Flaming Pablum

Big Lovin'

Well, it's Valentine's Day, and I have to admit that Flaming Pablum has been a bit doomy-gloomy in recent days (albeit certainly not without due cause). That all said, despite all the travails of recent events, I'm still incredibly blessed with a beautiful wife and two unspeakably wonderful children. On the subway to work this morning, I looked up and noticed one of those "Poetry in Motion" placards. The poem in question was by a gent named Thomas Lux, titled "A Little Tooth." Even with my head filled with the emotional rigors of the past couple of days, it managed to penetrate my mental embattlements and touch me (and I generally hate poetry). Herewith "A Little Tooth"...


Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants
some meat directly from the bone.
It's all over.

She'll Learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail.

And you, your wife, get old, flyblown,
and rue nothing. You did, you loved,
your feet are sore. It's dusk. Your
daughter's tall.

With a head full of worries tonight, I walked through my front door, greeted by my wife and my children, little Charlotte beside herself with excitement that her father was home (and absolutely no one is ever this glad to see me). I brought my wife some flowers from the local deli, and we cooked up a pair of Kobe steaks that we'd been keeping in our freezer since Christmas. Things may be confusing and difficult right now, but I cannot for a moment be anyting less that entirely grateful for my life and my family. They are absolutely everything to me, and I'm the luckiest man alive.

But since it's Valentine's Day, herewith an idea I ripped off from Mrs.Tanya (who, in turn, ripped it off of someone else). Below is a list of things I love in a big-ass way....

My wife
The sound of my children's laughter
My amazing gaggle of friends near and far
My crazy extended family
Beer
Punk Rock
Killing Joke
Kiss collectables
Vinyl LP's
The TIME Magazine Newsdesk (R.I.P.)
stupid band t-shirts (worn without irony)
Throwin' the Goats
Uniqlo
Fred Perry
Sleeping late
The Ebi Tempura at Japonica
Martin Scorcese's "After Hours"
Jim Jarmusch's films
Quogue, NY
Malicious Damage swag
Mark Leyner
Stella D'oro Swiss Fudge Cookies
the N.W.O.B.H.M. (and if you don't know what that is, don't bother asking)
Foot massages
Asterix the Gaul
Sean Connery
Vintage New York City photography
"Prime Suspect"
Beef Tataki
Victorinox
Shrimp Cocktail
London, UK
Jukeboxes with vinyl 45's in'em
"The X-Men" circa John Byrne
"Tomb Raider" (the video game, not that movie shit)
Profiteroles
"Ghost Rider" (the comic, not the abortive Nic Cage film currently blighting theatres)
Prime Rib
The photography of Bob Gruen, Glen E. Friedman, Peter Beard, Berenice Abbott and Wee Gee.
fish-eye lenses
The art of Pushead
Japanese robot toys
The T-bone steak at Knickerbocker's
Legitimately haunted houses
La Coruna, Spain
black leather
Dr. Pepper
Navy pea coats
"Battle of the Planets"
Waistcoats
Tusken Raiders
fingerless gloves
Vintage "Planet of the Apes" memorabilia
Brak
Sheperd Fairey's OBEY GIANT stuff
The bacon appetizer at Peter Luger's

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all.

Goodbye TLA?

Heard a rumor from my nextdoor neighbors, Bruce & David (and, seriously, those dudes are never wrong) that TLA Video on W.8th Street is closing. (yet another reason to avoid this once hallowed strip of Greenwich Village). TLA is housed in the same complex that plays host to Hendrix's fabled Electric Ladyland Studios. I feel slightly complicit, as the wife and I just recently joined the hive and subscribed to Netflix, but TLA was indespensible for stocking out-of-print, hard-to-find cult classics and esoteric foreign films galore. It was simply a great, great store staffed by cool, knowledgable folks. And I gravely rue its departure.

They'll probably turn it into a fuckin' Jamba Juice.

The Post-Grammy Ka-Blammy

Apologies for the strenuously lame title of this post, but it's the best I could come up with this morning. Deal with it.

So, The Grammy Awards came….and went. The Police played. Awards were distributed. People in silly outfits danced. Lots of people smiled and clapped. We over at The Job served up a robust menu of fare, including an exhaustive show report, a cannily encapsulated red carpet fashion roundup, a run-down of awards that should've been given, a taste of what went on behind the scenes, and lots of other big stuff. My comrade Gil wrote a lengthy break-out piece on the Police performance. All in all, while it was a long evening, the machine worked fairly smoothly and we got the job done. Please do click these links and check out the hard work of my colleagues.

Personally, the highlight for me was discovering that Raven from Killing Joke and Tommy Victor from Prong had somehow infiltrated our Red Carpet Fashion flipbook (I had nothing to do with that, I swear), flanking their taskmaster-du-jour, Big Al Jourgensen of Ministry (nominated for Best Metal album, which they -- somewhat predictably -- lost to Slayer). Any time an erstwhile member of Killing Joke makes it onto our site, that's a palpable blow against the empire, as far as I'm concerned. So big ups to Raven & Co.

