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Again, I've been somewhat slack about highlighting my recent contributions to the "Goings On About Town" section, being that they've been somewhat sporadic lately. In any case, in this latest issue, I wrote the bits about Pearl Jam and Wolfmother. They're brief. Feel free to read them out loud in a booming, authoritative voice. On the bus. Find them right here.
Whether they `fess up to it or not, everyone is afraid of something. When I was a little kid, I harbored an entirely irrational fear of wiggly rubber toys (alligators, bats, spiders, etc.). Something about the texture really creeped me out. I was also pathologically afraid of the actor, Gene Wilder (which probably had something to do with his role in "Willy Wonka & the Chocalate Factory"), and a segment that regularly aired on "Sesame Street" wherein a close-up of bald-headed James Earl Jones counted down from ten to one and then boomily announced whatever the letter of the day was. That used to send me scampering out of the room with bug-eyed stealth. I've since gotten over all three of these (though, truthfully, wiggly rubber toys still kinda bug me), but --- like anyone else -- there are still things that creep me out. Here are my top five
(1) "Worship" Music I saw a commercial over the weekend for a compact disc called Worship Jamz, an album of contemporary Christian music aimed at kids, thinly disguised as flashily "hip" pop music. Now, please don't misunderstand me here: I do not begrudge anyone's faith. This does not, however, preclude me from being severely put off by what is essentially unsavory propaganda. That it's aimed at kids only makes it more reprehensible, to my mind. Likewise, "Christian Rock" (i.e. bands who are exclusively concerned with disseminating a Christian agenda rather than bands who simply happen to be Christians, like say, U2 or the Mission UK) makes my damn skin crawl. Rock'n'roll is the devil's music! To quote the late, great Fatima Mansions: KEEP MUSIC EVIL!
(2) Hearing Loss In 1999, I developed a shrill ringing in my right ear that, unlike previous experiences with same (usually the day after a particularly loud concert), did not go away. Rubbing shoulders with the august likes of William Shatner, Pete Townshened and James Hetfield of Metallica, I had entered the world of Tinnitus (a realm from which, as of yet, there is no escape). From years of ignoring conventional wisdom and better judgement, I'd exposed my ears to a daily onslaught of high volume headphone abuse which finally took its cumulative toll. For the next two years, I didn't touch a pair of headphones, and started imbibing all sorts of homeopathic remedies in an attempt to silence the ring. None were successful (though I still sporadically take the encouragingly named tablet, "Ring Stop"). Eventually, I grew used to the ring and even started using headphones again. That said, I have to police myself. The ring does get louder every now and again, at which points I take long breaks from listening to headphones and double-up on my otherwise worthless "Ring Stop" dosage. But the idea of the ring increasing (or spreading to both ears) is absolutely terrifying to me. I already find myself asking people to repeat themselves when speaking to me (which, by the way, is no fun for any of the concerned parties). The idea of my hearing being any worse than it already is scares me no end.
(3) Creationism Could people really be this stupid?
(4) Michael Jackson fans I find it somewhat chilling that people still care, love and support -- much less tolerate -- this man in the wake of all that has transpired.
(5) Being Buried Alive I imagine that this would be pretty unpleasant.
* I've been noticing a bewildering resurgence of the "Double-D" lately (a.k.a. "double-denim," "denim-on-denim" and/or "the Guido Tuxedo"). Specifically, I'm talking about the blue denim jacket (or "jean jacket") with blue jeans combination (pictured at left , manfully modelled by the endearingly ridiculous Cult circa 1987) . As anyone who knows me can vociferously attest, I know as much about fashion as I know about molecular biology, but I know wrong when I see it. Maybe it's back in some sort've ironic, kitschy way (like mullets and pre-faded vintage Queensryche t-shirts) or maybe people have simply forgotten the rules? Or have the rules changed? I dunno, but it looks wrong, that's all I'm saying.
* Our little son turns three months old next week, and in such time, while he's tripled in size, he has patently refused to pay any heed to the parameters imposed on the rest of us by the clock. He will simply not sleep at night. If anything, he usually only sleeps with any semblance of tranquility starting around 7 a.m. (when the rest of the household has to get up and start the day). And given that he's perpetually hungry (this factor being especially hard on the Missus), I've done a little thinking and come up with only one explanation. We've given birth to a vampire.
* Beware the Instant Messenger! I had a truly mortifying experience yesterday when I accidently sent a needlessly catty comment via I.M. about another individual TO THAT VERY INDIVIDUAL (as opposed to an entirely different person I'd earlier been back'n'forthing with). It wasn't a hugely offensive statement, but it wasn't especially charitable either. In any case, I was ENTIRELY BUSTED (and deservedly so, if one believes in Karma) and had to explain myself, backpeddle and ultimately apologize. To this individual's considerable credit (otherwise a very solid, cool guy), he handled it with grace, humor and aplomb (whereas I sat praying for an anvil to fall out of the sky and put me out of my misery). The lesson here is two-fold: one's shit-talking will come back to him in the end and, more to the point, MAKE SURE YOU LOOK BEFORE YOU HIT "SEND".
* I'm done with my street-side hot dog lunch habit. On Tuesday, I had one and ended up spilling mustard on one of my fave Killing Joke shirts (well, one of my nineteen favorite Killing Joke shirts, at least). Much like other recent culinary bad omens (punctured cereal packet that caused major milk leakage last week, and a bottle of rancid milk way-past its sell-by date a couple of days later), this seemingly banal incident set the tone for the rest of a day that turned out be skull-dentingly awful. I'm not saying it was the hot dog's fault, but still….NEVER AGAIN!
"Oi, YOU LOT!"
Mailbox monitor Oliver kindly asks that while we at Flaming Pablum are well chuffed to be reading your comments, could you please consolidate your commentary into a solitary post (as opposed to, y'know, six or seven consecutive posts).
