Flaming Pablum

Sounds In The Summertime

For the last month — and for the conceivable next month -- myself and my little family are sequestered back out at the so-called Lamb Cottage out here on Long Island, the same little house we sub-letted last summer, when the pandemic convinced our friends who normally rent it to stay put in their North Carolina home. As fate would have it, that same family demurred from coming up north this summer, too, so they graciously let us sublet it again for July and August, and it’s a true gift for us to be able to do it.

This all said, while this little cottage was a literal safe haven for us last year and an idyllic place for us to undeservedly sojourn this year, it does have its minor drawbacks.

Sandwiched on all sides by other properties, the cottage comes with two specific sets of neighbors — we call them Jersey House and Staten Island House — who each harbor penchants for, shall we say, sharply compromising the idyll.

Closest is Jersey House, a sprawling, fully-air conditioned suburban compound with a lavish backyard pool that is just over a fenced hedge from us. The residents of same are a family of five who keep a strange weekly schedule that flies in the face of the calendar’s conventions. They oddly disappear for days, out of synch with the weekday/weekend continuum. When they are here, however, their kids spend an inordinate amount of time in the pool. There is, of course, nothing wrong with that. Had we our own pool, we’d probably do the same.

By the same token, the Jersey House kids conduct themselves in the pool in a manner that is best described as … well … feral. Now, don’t get me wrong — obviously, children frolicking in swimming pools is very literally the sound of summertime. When my own kids were little, they giggled their heads off whilst playing in my mother’s pool. But these kids are just … different. They are MANIC, and sound like they are in dire need of some weapons-grade dosages of Ritalin. They scream, rant, rage, moan and bellow in a manner that gives me concern, and I don’t even like these children. Never mind the fact that they irritate the bejesus out of us, I can’t fathom how their own parents stand it. There is no calm. There is no peace. When they play “Marco Polo,” — and they are ALWAYS PLAYING “MARCO POLO,” a strange, maddening constant, given the mind-numbing idiocy of the game — they scream as if their next meal singularly depends on winning.

Last year, we politely asked, on a few awkward occasions, if they could try to keep all the bug-eyed, vein-popping screaming to a minimum. By the end of that summer, we were brazenly yelling “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CALM THE HELL DOWN AND SHUT THE FUCK UP” out our bedroom window (the one that faces their pool). Nothing ever changed.

Across the narrow driveway on the other side, meanwhile, is Staten Island House. That’s a whole `nother story.

A massive, multi-bedroomed stronghold with multiple cars coming and going and yet another sprawling backyard pool set-up, Staten Island House plays host to a horde of folks from, we assume, Staten Island, who dependably like to regularly juxtapose the otherwise sleepy tranquility of the surrounding environs (Jersey House notwithstanding) with their pronounced affinity for high-decibel partying. Again, situated as they are between a cluster of other houses, to say nothing of the police station just a block away, the residents of Staten Island House suffer from what my wife calls a dearth of “situational awareness.” I find that diagnosis a little charitable, sooner suggesting that they proudly exude a palpable case of “pugnacious situational indifference.” Routinely opting for rafter-shaking airings from the discographies of Billy Squier, Pat Benatar and Rupert Hine (man oh man, do they love “Escape [The Pina Colada Song]”) in a manner suggesting that 1981 never ended, the S.I. House practically dares me to come complain. Thus far, I have demurred from that option.

Last summer, there was a moment when I was working away at my laptop in the living room, when I heard a group of people walking up the cottage’s long, gravel driveway. I looked out the screen door to see a phalanx of angry-looking women in lycra activewear standing outside in a sort of attack formation. “Can I help you?,” I asked. The leader, a tough-talking lady brandishing a metal water bottle somewhat menacingly, spoke up. “Hey there, Paul, why did you call the cops on us last night?” “Well,” I calmly replied, “for a start, my name isn’t Paul, and we didn’t call the cops on anyone last night or ever. We’re not really ‘call-the-cops’ types, here.” She didn’t seem to buy it and went on to assert that they were just blowing off steam and having a party with some of their friends after a long work week (seemingly oblivious to the fact that the party in question happened on a Monday night). I re-iterated that we hadn’t called the police on them, which was true. Being that we’re ultimately only guests of our friends here, we don’t really feel its our place to alert the local constabulary of any noise disturbance (despite the fact that I’m dead sure the police station a block away could easily hear Staten Island House’s stentorian spins of “Love Is A Battlefield” the evening prior). Bear in mind, these ladies didn’t come down our driveway with a conciliatory bottle of wine to offer — just grimaces and lycra. They took off back down our driveway, and that was our last interaction. But the late-night arena-rock blocks have continued unabated.

