Flaming Pablum

Morning Has Broken

Good morning, campers....

While it seems like some weeks go by with all the stealth of an octagenerian sloth, others can sprint by like a famished cheetah. This particular week was of the latter type, but by no means am I suggesting that any "fun" was had. It's early Friday morning, and I have the day off. Oblivious and unconcerned with this fact, Charlotte -- our two year old -- stood up in her crib at the crack of 6 am and issued a breathless, high volume mantra to greet the morning: "Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy...." etc. So much for sleepin' late.

It's now about 7 am. I've succumbed to Charlotte's little iron will, plopping her down in front of the television for a bracing eyefull of "Connie the Cow," "Miffy the Bunny" and the bane of my very existence, "Dora the Explorer." I've discussed my feelings about children's television programming here before, but on some mornings, this stuff is really a godsend, despite the toll taken in terms of my sanity (the theme tunes, jingles and incidental songs in these shows are all lethal ear worms). Charlotte loves it, of course, sitting sparkly-eyed and babbling happily at the screen. The real trouble will start when we have to turn it off and begin the day. For the moment, however, she's happy, my wife and the infant are still asleep, and I'm back here in front of the computer again.

While I haven't had much opportunity this week to attend to Flaming Pablum, I do have some items on the burner which I'll hopfully be putting up soon. Some of these include ruminations on the musically pivotal summer of 1980, a needlessly lengthy examination of Martin Scorcese's criminally undersung black comedy, "After Hours," several new additions to the Pablum Playlist, and my hotly debatable assertion that King Crimson were a metal band. Look for these -- along with mindless tidbits, observations, complaints and dubiously-worded declarations --- coming very soon.

But not today. Once I've unglued my daugther's head from the television and roused the rest of the family, we're off to my Mom's place on Long Island (or Strong Island, as Public Enemy used to call it) for a few days of -- hopefully -- sunshine and relaxation. We'll see about that.

So until next time, everyone have a happy `Fourth.

Kill your television.

- Alex in NYC

An Oldie but a Goodie....

Hey gang,...

It's become another one of those weeks when I'm not able to update Flaming Pablum as regularly as I'd like. So in the hopes of sustaining your attention, I've exhumed an old clip (courtesy of YouTube) that ought to get the over-thirties out there all weepy and nostalgic and everyone else confused and quite possibly repulsed. That's right, I'm talking about "Fish Heads" by Barnes & Barnes. ENJOY!
Be back soon!
- the Management

Delawhere?

It's a sweltering Sunday night. I'm already on the wrong side of 8pm and it's still as humid as it was at 3pm -- or at least it feels that way inside this apartment. I returned home this afternoon from a weekend in West Chester, PA, where I was visiting one of the wife's countless siblings, their respective offspring and extended family. It was a nice, refreshing break to get out of my beloved C of NY, but the trips to and from remained arduous. My wife and kiddie-kids having hitched a ride with another of her sisters a day earlier, I met up with one of my brothers-in-law in the swarming, airless ant heap that is Penn Station on Friday night to be herded like doomed cattle onto a late train bound for Wilmington, Delaware, home to the closest Amtrak station to our destination. A rainy day and a half of family activity (lots of eating, lots of drinking, lots of crying children, lots of World Cup viewing, etc.) later, I found myself on another expensive train trip back to Penn Station, only this time by myself. Peg and the kids are staying with her family one more night, but I had to be back to be at the job Monday morning. After a pleasant ride wherein I rediscovered the myriad joys of the Beastie Boys' illustrious catalog (I so love my iPod), I was dumped back into a hot and sticky Manhattan afternoon.

Not wanting to stick to anything on a subway car, I decided to walk home from Penn Station, cueing up the Beasties' seminal debut License to Ill on the headphones to spark my stride. To the Led-en whallop of "Rhymin' & Stealin'," I bounded down 8th Avenue, obliviously into the sweaty crotch of Chelsea on what turned out to be Gay Pride Day.

