I am currently halfway through Tom O’Neill’s illuminating “CHAOS: Charles Manson, The C.I.A. & The Secret History of The Sixties,” which essentially asserts — through O’Neill’s exhaustive reporting — that everything Vince Bugliosi suggested in “Helter Skelter” was a big bowl of hickory-smoked crapola. If you’re a true crime buff, it’s a really great read. I’d slavishly enjoyed “Helter Skelter” when I first read it 15 or 16 years ago, which sent me on something of a Manson kick, for a while. Two more books on the subject later (neither of any great note -- one expounding on Bugliosi’s premise and the other looking at the murders’ tenuous ties to the Beatles’ White Album), I believe my wife was starting to get concerned. I moved onto other stuff after that, but I’ve always been fascinated by the grisly story and its accompanying fallout on the American pscyche, so leapt at this book when I spotted it.
It would have been something of a tremendous leap towards the trivial, given the otherwise scrupulous nature of the book, but I was hoping that O’Neill might have reached out to Trent Reznor, who famously (and, allegedly, unwittingly) rented the star-crossed Cielo Drive address in the early 90’s, but it doesn’t get a mention. Trent might have initially not known about the house’s infamous history, but he certainly capitalized on it when he got wind of it, rechristening his home-studio set-up there as “Le Pig” (a nod to the word painted on the front door in Sharon Tate’s blood). Trent later conceded that the bad karma and iffy appropriation of the Manson mythos was too much for him after Sharon Tate’s sister accused of him exploiting her sibling’s murder, but that didn’t stop him from taking that front door as a souvenir when he left (which later served as the entrance to his Nothing Records studio in New Orleans). Trent may sheepishly downplay the whole chapter, these days, but I dusted off this clip recently, and they’re really not making any secret of it (not least by also featuring a cameo from a pre-notoriety Marilyn Manson … something ELSE Trent sheepishly downplays, these days).
Shortly after Trent moved out (again, with that front door), the Cielo Drive house was razed.
Just a quick word to evangelize the new oral history about New York’s own Lunachicks, “Fallopian Rhapsody,” penned with the aid of the mighty Jeanne Fury (a fellow rabid ILX’r from back in the day). Even if you’re not a fan of the band (and, if so,…. fuck is the matter wit’ you?), it’s yet another amazing taste of an era of New York City that — WAIT FOR IT — does not exist anymore. It's excellent -- I devoured it whole over the course of a weekend.
The concept of worth is an elusive thing. There are things out there in the world, somewhere, that probably mean next to nothing to the individuals who own them, but that I would consider positively invaluable. I’ve mentioned it several times here before, but there’s a certain elusive Cop Shoot Cop gig flyer circa 1990 at CBGB that I would gladly pay a handsome sum for, but I’ve just never been able to put my hand to it. Very recently, I came across a photograph of a lost bit of graffiti that I’ve been preoccupied with finding for literally over three decades, but when I asked the photographer’s representative how much a print of same might cost, the answer was in the thousands (translation: ain’t gonna happen). Why would someone pay handsomely for an old gig flyer? Why would someone pay for a photograph of old graffiti? Why ask why? Why do you like and pursue the things you do?
Then, of course, there are things that I happen to possess and don’t give a great deal of thought to that have gone on to become arguably valuable. I have a couple of books about No Wave and paperback copy of “The Stranglers Song by Song” (as mentioned here) that have gone out of print and strangely since become evidently rarified and summarily pricey artifacts. I have stacks of compact discs that might have been worth more than I’d originally paid for them, but the bottom has basically fallen out of that particular market.
Then there are things that may have once been entirely incidental that have ascended in perceived value to such an extent that they’re now shown in fuckin’ museums and prestigious collections. That will never cease to amaze me.
Another example of that revealed itself to me today when I stumbled upon the website of Gallery98. As I was perusing through their collection of party notices, gig flyers and nightclub invites, I noticed they featured a few of the distinctive cards for GREENDOORNYC. For the uninitiated, GREENDOORNYC was this series of regular parties, back in the mid-to-late 90s, in the East Village and Lower East Side thrown by Jesse Malin of D Generation. Originally, they were held at a variety of different locations until finally coalescing at the space on St. Marks Place that Malin would later commandeer as Coney Island High. These events were well-attended and raucous gatherings of East Village rock’n’roll types and went on for hours on end. I was lucky enough to go on three or four occasions, and always had a damn good time.
