Flaming Pablum

Sunday

Again, I pause at the threat of posting too much political stuff here, and it’s been a heated, fast-moving story, but I feel again compelled to weigh in on the Kavanaugh debacle.

In the wake of Thursday’s hearings, Friday’s ludicrous sprint towards a vote, and then the last-minute stay of execution (of a sort) with Senator Jeff Flake’s agreement to advance Kavanaugh’s nomination to the floor on the condition of an FBI investigation, emotions have been charged and perceptions have been at odds. Will the concession of the FBI probe end up being only a Pyrrich victory, given that the White House is heavy-handedly overseeing the investigation in the form of Don McGhan, the Trump administration’s leading advocate for Kavanaugh’s confirmation? We’ll know by the end of the week, I guess.

Over the course of the weekend, meanwhile, social media feeds were buzzing with fallout from the whole affair. I spotted the cartoon by Bruce MacKinnon above and shared it on Facebook. While most of the friends who responded liked and shared it, I did have one or two folks say it “went too far,” was “total BS” and that I’d summarily “lost my mind.”

To that, I say this.

Planning to continue with the vote on Friday morning essentially reduced Thursday’s hearings to an incidental formality, at best. To confirm Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court in the wake of Thursday’s testimony and without any follow-up investigation by the FBI was — and remains — the wrong thing to do. It will only demonstrate a brazen disregard for the rule of law, sow massive unrest and irreparably undermine and delegitimize the credibility of the highest judicial body in the nation. There will be long-term consequences.

If you believe Dr. Christine Blasey Ford -- as I do -- then you'll agree that her painfully candid testimony demands more time and consideration, and certainly deserves better than the lip-service Senators Grassley, Graham, Cornyn and the rest of those sanctimonious pricks were willing to grant her, as they tried to swiftly railroad this process to fruition without any semblance of due diligence in the form of a thorough FBI investigation. True to MacKinnon’s depiction above, the Republicans on the Senate Judiciary committee are essentially doing to the rule of law what Kavanaugh is accused of doing to Ford. To any cries of political unfairness, where was your righteous indignation when Merrick Garland was up for a vote? That the FBI are finally getting a CURSORY and LIMITED time to conduct an investigation was something that had to be fought until the 11th hour over. And now, even that’s largely compromised. My fellow Americans on both sides of the divide should be alarmed, disgusted and ashamed.

If you’re thinking of going as either Kavanaugh or Ford for Halloween, please go stick a fork in the nearest toaster.

Lastly, if you believe MacKinnon's cartoon is too coarse for your delicate sensibilities, consider the words that dribbled out of the pie hole of our president.

Fret not, .... I'll get back to punk rock, forgotten record stores and gratuitous NYC nostalgia shortly.

Thursday

Prior to the Punks, Years Before the Yuppies: East Village 1967

Next month, I am to cross the perilous Rubicon of my 51st year. I’m not especially enthused about that number, but what is to be done? Arriving, as I did, if my mother is to believed, at “cocktail hour” during the early evening of October 13, 1967, following a harrowing ride in a yellow cab across congested West 14th Street en route to St. Vincent’s Hospital, I was officially born in downtown Manhattan. My family did not live downtown, at the time, which might explain why that cab ride was so fraught, but they made it to St. Vincent’s all the same. My grandfather, a doctor, has practiced at St. Vincent’s, which might be why the decision was made to have me delivered there. Decades later, both of my own children were born at St. Vincent’s. Today, despite my multiple personal connections to the place, St. Vincent’s Hospital is sadly gone, razed to accommodate a new and prohibitively expensive cluster of condominiums. `Cos ya know … those are more important to a community than having a proper hospital in the vicinity. But, I digress…

In any case, in my regular perusals around the internet, I stumbled upon the clip below and let out an audible gasp or two. From the AP Archives, the video below captures scenes from the East Village – including footage of East 9th Street, First Avenue, Tompkins Square Park, St. Marks Place, The Dom and the Electric Circus, among other locales --- circa 1967. In fact, the story accompanying the footage was evidently posted on the very day of my birth. While these hirsute hippies right out of central casting were depicted strolling -– in some instances barefoot -– around the largely-still-recognizable East Village, I was busy preparing my early entry into the world about five avenues to the west.

