Flaming Pablum

The Exacerbation Vacation

Hey there, all. Sorry for the slowdown in regular posting, but between the revelation of my foot injury (as floridly recounted in the last post), the usual flurry of activity at the start of the summer, some unexpected developments at my office (a colleague just gave his notice, which means I’m inheriting his workload … hopefully temporarily) and the ongoing image-hosting problem here on this blog, I just haven’t had a moment.

This all said, I’m afraid you’re going to have to probably wait even longer, as my family and I are just about to depart for a ten-day vacation. Honestly, the timing isn’t ideal – between my foot injury and mounting responsibilities at work – but plans were made months ago, etc. etc.

A good friend of ours rented a villa in Italy and had originally planned to host her entire family. As it happened, she couldn’t bring that plan to fruition, for whatever reason, so she reached out to my wife to extend an offer for us (me, the wife, the kids) to come stay for a spell. It sounded (and may very well be) too good to be true, but we’re taking her up on it. Watch this space. 

We’re stopping in Rome for a bit first, which will invariably not do my ailing foot any good, but … Hell, I’ve been walking around with broken bones in it for at least a year – what’s another week or two?

The day after we get back, I’m going back to my podiatrist to get (hopefully) fitted for …. the boot.

But first, Italy … which explains the image of Mario with a foot injury above. Thanks, Internet!

Everybody play nice while I'm gone. I'll be back. 

 

"If It Was Broken, You'd Be Screaming!"

…so sang the inimitable noise rock duo, Happy Flowers on their 1987 album, My Skin Covers My Body, which also featured timeless chestnuts like “I Wet the Bed Again,” “Jenny Tried to Kiss Me at Recess” and, of course, “Why Didn’t You Tell Me You Were Bringing Home a Baby!” While the `Flowers wrote blackly comedic songs from the perspective of a vexed, psychotic four-year-old, there was indeed an element of foundational truth to “If It Was Broken, You’d Be Screaming.” An expression widely shared in the wake of sudden injury, it's essentially conventional wisdom. When you break a bone, it’s usually pretty obvious.

Alas, as it turns out, and in doubtlessly many-if-not-most instances, you shouldn’t really rely on the medical counsel of the Happy Flowers.

But let’s back up, a little….

Well over a goddamn year ago, if not more, I started feeling an odd sensation in my left foot (with apologies to Daniel Day Lewis). Initially it felt, while walking around on it, like my sock was bunching up around the toe, and the “ball” of my foot was being uncomfortably compressed, in some way. Closer scrutiny routinely revealed this not to be the case, but my foot continued to feel different. With each step, it didn’t fall and land the way it previously did. It didn’t hurt — but it didn’t feel right. An expensive chiropractor I was consulting, at the time, indeed agreed that the foot appeared to be “rolling” a little. That guy ended up prescribing a pair of very expensive and roundly uncomfortable orthotic insoles that I maybe wore for a few weeks before abandoning.

But the weird foot problem continued.

I then consulted my primary care physician, who upon examining the exterior of my foot, said he couldn’t detect any readily discernible problems. It was also around this time that I was experiencing, as recounted in this brow-furrowing episode, this weirdly recurring blood-rushing-in-my-feet sensation. I speculated to my doctor that I might have gout, given my heroic intake of beer and such. He basically laughed that off, underscoring that — much like “if it was broken, you’d be screaming” - if I was experiencing gout, I’d fucking know it (gout is reportedly mega-fucking painful). “Alex,” he sighed, "you think you might have gout because, let’s face it, you think you deserve gout.” He has my number.

I never got a concrete explanation as to why that blood-rushing thing was happening, and it eventually went away. But not the ball-of-the-foot problem. That continued.

I then went to see an allegedly proper podiatrist recommended by my primary care physician. For the sake of this fraught narrative, this podiatrist will henceforth be referred to as Dr. Quip. I went in to see Dr. Quip who, as his alias might suggest, was quick with the wisecracks. I started explaining to him my problem with my left foot, and he basically interrupted my typically epic-poem-like saga, blithely informing me that what I was experiencing was “in all likelihood” a condition called “second toe capsulitis,” which, if I understand it correctly, is basically inflammation of the soft tissue in the ball of the foot. That certainly sounded plausible, and I was heartened by his immediate recognition of the problem.

In terms of next steps (pardon the pun), he said that a confirmation of that diagnosis would probably require both x-rays and an MRI, but being that it was probably capsulitis, I should just go ahead and order this other pair of orthotics (“you can get’em easily from ol’ Jeff Bezos" … hilarity) and, along with regular stretching, it’ll most likely clear the problem right up. I hit up Amazon and got a pair the very next day.

