Flaming Pablum

In Search of West 5th

I fielded a delightful note today -- which was a nice change of pace -- from a reader named Kara who is a freelancer writer who contributes to a Greenwich Village-centric news letter called There's No West 5th Street ... which, while it hadn't ever occurred to me before, is accurate.

In said news letter, Kara helps aggregate news items and other ephemera she feels the readers might find engaging, and she was lovely enough to include my recent Big City Survey: Part One.  Check out the whole news letter here.

Cheers, Kara -- thanks for including me, and look for Part Two of the survey soonest. 

 

Just Because

Make your own here.

The More You Know...

Dr. Dave Price of Weill Cornell Medical Center in New York City shares CRUCIAL information on how we can stop the spread and get back to normal, well, kinda normal.

His experience with the virus and people infected for the last 3 months has given him great confidence on how not to get infected.

Rules to protect yourself and family. It's a must watch! Recorded March 22.

This is an edited version of his call to his family and colleagues.

Watch the full video here .

Cruisin' for Some Kreuzen

In the fall of 1985, myself and a newly-minted, equally scowly friend John — a flat-topped skater and fellow fan of disconsolately frowny hardcore trapped within a bug-eyed nation of Little Feat and Allman Brothers fans — drove from the verdantly plush campus of Central Ohio’s Denison University to the comparatively ungenteel High Street of Columbus, Ohio. Our destination was a dank, low-ceilinged “club” with wood-paneled walls called Stache’s. The venue and the event we were attending have already been discussed here, but I was reminded of the evening in question again by yet another chapter in Sam McPheeters’ “Mutations,” which also spawned yesterday’s post about the Crucifucks. 

John and I went to Stache’s for the purposes of witnessing a live performance by the willfully disconcerting Texas combo, The Butthole Surfers. I’d been to a gig in Columbus a few weeks earlier, that being X at the Newport Music Hall on the tour to promote their frankly lackluster major label debut, Ain’t Love Grand, but that was at a proper live music hall, not a dingy, makeshift den-turned-dive bar like Stache’s. 

John and I and possibly another couple of friends of ours muscled our way to the back of the room where the “stage” ostensibly was (although I really don’t remember there being a bi-level effect of any kind), to ready ourselves for the opening band. The opening act was a Wisconsin ensemble called Die Kreuzen, which -- in clipped, guttural German -- means “The Crosses.” That said, everyone seemed to mispronounce their moniker not as a plural noun, but as a grim command, Die Cruisin’.  The foursome gathered around their amps and drum kit and got ready to play.

This still being the mid-eighties, I remember being somewhat surprised by the look of these Midwesterners. While I was dutifully boasting a sadly de rigeur “hardcore” outfit (white, freshly laundered Circle Jerks t-shirt over jeans, plaid flannel shirt tied around waist -- just so -- like a kilt), Die Kreuzen looked more like hairy hobos who took turns swigging from a communal jug of moonshine in the damp, dark woods behind the Price Chopper. Adhering to any code of punky fashion was clearly -- and quite refreshingly, in retrospect -- not on their agenda. 

I remember being struck by the bass player, whose instrument seemed wholly oversized for him. The lead singer was a long-haired, lanky guy who looked like he only just got off his  shift pumping gas. Once fully plugged in, the band started, and lanky long-hair raised the mic and opened his mouth, letting loose a sound that caused those of us standing, arms-folded in the front to strongly consider taking several steps back. 

To be honest, while I hadn’t heard their records yet (which I’d later come to really appreciate), the live Die Kreuzen experience circa 1985 was a headachey fog of shambolic shrillness. John described it best by suggesting that each of their songs sounded, basically, like an over-amplified “WAAAAAAARRGGHHHH”, … which was fairly accurate.

I told the rest of this story back on this post — the Butthole Surfers ended up not showing up as, earlier in the day, their bass player had either jumped out — or been forcibly ejected — from their van whilst motoring down the highway. They wouldn’t return to Columbus until the following year, wherein they played the Newport Music Hall, a show I’m still recovering from.

Back at Stache’s, we all miraculously ended up getting our money back, which essentially meant that we got to see Die Kreuzen for free.

