Hi there, campers. It's Monday, and I'm currently in the midst of a sick day. On the way out to Long Island on Saturday morning, I'd felt that tell-tale sensation in the back of my throat that normally indicates that a cold is on the way. Adding insult to injury, within moments of walking into my Mom's place, I was hit by high-powered allergy attack, courtesy of some mysterious, weapons-grade allergens that reside in the basement (where our kids like to play). I spent the remainder of the weekend trapped in a facsimile of hell, largely unable to enjoy the autumnal splendor of that part of the world at this time of year. We went to the beach a couple of times in an attempt to air out my head (see pathetic, cadaver-like photo at left), but that provided only passing relief.
Somehow, I managed to safely drive the brood back into on Sunday afternoon. Combatting the unpredictable lane-changers on the Long Island Expressway is an all-sensory assault on a good day (really, is it too much to ask for you to signal first?), but couple it with sneezing fits and larynx-shredding coughs, and you develop a real, meaningful affinity for your seat-belt (just ask my kids). Once home, I doped up on Alaka Seltzer Cold and fleetingly watched a bit of the Emmys (dreadful) and "America's Next Top Model," easily the least promising "cycle" yet.
After an achey, sleepless night, I rose feeling a bit like John Hurt's character in "Alien," and promptly decided that I would be a liability in the workplace (or at least, more so than usual). Wanting to spare my co-workers the annoyance of my hacking (and accompanying groaning and complaining), I decided to sit the day out. Neither the work load nor my bank account will thank me for it, but I had to do it.
My quandary now, however, is that I'm supposed to go witness the triumphant and unlikely return to active duty of fabled 90's shoegazer godhead, My Bloody Valentine tonight at Roseland. Yes, as I'm quick to point out, I am one of the lucky few who actually "saw them when they mattered" back in the early 90's on the Loveless tour (read about that here), but this is a show I've been excited to see.
Health permitting, I'm gong to try to go. I'll be forsaking beer (which, evidently, is a no-no alongside Alka Seltzer Cold) which is not something I'm usually keen to do, and I will be bringing earplugs. Anyone who plans on catching the live MBV experience without earplugs is an idiot. I may not be in top form, and the band's deliberately listing rhythms and sensory-engulfing aesthetic may not be exactly when the doctor ordered, but I'd never forgive myself for missing it. Hope to see you on the other side.
Longtime Butthole Surfers acolyte Jill from over at Blah Blog Blah has launched a new blog devoted solely to Texas' favorite sons, Gibby N Me. While I'm not quite as slavishly committed to the band as dear Jill, I too retain a soft spot for the `Surfers. I first went to go see them in 1985 during my freshman year of college out in Ohio. We drove forty-five minutes to High Street in Columbus on a cold October night. I'd only been at the school for a couple of weeks, and this was my first big trek to the nearby city, and my first experience with the Midwest's underground rock scene.
They were playing at a tiny, ramshackle club called Stache's (don't bother looking for it, as I gather it's long since been torn down). After getting inside (thanks, fake I.D.!), my fellow geeky rockhead friends and I (we were a tiny minority at Denison University) muscled our way to the front to be greeted by a blistering opening set by a then-fledgling Die Kreuzen. A hirsute gaggle of listless noiseniks, DK's average song at the time, basically, sounded like this: "WAAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!" To be fair, the band went onto record some great music a couple of years later, but at the time, they were a bit of a chore. Eventually, they left the stage. Funnily enough, however, no one followed them. After an impatient, uncomfortable hour, some flunkie got up to announce that the Butthole Surfers wouldn't be playing because their bass player had literally jumped out of their van and vanished earlier in the day. The announcement was met with a chorus of violent groans, but somehow, I remember everyone actually getting their money back. Ultimately, this meant that we got to sit through Die Kreuzen for free. Lucky us.