As such, I have a number of these silly cards, usually depicting period-specific antiheroes like Stiv Bator, Johnny Thunders, KISS, Iggy Pop, Alice Cooper, Debbie Harry and the like. They formerly adorned my fridge on East 12th street or were pinned up to any number of bulletin boards at any of the several different jobs I’ve had since that era as mementos of my misspent semi-youth. They now live in a selection of battered envelopes of ephemera hastily amassed when I was leaving any one of those afore-cited jobs. They’re no longer pinned up and displayed, but I still have them, buried in the closet.
As a lark, I reached out to Gallery98 to inquire as to how much these cheaply printed and thinly produced scraps of cardboard are currently selling for.
Apparently, they’re currently selling for $100…. EACH!
Once I gleaned that the original site of the elusive Plasmatics mural from my distant memory was the tellingly-titled Graffiti Hall of Fame on 106th & Park Avenue (this discovery coming courtesy of an uncredited photo on “Graffiti Database”), I started to wonder if I could find any other — and/or preferably better — photographs of the art in question, but tireless Google searches were giving me nothing further on the subject. I mean, Hell, I was lucky to find that first photo to begin with.
Branching my search out further, however, I noticed that there is a very robust subculture of reverent graffiti-centric publishing. As such, when I spotted a fetching, paperback coffee-table book on Amazon that was exclusively dedicated to the very spot where the original mural was, I figured there was a sporting chance it would include another shot of it. And even if it didn’t, I was intrigued enough by the story of the place and its accompanying images that it would be cool to own. Tweny-something bucks later, it was mine. It arrived today.
Much to my delight, fourteen pages into the book comes a beautiful wide shot of the wall in question that was obviously snapped at least a year or two earlier, as the artwork is still vibrantly colorful and unsullied by other tags. This photo was taken by maverick shutterbug Martha Cooper. I remain mystified as to why these artists chose to immortalize the Plasmatics in this manner, but, again, perhaps they were just simply fans.
As a lark, I have reached out to Ms. Cooper to see if she’s consider selling me a print of the photo. We’ll see.
Incidentally, you can check out more of Cooper's amazing work on her Instagram page. Tell'em Flaming Pablum sent ya.
Hey all. Pardon the relatively prolonged silence, but it’s been one of those weeks wherein I feel like I’m being swallowed whole by a work project. I have some cooler, longer stuff in the works to post here, but that’ll have to wait for a bit. In the short term, though, I wanted to pass on a few things.
I did a number of posts about the Plasmatics here over the course of the last few months, which – in the grand scheme of things – is a bit odd, considering they’ve been dormant since the dawn of the 90s, much less since Wendy O. Williams passed away in 1998. In any case, the estimable Please Kill Me website just posted a lengthy and meaty piece on the band, featuring interviews with guitarists Wes Beech and Richie Stotts (above) and they touch on many great anecdotes from the band’s heyday. Should you care, it’s worth checking out.
Next up, you may remember a couple of posts I put up about singer/songwriter Amy Rigby, whose book “Girl to City” was a real favorite of mine last year. I got to interview Amy during the height of the pandemic, last year, and she and I have since become pals on social media, which is fun. Recently, someone posted a recording of her No Wave band, The Stare Kits, recorded live in 1979 at Tier 3 over on West Broadway. You can hear Amy bashing away on the drums. It’s very cool. Go check it out here.
Lastly, some of you might remember a few posts I devoted to John Lurie, some years back. In a nuthsell, on a couple of occaisions, I posted about the man, his music and his story, and then he, in turn, weighed in. We had a bit of a dialogue going, for a while. Since those days, he released more music under his alter-ego, Marvin Pontiac, and debuted a new series on HBO called “Painting with John.” The latest news is that he has a long-promised memoir about to come out called "The History of Bones." If, like myself, you’re eager to read that, click here for more info.
I have something of a long history of harping on about music biopics (summary: THEY SUCK), but -- in all candor -- in the wake of "D.O.A.," "The Punk Rock Movie," "The Great Rock N' Roll Swindle," Alex Cox's "Sid & Nancy" and Julien Temple's "The Filth & The Fury" -- to say nothing about Lydon's multiple memoirs, Jon Savage's "England's Dreaming," Legs McNeil & Gillian McCain's "Please Kill Me," John Robb's "Punk Rock: An Oral History," Steve Jones' "Lonely Boy" and Glen Matlock's "I Was a Teenage Sex Pistol" (and this is just a select smattering of media -- there has also been a pile of TV documentaries) ... is there any actual *NEED* for a biopic on the Sex Pistols?