Anyway, enjoy the trip back in time… and please note that while some footage repeats itself, it’s worth sticking around for the whole 8:26 of it.

She's The One

At this stage of the proceedings, finding "new" footage of the Ramones seems like a bit of a lost cause. But to coincide with the anniversary release of Road to Ruin, someone at Rhino unearthed this "official" video for "She's the One." It's been all over my social media feeds, but just in case you haven't seen it, here it is.

It's fucking splendid.

25 Words

I cannot say I’ve ever knowingly watched NYCTV, let alone been aware of its existence. But I’ve been spotting this new ad campaign of theirs in the subways, of late, and am both compelled and repulsed by it. On the surface, I think the concept -– “Why I Love New York In 25 Words” -– is kind of a fun, novel little exercise. It’s their execution that has depressed me.

Polling a variety of celebrities and public figures -– like, say, one Bridget Moynahan below -– the answers they’ve fielded to their little challenge have been, to my mind at least, somewhat dispiriting. I mean the notion of citing “Sex and The City” as a fundamental reason why you love New York City upsets me more than I can put into words. But, to be fair, if I’m not mistaken, Miss Moynahan was in fucking “Sex and The City,” so that contextual qualifier makes it slightly more forgivable, I suppose. Still, … hurrumph. Also, who would honestly still cite the High Line? I wonder when the last time was that she tried to walk down it.

Anyway, judgmental vitriol aside, I thought it might be fun to take a crack at this little challenge myself, given my deep well of adoration for my home town. Whilst strolling to work one morning this week, I started tallying up suitable citations to include. In typical fashion, however, I started over-thinking it, wondering if I should cut my unwieldy list in half, given the fact that so many of the words I’d chosen represent aspects of New York City that no longer exist. Then, I thought, should I make two lists, one for stuff I love and one for stuff I miss?

No. I decided to jettison the words that represent things that have vanished -– The Ritz, Rocks In Your Head, Danceteria, CBGB, SoHoZat, NoHo Star and the Cedar Tavern, to name but a small few –- and stick with what’s still current. I’m keeping the names of bands, as even if those bands no longer exist, the music lives on.

Here is why I happen to love New York in 25 words. What are yours?

Ear Inn
Beastie Boys
Central Park
Lower East Side
Yorkville
Kraut
Courtlandt Alley
Knickerbocker’s
Cop Shoot Cop
NYHC
The Strand
“After Hours”
Bowery Ballroom
Veselka

Word on the Street

Feeling Dizzy

Every Day Gets Hotter Than The One Before

While, no, not my usal fare at all, I’m starting to really warm to the music of Childish Gambino, a.k.a. Donald Glover

You may remember I ruminated on “This Is America” back in May, when the video for same created something of a media firestorm for its arresting imagery. That was indeed a bold statement, but just last week, Gambino released a new single/video that, while entirely different, is equally nuanced and layered.

At face value, “Feels Like Summer” is a gorgeous, swooning slice of soulful pop, recalling the angelic, world-weary voice of Marvin Gaye in what sounds like a sumptuous, bittersweet ode to the season just past. Cannily released just after Labor Day, the song taps into the wistful, post-summer melancholy that affects us all once all things “back to school” set in. It’s just an amazing, lovely track, full stop.

For the video, Gambino drafted an animator, depicting the singer/rapper/actor strolling through a neighborhood on what looks like a typical summer day, rife with multiple cameos from various famous rappers, singers and public figures, for those of you who care about such things. It spawned a few “can you spot and name them all” threads around social media. If you want to see that playful clip, click here.

I’m not embedding that version here because, in a way, I think it’s misleading … maybe deliberately so. Scratch the lovely, amber surface of “Feels Like Summer” – the song -- and a different narrative emerges entirely. For all its hazy, harmony-laden sweetness, it’s not about summertime at all. It’s about the realities and looming cost of climate change.

Don’t believe me? Check out the lyrics.

