Flaming Pablum

The Influx of Office Vocab

I entered the workforce pretty promptly after I graduated from college (landing my first quasi-official "job" as an upaid intern at SPIN in the summer of 1989). Since those balmy, carefree days, however, as I've gradually climbed the ladder towards more respectable titles, I've noticed a recent uptick in insufferable corporate lingo. It's been more rife at certain organizations than at others, but I'm worryingly starting to notice it that it's slowly spilling out of the office environment and starting to infect the lexicon of everyday, out-of-office speak. This will not do. As such, here's a handy guide of terms and phrases you need to stop earnestly using at once, whether you're standing in a monolithic, corporate tower of imposing glass and steel or reaching into your friend's fridge for a cold beer on a Saturday night. You'll thank me later.

In no order....

• Sweet spot
• Iterative
• Wheelhouse
• Granular
• Offerings
• Bandwidth
• Evangelize
• Ask (used as a friggin' noun instead of question, query or request)
• Learning (used as a friggin' noun) 
• Effort (used as a friggin' verb)
• "Moving the dial"
• Ping
• Powow
• "Gentle reminder"
• "Own it" 
• Jenky
• "Low hanging fruit" (I've been combatting this with "easily accessible vegetables")
• "Drill down"
• "Net net"
• "Apples to apples"
• "Shitshow"

Which ones am I missing?

I've Reached The Rock

Ahoy, folks.

First of all, let me address a lot of the comments that I've been fielding since my last two admittedly doomy-gloomy posts. For a start, I am not abandoning this blog, so breathe easy or resume frowning accordingly. Secondly, please remember that the source of the critiscism that gave me pause last week was a FRIEND of mine. He's not a random commenter or an anonymous hater or anything. It's the very fact that he's a friend of mine that leant his comments such weight. Had it come from some other source, I'd probably have ignored it. But, again, he's a friend of mine, so let's please keep the name-calling to a minimum. Thanks.

On the flip side of that, let me also say that I appreciate all your words of support. I can't predict how the afore-cited exchange is going to impact this weblog going forward, but it was encouraging to hear that not everyone finds Flaming Pablum to be boorishly limited in scope or myopic or conservative, etc. I've had a brief exchange with RK in the days since my last post, and I assure you that all's well. We'll invariably argue about it again soon, but there's no sincere ill-will.

The comparatively long silence between posts recently wasn't entirely due to the that incident, though. As I noted, I'm in the midst of a job change (actually, my first day at the new gig was today). As such, I had to tend to a number of things and then quickly traipsed off to Long Island for some sorely-needed time with my kids (that's them up at the top, of course, at our local wildlife refuge). After frantically wrangling through the red tape of searching for -- and miraculously landing--  a new job prior to the end of my contract at the last job (sparing me from the 100 day vocational exile I had to deal with last time), it was great to unplug and get away from the city for a quick breather.

But now I'm back in the working week. Without going too deeply into it, I'm now working within the hallowed halls of 30 Rockefeller, or "30 Rock," as it is universarlly known. While I've yet to spot Tina Fey or Alec Baldwin, I did surreally pass both Jimmy Fallon and Keith Olbermann on my way to buy a coke from the commisary. I thought that was pretty cool.

I'm also back in the city, so you can probably expect more to come in shorter order, notably further pictures prized from the lost box. Until then, here's a titularly-appropriate tune from Paul Simonon's short-lived side project, Havana 3.A.M. that I used to quite enjoy ... `cos, y'know, I live in the past.

Warring Over Words

I popped out after work this evening to run a few long-delayed errands, one of which found me rifling through my storage space down on Varick Street. During the course of same, I came across a huge box of photographs I'd stored in there sometime in 2003. For the hell of it, I grabbed a sizable handful of the envelopes therein and threw them in my bag, curious to see if there were any interesting shots that I'd forgotten about or that might be suitable for putting up here. As I was locking up, I glanced out the front window of the place and happened to catch the eye of my old friend RK, who happened to be walking by. I motioned for him to hold on a minute and went out to join him.

RK and I had recently exchanged e-mails with the intention of setting up an evening wherein to catch up and consume some beers, so it seemed like fate that we should be running into each other like this. After some rudimentary pleasantries, however, RK decided to get right to the meat of the matter. In no uncertain terms, RK wanted to emphatically express that he found many -- if not most -- of the things that I write here on this weblog, on Facebook and much of a decade's worth of entries I posted on the I Love Music discussion boards to be, in his own words, "deeply troubling." It was a little off-putting to hear this, but not entirely unexpected. RK has expressed similar objections to me before, but he took pains to point out that it was only because he knew me and counted me as a friend that he found the things I've written to be so "vexing." Over the next several blocks, we discussed some of the things I've written online that "annoy the fuck" out of him so much.

