Flaming Pablum

A Night Out with Rush

I mentioned this particular anecdote way back on this ancient post, but since people are still banging on about Baby Yoda, Megxit and Oscar snubs over on social media, I reckon it's fair to throw one more post about Rush into the mix, although, truthfully, this tale only fleetingly involves the late, great Neil Peart.

Early in my post-collegiate years, after decamping from a payless internship at SPIN, I landed a gig as a copy assistant at LIFE In Time of War, a new weekly magazine from TIME/LIFE that was ostensibly going to last for as long as the first Gulf War. As it happened, the war in question was comparatively brief, so the gig only lasted for four issues. I believe part-timers like myself were churlishly heard to remark “Give War a Chance!” upon the news that our jobs were about to dry up.

In any case, along the way, I befriended a fellow copy-department gal named Lesley, who shared a similar outlook on the absurdity of proceedings. As a surreal bonus, Lesley was somewhat inexplicably good friends with Rush, a band I’d slavishly devoted large swathes of my teenage years admiring. When they came to Madison Square Garden on the Roll the Bones tour in December of 1991, Lesley gamely asked if (a) I wanted to go to the show and (b) would I be into going backstage and OUT TO GODDAMN DINNER WITH THE BAND AFTERWARDS! I responded quite zealously in the affirmative.

While the purist jury is somewhat split on the Roll The Bones-era (the title track does somewhat infamously feature some “rapping” to somewhat tepid effect), they were still a force to be reckoned with, and our seats were stupendous. Any remaining doubt as to Lesley’s claims about her friendship with the band were immediately decimated when we ducked backstage afterwards and spotted guitarist Alex Lifeson in the hall. “Drexel,” he exclaimed – evidently Lesley’s nickname, “you made it! Come on back!”

We were then ushered through a busy, backstage labyrinth, and directly into the band’s private dressing room, allowed – if memory serves – to cut in front of one Connie Hamzy, otherwise known as “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the famous groupie immortalized in Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re An American Band.”

Once the door shut behind us, though, it was not surprising that Connie was still waiting. Planets apart from the world of renowned backstage debauchery inhabited by Led Zeppelin, Motley Crue, Van Halen and their ilk, the vibe was positively genteel within the inner Rush sanctum. Geddy Lee was affable and soft-spoken, offering me a beer and immediately handing me a Pushead-designed tour shirt (I still have it). Alex Lifeson was chatty and gracious. And Neil Peart? The legendary drum god was literally sitting in the lotus position on the couch, paging through a dog-eared, paperback copy of a work by Friedrich Nietzche. He gave our party a smiling nod, but did not get up or engage. He only rose when a new group of folks entered behind us, featuring a wheelchair-bound fan. Neil immediately got up for this special visitor and gave him his full attention. It’s not that he didn’t care about Lesley and incidental me, but evidently these types scenarios never sat well with the man. He was not fond of the accoutrements of fame, and shied away from inconsequential pleasantries. While soaking in the whole scene, I watched Neil chat with the fan for a while and sign a few items for him, only to quietly duck out and vanish with a wave to his bandmates.

Geddy, Alex and some other folks, however, were all ready to eat. The next thing I know, we’re in a giant facility under the Garden waiting for a limo. Up pulls a massive car, and Lesley and I climb in with Geddy.

I cannot honestly attest to how I behaved myself, as it’s all a bit of blur this many years later, but Lesley described me as being “adorably gobsmacked,” which sounds about right. I do remember asking Geddy what he thought about Guns N’ Roses liberally helping themselves to the central riff of “Xanadu” for the comparatively simpler main guitar line for “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” I was a bit astonished to hear him respond that he’d never knowingly heard the G’NR tune in question, but segued into an anecdote about spending some time with hair-metal screecher Sebastian Bach, and noting that the former Skid Row singer seemed to have a difficult time keeping his genitals in his pants.

We pulled up to a long-since-vanished eatery in SoHo called Nick & Eddie’s on Spring Street, and I somehow managed to ruffle the feathers of the limo driver by opening my own door (as opposed to letting him get out and open it for me). We filed into the joint and were seated at a long table reserved in the back room. I was amazed at how …. well, normal it all was.