You can feel it in the streets
On a day like this, the heat
It feel like summer
I feel like summer
I feel like summer

You can feel it in the streets
On a day like this, the heat
I feel like summer (ey)
She feel like summer
This feel like summer
I feel like summer

Seven billion souls that move around the sun
Rolling faster, faster, not a chance to slow down
Slow down
Men who made machines that want what they decide
Parents tryna tell the children please slow down
Slow down

I know
Oh, I know you know that pain
I'm hopin' that this world will change (Ooo, I hope this world will change)
But it just seems the same (It is not the same)

You can feel it in the streets
On a day like this, the heat
It feel like summer
(I feel like summer)
I feel like summer
(I feel like summer)
I feel like summer

Every day gets hotter than the one before
Running out of water, it's about to go down
Go down
Air that kill the bees that we depend upon
Birds were made for singing, wakin' up to no sound
No sound

I know
Oh, I know you know my pain (woah, no no no)
I'm hopin' that this world will change (This world will change, yeah)
But it just seems the same (woah)

I know
Oh, I hope we change
I really thought this world could change
But it seems like the same

I know
Oh, my mind is still the same
I'm hoping that this world will change
But it just seems the same I know
Oh, I hope we change

Hear it for yourself.

No Joking, No Laughing, No Landing

So, yeah, before I launch into this…

I feel obligated to preface the weepy tale below with the stark acknowledgement that there are people with very genuine problems, at the moment, and I -– ultimately -– am privileged and fortunate enough not to be among them. We’re existing in a volatile era of animus and uncertainty on a global scale. Here at home, portions of the East Coast are currently bracing themselves for the arrival of Hurricane Florence, which promises to do not just a little bit of damage. Serious shit is going down. There are big issues to contend with. The following paragraphs below are in no way comparable, and are ultimately the quintessence of trivial, in the grand scheme of things. As the expression goes, the grievances expressed below are “first world problems,” and given the volume of awful things happening in the world, I almost feel remiss in invoking them at all, let alone right now. Just know that I’m aware how silly, stupid and petty it might sound, and I should really count my blessings.

But, anyway…

If you’ve spent any significant amount of time reading this weblog over the past 13 years, or are burdened with the often awkward predicament of being a friend of mine in “real life,” you are doubtlessly aware that, apart from my patient, exquisite wife and my two incandescent children, there is nothing -– LITERALLY NOT ONE MOTHERFUCKING THING ON THIS CURSED AND BROKEN EARTH –- that I care more about than Killing Joke. This is not just venomous hyperbole. Since first hearing them at age 17, I was indoctrinated for life (and beyond). It extends far beyond fandom. Essentially, Killing Joke is like a religion of which I am a zealously devout fundamentalist.

You may remember, back in July, I posted a whiney little post upon learning that a mandatory and labor-intensive work event at my organization’s Nashville, TN office was scheduled to land on the same day as Killing Joke’s return to Irving Plaza in Manhattan for the NYC stop of their 40th Anniversary Tour. Despite there being 365 goddamn days on the calendar, these two things had to happen on the same one? Vexed as I was by this, I managed to hash out a scheme that would get me back from “Music City” to New York City in time to catch the `Joke. I’d procured a ticket to this show back in …. Jeezus, February or so … and was very much looking forward to it, the band having cancelled their last show here back in 2016. By hook or by crook, I was determined that I was going to be at this gig.

Time passed. I worked very hard to bring the Nashville project to its best-realized fruition in time for the event, while simultaneously tackling other tasks. I was multitasking with a vengeance. The entire time, though, I knew I had this show at the finish line, so it kept me motivated. I was still fine-tuning the project days before the event, but I knew I was going to nail it. I almost wasn’t even worried about it. I was really only worried about making it to the Joke gig.

The Nashville event was this past Wednesday. I flew down crazy-early on Tuesday to help out work out logistics and basically do a bit of hand-holding for my department head, helping put out various fires in a slightly more diplomatic manner than she’s capable of. The event was scheduled for 11:30 am Wednesday morning, and we were ready. At go-time, we unveiled the project and it was an actual showstopper. Everyone was happy. Senior execs reached out to applaud the work I’d done. Mission accomplished with flying colors. Yeah, that’s great, but I now need to get in a goddamn cab.

Here's me looking prematurely pleased with myself after a job well done, oblivious of a giant metal horse about to kick me in the ass.

I’d arranged to get on a flight leaving the Nashville airport at 3:00 pm Central Time, landing me in NYC’s odious LaGuardia airport at 6:30 pm. Killing Joke were not slated to hit the stage until 9:30 pm, which left me three hours to get home, dump my stuff, change, meet up with my fellow zealots and get to the show. Easy peasy, right?

