Flaming Pablum

...And She's Buying a Jenga Set To Heaven...

I actually hate this fucking building, but it is photogenic, sometimes. 

Fabs on Broadway

Walk a few blocks in any direction, in Manhattan, and you’re bound to encounter a new construction site.

But in passing this one on Broadway and East 11th Street, earlier this week, I was stopped dead in my tracks by some familiar figures in the depiction of the building that will soon be erected on the former site of the St. Dennis Hotel. I'm talking about the foursome depicted walking away from the building.

These were not added on by some street artist, they are part of the entirety of the image.

Someone has a sense of humor.

The Revenge of the Flaming Pablum Grub Guide

About four years ago, I posted an audacious little entry here rather grandiosely called The Flaming Pablum Grub Guide. Despite that promising title, all it really amounted to was a tidy list of six restaurants I happened, at the time, to like. Hardly a “guide” of any credible semblance.

At the tail end of that post, I appended the line “more to come,” as if to suggest that my culinary recommendations were swiftly to become a regular fixture on this blog, rubbing shoulders with lamentations about closed record shops, meaningless asides about old post-punk singles, slavishly overwritten eulogies to recently deceased musicians of a certain stripe and/or complaints about our current president. Had I any idea, in 2015, who the latter was going to turn out to be, I may have been too nauseous to conceive of writing anything about food. But, I digress.

Indeed, despite the “more to come” warning, apart from a couple of fleeting mentions of the closings of various eateries, I didn’t post many entries that were strictly meal-related. By and large, writing about food just isn’t my métier, so to speak.

This all said, in the last couple of months, some specifically favorite restaurants of mine have simply just up and ceased to exist. The first to go, of these, was my family’s preferred Chinese restaurant (also mentioned in my previous Grub Guide), that being the excellent Lychee House on East 55th between Lexington and Third Avenues. I have absolutely zero idea why it shut its doors, but it’s evidently gone for good. For this cruel affront, I question the existence of a benevolent deity.

More recently, after yet another frankly mediocre order from Jin on Third Avenue between 10th and 11th, the teenaged Pablumites and I decided to revert to our old trusty standby, Irving Place’s Hunan Cottage (or, as my kids used to call it, Hunan College). While never the stuff of greatness, the Cottage/College (or Huniversity, as I would sometimes call it) got several key dishes right, notably their fried pork dumplings. Imagine our collective potty-mouthed incredulousness, then, upon learning that -– like Lychee House way uptown -– Hunan Cottage had mysteriously closed up shop. And now, for that matter, shitty Jin has a "For Rent" sign in its window.  

What was this? The work of fucking Thanos? Why are all our favorite spots vanishing?

Way back in 2007, I prefaced my first lengthy post about since-closed record shops with a rumination about the shuttering of restaurants. Steeped in melancholy, it read as follows:

For some reason, I always find the closing of a restaurant to be particularly heartbreaking (more so than, say, the closing of a shoe store or cell phone emporium). Restaurants require -- to misappropriate a line from Winston Churchill -- blood, sweat and tears. They demand someone with heart, vision and a desire to not only meet a need but excel beyond that need (nobody strives to open a merely adequate restaurant). And there's something about the offering of food that makes it extra personal. Someone carefully planned the menu and imagined the fare and took pains to present it in a palatable way. When those endeavors collapse, I just find it kinda tragic. There's a restaurant down West 10th street, for example, that just closed. I walked by it earlier this week with my wife. Only a couple of short months ago, we'd dined there with friends, celebrating the christening of my son. The food wasn't exceptionally bad, but it wasn't much to sing about either. Still, we ate and laughed and had many drinks and had a splendid time within its walls. It's now just an empty room that someone's dream once briefly occupied.

As histrionic as that sounds, I continue to feel that way when a beloved eatery goes out of business.

With that all in mind, I decided to update my flimsily executed Grub Guide and imbue it with more specifics. Those with an only passively keen eye for detail might notice I’ve qualified these with the descriptor “Favorite” as opposed to “Best.” No votes were tallied. I am not claiming this to be in any way authoritative. These are only my personal preferences. Just because I’m partial to the way one restaurant prepares a certain dish doesn’t mean I think that particular iteration of said dish is its supreme realization. As the saying goes, results may vary. You may not agree with my choices. You’re free to make your own Grub Guide.

In the interest of being comprehensive, I’ve broken this up into categories. Invariably, I will leave something out. This is not meant as a slight to whichever cuisine I’ve omitted. It only means I’ve forgotten to include a selection representing that particular culinary discipline. I am human.

So, let’s get to it, shall we?

