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DAVID BYRNE

David Byrne Breezes Past Arrest at May Day March

Daniel Maurer Footage from moments after photographer Jessica Chornesky was detained. No, we didn’t capture David Byrne as he pedaled by.

A surreal scene played out at the May Day march making its way down Broadway in SoHo. A photographer, Jessica Chornesky, who had climbed atop a food cart to get an overhead shot of the crowd as it passed Spring Street perturbed police officers, who demanded she get down. Ms. Chornesky complied, and passing protestors erupted in boos as the police tied her wrists with plastic bands at around 7 p.m.

The police then escorted her towards Mercer Street, where they awaited the arrival of a police van to haul her away. As Ms. Chornesky complained that the bands had cut off circulation to her hands, a sharply dressed David Byrne (giving Reverend Billy a run for his money) passed by on a bicycle, apparently unaware of the goings-on.

Ms. Chornesky was unable to say if she was working for any news organization before being taken away in the paddy wagon.

Update: Massive May Day March Ends Where Occupy Wall Street Began


James Wolcott’s Memoir, ‘Lucking Out,’ Gets Down and Semi-Dirty in the East Village

lucking outCourtesy of Doubleday

Luckily for East Villagers, James Wolcott’s memoir of his days as a young culture critic in a now nearly vanished city, “Lucking Out: My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in Seventies New York,” places much of its meat and potatoes (along with plenty of gravy) right here in our very own backyard. Steering a middle course between the sometimes overly concentrated, every-word-counts prose of his Vanity Fair columns, and the more loosey-goosey style he deploys in his blog at the same publication, Mr. Wolcott reconfirms his position as New York’s wittiest critic.

Despite its pleasing portability (the book, out later this month, comes in at about 270 pages), “Lucking Out” covers plenty of ground, bopping from Mr. Wolcott’s mice-ridden “man-cave” on East 12th Street, down to CBGB, and back up to the Village Voice, where he made his name. It slides west for a gawk at the gay heyday of the West Village, then uptown for some quality time among the balletomanes of Lincoln Center (with a pause for skuzzy “Taxi Driver”-era Times Square porn along the way), and includes countless screening room séances with his mentor and muse, the late New Yorker film critic, Pauline Kael, to whom large portions of the book can be seen as an extended and touching valentine. Read more…