I am blessed enough to have been given office space by my organization that comes with a view that is nothing short of breathtaking.
My desk aligns with apparent total symmetry with the Empire State Building. As it happens, my desk faces the other way, which is good, as the vista would otherwise prevent me from getting any work done. But, at least two or three times a day, the view from my window is spectacular, frequently bordering on the astonishing. I'm also privy to some odd sights as well, be they unexpected birds of prey, flybys from military aircraft and dramatic weather events. It's never dull.
In any case, I captured the picture below yesterday afternoon. While I'll cop to augmenting the color a little bit, I didn't do that much to it. It isn't supposed to look apocalyptic, but .... if the shoe fits....
Well, it's that time of year again. Sure, we have two whole days left, but for all intents and purposes, 2019 is over. As such, let's go ahead and dust off this old thing. Away we go...
What did you do in 2019 that you'd never done before?
I’m really wracking my brain, but I’m not coming up with anything.
Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Nope, as discussed here, I gave up my umpteenth attempt at a Dry January in 2019 after only ten days, citing any number of arguably ridiculous and weak-willed rationalizations for doing so, and here we are again. This year, however, there is a new variable.
Shortly after this past Thanksgiving, I scheduled a long-overdue appointment with my primary care physician. I’d been neglecting to take care of certain things, investigating a few others and I’d been recently perplexed by the way in which my left foot was seemingly no longer feeling the way it used to. There was no pain involved, but it seemed to fill my shoe in way that felt simply … different. I can only describe it as being akin to the sensation wherein your sock is sort of bunched-up, and you feel an excess of crowding at the toe. Of course, I immediately assumed I had gout, given my affinity for beer. Or, more correctly, given my foundation in Catholic guilt, I immediately felt I deserved gout. In any case, preoccupied with this assumption, I figured it was prudent to go have it checked out.
As it turned out, I do not have gout. I’m told that if I did indeed have gout, I’d bloody well know it, as the pain involved is said to rival similarly acute maladies like Kidney Stones (which I have experienced). This all said, my doctor couldn’t really explain my weird foot/toe problem, which was a bit frustrating.
On the plus side, I got a reasonably clean bill of health — no egregious deviations from normal in most capacities. On the minus side, he did suggest my blood pressure was a bit high, going on to suggest that a sharp curtailing of alcohol would invariably do me some good. So, while not quite “doctor’s orders,” I am taking that to heart, so to speak, and endeavoring to once again swear off the suds until I go back and see my medicine man for a follow-up visit in …. dear lord …. late February.
Mind you … it’s not January YET!
Watch this space.
Did anyone close to you give birth?
Not just yet, but one of my sisters-in-law is preggers and due in February.
Did anyone close to you die?
Mercifully, no one in my immediate family left us this year, although the mother of a dear friend of mine did, which was and remains quite upsetting.
What countries did you visit?
As documented here, the we spent a glorious five or six days in Paris this year, which I highly recommend.
What would you like to have in 2020 that you lacked in 2019?
A different president.
What date from 2019 will remain etched upon your memory?
Don’t know that there was a single, isolated date of significance, but last week, just a day before Christmas, we learned that our son was accepted, “early decision,” at the high school of his choice. We are very proud.
What was your biggest achievement of the year?
While I’m exceptionally proud of what my children have accomplished, I don’t think I particularly excelled in any specific capacity in 2019. I'm just trying to adopt, adapt and improve, as they say.
What was your biggest failure?
Too many options to choose from.
Did you suffer illness or injury?
No illnesses that I’m immediately aware of, but I did manage to lacerate my own tongue once or twice (as detailed here).
What was the best thing you bought?
Probably the flight tickets to Paris back in early October. Beyond that, I bought my son a guitar for Christmas, which he’d asked for upon returning from summer camp. I’m all for it. We’ll see how it goes. Watch this space.
Whose behavior merited celebration?
Once again, I’d cite my children. While, yes, both now in their teenaged years — and all the things that said age entails — they both take their schoolwork very seriously and routinely earn high marks on their respective report cards. Admittedly, there is now much more eye-rolling and attitudinal pushback than ever before, but I cannot complain, and remain very proud of both of them.
Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Pretty much the entirety of the Republican party and everyone who still slavishly supports the Trump Administration, regardless of the growing glacier of damning evidence of its unprecedented corruption.
Renovating the kids’ room, the Paris trip and the looming reality of paying two tuitions for my budding high schoolers.
What song will always remind you of 2019?
