I realize he made it to 95, which is a damn impressive run, especially for a life as colorful as his. But I'm still heartbroken, and I have a hard time putting into words how very much the work of Stan Lee informed my childhood.
Life will be significantly less fun without him. Both my inner 12-year-old and my actual 12-year-old (Oliver) are crestfallen. This cover depiction of the mighty Ghost Rider pretty much sums up how I'm feeling.
Also, .....THIS:
It should come as absolutely zero surprise to anyone that, given the things that I happen to preoccupy myself with, I think the new Beastie Boys book -- the imaginatively titled Beastie Boys Book -- is absolutely essential. I'm barely a third of the way in, and I'm practically ecstatic about it.
Go get it.
Back in August of 2008, I posted an entry dubbed “Recent Things.” This was essentially just a series of photographs I’d snapped with my still-quasi-new digital camera (not iPhone) to offset a series of photo posts I’d portentuously titled “Things That Are No Longer There,” and variations thereof. I stumbled upon that latter post this morning, and was struck by how many of those things – a decade later – are themselves no longer there … or at least not how I’d left them, so to speak. Let’s review, shall we?
This, as the sign says, was Bleecker Bob's. I devoted almost as many posts to the slow demise of this storied stronghold of punk vinyl as I did to the untimely vanishing of the Cedar Tavern. In any event, it closed in 2013 and, contrary to original plans, did not turn into a rock'n'roll-themed frozen yogurt emporium, but rather a fair-to-middling Japanese restaurant I dined in in 2015. Read that account here, should you honestly care.
This is a shot of my then-four-year-old daughter Charlotte standing cherubically in front of what had been the fabled Moondance Diner at the bottom of Sixth Avenue, just north of Canal Street. About year after this photo was taken, the Moondance closed (its physical manifestation moving out west to Wyoming, if memory serves) and a giant, fuckoff hotel was erected in its footprint. I sneer every time I walk by it ... which is daily.
This is the former exterior of Marty's Cool Stuff on LaFayette Street just north of Bleecker. The shop was a complete, unmanageable mess, but Marty did indeed have the odd bit of genuinely ...er... "cool stuff." The only lasting bit of ephemera I have that I'd prized there is this orange metal sign that says "Smiths Overalls." It hangs just above the interior transom of our front door. Today, this is part of the noxious streetwear flagship, KITH.
This is the former entrance to 9 Second Avenue, just steps to the south of the Mars Bar (also gone, of course) on East First Street. Largely derelict and abandoned by the time of this photo, the building's significant back history was lovingly told in an amazing documentary called "The Tao of 9 Second Avenue." I wrote about it here, but it's well worth seeking out. Today, the spot in this photo is part of a TD Bank branch.
Fittingly just around the corner from the shot immediately above, this is the north-facing exterior of the old Mars Bar on East First Street between Second Avenue and the Bowery. A constantly shifting and captivating canvas for murals and spontaneous expressions of colorful street art, this strip of East First Street was always one of my favorite spots in Manhattan. It's all gone now. What's in this space now is that TD Bank, a chic condo's chilly lobby and -- last time I checked -- a business called The Alchemist's Kitchen.
Believe it or not, this is Extra Place on the northern end of East First Street, just steps to the east of the Bowery. Yes, down at the end of that arguably forbidding dead end was the rear of CBGB. Many an atmospheric photo of punk luminaries was snapped in this forgotten byway. Today, it's a comparatively straight-laced and squeaky-clean strip of neatly appointed -- but frequently empty -- storefronts.
This last one probably doesn't need a lot of explanation. That's Charlotte, again.
Over the weekend, I turned 51. I wasn’t going to mention that otherwise, as it’s a fairly incidental number. Turning 50 was arguably worth talking about. 51? Not so much. But in relation to this post, it’s entirely pertinent.
Along with being old, in the way and out of touch with the youth, I’m also evidently a hypocrite. I say this as many of the criticisms that I’m about to lob at the unwitting subject of this post could just as well be lobbed at me. That makes me a stinky hypocrite. Guilty as charged, your honor.
I’ve been blogging here for a little over thirteen years. Even that very word … blogging… feels irretrievably anachronistic. It’s a dated term steeped in since-antiquated technology and waning, increasingly sepia-toned cultural significance. I might as well be a ham-radio enthusiast.
