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Down the line, if anyone ever tries to sell you an apartment which comes equipped with a thermostatic shower in the master bathroom, run -- don't walk -- to the nearest hardware store, buy a big, honking ball peen hammer and go back and bludgeon the seller into blubbering, viscous putty.
Trust me on this one.
Here's an unpopular opinion: I hate the Union Square Greenmarket. With a vengeance. It completely stresses me out. It brings together hordes of pushy, sanctimonious New Yorkers who'll gladly elbow you in the eye socket if you so much as dare to grab that leek before they do. Being a pushy, sanctimonious native New Yorker myself, you'd think I'd feel right at home there, but I just don't. I get all agoraphobic and irritable and start entertaining decidedly unchristian thoughts (more so than usual) about my fellow citizen. These thoughts usually involve sub-machine guns, bayonets and flame throwers.
Don't get me wrong -- I love the produce. I love the tomatoes and the bread and the greens and the fresh meats. I love the merchants -- good-natured, dedicated farmers who tirelessly drive into the city week in and week out from Upstate and Long Island and Pennsylvania. Hell, I even love Union Square itself -- it's the veritable gateway to downtown, if you will.
But it's the clientele that sets my teeth on edge, especially if I'm trying to navigate through them with a baby carriage. I've seen nicer, more considerate crowds at death metal shows. Slow-walking, self-styled culinary snobs and corpulent know-it-alls in Burbery raincoats and expensive sunglasses arguing with humble Pennsylvania Dutch farm-hands about the quality of their cucumbers. Mow them all down, I say!
My problem, however, is that my wife absolutely swears by the Greenmarket. She's loves it. Will not let a weekend go by without going there at least once. And being that I'm reaping the rewards from eating the meals she so lovingly prepares with the produce procured from same, I really don't have a leg to stand on in my arguments against it. But every time we go, she instantly notices the change in my mood (not that I'm ever exactly Captain Sunshine, but my inner Travis Bickle seems to rise quite visibly to the surface at the Greenmarket) and either rolls her eyes in "Oh for Christ's sake, get the hell over it" mode or sends me off to the Virgin Megastore across the Park until she's done (this is what happened this morning -- she got to go buy her cauliflower, and I got to go buy the newly re-mastered editions of the first two Pretenders albums -- everyone wins!) But at this point, I'm simply not allowed to stand around with her there, sneering and venting huffily about how I'd love to see the place get napalmed by Captain Kilgore's air cavalry in a fiery cataclysm while she's surveying the wheat grass selection.
And that's why I'm doing it here.
I turn 39 years old today. Other than that it's also the name of a song on my favorite Queen album (A Night At the Opera, pedants), the number has no resonance for me. I remember that turning 29 came with a greater sense of urgency. "Holy shit," I invariably muttered to myself, "it's my last twenty! I'd better make it count! I'd better become a drug-fancying, thrill-seeking lothario with a casual regard for repercussion with all speed!' Turning 29 was actually worse than turning 30 if only because of the pressure to fulfill all the insouciant irresponsbilities that you're supposed to get out of your system before you cross the perilous rubicon of 30. I remember getting all prepared to be traumatized about reaching my third decade, but when the day itself actually came, I was too busy fretting about something else (specifically that --- just days before -- I'd evidently very drunkenly disclosed to the new girlfriend of a friend of mine my highly questionable theory that her new boyfriend might very well be bi-sexual). By the time I'd ironed out that awkward kerfuffle with the heroically understanding friend in question, the fateful date had already passed. I was 30.
