Flaming Pablum

Soundgarden on 54th

It’s always odd when you stumble across videos of events you attended. I find them hard to objectively watch, as I get too distracted trying to maybe spot myself in the background. It’s silly, really.

In any case, someone posted the video below on Facebook, yesterday, and I felt compelled to share it here -– not so you can help me spot myself in the crowd footage, but that given this blog’s usual themes, it checks all the right boxes.

This is a snippet of Soundgarden playing at the New Ritz in 1990. Actually, by then, it had dropped the “New” and was just going by Ritz, but everybody still made that distinction (the original Ritz being, of course, on East 11th Street). Also on this bill came Faith No More and Voivod. Shortly before this gig, my friend Brent and I had seen their other NYC stop on this tour at L’Amour in Brooklyn (as recounted on this old post). When the tour rolled into the New Ritz -– then newly housed in the comparatively expansive former Studio 54 space, we -– of course -– showed up again. This is a slice of that evening.

The Ritz at 54th Street closed at some point in the mid-90’s. I sadly cannot recall the final show I attended there, although it might have been GBH with a reunited Kraut opening.

Anyway, since this video, this iteration of the Ritz became a host of different things and is now a Broadway theatre. Chris Cornell of Soundgarden tragically took his own life in 2017.

Here they were, though, alive and well in 1990.

Yorkville Is Dead

As much as I slavishly devote most of my Manhattan-centric posts to largely downtown doings, as I have pointed out repeatedly, over the years, I actually spent a sizable amount of my life living uptown on the Upper East Side. It’s not a fact that wins me any cool points, for whatever that’s worth, but facts remain facts, even in this perilous era wherein the truth is essentially endangered.

Anyway, from about 1984 to about 1996, I lived in the far-flung, easterly region of the U.E.S. known as Yorkville, perched in a building on the northerly side of East 86th Street between York Avenue and East End Avenue. My roots in this neighborhood, however, actually date back much further, as my grandparents had lived in a building on the same strip in the early 1970s. As such, I spent a large swathe of my toddlerdom in the quiet, leafy confines of Carl Schurz Park (above) on the eastern edge of that part of the island.

A comparatively sleepy enclave, in those days, Yorkville initially seemed like a neighborhood well apart from the hustle of the avenues to its west. I still vividly remember regularly taking the crosstown bus across 86th Street, as a very small child, with my family to go visit my grandparents. I recall a long-since-vanished restaurant on the south side of the street, between Second and Third Avenues called the Bavarian Inn (Yorkville having been a thriving epicenter of New York City's German community for decades, at the time). As the bus would pass by it, I would peer out the window and try to spot the curious signage above its entrance, which featured a strange little man in lederhosen posing -- as one does, I suppose -- with a giant beer and what looked like a goat (see above ... thanks, internet!) I always loved that.

After my grandparents finally forsook the elderly-hostile environs of New York City for Florida, I wouldn’t set foot that deep into Yorkville again until my mother and step-father got divorced in 1984. My mom and I moved out of our then-spot in Carnegie Hill -– also on the Upper East Side -- to the afore-cited new apartment between York and East End Avenues.

I still remember leaving the former for the last time, going to high school -- I would have been starting my junior year, I believe –- and then walking to the new apartment, for the first time, after my last class. For some reason, I recall listening to “Mean Street” by Van Halen on my Walkman as I approached what was to become my new local street corner. Yeah, as if. At its worst, this idyllic little patch of Yorkville was hardly what anyone would consider an urban badlands.

That all said, as laboriously described in this post (one of my favorites), I did manage to encounter an actual bit of trouble, finding myself at odds with members -– or at least satellite supporters of -– an infamous gaggle of neighborhood toughs then mistakenly referred to as The 84th Street Gang. Recently, a former member of that actual organization thoughtfully wrote in to discuss that post, taking the opportunity to inform me that they were actually the 84th Street Bombers. As many kids from that neighborhood –- and surrounding Upper East Side -- can still attest, they were assuredly no joke.

In any case, as mentioned in that earlier post, I somehow managed to elude said gang and got on with my life in Yorkville. At the time, I invariably decried the neighborhood as being too sleepy and “characterless” (not at all true) and routinely lamented having to cross multiple avenue blocks just to make it to the 6 Train to take me to more interesting parts of town. Youthful indignation aside, however, life could have been significantly much worse.

