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Fanelli Cafe

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Fanelli Cafe

Article

Fanelli Cafe is a recurring venue in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 4 times across 4 issues between March 07, 2025 and July 15, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as “Natasha and I spend the morning at Fanelli Cafe in the sun”; “Fanelli Cafe for dinner”; “We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar”. It most often appears alongside KGB, Matthew Gasda, Betsey Brown.

Metadata

  • Category: Venues
  • Mention count: 4
  • Issue count: 4
  • First seen: March 07, 2025
  • Last seen: July 15, 2025

Appears In

None.

Source Context

Recovered passages from the original issue text. When the raw archive preserved outbound links inside the source passage, they are listed directly under the quote.

52 Notifications From Hell
March 07, 2025 · Original source
WHAT I DID Monday, February 24 David's friend wore a shirt that said RESIST COCAINE last night, and he made us steak, spinach, cashews, wine. It was lovely, imbibing on the floor in this smokey room. And there are many grand plans, and I believe most of them will come true, and I was struggling to begin the day but now the evening floats on and on all weightless. "C. said the best thing about living with me was the blade runner type atmosphere created by all the smoke from my steak fixation," David's friend says. And there is a lot of smoke, and it is in a nice way. A cozy night and I was home not too late in truth although it felt later than it was, slipping onto the couch and falling into black sleep the second we arrived back at the apartment. The falling asleep was nice too, and more annoying was waking up at two, four, six am and then you decide it's late enough. The day begins. I was writing by hand during this wistful restless sleep last night - notes of little coherence, notes of: I am so lucky to have been raised in environments of normalcy. not regarding aesthetics even but regarding, having normal fucking morals, seeking to live a life that is good, avoiding the gamble of turning insane or, evil. The guidelines that compose a moral compass are blurrier in general these days, but I should seek more of this, the normalcy that is. I should not crave chaos in this way. I should not resent anyone who seeks tranquility, politeness, who seeks to sleep and wake early. But I like this other thing too, this sense of a fugue state, flow state, whatever. It's utterly consuming. In the real world, I am trying to articulate how detached I am sometimes. Either that, or I'm trying to make sure you don't catch on. I'm not sure if all of this is good or bad. I'm becoming smarter and more Serious and I'm very sincere in wanting to make good works and be conscious of the state of my body and soul and the state of yours too and also, and I hope I'm not becoming too annoying. Tuesday, February 25 I tried to work with video this morning, a return to my roots as a health and wellness vlogger, but it mostly made me want to kill myself. I smoked my last cigarette ever last night by the open window, by the basil plant, David didn’t get home until late and I was having fun with my old canon G7X and with my cigarette and then I tried to film a conversation this morning, and it made the whole conversation so stilted and dull, I think it ruined the conversation, really, and so now I never want to document anything visually ever again. I thought I was going to pass out at the gym, but I didn’t. I thought I was going to scream because David keeps borrowing that wonderful yellow and navy rain jacket that my dad found washed up in the beach, and I don’t want my boyfriend parading all around New York in my special jacket, even though it doesn’t fit me, even though I never wear it, I don’t care, I was feeling possessive. And then the sun comes out, and so Natasha and I spend the morning at Fanelli Cafe in the sun. Coffees until I feel even more sick but it’s not in the worst way, And then at night, there is the birthday at Kenka. Oh, David says, the BDSM Japanese place in the East Village, and it’s true, yes, that when you arrive, there are the automatic shopping mall style sliding doors and the mannequin of the woman bound and gagged and the cotton candy machine. And it's on that crazy street in the East Village with all the halloween stores. The girls next to me are talking about shooting their movie. And we'll need skeletons, they are saying, where are we going to get skeletons? I think about my fathers collections of strange bones, wondering if I can find anything to contribute, but (most) of those bones are not human, and he comes by them in strange and obscure places regardless, and then I think about suggesting the strange halloween stores down the street, but I’m eavesdropping, really, and they come to these conclusions all on their own. Party City, they are saying. We can just get the skeletons at Party