Once again, we’re inclined to just grin and bear it, as the benefits of spending time here at the cottage vastly outweigh the drawbacks. If that means dealing with the bloodcurdling screams of Jersey House’s pool and the foundation-quaking renditions of “The Stroke” from Staten Island House, so be it.

Earlier this week, however, I had to repair back to the city. After the remains of a botched root canal in the back of my mouth finally saw fit to dislodge themselves from my skull two weeks back, I figured it was high time to go see my dentist again. I made an appointment for early Tuesday morning, and, in short order, I found myself back in our apartment in the city, late Monday night, without my wife and kids and bored.

Left to my own devices, I ended up drinking a tallboy (or two) of Asahi while re-watching “The New York Post-Punk Noise Series Vol. 1” DVD, which features — wait for it — Cop Shoot Cop performing live at Martin Bisi’s studio in 1993. Without my wife there to helpfully remind (read: scold) me about the perils of volume, I ended up particularly reveling in this vintage slice of clangy noise rock. Evidently, I was enjoying it with a little too much abandon, as halfway through a pointedly caustic rendition of “Shine On Elizabeth,” I heard an emphatic pounding on my front door.

Shaken and shocked to my senses, I muted the television and sprang to the door. I was greeted by Ben, my gentle giant of a downstairs neighbor who could easily collapse my pipe-cleaner-like ribcage with a single poke to my sternum. He’d been dispatched with all haste upstairs by his seething wife to ask me to turn it the Hell down, half-expecting to have encountered one of my teenaged kids as the culprit. Essentially, imagine hearing this coming through your ceiling at top volume. I apologized profusely and trotted out some half-assed excuse that held no water and made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Exceptionally good dude that he is, Ben graciously accepted my drivel, thanked me and split to go soothe the nerves of his hysterical spouse. I spent the rest of the evening on my tip-toes feeling like a first-class jackass.

I am a filthy hypocrite.

The takeaway, here, is whether you’re a city mouse or an ersatz country mouse, never lose touch with your situational awareness.

Flaming Pablum Turns Sweet 16

At this late stage of the proceedings, I’m at a loss as to what to say about the fact that I’ve now been updating this blog for sixteen years.

I mean, oh sure, I could dust off the old anecdote about how I started this blog just to piss off a friend and former colleague of mine who had just started his own. He abandoned his after a while, whereas I just …. kept going.

Of course, the concept of anybody blogging in 2021 seems arguably pretty ridiculous. I mean, were I the dutiful trend-follower, I’d be, at the very least, a vlogger/"influencer," by this point, with a YouTube channel and branding and merch all that, but that’s just not my scene. If anything, I am a “bad influencer,” and the closest thing to merch I have is a clutch of dumb stickers, and if you want any of those, you’ll have to walk around downtown Manhattan, find one that hasn’t yet been defaced and peel it off something. Have fun with that.

In any case, my continued gratitude to those of you who’ve actually bothered to read the blog and inexplicably keep coming back for more. And another big thank you to those who have gone that perilous extra mile and left a comment.

You keep readin’ and commentin’ and I’ll keep postin’.

Walk, Fat Bastard, Walk: A Playlist for July

In an ultimately futile attempt to be less of a fat bastard, I’m taking approx. three-mile walks around Quogue every morning, and exhuming a lot of music in the process. Based on the whole albums I’ve been listening to thus far, here is a de facto playlist for this month.

Enjoy.

