Flaming Pablum

Manhattan of The Damned

The Damned first played New York City’s CBGB in 1977, the first British Punk band to do so (along with having been the first British Punk band to issue any vinyl). During that maiden voyage, the band were famously captured by erstwhile CBGB door-minder/photographer Roberta Bayley in the photo above, posing with great, snotty aplomb in front of the twin towers of the World Trade Center.

The band ended up playing four April nights at CBGB, sharing the bill with their Buckeye counterparts in the Dead Boys. Here’s a shot of them during one of those doubtlessly volatile evenings, this one taken by Ebet Roberts.

Today, meanwhile, in trawling around the `net, looking for nothing in particular, I came across this uncredited photo from the same era. I’m making some assumptions here but based on the line-up (with guitarist Brian James still in the ranks), I’m guessing this was snapped during that same span of April days. I have no idea who took it, but my question is – where in Manhattan was this photograph snapped?

I’d say the awning behind Dave Vanian on the left is a big clue, as are the terraced apartments behind Captain Sensible’s head. I have a hunch which I’m going to investigate, but where do YOU think it was taken?

The Damned are coming back to New York City (with original drummer Rat Scabies with them, this time) this May, but the next day is my son’s graduation, so I don’t think we’ll be going. We did just see them in October, anyway.

Meanwhile, here’s a taste of one of those shows…

Still Here

I came to the realization, recently, that until I have something decisive to relay regarding my health issues (see these two posts for details), it’s probably best that I don’t discuss them further here, lest I lapse into a whingy spiral of complaint and self-pity. As mentioned on those previous two posts, I’m more than a little concerned, at the moment, but I’ve pretty much said all I can say, based on what little I know. I’m sincerely hoping that impending visits with my podiatrist and my primary care physician will shed a bit more light and provide a definitive, actionable diagnosis, but we’re not there yet.

I was also struck by the fact that while I am indeed grappling with this issue, it remains a significantly less serious grievance, thus far, than what some other folks are forced to contend with, so I should really shut the fuck up about it. I’ll share whatever results I learn, but there’s no point on blathering on about it here. At the same time, I can’t say that I have too much else to express, otherwise, as I remain pretty preoccupied with all this.

But just in case you think I’m now just resigned to sitting at home in a hair shirt, chastising myself, do rest assured that I’m continuing to do the stupid shit I'm normally found doing (although now without nearly as much beer). Last week, as invoked here, I trekked out to Bushwick to see The Art Gray Noizz Quintet with Lydia Lunch, Knife Thrower and the Skull Practitioners and the surprisingly lovely Sultan Room. It was an amazing show. A gent named Mitch from a Virginia Record store called Mitch’s Music Grapevine snapped my pic (below), flying the colors, so to speak. Life is continuing.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Watch this space.

Footnotes

Hi again, all. You might all be asking yourselves, “where’s Alex’s spittle-flecked rant about the latest DOGE misdeeds?” or “why nothing in commemoration of Jaz Coleman’s birthday?” or “How come we haven’t seen in any new posts about forgotten record shops?” Well, the simple answer is that I’ve basically been preoccupied grappling with the situation detailed in that last post.

I’m basically in limbo, I guess. I’m waiting to go back to my podiatrist (which happens two weeks from tomorrow) to get more of a handle on proceedings. I have a long list of questions to run by him – this being the guy I referred to as Doolittle -- regarding the do’s and don’ts of my current status. Now a couple of weeks in, the potential combination of the last pair of “mild steroid” injections, the anti-inflammatory pills and now a twice-daily pill of magnesium (400mg – allegedly effective against tingling, numbness, cramping in the feet) has conceivably relaxed my feet a little bit, but the numbness is still very persistent, especially in the mornings. I can’t say if there’s really been any progress or movement in the right direction or not.

Meanwhile, I’m basically overthinking everything and doing myself no favors by researching shit on the internet. In some instances, it seems I’m doomed to live the rest of my life with a limited menu of water, fish and bananas. The list of problematic things for a (possible) case of neuropathy strangely mirrors the things that allegedly make tinnitus (which I also suffer from) worse. These are the predictable biggies like, once again, alcohol, sugar, caffeine, salt, etc. The neuropathy no-no’s also include gluten, carbs, refined grains, and saturated fats. So, basically, I should swear off all beer, wine, coffee, red meat, desserts of all kinds, anything salty, all chips, white bread, wheat bread, rye bread, pasta, pizza, white rice, brown rice, cold cuts, popcorn, candy, donuts, baked goods, cheese, ice cream and all fast food. I figure, why not add oxygen, music and sex to that list and really seal the deal, eh?