I hate to say it, but if there is a single song that reminds of 2019, it’s invariably one by someone like Lizzo. There were several songs I was fired up about this year (see list here), but I can’t name one that singularly screams “2019” to me.
Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
I wonder if I suffer from a bit of that seasonal melancholy, as I’m somewhat inexplicably blue quite often, these days. By the same token, that might also have something to do with how speedily my children are growing and how old I’m feeling.
Thinner or fatter?
I have it on sound authority that I have actually lost weight, although I couldn’t even begin to tell you how or why that is the case.
Richer or poorer?
Trying to live and work in Manhattan while simultaneously trying to feed, clothe and educate two children leaves one feeling always poorer.
What do you wish you'd done more of?
Earning. Paying closer attention to certain things.
What do you wish you'd done less of?
Drinking beer on my couch. Shirking various responsibilities. Procrastinating. Sounding off unsolicitedly about stupid shit.
How did you spend Christmas?
Out at my Mom’s place in Quogue.
Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?
No clue.
Did you fall in love in 2019?
Already very much in love.
How many one night stands in this last year?
Zero. I remain happily married.
What was your favorite TV program?
I quite enjoyed “Succession,” I must say.
Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
There’s a certain accusation persistently thrown around by Trump and his slackjawed supporters that Liberal Democrats are driven by a judgement-impairing hatred for Trump. Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi famously cited her own Catholic upbringing upon snapping at a reporter for suggesting same, claiming that her faith prevents her from harboring any hatred for anyone. That’s lovely and all, but being that I don’t hold any public office, and, despite also being raised a Catholic like Speaker Pelosi, am largely unencumbered by feelings of obligation to any religious dogma, I feel absolutely ZERO regrets about firmly stating that I genuinely HATEDonald Trump and his supporters with every fibre of my being. I’m not shy about it. I’m not ashamed about it. I think it’s healthy and, frankly, natural to express it. I won’t pretend otherwise.
What was the best book you read?
While I enjoyed “More Fun in The New World” by Tom DeSavia & John Doe and had higher hopes for Debbie Harry’s memoir, “Face It,” I have to say the book I probably got the biggest kick out of reading this year was my re-visitation of “The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories” by H.P. Lovecraft while dropping Oliver off at camp in location-specific Vermont this summer.
What was your greatest musical discovery?
Last year was a banner year in that I discovered the one-two punch of rock majesty in the form of Daughters and IDLES. 2019 didn’t bring as much fruit in that department, although I was quite enthused about the band John (shit name notwithstanding) and was happy to acquaint myself with 2013-era Nine Inch Nails, who I’d unwittingly slept on.
What did you want and get?
The long overdue impeachment of Trump.
What did you want and not get?
The long overdue dismantling of Trump’s Administration, his ouster from office, his indictment, his conviction and his imprisonment.
What were your favorite films of this year?
As someone who has always harbored a fascination for the story of the Manson Family, I have to say that I was quite into Quentin Tarantino’s “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood."
What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 52, and spent it strolling the lovely byways of the Marais in Paris with my family. Again, highly recommended.
What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
For Robert Mueller to have more effectively and emphatically done his job.
How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2019?
Somewhere between “Is this inappropriate for a man my age?” and “Would one of the Stranglers have worn this?"
What kept you sane?
The necessity to provide for my family.
What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
None really spring to mind, I have to say.
What political issue stirred you the most?
Where does one begin?
Who did you miss?
Ric Ocasek, Daniel Johnston, Ranking Roger, Keith Flint, Steven Jameson, Vaughan Oliver and, most of all, Mark Hollis.
Who was the best new person you met?
Some new colleagues at work.
Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2019
I don’t know if he made the phrase up, but a writer named Richard Carlson published a book in 1997 called “Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff … And It’s All Small Stuff.” That’s pithy and clever and generically reassuring and all, but it’s also a load of bullshit. I’m not suggesting that you should frantically preoccupy yourself with all manner of daily minutia to the point of distraction, but I don’t think it’s at all prudent to tune out and skip the required reading in favor of the Cliff’s Notes either. By all means, keep life in perspective and prioritize accordingly, but pay fucking attention to the details, because therein is where you’re probably getting fucked or about to unwittingly fuck yourself. At two pivotal points in 2019, there were instances when had I just been paying a wee bit more attention, I might have saved myself a substantial boatload of trouble. In both cases, things worked themselves out, but in neither instance were those outcomes guaranteed. Before you hit send, re-read that e-mail. Keep your bankbooks in order. Don’t just take their word for it. Study your monthly statements. Follow up and follow through. Send prompt thank-you cards. And as the Ice Cube once sagely rapped, check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Song lyric that sums up 2019
It’s February The world is wearing shorts The world is wearing its heart on its sleeve There’s bad news to report But the president can’t read
I usually wait until the week after Christmas to post this unwieldy thing, but then figured ... why wait?
