Flaming Pablum

Comparing Notes With "The Bipolar Addict"

There’s an oft-circulated adage on the `Net that goes something like “Be Kind, for Everyone You Meet is Fighting Their Own Hard Battle You Know Nothing About.” Many have credited the quote to Plato, but there’s some speculation about that. Honestly, I’m not really that interested in its true provenance, as I think it’s really just a great, general truth, albeit one that’s sometimes hard to keep in mind.

Personally speaking, I find it all too simple to get completely embroiled in my own arguably complicated circumstances that I frequently neglect to consider that others may be wrestling with their own problems that are, at least, comparable or possibly far greater than my own.

Enter Conor Bezane.

I first met Conor Bezane during what I can only describe as my fleeting tenure as managing editor of MTV News Online at the organization's headquarters in the heart of Times Square. While that job title certainly sounded fairly impressive, I was really more of an adjunct editor to the editorial director who oversaw both the televised content and the content we posted on the accompanying website.  

Sure, I literally managed -– or did my best to manage -– the many frantic tentacles of the digital operation, but the overall editorial strategy was largely determined by higher-ranking colleagues. That’s not a lament, but rather just a clarification. I only wish I’d done a better, more assertive job, as I may have held onto the gig a while longer, but --- instead -– I was laid off in the summer of 2007. This was not the last time such a thing would happen to me, alas, but welcome to New York City, folks … at some point, you’re going to lose your job.

Anyhoo, before that unfortunate fruition revealed itself, I met this kid Conor. Technically, Conor and I didn’t really work together, being that he was on the television side of proceedings, and I was more or less strictly on the digital end, but we attended the same meetings, worked on the same floor, rode the same elevators, etc. During the course of my year and a half at MTV News (see, I told you it was fleeting), Conor and I started talking about mutual favorite bands (although he’s a comparatively younger tyke) and we became friends.

From where I was sitting –- technically in a strangely dim, open space that led more than a few people to assume I was simply administrative support -– Conor appeared to have it all. He seemed like a smart, well-spoken producer with a head full of ideas and boundless, youthful enthusiasm. Sure, I thought -– and still think -– some of his favorite bands were crap, but hey -– I’m ultimately just a crotchedy old poop that wants you off his lawn, that’s my job. In all seriousness, to my mind, Conor was a cool, sharp kid with adventurous taste, obvious talent and ambition. He was also a kindred soul, to my mind -– very deeply enamored with the timeless mystique and emotionally galvanizing power of music as I was. He was going places, as far as I could tell.

The next thing I knew, in the early summer of 2007, during the course of some busy workday wherein I was trying to prize perilously late copy out of one of my petulant millennial contributors, my superior editor asked if I “had a minute to talk.” I said sure, and I walked into his office. The door closed behind me. That’s never good, kids.

In uproariously short order, I was let go. True to the organization's old motto, I did indeed hear it first. As I mentioned back on this ancient post, I was informed that I wasn’t getting fired, per se, but rather that the position itself was being "phased out." This kinda took the wind right out of my sails.

A day or so later, I remember packing up my stuff into a proverbial cardboard box (a box, I don’t believe, as of this posting, I have ever unpacked) and rode down the elevators for the last time. Goodbye MTV News Online. 

As it happens, Conor was let go not too long after me. I ran into him on the street a couple of times after that, and we shared our mutual employment woes, and stayed in touch on social media. I believe we had a cup of coffee at a Dean & Deluca, at one point. But I always figured that since he was so young and ambitious, he’d bounce right back.

But, as I would later learn, that’s not quite what happened.

The ensuing years were way more complicated for Conor than I’d have ever predicted, finding him grappling with both a bipolar diagnosis and drink-&-drug dependency worthy of some of our mutually favorite punky luminaries. While I was moaning about having to make do with a permalance gig at an online portal that didn’t pay any meaningful benefits, Conor was exploring the depths of personal depravity by having become a full-blown addict, prone to smoking crack. Again, everyone you meet is fighting their own hard battle you know nothing about, so be fucking kind.