I dutifully inserted these new insoles -- considerably more affordable that my chiropractor’s ones -- into my sneakers and started basically wearing them exclusively while also regularly stretching my left foot. Unlike the previous insoles, I acclimated quickly to the new ones. The theory was that it should take about five or six weeks to alleviate the issue.

Despite my really wanting this treatment to clear up the problem — it just didn’t. Six weeks after first wearing them, my left foot was still inexplicably stiff, sore and frequently numb. But, at the same time, life was suddenly very busy again, with family issues, work demands and other stupid shit vying for my time and attention. As a result, I didn’t get the opportunity to get back in touch with Dr. Quip until a few months later.

I told him that the insoles weren’t really getting me where I needed to be, and that I was still experiencing this regular discomfort (that was actually getting incrementally worse). Again, he repeated that an MRI would really be the deciding factor, but I couldn’t do that until I’d had x-rays, so … x-rays were next on the docket.

Despite the predictable pushback dance from my frankly shitty insurance company, I managed to get coverage for x-rays and hobbled over to NYU Langone to get those radioactive pictures snapped. Those, in turn, were sent to Dr. Quip, who leisurely got back to me a few days later saying that they basically told him nothing new, and that the MRI was, again, the ticket.

As before, my insurers were pronouncedly reluctant to cover this cost, and issued disarmingly swift notices to this effect, cruelly asserting that, after supposedly reviewing the specifics, they didn’t see any tangible necessity for an MRI. In a rare moment of professional tenacity, Dr. Quip made a more compelling case to them and secured authorization, and we were off to the races.

After breathlessly showing up at the specified radiologist’s office for an after-work appointment on the other side of town, however, it was gleaned that giggly Dr. Quip somehow forgot to send them the prescription order, bouncing the appointment to the next day. Oh joy.

I eventually did get that MRI — and hoo-boy, I don’t know when the last time you had an MRI was, but that shit is LOUD — and those results were also then sent to Dr. Quip. After two or three days of my peppering his inbox with questions via the Patient Portal (or, in my case, the Impatient Portal), he wrote back the following…

“hey, it appears you have an avn, which means one bone in the bottom of the foot most likely was broken at some point and stopped healing/doesn’t have enough blood supply.”

Johns Hopkins has a slightly more grave-sounding take, as is their wont,…

"Avascular necrosis is a disease that results from the temporary or permanent loss of blood supply to the bone. When blood supply is cut off, the bone tissue dies and the bone collapses. If avascular necrosis happens near a joint, the joint surface may collapse.”

So, all that capsulitis stuff? That was basically a big fuckin’ snipe hunt.

I walk a lot. I walk forty-five minutes to my office every morning, and forty-five minutes home from my office every evening. On the weekends, I walk all over the goddamn map. I don’t run. I don’t go to the gym, and I only really ride my bike during the summer. My biggest physical outlet is walking, and I’ve apparently been walking around with broken bones in my left foot that are slowly eroding for, again, well over a year or more. While I’m completely capable of heroically injuring myself in any number of stupid instances (this one springs to mind), I have absolutely zero recollection of ever doing anything to, with or on my left foot that could have possibly resulted in the breaking of a bone therein. Once again, I figured that, if it was broken, ….I’d be screaming, but nothing like that ever happened.

Limping forward, the next step is a new kind of pad beneath the problem area in the short-term (and I’m about to depart on an invariably walk-heavy vacation, in a couple of weeks), followed by — in the long-term — probably a “cam boot” or “walking boot” for god knows how long.

Rant over.

Just remember …. just because you’re not screaming doesn’t mean it ain’t broken.

Liberty or Desk

News came down, this week, that Paramount Media Networks were essentially scrapping what was left of MTV News, an outlet some here might remember that I worked at for a hot minute (well, almost two years) in the mid-2000’s. As I’ve suggested before, while getting laid off from said gig was certainly no goddamn fun, I genuinely learned a lot at that place and met scores of brilliant, funny and inspiring individuals, most of whom I’m proud to still call friends this many years later. While most of the people I’d worked alongside had also left the auspices of the company, by this point, the news still made me sad.

In tribute, like many of my former colleageus, I posted some pictures online, notably a shot of me and Mr. T (above), who strangely dropped by the office one day. This happened quite often, actually. At various points, I had Sacha Baron-Cohen (in “Borat” mode), Busta Rhymes, Bono, Amy Winehouse, Fat Mike from NOFX (never liked them) and Ghostface Killah from the Wu-Tang Clan loitering around my cubicle while I was trying to work. It was just that sort of place. In addition to the portrait of myself and my BFF, Mr. T, I posted a picture of that old desk there (see below), as did many other folks. My former manager chimed in saying that he’d wished he’d taken a picture of his desk, as these images served as a sort of time capsule.

