Flaming Pablum

Locals Only? Putting New York Natives in Perspective

Earlier this week, a friend of mine on Facebook pointed to an article on Thrillist. Essentially, Dave Infante’s piece, “Transplants Are New Yorkers, Too” questions the laboriously extolled merits of being a born-&-bred New Yorker, as opposed to having simply moved here from somewhere else. This particular debate is something of a storied sore point for certain folks who feel that their divine rights as native New Yorkers are being impinged upon by aspirational interlopers and, well, posers. My curiosity duly piqued — as it’s a debate that pertains to my status — I dutifully clicked on the story and started to read. But when the author disclosed in the second graph that he was only born in 1988, I immediately lost all interest. Put simply, if you’re still in your twenties, you haven’t been a fucking native earthling long enough to start bitching about such things.

My ridiculous agism aside, however, the crux of this article has since stuck with me. Peruse back through the nine years of dubiously composed entries here on Flaming Pablum, and you’ll doubtlessly find myriad, strenuously underscored invocations by yours truly about being a native New Yorker. Maybe it’s because we seem to be so outnumbered by “transplants,” or maybe it’s because we somehow think we’re entitled to puff out our chests about something that was entirely out of our control, but quite of few of us natives like to wear our birthrights on our lapels like a shiny badge — one that gives us arguable jurisdiction to roll our eyes, sigh wearily and/or lord our relative expertise over auslanders with a slick patina of disdain when the topic is invoked. I’m dead sure I’ve done it. Maybe you have, too?

Ultimately, while I do indeed find it entirely swell to have been actually born here, it’s not like I had a lot of say in the matter. It was through no bold insight or decisive action on my part that I was birthed in late, great St. Vincent’s Hospital (although my mother is frequently keen to point out that I was very nearly born in the backseat of a taxi stuck in traffic on East 14th Street). I had no more choice in being a native New Yorker than I did about having hazel eyes. That’s just the way it worked out. Lucky me, really.

But, y’know, I do feel a twinge of derision when I hear people that moved here from, say, Connecticut or Massachusetts emphatically assert their credible New Yorkiness. I can’t help it. You would, too. It makes me want to quiz them on ridiculously inane minutia about the city in an ultimately meaningless tournament of one-upsmanship.

Here’s the thing, though. When you look at all the reasons why New York City has left such an indelible mark on the world, it ultimately has precious fuck-all to do with having been born here. At its best (i.e. possibly not in this particular era of monied exclusivity), New York City was a place of reinvention and discovery. It was a place people came to find themselves and forge new trajectories. Hell, it’s even inscribed on Lady Liberty’s tablet. New York City invites people from elsewhere. That was by design.

Taking that a step further, while I cherish so many aspects of New York City culture, I started to scrutinize the particulars of my own New York City heroes, i.e. the very characters that — to my mind — personify and/or helped define what I have loved so much about this place. In my case, these individuals are largely musicians, actors, filmmakers and authors. Yours might be different. Maybe you care about politicians or activists. Maybe your New York is defined by athletes, but being that I just don’t give even the slightest good goddamn about sports, I can’t weigh in on that. But glancing back to my list….

Sure, the Beastie Boys, Martin Scorsese, Johnny Thunders, Ace Frehley, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Pete Hammil, Jim Caroll, MC Lyte, Michael Musto, Woody Allen, Robin Byrd, Run-DMC, Robert DeNiro, Stanley Kubrick, Harley Flanagan, J.D. Salinger,  George Plimpton, Jane Fonda, Pete Missing, Sigourney Weaver, Handsome Dick Manitoba, Al Pacino were all born within the confines of the five boroughs (.....although, y'know, so were David "Son of Sam" Berkowitz, Peggy Noonan and Jennifer Lopez), check out how many quintessential (I realize this is an arguable and hotly contested term) "New Yorkers" came from somewhere else....

...in no particular order.....