The only reason I’m revisiting all of this, is because in McPheeters’ book, he describes Die Kreuzen thusly:

Vocals like a scarecrow screaming at you from across the cornfield at night …WHY DID YOU ANGER THE SCARECROW?

Absolutely on point....

The photo up top is by the truly amazing JFotoman, who I wrote about back on this post. There is possibly no greater documentation of not just the Stache's scene, but of American underground music of the 1980's writ large than his work.

Catching Up with 26

I am currently about a third of the way into "Mutations: The Many Strange Faces of Hardcore Punk," by former Born Against vocalist Sam McPheeters, and I am hugely loving it. Not only is McPheeters a tirelessly funny writer, but the insights and info on stalwart figures from the punk scenes of decades past are formidable.

While I originally picked the book up on the strength of its inclusion of a chapter on Flaming Pablum-favorites Missing Foundation (haven't gotten to that chapter yet), I just read an eye-opening passage about Doc Dart, the notorious lead provocateur extraordinaire from the Crucifucks. Longtime readers might remember I posted about that band here. Evidently, these days, Doc goes by the enigmatic new name, 26.

I'm not going to ruin it for you, but it's a truly weird and oft-harrowing story. For this chapter alone, this book is crucial. Go get it. 

Big City Survey: Part One

I started composing this several weeks ago, gradually adding to it as time and inspiration allowed. This was all, of course, well before everything turned upside down.

As has been established, I am now outside of the city, isolating with my wife and kids out on Long Island, trying to stay sane and looking forward to better times and healthier circumstances. What things will be like when we all return to “normal” in the wake of this remains to be seen.

In the interim, this is part one of a list of about thirty questions. I only got through half of it. Look for the other half soon, and cite your own choices.

Favorite Building:
There are obviously loads to choose from, but I’m going to go with 644 Broadway at the northeast corner of Bleecker Street, known by some as Bleecker Tower. Completed in 1891, this former bank building is notable for its eye-catching red sandstone exterior, its Romanesque architectural flourishes and its metal tower, now greened with age like Lady Liberty herself. I’ve only ever set foot in it when its ground floor played host to a noxious clothiers whose name escapes me, but I was there in homage to a former incarnation of that space, the Blue Willow, and only then as said restaurant served as the location of the photo shoot the produced the cover shot of one of my favorite albums of all time, that being Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves by Gavin Friday & The Man Seezer.

Least Favorite Building:
There’s now several of them, sprouting up like fucking weeds, but the first so-called “supertall” I really latched my hatred onto was 432 Park Avenue, which thrusts out of midtown like a giant glass’n-steel penis, lording over its surroundings verily like Barad-dûr (look it up). I hate it. It’s an artless rod that plays host to impossibly wealthy oligarchs. It decimates the symmetry of the cityscape. Awful, repugnant shit. Knock it down.

Favorite Landmark:
There are several places that I believe ought to be “official” landmarks (i.e. legally protected) that aren’t. CBGB was one of them, but it’s way too late in the day to be boo-hooing that one. In terms of things that are still operational, visible and/or still standing, I’m quite partial to “the Alamo,” otherwise known “the Cube” at Astor Place, although I feel that’s kind of an obvious one. Glad it’s still there, though. Back uptown, I’ve always been fond of Louise Nevelson’s “Night Presence IV” sculpture on the island at East 92nd Street and Park Avenue. As a child, during snowstorms --- back when it still snowed in New York City – my friends and I would throw snowballs at it. The correct hit would make an endearing bonnnnnnnnnggggg sound.

Least Favorite Landmark:
I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for that stupid bull downtown to fuck right off.

Favorite Local Sports Team:
I don’t have one, because I don’t give a crap about sports.

Favorite Museum:
As much as I grew up wandering the halls of the Metropolitan Museum and the Natural History Museum, I’m going to go with the dark horse and vote for the Museum of the City of New York over on upper Fifth Avenue. It’s amazing. 

Favorite Coffee:
For a start, I hate Starbucks for a number of reasons, but first and foremost, their coffee tastes burnt to me. Stop spending your money there. I’m also not what you’d call a coffee connoisseur. I’m not impressed by artisanal blends or bespoke roasts. Give me a generic, large cup of shitty coffee with milk and sugar, and I’m good to go. I get mine at either the Corner Gourmet on West Broadway & Murray Street or from an endearingly irritable Egyptian gentleman who operates a food cart at the bottom of Greenwich Avenue at Barclays Street.