Now, if any single demographic in NYC knows how to throw a properly festive parade, it's the gay community. That said, while ducking and weaving my way over to the East Side and vainly trying to cross the boisterously colorful river of disarmingly bare flesh that consumed Fifth Avenue, I couldn't help but wish that I too had stayed in the comparatively quiet, verdant hills of rural Pennsylvania with my wife, children and in-laws. Instead, I was pinned like a sweaty sardine behind a police barricade with a gaggle of clammy onlookers in mesh shirts and "No Sleep `Til Brooklyn" incongruously blasting in my ears.

I did eventually manage to claw my way through, and spent most of the rest of the day in the air conditioning and foolhardily ordering Indian food (on a hot day? Am I that clueless? Evidently so). I had meant to go get my hair cut and beard trimmed this afternoon (I'm starting to look less like Peter Hook of Joy Division and more like the Unabomber), but simply couldn't be arsed in this heat. So hirsute I'll stay for the time being.

There's no milk in the house, much less toilet paper, so I'll have to go back out into the humid evening. But maybe I'll pick up a tub of ice cream while I'm out there.

It's a hot summer night, and I'm temporarily free of parental obligation, but I can't help feeling that this apartment is not only hot and unpleasant, but it's also inescapably quiet and lonely. So outside I go....

Currently in Rotation - June `06

Here's a concept I basically ripped right off from my friend and learned colleague, Ben. As a means of compensation, let me heartily recommend the man's own weblog, wherein Ben posts his daily ruminations, documents the travails of a struggling singer/songwriter and hosts much of his own original music. It's good stuff -- do check it out.

In any case, in rotation this month…..

MUSIC: With our relatively brand-spankin' new addition to the household taking up much of my waking hours, I haven't had quite as much time to devote to my otherwise-rampant music consumption of late (though there are always things I'm looking for and listening to). The last album I was genuinely thrilled to find (after unsuccessfully trying to prize a copy online) was The Ape of Naples by Coil, which I managed to pick up at Other Music. Tragically, this album serves as Coil's final chapter, as the band's vocalist/lyricist, Jhonn Balance, passed away suddenly in 2004. Posthumously orchestrated by surviving member, Peter "Sleazy" Christopherson (erstwhile member of the legendarily transgressive Throbbing Gristle), The Ape of Naples should, by rights, sound disjointed and unfinished, but plays more like a seamlessly realized labor of love. As haunting, evocative and wilfully unsettling as on the band's finest work, Balance's performance here is steeped in an almost unearthly prescience, as if he knew his end was looming. Like much of Coil's catalog, this album isn't quite right for every occaision (playing it on my iPod while walking through midtown Manhattan on a bright, sunny Summer day makes for a truly incongruous listening experience), but is a striking collection of music.

FILM: I honestly cannot recall the last time I went to the movies (for reasons why, please avail yourselves to this previous post), but the last film I layed eyes on was "The White Countess," featuring Ralph Fiennes and Natasha Richardson. I was quite enjoying it, but Peggy fell asleep a quarter of the way into it (ah, the perils of watching movies on our couch), so I feel I'd be remiss in submitting a full review, having not finished watching it. The same night, we also rented Steve Martin's "Shopgirl," featuring Claire Danes and Jason Schwartzman, but found even the opening fifteen minutes so unbelievably poor that we abandoned ship. "Shopgirl" gets the Flaming Pablum gasface!

WEBSITE: God Bless YouTube!

TEXT: At the moment, I'm reading Dan Leroy's book for Continuum's 33 1/3 series on the Beastie Boys' landmark second album, Paul's Boutique, but -- in due course -- I'm looking forward to putting that down and starting "The Thinking Fan's Guide to the World Cup" by Matt Weiland and my good friend, Sean Wilsey.

LYRIC/QUOTE: Everyone thinks I'm a creep here/but the drinks -- they are so cheap here. [Firewater]

The Heart of it All?