Lydia Lunch (above, from "Mondo New York") was born in Rochester.
Arto Lindsay of DNA was born in Virginia.  
Sylvain Sylvain of the New York Dolls was born in Egypt.
Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth was born in Connecticut. 
Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth was born in California. (Correction: Born in Rochester, moved to California)
Richard Hell of Television, the Heartbreakers and the Voidoids was born in Kentucky.
Tom Verlaine of Television was born in New Jersey.
Dee Dee Ramone of The Ramones was born in Virginia.
David Byrne of Talking Heads was born in Scotland.
Michael Gira of SWANS was born in California.
Jon Spencer of Pussy Galore and The Blues Explosion was born in New Hampshire.
The Dead Boys were all from Ohio.
Deborah Harry was born in Florida.
Patti Smith was born in Chicago.
Lester Bangs was born in California.
Fran Lebowitz was born in New Jersey.
Tom Wolfe was borin in Virginia .
Graydon Carter was born in Canada.
Gene Simmons was born in Israel.
John Lurie was born in Massachusetts.
Jim Jarmusch was born in Ohio.
James Chance in Wisconsin.
Spalding Gray was born in Rhode Island.
Pat Place was born in Chicago.
Nick Zedd was born in Maryland.
Ann Magnuson was born in West Virginia.
Madonna was born in Michigan.
WeeGee was born in the Ukraine.
Legs McNeil was born in Connecticut.
Laurie Anderson was born in Illinois.
Berenice Abbott was born in Ohio.
David Sedaris was born in Binghamton.
Wendy O. Williams was born in Webster (Upstate NY).
Dylan Thomas was born in the U.K.

Now, granted, I realize that a list that cites both the august likes of Berenice Abbott, Spalding Gray and Dylan Thomas alongside less lofty luminaries as Wendy O. Williams, Nick Zedd and the Dead Boys might be hard to take seriously, but you could easily compose your own, possibly less absurdly random list and the same point would be made: A vast majority of New York City's roundly revered luminaries all came here from somewhere else (i.e. "transplants").

With that in mind, let's get over the whole "I was born here" stuff, shall we? If I can do it, so can you.

 

Lounging with the Lunachicks

Just a quickie.

Below we see a clip from 1989 (taken, evidently, from a video collection called “Hard & Heavy Vol. 5”), which finds the original line-up of the Lunachicks discussing their origins and their debut album, Babysitters on Acid. I’ve discussed the mighty Lunachicks a couple of times here before (notably here and here), but they were a great band and a force to be reckoned with.

Beyond that fabled show of theirs opening up for the Rollins Band at the late, lamented Marquee (wherein Murder Junkies drummer Dino Sex got the tar beat out of him for exposing himself in front of the ladies in question), I saw them once or twice at CBGB and again opening for the Buzzcocks at, I think, Irving Plaza. They were always fun.

I also vaguely remember somehow ending up in the First Avenue apartment of guitarist Gina Volpe after one event or another. I was with two friends of mine, and one of them had become acquainted over the course of an evening with someone who knew Ms. Volpe’s roommate or something…. it was one of those iffy sorts of things. In any case, I suddenly found myself sipping beer in the kitchen of a Lunachick (I remember the band’s signature surreal and slightly scatological artwork being all over the walls) and feeling a bit self-conscious about it (especially, as I believe a member of my party was behaving in a slightly undignified manner at the time). If cloudy memory serves, I remember apologizing on behalf of my gaggle of idiots, professing my adoration for Babysitters on Acid and hitting the bricks with haste in order to avoid getting beaten to a bloody pulp for one affront or another. Ahhhh, youth.

Anyway, whilst watching this clip, I started trying to guess — where are they sitting? Surrounded by mangled, re-purposed metalwork, are the Lunachicks sitting in The Rivington School? Or might they be within the confines of The Gas Station? Or is that at some random playground?

Weigh in, L.E.S. zealots.

Lastly, here’s Babysitters of Acid. Play it at someone you hate.