In any case, prompted by same, while waiting for some crucial assets to arrive at my current office, this morning, I put this silly composite together. Enjoy.

My desk at Denison University during my sophomore year (1986-1987). You’ll notice the surface of the desk uncluttered with any semblance of actual work.

My first gig outside of college was as an intern at SPIN Magazine, where – tellingly – I didn’t really have my own desk. Similarly, my first paying gig at LIFE Magazine … as a copy clerk … didn’t come with its own desk either (as, most of the time, I was busy running around the office delivering copy churned out from a printer – this was all prior to the ubiquity of the internet). I did eventually land a desk as an editorial assistant at LIFE, in a cubicle in the hall outside the News Editor’s office, but I don’t believe I ever captured that on film. After getting laid off from LIFE in 1993, I decamped to TIME, where after faffing about in various administrative positions, I landed a job at the TIME Magazine News Desk, which did come, at last, with a desk. I was basically there from 1993 until the end of 2005.

There came a point, for me, at the News Desk wherein I felt I was long overdue for a change. I’d been there, basically, far too long, and was still working two grueling overnight shifts a week. While I’d branched out, by this point, and actually written a few items for the magazine (notably several contributions to a special music issue, some small news items in the front of the book and Bono’s eulogy to Joey Ramone, which I orchestrated), I was really ready to make a break, albeit with a heavy heart. I loved working at TIME, but when an amazing opportunity opened up for me at the online wing of MTV News over in Times Square, I jumped.

Once again, my tenure at MTV News was comparatively brief. The writing was on the wall, really, when the excellent gent who’d hired me was laid off. It was really only a matter of time before they shook the tree further and I lost my own grip. That said, I will continue to believe that a lot of that was my own doing. I had a great opportunity, at that place, to really distinguish myself and assert my own voice, but too often, I failed to do so. I didn’t make myself essential, and thus paid the inevitable price. Once again, while that was no fun, it was still a hugely rewarding experience to work there, and the friends I made I still cherish.

After getting the keys to the street from MTV News at 1515 Broadway, I waffled about until landing a part-time spot as a homepage editor at MSN.com, the Microsoft portal. This found me working in a bullpen in a building directly across Sixth Avenue from my old stomping grounds at the TIME-LIFE Building. This was a fun-but-nervy position in that, being that I wasn’t technically on staff, so I had to take three months off after every six (or something … I honestly don’t remember), and then hope to God they hired me back after those lean three months. But, I did have my own desk….

From MSN, I somehow cajoled one of our lovely content providers from TODAY.com to consider the heroically unlikely prospect of hiring me on at that morning show’s web concern as an editor. I surprisingly managed to land that position with very little fuss, finding me orchestrating content on the site’s homepage, and writing strenuously incongruous copy for its parenting blog (TODAY Moms), its fashion blog (The Look) and its royal-wedding-countdown blog (The Windsor Knot). I started in 2010 and was essentially catapulted out of my chair in 2014. While I was able to do a lot of fun stuff, there, I was not really of the ideal sensibility for that particular position and never really a good fit, despite, once again, meeting hundreds of great people, there. I was also excised from proceedings in a kind of dehumanzing way, but I gather that was the company’s M.O. Leaving TODAY.com was ultimately a good thing, for me, but that chapter was particularly humbling, at the time. But, y’know, I did have a desk. It was like working in windowless, orange submarine.

After landing with a brittle thud on the cold, hard but worryingly familiar tundra of unemployment once again, I busied myself with lots of temp positions and freelance writing (something I’d done throughout), but being without a stable job with benefits when you’ve got a wife and two still small children was no friggin’ picnic. I entertained some unthinkable options. I came very close, at one point, to lobotomizing myself in order to take a job at FOX News, but ultimately (and rightly) demurred. I was engaged in some very lengthy talks with some outlets that didn’t make me want to spit up, but too often, the numbers were not right, so to speak.

Eventually, I got the right offer from the concern that I’ve now been at for about seven years, and am very happy. Not only did I get a desk, but for the first time, I got my own office (as opposed to another bullpen or a shared space). Huzzah!

I’ve sort of over-decorated it.

Carnegie Hill Kids & Yorkville Youths

It’s weird to hear yourself speak, if you’re not prepared for it.

I remember, back in college, I was a disc jockey on our radio station (WDUB, 91.1 FM in Granville, OH – now a digital platform in 2023 and no longer a functioning radio station). There was this kid who lived down the hall from me named Preston, and at the end of the year, he suddenly gave me a handful of cassette tapes that he’d recorded of all my shows. It was kind of an odd gift (why did he record them?), but once I had them, I was really thankful, although listening back was always strange, “Do I really sound like that?” being the recurring reaction.

