Flaming Pablum

"You Put Me in the Deep Freeze!"

Cold enough for ya?

Yeah, it's still brutal out there, although I guess we here in NYC should count our blessings, as it's like the temperature of deep space in Chicago, or so I gather.

Back a week or so ago, when it was in the twenties, I posted a video on Facebook for "Coldest Day of the Year" by my beloved Cop Shoot Cop, thinking it was ... y'know ... somewhat topical. Then, of course, came yesterday, when it was three degrees, at one point. 

It's a little better today. It's in the teens, last time I checked. As such, herewith another tenuously appropriate song, albeit sort of from the other side of the "taste fence," as a friend of mine used to say.

In re-watching this, though, it occurred to me this video is essentially the VERY SAME video as "I Ran" by A Flock of Seagulls, replete with cheap effects, bad hair, pouting band shots and footage of the lead singer walking around a confusing mirror maze with eerie robot girls. Both songs were released in 1982. 

Coincidence? 

Bundle up, campers.

Foetus Day

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

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

Happy birthday.

Desktop Dump

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This one is pretty self-explanatory. 

 

Farewell to The Half King

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pour one out. 

One More Chelsea Mourning

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back ... Again ... to Crosby Street

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

Click on it to enlarge. 

Youthful Indiscretions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cut to …. 2019.

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

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

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

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

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

Hats Off to the Highline

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

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

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

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

'WDUB 91.1 FM in Granville ... We Don't Suck!'

Herewith a a post that is bound to be somewhat strenuously niche.

It should probably come as no surprise that I was one of those annoying kids that hosted a college radio show. Given the one-two punch of my penchant for insufferable pedantry in the music-trivia department and my veritable “face made for radio,” it was a perfect fit, as far as I was concerned. I’d spend hours that, in hindsight, would have been better devoted to studying plotting out my playlists, painstakingly curating a trio of two-hour shifts a week on WDUB, 91.1 FM in Granville, Ohio for a comparably diminutive listening audience that was blithely disinterested in my selections on a good day. In a nutshell, despite my best, emphatic efforts to introduce WDUB’s listeners to the joys of bands like Kraut, The March Violets and The Screaming Blue Messiahs, they were otherwise perfectly content with the brazenly steady diet of The Allman Brothers, Little Feat and the Grateful Goddamn Dead that most of my fellow WDUB disc-jockeys dutifully doled out. Envelope-pushing was not really a priority at “The Doobie.”

Regardless, I really didn’t care about what WDUB played when I wasn’t on it. For me, the whole experience was ultimately just about self-indulgence. Given free rein to lord my musical tastes over an anaemic sliver of Central Ohio’s Licking County, I often went out of my way to make the transitions from preceding shifts as jarring as possible, segueing from an umpteenth airing of Don McLean’s laborious warhorse, “American Pie” and straight into something like “Kill Surf City” by the Jesus & Mary Chain or “Sweat Loaf” by the Butthole Surfers. Anything it took to antagonize Denison’s robust demographic of ersatz-hippies was the order of my show, and I reveled in it.

I spun records and blabbed into the microphone at WDUB -- whose tagline for the last two years I was on it, was the somewhat ignominious “We Don’t Suck!” — for three of my four years, but did not, in the end, pursue a career in broadcasting afterwards. At no point during my time at WDUB did the consideration of “going pro” cross my mind. I harbored no desire to go into commercial radio which, as far as I could tell, bore absolutely zero resemblance to the free-form, anything-goes realm of college radio. Apart from some brief stints backing up my high school pal Rob B. on his show at Fordham University’s WFUV, I haven’t set foot in a radio studio since.

Fast forward three decades….

In rummaging around in my mom’s basement over Thanksgiving, I came across a clutch of cassettes filled with recordings of my shows on WDUB. Dating back to 1988, these tapes hadn’t seen the insides of a player since shortly after they were recorded by this kid who lived down the hall from me during my junior year. I decided to exhume them from the dank wilderness of Mom’s basement, despite no longer having a device on which to play them.

Earlier this week, I bought myself an audio converter for the purposes of making digital files out of them to host here on my stupid blog. After setting everything up, I cracked open the first tape and started the process, re-living the show as I converted it.

Suffice to say, it wasn’t a revelation so much as an exercise in acute embarrassment. A morning show captured in the early spring, this tape finds what would have been the 19-year-old me speedily slurring through my announcements in between tracks by somewhat predictable bands like The Cure, The Mission, The Lords of the New Church, The Plimsouls, The Cult, Pop Will Eat Itself, The Feelies and several others.

I cannot vouch for the fidelity and, given the age of this tape, proceedings do sort of wobble and drag at certain points, finding certain songs practically changing key. This is only one show — I evidently have several others to plough through. As a period-specific document of a certain time and place, it’s amusing.