A Night Out Downtown in The `90s

Essentially, this clip is a home movie by an actor/musician named Eddy Rollin. Here we see Eddy and a couple of his friends out for an evening downtown at some point in the early 1990s.

He doesn’t spend much time in the East Village, although there’s a nice shot (see screengrab above) of old St Marks Place (featuring the old pizza place and The Continental when it still featured the dinosaur signage). If I had to put a year on this clip, it has to have transpired after 1992, as the Cooper Union dormitory makes a quick appearance.

From there, they head west to Bleecker and Thompson and beyond. Look for a few cameos by the Chess Shop (gone), Mondo Cane (gone), the Back Fence (gone) the Waverly Theatre (now the IFC Center), the Blue Note (still there), the Red Lion (still there…. I think), the Boston Comedy Club (no idea) and the World Trade Center towers (ummm…. gone). There's also a clutch of what I'd consider to be incidental Italian restaurants, but to each their own.

It’s low on thrills (and — HORRORS! — not a single record shop is featured), but you might enjoy.

The Changing Pyramid

I started writing this over the weekend, but then abandoned it, as it was YET ANOTHER backwards-looking post that didn’t really have any particular current relevance. But then, EV Grieve serendipitously posted the news that the Pyramid Club on Avenue A is disseminating some confusing information regarding its current temporary closure.

The first time I stepped into the Pyramid Club on Avenue A, George H.W. Bush was still in the White House. I was there to see a triple bill of bands….namely Fractured Cylinder, Rats of Unusual Size and the Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black. I went with some friends from SPIN at the dawn of the `90s. At that point, I’d only known this venue to largely be a hotspot for drag queens, so I was quite curious to check the place out.

My then-colleague Charles’ slightly goofy industrial band, Fractured Cylinder came on first. All dreadlocks, space-goggles, mesh and other needless sci-fi-inspired sartorial finery, Fractured Cylinder arrived on stage steeped in the trappings of the day, and the comparatively tiny confines of the club were shortly flooded with their clangy caterwaul, punctuated by futuristic sound-effects and snippets of suitably silly cinema dialogue. Al Jourgensen and Trent Reznor weren’t about to lose any sleep, but Fractured Cylinder put on a fun show.

I don’t remember all that much about the Rats of Unusual Size, other than that they were named — of course — after a creature in “The Princess Bride,” which didn’t strike us as particularly punk rock, but y’know…whatever.

An early incarnation of The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black came next, and I believe I’m still recovering from that experience. Honestly speaking, they deserve a post of their own. I’ve alluded to them several times here, but their inimitable collision of high-concept performance art, absurdist wit, prurient abandon, downmarket shock theatrics and high-voltage rock n’ roll are hard to fully encapsulate with any semblance of adequacy. Imagine early Alice Cooper in a sloppy clinch with Karen Finley with a cross-dressing, Asian Angus Young on guitar, and you’re sort of in the right ball park. Imagine the Plasmatics with fewer chainsaws and more arts & crafts.

I’d go onto to see them several more times after this night (especially after my friend Dean Rispler started playing bass for them … either dressed as a member of Star Fleet or Chef Boyardee), but at this early stage, The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black was an engaging, indelible mess. Their signature brand of weirdness felt entirely at home at The Pyramid Club, and it was endearing to know stuff like this had a firm homebase in the East Village.

I’d go onto to patronize the Pyramid on a semi-regular basis after that, as a wide host of bands played that stage. There were also theme nights and parties that exuded that same charm — a haven for the off-beat, a shelter for the weird, a celebration of that which isn’t necessarily “normal.” But it was always fun. It was a place you were as likely to run into, say, Tommy Victor from Prong or Tim Chunks from Token Entry as you were The Lady Bunny or RuPaul.

Years went by, and the East Village started to significantly transform, but the Pyramid held on. It seemed that fewer bands were playing, though (or at least bands I was into), so I kinda stopped going after a while. I think I even mistook the club for being closed for good at one point (see photo at top, snapped circa 2005) and asserted same here, but was swiftly corrected by a promoter who assured me that all was indeed well and operational therein.