I mean, even a cursory listen to the gratuitous cash-in that was Some Product: Carri On Sex Pistols tells you pretty much everything you could ever really need to know.
BOTTOM LINE: Want to learn about the Sex Pistols? Get ahold of a copy of Never Mind The Bollocks, listen to it and GET ON WITH YOUR LIFE!!
When you think of New York City in the late 70’s, a lot of musical names probably spring to me: The New York Dolls, The Ramones, Debbie Harry, Patti Smith, Richard Hell, Lou Reed, The Dead Boys but … Hall & Oates? Probably not.
Now, as far as I’m concerned, while they’ve never been especially “edgy,” Hall & Oates are pretty unimpeachable. Sure, you may listen to none-blacker-than variants of metal or super-esoteric indie or wildly forward-thinking electronic music or deep, underground hip-hop or WHATEVER, but if you can’t appreciate the finer moments of Hall & Oates’ august catalog of rock, pop and soul, there’s probably something wrong with you. Just as I said about Rush some time ago, Hall & Oates may never have been hip or cool, but for what they do, they are untouchable.
So, imagine my surprise, this morning, upon spying a new interview on Legs McNeil’s Please Kill Me website with John Oates, talking about his formative days in New York City, braving the Downtown scene with Daryl Hall, opening for Lou Reed, checking out the New York Dolls at the Mercer Arts Center and Television at CBGB. Hell, John even played in a part-time band with Pat Place from the Bush Tetras. WHO THE HELL KNEW?
I’ve probably spun this yarn here before, but the first time I ever saw Life in a Blender was at some point in the mid-80s. They were incongruously playing the Museum Mile festival on Fifth Avenue on the Upper East Side (my home turf, at the time), bringing a little Downtown weirdness to the otherwise staid uptown environs. Squeezed between mimes dressed as medieval harlequins and hammered-dulcimer players with ill-considered facial hair, here was this little rock combo playing strange songs about a host of different subjects (ditties later released on their debut LP, 1988’s Welcome To The Jelly Days). I was pretty much immediately hooked.
For any band whose foundation is steeped in a comedic approach, the albatross of predictable descriptors forever hangs heavily on their collective neck. Rarely will one read an invocation of Life in a Blender without encountering adjectives like “bizarre,” “quirky,” “oddball,” “witty,” “wry,” “satirical,” “skewed” and probably one or two “wacky” and “zany” mentions, if you dig deep enough. Sure, all those words have applied to Life in a Blender, at various points over the years, not least for lead singer/songwriter Don Rauf’s unconventional lyrical tangents, emphatic vocal style and penchant for surreal prop use (my particular favorite being a disembodied sheep’s head puppet named “Rugged Rick”). But to reduce Life in a Blender to merely a “funny” band is a brazen disservice to their finely honed musical chops, their stylistic adventurousness, their wide-ranging field of genuinely emotive songs and their sprawling discography. It may have started off as a gag, but Life in a Blender has evolved into a band that is a versatile force to be reckoned with, if you’re willing to swear off the diet of the insipidly slackjawed soma that currently passes itself off as contemporary pop music.
While I cannot remember the last time he and I were actually in the same room together (although I suspect it was at one of those dusty WFUV record fairs in Chelsea somewhere, wherein we were displaying our respectively idiotic spoils), Don and I have been friends for a while, so when I learned about Life in a Blender’s newest album, the ambitious Satsuma, a lavishly concocted labor of literary love fueled by booze, boredom and books (more about that below) — I figured the time was nigh to add Don to the roster of ignominy that also plagues RB Korbet of Even Worse, Chris Egan of Missing Foundation, Big Paul Ferguson of Killing Joke, Erik Norse Sanko of Skeleton Key and one or two unlucky others. I’m talking, of course, about the Flaming Pablum Interview. Much to his impending regret, Don said yes.
Here’s how it all went down.
Satsuma is something of a departure from Life In a Blender’s normal routine — what prompted the conceptual detour?