Thanks!
- the Management
Courtesy of the damaged minds at the Perry Bible Fellowship.
I recently gave my friend and fellow ex-TIME Bandit, Pat, a bit of grief for a post on his weblog about adopting a "quasi-vegetarin" lifestyle. "Pat," I said, "you have canines in your mouth for a reason. Don't be ashamed of them." I'm an unapologetic carnivore, and -- health permitting -- plan on always being so. Pat calmly reasoned that he wasn't forgoing the yummy goodness of meat because he didn't like it, but rather he was adopting a veg-heavy diet for health reaons. Fair enough. While I normally rationalize my practice of eating somewhat irresponsibly via the credo, "Eat Right, Stay Fit, Die Anyway," Pat's point did get me thinking. Apart from the absolutely spectacular meals my wife seemingly whips out of thin air (while simultaneously wrangling our little people, Charlotte and Oliver), I've been consuming an awful lot of crap lately. In the mornings, I'm usually lurching out the door fueled only by coffee, only to scarf down either a bowl of cereal or an egg'n'cheese-on-a-roll when I get to the office with digestion-impeding stealth. In terms of lunch, I'm either hastily inhaling a sandwhich at my desk or -- in what has become a somewhat off-putting habit -- making do with a street-side hot dog and a Grande Mocha Frappacino from Starbucks. Not entirely the healthiest of options, I know.
For most of my life, I've been blessed with the sort of metabolism that has allowed me to consume relatively large amounts without ever gaining a great deal of weight. As time has gone on, though, age has crept up on me and my metabolsim has slowed to the extent that what I consume now does take a noticeable toll. In light of this, while I'd sooner cut off my own tongue than swear off meat, I was thinking of possibly taking a break from my beer consumption for a couple of months.
Now, at this point, I should point out that I love beer more than I love oxygen. And not just in a dumb "party `til ya puke" frat guy-sorta way. I love the variety of beer. I choose different beers to suit different moods. I like beer with my meals. I like to drink Sapporo with sushi, Moretti with pasta and -- when I can find it -- Almaza with babaganoush. I like Lone Star when I'm attempting to relax with my in-laws in Texas, Ranier when I'm bitching about the rain in Seattle and Berliner Kindl when I'm gettin' my Cold War post-punk vibe on in Berlin. I like shitty z-grade beer when I'm in roadhouses with sawdust on the floors and license plates on the wall, and I like high-end, ridiculously exspensive beer when I'm forced to wear a tie and be sociable. Wine, for the most part, gives me headaches and heartburn. Beer is what I order. So, it's not like I'd be solely giving up the Bad Wizard (Budweiser), but verily the incalculable splendor that is all beer.
I know what you're thinking. "Oh for cryin' out loud, Alex" you scoff, "you have kids! The era of your nights out on the tiles are long over!" Maybe so, but let me tell you: While I may have traded in my status as a scowly, beer-swiggin' rock pig in favor of a doting dad and dutiful homebody, that certainly doesn't preclude me from enjoying beer. Quite the opposite. After my little son has seen fit to spit up, "Exorcist"-stylee all over a favorite t-shirt of mine and screams in my ear with the seeming intention of alerting everyone in a five block radius of his pronounced displeasure, the beer beckons from our refridgerator like the Sirens called to Odysseus. And being that there is no mast in our apartment to tie myself to, to the fridge I dutifully go. And being that I let my membership to Crunch lapse quite a while ago, the wear'n'tear is startng to show.
But as much as I enjoy -- nay -- cherish beer, the combination of a steady intake of same with my not-entirely-sound diet isn't doing wonders for my well-being. So, I'm considering swearing off its sumptious golden divinity for a month or two. Of course, being that we're at the doorstep of Summer, I might re-think this.
Maybe I should just give up those Mocha Frappacinos.
Welcome to the second installment of the Pablum Playlist....
TITLE: "Chase"
ARTIST: Giorgio Moroder
ALBUM: Midnight Express: Music From The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack
RELEASE DATE: 1978
After another crazed day of work at the Job, I emerge from the Viacom tower this evening around 6:15 pm, set my iPod to shuffle and enter the bustling mosh pit that is Times Square, weaving through reckless taxi cabs and clusters of wobbling tourists with mouths agape. The first track to come on is this pulsing opening instrumental from Giorgio Moroder's soundtrack to "Midnight Express." Though inarguably dated-sounding, Moroder's signature disco synthesizers emanate from my headhones like a hypnotic sonic fractal, anchored by a simple melody that is simultaneously melancholy and menacing. With robotic intensity, it drives my pace ever quicker out of the busy square, down into the subway and swiftly back out at Union Square with fittingly Teutonic efficiency (well, despite being Italian, Moroder composed his most well-known work in Munich). 
The track almost encapsulates my entire commute, its waves of chirping keyboards and plangent washes of electronic haze delivering me like Brad Davis' character in the film, Billy, back home from the horrors of his ordeal (this is by no means to suggest that my office is anything akin to a squalid Turkish prison, but you get the idea). If you can listen to this without wanting to break into a sprint, check your pulse.
I've been somewhat lax in updating these notices of my weekly contributions to The New Yorker lately. This is partly because there have been fewer of them and partly because they're so brief to begin with that it hardly seems worth the effort to highlight them. But, in the interests of being thorough and comprehensive, I might as well continue. In this latest issue, for the NightLife section of the "Goings On About Town" listings, I penned the blurbs regarding Tom Verlaine, Alice in Chains, Coheed & Cambria, The Joey Ramone Birthday Bash, and Vic Thrilll & the Saturn Missile. Should you care to read them, click thyself on over by clicking here. Cheers.
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