As has been laboriously documented in the past, I take a lot of goddamn photographs. Some might say too many. If you already follow me on Instagram, you've invariably already sped by most of these while looking for pictures of other people's food or pictures of your exes or whatever it is you are covertly searching for.
Regardless, do please try to enjoy.
I also changed it to My Year in Pictures, as The Year... just seems a bit pretentious and overarching ... even for me.
Does the Laight Street Bridge (i.e. the pedestrian bridge that extends over the northwest-bound exit out of the Holland Tunnel Rotary) have a proper name?
As mentioned in that older post, the store in question went through several makeovers and corporate permutations, but that copy of Filth Pig kept sitting there. In October of 1998 — when I met the woman who would become my wife — that copy of Filth Pig was sitting on that shelf. Peggy and I, having married in 2001, celebrated our eighteenth wedding anniversary this past July. When we did so, that copy of Filth Pig was still sitting on that shelf. It has been sitting on that shelf for as long as we’ve been married. While it sat there, we’ve had two children that have grown into their teens. All this time — no one has thought to purchase it.
Since posting that entry back in April, I’ve continued to give that Rite Aid my reluctant patronage. For whatever reason, whenever we’re out there visiting my mother, we invariably have to repair to that Rite Aid to procure any number of sundry items — from band aids to deodorant, suntan lotion through shampoo. If we’re out that way, it’s a given that at some point or another, we’ll be visiting that Rite Aid.
And, as such, whenever we did, I would usually check in on Filth Pig.
Now, having spotted the disc still siting there several times over this past summer, I didn’t think to take a picture of it every time I was there, but I checked in on it in the beginning, the middle and the end of the summer. And every time I did that, it was still there.
We left my mother’s place in neighboring Quogue at the summer’s end on Labor Day 2019. We always plan on coming down in the Autumn, as it’s lovely out there, but life gets in the way. As it turned out, we did not make it back until this past Thanksgiving Weekend.
Sure enough, with my son nursing a small wound sustained at an “Escape The Room” attraction at a birthday party last week (a whole saga unto itself), I was dispatched to Westhampton’s Rite Aid on Thanksgiving morning to procure him a new finger splint.
When I got there, I was nonplussed to discover that the Rite Aid signage was down, replaced by some decidedly makeshifty Walgreens banners. I feared the worst.
While, yes, still a soullessly corporate and antiseptic pharmaceutical chain of no great distinction, this new iteration of the space came with re-imagined aisles of brand new stock. I found a finger splint for Oliver and proceeded down the aisle formerly reserved for greeting cards, device-chargers, batteries and laughably anachronistic media like DVDs and compact discs. This was the aisle wherein that lonely copy of Filth Pig was seemingly permanently sequestered. In this newly designed section, however, all I encountered was cloyingly zealous Christmas decorations.
I circumnavigated the store, thinking they may have just absorbed Rite Aid’s old stock and repositioned it somewhere else. But after three sorties around the place — much to the bemusement of the new store’s staff -- it was relatively clear that this venture no longer stocked such goods.
For whatever stupid reason, I was sort of counting on that copy of Filth Pig to always be there.
While a valid argument could be made that I spend my time actively looking for things to get pissed off about (hey, this blog ain’t gonna write itself), I did stumble upon two articles, recently that particularly got my oft-gotten goat.
This first was this report about a documentary in the works about vinyl-collecting music-heads who are opting to sell their records. Says director Danielle Beverly, “It’s not really about how cool records are or the resurgence of vinyl, it’s really about people who are letting go of the things that once defined them."
Now, personally speaking, while I am intrigued by the concept of the film, I feel like Beverly is making some sweeping generalizations about about record collectors. As far as I’m concerned, while I would concede that I am somewhat “defined” (although I do not like this word) by my devotion to my favorite music and slavishly sentimental about my LPs, compact discs and, yes, even cassettes, I do not feel they are an integral part of my identity. The notion of parting with them makes sense on a purely practical level — given the amount of premium real estate they occupy in my home, space that could be arguably better utilized — but the thought of getting rid of them, to me, seems tantamount to throwing away personal photographs. Practically each one is imbued with some particular association or significance beyond simply being an artifact that delivers specific music.
