Flaming Pablum

Status Report

Gilbert Gottfried was a Genius

The Photograph

Okay, here’s another kinda convoluted one.

At some point in the spring or summer of about 1997, I snapped a picture of the storefront at 35 West 19th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, which was a shop called Magickal Childe. I’ve spoken about it before, here, quite a few times, but Magickal Childe was essentially an occult emporium, selling esoteric books and black magic knickknacks for spells, rituals, ceremonies, conjurings and the like. It was the perfect gift shop for all the Aleister Crowley acolytes in your family. A lot of folks spoke about Magickal Childe in hushed, ominous tones, but I never felt any sense of dread or unease in the place. The one item I remember actively buying there was an inverted pentagram pendant because,….well… METAL!

Personally speaking, Magickal Childe, to me, always embodied that now-rarefied essence of New York City. It was this wildly niche sorta concern that catered to a very specific demographic, but was still a thriving venture, very much an “only in New York” sorta place. It was there for several years, as I remember, until it closed in 1999, in the wake of the death of its proprietor, a guy named Herman. The vacated space at 35 West 19th Street became a tapas restaurant, as reported here, named Sala in 2004 and lasted until the pandemic forced its closure in 2020. Today, the space is in transition, but there are signs in the window that say “VINYL STEAKHOUSE,” suggesting a strange amalgam of record store and steak joint. Not quite sure how that works, but I being that I like both records and red meat, I wish them all success.

In any case, back in 1997, I was genuinely fascinated with Magickal Childe, so I snapped that picture. Those with a sharp eye for detail might notice that I even appear in the photograph, reflected in a mirror in the center of the shop’s window (just underneath and slightly to the left of the gold pentagram). I had no agenda in capturing the image beyond thinking it just looked cool.

Some years went by, and I ended up posting the photograph, along with several others, on an entry on this stupid blog under the title “Things That Are Not There.” As it turns out, photographs of Magickal Childe must be few and far between, as people started to reach out to me about it. I fielded a request from one reader to sell a print of it to him. I think I just ended up sending him a copy of it free of charge. I didn’t think much of it.

Years after that, some readers might remember my laborious search for the location of a certain photograph of the Lunachicks. When I finally got in touch with the photographer, a guy named Joe Dilworth, he graciously emailed me the contact sheet with the mystery photo in it. Along with the answer to my quest, that contact sheet also boasted a shot of the Lunachicks chatting with this guy who looked strangely familiar. I swiftly deduced that the guy in question was the same kid depicted in some age-old hardcore matinee photos by Drew Carolan. I realize this is all very confusing, but bear with me. As if on cue, that kid — named Anderson Slade — bizarrely got in touch with me out of the blue on Facebook. By this point, he was no longer a little punk rock kid from Staten Island, but now an aspiring actor and filmmaker who was putting together a documentary about Magickal Childe and wanted to use my photograph. I said “sure,” and then let him know about the photo of him and the Lunachicks, which blew his mind. You can read a more detailed about that whole chapter here.

Slade’s documentary, entitled “Horrible Herman’s Warlock Shop,” was in development for quite a while, and even had some trailers posted on YouTube, but those have since been taken down and there’s no news of any release dates. Anderson Slade is also no longer on Facebook. The plot thickened.

Cut to 2022. With the wife in London for the London Book Fair, I am suddenly free to watch stuff on television that I wouldn’t normally be able to. As such, I start watching “Sons of Sam: Descent into Darkness,” a four-part documentary series on Netflix that explores one investigative reporter’s feverish quest to break the story that David “Son of Sam" Berkowitz did not act alone. Even as a sniveling ten year old during the summer of 1977, I still vividly remember the atmosphere of paranoia that gripped New York City, so have always been fascinated with the story. Here’s the trailer…

In any case, halfway through the first episode, they start discussing the uptick in fascination with the occult in the `70s, stemming from disillusionment with the hippy ideal of the late `60s. In doing so, they start showing images of Wiccan ceremonies, illustrations from the Rosicrucian secret histories of the world, Anton LaVey’s Church of Satan, Aleister Crowley and …. fleetingly … MY PHOTOGRAPH OF MAGICKAL CHILDE.