I finally left Yorkville and its surrounding Upper East Side in 1996, repairing to a great studio apartment in Greenwich Village. I’m relatively certain that when I left, I waved goodbye to that idyllic urban backwater with two emphatic middle fingers, and proceeded on with life. In reality, though, I’d grown accustomed, attached and downright fond of Yorkville, quietly assuming it would always remain as I left it, virtually preserved in amber. Untouchable.

As it turned out, however, this was not to be the case.

I was largely spared the upheaval it unleashed on my former turf, but the finishing construction of the long-promised Second Avenue subway line ushered in a new era for Yorkville. While it rendered Second Avenue itself unrecognizable for a long period of years and made life exceptionally difficult for many longstanding small businesses on same, most greeted the arrival of the Second Avenue line as an overdue relief, easing the crowds on the 6 Line two avenues to its west and allowing for comparatively swifter transit between the upper and lower halves of Manhattan’s east side. I cannot authoritatively speak to either of these outcomes, but my daughter, Charlotte -– who regularly heads up to the Upper East Side during the school year -– attests that the 6 train is still jam-packed at certain points of the morning.

Since the arrival of that line, however, much has changed.

A couple of months back, I had a fleeting day off and accompanied my daughter to school, helping her carry some unwieldy fencing gear (she joined a team on a lark, unaware that it would require a sizable amount of heavy lifting). After dropping Charlotte off, I found myself back on the Upper East Side with nothing to do and nowhere to be. As such, I thought I’d take a stroll over to Yorkville and check in on my former home ground.

I started walking east on East 85th Street. My shoulders sore from hauling all that fencing gear (I don’t know how Charlotte does it on her days without assistance), I popped into a backrub/foot-rub joint just across the way from a favorite old, tiny bar of mine (formerly The Gaf, Pedro’s before that and probably six-dozen other concerns, now the backroom of a place called The Daisy). When I lived in this neighborhood in the early 90’s, this plot of East 85th offered some significantly less salubrious services as a strip for some frankly disarming variants of prostitute. Reasonably certain I wasn’t going to be offered a “full service” backrub, I got myself a ten-minute massage, then continued heading east.

Reaching York Avenue, I was pleased to see Arturo’s still in business on the northeast corner of 85th. A perennially unfussy pizzeria, Arturo’s makes perfectly respectable pizza -– nothing to write home about, but way better than the one-dollar variety that’s now too-readily available around town. I stopped in for a nostalgic slice.

It wasn’t until I walked north to check out my old block that I noticed something was seriously afoot.

I’d been aware that a selection of humble rowhouses that formerly stood between my building and the newspaper store that abutted The Mansion Diner on the corner had been razed some time ago, but I hadn’t seen what was coming next, nor had I heard about the demolition and construction slated for the southeast corner of 86th (its former appearance is the row of low buildings at the top of this post).

In the footprint of the rowhouses that formerly stood to my old building’s west, there is now a giant glass and steel tower that completely dwarfs everything around it, shattering the symmetry of that end of the block. Meanwhile, the four-story building pictured above have all been razed for the purposes of erecting something new on the southeast corner.

Obviously, there is rampant (over)development literally all over Manhattan, but to see this comparatively out-of-the-way portion of Yorkville fall prey to same really took the wind out of my sails.

In my old room on 86th, I had a corner window in the back that looked out over a shaft-way adjacent to a courtyard behind those low row-houses. I used to get plenty of light, even in that back room. With that new colossal structure next to it, now, I cannot imagine that is still the case. Meanwhile, the corner window in my mom’s room in the front (which used to give me visual access to the stoop adjacent to the newspaper stand, where the afore-cited 84th Street Bomber-types frequently hung out) must now be completely obstructed by the new building’s assertive façade.

This whole, weepy post is essentially just preamble to a New York Times article that posted on Monday, that pretty much echoed and confirmed all of my worst fears about the fate of Yorkville. Check it out here.

Nothing Happens

There’s a mountain range of evidence proving that Trump committed high crimes and misdemeanors, yet still … nothing is done.

Maybe Nancy Pelosi is biding her time before striking at a more opportune time (how could there be one?), but her admonitions that impeachment would only cause division ring as hollow as a fucking bell. The division she fears is already here, and the gap yawns irreparably wider every day.

