Angel Heart is nothing if not divisive, managing a strange balance between campy, sly humor (DeNiro chews it up as a “Louis Cyphre” – literally, and not too hard to figure out, “Lucifer”) and a dedication to taking itself seriously as a genre piece (the genre in question being?occult noir). It's a film both extremely crude and intricate that splits audiences in half: for every person who does not care for it, you're likely to find somebody else who counts it among their favorite films.

It's overwhelmed by the controversial appearance of a very sexed up young Lisa Bonet in a very un-Cosby like role, a performance as alarming upon the film's release in 1987 as it remains in most viewers' memories. Aside from the very graphic sexuality (which nearly earned the movie an X rating), the particulars of the plot tend to have been forgotten by most viewers over the years; I recalled the mood much more vividly than any plot particulars.

It's too bad, in a way, because the story (which I was really excited to learn was based upon a novel called Falling Angel by William Hjortsberg, author of Brix Pick Gray Matters) is, on one hand, pretty straight forward. It's also pretty compelling, even as the final twists and turns delve into deeper, pulpier areas. When demons reclaim souls with special effect yellow eyes that would have worked fine decades earlier, these days they're just daring you to giggle even as you hunker under the palpable dread and muck that the rest of the movie has so effectively conjured up.

When it comes to building atmosphere and creating beautiful images, director Alan Parker is a master. Mickey Rourke, who, in the late '80s still looked human, is perfect as rumpled private detective Harry Angel. Roger Ebert wrote eloquently of his performance, “Rourke occupies the center of the film like a violent unmade bed.”

You really have to give yourself over to the movie to enjoy it, and roll with both the surprises and the obvious. Once you accept it on its own terms, you'll discover an underrated cult classic that it still (at the very least) far more interesting than most new releases you're likely to come across.

On an old episode of This American Life, David Sedaris instilled a very definite fear in liberal radio listeners with his account of hitchhiking shenanigans and with the quote, “They popped in an 8-track of the Ozark Mountain Daredevils… that was my punishment.” It's an unfair smear job that I fear left an indelible scar on the rep of the bearded band – even Ira Glass gets a smirky little jab in at their expense.

The band's tune Jackie Blue has been happily flottering through my brain for days, like an animated little songbird from Missouri; they really don't deserve an association with almost getting killed on the highway – in fact, they're about as frightening as a countrified slice of Bread.

Jackie Blue is a top hit of the hillbilly soft rock genre which I suppose, for some people, is just as frightening as a hitchhike gone wrong…. but not me.

How can I ask you to take me seriously as the provider of a hunk resource?when the blonde, manly, corduroy suit wearing, talented creator of Sundance and golden hero of silver screen, Robert Redford is so glaringly, unacceptably missing from my list?

This week I correct that mistake because we all know Redford is tops. Just pop in Three Days of the Condor and imagine yourself as Faye Dunaway – the idea of being taken hostage has never seemed more appealing.

Maxine de la Falaise's obituary reads like a dream: she grew up in a family that “were the highest of haute bohemia”, as a child in school, “her clothes – Rhoda's (her mother's) discarded Schiaparellis or bespoke oriental ensembles – were awesome”. Later, shipped off to the US to find a wealthy husband, “She hung around Vogue in New York, was introduced to Elsa Schiaparelli, whose couture house had reopened… as perfect in her lanky loucheness to wear and sell for the house in its last years, and she was also photographed as a model for Dior, whose rise finally eclipsed Schiaparelli.”

She counted Louis Malle and Max Ernst among her lovers before becoming “an influential hostess among the Manhattan creatives” and a food columnist for Vogue. She was great friends with Andy Warhol and I know her well from his camp classic Blood for Dracula. Yves Saint Laurent, who claimed her daughter Loulou as a muse, was also enamored with Maxine and she both modeled for him and acted as his licensing consultant.

She was a gorgeous and fascinating woman who left her own, unique stamp on the world.

Ever wondered what a belly-filling, all cookie meal might be like? Head over to the ever inventive (the menu includes cereal milk and fireball soft serve) Momofuku Milk and order one of their incredible cookie creations. I opted for Cornflake, Marshmallow, and Chocolate and I think I can safely say it's one of the greatest cookies on earth.

Any food lover in the city is by now very familiar with David Chang and his mini empire of impressive food, and at Milk he's employed the brilliant Christina Tosi who hails from WD-50. I am excited to return and try more – currently they're featuring an Arnold Palmer cake: “A layer of iced tea-soaked cake, followed by tangy whipped lemon mascarpone cream, almond tea crunch, and iced tea jelly. In the middle: a layer of lemon cake. Repeat with cream, crunch, jelly, and cake.”

There are days in my little life that go down forever in my personal shopping history (remember the $5 sale at that weird Off Fifth in Worcester, Stacy?) and Tuesday was definitely one of them. Odds Costume Rental is closing its doors, a sure tragedy in many respects, but the warehouse wide sale that accompanies the bad news is one of the most mind blowing and heart stopping experiences for fans of costume and vintage. I am indebted to Diane for the tip and am thrilled to pass it on to you.

