Flaming Pablum

Street Art vs. The Trump Administration III

Some of you might remember a post here from December 2017 wherein I culled together a bunch of photographs I’d taken of examples of … shall we say … “outspoken” street art -- graffiti, flyers, murals, posters, tags, stickers, etc. --  here on the streets of New York City, specifically of a stripe that expressed a pointed degree of contempt for the Trump Administration and its policies. In case you missed it or are curious, you can find it here.

A little while after that, the following May, I posted a brief follow-up, which you can find here.

Since then, on a personal level, I’ve been consumed with other things, work has been very busy and, well, blah blah blah. In that interim, however, the steady, roiling stream of street-art expressions of severe dissatisfaction, shame, frustration and, again, utter contempt for Trump and his GOP cronies has continued.

As such, I thought it was high time for another update.

Enjoy.

Refuse.

Resist.

 

My Summer Crisis

A little while back, I prefaced a post with a somewhat ominous allusion to being in the midst of a midlife crisis. As I mentioned in that preamble, it’s not the ridiculous scenario wherein I go buy myself a black leather jacket, get a tattoo and start skateboarding to broadcast that I still have my “edge.” For a start, I could never skateboard properly (as documented here), I’m far too wishy-washy to ever commit to a permanent tattoo and I already owned a cool black leather jacket. When I slip on the latter, however, it prompts snorts and giggles from my 15 year old, so that’s out, clearly.

For me, the crisis — I realize this is a strong word, but I’m at a loss of what else to call it — was brought about by two things. Firstly, there was the looming reality of my 13-year-old son departing for four weeks of summer camp for the first time (as discussed here and here). It wasn’t simply that I was worried about missing him or him being homesick — two things that have indeed taken place, although both manageably so — but rather that I was concerned with having to relinquish a certain degree of control and entrust a crucial responsibility onto people I do not know. As previously alluded, my son Oliver is on a strict regimen of meds that need to be properly and punctually administered. I’m used to doing that. Leaving that up to someone else to handle was something that cemented my brow in the fully furrowed position.

Here in early July, Oliver is now just short of halfway into his stay at camp. We've received one hastily penned missive from him at the end of his first week, which he composed while using the back of a frisbee for a writing surface. What we were able to decipher from that suggested he was feeling a little melancholy about the endeavor, but what doing his best. Since then, we’ve heard more recently from his group leader, and the picture was a good deal rosier. Oliver has purportedly branched out and his making the most of his experience. And much to my relief, he has been fully diligent about the meds. So far, so good.

The other thing that’s been really throwing me off my game, so to speak, is a bit more troubling. After suspecting something was up for some time now, I recently reached out to an essentially estranged former best friend of mine over email. I cannot say how or why we’d come to this impasse, but I reached a point, one evening a few weeks back, wherein I felt the air needed to be cleared, as I simply couldn’t remember anything I’d said or done or failed to say or do that might have put him off. As a result of whatever that was, this fairly pivotal figure in my life since childhood and I had basically fallen completely out of touch. I needed to know why.

Now, I fully realize that email is not the ideal medium wherein to hash out big issues like this. Subtle, conversational nuances are lost. Narratives can be misinterpreted. Cues can be missed. This all said, it seemed like the most direct means of getting the ball rolling.

As of this posting, the exchange in question is still basically unfurling. The good news is that he was happy and amenable to discussing this problem. The not-as-good news is that evidently he’d been under the impression for a very long period of time that I’d been rebuffing him. I assured him that there was never anything he’d said or done that would have prompted me to do that, and was frankly astonished that I’d been giving him that impression.

He was traveling at the time of this exchange, so we agreed to table the discussion until his return. I have high hopes that we’ll be able to get back on the good foot, so to speak, but again feel awful that so much time has gone by with us both feeling this encroaching distance, but neither of us acted on it. I hope to fully restore our friendship. Stay tuned on that front.

In any case, this scenario has been really messing with my head, especially the revelation that my friend had allegedly been under the misapprehension that I was the one giving off the cold shoulder. Do I invoke that vibe? At the risk of courting melodrama, for a figure so deeply involved in so many of my sensibility-defining experiences over the course of several decades to get such an unintentional impression has made me question a lot about myself. For someone you really think you know so well to suddenly misunderstand something … and then seemingly be more or less resigned to do nothing about it — I mean, what do I do with that?