Nothing is keeping the Trump Administration in check, and the damage it inflicts on the fabric of this nation, our standing in the world, and the world itself grows greater by the hour.

No wonder so many young people are disengaged and disillusioned. What sort of example is being set?

Image courtesy of Martin Sprouse.

Out in L.A.

Hey all, it’s another one of those weeks where projects at my office seem duly intent on consuming me whole. As such, certain long-simmering posts like my sequel installment to the re-vamped Flaming Pablum Grub Guide and a windy rumination on the timeless allure of the golden age of “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” will have to wait (more to the point: Do you – dear reader – care about either of those topics?)

In the short term, however, I’d love to toss you a link to the latest episode of comedian Dana Gould’s excellent podcast, this one concentrating on the legacy of the Los Angeles punk scene. I’ve mentioned him a couple of times here, but I am a fairly huge fan of Gould’s, him being similarly besotted with “Planet of the Apes,” vintage Punk Rock and various other pop cultural touchstones from yesteryear. He’s also entirely hilarious.

Check out this podcast wherein he moderates a panel that includes John Doe of X, Pleasant Gehman of the Screaming Sirens, skateboarder extraordinaire Tony Hawk, and Charlotte Caffey of the Go Go’s. Along the way, he also conducts a great conversation with Rob Zabrecky of the band Possum Dixon and delves into the astonishingly dysfunctional back-history of the Beach Boys. It’s excellent.

Enjoy Music for Weirdos. Tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.

Sleepaway Camp: Fruition

At just like that -– after all that overthinking and hand-wringing -– it’s over.

Oliver’s four weeks at summer camp in Vermont came to a close, last weekend. While the long walkup to that four-week session was marked by trepidation -- mine, more than anyone else’s -– the experience essentially proved to be everything we’d been hoping for and more.

Being that we’d only fielded two, fleeting missives from the boy during his time away, we really didn’t have that tangible a notion as to how he was actually fairing beyond one reassuring report from a counselor and periodic (but uneven) cameos Oliver made in each weekly photo updates on the camp’s website. We didn’t quite know what to expect when showed back up this past Saturday.

Oliver came bounding out of his cabin looking lean and tanned, doubtlessly from running around in the sun for the past several weeks. The homesickness he grappled with during the first couple of days was quickly dispelled and he’d immersed himself in everything the camp had to offer. He made several new friends and toured us around the camp’s grounds with a confidence that bordered on swagger. Not only that, but he cannot wait to go back next year.

Mission very much accomplished.

Happy Campers

Just a quick follow up from the last installment.

After only fleetingly appearing in the background of one photo (1 out of, literally, 679) last week, Oliver made multiple, smiley cameos in this week’s updated cache from his summer camp, much to our pronounced delight & relief.

At the very least, he certainly looks like he’s having fun.

We go fetch him this weekend.

Surfin' U.S.A.

I’ve written here a couple of times about the mighty Butthole Surfers – notably here and here – and how witnessing their live show at the Newport Music Hall in Columbus, Ohio on a stop on their 1987 tour for Locust Abortion Technician was something of an indelible experience. I’d posted videos of their 1986 iteration at CBGB and Danceteria here in NYC, but someone recently uploaded a full show from the `87 tour -– recorded in Atlanta, GA –- that really captures the bug-eyed insanity and sensory-engulfing mayhem of that 1987 tour.

To say that it is not for the faint of heart or easily offended is a heroic understatement.

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Sleepaway Camp: Halfway Point

Disappointment: When the sleepaway camp you’ve sent your child to sends out its weekly wrap-up cache of literally six-hundred-&-seventy-nine (679) photographs, and your boy shows up … kinda … in only one (1) of them.

As recently mentioned, we’d fielded a first note from Oliver -– sequestered up in Vermont for four weeks of summer camp -– that had evidently been penned three days after we’d dropped him off. The tone of that note suggested that our son was grappling with a dash of homesickness, which was not unexpected given that this experience marks his first-ever substantial amount of time away from home. Some fleeting images, however, of our boy mixing and mingling with his fellow campers from their first full week buoyed our confidence that he probably wasn’t entirely miserable. This was supported by a note from his group leader that suggested Oliver had been branching out, making new friends outside of his cabin and making the best of it. That's what we wanted to hear. But, not to be too cynical, of course he was going to say that. 