It was all a cascading waterfall of circumstances and we were standing directly under it! I had been writing songs for a project called the Bushwick Book Club, in which founder Susan Hwang forces artsts to write songs based on literary works. So the Blenders (Mark Lerner, Rebecca Weiner Tompkins, Dave Moody, Al Houghton, Ken Meyer, and I) had worked up versions of these songs-- “Vacancy for a Bluebird” based on Kurt Vonnegut’s "Man Without a Country," “Soul Deliverer” based on Tea Obreht’s "The Tiger’s Wife," “The Ocean Is a Black and Rolling Tongue” based on Jonathan Ames’s "You Were Never Really Here," “A Party in the Drunken Forest” based on Peter Wohlleben’s "The Hidden Life of Trees" and “Freak of Nature with a Lonely Heart” based on Dean Haspiel’s comic "The Red Hook." Check them out here.
So we had this unique batch of songs plus one just pure original tune. We might have done more but then the pandemic hit. We might have done a full album but here we were with six great basic tracks and we all said, “Fuck you, Universe. We’ll just make an EP.” Still it’s close to 30 minutes, and if you play it twice, it’s really about an hour long. Then, with all this time in solitary confinement, we decided to make the whole physical package more interesting—We all agreed that the most important thing was that it be abnormally tall for a CD…and so it is. We also feature some bang-up recipes for cocktails based on the songs, and there’s fantastic original art inspired by each song – by James Williamson, Gideon Kendall, Carla Rozman, Nancy Howell, Sky Pape, and Pete Friedrich. We wanted people to have something more than just jewel case and flimsy CD that most artists just poop out in the middle of their sleep.
How did the COVID-19 pandemic inform the recording process?
We started recording before the pandemic and fortunately we had a lot of the major parts in the can. I think we all know what “in the can” means, don’t we? Well it means it was all quite satisfying. One of the main things was –we had gotten all the hornplayers in the can. So there we were….basic tracks done… Al Houghton stark naked..and all Hell broke loose with the virus….and people foaming at the mouth. We were suddenly all turned upside down and torn apart. We were sequestered, banging on our little Zoom windows, and yelling, “For godsakes, what do we do?” So we took our six songs and added overdubs from afar.
Physical editions come with a lavishly illustrated book of cocktail recipes. How did that come about?
Goddammit! It was the virus! We were all running out of oxygen and we knew alcohol was the only answer. So we asked our favorite boozophiles if they wouldn’t mind concocting cocktail recipes insipred by the songs. So Henry Tenney, Bill Tipper, Deb Masocsi and Jason Boyd, Ambrosia Parsely, Franz Teeltlebaum, and Justin Lane Briggs from Barbes all came up with spectacular cocktails, which are all surprisingly healthy and almost potable.
We also know so many great artists. They each made an original piece of art (although I think Peter Friedrich may have just torn a page out of an old Boy’s Life magazine) and if you look at the art while listening to the song, it’s really like living inside your own personal Music Television video.
Where do you stand on the ongoing debate between streaming and the physical manifestations of recorded music?
Streaming on all levels is a horrible situation for musicians. What do the artists get from it? The pay rate is absolutely abysmal. In days of old, we saved our money and bought the music and the musician actually made money that was at least equitable. I feel like there must be some other model that would be more fair. Really the only game in town is Spotify. Our friend Chris Butler of the Waitresses gets so many plays from “Christmas Wrapping” and “I Know What Boys Like,” but he can tell you it adds up to “nanopennies.” We need to storm the castle with pitchforks and piñatas. Daniel Ek has become a billionaire off of the creative sweat of musicians. The movement asking for at least a penny per stream seems...a step in the right direction. I am twisting Father Time’s arm and saying, “Take Us Back!’ I want pay telephones, vinyl records, calling in to my message machine to find out who might have called, plastering band flyers with wheat paste on to poles, and advertising live shows by printing up and mailing postcards and sending small teams of jockeys into the night with megaphones saying, “ Show! Show tonight! Come and see the live music show tonight!”
How do you listen to your favorite music?
I stream everything I like for exactly .0000003 cents. The vibrations of today’s latest hits are coming through the tree roots if you put your ear down low. I buy the digital downloads and often the CD or vinyl album. There are still a good number of independent record stores in Seattle –so it’s great to go out, and then go in and support them—Sonic Boom, Easy Street, Silver Platters, Fat Cat Records, to name a few.
