Flaming Pablum

Foetus Day

I wrote about J.G. “Foetus” Thirlwell in much greater detail here, so won’t bother re-hashing all of that. But today happens to be the great man’s birthday, so I thought I’d dust off a favorite clip.

Here’s J.G. in the guise of Foetus Inc., featuring an all-star touring line-up of noisy New Yorkers like Algis Kizys on bass (SWANS), Norman Westerburg on guitar (SWANS), Dave Ouimet on samplers (Cop Shoot Cop/Motherhead Bug/Firewater), Hahn Rowe on guitar (Hugo Largo/Firewater) and Vinny Signorelli on drums (Unsane/SWANS). Truly, an ensemble to be reckoned with, here captured performing “Free James Brown (So He Can Run Me Down)” for an unsuspecting crowd in Atlanta, GA in 1990.

Happy birthday.

Desktop Dump

As I've periodically mentioned, I am forever setting images to one side that I've come across in my travels around the information superhighway. Frequently, they end up being used in a post. In other instances, they wallow in a limbo-like state on my desktop before they're either purged without being used, or left to idle in context-free perpetuity on my frequently dormant Tumblr, Get Back to Work. 

Here are a clutch of those images ... all still waiting for their moment.

I'm not sure where I found this, but this is another exterior shot of long-vanished Yorkville comic shop, Supersnipe, which I wrote about in greater detail here. 

This is yet another lovely shot of the old Moondance diner and accompanying Stefano mural that used to sit at the mouth of Sixth Avenue, just north of Canal Street. I've written about both here many times, notably here. 

This is -- I believe -- a rare shot of the interior of Supersnipe with the gent who used to run it. 

This is, of course, the late Adam "MCA" Yauch of the Beastie Boys, taken from a still from the video of "(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party)." I believe I'd set this to one side for the purposes of composing a post after learning that the whole video was shot in a certain photographer's apartment on Broadway, just north of Union Square. I actually know a guy who lives in that building today, and I was going to try to go check the place out, but it never came to pass, alas.

This is a shot of the former entrance to the second iteration of NYCD, a great compact disc shop on the Upper West Side I wrote about not too long ago here. 

This is a shot of the late Jackie Onassis leaving a King Karol record outlet. Now, is it the same King Karol outlet on the Upper East Side (certainly her stomping grounds) that I spoke about on this post (specifically between 86th and 85th)? Honestly, I cannot say -- I don't remember that particular entrance so well. But, it could be.

This one is pretty self-explanatory. 

 

Farewell to The Half King

As I understand it, we officially lose The Half King tomorrow, vanishing from its place of almost two decades on West 23rd street, which is strange, `cos I feel like only yesterday, I read about its impending opening.

Arguably most famous for one of its founders, author Sebastian Junger, The Half King became a regular haunt of New York City’s robust legions of hardened journalists. I was unwittingly about halfway through my long tenure at the TIME Magazine news desk when the bar opened in 2000, so it indeed became a regular stop for many members of the team, and a particular favorite whenever a normally far-flung correspondent was in town. I have many fond memories of supping multiple pints in the company of those estimable colleagues there, and often feeling well out of my depth, but always welcomed. As I’ve mentioned many times, the TIME team was a tight, familial unit, and I continue to regard my friends and co-workers from those days with profound respect and admiration.

But in terms of The Half King, I have two specific memories of the place that rise to the top, and neither of them involve my career in journalism.

The first occasion was a reception thrown by the publishing company my wife was working for, at the time. One of her authors had just given a reading nearby at the Barnes & Noble over on Sixth Avenue that is now a Trader Joe’s, I believe. This was this young author’s debut, of a sort, reading from his first novel, which was semi-autobiographical, if I recall correctly. In any case, this young writer’s big Italian family turned out in force to proudly show their support and hear their guy do his thing. The drama began, however, when the author ended up outing himself by way of a passage in his book to the gathered attendees, much to the pronounced surprise of several members of his very large family. By the time the whole congregation had moved over to The Half King, what had ostensibly been conceived as a festive gathering had turned into a very different event indeed.

