Flaming Pablum

Pic of the Day - 7.31.07

Let's be honest, shall we? July has sucked a big bag of beans as far as I'm concerned, so why not end it on an amusing note? This particular pic was snapped last Friday night. Myself and some former colleagues from TIME Magazine partook of a reunion dinner way the hell out in Jackson Heights, Queens (incidentally, unless you live in Manhattan, I'll consider your addres to be "way the hell out" of the way no matter where you live). In any case, after some ass-whuppin' home-cooked Indian food courtesy of the ass-whuppin' Bobby Ghosh, some of us took to the sleepy, tree-lined streets of Jackson Heights to stumble our way back to the subway. En route, my oft-cited comrade, Hot Johnny Flowers and I spotted this striking vehicle. A Volvo.....with flames. John posed, I snapped, we laughed like incontinent hyaenas and the rest is, as they say, history.

Goodbye Michelangelo

The sad news today is that evidently Michelangelo Antonioni, the director of one of my favorite films of all time, "Blow-Up," died on Monday night. In homage, I command you all to go to Marion Park in London and spray-paint the grass green.

"I'll Give Ya The P&L Statement"

Words Fail Me

Ways I Do Not Want To Die

Because Mrs. Tanya commanded....

1. Unemployed.
2. Slowly.
3. Buried alive. I don't imagine that this would be at all pleasant.
4. Nibbled apart by a school of famished pirhanas.
5. This way.

A Night On The Tiles

Well, it's Thursday, so that must mean it's high time for another "oh woe is me, I lost my job" post from yours truly. Kidding. While the above statement is certainly true (it's Thursday and I did lose my job), I at least have a small modicum of news to report.

I went on my first post-job-dissolution interview yesterday afternoon. It went pretty well -- so well that they called me back this morning to continue the dialogue. That this particular media outlet likes what it sees on my resume and has liked what I've had to say so far is hugely encouraging. I'm not entirely sure what will happen next -- given a variety of factors which I'm not going to go into here, as the process is still unfolding -- but at the very least, I'm relieved and heartened that my search for a new job is progressing beyond me just sitting at my computer, firing off e-mail after e-mail into the ether.

To celebrate (well, not really -- but it seemed like a good enough excuse), I met up last night with my old friend and fellow former TIME news desk monkey, Hot Johnny (himself also unencumbered by employment these days) for a beery trawl around our old stomping grounds in the East Village and Lower East Side. With Peggy and the kids off visiting some family in Pennsylvania, I had the evening free and no reason to be up especially early. So it was the perfect opportunity for John and I to meet up for a long overdue night on the tiles.

Over some frankly mediocre grub at Katz's Delicatessen on East Houston (are knishes supposed to be that lackluster?), John and I discussed each other's vocational aspirations, before deciding that said discussion was too depressing. As such we repaired to the streets of the L.E.S., in search of cheap beer.

This particular mission brought us to Welcome To The Johnsons, a now somewhat rote hipster bar on Rivington fashioned to look like a suburban basement rec room circa 1980 (replete with wood paneled walls, beat-up Ethan Allen furniture, framed prints of pastoral scenes and mallards and family photos of anonymous 14 year olds). This bar arrived around the same time my days of staggering around the neighborhood were coming to a close. As such, I couldn't help feeling about fifteen years too old to be hanging out in the place, surrounded by dudes with ill-considered side-burns, intentionally geeky glasses and tats galore. My inner oldster also gets riled up when I see youngsters barely past the threshold of 21, shouting along with the potty-mouthed bits of the Violent Femmes' "Add It Up" from an album released two years before they were even born (but I guess that's why they call it an "enduring cult classic"). This all said, the place serves Pabst Blue Ribbon on the cheap. While it's the goto beverage of choice for irony-addled hepcats, it's also the perfect beer for two jerks without jobs who need to spend in a frugal fashion. So, we made do, shouted over further uninspired jukebox selections like "Panama" by Van Halen and such and waited for our friend and former colleague Ken to show up.

After Ken's arrival and several more PBRs, the air-conditioning was starting to get to me, so I offered to the gents that we find a new spot. Not wanting to get all weepily nostalgic for the bad old days by going to Max Fish, I suggested the comparatively far-flung and incongruously Swedish (I shit ye not) Good World Bar & Grill on the southern-most end of Orchard Street. Several blocks later, we were ensconced in said bar, rubbing shoulders with a decidedly upper-tiered variety of patron in comparison to the folks we'd just been sharing a space with. No longer in the realm of cheap-o brew, I opted for three pints of a Belgian pale ale named after our dark lord and master, which arrived in handsome snifters bearing the beverage's infernal moniker (see pic). The gimmick of Lucifer beer --- beyond appealing to blasphemy-addicted idiots like myself -- is that it packs more punch in the alcohol department. That said, I was sort've hoping for something a bit more evil tasting. We downed'em, then opted for other brands (though I believe our Ken might have helped himself to one or two of the glasses -- cheeky bastard).