I walk by the Pyramid fairly regularly these days, but — again — I can’t remember the last time I stepped inside (although I did fleetingly visit some friends-of-a-friend who rented the surprisingly swanky apartment upstairs from the club, although I doubt they still live there today). It still showcases theme-nights and parties in its window, and I’m encouraged that it’s still goin’, as my memories of the place are nothing but fond.

That all said, I spotted the promotional clip below on YouTube over the weekend, and found it sorta dispiriting. I’m not trying to begrudge anyone’s fun (let alone besmirch their business), but the video below — an official clip from the venue, no less — just makes the Pyramid look like a predominantly lillywhite 3-D beer commercial, rife with frat guys and whoo girls, showcasing very little of the diverse, colorful and vibrant character that used to define the club. I guess you could say the same thing about the whole neighborhood.

Granted, I’m now a 47-year-old oldster that enjoys the music of the `80’s without even the slightest shred of irony, so obviously — fuck do I know? But still, this isn't really the Pyramid I remember.

Post script: I’d go onto see Fractured Cylinder perform a couple of more times — notably alongside another friend’s band, the Bastards of Execution — in the incongruously hallowed apse of the Limelight. I still have a fairly hilarious flyer of theirs somewhere — Charles and co. brandishing blasters as if having just escaped from the Death Star’s trash compactor. But Charles abandoned all things “industrial” after a while and became sort of a mod singer/songwriter. I last saw him about two or three years ago, pushing his child in a swing in a Park Slope playground. Oh how things change.

The New York Never List

I had a bit of a chat earlier this week with a media outlet that endeavors to cover New York City news events with the same granular, neighborhood-by-neighborhood approach as a small town newspaper. During the course of this discussion, it was somehow disclosed that despite being a native New Yorker and dyed-in-the-wool Manhattanite of …good lord… 47 years, I’d never stepped inside the revered Frick Collection on Fifth Avenue at 70th Street. My excuse was a pretty haggard one. It’s just that, as a kid, I’d always remembered that unlike other museums up and down Fifth Avenue and around town, the Frick didn’t let anyone under the age of 10 inside its hallowed halls. As such, I’d always associated the Frick ….. rightly or wrongly… with a sort of snobbish exclusivity. The last time I was in close proximity to the lavish expanse of the Frick, I had my two children with me … both technically ineligible-by-age from perusing the galleries of same, so the stigma remains.

I’m sure it’s lovely. Maybe I’ll get there one day, but it still felt so strange to confess. Here’s this storied institution — however stuffily high-brow it may be — right in my backyard, so to speak, and I’ve never taken advantage of it.

The Frick may not exactly be one of the “absolute must-sees” of New York City, but I suppose that depends on whose opinion you solicit. Personally speaking, after 47 years of living in New York City, I feel fairly confident that I’ve covered most of the crucial bases.

Not to get all gloaty and boasty, but in terms of my New York City experience….

I’ve attended Shakespeare in the Park, visited Ellis Island, gazed out of the windows from the crown of the Statue of Liberty, scanned the vast horizon on an atmospherically misty evening from the observation deck of the Empire State Building and even watched as my college friend Steve turned several shades of green while his newly discovered acrophobia blossomed into panicky flower from the top of the World Trade Center.

I’ve circumnavigated Manhattan by Circle Line, taken my chances on a tram ride over to crushingly dull Roosevelt Island, stood on the sprawling deck of the U.S.S. Intrepid, spun myself senseless on the Central Park carousel and spied down into formerly private apartments from the perspective of the High Line.