But primitive tools notwithstanding, I blog about my interests, my insights and my individual circumstances. I document my proclivities, pet peeves and predilections, and not always alliterartively. That I do so is based on the rather strenuous presumption that absolutely anybody should fucking care about what I have to say about these topics or any other. The guy I’m writing about here basically does the same thing, only via YouTube. He’s a vlogger.
Enter Bretti Conti, Millennial YouTuber and self-styled entrepreneur, “creator” and “influencer.”
Conti, I suppose, uses YouTube in a comparable manner to the way I use my particular blogging service, documenting his doings via regular entries. From a strictly technical perspective, his videos are slick, resourcefully making full use of a variety of cameras, mics, lenses and even a drone. The end results, from what I’ve observed, are well-edited, sharp, and replete with signature branding. In regards to this aspect of his presentation, I applaud Conti’s proficiency. Had I access to the same tools, I have grave doubts that I’d be able to produce something of comparable quality.
So, yeah, while he does a great job in that respect, it’s the content of his entries that make me wince. But then again, …. I’m old. What the Hell do I know?
Through absolutely no fault of his own, Mr. Conti is young and, thus, largely bereft of the type of inherently world-weary cynicism that fuels my own daily existence. He’s a plucky Long Island ex-pat who moved to New York City under five years ago to pursue his dream of becoming an entrepreneur. Informed and inspired by well … things I fucking hate like “Friends,” “Sex and The City” and Jay-Z & Alicia Keys’ still-cloyingly-ubiquitous “Empire State of Mind,” Conti has made over 400 (!?!?) individual videos documenting his travails, multiple aspirations, opinions and a whole lot of skateboarding. To be fair, he also aspires to be a travel blogger, and hops around the globe quite a bit. Most of his videos, however, revolve around his life here in New York City.
If it seems like I’m bending over backwards to give him a fair shake, that’s because I’m trying to. While I find his penchant for tireless self-promotion, “personal branding” and product placement (he started up a skate & streetwear line, of a sort, called Fortune) to be nothing short of insufferable, I cannot fault him for his dedication and enthusiasm. And while I personally find his taste in music to be abysmally abhorrent, it’s his “channel,” not mine. That he’s driven to verbose giddiness by transient food fads and uses “fire” as an adjective are other unfortunate matters entirely.
At the end of the day, I cannot honestly say why I bristle at so much of what Brett Conti presents here, although -– if I had to guess -– I’d imagine it’s the signifier that my New York City and the associations I assign to it are fading further and further into the background as new generations -– like Conti’s -- rise to take their place. As he skates around sipping bubble tea and raving about fraternizing with other social-media “influencers,” I find myself barking at the screen, doling out idiotic factoids about the streets he’s scooting down and the trivial minutia thereof.
One can almost imagine Brett Conti decades from now, similarly furrowing his brow at some new upstart’s three-dimensional hologram-blog, pounding his fist. “IN MY DAY, BUBBLE TEA REALLY WAS FIRE, YOU HATERS!”
Whatever. Good luck to you, Brett.
Check out the full spectrum of Brett's video channel by clicking here.
Apart from an entry back in 2014 when Taylor Swift was dubiously named the “global ambassador” to New York City, I’ve rarely invoked the pop star’s name on this blog. Yes, she’s a globally beloved celebrity worth a quarter of a billion dollars, but she does not factor greatly into my life in any major capacity. My kids are not fans of hers, but that’s none of my doing. My son isn’t particularly fussed about any contemporary pop music, as far as I can discern, while my 14-year-old daughter continues to stop short of expressing affinity for any specific pop artist to me, although I do know that she likes Dua Lipa. When I’ve flown Taylor’s name of the flagpole, she basically shrugs. I think if Taylor Swift ever had plans on indoctrinating my daughter, that time would have passed by now. Whatever.
As I mentioned in that earlier post, I may not give a lot of thought to Taylor Swift’s music -– not that I would genuinely know anything of hers beyond “Shake It Off,” which somehow infiltrated the battlements of my awareness -– but I don’t really feel that her music is in any way for me to begin with. I don’t begrudge it, necessarily, but I don’t expect to relate to any of it either. Her songs don’t really offer a perspective that applies to me. I don’t want to make any sweeping generalizations, but I don’t think her fanbase includes that many folks in their fifties, but maybe I’m mistaken. Hers are still tunes for teens, as far as I can surmise.