As you might imagine, given that list, I’m currently caught perpetually bouncing between being scared, being angry and being very, very depressed.

Now, obviously, I can go without a lot of that stuff. Even the beer, which I truly love dearly, can be drastically reduced (I’ve already started doing this,… albeit begrudgingly). I’m not at all excited about making these …well … subtractions from my regular intake, but needs must, once again.

No, the stuff I’m most upset about is the looming possibility that my future mobility might be significantly hampered by this … and the pervasive realization that, much like with my tinnitus, this is a condition that, though my own blithe disregard, I brought upon myself. Now, while that might sound like the Catholic guilt talking (when in doubt … it’s YOUR OWN FAULT), it’s truly hard not to assign blame to my own irresponsible habits as the flashpoint of this problem.

Of course, there remains the (unlikely?) possibility that what I’m experiencing is a neuroma and not peripheral neuropathy, but I’m not the guy who can make that determination.

So, that’s where I am, right now.

Last Call for Alcohol?

I’m trying to put an exact date on it, but it strikes me that the first time I started complaining about my feet, here, was back in 2022. Out of the proverbial blue, I’d started experiencing weird sensations in my left foot. It wasn’t painful, but for some reason, my foot just wasn’t falling quite the same way. Something was off, although I was hard-pressed to find a clear way to describe it. A chiropractor I was consulting, at the time, prescribed some ineffective (but very expensive) insoles that did nothing to alleviate the issue.

Shortly after that, as detailed in this post, I stated experiencing regular sensations of blood rushing in my feet. It wasn’t tingling or soreness or stiffness (not yet at least), and – again – it wasn’t painful, but it was different and weird. A vascular doctor took a look and deduced that I had the “veins of a teenager,” so I should probably seek the counsel of a podiatrist.

By this point, I’d been feeling palpable discomfort in my feet, and my then-new podiatrist’s recommendation of using another pair of insoles also came with no positive results. I was then diagnosed with “avascular necrosis,” replete with the assertion that I had evidently broken a small bone in my foot without knowing it. This was followed by the directive to wear a heavy “Lo Cam” boot for five weeks, two summers back. That, too, did nothing to really alleviate any issues.

I ended up ditching that first podiatrist, as I never felt like he was taking me very seriously. In the interim, to combat the discomfort, I started wearing cushioned Hokas, which I, of course, bitched and moaned about here. Regardless, I continue to wear them pretty much exclusively.

After several months of wearing the Hokas, the discomfort I’d been regularly feeling in the arch of my left foot seemed to stop, but now my feet were stiff and … well … numb. And not just the left one (i.e the “problem foot”), but the right one as well.

I spoke with my primary care physician about it, and he had some vague theories, but sent me to a different podiatrist.

I liked this second podiatrist – let’s call him Dr. Doolittle -- much better. He put aside the notion of “avascular necrosis,” suggesting that while that did indeed show up on few of those earlier tests, it had likely dissipated on its own. What I was experiencing now was something different.

His idea was that it’s a neuroma, which is basically a tumor caused by an inflamed nerve. He gave my left foot an injection (some kind of mild steroid) and told me to add a vitamin B complex to my daily regimen. I did as I was instructed.

I honestly can’t say if that injection made a difference. Time went on, and my feet – both of them – continued to feel regularly stiff and numb, especially in the mornings. More months went by, and I went back to my primary care physician.

Dr. K finally spoke definitively on the subject, suggesting that what I had was “peripheral neuropathy.” Lots of things can cause and/or exacerbate this condition, and one of the biggest of these is – yes, wait for it – alcohol.

Now, Dr. K has long been a proponent of me cutting down on the beer, and while we humor each other about it, this particular exchange seemed pretty serious. On this, I decided to schedule another appointment with podiatrist Doolittle.

Doolittle wasn’t immediately sold on the neuropathy assertion, suggesting that neuromas can sometimes present as neuropathy, although the fact that I’m experiencing it in both feet does seem pretty damning. Doolittle gave me another pair of injections – one in each, and added a anti-inflammatory pill to my regular regimen, for two weeks, and also told me to start taking Vitamin E, as well. I said I’d comply and that I’d swing on back to see him the second week of March.