Now, you may well be thinking, where exactly do I get off speaking so blithely about my friend Conor’s deeply personal travails? Well, as it happens, Conor documented both his tumultuous fall from grace and his doggedly determined re-ascendance to sobriety and self-actualization in a new book, to be released this month.

As its title might suggest, “The Bipolar Addict” ain’t exactly “Eat, Pray, Love.” Penned with great style, wit and disarming candor, Conor’s memoir recounts some moments of unimaginable despair, made all the more jarring by the deceptively banal paths that led him to those circumstances.

For all of Conor's bright, young promise and best efforts, a chain reaction set off by an unfortunate series of events derailed him. The formidable challenges of dealing with manic depression paired with the quickly spiraling demands of being helplessly dependent on drugs and alcohol essentially shattered Conor’s world, leaving him at his lowest ebb, alienated from friends and family and without a job. His courageous story of recovery is nothing short of inspiring. I don't want to give anything away, but suffice to say, despite its harrowing lows, Conor's story has a positive ending.

Today, I'm happy to report that Conor is clean, sober, very active and vigilant in evangelizing his message of hope for people grappling with their own demons. 

"The Bipolar Addict" comes out on June 21. Seek it out or click here to get yourself a copy. You can also get it on Amazon. 

Ben is Goddamn Right

There have been numerous points, over there years, wherein I’ve vehemently disagreed with things Ben Sisario has written. Then again, he’s a celebrated music journalist who writes for the New York Times, and ...well…. I’m not.

I’m sure he has his own private opinions comparable to my own about certain subjects, but given his high profile, he needs to maintain a degree of professional impartiality. He also must write about a lot of stuff he probably doesn’t personally care for on the regular. I mean, if I had to write that much about insufferably overhyped pop and R&B bullshit, I’d probably lodge a bullet in my own skull.

This all said, Ben wrote something this week for the Times about “Tech” that struck a chord close to my own blackened heart. While conceding that, by necessity, he keeps up with all the major music platforms, he also expressed a particular affinity that is endearingly out of step with the rest of the rabble.

To be honest, my preferred way to listen to music is on CD, as unfashionable as that might be. You push a button, the music plays, and then it’s over — no ads, no privacy terrors, no algorithms!

Bless you, Ben. Read the whole article here.

Ben’s standing in a familiar spot in the picture above, by the way. That’s Academy Records on 18th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, and it is a splendid place to procure your music.

The Bug on the Bowery: Redux

I wrote at greater length about Motherhead Bug on this post from 2016, but recently uncovered this amazing footage of the band playing CBGB in 1994.

Once again, Motherhead Bug was the amorphous collective spearheaded by erstwhile Cop Shoot Cop/Foetus/Firewater (yep, them again!) member/collaborator/pal Dave Ouimet.

As previously noted, these days, Mr. Ouimet is an accomplished illustrator and author whose work you should really check out. His latest work is a children’s book called “I Go Quiet,” which is published later this year. Find out more here. He's also a delightfully funny and very nice guy. 

Here he was conjuring all sorts of mayhem with Motherhead Bug.

"Banging The Monkey"

The first time I encountered Tod Ashley, he was zealously scraping the down-tuned e-string of his battered bass guitar against an equally distressed microphone stand, creating a serrated, amplified squeal that made my fillings ache. It was not immediately apparent, at this stage, that he harbored any serious literary ambitions.

Decades and decibels later, the former commanding officer of Cop Shoot Cop and ringleader of Klezmerfied “world punk” collective Firewater is sequestered in his adopted new homeland of Turkey, taken to expressing himself in an arguably more finessed manner, although furtive rumors abound of looming new Firewater activity.

Some of you might remember I touted Tod’s highly entertaining travelblog, Postcards from The Other Side of the World, many, many moons ago. Well, you’ll be happy to know he is, at long last, publishing his first novel, “Banging the Monkey.” Replete with Tod’s signature wit and worldview, “Banging…” is a wry and richly written journey in a faraway climate, imbued with a tropical noir sensibility. I was fortunate enough to read an earlier draft of the book, and found it thoroughly engaging.