1.“Juanita/Kiteless” by Underworld, from Everything, Everything.
2. “Boot Camp” by Soundgarden, from Down on The Upside
3. “Poor Boy” by Nick Drake, from Way to Blue: An Introduction to Nick Drake
4. “Your Silent Face” by New Order, from Power, Corruption & Lies
5. “The Hammer” by Motorhead, from No Sleep `til Hammersmith
6. “Damaged Goods” by IDLES, from The Problem of Leisure: A Celebration of Andy Gill & Gang of Four
7. “The Boy with the Perpetual Nervousness” by The Feelies, from Crazy Rhythms
8. “Summerhead” by Cocteau Twins, from Four-Calendar Cafe
9. “Wear Your Love Like Heaven” by Donovan, from Greatest Hits
10. “Hate Your Friends” by The Lemonheads, from Hate Your Friends

Dog-Day Doldrums

Hey all. My apologies for the relative slowdown here. Here in the proverbial crotch of summer, so to speak, things are busy on the home front. As of July 1, we've been miraculously back out at that same cottage in Quogue we managed to sublet last summer, but also running up and down the eastern seaboard — taking one child on college tours around Massachusetts, Upstate New York, Connecticut, Vermont and Maine, whilst dropping another off at camp in Vermont, only to drive back this coming weekend to go fetch him again — three weeks go by so fast.

Meanwhile, I’m working remotely the entire time. It’s not exactly the hazy, lazy summer anyone might have been anticipating, not that I’m complaining. I’ll also be popping in and out of the city in the weeks to come.

Speaking of summer in the city, here’s Joe Cocker’s estimable bash through same from 1994, filmed in and around SoHo in Manhattan when it was still funky.

Colonoscopalooza

One of the downsides of being a brazenly oversharing chatty cathy like myself is that I while I might excel at turning relatively banal, workaday anecdotes into arguably compelling narratives (witness the recent "Mystery Package" saga as an example of same), every now and then I unwittingly tee up something that, in retrospect, I might have otherwise preferred to keep to myself.

Last week, in fidgety anticipation of both the fearsome prep and procedure of my first colonoscopy (a box I should have checked off three years ago), I took to the blog to post a floridly overwritten rumination on my penchant for procrastination and the mounting tolls of my advancing years. Sensing I might at least coax a compelling cautionary tale out of my experience and/or strike a chord with readers of a comparable age, I set the table, so to speak, for a larger piece about the episode after all was done and dusted. Much like the afore-cited “Mystery Package” story, I assumed, based on the testimonies of friends of mine who’d had colonoscopies, that the second part of the story would be banal and anticlimactic. “You get cleaned out,” they said, “ ya have a nice nap, ya wake up and then they tell ya to come back in seven years.” Sounds pretty simple, right?

Well, not so fast.

Most of that rang true. While a long way from pleasant, the prep wasn’t really anything too traumatic, and not nearly as ….er… explosive as I was anticipating. Fasting is never fun, but at no point did I ever feel like I was going to expire from hunger. I checked in the following morning, got hooked up to an I.V. (probably the worst part, for me, as I hate needles and getting tethered to things), and in no time at all, I was wheeled into “the procedure room.” They positioned me on my side and asked what I did for a living. About a third of the way into my invariably windy explanation of what a director of content and editorial services does for the corporate communications department of a performing rights organization (I’m sure they were riveted), I was out cold.

Next thing I know, I’m waking up in a sort of recovery alcove and am informed that my wife is on her way to pick me up. As I’m gradually regaining my cognizance, my pointedly dispassionate gastroenterologist pops his head around the curtain to tell me that they found and removed “a bunch of polyps” while spelunking in what Coil once called “The Anal Staircase.” This is not the news I was looking for. He then says that I am to come back for another colonoscopy next year. Not seven years. Not five years. Next year.

Now, given the eternal flame of guilt that burns deep within me, I project (probably correctly) that the preponderance of polyps they encountered in my …er… posterior is the consequence of my having not attended to this matter sooner. Had I gone and gotten this done when I was supposed to a few years ago, they could have nipped these problems in the bud (literally) and not had to contend with the “bunch” (technically seven, if I’m parsing their pathology tissue report correctly) that they excised.

I expect to get a more digestible summary of their findings later this week. I’m assured that they removed what needed to be removed, and while I completely understand why they want to have another look next year, I remain a little shaken by the whole experience, especially upon hearing shortly afterwards that my maternal grandmother grappled with (and was ultimately felled by) the same issue.

