Flaming Pablum

Searching for George

I got a text from my filmmaker friend Drew, earlier today, invoking a name I’d not heard in a long time — Ugly George.

For those who may be unfamiliar with that distinctive name, Ugly George was a somewhat notorious New York City figure from the late 70’s. As mentioned on this ancient post, George was one of an elite, forward-thinking cadre of televisual pioneers who took to the burgeoning frontier of public access television with singularly prurient zeal. Alongside similarly inclined folks like Screw Magazine’s Al Goldstein and erstwhile porn actress Robyn Byrd, Ugly George hosted his own, late-night cable show on public access that pushed any number of envelopes and buttons. But where Al Goldstein basically used his show — “Midnight Blue” — as potty-mouthed bully pulpit for his disgruntled-consumer invective (in between clips of grainy porn and escort-service ads), and Byrd used hers as a somewhat numbingly repetitive vehicle for self-promotion, Ugly George had a gimmick all his own, and despite his inarguable disregard for taste, decorum and decent human conduct, his endeavors did indeed make for genuinely compelling viewing.

George’s particular shtick involved the man roving the streets of the city looking for inexplicably obliging women (he referred to them as “goils”) to “interview.” It should be noted that Ugly George dressed in a frankly ridiculous and disarmingly revealing silver get-up that one would be very hard-pressed to describe as “flattering” (hence the man’s moniker), augmented by weighty video-capturing equipment (that technology still in its toddlerdom) that made him look like a kind of portly, priapic cosmonaut.

Once George lured in a willing subject, he would then invite them to a nearby alley, secluded courtyard or vacant vestibule and somehow convince them to voluntarily strip on camera (among….umm…. other things), all the while luridly narrating for his viewers (whom he referred to as “students”) the progress of his pursuit. I imagine it was designed to be titillating, but even if you were understandably revolted by George’s antics, witnessing his strenuously unlikely powers of persuasion was pretty fascinating.

Astonishingly, Ugly George kept it up for a very long time. As a kid, I do remember seeing him on the streets every now and then (suffice to say, he was hard to miss). Beyond the audacity of his venture, Ugly George was no small-risk taker, loaded down with clunky video equipment strapped to his back, making him something of a vulnerable target when he fell afoul of a vexed boyfriend or self-appointed moral vigilante. I vividly remember local news reports about George getting the crap beaten out of him on a few occasions, which I suppose was an occupational hazard.

After a while, Ugly George seemed to fall off the radar, his name reduced to a sleazy footnote from a bygone era of a less salubrious New York City. I remember Al Goldstein going through a series of financial tribulations before passing away from a kidney disorder in 2013, and I believe Robyn Byrd is still out there somewhere (she once accosted me, circa 1986, at the Tower Records on West 66th Street, brandishing a copy of the Beastie Boys’ License to Ill and asking me if she should buy it, to which I said “yes”), but I never heard what became of Ugly George.

Prompted, presumably, by this same thought, my friend Drew texted me out of the blue this morning to see if I might know how to get in touch with him. Now, why Drew thought I might know how to reach his Ugliness momentarily begged several questions (what sort of company must he think I keep?), until he explained that he thought Ugly George would make for a great documentary. I concurred and said I’d reach out to another contact of mine, erstwhile Screw Magazine illustrator Danny Hellman (who once gamely sold me an original illustration of Cop Shoot Cop and Iggy Pop) to see if he might have any leads.

As it happened, however, while I was waiting to hear back from Danny (who, regrettably, never crossed paths with Ugly George), Drew got back in touch with me to say that someone had done an Ugly George doc. We were both deflated by this discovery. I remember feeling similar when I learned, right before meeting with a literary agent, that someone had beaten me to the punch with a book about idiosyncratic singer/songwriter and former Modern Lovers leader Jonathan Richman only a year earlier. These things happen.

In any case, in the event that the above description has piqued your curiosity or gotten you all hot and bothered, … you can view that documentary (sadly unembeddable) by clicking right here.  