If you care, please avail yourselves…. ADDENDUM: Might not work with Safari, but try Firefox.

WDUB Morning Show - First Part

WDUB Morning Show - Second Part

 

Fuck You, Dry January

I mean, let’s face it, January sucks, no matter how you slice it. Between it being long, dark and cold and the comedown from the ostensibly festive holiday season, one can’t help but enter into it with some semblance of dread and despair. This, of course, comes coupled for many with a sense of guilt and obligation, whether it’s because of the resolve to honor one’s New Year’s resolutions or simply to detoxify via the self-imposed exile from boozeville that is so-called “Dry January.”

In past years, I’ve endeavored to accomplish the DryJan challenge, as routinely mentioned on my year-end surveys and at great length here last year. Last time around, as I said, I was knocked off the horse early by the arrival of the colorfully named winter weather event, the Bomb Cyclone. That’s just an excuse, of course. Had it not been the Bomb Cyclone, I’m sure I would have concocted some other reason. In short order, it was beery business as usual.

This year, however, it felt less like a whim or nagging twinge of guilt and more like a necessity. December had proven to be a robust month of imbibing, what with a preponderance of holiday events to attend. After weeks of office Christmas parties, a wedding and a few other booze-laden social engagements, we repaired to my brother-in-law’s place out in Pennsylvania for Boxing Day. I was pretty much handed an open beer when I stepped out the car at 2:00 pm, and that kept going until well into the evening. By New Year’s Eve, I was beyond determined to undertake a Dry January. Hell, I was positively looking forward to it.

I wasn’t getting sloppy-shitty, blacking out, slurring my words, starting fights with strangers or anything, but the burly intake of beer was becoming routine, and my tolerance was ascending sharply. Between the probable weight-gain, the conceivable strain on my liver (although my friend Keith keeps reminding me: THAT’S WHAT YOUR LIVER IS FOR, DAMMIT!) and, frankly, the expenditure -– I felt it was high time to flex my long-dormant will power, dry my system out and save some money… the latter reason reinforced by the arrival of some beefy post-Christmas Amex bills.

For no readily apparent reason, however I decided to augment the swearing-off of beer with two other stipulations. I would go without my iPod (yep, I still use an iPod … and you can go fuck yourself if you find that funny), as I’d been noticing a shrill uptick in the tinnitus that has been screaming in my right ear since 1999. Being that it’s been suggested that alcohol-consumption heightens the ring (along with salt, sugar and pretty much anything else that makes life worth living … like, say, oxygen and sex), I figured I should give my ears a break as well as my liver. A steadily stentorian diet of IDLES, Daughters and, strangely, The Upper Crust for much of December certainly weren’t doing them favors.

The third prong of my resolution was fairly simple: Take the stairs. Not at the office, mind you, but at home. It’s not a big deal, but I figured walking up and down the five flights would be a good habit to get into. To be honest, my building is fairly squat, and you’re on the second floor before it even hits you and while you’ve digested that information, you’re practically on the fourth floor. But hey, … couldn’t hurt, right? Regular readers might remember my running campaign from a few years back. Recurring knee problems forced me to abandon that, but I figure walking up and down stairs is something I should be able to regularly tackle.

Anyway, that was going to be my January – thirty-one days marked by sobriety, silence and strength.

Honestly, the toughest of the three directives to honor has been the stairs. It’s not that I’m lazy or that I find ascending those five flights too challenging, but rather that I just forget. I walk into my lobby, and muscle memory almost takes over. I check my mail and boom, next thing I know I’ve pushed the button and gotten on the elevator. There have been times when I have actually gone back downstairs and repaired to the stairwell to complete my mission, but I’m just finding it hard to remember to do it.

Swearing off my iPod has been less complicated, although I threw that particular towel in today. In the ten days without wearing earbuds, I’ve noticed the ring minimally rise and fall in its ceaseless pitch, but not necessarily as the direct result of anything I’ve been doing – as far as I can tell, at least. This morning, I was just bored, so I slipped them back in and scored the latter half of my commute with some vintage New Order at a reasonable volume. No one is hurt by this.

In terms of the beer? Last night, after a bone-chilling walk home from the bottom of TrBeCa to the heart of the Village, I reconsidered my decisions. Yeah, I was able to turn it off for ten days, and can completely keep going, but why am I punishing myself? It’s not like someone’s going to hand me a fucking medal at the end of the month. I’m sick of drinking seltzer and tea in the evenings. I sprang for a six of Sapporo and indulged.

And with that, yes, I’ve technically failed Dry January again. I may go back to it this evening, but it almost doesn’t “count” now, not that anyone’s keeping score.

Weigh in, readers …. How are you fairing with your resolutions?