In a nutshell, RK believes that the things I have to say here and elsewhere are deeply entrenched in a fundamentally conservative perspective. Presumably knowing that said adjective irks me, he pointed out that he didn't mean that necessarily in a gun-totey, flag-wavey Sarah Palin/Glenn Beck kinda way, but by the literal definition of the term, i.e. that I write from a place that suggests that I firmly believe that things were better back at a certain point and that we've collectively lost something since then. I countered that there is inarguably an element of that in my writing, but that it was unfair to sweepingly categorize it that way.

In regards to my posts about the constantly-changing New York City, RK intoned that it seemed that all I was doing -- however eloquently at points -- was continually repeating that Manhattan was a better and cooler and more relevant place back when I was young, and wondered if I had anything else to say about it, being that people have been loudly engaging in this inarguably pointless activity since the dawn of time. I found this a somewhat hard point to argue, being that most of the things I post here about the city involve lamenting its gentrification, its transformation into an exclusive city of luxury and the dying embers and antiquated shrines of its once-thriving identity as a hotbed of the counterculture. Again, I'd like to think that there is a little more to my ruminations about the city than that, but I'm probably guilty as charged. I do firmly believe that this city is a less interesting place than it used to be and that it has indeed lost a vast swathe of its character. That all said, I still love it. You'll notice that I haven't pulled up stakes and abandoned it just yet (despite the many entreaties from various quarters to do just that). I continue to love New York, unsolicited facelift and all. If you think I'm swearily testy now, just wait `til I'm forced to move to some godforsaken suburb.

Regarding the topic of music, RK was more severe. Seemingly largely based on arguments I waged and needlessly volatile comments I made back on the afore-cited ILM boards that now date back several years, he accused me of being imperious, predictable and, well, ignorant in my narrow tastes and the exhortations of same. Fair enough, I suppose. If you do a search for posts by an "Alex in NYC" on ILM, you'll certainly unveil a slew of hot-tempered hyperbole and derision regarding a wide array of artists. In the instance of ILM, I probably did assume something of a persona when it came to expressing my opinions, but if anything, that was prompted by a need to counter some of the rapturously purple prose devoted to certain artists (usually pop acts). In a way, I suppose I felt it was my duty to be something of a contrarian -- however cartoony that duty inarguably went on to paint me.

Honestly, this many years after the fact, I'm not all that concerned about the things I may have written on ILM. At the time, most of those comments were composed in the dead of night during the quiet hours of my dreary overnight shifts at the TIME Magazine news desk. I don't necessarily retract the things I said, but the flowery language I utilized to express both my zeal and ire were never intended to be taken very seriously. I believed then as I believe now that nothing you read about another person's opinion about music should ruin your day. I'm not suggesting that music isn't important, I'm merely supporting that old cliche that opinions are like assholes... everybody has one.

In my defense, I do listen to and follow music that was made after 1987, and not all of it is guitar-based rock played by angry white guys (although, to be fair, most of my recent posts about music here regard that sorta stuff). I'm not going to pretend to still be able to keep track of what's new and cutting edge. I barely recognize a third of the names I see regularly cited on Pitchfork. I certainly find more stuff to read about on the unashamedly retro Slicing Up Eyeballs than I do on Brooklyn Vegan. I continue to write about new artists for the "Goings On About Town" section of The New Yorker, but I simply can't help it if my imagination is more fired by certain bands from older eras than by more of today's music. I'm not going to rage against that dying of the light. I have no intention of trying to be the old guy at the hipster bar.

In any case, after a very lengthy discussion with few punches pulled, RK confirmed that these points were not meant to be interpreted as some kind of character assassination, but he truly believed that I needed to re-address and reconsider some of the things I've been saying. Personally speaking, I can't see why an admittedly dismissive comment I made in passing on Facebook about Sheryl Crow and Michael Jackson should get him so riled up, but perhaps that's exactly my problem. I put a lot of stock in what my friend has to say, as his knowledge is pretty encyclopedic and his carefully-chosen words are viscerally articulate. By the same token, I don't think I've ever claimed to be any sort of authority on these things. I'm just expressing my opinions based on my own taste and experience. Coming across as humorlessly haughty or unwarrantedly critical or closed-minded & hostile is decidedly not the impression I'm striving to make here. Moreover, if I've suggested that people who do not share my tastes, perceptions, sensibilities and opinions are stupid and/or worthy of ridicule (or worse), then I've been way out of line. If I have come across this way (y'know, to readers other than my buddy RK), then let me apologize. I'm a perfectly fallible, self-contradicting hypocrite just like everyone else. I'm sorry if I've offended.

