Flaming Pablum

West 8th Loses Action

About seventeen or eighteen years ago, my friend Sam and I were walking through the West Village and happened upon a small shop announcing its grand opening. The store in question sold exclusively rubber stamps. They came in different shapes, sizes and designs. But that was it. Well, maybe you could buy the ink pads with which you'd stamp them, but that was it. No paper. No envelopes. Nothing. We started ruminating about how the shop must have come about. Sam, in his distinctive southern drawl, painted a picture of the young entrepreneur approaching his father for a loan and explaining the shop's concept. "Y'see, Dad," he earnestly offered with a glint in his eye, "it'll be a shop that sells nothing but rubber stamps in funny shapes!" "Boy," the father replied incredulously, "that dog just ain't go'hunt!"

Well, last time I checked, that shop was actually still there (which is kinda astounding, given this economy). I had another one of those moments, though, recently when I passed a storefront on ever-transforming West 8th street. In a small space formerly occupied by tiny Mexican taqueria Pio Maya, a business dubbed "Action Planet" opened up to very little fanfare. Something of a cross between a comic book emporium and a bistro, you could evidently order burgers and look at Jack Kirby illustrations of Captain America as you dined. It was open on a schedule could be best described as erratic. Being a recovering comics geek, I'd always meant to duck in and check the place out, despite the inherent incongruity of the operation's premise. Unfortunately, that will never happen now, as evidently the Action Planet has stalled in its orbit and is no more. That's its front window in the picture at the top of this post as of last Saturday with the "for rent" sign. As Sam's charming southern colloquialism best described, it was a dog that patently refused to hunt.

Action Planet's fleeting tenure on West 8th Street is just another brief chapter of this strip's history. I've written about the street's relatively recent trajectory several times here before. Up the block a bit, Elettaria -- a tony eatery that positioned itself as the flagship of the "new restaurant row" that West 8th was supposedly slated to become -- closed up shop without much ado last month. Back towards 6th Avenue, the space that once was da Bhang is now a rather cheesy-looking sports bar called Desire. Other spots up and down the block look to be scrambling in order to stay afloat. There are still a couple of head shops, t-shirt outlets and tattoo parlors that seem to be doing alright, but it seems that on the whole, West 8th street remains unable to redefine itself.

Stay Furious

For no good reason, some co-workers and I found ourselves discussing the fleeting mid-90's alcoholic beverage, Zima this morning. In the course of same, I mentioned that the merits of the much-maligned drink were frequently extolled by local punk rock scenester, Furious George Tabb. This, in turn, prompted a discussion about Tabb's colorful life (erstwhile member of numerous bands like Roach Motel, Letch Patrol, Iron Prostate, False Prophets and Furious George, music columnist for Maximumrockn'roll and NY Press, host of cable-access hardcore show, "Destroy TV" and pallbearer at G.G. Allin's funeral, etc. etc.) and we suddenly remembered George's more recent predicament.

On September 11th, 2001, George was living in very close proximity to the World Trade Center. While George and his family survived the ordeal of that fateful day, the ensuing years found him battling with a host of ailments inarguably due to the air quality of his home and neighborhood. George himself goes into greater detail in the video below. I'm not sure of his current situation, but the last reports suggested the George's doctors weren't giving him a great deal of hope. I was also sad to learn that he and his wife divorced. I remember meeting George once or twice back in the 90's at a couple of shows, and he was always chatty and affable. While his story is not unique (which he's taken pains to point out), it remains tragic all the same. Go check out the official Furious George website for more info.

Jane's Affliction

There’s been a lot of commotion of late about some noisy goings-on over in the West Village at the relatively-newly-christened Jane Hotel, a high-volume hotspot at 113 Jane Street that seems to have taken the baton from the equally irritating (and now mercifully shuttered) Beatrice Inn on West 12th Street. Over on Jane Street, the locals are up in arms about the noise and influx of clubby douchecakes who now flock to their street to partake in stentorian shenanigans in the Jane Hotel Ballroom. They even started a blog about it . As someone who lives on a noisy street just across town in the veritable crotch of NYU, I can heartily sympathize with the Jane Street residents, but I can’t entirely commit. Years prior to this hotel becoming a playground for glitzy partygoers, that very same ballroom served as the original locale of Chris Williamson’s Rock Hotel (see flyer above), which specialized in its own brand of high-volume fun. But, of course, in those days, that area of the West Village was less of a hotbed of residential affluence and more of a comparatively desolate no-man’s land. After that, if memory serves, the space acted as the playhouse for the off-off-B’way transsexual musical phenom, “Hedwig & the Angry Inch.” So, it’s not like this street has every really been whisper quiet, right?

Still, I think we can all agree that punks and transvestite-musical fans aren’t nearly as annoying as the Olsen Twins.