Favorite Mexican 

Mariachi’s
156 Chambers Street.

The original Mariachi’s was a block or so to the east on West Broadway (replete with a touching outdoor mural of its former neighbors, the Twin Towers). When its block was slated to be razed to accommodate a new condo, Mariachi’s moved to its more recent perch on Chambers Street between West B’way and Greenwich. It’s not that its fare is the best of its kind (I’m sure friends from the Southwest would balk at even the mere suggestion), but it’s consistently solid, hearty food. I frequently go for the quesadillas and am never not happy and/or sated by the results. Unfussy, quick, cheap and satisfying.

Honorable Mention: The fish tacos at Dorado on 28 East 12th Street are mighty fine, although not as outstanding as the fish tacos at El Vez (259 Vesey), which are fucking muy bien. My other local Mexican, El Cantinero (86 University Place), is also always respectable. They also have a nice outdoor deck in the warmer months, and a somewhat hilarious Mexican disco on the second floor, if you’re ever in that particular mood.

Favorite Chinese 

Mission Chinese Food
171 East Broadway

As weepily explained in the preamble to this post, both my very favorite Chinese restaurant and my local standby Chinese restaurant have all just shuttered, which pisses me right off. There are, of course, hundreds -- if not thousands -- of great Chinese eateries scattered across Manhattan alone, but I’ve now lost my go-to’s. As such, I’m citing the somewhat insufferably trendy Mission Chinese Restaurant on way-the-Hell-near-nothing East Broadway. If you can tolerate the hipster aesthetic/cache, the food is indeed damn good. Even comparatively unadventurous dishes like Beef with Broccoli blew a new part in my hair. That said, it’s way remote, and I don’t believe they deliver.

Favorite Sushi 

Japonica
90 University Place

This is actually the same place I cited last time around, but hey ... it's a fave. In all honesty, my sushi palette isn't so adventurous or sophisticated enough to know exceptional sushi from simply good sushi, but I'm also prone to sticking fairly close to familiar fare (no blowfish sashimi for me, thanks). Japonica's been our neighborhood go-to for eons. I'd love it if they were a little bit cheaper, but I'm happy to support the place. Moreover, sushi that is too cheap is best avoided. 

Honorable mention: I do like the bento box lunch specials at Tokyo Bay (183 Duane Street --  below) in TriBeCa. 

Favorite Korean 

Dons Bogam
17 East 32nd St

What I credibly know about Korean cuisine couldn't cover one side of a piece of loose leaf. That said, I know good Korean BBQ when I have it, and this is the place to get it. It's crowded (like everything on East 32nd Street), but when you do manage to sit down, they do all the work for you. I've been to too many Korean BBQ joints that let you -- the idiotic patron -- cook the meat yourself, and while that's fun and all, it can frequently come with digestive ramifications. That's not the case at Dons Bogam. It's all good stuff, but I wish the portion sizes were bigger. 

Honorable mention: Nam Pang on East 12th off University is not bad at all for Korean sandwiches/finger food. 

Favorite Cuban 

Sophie's Cuban Cuisine
76 Fulton Street

Much like Korean food, what I know about Cuban cuisine isn't much. I was brought to Sophie's by two colleagues, and while it assuredly doesn't look like much, the food is delicious. I've only had the sandwiches, but if they're anything to go by, the rest of their fare is well worth checking out. 

Favorite Indian 

Haveli Banjara
100 Second Avenue

This is a tenuous one. Time was when I had several favorite Indian restaurants. This was back when East 6th Street was frequently rumored to house one huge, block-long Indian kitchen that fed the numerous eateries that lined its sidewalks. Back then, my criteria for patronizing an Indian establishment were iffy. If they boasted an uproariously garish amount of fire-code-thwarting Christmas lights? That was a plus. If they'd pinned a photograph of Iron Maiden to their front window (as if to suggest that the lads in question had dined there)? I was in. If a sitar player sat in their window with a Casio keyboard with a rubber band wrapped around a single key (y'know...to provide the right drone)? That meant it was good enough for me. 

Later on, the wife and I became besotted with a Nouvelle Indian restaurant on University Place called Cafe Spice. We were regulars there to the extent that we tried to set up their manager, the dashing and slightly mysterious Sandeep, with a friend of ours. Sadly, that endeavor never got off the ground, although we did get a lot of free naan and tallboys of Taj Mahal for our efforts. 

Sadly, Cafe Spice closed, but was replaced with Jackson Diner, a Manhattan offshoot of the revered Indian restaurant of the same name over in Jackson Heights, Queens. While not quite as stylish as Cafe Spice, Jackson Diner's food was unimpeachable. Regrettably, they, too, closed up shop a few years back, and the space they once occupied is now a Vegan venture called Nix.