In honor of this birthday, meanwhile, my pal Rob and I trekked out to the ripe-for-demolition Nassau Colliseum last night to witness the triumphant return of our beloved Iron Maiden (on the car ride over, Rob made the sobering assertion that we'd first caught the band live twenty-two freakin' years ago -- and if that makes us sound old, imagine how Iron Maiden must feel!). After some perilous driving through the leafy suburban tributaries of unsuspecting Nassau County (punctuated by ridiculous bouts of strenuous air-guitaring in preparation -- ironically to songs the band would not, as it turned out, go onto play last night), we arrived and joined the throng of paunchy, balding Long Island brick-layers in ill-fitting vintage metal t-shirts. The band hit the stage (and I genuniely mean "hit" -- for all their inherent ludicrousness, the `Maiden boys still take their mission very seriously, and endearingly execute their art with an earnest ferocity). Now, these days, I'm just happy to get out of the house. If I get to run around the corner to buy a carton of milk at 9 pm, that's a big night for me. So, the fact that I was out of the town with one of my best friends having a few beers, let alone seeing one of my old favorite bands, made me feel like I was already in the winner's circle. That all said, `Maiden came on and performed their new album --- in its uber-lengthy entirety, from start to finish, treating the audience to only a fleeting clutch of old favorites ("2 Minutes to Midnight, "Hallowed By Thy Name," "Iron Maiden" among them) at the tail end of the concert. As shows go, their furrowed-brow intensity notwithstanding -- it wasn't that exciting. But like I said, given my current status -- I'm just happy they showed up. More importantly, I got to catch up with an old friend. This morning, I woke up and was treated to a lovely breakfast with my exquisite wife and two giggling children, and I can't think of a better way to start one's birthday.
Meanwhile, here's one of those inane surveys one regularly finds on MySpace that I thought fit the order of the day.
10 YEARS AGO today...
October 13, 1996
How old were you? 29
Where did you go to school? I was well out of school by that point.
Where did you work? the TIME Magazine News Desk
Where did you live? East 12th Street
Where did you hang out? Bars, record stores, bars, live music venues.
How was your hair style? Retarded pompadour
Who were your best friends? They know who they were.
Did you wear glasses? no
Who was your regular-person crush? Don't remember. I was in a crush-free zone there for a while.
How many tattoos did you have? none
How many piercings did you have? none
What car did you drive? I didn't have a driver's license at the time.
What was your worst fear? Not having enough beer in my fridge for the weekend.
Had you been arrested? nope
Had your heart been broken? Oh yes.
Single/Taken/Married/Divorced/Bitter? Very much single at the time.
********
October 13, 2006
How old are you? 39
Where do you work? A place that is not TIME Magazine
Where do you live? E.9th street
Where do you hang out? Playgrounds (boy, that sounds bad, doesn't it?), baby supply stores, supermarkets
Do you wear glasses? No
What is your hairstyle? Retarded pompadour, only slighter greyer.
Who are your best friends? The same folks.
Still talk to any of your old friends? There are very few people I "don't talk to" anymore (they know who they are).
How many piercings do you have? none
How many tattoos? none
What kind of car do you have? Still no car, but I do have a license now (so look out).
What is your biggest fear? Unemployment, not being able to provide for my family.
Have you been arrested since, if so, how many times times total? Hell, no.
Has your heart been broken? Not at all.
Single/Taken/Married/Divorced/Bitter? Very much married. And very happily so.
Caught this little moment in Soho on Sunday morning. Thought it looked like a New Yorker cover come to life....
It was one of those weeks wherein I'd had three or four ideas that I'd wanted to post up here, but between the breakneck pace of the Job and the exhausting Bataan Death March that is minding our children, I simply haven't had the time, energy nor mental wherewithall to bring those plans to fruition. It's finally nap time on Sunday afternoon (although both of our little critters are still up and chirping, despite being put in their respective beds) so I'm seizing the temporary calm. We'll see how long it lasts.
The Clothes Make the Fan: Every morning on my walk to work, I pass this one same individual. He's invariably ambling South down Univeristy Place as I'm walking North. He looks as though he's into his mid-fifites or so, usually wearing a baseball cap a lot of denim. His most distinctive sartorial feature, however, is that -- absolutely without fail -- he sports a t-shirt emblazoned with Marilyn Monroe. And not just the same t-shirt day in and day out, the man is clearly in possession of several, if not possibly hundreds. In the last eight months alone, I don't believe I've seen him sport the same one twice. Marilyn in bed, Marilyn at the mic singing "Happy Birthday Mr. President," Marilyn with Clark Gable in "The Misfits," Marilyn on the cover of that early Playboy spread -- he's got her covered. He is clearly a big fan. And as we all know, the root of the term fan is fanatic. The man is a case study.
But don't mistake this for a critiscism. Sure, his fixation with the late Norma Jean Baker is, well, certainly kinda creepy, but y'know -- to each their own. Also, people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. By that I'm referring to my own unwieldy obsession with the band, Killing Joke. At last count, I had somewhere in the realm of twenty-seven Killing Joke t-shirts, which is probably about twenty-six more than I really need -- and some might strenuously question why I'd even need one, but that's a whole different debate.
