Inside the Abattoir

PLAY THE PONIES: A tour of the horse-meat food chain, from family pastures to foreign burger tastings, ahead of the opening of horse slaughter in Oklahoma. By James McGirk.

Dave Hickey, Art World Apostate

Dave Hickey had a hell of a month. He announced his retirement from the art world to The Observer: “What can I tell you?” he said. “It’s nasty and it’s stupid. I’m an intellectual and I don’t care if I’m not invited to the party. I quit.”

Roscoe update

Happy to report that Roscoe, the junkyard dog discussed in September’s column, was rescued from the local dog fighting ring. The alleged dognapper has been arrested.

The Q&A: James Ellroy

JAMES ELLROY is the author of 13 novels, each grander in scale than the last. Perhaps best known for “L.A. Confidential” and “The Black Dahlia”, both of which were adapted to film, Mr Ellroy writes books that are often part of a short series and almost always door-stoppers. But his latest work, “Shakedown”, is a dramatic departure: it is a slim, one-volume, digital-only novella.

The Case of the Radioactive Redhead

Will Barnet, Anticipation, 1980

Will Barnet, Anticipation, 1980

(Source: wikipaintings.org, via oldtimeycats)

archiveofaffinities:</p><p>Kevin Roche, John Dinkeloo, and Associates, Knights of Columbus Office Building, New Haven, Connecticut, 1969<br />

archiveofaffinities:

Kevin Roche, John Dinkeloo, and Associates, Knights of Columbus Office Building, New Haven, Connecticut, 1969

(via architectureofdoom)

NNATAN

We vet families and can bar them from joining the Op – but once they leave our sphere of influence, the Op must seize control and wield kin as clandestine cover. But the pliant, detached creatures we select for foreign assignment are not householders by nature. Much as we suffer the consequences, and much as it might be humane to do so, we simply cannot execute our children without risking accusations of profound hypocrisy and international outcry.

The Romance of Mayhem and High Explosive

Hot, smoke-fouled air is a powerful mnemonic. As the sun set over New York City on the 4th of July, my fiancée, Amy, and I took a break from comforting our shell-shocked cats, to stroll through our neighborhood. We live in a decaying industrial area perched on a scarp between the neighborhoods of Bushwick, Brooklyn and Ridgewood, Queens. By peering down one of the avenues we could just make out the puffs of incandescent orange exploding over the East River. We climbed the hill into Ridgewood. It was dark. New York had had one of its wettest summers yet, and a dank hot fug lingered beneath the foliage. All around us explosions rocked the city as families fired bootleg fireworks off their balconies, and the air reeked of sulfur and smoke.