I instantly sat up from my bowl of General Tso’s chicken and hit pause. What the fuck, Netflix? I don’t remember being asked about use in any Son of Sam doc. Laughably, I suddenly felt sort of violated, but then…. given the already-established paucity of images of the exterior of Magickal Childe, outside of screenshots from the Nicholas Cage film “Vampire’s Kiss” in which the shop makes a cameo, mine seems to be the first thing that comes up in a Google image search. Being no stranger to liberally appropriating images for this blog, I shouldn’t be surprised. But still, having a rinkydink blog post a pic without due credit is one thing — use in a major feature film on Netflix is another.

I started combing through my emails, with friends' voices in my head shouting “you can SUE them!” I wasn’t really interested in any financial gain from this, I was just kind of curious how they found it and a little hurt that they didn’t see fit to ask me if they could use it.

Then I figured it out.

Chalk it up to the fog of the pandemic or the steady erosion of my short-term memory, but in July of 2020, a company called “Radical Media” apparently reached out to me to say they were putting together “a documentary series for Netflix that features a storyline about the occult presence in NYC back in the 1970s and 80s, and we wanted to feature a photograph of the occult book shop Magickal Childe. It turns our there are very few photographs easily accessible, but a photo that you took of the storefront is one that comes up and is of good quality."

Evidently, I said “sure, no problem,” and even signed a release. I did not charge them anything for the use. They asked how I’d like to be credited, and apparently I wrote “Alex S./Flaming Pablum” in the email.

I watched the first episode to the end credits. Under the “photos courtesy of…” section, neither my name nor my blog’s dumb name came up. I watched the second, third and final episodes. A credit was never mentioned. I guess my signed release absolved them of that necessity, but that still kind of bummed me out.

That petty affront notwithstanding, I still recommend “Sons of Sam.” If you’re a bona fide New Yorker and a true crime buff, it’s a fascinating series, however grim (what? you were expecting frivolity??)

I was running errands earlier this week, and found myself not far from 35 West 19th Street, so took a short detour to revisit it.

Here’s how it looks today.

It's Still Here

Don’t be lulled into a false sense of security just because mask mandates have been relaxed.

This morning, my son Oliver — far and away the most careful and COVID-conscious member of our family — woke up feeling off, so he took a test and came up positive. Just to be sure, he took a second test, which also came up positive. Despite being fully vaccinated and boosted and still diligent about staying masked indoors, etc., he has contracted COVID. Oh joy. 

Mercifully, my wife and daughter are away in London (and hopefully staying safe and responsible), so it’s just Oliver and I here at home. Thus far, I’m still testing negative.

This isn’t over.

Pressure Drop

It’s been a weird couple of weeks. Work is crazier than it has ever been, and I seem to be losing valuable and beloved colleagues left, right and center. I’m hanging in there, but I don’t remember the last time my calendar was this overwhelming. I’m not complaining, per se — well, I guess I actually am — but it’s a struggle, at the moment.

On other fronts, we’re wrangling with the college-selection process for my daughter (as alluded on these posts) and, on another front, I’ve been plagued by a strange bout of some mysterious malady. I won’t get into it here, just yet, but suffice to say, I’m experiencing something that, thus far, has my primary care physician kinda stumped. That’s not a happy place to be, my friends. In all candor, I'm kinda really stressed out about it. 