I was treated to a lavish meal and mostly listened to Alex and Geddy discuss comparatively banal shit with Lesley and the other folks. I chimed in when it seemed appropriate, but was still fairly starstruck, despite the fact that both guys were going out of their way to downplay the surrounding circus. By the end of the meal, I think I whipped out my wallet to help throw down, with Geddy shooing me away with a kindly giggle. The tab was picked up by Rush.

Within another few minutes, it was all over. I profusely thanked them and Lesley, and the Rush gents got back in their waiting stretch and drove off to whatever hotel and that was that.

I never saw the band perform again, alas. Today, Lesley and I are still friends, despite both having left the auspices of TIME/LIFE decades ago. The space that was Nick & Eddie’s is now a shitty bar called SoHo Room. Madison Square Garden is still there.

This having been the early 90’s, I sadly have no photographs to share of the event, although the concert part can indeed be found on in YouTube. I still have both my backstage laminate and the t-shirt, although the latter has since been poached by my kids.

Rest In Peace, Neil Peart. 

 

B-Boys in the Batcave

Someone posted this flyer on the Ritz-centric Facebook group, The Ritz NYC. Obviously, I’ve spoken about both my love for the Ritz and the Rock Hotel series here several times before (see here and here, just as two examples). This is a cool flyer in that it showcases a slew of my favorite bands, and I’m guessing that this dates back to 1988, and I believe I was at that Dead Boys reunion show. Those were never to be missed.

In any case, the thing that really caught my eye here, though, is at the bottom – look at the January 7th show:

Did that really happen? Did Alien Sex Fiend and Schooly D share the same bill? I have seen no further evidence of this having occurred.

Alien Sex Fiend, for those who may be unfamiliar, are a storied British goth band from the Batcave scene who largely ditched the stylish finesse of Bauhaus and Siouxsie in favor of a more luridly camp, bawdy and not-just-a-little ridiculous aesthetic that owed more to the Cramps and Alice Cooper. I’ve written about them here before, but their sophomore album Acid Bath is a goddamn classic. Seek it out.

Schooly D, conversely, is an old school, hardcore rapper of some renown, notable for such pugnacious tracks as “Smoke Some Kill,” “I Don’t Like Rock & Roll” and, of course, “Mr. Big Dick.” Not sure what he’s been up to since then, although he did famously record the theme song to the “Aqua Teen Hunger Force” back in the 2000’s.

In any case, the notion of Alien Sex Fiend and Schooly D sharing the same bill is simply too bizarre to fathom. That said, if you listen to “Attack #2” by Alien Sex Fiend off the afore-cited Acid Bath (below), they did include a sample recording of the call letters of Disco 92, WKTU, which – in the early-to-mid 80’s, at least – would have been the only major radio station bold enough to be playing Schooly D’s records, so maybe there was a shared affinity? I have a hard time picturing Schooly D being down with Nik Fiend, but stranger things have surely happened.

Could this show have inspired the great, star-crossed goth/hip-hop alliance that spawned the Sisters of Mercy/Public Enemy co-billing a decade later?

Any intel to share?

New York Country

According to Blue Grass Today -- and, really, who am I to argue with them? – on this day in 1994, the single “Country Boy” by one Ricky Skaggs was certified Gold by the Recording Industry Association of America.

Until yesterday, I must confess that I’d never heard the single in question.

This shouldn’t be too surprising, however, as I’m not exactly an ardent fan of Country and/or Blue Grass music. Invoke the word “skag” to me, and the first thing that comes to mind is Lower East Side street-slang for heroin.

I don’t have anything against Country/Blue Grass music, per se, but I don’t feel I genuinely know enough about the specifics to have a credible opinion about it one way or the other. Growing up, as I did, here in New York City, I wasn’t exactly offered many opportunities to experience the finest fruits of those genres. By the time I came of age to be exploring New York City’s live-music circuit, the only major venue for Country and Blue Grass was the Lone Star Cafe on the corner of 13th & Fifth Avenue, and that was kind of already on the way out. More to the point, I was never really inclined towards that kind of thing to begin with. No urban cowboy, I.