I stepped out of the Tower today during a mouse's width-sized lunch break between meetings to quickly scarf down a hot dog (yeah, I'm still eating them) before returning to my cluttered desk and blinking computer screen. The air was thick with the damp density of Summer, but not in a pleasant way. Today was one of those New York City summer days where it seems like even the sidewalks were sweating. As much as I'd have loved to stroll the streets thinking of arguably clever ways to describe how unpleasant it was, I had shit to do. I impatiently lined up behind a gaggle of blubbery, pink-necked tourists whom my hot dog vendor friend (I must learn this man's name) was busily catering to. When the throng slimmed down to a single man, I couldn't help but overhear his exchange with my vendor friend. "Thees," he said in strained pigeon-English, "thees playus -- thees eez thee Taiymz Skwaair, yesh?"

I paused.

As much as I abjectly loathe Times Square, I couldn't quite fathom how someone could not recognize it. I dare say that there are probably people deep in the fetid jungles of New Guinea who could probably identify Times Square if they were presented with an image of it. Still, this gent wasn't quite convinced (despite the multitude of indicators, street signs and stores with names like Times Square Bagels etc. all around him). Perhaps it didn't match his expectations.

Or maybe it's not the immediately recognizable center of the universe after all.

Advice for Fathers-To-Be

With the possible exception of what I might tell you about which used CD shops in Manhattan will pay you the most for old Ned's Atomic Dustbin albums, my advice generally isn't anything all that novel. That said, I would like to think that I've managed to accrue some knowledge on the subject of parenting in the past two and a half years. While I don't have any great secrets about diaper-changing (only that it gets to be routine, but never not unpleasant), I do have some practical tips on what sort've activities dads-to-be -- and maybe those gents out there who are considering becoming dads -- should start entertaining with all speed. The first one is an obvious one:

#1. SLEEP LATE - Sure, it sounds like a cliché, but that's only because it's completely true. Sleep is an activity you probably take for granted right now. Once your first child arrives, let me just tell ya: it all goes right out the window. Those lazy Sundays where you and your significant other could laze around in bed for hours until you finally decide to go have a nice relaxed outdoor brunch somewhere? OVER! Let me really put it in perspective: since mid-March of 2004, I haven't had a night of uninterrupted slumber and I haven't had a morning where I've woken up any later than 7 a.m. Sleep now. Relish it. Wallow in it.

#2. SWEAR A LOT - Seriously, get it out of your system now. Release your inner potty-mouth and cuss up a storm, `cos once your kids arrive, words like cocksmoker, motherfucker and cunt just ain't gonna fly. Laugh now, pay later.

#3. LISTEN TO LOUD MUSIC - Another sort've obvious one, but one that didn't sink in for me until it was kinda too late. Once your offspring arrives in the house, the days of cranking Iron Maiden or Venom or Einsturzende Neubauten `til your neighbors are phoning in death threats are largely done, relegated to those fleeting afternoons when your goodly Mrs. is nice enough to take the child out. Hell, even listening to mellow stuff is pretty much out of the question, as it'll invariably be waking some little person up at the wrong time. So rock out now while you can.

#4. GO OUT TO DINNER - Alot of parents are going to tell you that early on, you can still go out to eat with your child, being that by and large, they tend to sleep a lot. While this is true to an extent, the experience of having a nice dinner out with your wife is simply not the same when you've brought your newborn along (and forget about dining out with a toddler). It simply isn't that restful. And the more you try to replicate the experience of dining out, the more it'll make you miss it. Dine out now. Paint the town red. Go to that expensive restaurant and order the special and a big ol' bottle of pricey wine. You won't be able to again for a long damn while.

#5. BUY YOURSELF SOMETHING EXTRAVAGANT - When Charlotte was born, I splurged on a new iPod, knowing full well that pretty much all monies spent from there on in would be devoted to kiddie gear. And I was right.

