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Your Senior Editor has finally settled back into New York after a whirlwind April that involved, in no particular order: Tahitian beach huts, kite surfers, 1/2 of Prince's Coachella set, an enormous donkey pinata sitting atop a pool bar, Tiki dancers twirling flaming sticks in a choreographed dance routine, jet lag, general exhaustion, and a whole lot of sunshine.

The best thing to happen in recent weeks was the New York Photo Festival in Dumbo, and we’re not just saying that because Anthem was one of many small sponsors. Looking at modern art can be a soul-crushing affair; the NYFF’s four curated pavilions, on the other hand, made you feel like the kids might be all right. Tim Barber of Tinyvices.com curated Various Photographs, a real-world corollary to his excellent website; small photos taken by relative unknowns shared wall space with heavy hitters like Ryan McGinley, Peter Sutherland, Richard Kern, et. al., with no priority given to the boldfaced names. Barber’s selections were all about weird juxtapositions, a density of meanings crowding the space—a Superman impersonator caught exiting a Port-o-Potty, or Maxim Ryazansky’s picture of a young religious zealot carrying a sign that reads USA = FAG NATION. (She’s wearing a VOTE FOR PEDRO novelty tee and texting on her cell phone.)

Lesley A. Martin of Aperture Books gave her own corner of the exhibition (The Ubiquitous Image) a unique spin; many of the photographers she choose were concerned with the origins, as well as the use and abuse, of found images. Penelope Umbrico covered a wall with snapshots of sunsets plucked from stranger’s Flickr accounts, while Joachim Schmid cut-up Star Trek postcards, call girl cards and election propaganda to make visually noisy collages. Curtis Mann took obscure photos from Lebanon, Israel, and Kenya—he bleached the prints, then added to and disfigured them with clear acrylic varnish and graphite. The end results are ghostly scenes, part fact and part fiction.

Martin Parr of Magnum masterminded a section entitled New Typologies; at first I found it a bit too coldly cerebral, but patience was rewarded. Parr picked photos based on “ordering the world through series of images”—in other words, we cut through the confusion and chaos of every day life by creating, and ordering, sets of photographs that attempt to make sense of it. Jeffrey Milstein’s work involves taking photos of jumbo jet undercarriages (Southwest Airlines has the prettiest.) Ananke Asseff addressed the rise in Argentinean handgun ownership by taking portraits of average citizens, old and young, photographed at home with their weapons. The effect was heartbreaking and hilarious. And personal favorite Jan Banning contributed an extensive series of workers around the world, shot in their own offices. From Texan cops to African accident inspectors, each portrait was captioned with a description of the individual’s occupation and salary, translated into euros; the beauty was in the small details, the clutter and detritus of each individual workspace.

On the music front: Caught Lykke Li's set at Bowery Ballroom—absolutely crush-inducing, thanks in no small part to Li's patented funny/sexy dance routine, like what Britney Spears might conjure if she had a sense of subtlety (and a sense of humor). Left before El Perro del Mar closed out the night; no offense to Sarah Assbring (and kudos for not Americanizing that last name for the gigglers among us), but her downbeat mojo would've been a bit like swallowing arsenic after a bowlful of Prozac. Look for both of these Swedish lasses in a special "on the road" photo diary, hitting stands in July.

Two striking news pieces cheered me up in the recent weeks. The first is a profile of Freeman's impresario, Taavo Somer, and how his brand of rustic, scruffy manhood has colonized lower Manhattan. The other is an excellent rumination on the "stud muffin" status of Flight of the Conchords, who recently played Town Hall (it was funny!). Together they make for a pretty fascinating examination of the fluctuating state of male sexuality; at the very least, they're solid proof that cultivating a beard makes it easier to get laid. Take note.

And finally, the best/worst piece of news to ever hit the PR pipeline: The Real World is bringing its 21st season to Brooklyn. There's no definitive word yet on which neighborhood will be blessed with these 7 strangers picked to live in a house, but the blogosphere is leaning toward either Carroll Gardens or the hipster intersection of North 6th and Bedford. This is awful for many reasons—camera crews clogging up the hipster highway, lame Manhattanites coming to the borough for a piece of "authenticity," etceteras. (Walk by Sea, a Thai restaurant on north 6th once featured on a certain sitcom, and see what Sarah Jessica Parker hath wrought.) However, a good friend pointed out why its brilliant: we Brooklynites can now make a game of finding, seducing, and sleeping with Real Worlders, thereby ensuring we end up on television while having sex. Also, with any luck, what happened in Philadelphia will happen here: blatant aggression from local bars and restaurants, coupled with profligate verbal abuse from neighborhood citizens. Surely Brooklyn can spice up the partially-scripted, alcohol-sodden world of Bunim/Murray; at the very least we can make sure to douse this cast in our, um, creative juices. It's on.