Since then, I’m very sad to say that the injections, the anti-inflammatory pills and the added dosages of vitamins B and E (to say nothing about the regular consumption of water and bananas) haven’t really made any discernible difference. I’ve drastically cut down on my beer intake (but not fully … just yet). I’m exploring the universe of disappointment that is non-alcoholic beer, wearing compression socks and doing my damned best to be a good boy, but I’m not feeling any relief. But then, if I’m correct, the nerve damage wrought by neuropathy – if that’s what this is – is likely permanent.

I’m going to stay the course, for now, as all signs seem to point to peripheral neuropathy, which means adjusting my diet, my habits and, of course, removing any and all alcohol. Goodbye beer forever?

If I don’t, neuropathy is evidently a progressive condition, so I’d be running the very real risk of it spreading, and I really don’t want to entertain that notion.

I go back and see Dr. Doolittle in about three and a half weeks. We shall see.

Sweater or Not: Re-Assessing a Sartorial Taboo

Commonly regarded as sartorial shorthand for being an insufferable, preppy douchebag, tying a sweater around one’s neck has been considered a lamentably objectionable stylistic flourish pretty much as long as, say, popping the collar of one’s polo shirt and/or perching one's eyeglasses atop one's head have been. It’s just one of those things that immediately sends a specific message. But, people still do it. They even write defensive blog posts about it.

While it’s not my preferred means of employing a sweater, I realize that times and sensibilities change and that maybe —just maybe— it’s just an absurd “rule” to begin with. Still, you probably won’t catch me doing it. For what it's worth, my 20-year-old daughter declared that while she’d never date someone who wore a tied sweater, the sweater-`round-the-waist look is “way worse” on a man, although I'm not entirely sold on that point. 

That all said, in recent days, I have twice been confronted with evidence of individuals from well outside of the nefarious realm of oppressive douchebaggery rocking the tied sweater look. These photos don’t excuse or defend the practice, but serve only to give one pause for thought.

Seen below are the Sex Pistols in March of 1977, captured upon the signing of their ill-fated contract to A&M Records in front of the well-appointed grounds of Buckingham Palace. Just to the left of the late Sid Vicious is stalwart drummer Paul Cook, smiling broadly at the camera and sporting a fuzzy mohair sweater doubtlessly procured from the collection of Vivienne Westwood. He sports it, fetchingly, around his shoulders like a J. Crew model.

Despite their comparatively grand, indelible entrance into pop culture, the Sex Pistols would messily flame out shortly after the above photo was taken, prompting lead singer/provocateur Johnny “Rotten” Lydon to form the significantly more adventurous and experimental Public Image Ltd. The original line-up of same is pictured below, comprised of Lydon, guitarist Keith Levene, drummer Jim Walker and — pictured far left — bassist John Wardle, a.k.a. Jah Wobble, whose signature dub-influenced playing helped forge post-punk’s trajectory.

For all his insouciant iconoclasm, however, the estimable Mr. Wobble is seen …. with a sweater around his neck and shoulders.

So, if Punk Rock royalty like Cook & Wobble can get away it, … could it be so bad?

Ramones on Extra Place: From Chalkie to Char

I stumbled quite randomly on the above shot of the Ramones posing behind CBGB on Extra Place, the alley between the Bowery and Second Avenue in 1977. I initially assumed it was snapped by frequent Ramones documenter, Bob Gruen, but it turns out it was actually captured by one Chalkie Davies for the cover of the NME. I did some further Googling, and found this site wherein Chalkie himself discusses the shoot...

In April 1977 Mick Farren and I came to New York to check out the punk scene for the NME. We went to all the well known Clubs including CBGB's, Max's Kansas City, the Bottom Line, Danceteria and the Mudd Club.

Joey Ramone lived close to CBGB'S which was on the Bowery in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Initially we took photos on the roof of Joey's apartment building but although it looked like New York it did not really have the right feel.

I had spotted this alley when walking over to Joey's place, it was a block from  the Bowery and seemed perfect to me, it was full of trash and totally run down, back then huge parts of Manhattan were like this, the money had run out and the city was bankrupt.

I dragged the four Ramones to the location, I did a number of group shots, aided by their Artistic Director the late Arturo Vega. It seemed odd having somebody else telling the band what to do, all they did was stand there in a line, but it made them relaxed so I was happy to let him help.

To me this sums up the American Punk scene at that time, leather jackets, t shirts and jeans was the look they all had, it's a shame the Ramones never had the true success they deserved, but their influence should never be underestimated.

This afternoon, my daughter Charlotte and I were walking around the neighborhood, and we ducked down Extra Place to replicate the shot. 