Salt in The Streets

In 16 years of composing this silly blog, when I’ve been searching for evidence of some great, lost aspect of the Manhattan of my youth, I’ve periodically found interesting fodder in the short, experimental films made by NYU Tisch students. For all their arty pretensions and aspirations of insightful cinematic depth, they frequently come steeped in the visual trappings of the era.

I wasn’t really searching for anything when I happened upon this one, but it’s worth a viewing all the same. Filmed in 1987, directed by one Jason Rosette and shot all over Manhattan,“Salt” is an absurdist short about one man’s delusional quest, that starts on Cooper Square, just across from that squat little Cooper Union building that was later replaced by that space station.

Check it out.

Back ... Reluctantly ... To The Korova Milk Bar

Of all the posts I’ve put up here over the last 16 years, pretty much the last one I’d have ever expected to strike a chord with anyone was one I did in 2015 based on the discovery of a fridge magnet advertising a blink-&-you’d-have-missed-it East Village bar from the 2000’s called the Korova Milk Bar.

A strenuously fatigued concept even before its shoddy execution, Avenue A’s deservedly short-lived Korova Milk Bar, as lamented in that post, was an acutely contrived homage to Kubrick’s “A Clockwork Orange,” taking depressingly obvious and hackneyed cues from the ultraviolent, dystopian cult classic in a dim attempt to appeal to self-styled punky patrons who may fancied themselves iconoclastic cinephiles. It was a fairly shallow endeavor.

Regardless of my dismissive portrayal of the Korova Milk Bar, an outlet called Mashed just linked to it for a report on — oddly — “Stranger Things” actor David Harbour’s episode, below, of First We Feast’s “Hot Ones” with Sean Evans (a web series I must confess to loving), wherein Harbour inexplicably cites the bar in question as one he misses from his youth. There's no accounting for taste, I guess. 

Should you care, read it here.

Fifteen years after it closed, the space that was the Korova Milk Bar is now an animal hospital. 

Thanks for EV Grieve for calling all to my attention.

Back to "The Wonder City"

Filmed only 20 years prior to my birth. 

Catching Up with Squeaky

At some point in the now astonishingly distant early `90s, I was frequently to be found hanging out with a particular cabal of similarly inclined cats from the East Village, most prominently among them a guy named Dean Rispler. Ostensibly, Dean Rispler was the erstwhile boyfriend of my friend Joanne, who I’d met a few years earlier through my writer/musician/roadie friend Steve. But Dean and Joanne had broken up, and Joanne was seeing my friend Rob B. Testament to his big-hearted and congenial nature, Dean wasn’t phased by that, and was still a member of this particular social circle, one that frequently involved drinking a lot and going to see a host of live music all around the Lower East Side. Dean was also shuffling through and working with a number of bands, at the time, including luminaries like The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black (for whom Dean payed bass), Murphy’s Law (ditto), a combo called The Brought-Low and later The Dictators. Beyond all that, he was also a sought-after producer. So, yeah, he was a versatile guy.

At some point, Dean decided to form another band that I’ve discussed here a number of times called The Hot Corn Girls (probably last invoked here). Named after turn-of-the-century Irish prostitutes who sold snackable ears of corn by day and murdered their johns by night, The HCG featured Dean on drums, my friend Joanne on bass and sometimes vocals, a hilarious guy named Bob on vocals and guitar and then a second guitar player named, somewhat enigmatically, Squeaky. They recorded an album called Look at My Bum, and an additional 7”, both released on the evocatively named Stingy Banana records and festooned with suitably pervy cover art by noted photographer Richard Kern (who I also wrote about here, not too long back).

The Hot Corn Girls were absolutely hilarious, and I remember seeing them play at, I believe, The Pyramid and then again at Under Acme. Along the way, I got to know this guy Squeaky better. A somewhat eccentric character with an encyclopedic knowledge of arcane cult cinema, Japanese pop culture and super-obscure punk rock, Squeaky also played in a dizzying host of bands, most notable among them being The Chimpanzees. They’re almost worth a post in themselves.