That doesn’t mean New York City didn’t have its own a stubborn strain of Country and Blue Grass fans. I vividly recall that the Gray’s Papaya on the corner of West 8th and Sixth Avenue used to stridently insist on having their in-house soundsystem permanently tuned, for a while, to WKHK, a former jazz station-turned-Country hub. It was always weird popping in there after buying Anthrax, Kraut and Iron Maiden records at one of formerly many record shops along 8th Street, and hearing fiddles, pedal-steel guitar and the distinctive yodel of Conway Twitty while ordering two dogs and a large papaya juice. Given that Gray’s was largely staffed by gentlemen from the Indian subcontinent, one wonders whose idea it was to always be playing Country music in there. Was it some bizarre form of torture to keep his servers in check by enigmatic founder Nicholas Gray? The world may never know.

Also, it’s prudent to remember that the cryptic letters of the name of New York City’s premiere punk bar, CBGB, stood for – WAIT FOR IT – Country, Blue Grass, Blues.

Anyway, since taking a job in the field of music rights management some four years ago, I have been exposed to a whole wide world of musical genres that I previously never would have voluntairly availed myself to. I now know more about myriad variations of Latin music, as one example, than I’d have ever imagined, and could almost credibly tell you the differences between certain subgenres. Almost.

A big part of my horizon-broadening has involved the world of Country music. More to the point, Country music itself is no longer such a seemingly niche, regional concern. No longer seemingly tailored and singularly relegated to regions south of the Mason Dixon line, Country music has been big ol’ business for some time now, be you a sniffy coastal elitist or proudly red-necked resident of Flyoverville. Country music is really for everyone. Evidently, it’s huge in other parts of the world, like Belgium, Argentina, India and even Iran. Who knew?

Fret not, dear reader. In the wake of my recent reappraisal and recanting of my long-standing aversion to the music of the Grateful Dead, I’m not about to start getting entirely open-minded about music I previously didn’t care for. That doesn’t mean, however, that I can’t show due respect for it.

Sure, a lot of contemporary Country music is fairly indistinguishable from contemporary pop music, apart from a few well-placed cowboy hats, references to pickup trucks and maybe the odd slide guitar. In the past few decades, folks like Garth Brooks (himself a huge KISS fan), Taylor Swift and a few notable others did much to blur the parameters between genres,. Much was made in 2019, of course, of the heretofore unlikely meshing of Country music and Hip-hop by way of Lil Nas X’s “Old Town Road” (which, for further incongruity, was built around a sample from a Nine Inch Nails track). While participants in this venture – including former “Achey Breaky Heart” villain and Myley father, Billy Ray Cyrus – were all celebrated for their pionering effores (Trent Reznor even won a Country Music Award for it), I must now bang my fist against the nearest desk and demand justice for Ricky Scaggs!

Why? Well, I’ll tell you.

I was recently tasked with chasing down a particular piece of music – an instrumental version of a beloved track by the late Glen Campbell, although the “Rhinestone Cowboy” himself did not perform on this version. As it happened, it turned out to be a rendition of the song peformed by the Nashville Symphony Orchestra, featuring Ricky Skaggs on guitar. Now, again, being a Country music novice (at best), I don’t really know my Ricky Skaggs from my Earl Scruggs. It’s all Greek to me. As such, I did a bit of adventurous Googling and somehow came across the 1985 music video for the afore-cited “Country Boy.” While not the song I was looking for, it did stop me in my tracks …as it was filmed here in NYC.

While, no, the clip doesn’t feature Ricky darkening the doors of CBGB, buying records at Bleecker Bob’s, eating pastrami at Katz’s or loitering around the Mudd Club, it does find Ricky asserting his Country/Blue Grass roots, largely in and around Times Square and the New York City subway system (all on genuine location). The thing that struck me, however, is the interplay between the breakdancing (once an integral element of Hip-Hop, as quaint as that might sound in 2020) and honky-tonk high-steppin’ practiced by Skaggs’ “Uncle Pen” … played, evidently, by Country legend Bill Monroe.