I had that very same reaction again this morning, as I was listening to Episode #61 of Desperately Seeking the `80s, the podcast that graciously hosted me last week for a (very) rambling discussion about growing up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan in New York City in the – wait for it – 1980’s.

As feared/predicted, while I even admit, at one point during proceedings, that I was concerned about coming across like “a babbling brook of idiocy,” I, of course, did just exactly that, unspooling several tendrils of discussion that frequently eschewed the topic of the questions that prefaced them. I go off on unfinished tangents, blithely raise points that are only tenuously related to the main thrust of the conversation, brazenly offer inane observations that do little further the narrative and continually seem to interrupt my two lovely hosts. But, I guess, such is the nature of an organic conversation, which this very much was. While I’m concerned that we probably had way more fun recording it than you’ll probably have listening to it, it was indeed a great, hugely fun experience, now preserved for posterity.

Just as a wee bit of background, I happened to grow up during the same era and, very oddly, in both the respective neighborhoods of the podcast’s two hosts, Meg and Jessica. Much like Meg, I was entirely privileged to spend my formative, grammar-school years in Carnegie Hill on the Upper East Side, and then decamped with my Mom to an apartment in nearby Yorkville – where Jessica lived -- circa 1983 or so, when my parents got divorced. As such, the three of us share a bizarre amount of common experience, which is how/why we first discovered each other (as discussed here).

Anyway, without further ado, if the last few paragraphs haven’t scared you off the notion of actually listening, please avail yourselves to Episode #61 of Desperately Seeking the `80s, wherein I dispense with all semblance of my carefully cultivated mystique and reveal myself to be a haplessly blabby Chatty Cathy. Enjoy!

Find it here, or however you enjoy your podcasts. 

...or just press "play" below...

The Coffee Shop/Diner Dichotomy

The following post is actually an “open letter,” initially composed in response to the latest episode of the Desperately Seeking the `80s podcast, which I’ve discussed here several times before, most notably here. I started writing it and then it got to a length wherein I figured it would make a nice post on its own, so here we are. You’re welcome.

Incidentally, the lovely ladies of the`80s have graciously invited me to actually appear on their podcast. We’re recording that very soon, I believe, so watch this space for that. Hopefully I won’t come off sounding like a rambling, abject idiot, but I promise nothing.

So, without further ado, in response to Jessica’s portion of this latest episode (Episode #60), herewith my response….

M’kay… first of all, I totally recognize the elusive difference Jessica was driving at between the classic coffee shop and the diner, the latter being a sort of less salubrious affair, given its accent on burgers & fries over more delicate fare and the ability to order alcohol, an important distinction, in my latter years of high school and into college.

That discussion immediately conjured up places where I used to be taken as a child. There were at least two or three proper “coffee shops,” as I remember, on Madison Avenue, foremost among them being the one beautifully captured in the photograph above (I have no idea who took it or when, but I'd originally poached it for this old post), which was on the southwest corner of 84th Street, right next to the long-vanished Trans-Lux movie house (the only movie theatre on Madison Avenue, I want to say). For whatever reason, I remember coming to this place with my Dad, who always ordered “cinnamon toast” … which, should that need illustration, was just that: buttered white toast with cinnamon on top. I don’t remember us ever having anything else, but who needed anything else? Inside, it was a lunch place, but it wasn’t tawdry or beaten up, unlike more conventional diners, which were open later. I want to say there was another more haute coffee shop about a block up between 85th and 86th (and this is going way, way back) called The Puffing Billy (named, presumably, after a train), but I can find no evidence of that online.

In terms of all things DINER, meanwhile, beyond what I blathered about in this recent epic-length post, me and my own little gaggle of morons had our specific favorites, those being as follows: The Mansion on East 86th & York Avenue (this was my home corner from about 1984 until 1996), Gracie’s Corner on the – wait for it – corner of East 86th & First Avenue (r.i.p.), The Viand Restaurant on East 86th Street & Second Avenue and then, a little further afield, The New Amity on Madison and east 84th (r.i.p.) and one on Lexington between 77th and 78th that, in more recent years, was called the Lenox Hill Grill, but went by another name back in the 80s. There was also one on Madison Avenue and, like, East 63rd we occasionally went to which was called The New Wave Diner (or Restaurant) – an establishment we appreciated solely for its name.

The Mansion is still there today, but had something of an interior-décor reboot, some years back, that decimated everything I held dear about the place. It used to be comparatively dark inside. You could sit at the counter and enjoy your burger in a sort of atmospheric gloom, as opposed to the gleaming white walls that now frame one’s dining experience. I remember they had stills from “Casablanca” above the counter area, for whatever reason.