Like I said, I’m trying to rescue the situation, but it left me feeling somewhat insecure about my relationships with other people. I was suddenly concerned that I was alienating all my old friends. I mean, what’s wrong with me if I can’t seem to keep in touch and in good standing with one of my best friends of all time?

As if on cue, I had three, seemingly random occurrences with other friends that more or less realigned me. My friend from high school, Rob B., unsolicitedly sent me the new Wonder Stuff live box set, prompted solely by the notion, I’m guessing, that we’d been discussing it, and I’d said something like “yeah, I’d love to have it, but probably won’t get it.” While a sprawling, multi-disc collection of punky pop from an aging British indie band might seem fairly banal, this gift could not have been more well timed, and I will cherish it for reasons well beyond the merits of the band in question. 

Secondly, out of the proverbial blue, I fielded a text from my friend Sam in Portland, Oregon. Sam and I first met when we were both interning at SPIN in 1989. He’d moved to the West Coast some years ago and renounced Facebook, so we’d sadly fallen out of regular contact. Evidently, Sam had recently been rediscovering the joys of a band we both used to love called Pop Will Eat Itself — somewhat coincidentally from the same scene and era as The Wonder Stuff — and it made him think of me, so he reached out to see what was up and how my family is. Good friends do that.

Lastly, just this morning, my oldest-ever friend Keith sent me a photo via text. He lives in Colorado, now, but he and I have the sort of friendship wherein he’ll show up in New York at a moment’s notice — it’s almost ALWAYS just a moment’s notice — and we pick up RIGHT back where we’d left off. In any event, ever since we were little children, Keith and I were both obsessed with drawing. Our mothers would throw a couple of pads and a box of crayons on the floor like meat at a pair of wild dogs, and Keith and I would spend hours furiously scribbling monsters and superheroes and all sorts of ridiculous shit. This carried on well into our college years. We’d write back and forth to each other — remember when people did that? — and draw all over the letters and envelopes in much the same ridiculous manner we did when we were both 8 or 9 years old.

Today, apropos of nothing at all, Keith cut out a selection of images I’d illustrated letters to him with and send them to me, which pretty much stabs me right in the heart. I love my friends.

I am determined to restore proceedings with that other former friend, and be the best friend I can be to the ones I still have.

Reach out to the people you care about now and let them know how much they mean to you. Life is far too short to do otherwise.

Sleepaway Camp: After The Drop-Off

I have nothing to compare it to, really, but if -– like myself -– you are the parent of a child who has never spent a long time away from home before, when they do go off to sleepaway camp, it can be a strange experience.

Sequestered up in the verdant wilds of Vermont, my 13-year-old son, Oliver, is at camp for four weeks (you may remember I discussed it in greater length on this post). We dropped him off just a little under a week ago and ripped the band-aid off pretty quickly, so to speak. We figured that if we hung around too long, drawing out our goodbyes, none of the concerned parties would benefit. So, really, after making sure all was in order, we said our goodbyes, hopped back in the car and drove off into the rainy Vermont afternoon, leaving our boy in the company of his fellow campers. While we knew that was the smart way to do it, it still felt weird and sad.

After we’d climbed into the car and were driving off campus, we noticed that all the boys had been gathered together on the main field – despite the rain – and were already engaging in group activities and getting to know each other. That was a good sign. To the camp’s credit, later that same day, they e-mailed all the parents a huge team-photo. We, of course, scrupulously studied the pic and found Oliver, easy to pick out in his yellow North Face rainslicker. Mercifully, he was smiling.

Ever since then, the pictures have been slower in arriving, but we do thrill to each cameo our son makes. Apart from an emergency situation, we cannot call or text Oliver, nor can he call or text us – an otherwise constant means of staying in contact one might take for granted, in 2019. At this stage, beyond the pictures that periodically appear, all we can assume is that no news is good news. I’ve already fired off a couple of postcards to him, but have yet to hear back. I just hope that means he’s busy and having fun.

I’m just heartened that in the pics I do have of him, he looks like he’s okay and having a good time.

Goodbye to Manitoba's

While rumors of its impending demise have been circulating since as far back as 2007, I’m sad to relay, in case you hadn’t heard, that Manitoba’s at 99 Avenue B has closed for good. That's me, above, in the rear of same circa 2011. 