From 1930's evening gowns, to layered embroidery gypsy skirts, from police uniforms to Carmen Miranda hats, the place will make your head spin with the possibilities. There are even racks and racks of men's stuff, though I didn't peruse them with any detail.

The prices are not dirt cheap, but extraordinarily reasonable for the exceptional quality and uniqueness of the garments. The only downside of the experience is that “insiders”, mostly performers and friends, seem to get slightly better deals than people like me that just wear this stuff on the stage of life. It was a little heart breaking to see one of the in crowd get lots more than me for the same price, but hey – $85 for a fully beaded flapper dress, $30 for the cutest, weirdest 80's poof dress this side of Betsy Johnson?I really can't complain can I?

There is a dressing room, in which you must be prepared to bare it all with a gaggle of other shoppers and it's only right that you put back the pieces you decide not to buy – I can't imagine the head ache abandoned dresses give the boisterous ladies who run it. Plus, they'll yell at you if you make their day more difficult.

The sale goes on until July 1st, and if I had infinite cash and time (and arm muscles – hauling this stuff still has me shakey) I could go back every day until then. But, fortunately, I do have some self control, and I'll just send everyone I know there every day instead.

Phew, I'm still buzzing from the thrill.

It's easy to describe the Brimfield Flea Market in southern Massachusetts as eight football fields long, but it's really difficult to keep that finite image in mind when you're faced with the reality of its overwhelming enormity. You just have to dig in (preferably with comfortable footwear) and weave through as much as you can bear; undoubtedly you'll emerge with something unique and special. In the four hours that we spent, I think we managed to see a little less that half of everything, but we still brought back a bag full of fun goodies (here are a number of photos we took that give a pretty good sense of what it's like).

Costume jewelry is everywhere and it's usually reasonably priced, and don't forget to take home some Pakistani jingly necklaces and great African beads – though be sure to barter for the latter, different tents sell the same items for drastically different prices. There are some clothes, though having gotten there on the second-to-last day, I think it's safe to assume a number of industry people had already picked over the selection pretty well.

One of our favorite purchases was an ogre/naked lady mug by Jim Rumph (who you can read more about in this week's style icon section) and some amazing old gag gifts from the 1950's. These Korean War era Tijuana Bible type comics and off color gag boxes were all from a mind-blowing collection a guy purchased when an old Philadelphian shop went out of business. We spent lots of time going through the boxes and boxes of zany adult novelties on sale (I posted a number of photos on RC).

And speaking of adult, we found some spectacular (but way too pervy) pen and ink drawings that we only declined to buy because they were too hard core and we were concerned that it might give anyone who came to our house the wrong weirdo vibe. The best thing about them was that the artist refused to sign any of his work out of fear that his mother might see them some day.

Midway through the concourse is the food area, and believe me you'll want to rest your feet and refuel by the time you reach it; the lobster roll was acceptable and some guy was singing Jimmy Buffett songs. Make sure you drink something to stay hydrated too.

Other tips: park at the small white church, they have a bathroom, a cookie stand, and their lot is the easiest to get out of; also, bring some bags – we had our trusty Baggu and a couple of canvas totes (designed by the talented Adam Fedderly) which made carrying stuff around a lot easier; you can take photos – but if someone looks cranky, ask permission first; and just make sure to buy something if you really love it. Not only will it probably not be there when you return for it, the place is so big that you may never be able to even find the vendor again.

Parks and Recreation is by no means perfected; it's a little too aware of its faux documentary feel and, even though I like Amy Poehler a lot, she's a bit too broad for the kind of subtle pathos that makes a similarly structured show like the Office so successful, it almost feels like it's hard for her not to treat every scene like an over-the-top SNL sketch. But it is pleasant to watch and I laughed way more than I expected to.

The show gets better and better with each episode, and you can now watch them all in a row on the Prime Time on Demand channel (if you have Time Warner here in NYC). The cast is strong; I love Aziz Ansari and he's great here playing a character who is harmlessly sleazy and really lazy. Rashida Jones is as adorable as ever as the straight man to Poehler's wild naif and her lay-about dude of a boyfriend is played to perfection by Chris Pratt.

My favorite character, though, is the anti government government official (a man who, like all true Libertarians, wishes all public parks were owned by private companies – in the pilot episode he explains that he thinks Chuck E Cheese would do a much better job administrating parks… he goes on to eventually admit that he'd much rather work for Chuck E Cheese) played with wonderful subtlety by the furrowy browed, manly mustached, and seething with hate for his ex-wife Nick Offerman (who is hopefully more happily married to Megan Mullalley off-screen).

It's a raw show that needs some time to grow, but already some really great dynamics between characters are developing and, as is true with most ensemble comedies, more laughs and a deeper sense of sympathy are evoked the longer you just spend time with them. I hope the show's given a chance to evolve and grow an audience.

This flavorful dish owes its pizzazz to the multi-spice rub that includes brown sugar, cumin, cinnamon and lemon. Part sweet, part spicy, with the simple addition of thinly sliced onions to cook in the juices, this recipe of Indian Spiced Salmon won over even Jim, who is no particular fan of the popular fish.