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POO is a monthly party that my friends Sarah Ball and David Toro put on at The Hose in New York. Wild decorations, totally outrageous performances, and glorious music all night long. When I went, Tim from Gang Gang Dance was DJing, the boys from Mirror Mirror fed me communion, and subway siren Rosateresa serenaded us with her beautiful voice and casio keyboard. Best of all, I witnessed an insanely fun orange gak-covered drone music goblin orgy/performance art blowout, or something. Pictures of POO after the jump!

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So obviously this guy kinda sucks, generally. I mean, while Damien Hirst probably feels the same way, he at least does us the favor of not bragging about being a self-involved bourgeois asshole who thinks of himself on par with Caravaggio. Divorced of Kostabi’s lame personality, I can’t tell if I simply enjoy his paintings for their weird/funny outmoded ClipArt aesthetic, or if I’m genuinely enchanted by the stupid spectral beauty of a faceless figure serenading a Hammerhead shark on an underwater piano. I guess it really doesn’t matter. These paintings are kinda rad.

Ninja Warrior is an incredible, impossible Japanese game show that requires its participants to run a series of increasingly difficult obstacle courses that would obliterate most Olympians, to say nothing of the average man. Anyone can try out to become a Ninja Warrior, but very few make it past the first stage. Some years, no one even makes it to the final stage of the competition, and they end the season without any winners. Don’t you wish they would do that on American Idol?

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Michael Lucid and Amanda Barrett’s internet sketch comedy thingy is called Pretty Thingsss and it’s a barrel of laughs! These two recent clips are “street poems” comprised of random, spontaneously captured footage of daily life in Hollywood, supplanted with the free-associating madness of Michael’s voice over. So good.

Bravo is a German teenybopper rag, akin to our Tiger Beat magazine. And it’s amazing. Their covers from the early 90s are particularly rad, though I may be looking at them through the delusory veil of my own nostalgia. via im so sure

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Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets are primo. There are few things better, in this life. The feeling of my mouth closing around that soft, spongy cake topped with divine butterscotch frosting is supremely satisfying. It might not be too much of a stretch to claim that Tastykake laid the foundation for my entire palette, my complete understanding of what is desirable and undesirable in the realm of edible enticements.

Sadly, Tastykake is an East Coast Thing. Spending the early years of my life in the suburbs of Philadelphia, there was a long period of time when my goals in life were largely within reach. I would simply save up the requisite amount of nickels, dimes and quarters. Then, I would walk down to the 7-11 for a packet of these moist delicacies, perhaps supplanted by a 20-ounce bottle of Sprite and a copy of Mad Magazine—all essential elements of a balanced lifestyle. Upon the depletion of my funds, I would start back up again from scratch, collecting change until I could re-live the same delicious, yet fleeting, moment of happiness. It was all an ominous premonition of the places capitalism would take me— on a sinister hamster wheel of irrational desire, followed by wish fulfillment, surrounded by a void of utter emptiness. JK! Pass me a krimpet!