I’ll take it over “Old Town Road.”

The View From Up Here

I am blessed enough to have been given office space by my organization that comes with a view that is nothing short of breathtaking.

My desk aligns with apparent total symmetry with the Empire State Building. As it happens, my desk faces the other way, which is good, as the vista would otherwise prevent me from getting any work done. But, at least two or three times a day, the view from my window is spectacular, frequently bordering on the astonishing. I'm also privy to some odd sights as well, be they unexpected birds of prey, flybys from military aircraft and dramatic weather events. It's never dull.

In any case, I captured the picture below yesterday afternoon. While I'll cop to augmenting the color a little bit, I didn't do that much to it. It isn't supposed to look apocalyptic, but .... if the shoe fits....

Click on it to enlarge, if you wish. 

D.B. Phone Home

Today would have been David Bowie’s 73rd birthday. But, of course, he left us at the beginning of 2016, and I think I speak for everyone when I assert that life hasn’t been quite the same since. I’ve suggested it before, but perhaps he saw what was coming.

In any case, herewith a stylish clip someone put together that stiches elements from Nic Roeg’s “The Man Who Fell to Earth” and Chantal Akerman’s “News From Home,” a curious film I’ve spoken about here before, all scored by the inimitable strains of “New Career in a New Town” from Bowie’s Low. I think it works rather well.

Happy Birthday, Mr. B … wherever you are.

“Ric Handed Me Back The Cheese”

I have written entirely too many times about “After Hours” here in the past 14 years, it being my favorite film of all time. Should you care or be of paralleled opinion, see list of links below. In any case, it’s a brilliant movie, if you haven’t seen it. Go seek it out.

This post isn’t really about “After Hours” so much as events that were transpiring while the film was in production. I missed this when it was first published in Vanity Fair, but actor Griffin Dunne, who played star-crossed protagonist, Paul Hackett, in “After Hours,” expressed his thoughts about the passing of his friend and former neighbor, Ric Ocasek, who passed away this past September. Read it here. 

It’s great. Rest in peace, Ric.

More on “After Hours”….

The Terminal Emerald

The Sounds of "After Hours"

"The Dark, Funny, Paranoid, New York Summer Movie"

Long After "After Hours"

Mohawk Night at Club Berlin

After Hours AOC

Wednesday

Good morning. What fresh Hell awaits today?

Second Coming on Sullivan

Earlier this week, someone posted an image by one Ernst Haas from 1962 of a cool cat sitting on the hood of a vintage car. While a striking photo by any standard, I immediately gravitated to it because of a bit of location-specific signage in the background, that being Googie’s Bar on Sullvian Street. While never a particular favorite of mine, I did indeed darken the doors of Googie’s on more than a couple of occasions. I had no idea it had been around since (at least) 1962. This all said, the only reason I really liked Googie’s was because it was directly next door to Second Coming Records.

Now, having been updating this silly blog since … god help me … 2005, I have devoted an inordinate amount of bandwidth to documenting the lost record and compact disc shops of Manhattan. I have scoured ever corner of the internet looking for photographic and/or video evidence of several such businesses that have mostly long since gone the way of the wooly mammoth. From Freebeing to 99 Records to Subterranean Records to Venus Records to It’s Only Rock N’ Roll to Rocks In Your Head to Footlights to Lunch For Your Ears and virtually all points in between, I have, for the most part, managed to find visual evidence of many of my old favorites, rounded up in sprawling photo-driven posts like this one. Then, of course, there have been ventures like Mondo Kim’s, Sounds and, yea verily, Bleecker Bob’s that have closed up shop more recently. Whenever possible, if I find a photo that I’ve never seen of these places, I usually go out of my way to share it here.

But after almost fifteen years of this stuff, I cannot say I still spend that much time searching. Here in 2020, I sort of feel like any remaining pictures of these places would have surfaced by now. I don’t want to say that the well is dry, in that capacity, but it’s pretty rare that I find anything new, these days.

Until today, that is.

