Flaming Pablum

Another Five Things

Evidently, I've been tagged again. This time by Stevie NIXED. The theme of this meme is "Five Things You Don't Know (And Probably Shouldn't Care) About Me." This is actually tougher than it should be, being that I'm slavishly narcissistic enough to have already divulged all the arguably interesting tidbits about my life on this weblog. I mean, I've already blathered on about my crazy kids, my tinnitus, my allergies, my various jobs, my interests, the brilliance of Killing Joke...I mean, what else is there? In any case, I was tagged, so I guess I should play along...

#1 I have never owned a pet. Actually, that's not entirely true. Sometime in the late 70's, my father unsolicitedly and ill-advisedly gave my older sister a pair of budgerigars (or budgies to the aviarily inclined). My sister's first inclination upon receipt of this gift was basically to see how long they'd last without food. As such, my mother and I summarily inherited the task of taking care of the hapless things. Along with a fully equipped little cage, we were given a little book on how to teach your budgies to talk. I immediately mounted a campaign to teach them how to say "Hail Satan." I have two great aunts who are nuns (Sister of Charity, to be precise) and I thought it would've been an absolute scream if I'd taught the birdies to invoke the horned one in their saintly presence, but that plan never got off the ground. I sat for hours by that cage, repeating the phrase over and over again, but they never spoke a word. We also never really got around to naming them. Mom wanted to call one of them "Why" and the other one "Not" (geddit?), but I didn't support that plan in the slightest. Likewise, my mother ignored my suggestions to call them "Hitler" and "Stalin" or "Agamemnon" and "Odysseus". That particular stalemate lasted longer than the birds themselves. Thus, they lived their short, chirpy lives without proper names.

Oh yeah, they died, but not because of any neglect on our part. Well, not exactly. My cousin, Peter, came to stay with us at one point, and he was to sleep on the couch in the living room. The problem with that plan was that the living room was also where we kept the budgie cage, and those little critters loved to greet the day on the really early side (much like my children today), chirping their beaks off like shrill little roosters. In order to curtail this, my mother concocted a plan to dupe them into thinking that it was still night time by covering their cage. This way, they'd keep quiet and Peter could get some sleep. Well, suffice it to say, that plan worked a little too well. I don't know whether it was nyctophobia or possibly that their oxygen was cut off by the towel that enshrouded their cage, but when we examined them later that morning, one of the little yellow guys was all puffed up, flat on his back (in other words, dead). We were all a bit shocked by that, though probably not as much as his feathered compatriot.

The second budgie died about a month later -- either out of loneliness or out of shame of the crippling indignity of his circumstances. We were out in Quogue, and I remember walking out of the house one morning to find my mother out in a corner of our backyard with a little shovel. She'd just buried the second bird and was actually kinda weepy about it.

But, anyway -- apart from those budgies -- I've never owned a pet. Never really wanted one either.

#2 I didn't have a driver's license until 2004.

#3 I have three pencil points embedded in my person, all dating back to grade school. There's one in my cheek (the non-intentional result of a scuffle with a friend in the school library), one in my right wrist (forgot how that one got there) and one in my hip (after I stupidly sat down on it, spearing myself in the process). They're all too deep to fish out at this point. At the time, I'd convinced myself that I was going to prematurely expire from "lead poisoning," until I remembered that pencils were made of graphite.

#4 In 1980, I almost lost my left eye while fly-fishing in Bozeman, Montana. I was visiting my friend, Sean, who'd moved out there with his family from New York (where I'd known him from grade school). In any case, since moving to Montana, he'd developed an interest in fly-fishing. Despite the fact that I wasn't really that much of an outdoorsman (shocker!), I played along, being the City Mouse to my friend's newly-realized Country Mouse persona. Sean, the rest of his family and myself set out for some picturesque creek, flanked by beautifully imposing mountains and lush, rolling hills. They outfitted me with a pair of leaky "weighters". I couldn't have felt more ridiculous, but again -- I was playing along. I was given an impromptu tutorial about how to fly-fish. It wasn't nearly as simple as just dropping your line in the water and waiting for some gullible fish to snap at your bait. No, there was a whole science to fly-fishing. You were supposed to whip your line around (with your prize-winning, hand-tied, hook-concealing "fly" at the end of the line) like an actual insect to attract the fish. Fair enough, I got it. This was several years before "A River Runs Through It," but I'd figured it out. They left me in the reeds with my rod and reel and fly and leaky weighters. I was, of course, instantly miserable, but still game to give it a go. Wading out into the water a little ways, I raised my rod-wielding arm and prepared to do my first cast. After a quick flick of my wrist, my line suddenly started to whip around me (as opposed to fluttering majestically out over the water). Time stood still. I remember thinking in those precious nanoseconds that the sharp little hook currently spiraling around me was looking for a place to land. It swiftly found it, plunging into my face about a quarter of an inch away from my left eye.