But, clearly, if you were to ask me (and, really, you shouldn't), I'd take great emphatic pains to assert that twenty-six Killing Joke t-shirts SIMPLY AREN'T NEARLY ENOUGH! By the same token, though, I don't wear one every day. I whip them out on days when I feel the rest of the world is suffering from a heady dose of abject lameness and needs to be vigorously schooled. This is, after all, arguably the basic function of "the band t-shirt"; a means of assserting tribal loyalty. A gauntlet thrown at the feet of those who'd dare step up and express dissent. I vividly remember a complete stranger (some moustachiod dingbat in a satin baseball jacket) coming up to me on Lexington Avenue sometime in the mid-80's and emphatically telling me, "yo, man, DEVO SUCKS!" I wasn't mad. I laughed it off and kept walking, consoled by the fact that the Devo shirt I was wearing upset him enough that he felt compelled to stop and tell me about it. Mission accomplished.
It's for this very reason that I seethe when I see pre-faded, "vintage" rock shirts being sold as ironic kitsch. I've always been of the mindset that if you're going to fly the colors, at least have the decency to have done your homework first (pardon the convoluted, mixed metaphor). If you can't name at least three songs by the band on your t-shirt, then you're a poser! I remember attending some strange cocktail soiree at Chelsea Piers sometime in the Summer of 2000 and seeing some self-styled hepcat strutting around in an old school Queensryche t-shirt (specifically the design from Queen of the Ryche). Being that I was well into my third or fourth beer, I accosted him and asked if he was sincerely a fan of the Seattle hair-farmers in question or was he making some sort've ironic statement. "Ummm," he stammered nervously, "uh....both?" I sneered and walked away. The annoying thing about this is I DON'T EVEN LIKE FUCKIN' QUEENSRYCHE!, but here I was getting all needlessly obstreporous on their undeserving behalf. I just find it so disrespectful. To quote a collegue of mine, "Keep Your Damn Hands Off My Rock!" If you're gonna wear the shirt, fuckin' mean it! I didn't catch all that shit in high school for wearing Motley Crue and Circle Jerks shirts for nothing!
I had dinner last week with my friend Tod. Once upon a time, Tod fronted a confrontational little combo called Cop Shoot Cop, until he reached a point where he felt the band's malicious catterwaul was beginning to feel too creatively confining and a little choreographed. He left C$C and formed Firewater, a band with a bold disregard for stylistic parameter and a slightly cheerier (or at least cheerily drunken) perspective on life. A decade and change after he dismantled Cop Shoot Cop, he finally seems ready to talk about it. We somehow got onto the t-shirt topic, and I was wondering how Tod felt when he saw an old Cop Shoot Cop shirt come walkin' down the street on some malnourished Emo waif. "I simply don't care," he said. "I'm not at all concerned with the opinions of teenagers any more." It was a frustratingly mature outlook. I tried to engage him on the subject further, citing my hang-ups, and he wouldn't budge. Tod, barely a year and a couple of months my senior, had let it go.
So, here I am about to cross the threshold of 39 (five short days left, shoppers!), and I'm still getting hot under the vintage, authentic collar about "disrespectful misrepresenation" of rock bands, and still needlessly adding to an unwieldy collection of t-shirts endorsing a band who eight out of ten people have never heard of -- and the two who have heard of them are shocked to hear they're still around. Why do I care? What's my hang-up? Am I going to grow up eventually too?
Well, again, at least it's not like I'm wearing one every day.
"Oh My Grace, I've Got No Hiding Place": I stepped out, last Friday morning, into the brisk October grey on my way to work and flicked on my iPod. Evidently, the song playing when I'd switched it off the night before was a live version of King Crimson's stentorian proto-metal anthem, "21st Century Schizoid Man." As much as I adore that song, its skronky, apocalyptic bluster wasn't really right for 7:45 am on damp chilly day. So I spun the wheel and settled on an album seemingly tailored to a dismally Autumnal New York City day, Bookends by Simon & Garfunkel.