Initially, I’d just been along for the ride, so to speak, and was always happy to be included in any excursion to The Half King that would invariably involve a few pints. As it happens, I ended befriending the husband of one of my wife’s colleagues when it was somehow gleaned that we both harbored a fondness for early 80’s hardcore bands like the Circle Jerks, Kraut, Bad Brains etc.

This all culminated in a surreal scene wherein a large percentage of the room we’d all been herded into was occupied by a gaggle of excitable Italians wrapped up in the throes of very emotional discussions (all in Italian … with lots of raised voices and frenzied gesticulations), with my wife and her team trying to comfort the newly distressed author, while myself and this other dude sat in the corner pounding beers and talking animatedly about our favorite punk bands.

My other long-lasting memory of The Half King is more recent. It was the tail end of 2016, just after the election and tensions and apprehensions were, suffice to say, rather high, as you probably recall yourselves. Here in New York City, for the most part, the pervading mood was one of gloomy consternation and incredulousness. In any event, I’d been drafted to go pick up my daughter after some social event in Chelsea, and the wife suggested I arrange to meet up with a few of my fellow dads beforehand. Since it was in the same `hood, I suggested that the four of us meet up at The Half King and have a couple of pints before picking up our respective kids.

I remember walking in and meeting these guys – most of whom I knew pretty well, by that point, or so I thought – at the bar. A sporting event of one variety or another was on the television above the far end of the bar, and that commanded most of the attention. Talking sports with any degree of enthusiasm, let alone credibility, is not something I’m especially versed at, so I just drank my beer and only chimed in when I had something to say. As if on cue, the program cut away to a news break, and Donald J. Trump’s mug appeared on the screen, prompting a not-so-subtle hiss throughout the bar. I can’t remember what comment I made, but it was one that doubtlessly telegraphed my own misgivings for the results of the election. Suddenly, all three of my fellow dads looked at me quizzically. “Well, he’s gonna get this country back on track,” one remarked. I snorted and practically spat out my beer, assuming he was being facetious. He wasn’t. The other two were nodding in agreement. There I was, in the super-liberal capital city of a super blue state … surrounded by three unblinking Trumpublicans. Had I slipped through a portal into The Twilight Zone?

Now as much as I’m generally very happily game to burn a few bridges every now and again, the notion of starting heated political beefs with the fathers of my daughter’s best friends seemed ill-advised. I demurred from futher commentary, and we all went back to our beers, my big takeaway being that it is NEVER a good idea to assume everyone you’re with is on the same page politically.

Sadly, that bizarre instance was the last time I ever darkened the doors of The Half King. For a more authoritative and broader portrait of the place, check out this great tribute from The New York Times.

Pour one out. 

One More Chelsea Mourning

I’ve mentioned it before, but I’d love to say I was initially familiar with the signifiance of the Chelsea Hotel because of some of the more celebrated creatives, thesbians and bohemians who periodically resided within its hallowed walls, but much like probabaly most of my generation, I first came to know about the Chelsea because of one individual, and one individual only -- that being Sid Vicious. The now-very-late Mr. V notwithstanding, however, the Chelsea Hotel’s associations run an impressive gamut from literary icons like Arthur C. Clarke, Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller and Allen Ginsburg to musical luminaries like Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Janis Joplin to visual artists like Robert Crumb, Jasper Johns, Willem de Kooning, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Robert Mapplethorpe and countless others from virtually every artistic discipline. This list of its more celebrated guests is a veritable “who’s who,” full stop.

As detailed in a few older posts, I was fortunate enough to attend a few parties at the Chelsea Hotel back in the `90s, enabling me to travel beyond its lobby to meander through its storied halls. The last time I was able to do so was in 2010, as detailed here. It was on that occasion that I had the fleeting foresight to have my photo captured within. That’s it below, with me posing portentuously on the stairs, trying to look like a sinister, leather-clad punk, but simply looking like an inebriated, portly dad (guilty as charged, your honor).

