Flaming Pablum

Let's Go Get 86'd

Regarding a certain news story of the day, it should be pointed out that to "86" someone just means "get rid of" or "kick out." The term originates, funnily enough, right here in downtown NYC. Beer enthusiasts of a certain stripe might remember age-old West Village watering hole Chumley's, which was a delightful speak-easy that dated back to the 1920's (don't look for it today, it collapsed and then went through a noxious bespoke makeover, because people suck). If you were ever perceived to be over-served or simply making an ass of yourself at Chumely's, you were forcibly shown the door. That door was 86 Bedford Street. GET IT? It is NOT an allusion to any sort of nefarious foul play.

In fact, here I am with my fellow former TIME Magazine News Desk comrade, Mitch circa 1994 or so, within the walls of Chumley's. While not quite yet making asses of ourselves in this picture, the pair of us were almost certifiably over-served here, so we were invariably within behavioral proximity of a warranted 86'ing.

Beatle on Bank Street

Hey all. Again, please pardon for the relative slowdown in posting, but life’s just a bit busy, these days. My kids return from college very soon, so we’re getting ready for that. Work is typically crazy. I’ll have another brain-busting update on the fucked-up feet front, soon, after I take my dreaded NCV test …. ahem, “Nerve Conduction Velocity” … next week. So, y’know … get excited for that.

But real quick, I spotted the below two items recently, and figured I should share them.

I’ve posted several entries, over the years (see below), speculating about what John Lennon loved most about living in New York. I mean, obviously, what’s not to love, especially if you’re living in the fuckin’ Dakota, but what specifically did he love? Did he have a favorite pizzeria? Did he go to gigs at CBGB? What’d he get up to here?

I’ve gotten a little bit of that picture, but I came across the video below, put together by Strange History X, that delves into John and Yoko’s relatively brief tenure living in the West Village, specifically on Bank Street. Here’s the blurb:

Step into the world of John Lennon as we explore his life in New York City’s legendary Greenwich Village. From the vibrant streets to the bohemian spirit, discover how this iconic neighborhood shaped the former Beatle’s creative and personal journey in the 1970s. We’ll dive into the stories behind his move to the Village, his time with Yoko Ono, and the eclectic energy that fueled his music and activism. Imagine the Village through Lennon’s eyes—peace, love, and rock ‘n’ roll await!

Enjoy…

Speaking of the West Village, I read a wholly dispiriting (but not especially surprising) piece in New York Magazine’s The Cut about how – in the wake of the one-two punch of “Sex & The City” and fuckin’ COVID-19, the very same West Village depicted in the video above is now little more than the stomping ground of a nation of matcha-sipping “influencer” girls. Make of that what you will and click here to read more.

More on the Lennons in Flaming Pablum...

Where was John's Manhattan? 

Mudd Club `79: Beatle Meets Misfit, Puke Ensues

Bleecker Bob’s Beatle Boast to Bauhaus Bassist

Finding Lennon’s Manhattan

Lennon on Punk

Revisiting “One Down, Three to Go”

Oh Yoko

The Walrus Goes to Hell’s Kitchen

Elvis Has Left The Building

Like many others, I adored the Great Jones Cafe, a funky little hole in the wall on Great Jones Street that served up amazing Cajun cuisine in a cool, relaxed, bohemian atmosphere. It wasn't at all out of question to be enjoying a meal or several beverages within its intimate walls and have, say, Willem Dafoe or Laurie Anderson or Matt Dillon walk in, or to be seated next to the full membership of The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black or The Unband. The place just oozed character.

I snapped the picture above of same circa 1999. It closed in 2018, to much hue and cry, only to be replaced by ventures named Jolene and, well, Elvis. I'd never heard this story, as hipped to me by E.V. Grieve, but The New Yorker just posted an amazing article about the Great Jones Cafe's legendary Elvis bust. Read it here.

Last Call for Alcohol?

I’m trying to put an exact date on it, but it strikes me that the first time I started complaining about my feet, here, was back in 2022. Out of the proverbial blue, I’d started experiencing weird sensations in my left foot. It wasn’t painful, but for some reason, my foot just wasn’t falling quite the same way. Something was off, although I was hard-pressed to find a clear way to describe it. A chiropractor I was consulting, at the time, prescribed some ineffective (but very expensive) insoles that did nothing to alleviate the issue.