More recently, however, Taylor has broken her long, tantalizing (to some) silence on the topic of politics, encouraging her fans via Instagram to register to vote in the impending midterm elections, also throwing her own support behind the Democratic candidate in her home state of Tennessee. This deviation from her otherwise career-length refusal to ever opine in the arena of politics purportedly broke hearts across the internet, dispelling the evidently widespread myth that Miss Swift’s allegiance was with conservatives. `Fraid not. Suck it up, kids …. or should I say, shake it off? Apparently Taylor skews to the left.
Personally speaking, Taylor Swift’s political leanings don’t really mean anything to me, although I suppose I’m happy to hear she’s not a Trump-supporting idiot. That said, Taylor’s single declaration has palpably galvanized a growing army of new voters. Read for yourself.
Asked about same in the last day, Donald Trump -– ever petty –- expressed that he now likes her music “about 25 percent less.”
Now, honestly, Trump taking a swipe at Swift for daring to voice her dissenting opinion or failing to express the fealty he’s constantly in search of isn’t surprising. That’s what he does. He’s embarrassing and small-minded. It’s not even shocking anymore.
No, the part that struck me – however incidental – was his lame put-down, asserting that Taylor’s political beliefs have lessened his enjoyment of her music.
Do you genuinely believe Donald Trump has ever voluntarily listened to Taylor Swift’s music?
Also, Trump’s assertion that Taylor “doesn’t know anything about” Tennessee’s Marsha Blackburn is pretty galling, not only because Taylor specifically cited why she’s not supporting her in her post, but also just Trump’s knee-jerk dismissal of the notion that Taylor is a sentient, cognizant adult.
So, yeah, I guess Taylor Swift’s alright with me.
Trump? Not so much.
Next month, I am to cross the perilous Rubicon of my 51st year. I’m not especially enthused about that number, but what is to be done? Arriving, as I did, if my mother is to believed, at “cocktail hour” during the early evening of October 13, 1967, following a harrowing ride in a yellow cab across congested West 14th Street en route to St. Vincent’s Hospital, I was officially born in downtown Manhattan. My family did not live downtown, at the time, which might explain why that cab ride was so fraught, but they made it to St. Vincent’s all the same. My grandfather, a doctor, has practiced at St. Vincent’s, which might be why the decision was made to have me delivered there. Decades later, both of my own children were born at St. Vincent’s. Today, despite my multiple personal connections to the place, St. Vincent’s Hospital is sadly gone, razed to accommodate a new and prohibitively expensive cluster of condominiums. `Cos ya know … those are more important to a community than having a proper hospital in the vicinity. But, I digress…
In any case, in my regular perusals around the internet, I stumbled upon the clip below and let out an audible gasp or two. From the AP Archives, the video below captures scenes from the East Village – including footage of East 9th Street, First Avenue, Tompkins Square Park, St. Marks Place, The Dom and the Electric Circus, among other locales --- circa 1967. In fact, the story accompanying the footage was evidently posted on the very day of my birth. While these hirsute hippies right out of central casting were depicted strolling -– in some instances barefoot -– around the largely-still-recognizable East Village, I was busy preparing my early entry into the world about five avenues to the west.
Anyway, enjoy the trip back in time… and please note that while some footage repeats itself, it’s worth sticking around for the whole 8:26 of it.
I cannot say I’ve ever knowingly watched NYCTV, let alone been aware of its existence. But I’ve been spotting this new ad campaign of theirs in the subways, of late, and am both compelled and repulsed by it. On the surface, I think the concept -– “Why I Love New York In 25 Words” -– is kind of a fun, novel little exercise. It’s their execution that has depressed me.
Polling a variety of celebrities and public figures -– like, say, one Bridget Moynahan below -– the answers they’ve fielded to their little challenge have been, to my mind at least, somewhat dispiriting. I mean the notion of citing “Sex and The City” as a fundamental reason why you love New York City upsets me more than I can put into words. But, to be fair, if I’m not mistaken, Miss Moynahan was in fucking “Sex and The City,” so that contextual qualifier makes it slightly more forgivable, I suppose. Still, … hurrumph. Also, who would honestly still cite the High Line? I wonder when the last time was that she tried to walk down it.