So, yeah — don’t procrastinate, kids. Get your colonoscopy when it’s time. Spare yourself the rude awakening.

Time Out

Hey all, I need to make like Dave Brubeck and "Take Five." Or should I say have a Time Out? Either way, in the wake of events mentioned yesterday, I need to step away for a little bit. 

Be back soon. 

Colonoscopocalypse Now!

For whatever reason, I have always been a procrastinator. I’m not proud of it, but I am aware of it. I am routinely more than happy to put off `til tomorrow that which would be more prudent to tackle today. This dates back to my grade-school years and is arguably rooted in any number of intricate emotional quandaries, if the studies are to be believed. While I’d usually get around to completing assignments and studying for looming exams prior to the proverbial 11th hour, too often I was wasting precious time that could have been more constructively spent.

In ensuing years, my penchant for procrastination has been largely kept in check by my bug-eyed preoccupation with staying gainfully employed. Lose your job a few times, like I have, and you’ll get there, too, although that means an excessive amount of worrying that usually outweighs the likelihood of the unceremonious dismissal I’m dreading. So, while I’m invariably “over-concerned” about impending deadlines and their ensuing demands, I’m less likely to procrastinate in terms of executing the particulars.

This is not at all the case, however, in terms of looking after my health. My approach to that, up until recently, has been a fairly irresponsible one that only involves regular check ups, check-ins and office visits when absolutely necessary. Don’t fix what ain’t broke, amiright?

Yeah, well, that’s not right.

They say that once you cross the Rubicon of your 50th year, you need to have a few things checked out. Probably the most notorious of those things involves having a colonoscopy. For the uninitiated, that’s an endoscopic examination of the labyrinthian interiors of your butt with a fiber-optic tube. No, that's not a shot of it above. That's a still from 1979's "The Black Hole." I couldn't resist. In terms of colonoscopies, don’t do a Google image search for those, …you will not enjoy what you find.

Ultimately, it’s not really a big deal. The procedure itself, I gather, takes only minutes, and better they should find something when it’s actionable than when it’s too late, right? 

I’m now 53. I should have had this particular task taken care of three years ago (although more recently they’re saying you should do it at 45). But I didn’t. I chalked it up to being too busy at work (true, but still) or never finding the right time to do it, which is also kinda bullshit. The real reasons are more about trepidation and procrastination.

The prep for the procedure — inarguably the worst part — involves chugalugging two bottles of weapons-grade laxatives over the course of the day before. This means you’re going to want to stay home and stay close to the porcelain, so to speak, for what I can only imagine is a robust afternoon of … well, you know.

In all honesty, I did have every intention of getting this done last year, but then, of course, the pandemic arrived and took a big dump — pardon the strenuously unfortunate pun — over all of those plans.

Once the smoke started to clear on COVID-19 (although I wouldn’t quite count on it being done and dusted just yet), I went back to my primary-care doc and bit the bullet, making an appointment for a colonoscopy at long last.

The timing needed to be strategic. Last weekend, we drove my son Oliver up to Vermont to go back to the camp he had to miss last year. You might remember a series of drama-drenched posts about his first visit to the place. On Sunday, we put my daughter Charlotte on a bus to her grandmother’s out to the East End of Long Island. With both teens now out of the house, I can focus on the health-positive-albeit-insalubrious mission ahead.

Today is prep day. I had a light breakfast and one cup of coffee. Come 1pm, I am relegated to only “clear liquids.” At 4pm, I crack open the first bottle of the stuff. I’ll spare you the details of what I expect will transpire after that.

The procedure itself is tomorrow morning at 9am. Maybe not a “full report,” but expect any pertinent news later that day.

Some Perspective

I wanted to weigh back in the wake of both my last post and on the larger story as a whole, which continues to snowball from being a local concern to now one garnering sensationalist headlines in UK periodicals like The Independent and The Daily Mail. There is indeed a lot of stuff going on in Washington Square Park, of late, but I think it’s prudent to point a few things out.