Shortly after that, as detailed in this post, I stated experiencing regular sensations of blood rushing in my feet. It wasn’t tingling or soreness or stiffness (not yet at least), and – again – it wasn’t painful, but it was different and weird. A vascular doctor took a look and deduced that I had the “veins of a teenager,” so I should probably seek the counsel of a podiatrist.

By this point, I’d been feeling palpable discomfort in my feet, and my then-new podiatrist’s recommendation of using another pair of insoles also came with no positive results. I was then diagnosed with “avascular necrosis,” replete with the assertion that I had evidently broken a small bone in my foot without knowing it. This was followed by the directive to wear a heavy “Lo Cam” boot for five weeks, two summers back. That, too, did nothing to really alleviate any issues.

I ended up ditching that first podiatrist, as I never felt like he was taking me very seriously. In the interim, to combat the discomfort, I started wearing cushioned Hokas, which I, of course, bitched and moaned about here. Regardless, I continue to wear them pretty much exclusively.

After several months of wearing the Hokas, the discomfort I’d been regularly feeling in the arch of my left foot seemed to stop, but now my feet were stiff and … well … numb. And not just the left one (i.e the “problem foot”), but the right one as well.

I spoke with my primary care physician about it, and he had some vague theories, but sent me to a different podiatrist.

I liked this second podiatrist – let’s call him Dr. Doolittle -- much better. He put aside the notion of “avascular necrosis,” suggesting that while that did indeed show up on few of those earlier tests, it had likely dissipated on its own. What I was experiencing now was something different.

His idea was that it’s a neuroma, which is basically a tumor caused by an inflamed nerve. He gave my left foot an injection (some kind of mild steroid) and told me to add a vitamin B complex to my daily regimen. I did as I was instructed.

I honestly can’t say if that injection made a difference. Time went on, and my feet – both of them – continued to feel regularly stiff and numb, especially in the mornings. More months went by, and I went back to my primary care physician.

Dr. K finally spoke definitively on the subject, suggesting that what I had was “peripheral neuropathy.” Lots of things can cause and/or exacerbate this condition, and one of the biggest of these is – yes, wait for it – alcohol.

Now, Dr. K has long been a proponent of me cutting down on the beer, and while we humor each other about it, this particular exchange seemed pretty serious. On this, I decided to schedule another appointment with podiatrist Doolittle.

Doolittle wasn’t immediately sold on the neuropathy assertion, suggesting that neuromas can sometimes present as neuropathy, although the fact that I’m experiencing it in both feet does seem pretty damning. Doolittle gave me another pair of injections – one in each, and added a anti-inflammatory pill to my regular regimen, for two weeks, and also told me to start taking Vitamin E, as well. I said I’d comply and that I’d swing on back to see him the second week of March.

Since then, I’m very sad to say that the injections, the anti-inflammatory pills and the added dosages of vitamins B and E (to say nothing about the regular consumption of water and bananas) haven’t really made any discernible difference. I’ve drastically cut down on my beer intake (but not fully … just yet). I’m exploring the universe of disappointment that is non-alcoholic beer, wearing compression socks and doing my damned best to be a good boy, but I’m not feeling any relief. But then, if I’m correct, the nerve damage wrought by neuropathy – if that’s what this is – is likely permanent.

I’m going to stay the course, for now, as all signs seem to point to peripheral neuropathy, which means adjusting my diet, my habits and, of course, removing any and all alcohol. Goodbye beer forever?

If I don’t, neuropathy is evidently a progressive condition, so I’d be running the very real risk of it spreading, and I really don’t want to entertain that notion.

I go back and see Dr. Doolittle in about three and a half weeks. We shall see.

Happy Thanksgiving from Flaming Pablum!