As such, we started patronizing Haveli, which has a long history on Second Avenue, just south of East 6th. More recently, though, we believe Haveli has fallen on some hard times. At one point, it gave notice that it was going to close, only to merge operations with another restaurant. In the wake of that, however, they've had some trouble, I gather. On two recent occasions, orders we placed with them via Seamless went astray. This all said, I ordered from them in the last few weeks (by phone, this time) and their Kati rolls and Butter Chicken remain excellent. 

We were enthused by the newish Babu Ji on East 13th between University Place and Fifth, for a while. The food was good, and the atmosphere was colorful. I especially enjoyed their "help yourself" beer chiller (and verily helped myself). That said, the maitre'd was uproariously rude to my wife one evening not too long back that I simply couldn't believe it. Suffice to say, we took our business elsewhere and have no plans to return. 

We recently spotted a new place on East 18th Street that looks promising, called Gupshup. It looks like it should be pretty good, but Eater gave it sort of a black eye. 

Favorite Brunch

Elephant & Castle 
68 Greenwich Street

For the past several years, "brunch" has become a dirty word in New York City. No longer a simple culinary descriptor involving Eggs Benedict and maybe a festive Bloody Mary, the term is now synonymous with hordes of monied drunks seeking to extend their Saturday-night imbibing into a next-day Wake & Bake. Across town, various restaurants accommodate this weekly variant of beardless Santa-Connery by offering "bottomless brunches" (meaning, I imagine, that the booze keeps flowing, not that anyone's going sans pants, although that does seem to happen, too). The once-revered tranquility of Sunday morning, in certain neighborhoods, has been replaced by rampant, broad-daylight douchebaggery. It's a plague. 

So, yeah, when I say brunch, I'm referring to its more conventional definition. For my money, my best brunches have all been had at Elephant & Castle, an age-old Greenwich Village mainstay that's about the size of a storage shed. Despite their spacial limitations -- charitably described as "cozy" -- Elephant & Castle make a helluva brunch. My personal favorite dish, like you care, is their purée spinach with poached eggs, melted English cheddar and potato pancakes. Simply put, it's fucking exquisite. I could eat that dish every goddamn day and never tire of it.

Their other fare is also fantastic, so seek it out, do.

Honorable Mention: Veselka on the East 9th Street and Second Avenue has long been a beloved East Village institution. Where once I'd repair to its comfy confines in the dead of night after an evening of copious beering -- it being a 24-hour establishment -- to wolf down pierogis. These days, I'm usually there with my kids ... and the pierogis are still the big attraction, for us, although their many brunch variations are all totally delicious. It does get crowded and touristy, these days. Still, it fucking rocks.

Favorite Ramen

Ramen Takumi
1 University Place

Time was when the only ramen I knew were those cheap-o bags of Nissan top ramen you'd buy in lieu of spending huge amounts of money you didn't have on food. Somewhat ironically, the ramen dishes on offer at lovely Ramen Takumi right in our neighborhood are damn tasty, but one might be hard pressed to characterize the eatery as particularly cheap. That said, their big bowls of noodle-based concoctions are always delightful, as are their gyoza appetizers. You have to rub shoulders with a lot of cloyingly youthful NYU types, but hey ... it IS University Place. 

--

Okay, that ought to be enough for now. I know what you're thinking, though: "Wait! What about favorite burger? What's your favorite steakhouse? What about Italian food? What's your preferred Middle Eastern place?"

Rest assured, these and other variations will be addressed in the next installment of the Flaming Pablum Grub Guide. 

Until then, tip your waiters and bon appetit! 

Comparing Notes With "The Bipolar Addict"

There’s an oft-circulated adage on the `Net that goes something like “Be Kind, for Everyone You Meet is Fighting Their Own Hard Battle You Know Nothing About.” Many have credited the quote to Plato, but there’s some speculation about that. Honestly, I’m not really that interested in its true provenance, as I think it’s really just a great, general truth, albeit one that’s sometimes hard to keep in mind.

Personally speaking, I find it all too simple to get completely embroiled in my own arguably complicated circumstances that I frequently neglect to consider that others may be wrestling with their own problems that are, at least, comparable or possibly far greater than my own.

Enter Conor Bezane.

I first met Conor Bezane during what I can only describe as my fleeting tenure as managing editor of MTV News Online at the organization's headquarters in the heart of Times Square. While that job title certainly sounded fairly impressive, I was really more of an adjunct editor to the editorial director who oversaw both the televised content and the content we posted on the accompanying website.  