City. Wednesday, February 26 I wish I was a bit more consistent in keeping the promises I make. The promises to myself mostly but there are promises to others, sometimes, too. And there is this duality of desire for nostalgia and acceleration and I find them both repugnant on the larger level but then I see them both in myself, so strongly in myself, all these distance edges of extremities so rawly on display within my own mind, which I have been trying to have integrity with, btw. And it hasn't been so bad, really. There was walking eight miles in sunshine today. The schoolyard animal cookie ice cream from Morgensterns and I order it with the lemon jam and sometimes cherries. There have been a few false starts. Which is why, I think, I've been ranting so much about the ebb and flow of it all, but there is equilibrium, too. Some proximity to this equilibrium, at least. Thursday, February 27 Matthew imagines a situation and he tells it to David wherein; David is in heaven, and I am in hell, but in this version of hell, they let me keep my phone. “and she’ll ruin heaven,” Matthew tells David, because she’ll just keep texting you, “it’s so warm down here David, they made it too warm down here!!!” The other part of this joke, Matthew explains to David, is that in this heaven, “you’ll be surrounded by beautiful, adoring, women, but there will just be this barrage of texts from Chloe, constant, never ending, about how awfully terribly warm it is down there in hell.” The cosmic joke of it all, of course, is that our varyingly unpleasant respective situations in this hypothetical story will both, unfortunately, be utterly eternal. Last night was the night for Being Freaked Out. Tonight is the night for Being Calm As Can Be. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Friday, March 7 I missed the Foreign Domestic opening this week, but I am planning to visit God alone loves all things and he loves only himself before the festivities of the evening. Works by Alex Both, Joan Dillon, Kylie Mitchell, TINMANTIS.
Inline links: Foreign Domestic, God alone loves all things and he loves only himself
How to Redeem Yourself
March 25, 2025 · Original source
Monday, March 16 I entered into all this fugue state psychosis yesterday. The guy my friends ran into at the bar yesterday entered into all this unrequited love psychosis. People can be so evil. That’s the last thing I texted my boyfriend before I basically blacked out on Saturday: people can be so evil. In my glass house, it was pouring pouring pouring rain last night. I felt so nostalgic for that apartment last night, even as it still remains mine, now. I felt like I could suddenly remember what it was for this apartment to be all new. There was no clutter last June. There was a sudden arrival in a place that was suddenly mine. It was freshly cleaned and there was all this space, it was like infinity it was like, all this light, oh my god, all this air and light and space, this will never get old. My mother says that about the fields behind the house sometimes: I moved in and I wondered if it would ever get old and it never did, she says. But she’s been there twenty-five years. humid summer air and thrifted propped up fans still blowing hot air through the white wood corridors on august mornings. I’ve been here nine months and I am already starting to stagnate. Which I guess is to say: I’m spoiled or, maybe I’m boring. Last night, I was nothing but happy. Tuesday, March 17 How to redeem yourself? Wednesday, March 18 Places this week: Cafe Reggio, The Public Library, Elizabeth Street Garden, Lucien for drinks, Fanelli Cafe for dinner. My roof every morning and night because it is spring now. Spring again. Spring at last. Thursday, March 19 And something gives in a permanent way. New practices, new routines, you cannot continue like this, and so you wake up one day and you don't. There has been a lot that has been beautiful and then, there has been me taking myself out of all this beauty. And you don't become so didactic and harsh and full empty promises. You just give yourself some willpower and then you give yourself some peace. I'm feeling really really really really annoyed on the plane to El Salvador. I'm sorry. This part isn't supposed to be in the story. I will tell you the real story, soon. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, March 25 From 6:30pm at McNally Jackson Seaport — Jamie Hood presents her new memoir Trauma Plot, in conversation with Rayne Risher-Quann.
Inline links: presents her new memoir
Total Nightmare Policy
May 21, 2025 · Original source