Here's the official blurb. Check it out…

BANGING THE MONKEY, the debut novel by Tod A of Firewater, comes out May 1. Order the book now on Bookbaby, or download the ebook version on Kindle. Banging the Monkey is for anyone who has ever dreamed of chucking it all and starting over. Author Tod A injects pulp noir with a punk-prose rhythm to weave a darkly comic tale about life at the end of the American Century. "Cleverly written and populated with consistently juicy characters." — David Yow (Musician, Actor)
SYNOPSIS Disaffected writer Mark O'Kane is in a downward spiral. His last novel tanked. His wife left him. And his drinking is out of control. So when a chance meeting with enigmatic businessman Frank Fochs leads to a cushy job on the tropical island of Madu, it sounds like Mark's salvation: he can finally write his comeback novel and set his life on a brighter path. But when Frank disappears, Mark is left holding the bag for his boss's shady business dealings. And after a corpse washes up in the local lagoon, Mark may even be charged with Frank's murder. As he skirts the border between regret and desire, Mark discovers that the demons of his past are not so easily outrun, and that paradise comes with a price.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Tod A is best known as a songwriter and the leader of the 'world-punk' music group Firewater. Tod left New York City in 2003 to travel in Southeast Asia and the Indian subcontinent. Banging the Monkey was inspired by events he witnessed and stories he collected along the way. Tod A currently hangs his hat in Istanbul.

FIND OUT MORE & ORDER A COPY HERE.

Degradation, Lubrication & Gentrification at 315 Bowery

You’d think that a whopping 13 years after the club closed its doors for good, I’d have run out of things to say or share about CBGB. Be that as it may, pictures, videos and/or simple ruminations about infamous gigs, specific scenes and/or happenings at 315 Bowery still keep rolling down the proverbial pike. In much the same way I cannot stop posting about places like The Cedar Tavern and Bleecker Bob’s, content pertaining to the lore, legacy, demise and degradation of CBGB still comes to me.

Today was just such an occasion. I came across a video shot by one Lisa Barnstone of a gig by Lubricated Goat -– who I posted about here -– back in mid-2006. Beyond simply being another glimpse of the fabled interior (bathroom included) of CBGB –- not unlike the video Harley Flanagan made of the interior that I posted about back in 2016 –- this video was notable to me in that it features Jack Natz -- above --  formerly of Cop Shoot Cop, on bass detail.

Personally speaking, when this video was shot, I was about one third into my somewhat chaotic tenure as a managing editor of MTV News Online, and had just become a father for the second time. My status as a busy dad to two tiny people had sharply curtailed my ability to regularly attend gigs as I’d previously done on a regular basis, thus I was not at this show. In fact, I regret to say that I cannot honestly recall the last show at CBGB I went to, although it might have been a Kraut reunion show in 2002.

Today, of course, the strip of the Bowery is a very different scene. The occupant of 315 Bowery is still John Varvatos, who I somewhat venomously took to task on this post. My take on same has not changed, and I still think he sucks and everything about his shop is bullshit. The surrounding neighborhood continues to gentrify, of course. Apart from the encouraging opening of Codex Books across the street (specializing in cool, used and rare volumes), there is precious little in that cluster of streets to hold my attention … beyond nostalgia.

`Twas not always thus. Take another look back. Miss Barnstone’s video also captures a lot of the post-show action out on the street.

CBGBs...last call..Lubricated Goat inside tour of the place and it's surroundings from lisa barnstone on Vimeo.

Check out more footage of the same gig, courtesy of the inimitable SkeletonBoy…

Oh Yoko

I noticed a bizarre little news item, this morning, that Yoko Ono is evidently planning on covering the entirety of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. I passed that along on social media (it's not true, incidentally, but rather "parody"), but felt obligated to preface it by saying I have nothing but the utmost respect for Yoko Ono, not just for her own oft-overshadowed status as a groundbreaking artist in her own goddamn right, but also because she once single-handedly saved me from being fired from a gig at LIFE Magazine. This, somewhat predictably, begged larger questions, and it occurred to me that I’d never spun this particular yarn here on this stupid blog, so here goes.