Anyway, judgmental vitriol aside, I thought it might be fun to take a crack at this little challenge myself, given my deep well of adoration for my home town. Whilst strolling to work one morning this week, I started tallying up suitable citations to include. In typical fashion, however, I started over-thinking it, wondering if I should cut my unwieldy list in half, given the fact that so many of the words I’d chosen represent aspects of New York City that no longer exist. Then, I thought, should I make two lists, one for stuff I love and one for stuff I miss?
No. I decided to jettison the words that represent things that have vanished -– The Ritz, Rocks In Your Head, Danceteria, CBGB, SoHoZat, NoHo Star and the Cedar Tavern, to name but a small few –- and stick with what’s still current. I’m keeping the names of bands, as even if those bands no longer exist, the music lives on.
Here is why I happen to love New York in 25 words. What are yours?
Ear Inn
Beastie Boys
Central Park
Lower East Side
Yorkville
Kraut
Courtlandt Alley
Knickerbocker’s
Cop Shoot Cop
NYHC
The Strand
“After Hours”
Bowery Ballroom
Veselka
So, yeah, before I launch into this…
I feel obligated to preface the weepy tale below with the stark acknowledgement that there are people with very genuine problems, at the moment, and I -– ultimately -– am privileged and fortunate enough not to be among them. We’re existing in a volatile era of animus and uncertainty on a global scale. Here at home, portions of the East Coast are currently bracing themselves for the arrival of Hurricane Florence, which promises to do not just a little bit of damage. Serious shit is going down. There are big issues to contend with. The following paragraphs below are in no way comparable, and are ultimately the quintessence of trivial, in the grand scheme of things. As the expression goes, the grievances expressed below are “first world problems,” and given the volume of awful things happening in the world, I almost feel remiss in invoking them at all, let alone right now. Just know that I’m aware how silly, stupid and petty it might sound, and I should really count my blessings.
But, anyway…
If you’ve spent any significant amount of time reading this weblog over the past 13 years, or are burdened with the often awkward predicament of being a friend of mine in “real life,” you are doubtlessly aware that, apart from my patient, exquisite wife and my two incandescent children, there is nothing -– LITERALLY NOT ONE MOTHERFUCKING THING ON THIS CURSED AND BROKEN EARTH –- that I care more about than Killing Joke. This is not just venomous hyperbole. Since first hearing them at age 17, I was indoctrinated for life (and beyond). It extends far beyond fandom. Essentially, Killing Joke is like a religion of which I am a zealously devout fundamentalist.
You may remember, back in July, I posted a whiney little post upon learning that a mandatory and labor-intensive work event at my organization’s Nashville, TN office was scheduled to land on the same day as Killing Joke’s return to Irving Plaza in Manhattan for the NYC stop of their 40th Anniversary Tour. Despite there being 365 goddamn days on the calendar, these two things had to happen on the same one? Vexed as I was by this, I managed to hash out a scheme that would get me back from “Music City” to New York City in time to catch the `Joke. I’d procured a ticket to this show back in …. Jeezus, February or so … and was very much looking forward to it, the band having cancelled their last show here back in 2016. By hook or by crook, I was determined that I was going to be at this gig.
Time passed. I worked very hard to bring the Nashville project to its best-realized fruition in time for the event, while simultaneously tackling other tasks. I was multitasking with a vengeance. The entire time, though, I knew I had this show at the finish line, so it kept me motivated. I was still fine-tuning the project days before the event, but I knew I was going to nail it. I almost wasn’t even worried about it. I was really only worried about making it to the Joke gig.
The Nashville event was this past Wednesday. I flew down crazy-early on Tuesday to help out work out logistics and basically do a bit of hand-holding for my department head, helping put out various fires in a slightly more diplomatic manner than she’s capable of. The event was scheduled for 11:30 am Wednesday morning, and we were ready. At go-time, we unveiled the project and it was an actual showstopper. Everyone was happy. Senior execs reached out to applaud the work I’d done. Mission accomplished with flying colors. Yeah, that’s great, but I now need to get in a goddamn cab.
Here's me looking prematurely pleased with myself after a job well done, oblivious of a giant metal horse about to kick me in the ass.
I’d arranged to get on a flight leaving the Nashville airport at 3:00 pm Central Time, landing me in NYC’s odious LaGuardia airport at 6:30 pm. Killing Joke were not slated to hit the stage until 9:30 pm, which left me three hours to get home, dump my stuff, change, meet up with my fellow zealots and get to the show. Easy peasy, right?