When was the last time Life in a Blender played in front of a live audience?
We played January 18, 2020 at Rockwood. It’s a great space with a great sound system and the staff is a group of super nice professionals who know how to repeatedly take a kick in the balls. I think Rockwood is accustomed to having bands play there that have a style of music that the great Josh Ozersky called “glummo.” So I think we’re the proverbial snowball down the back of the shorts. They all appreciate the difference and the up-with-people message we bring.
How do you feel about the concept of returning to the live music scenario?
It’s going to be like swimming in lava. Everyone is going to be severely burned and naked. But they will also be a bit cautious as more clubs open because they’re not all certain about the vaccines and the assholes and how safe everything really is. I can picture a performer who tiptoes out in front of a live audience being more reserved. Is Iggy Pop going to sling his torso into the crowd the second clubs reopen? I’m not so sure. And I feel the same way. So….. I think it will be great to get back on stage gingerly!
You’re originally from Poughkeepsie but started the band in Brooklyn, but you live in Seattle, now, right? How often do you regularly convene with the band?
I’ve been lucky to head back to New York a lot. I am a freelance health writer and can do that from anywhere. So I am thankful for that although, you may look at me and say, “Honestly, how can YOU write about health? I mean, look at the condition you’re in.” I can turn my back on the siren call of Poughkeepsie for only so long, and then I must arch my eyebrows and stretch my arms Eastward and give into the irresistible pull. And, again, I think you know what I mean by “irresistible pull.”
I first saw you guys performing in the mid-80’s at a Museum Mile festival in Manhattan. Do you have any memory of that gig? What were your favorite venues to play when you were starting out?
It’s true we somehow managed to play outside along Fifth Avenue for that festival. I think someone from Museum Mile spotted us when we busked in Central Park. Those were fun events because you expose yourself to such a variety of people. And yes, some people don’t enjoy hearing strange musicians exposing themselves, but several passersby would get into what we’re doing. I think it’s always worth putting yourself out there in ways that are not usual.
But of course we played the New York clubs and they were great and many in the 80s. Our home bar and venue was really McGovern’s on Spring Street and I’m still great friends with Steve McGovern (really Greenberg). Steve just let you run wild all night and do whatever you liked. So it was an ideal venue to try out all and everything. (Steve’s quote: “You want to know how to make a small fortune in the music club business? Start with a large fortune.”)
The next best and possibly equal club was CBGBs. Before we ever played there, I was intimidated. Every major artist played there—Television, Talking Heads, Ramones, Blondie, Dead Boys—and the place looked scary! But Hilly was salt of the Earth, with his big slow bass voice, and the staff were all the best, best people. I am still a friend of Alison Aguiar who was a waitress there. And one day I hope that she will think of me as her friend.
On top of those two venues...I did really love all these: Lone Star, Danceteria, Ritz, Tramps, Lauterbach’s (way out in Brooklyn when there really weren’t any clubs), the Blue Rose (up by Columbnia University). I think Brownies was later but I have major love for Brownies.
At the Blue Rose, the owner was a largish woman who looked like Divine. She had dark hair beehived high atop her head. At the end of the bar was a storage alcove, and the bar owner stored her elderly mother there. Her mother was bed-ridden so the Divine-like bartender set up what looked like a bedroom in the alcove. So when you had a drink at the Blue Rose bar, you’d look down to the end and it almost looked like a diorama or a scene from a museum—there was this old woman lying in bed in a set-up that looked like a cozy bedroom—but inches away from her was all the hooting and drinking and loud music of a dark and—at the times—smokey dive bar. Another great club was Siberia half way down the steps to the subway at 50th and Broadway. There’s a pretty great documentary on the place here . That place was a trip.
Satsuma is your 10th album. When you first started the band, did you expect that you would still be recording this many years later?
The personnel has changed but not in eons. We have probably all been together at least 25 years now.… I can’t stop doing this and I’m glad they don’t have the willpower to stop either. I have been so lucky to play with these super humans, who are just amazingly talented and warm, no matter how or where you touch them or how they look. Sincerely, I am so thankful. I can’t ask for a better, more rewarding creative experience. Everything about the Blender is truly incredible. I know we’re not THE most famous band in the world but having the ability to create with people you don’t dislike and perform in front of people who are unlikely to be violently angry is fantastic. Today, when we wake up and say, “We haven’t wet the bed,” we consider that a major victory.