I’ve stared across the verdant expanse of Central Park from the windy rooftop of the New York Athletic Club on Central Park South, marveled at the gleaming towers of the financial district from the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. I’ve peered out of the triangular Art Decco windows of the Chrysler Building from a headhunter’s office, stared across the East River at my old Yorkville neighborhood from Queens’ Socrates Sculpture Garden and measured the distance to the tip of Manhattan from behind the windows of the Rainbow Room. I’ve crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan Bridge by foot.

I’ve seen the Mets, the Yankees, the Knicks and the Rangers all play on their respective home turfs. I’ve ridden the Staten Island Ferry. I’ve seen snow fall from within Lincoln Center during a performance of “La Boheme,” and listened to a marathon Bloomsday reading of James Joyce’s “Ulysses” at the Symphony Space.

I danced at Studio 54, Danceteria, The Tunnel, Big City Diner, the Limelight, The Roxy and the Palladium. I saw countless bands play at Fez, Cake Shop, Under Acme, The Cooler, the Lismar Lounge, CBGB, The Ritz, The Marquee, Tramps, Irving Plaza, The Academy, Roseland Ballroom, The World, The Bowery Ballroom, The Beacon Theatre, The Felt Forum, Radio City Music Hall, Madison Square Garden, The Nassau Colosseum, Yankee Stadium, Shea Stadium and Giants Stadium.

I saw Woody Allen play jazz at Michael’s Pub, fed the snapping turtles at the Village Idiot and discussed the merits of Joy Division with a stripper at Billy’s Topless.

I’ve had breakfast at the Plaza Hotel, lunch in the Oak Room and spent a few nights at the Waldorf Astoria. I’ve partied in the Chelsea Hotel, gotten completely lost wandering around the University Club and watched two women fall off the bar they’d been dancing on at Hogs & Heifers and land on their heads.

I’ve had the fabled 21 Burger at 21, had brunch at Tom’s Diner, dodged flying bits of seared shrimp at Benihana, partook of a “pastrami toss” at Katz’s Delicatessen, sampled the bacon strips at Peter Luger’s and burned my tongue at Eisenberg’s Sandwiches.

I’ve consumed beers at — among many, many, many others — the Grassroots Tavern, Downtown Beirut, King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, The Scrap Bar, Dorian’s Red Hand, Cafe Carlyle, Folk City, the Old Town Bar & Grill,  Max Fish, Motor City, The Ear Inn, The Madison Pub, Pete’s Tavern, McSorley’s, the White Horse Tavern and from within a hidden alcove behind a pedestal on the mighty edifice of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I’ve poured drinks at an art gallery opening on Mercer Street, gotten high at Lazer Floyd at the Hayden Planetarium and patronized the dank confines of Show World on 42nd Street.

I wandered around uncomfortably at The Vault, got scolded by a whip-brandishing hostess at La Nouvelle Justine, been given the finger by a waitress at Sammy’s Rumanian Steak House, had my life threatened at the Mars Bar for taking someone’s bar stool and informed that I’d have my legs broken by a bouncer if I launched a second attempt at crowdsurfing at Wetland’s Preserve during a performance by the Royal Crescent Mob.

I’ve ridden the Cyclone at Coney Island and replicated the cover shot of The Kids Are Alright by The Who at Morningside Park.

Overall, I think I’ve done alright.

That said, however, there are a few other things — like visiting the Frick Collection — that I still haven’t done, despite being a native New Yorker.

In no particular order, they are as follows….

1. I’ve never watched the ball drop from within Times Square
I’d offer, however, that I’ve absolutely never harbored a desire to do so, either. Shortly after the strike of midnight in 1993, I did find myself cutting through Times Square with a friend, but the ball had already dropped by that point, and we were just trying to get to a destination across town. Beyond that, the whole ritual holds absolutely zero fascination for me.

2. I’ve never been to the Russian Tea Room
I don’t even know if it’s still there, for that matter. Whatever, I’ve never been. Sorry.

3. I’ve never rented a boat at the Central Park boathouse
Seems like too much work, frankly speaking.

4. I’ve never gone to Elaine’s
It’s a bit before my time, anyway. Can’t say I care that much. Not sure if it’s even still there either.