What’s that expression about the best-laid plans of mice and men going awry?
I arrived at the Nashville airport with time to spare, checked in, grabbed a bite to eat and settled back, safe – I assumed – in the presumption that I was going to make it. At this point, I’m going to repurpose the posts I put up on Facebook and Instagram to flesh out the rest of this narrative.
In a moment of premature buoyance, I posted the below, appended with the following legend…
That’s a wrap, Nashville. Next stop, NYC and KILLING JOKE @ Irving Plaza.
Almost on cue, stuff started to go wrong. At 3:02 pm, Nashville time, I posted…
BREAKING NEWS: This just in from the “Not so fast, Yankee City Slicker” department. American Airlines, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to impose a new weight restriction on my flight, pushing back the departure time, and asking for volunteers to take a later flight. Suffice to say, I am not happy.
After soliciting some volunteers to waive their seats in favor of later flights and a paltry 200 bucks, American Airlines let us board, a half-hour after we’d first been scheduled to leave. I entered the plane and resumed my presumption that I was going to make it. Then this happened…
BREAKING NEWS DEUX: Because God evidently hates me, he chose to blight the New York City airspace with “impassable” thunderstorms, so my plane flew to Syracuse. We had to do this, as — oh joy — we were running low on fuel. Likelihood of getting back to Manhattan to see Killing Joke (see ticket) now strenuously slim. The fates are conspiring against me. Suffice to say, daddy is NOT happy.
After spending ten to fifteen slightly harrowing minutes of trying to descend into the NYC airspace, we flew the hundred some-odd miles out of the way to Syracuse. I don’t know if you’ve ever spent any quality time in the Syracuse Hancock International Airport, but I assuredly do not recommend it. Here’s my update from an hour and change later…
BREAKING NEWS TROIS: Seemingly theoretical flight from Syracuse to attempt second pass at stormy NYC now pushed back to 8:30. Killing Joke to assume the stage at Irving Plaza at 9:30. I’m so palpably depressed I could throw up.
We didn’t actually get airborne until about 9:00 or so. When 9:30 arrived, I was still in the air. When we landed, there was no gate waiting for us, so we sat on the tarmac for another thirty-or-so minutes. I didn't actually leave the airport bound for Manhattan until about 10:45. I didn't make it back into the city until well after 11pm. My wife suggested scrambling over to at least catch up with some of my friends in attendance, but that almost seemed like it would be that much more painful, having missed the entirety of the performance (let alone being exhausted, zonked and already demoralized beyond description).
So, to make a long story short, I did not make it.
By all accounts, the band put on a blinding set for the sold out venue. The emotional impact of the disappointment brought on by missing this event has verily left my soul bruised and my mood irretrievably soured.
Being that this is the band’s afore-cited 40th Anniversary tour, it seems strenuously unlikely that they’re going to be back here again any time soon – or, honestly, if ever again.
…which is why I’m looking into maybe going to see them in London in November, …. if I can make it work.
Here's a shot my friend Jeremy captured of the Irving Plaza gig.
Today, of course, marks the seventeenth anniversary of the events of September 11th, 2001. It’s hard to believe, but there it is.
You may remember that I wrote about the “Tiles for America” project about ten years ago…if you’ve been following me all this time. The pic below is of one of the tiles in question, of course. Since that post, a whole lot has happened to that particular path of real estate, but some of the tiles still remain … however tenuously.
En route to a much needed haircut, I passed by the remaining tiles over the weekend, and was stuck by this one in particular. “America in Distress” is pretty self-explanatory, but in case you’re not aware, “Title 4” refers to Title 4 of “The Flag Code,” which states the following…
The flag should never be displayed with the Union down, except as a signal of dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life or property.
Were there ever a time to invoke Title 4 of the Flag Code, September 11, 2001 was certainly the day. Even seventeen years later, I can still vividly remember what it was like here in New York City on that otherwise crisp, beautiful morning.
Given the current state of proceedings with Trump still at the helm, it feels like Title 4 of the Flag Code is starting to feel worryingly appropriate once again.
As the yang to the previous post's yin, here is the obligatory entry about the weekends my family was lucky enough to spend squatting at my mom's place out on Long Island's East End. Apart from the wife and I's brief sojourn in the Middle East, we spent all our free time, this summer, out there. Here with some highlights.
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