollars-to-inches ratio of any current or former head of state. He apparently spent freely: The New York Times reported that Bongo shelled out $9 million to Jack "Definitely Not in Gen Pop" Abramoff in 2003 for a promised meeting with Dubya; ten months later, Papa was sipping tea and noshing on crumpets in the Oval Office.

To the littlest Big Man there ever was, happy trails (and yes, 'death' buys you one free post that fails to note mentions only in passing a decades-long pattern of rampant corruption, ambivalence toward human trafficking, and disregard for human rights).

Willie T. Coleman biopic forthcoming

When they adapt the life story of Willie T. Coleman, Jr. for the silver screen, there shouldn't be any discussion as to which African American A-lister will portray the guy:

I know, Wesley Snipes, right!? Right? He'd be perfect: "Always bet on black...when betting on landmark civil rights cases, that is. In games of chance, it's pretty much 50-50, really."

In reality, Coleman's a hugely important guy -- not long after becoming the first black Supreme Court clerk, he co-wrote the legal brief that brought down segregation in public schools nationwide and made for a wholesome and mildly entertaining moment in Forrest Gump.

No, but seriously, that guy looks just like James Earl Jones.

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS DCQ??!?

Ancient Mycenae? Kosovo? Sleeping under the Williamsburg Bridge?

Only TigerCat knows for sure...but that there wall sure looks Cyclopean (HINT HINT).