WHAT I DID Monday, May 12 At the Holiday Inn, there are Yakisoda noodles and banana cream pie snack pack jellos and krabby patties gummy candies and lances cream cheese and onion dip crackers. All the most disgusting snacks imaginable, and kind of perverted, too. I’m so particular and annoying with my sleeping issues that I always find myself at depressing hotels, even when there is a wonderful home down the road where I am welcome. I need a Big Bed and Isolation. I need Temperature Control. As a child, I liked things such as camping in birch forests and cramped little stone cottages in some village where my parents would find someone on the Internet to swap houses with. Unfortunately, I grew up into someone with severe and undiagnosable sleep disorders, and a taste for adventure that is rooted more in hedonism and less in fresh air. I feel really full and sleepy heading back to New York. Well, things are better than they were. Total nightmare policy. Total, blow up your life brother, policy. I was so addicted to writing in my google docs journal this weekend and now I have a lot of annoying slop to show for it. I call my dad in the sun outside the Starbucks in a Strip Mall. Stop thinking about things in such eternal terms, they tell me. You wouldn’t get in a car crash and say When Can I Go 100 Again, they remind me. Fiction, again - they are talking about somebody else. The idea of compromise no longer makes your blood boil. It’s an unsavory trait that it ever did in the first place. "The other alternative is that I just become a nightmare and you become perfect," I told him. "That is certainly an alternative," he told me. It is 11:30pm, and I am thinking about getting a job. I am thinking about the Current Body Red Light Mask and the Ayede heels from ssense.com. "What if I hadn’t simply crashed out," he said. "There would have been pros and cons to that," I said. There is a fire alarm and mauve curtains and two weird arched doorways because we booked a suite and so the architecture suggests some simulacra of something vaguely Roman. Marble. Plaster cut to look like marble. I go to buy water and they have turned off the creepy lights at the creepy pool. Tuesday, May 13 I was feeling really terrified, if I’m being honest about it. I was sitting on the sidewalk picking at my nails and drinking hot coffee in the hot sun, eight splenda, curdled almond milk. I was voicing concerns in a high pitched voice and I was losing track of the distinguishment between ideas imagined and conversations regurgitated. God forbid I have an original thought of my own - that part wasn't even on the table. It isn’t so dark and depressing anymore. Walk in the rain and everything is so green here. I’ll be back in the city tonight and there are better omens in the astrology these days around things like planes, the return, glass apartments in the sky. He leaves my keys on the bedside table at the hotel, and he’s still asleep when I pack up my things and leave to eat black coffee, turkey deli meat, garlic aioli, marcona almonds. We drive to his parent’s house and he gives me drumstick vanilla ice cream. Working on this laptop, surrounded by all this green. You know that every time you hit this vape it coats your lungs in sweet thick paste, I am telling him, as I hit his vape. The last time I wrote about hitting a vape I received an infuriating pseudo intellectual email about the verbiage "hit" as suggesting a sado-masochistic impulse in our digital age. "I wonder if soon, you'll be saying you 'Beat' or 'Pummeled' your vape?" the idiot email writer wrote. The email made me so mad. You're so stupid, I wanted to write back. We go for a walk in the bright green forest. There is a sweetness here. A coming-back-into-control that makes the out-of-control-ness feel so distant. Escape from Evil and two days later you mistake reprieve for salvation. Unless, you are not mistaken. It really could be that simple. What was it they were saying on The Internet? Break The Pattern Today Or The Loop Will Repeat Tomorrow. What was it I've been saying online? Edit Artificial Intelligence robot voice over text to speech words - "Taking My Party Boy Boyfriend On A Walking Tour Of The Cotswolds." I clarify that I've been defending his honor. We're crushing up the plastic water cups, and the hill is steep up the road. I clarify that there are people of extremes. It was very bad, but now it is very good, I am texting my mother. Honestly, I'm so sick of clarifying anything at all. You're a little more sober with it. You're a little more gentle about it. It transformed in two days. Imagine two weeks. Imagine a year. Imagine rushing even one second. I can control my consciousness. Though, it isn't my consciousness, really, that I've been concerned about. I'm glad we share a frame of mind. This plane is basically empty. Wednesday, May 14 We went to KGB late last night. Thursday, May 15 The woman who does yoga on her fire escape is out there with a cigarette, today. I’m not in a bad mood today. The apartment is a mess and I am concerned about my past. Things become steady, and then even bright. Friday, May 16 Well, I didn't write because I have been busy in real life. I've been imagining an identity rooted in delusions in the secret diary that stays offline. It is not so delusional. I am feeling so sincere. Rebecca is here. My sister is here. We went to KGB Bar and Fanelli Cafe and Funny Bar where we met a Gagosian guy