Back here at home, the entire family has kept firing off postcards to our youngest, hopefully providing him some love and support from afar. But we’ve all been quietly hoping that he’s just been getting on with things and is now too engaged with proceedings to be in any dire need of any cheering up.

After four days out at my mom’s place in Quogue, we came home hoping to have received a second letter from the boy -- ideally one rife with contentment --  but the mailbox was bare. Similarly, when the camp updated its photo page (as they allegedly do every Monday), we were greeted with an unwieldy avalanche of images of grinning, beatific boys in the throes of a host of summertime activities -– but only spotted our Oliver once, … and, really, only sorta kinda.

Zooming into a photo of five kids, Oliver appears as below, his face obscured. We have no clue if he’s smiling, having fun or any real context of the picture whatsoever. Now, it’s not like I’m calling in a forensics expert to pore over the graphic minutia of this image like a snippet of the Zapruder film, but I’m not going to lie. It was kind of a bummer.

Again, when my surly, reluctant butt was sent off to summer camp in 1980, there was no e-mail. No websites. No easily shared photographic evidence of my experience, let alone documentation of my survival. I was dropped off, sent a few postcards and then picked up several weeks later. Everyone survived more or less without incident. End of story.

Tomorrow marks the official midpoint of Oliver’s time away. In the grand scheme of things, these four weeks are but a tiny blip, but -- as you can probably surmise – I’m quite looking forward to having him back.

The Revenge of the Flaming Pablum Grub Guide

About four years ago, I posted an audacious little entry here rather grandiosely called The Flaming Pablum Grub Guide. Despite that promising title, all it really amounted to was a tidy list of six restaurants I happened, at the time, to like. Hardly a “guide” of any credible semblance.

At the tail end of that post, I appended the line “more to come,” as if to suggest that my culinary recommendations were swiftly to become a regular fixture on this blog, rubbing shoulders with lamentations about closed record shops, meaningless asides about old post-punk singles, slavishly overwritten eulogies to recently deceased musicians of a certain stripe and/or complaints about our current president. Had I any idea, in 2015, who the latter was going to turn out to be, I may have been too nauseous to conceive of writing anything about food. But, I digress.

Indeed, despite the “more to come” warning, apart from a couple of fleeting mentions of the closings of various eateries, I didn’t post many entries that were strictly meal-related. By and large, writing about food just isn’t my métier, so to speak.

This all said, in the last couple of months, some specifically favorite restaurants of mine have simply just up and ceased to exist. The first to go, of these, was my family’s preferred Chinese restaurant (also mentioned in my previous Grub Guide), that being the excellent Lychee House on East 55th between Lexington and Third Avenues. I have absolutely zero idea why it shut its doors, but it’s evidently gone for good. For this cruel affront, I question the existence of a benevolent deity.

More recently, after yet another frankly mediocre order from Jin on Third Avenue between 10th and 11th, the teenaged Pablumites and I decided to revert to our old trusty standby, Irving Place’s Hunan Cottage (or, as my kids used to call it, Hunan College). While never the stuff of greatness, the Cottage/College (or Huniversity, as I would sometimes call it) got several key dishes right, notably their fried pork dumplings. Imagine our collective potty-mouthed incredulousness, then, upon learning that -– like Lychee House way uptown -– Hunan Cottage had mysteriously closed up shop. And now, for that matter, shitty Jin has a "For Rent" sign in its window.  

What was this? The work of fucking Thanos? Why are all our favorite spots vanishing?

Way back in 2007, I prefaced my first lengthy post about since-closed record shops with a rumination about the shuttering of restaurants. Steeped in melancholy, it read as follows:

For some reason, I always find the closing of a restaurant to be particularly heartbreaking (more so than, say, the closing of a shoe store or cell phone emporium). Restaurants require -- to misappropriate a line from Winston Churchill -- blood, sweat and tears. They demand someone with heart, vision and a desire to not only meet a need but excel beyond that need (nobody strives to open a merely adequate restaurant). And there's something about the offering of food that makes it extra personal. Someone carefully planned the menu and imagined the fare and took pains to present it in a palatable way. When those endeavors collapse, I just find it kinda tragic. There's a restaurant down West 10th street, for example, that just closed. I walked by it earlier this week with my wife. Only a couple of short months ago, we'd dined there with friends, celebrating the christening of my son. The food wasn't exceptionally bad, but it wasn't much to sing about either. Still, we ate and laughed and had many drinks and had a splendid time within its walls. It's now just an empty room that someone's dream once briefly occupied.

