Flaming Pablum

To Bea or Not to Bea

The cryptic and inexplicable invocation of Bea Arthur on the East 3rd Street "bad pussies" mural has been mysteriously excised. Out of respect for the dead?

Strictly For The Gatherers

You may have surmised by now that I'm a somewhat zealous supporter of Killing Joke. In any case, the band has just released a deluxe box set of live material culled from the first two nights of their 2008 reunion tour with original members Big Paul Ferguson and Youth back in the fold (you can read my review of the same tour as it stomped through NYC back in October here). This material was released earlier in a separate form, but now that it's been packaged as one sprawling box set, opinions were mixed over on The Gathering (an online cabal of Killing Joke devotees like m'self) as to whether it's worth it to spring for the box. I volunteered to showcase pics once mine arrived in the mail. It arrived today, so here are the pics. Click on them to enlarge. And honor the fire.

Promises, Promises

More Drug-Pushers on East 8th Street

Since time immemorial, the corner was occupied by a somewhat-chintzy clothiers called Joyce Leslie. They jumped ship about six months ago or so, and it's been a massive, empty space since then, further encompassing the hollow shell of the Starbucks that used to abut it. But now, it seems, the future has been revealed. The northwest corner of East 8th Street & University Place is going to be a CVS Pharmacy. How that news is going to hit the good folks just one door away down East 8th Street at the arguably endearingly-shoddy Metro Drugs (one of my wife's inexplicably favorite spots) remains to be seen. In any case, I think it's pretty damn unfortunate. Thanks for further blandifying the neighborhood. 

Just Cause ...

Right back at'cha, EV....

More Dumb T-Shirt Crap

Consider this the (possibly) final chapter of the t-shirt trilogy that started here and then continued on here. For a start, I should probably preface this rant by saying that I actually like Uniqlo, and own a garment or two of theirs. Their clothes are reasonably well-made and surprisingly affordable. But...

There's an ad campaign for Uniqlo that is currently plastered all over the East Village these days featuring a blinding montage of images. Dubbing their 2009 t-shirt collection "UT MEGA CULTURE" (whatever that might mean), the clothes on offer display a dizzyingly colorful array of designs that largely cater to the store's retrophillic hipster demographic. That's fine and all, but there are two images on the ad that really bug me for some reason. Firstly, I think we can all agree that the gent pictured above in the "Kill Your Television" t-shirt is in strenuous need of a rigorous beatdown. This has little to do with the t-shirt (a Ned's Atomic Dustbin allusion?), but more just because he's clearly asking for it. My bigger issue, however, lies with the image below; a black t-shirt featuring the Black Flag bars. Inside the bars is a pastiche of images from the Japanese animated series from the mid-70s, "Battle of the Planets."

I can't quite say why this bothers me. Is it because, hey -- I'm an old poop and was a slavish fan of both Black Flag and "Battle of the Planets" (I can easily rattle off the names and key characteristics of each member of G-Force if you're not entirely convinced of the latter)? Do I bristle at the seemingly blithe appropriation of Raymond Pettibon's iconic design for the Black Flag logo (and, for that matter, is Pettibon, Greg Ginn or SST Records getting a financial slice for the usage?) I suppose it's technically no different from Shepard Fairey using various images from Punk Rock in his ongoing campaign of Obey Giant street art, but I know for a fact that in Fairey's case, he utilizes those visual elements with profound respect for the artists and the music they represent. More to the first point, I'm probably more bothered by my own presumption that the malnourished whippersnapper wearing the t-shirt in question probably hasn't the first clue about either Black Flag or "Battle of the Planets." I'm not sure why that should matter, let alone bother me so much. But it does.

Stuck to the Streets

What's Happening in Tompkins Square Park?

For all the recent talk of NYC returning to the fabled bad old days of violence and squalor in the wake of the recession, it seems the area around Tompkins Square Park is leading the charge. The bigger media have largely been overlooking the story, but ever since intrepid Bob Arihood of Neither More Nor Less started reporting it, it's started to pick up steam, however quietly. The story in question revolves around a series of violent confrontations between a cluster of "Crustys" (young, self-styled pan-handling punk rockers with a pronounced disdain for authority and basic hygiene -- hence the name "Crusty") and a roving gang of stick-&-bottle-wielding Puerto Rican youths. While that might sound like an outtake from an updated version of "The Warriors," this isn't really a frivolous anecdote. On Friday night, the first of these clashes arguably culminated in the death of a 26 year old woman from the Crusty contingent. Saturday saw further action, prompting the NYPD to lock down Tompkins Square Park on time for the first time in a while. Arihood is continuing to update events as they unfold.