I didn't get the opportunity to see the Butthole Surfers again until the following year, when they were touring in support of the truly phenomenal album, Locust Abortion Technician. This was at the much larger Newport Music Hall just up the street from Stache's, and this time, they showed up with a vengeance. Between the smoke, the fire, the nudity, the strobe lights, the decibels, the profanity and the projected film strips of reconstructive genital surgery (I'm not making that up), my first live encounter with the Butthole Surfers left an indelible impression. This being Ohio, local authorities didn't take kindly to the band's nude dancer (a disquietingly unerotic display, featuring a woman with a shaved head, metal teeth and a fu Manchu mustache). Cops actually assumed the stage three quarters of the way into the set and shut the show down. Suffice to say, it was awesome.
In any case, I was hooked and went onto to see them several times after that show. In celebration of Jill's new site, this seems like a perfect opportunity to dust off the band's infamous "Texas BBQ" film (introduced by Alex Winter of "Bill & Ted" fame). I first saw this on a VHS "video-magazine" cassette whose name escapes me, but it's great. It's not entirely safe for work, however. Enjoy.
I met my father for drinks after work today. We met up at 6 pm at this same strange hotel bar in midtown we've been meeting in for the past year and a half. It's buried deep within the lobby and is without any windows. When you walk into it, it's a bit like stepping through a wrinkle in the time-space continuum. It could easily still be 1973 in there, if not for the flat screen TV above the bar. It became a regular meeting spot for us after I was laid off from MTV News in the summer of `07. In a cruel twist of fate, my dad lost his job the same month I managed to secure my current job, turning the tables on our ongoing discourse. In any case, we meet up about once a month to catch up and compare notes.
Around 7 pm, we settled up and went our separate ways. Tired after a long day and a little buzzed from downing two pints of Stella Artois on an empty stomach, I walked over to 33rd street to catch the downtown 6 train, my ears filled with the aggro pulse of the newly released Peel Sessions disc by my beloved Killing Joke. I walked to the end of the platform and stepped onto the last car of a southbound train that was conveniently pulling into the station.
I boarded and assumed my normal stance by the opposite doors, my head filled with tidbits, anecdotes from the evening, instructions for last minute grocery shopping from the wife and Killing Joke's sonic wallop. Glancing around the train I was immediately struck by the gent sitting next to the doors across from me. Looking bleached, subtly spikey of scalp and slightly bug eyed (made all the more piercing by the contrast of his pale skin to his blue eyes), British New Wave icon Joe Jackson sat gazing distractedly into the middle distance. Only just this afternoon, I'd been in a discussion with my co-workers about running into famous people around New York. Living downtown, I somehow manage to see celebs all the time, but here was someone I genuinely admire. I was legitimately starstruck.
As the train sped past 28th street and then onto 23rd street, I decided to confess my fandom for the great man's music. I have a long history of doing this, unfortunately. When the train reached 14th street, I crossed the train to Joe's side. After the doors closed, I leaned down and said, "Excuse me, I don't mean to bother you, but I'm a great fan of your music."
Joe's head whipped around suddenly as if someone had just lit off a bottle-rocket inside the train. Clearly, I'd caught the man off-guard. I extended my hand to awkwardly land the plane. Joe's eyes darted around nervously. I started to feel about a foot tall, but repeated my initial statement just to end the confusion. Joe limply shook my hand, never holding eye-contact for more than a few fleeting nanoseconds.
I felt like a prize-winning jackass. The trip between 14th street and Astor Place (my stop) was positively excruciating. Not wanting him to worry any further, I purposely looked away and acted as if nothing had happened. He sat to my immediate right, almost visibly twitching with unease. I felt as if I'd completely shattered his calm and ruined his night. I stepped off the train at Astor Place without another word to him,
I've been burned by posting viral e-mails regarding Sarah Palin here before, but this one was just too good not to share (and, as a benefit, it's entirely accurate). A friend from high school sent this to me. In turn, I sent it onto a friend from grade school in response to a smeary little article from the New York Post he'd sent around to a gaggle of his friends. As a result, I seem to have touched off a bit of a brush fire with his buddies' right wing sensibilities. Oopsy. In any case,.. here it is. Read it and pass it on….
I'm a little confused. Let me see if I have this straight.....
* If you grow up in Hawaii , raised by your grandparents, you're "exotic, different." * Grow up in Alaska eating moose burgers, yours is a quintessential American story.
* If your name is Barack you're a radical, unpatriotic Muslim. * Name your kids Willow, Trig and Track, you're a maverick.