As histrionic as that sounds, I continue to feel that way when a beloved eatery goes out of business.

With that all in mind, I decided to update my flimsily executed Grub Guide and imbue it with more specifics. Those with an only passively keen eye for detail might notice I’ve qualified these with the descriptor “Favorite” as opposed to “Best.” No votes were tallied. I am not claiming this to be in any way authoritative. These are only my personal preferences. Just because I’m partial to the way one restaurant prepares a certain dish doesn’t mean I think that particular iteration of said dish is its supreme realization. As the saying goes, results may vary. You may not agree with my choices. You’re free to make your own Grub Guide.

In the interest of being comprehensive, I’ve broken this up into categories. Invariably, I will leave something out. This is not meant as a slight to whichever cuisine I’ve omitted. It only means I’ve forgotten to include a selection representing that particular culinary discipline. I am human.

So, let’s get to it, shall we?

Favorite Mexican 

Mariachi’s
156 Chambers Street.

The original Mariachi’s was a block or so to the east on West Broadway (replete with a touching outdoor mural of its former neighbors, the Twin Towers). When its block was slated to be razed to accommodate a new condo, Mariachi’s moved to its more recent perch on Chambers Street between West B’way and Greenwich. It’s not that its fare is the best of its kind (I’m sure friends from the Southwest would balk at even the mere suggestion), but it’s consistently solid, hearty food. I frequently go for the quesadillas and am never not happy and/or sated by the results. Unfussy, quick, cheap and satisfying.

Honorable Mention: The fish tacos at Dorado on 28 East 12th Street are mighty fine, although not as outstanding as the fish tacos at El Vez (259 Vesey), which are fucking muy bien. My other local Mexican, El Cantinero (86 University Place), is also always respectable. They also have a nice outdoor deck in the warmer months, and a somewhat hilarious Mexican disco on the second floor, if you’re ever in that particular mood.

Favorite Chinese 

Mission Chinese Food
171 East Broadway

As weepily explained in the preamble to this post, both my very favorite Chinese restaurant and my local standby Chinese restaurant have all just shuttered, which pisses me right off. There are, of course, hundreds -- if not thousands -- of great Chinese eateries scattered across Manhattan alone, but I’ve now lost my go-to’s. As such, I’m citing the somewhat insufferably trendy Mission Chinese Restaurant on way-the-Hell-near-nothing East Broadway. If you can tolerate the hipster aesthetic/cache, the food is indeed damn good. Even comparatively unadventurous dishes like Beef with Broccoli blew a new part in my hair. That said, it’s way remote, and I don’t believe they deliver.

Favorite Sushi 

Japonica
90 University Place

This is actually the same place I cited last time around, but hey ... it's a fave. In all honesty, my sushi palette isn't so adventurous or sophisticated enough to know exceptional sushi from simply good sushi, but I'm also prone to sticking fairly close to familiar fare (no blowfish sashimi for me, thanks). Japonica's been our neighborhood go-to for eons. I'd love it if they were a little bit cheaper, but I'm happy to support the place. Moreover, sushi that is too cheap is best avoided. 

Honorable mention: I do like the bento box lunch specials at Tokyo Bay (183 Duane Street --  below) in TriBeCa. 

Favorite Korean 

Dons Bogam
17 East 32nd St

What I credibly know about Korean cuisine couldn't cover one side of a piece of loose leaf. That said, I know good Korean BBQ when I have it, and this is the place to get it. It's crowded (like everything on East 32nd Street), but when you do manage to sit down, they do all the work for you. I've been to too many Korean BBQ joints that let you -- the idiotic patron -- cook the meat yourself, and while that's fun and all, it can frequently come with digestive ramifications. That's not the case at Dons Bogam. It's all good stuff, but I wish the portion sizes were bigger. 

Honorable mention: Nam Pang on East 12th off University is not bad at all for Korean sandwiches/finger food. 

Favorite Cuban 

Sophie's Cuban Cuisine
76 Fulton Street

Much like Korean food, what I know about Cuban cuisine isn't much. I was brought to Sophie's by two colleagues, and while it assuredly doesn't look like much, the food is delicious. I've only had the sandwiches, but if they're anything to go by, the rest of their fare is well worth checking out. 