I came striding out of the reeds laughing. I wasn't laughing out of bravado, mind you, I was simply laughing because I'd immediately realized where the hook could have gone. I was guffawing out of sheer gratitude. I've never been an especially religious individual, but if I was, I'd probably suggest that there was a bit of divine intervention there. In any case, I walked up to Sean's dad (a doctor, conveniently enough). "I caught something," I beamed, showing off my wound, "can we go home now?" We immediately piled in the car, and Sean's dad sped us to a local medical facility -- lying to the staff that I was his son (despite the fact that I looked nothing like the rest of the family). Utilizing a worryingly frugal amount of anesthetic, the handsomely-tied hook was gradually extricated from my face, and we all repaired to a Pizza Hut where Sean's folks plied me with pitchers of coke and all the slices I could scarf down in order for them to remain in my good, forgiving, non-parent-telling graces.

Not that it's necessarily the result of the experience detailed above, but I don't believe I've touched a fishing rod since. Incidentally, this almost-gruesome episode has nothing to do with why my left eye looks a bit, well, wonky. My left eye looks that way because....

#5 I was basically born without a left eyelid. Gross, right? Well, because of some unfortunate developmental anomalies at the time of my birth, my eyelid was a bit messed up, I have a wicked-deviated septum and my hairline's a little interesting. I underwent plastic surgery on the eyelid as an infant and again as ten year old, and they did as much as they could with it at the time. As a result, my vision in that eye isn't quite up to par, and I'm largely reliant on my right eye. I've had the opportunity since to have the eyelid further corrected, but I figure that since I've already lived this long with it without any serious fallout, I might as well leave it as is. It was a bit of a pain when I was a kid (as children have precious little qualms about asking entirely impolite questions and/or making indelicate observations regarding the physiognomy of their peers), but it wasn't anything I couldn't deal with. I chalk it up to being character-building and leave it at that. There are people out there with sincere problems, and I'm lucky enough not to count myself among them.

Okay, that's five. At this stage of the proceedings, I'm supposed to tag five more people to perpetuate the game. Here goes, then...

Hot Johnny Flowers (sharp of wit and potty of mouth).

Benjamin Wagner (fast-talking executive by day, heartfelt songsmith by night)

Jonathan (Brewer, Patriot, Epicurean)

Mrs. Tanya (she can and will kick your ass, if necessary)

Pat Stack (lingo-slingin' dropper of mad science, yo)

Vanishing NYC on Film: CBGB in "Staying Alive" (1983)

In this case, I suppose I should really say vanished NYC on film, given that the venue in question is now gone. In any case, springing off this post from ages ago, herewith the first installment of a new feature I'm introducing wherein I needlessly highlight various NYC landmarks and locations that make cameo appearances in movies. Make sense? I hope so.

Last Monday night, whilst flipping around the dial, the wife and I stumbled across "Staying Alive." Finding nothing better to waste our time watching, we decided to stick with the abortive 1983 sequel to the far-superior disco odyssey, "Saturday Night Fever." If you're not familiar with the film in question, "Staying Alive" picks up with lamentable slackjaw Tony Manero (played with convincing dislikability by John Travolta) who has since moved out of his contentious Brooklyn home to Manhattan to try to cut it as a dancer in a laughably preposterous Broadway production dubbed "Satan's Alley." Though largely centered around Tony acting like a retarded douchebag and being one of the most unsympathetic protagonists in film history, there's a subplot involving one of Tony's fellow dancers, Jackie (played by b-list all-star, Cynthia Rhodes, who was also a supporting character in "Flashdance," "Dirty Dancing" and that video by Richard Marx -- whom she evidently married). In any case, Jackie becomes inexplicably stricken with Tony (despite the fact that Tony is cruelly leading her on, constantly standing her up and two-timing with fellow dancer Laura, played by Finola Hughes -- sort of a very poor man's Jane Seymour). When not crying about Tony, Jackie pursues a singing career (specializing in mawkish middle-of-the-road fare that makes Olivia Newton-John sound like Lydia Lunch, but I digress). Frank Stallone (brother of Sly) plays Carl, Jackie's guitar-brandishing bandmate and rival for Tony's lukewarm affections. At a couple of key points in the film, Tony goes to see Jackie perform (while Carl solos vindictively from the stage) -- and it's always at this one suspiciously familiar looking venue. After Tony stands her up yet again, there's a shot of Jackie weepily hanging outside the music venue -- and sure enough, it's CBGB. So, why am I bothering to point all this out? No huge reason. I just find it somewhat striking that around the same time that this ludicrous film was being shot, CBGB was otherwise playing host to bands like the Bad Brains, the Undead, Minor Threat, Sonic Youth, the U.K. Subs, the Beastie Boys, Kraut and countless others. Moreover the notion of a band like the one featuring Jackie & Carl playing at the storied venue seems entirely incongruous. But there it is.