Sure, I literally managed -– or did my best to manage -– the many frantic tentacles of the digital operation, but the overall editorial strategy was largely determined by higher-ranking colleagues. That’s not a lament, but rather just a clarification. I only wish I’d done a better, more assertive job, as I may have held onto the gig a while longer, but --- instead -– I was laid off in the summer of 2007. This was not the last time such a thing would happen to me, alas, but welcome to New York City, folks … at some point, you’re going to lose your job.

Anyhoo, before that unfortunate fruition revealed itself, I met this kid Conor. Technically, Conor and I didn’t really work together, being that he was on the television side of proceedings, and I was more or less strictly on the digital end, but we attended the same meetings, worked on the same floor, rode the same elevators, etc. During the course of my year and a half at MTV News (see, I told you it was fleeting), Conor and I started talking about mutual favorite bands (although he’s a comparatively younger tyke) and we became friends.

From where I was sitting –- technically in a strangely dim, open space that led more than a few people to assume I was simply administrative support -– Conor appeared to have it all. He seemed like a smart, well-spoken producer with a head full of ideas and boundless, youthful enthusiasm. Sure, I thought -– and still think -– some of his favorite bands were crap, but hey -– I’m ultimately just a crotchedy old poop that wants you off his lawn, that’s my job. In all seriousness, to my mind, Conor was a cool, sharp kid with adventurous taste, obvious talent and ambition. He was also a kindred soul, to my mind -– very deeply enamored with the timeless mystique and emotionally galvanizing power of music as I was. He was going places, as far as I could tell.

The next thing I knew, in the early summer of 2007, during the course of some busy workday wherein I was trying to prize perilously late copy out of one of my petulant millennial contributors, my superior editor asked if I “had a minute to talk.” I said sure, and I walked into his office. The door closed behind me. That’s never good, kids.

In uproariously short order, I was let go. True to the organization's old motto, I did indeed hear it first. As I mentioned back on this ancient post, I was informed that I wasn’t getting fired, per se, but rather that the position itself was being "phased out." This kinda took the wind right out of my sails.

A day or so later, I remember packing up my stuff into a proverbial cardboard box (a box, I don’t believe, as of this posting, I have ever unpacked) and rode down the elevators for the last time. Goodbye MTV News Online. 

As it happens, Conor was let go not too long after me. I ran into him on the street a couple of times after that, and we shared our mutual employment woes, and stayed in touch on social media. I believe we had a cup of coffee at a Dean & Deluca, at one point. But I always figured that since he was so young and ambitious, he’d bounce right back.

But, as I would later learn, that’s not quite what happened.

The ensuing years were way more complicated for Conor than I’d have ever predicted, finding him grappling with both a bipolar diagnosis and drink-&-drug dependency worthy of some of our mutually favorite punky luminaries. While I was moaning about having to make do with a permalance gig at an online portal that didn’t pay any meaningful benefits, Conor was exploring the depths of personal depravity by having become a full-blown addict, prone to smoking crack. Again, everyone you meet is fighting their own hard battle you know nothing about, so be fucking kind.

Now, you may well be thinking, where exactly do I get off speaking so blithely about my friend Conor’s deeply personal travails? Well, as it happens, Conor documented both his tumultuous fall from grace and his doggedly determined re-ascendance to sobriety and self-actualization in a new book, to be released this month.

As its title might suggest, “The Bipolar Addict” ain’t exactly “Eat, Pray, Love.” Penned with great style, wit and disarming candor, Conor’s memoir recounts some moments of unimaginable despair, made all the more jarring by the deceptively banal paths that led him to those circumstances.

For all of Conor's bright, young promise and best efforts, a chain reaction set off by an unfortunate series of events derailed him. The formidable challenges of dealing with manic depression paired with the quickly spiraling demands of being helplessly dependent on drugs and alcohol essentially shattered Conor’s world, leaving him at his lowest ebb, alienated from friends and family and without a job. His courageous story of recovery is nothing short of inspiring. I don't want to give anything away, but suffice to say, despite its harrowing lows, Conor's story has a positive ending.

Today, I'm happy to report that Conor is clean, sober, very active and vigilant in evangelizing his message of hope for people grappling with their own demons. 

"The Bipolar Addict" comes out on June 21. Seek it out or click here to get yourself a copy. You can also get it on Amazon. 

What Is Killing Joke?

I know the answer ... do you?