In any case, I had a few moments this evening, so I thought I’d check in here. I was saddened to read, earlier this week, that Flaming Pablum-favorite Jon Spencer has evidently officially pulled the plug on the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. The reports were vague, but I gather it has something to do with the apparently failing health of guitarist Judah Bauer. I actually accosted Judah on the street, a couple of years back. I spotted him on the somewhat iconic corner of Thompson and Broome and asked him if he’d be interested in contributing a testimonial to the book I was vainly trying to put together, at the time, about Blues Explosion comrades, Cop Shoot Cop (if you’re curious about what happened to that project, click here). Judah stared at me with a strange glaze to his gaze and gave me a weird response that didn’t really make any sense. I shook his hand and found his grip limp and clammy to the touch. The man was clearly not at all well. I watched him wander strangely out of sight up Thompson street.

If you’re unfamiliar about the greatness of the Blues Explosion, here's an ample reminder of their prowess.

Meanwhile, Jon Spencer is now playing with The Hitmakers (featuring someone from Quasi and Bob Goddamn Bert of Pussy Galore, Sonic Youth, Bewitched, Chrome Cranks, and the mighty Lydia Lunch Retrovirus), who took a trip back in time to revisit a chestnut from Jon’s original combustive band, Pussy Galore. Check that shit out here.

Two Years

Hey there, all. Sorry for the relative slowdown, but it’s been crazy busy on the work front. I promise to have more inane crap for you to bitch about here soon.

That all said, I was struck today by something when I glanced at my calendar. This coming Saturday, it will be two years to the day my office, my wife’s office and both my kids’ schools sent us all home to work and study remotely. The advisory at my office was appended with a sort of “it’ll probably only be for, like, two weeks, tops!”

We all know what happened next, of course.

According to my phone, I took three photos on that day. One on the way to work, one of my office as I was about to exit, and then one on my way home from work … of what I thought looked like a an aptly broken planet in a garbage can.

“UNLEASH HELL, Charlotte!”

And now, another brief deviation from interminable discussions about dormant post-punk bands, lost record stores and shuttered dive bars.

Sometime back in 2018, we somehow cajoled our eldest, my daughter Charlotte (recently invoked here), to take up fencing. Much like her father, Charlotte was not normally very athletically inclined, but something about this regal, uncommon and slightly quirky sport appealed to her. I had fleetingly enjoyed a semester of it myself back in grade school, and remembered absolutely loving it. Of course, having been weaned on a steady diet of comic books, Frank Frazetta paintings and “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons,” I was swiftly enamored of anything that involved carrying a sword and wearing a helmet. For Charlotte, however, I wasn’t sure what convinced her to join her school’s team, but join she did.

At first, it felt like a complete lark for her, and whenever the topic was invoked, she downplayed her abilities and swiftly changed the subject. But she stuck with it. Gradually, she spoke about it with growing confidence and, dare I say it, a bit of pride.

While I’ve absolutely never been a proponent of sports or athletics of any kind (my entire school experience was basically one long war of mutual antipathy with the jock contingent), I was positively thrilled that not only had she joined the team, but that she was sticking with it. It was obviously a great extracurricular and an enticing flourish to add to her budding college resume, but beyond those benefits, I was elated that she’d taken the plunge and joined something well out of her comfort zone. She made several new friends, had really come into her own and had grown to actually really enjoy competing.

Of course, as with so many aspects of our lives, COVID-19 came down the pike and shut a lot of shit down. Charlotte's school put the fencing program on ice, obviously, for a little while (although, when you think about it, fencing is kind of the ultimate pandemic-ready activity, given that you’re wearing a mask and basically trying to keep your opponent at least six feet away from you at all times), and when they did bring it back, it was basically just built around practice.

Cut off from face-to-face competition, Charlotte’s affinity for fencing started to wane, a little bit. As expected, certain colleges started expressing interest in her fencing acumen, and she was gradually going back to downplaying it, uncertain if she was going to continue with the sport after high school.

Mercifully, the meets came back, and she re-found her sea legs behind her trusty epee. I was excited to see that spark return. She was no longer talking about the drudgery of the practices or the inconvenience of carting her fencing gear around. She looked forward to the meets. She even went to meets involving younger classmates just to show her support. She was proud to be a member of the team.