In the very early 90’s, I was working at LIFE Magazine as a copy clerk/editorial assistant while simultaneously working on a book project with an editor I shan’t name here. The book was bascially a collection of evocative photographs augmented with ruminations about the meaning of life. Some were from oridnary people like your local green-grocer or mailman, whereas others were from prominent public figures and celebs. In many instances, people would cite song lyrics to sum up their feelings. My job was two-fold; Secure head-shots of the participants from their publicists for the back of the book (I had to get a head-shot of Italian pornstar/parliamentairan Cicconlina, and she sent me an envelope of lurid nudes) and secure figures for the use of reprinting any song lyrics.

Being that the editor in question was a massive Beatle fan, he somehow cajoled Yoko Ono into participating. In her passage, Yoko cited a line from a – WAIT FOR IT – John Lennon song, that being “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” (from “Beautiful Boy” off Double Fantasy, pedants). I reached out to the pertinent parties to secure financial figures for the re-printing of same. That was the job.

Weeks went by. I diligently collected all the afore-cited assets as was my duty and submitted them to my editor. The book was laid out and the budget was finalized. Suddenly, the parties representing the Lennon lyrics – I cannot remember if it was Blackwood Music or not, it’s a long time ago – got back to me with a SECOND cost regarding a proposed second printing, and it was a sizable sum. I nervously brought this to the attention of my editor. “Alex, the budget is already finalized!” he yelled, understandably upset. “We can’t afford this! I’m going to have to pull Yoko’s section from the book!” This was not a good development. Again, as a massive fan of all things Bealtes/Lennon/Ono/etc., this seemed like his very favorite part of the project, and here I was fucking it up. I felt like shit, and starting to rightly assume that it was probably time to start clearing out my desk. Before I could do that, he called me into his office for the call with Yoko Ono. I’m not sure why I had to be in there for it, but there I was going to be for when he was going to break the news to her. Punishment, maybe? I’ll never know. Anyway, as I remember it, he put her on speaker phone and unspooled the weepy saga, shooting me a few angry glares along the way, and then, from the other end of the line, I heard. “Oh, please – don’t be ridiculous, I’ll happily pay for it.”

Yoko Ono saved my hide.

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. 

Oh Nevermind: Cop Shoot Cop at the Pyramid on Avenue A

It should come as very little surprise to anyone that knows me, but I “run” and/or “manage” Facebook’s seemingly only Cop Shoot Cop page. Actually, to be fair, that’s not true — there’s also a group page called We Demand a Cop Shoot Cop Reunion, but it’s dormant on the best of days. If you’re looking for all things Cop Shoot Cop on Facebook, I am evidently your authority. At the very least, I’ve manage to amass arguably the greatest collection of C$C and C$C-related visual ephemera to be found on the `net. See that here, should you care. So, yeah, yay me.

Why don’t any of the original Cop Shoot Copy guys get involved? Dunno. I assume they either just don’t care, have way better things to do and/or are just fine with me handling it. I was drafted, let’s remember, at one point, with the task of putting together that star-crossed and ill-fated Cop Shoot Cop coffee-table book that regrettably never came to pass. One could argue that said aborted assignment gives me the right. Or not. Whatever. Regardless, I've kept it going for at least five years now, and I’m always heartened that people still contribute to it. It doesn’t happen with roaring fervor, but every now and then, someone posts something rare — which, in the grand scheme of things, is really the only pertinent descriptor for Cop Shoot Cop and their ilk — a scene, a sound and a sensibility that is swiftly becoming anachronistic. This week, that happened.