I was going to start going through the pictures in the afore-cited box from storage, but I've sorta lost the taste for it this evening. Maybe look for those soon. Incidentally, the image at the top of this post comes from the sleeve art of the single, "Mask," by the Californian industrial duo, Babyland. It was recorded in 1991 and I still listen to it today.

Beers & Careers

I spotted this little item on Eater this morning that linked to an article on Business Insider that made me shudder a little with contempt. While The Best Bars For Networking in New York: Tech & New Media Edition is pretty much an article that speaks directly to me (being that, [a] I'm a bar-loving New Yorker and [b] I work in tech & new media), I can't help kinda wanting to pour a pint of Guiness over the head of its author. I know people over in Brooklyn have been wetting their pants lately about a newfangled trend of bringing babies into bars, but you know what's almost as bad as teething toddlers? Networking douchebags! When I'm all-too-infrequently let off my leash to go pop in for a pint at one of my favorite NYC bars (two of which are regrettably listed in this article), the last thing I want is to be subjected to a load of shop-talk by a gaggle of business card-exchanging aspirationals. If anything, I'm ducking into said establishment to get away from those types

Moreover, I don't appreciate Business Insider alerting a nation of BlackBerry-brandishin', lingo-slingin' schmoozers about how great a bar The Scratcher is was. It's a bar. Have a beer and relax. If you want to network, stay home and play on LinkedIn. Sheesh.

Heartache on Bond Street

My bike isn't a fancy one, or at least not anymore. It's a battered Trek 820, covered with a slick patina of dust and city grime and covered in weathered, peeling stickers that extol the merits of long-defunct punk bands. Its seat is as unwelcoming to the buttocks as an unrelenting granite headstone and swaddled with an oily, ripped bandana. It's suffered innumerable spills in its day and no longer exudes a sheen of glossy newness, which is just as I like it (although I really should get a new seat). All the same, I don't lock it out on the street. In fact, when you see me riding it, you'll notice I don't bring a lock with me. Why not? Well, because I'd never assume a lock would keep it safe on the streets of New York City. I ride it out, I ride it around, then I ride it home. It stays with me. I stay with it. Case closed.

Clearly, however, not everyone is as anal/neurotic/jaded/paranoid as I am. Witness this tragic tale of woe (courtesy of eagle-eyed EV Grieve), wherein the suddenly-former owner of a presumably gleaming chrome Bianchi Pista writes an earnest plea to the enigmatic "punk/hippie girls" who purportedly bought his stolen bike (or stole it themselves) from its perch on Bond Street. I wonder what steps he'd taken to secure the bike in the first place. In any case, here's hoping someone does the right thing and restores this guy's faith in humanity. But ever since reading this story, I haven't been able to get this song out of my head.

Stuff You Might Have Missed: Specials Edition

So first off, I went to go check out The Specials' return to New York City last night. Finally making it here after announcing their resumption of duty in 2008 (albeit without founder/organist/madman Jerry Dammers), I wasn't originally planning on going, being that they were playing Terminal 5 (which, as I may have mentioned in my report on the Stooges show there in 2008, sucks some very serious eggs). But, my next door neighbor Bruce twisted my rubber arm and convinced me to go. After all, it's the goddamn Specials! How could it not be excellent? I did have a moment of panic after ordering tickets, though, after reading that they'd canceled a few shows (though not this one) due to some health problems. But away we went.

Still smarting from the early start of that Stooges show, Bruce & I hoofed it over to friggin' 12th Avenue and entered the venue only a half hour after the 7pm door. We secured a great spot right in the center from the bar barricade, bought ourselves a couple of (very) pricey beers for ourselves and waited. And waited. And waited. With no opening band, the hours moved pretty slowly as the venue slowly filled up. I'd been expecting a more colorful crowd, honestly, but apart from a few pork pie hats, there were only sporadic sightings of full-on Rude Boy and/or skinhead finery. Mostly, it was just middle-aged folks (like…er…ourselves). As I mentioned over at The New York Nobody Sings, it seems the once-thriving NYC Ska scene has thinned out a bit.