The Grammy Awards themselves, honestly, didn't blow a new part in my hair, but I'm proud of the work our team put into it. I was happy the Police showed up, and it was fun to see Stewart Copeland smack the shit out of those drums again, although he certainly could've ditched the granny glasses before hand, no? And Andy Summers is starting to look a bit like someone's grandmother. Then there was Sting -- sporting the waistcoat-over-bare-chest look as favored by Sunset Strip metal bands circa 1989 -- he couldn't quite hit those high notes, unfortunately. And, really, why "Roxanne"? Why not a curveball? Why not flex-those muscles and bust out into "Driven to Tears" or "No Time This Time"? Hell, why not really fuck with people and play "Dead End Job"? No such luck -- they went with the crowd-pleaser (including a scat-laden "dub" midsection -- I realize they used to do this a lot back in the day, but last night it just made my skin crawl). And, this is an easy pot-shot, I'll admit it, but with that thinning hair that stood on end and that pointy head, isn't Sting starting to look a bit like Lou Jacobs?

There's still a bit of a tremor in the Force at the moment regarding that rumor I alluded to in the last post. In keeping with that sense of nervous tension and in further tribute to Tommy & Raven's star-studded Grammy moment, herewith "Snap Your Fingers, Snap Your Neck" by PRONG (I'd play the Ministry stuff that was nominated, but honestly -- this is way better).

Holding It Together!

It's the middle part of Sunday afternoon. I have to head into The Job in a little bit, being that it's Grammy night -- one of the biggest events of the year for my organization. Hopes are high for this evening's events, especially in light of some disquieting rumors (a situation eerily similar to the one I only just escaped from last year). Mercifully, my cold has somewhat relaxed its stranglehold on me and my tongue is finally healing (I can speak now without sounding like I have a metal plate in my head). This evening promises to be arduous and hectic, and I need to be at my best to tackle it. I'm expecting everyone to be a bit more on edge than usual. I'm not expecting fun.

More so than ever before, I have to make good on the goals I set for myself. Like I said, the stakes are high.

Wish me luck. Your support is greatly appreciated.

We're Desperate!

Punk Rock, Dammit!!

"No, I Say 'YES!'"

I was talking with my friend, colleague and fellow tireless weblogger, Benjamin, this week and both of us lamented that our respective sites were becoming turgidly ensnarled in far too much whingey bellyaching. Ben at least has the option of divvying up space on his site between his music career, his documentary project and his photography (Ben's a very busy man), whereas all I seem to be doing on Flaming Pablum these days is bitching about my ailments. Well, enough of that, then. I'm back at work and while maybe not quite yet fit as a fiddle (the tongue problem is still making me sound like a belligerent Sylvester the Cat), I'm not expecting any more sick days any time soon. And I'm not about to stay home because of my aching tongue. It's actually tougher at home, being that I'm routinely forced to read "The Sneetches & Other Stories" to my daughter. Reading Dr. Seuss out loud it difficult enough without an injured tongue, thank you very much. Whoops, that was a complaint, wasn't it

The quote at the top of this post comes from little Charlotte. It's her bold, new tactic -- a stony-faced declaration of defiance when we've told her "no!" She counters our attempt at disciplinary parameter-setting and delivers the line with such emphatic intensity that it completely bowls me over every time with amusement and pride, despite the fact that I'm the very authority she's rebelling against. My laughter is not the reaction she's hoping for, of course, but I can't help it. Taken out of context, however, I find it to be a heartening exclamation. Assertive, determined and positive. That's what I'm striving for myself.

No, I SAY YES!

Try that one on someone next time they beg to differ.

iPod Ban in NYC?

Seems like my ear-salvaging iPod moratorium is happening at a wholly inopportune time, because if a certain local senator gets his way, it could conceivably soon be illegal to walk the streets of NYC while wearing an iPod. If that indeed came to pass, I might as well start using my iPod as a doorstop, as I pretty much only use it when walking these mean streets.

Aren't there better things for this corpulent joker of a senator to be worrying about? Jeez!

Stupid, Stubborn, Selfish, Sick & Surrendered

I'm congested, bleary, coughing, achey, dazed, my tongue is painfully swollen and I've got "Stone Cold" by Rainbow inexplicably, maddeningly stuck in my head.

Because I'm an obstinate bastard, I don't generally do sick days. I just don't. They're simply not on the menu. I'll have to be hemorrhaging my cranial casing out my ears before I'll admit that I can't go to work. At my previous gig at TIME, sick days weren't really an option. My department was a tight skeleton crew, and if one member was subtracted from the equation, the machine failed to work as efficiently. Thus, more often than not, we'd each soldier in --- sick or not -- to land the plane. That was the gig. That the machine in question is now no longer working at all is another matter entirely, but we've already covered that.

Perhaps it's becuase I've been conditioned by my twelve long years at the TIME Newsdesk, but I still try to avoid puling the sick day card at all costs. More likely is that it's because I'm a chronic worrier -- convinced that my absence from my appointed station will either result in full scale catastrophe and/or my immediate, unceremonious dismissal. These concerns override my physical constitution's repeated entreaties to slow down and address its grievances. And being that I'm already prone to punishing my body for letting me down (payback for the tinnitus, the benign positional vertigo, the oral allergy syndrome, etc. etc.), I fully expect my system to take the heat, keep up and meet my demands. I usually win. But at what cost?