Favorite Pizza:
Okay, now we’re getting into it. This is an incredibly divisive question, depending on who you ask. Personally speaking, I regret to say that most of the beloved pizzerias of my youth are now all gone. Time was when there were decent options for pizza on practically every other block, regardless of what part of town you were in. They weren’t necessarily top of the line, but joints like St. Marks Pizza on Third Avenue, The Pizza Box on Bleecker, Mimi’s on East 84th and Lexington, or Stromboli’s on University Place were all entirely respectable options for a good slice. And we’re talking slices, here, not sit-down joints – there IS a difference. We’re talking about quick food on the go, not full-on dining experiences. That should be a separate question. In any case, all those spots have vanished. In terms of a slice here in 2020, I’m likely to shoot for Joe’s Pizza just north of Carmine Street off Sixth Avenue, but they’ve been discovered and the lines are crazy now. I’m also fine with Champion Pizza in SoHo at Cleveland Place just north of Kenmare Street. In a pinch, I’ll settle with my local, that being Pizza Mercato on Waverly Place, but it’s very decidedly not my favorite. I could list loads of shitty pizzerias, but who’s well served by that? Also, if you spend your money in any of those 99 cents pizza holes or --- may God forgive you – procure your “pizza” from Domino’s, you should by gored by a disconsolate bull.

Favorite Diner:
Much like the pizzerias (and the record stores, and the book shops), the diners are swiftly vanishing. My local standbys like The University Restaurant on University Place and the Silver Spurs on Broadway are both long gone. My old favorite, The Mansion, on the corner of East 86th and York Avenue, is still there, I believe, but they had a re-modelling some time back that robbed some of its charm for me. The Three Guys Restaurant on the northeast corner of East 96th and Madison Avenue is exceptional. For aesthetics, the Square Diner inTriBeca (65 West Broadway) has all the old school charm you need, but if I’m being candid, my favorite is the Gee Whiz Diner on Greenwich Street at Warren Street. The burgers are what you’re after.

Favorite Italian Restaurant:
My family’s old favorite, Col Legno on East 9th Street, vanished eleven years ago, when owner Chris pulled up stakes and went to go work at a bar in the West Village. Since then, our favorite is really Da Andrea on West 13th between Fifth and Sixth Avenues (just across from the Quad Theater). It might not look like much from the outside, but it’s always hopping when we go, and the food is always amazing. Also don’t mind the oddly named Aunt Jake’s on West 8th Street.

Favorite Chinese Restaurant:
Well, since posting the last installment of the perpetually delayed Flaming Pablum Grub Guide, I did expand my horizons further when the wife and I took a shamlessly touristy culinary walking tour of Chinatown (which I cannot recommend enough). From that, we did glean some choice spots for Chinese cuisine of very specific types (i.e. a good place for dim sum, a great place for Peking Duck, a fab spot for dumplings, etc.), but in terms of an overarching eatery that covered all the bases, a visit this past January to Shun Lee West on the Upper West Side really checked all the boxes, …including my tireless demand for “big fuckoff dragons!”

Favorite Sushi Restaurant:
As cited here, my heart still belongs to Japonica.

Favorite Steakhouse:
I love all steak houses, from the charmingly grotty Sammy’s Roumanian Steakhouse on the Lower East Side through to the higher tiered places like Smith & Wollensky’s. Peter Luger’s out in Brooklyn used to be a big fave. I haven’t been in eons, but I’ve heard reports of diminishing returns in the quality department. Similarly, the last time I went to the Old Homestead over in the Meat Packing District, I was somewhat underwhelmed by the fare. While not solely a steakhouse, the longbone and the t-bone at our local, Knickerbocker’s on East 9th and University Place are both outstanding and highly recommended. If we’re talking super-dupe high-end, Father’s Day-type shit, I’m always down for a trip to Keen’s Chophouse on West 36th off Sixth Avenue. Tons of history and atmosphere, and the food is nothing short of fucking sensational.

Favorite Subway Line:
Hmm. Can’t say I have one. They all let me down, in the end. I suppose the N/R is the best for my purposes. I was born and raised – like Jennifer Lopez – on the 6, but cannot say I’m especially fond of it.