In any case, the band hit the stage around 9:35 and launched right into it. Though a bit older and burlier looking, the patented Specials' brand of explosive stage presence remained largely intact. Guitarist Roddy Radiation still looks like a punky Eddie Chochran prone to throwing all sorts of heroic, splay-legged poses. Lynval & Neville still symmetrically bounce around with infectious energy. I'm not sure who Jerry's replacement on the organ was, but he did a fantastic job. The real star attraction was, of course, the return of original vocalist Terry Hall. While even in the band's heyday, Hall wasn't exactly happy-go-lucky, the man's onstage demeanor remains a puzzling one. Skulking around the stage in a depressive funk (despite the kinetic frenzy around him), Hall comes off like a bemused, latter-day Peter Sellers, making the odd aside to the audience. It was hard to tell at certain points if he was actually enjoying himself or not. He's like the Eeyore of Ska. His voice, meanwhile, was a distinctive as ever.

The set itself was all a Specials fan could have asked for. "Do The Dog," "Concrete Jungle" (my favorite), "Stupid Marriage," "Rat Race," "Nite Klub," "A Message to You Rudy," "Too Much Too Young" & many more were dusted off to huge fanfare and high, communal stepping. The encore was the obligatory run through "Ghost Town" (with an odd flute accompaniment in place of the ghostly chorus) and a spirited romp through "Enjoy Yourself." Overall, it was a great – if somewhat exhausting – show (and they're doing it again tonight). There's already video up on YouTube and you can check out Brooklyn Vegan's review (which I haven't read yet) by clicking right here.

In other comeback news of sorts, fans of Adam & the Ants took heart recently upon reports that Adam was recording a new album. In light of the poor man's relatively recent lapses into, well, insanity, that was encouraging news. Well, not so fast, Ant people. Brace yourselves, this story is da diddley qua-quite a disappointment (sorry).

Elsewhere, during some random `Net trawling recently, I stumbled upon this rather awesome looking trailer for a new documentary on the mighty hardcore phenomenon that are Bad Brains (note, not the Bad Brains, mind you). Sadly, like so many other cool documentaries currently "in the works" (like, say, I don't know, that Killing Joke one), who knows if/when it'll ever see the light of day?

Next up, check out this fascinating piece on one of my favorite strips of Manhattan real estate, Cortlandt Alley, courtesy of the scrupulously detail-oriented Scouting New York. Regular readers may remember that I've alluded to the same little ode to the same slab of pavement here on The New York Nobody Sings a couple of times.

Elsewhere in NYC-related news, my friend Rob spotted a curious piece in Animal recently. Evidently, a guerrilla artist is putting up handy little reminders about proper etiquette around New York City's notoriously rough-hewn subway system. Study up, cretins!

Meanwhile, a little while back, I got in an unfortunately heated exchange on Facebook after I posted a relatively tame piece of agitprop about Sarah Palin scoring a TV deal with the Learning Channel. A friend of mine who leans rather pointedly to the right took great exception to me using Facebook as a bully pulpit in this way, and viscerally took me to task for it. Fair enough … Facebook is an open forum where differing opinions should be able to mingle in an exchange of ideas that is ideally bias. I recanted, promising I'd reign in my lefty exhorting. And I have done. Still, this isn't Facebook. This is my blog. As such, please enjoy this piece wherein Jon Stewart takes fatuously pompous Bernie Goldberg and Fox News as whole to the fuckin' pavement.

In cinema doings, I hasten to point out that while I count myself as a fan of horror, even I have my standards and parameters. If anything, I tend to like a bit of plausibility in my horror films, being that it lends an extra degree of tension to the proceedings. That all said, when I saw this trailer for a movie called "The Human Centipede," I found its inherent ludicrousness and utter repulsiveness so genuinely vile that – whether plausible or not – I wasn't even able to watch the whole thing. Maybe I'm just a big p_ssy, but you give it a try and see if you can keep your lunch down.

In small screen developments, the good news is that "Mad Men," the show that single-handedly restored my faith in the possibility of worthwhile television, is coming back. The bad news is that it's probably going to end after this season. Boo!

Lastly, while out fetching lunch this afternoon, my colleague Drew and I spotted a food truck branded with the moniker, "Kosher Oasis." I mentioned that it sounded like a Jewish Britpop cover band. This somehow led to us discussing the strenuously lamentable Matisyahu, which then triggered the fond reminiscence of this bit from 'SNL.' Enjoy. Irie.