In my stubbornness, I've been exacting a toll on myself and pig-headishly subjecting any and all co-workers to whatever malady I'm in the unconvincing process of denying. By the same token, however, I never used to get sick all that often. That is, until I had kids. For all their inherent wonderfulness, children are like little germ-magnetizing petri dishes. Once we'd enrolled our daughter in a day-care center, each and every member of the household summarily caught whatever virus she'd bring home, courtesy of some (literally) snot-nosed classmate. That's just the way it is, unfortunately. Ask any parent.

Such is probably the case with the condition I'm currently suffering under. The symptoms I've been bitching about in the last two posts have blossomed robustly into a noisy chest-cold, and all my coughing prompted my wife to suggest -- nay, demand -- that I stay home today. Unfortunately, this is an especially busy week over at The Job, as we gear up for The Grammy Awards this Sunday night, among many other projects. There's always some new item on the burner that we're planning for.

After shrugging her off for two days, however, I have succumbed. Unable to conceal my hacking wheeze from Peggy this morning at 6 am, I finally surrendered and called in sick (well, e-mailed in sick). Since then, I've been endeavoring to repair myself by attempting to nap, imbibing a selection of pharmaceuticals, drinking plenty of liquids, rifling through my dog-eared paperback copy of "The Doctors Book of Home Remedies for Men" and, of course, feverishly checking my e-mail. Honestly, the coughing and congestion aside, the thing that's really bothering me is my stupid tongue which, as I mentioned last time, I've bitten again -- lending my frequent complaints today a decidedly retarded-sounding slur. It is not my finest hour.

All this said, I will be back at work tomorrow. Now if I could only get freakin' Rainbow out of my damn head!

Completely Cured or Too Ill to Care

Pre-amble: This post is about one-quarter observation and three-quarters self-pity. Be warned.

Much like in your office, I bet, we have a "discard pile" or "freebie box" here at The Job. It's parked in a corner of the mail room. People attempting to clean their offices will dump stacks of compact discs and other ephemera, and in short order, the scavengers gather like vultures. I've prized some decent finds off the discard pile in the past. There are, of course, fewer things more gratifying than finding a disc in the "up for grabs" box that you were planning on going out and paying for. These days, however, there are fewer and fewer discs I'm actively looking for and/or curious about. Moreover, as I've laboriously detailed elsewhere on this weblog, I should be concentrating my efforts on getting rid compact discs these days, rather than collecting more.

I staggered into the office this morning quite ill-advisedly ummm….ill. The sniffle that was only mildly annoying over the weekend has blossomed into a robustly lustrous chest-cold. Compounding this is the fact that I've yet again --- WAIT FOR IT --- bitten my tongue, transforming my every breath, swallow and attempt at speech into a roiling universe of searing pain. And since I'm already complaining, I might as well also point out that my tinnitus is still screaming extra loud these days and that I seem to have either a loose filling or possibly a cavity in the works. All in all, my physical being is evidently at war with itself, and I'm feeling pretty cruddy as a result.

In any case, as I blearily shuffled into the greenhouse-like news room (after foolishly braving the arctic temperatures outside this morning), I couldn't help noticing a brand new crate in the news room, spilling over with spankin' new compact discs, free for the taking. It was all I could do to raise an eyebrow.

But I didn't rummage through it. I frankly couldn't be bothered.

This either means I've successfully weaned myself from my music-hording habits, or that I'm about to drop dead.

Place your bets.

The Boys' Weekend Indoors

It's Sunday afternoon and it's a lung-collapsing 15 degrees outside! Peggy and Charlotte took the train yesterday morning to West Chester, PA to go visit one of my sisters-in-law, leaving myself and little Oliver -- the menfolk -- to hold down the fort. It's now about twenty-four hours since they left, and Oliver and I -- despite both having colds -- are still holding up reasonably well (although the apartment looks a bit like the aftermath of a GWAR show). Oliver's knee-deep in his first nap of the day at the moment. I should wake him up at 10 a.m. (we've been up since about 6 a.m., both of us congested and feeling lousy), but being that it's so freakin' cold outside, there's precious little for us to do. I might just let him keep sleeping.

We did venture out into the cruel, unrelenting elements yesterday, albeit very briefly. It was far too frigid for the swings at the playground, so we basically decamped to my local coffee shop, the Newsbar, for a brief change of scenery. Beyond that and a trip to the grocery store, myself and my little almost-one-year old sidekick have been bored silly. My fellow rugrat-wrangling pals, Sean and Sara both called to set up playdates, but Oliver and I have been feeling so yucky that it didn't seem prudent. My friend, Steve, did swing by last night. After I put Oliver down, we ordered up some Chinese food, put away several bottles of Tsingtao and watched "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three" (inarguably one of the greatest New York City movies ever committed to film). Oliver woke at 3 a.m and could not be persuaded to sleep again until an hour or so later. It was an unrestful night.

My wife and daughter come home later today. Hopefully. As I type this, Oliver is now waking and babbling in the next room.

It's still only 10 a.m.