When my mother and my step-father split, my sister was already away at college, so Mom and I moved to East 86th Street between York & East End, just up the road a piece from where my grandparents had lived at Henderson House before decamping to Florida. It was the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, so I was already fairly autonomous, and my mom was jump-starting a career as a real estate agent for the Corcoran Group, so I was frequently left to my own devices, which meant lots and lots and lots of visits to the Mansion for any number of meals. It was also a meeting place, a hangout spot and a safe haven, of a sort. For a hot second (and I do mean hot), I actually dated a young lady who worked behind the counter in the early `90s, but it was destined to crash and crumble like a slice of over-toasted cinnamon toast. More about that another time.

One of the cool things about living on East 86th Street, at the time, was the aforementioned abundance of diners and coffee shops. I seem to remember Gracie’s Corner on First Avenue being if not a 24-hr. venture, at least being a very late-night operation, and frequently repairing to its comfy confines for late-night fries with gravy (an homage to “Diner”? Who remembers?) and other inevitably drunken shenanigans (frequently after many an ill-advised hour spent in nearby public houses like Ryan’s Daughter and The (original) Gaf (formerly Pedro’s). I have a somewhat bleary-but-still-cringey memory of my college pal Edgar (not his real name … who, after spending weeks living on my couch, finally rented his own place nearby on East 84th off Second Avenue) basically abandoning a girl he’d been out on a date with (leaving her in my care, so to speak). She wasn’t so much crestfallen as confused. I walked her home, though – something Edgar invariably should have done. But, I digress..

The Viand (and we pronounced it with an inexplicable French accent, ala “vee-OND,” although who knows if this is correct?) was another staple. I remember very many meals at the Viand, either with my college friend Shafe (then-fresh from rural Florida) or my childhood comrade Rob D. Rob was famous for his last-minute veer-offs from convention when ordering, making roundly ill-advised detours into adventurous culinary territory ala “actually….scratch that, I’ll have the Cauliflower Au Gratin!” and other dishes one should ABSOLUTELY NEVER order at a diner.

My late friend Danny (initially immortalized as Rocky, on this post) and I used to frequent that Lenox Hill spot (right next to Lenox Hill hospital, a storied institution Danny was once ensconced in for a broken nose after a fateful run-in with the 84th Street Bombers in front of Mimi’s Pizza on Lexington and 84th). It lacked the homey comfort of the Mansion or the late-night debauchery-friendly vibe of Gracie’s Corner, but it was his local. The New Amity on Madison was a big favorite for some classmates of mine, but trying to have a meal there during the school day was always a nervy affair, as our free periods were only forty minutes long, so you were invariably going to be asking feverishly for a check before you’d finished your burger (or whatever).

Today, once again, the Mansion is still there, and recently made a cameo in “Only Murders in The Building” (although not cited by its actual name). The original Gracie’s Corner is gone, as is most of the block it occupied, but I think its building is still standing. The concern actually moved up the block and what had been The Viand is now called Gracie’s Corner, if I’m not mistaken.

I’m pretty sure the Lenox Hill Grill on Lexington at 77th is gone. The New Amity closed for good last summer. I think what had been the New Wave is still there, but called something else, by this point.

In terms of the cast of characters, my date-abandoning pal Edgar decamped back to his Midwestern hometown in the mid 2000’s. I fell more or less out of touch with Florida Shafe some years back after he got a bit more churchy, so to speak. My great comrade Rob D. got married to my friend J, had a child, moved to City Island, then moved to New London, CT. , got divorced and became an acclaimed writer and an esteemed man of letters, penning the preeminent academic tome on Eugene O’Neil and currently working on another sprawling book about a different celebrated writer. He still orders food ill-advisedly. My cinnamon toast-touting Dad passed away in 2011 and my great friend Danny died in 2018 in his adopted state of Colorado following a few cruel years paralyzed from a tragic bicycle accident.

The girl I fleetingly dated from The Mansion vanished into thin air circa 1993.

Old Wave Goes No Navy

I routinely spend an inordinate amount of time bitching and moaning about places like The Gap, Urban Outfitter and, more recently, American Eagle hawking t-shirts with band insignias on them. Longtime readers might remember me foaming at the mouth about Flipper t-shirts being sold at Forever 21 and/or an obscure bit of Ramones artwork being inexplicably appropriated for a shirt sold by Brandy Melville. It’s getting as commonplace as canonical rock tunes like Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” being used in Carnival Cruise ads – it shouldn’t be shocking any more, but it still riles me.