Only a couple of years prior to that evening, the Chelsea’s beloved manager Stanley Bard had been abruptly deposed and many of its longtime tenants evicted. Turnovers in ownership started to take their toll. A year or two after my final visit, the Chelsea became entirely impenetrable – its fabled lobby closed and its edifice encased in scaffolding. A new management company promised/threatened that the Chelsea was to be re-imagined as a newly luxurious, bespoke hotel. Whatever remained of the hotel’s old interiors were stripped and gutted as it entered a new chrysalis phase. Patti Smith, some might remember, played an invitation-only event, which managed to rub a lot of people the wrong way, somewhat understandaby.

I actually did return to the building in more recent years. In 2014, there was a Blondie exhibition in a space just to the west of the hotel’s entrance, followed by Dee Dee Ramone exhibit (himself another former Chelsea tenant) a year or so later. But the hotel’s new iteration was still a work in progress, at the time.

But fruition never came. Walk by the Chelsea Hotel today in 2019, and it is still cloaked in a seemingly perpetual state of painful transition. This week, Gothamist posted a lengthy update on the hotel’s long saga and current, sorry state, complete with a frankly heartbreaking slideshow. Click here to see that.

What happens next is anyone’s guess, but I’m very glad I got to spend those few evenings there when I did. It’s a damn tragedy that they couldn’t just let it be.

Back ... Again ... to Crosby Street

I wrote a longer piece about Crosby Street back in 2015, but it occurred to me, this morning on my way to work, that I was steps away from the exact location of Thomas Struth's famously bleak picture of the intersection of Crosby & Spring from 1978, prompting me to try to replicate it. I think I did alright.

Click on it to enlarge. 

Youthful Indiscretions?

I can’t remember if I was a high school junior or a senior when the shot in question was taken, but there’s a photo shot by my friend Rob B. of me circa 1983, standing like the gormless adolescent that I was by my locker, at the time. True to form, there I am wearing my school blazer, with a pair of old-school Walkman headphones around my neck, grinning at the camera like a total dweeb.

The interior of my locker is festooned with the silly accountrements of the nascent rock geek -– hastily cut-out images from magazines like Creem, Circus and Trouser Press of bands like Motorhead, Judas Priest, U2, Twisted Sister, Devo, The Ramones, Iron Maiden, The Police, Pink Floyd, Dead Kennedys, Ratt, Motley Crue, The Plasmatics and a few badges and stickers. While I’m not-at-all proud of having extolled the merits of bands like Ratt and the `Crue here (although I’ll never part with my copy of Shout at the Devil), there is one more element of this picture that really makes me wince. On the interior of the locker, tucked between the back-cover photo from Twisted Sister’s Stay Hungry and a signature checkerboard flyer from Canal Jeans Co., there’s half of a REAGAN/BUSH `84 campaign bumper sticker. Ugh.

Suffice it to say, beyond being able to parrot whatever bits and pieces of vague agitprop I picked up from my favorite punk and hardcore records at the time, I don’t believe it would be fair to have characterized me as a politically savvy high schooler. I was certainly aware of who held the major offices and what parties they were affiliated with, but was otherwise blithely preoccupied with the pressing matters of being an invariably frustrated pubescent; More fixated on battling acne and figuring out how to credibly communicate with girls --- endeavors I never truly mastered -– than ruminating on realpolitik or keeping up with the overarching issues of the day.

My step-father, meanwhile -- a dyed-in-the-wool, William F. Buckley-style Republican -- was fairly vocal about his pronouncedly righty leanings and prone to telegraphing same by slapping any number of candidate-endorsing bumper stickers on the rear of our family Volvo. I can’t recall the precise circumstances, but perhaps he passed on a sticker to me to help evangelize the Reagan/Bush `84 cause? Honestly, I cannot imagine another reason why it’d have been in my locker.