5. I’ve never ridden in one of Central Park’s horse-drawn carriages
Can’t say I have a great degree of regret about this one either. Seems like an inefficient and olfactorily unpleasant mode of transport. I have, however, sped through the blackness of Central Park on my bicycle in the middle of the night. Not quite as romantic, I know.

6. I’ve never been to the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall 
I have nothing by fond memories of Radio City. I saw “The Wind & the Lion” with Sean Connery there. Saw Devo, the Psychedelic Furs, Twisted Sister, Public Enemy and the Sisters of Mercy there. Helped ring in TIME Magazine’s anniversary party there (clinking glasses with George Plimpton, chatting with Dr. Jack Kevorkian and seeing a lover’s quarrel between Claudia Schiffer and then-boyfriend David Copperfield in the process), but the thought of attending the Christmas show makes me want to eat my own vomit.

7. I’ve never been to the floor of the New York Stock Exchange
Being that I’m shamefully ignorant of all things of a financial and fiduciary nature, I feel I lack the comprehension to warrant a visit.

8. I’ve never stepped inside the Dakota, the Ansonia or One Fifth Avenue
Well, I’ve never been invited.

9. I’ver never been to The Top of the Rock
Despite working in that building for four and a half years, and even patronizing the Rainbow Room at one point (see above), I never made it to Top of the Rock.

10. I’ve never waited on line for a Magnolia Cupcake
This is no accident.

What arguably quintessential New York things have YOU never done? Weigh in.

 

Photo of the Vault signage courtesy of the great Gregoire Alessandrini

Beneath the Bowery

I spotted this today courtesy of the NYC 1950 to Present page on Facebook, and found it pretty fascinating. Here's how user Jay Singer framed it...

The south platform at Bowery Station. It is not abandoned, however it has been deactivated since 2004. When the 2nd avenue subway comes on line, this platform will likely be brought back into use. I use this station on the north platform, there is no grafitti but it is very dirty and desolate, the least used station in the system. The deactivated side, sans grafitti, is much cleaner. Big rats down there. I've only seen glimpses of this platform through the portals in the wall seperating the sides. The MTA crews go in here regularly to clean it up.

The video dates back to 2013, so I'm not sure if it's still like this today. But, it's cool..check it out....

Catching Up with Big Paul Ferguson

Longtime Flaming Pablum readers and fellow hapless Killing Joke zealots may remember a piece I posted here back in 2006 regarding an interview I’d conducted just two years prior with powerhouse drummer Big Paul Ferguson.

In September 2004, I sat down with Killing Joke’s once-and-future drummer to discuss the impact and legacy of the band he’d initially founded back in 1979. The chat was initially conceived as part of a book project that bassist Paul Raven was orchestrating. I’d been friends with Raven for a couple of years by that point, and he reached out to me, knowing I was both an ardent fan of the band and a journalist. I happily and dutifully accepted the assignment, and Big Paul gamely complied. So, over the course of an afternoon in his art studio (along with a respite of beers in a local Brooklyn pub), Big Paul told me his story.

At the time, of course, Big Paul had been absent from the band’s ranks for about 17 years, following a fall-out with vocalist Jaz Coleman during the recording of what would become Killing Joke’s literally and figuratively divisive opus, Outside the Gate. By 2004, while much water had passed under the bridge, it still seemed strenuously unlikely to all parties concerned that Big Paul Ferguson would ever reconvene with his old bandmates in Killing Joke. No one seemed quite happy about that — especially the fans — but it didn’t seem to be on the menu, so to speak.

It’s funny how things work themselves out, though, isn’t it?