I’ve written about both the celebrated bar and the man behind it -– erstwhile Dictators frontman and NYC Punk Rock luminary Richard Blum, more commonly known as Handsome Dick Manitoba -– several times here. Having established himself as a polarizing figure, of sorts, since his early days with the nascent Dictators, it was sort of expected that Richard could be a gruff and/or argumentative presence not unlike, say, the late Bleecker Bob. In my very limited personal experience with the man, however, I have to say that Richard was always an approachable and affable guy -– so long as you didn’t veer too deeply into any political discussions.

In terms of the bar, while it’s always courted a bit of conflict (first from upstairs neighbors who’d moved in unaware that they’d be residing over a boisterous local hang-out), it has more recently had a much harder time of it in the wake of some of Richard’s legal troubles stemming from truly unfortunate allegations of spousal assault, a crime he was arrested for in 2018. From that point on, things became difficult for both the man and the establishment that bore his moniker.

Over the years, bars like Manitoba’s have become scarcer in the East Village. As the neighborhood’s overall sensibility has been somewhat forcibly shifted from a historic bohemian enclave to, well, a comparatively soulless hotbed of avaricious real estate opportunity and exclusive nightlife destination, the particular aesthetic bars like Manitoba’s catered to isn’t quite enough to compete in the 2019 iteration of the environs (despite the best, heroic efforts of Jesse Malin). Put simply, the punkers are being largely displaced by the brunchers.

I’d been hearing the recent rumors of Manitoba’s troubles for a few days, but my comrade EV Grieve finally confirmed it yesterday. Read the official details here.

While my nights out in the East Village took a fairly sharp downturn once I started having kids, I was always thankful that places like Manitoba’s were still going, especially as similarly inclined establishments had been vanishing left, right and center (personally, I think I miss the Lakeside Lounge the most). Now, hot on the heels of the recently shuttered Sidewalk Café, Manitoba’s joins the ranks of former places with history, identity and inimitable character to have a beer, hang out, meet with friends, hear great music and share stories.

I will miss it greatly.

Pour one out. This, meanwhile, was the Dictators...

...And She's Buying a Jenga Set To Heaven...

I actually hate this fucking building, but it is photogenic, sometimes. 

Fabs on Broadway

Walk a few blocks in any direction, in Manhattan, and you’re bound to encounter a new construction site.

But in passing this one on Broadway and East 11th Street, earlier this week, I was stopped dead in my tracks by some familiar figures in the depiction of the building that will soon be erected on the former site of the St. Dennis Hotel. I'm talking about the foursome depicted walking away from the building.

These were not added on by some street artist, they are part of the entirety of the image.

Someone has a sense of humor.

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! 

From Trash to Posh: The Metamorphosis of Hamilton-Holly House at 4 St. Marks Place

Originally the stately home of Eliza Hamilton, the widow of — wait for it — Alexander Hamilton, the townhouse of 4 St. Marks Place, otherwise known as the Hamilton-Holly House, is rightly considered a historic, designated landmark in the heart of what is now referred to as Manhattan’s East Village, a neighborhood descriptor Mrs. Hamilton’s tenure well predates.

As far back as I’ve ever been able to recall, however, 4 St. Marks Place was the home of Trash & Vaudeville, an enterprise I’ve discussed many times here.

Along with housing Jimmy Webb’s fabled punk clothing shop, the building also boasted an iconic stoop, one that frequently played host to the the local color of the neighborhood, so to speak.

I probably first called it out in the post that led to my interview with RB Korbet of Even Worse. I’d posted the photo below, and she’d gotten in touch to let me know the photographer’s name (Dave “Daze” Parsons). RB is the lady in black looking at the camera.

Over the years, the building has seen a lot of wear & tear, much like the surrounding neighborhood, but in the last fifteen-to-twenty years, or so, gentrification in the East Village (as well as its surrounding neighborhoods) has seen a sharp uptick.

In due course, while that stoop had long played host to any number of denizens of St. Marks Place, it was eventually gated off.

In 2016, meanwhile, Trash & Vaudeville was jettisoned from Hamilton-Holly House. Don’t fret. They relocated over on East 7th and, by all accounts, are still doing well. Webb even opened up an adjunct show further down in the Lower East Side.