#6. GET RIOTOUSLY DRUNK - This is not to suggest that when you have kids, your drinking stops (some would argue the contrary, actually, although the drinking happens on your couch and not in a bar). That said, having a hangover and dealing with a screamy infant just DO NOT MIX. Go out now and tie one on. You'll never have a completely open-ended, carefree, anything-can-happen evening again once you have kids, as there will always be a little voice in the back of your head telling you how much you're spending on the babysitter and how that babysitter is going to be gone at 6am, when your head is on fire and your child is screaming. Whoop it up now. Party like it's 1999. Be irresponsible while you can.

#7. CONNECT WITH YOUR SINGLE FRIENDS - This is an important one, as it's a sad but unavoidable fact that once you become a parent, you tend to fall somewhat out of touch with your friends who don't have kids, and almost completely with your single friends. It's just a shift in circumstance and priority, and it's very hard to make it work. See them now and enjoy yourself.

#8. SEE LIVE MUSIC AND GO TO THE MOVIES - Much like dining out or drinking irresponsibly, you just won't get the opportunity to take in concerts as often as you would otherwise. Likewise, getting out to the movies -- something you probably take for granted now -- becomes laughably out of the question. With movie tickets now well over the ten dollar mark, when you factor in babysitter fees on top of that, a seemingly simple evening becomes a costly investment. And everyone's going to hate your guts when your babysitter calls you in the middle of the movie to tell you that your beloved toddler has just barfed all over the sofa.

#9. GO RIDE YOUR BIKE - Or goto the gym. You'll certainly still get your excercise when the baby arrives (your shoulder muscles will get a massive workout from attempting to rock them to sleep, your calves will become hard as rocks from all the bouncing and stretching and bending you'll be doing, and you'll get in plenty of walking time from pushing that stroller around town), but the "me time" aspect of bike-riding (or jogging or working out or whatever it is you do) will be hugely diminished.

#10. PREPARE TO HAVE YOUR WORLD ROCKED IN A MANNER THAT IS HERETOFORE INCONCEIVABLE - Again, it sounds like a cliché, but having a child completely turns your life upside-down. Things that seem desperately important to you now will take on an air of juvenile trivia. Your priorities will change. You won't notice it -- and you'll insist that you're the same louche, devil-may-care rock'n'roll brigand you've always been -- but you'll gradually find yourself becoming a totally different person with a totally new way of looking at the world around you. And you'll experience a love for your child in a manner so indescribably intense that it'll make your head spin and make all the compromises you've made seem laughably insignificant.

So, seat-belts on, guys. But don't forget to enjoy the ride!

More on Ministry

In the wake of my somewhat lukewarm impression of Ministry at BB King's earlier this week (see below), I thought I'd exhume an old thread from the ILX music boards that spells out what made Ministry initially so appealing to me. In other words...In Praise of...The Land of Rape and Honey by Ministry:

Prior to the cowboy hats and the chain link fence. Prior to "Buck Satan" and "Hypo Luxa" etc. After the so-called "abortion" that was With Sympathy (which, I should note, still think is brilliant) and the sleek-but-edgy Twitch. I'd always liked Ministry but had never given them a great deal of thought or consideration. They were a cool little synth-pop outfit from Chicago. End of story.

The chronology of how Ministry went from a dance-pop band into a feral "industrial metal" band has always sort've eluded me. I know Jourgensen had done some more aggressive music on Wax Trax prior to signing with Arista (who, it's been said, completely commandeered the ensuing With Sympathy towards the innocuously slick). But when I first layed ears (and eyes) on "Stigmata" in the chilly winter of 1988 (via its video on "120 Minutes" on MTV) it was like a bucket of ice cold, heavy water in the face. "Jesus, this is awful!" said my housemate Ben (a devout Style Council/Elvis Costello fanboy) upon its airing. "ARE YOU HIGH? THIS IS BRILLIANT!," I countered. The pummeling, mechanized rhythm, the menacing repetitious guitar hook, the screaming, the grinding, the relentlessness, the vitriol. Good god, it was the most refreshing thing I'd heard in ages (my beloved Killing Joke having recently gone all wanky prog at the time with the ham-fisted Outside the Gate album). It wouldn't be until first hearing Nothing's Shocking by Jane's Addiction later that spring that I would get as excited about a record.