Inspired by that Haas photo up top – and having just walked down this very street on my walk to work, this morning – I started sifting around. I don’t recall what configuration of terms I used but up popped the photo below. Allegedly uploaded eight months ago and originating from a book about cats of all things, herewith a super-rare shot of the interior of Second Coming Records on Sullivan Street, with …. I guess… Vladimir the Cat pictured front and center.

I love this picture in that it totally captures what it was like to be inside that cramped little shop. It also showcases another defining feature of Second Coming, that being the ceiling covered in posters. Unlike Sounds across town on St. Marks Place, you could actually buy the posters on the ceiling, and I duly outfitted my college dorm-room walls accordingly with treasures procured from the ceiling of Second Coming.

Given key promo posters pictured behind little Vladimir of Mothers Milk by the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Mind Bomb by The The, I’m going to suggest this photo was taken somewhere between 1989 and 1990. The circular neon sign in the very back (next to Elvis Costello) hung originally in the window of the shop (see below), but would move again as the shop expanded, later hung above the doorway between the two storefronts, where it remained for some time even after the shope closed, only to sadly vanish one day.

As detailed elsewhere, later during its tenure at 235 Sullivan Street, Second Coming became a hotbed of bootleg live recordings. Towards the front of the northernly wing on the right had side, they had a crucial case of cassettes. If memory serves, for about six or seven bucks a pop, you could procure any number of live recordings by likely artists like The Cure, The Sisters of Mercy, R.E.M., Siouxsie & the Banshees or U2. That may sound entirely quaint, now, but it was a bit of a risky racket, at the time – one that eventually led to the store getting in a significant amount of trouble, as reported here.

I can’t remember if it was because of this that the store eventually shut its doors, but shut they did, breaking my heart in the process. Since Second Coming split, the spaces it formerly occupied have been various ventures like a Mexican joint, a Thai bistro, a tattoo parlor and sushi parlor.

In the process of writing this, I found another new shot, this of the old storefront. Below that, I’m resurfacing the other old pics of it.

It’s 2020, and I still miss Second Coming Records. I imagine I always will.

 

Lunch For Your Ears

I’m not entirely sure how I managed to miss this, but hey … I’m old and my mind is inevitably eroding. In any case, it seems the inimitable Lydia Lunch launched her very own podcast last year – in friggin’ July! Where was I? She’s already 25 episodes in. Who knew? Not me, evidently.

I’ve written about Ms. Lunch several times here in the past several years (notably here, here, here, here and here, just as a few examples). If you’re not familiar with her, well …. read those posts and do some googling. In a nutshell, she’s a force of supernature prone to speaking truth to power in disarmingly frank and unfiltered ways. She sugarcoats nothing.

In the latest episode of her podcast, The Lydian Spin, she speaks with none other than fellow Cinema of Transgression alumnus, filmmaker, photographer and former Black Snakes member, Richard Kern. I’ve written about Kern a couple of times here, too, notably here and, more recently, here.

Find that episode here, along with the 24 other episodes I missed.

I’m relatively new to the whole podcast phenom, but in addition to Lydia’s, I’m a big fan of Marc Maron’s WTF, Dana Gould’s The Dana Gould Hour, Damian Abraham’s Turned Out a Punk, The Quietus’ The Quietus Radio and Amy Linden's Imma Let You Finish. 

Got any that you really dig? Let me know.

2019 is Dead

Well, it's that time of year again. Sure, we have two whole days left, but for all intents and purposes, 2019 is over. As such, let's go ahead and dust off this old thing. Away we go...

What did you do in 2019 that you'd never done before?

I’m really wracking my brain, but I’m not coming up with anything.

Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Nope, as discussed here, I gave up my umpteenth attempt at a Dry January in 2019 after only ten days, citing any number of arguably ridiculous and weak-willed rationalizations for doing so, and here we are again. This year, however, there is a new variable.