Reheated Pablum: Updates on Some Past Posts

I thought I’d take a moment to aggregate some updates regarding stuff I’ve written about here before. Here we go…

Some of you might remember this post from 2023, which documented the quiet closing of Miyabi, the frankly not-that-amazing Japanese restaurant that moved into Bleecker Bob’s former space at 118 West Third Street following the slow demise of that storied record shop in 2013. Well, after another period of dormancy – during which time the neighboring business to the west morphed from a dubious foot-rub/happy-ending joint into a frozen yogurt purveyor – it seems 118 is getting ready for a new tenant … one that involves, evidently, a “hibachi lab.” See the interior above.

Back in 2013, meanwhile, I wrote an entry about See/Hear, the furtive hive of zine culture, music-geek literature and underground comics that formerly held count in a basement-level space on East 7th Street. As you can see from the comments on that post, the mere invocation of the shop touched a nerve, for a lot of people. Well, for those folks, I’d like to highlight a new, comparatively exhaustive oral history that was just posted on Animal about the place that really goes into its back-history. Check that out here.

Lastly, some of you might remember a series of posts from 2017 wherein I became preoccupied with identifying a certain Manhattan corner upon which the fabled Misfits had once posed for a series of photos that had become relatively iconic (well, for Misfits fans, at least).

As detailed in those posts, I stalked the streets of Lower Manhattan trying to pinpoint the exact spot. At the same time, I reached out to the photographer, one Roxanne Lowit, to see if she could provide the answer, or at least some clues. Her assistant got back to me with some vague intel about where the location might be, and – in turn – I asked if I might reproduce some her photos for my posts. Unfortunately, the response was an emphatic NO, I could not. I got around that by linking to other sites who’d posted them, including photos of Lowit’s images on various bootleg singles and via some illustrations by my daughter, who was about 12 years old at the time. Here’s one of those illustrations now. This is Charlotte's interpretation of the print-out I'm holding in the shot above. 

Initially, I was surprised that Lowit – who’d gone on to do many, many other higher profile projects and is now a celebrated fashion photographer -- should have given that much of a damn that some rinkydink little blog like mine wanted to host her pics, but hey, I do understand. That’s her goddamn work. Those images are no one else’s. Respect is due.

Cut to 2024, and someone has evidently convinced Lowit to revisit her evening in the company of Jerry Only, Glen Danzig, Bobby Steele and Joey Image by way of a new photo book called, “We Walk the Streets at Night.” Documenting the full shoot wherein Lowit led the Lodi, New Jersey quartet around the then desolate streets of the West Village (the corner in question, incidentally, was West 11th at Washington Street), the book is frustratingly spare on details (not even a preamble from the photographer). Moreover, the images themselves are presented in their original form as blown-up slides. It’s a nice effect, I suppose, but I would have liked to see some of the pictures in a larger format – and with a bit of anecdotal augmentation, although if you’re curious as to the doings of the Misfits during that era, I would recommend the excellent book,“This Music Leaves Stains” by James Green Jr.

If you’re curious about “We Walk the Streets at Night,” meanwhile, you can pick a copy up at Generation Records on Thompson Street. Tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.

Back from La Belle France

Two entirely unrelated posts later, yes, I am indeed back from France.

Ostensibly, my wife and I were there as a surprise for my sister-in-law’s 25th wedding anniversary. Her husband – my brother-in-law – invited us along, which was sincerely nice of him. We did one night in Paris, then took a train to Provence to stay in a ridiculously picturesque town in the Luberon valley outside of Avignon called Gordes (pronounced, I believe, like “gourds”). We stayed there for a few days, then zipped back to Paris for one more night and then flew back to NYC.

Unlike my otherwise usual rituals when visiting foreign places, I didn’t really get to go to any record shops or music venues. It was pretty much my brother-in-law’s party, so largely just went along with the program.

At the very least, I ate and drank like a marauding Visigoth (my brother-in-law is something of a “wine guy,” so I periodically strayed from my beloved beer). I’m now paying for it.

Notes from The Flown Coop

I hate to keep apologizing for the slowdown here, as I’m sure most of you probably wouldn’t even notice it if not for me tirelessly pointing it out. There are a couple of possible causes for this.