Favorite Indian 

Haveli Banjara
100 Second Avenue

This is a tenuous one. Time was when I had several favorite Indian restaurants. This was back when East 6th Street was frequently rumored to house one huge, block-long Indian kitchen that fed the numerous eateries that lined its sidewalks. Back then, my criteria for patronizing an Indian establishment were iffy. If they boasted an uproariously garish amount of fire-code-thwarting Christmas lights? That was a plus. If they'd pinned a photograph of Iron Maiden to their front window (as if to suggest that the lads in question had dined there)? I was in. If a sitar player sat in their window with a Casio keyboard with a rubber band wrapped around a single key (y'know...to provide the right drone)? That meant it was good enough for me. 

Later on, the wife and I became besotted with a Nouvelle Indian restaurant on University Place called Cafe Spice. We were regulars there to the extent that we tried to set up their manager, the dashing and slightly mysterious Sandeep, with a friend of ours. Sadly, that endeavor never got off the ground, although we did get a lot of free naan and tallboys of Taj Mahal for our efforts. 

Sadly, Cafe Spice closed, but was replaced with Jackson Diner, a Manhattan offshoot of the revered Indian restaurant of the same name over in Jackson Heights, Queens. While not quite as stylish as Cafe Spice, Jackson Diner's food was unimpeachable. Regrettably, they, too, closed up shop a few years back, and the space they once occupied is now a Vegan venture called Nix.

As such, we started patronizing Haveli, which has a long history on Second Avenue, just south of East 6th. More recently, though, we believe Haveli has fallen on some hard times. At one point, it gave notice that it was going to close, only to merge operations with another restaurant. In the wake of that, however, they've had some trouble, I gather. On two recent occasions, orders we placed with them via Seamless went astray. This all said, I ordered from them in the last few weeks (by phone, this time) and their Kati rolls and Butter Chicken remain excellent. 

We were enthused by the newish Babu Ji on East 13th between University Place and Fifth, for a while. The food was good, and the atmosphere was colorful. I especially enjoyed their "help yourself" beer chiller (and verily helped myself). That said, the maitre'd was uproariously rude to my wife one evening not too long back that I simply couldn't believe it. Suffice to say, we took our business elsewhere and have no plans to return. 

We recently spotted a new place on East 18th Street that looks promising, called Gupshup. It looks like it should be pretty good, but Eater gave it sort of a black eye. 

Favorite Brunch

Elephant & Castle 
68 Greenwich Street

For the past several years, "brunch" has become a dirty word in New York City. No longer a simple culinary descriptor involving Eggs Benedict and maybe a festive Bloody Mary, the term is now synonymous with hordes of monied drunks seeking to extend their Saturday-night imbibing into a next-day Wake & Bake. Across town, various restaurants accommodate this weekly variant of beardless Santa-Connery by offering "bottomless brunches" (meaning, I imagine, that the booze keeps flowing, not that anyone's going sans pants, although that does seem to happen, too). The once-revered tranquility of Sunday morning, in certain neighborhoods, has been replaced by rampant, broad-daylight douchebaggery. It's a plague. 

So, yeah, when I say brunch, I'm referring to its more conventional definition. For my money, my best brunches have all been had at Elephant & Castle, an age-old Greenwich Village mainstay that's about the size of a storage shed. Despite their spacial limitations -- charitably described as "cozy" -- Elephant & Castle make a helluva brunch. My personal favorite dish, like you care, is their purée spinach with poached eggs, melted English cheddar and potato pancakes. Simply put, it's fucking exquisite. I could eat that dish every goddamn day and never tire of it.

Their other fare is also fantastic, so seek it out, do.

Honorable Mention: Veselka on the East 9th Street and Second Avenue has long been a beloved East Village institution. Where once I'd repair to its comfy confines in the dead of night after an evening of copious beering -- it being a 24-hour establishment -- to wolf down pierogis. These days, I'm usually there with my kids ... and the pierogis are still the big attraction, for us, although their many brunch variations are all totally delicious. It does get crowded and touristy, these days. Still, it fucking rocks.