Humbug

It's a beautiful Indian summer day here in New York City. The skies are clear, the sun is out and the temperature is an unseasonably warm 66 degrees. I stepped out of my office in midtown to grab some lunch a little while ago and took a few moments to walk around the block. The fountains of 6th Avenue were flanked by hordes of sudden sun-worshippers, zealously enjoying the fleeting taste of the warmer season now behind us. Office drones and tourists alike basked in bright, midday warmth. As I turned the corner, what did I spy on the edifice of Radio City Music Hall but festive holiday bunting and row of Christmas wreaths.

What is the damn rush?? We're barely halfway through October, for cryin' out loud. Let Autumn be Autumn!!!

And speaking of Autumn,this made me practically weep this morning. Enjoy the Fall, dammit.

Stuff You Might Have Missed

Here are a few choice items that crossed my transom today:

The Daily Beast weighs in on why Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize is only going to be a headache for him.

Tired of having to hop-scotch around dog poop? I know I sure am, and someone on Mott Street is also. Watch your backs, inconsiderate dog people!

Speaking of inconsiderate, evidently one of those physicists at the CERN lab in Switzerland (y'know, the place where they built that supercollider that's bound to create a black hole and destroy the earth – see picture at top of post) has ties to al-Qaeda. Grrrrreat!

At this link, meanwhile, you can find helpful advice on how to talk to an unemployed person.

And if you're unemployed, why not buy a Slayer album?

Here, Ephemeral New York exhumes New Wave Hookers!

Did you know that Angelina Jolie used to be a crusty Sick Of It All fan in Tompkins Square Park? I didn't.

Speaking of Tompkins Square Park, I actually walked by the East Village's own Slum Goddess this week in Union Square (she's pretty hard to miss). I didn't accost her, though.

Good news: Glen E. Friedman reports than an authoritative Black Flag bio is on its way! Awesome!

Sad news: Punk Turns 30 remembers the late, great Jim Carroll.

Unkle Sleazy of Throbbing Gristle/Coil talks about some of his favorite music.

Jane's Dereliction

Oh Jane Streeters! I was really kinda gunning for you, I was! Then you had to go ahead and pull this stunt. Now, I'm sorry, but I must wash my hands of you, being that -- in all candor -- I hate obstreperous dog-owners a thousand times more than I hate drunken club-hoppers. Engage in this pungent form of retaliation and you truly deserve each other. What's next? Some inventive usage of your kids' soiled diapers maybe?

From Hardcore to Haute Couture

Spiky bracelets. When I fleetingly wore them, they were suitably deemed juvenile and childishly anti-social, which was quite by design, in retrospect. I bought my first one at Commander Salamander in Georgetown (where my older sister went to school). I later bought a more ornate one at the (long since vanished) Trader on Canal street and occasionally paraded around with them on like an extra from a barely post-pubescent stage adaptation of “The Road Warrior.” But because so many of my favorite bands wore them – from the Teen Idles to Iron Maiden to Soft Cell and beyond -- I figured they were good enough for me. Vainly trying to subtly replicate the sartorial finesse of “the skank kid,” I donned the odd band of studded spikes to sheepishly telegraph my affinity for youthful rebellion. Sure, it was goofy, but that’s what (some) kids do. It was certainly no goofier, to my mind, than sporting a pair of mega-expensive Vaurrnet sunglasses or a silly Swatch watch or ______ (insert name of lame 80’s fashion item here).

I grew out of it in swift course. I believe I gave my sharpest ones away to a freshman in my high school when I was a senior. The rest lived in my drawers for years – relics of a silly, bygone era. As the years passed, however, studded, spiky finery starting cropping up everywhere – being sported by folks with no connection to the original undergrounds from which it sprang (i.e. neither leather-clad rockheads nor the gay bondage community). Spikes no longer served as an easily-spotted signifier that you swore allegiance to specific subculture, in much the same way you started seeing waifish fashionistas sporting ironic, vintage rock t-shirts (something that still makes my blood boil). Wearing a Motorhead t-shirt won me derisive sneers in high school. Now it’s cool because Victoria Beckham wears one? Bleecchhh!!!

So imagine my arching eyebrows yesterday when my wife half-jokingly asked me to dig out my old spiky bracelets for her (they now reside in a mason jar on my desk amidst my unwieldy collection of 1” pins). According to an article in yesterday’s New York Times -- and, really, who am I to argue with them? –spikes are now considered the very quintessence of high fashion. Not sure how I’m going to react when I see my lovely wife sporting my old wrist-wear at our next parent-teacher conference.