As fate had it, the book project never came to fruition. I transcribed and wrote up the interview and had it all locked, loaded and ready to go, but given Killing Joke’s somewhat fickle, elusive nature, the plan seemed to get lost in the noise. A couple of years went by. After “holding out” on my brethren in the Gathering (kind of the “KISS Army” for Killing Joke fans, if you like), I took matters in my own hands and published the interview in its windy entirety here on Flaming Pablum, intent on at last sharing this rare and candid discussion with the fans. I just didn’t want to see it — nor the work I’d put into it — go to waste.

The feedback I got from it was immense. Killing Joke fans from across the globe reached out and weighed in. To this day, it remains one of two posts here that regularly get a ridiculous amount of hits (the other being my piece on Chuck Klosterman’s arguably ludicrous theory that Radiohead’s Kid A predicted the events of September 11, 2001).

I was initially wary of a scolding from the Killing Joke camp, but — much to my considerable relief — one never came. I also wondered about the impact the finally-published interview might have on the band itself, now that Paul had publicly aired his feelings after all these years.

A little over a year after I published the piece, Paul Raven died, passing away in his sleep. Though not the band’s original bass player (that being the great Martin “Youth” Glover), Raven was an irreplaceable member of the Killing Joke family and dearly beloved by both his bandmates and a nation of fans. Unsurprisingly, his funeral found all surviving members of Killing Joke — including Big Paul Ferguson — reconvening once again.

Shortly after that, Big Paul re-joined the band. The rest, as they say, is history.

I’m pleased to be able to say that in the ensuing years since that first interview, Big Paul and I have remained in touch and grab beers from time to time when he’s in New York. Despite his reputation as the highly combustible, pummeling engine of Killing Joke, he remains an incredibly thoughtful and affable gent, and I’m proud to call him a friend.

In any case, a few albums, a few tours and a feature film (which I’ve still not seen) later, Killing Joke are still going strong. Now, an influential DJ named Mont Sherar has released the mini-documentary below in tandem with a forthcoming book called “Sex Wax n Rock n Roll,” wherein he devotes a large swathe to Killing Joke. This mini-documentary sort of brings Big Paul’s story up to date.

Read a bit about that project here, and enjoy the clip (featuring many tasty cameos!)

Re-Booting

Here’s a post that ought to handily amplify why most of the content here on Flaming Pablum pertains to the past, given that current doings are either cripplingly banal or worryingly grim. But such is life in 2015.

As I’ve mentioned a couple of times in passing over recent months, I am currently in the uncomfortable position of being between jobs. I’m endeavoring to extricate myself from this situation, but suffice to say, it’s a process that is taking some time. I’ve had some near-misses, I’m exploring new leads and looking forward to some hopefully fruitful chats in the coming days, but —again — these things don’t happen overnight. Or at least not to me.

In the interim, though, I’ve been understandably scaling back on expenditures. About two months ago, I managed to somehow lose my cherished pair of black Ray Ban sunglasses. I thought they’d turn up around the apartment, but they simply haven’t. While I was quite attached to them — given an ultimately minor anomaly on my physiognomy, I am generally vain and petty enough to not want to be photographed without sunglasses on — I can’t justify springing for another pair just yet. They’re important to me … but not essential. Similarly, after injuring my knee from running earlier this year, I’d intended to replace my pre-9/11-era pair of running shoes with some newer ones…but those, too, can wait. I should really only be spending on what’s absolutely necessary.

Today, however, I had to succumb. While I was dearly hoping they were going to survive another season, it seems my once-trusty pair of industrial “Ironbridge” boots from Dr. Marten have waved the white flag. That's them in healthier days in the pictures above -- both curiously taken by my former colleague Drew, who evidently found said footwear photogenic. They were kinda nice, though.

After about eight years of rigorous winter wear and tear, the soles have become troublingly porous. Should I step into a puddle of a specific depth, my double-socked heels feel the unmistakable caress of frost. While I confess to enjoying their needlessly clunky, battered look (somewhere between vintage GBH and John Bender in “The Breakfast Club”), the boots are no longer up to the task of keeping my feet dry and warm.

A new pair was needed. And with more snow and ice expected in the next couple of days, that new pair was needed now!