In any case, while Squeaky was inarguably somewhat left-of-center, he was always entertaining company. I remember asking Dean why people called him Squeaky. Apparently, it was a nickname someone had coined for him as he suffered from Tourette’s Syndrome, and was allegedly prone to periodically making high-pitched, squeaking sounds (although, to this day, I’ve never heard him do so). I immediately felt that was rather pointedly insensitive, but Squeaky never seemed to be bothered by it.

Time passed. The Hot Corn Girls broke up. Joanne and Rob B. got married and moved away, only to later divorce. Steve became a roadie for SWANS, then a guitar player for Motherhood Bug, joined Cop Shoot Cop for two albums and then moved to Texas to become a lawyer. Dean kept on producing and recording and playing in more bands than you can possibly keep up with. In no time at all, that little circle of East Village friends fell out of touch.

I kept up with Dean on social media and, through that, also befriended Squeaky there (real name, Dave Wilentz). Since those days, Dave delved further into his passion for unconventional film, making a completely respectable career out of it, while also still being his lovably eccentric, super-knowledgable self. Imagine my surprise, then, that the Killed By Desk podcast, who I’ve spoken rapturously about here and here, set their sights on Dave for one of their in-depth interview/profiles. True to form, both of the hosts have similarly convoluted backstories involving. Dave “Squeaky” Wilentz, which — evidently — just goes with the Squeaky territory. 

In any case, it's entirely illuminating and equally hilarious. 

Check out here and tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.

Colonoscopocalypse Now!

For whatever reason, I have always been a procrastinator. I’m not proud of it, but I am aware of it. I am routinely more than happy to put off `til tomorrow that which would be more prudent to tackle today. This dates back to my grade-school years and is arguably rooted in any number of intricate emotional quandaries, if the studies are to be believed. While I’d usually get around to completing assignments and studying for looming exams prior to the proverbial 11th hour, too often I was wasting precious time that could have been more constructively spent.

In ensuing years, my penchant for procrastination has been largely kept in check by my bug-eyed preoccupation with staying gainfully employed. Lose your job a few times, like I have, and you’ll get there, too, although that means an excessive amount of worrying that usually outweighs the likelihood of the unceremonious dismissal I’m dreading. So, while I’m invariably “over-concerned” about impending deadlines and their ensuing demands, I’m less likely to procrastinate in terms of executing the particulars.

This is not at all the case, however, in terms of looking after my health. My approach to that, up until recently, has been a fairly irresponsible one that only involves regular check ups, check-ins and office visits when absolutely necessary. Don’t fix what ain’t broke, amiright?

Yeah, well, that’s not right.

They say that once you cross the Rubicon of your 50th year, you need to have a few things checked out. Probably the most notorious of those things involves having a colonoscopy. For the uninitiated, that’s an endoscopic examination of the labyrinthian interiors of your butt with a fiber-optic tube. No, that's not a shot of it above. That's a still from 1979's "The Black Hole." I couldn't resist. In terms of colonoscopies, don’t do a Google image search for those, …you will not enjoy what you find.

Ultimately, it’s not really a big deal. The procedure itself, I gather, takes only minutes, and better they should find something when it’s actionable than when it’s too late, right? 

I’m now 53. I should have had this particular task taken care of three years ago (although more recently they’re saying you should do it at 45). But I didn’t. I chalked it up to being too busy at work (true, but still) or never finding the right time to do it, which is also kinda bullshit. The real reasons are more about trepidation and procrastination.

The prep for the procedure — inarguably the worst part — involves chugalugging two bottles of weapons-grade laxatives over the course of the day before. This means you’re going to want to stay home and stay close to the porcelain, so to speak, for what I can only imagine is a robust afternoon of … well, you know.

In all honesty, I did have every intention of getting this done last year, but then, of course, the pandemic arrived and took a big dump — pardon the strenuously unfortunate pun — over all of those plans.