Chronicling The Core Redux: 10 Questions

For a few years now, filmmaker Drew Stone has been continually adding to his excellent video series regarding all things NYHC, The New York Hardcore Chronicles. In between shooting amazing projects like the full-length film of the same name and 2017’s epic “Who The Fuck IS That Guy? The Fabulous Journey of Michael Alago,” Stone has sought out alumni of the NYHC scene and the surrounding punk rock community to paricipate in his great, ongoing 10 Questions series.

You might remember me highlighting the one he did with Flaming Pablum favorite RB Korbet of Even Worse back in 2016, but he’s also put luminaries like Davey Gunner of Kraut, Jessie Malin of Heart Attack/DGeneration, John Joseph of the Cro-Mags, Jimmy G of Murphy’s Law, Bobby Hambel of Biohazard, Vinnie Stigma and Roger Miret from Agnostic Front, Yana Chupenko of P.M.S./Wench, the late Todd Youth of Warzone/Murphy’s Law/Agnostic Front/etc., Harley Flanagan of the Cro-Mags and literally SO MANY OTHERS from practically every conceivable era of the genre (however one cares to personally define it) in front of the mic to weigh in. If you’re a fan/student/acolyte of this scene, this music and its accompanying culture, this series is absolultely required viewing. Find them all here. 

More often than not, despite the gruff exteriors and burly reputations of some of these characters, most of the ensuing anecdotes and reminicences are nothing but warm, good natured and practically familial. I was really happy to see Drew run his 10 Questions by none other than beloved NY1 reporter and longtime Punk rocker Roger Clark this week. I’m sure he’s already trying to rope in a bunch more participants, but I’d love Drew to corner Jack Natz (Cop Shoot Cop/Undead/Virus), Bobby Steele (Misfits/Undead), Doug Holland (Kraut/Cro-Mags), Stephan Ielpi (False Prophets), Tim Chunks (Token Entry), George Tabb (Letch Patrol/Iron Prostate/Furious George), Fran Power (Ultra Violence/Clix) and more, but I realize some of these are more likely than others.

As someone who skirted the periphery of NYHC (I went to several shows and was a devout fan of certain bands, but I would feel deeply remiss calling myself a bona fide member of the scence), I cannot claim to be as versed or as deeply ensconced as any of the participants of the 10 Questions series, but because I simply cannot resist a good survey, I decided to answer Drew Stone’s usual 10 Questions (and cheat by adding an eleventh).

First Hardcore Show You Ever Saw
The first hardcore show I was lucky enough to witness would have been in either `84 or `85 at the Ritz on East 11th Street, and it was an amazing line-up of my then-favorites, The Circle Jerks sharing a bill with the incomparable D.O.A., Redd Kross and Toxic Reasons. It was absolute fucking mayhem, and I loved every nanosecond of it.

Club You Miss Most From Back in The Day
There’s a lot to choose from, here, obviously. Most of the series participants cite A7, but that was slightly before my time. CBGB was, of course, the epicenter of so much (and not just hardcore), and its loss continues to sting, but if I’m being entirely honest, I have to say the run of shows I caught at the old Ritz on East 11th Street (i.e. before it moved to 54th Street, before Webster Hall) fires my imagination the most. This all said, I also dearly miss The Marquee on West 21st, Wetlands Preserve in TriBeca, and Tramps in Chelsea, just to name three more.

Funniest Guy in the Hardcore Scene
The usual response here is Vinnie Stigma or Jimmy G. And, yes, while both of those guys are indeed hilarious, I cannot say I actually know either of them. With that in mind, I’m going to say Dean Rispler (Murphy’s Law/Dictators/Brought-Low/Hot Corn Girls/Swilson). I didn’t meet Dean until about 1990 or so (he was dating a friend of mine), but he’s a tirelessly big-hearted, inclusive, knowledgable gent who is always hilarious.

Favorite Slamdancer in the Pit (Past or Present)
Again, the usual responses here are characters like Minus, Rat Bones and various other almost mythilogical luminaries from NYHC’s storied past. While I cannot claim to have any meaningful encounters with those cats, I would cite two separate friends of mine to single out for this category – namely my former classmate Matt Harrington, who managed to start up a cheekily emphatic circle pit at an Urban Blight show, of all things, via the sheer force of his enthusiasm. My second choice would be my longtime comrade Rob D., who’d perfected a sort of gangly, loose-limbed skank with flailing limbs akimbo that was so distincive, he was once written-up for it in a review of a Claw Hammer/Laughing Hyenas double-bill at Los Angeles’ Troubadour. The piece spent more time talking about Rob’s moves than the actual bands’ performances.