Firstly, the park in question has gone through myriad iterations over the decades, to say nothing of its fairly grim past as an execution ground and a potter’s field in previous centuries. As recently as the late 60s/early 70s, the park was a fairly grotty hub of desperation, as depicted in the documentary film embedded in this comparatively ancient post, wherein I alluded to 2016’s version as being “comparatively idyllic.” Defenders of today’s version, meanwhile, will be quick to point out the druggy, dirty and edgy version of the park that held sway in the `70s and into the `80s. There is indeed truth to that. In my own experience, I certainly remember regularly walking through Washington Square Park in the `80s, invariably on my way to any number of since-vanished Greenwich Village record shops. The park, by that point, was certainly awash in drug sales, but predominantly just weed (or, more accurately, oregano posing unconvincingly as weed). Even at this point, though, I never felt a sense of menace in the park, although I was also young and naïve. To my mind, the experience of Washington Square Park in the `80s is perfectly captured in the video of “Que Pasa/Me No Pop I” by Coati Mundi.

Of course, by the Giuliani era, the drug trade was pushed out (largely to points east) and actual video cameras were famously installed, some allegedly hidden in treetop birdhouses, if the myths are true.

I don’t remember seeing a striking difference in the park, though, until the mid-2000’s, when they started carving up the space in an arguable upgrade (the crux of the plan being to move the fountain so that it was flush with Fifth Avenue). By this point, I was regularly visiting the park with my kids, them having both spent sizable amounts of time in the park’s playgrounds. As I mentioned here, I don’t believe I was entirely onboard with the renovation.

When Washington Square Park fully re-opened in 2009, it was indeed lovely, and myself and my family resumed our regular visits.

From that point on, I think we all just took the park for granted. There were always going to be elements of it that didn’t entirely play nice with others, but such is the nature of public space. To think it was going to remain squeaky clean, especially given its long history, is kind of ridiculous. Just as there will always be old hippies hoarsely crooning out-of-tune John Lennon tunes there, there were always going to be some shady goings-on if you looked hard enough for them.

The pandemic, however, gave another spin to proceedings, revitalizing Washington Square Park’s former status as a hotbed of a public activism, demonstration and protest and becoming a favored spot for rallies of various causes, most notable among them being Black Lives Matter. Anyone who was shocked or upset by that probably isn’t very versed in the city’s history.

But this spring brought something different. The shady goings-on alluded to two graphs up were no longer especially well-hidden. The drug trade came back with a vengeance, and – as mentioned – we’re not just talking about pot. Crack and heroin took up residence in the northwesterly quadrant of the square (uncomfortably close to the smaller children’s playground). Both the collective trauma of the pandemic and the seeming relaxation of both basic amenities and law-enforcement within the confines of the park sort of morphed the square into a permissive oasis for some and a scary headache for others. Then the late-night raves started.

As far as I’m concerned, I don’t really give that much of a damn what people are up to in the park. But I do take strenuous objection to the hard drugs, the crime, the violence, the proliferation of garbage and the abject lack of basic consideration. As I said in the last post, by all means utilize your public spaces to their fullest potential, but show some fucking courtesy, restraint and respect while you do it. I posted something to that same effect on social media, and swiftly came the “Hey you kids, get off my lawn” rejoinder. More like, “Hey you kids, stop giving hand jobs to crackheads in full view of the playground, shitting in the fountain and assaulting people.”

In terms of the late-night parties, I don’t live close enough to actually hear what’s going on, but I see what the place looks like in the mornings, and I’m just not down with the ensuing melees that have been the result. The bozo behind all that is this idiotic asshole, who is as egomaniacal as he is myopically stupid, … which is saying something.

In any case, this all said, while the park has indeed seen better days (however you’d care to define that), this is not to say that you cannot still sit down and enjoy its green, open pleasantness. I passed through it this past weekend and took the picture below – not the roiling sphincter of acrimony and bloodshed the headlines would otherwise have you believe.

But we can still all do better.

What's Going On In Washington Square

Whether you’re going to Washington Square Park to be your authentic self, let your freak flag fly, commune with the similarly inclined, enjoy the nice weather or because you’re simply trying to walk through it to get to the other side, can’t we all agree that – as it’s a public space – it should be an experience that DOES NOT involve brazen drug abuse (we're not just talkin' weed), prostitution, the threat of violence and late-night, high-volume bacchanalia in a residential neighborhood?