Once the smoke started to clear on COVID-19 (although I wouldn’t quite count on it being done and dusted just yet), I went back to my primary-care doc and bit the bullet, making an appointment for a colonoscopy at long last.

The timing needed to be strategic. Last weekend, we drove my son Oliver up to Vermont to go back to the camp he had to miss last year. You might remember a series of drama-drenched posts about his first visit to the place. On Sunday, we put my daughter Charlotte on a bus to her grandmother’s out to the East End of Long Island. With both teens now out of the house, I can focus on the health-positive-albeit-insalubrious mission ahead.

Today is prep day. I had a light breakfast and one cup of coffee. Come 1pm, I am relegated to only “clear liquids.” At 4pm, I crack open the first bottle of the stuff. I’ll spare you the details of what I expect will transpire after that.

The procedure itself is tomorrow morning at 9am. Maybe not a “full report,” but expect any pertinent news later that day.

Back to GG's Last Day ... 28 Years Later

I never went to see GG Allin. My friend Rob B. and I came dangerously close to going when he played the Space at Chase on Third Avenue, but demurred at the last minute. Had we actually gone, we stood the chance of being preserved for posterity on celluloid, as said performance was famously captured in Todd Philips’ documentary, “Hated.” Also, had we gone, we stood the chance of being physically assaulted by the star attraction and/or pelted with fistfuls of GG’s own freshly produced excrement, so you can possibly see why we didn’t go.

I don’t know if he went to the Space at Chase show, but my friend Aaron did go see GG (….and the Murder Junkies …mustn’t forget them) when they played what would be GG’s final-ever show at the fabled Gas Station on Avenue B. I’ve invoked that show several times here before (most recently here, I suppose). Video of the event appears on YouTube with regularity, only to be shortly pulled down for any number of reasons, usually involving nudity, violence and overall depravity.

As recently as this past November, however, someone re-uploaded the footage, and it’s probably the cleanest and sharpest version of proceedings I’ve seen, … not that anyone really needs to see GG Allin in high-definition, mind you.

Once again, the live experience fleetingly provided by GG Allin & The Murder Junkies is assuredly not for everyone, but this footage remains time-capsule-worthy as a telling glimpse of the East Village circa 1993, when the order of the day was significantly less genteel and brunch-centric than it is today.

Today, of course, the Gas Station is long, long gone, its footprint now occupied by an antiseptic Duane Reade. Later on in the day captured here on video, GG Allin would die rather unceremoniously of a heroin overdose.

ADDENDUM: A testament to the clarity of this particular iteration of the video, I'm only now noticing that one of the sycophants hanging around GG in the wake of the abortive performance is none other than the mysterious Squid, who I recently discussed here. 

This all happened 28 years ago today.

You’ve been warned. Enjoy.

What's In The Box?

So, just to close the circle on this, here is the rest of the story….

In the wake of learning that a UPS package with my name on it had mysteriously shown up at my former address 19 years after I’d moved out, I was understandably intrigued. New occupant Carl mentioned that he’d shoot me an email after he’d left it downstairs for me to pick up. All day, however, from the banal to the bizarre, I was bewildered by what the explanation could be.

My first guess was that it was the next phase of an eBay scam I’d somehow gotten ensnared in. A month or so back, I started receiving strange, small UPS packages that were obviously not actually meant for me. Containing these plastic shoelace-protector things for sneakers, at least nine or ten of these parcels showed up with my name and current address on them, all from different eBay buyers, and all seemingly intended as “goods returned to sender.” I believe it’s technically called a “brushing” scheme, and it’s sort of disturbing. After a while, though, they stopped arriving. I still have them all in a box in my front closet, uncertain what to do with them. But upon first hearing about the mystery package on East 12th Street, I became concerned that the problem might be spreading to my old address. So, yeah, that was my first thought.