I tracked down The Land of Rape and Honey the next day (relishing the cover image....is that someone's face being dragged acoss gravel? PERFECT!) Right out of the box, the first three tracks ("Stigmata", "The Missing", "Deity") grabbed your larynx with one hand and pummeled your face with a steel meat tenderizer in the other. "Work for Love" this was not.

I could blather on about the tracks (I especially love the non aggro tune, "Hizbollah"). After this album, the flood gates seemed to open and Jourgensen became hugely prolific (releasing, via Wax Trax, albums by his other projects like the Revolting Cocks, PTP, Pailhead with Ian MacKaye, Lard with Jello Biafra, Acid Horse with Cabaret Voltaire, 1000 Homo DJ's originally with Trent Reznor, etc.), but Ministry themselve gradually became more parody-metal as they went on. I still loved them, but they got a bit monochromatic after a while. What I loved about The Land of Rape and Honey was that it seemed like such a switching of gears, and despite the brilliance of some of their subsequent singles, I've been waiting for another such gear-switching ever since. And I'm still waiting.

The Friday Night Wrap-Up

Hey there, folks. It's been a busy week, and I'd meant to post several times over the course of it, but time simply did not permit. It's now a balmy Friday evening. My wife went to go visit some cousins out in Brooklyn with the baby. I'm here with Charlotte (mercifully now asleep), I've just ordered some food (mmmmm....Lebanese food!), have opened my third beer and figured I'd bring the site up to date.

*MINISTRY IN NYC After months of decidedly non-rock'n'roll, domestic imprisonment, I managed to venture out onto the tiles not once but twice this week for the purposes of experiencing live music. As fate had it, Monday night didn't quite work out, but I was let off my leash a second time on Wednesday evening to go see Ministry at BB King's Blues Bar. Honestly speaking, my fandom for Ministry sort've diminished a bit in the wake of their sprawling 1992 album, Psalm 69, a landmark disc that, after which, they pretty much stopped progressing and simply started to repeat themselves. Now, don't get me wrong -- a great many of my favorite bands have made a lucrative career out of simply releasing the same album over and over again (AC/DC, Motorhead, the Ramones, etc.), but what made Ministry so captivating to me back in the day, as they say, was their gradual transformation from a seemingly workaday synth-pop act into a feral noise collective without the slightest regard for finesse. It was their versatility and their willingness to (d)evolve that won my fascination. Once they reached the (il)logical extreme, however, they simply put down stakes and have stayed put for the last several albums. Wake me when they decide to switch gears again.

Longtime Ministry co-conspiritor, Paul Barker, left the band not too long back, leaving founding member/masterminister, Al Jourgensen in need of a bass player. As it turned out, Al turned to erstwhile Killing Joke bass player, Paul Raven to pick up the slack. Never one to sit still for very long, Raven signed on (a commitment which, unfortunatley, caused a slight rift in the `Joke camp, but that's sort've par for the course, as they say). When I heard Raven was on board and coming to NYC with Ministry, I couldn't say no, despite my failing enthusiasm for the band's new millenial material.

With a line-up filled out by ex-Prong members, guitarist Tommy Victor and keyboardist John Bechdel (Raven also played in Prong for a couple of albums), Slipknot drummer Joey Jordinson and long-time Ministry/Rigor Mortis guitarist, Mike Scaccia, Ministry ploughed into NYC with a full agenda. I'd normally post a lengthily long-winded, blow-by-blow review here, but I've already done so elsewhere, and who really cares what I have to say about it anyway? In any event, I was just happy to be out with friends (flanked by my childhood friend, Christina) and have my head sandblasted by weapons-grade industrial cacophony.

Apres gig, Christina and I managed to hook up with Raven. We'd all met about six years ago at some random party at Chelsea Piers, and Christina and Raven got on like a house on fire, so we figured a reunion was highly in order. We repaired to the bar at the Paramount Hotel for drinks afterwards and a fine time was had by all.