Favorite Ramen

Ramen Takumi
1 University Place

Time was when the only ramen I knew were those cheap-o bags of Nissan top ramen you'd buy in lieu of spending huge amounts of money you didn't have on food. Somewhat ironically, the ramen dishes on offer at lovely Ramen Takumi right in our neighborhood are damn tasty, but one might be hard pressed to characterize the eatery as particularly cheap. That said, their big bowls of noodle-based concoctions are always delightful, as are their gyoza appetizers. You have to rub shoulders with a lot of cloyingly youthful NYU types, but hey ... it IS University Place. 

--

Okay, that ought to be enough for now. I know what you're thinking, though: "Wait! What about favorite burger? What's your favorite steakhouse? What about Italian food? What's your preferred Middle Eastern place?"

Rest assured, these and other variations will be addressed in the next installment of the Flaming Pablum Grub Guide. 

Until then, tip your waiters and bon appetit! 

Chronicling The Core Redux: 10 Questions

For a few years now, filmmaker Drew Stone has been continually adding to his excellent video series regarding all things NYHC, The New York Hardcore Chronicles. In between shooting amazing projects like the full-length film of the same name and 2017’s epic “Who The Fuck IS That Guy? The Fabulous Journey of Michael Alago,” Stone has sought out alumni of the NYHC scene and the surrounding punk rock community to paricipate in his great, ongoing 10 Questions series.

You might remember me highlighting the one he did with Flaming Pablum favorite RB Korbet of Even Worse back in 2016, but he’s also put luminaries like Davey Gunner of Kraut, Jessie Malin of Heart Attack/DGeneration, John Joseph of the Cro-Mags, Jimmy G of Murphy’s Law, Bobby Hambel of Biohazard, Vinnie Stigma and Roger Miret from Agnostic Front, Yana Chupenko of P.M.S./Wench, the late Todd Youth of Warzone/Murphy’s Law/Agnostic Front/etc., Harley Flanagan of the Cro-Mags and literally SO MANY OTHERS from practically every conceivable era of the genre (however one cares to personally define it) in front of the mic to weigh in. If you’re a fan/student/acolyte of this scene, this music and its accompanying culture, this series is absolultely required viewing. Find them all here. 

More often than not, despite the gruff exteriors and burly reputations of some of these characters, most of the ensuing anecdotes and reminicences are nothing but warm, good natured and practically familial. I was really happy to see Drew run his 10 Questions by none other than beloved NY1 reporter and longtime Punk rocker Roger Clark this week. I’m sure he’s already trying to rope in a bunch more participants, but I’d love Drew to corner Jack Natz (Cop Shoot Cop/Undead/Virus), Bobby Steele (Misfits/Undead), Doug Holland (Kraut/Cro-Mags), Stephan Ielpi (False Prophets), Tim Chunks (Token Entry), George Tabb (Letch Patrol/Iron Prostate/Furious George), Fran Power (Ultra Violence/Clix) and more, but I realize some of these are more likely than others.

As someone who skirted the periphery of NYHC (I went to several shows and was a devout fan of certain bands, but I would feel deeply remiss calling myself a bona fide member of the scence), I cannot claim to be as versed or as deeply ensconced as any of the participants of the 10 Questions series, but because I simply cannot resist a good survey, I decided to answer Drew Stone’s usual 10 Questions (and cheat by adding an eleventh).

First Hardcore Show You Ever Saw
The first hardcore show I was lucky enough to witness would have been in either `84 or `85 at the Ritz on East 11th Street, and it was an amazing line-up of my then-favorites, The Circle Jerks sharing a bill with the incomparable D.O.A., Redd Kross and Toxic Reasons. It was absolute fucking mayhem, and I loved every nanosecond of it.

Club You Miss Most From Back in The Day
There’s a lot to choose from, here, obviously. Most of the series participants cite A7, but that was slightly before my time. CBGB was, of course, the epicenter of so much (and not just hardcore), and its loss continues to sting, but if I’m being entirely honest, I have to say the run of shows I caught at the old Ritz on East 11th Street (i.e. before it moved to 54th Street, before Webster Hall) fires my imagination the most. This all said, I also dearly miss The Marquee on West 21st, Wetlands Preserve in TriBeca, and Tramps in Chelsea, just to name three more.