Through all of this, I was rarely treated with the opportunity to see my daughter compete in real time. Her meets were frequently during working hours and on the opposite side of the island from my office. Moreover, I’m not sure Char was genuinely enthused to have her dopey parents show up to watch her fence. I finally got to see her last “home” meet several weeks back and was completely blown away by the poise, grace and steely determination my little girl demonstrated when she donned that gear and stepped onto the strip to face her opponents. I was, and remain, so unspeakably proud of her.

Surreally, yesterday was Charlotte’s final day of fencing for her high school. Her team competed in the ISFL Team Championships, held up at Hackley School in Tarrytown. In this idyllic setting (imagine the set of “Dead Poet’s Society”), Char’s squad went up against several New York City and Westchester school teams. The wife and I hitched a ride with another set of parents and spent the day watching our daughters tangle for the title.

Similar to my experiences watching Oliver play soccer and rugby, watching my daughter go up against formidable fencers from schools like Riverdale and Horace Mann (those girls are killers) was just a bizarre experience. Who was this fierce lady and what had she done with my doe-eyed little girl? I could never see myself doing this stuff. I was again struck with an overwhelming sense of pride that I can’t even put into words.

While my fellow fencing dads stood next to me shouting things like “Let’s Go,” “Be Aggressive and “You Got This,” my tenaciously juvenile inclination to yell “SHOW NO MERCY,” “UNLEASH HELL” and “DEMONSTRATE THE HORRIBLE WRATH OF THE STEEL” seemed a bit ill-advised.

It was a long day filled with genuine thrills and spills. Certain matches were somewhat perfunctory, while others spilled over with actual drama. Over on the boys’ side of the massive hall, feverish grunting and gloaty primal screaming for each palpable hit seemed like the order of the day (so much for fencing still being “gentlemanly”). By contrast, the girls were decidedly more reserved. That said, there were still tense moments. I watched my wife flinch with every pointed stab doled out with ruthless efficiency against my daughter by a particularly proficient member of the afore-cited Horace Mann team. Char has a few red marks to remind of that confrontation.

In the end, Charlotte’s team took second place. Pardon me for being (more) insufferable (than usual) for a moment, bu when she was presented with her medal, I positively beamed.

Status Report

The Mask Makes the Man

This might seem like a poorly timed post, given that the indoor mask mandates have been largely lifted around New York City, but the point still remains.

I have a deliberately annoying-but-tenacious habit of trying to impose my will on certain friends by questioning their masculinity when they fail to agree to whatever stupid plan I’m proposing, usually to the tune of: “Let’s go get beers – a man would say “YES!””

I say it *BECAUSE* it’s a stupid thing to say. I’m being *KNOWINGLY* idiotic when I do it. Anyone who alludes to what “real men” do or do not do when striving to make a point is wading into a sickly bath of hopeless misogyny and antiquated thinking. For comedic purposes with certain friends, however, I think it’s fine, because, to my mind, it’s so obviously goddamn ridiculous. It's abundantly clear that I’m not being serious.

That all said, it should go well without saying that not everybody thinks the same way I do (and this is entirely true for a wide and varied host of diverse and divisive topics). Lots of folks take their preconceptions about what is and is not acceptable behavior indicative of their gender very seriously, and if you want to really hit one of these people where it hurts, you call them on it, I guess.

To that end, as part of the efforts of the anti-vax/science-skeptical crowd to discourage consensus and sew division around the topic of COVID-19 health protocols, they’ve coated parts of New York City in a sticker campaign. Some of the stickers are slightly more nuanced than others, but this one seemed pretty brazen, aimed squarely at a certain demographic pathetically insecure about the accepted behavioral norms of their gender.

This is the level of intellect and maturity that is impeding a meaningful management of COVID-19.

Museless

I don’t know if it’s the time of year, the 23rd month of the pandemic, the political climate or Mercury being in and out of retrograde, but I have pretty much lost my muse.

I have nothing to say.

Until I do, … enjoy this photograph of steam escaping I took in TriBeCa last week.