Reich & Wrong

When routinely walking around Manhattan, one gets rather used to seeing stupid, offensive bullshit, but this one kinda caught me by surprise. I'm not sure what the two-headed, machete-wielding chicken represents, but I certainly know a swastika when I see one. I spotted this sticker on a pole on the corner of Fifth Avenue & 9th Street. This is the second bit of Nazi insignia-adorned street art I've seen in a few weeks. A new trend? Is it ironic? Either way, it ain't cool.

Anarchy on Astor Place

Evidently, Punk Rock is still alive & well ... at Kmart.

The Long Way Home

It's already been making the rounds on Facebook, Twitter, etc., but in case you missed it, check out this article from The New York Times on the final days of the late, great Jim Carroll. May he rest in peace.

Into The Woods

We took a family trip up to Central Park today. It being a beautiful fall morning, we boarded a 6 train and rode it all the way up to 103rd and Lexington, then walked west over to the Conservatory Gardens, just across from the Museum of the City of New York. In due course, my two little children started happily running around the lush green space, pretending to be Peter Rabbit running amok in Mr. McGregor's garden. If you haven't visited this pristine little plot of land, you really ought to. It's nothing short of spectacular, like a little slice of Versailles plunked down on the border of East Harlem. From there, we ambled north, finding ourselves in the verdant, winding footpaths of what they call the North Woods.

Walking around these seemingly tranquil environs always reminds me of favorite films like "Blow-Up" and "Picnic at Hanging Rock," wherein something indefinably sinister seems interwoven into the pastoral serenity of the surface. Peggy commented whilst deep within the North Woods how striking it was that here we were in the heart of Manhattan, yet were surrounded on all sides by nothing but wild, overgrowing forrest. I felt a bit cynical pointing out that it was in the very spot that we were strolling -- right in the dense, leafy ravine -- where the infamous "Central Park Jogger" met with a harrowing, unspeakable ordeal one late, late night in April of 1989. Today, while the park was still teeming with people, there remains a strange feeling of lonely isolation in that busy cluster of trees. That disquieting revelation out the way, we pressed on and out into the grass and sunshine of the North Meadow to re-discover early autumn in the rest of the park.

From Hardcore to Haute Couture

Spiky bracelets. When I fleetingly wore them, they were suitably deemed juvenile and childishly anti-social, which was quite by design, in retrospect. I bought my first one at Commander Salamander in Georgetown (where my older sister went to school). I later bought a more ornate one at the (long since vanished) Trader on Canal street and occasionally paraded around with them on like an extra from a barely post-pubescent stage adaptation of “The Road Warrior.” But because so many of my favorite bands wore them – from the Teen Idles to Iron Maiden to Soft Cell and beyond -- I figured they were good enough for me. Vainly trying to subtly replicate the sartorial finesse of “the skank kid,” I donned the odd band of studded spikes to sheepishly telegraph my affinity for youthful rebellion. Sure, it was goofy, but that’s what (some) kids do. It was certainly no goofier, to my mind, than sporting a pair of mega-expensive Vaurrnet sunglasses or a silly Swatch watch or ______ (insert name of lame 80’s fashion item here).

I grew out of it in swift course. I believe I gave my sharpest ones away to a freshman in my high school when I was a senior. The rest lived in my drawers for years – relics of a silly, bygone era. As the years passed, however, studded, spiky finery starting cropping up everywhere – being sported by folks with no connection to the original undergrounds from which it sprang (i.e. neither leather-clad rockheads nor the gay bondage community). Spikes no longer served as an easily-spotted signifier that you swore allegiance to specific subculture, in much the same way you started seeing waifish fashionistas sporting ironic, vintage rock t-shirts (something that still makes my blood boil). Wearing a Motorhead t-shirt won me derisive sneers in high school. Now it’s cool because Victoria Beckham wears one? Bleecchhh!!!

So imagine my arching eyebrows yesterday when my wife half-jokingly asked me to dig out my old spiky bracelets for her (they now reside in a mason jar on my desk amidst my unwieldy collection of 1” pins). According to an article in yesterday’s New York Times -- and, really, who am I to argue with them? –spikes are now considered the very quintessence of high fashion. Not sure how I’m going to react when I see my lovely wife sporting my old wrist-wear at our next parent-teacher conference.

'Megatoilet Nostalgia'

It's so lengthy that I haven't even finished reading it myself, but I thought I'd take the opportunity to pass on this exhaustive rumination about New York City's transformation by Sam McPheeters from local hardcore heroes Born Against. Please enjoy (despite the fact that it's from the otherwise lamentable publication Vice), but maybe go get yourself a beverage and hit the bathroom first, though.

Who Ya Gonna Call?

Spotted this item over on Jeremiah’s blog today and felt compelled to weigh in. While I was never really indoctrinated into the faith of “Ghostbusters” to the same extent, I heartily applaud Scouting New York’s vividly detail-oriented homage to said film’s portrayal of New York City. Scout goes as far as to map out exact locations, comparing and contrasting incarnations caught on film with the present. I’ve contemplated doing just such an exercise, only with “After Hours” instead of “Ghostbusters.” I look forward to future installments of “New York, You’ve Changed.” Bravo.