Despite its comparatively squeaky-clean incarnation today, Tompkins Square Park has remained a lightning rod for conflict, but these events have significantly ramped up the unease. The term "wilding" -- a curious verb first coined by the NYPD following the infamous attack on the so-called "Central Park Jogger" in 1989 -- has been strangely revived. Despite that and the other sensationalist aspects of the story -- the colorful terminology, the whiff of racial tension, the speculation that the victim may have died from a heroin overdose as opposed to injuries from her brutal beating -- it's frustrating that the media isn't taking more of an interest. As Jeremiah from Vanishing New York suggests, had Friday night's victim been an investment banker instead of a "crusty" (a seemingly juvenile, cartoony lifestyle that is easy to dismiss and summarily dehumanize), her death and the accompanying incidents would be taken more seriously (and getting more ink). As one of the dreaded "stroller-pushers" of the neighborhood (and one who routinely pushes that stroller right through Tompkins Square Park), maybe I don't have a horse in this particular race (cue predictable, knee-jerk chant of "die yuppie scum"), but is this recent spate of violence something any of us -- from any stripe of the community -- really want to see a return to?

Just Like Honey

To paraphrase a song by the White Stripes, it seems I have no faith in medicine. Nothing seems to ever work for me. I expressed this opinion the other day to a pharmacist in regards to my allergies this season which are -- it should be noted -- the worst they've been in years. "Oh please," she chuckled, "you men just like to suffer." Great, thanks a lot. But it's true. After trying virtually every store-bought, over-the-counter pollen-battling treatment for my relentless, high-powered sneezing and itching, watery eyes, I eventually went to go see an allergist in 2004. He diagnosed me as having -- wait for it -- "Oral Allergy Syndrome" (which also encapsulated my system's refusal to accept apples, pears, peaches, plums, beets, strawberries, hazel nuts, basil, soft-shell crab and god knows what else). The allergist's proposal was to cover all my furniture with plastic and to sign up for a program which involved a weekly shot in the arm for at least two years. I didn't take that bait. I stubbornly decided that there must be an easier way.

I went on suffering for a couple more years, and then I went back to my primary care physician, who was good enough to prescribe me some Fexofenadyne, the generic version of Allegra. Amazingly, it seemed to work. I could run around in fields and breathe deep. It was awesome. The following season, the allergies never even arrived. It was as if the allergy albatross had fallen off my neck. Sure, I sniffled every now and again, but it was a far cry from the "Exorcist"-like physical trials I'd previously endured.

This Spring, however, is an entirely different story. After an unseasonably warm April day wherein temperatures skyrocketed into the 90s (coupled with a few days of steady rain), the pollen hammer came down. And came down hard. I couldn't see. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't function. My kids were confused. My wife was worried. All I wanted to do was decapitate myself. I crawled to our medicine cabinet, rifling through the detritus to find that goddamn bottle of Fexofenadyne. I immediately re-started the regimen. Trouble is, this time I might as well have been popping M&M's...... that is if M&M's made you feel perpetually hollowed-out and sluggish. It wasn't working. I was still teary-eyed and sneezing, but now walking around in medicated daze. I histrionically imagined that this is what heroin junkies feel like after they've crossed the Rubicon into full-on dependency. The benefits were gone, and all I was left with were the side-affects.

Life was not good. I found myself almost fainting on East 7th Street in front of the Joe Strummer memorial mural (I bet Strummer never had to deal with allergies). Since I was still sneezing, I figured I might as well jettison the Fexofenadyne, which was only making me feel like an even more slackjawed Sid Vicious. My system purged of any remaining pharmaceudical, I bit my lip and hoped for the best. But the allergies kept coming, virtually crippling me. I was the proverbial basket case, let down again by my flimsy, flawed physical shell of which I am a prisoner.