This all said, someone posted something comparable on a Facebook group I belong to, today, that left me more puzzled than pissed-off. I cannot verify if this is actually true, but someone was selling an Old Navy t-shirt on eBay appended with the legend “NO WAVE NEW YORK – 1982 LOWER EAST SIDE,” augmented with an image of what looks like a derelict building (see below). Now, I have zero idea of the true provenance of the image, but the fact that it ended up on an Old Navy graphic t-shirt is truly bizarre.

Unlike, say, Nirvana, The Ramones, Rush, AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses or even Joy Division, the No Wave movement was a fairly niche concern, in the grand scheme of things, largely relegated to a more select demographic, to put it mildly. You’ll never find a bona fide No Wave record on a sports bar’s jukebox, nor is it likely to feature heavily in the offerings at your local karaoke establishment. Names like Teenage Jesus & The Jerks, DNA, Mars, The Contortions and the like may still be sacrosanct to your average egg-headed music nerd but aren’t liable to get any nods of recognition outside of the dusty record-shop contingent. Still quite capable of separating the die-hards from the dilletantes, the music of the very short-lived No Wave period is very pointedly of a “not for everyone” variety.

Moreover, if you really want to get pedantic, the juxtaposition of the term “No Wave” and the year 1982 also doesn’t really jibe, as by most credible accounts, No Wave was basically over by 1980. This garment begs so many questions. Click to enlarge. 

This all said, while I haven’t voluntarily stepped inside an Old Navy since my kids were still in their zealous nose-picking years, were I to come across it whilst perusing their wares, I’d probably buy it based solely on the sheer what-the-fuck? Incongruity of it all.

Actually.... it looks like you can get it on Etsy ... so treat yourself. 

For the curious, uninitiated and/or for the Old Navy shoppers……THIS is what No Wave sounds like….

Running with "The Warriors"

Apropos of nothing, Oliver and I re-watched “The Warriors,” last night. The first time I showed him this movie, about two or three years ago, he was incredulous about how a group of so-called tough guys like the titular characters had such a difficult time navigating the mass transit system of their own city, and spent most of the film detailing quicker, alternate routes they might have considered to get from Dyre Avenue in the Bronx to Stilwell Avenue in Coney Island, Brooklyn. I told him to relax and enjoy the film.

I was amused to learn, recently, that back in 2020, a runners club organized an event called “The Warriors UltraRun,” wherein over thirty runners — dressed as gang members from the film — did an overnight race from the Bronx to Coney Island. I love that idea, but — alas — authenticity-fixated pedants would be super-quick to point out that while that run is an admirably ambitious athletic undertaking, they would only be recreating the concept of the narrative, being that the actual depiction jumps all over the city map in geographical incongruity.

While viewing “The Warriors" a second time, Oliver came up with other vexing quandaries and brazen plot holes, largely concerned with the physical limitations and logistical hazards of wearing roller skates on a subway platform, the inconsistencies of oft-repeated Warrior lingo (is Swan’s inherited title —following the presumed elbow-inflicted demise of Cleon — “War Chief” or, per Ajax, “War Lord”?), and some sartorial inquiries. Why, for example, does the taskmaster of the Gramercy Riffs —and, really, Gramercy??? — dress in a sequined robe that wouldn't look out of place on Liza Minelli? 

These are all valid concerns, but the only perceived discrepancy in “The Warriors” that’s ever really bugged me is the notion that the ominous disc-jockey who relays directive from the Riffs in-between late-`70s funk and soul selections would actually drop the needle on a Joe Walsh record.

In any case, we were discussing the many locations featured throughout the film (and how, more often than not, they don’t really sync up with the narrative), and I exhumed this from YouTube.

Let's get down to it, Boppers....

Easter at The Movies

It’s Easter, for those who celebrate. Enjoy your chocolate.

Personally speaking, despite being raised a Catholic and having attended fourteen years of Catholic school (including four years with the Jesuits), I cannot say I’m exactly the “best” Catholic out there. I mean, I’m pretty much what you could call “lapsed.” I would suggest I’m probably agnostic, more than anything else, but the combination of fourteen years of schooling and my first exposure to the music of Black Sabbath* really drove home the point that the church wasn’t really my bag. When it came time to go to college, I felt I was more than done with the whole religious bent. I developed a pronounced disdain for rigid dogma and a naughty affinity for brazen blasphemy that continues to rile certain members of my family. But while I may frequently think that the faith is too deeply couched in intolerance, guilt and fear (what? Am I wrong?), I don’t genuinely begrudge anyone else’s adherence to it, although my absolute favorite combination of words in the English language continues to be “Mass is cancelled.”

But last night, when my wife, son and I were wondering what we should watch after dinner, the notion of the seasonably appropriate “The Ten Commandments” was invoked (not by me, mind you). I actually don’t mind the film, but felt it was a bit too … lengthy for our purposes. My alternative was to suggest “Life of Brian,” a slavishly more enjoyable take on comparable subject matter, albeit filtered through Monty Python’s refreshing disregard for the sacrosanct.