It doesn't quite exude the same vibe, these days. 

The Last Day of the Year

Try as I might, I really don’t have anything especially deep or profound to say about the final day of 2024. Whatever grievances you might still be harboring about proceedings during the past twelve months, I’d suggest it’s safe to say that, given the circumstances, what lies ahead probably stands a very great chance of being considerably worse. But, y’know, we’ll see.

For my part, it was a somewhat tempestuous holiday season, so I’m more or less glad we’re at the tail end of it. I ended up catching the Christmas fumes, so to speak, and overcompensated in the gift-giving department, if only to stave off a few other pervasive narratives that were threatening to overtake and sour the holiday. But, everyone got through it without any major tumult.

Speaking of overdoing it, I also feel that the time is nigh to give the ol’ “Dry January” another whirl. Yes, I know — laugh it up. Peruse through the December posts here going back several years, and you’ll doubtlessly discover myriad posts wherein I vowed to scale back and get through the entirety of the month without deviating, only to abandon the program only a scant couple of weeks — or in some instances only a few days — into it.

This year is different in that, given that my feet are still giving me a lot of problems (in a nutshell, my left foot is in a perpetual state of numbness, while my right foot is starting to replicate its counterpart). My primary care physician and my podiatrist only speculate vaguely about it, but assure me that, at the very least, it’s not gout. Gout, as I understand it, is comparatively very pronounced (i.e. really painful). This could be any number of things … a spinal issue, nerve damage, peripheral neuropathy and, if you Google it, several other dispiriting warning signs of potential problems. In any case, as I understand it, there’s a longstanding correlation between foot issues and alcohol consumption, so I’m curious to see if swearing off the stuff makes any difference. Watch this space.

But we’re not there, just yet. As the Specials used to sing, although they certainly didn’t write it, enjoy yourself … it’s later than you think.

See you of the other side.

Merry Christmas Eve from Flaming Pablum

Leaving So Soon, 2024?

It's hard to fathom that we're here, already, but the end of 2024 is nigh. What lies ahead might look pretty grim, but before we delve into all that, I thought I'd take a final look back at the last 12 months and dust off this old thing. Here we go...

WHAT DID YOU DO IN 2024 THAT YOU’D NEVER DONE BEFORE?
I appeared in a documentary about record collecting and record-store culture produced and directed by the niece of a great friend of mine. You can watch it here.

DID YOU KEEP YOUR NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS, AND WILL YOU MAKE MORE FOR 2025?
I don’t believe I made any, thus did not keep any, but this year, I’m sworn to complete Dry January. Watch this space.

DID ANYONE CLOSE TO YOU GIVE BIRTH?
Not that I recall, no.

DID ANYONE CLOSE TO YOU DIE?
The mother of a friend of mine passed away, not too long back.

WHAT COUNTRIES DID YOU VISIT?
France, Scotland, and Ireland.

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE IN 2025 THAT YOU LACKED IN 2024?
Greater will-power.

WHAT DATE FROM 2024 WILL REMAIN ETCHED UPON YOUR MEMORY?
Well, let’s face it, Election Day was a swift kick in the groin that most folks aren’t going to forget any time soon.

WHAT WAS YOUR BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT OF THE YEAR?
Staying tenuously sane, married, and somewhat gainfully employed.

WHAT WAS YOUR BIGGEST FAILURE?
Again, I feel I am personally undisciplined and am still a slave to bad habits. I am endeavoring to rectify that.

DID YOU SUFFER ILLNESS OR INJURY?
I continue to grapple with foot issues. Adopting Hokas has certainly helped, but I’m still experiencing regular numbness, which is pronouncedly disconcerting.

WHAT WAS THE BEST THING YOU BOUGHT?
Ummm… probably that pair of wide-toe Bondi 8 Hokas. They don’t look especially stylish (to me), but they’ve made walking considerably less uncomfortable.

WHOSE BEHAVIOR MERITED CELEBRATION?
My children continue to thrive at their respective schools. I could not be prouder.

WHOSE BEHAVIOR MADE YOU APPALLED AND DEPRESSED?
The 76.9 million who put Trump back in office.

WHAT DID YOU GET REALLY, REALLY EXCITED ABOUT?
In a bad way, the election.

WHERE DID MOST OF YOUR MONEY GO?
This year, probably airfare.

WHAT SONG WILL ALWAYS REMIND YOU OF 2024?
Probably “The Silence That Remains” by The Horrors.