Now, despite my ever-advancing age, I am still prone to some stubborn hang-ups. In my aggrieved state of arrested sartorial development, I still bow to the need to dress like my favorite bands. As such, I eschewed the notions of procuring a pair of “duck shoes” from L.L. Bean (despite their sterling reputation, I shan’t go with anything that preppy) or Timberlands (I will never be hip-hop enough for those) and went right back to the well. For their seamless blend of both function and fashion, I ponied up for another pair of Dr. Marten's industrial “Ironbridges” (in basic black, of course…not counting the signature yellow stitching).

As up to combating cold weather conditions as they are of cultivating Cold War kool (to my mind, at least), my new boots seem freakishly huge. Half-a-size larger than my actual feet (Dr. Marten doesn’t acknowledge half-sized appendages), when I walk in them, I feel a bit like a member of KISS….or, Mr. Heavyfoot. But they are strong, sturdy and ready for action.

I may be at a crossroads. I may have some difficult decisions to make. I may be ensnared in a complicated and unenviable vocational situation at the moment. But, I'm ready for the weather.

Come at me, Winter. Come get what’s coming to you.

Exhuming 'TV Party'

Yes, that's right, it's another post that LOOKS BACK at something. `Cos, y'know, god forbid I write about something happening in the present. 

In any case, I stumbled upon this nifty documentary by VICE about Glenn O'Brien's "TV Party." If you're not familiar with O'Brien, you might recognize him as the gent who writes the "Style Guy" column for GQ magazine. Back in the day, however, he was something a peerless hepcat, having birthed both the cable access program this documentary's about (which featured appearances from everyone from Sid Vicious and Stiv Bators to Klaus Nomi and Grandmaster Melle Mel) and directed the film that later became "Downtown `81.'

But don't take my word for it....watch this documentary.

Fun fact: I actually met Glenn O'Brien when I was a lowly intern at SPIN Magazine in 1989. Unlike many of the too-cool-for-school contributors, he was actually perfectly pleasant and chatty.

 

Gordon Meets Godard: Exhuming 'X-Girl'

Later this month (or is it next month?) storied former Sonic Youth bassist, the perennially cool Kim Gordon, will finally unleash her side of the story with “Girl in a Band,” a memoir hotly touted to be a rather scathing indictment of her ex-husband and former bandmate Thurston Moore. Much like everyone I’ve spoken to about it, I have to confess that I’m pretty psyched for it.

That said, I’m not just curious to read the salaciously gossipy details about the break-up of America’s premier underground rock couple. I’m interested to read pretty much whatever Kim has to say. For my money, she was always the coolest member of Sonic Youth.

This isn’t, however, to say that everything Kim Gordon has ever been involved in is cool. A prime example of that is the clip below, which I randomly stumbled upon this evening. Here’s how YouTube user Carrie Punk, who uploaded the video, describes it….

Seventeen years ago, director Phil Morrison ("Junebug", "Enlightened"), Chloe Sevigny, Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon, and Budapest-born artist Rita Ackermann got together to create this previously unreleased 90′s wet dream of a film for Gordon's then-clothing line, X-Girl. There's some rough commentary on gender roles, fashion, consumerism, and the NYC scene in the mid 90′s, whatever that was. It was "supposed to be like Godard" Sevingy says. Along with artist Rita Ackermann and an unknown third party, Sevigny recites discursive bits of aphoristic dialogue and, in one long scene in the middle of the film, makes fart noises as another woman runs down a list of famous female figures. Then, using hidden camera, Sevigny sneaks into a Marc Jacobs fashion show on the hunt for a mysterious man named Gillian.

Suffice to say, it’s crazy pretentious, but maybe isn’t meant to be taken all that seriously. There are also some lovely shots of Mott Street before it turned into East Hampton. 

 Being that I generally don't have a lot of time for Chloe Sevigny and Marc Jacobs, I found parts of it kind of tough to stomach.