After that was shot down (by the wife), I raised the notion of a film that might otherwise seem like an unlikely stretch for a church-dodger like myself, that being 1973’s “Godspell.” I have my reasons.


For a start, while it was never a hotbed of holy rollers, my childhood home did, oddly enough, come equipped with the original cast recording of the off-Broadway production of “Godspell,” which I remember being in somewhat regular rotation (again, mind you, not by me). The folksy-acoustic pop-friendly songs from same (a little lighter than the ponderously serious fare from the similarly inclined “Jesus Christ Superstar,” which was also quite a mainstay, at the time) fit perfectly when played alongside my mother’s Judy Collins, James Taylor, Carole King and Cat Stevens records. I remember my older sister playing the crap out of “Day By Day,” which is only cloyingly churchy if you pay too close attention to the lyrics. While I may bristle at the revelation, if you play those songs today, I can still practically sing along with them to the letter.

The film from two years after that LP’s release, however, has what I’d consider a special bonus that has absolutely nothing to do with absolution, salvation, forgiveness, evangelism or any of that incense-sodden claptrap. Filmed entirely in the New York City of 1972 (and starring the ridiculously afro’d Victor Garber as Jesus), “Godspell” is an unwitting time capsule of the same, gritty Manhattan captured in films like “Serpico” and “Mean Streets,” albeit with significantly less gunplay and swearing.

Not unlike the film adaptation of “The Wiz” or Milos Forman’s “Hair” from a few years later, the Manhattan depicted in “Godspell” is actually more of a painterly, fanciful portrayal than any presented by Martin Scorsese or Sidney Lumet. But given my particular predilections, I cannot help but be fascinated by it, even if it means enduring the Gospel of Matthew being sung at me.

Enjoy this taster, and Happy Easter.

*Actually, somewhat ironically, despite the band's ominous moniker, Black Sabbath’s stance on all things occult and/or Satanic was more a wary aversion than an espousal. Led Zeppelin was far more sympathetic of that sensibility, albeit in a nuanced way — unlike, say, Venom, although Venom’s endorsement of all things Satanic was more vaudevillian than in earnest. 

Tunes for Teens

About a year and a half ago, my teenaged son started getting way more into music.

I mean, I’d unsolicitedly bombarded both of my kids with music for the entirety of their childhood – not so much to indoctrinate them, so much as to demonstrate that there are verily whole worlds of music out there that they should avail themselves to. They didn’t just have to make do with whatever crap was on the radio or whatever insipid bullshit their classmates might be listening to*.

Unfortunately, they also probably both heard me lip off about any number of widely revered artists (as I’m wont to do), which did no one any favors, ultimately.

But I tried to play them a bit of everythig. I was also always curious about how their little ears and minds processed certain bits of music. I loved how Charlotte, as a tiny tot, warmed to the metronomic pulse of Kraftwerk or how Oliver was immediately put off by the voice of Elvis Costello. There was a disc of calypso songs by Bahamanian Blind Blake (not the blues guy) that used to make them both giggle maniacally. Long-time readers might remember a post I put together wherein, as an experiment, I had the then-12-year-old Charlotte listen to the entirety of The Pink Opaque by the Cocteau Twins and share her toughts about it. I was always subjecting them to this sorta stuff.

As a result of these shenanigans, both of my children were able to identify songs by bands like, say, SWANS, Devo and Killing Joke at very early ages. They may not have been familiar with whatever cheez-whiz Taylor Swift was pushing, at the time, but a single spin of “New Life” by Depeche Mode or “Start Wearing Purple” by Gogol Bordello would have them giddily chirping along.

On the not-so-positive side, both became initially very guarded about the music they were privately warming to, lest it fall afoul of their father’s needlessly outspoken scrutiny. Now, while they may not have believed me, there would never have been an instance wherein I spoke ill of whatever music they were digging. Even if I tried, there would be no way I could possibly steer the trajectory of my children’s musical tastes. I remember my own parents trying to talk me out of liking bands like KISS, The Ramones and the Sex Pistols, and boy-oh-boy did that ever backfire on them. My kids will like what they like, and that will be that.

Years later, I don’t know that music plays the role in my teenage daughter’s young life that it did in mine, at her age. Quite like her mother, while Charlotte genuinely loves music, she’s really not interested in getting into any ponderous discussions or heated arguments about it. And unlike her feelings about it during her littler years, I sincerely doubt she gives one single rat’s ass about what I might happen think about her favorite music, which is precisely as it should be.

Oliver, on the other hand, took the baton and ran with it and has since become as zealously preoccupied with albums and bands and the whole surrounding subculture as I was, when I was his age.