COMPARED TO THIS TIME LAST YEAR, ARE YOU HAPPIER OR SADDER?
Now that we’re empty nesters, I’d say I’m melancholier than I normally am, but I’m sure I’ll adjust to it, in time.

THINNER OR FATTER?
Undoubtedly fatter.

RICHER OR POORER?
Our building’s debilitating assessment came to an end, so I’m doing slightly better than I was at this time, last year.

WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU’D DONE MORE OF?
Being of more attentive, loving assistance to my tirelessly fantastic wife.

WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU’D DONE LESS OF?
Eating, drinking, and spending irresponsibly.

HOW DID YOU SPEND CHRISTMAS?
Hasn’t happened yet, but I expect it will be Christmas Eve at home with the kids, then we head off to my Mom’s place in Quogue for two days. Then we come back and board a train to Pennsylvania to my sister-in-law’s place for another couple of days.

WHO DID YOU SPEND THE MOST TIME ON THE PHONE WITH?
I’ve absolutely no clue.

DID YOU FALL IN LOVE IN 2024?
Only fleetingly with the concept of a brighter tomorrow without a certain public figure impeding everyone’s lives and ruining everything in sight, but unfortunately that individual was re-elected.

HOW MANY ONE-NIGHT STANDS IN THE LAST YEAR?
I’ve been very happily married since 2001, thanks.

WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE TV PROGRAM?
“Slow Horses” continues to be the best goddamn thing on television since the criminally cancelled “Mindhunter.” I was also pleasantly surprised by “Bad Monkey.”

DO YOU HATE ANYONE NOW THAT YOU DIDN’T HATE AT THIS TIME LAST YEAR?
No one new, no.

WHAT WAS THE BEST BOOK YOU READ?
I greatly enjoyed Griffin Dunne’s family memoir, “The Friday Afternoon Club.”

WHAT WAS YOUR GREATEST MUSICAL DISCOVERY?
While most of my favorite music of this year was made by comparatively established names like Gavin Friday, The Horrors, The Cure and Light of Eternity (they’re a new band, but comprised of Big Paul Ferguson of my beloved Killing Joke, Fred Schreck of the Ancients and Pauly Williams of Chaos 8), I did indeed “discover” some brand new bands (or new to me, at least) like Lawns, SPRINTS and the excellently named We Hate You Please Die.

WHAT DID YOU WANT AND GET?
In the wake of the election, I became singularly preoccupied with being able to see my kids and was able to do that when my wife and I flew over at Thanksgiving to spend several days with them at their respective schools.

WHAT DID YOU WANT AND NOT GET?
A markedly different election outcome.

WHAT WERE YOUR FAVORITE FILMS OF THIS YEAR?
If you had suggested that, given the subject matter, I would have been half as engrossed as I was with “Conclave,” I’d have scoffed. Beyond that, I can’t say I watched that many.

WHAT DID YOU DO ON YOUR BIRTHDAY AND HOW OLD WERE YOU?
My wife insisted on us having a few friends over for my birthday, which was nice. I turned 57.

WHAT’S ONE THING THAT WOULD HAVE MADE YOUR YEAR IMMEASURABLY MORE SATISFYING?
Trump’s loss and imprisonment.

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONAL FASHION CONCEPT IN 2024?
Non-existent.

WHAT KEPT YOU SANE?
The wife and kids.

WHAT CELEBRITY/PUBLIC FIGURE DID YOU FANCY MOST?
I always find this question kind of inappropriate, but the wife and I both concur that CNN’s Abby Philip is quite striking.

WHAT POLITIAL ISSUE STIRRED YOU THE MOST?
Just one? How about the fact that everything across the board is now fucked up beyond repair, and the proposed clown car of Dick Tracy villains vying for cabinet positions doesn’t bode at all well for any semblance of a manageable future devoid of chaos and conflict. But hey, you know best, America.

WHO DID YOU MISS?
Wayne Kramer, Steve Albini, Pat Collier and James Chance.

WHO WAS THE BEST NEW PERSON YOU MET?
I met our daughter’s boyfriend for the first time. He seems like quite a nice kid, much to my relief.

TELL US A VALUABLE LIFE LESSON YOU LEARNED IN 2024?
H.L. Mencken was right. No one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public.