Show You Wish You Saw Back in The Day
There are too many to cite, here, but off the top of my head, there was an amazing line-up at the club that was usually referred to as The Roxy on way West 18th Street that featured a lethal line-up of the Cirlce Jerks, Bad Brains, Leeway and an early iteration of Vernon Reid’s Living Colour that would have been amazing. I also quite wish I’d caught the original line-up of Kraut back in their heyday. I saw them reunite and open for GBH in the early 90’s, but never caught them at their prime.

Greatest Show You Saw in Your “Golden Age” of Hardcore
This is also a toughie. Beyond that first Circle Jerks/D.O.A. gig, a few chaotic Butthole Surfers shows – if they count as hardcore --- and a high-octane double-bill of FEAR and The Dwarves, I’d have to say the greatest was seeing the Bad Brains on the Quickness tour at the New Ritz on 54th Street. It’s a cliché, but I’d just never seen anything like it. H.R. hadn’t lost his mind, yet, so was still firing on all cylinders. Also, and this seems to get overlooked a lot, despite the hysteria their music inspired (literally the whole entire floor of the venue was one giant pit), the look of sheer, unfettered joy on Dr. Know’s face while he played was remarkable. I’ve never seen anyone come close to that.

Brooklyn or Queens
I’m a born’n’bred, dyed-in-the-wool Manhattan snob, but more of my favorite bands of that era came from Queens, if I’m being honest.

Best Pizza in New York
Funny, I’m actually working on another sprawling food-related post at the moment. Look for that soon, but, in the interim, while most of my old favorite pizzarias are long gone (much like my favorite record stores), I’m still a big fan of Lombardi’s on Spring Street, although it’s gotten way too touristy for my taste. John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street is also very nice. In terms of just grabbing a quick slice, though, my favorite spots for that are all gone. Also, friends don’t let friends buy $1 pizza. It’s an unforgivable affront to New York’s culinary heritage.

Top 3 Hardcore Drummers
I’m going to upset convention and say Johnny Feedback from Kraut, Lucky Lehrer of the Circle Jerks and John Wright of NoMeansNo.

Message to the Youth
Stop listening to bullshit, mush-mouthed pop/R&B/ersatz hip-hop and invest in the real deal.

Is Hardcore Dead?
In terms of “my” era, hardcore isn’t dead, hardcore is dad, now that we’ve all grown up, gotten married and procreated. In all honesty, I once wrote a profile of Redd Kross for CREEM magazine back in 1992, citing that first show I’d seen wherein they opened for D.O.A. and the Circle Jerks in `84/`85. At the time, I described how they’d renounced their punkier origins in favor of a more pseudo-metallic power-pop style that confused and upset most of the hardcore kids in attendance, concluding the passage by suggesting Redd Kross had the last laugh when “hardcore died” soon afterwards.

That was just myopic on my part, of course. While many of the bands I’d cared about had either flamed out or changed direction (I remember CH3, as one example, turning into a sort of “cowpunk” band in 1984 with the Airborne ep), there were entire generations of bands inspired by those original bands who sprang up in their wake, many of which I wouldn’t discover until years after the fact.

So, no ... Hardcore is nowhere near dead. 

Sleepaway Camp

I am simply not ready for it.

In about three weeks, we’re going to drop off our youngest, Oliver, at a sleepaway camp in Vermont. Our son will spend the following four weeks at said camp, presumably engaging in predictable summer camp activities. While he’s spent a few overnights away from home at friends’ places, this will be Oliver’s first time truly away from home for a relatively extended period of time. Once again, … I am not ready for it.

At the risk of belaboring the obvious, none of this was my idea. My wife envisioned this summer as a broadening experience for our little boy. I’m all for that, of course, and do genuinely believe it will be a positive experience for him, but I remain trepidatious about the whole thing. Beyond the fact that he’s never been away from home for that long, at the risk of sounding coy, Oliver is on a strict regimen of meds for a specific condition. Now, the camp in question is a well-established and revered institution, and it’s in their own best interest to make sure that our son stays on that regimen while in their care, but – in my case – having to relinquish that particular level of parental oversight is not going to be easy. Oliver himself is very responsible about his meds, as well, but I’m just going to have to take a leap of faith and let go. I’m not so good at that, generally.

Beyond that concern, though, Oliver should and will, for all intents and purpose, be perfectly fine. Unlike his father, he’s a resilient and open-minded kid, usually very happy to muck in and gamely try his hand at new things. When my wife signed him up for an after-school rugby program, earlier this year, I was – again – incredulous and reluctant. “Have you seen rugby?,” I gasped upon learning that news. “It’s like fuckin’ ‘Braveheart’!” Much to my relief and astonishment, not only did he willingly participate, he actually enjoyed it – and without any incident or injury.