True to form, I wallowed in floridly-described self-pity. I loudly lamented to anyone who'd listen about having been repeatedly smitten by a decidedly uncaring-God as if I was some contemporary Job. I frivolously wished for death. All the while, the Swine Flu hysteria was picking up steam. People were panicking and wearing surgical masks on the street. Anyone who sneezed or coughed on a subway was suddenly given ample elbow-room. I joked about it, but a little nagging voice in the back of my head kept repeating the words "Swine Flu" to me like a mantra. Having come from a long line of hypochondriacal worriers, it was not at all unlike me to start assuming the worse. About ten years ago, I once managed to convince myself that I was suffering from Spinal Meningitis after a strong headache prompted me to "self-diagnose" myself via the internet. Always a mistake. Turns out, of course, I was wrong in that instance. But the Swine Flu symptoms are just vague enough to leave worry a bit of wiggle-room.

This past Sunday was a full-blown allergy apocalypse. My eyes ran like faucets. My nose fired like a blunderbuss. Every sneeze felt like someone was throwing a shot-put at my sternum. After complaining about it on Facebook, several well-intentioned friends started to recommend the imbibing of "raw, local honey," the idea being -- I'm guessing --that the pollen contained therein might help build up a resistance to the airborne variety. And, evidently, there was a stand at the Union Square Green Market (a marketplace I've publicly mocked in years past) that sold jars of the stuff just to combat allergies. Having exhausted all other options, I started to get hopeful.

After a horrible sleepless night of congestion, I made a bee-line (pardon the stupid pun) for that honey. Sure enough, I found the Berkshire Berries stand with a sign that loudly proclaimed "Extreme Local Honey." I told the man behind the stand my sob story. This affable, easy-going beekeeper from Massachusetts proceeded to sell me a 1/2 lb. jar of honey that his bees had been busily manufacturing on a Manhattan rooftop (read that curious story here). He cautioned me, however, that it was already late in the season and that I may not get the results I'm after. I told him that I understood, but that I was still willing to give it a shot. What did I have to lose?

One day later, the irony is that the sneezing has largely stopped on its own. As instructed, though, I've been taking tablespoonfuls of the Manhattan Rooftop Honey in the morning as you might with cough syrup. Unlike cough syrup, it's not at all unpleasant. Is it working? Who can say? While my eyes have stopped watering, my sneezing seems to have dropped down into my chest and morphed into a small cough. As such, I've now convinced myself that I do indeed have the Swine Flu. Stay tuned.

The Shirt Hits the Fan

"Where can I get a CBGB t-shirt?" asked a thick-accented gentleman behind me. I was in Butterflys on West 8th Street today, fruitlessly searching for a youth-small-sized 'Batman' shirt for my daughter (she'd asked me for one earlier this week after coveting her little brother's). The gents behind the counter looked at the tourist blankly. Because I have a very big mouth, I spoke up. "Well, technically, you shouldn't be able to get one anymore," I said, "but you'll probably find one at one of the t-shirt joints on St. Marks Place." The gentleman thanked me -- and actually shook my hand -- and took off, while the Butterfly clerks glared at me for chasing away a potential customer. Hey, it's not my fault they don't stock'em.

Under normal circumstances, I'd bristle at the notion of someone sporting a CBGB t-shirt that wasn't actually procured at the venue in question. But, y'know, it's gone and blah blah blah blah fuckin' blah. I've wasted too much bandwidth, energy and breath complaining about such trivialities. If dudester wants to wear a CBGB t-shirt (or, more likely, buy one for his nephew), who am I to rain on his parade? By this point, the iconic t-shirt has largely lost its meaning anyway. Before you ask, yes, I have one. I bought it after a show in 1989 by Gavin Friday. It now lives in a drawer at my mom's place out in Long Island. I rarely sport it, and usually feel like a ridiculous choad when I do.

Later in the day (as I was sneezing my way down Broadway after a brain-numbing search for cippolini onions in Garden of Eden on 14th Street), I watched a repulsively-chiseled and impossibly tanned young adonis come striding my way wearing a curious black t-shirt. The legend on it simply read "315 Bowery," with "John Varvatos" just underneath. I couldn't stop myself from sneering (not that he noticed/cared). Is this a double-standard? Probably. Why should I lament new tenant Varvatos' claim on the place (and accompanying desperate attempt at similar significance) if I'm resigned to admitting CBGB itself has been long-reduced to a cliché? I don't know, but as far as I'm concerned, anyone who wears a '315 Bowery" Varvatos t-shirt is a fatuous douchecake. Is that a juvenile opinion? Probably. Sue me.

Meanwhile, check out The New York Observer's review of the New York Dolls' show at Varvatos' vile haberdashery here.