The evening continued with stops at fine institutions like Motor City on Ludlow Street and our beloved Manitoba's on Avenue B, where several high spirited rounds of air hockey climaxed in a volley of rude hand gestures and zealously obscene commentary. It was also at this stage when Ken seemed to mysteriously vanish into the mist without so much as a word to either John or myself (both of us still caught up in a frothy air hockey frenzy, admittedly). I hope he made it home alright. John and I adjourned to the nearby Lakeside Lounge (which still finds lovely Leslie from the Prissteens and now of Purple Wizard tending bar, who I proceeded to bore into a stupor with pictures of my kids) for a final pint to discuss Ken's disappearance.

This morning, despite not having to be up at the crack of dawn, I awoke exactly at 7 am, like the good, drooling Pavlovian canine I ultimately am, albeit with a whopping great headache. A couple of hours later, I fielded that second call from my interviewers and have spent the rest of the day furrowing my brow as to my next move and firing off several more resumes.

I'm still waiting to hear back from a few preferred media outlets, but at least things are starting to happen.

Stories From The Bar

I spend an awful lot of time here on Flaming Pablum lamenting the gradually encroaching gentrification of storied old Manhattan. I cull these posts under a category dubbed Vanishing Downtown, but it strikes me that I should probably change it to Vanishing NYC, as many a prized landmark to the north of 14th street is also facing the unrelenting wrath of the wrecking ball.

In any case, I'm certainly not alone in my appreciation for Gotham's old and venerable, specifically in regards to bars. Rivaled only by my love for dust-choked record stores and weathered live music venues, the Manhattan bar -- be it a posh cocktail lounge or a dimly lit dive -- commands my deep adoration. To that same end, a writer by the name of Jef Klein has recently published a handsome new coffee table book (for lack of a better term) titled "The History and Stories of the Best Bars of New York." I spotted it a couple of weeks ago and eventually succumbed last weekend. Augmented with stately black and white photography by one Cary Hazlegrove, the book is a lovingly compiled trove of local history. If you're as affectionately fascinated by Manhattan's rich legacy of watering holes as I am, this book is well worth picking up.

The Waiting Warrior

Well, despite some torrential rains, one of the worst allergy attacks of my thirty-nine years and that nauseating moth infestation, my week out in Quogue was a lovely and much-needed respite. At the very least, my kids got to run around on the beach, frolic on the grass and spend a lot of time playing with their cousins. Even though the week sprinted by, I managed to lose all track of time. I suppose life is like that when you're not expected to be back at your desk by a certain point.

Back here in the city, however, it's tough to think about anything else. It's been three weeks to the day since I was informed of the dissolution of my job. In such time, I've e-mailed upwards of a hundred people and distributed countless copies of my resume. Friends of mine have kindly called in favors and spread the word about my predicament, and cc'd me on e-mails they've sent to their friends, throwing my name into the mix for consideration. While I continue to sit on my hands, waiting to hear back from a few choice contacts, it hasn't been all bad news. I did manage to land an interview request from a widely renowned pop culture media outlet. Unfortunately, there ended up being a crucial snag. After we'd settled on a date to meet, it was suddenly disclosed that the interview (and, for the matter, the job itself) was to take place on the West Coast. Much apologizing for the miscommunication ensued, and best wishes for the future were exchanged. Twisting the knife a little bit, my woulda-been interviewer mentioned that he'd actually had two potential job openings in mind for me. Oh well. At the very least, it means he presumably liked what he saw on my resume.

So, I continue to hunt and e-mail and tweak and call and ask and wait. It's the waiting that's the toughest. My friends and former colleagues have been beyond supportive. "Be a warrior!" said one recently. "Be a bit more aggressive than you normally might," said another. These guys know me. For all my tough talk, they know I'm not big on boat-rockin'. Maybe it was the fourteen years of Catholic education I endured, but the blowing of my own horn (figuratively speaking, you pervs!) is not really one of my strong points. I consider it rude, presumptuous and boorish. But life is not a utopian meritocracy. You should never assume that people -- especially the ones in power -- are paying attention to your hard work. While my resume may have some nice, impressive words and entirely respectable accomplishments on it, no one's going to give it even a passing glance unless I am assertive about it. My contacts can potentially put me in a better kicking range, but no one's going to get the actual ball into the goal for me. I must be the one to make it happen.

And I'm trying to make it happen, believe me. I have two little mouths to feed, after all. And in a short matter of days, my medical benefits run out, making me eligible for the ominously-acronymned COBRA (why would you name a medical insurance plan after a malevolent predator?) I honestly can't remember the last time I needed to go to a doctor, but kids seem to need to go constantly. As such, life could get very expensive shortly. So I continue to try and call and e-mail and ask and solicit and push.

And I continue to wait.

Goodbye Collins Bar

Apart from a few years in the mid-90's -- when my pal Rob D. and his then-wife bought a place on 42nd and 8th Avenue (when it was still fairly skanky) -- I've never been much of a Hell's Kitchen wanderer. I'm fascinated by the neighborhood (best captured in T.J. English's awesome true crime epic, "The Westies"), but don't have as personal a history with it as I do with some other neighborhoods. In any event, yet another storied watering hole of the area is falling prey to the wrecking ball, namely the Collins Bar. The name may not instantly ring a bell with you, but I guarantee you that you'd recognize its signature neon sign (see very center of pic below).

They're tearing it down to make way for another -- WAIT FOR IT -- condominium.

Filipino Inmates Do "Thriller"

I'll admit it. I've completely stolen this from StevieNIXED, but it was simply too good not to pass onto you.