For whatever reason, I’ve been experiencing a tenacious torpor ever since we dropped our son off at school. It’s a tremendous cliché to suggest that I’ve been stricken by the aforementioned “Empty Nest Syndrome,” but whether it’s that or seasonal affective disorder or that I’ve unwitting ditched my muse or that I’ve simply started to lose my edge --- or all of the above, somehow I seem to have depleted my supply of the idiotic bullshit that passes for “content” here which normally flows out of me like needlessly verbose sewage.

I do have one kind of labor-intensive post in the works, but if I had a dollar for each idea I’ve hatched then summarily abandoned, in the last couple of weeks, I could probably buy us all a nice lunch. I had a post prompted by an exchange in the comments section of Tribeca Citizen about the dispiriting proliferation of cannabis dispensaries in lower Manhattan, but figured that’s more my own grievance than anyone else’s. I had another pointed one about grill-ordering etiquette in Manhattan delis, but – again – that’s all about my own pet peeves. I had a less cantankerous one that looked back at Sounds on St. Marks Place, but somehow can’t bring myself to finish it. I am not feeling especially inspired. Maybe I’m just burned out?

Compounding all this, my lovely wife left for London, last Friday, for the London Book Fair, making our empty nest that much emptier. Left to my own devices, this past rainy weekend, I did all that I could to escape the maddening quiet of our apartment. I was so bored on Sunday morning that – apropos of absolutely nothing – I decided to make a soggy pilgrimage to the Bowie mural in Jersey City. It’s impressive, yes, but in a super random (and not entirely that nice) neighborhood. Moreover, as far as I’m aware, the great man never lived here .. which begs the question … why Jersey City?

On Saturday, meanwhile, upon hearing of a brand-new record shop in Park Slope (Sterling Records on Fifth Avenue at Sterling Place), I schlepped out there to check it out. I wasn’t really looking for anything, but felt compelled to be supportive and buy something, so I bought a fridge magnet with the cover of XTC’s Drums & Wires on it, then proceeded to walk all the way home – all the way down Flatbush Avenue and over the Manhattan Bridge.

Last night, driven by a hankering for South Asian grub, I found myself in one of the few remaining Indian restaurants on East 6th Street, trying to maintain my composure in defiance of a roiling plate of Chicken Tikka that was weapons-grade spicy (a descriptor that normally does not apply to this particular dish). As my eyes and nostrils flowed like faucets, a guy behind me was steadily boring his date into a drooling stupor with Grunge-era conspiracy theories about Whitewater, the Rose Law Firm, and the late Vince Foster. Had I stepped through some sort of tear in the time/space continuum?

Anyway, I’m sure I’ll snap out of it in due course, but please be patient with me in the short term.

 

The Pastrami Remains the Same: Katz's Delicatessen Then & Now

1998:

2024:

Back from Ireland

Hi again, all. Apologies for the tardy follow-up, but there’s been a lot going on, on the home front and elsewhere, and I’ve not had the opportunity — much less the energy — to update proceedings here.

First up, drop-off of the boy (as mentioned here) was successful. With a bare minimum of hiccups, my son Oliver was effectively ensconced at his college and, after only a week in, is already having a fabulous time. As predicted, it’s quite strange to be back here at home without him, and we miss him terribly, but he’s off to a rollicking start, and we couldn’t be happier and prouder. Mission accomplished.

My daughter is also safely back at her school in Scotland after a couple of weeks of traipsing around Western Europe with her flatmates. Neither of our children get Thanksgiving off, for obvious reasons, but we’re hoping to swing back over in November to see each of them. We’ll see if we can pull that off.

In any case, now that we’ve been back and forth to Dublin a few times, by this point, I thought I’d unsolicitedly give you a dilettante’s not-at-all-comprehensive guide to the city. You’re welcome!

BEST MEAL:
As I’ve been laboriously pointing out, it’s exceptionally hard to have a bad time in Dublin — I mean, you have to really work at it. There are so many great places to eat, drink and be merry, it’s ridiculous. That all said, if I ate and drank as I did last week for the duration of a month, I’d be fucking dead. It’s not just the drinks either. I mean, the food is hearty and heavy and not exactly the healthiest of options, in most cases, but goddamn if I didn’t enjoy myself, in that capacity. But since returning last week, I’ve been trying to sharply curtail the worst of my habits to do a bit of course correcting. We’ll see if that takes.