It’s also a complete, goddamn bomb-site every morning with trash all over the place. I’ve lived in NYC my entire life, and even compared to the freewheelin’ 80s, it’s never been as off the rails as it is now. By all means, use your public space, but at least attempt to demonstrate some courtesy, restraint and respect while you do it.

What's In The Box?

So, just to close the circle on this, here is the rest of the story….

In the wake of learning that a UPS package with my name on it had mysteriously shown up at my former address 19 years after I’d moved out, I was understandably intrigued. New occupant Carl mentioned that he’d shoot me an email after he’d left it downstairs for me to pick up. All day, however, from the banal to the bizarre, I was bewildered by what the explanation could be.

My first guess was that it was the next phase of an eBay scam I’d somehow gotten ensnared in. A month or so back, I started receiving strange, small UPS packages that were obviously not actually meant for me. Containing these plastic shoelace-protector things for sneakers, at least nine or ten of these parcels showed up with my name and current address on them, all from different eBay buyers, and all seemingly intended as “goods returned to sender.” I believe it’s technically called a “brushing” scheme, and it’s sort of disturbing. After a while, though, they stopped arriving. I still have them all in a box in my front closet, uncertain what to do with them. But upon first hearing about the mystery package on East 12th Street, I became concerned that the problem might be spreading to my old address. So, yeah, that was my first thought.

Sticking with the eBay theme, though, I also harbored the notion that the package may be some long-errant item I’d won on the auction platform that had been languishing in limbo this whole time, finally reaching its appointed destination. Maybe it was a vintage Stranglers poster or a rare Bad Brains 7”. This, by far, was the option I was hoping for the most.

Thinking even further afield, however, my next concept was that it was something more personal, potentially from someone I’d have fallen out of regular contact with prior to moving in 2002. My mind entertained wild notions of it being a box full of personal effects from a far-flung, estranged relative or a bag of ancient mixtapes from a disgruntled ex-girlfriend or a neatly-packed and meticulously counted bundle of 100-dollar bills in tight plastic bands or, y’know, a severed head. The possibilities on this thread were maddeningly endless.

Carl emailed me again early Monday afternoon to say that the package was with the doorman. I left my office downtown around 5:30pm and went to go solve the mystery.

With my brain now spinning the scenario into a fanciful hybrid of “Paddle to the Sea” and the denouement of “Star Trek: The Motion Picture” (wherein robotic interstellar probe, Voyager Six, returns from the hollow vacuum of a black hole in deep space to reconvene with its creator), I walked into my old lobby to retrieve my fateful package. I didn’t recognize the doorman on duty, but having not lived there for almost two decades, that was not entirely surprising. “Hi, I’m Alex,” I said, "I’m picking up a package that was left for me by Carl on the third floor?” I pictured the doorman reaching under his desk to reveal a weathered, battle-faded parcel, pockmarked by age and festooned with stickers from various ports of call like the pages of a secret agent's passport. I imagined it being covered in dust with barely-discernible handwriting scrawled across it.

Instead, he handed me a thin, flat UPS mailer that very assuredly did not date back to 2002. Sure enough, my name and former address were on it, with the return address being simply the “mail room” of some fulfillment center in West Virginia. I thanked the doorman and took off.

Reeling from a combination of incredulity, confusion and, frankly, disappointment, I opened the cardboard envelope when I got back out onto East 12th Street to reveal its contents ….

…concert tickets for DEVO’s September show at Radio City Music Hall.

As expected, the explanation is somewhat strenuously anticlimactic. On June 11th, tickets went on sale for this show at the very same venue I first saw DEVO in 1981. I immediately purchased a pair of tickets via the site featured on Facebook — that being Ticketmaster. Evidently, I have not used my Ticketmaster account since 2002, when I lived on East 12th Street, so upon completion of the transaction, Ticketmaster sent my tickets to the only address it has for me. No scams. No rare Bad Brains single. No clandestine box of cryptic ephemera. No wads of cash. No severed head.

I came home and put the UPS mailer with my tickets in it on my bureau and told my wife the ridiculous news.

Later that night, she accidentally threw that UPS mailer out.

My son Oliver intrepidly fished the mailer out of the bowels of the trash in the basement this morning, averting further hysteria.

Move along. Nothing further to see here.