* Graduate from Harvard law School, you are unstable. * Attend 5 different small colleges before graduating, you're well grounded.
* If you spend 3 years as a brilliant community organizer, become the first black President of the Harvard Law Review, create a voter registration drive that registers 150,000 new voters, spend 12 years as a Constitutional Law professor, spend 8 years as a State Senator representing a district with over 750,000 people, become chairman of the state Senate's Health and Human Services committee, spend 4 years in the United States Senate representing a state of 13 million people while sponsoring 131 bills and serving on the Foreign Affairs, Environment and Public Works and Veteran's Affairs committees, you don't have any real leadership experience.
* If your total resume is: local weather girl, 4 years on the city council and 6 years as the mayor of a town with less than 7,000 people, 20 months as the governor of a state with only 650,000 people, then you're qualified to become the country's second highest ranking executive and next in line behind a man in his eighth decade.
* If you have been married to the same woman for 19 years while raising 2 beautiful daughters, all within Protestant churches, you're not a real Christian. * If you cheated on your first wife with a rich heiress, and then left your disfigured wife and married the heiress the next month, you're a true Christian.
* If you teach responsible, age appropriate sex education, including the proper use of birth control, you are eroding the fiber of society. * If, while governor, you staunchly advocate abstinence only, with no other option in sex education in your state's school system while your unwed teen daughter ends up pregnant, you're very responsible.
* If your wife is a Harvard graduate laywer who gave up a position in a prestigious law firm to work for the betterment of her inner city community, then gave that up to raise a family, your family's values don't represent America 's. * If you're husband is nicknamed "First Dude", with at least one DWI conviction and no college education, who didn't register to vote until age 25 and once was a member of a group that advocated the secession of Alaska from the USA, your family is extremely admirable.
At work, I spend about eight solid hours sitting under a foot away from a small television tuned to one of any number of 24-hour news channels (although never FOX News, obviously, which isn't so much 'news' as.... I don't know... irritainment). After a full day of pundit blather, partisan poop-talk (much of which I enjoy) and political strategist doublespeak, I'm just about fed to the gills and ready to scream. On my way out of the office today, I ran right into a raggle-taggle mob of Ralph Nader supporters, carrying placards and chanting to the media to let Ralph into the presidential debates (yeah, like that'll help matters). With a head full of fatigue and disgust, I dialed up some vintage Rage Against the Machine on my iPod. Sure, a cliched choice, but if the shoe fits .... kick someone with it.
Nothing quickens one's step like a bracing airing of "Killing in the Name Of," and boy is it ever tough not to bark along with its zealous refrain of -- all together now -- Fuck You, I Won't Do What Ya Tell Me! But when "Bulls On Parade " -- the band's first single from their 1996 album, Evil Empire -- came on, I was struck at how relevant and timely their purple-faced agitprop remains in the shadow of the McCain-Palin "Country First" ticket. Crank it way up.
I suppose it's technically a "cute" ad, but why oh why must the parasites of Madison Avenue feed on that which some of us still hold sacred? Mastercard is now pushing a commercial that features three grade school tots grooving to "Give Up The Funk (Tear the Roof Off)" from Parliament's watershed opus from 1976, Mothership Connection (and, really, if you don't own this album, you live a life dimmed by a paucity of excellence). Somewhat ironically, I first heard this album when I was probably the same age as the twerps in the commercial, courtesy of my then-cooler older sister. It's no big deal, and there are myriad other examples of music-appropriation in advertising that are far more heinous -- let alone legitimate injustices in the world more worthy of getting upset about -- but can't we just please leave the funk alone?
I believe it was on Jeremiah Moss' Vanishing New York that I recently read that the Domino Sugar plant on the East River just failed to achieve any landmark protection and that its status comes up for dispute this year. As such, look for its imminent destruction soon. Invariably, it will be replaced by some unspeakably characterless eyesore of a glass structure. And speaking of glass structures, do check out the round-up of same from last week's New York Magazine.
This episode got me thinking of another vintage sign on the East River. I stole the below photo from Rachel's site, and I think it's wonderful. Enjoy these things ... and the city as you know it ... while you can. It is eroding before your eyes.
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