Make no mistake, though –- my point here isn’t exactly to express contempt for the late Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush. I’m not wincing about that as much as I’m wincing about having made any political endorsement, at the time, being as completely uninformed and -– let’s face it –- ultimately disinterested as I was. I am not at all proud of that. And endorsing a candidate or party or cause or whatever just because your parents told you to is completely lamentable, as far as I’m concerned. Think for yourself and express your own ideally fully-formed opinions

Mercifully, college was a big wake-up call, in that -– and myriad other -– respects. I swiftly found myself more active, cognizant and arguably more informed about politics, taking long-overdue interest in the issues and swiftly alligning with the Left in rather sharp contrast to my parents’ politics. I have remained a loyally lefty Democrat pretty much ever since.

Cut to …. 2019.

Unless you’ve been living in a cave for the last week –- and, honestly, no one would blame you, if you were -– you’ve invariably read and/or seen any number of stories and video snippets about the now-infamous incident on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial just prior to MLK Day, wherein after being taunted by a handful of inargualby obnoxious Black Israelites (if you’re a New Yorker of any stripe, you already KNOW how provocative they are), a robust gaggle of Kentucky high school boys from Covington Catholic -– in town for a Pro-Life march -- embroiled themselves in what is becoming a historical flashpoint as MAGA-hatted teenager Nicholas Sandmann came tensely face-to-face with Native American elder Nathan Phillips in a wordless-but-antagonistic standoff that swiftly went viral.

In the wake of that event and all the accompanying spin and fallout, I still have questions. While it’s understood that the Covington Catholic kids were on the receiving end of the Black Israelites’ invective, that still provides zero explanation for Sandmann’s standoff with Phillips, nor do Sandmann’s reasons for not walking away himself credibly hold any water. Was he just being a stupid and/or immature kid, as many have suggested? Maybe so, but his assertion on Wednesday morning’s interview with a roundly unthreatening Savannah Guthrie on The TODAY Show (an awkward alma mater, for me) that he had “every right” to do what he did suggests an awareness that belies the stupid/immature defense. That he patently refused to acknowledge any need to apologize really didn’t help, either.

But seeing young Nick Sandmann interviewed in the clips from Wednesday’s TODAY Show -– a questionable move for NBC, I’d suggest -– I was struck by the visual dichotomy between his now-famous profile on the steps, looking insufferably smug, smirky and inexplicably standing his ground … and his spot on TODAY looking doe-eyed, smaller and softer-of-chin than the pugnacious future-fratboy of mere days earlier. For a moment, I started wondering if, like the teenaged me in that photo above, he was simply caught up in the political messaging his parents probably espouse. Maybe he really doesn’t grasp what he appears to be evangelizing?

Then, I thought, …. Yeah, NO! You simply cannot draw a parallel between a comparartively innocuous bumper sticker from a completely different political era and climate and the MAGA hat. By this stage of 2019, nobody is sporting a MAGA hat without *WANTING* to stir shit up. I don’t care how young you are. Those hats, which some have compared to swastikas and the white hoods of the Klan -– are positively DESIGNED to provoke. In as divisive an era as we are currently engulfed in, you would have to be strenuously stupid not to fathom as much.

Sorry, young Nick, we’ve all been irresponsible at one point or another in our lives, but I just don’t buy that you didn’t know exactly what was transpiring there.

Got A Light?

It being a whopping seven degrees outside today, the wife decided it was a great opportunity to do some arguably premature spring cleaning around the apartment. Suffice to say, not every member of the household was as enthused about this plan as she was, but there we are. 

Whilst Peggy was on a ruthless search-&-destroy mission in our overly-stuffed linen closet, we came across an old jar of matchbooks I used to keep in our previous apartment's bathroom. For a while back in the 90's, we'd both gotten in the habit of absconding with loads of matchbooks from any bar or restaurant that was foolhardy enough to offer them. I cracked open said jar to reveal a host of establishments that simply no longer exist. 