Shortly after this past Thanksgiving, I scheduled a long-overdue appointment with my primary care physician. I’d been neglecting to take care of certain things, investigating a few others and I’d been recently perplexed by the way in which my left foot was seemingly no longer feeling the way it used to. There was no pain involved, but it seemed to fill my shoe in way that felt simply … different. I can only describe it as being akin to the sensation wherein your sock is sort of bunched-up, and you feel an excess of crowding at the toe. Of course, I immediately assumed I had gout, given my affinity for beer. Or, more correctly, given my foundation in Catholic guilt, I immediately felt I deserved gout. In any case, preoccupied with this assumption, I figured it was prudent to go have it checked out.

As it turned out, I do not have gout. I’m told that if I did indeed have gout, I’d bloody well know it, as the pain involved is said to rival similarly acute maladies like Kidney Stones (which I have experienced). This all said, my doctor couldn’t really explain my weird foot/toe problem, which was a bit frustrating.

On the plus side, I got a reasonably clean bill of health — no egregious deviations from normal in most capacities. On the minus side, he did suggest my blood pressure was a bit high, going on to suggest that a sharp curtailing of alcohol would invariably do me some good. So, while not quite “doctor’s orders,” I am taking that to heart, so to speak, and endeavoring to once again swear off the suds until I go back and see my medicine man for a follow-up visit in …. dear lord …. late February.

Mind you … it’s not January YET!

Watch this space.

Did anyone close to you give birth?

Not just yet, but one of my sisters-in-law is preggers and due in February.

Did anyone close to you die?

Mercifully, no one in my immediate family left us this year, although the mother of a dear friend of mine did, which was and remains quite upsetting.

What countries did you visit?

As documented here, the we spent a glorious five or six days in Paris this year, which I highly recommend.

What would you like to have in 2020 that you lacked in 2019?

A different president.

What date from 2019 will remain etched upon your memory?

Don’t know that there was a single, isolated date of significance, but last week, just a day before Christmas, we learned that our son was accepted, “early decision,” at the high school of his choice. We are very proud.

What was your biggest achievement of the year?

While I’m exceptionally proud of what my children have accomplished, I don’t think I particularly excelled in any specific capacity in 2019. I'm just trying to adopt, adapt and improve, as they say.

What was your biggest failure?

Too many options to choose from.

Did you suffer illness or injury?

No illnesses that I’m immediately aware of, but I did manage to lacerate my own tongue once or twice (as detailed here).

What was the best thing you bought?

Probably the flight tickets to Paris back in early October. Beyond that, I bought my son a guitar for Christmas, which he’d asked for upon returning from summer camp. I’m all for it. We’ll see how it goes. Watch this space.

Whose behavior merited celebration?

Once again, I’d cite my children. While, yes, both now in their teenaged years — and all the things that said age entails — they both take their schoolwork very seriously and routinely earn high marks on their respective report cards. Admittedly, there is now much more eye-rolling and attitudinal pushback than ever before, but I cannot complain, and remain very proud of both of them.

Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Pretty much the entirety of the Republican party and everyone who still slavishly supports the Trump Administration, regardless of the growing glacier of damning evidence of its unprecedented corruption.

What did you get really, really excited about?

I got to see Killing Joke three more goddamn times, this year, which was quite unexpected, given the lengths I had to go to to see their 40th Anniversary tour in 2018.

Where did most of your money go?

Renovating the kids’ room, the Paris trip and the looming reality of paying two tuitions for my budding high schoolers.

What song will always remind you of 2019?

I hate to say it, but if there is a single song that reminds of 2019, it’s invariably one by someone like Lizzo. There were several songs I was fired up about this year (see list here), but I can’t name one that singularly screams “2019” to me.

Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?

I wonder if I suffer from a bit of that seasonal melancholy, as I’m somewhat inexplicably blue quite often, these days. By the same token, that might also have something to do with how speedily my children are growing and how old I’m feeling.

Thinner or fatter?

I have it on sound authority that I have actually lost weight, although I couldn’t even begin to tell you how or why that is the case.

Richer or poorer?

Trying to live and work in Manhattan while simultaneously trying to feed, clothe and educate two children leaves one feeling always poorer.

What do you wish you'd done more of?

Earning. Paying closer attention to certain things.

What do you wish you'd done less of?