Okay, that's as far as I got. The next batch of questions concentrate on bookstores, bars, live music venues, parks and more, so stay tuned for that, although they'll all be answered through the prism of current experience, so will probably have a more melancholy, world-weary tone. Naturally.

Hope you're all hanging in there. Be safe & healthy.

Get Off My Lawn: A Playlist

I started writing this as a laboriously longer piece about, once upon a time, being the youngest person in an office environment — being called “kid,” and noted for my youthful, scrappy take on life. Gradually, that changed. I started working with people younger than me and blah blah blah.

I’m going to spare you from having to plow through several chunky paragraphs and needless, sepia-toned preamble and fast forward to 2020.

I now work with a gaggle of people from whom I am separated by a yawning generational chasm. Both them and myself regularly make pop-cultural allusions we each consider universally recognizable, but haven’t the foggiest clue what each other are talking about.

When it comes to music and the appreciation thereof, we are practically from different planets. For them, people like Britney Spears, Beyonce and Kanye West are like faces on Mount Rushmore, and late-90's hip-hop acts I'd considered derivative and redundant at the time are practically considered venerable oldies acts to them. We share virtually no common parlance in this realm. They have no clue (nor interest in) who, say, Lemmy, Adam Ant, Cop Shoot Cop (pictured above), GG Allin and/or Bob Mould are, and I have no clue (nor interest in) who SZA, 2 Chainz, Lil Uzi Vert and Earl Sweatshirt are. Andy Warhol’s banana from the sleeve of the debut album of The Velvet Underground and Peter Saville’s ubiquitous artwork from the sleeve of Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures are just Urban Outfitter t-shirt designs to them. Likewise, iconography from their musical touchstones mean nothing to me.

I may have mentioned her before, but one young colleague of mine — Lyndsey — had a refreshing take on a New Year’s resolution. Instead of giving up something as some sort of penitent punishment, she got her herself a coffee-table book of allegedly canonical albums and planned to devote each month to listening to and immersing herself in a new (for her) record, thus broadening her knowledge and experience of this celebrated music. I thought — and still think — that was genuinely very cool.

She ended up sharing this exercise with our mutual colleague, Tegan, who sits in her adjacent cubicle. I’d walk by and hear comparatively incongruous music coming from their part of the office, like the Monkees, Iron Butterfly and Revolver by the Beatles. I started chatting with them about it, and we struck on a new idea.

Tegan made a primer Spotify playlist for me of music that she — being unfathomably younger than myself — considers worth knowing about and/or appreciating with regards to what’s happening for her generation. Similarly, I was tasked with making one for her and Lyndsey of the type of music that I am fond of.

So, yeah, if you think that explanation was long, you should have seen the one I scrapped. But it was just basically to tee up the playlist below. Now, while I don’t generally get my fingers dirty on Spotify — being no fan of streaming, I — this was for a good cause. Plus, it was fun.

Yes, it’s still missing a lot of crucial stuff, but should you care, … enjoy.

Might I suggest listening on "shuffle."

Status Report

I’ve been working remotely for about twelve days now, and we’ve been out here on Long Island for just over a week.

The work front is stressful, as it’s either deathly quiet or crazy busy.

When it’s the former, I worry that there won’t be enough to justify keeping on our full team’s headcount should things get lean, as has been happening elsewhere.

When it’s busy, it’s confounding, as accomplishing stuff between two laptops (one shitty Dell, one MacBook Air) isn’t yet intuitive. Tasks that normally take about five minutes become twenty-minute efforts, due to spotty WiFi, clunky processes and my own inefficiencies. I have faith it will get easier, but it’s frustrating.

The kids are restless and periodically cranky, but that’s all to be expected. Both have incremental homework to tackle, which they’ve been doing while the wife and I work.

The weather has been largely chilly and damp, which at least makes staying indoors and at home easier. My kids are itching to go to stores to buy junk food and such, but we’re trying to venture out as infrequently as possible. That's the idea, right?

Overall, though, we have nothing to complain about. We are all well. No one’s gotten sick, as yet.

How are you continuing to cope through all of this?