Sticking with the eBay theme, though, I also harbored the notion that the package may be some long-errant item I’d won on the auction platform that had been languishing in limbo this whole time, finally reaching its appointed destination. Maybe it was a vintage Stranglers poster or a rare Bad Brains 7”. This, by far, was the option I was hoping for the most.

Thinking even further afield, however, my next concept was that it was something more personal, potentially from someone I’d have fallen out of regular contact with prior to moving in 2002. My mind entertained wild notions of it being a box full of personal effects from a far-flung, estranged relative or a bag of ancient mixtapes from a disgruntled ex-girlfriend or a neatly-packed and meticulously counted bundle of 100-dollar bills in tight plastic bands or, y’know, a severed head. The possibilities on this thread were maddeningly endless.

Carl emailed me again early Monday afternoon to say that the package was with the doorman. I left my office downtown around 5:30pm and went to go solve the mystery.

With my brain now spinning the scenario into a fanciful hybrid of “Paddle to the Sea” and the denouement of “Star Trek: The Motion Picture” (wherein robotic interstellar probe, Voyager Six, returns from the hollow vacuum of a black hole in deep space to reconvene with its creator), I walked into my old lobby to retrieve my fateful package. I didn’t recognize the doorman on duty, but having not lived there for almost two decades, that was not entirely surprising. “Hi, I’m Alex,” I said, "I’m picking up a package that was left for me by Carl on the third floor?” I pictured the doorman reaching under his desk to reveal a weathered, battle-faded parcel, pockmarked by age and festooned with stickers from various ports of call like the pages of a secret agent's passport. I imagined it being covered in dust with barely-discernible handwriting scrawled across it.

Instead, he handed me a thin, flat UPS mailer that very assuredly did not date back to 2002. Sure enough, my name and former address were on it, with the return address being simply the “mail room” of some fulfillment center in West Virginia. I thanked the doorman and took off.

Reeling from a combination of incredulity, confusion and, frankly, disappointment, I opened the cardboard envelope when I got back out onto East 12th Street to reveal its contents ….

…concert tickets for DEVO’s September show at Radio City Music Hall.

As expected, the explanation is somewhat strenuously anticlimactic. On June 11th, tickets went on sale for this show at the very same venue I first saw DEVO in 1981. I immediately purchased a pair of tickets via the site featured on Facebook — that being Ticketmaster. Evidently, I have not used my Ticketmaster account since 2002, when I lived on East 12th Street, so upon completion of the transaction, Ticketmaster sent my tickets to the only address it has for me. No scams. No rare Bad Brains single. No clandestine box of cryptic ephemera. No wads of cash. No severed head.

I came home and put the UPS mailer with my tickets in it on my bureau and told my wife the ridiculous news.

Later that night, she accidentally threw that UPS mailer out.

My son Oliver intrepidly fished the mailer out of the bowels of the trash in the basement this morning, averting further hysteria.

Move along. Nothing further to see here.

'Put Blood In The Music'

If you're a fan of the band, you may have already heard about this documentary, Charles Atlas' "Put Blood in the Music," which is a profile of the New York music scene circa 1989, concentrating on John Zorn and Sonic Youth. You have to wade through about two minutes of needless extrapolation from "The South Bank Show," but the doc itself is well worth your time. 

Enjoy. 

Oliver Takes On Time Travel

My son Oliver is 15 years old. As recently mentioned in this post, now that both my children are well into their teens, I am generally less inclined to feature and refer to them as much as I might have done when they were littler. They have their own interests, likes, dislikes, identities and lives, and I try to respect their privacy. That all said, Oliver recently put together a video for a school project, and while, granted, I am incredibly biased, I think it’s pretty spectacular.

Peculiarly tasked with crafting a project about time travel, Oliver was able to utilize his passion for stop-motion animation. Here are the fruits of his labors. Be warned: While the recurring theme of grisly patricide might give one pause, “The Grandfather Paradox” is indeed a genuine example of doomy, paradoxical theories about the potentially damaging travails of time travel.

Please enjoy.