SONG LYRIC THAT SUMS UP 2024.
Meek & obedient shall follow the leader down well-trodden corridors into the valley of steel – Pink Floyd

A Slice of “Apple Pie”

By all accounts, the Seventies were a golden age in terms of cinema. It was an era when filmmakers were taking chances, boldly exploring the boundaries, experimenting beyond popular convention, and genuinely pushing the envelope. By virtually every metric and across every conceivable genre of moviemaking, the decade is widely considered to be one of the most adventurous periods of the art form, wherein countless films made tremendous strides forward, from widely commercial blockbusters through obscure, avant-garde masterpieces. I’m sure each one of you has a list of favorites from that decade.

This all said, not every reel of celluloid produced in those ten years was going to be a milestone achievement. For every landmark title like “Apocalypse Now,” “American Graffiti or “Dog Day Afternoon,” there were bound to be some genuine stinkers. This post is about one of those.

Directed by one Howard Goldberg, 1975’s “Apple Pie” was a loose amalgam of odd vignettes tenuously affixed to a frankly half-baked plot about a wannabe-gangster. Don’t ask me to extrapolate on that because I really can’t. I saw it, fleetingly, once on a public access channel way after midnight, and don’t remember that much about it, other that it was something of a surreal, muddled mess. The major reason I was watching it was because it featured Brother Theodore (who I spoke about here), portraying the protagonist’s father, for whatever that’s worth.

Suffice to say, “Apple Pie” was in every sense indicative of the no-holds-barred era of cinema alluded to in the first graph, only maybe without so much of a regard for any semblance of credible structure. But there was one aspect of the film that does indeed stick with me, and that’s the entirely inexplicable and exhaustively lengthy dance sequence at the climax of the film.

Ever since first seeing that late-night showing, I’ve been curious as to what Manhattan street the big closing number was shot on. Last night, apropos of nothing, really, I managed to figure it out.

But first, if you’ve never seen the film or even know what I’m talking about, feast your senses on the very-much-of-its-era big finish. Be warned, it takes no fewer than sixteen (!!!) minutes….

Bonkers, right?

In any case, I spent many hours speculating what strip of the island hosted that ridiculous hoedown. Was it in Hell’s Kitchen? Chelsea? The East Village? Are those buildings even still there here in 2024?

Upon watching the sequence again last night, I noticed a telling detail – that being a banner in the background advertising a run of Mark Medoff’s play “When You Comin’ Back, Red Ryder?” at a venue called the Eastside Playhouse. Some quick Googling later revealed that the theatre in question was on East 74th Street between Second and First Avenues on the Upper East Side. I knew that patch reasonably well, as my own father used to rent an apartment on 74th between Third and Second Avenues. I have verily strolled down that street whereupon all that gratuitous booty-shaking went down. Oh, and as a fun sidenote, the song everyone’s depicted dancing to is a funky little number called – wait for it – “Apple Pie,” performed by a little beat combo who went by the name of Hall & Oates.

Here at the tail-end of 2024, that street doesn’t look all that different from the “Apple Pie” days.

My Favorite Posts of 2024

When it comes to what sort of content resonates with readers, here, I’m afraid I’m probably the last person you should ask. All too often, I’ll agonize over a certain entry and post it, only to be greeted with a chorus of crickets. Other times, I’ll slap something up as a lark, and get engulfed in feverish clicks (well, maybe not feverish clicks, but clicks all the same). Why some posts hit their mark more than others completely eludes me. I’m just thankful when it happens.

In any case, as we begin the perilous slide into the gaping jaws of 2025, I thought I’d take a quick moment to look back at some of my personal favorites from the past twelve months. Some got a lot of attention, and some of them simply died on the vine, so to speak. Here are the one I’m most proud of, for whatever that’s worth. 

Enjoy...

Carried Away at Katz's

This is The Hand ... The Hand That Takes

Damaged Hours: Back to Mohawk Night at Club Berlin

Pie vs. Pie: Parsing The Great Manhattan Pizza Schism

Day of the Dad Shoes

Spank Generation: Unpacking "A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell"

Mood Music for Urban Chaos: The Myth & Mission of Missing Foundation

Desperately Seeking the `80s Turns Two: Unanswered New York Questions

Tuff Love: The Arc of New York City's Tuff Darts

Exhuming the Moondance

A Great Day in Alphabet City

Theoretically, It Happened on Grand Street

Lights, Camera, Abjection: My Big Screen Debut in B-Sides

Holiday in Hell's Kitchen

Auf Wiedersehen, Club Berlin

New York is Always Busy: Forty Minutes in 1970's NYC

Vandals in the Tar Pits: Back to Suburbia

Exhuming St. Marks Sounds

The Face of Echo

Lunachicks Through the Lense