Top 10 Frequent Exclamations by My Almost-3 Year Old

1. "It's Not Night Time!"

2. "I Want Milk!"

3. "No, I DON'T!"

4. "We Go Playground!"

5. "You Come Too?"

6. "I JUMPING!"

7. "It's not Raining!"

8. "Carry Me!"

9. "I Will Have Some!"

10. "I have a Booboo!"

Scratch and Scrape with the Birthday Party

I had a number of ideas I wanted to put up here today, but the day was a busy one that got away from me. In any event, here's a lovely little nugget from YouTube of ye olde, brilliant Birthday Party churning through "Junkyard". Check out bassist Tracy Pew in this clip, may he rest in peace. Screw the neighbors. Play this at lawnmower volume.

Muzzling the Knowitall

Ardent music fans are a strange breed. We don't always play nice with others. We tend to horde, gloat, obsess, fetishize, boorishly opine and prematurely judge. There have been several points in my life where I have found it nigh on impossible to hold my tongue when I've heard people discussing music. And not just in circumstances wherein I was actively acquainted with the people involved with the discussion either --- oh no. I've been prone to butting right into conversations I've eavesdropped on in record stores or in elevators or in other places where my opinions weren't being solicited, forcing complete strangers to hear what I had to say about that new Iggy Pop album or which Lollapalooza it was that Lush played at or how abjectly overrated Pavement were or why they should be as appalled as I am that the first Belfegore album was never released on compact disc, etc. It's gotten me in a spot of trouble on a few occasions.

For some reason, the fact that some of us (and I say "us" because I know I'm not the only person that does this) spent inordinately too much time in front of our record players growing up, pouring slavishly over lyrics and liner notes than the average person seems to lend us a puffy-chested sense of entitlement. I've caught myself saying entirely outlandish things ("why don't you do your homework, you novice!") at folks who simply hadn't cared to invest nearly as much time as I had (i.e. they had better things to do and lives to lead) into their appreciation of some random band. Music just isn't the same end-all/be-all to a lot of people. And they shouldn't be punished for that, especially not by some sanctimonious loudmouth like myself. Factually up to date or not, no one likes a knowitall.

For many music-obsessives, I can't help thinking our fervent record-collecting and arcane trivia consumption are an indirect means of compensation. Speaking for myself, I was never a particularly athletic kid (surprise!) and found absolutely nothing of interest in professional sports (much less jocks in general -- with whom I've always shared a mutual antipathy). Music, meanwhile, captured my imagination at an early age and I summarily immersed myself in it. I was into other things as well -- geekier pursuits like sci-fi, comic book collecting, role-playing games like Advanced Dungeons & Dragons -- but music was something that superceded and outlasted them all. And it was something a thousand times more universal. I was invariably more likely to encounter a kindred soul as equally moved by the stentorian whallop of Black Sabbath or the subversively skewed anti-pop of vintage Devo than I was a big fan of Cerebus the Aardvark or "Gamma World" (to say nothing of the fact that the music fan would more likely be less geeked-out than the comic fan or the gamer -- hell, they might even be female!) I don't think it was ever a conscious decision, but my drive to know all that I could know and hear all that I could hear of the music that captivated me may have been partially inspired by my repressed naive need to own and master something in the same way that the popular guys in my high school reigned supreme on the basketball court. Here was something I was good at. Here was something I could excel at.