I guess my grievance with Beverly’s point is that these peoples’ lives aren’t necessarily dominated by their physical collections. It’s not like their love of the music contained therein is going to go away when they part with the LPs. It’s just not that black and white, I don’t think. If I had to dispense of my physical collection of music (a scenario that would probably make my wife very happy), I don’t believe the opinions, likes, dislikes and sensibilities that actually define my identity would change.
Now, again, I haven’t seen the film, so I’m obviously being prejudicial in my assessment. Watch this space.
This other story, however, just completely burnt my toast.
Titled “I use an iPod. Why Should I Be Ashamed?”, this piece — penned by one Robert Shrimsely — recounts the evidently traumatic travails of being “tech-shamed” by colleagues aghast by the author’s insistence on still using an iPod Classic, being that it so brazenly defies the current ubiquity of streaming and suggests some sort of bourgeois adherence to — god forbid — actually owning music, as opposed to merely renting it. To which I say — FUCK YOU!
I still use a goddamn 160 GB iPod Classic, and I have another on standby for when the long-cherished and well-loved one I’m currently enjoying inevitably dies. Do you *honestly* believe I give one single rolling rat fuck about what some dinky millennial or zoomer thinks about my anachronistic tech? Come try to take it from me, and you can expect profanity and pugilism. I'll stream when I'm in the cold, cold fucking ground.
To put it mildly, I vehemently resent the notion that I am to be expected to renounce a life spent lovingly curating my preferred music in long-vanished shrines to less-celebrated aesthetics that, in most instances, endearingly eschewed the tastes and validation of the mainstream (hand me a copy of a Thriller on CD, and you’ve given me a fucking coaster). While my collection does not “define me,” I harbor no regrets about amassing it, let alone supporting the independent shops, artists and record labels that put it out. Oh, it’s unseemly to still own music, is it? Go fuck yourself. As mentioned in my thoughts about the documentary, I can understand the impetus to part with one’s physical collection if it is impeding some other important part of one’s life or if by selling it off, one could facilitate some other necessary activity, but if the reason you choose to ditch or dump or pawn your music is simply to be in step with the times, you are a fucking lemming. “Resistance to new and life-changing devices is the path to atrophy,” Shrimsley asserts towards the end of the piece. Shut up, Robert, and think for yourself.
You want me to abandon my iPod and join a service to re-enjoy some — but not all — of my music and be reliant on WiFi and a monthly charge? Fuck that and yourself, while you’re at it.
To borrow a line from The Wedding Present, if the world doesn’t understand, then the world has GOT TO LEARN.
I realize this is an unpopular and needlessly thorny opinion on the matter. What’s YOUR take? How do you listen to your music, and do you believe it defines you?
I’ve written about the Modern Lovers quite a few times here, but stumbled upon this clip today, and thought I’d re-evangelize it.
Just to allay some fears in this hair-trigger era of zero tolerance, “I’m Straight” is not a homophobic anthem, but rather a proto-straightedge manifesto. In hindsight, Richman might’ve considered titling it “I’m Sober.”
As I explained in this ancient post, lead Modern Lover Jonathan Richman was firmly prosthelytizng an intoxicant-free lifestyle back when Ian MacKaye was still subject to regular nap time. An emphatically declared entreaty to the object of his affections to sever ties with her stoner boyfriend (“Hippie Johnny” in the original studio recording, but “Hippy Ernie” on this live recording, a jab at hirsute Modern Lovers bassist Ernie Brooks), “I’m Straight” packs a lot of self-righteous punch, especially in the tune-in/turn-on/drop-out era when such assertions were the furthest thing from fashionable.
Purportedly recorded somewhere within NYU in 1971, this line-up of the Modern Lovers was not to last. Legend has it that the band lost confidence and cohesion when Jonathan decided they were getting too loud and potentially hurting the delicate ears of children, prompting him to demand that powerhouse drummer Dave Robinson (later of The Cars) ditch his kit in favor of hitting a rolled up newspaper against his knee. Clearly, that didn’t go over well. Keyboardist Jerry Harrison later joined Talking Heads. Ernie Brooks became a bassist for hire for artists like Gary Lucas and Arthur Russell.