*THAT SUMMER FEELING I stepped outside of the office Thursday for my daily lunchtime loop around the block and was greeted by the bright perfection of Summer. Warm but not hot, bright but not glaring -- it was the quintessence of pleasance. It had turned into the type of day that made me want to walk and keep walking. For all its celebrated faults, New York City in the Summer is not always a hellish pit of suffering (though wait until August!). Nope, Thursday was as pristeen and beatific as can be imagined. As I walked towards Hell's Kitchen, there was even the faintest whiff of the water (well, the Hudson River, anyway)…a nice reminder that we are, in fact, existing on an island surrounded by water and not just a heaving cluster of concrete, glass and steel.

Strollling down to 8th Avenue, I was instantly reminded of the NYC summers of my youth, largely spent biking recklessly around the city streets with my friend Danny, hanging out in Central Park or rifling through record stores in the Village with my friend Rob. Summer has that indefinable power to play with your memory. I could go on and on about it, but Jonathan Richman -- on his undersung 1992 album, I, Jonathan -- said it better than I ever could.

*YELLOW MATTER CUSTARD....
Inspired by the cover story in the latest issue of endearingly rockist Brit music mag, Mojo (which I picked up not least for its interview with Lemmy, but also a completely ass-whuppin' feature on Killing Joke), I dialed up a scrambled selection of Beatles `choons for my walk to work on Friday morning. Now, granted,the world needs another cover story about the Beatles like it needs another cover story about Britney Spears' shoddy parenting, but at least Mojo provided an interesting take. Along with an in-depth examination of the band circa their hotly-debated best album, Revolver, the issue features a wide array of musicians opining on their favorite Beatles tracks, and some of the answers are surprising and insightful, or at least enough to have made me want to listen to the Fabs again.

While it may be a hip, punky, iconoclastic thing to allign oneself with, I've never been a member of the "I Hate the Beatles" contingent. Sure, there are precious few demographics more worthy of strenuous ridicule than obsessive Beatles fans (apart from maybe Trekkies and/or people who insist on repeating dialogue from Monty Python at parties), but as far as I'm concerned, if you don’t enjoy the Beatles, then you probably don't enjoy rock'n'roll. I can sympathize with someone feeling maybe hype-fatigue over them, but honestly, if you can't find something to appreciate in the band's vast catalog, then you should probably hock your stereo and take up macramé or bass fishing or quantity-surveying. Or heroin.

So even though Jaz Coleman of Killing Joke claims to hate the Beatles and Glen Matlock was purportedly booted from the Sex Pistols for liking them, I still stand in reasonably respectable company in declaring my fandom for them (Siouxsie Sioux, Ozzy Osbourne and Lemmy all count themselves as fans). In terms of narrowing it down to a single Beatles tune, I don't think I could do it. Certainly there are loads that could be permanently retired (does anyone really need to hear "Hey Jude" or"All You Need is Love" ever again?), but then I was always a fan of their darker stuff like "Run For Your Life" (a bitter death threat dressed up as a jauntily harmony-laden pop tune) and, of course, "Helter Skelter" -- the somewhat obvious go-to track whenever someone laments the saccharine tweeness of Paul McCartney. That this screamy, proto-punk guitar blitzkrieg which inspired a gang of murderous faux-hippies to carve up a gaggle of unsuspecting Californians was penned and performed by the same man who wrote "Martha My Dear" (let alone that both tracks appear on the same album) continues to amaze me. And for all their peerless musical chops, knack for instantly affecting melody and effortless gift for lyrics, the Beatles managed to sound weird, trippy, sinister, scary and even evil in ways that their contemporaries in the Rolling Stones could never touch. For all of the Satanic bluster in much of the Stones' work, there isn't a single song in their catalog that can give me the unsettling creeps like "Only a Northern Song," "Cry, Baby, Cry," "Long, Long, Long," "Revolution #9," "A Day in the Life" and that discordant flute freakout at the end of "Strawberry Fields" still can. That's what defines them for me. There is just something so timelessly familiar yet so indefinably other about much of the Beatles' music, that they simply are without peers.