turned AI guy, which I guess has kind of been my career arch too though I am not so pleased about that direction. We went to the party at Bowery where the waiter from Fanelli Cafe was the DJ and I had two vodka sodas then soda water with lime which might be all I do soon, though I keep on having all these cyclical conversations with myself about these things - consumption and gluttony - and there is little that more dull, so I will not bring it up again. I went to the sleep specialist and she giggled when I said I don't scream in my sleep if I am in the company of strangers. That's different but great, she said. Do I control my subconscious, I said. Stupid idiot, she said. I did actually go to all these parties, and I did call him from the bathroom. He'll be back in New York soon, making film and code and learning banjo. It's way better than the alternative, and I do feel very proud this week which is something I have not been able to say in a good long while. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Wednesday, May 21 From 7pm - 8:30pm at The Flea Theater (20 Thomas St) — I’ll be seeing Revolution: The Play. Sophia Englesberg is associate producer, and everything she touches is wonderful. Written and produced by Brett Neveu, directed by Rebecca Harris. The theater is next to The Odeon, so you can get my favorite martini before or after the show. - “Who celebrates their 26th birthday in the alley outside of her hairdressing place o’ work? Revolution interrogates and celebrates the very nature of creating community and building friendships in our ever-evolving, ever disconnecting world.”
Inline links: Revolution: The Play, Sophia Englesberg, The Odeon
Summer Break
July 15, 2025 · Original source
WHAT I DID Monday, July 7 On the upper west side there are big french windows. green branches outside and you can’t see the street. There is a gray townhouse across the way, marble framing, air conditioning in the attic. I have crashed here before. I have been to the central park zoo. I have whispered on the whisper bench. I took cigarettes from the apartment before I left. I moved to Berlin once. I came back and I came here. I got a job at a gallery. I was given a life the next winter. There was a life before. I am not vindictive at all. I am waiting for a collapse that has not come. 12.23.24 - Today; a crisp clear morning of ice and snow and dreamy clarity at home. I haven't felt this at peace in the country in so long, I haven't felt able to access this place in forever. Now, something shifts. 12.28.24 - The idea being of course, that once you realize the shortness of the time you have, you become paralyzed of wasting it. 1.17.25 - After I floated through the kitchen for a while I remarked, oh this is a lazy morning. You consider jumping around with your soulmate all day lazy?, I was asked. 1.21.25 - I screamed my lifemylifemylifemylife too and then I put a towel in my mouth in the bathroom and I bit down hard. 1.26.25 - we talk about values — which we mostly share I went to Fanelli Cafe The Roxy Hotel and The Party and then who knows. I took a North Face backpack all about town. I took a Prada purse. I took a call. I took a meeting. I took beet juice at lunch. I took water with dinner. I forgot how to write. Artificial Intelligence remembered how to tell me about psychosis. Artificial Intelligence remembered how to affirm. I remembered my humility. I remembered how to recite advice. It is not that things are good. Where is my spiral? I have been checking my notes. If all adds up, then there should have been some spiral. It’s spiraling all around me. I wrote a letter. I didn’t tell everyone. There is nothing really left to write. The end was not so much the artistic sort of thing. I am still still still. I have heard the news. I have heard the latest. Split screen. Split personality. I used to write it like performance art. It is insane, at a certain point, to insist it is performance art. Queen of the Fairies, the signs say in Bushwick. They're talking on the phone on the street and so they seem schizophrenic, my dad says in Bushwick. Schizophrenic is not always as it seems, I am smirking in Bushwick. No one is laughing. Everyone is graceful. I keep on ruining the vibe. I was told once that I thought that I was something like Mother Theresa. You write like this and so you ruin what is sacred. Some things are sacred. Artificial Intelligence cut me off. Artificial Intelligence caught a whiff of my vibe. Tuesday, July 8 There is a fire by the ocean and gray gray gray dusk and I had wine against my own best interest. I thought I would say, here is what I recall. I recall nothing. There is so much I could distinguish from the wreck of it all. I'm ok but you are not so in this world today, Iris is saying on the beach. I recall we went to The Folly. I closed the door in the bathroom up the stairs. I ate Chicken and Rice, Joe's Pizza, Springbone Kitchen, Two Martinis. Throw the butter from the fridge in the trash because it really smells