Back at 4 St. Marks Place, however, a sidewalk shed was erected and plans were enacted to whip the former Hamilton-Holly House back into shape, so to speak.

Following the closings of St. Marks Sounds and the Grassroots Tavern just down the block for similar purposes, this development didn’t bode well for those who — like myself — who still cling to the idea of St. Marks Place remaining the endearingly chaotic and arguably grubby gateway to the East Village.

Recently, the shed was removed to reveal a newly refurbished facade. A quick Google search reveals that the townhouse is back up for sale (no price listed), and described thusly:

The space was previously occupied by Trash and Vaudeville's since 1975, and has historically been an epicenter of counter culture, bohemia and rock-and-roll. This landmark building is now being gut renovated, modernized and fully restored.

For those used to looking at 4 St. Marks Place during its Trash & Vaudeville days, it’s a slightly jarring transformation. My son and I walked by it yesterday, and I couldn’t stop from taking a picture (that’s Oliver below).

Technically, it’s the same stoop.

But you’d never know it.

Unpack The Black! It's World Goth Day!

Never one to firmly adhere to any single subculture, I largely demurred, in my youth, from fully defining myself as “a Goth” or “a Punk” or “a metalhead” or whatever. Not only did these tribal descriptors all seem too limiting (and, ultimately, sorta silly), but I don’t know that I fully belonged in any subcategory. I had too many Marillion, Yes and Pink Floyd records to cut it as a punk, way too many Devo records to render me eligible to be a full-time metalhead and liked a whole bunch of stuff that would have probably made a Goth purist gag. I mean, sure, I adored Acid Bath by Alien Sex Fiend, Dawnrazor by Fields of the Nephilim and Do You Believe In the Westworld? by Theatre of Hate, but I also really dug …. I dunno, Mothership Connection by Parliament, Arrival by Abba and the first Boston record. I just liked different music. That’s not a testament to my arguable eclecticism so much as a self-disqualifying acknowledgment.

This all said, I wasn’t entirely immune to the some of the tonsorial and sartorial trappings of those communities, and I’d cherry-pick from each, depending on my mood. See pic above of the 19-year-old me letting my Goth flag fly, as it were, in July of 1987.

Given my not-always-entirely-sunny outlook on life, I did go through periods of sporting a lot of black. I still do, for that matter, but as I am prone to attest, I used to wear a lot of black because of bands like The Stranglers, The Sisters of Mercy and The Misfits. Now I wear back because ... it’s slimming.

Anyway, today is evidently World Goth Day. While I absolutely no longer care what music from whichever subculture or genre is credibly deemed hip or cool –- especially in an era when hip and cool seem to be defined by artless garbage (why name names?) -– I have nothing but affection for (most) of the music that falls under the (inevitably black) umbrella of “Gothic.”

As such, here is one of my favorite largely-considered-Goth bands of the mid-to-late 80’s -– The Mission -– covering my favorite song of all time by Killing Joke, a band many Goths count as their own, but whose music transcends that tag, I’d offer (and Goth scholar Andi Harriman agreed).

The notion of the Mission covering Killing Joke would have blown the head of that 19 year old pictured above apart, in 1987. Today, it doesn’t seem quite as surprising, but here you go.

Happy World Goth Day. Release the Bats.

The Last Laugh: Interborough Killing Joke

Considering all the bandwidth I’ve devoted to the telling of this tale, I should at least cap it all off.

Last night was the second evening of Killing Joke’s two-night stint in the New York area for this leg of their 2019 mini-tour (culminating in the incongruous environs of Las Vegas later this month). Both New York gigs were at comparatively intimate venues, Manhattan’s Le Poisson Rouge and Brooklyn’s St. Vitus. Despite being one of the busiest weeks of my year at the office, I went to both shows and had a blast both nights, reconnecting with old friends and making several new ones. I am now tired, hungover, sore and all that goes with that, but I’m incredibly glad to have made it to both shows ... and back again. 

I took a pile of pics on both nights (the shot above is from Le Poisson Rouge), but was astonished to find that the whole show from last night is already viewable online. I’ll spare you my bug-eyed, purple prose and let you watch for yourself (until it’s yanked from YouTube). Pay special attention to the percussive powerhouse that is the mighty Big Paul Ferguson on drums ... in feral form, as always. 

Killing Joke …. still laughing at your peril after all these years….