Moreover, I should probably stop referring to him as a “little boy,” here, as Oliver is now 13 years old, which is coincidentally the very same age I was when my parents first sent me away to sleepaway camp at the dawn of the 1980’s. While I was only at that camp – Great Oaks in the wilds of Maine – for a little under a month, my myriad memories of the place are mostly all positive. Mostly.

Beyond taking part in traditional camp activities like swimming, canoeing, hiking, archery and friggin’ riflery (something few camps offer as blithely today, I’d imagine), I made a clutch of new friends, learned a pile of new swear words in different languages (thanks to the camp’s pointedly international flavor) and developed an appreciation for so much great new music. It was at Great Oaks that I first heard It’s Alive by The Ramones, Q: Are We Not Men? by Devo, Give’Em Enough Rope by The Clash and Joe’s Garage by Frank Zappa. That aspect alone was a complete life-changer, for me.

I say “mostly all positive,” however, as there is one memory of my experience there that still bugs me. I invoked it here not too long back, but it involved a water safety/swimming exercise, of a sort. Myself and the other campers were huddled on a dock that extended onto the black, ice cold waters of the otherwise invitingly named Saturday Pond. Our task was to dive into the water, swim to the bottom and grasp a bit of sand or dirt. When we swam back up and broke the surface, we were to extend our hand up and display said dirt, demonstrating that we'd successfully made it to the bottom. When my turn came, I jumped into that dark, forbidding water, but couldn't seem to successfully propel myself downward. I flailed and fought the disorientation, but I couldn't -- or wouldn't -- make it to the floor of that pond. I gave up too soon and broke the surface with a dramatic gasp, my hands uncontaminated by sand or dirt. "That's going to be a problem, Mr. Smith," said our incongruously portly counselor. A perfect cinematic ending to that summer would have found me triumphantly grabbing double-fistfuls of muck from the bottom of Saturday Pond and vaulting them skyward on the last day, but that never happened. I felt ashamed by that failure. 39 years later, I still feel that way.

That all notwithstanding, though, if I’m being honest, while I was invariably not down with the plan to send me to Great Oaks in the first place, I don’t remember really being homesick when I was there. I just kinda got on with it. Being that Oliver has a remarkably better outlook on life than his old man did at that age, I’m imagining that he’ll be just fine.

The real, unavoidable truth of matter, though, is that even though it’s for a comparatively short span of weeks, I’m invariably going to miss him more than I can express with words.

I remain completely unprepared for that.

Ben is Goddamn Right

There have been numerous points, over there years, wherein I’ve vehemently disagreed with things Ben Sisario has written. Then again, he’s a celebrated music journalist who writes for the New York Times, and ...well…. I’m not.

I’m sure he has his own private opinions comparable to my own about certain subjects, but given his high profile, he needs to maintain a degree of professional impartiality. He also must write about a lot of stuff he probably doesn’t personally care for on the regular. I mean, if I had to write that much about insufferably overhyped pop and R&B bullshit, I’d probably lodge a bullet in my own skull.

This all said, Ben wrote something this week for the Times about “Tech” that struck a chord close to my own blackened heart. While conceding that, by necessity, he keeps up with all the major music platforms, he also expressed a particular affinity that is endearingly out of step with the rest of the rabble.

To be honest, my preferred way to listen to music is on CD, as unfashionable as that might be. You push a button, the music plays, and then it’s over — no ads, no privacy terrors, no algorithms!

Bless you, Ben. Read the whole article here.

Ben’s standing in a familiar spot in the picture above, by the way. That’s Academy Records on 18th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, and it is a splendid place to procure your music.

For the Love of The Circle Jerks

I’ve written too many times about my love of the Circle Jerks here that I’m not going to bother posting any links. Just Google “Flaming Pablum” and “Circle Jerks” if you genuinely give a damn.

In any case, I popped into Generation Records, on Sunday, to pick out some presents for my next-door neighbor Bruce’s birthday. You didn’t ask, but in case you’re curious, I settled on copies of what I’d consider must-have vinyl LPs like Diamond Dogs by David Bowie, Fun House by The Stooges, Press The Eject… by Bauhaus, Porcupines by Echo & the Bunnymen and one or two others. While in the process of picking out suitable titles, however, I heard some dopey tourist kid behind me loudly exclaim: “There’s a band called ‘Circle Jerks’?”

A younger, less restrained iteration of myself would invariably have spun around and schooled this slackjawed young’un about his disrespectful cluelessness, but I thought better of it. Upon relaying this anecdote to a friend of mine, she mentioned that maybe this kid would look them up and get inspired to go seek out their music, which is a far more charitable projection than I’d have been able to muster. There may be an explanation for that, however.