I'd first heard this record in 7th grade. My homeroom teacher at the time was a gent named Mr. Imbelli. Kinda like a mellower Al Pacino in "Serpico" only with shorter hair, Mr.Imbelli was the type of teacher who liked to part with convention. He's have us arrange our desks in a big circle and encouraged a more participatory format which stopped just shy of asking us to call him by his first name. In any case, after he'd heard the class rapturously extolling the merits of Kiss, Queen, the Ramones and Pink Floyd's The Wall until he could take it no more, Mr.Imbelli decided to hip us to music that mattered to him. So, one day, he put our desks in a big circle, plugged in the record player and whipped out a copy of Bookends, dropping the needle on side one.
I'd heard Simon & Garfunkel before, courtesy of my parents' oft-played 8-track tape of Bridge Over Troubled Water, but that album (recorded a year after this one), with its feel good themes of redemption, harmony-laden proto-yuppie folk-pop seemed a million miles away from Bookends. Eerily intimate and sombre, side one of Bookends ruminates on suicide ("Save the Life of My Child"), old age ("Old Friends") and disillusionment ("Over," "America"), all tied up with a black bow of funereal melancholy. It's as close to Goth as the duo ever got. Even the cover is creepy. Paul and Art staring blankly through your hollowing soul in their austere, black turtlenecks. Hell, slap a pair of shades on each of them, and they could be in the Velvet Underground (fellow New Yorkers who were busy wallowing in seedy depravity and drugs just a few neighborhoods away). But again, it's the tunes that are so haunting -- whether it's the ominous synths and bad trip psychedelia of "Save the Life of My Child" (why hasn't anyone ever covered this?), the lilting decay of "Old Friends" or the awkward, uncomfortable coldness of "Overs". The icing on the cake is "Voices of Old People," a two minute sound collage of just that -- interviews with patients from an old age home. It's as disquieting as one's first hearing of "Revolution #9" on the White album by the Beatles. After a few spins, I had new respect for the duo.
Side two kinda ruins it, though. Perhaps worried that the despondency (more Nick Drake than Pete Seeger) would scare off the old school folksters, the second batch of songs (some culled from the soundtrack to "The Graduate") adds a bit more pep, whether in the playful "At the Zoo," the slightly cloying "Punky's Dilemma" or the urgency of "Hazy Shade of Winter" (their answer to the Mammas & the Pappas' "California Dreaming"?). It's still good stuff, but it's not as compellingly chilling as the first side.
I don't listen to it that often, but I do return to this album every now and again. Bookends isn't really right for every mood (much like, say, Pornography by the Cure), but its dour introspection and uber-New York City vibe (I always associate S&G with the pre-fabulous Manhattan depicted in films like "The French Connection" and "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three," when it was still sort've dully colored and old world) are perfect for when you have to turn your collar to the cold and damp.
This was too bizarre not to pass on. My friend Eric, a fellow TIME alumnus, sent this to me this morning.....
A few years ago, I came across a strange coincidence that occurred on the date in the subject line. It's odd enough on its own, but coupled with the reason I was trawling through old microfilms, it's even stranger. I posted a link yesterday to the resulting article I wrote about it.
It really shouldn't be a surprise to anyone, but herewith further evidence to demonstate that Iggy Pop -- along with being the greatest living American -- is one seriously funny guy. Bless'im.
*Addendum: Leave it to me not to read the fine print. Evidently, said rider was composed by Iggy roadie and frustrated comedian, Jos Grain. This is by no means, however, a retraction of my earlier statement. Iggy Pop remains (a) damn funny (and pretty sharp, even when clearly zonked out of his gourd) and, of course, (b)THE GREATEST LIVING AMERICAN!
Look, no one enjoys watching Republicans squirm like the vile, sickly larvae they are more than me, but in all honesty, despite the Garry Glitter-esque folly of Representative Mark Foley, I'd much rather see the G.O.P. be taken to task for their indefensibly ass-backwards public policy and their blinkered neo-conservative myopia than for the priapic predilections of one of their representatives. I mean, I pity the poor page at the receiving end of Foley's cyber-advances, but I'd rather the reason the Republican ship gets scuttled be one that involves the party's pig-ignorant mishandling of government at the expense of the American people's good name than the result of one pathetic little man's failure to keep his mind on the job and his hands out of his pants.
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