like rot. I was not always convinced that everything was about to rot, but I was always pretty sure about the butter. It all becomes a bit trite in writing. Not in recollection. I wish I could recall so much of anything at all. What are your favorite furniture items in memory, my dad asks Iris after the beach. Iris says a yellow ottoman. My dad lights a fire. My dad is on StreetEasy. I'm on that artificial intelligence wave in a big way. You can tell I've developed the habit because I sound abruptly so much stupider. You can tell I have little ground to stand on because, absence, no memory, relinquish nostalgia and I have nothing to say. I liked the little wooden chairs by the fire in Massachusetts. I like my map of Buzzards Bay. I liked the wooden table at a house surrounded by all that green. I did first like the Bacchus mask in New York, though I am learning to be cautious with symbolism and the thing of what you may conjure. My dad liked the bed he built into his cabin. There are people who build cabins. There are people whose whims don't dictate their attacks. There are people who are just one person all at once. The dog chased the coyote up the beach and I chased the crab apple path up towards the house and there is a paisley blanket and an oil painting of a woman in a long pleat white dress and a black hat with a black bow and a small child with his hand clutched in hers. Wednesday, July 9 Lying on the speckled blue sheets under a canopy of white veil thinking about how I’m going to get the fuck back to the city. Thinking about where I am going to live. I am going to need to pull a lot of favors. I will not be listless. Wander around my all new neighborhood in a daze of self abandon. Abandon limbo. It will be interesting to see what happens when I abandon limbo. I suspect that it'll be nothing good. Were you so addicted to the chaos? Iris asks me. Will you need to manufacture new situations to respond to? It’s just that, reckless abandon doesn't really bother me, I say. It’s not so much that this is necessarily what I crave. There is a music box and I am noticing my initials on the inside. There are mussels in coconut milk and bluefish on the porch and I was quiet quiet quiet today, though I get the sense that suddenly all around me, it is beginning to happen fast fast fast. Thursday, July 10 I stopped with all the quiet and then I regretted it in an instant. There are gray walls like paper maché and a white wooden canopy bed frame and a toy boat all tan and teal green propped up on the bookshelf. You have been lying in every bed in the house, Iris said. Rotate them like musical chairs. I was not so sure where I should land. I was lying on a yellow bedspread, then. Dusk, then. The curtains were drawn but they were light and sheer and easy to imagine what was just on the other side. Friday, July 11 New York is pulsing pulsing pulsing summer and I am glad to be back even just, to do little with it. Dinner at Lure Fishbar which is lovely and a clarity summit on the terrace which is less rotten in its final days, smog over the railing and the lights are blinking on and off in dusk haze across the river and then, everyone leaves. I leave too. Bring drinks in plastic bottles to the bar. Starting my days earlier and ending them later. There will be other things. I could handwrite it next time. I could use lugger.com or the nice neighbor from May or the generosity from others that I worry I do not return or deserve to move the couch. So, nothing ever happens. Stay up until seven in the morning and then it's taking down the fir wreaths because those are becoming a fire hazard too. Taking down the buoy and the copper pot because those are coming with me. The terrace has become all clogged with cigarettes and I notice it only now, plastic tarnished wood and the cracks are all stuffed with tar and rainwater and dead branches. So, I could do yard work I suppose. Or, I could just leave. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Tuesday, July 15 From 8pm - 12pm at The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research — a one night only reading of an AI generated play trained on all Matthew Gasda’s plays. Error 404: Play Not Found. Tickets are free but donations are encouraged. - “This will be done with ample drinking and unseriousness--but the experiment may also be interesting on a philosophical level.”
Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!-s02!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa0eebadf-a2d7-4370-aa2c-ff5b1e6112ba_756x424.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!5VsE!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa28d040d-b3a0-4770-82bd-6e231622df77_632x410.png, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!UYwU!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F46ea23c2-0020-4017-9cf8-fb844593afb0_1536x2048.jpeg, The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research, Error 404: Play Not Found

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