Given my bug-eyed fervor for the band during my high school years, I was prone to extolling their merits whenever possible, and frequently evangelized their scrawled moniker in chalk across every available blackboard I’d encounter, not unlike the scenario captured in Shawn Kerri’s iconic flyer art above.

That all said, if you weren’t actively inclined to go seek out the Circle Jerks in those days (i.e. go pick up an album of theirs or go see them live), you probably weren’t in any danger of experiencing their particular brand of high-octane punk rock. There was no internet, no YouTube and no streaming services, and the radio stations bold enough to play their records could easily be counted on a single, mangled hand with too few fingers. As such, my invocations of their greatness were usually met with disinterest, confusion or indifference.

That changed, however, when a television special called “Rock Palace” aired on one of the big three networks during my senior year, featuring a quick live set by the `Jerks. I don’t remember much about the show, other than it was hosted by Dan Ackroyd’s brother Peter. The particular line-up of the band featured the inimitable Chuck Biscuits on drums, and found lead singer Keith Morris dressed like Michael Jackson -- a joke no one seemed to notice or understand, at the time. Grainy footage of the show is out there, should anyone care.

The next day, certain vocal critics of mine at school --- who were regrettably legion -– felt newly galvanized to give me a hard time about my predilections. Still tirelessly avowed to the mainstream MTV/radio-fare of the day, the so-called “popular kids” didn’t warm to the adrenalized spleen of the Circle Jerks the way I did.  But while before they didn’t know what to make of it, now they had a tiny window of reference to draw from. I shouldn’t have been surprised. If your idea of adventurous listening began and ended with, I dunno, Night Ranger and Dexy’s Midnight Runners, the Circle Jerks at full throttle probably wouldn’t make much sense to you.

Anyway, possibly as a result of that and other comparable incidents, I’m still frequently all too ready to get pugnacious about my favorite bands. If you couldn’t fathom what made them and their music so special to certain ears and/or sensibilities, then you probably didn’t deserve to fathom it. I realize how stupid, elitist and myopic that sounds, in retrospect, but it's taken me a while to get there. 

So, fuckin’ YES, there WAS a band called Circle Jerks, and they were fucking brilliant. Seek them out! 

A far superior sampling of the band at the peak of its powers to the ill-fated “Rock Palace” broadcast, here is their live contribution to the crucial Rat Music For Rat People compilation from 1982.

If you don’t like it …. well, you’ll always have Night Ranger.

Teeth Versus Tongue: The Series

Stress can manifest itself in numerous ways. Some people lose their ability to sleep, or concentrate. Some develop a nervous tick. Some break out in hives. Some overeat. Some overdrink. Maybe some people get uncontrollably flatulent or incontinent. Me? Evidently, when under stress, I bite myself.

Over the course of my entire almost-fifty-two-goddamn years, I have routinely subjected the tender interiors of my mouth to the merciless wrath of my own anxious choppers. If I had a dollar for every speech-inhibiting mouth wound I’ve inflicted upon myself over the decades, I’d probably have enough to buy myself a brand new, impervious, artificial tongue. That would come in damn handy, considering the mess I’ve made of my current tongue.

As documented in comparatively ancient posts like this one and this one, this painful habit of mine has stretched well into my adult years. It’s been a fairly frenetic season at work, of late, and we’re still juggling multiple house and child-rearing challenges on the home front, so I am fairly stressed out, at the moment. I guess it was just a matter of time before I did it again.

While I have absolutely zero recollection of doing it, I evidently saw fit to sink my teeth into my tongue this past Monday (in my sleep, maybe?), prompting me to start this week with a gruesome, swollen gash on the tip of my tongue that curbed my ability to clearly speak, among myriad other activities. I’d post a picture, but it’s fairly repulsive. You're welcome. 

In any case, ever since then, my life has been taken over by it. Beyond not being able to speak with any semblance of coherence and/or dignity, the searing sting conjured by this comparatively tiny gash has severely curtailed my ability to eat anything without palpably shuddering with pain. I’ve tried topical treatments like Orajel and Kanka, but given the location of the laceration and the activity it routinely sees, nothing seems to work. I am in fucking Hell.

I’m regularly immersing it in Listerine and …. well … beer, in the evenings, but all else seems to cause it irritation. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I treated myself to a Mango Lassi at an Indian joint near my office, yesterday, and the creamy, cooling South Asian confection actually did provide a bit of respite, however brief. 

All other advice, tips, warnings or recommendations are welcome.  Otherwise, please come kill me.