Some years ago, I knew a similarly inclined (albeit much more extreme) individual at a magazine I was working for. A font of musical knowledge, this guy had been to more crucial shows, seen more seminal bands, conducted countless interviews with influential artists and boasted a record collection that put most radio stations to shame. At the same time, he was a bit of a chore to be around. His constant need to one-up anyone during discussions about music bordered on needlessly aggressive brow-beating, and his tireless hunger to possess virtually every album, single, cassette and compact disc under the sun had unhealthily crossed the line into flat-out mania. By this stage, the music itself had become incidental. Sure, he might've owned some entirely limited edition pressings of wildly rare, out-of-print classic albums, but damned if he could hum a note off of any of'em (or even remember that he owned them). They were just items on the vast pile that occupied nine-tenths of his apartment. I remember a cab ride with him once when, in a rare moment of bluster-free candor, he confessed that he'd invested so much into his music collection because he knew that it was never going to let him down in the way that so many people had. I found this profoundly depressing.

Around the same time, I was gradually gleaning that being a "rock critic" -- despite my frothy-mouthed adoration of writers like Lester Bangs, Nick Kent, Ira Robbins, John Leland and Legs McNeil -- was maybe not the ideal career that it has previously seemed like. And so wanting not to be like the guy I described in that last paragraph, I started to try to change my ways. I was still obsessive in my pursuit of music -- spending every thin red dime I earned on pricey import releases and related ephemera, routinely going to shows two...three....four times a week and even flying to the UK to catch concerts. Hell, in 1993, my friend Rob and I flew to London almost exclusively for the purposes of checking out British record stores. But by the same token, I started being a bit more sheepish about my appreciation. I started to treat my music obsession more like a monkey on my back than like a shiny sheriff's badge that allowed me to lord my arguable expertise over others. And my "expertise" was just that -- arguable. Sure, I knew all about the stuff I liked, and could tell you more than you'd ever want to know about, say, the Circle Jerks, Kiss or the Lords of the New Church, but if you were looking for insight regarding artists like Emmylou Harris or Al Green or Gram Parsons or Danko Jones, I'd have nothing for you. And I'd probably compensate for my lack of knowledge by being dismissive about the artists in question. It's an old trick.

In time, my unwieldy disc collection started to be more of a burden than a library to boast about (especially when it was littered with dubious discs by one-hit-wonders, guilty pleasures and whole catalogs by artists I've since gone onto all but renounce). I'd already clogged my Mom's basement and a storage space downtown to the rafters with all my vinyl and cassettes (and, pray tell, why on god's green earth am I still holding onto my cassettes?), but now my shelves and shelves of compact disc were starting to resemble a Sisyphusian boulder, especially when my wife and I moved apartments in 2002. Scarred from an experience in college when some of my precious vinyl was damaged during shipping, I insisted on carting my discs to the new apartment myself, an endeavor which took a ridiculous amount of time and struggle. For a more in-depth account of my disc-addiction, click here.

Somewhat ironically, here in 2007, I'm working for MTV. Though bitterly maligned in certain circles of the hipster cognoscenti (which I've aligned myself with at one stage or another), MTV played a huge role in nurturing my own music appreciation. I'm not sure if it has that same effect on budding music fans today --- music and popular culture have changed so much since I was a teen -- but I know the ardent music fan is alive and well within the walls of the institution, and I've met many a kindred spirit therein. As a 39 year old father of two, I don't have nearly as much time (let alone money) as I used to devote to the music that I love. I still roam the internet and involve myself in needlessly heated discussions about music. Someone on the Firewater list, for example, recently suggested that they couldn't hear any difference between the bands Keane and Muse and, being a fan of much of Muse's work, I got all red-faced and incredulous. Similarly, on the Gathering (the Killing Joke list) one member made a disrespectful comment about Alien Sex Fiend (`cos yknow.....god forbid!), and I felt obligated to put them in their place for it. I doubt I'll ever be able to stop myself from having an pronounced opinion about music, given that it still means so much to me, but I'm trying to keep it all in perspective. After all, I may own a lot of discs, but music ultimatelly belongs to everyone.

Kodak Uber Alles!

I spotted this on my old pal Hot Johnny's otherwise potty-minded weblog and was so blown away that I had to rip it off from him and post it here.

Bear in mind that this is an actual commercial....and, as HJ said, probably the most honest piece of corporate marketing you're likely to stumble upon.

Good Morning, Apocalypse!

This is today's weather forecast......and it's January.