That all said, in no discernible order, herewith Alex in NYC's....
Top Ten Favorite Beatles Songs:
1. "I Am the Walrus"
2. "Hey Bulldog"
3. "I'm Down"
4. "She's Leaving Home"
5. "You Know My Name, Look Up the Number"
6. "I'm Only Sleeping"
7. "Martha My Dear"
8. "And I Love Her"
9. "You Won't See Me"
10. "Tomorrow Never Knows"

oh fuck it...

11. "I Want You (She's So Heavy)"
12. "Everybody's Got Something To Hide (`cept For Me and My Monkey)"

*DILLIGENTLY DOINGS ONE'S DADLY DUTY Inspired by hearing today that a friend of mine is going to be a father, let me happily remind one and all that SUNDAY IS FATHER'S DAY, so don't forget your dear ol' dads! And for those considering becoming dads, let me just say that YES, it's a helluva lot of life-changing toil, but it's worth absolutely every fleeting nanosecond. Happy Father's Day, all!

Buzzcockblocked

The plan was a casual but sincere one. Venerable British Punk luminaries, the Buzzcocks (or simply Buzzcocks sans "the," if you're feeling annoyingly pedantic) were to play their umpteen-thousandth NYC show at Irving Plaza Monday night. Having been a longtime fan since first hearing "Orgasm Addict" courtesy of a mixtape from a friend back in 8th Grade, I've felt that the opportunity to catch the Buzzcocks on stage was always one to be seized. Though I was too young to see them in their prime, when the band re-formed with their classic line-up in 1989 and played the New Ritz on 54th Street, it was a positively seismic rock'n'roll experience. I'd coaxed my friend Rob to join me on that venture (by way of making him several mixtapes, needlessly stuffed with many a corking Buzzcock `choon), and that show made lifelong Buzzcocks fans of us both.

Since that afore-mentioned show, every time the band has come to town, one or both of us has attended. We saw them a couple of more times at the New Ritz (at one point in the mid 90's showcasing tracks they'd been working on with maverick producer Bill Laswell that would never, alas, see the light of day). I remember standing dangerously close to the sound system at that gig, which might take partial credit for the Tinnitus I now live with. We saw them several times back at Irving Plaza. I caught them once or twice at the Bowery Ballroom and once at the since-torn-down Academy off Times Square. I even saw them play a couple of numbers to a bemused crowd at an in-store at a long-vanished HMV on the Upper East Side. They've played shows all over this town over the years, and rarely have we been absent for them.

Though Rob and I were both initially indoctrinated to the band's barbed-yet-universal pop via their compilation, Singles Going Steady (not a weak track thereupon -- if you don't own this, your life has been unwittingly dimmed by a paucity of pristine Punk perfection), both of us swiftly set about collecting the band's entire oeuvre. The then-weighty price tag of their box set, Product actually became our standard of value-measurement ("those plane tickets cost about five-dozen copies of Product" etc. ). We picked up each needless live album (the band's catalog of same is truly dizzying) and each successive studio LP (the band became far more prolific in their later incarnation than in their initial heyday). We are Buzzcocks fans. This is largely because the Buzzcocks are virtually the perfect band. They play short, sharp, irrepresibly catchy songs about sexual frustration and romantic dystfunction, sung from a largely non-gender denominational perspective and played with Punk velocity. Every little deplorably rinky-dink band today that dares to refer to themselves as "pop-punk" owe their careers to the Buzzcocks, who tragically never made a great deal of money themselves, comparatively speaking.

Time passed. Circumstances changed. We got older. The Buzzcocks got seemingly much older. Lead singer, Pete Shelley went from looking like a prurient, pint-sized pixie into a more of a punky, rotund Hobbit (to be fair, Shelley's ever-present foil, guitarist Steve Diggle -- blessed with a preternaturaly punky-last name from birth -- still looks largely the same.) The original rhythm section departed to be replaced by some younger guns (the drum stool briefly played host to ex-Smiths drummer, Mike Joyce), but it's Shelley & Diggle that matter (not to knock original lead vocalist, Howard Devoto -- who departed the fold after the seminal, independently released e.p., Spiral Scratch, to form the equally essential band, Magazine). Over the years, the crowds were sometimes thin (much like poor Pete's hair). We kept going because -- well, hey -- it's the FUCKING BUZZCOCKS! They rock. You Don't!