Persevering Through The Pandemic

I realize it's only been about a week since shit ramped up to the extent that turned our lives into a shitty disaster movie, but here are steps we're taking to make life bearable. What's working for you and yours?

Here's our list...

1. Walks, Walks and More Walks: Both as a family, and solo. Keep moving. Get outside. Stretch your legs. Get fresh air. Get a change of scenery. It's crucial. Just don't cough on anyone, and wash your damn hands when you get in.

2. Mandatory Book Club: For at least an hour, put down all digital devices and pick up a book — an actual book — and immerse yourself in it. I brought three books with me on this mission, which I plan to burn right through. Thankfully, there are plenty of books in this house to keep us occupied for a while.

3. Every Night is Game Night: Monopoly, despite being a guaranteed fight-starter, is always a good one. Last night Oliver and I played Scrabble. We have Risk, Chess, an old game called All The Kings Men, and technically we have Stratego, but several pieces are missing. Tonight, I believe, we’re playing Risk, although the wife is itching to indoctrinate the family into the faith of Bridge, a card game which I’ve never enjoyed. But, I’ll give in, I’m sure.

4. Let the Music Play:  Yes, it’s crazy important to keep apprised of the news, but after a while, it’s a real bummer. Diffuse your anxiety and lift your spirits with regular airings of your favorite music. I’ve been doing a lot of this, although it can be tough to find a selection the whole family enjoys. My youngest just voiced his opinion that he is not in favor of further Elvis Costello. A mix of Elton John, the other night, found my wife voting down several favorite tunes like “Funeral For a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding.” It’s hard to please everyone, but keep at it. The only choice we've all agreed on, so far, is Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, but I can tolerate only just so many spins of "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" before I go a bit mental.

5. Use the Kitchen: I can’t cook to save my life, but my wife and kids have been regularly experimenting with different dishes. Oliver wants to bake, while Charlotte is trying some “creamed coffee” recipe. Anything to stay busy, creative and distracted is a positive.

6. Honor the Fire: Sick of television? I can empathize. If you have access, a fire place can be just as soothingly hypnotic. Fire wood is a luxury, at this stage, but it’s very therapeutic, I’m finding. Also, it's a panacea for my inner pyromaniac.

The Deserter & The Deserted

Rat calling Sinking Ship, Rat calling Sinking Ship, … Come in Sinking Ship!!!

I remember when the darkness closed in after the lights suddenly went off during Hurricane Sandy, my family and our best friends/next-door neighbors hunkered down together that first night and made an evening out of it. The next day, however, they quietly crept out of their apartment and decamped to a spot they have upstate. Circumstances, obligations and limited resources forbade us from following suit, so we stayed put and rode the rest of the week out in the dark. In retrospect, we were mildly inconvenienced, whereas lots of folks in places like the Rockaways lost everything. We had nothing to complain about, other than ennui, really. We’ve joked about it since then, how our neighbors “jumped ship,” but who could blame them? They had a warm, lit house to escape to.

Upon the further spreading of the Trump Virus, we did the same this week, taking advantage of my family’s kind offer to escape the heavy case concentration in New York City (check out the map below, courtesy of this story in the New York Times). I’ve been called out by a couple of select readers on it, but y’know what? If you had the option to get your kids out of a tiny apartment to an (arguably) safer space, you’d do it, too. If you have cognitive difficulty processing the logic of that decision, I cannot help you.

Take even a cursory glance at the media source of your choice, these days, and you’ll doubtlessly see images of normally bustling city streets across the world transformed into vast, empty spaces, largely bereft of another human being. This doesn’t mean everyone’s taking the hint (witness the stubborn influx of party-determined spring breakers in Florida), but the smart ones are refraining from large gatherings. For it to genuinely work, I’d imagine everyone has to abide, but we’ll see, I guess, if the curve is indeed flattened.

In any case, speaking of bustling city streets, my friend Gregoire Alessandrini, who maintains the excellent photographic site, New York City in the 1990s, recently posted a cool new entry. Gregoire lives in Paris, these days, but returned to NYC last summer. Regrettably, we were not able to meet up, but he took the time to revisit some of the places he’d first documented decades ago. See those pictures here.

In the interim, please stay safe and sane and look out for each other. There’ll be more here soon.