The odd thing is that Oliver is drawn to a very specific era of music, immersing himself in bands like The Stranglers, The Sisters of Mercy, Bauhaus, Theatre of Hate, The Clash, The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, The Damned, The Cult, Joy Division, New Order, The Cure, Depeche Mode, Love & Rockets and – wait for it – Killing Joke. Any of this sound familiar?

Now, while all those bands are also some of my own favorites, I keep encouraging him to widen the net, so to speak. About a year ago, I started making him (again, mostly unsolicited) playlists on Spotify, as -- until I recently bequeathed him a portable turntable that I bought at a school auction, some years ago -- that’s his go-to format. He’s now enthused about amassing his own collection of vinyl LPs, but I can’t compete with -- nor necessarily get him to share my pronounced antipathy for -- the sickly allure of the hands-free convenience that Spotify provides.

Anyway, while it’s not a problem, per se, Oliver seems to listen exclusively to bands from the `80s. There’s certainly nothing wrong with that – Hell, it’s verily my favorite era, as we’ve established – but there is still much more music out there that, if he digs the `80s stuff, he should also appreciate. Also, while I’m way more in favor of him listening to bands from the `80s than, say, Drake or Post Malone or Lil Yachty or Machine Gun Kelly or Ice Spice or whatever vacuous piffle is currently clogging up the pop charts like an immovable cluster of calcified dung in a rotting sewer pipe, he should, at least, be cognizant of other areas of music out there. It’s not that I’m the best person to expose him to that stuff, but if no one else will, I’ll certainly try.

I don’t quite know why, but `80s nostalgia seems to have a much greater stranglehold on popular culture than, say, `90s nostalgia does. This isn’t to say that nobody cares about the music of the `90s (witness the dispiriting preponderance of Nirvana and Sublime t-shirts out there, these days), but dead rockstars notwithstanding, the `90s still seem to lack the romantic exotica of the `80s.

But, as I’m quick to point out, the `90s weren’t just about Grunge, Gangsta Rap and bullshit boy-band crap. There were scenes and sounds and sensibilities from that era that had zero to do with flannel or wallet-chains. With this in mind, I made a few sprawling playlists devoted to `90s phenoms like Shoegazing and Britpop. I also made a list of more contemporary bands, just to further illustrate that there is musical life outside of the Reagan/Thatcher era. He’s been receptive, but his favorites remain his favorites.

While bored beyond belief, the other day, I started putting together a playlist of a lot of the music that I was steeped in for much of the `90’s, that being the fertile wellspring of constantly new sound that was the – for lack of a better term – British Indie scene, which along with spawning the aforementioned Shoegaze and Britpop bands, also gave us the so-called “grebo” outfits like Pop Will Eat Itself (who’d really kinda shed the Grebo thing by the tail end of the `80s), The Wonder Stuff, Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, Eat and less-easy-to-accurately-categorize bands like Daisy Chainsaw, Cud, The Wedding Present, Birdland, the Kitchens of Distinction, Laika, Fatima Mansions (who, yes, are technically Irish, I know), The Wildhearts and several others. As a sidebar, the frustrating thing about this was discovering how much music from that era is, once again, NOT available on Spotify. I put together the graphic below to pick at that wound on social media.

Anyway, it ended up being a very long playlist indeed, despite what I’d consider some crucially unthinkable omissions. Here it is…

Oliver might even listen to it, out of courtesy to his ol’ man.

*I should concede, here, that I would not be half the insufferably obsessive music dork I am today were it not for the prescience, insight, patience and taste of crucial friends of mine – notably Brad O, John C, Rich K, Zach T, Rob B, Liz R, Jay F, Warwick C, Walter W, Judd T, Tim R, Steve H, Joanne H, Dean R, among several others – who went out of their way to tirelessly evangelize certain music to me when we were all kids. These folks opened up whole new worlds to me, and I am eternally grateful.

Back to the Dustbin

I first saw Ned's Atomic Dustbin in the early weeks of 1991 at a long-vanished club on the westernmost edge of West 21st street that I've mentioned here several times called The Marquee (with the louder/noisier/hairier Swervedriver opening). When the Neds hit the stage, it was this technicolor explosion of flailing hair, goofy t-shirts, oversized sneakers and gangly limbs, with each member of the band (barring drummer Dan-Dan The Fast Drumming Man) airborne more often than not. I was 24 at the time. 

This clip below, meanwhile -- recorded a mere two years ago -- suddenly finds the Neds (and their fans) having succumbed to the travails of age (this from someone significantly older, fatter and grayer than he was in 1991) and looking very much like the gaggle of dads they probably now are.

But they still bring the goddamn goods! Crank it!