Bad Omens

Despite my self-congratulatory statement of affirmation yesterday, I'm being cautious today. On my way to work, my 60 gig iPod decided to freeze (again). Not lock or pause, mind you, but freeze. It recognizes no commands, nor does it acknowledge any further keystrokes (no "locked" icon appears when you switch on the locked mechanism). It is simply frozen. This has happened before. In this instance, it's frozen right at the start of "Buzzcity Talking" by XTC (from the excellent Go 2 album, which you should all go rush out and buy at once). Not only is this hugely annoying, but I consider it a bad omen.

Adding insult to injury, when I arrived at work, someone in our production department was repeatedly blasting shrill airings of "Georgy Girl" by the fuckin' Seekers, and if that's not a bad omen, I sure as hell don't know what one is.

Clearly, there's a black cloud over this day, and I'm keeping my head down accordingly.

A Year with the Steer

Today, January 4th, marks my one year anniversary -- my MTVersary, if you will -- over at The Job. Hard to believe I've been here a whole year. I still feel at times like Johnny NewGuy and I learn something new about the place every day (often in alarming ways). It's a lot more of a faster-paced gig that my situation at TIME ever was. Hard to believe it's been a whole year since I left there (and I gather I got out when the getting was good). The one bit of advice I've been continually given -- often unsolicitedly so -- has been to "make it mine" and/or "own it." In the 365 days since I first sat down at the managing editor's desk, I have more say, more responsibility, more creative input and more at stake than I ever did at my beloved TIME Newsdesk. At times, my efforts to "make it mine" and "own it" feel akin to trying to break the will of a bucking, enraged steer, and there ain't a rodeo clown in sight. But at the same time, I often have to stop and realize how damn lucky I am and how much fun I'm actually having. To beat this analogy into the ground, I'm sure the coming year will find this furious bull getting a second wind and trying harder to knock me off his back and gorge me with his horns. But I will  break him. I will make it mine. And I fully intend to the enjoy the ride while I'm doing it.

Taking Back the Night

  Now that the holiday season is over and done with, so begins the long, slow trudge through winter. It's hard not to feel a bitter sense of anticlimax every year when the whole festive shebang comes to an end. I've always found it profoundly depressing to see Christmas trees tossed out on the sidewalks like deadbeat drunks after closing time. To think that these objects were joyously picked out, cherished, decorated, gathered around and celebrated only mere days before, only now to be lovelessly degraded and abandoned out on the cold, unrelenting pavement. I suppose they're gathered up and ground up as mulch to feed future generations of Christmas trees, but that's always struck me as a bit Soylent Greeny. Could "Mad Tree Disease" be far behind?

In terms of the new year, I've never been one for resolutions. I know myself well enough to realize that I'm invariably going to break any self-restricting rules I ambitiously set. That said, the Missus and I have sworn to accomplish one specific goal in very short order this year, that being to successfully move little Oliver (ten months old next week) out of our room and into the room that has heretofore been inhabited solely by his big sister, Charlotte. While Charlotte has been informed of this plan, it's hard to imagine that she's fully "on board," so to speak. While she shares the room with her little sibling by day, by night, it is a realm she alone rules. That's about to change.

In all likelihood, putting both of our children in that room is going to make for an arduous several days -- if not weeks -- of adjustment. For a start, Oliver's sleeping habits are still slightly unrefined. He's still keen on waking up a few times a night. We've been resisting giving him the bottle these last few nights, hoping to break him of the habit (ironic, given our long struggle to get him onto the bottle in the first place). That hasn't exactly been going swimmingly. They're unavoidably going to be waking each other up periodically, which is going to be a problem.. Secondly, the chatter factor is going to increase a thousand fold. And while it's adorable to hear them interact with each other (thus far, Charlotte has been a mercifully doting and affectionate older sister to little Oliver), it'll invariably impede nocturnal peace and quiet to have them giggling, conspiring and squabbling in there.

It's definitely going to be tough. I remember Charlotte's anguish when we moved her out and into her own room. At least Oliver will have company. But for our purposes, moving Oliver into Charlotte's room simply has to happen. Since his birth, our bedroom has been held hostage. At night, we have to tip-toe in and out for fear of waking him. We don't get to read before bed. When we get up in the middle of the night, we have to remember not to walk into his Pack'n'Play (much less walk too close to it) lest we rouse him. In short, we need our room back. We need our nights back.

We'll see how that goes.