Drinking beer on my couch. Shirking various responsibilities. Procrastinating. Sounding off unsolicitedly about stupid shit. 

How did you spend Christmas?

Out at my Mom’s place in Quogue.

Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?

No clue.

Did you fall in love in 2019?

Already very much in love.

How many one night stands in this last year?

Zero. I remain happily married.

What was your favorite TV program?

I quite enjoyed “Succession,” I must say.

Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

There’s a certain accusation persistently thrown around by Trump and his slackjawed supporters that Liberal Democrats are driven by a judgement-impairing hatred for Trump. Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi famously cited her own Catholic upbringing upon snapping at a reporter for suggesting same, claiming that her faith prevents her from harboring any hatred for anyone. That’s lovely and all, but being that I don’t hold any public office, and, despite also being raised a Catholic like Speaker Pelosi, am largely unencumbered by feelings of obligation to any religious dogma, I feel absolutely ZERO regrets about firmly stating that I genuinely HATE Donald Trump and his supporters with every fibre of my being. I’m not shy about it. I’m not ashamed about it. I think it’s healthy and, frankly, natural to express it. I won’t pretend otherwise.

What was the best book you read?

While I enjoyed “More Fun in The New World” by Tom DeSavia & John Doe and had higher hopes for Debbie Harry’s memoir, “Face It,” I have to say the book I probably got the biggest kick out of reading this year was my re-visitation of “The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories” by H.P. Lovecraft while dropping Oliver off at camp in location-specific Vermont this summer.

What was your greatest musical discovery?

Last year was a banner year in that I discovered the one-two punch of rock majesty in the form of Daughters and IDLES. 2019 didn’t bring as much fruit in that department, although I was quite enthused about the band John (shit name notwithstanding) and was happy to acquaint myself with 2013-era Nine Inch Nails, who I’d unwittingly slept on.

What did you want and get?

The long overdue impeachment of Trump.

What did you want and not get?

The long overdue dismantling of Trump’s Administration, his ouster from office, his indictment, his conviction and his imprisonment.

What were your favorite films of this year?

As someone who has always harbored a fascination for the story of the Manson Family, I have to say that I was quite into Quentin Tarantino’s “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood."

What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 52, and spent it strolling the lovely byways of the Marais in Paris with my family. Again, highly recommended.

What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

For Robert Mueller to have more effectively and emphatically done his job.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2019?

Somewhere between “Is this inappropriate for a man my age?” and “Would one of the Stranglers have worn this?"

What kept you sane?

The necessity to provide for my family.

What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

None really spring to mind, I have to say.

What political issue stirred you the most?

Where does one begin?

Who did you miss?

Ric Ocasek, Daniel Johnston, Ranking Roger, Keith Flint, Steven Jameson, Vaughan Oliver and, most of all, Mark Hollis.

Who was the best new person you met?

Some new colleagues at work.

Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2019

I don’t know if he made the phrase up, but a writer named Richard Carlson published a book in 1997 called “Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff … And It’s All Small Stuff.” That’s pithy and clever and generically reassuring and all, but it’s also a load of bullshit. I’m not suggesting that you should frantically preoccupy yourself with all manner of daily minutia to the point of distraction, but I don’t think it’s at all prudent to tune out and skip the required reading in favor of the Cliff’s Notes either. By all means, keep life in perspective and prioritize accordingly, but pay fucking attention to the details, because therein is where you’re probably getting fucked or about to unwittingly fuck yourself. At two pivotal points in 2019, there were instances when had I just been paying a wee bit more attention, I might have saved myself a substantial boatload of trouble. In both cases, things worked themselves out, but in neither instance were those outcomes guaranteed. Before you hit send, re-read that e-mail. Keep your bankbooks in order. Don’t just take their word for it. Study your monthly statements. Follow up and follow through. Send prompt thank-you cards. And as the Ice Cube once sagely rapped, check yourself before you wreck yourself.

Song lyric that sums up 2019

It’s February
The world is wearing shorts
The world is wearing its heart on its sleeve
There’s bad news to report
But the president can’t read

- “The President Can’t Read” by Amy Rigby