Funniest Guy in the Hardcore Scene
The usual response here is Vinnie Stigma or Jimmy G. And, yes, while both of those guys are indeed hilarious, I cannot say I actually know either of them. With that in mind, I’m going to say Dean Rispler (Murphy’s Law/Dictators/Brought-Low/Hot Corn Girls/Swilson). I didn’t meet Dean until about 1990 or so (he was dating a friend of mine), but he’s a tirelessly big-hearted, inclusive, knowledgable gent who is always hilarious.

Favorite Slamdancer in the Pit (Past or Present)
Again, the usual responses here are characters like Minus, Rat Bones and various other almost mythilogical luminaries from NYHC’s storied past. While I cannot claim to have any meaningful encounters with those cats, I would cite two separate friends of mine to single out for this category – namely my former classmate Matt Harrington, who managed to start up a cheekily emphatic circle pit at an Urban Blight show, of all things, via the sheer force of his enthusiasm. My second choice would be my longtime comrade Rob D., who’d perfected a sort of gangly, loose-limbed skank with flailing limbs akimbo that was so distincive, he was once written-up for it in a review of a Claw Hammer/Laughing Hyenas double-bill at Los Angeles’ Troubadour. The piece spent more time talking about Rob’s moves than the actual bands’ performances.

Show You Wish You Saw Back in The Day
There are too many to cite, here, but off the top of my head, there was an amazing line-up at the club that was usually referred to as The Roxy on way West 18th Street that featured a lethal line-up of the Cirlce Jerks, Bad Brains, Leeway and an early iteration of Vernon Reid’s Living Colour that would have been amazing. I also quite wish I’d caught the original line-up of Kraut back in their heyday. I saw them reunite and open for GBH in the early 90’s, but never caught them at their prime.

Greatest Show You Saw in Your “Golden Age” of Hardcore
This is also a toughie. Beyond that first Circle Jerks/D.O.A. gig, a few chaotic Butthole Surfers shows – if they count as hardcore --- and a high-octane double-bill of FEAR and The Dwarves, I’d have to say the greatest was seeing the Bad Brains on the Quickness tour at the New Ritz on 54th Street. It’s a cliché, but I’d just never seen anything like it. H.R. hadn’t lost his mind, yet, so was still firing on all cylinders. Also, and this seems to get overlooked a lot, despite the hysteria their music inspired (literally the whole entire floor of the venue was one giant pit), the look of sheer, unfettered joy on Dr. Know’s face while he played was remarkable. I’ve never seen anyone come close to that.

Brooklyn or Queens
I’m a born’n’bred, dyed-in-the-wool Manhattan snob, but more of my favorite bands of that era came from Queens, if I’m being honest.

Best Pizza in New York
Funny, I’m actually working on another sprawling food-related post at the moment. Look for that soon, but, in the interim, while most of my old favorite pizzarias are long gone (much like my favorite record stores), I’m still a big fan of Lombardi’s on Spring Street, although it’s gotten way too touristy for my taste. John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street is also very nice. In terms of just grabbing a quick slice, though, my favorite spots for that are all gone. Also, friends don’t let friends buy $1 pizza. It’s an unforgivable affront to New York’s culinary heritage.

Top 3 Hardcore Drummers
I’m going to upset convention and say Johnny Feedback from Kraut, Lucky Lehrer of the Circle Jerks and John Wright of NoMeansNo.

Message to the Youth
Stop listening to bullshit, mush-mouthed pop/R&B/ersatz hip-hop and invest in the real deal.

Is Hardcore Dead?
In terms of “my” era, hardcore isn’t dead, hardcore is dad, now that we’ve all grown up, gotten married and procreated. In all honesty, I once wrote a profile of Redd Kross for CREEM magazine back in 1992, citing that first show I’d seen wherein they opened for D.O.A. and the Circle Jerks in `84/`85. At the time, I described how they’d renounced their punkier origins in favor of a more pseudo-metallic power-pop style that confused and upset most of the hardcore kids in attendance, concluding the passage by suggesting Redd Kross had the last laugh when “hardcore died” soon afterwards.

That was just myopic on my part, of course. While many of the bands I’d cared about had either flamed out or changed direction (I remember CH3, as one example, turning into a sort of “cowpunk” band in 1984 with the Airborne ep), there were entire generations of bands inspired by those original bands who sprang up in their wake, many of which I wouldn’t discover until years after the fact.

So, no ... Hardcore is nowhere near dead.