A user named Erin posted a super-rare flyer of the band’s yesterday. This was from the early days, when commanding officer Tod [A] -- that's him at the top of this post in an image respectfully purloined from Recalcitrant Monthly --  was toiling, by day, at a copy shop on West Broadway, a tenuous state of disgruntled employment that, at the very least, gave him access to vast amounts of paper and copying equipment with which to illicitly print up the band’s signature brand of provocative propaganda. For one particular gig at The Pyramid on Avenue A, Tod paired his own typically eye-catching graphic skills with an appropriated image from the illustrious oeuvre of one Tom of Finland. For those unfamiliar (although there was recently a bona fide biopic on the man), Tom of Finland was an artist from — WAIT FOR IT — Finland renowned for his beatific depictions of homosexual erotica, usually concerning workaday scenarios involving impossibly burly sailors, firemen, cops, etc. Imagine the artwork of children’s illustrator Richard Scarry, only instead of anthropomorphic cats, dogs and piglets, it was blissful, hulking men with titanic erections.

To wit, Tod came up with this poster below …. a bit of promotional material that doubtlessly furthered the notoriety of the band, probably to the pronounced chagrin of the local constabulary. People of delicate constitutions and easily-offended sensibilities should avert their eyes...

I’d actually seen this poster before, hanging on the wall of the original incarnation of Max Fish on Ludlow Street during a late-80’s/early-90’s flyer retrospective. I wish I’d brought my camera to that one.

Also this week, I happened to spy a flyer on the official Instagram page of the mighty Lunachicks for a series of gigs also at the Pyramid. Mind you, as discussed here before, the Pyramid on Avenue A used to be this amazing, ground-breaking, scene-sharing venue that hosted all stripes of subculture — from punks, hardcore kids, metal heads and noise-rock freaks through drag-queens, club kids and disco-zealots, all more-or-less happily co-mingling in this grotty little bar. I haven’t been back in decades, but if the video in this post is to be believed, that iteration has since been replaced by just another douchey disco.

Anyway, boo hoo. The thing that, of course, struck me about this flyer was the line-up. On the otherwise sleepy night of Thursday, April 26, 1990, Cop Shoot Cop shared a bill with the similarly inclined local band Rat At Rat R (who I discussed here) and a hip and happening little beat-combo from Seattle called …. Nirvana.

While that Nirvana show has since become the stuff of legend (for some), sadly, there is precious little documentation of the Cop gig, although — to be fair — it was only one of many nights they played this particular venue over the years. Two short years later, Nirvana and Cop Shoot Cop would both play the fabled Reading Festival in England, although Nirvana were headliners and Cop Shoot Cop were relegated to something called The Session Tent (flanked by their compatriots in the Lunachicks, among others). Cop Shoot Cop did eventually make it to the big stage at Reading Festival in 1994, although still at the bottom of the bill, under friends like Helmet and the Jesus Lizard, with …. er … the Red Hot Chili Peppers headlining.

Does any of this matter now? Maybe only to a few. But for those it does matter to, I’m happy to share.

Meanwhile, as discussed in great detail here,  I’m still searching for the rest of THIS poster….

Goodbye to Stormy 2018

Technically, there are still a few days left of 2018, but for all intents and purposes, it’s over. As such, time to dust off this old thing. Let’s have at it.

What did you do in 2018 that you'd never done before?
Travel to the Middle East. Partake of Black Pudding. Submit a stool sample. Not all on one day, mind you.

Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
My plans for the inevitable “Dry January” were stymied by the arrival of the bomb cyclone. We’ll see what happens this year.

Did anyone close to you give birth?
Friends of mine had children. No one in the immediate family.

Did anyone close to you die?
In the beginning of the year, my childhood friend Danny passed away. I wrote a few posts about it. Still hard to believe.

What countries did you visit?
I went to Lebanon in August (with a stopover in Paris) and England in November.

What would you like to have in 2019 that you lacked in 2018?
A responsible adult in the White House.

What date from 2018 will remain etched upon your memory?
I’m going to say September 12, which was significant for me in that it was both my organization’s company-wide Town Hall meeting (for which I orchestrated video coverage and content) in Nashville, Tennessee and the date of Killing Joke’s New York stop on their 40th Anniversary tour. I’d taken pains to arrange it so I could actually do both, but those plans collapsed, as discussed in histrionic detail here.

What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I’m proud of my continuing ascent at my place of work. The work I do is recognized and appreciated. That’s a nice feeling. Here's hoping I can sustain in 2019.

What was your biggest failure?
My little family has sorely outgrown our living space, but we have yet to find a working solution.