What’s that expression about the best-laid plans of mice and men going awry?

I arrived at the Nashville airport with time to spare, checked in, grabbed a bite to eat and settled back, safe – I assumed – in the presumption that I was going to make it. At this point, I’m going to repurpose the posts I put up on Facebook and Instagram to flesh out the rest of this narrative.

In a moment of premature buoyance, I posted the below, appended with the following legend…

That’s a wrap, Nashville. Next stop, NYC and KILLING JOKE @ Irving Plaza.

Almost on cue, stuff started to go wrong. At 3:02 pm, Nashville time, I posted…

BREAKING NEWS: This just in from the “Not so fast, Yankee City Slicker” department. American Airlines, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to impose a new weight restriction on my flight, pushing back the departure time, and asking for volunteers to take a later flight. Suffice to say, I am not happy.

After soliciting some volunteers to waive their seats in favor of later flights and a paltry 200 bucks, American Airlines let us board, a half-hour after we’d first been scheduled to leave. I entered the plane and resumed my presumption that I was going to make it. Then this happened…

BREAKING NEWS DEUX: Because God evidently hates me, he chose to blight the New York City airspace with “impassable” thunderstorms, so my plane flew to Syracuse. We had to do this, as — oh joy — we were running low on fuel. Likelihood of getting back to Manhattan to see Killing Joke (see ticket) now strenuously slim. The fates are conspiring against me. Suffice to say, daddy is NOT happy.

After spending ten to fifteen slightly harrowing minutes of trying to descend into the NYC airspace, we flew the hundred some-odd miles out of the way to Syracuse. I don’t know if you’ve ever spent any quality time in the Syracuse Hancock International Airport, but I assuredly do not recommend it. Here’s my update from an hour and change later…

BREAKING NEWS TROIS: Seemingly theoretical flight from Syracuse to attempt second pass at stormy NYC now pushed back to 8:30. Killing Joke to assume the stage at Irving Plaza at 9:30. I’m so palpably depressed I could throw up.

We didn’t actually get airborne until about 9:00 or so. When 9:30 arrived, I was still in the air. When we landed, there was no gate waiting for us, so we sat on the tarmac for another thirty-or-so minutes. I didn't actually leave the airport bound for Manhattan until about 10:45. I didn't make it back into the city until well after 11pm. My wife suggested scrambling over to at least catch up with some of my friends in attendance, but that almost seemed like it would be that much more painful, having missed the entirety of the performance (let alone being exhausted, zonked and already demoralized beyond description).

So, to make a long story short, I did not make it.

By all accounts, the band put on a blinding set for the sold out venue. The emotional impact of the disappointment brought on by missing this event has verily left my soul bruised and my mood irretrievably soured.

Being that this is the band’s afore-cited 40th Anniversary tour, it seems strenuously unlikely that they’re going to be back here again any time soon – or, honestly, if ever again.

…which is why I’m looking into maybe going to see them in London in November, …. if I can make it work.

Here's a shot my friend Jeremy captured of the Irving Plaza gig. 

Seventeen Years Later

Today, of course, marks the seventeenth anniversary of the events of September 11th, 2001. It’s hard to believe, but there it is.

You may remember that I wrote about the “Tiles for America” project about ten years ago…if you’ve been following me all this time. The pic below is of one of the tiles in question, of course. Since that post, a whole lot has happened to that particular path of real estate, but some of the tiles still remain … however tenuously.

En route to a much needed haircut, I passed by the remaining tiles over the weekend, and was stuck by this one in particular. “America in Distress” is pretty self-explanatory, but in case you’re not aware, “Title 4” refers to Title 4 of “The Flag Code,” which states the following…

The flag should never be displayed with the Union down, except as a signal of dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life or property.

Were there ever a time to invoke Title 4 of the Flag Code, September 11, 2001 was certainly the day. Even seventeen years later, I can still vividly remember what it was like here in New York City on that otherwise crisp, beautiful morning.

Given the current state of proceedings with Trump still at the helm, it feels like Title 4 of the Flag Code is starting to feel worryingly appropriate once again.