Today, the space that was the old Hi-Life Bar & Grill on the Upper West Side (which had great neon signage) is now a relatively banal clothiers.

Merchants was a chain of kinda douchey, ersatz-posh bars scattered around town that are all gone, I believe.

Around The Clock was a standby 24-hour East Village mainstay on Stuyvesant street just north of St. Marks. Today, it's a Japanese bakery called Pan Ya. 

The Stanhope Hotel was a stately concern across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the Upper East Side at 995 Fifth Avenue. The wife and I spent our wedding night there in 2001. It closed in 2005, and is now a luxury co-op. 

Grange Hall was a great restaurant on Commerce Street in the West Village with bright, airy space and a traditional American menu with inspired, Depression-era decor. It closed in 2004, and the space hosted a few other concerns in its wake. Today, it's newly vacant again.

Lakeside Lounge was a particular favorite Alphabet City bar I posted here about a few times. It closed in 2012, although it sort of lives on via its website. Today, the space it once occupied is part of Maiden Lane, the restaurant that took over the old Life Cafe space on the corner of 9th and Avenue B. 

The Cedar Tavern was my dearly beloved local on University Place between 11th and 12th. I wrote about it here extensively, most recently here. It closed suddenly in 2006 with news that the air rights above it had been sold. The plan was that they'd build above it, but that the bar would re-open. They lied. It closed and was gutted. The bar itself was removed and shipped to Austin, TX. In its footprint was built a strenuously ugly condo. The ground floor sat vacant for years until a "European" waxing space opened. Yeah, like we needed that. The circumstances of the Cedar's abrupt departure still make me palpably hostile. 

Cafe Noir was corner bar in SoHo with a kitschy Moroccan theme on the corner of Thompson and Grand Streets. It was a great spot for beers and tapas, but closed around 2012. I believed they re-located to TriBeCa. This particular space is now a somewhat ridiculous lingerie shop.

Technically, Chumley's on Bedford Street in the West Village and ACME on Great Jones Street are both still going, but both are newly "bespoke" versions of their former incarnations. I frothed at the mouth about the shitty new version of Chumley's most recently here. ACME, meanwhile, used to be a great BBQ joint with a disarming selection of hot sauces. It also came appended by a live music venue in its lower quarters called -- wait for it -- Under Acme. My friends' band The Hot Corn Girls played a gig or two there. More recently, however, ACME underwent a "culinary transformation" and now serves "French-meets-Italian" fare. The space beneath that was Under Acme is now reserved for private functions. Read: It went all upscale and prohibitively pricey and now, basically, sucks. 

Lastly, The Knickerbocker Bar & Grill at 33 University Place is still there, mercifully, and retains its rarefied character of old Manhattan. If it ever closes, I will be devastated beyond words. 

C is for Collusion

Back to Square One...

Hats Off to the Highline

Relatively hot on the heels of news that the space that was formerly known as alternately Webster Hall and The Ritz is reopening later this year (although it’s reopening now directly across the street from a new mega-hotel …. the guests of which, I’m assuming, might not be thrilled to be staying across the street from an active live music venue), comes news that the Highline Ballroom over in Chelsea is shuttering.

While by no means good news, I can’t say I’m especially heartbroken, as the truth of the matter is that I only darkened the doors of the place once, and that was to see The Stranglers in 2013. For whatever reason, I’ve never gone to another show there.

That being said, it seems more often than not that the shows I do want to go to are now happening at venues in Brooklyn. Both of my new favorites – IDLES and Daughters – are both playing in Brooklyn in the next few months (at Brooklyn Steel and Warsaw, respectively). That’s cool, and I’m planning on going to both, but … I am missing the days when Manhattan was more of the destination for these things.

In any case, farewell, Highline – I should have known you better. For what it’s worth, that Stranglers show was absolutely astounding for both crowd and band alike.