In 2007, you released what I consider to be one of the finest lamentations about gentrification, that being “What Happened to Smith”? Towards the end of the song, the protagonist (you, I assume) wearily resigns himself to “waiting it out by the Gowanus” and opting for the “stench of the canal” over suffering the changes to the rest of the neighborhood. Since that record was released, Gowanus itself has been “discovered” and colonized, for lack of a better term. Do you ever go back to Brooklyn, these days? What are you feelings about it now?
That song could have just as easily been called “What happened to Alex Smith?” Now the song doesn’t quite work because the Gowanus has been all dolled up and doused with perfume—the perfume of young money! At the same time that Gowanus is getting shined up, Smith may be convlusing and unsure of itself. I know, even pre-pandemic, Smith had seemed to be passing its prime. Retail rents had soared so high that shops were going dark right and left. Then the chain of brand-name drug stores and the top-name apparel shops move in. But may rents dip and the social clubs reopen and everyone be sitting in beach chairs in front of their buildings again.
If/when Life In a Blender returns to the stage in the wake of the pandemic, will Rugged Rick be joining you?
I don’t think Rugged Rick will ever read this, so I think it’s safe to say Rugged Rick is an asshole. I suppose Rugged Rick would think the pandemic is the best thing ever—you know, fewer humans is a concept that Rick would support, but it does seem horribly heartless right now to even say that. What I’m trying to say is, I’m afraid Rick will be back and ready to shout at us all and tell what complete dopes we all are.
I’ve written about my fandom for the great Julian Cope here a few times (notably here, here and most recently here). An unparalleled songwriter with a knack for seamless pop perfection and drooling rock abandon, Cope cannily straddled both worlds before ripping up the rule book and following his own eclectic muse. Ever since, his musical outpourings have been more erratic and prone to wild tangents of arguably esoteric experimentation. But while his stuff may not always be for everyone, he is assuredly never dull.
The only reason I’m bringing him up again today is because someone just recently uploaded his documentary from 2000, “The Modern Antiquarian.” Based on his sprawling tome of the same name that was published in 1998, this film finds Julian driving around his native Great Britain to explore and expound upon sacred sites of prehistoric significance. While that might sound impenetrably heady, Julian does it all with his signature brand of insouciant cool. As excited by megalithic minutia as he is by a galvanizing record by The MC5, Julian makes the subject come alive. It’s both highly illuminating and frequently hilarious.
Enjoy while you can. Go buy as many Julian Cope albums as can be had.
I have to confesse that prior to “Pretend It’s a City,” Martin Scorsese’s extended love letter to Fran Lebowitz, I had never really given the writer/humorist/raccounteur a great deal of thought. To my mind, she was just one of those storied Gothamites like Tom Wolfe or George Plimpton; literary figures I was aware of, but had never fully invested in, given the generational divides between us. Her curmudgeonly sensibilities seemed akin to fellow dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker Woody Allen, albeit with a bit more urbane sophistication. What little I’d read of hers, I’d certainly enjoyed, but never gave it much more thought beyond that.
Here in 2021, thanks for Scorsese’s series on Netflix, Fran is unwittingly experiencing something of a rennaissance, having gained a whole new audience for her wry asides and acerbic observations. While she remains pointedly not for everybody (an old colleague of mine from TIME Magazinewrote a bit of a screed about her in the New York Times), I have to say that my admiration for her had quadrupled. Not only do I completely relate to her Manhattan-centric worldview, I find her completely hilarious. I think most of her detractors, like my friend from TIME, seem to take her just a bit too seriously and literally. This isn’t to say that I think Fran secretely does have an internet connection in her home – I’m sure she doesn’t -- but rather that I think she amplifies some of her diatribes for comedic effect. You, of course, may beg to differ.
One aspect of Fran’s life that had never even occurred to me was her fandom for the New York Dolls, which Scorsese fleetingly touched upon in the series. I wish they’d expounded further on that subject. I know she was a fan of Max’s Kansas City, but did Fran ever go to the Bowery in later years to check out CBGB? Did she ever get into Television or the Ramones? Hard to picture that.
In any case, if you’re still gagging for a fix after finishing “Pretend It’s a City,” Fran spoke with Kara Swisher for the New York Times’ “Sway Podcast” earlier today. Check it out here.
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