Anyway, on our second night of this past jaunt, while we’d intended to find a brand new place to dine, we ended up repairing to a spot we’d been before, a lovely restaurant on Dawson Street in central Dublin called The Ivy. The last time we ate here, I fielded a call from my office to tell me about a sizable bonus I was about to receive and my son got an acceptance email from a school he was interested in. As such, we consider the place charmed. Nothing so dramatic happened this time, but I had a steak that was verily to die for, so to speak. I highly recommend the place.

BEST PUB:
Much like trying to determine the best pizzeria in New York City, pinpointing the “best” pub in Dublin seems like a fool’s errand. That all said, while we did belly up to the bar at any number of pubs from the celebrated to the seedy, I’d have to say that while I do love the Stag’s Head in the Temple Bar area of town (that’s me imbibing in same up top), it’s a bit on the touristy side. My personal favorite was a comparatively humble joint we happened upon on Lower Baggot Street, just a few doors up from the birthplace of Francis Bacon, called Thomas Rody Maher’s or, simply, Maher’s. It’s just a cozy, unpretentious space with lots of atmosphere and elbow room. The pints of Guinness kept coming, the vibe was convivial and the music was excellent. I’d go back in a heartbeat.

BEST FISH & CHIPS:
A standard order in that part of the world, a plate of fish & chips in Dublin is not unlike, once again, a slice of pizza in New York City. Some iterations of it are sublime, whilst others simply check the box. I partook of this aquatic delicacy quite a few times, during this last visit, but if I had to pinpoint the “best” one, I’d say it was had at a comparatively expansive seafood joint on Pembroke Street Lower called Matt The Thresher. Everything about it was absolutely perfect. In all fairness, the fish & chips I had the night before (yes, I had it for dinner two nights in a row) at The Woolen Mills, a lovely riverside restaurant off the Ha’Penny Bridge, was also exemplary. But I’m still giving it to Matt the Thresher.

BEST PLACE TO ILL-ADVISEDLY SPEND:
I got a bit carried away at the Tower Records on Dawson Street.

BEST PLACE FOR SUNDRY ITEMS FOR A NEWLY MINTED COLLEGE KID: 
We stocked up at Dunnes in the otherwise somewhat grotty Stephen’s Green Shopping Center. We were able to outfit our lad with everything from basic accessories to rudimentary culinary items. Plus, they have a great, expansive grocery section in the basement.

BEST PLACE TO STAY:
The first time we came to Dublin in 2017 or so, it was my brilliant idea (not) to rent a room over a pub in the Docklands called O’Brien’s Ferryman. Inspired by the sepia-toned video of “Pride (In the Name of Love)” by U2 — I’m so embarrassing — I assumed the Docklands would be a manageable neighborhood in which stay. Suffice to say, the Docklands had long since morphed into a lively nightlife destination since the mid-`80s. Imagine renting a room above a bustling East Village bar on a Saturday night. When the Ferryman closed, each evening, the party would simply move outside and continue for another hour or so. It became a bit of a “if you can’t beat’em, join’em” kind of scenario, which —while fun — was ultimately unsustainable.

Our more recent trips to Ireland have found us lodging at the much more respectable Stauntons on the Green, a lovely little hotel just off St. Stephen’s Green that is but a stone’s throw from several key points around central Dublin, including Grafton Street, Temple Bar, Trinity College Dublin and loads of other places. It’s a great staging point for any Dublin expedition.

BEST DISCOVERY:
As an alternative to yet another heavy pint of Guinness (ironic, in that your average pint of Guinness actually packs LESS alcohol than a pint of lager), I went with a local Dublin brew, on occasion, called Hop House that wasn’t bad, despite some skepticism from the locals.

BEST PHONE SERVICE:
The 3 network is way, way better and more flexible than Vodaphone.

BEST WAY TO GET AROUND TOWN:
I will always opt for walking, but the tram (aka “The Luas” … pronounced like “Lewis”), is quick, clean, intuitive and efficient …. and quiet. I almost got slammed from behind by one on Dawson Street, because I’m a clueless American.