Jonathan Richman, meanwhile, changed tack and started making increasingly more whimsical music. Around 1990, I went to a solo Jonathan Richman show at the Lone Star Roadhouse in midtown, and took a moment to accost the man and ask him to play “I’m Straight.” He just chuckled with “oh, no…I can’t be doin’ that…heh heh heh,” and walked away from me. Oh well.
But here they were … somewhere on NYU’s campus in 1971.
Chinatown. Invoke its name, and your head is immediately filled with images of winding, narrow streets bustling with activity. To stroll through its storied byways is to encounter countless sights, sounds, scents, flavors and options that are as enticing as they are intimidating. A city within a city, Chinatown makes me feel like a total tourist rube, even as a lifelong, native New Yorker.
Sure, I know a few arguably obvious spots for an evening out in Chinatown. As mentioned elsewhere here, I’ve dined on the dim sum in the magisterial expanse of Jing Fong on Elizabeth Street, I’ve sampled the fare at Wo Hop on Mott Street, although I probably only knew the latter because of the ubiquity of its dragoon-festooned t-shirt, a former sartorial staple of downtown Manhattan hipsters. I remember myself and a group of fellow dads from my kids’ elementary school having dinner at some great place on Bayard Street (name long-since forgotten), although I believe our original mission — one we failed — was to find the eatery Andy Warhol was once photographed in. I do recall repairing to a speakeasy on fabled Doyers Street called Apotheke afterwards. But these pointers and the criteria that informed them are still pretty threadbare. In terms of authoritatively knowing what Chinatown has to offer — and not solely in terms of cuisine — I am fairly clueless. As a side note, the location of the Warhol-preferred spot was later revealed here.
My wife actually hipped me to another great dim sum place, that being Dim Sum A-Go-Go on East Broadway. It may not look fancy or authentic, but its fare is amazing …. and cheap to boot. We’ve taken the kids there a couple of times, and its always a hit for all parties concerned.
But Chinatown still remains largely opaque to me, like a code I’m constantly trying to crack. While I’m more able to find my way around it these days — and not just the well-traveled strips of Bayard, Pell & Mott — it still feels fairly impenetrable.
Seeking out places like Downtown Music Gallery, a few years back, better acquainted me to the topography, however marginally. Obviously not a place to eat or drink, DMG is a hidden-beneath-the-street bunker on far-flung Monroe Street that specializes in uproariously esoteric music. Said music was leant even further mystique by way of the long journey through the streets east of East Broadway in order to acquire it.
Then there's Mission Chinese on the other end of East Broadway. Eating here — while amazing — always feels like cheating, being that it’s not originally a local NYC concern. But Mission Chinese -- nor Downtown Music Gallery, for that matter --- really seem to belong where they are. They are not of Chinatown. I’ve always wanted to discover a great, authentic, long-established restaurant in Chinatown, but didn’t even begin to credibly know how to find it.
Stumped by the ever-perplexing quandary of what to get me for Christmas (any bits of music I want I usually go out and get myself, and I don't really want/need much else), the wife discovered a great company called Foods of New York, a group that's been conducting culinary tours of various likely neighborhoods for two decades. Now, before you protest, let me stop you right there --- YES, the idea of a food-tour of Chinatown sounds like an UPROARIOUSLY touristy thing to do, and if it's one thing New Yorkers absolutely loathe -- be they native or naturalized -- it's doing anything that may be construed as touristy. I get it. But, as I mentioned a few graphs up, I will be the very first person to concede that in terms of navigating the intricacies of Chinatown, I might as well be from friggin' Ohio. I needed help. Foods of New York were offering it. What's not to like?
Well, without giving too much away, Peg and I took the tour quite recently and it was a total revelation. For a start, our tour guide Raheem, who has being doing this sort of thing since 2007, could not have been cooler, more enthusiastic or more informed. Not only was he entirely versed the finer points of the cuisine that we were sampling from several different locations on the map, but his knack for bits of compelling historical trivia was striking. I feel somewhat remiss, I am sad to say, for having passed on a bit of incorrect trivia onto him, wrongly asserting that the album cover of the Ramones' Halfway to Sanity was shot in a doorway adjacent to one of the restaurants we visited, that being Peking Duck House on Mott Street. Turns out the cover shot of Halfway was actually taken a few hundred steps to the southeast. Ah well.
In any case, during the three or four hours of the tour, we tasted some amazing food, learned of at least three or four absolutely must-visit-again spots and got a few great pointers for new places to knock back a few drinks. What can I say, I really, really enjoyed it and highly recommend it.
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