A job change, a wife, a handful of years and two little kids later, I -- resplendent in one of my countless Killing Joke t-shirts (gotta represent at all times!) meet up with my friend Rob again. He's living out on Long Island now. We barely get to see each other these days -- let alone talk, and when we do, we spend most of our time bitching about our respective work schedules. Seemingly long gone are the days when we'd spend afternoons pilaging through Greenwich Village's numerous (and now long gone) record stores or downing several irresponsible pints of beer waiting for our favorite bands to hit a stage. It felt great to be out of the house on a warm Summer's night on my way to see one of my very favorite bands with an old friend.

Guess what? The plan failed. The Buzzcocks SOLD THE PLACE OUT! Sure, they were playing in Brooklyn a night or two later, but I don't do Brooklyn. Bummed but unphased, Rob and I repaired to our old standby, The Cedar Tavern, had a couple of beers and caught up. And it was alright.

As far as the `Cocks are concerned? Meh! We've seen'em. And we managed to see them when it still mattered. And y'know what? They'll be back.

And we'll be there.

The Texan Death Spoon

We have a serving spoon in our kitchen that my wife bought for about fifteen cents at a rural Texan junk shop outside of Houston last year. I believe her reasons for procuring the rotting culinary implement had something to do with it supposedly having a bit of authentic, rustic charm. We'd purchased an old colander in a junk shop in Paris a year earlier for the exact same reason (I remember struggling to describe it in my pigeon-French to a decidedly non-English speaking customs agent as "a cooking device"). I have no problems with the colander. It's cool, cute and charming in an old world sort've way. And it's from Paris. Everybody wins. The spoon, meanwhile, came from Texas, and let's remember that some seriously scary-ass folks come from Texas (Leatherface, David Koresh, George W. Bush, need I go on?) At first glance, (when my wife popped it out of the bag, post-purchase) the spoon looked to me like a murder weapon. I could clearly envision it being used to scoop out someone's gooey cranial casing for the purposes of turning the victim's skull into a goblet from which to drink moonshine. It's old and rusty and was probably forged at the Alamo and used to gouge the eyes out of several unsuspecting Mexican militia men. Put simply, it certainly doesn't strike me as something one should be putting anywhere near food that one plans to ingest, unless of course one's keen on consuming microscopic flakes of corroded metal. But, she bought it, we own it and, worst of all, we use it.

I should point out at this stage of the proceedings that some consider me to have a lot of needlessly strange hang-ups. I don't like traveling with food, I find it wicked inappropriate to bring your own food to a movie theatre (even despite the ridiculously escalating price of popcorn), I don't like condiments on my sandwiches if there's already cheese on'em (cheese is the condiment, you see), I wish death upon people who bring food onto subway cars, etc. Okay, fair enough, I'm uptight and opinionated (or as I like to say, I have fierce convictions). But there's something truly strange to me about buying used cutlery (especially specimens of same that really look used). It's like buying used underwear. Oh sure, you can wash it, but it's still been all up in someone's orifices. And who wants that?

The wife and I have been over it several times, and it usually ends with her telling me to get ahold of myself and get over it. Being that she does the lioness' share of the cooking in the household, I really don't have much of a leg to stand on in the argument. But I still shudder every time I see that the spoon's been taken out of the drawer and been languishing (and, summarily, slowly decaying) in a pot of some spaghetti sauce I'm about to partake of.

When I'm rushed to the hospital after complaints of sharp stomach pains sometime soon (and they pluck a golf ball sized dollop of metal shavings out of my lower intestines), don't say I didn't tell ya so.

I blame Texas.