Did you suffer illness or injury?
Well, at one point, I had a scare with a tick. Then I developed a wicked case of Montezuma’s Revenge (read: traveler’s diarrhea) following the trip to Beirut. Then there was a sort of mystery condition that prompted a few invasive and uncomfortable tests (see stool sample answer above), that revealed nothing and went away as mysteriously as it had arrived. I’m sure you’re sorry you asked, now.

What was the best thing you bought?
Airline tickets for London to see the close of Killing Joke’s 40th Anniversary tour.

Whose behavior merited celebration?
Christine Blasey Ford

Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Donald Trump, Mitch McConnell, Paul Ryan, Brett Kavanaugh, Matthew Whitaker, Susan Collins, Chuck Grassley, John Cornyn, Mike Pence, Lyndsey Graham.

What did you get really, really excited about?
Traveling to Beirut. Traveling to London to see Killing Joke.

Where did most of your money go?
Tuition for my kids’ schools.

What song will always remind you of 2018?
“Never Fight a Man with a Perm” by IDLES

Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
I’d say I’m about the same. I’m worried about a few things, but overall am content with how things are going on a personal level. On a grander scale, 2018 was a year of constant incredulousness, shock, disgust and shame over the Trump Administration.

Thinner or fatter?
Certainly fatter.

Richer or poorer?
Feeling the latter in the wake of the holiday season. We’ll see when those Amex bills arrive.

What do you wish you'd done more of?
Relaxing with my wife and kids.

What do you wish you'd done less of?
Wasting time on social media. Arguing about politics with certain folks.

How did you spend Christmas?
Spread over Quogue, Manhattan, Brooklyn and West Chester, PA.

Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?
No earthly idea.

Did you fall in love in 2018?
Was already in love.

How many one night stands in this last year?
Zero. Happily hitched.

What was your favorite TV program?
I quite liked “The Bodyguard.”

Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I continue to hate Trump and his cronies and his supporters. 

What was the best book you read?
Without question, the “Beastie Boys Book.”

What was your greatest musical discovery?
From eons passed, I discovered that great collaboration of Robert Fripp and David Sylvian, and a band I’d entirely slept on called The Oblivians, who are amazing. I also became somewhat enthralled by two newer bands, specifically IDLES and Daughters, as I mentioned here.

What did you want and get?
I was finally able to see Killing Joke on their 40th Anniversary tour –- TWICE, no less (Oxford and London)

What did you want and not get?
Regime change.

What were your favorite films of this year?
I quite liked “Can You Ever Forgive Me?”, which was a refreshingly smart, very New Yorky film. I suppose I liked “Avengers: Infinity Wars,” but all those Marvel movies are starting to blur together for me.

What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned an unseemly 51, and had a small celebration with my family.

What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Trump’s impeachment, indictment and incarceration.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2018?
Embarrassing Dad With a Band T-shirt Problem

What kept you sane?
My lovely wife and children.

What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
I normally don’t have an answer for this, but I’m going to say Hayley Atwell. She’s close to perfect.

What political issue stirred you the most?
Fuckin’ take your pick.

Who did you miss?
Pete Shelley, Stan Lee, Mark E. Smith

Who was the best new person you met?
Three of my wife’s cousins in Beirut, who are all totally excellent.

Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2018
Never lose your sense of humor, regardless of how bleak and dire things get.

Song lyric that sums up 2018
Not a current song, but from World Party’s “Ship of Fools,” this feels kinda accurate…

We're setting sail to the place on the map
from which no one has ever returned
Drawn by the promise of the joker and the fool
by the light of the crosses that burned.

Excelsior, Stan Lee

I realize he made it to 95, which is a damn impressive run, especially for a life as colorful as his. But I'm still heartbroken, and I have a hard time putting into words how very much the work of Stan Lee informed my childhood.

Life will be significantly less fun without him. Both my inner 12-year-old and my actual 12-year-old (Oliver) are crestfallen. This cover depiction of the mighty Ghost Rider pretty much sums up how I'm feeling.

Also, .....THIS: