Warden's World

I'm Going, I'm Gone...

2010-06-02T17:07:00.007-04:00

"I've just reached a place
Where the willow don't bend.
There's not much more to be said
It's the top of the end.
I'm going,
I'm going,
I'm gone.

I'm closin' the book
On the pages and the text
And I don't really care
What happens next.
I'm just going,
I'm going,
I'm gone.

I been hangin' on threads,
I been playin' it straight,
Now I've just got to cut loose
Before it gets late.
So I'm going,
I'm going,
I'm gone.

Grandma said, "Boy, go and follow your heart
And you'll be fine at the end of the line.
All that's gold isn't meant to shine.
Don't you and your one true love ever part."

I been walkin' the road,
I been livin' on the edge,
Now I've just got to go
Before I get to the ledge.
So I'm going,
I'm just going,
I'm gone."

--Bob Dylan

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Still Feeling Blue

2010-05-12T10:15:00.025-04:00

I'VE BEEN LISTENING TO a lot more radio lately, ever since I moved my bed across the room last month on a whim. Somehow after I had rearranged all the furniture I ended up with a small transistor radio on my nightstand, and now before turning in for the night, I like to spin up and down the AM and FM dial searching for signs of intelligence in this universe.

Last night I was rewarded big time, stumbling on the tail end of Delphine Blue's two-hour weekly show on WBAI-FM. Man, I go way back with Delphine, who turned me on to a metric ton of good music over the years. She hosted a weekday morning show on BAI called Shocking Blue in the late '80s / early '90s that me and Laine would always listen to at work, but then I lost touch with her for a long time.

It was great to hear her voice and even better to know she's still doing what she's doing lo these many years later. I don't love every single disc she spins, but it's always interesting and eclectic without being pretentious. Like me she's not above an unabashed stroll down New Wave Ave. every now and again -- especially her faves like The Cure and The Pretenders. And she doesn't foster some Hipper-Than-Thou attitude but instead can admit to digging classic rock bands like the Allman Bros. and Led Zep.

I always wondered what she looked like, and now with The Interwebs of course it's possible to find out. She has a terrific timbre to her voice as they say in the voice-over biz, but I pictured her with long, straight, raven-black hair, wearing 1960s-style cat glasses. Well, I couldn't have been more off, but she's still very easy on the eyes as they say in country music. Keep on rocking, Delphine, you've got a new old listener all over again.

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Adding It Up

2010-05-03T10:43:00.015-04:00

I REMEMBER CATCHING THIS LIVE on Letterman four years ago and being blown away. It popped up on one of my patented mix-CD's the other day, and man I was moved all over again, especially by the song's plaintive, brooding lyrics. You see, I just "celebrated" a birthday last week, and my naturally morbid state of mind has been consumed more than usual lately with thoughts of Mortality and Existence and maybe even plain old Terror about reaching the dreaded milestone known colloquially as the Big 5-0.

Twenty-seven years of nothin' but failures and promises that I couldn't keep
Oh lord I wasn't ready to go
I'm never ready to go
Let it ride

I mean, I'm about the last person to put any kind of stock into Society's artificial demarcations of time, but ya can't kid yourself anymore: the Great Hourglass of Life has been turned over and the sands of time are rushing down to the bottom with a loud whooshing sound. Or is it more like the Ultimate Halftime: You make your adjustments in the game plan against the Grim Reaper, then go at 'em in the second half. And hopefully it's Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life...

Then again, I surprised myself by responding optimistically when a good friend who turns 50 later in the summer asked me if I felt old now having reached the half-century mark. No, I said, because that would be a waste of time and energy; if I live another, say, 20 years, then how silly it would be to feel old at a mere 50 years old, and if I die in a year or two, then it would have been even more absurd to be wasting my last year on Earth bemoaning something as uncontrollable as my age. I think I channeled some of my ancient Greek homeys for that answer, but for a while I had myself convinced, and at the end of the day or the month or the year or even decade, that's all that matters.

Let it ride easy down the road
Let it ride
Let it take away all of the darkness
Let it ride

In fact, this limited, finite lifespan suddenly confronting me could even work in my favor. I've always been a bit of a procrastinator, a coaster through life, a supreme goer-with of the flow -- a Type Z personality, if you will. Maybe this will force me to complete projects now, faced with leaving almost nothing behind when I do go.

But my latest tack is a novel one, albeit not a big surprise if you know me at all. Being a full-fledged, card-carrying Numerologist, I believe there is much more to numbers than just using them to count. And toward that end, I did the math, and my best decades invariably came when my age had an odd number in front of it! That is, to generalize greatly but not necessarily unfairly, my teens were one big Zoo, my twenties not so much; the thirties rocked, my forties were fucked. Now it's on to another "uneven" decade, and I'm personally attaching a large heaping of Significance to this. You're welcome to play along at home, but results will vary.

Let it rock me in the arms of strangers, angels until it brings me home
Let it ride
Let it roll
Let it go

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Jury Gets It (Half) Right

2010-04-30T12:17:00.016-04:00

WELL, THIS IS ONE of those rare cases where we'd much rather have been wrong than right. But as we hinted might happen, after a two-week trial, the jury acquitted the ex-cop of reckless assault charges against the bicyclist stemming from a critical mass ride two years ago. Patrick Pogan was found guilty of making false statements to an ADA -- but that charge does not carry a mandatory jail sentence. His June 23rd sentencing hearing will determine whether Pogan goes to prison for any or all of the maximum four years he can be given.

The split decision came late yesterday afternoon, with the jury evidently choosing not to believe its own eyes when presented with clear video evidence of rookie cop Pogan body-slamming cyclist Christopher Long to the pavement. We had a sneaking suspicion that the jury might go all weak at the knees at the sight of an authority figure on the stand -- even an incompetent bully like Pogan. Then when we heard news of an alternate juror being rushed to the courthouse to replace someone who became too ill to serve, I thought a mistrial was imminent. In a nutshell, as the New York Post story put it: "The shove, they forgave. The framing was another story."

This is a story we thoughtfully followed for you all week long here at Warden's World, but due to recent staff cutbacks we were unable to send anyone to physically cover the trial itself. Instead we've had to make do with reportage from the local papers, the all-news radio stations and of course The Internets.

It took the jury three days of deliberations to reach its decision, but according to John Eligon of the Times, none of them was available for comment following the trial. Pogan also left without commenting, wearing a "blank stare" following the verdict. And Long declared himself satisfied with the jury's verdict, in part because it would prevent Pogan from joining the police force again -- but curiously went on to say, "I don’t think he ever really intended to assault me.”

But even that bit of double-talk was not the most bizarre statement following the outcome. Predictably, that honor went to defense attorney Stuart London, who showed he would have fit right in with the Bush Justice Department -- if not Soviet Russia -- with his Orwellian declaration that even though his client made false statements,

"The important part to remember is, regardless of what’s on these documents, if at the time you filled them out you believe you’re being truthful, then that’s really all that should matter."

What a load of crap! That's what law schools are teaching these days? That the facts of a case or the truth about what happened do not matter as much as what the arresting officer "believes" he saw?

No, the important part to remember here, despite the testimony of what a born liar and coward like Pogan and the opinion of a paid, professional prevaricator like London, is that before multiple videos surfaced, it was the 150-pound cyclist charged with attempted assault, resisting arrest and disorderly conduct stemming from what the 260-pound police officer apparently believed happened during a critical mass protest on the evening of July 25, 2008.

In conclusion, we submit that Exhibit A of why lawyers are almost universally detested is serial bad cop enabler Stuart London. All remains to be seen is whether the sentencing judge sees fit to set his own precedent against cops who have a problem with telling the truth despite being under oath.

FROM PEOPLE V. CHRISTOPHER LONG:

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Justice Delayed

2010-04-28T11:28:00.013-04:00

THE JURY IN THE CASE of the ex-cop charged with knocking a cyclist down in Times Square two years ago is apparently still deliberating -- with the fate of Patrick Pogan's next four years resting in its hands. Pogan's very freedom depends on whether the jurors believe the minute-long video of the event in question, or instead feel cyclist Chris Long somehow deserved to be violently body-blocked off his bike for not heeding the cop's order to pull over.

I know how I'd vote, but since I'm not on the jury, the real question is whether enough citizens see it as the abuse of power that it is -- or do they feel this specific "agitator" deserved to be made an example of in some way? Few arrests have more of a visual record than this one, but does it still come down to which lawyer spins the character question better?

Got the all-news station on, but nothing about the case. The News had a short piece in yesterday's paper, the Times nothing since last Friday. The cop's already off the force, having resigned once the video reared its blessed little head, and now faces the additional falsifying evidence charge after trying to cover up what actually happened leading up to Long's arrest.

Just when I was about to sign off, I check the good old New York Post website and sure enough there's news as of 11:46am. Big News. Seems a juror got sick, putting the brakes on deliberations as the tabloid's headline cleverly puns. Now the trial's on hold while Juror No. 9 gets her act together. Why is it always Number Nine, Number Nine, Number Nine? Now an alternate is en route to the courthouse, while the rest of the jury sits around and waits, and Pogan does the same thing not too far away but far more nervously.

Yet why do I have a sinking feeling he gets off with no jail time, if not scot-free? Experience, perhaps...

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Candid Karma

2010-04-26T15:27:00.014-04:00

WHEN LAST WE LEFT ex-cop Patrick Pogan in Manhattan Supreme Court on Friday, he was taking the witness stand in his own defense, testifying about what happened on July 25, 2008 that ultimately cost him his job, the day of his confrontation with a cyclist in Times Square. Today he's scheduled for cross-examination by the prosecution.

What makes this such an interesting legal case is that, before footage of the incident emerged, it was the cyclist charged with assaulting a policeman; afterward, it was the cop on the defensive, the undeniable visual record leading to Pogan facing charges of assault against the cyclist Christopher Long, as well as falsifying the arrest record -- charges that carry up to a 4-year prison sentence.

The one-minute Youtube video of the knockdown taken by a tourist has been viewed well over 2 million times. Without the video, it's "troublemaker" Long looking at jail time, with his word against a fresh-faced rookie cop in just his 11th day on the force.

The video clearly shows the cyclist trying to swerve around the stationary cop in the middle of the street, but in his testimony, Pogan would have jurors believe that, "At that point, I know he’s going to try and use that shoulder against me. He’s going to try and come through me using the force of the bicycle." Nice try. But he went on to claim that his blatantly offensive move was “to protect myself from possible injury."

Pogan, who lives in Long Island, is a walking poster boy for why all big cities should have residency laws for police and fire departments. Without this video, he'd still be on the job and bullying or even framing who knows how many otherwise innocent people. Which isn't to say the cyclist in question is an angel; Long was discharged from the Army for marijuana possession, and earlier in the trial according to the Times, he testified "that he had struck and killed an elderly pedestrian with his car in North Carolina."

But Long -- who sued the City for over a million dollars but settled for $65,000 -- isn't the one on trial here, it's Pogan, who resigned from the force when the video surfaced. On Friday he defended his admittedly "very extreme" action as necessary to stop what he called the "professional agitators" on wheels -- but his sergeant is on record saying that his instructions to Pogan were to watch, not to interfere with the demonstrators.

MY ONLY PARTICIPATION in anything resembling a critical mass ride was quite different. In the mid-1990s I would commute to work 2-3 days a week on my bike, going from Astoria, through Brooklyn via the Pulaski Bridge, then take either the Williamsburg or Brooklyn Bridge into lower Manhattan. Along the way I'd sometimes meet a mountain bike chick named Bridget who lived in Greenpoint and also worked in the City, and she told me about a ride called "Time's Up!" that started in the Village and went to Central Park to protest the presence of cars there. So being equal parts a fan of Bridget and an opponent of urban pollution, I couldn't resist, and after work one afternoon I shot down to Washington Square and met up with Bridget and a few -- emphasis on few -- other like-minded souls.

The amazing thing was that, due to trouble on previous so-called critical mass rides, we had a full-fledged police escort in the form of 3-4 scooters and 2-3 cop cars. So we had clear sailing up 6th Avenue all the way to the Park, despite having no more than 20 participants on our end, and more like 17 if I remember correctly. It gave me a chance to chat up Bridget, who looked real good on her bike, especially the way her thick brown pony tail bobbed along under her helmet.

But when we got to Central Park, the whole mood of the thing quickly changed. Some of the cyclists were getting real confrontational with drivers, who according to the cyclists were supposed to be out of the Park by 7:00 pm. The bikers were banging on the side of the cars, ordering them to leave and yelling BREATHE IN, CARS OUT! BREATHE IN, CARS OUT! I was immediately turned off by the childish behavior, because while I sympathized with what the bikers were trying to accomplish, the methods they were using to get their point across would obviously prove counter-productive; these drivers would remember being insulted, and who knows they might take it out on the next person they see riding a bicycle, perhaps running him or her off the road just for spite.

So that left a bad taste in my mouth, and I peeled off from the group shortly with Bridget as we took the Queensboro Bridge "home" -- me to Astoria, she back over the Pulaski Bridge into Brooklyn. I ran into her a few more times and asked her out again, but nothing became of it. I definitely never went on another protest ride, but somehow the New York critical mass movement would take off without me. And if it never reached the epic tide of the San Francisco ridership, judging by the numbers seen riding alongside Long on the Youtube video, it certainly took off from the very early stages 15 years ago when "we" could barely scrape 20 riders together in one place.

Also, according to a new survey by the group Transportation Alternatives, New York City now boasts more cycling commuters than any other city, with its 236,000 daily riders a 28 percent jump from last year -- an increase partly attributable to the 200 miles of bike lanes installed over the last three years. Ride on!

The Original Sin City

2010-04-22T18:30:00.020-04:00

JUST GOT BACK from a great dinner with some friends at a local Spanish restaurant, El Olivo. After a few pitchers of Sangria, somehow Sodom and Gomorrah came up, so I told what I know about it from my recent reading about the Bible. Well, the story of the righteous Lot, his salty wife and horny daughters is a real hoot, and it is kind of unbelievable the first time you hear it. But Holly in particular didn't believe the part about the townsfolk wanting to have sex with the two angels, or the juicy bit about Lot's daughters basically date-raping him after they beat it out of the wicked city. Richard Dawkins uses the story to great effect in his unapologetic atheist apologia The God Delusion, which I just finished. He uses it as one of a number of Biblical "myths" that illustrate what a retributive, capricious and petty deity the Old Testament God could be.

But let's go to The Wikipedia. It's all there, or now here as the case may be:

In Genesis 18:2, God sends three men, thought by most commentators to have been angels appearing as men,^[1] to Abraham in the plains of Mamre. After receiving the hospitality of Abraham and Sarah, his wife, God reveals to Abraham that he will investigate Sodom and Gomorrah, because their cry is great, "and because their sin is very grievous."^[20:21] In response, Abraham reverently inquires of God if he would spare the city if fifty righteous people were found in it, then forty-five, then thirty, then twenty or even ten, with God affirming he would not destroy it after each request, for the sake of the righteous yet dwelling therein.^[2] The two angels of God proceed to Sodom and are met by Abraham's righteous nephew Lot, who constrains the angels to lodge with him, and they eat with his family.

Genesis 19:4-5 describes what followed, which confirms its end (RSV):

But before they lay down, the men of the city, the men of
Sodom, both young and old, all the people to the last man, surrounded the house; and they called to Lot, "Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us, that we may know them (KJV: know them, RSV: know them, NIV: can have sex with them , NJB: can have intercourse with them)."

In response, Lot refuses to give his guests to the inhabitants of Sodom and, instead, offers them his two virgin daughters to "do to them whatever you like." ^{[Gen 19:8]}^NASB However, they refuse this offer and threaten to do worse to Lot than they would have done to his guests. And they lunged toward Lot to break down the door. Lot's angelic guests rescue him and strike the men with blindness. Then, they command Lot to gather his family and leave, revealing that they were sent to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. As they make their escape, the angels command Lot and his family not to look back under any circumstance. However, as Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed with fire and brimstone by God, Lot's wife looks back, longingly, at the city in defiance of the angels' specific command not to look back and she becomes a pillar of salt.
Lot left Zoar and retired with his two daughters to a cave in an adjacent mountain. In Genesis 19:30-38, Lot's daughters who in their mind were taking responsibility to bear children to preserve Lot's family line, got their father drunk enough to have sexual intercourse with them on two consecutive nights, with each becoming pregnant. The first son was named Moab (Hebrew, lit., "from the father" [meh-Av]). He was the patriarch of the nation known as Moab. The second son was named Ammon or Ben-Ammi (Hebrew, lit., "Son of my people"). He became the patriarch of the nation of Ammon.

And here's the fan favorite Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah in official Bible-ese, straight from Genesis 19, which is not the 19th studio album by Phil Collins' old prog-rock band, it just seems as ancient. So take heed as applicable and don't say God didn't try to warn all you sinners.

Okay, who brought the Manischewitz?

Stop Your Messing Around

2010-04-20T14:32:00.016-04:00

WELL, IT'S JOLLY DOWN to the big Specials show tonight at Terminal 5. That's right, 6 of the original 7 members are back and touring, playing some festivals, some New York dates, and they'll be back for a free show this summer at Central Park (August 22). Try to make the scene before the scene makes you.

In all honesty, somehow I wasn't all that pumped for the show until I read a piece this morning in amNewYork, one of the local free papers. Then it hit me: It's the FUCKING SPECIALS, Man -- the Ska originators of classics like Message To You Rudy, Concrete Jungle, Too Much Too Young, Monkey Man, Do the Dog and my personal favorite Gangsters -- and that's just from their first album, the damn-near-perfect 1979 masterpiece produced by Elvis Costello. They've released records since then with the "new" lineup -- everyone except for Jerry Dammers, admittedly a huge part of the band as chief songwriter and keyboard player, as well as the driving force behind 1984's In the Studio, basically the last release by the first incarnation of the band. But even without Dammers, 6 out of 7 ain't bad.

I never got to see them live the first time around, in their prime. Remember showing up to Hurrah's hoping to get in one night around 1980-81, but no dice. Hurrah's was a small club to begin with, holding maybe 300 souls, so it was futile on my part to show up that night sans tickets expecting to get in. I did see The Specials in 1994, though, at Irving Plaza, and as I've written it was one of the most enjoyable shows in my long musical existence -- audience and band alike feeding off each other like few concerts I've been a part of. That was over 15 years ago now, which itself was about 15 years after their first record. Funny how it all worked out.

So I expect nothing less than a brilliant performance from the band, playing the first of their two nights at Terminal 5, a venue I've never been to. My friend Steve has been giving me a hard time for choosing The Specials over The Thermals, a good new band which are also playing tonight -- calling it Arena Rock and an exercise in nostalgia. But I disagree with him on this one. Legends are legends for a reason, and you shouldn't pass up an opportunity to see one before they go the way of all flesh. As guitarist Lynval Golding put it, "Six people wanted to celebrate 30 years of The Specials, while Jerry wanted to do his own band. Now we're all doing what we want to do. Democracy worked." Amen to that. Meanwhile, Enjoy Yourself, It's Later Than You Think!

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Removing All Doubts

2010-04-18T12:11:00.028-04:00

"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."

THIS GREAT OLD ADAGE, usually attributed to Abraham Lincoln, has been consistently violated lately in American political discourse, both by a chronically misinformed citizenry and an out-of-touch punditry -- nowhere more so than when it comes to the phenomenon known as the TEA (Taxed Enough Already) Party. There were rallies all over the country on Tax Day, and the mainstream media is finally taking a good hard look at what it is, why it is, and just who is attracted to its virulently anti-liberal and anti-government sentiments.

Toward this end, on April 15 the New York Times assembled a small gaggle of commentators online, charged with getting to the bottom of What Tea Party Backers Want. Besides giving a good cup of tea a bad name, we know what they don't want -- to shut up and accept the results of the November 2008 election -- and we can guess by their all-white composition and more blatant displays of racism that they're not too keen in general on a black man in the White House. As expected, the "experts" gathered here are think-tankers and academics -- with some going on record as believing the Tea Party will have a Ross Perot-like impact on the upcoming midterm elections and further out in the 2012 presidential campaign. Others make way too much of a recent poll indicating a "significant percentage" of so-called Independents and Democrats are Tea Party members; and a "longtime political consultant" called Douglas Schoen thinks they're more diverse than they're portrayed and that it's somehow "extraordinary that close to 1 in 5 Americans call themselves Tea Party supporters." Why? That means over 80% thankfully are NOT identifying with Tea Party simpletons!

I'm not a longtime anything except old, but I think if anything there will be a backlash against any politician getting too close to this lunatic fringe.

But my candidate for hands-down dumbest take so far on the nascent-but-already-irritating Tea Party was a March 4th column by David Brooks, which found the Times' token conservative digging at the dreaded Pop Sociology well again. His modus operandi in such pieces is to come to a conclusion first, then retrofit the "facts" that fit his thesis. Last week, for instance, in a column titled "Relax, We'll Be Fine," he uses a few stats about population and income trends to back up a feel-good notion that "the U.S. is on the verge of a demographic, economic and social revival." None of it rings true, with the following paragraph an example of what might best be described as Brooks' very un-Toffler-like brand of future schlock on display:

"As the world gets richer, demand will rise for the sorts of products Americans are great at providing — emotional experiences. Educated Americans grow up in a culture of moral materialism; they have their sensibilities honed by complicated shows like “The Sopranos,” “The Wire” and “Mad Men,” and they go on to create companies like Apple, with identities coated in moral and psychological meaning, which affluent consumers crave."

Brooks' whole essence of American Exceptionalism, like most sheltered conservatives, can be boiled down to, If Americans are doing it, ultimately it's good for the world, because Americans always mean well. That's the only way I can make any sense of what he's saying.

He's been on an awful negative roll lately, just mailing in column after clueless column. And people are noticing. On April 7 Brooks reflected on the NCAA Championship game, using the prism of "spoiled" Duke versus "underdog" Butler to postulate on Bigger Issues in American society. Not a bad concept, but Brooks uses it to hammer home his point that the rich and successful are who they are for a reason: they work harder than the poor. It was great to see Matt Taibbi calling him out for this elitist rubbish on his excellent True / Slant blog. In "Let Them Eat Work," Taibbi as you might expect does not hold back:

"I would give just about anything to sit David Brooks down in front of some single mother somewhere who’s pulling two shitty minimum-wage jobs just to be able to afford a pair of $19 Mossimo sneakers at Target for her kid, and have him tell her, with a straight face, that her main problem is that she doesn’t work as hard as Jamie Dimon.
Only a person who has never actually held a real job could say something like this. There is, of course, a huge difference between working 80 hours a week in a profession that you love and which promises you vast financial rewards, and working 80 hours a week digging ditches for a septic-tank company, or listening to impatient assholes scream at you at some airport ticket counter all day long, or even teaching disinterested, uncontrollable kids in some crappy school district with metal detectors on every door."

But back to Brooks and his observation that the current Tea Party = the 1960s Antiwar movement. That claim is somehow even more offensive than his usual outlandish and off-base flights from a reality-based universe -- which obviously is saying something.

A proposal this bad needs a catchy title to match -- and "The Wal-Mart Hippies" does the trick. I'm shaking my head as I type the words here, but Brooks' childish position, that "The Tea Party’s raging against the machine echoes an older radicalism from the opposite end of the political spectrum," is absurd on the face of it. All too typically, Brooks presents little to no evidence to back it up -- making his column the reliably fact-free space on the New York Times' op-ed page that it's become.

After noting that both movements aim to "return power to the people, upend the elites and lead a revolution," he concedes there are many differences, including one being of the right, the other the left, one motivated by a war, the other by government spending. But then he plows right ahead toward his conclusion, claiming that "the similarities are more striking than the differences." This is where an editor should have shot down the idea before Brooks wasted everybody's time, because he uses the rest of the piece to prove no such thing.

Again wildly throwing around concepts in the hope that a few of these stereotypes might stick, Brooks finds great significance that both groups believe in what he calls "mass innocence," defined as: "Both movements are built on the assumption that the people are pure and virtuous and that evil is introduced into society by corrupt elites and rotten authority structures." What mass movement has members that don't believe in this? It's like a horoscope in that it's so general that it applies to everyone from Jehovah's Witnesses to the Black Panthers.

The remainder of the column is filled with gems like "members of both movements have a problem with authority" and want to "destroy the corrupt structures and defeat the establishment." Trees died for these observations, to paraphrase one legendary negative book review.

His tiresome conclusion is that the Tea Party will eventually self-destruct because they're shortsighted like '60s radicals were and therefore are not true conservatives, because "to remedy our fallen condition, conservatives believe in civilization — in social structures, permanent institutions and just authorities, which embody the accumulated wisdom of the ages and structure individual longings." See, according to David Brooks, the Left blew it back then "through their own imprudence, self-righteousness and naïve radicalism." I guess the Left just didn't see the "wisdom" of the Vietnam War which the "just authorities" of the time like Nixon and Kissinger were insisting was worth 55,000 dead Americans to preserve civilization as we know it. Glad that's been cleared up for us.

This March 4th column drew 261 comments on the Times' website, a healthy amount of traffic but nowhere near the 500-600 other opinion pieces regularly attract. (Today's Frank Rich column for instance already has 580 comments.) That alone should tell his editors something. Maybe it's time to give someone else his valuable op-ed real estate. It has to be at least on the table if there's anyone on the ball minding the store.

Quite a few rightfully indignant readers responded forcefully to Brooks' brand of hogwash, some of them upset that Brooks would even make such a boneheaded comparison. Like all good writing, I only wish I'd have thought of some of these Comments first, but it's enough to know others are thinking along the same lines. Here's a few choice ones that show there are plenty of people not buying what Brooks is selling:

We need a serious analysis of the Tea Party folks, but we won't be getting it from Mr. Brooks' pop sociology. The inchoate, but real and dangerous, rage of the marginalized white working-class grows out of 30 years of working harder and getting nowhere while the top 1% has grown ever richer and, alarmingly, less white--symbolized by Obama's election. As ever, Brooks wants to analyze American society without mentioning class or race, and so misses the target by a mile...
...There is little, if anything, about the Tea Partiers that isn't ugly. All too often, stupid, simple people, looking for simple solutions and simple slogans - being manipulated and courted by demagogues, dolts, and one very dangerous dame. And by the way - the New Left of the 60's touched an entire generation, and encompassed not only the politics of the major political parties - but also social justice movements for women, Afro-Americans, Native Americans, Indigenous peoples worldwide,as well as the oppressed and the exploited everywhere...

...David, the fact that The Tea Party Movement has people on Medicare and Medicaid complaining about the government's involvement in health-reform sums up their unbelievable (and frightening) intellectual ineptitude and proves that they truly lack any organized goals, objectives or ideas to have a legitimate debate. So I think it's shamefully egregious to compare the followers of MLK Jr. and others who championed civil and social freedoms, equality, love and acceptance - to 'people' as egotistical, zealous and uneducated as Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck and their Fox News addicted, Tea Party zombies.

Tea Party Tempest

2010-04-15T15:18:00.019-04:00

ALTHOUGH I ENJOY ridiculing the Tea Party halfwits as much as the next sentient being, let's be clear that the movement as a whole is no joke. 5,000 of them showed up in Boston to see their patron saint of cluelessness, Sarah Palin, regurgitate the same old talking points. Palin like Glenn Beck is dangerous only because people take what she has to say seriously -- despite or who knows anymore maybe because of her disturbing propensity to make things up as she goes along.

In Washington today, attention junkie Michele Bachmann went for the jugular, using rhetoric loaded with code words to make her point: "We're on to this gangster government. I say it's time for these little piggies to go home ... We need you to take out some of these bad guys." Would it surprise anyone who's read about these meetings to discover that Tea Party loons could be heard chanting, "There's a communist in the White House!" Or that a "fair tax" type would be advocating, "We have got to take the country back by taking back the money they take from us" -- not bothering to explain who would be left to pay for a military budget that incredibly, obscenely is more than every other nation on the planet combined. After all, it takes a lot of tax revenue to win hearts and minds. But sometimes we do much more harm than good in places like Iraq, now seven years after the invasion. And you can make a strong case that we've doing a lot more harm than good lately to the people we're supposed to be helping in Afghanistan, to the point where you can't help but think it's high time for the U.S. to get the hell out of both countries. But the Tea Party loudmouths selectively fixate their outrage elsewhere. As an AP story about the rallies put it:

"Lost in the rhetoric was that taxes have gone down under Obama. Congress has cut individuals' federal taxes for this year by about $173 billion, leaving Americans with a lighter load despite nearly $29 billion in increases by states. Obama plans to increase taxes on the wealthy to help pay for his health care overhaul and other programs."

But then again, logic, reality and reason are not the strong suits of the simpletons gathered under the Tea Party banner. Facts are not likely to get in the way any time soon where the Tea Party is concerned. Republicans now own whatever ugliness comes out of it when all the heated rhetoric brews out of control and boils over into violence. Because it's a matter of when, not if...

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Jokers To The Right

2010-04-13T20:25:00.032-04:00

"Ridicule is the only weapon which can be used against unintelligible propositions."
-- Thomas Jefferson

I stole that great quote out of Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion, recommended reading for oh just about everyone alive, which I am 100 pages into now and really digging. But of course Tom could have been talking about the current state of the Republican party and its scary outer-right fringes in the form of Hate Radio and the equally loud and obnoxious Tea Party.

I don't know what disturbs me more -- the nerve of these people to pretend we didn't just have an election, or their frightening ignorance on most issues. And let's just say their spellin' ain't so hot either, if the once-fine art of sign writing is any indication. If ever a political movement needed a roving proofreader, by golly these Tea Party folk will have to do until something worse comes along.

Guam Overboard!

2010-04-04T20:15:00.020-04:00

BY THE WAY, HANK, the next time you feel like pontificating publicly on a subject which you know absolutely nothing about, it might be a good idea to assign one of your staff to at least print out the pertinent Wikipedia entry. If you had done even that bare modicum of due diligence, you would have discovered basic facts like the island of Guam is 30 miles long, between 4-12 miles wide, and has been inhabited, sans major geological disaster, for the last 4,000 years. That would have cut down some on your stumbling preamble, which, while masterfully demonstrating your ignorance, nevertheless pales in comparison to your beyond-ridiculous assertion that the collective weight of human beings might pose a threat to a land mass. It's a wonder Manhattan island has lasted this long, what with the millions of overweight tourists coming to the city every year.

The real story here might be how Admiral Willard keeps a straight face while the Georgia congressman floats his outlandish capsize theory: "My fear is that the whole island will become so overly populated that it will tip over and capsize." Instead, with great restraint, Willard replies, "We don't anticipate that." Classic comeback!

Congressman Fears a Guam capsize with extra U.S. military
Link to story here

Proposed new tourism campaign: "Come to Guam, but please step lightly!"

Holy Fool

2010-04-02T09:45:00.034-04:00

IN WHAT MIGHT INITIALLY SEEM an odd subject for a blog entry, nevertheless today I submit for your approval the case study of one garden variety New York City subway nut, a street crazy, a ranting raving rambling spewer of random nonsense. Or was there a meaning to the seeming madness...? Stay tuned or, better yet, scroll down.

Here it is a day later and I still can't quite get over the encounter with this April Fool. I was coming home on the W-train early yesterday afternoon when he got on at Queensboro Plaza and got off at Astoria Blvd. just 5 stations later -- yet in between he carried on a nonstop soliloquy that entertained and/or bewildered half the train car depending on your tolerance for this sort of behavior. The thing is, this guy wasn't rambling at all, but extremely focused and obsessed, loud but not threatening. After a few minutes of his monologue it dawned on me that he was in all earnestness carrying on a conversation with Christopher Columbus in the form of his statue located on a small traffic island outside the Astoria Blvd. station, at turns imploring and exhorting the legendary explorer to:

"GUIDE ME HOME, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, YOU GREAT EXPLORER OF THE SEAS, WHICH SIDE WILL YOU BE ON, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, HOW WILL I FIND YOU ON THIS HOLY THURSDAY, O GREAT ONE, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS WHO WITH THREE SHIPS FOUND THE NEW WORLD, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, WHO KNEW THE WORLD WAS ROUND WHEN EVERYONE THOUGHT IT WAS FLAT, THEY ALL DOUBTED YOU. GUIDE ME CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS TO YOUR SIDE, TAKE ME HOME. HOW WILL I FIND YOU, IT'S SUCH A LONG WAY, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, WHO WAS A NICE GUY, WHICH SIDE WILL YOU BE ON, HOW WILL I FIND YOU..."

This went on the entire time, with absolutely no break in the "conversation" as he faced the doors of the train, looking out, I would guess hoping for a glimpse of his hero at the earliest possible moment. Kids were moving closer just to hear what this guy was talking about. I used my cell phone to surreptitiously film three 15-second videos of this guy, but even though he was only about five feet away, it was still too far to pick up anything more than a low rumble with a few distinctly audible CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUSes, from a grand total of at least 100 mentions of his name during the short ride.

He was a tall white guy about 50, his clothes slightly disheveled but clean so not homeless. From behind I could see his glasses: huge square frames last popular circa 1979, and dirty lenses so enormous they should have come with a pair of venetian blinds or even windshield wipers. When he got on the train he was already carrying on a conversation so at first I thought he might be talking into one of those pitiful Bluetooth earpieces. But it became obvious after a minute that this guy had no need for a cell phone, the Internet, cable TV or for that matter friends.

Sure enough he got off at Astoria Blvd., mere steps away from his destination. Not to get all Oliver Sacks on you here, but I think some of his behavior might stem from somebody close to him, his mom maybe, insulting him recently; patronizingly or condescendingly asking him if he could manage to find the Columbus statue off the train stop as if were an imbecile, and now he was lashing out at that person publicly via his strange, sarcastic imprecations to old Chris. I think that's what his monologue was really all about. Or maybe he was just off his meds. Either way, if he gets this worked up about tiny Columbus Square, I hope he never finds out about the Monument in Columbus Circle or all hell might break loose.

Ducks Out Of Water

2010-03-20T18:05:00.037-04:00

"I was the goddam manager of the fencing team. Very big deal. We'd gone in to New York that morning for the fencing meet with McBurney School. Only, we didn't make the meet. I left all the foils and equipment and stuff on the goddam subway." Catcher in the Rye

THE BIG, OFFICIAL McBurney event isn't for another month (if I decide to attend), but with a day off yesterday and a Knicks-76ers game in the hopper for the evening, nostalgia was the order of the day as my fellow "Highlander" Johnny Starr and I decided to hold our own mini reunion-slash-J.D. Salinger tribute a little ahead of time. So with that in mind, we met in front of the old landmark facade (all that's left of the grounds) on West 63rd Street at 2:30 and hit Central Park with plenty o' time to take in the sights and sounds on a summer-like pre-spring afternoon.

If you really want to know the truth of it, the school itself closed shop in 1988 -- a piece of New York history gone forever after 72 years. Ten years later they announced plans for a condo tower to be built over the original five-floor building, and sure enough in 2000 there she rose 40 floors up. There's your progress in action, yes sir.

The old YMCA is still next door, where we had our locker rooms and shared the pool, gym, etc., with everyone else. We couldn't remember if the pool was on the 3rd or 4th floor, but we did manage to walk right past the front desk and wander about, trying unsuccessfully to find the cafeteria, the barbershop where me and 3 other members of the wrestling team shaved our heads one fateful morning, the cramped stairwell all the teams ran up and down as a punishment drill for whatever infraction or shortcoming the coaches came up with...

Right across the park wall is the rock where all the heads in high school would congregate and do their thing. Beyond was the rough patch of green between softball fields where we held football practice every day. The whole field was fenced off on this day, probably being resodded, and as we later discovered, so was the entire Sheeps Meadow.

The ducks were indeed alive and well and seemingly content in the Duck Pond, perhaps distant relatives to the ones the real Holden Caulfield would have ruminated about while spending 9th and 10th grade at McBurney in the '30s. Much later in the day we stumbled on the Carousel, still a New York bargain at only 2 bucks a ride, where Catcher's pivotal scene plays out: Holden for once totally in the moment, at peace with himself, watching his sister Phoebe on the Merry Go Round.

GOT TO THE GARDEN at about 7:00, then hung out at the Play by Play watching the start of the game on the bar's big screen until John's friends showed up, which was well into the first half. We didn't actually get to our seats until well into the second half. Which was just as well, because my pathetic 76ers, clad on this night in their eyesore all-red uni's, couldn't get it done yet again, losing 92-88 -- even with the Knicks missing their two best players in David Lee and Wilson Chandler.

Desperate Measure

2010-03-13T18:06:00.026-05:00

I SOMEHOW MISSED THIS STORY when it came out, but a blog I follow, LIQCity, had a post about it. Seems a 38-year-old Greek guy, distraught over his very sick mom, over losing his job from taking time off to be with her, over his house being foreclosed -- you know, little things like that -- leaped to his death from a Long Island City condo tower last Saturday. Anastasi Calatzis evidently posed as a prospective buyer, then, while the real estate agent was showing him an apartment on the 25th floor, he texted his brother, asking him to take care of mom, waited for the agent to turn her back, and calmly jumped from the balcony as if he had planned the whole thing out. Another overwhelmed soul overcome by unforgiving circumstances in a city that can seem heartless even in the best of times.

The LIQCity post included a link to the hideous New York Post, where, in typical nutzoid fashion, some sick fuck in the newsroom made the appalling editorial decision to accompany their story with a photo of the condo tower and a big red arrow pointing down from the 25th-floor terrace to the street below where the poor guy landed. What is the purpose of this? In case you didn't have the mental capacity to figure out which direction a person falls from 25 stories up, the Post is there to help with its asinine diagram. Anyone who buys this dying tabloid needs to have his head examined. If it was free I wouldn't use it to wipe my butt if I ran out of toilet tissue.

In a not-so-unrelated matter, I happen to detest the very idea of these Astoria high-rises and the selfish yuppie scum that dwell therein, but hey that's just me; I'm only born and raised here. I'm not breaking any new ground here, but Astoria has become inundated with these self-absorbed hipsters who think they've discovered some authentic urban landscape, who come here from their small towns trying to "make it" and within 5 minutes consider themselves native New Yorkers. I've had it with these oh-so-interesting-in-their-own-minds "indie rocker" types who live four to five to an apartment and go out in packs frequenting all their favorite new sushi joints and fusion bistros and organic health food emporiums in the neighborhood, probably looking down on all the uncultured locals. They haven't earned that right yet. If anyone's gonna look down on Astoria dumbasses, it's me. But I really don't need to see Astoria or Long Island City turning into the new Williamsburg or Park Slope. Doesn't do a damn thing for me but drive the cost of everything up.

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I Work, Therefore I Am

2010-03-09T18:30:00.025-05:00

TODAY MARKS A WEEK of workdays at the new, albeit temporary job. It may be premature to justify labeling me some kind of fancy Leading Economic Indicator, but the current stretch is by far my most intensive period of employment in well over a year. And that's nothing to sneeze at, mostly because with no health coverage of any kind, how can I afford to even cough?

Followers of this very space undoubtedly already know that in a previous life I worked at the same place for over 15 years -- which meant for better or worse I knew exactly where I was going almost each and every weekday morning. Technically, we're talking three different offices in three different office buildings: first 99, then 100 and finally 67 Wall Street. But my point if there is one is that freelancing is almost diametrically opposed to working at The Transcript all those years -- now day to day, even week to week I have lit'rally no idea where I'll be, and not in any existential sense either. Although sure, there's some of that too. Maybe a lot of it. But characteristically, I digress.

It's a very quiet office where I'm at now, bordering on monastic with its long stretches of silence and its hushed, almost reverential tones. I'm situated between three or four obvious veterans of the company, who speak their art department jargon over and around me. They're keeping me fairly busy with material, except for today which was deathly slow, but there's a Mac on my desk that I can use. After three days last week and two this week, still no feedback of any kind, which is unusual but not unheard of. I always like to explain my edits to the person on the other end, that's just the way I was raised.

I quickly discovered there's no affordable eats around the 60th & Madison area where I'm currently stationed, so for my first lunch excursion I foolishly grabbed a hideously lukewarm "hot" dog from a street vendor on Fifth Avenue near Central Park for 2 bucks. Next day let the record show I made my way to the more egalitarian confines of Lexington Avenue, where the food choices were sure to multiply exponentially. I was rewarded for my wandering, conveniently happening upon a thriving outpost of a dining establishment that evidently can trace its lineage back to none other than the Original, Famous Ray of antiquity. I made my way inside the bustling dining hall and took advantage of one of the house specialties: an Italian dish known as pizza pie. For a reasonable cost of two-dollars-fifty-five per individual slice, it's well worth the trip to partake of this traditional, hearty ethnic fare whilst sitting among my fellow working men and women, who I daresay are as unassuming and convivial a lot as the denizens of any large city you're likely to encounter no matter how wide your travels. In fact, I can say with some degree of certainty that this branch of the Ray's family culinary empire shall serve as my go-to locale for regular midday caloric intake.

Finally, let me close by relating to you my Readers that after one such luncheon, as I leisurely perambulated back to the office, I had a real-live celebrity sighting -- if, as I do, you consider PBS' long-time talkmeister Charlie Rose such a notable personage. Let me also pass on that as I espied Mr. Rose slowly shuffling along the Avenue, he looked quite the worse for wear, even acting a little bewildered as he piteously clutched a rather large beige valise. Then I remembered old Charlie had major heart surgery not too long ago. So there's that too.

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Sex A Peel

2010-03-03T18:38:00.040-05:00

I FORTUITOUSLY STUMBLED upon a small cache of Avengers DVDs at the Lincoln Center library a couple of weeks ago, and ever since it's been a veritable Emma Peel Marathon in my living room. With about 4 episodes per DVD, I've worked my way through about 8 of the hour-long shows, and see no good reason to stop now.

More to the point, is it just me or is it every male of a certain age's fantasy to be harshly interrogated at the hands -- or better yet leather boots -- of the smashing, winsome Mrs. Peel, played to perfection by Diana Rigg? I mean, WNTFL (what's not to fucking like)? With the possible exception of the sumptuous Julie Newmar as Catwoman in the 1960s Batman TV series -- also usually clad not uncoincidentally in a tight black leather jumpsuit -- nothing spoke to my already quite disturbed preadolescent psyche like watching Rigg as the take-charge Emma Peel dashing across the TV screen and beating up villains. Oh yeah and Patrick Macnee as debonair spy John Steed was pretty good too. I looked 'em up on Wikipedia and was glad to discover that he's still alive, in his late 80s now, while Diana Rigg is still kicking at 71.

I took out two DVDs from 1965 and one from '67 -- the latter episodes being in color. But you know what: I like the black & white joints much better. Now, my family didn't even have a color TV set until the early '70s, so growing up The Avengers and everything else was in black & white, and maybe that's why I prefer the series in B&W to this day. (I know there's an Avengers movie starring Uma Thurman, but Uma really doesn't do anything for me so I never got around to seeing it.)

There's one Avengers episode called A Touch of Brimstone that was supposedly banned in the U.S. for a while, yet was the most watched episode in series history in the U.K. when it aired in 1966. It's the one where Emma Peel goes undercover as a dominatrix called the Queen of Sin! AYFKM (are you fucking kidding me) or what? Coming across that episode would be akin to finding a great prize in your box of Crackerjacks when you were a little kid -- only now you have a better way to celebrate. No, believe it or not I've never been in therapy; why do you ask...?

And I didn't put together that clever little video here combining two of the finer exports 1960s England bestowed on the world: the original Avengers TV series and The Kinks. But I wish I had thought of it first. What I'd really like to find is a decent Time Machine in working order and beat it back to Swinging London a la Austin Powers. Until then I'll have to "beat it" here.

Snow Excuses

2010-02-26T09:33:00.016-05:00

AS ANYONE WHO MADE IT outside yesterday knows, getting anywhere was a messy adventure. But even with all the snow and rain and nasty sleet, I'm still an hour early to take the Census exam, and that's after spacing out on the 7 Train and going an extra stop into Manhattan -- past Vernon-Jackson station and into Grand Central, where I cross the platform and get the 7 coming back the other way to Queens. And even though I already had a bagel and tea before getting on the train, I felt I'd earned another set of breakfast, and so I was looking forward to the second almost as much as the first, and that's saying something for a teaholic like me. I spot the Irish Center right across Jackson Avenue from where I got off the train, so I take a little walk, past a dreaded Starbucks, when I stumble on a small coffee shop tucked into a sharp corner and duck in out of the wintry goop.

I ask for my trademark English Breakfast and the hipster type behind the counter in the black beret tells me all they have is organic, which is cool by me, but then I ask how much in case it's something like 4 bucks, in which case I'd have to shoot the whole thing down. But it's 2 bucks for what turns out to be a damn fine cup of hand-brewed tea, I think that's the term she used.

The little shop was like a smaller version of my friend Kathryn's place in Greenpoint, a little cafe called Ashbox when she owned it that is itself just off the ramp of the other, Brooklyn side of the Pulaski Bridge that I could just make out across the avenue through the driving snow, which seemed to be coming down in wet sheets. I helped myself to a few free samples of a chocolate croissant on the counter, right next to a plate of Spinach and feta croissants marked $3.75 that had my name on it -- but it was way too early for lunch at 9:15 or so. I made a note to come back here for lunch, because it looked like a cool place to hang out, what with first a Marvin Gaye record playing from a CD player and then Superfly by Curtis Mayfield -- the latter especially an album I've known and loved ever since my older brother bought it when it first came out in 1972. I told Black Beret how great a choice this was, and mentioned how even more than the great Freddie's Dead and the title track, the stirring Little Child Runnin' Wild was the song that made that soundtrack album an absolute masterpiece. Something to that effect. As luck would have it she agreed, and so I thought she might throw it on for me before I had to run and take the test and then I could take that as a sign. That's what music can do for you, get your hopes up. Well, she didn't, and in between her taking care of customers we talked some more about blaxploitation movies before I had to split.

On my way out I heard her tell the other guy behind the counter who was also wearing a black beret that she was working till 1:00 today, so I made a mental note to come back after the test and partake of that Spinach Pie and hold court on a wide range of pop culture arcana. But when we finally finished, it was like 12:30 already, and the weather was just so brutal I decided to head right for the trains. But it's a great destination point for my first bike ride this spring when this crapulous accumulation evaporates under the first rays of the new season.

The test itself took longer than I thought when you include filling out all the paperwork and waiting around for the room to fill up. The exam was more difficult than I expected. You've only got a half-hour for 28 questions, and when the woman giving the test announced 15 minutes to go, I was just filling in the answer for Question 10. So I had to find another gear, and then I had 5 minutes left to answer 5 questions, and so the last 2 answers I was not all comfortable with.

They graded the tests right after we finished, which I was surprised by. I heard the guy tell someone, You got a 97, Call for the Supervisor test. Another guy got a 90, some girl an 80, then he told some poor dude to call for another test, meaning he done failed. I was called last or close to it: You got a 90, Call for the Supervisor test. That shocked me, because I was really unsure on a few early ones, and as I said not at all sure about #27 and #28. But I must have got all the others right, and now at least I'm in the system and I'm waiting for a callback when they give another Supervisors test. That's right, I'm already executive material. We had 'em all the way.

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Back In Business

2010-02-24T13:21:00.012-05:00

WELL, GOOD NEWS and BAD NEWS related to this morning's highly anticipated interview. As befitting a chronic early arriver, I got to the venue a half-hour early at 10:00, and the actual interview lasted 90 minutes. I'll spare you the suspense and give the good first: By the end of the interview I had the position. On the other hand, whereas I knew it was a short-term assignment, it turns out it's a little more short term than I first was led to believe -- your classic bad news for those scoring at home. Don't get me wrong, I'm definitely grateful to be back on the good ship Employment, but now instead of what was described by my agency contact as a 6-8-week project, I learned from the guy who hired me that it's 4 weeks at the most and more likely 3. Worse, it's unlikely to turn into a regular or even permanent position, as the entire scope of the job entails editing an annual report for a major public corporation. So the S. S. Full Time ain't boarding passengers any time soon.

Nevertheless, I'm all about the positives. Things could ALWAYS be worse, especially on board this current ship America. I gotta tell you: it was not only the longest interview, but the best interview I've ever had by a magnitude of at least Pi, which we all know is 3.14 give or take a slice. First I met the human resources guy for a second, before he passed me off to the person in charge of the actual thing that I'll be doing. Then we sat in his office and had a wide-ranging, freewheeling conversation that covered the prospective job-to-be, certainly, but not exclusively, not by a long shot. In the hour and a half we spent maybe 20 minutes total on what it is I would be doing -- but that number may be a little high. Instead it was all about books we were reading, how computers have changed publishing since we started in the field about the same time ago in the 1980s, where our families were from in Italy and Greece, respectively, and on and on. I was really on my game today, the very archetype of the Good Listener: not interrupting him as he went on yet remaining visibly interested, all the while just waiting for an opening any opening to hit him with all the A material I've gathered from my years on the circuit. But my point if there is one is not that I have a new best friend here, but the fact that my boss for the next few weeks should be easy to get along with bodes well. As I said, the opposite can always be the case and usually is if my experience is any indication. There's a reason Murphy has that nasty Law named after him.

I've worked some through this agency before, but it was a while ago and sporadic at best: a day here, another there. So now if I absolutely slay this assignment, that puts me in good stead there. And I know at least for me good stead is the absolute best kind of stead. Trust me, I've tried all kinds...

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After All This Time

2010-02-23T19:03:00.014-05:00

LADIES AND GENTS, saints and sinners, freemen and yeomen, Hold on to your respective armrests, because I'm here to report that I have what's known in the employment sector as a real live interview taking place tomorrow. Places and Names shall be withheld for now, of course -- I'm not superstitious, just a little stitious -- but rest assured I do have documentation to back this up and I'm not afraid to use it if I have to.

It is my first such scheduled encounter with a prospective employer in quite some time, and like fellow frustrated out-of-work blogger Nazz Nomad, it hasn't been from lack of applying over lo these many weeks, or months in my case; just a reflection of a very heated competition for what few opportunities present themselves every day. Meaning any relevant job posting on, say, craigslist or mediabistro is immediately inundated with a flood of qualified candidates within literally minutes.

In this instance, a publishing agency I'm registered with emailed it to me. I jumped on it forthwith and followed up with a phone call and another email. It sorta has my name on it, and I'm not quite sure whether this agency or another is sending other proofreaders out to be interviewed for the same job or if it's my chance alone. It does me no good to know either way, does it... I don't really tend to overthink things like that anyway; I save obsessively dwelling for your big metaphysical questions like, If the Shroud of Turin is a genuine 1st century artifact, as I'm beginning to think it is, and not as some nonbelievers among you would have it a Medieval forgery, then do I have to put my shekels where my mouth is and admit I'm starting to feel something stirring the more I read about the early Christians. Ah, you didn't see that one coming, did you. Neither did I, until I found myself literally in tears the other day when reading the stirring conclusion of Thomas Cahill's magnificent Desire of the Everlasting Hills. I won't spoil it for you, except to say it just might be one of the top 2, 3 books of history I've ever read.

Now I'm already well into James Tabor's extremely speculative and conjectural but nevertheless spellbinding The Jesus Dynasty, a work which doggedly depicts the historical Jeez (as his buddies called him), partly by stripping the gospels bare of their theological motivations and partly via recent archaeology, as well as elevates the role of his cuz John D. Baptizer to fellow messiah-ship, among other startling claims, postulations and possibilities. This book literally -- a word I don't take lightly -- couldn't be more fascinating, to me at least, and at the moment that's who we're dealing with here if you hadn't noticed.

Moving off religious history till further notice (and what other kind of notice is there?), I will relate that I'm also scheduled to take the census test Thursday at something called the New York Irish Center located at 10-40 Jackson Avenue, wherever that is. I mean, I know where it is, but to us proud Astorians that's out in the boonies pun intended.

Ironically, or perhaps characteristically, I was at the library printing out my resume and attending to other vital matters Monday when I found out that they were giving the census test upstairs that morning in that very building. But when I asked the census guy today about taking it there, he said tests given at the library fill up fast. So now I have to take a bus ride to Long Island City instead of walking 5 blocks to Ditmars Blvd. That's what I get for procrastinating.

"After all this time
To believe in Jesus
After all those drugs
I thought I was Him
After all my lying
And a-crying
And my suffering
I ain't good enough
I ain't clean enough
To be Him"

The Clash - Sound Of The Sinners

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Rockabilly Pioneer Dead

2010-02-15T13:25:00.038-05:00

ROCK AND ROLL legend Dale Hawkins passed away over the weekend at age 73. He was best known for the raucous 1957 hit Suzy Q -- covered by more famous acts like the Rolling Stones in 1964 on 12 X 5 and later in the decade by Creedence Clearwater Revival, whose own impassioned rendition not only introduced Hawkins to a new generation but also managed to take the song to new heights (and lengths too, stretching it out to almost 9 minutes!), giving it the trademark CCR swamp-blues treatment on their landmark 1968 debut album.

Unfortunately, Youtube is sorely lacking when it comes to tracking down Dale Hawkins archival footage. The above grainy footage of Hawkins is the best the site has to offer. However, there is a cool clip of the very young Stones tearing into it on the American TV show Shindig! with Mick showing off some fine dance moves and Keith shredding lead six-string before the band slows things down with Heart of Stone.

Finally, here's an in-depth obituary from the Shreveport Times for the Louisiana native. According to the article, not only was he one of the few white musicians to record for Chicago's Chess Records back in the '50s -- releasing over 40 tracks for the mostly black blues label -- but Hawkins was the first white performer to play at Harlem's famed Apollo Theater. That's big-time crossover appeal and street cred rolled into one.

Hoops Night Out

2010-02-13T11:28:00.025-05:00

IT'S BEEN A FAIRLY GOOD stretch for me lately as far as attending live sporting events. Thanks to generous invites from buddies like Jimi the Greek and Johnny Star, I went to two New York Yankees games at the new Stadium last season, checked out the Mets at their new Citifield in scenic Flushing, and this week caught the Knicks for the first time in a long while at good old Madison Square Garden.

Unfortunately for Knicks fans, of which luckily I'm not a member, the hometown crew managed to fritter away a 15-point 4th quarter lead to the lowly Sacramento Kings -- who, despite some up-and-coming players on the roster, have to be one of the more nondescript franchises in organized sports these days. Here was a 16-34 team riding an 11-game road losing streak into town and the Knicks, now a crappy 19-31 themselves on the year, couldn't seal the deal.

Tuesday happened to be Jewish Heritage Night at the Garden on Tuesday, and it also just happens that Sacramento has the the first and only Israeli player in the NBA on their team. Coincidence? You tell me. Omri Casspi, a 6-foot-9 rookie forward, certainly rewarded all the chants and waving of Israeli flags with a solid 18 points. And as the once-proud Knickerbockers squandered their big lead with their trademark matador defense, I'm sure more than a few fans were heard muttering "Ov vey" as a game seemingly in the bag headed to overtime.

I met John and his two fellow firemen season ticket holders outside the Garden at around 7, then we headed upstairs to the Play by Play bar for a few beers. The tickets actually called for us to sit pretty high up in the rafters, but in time-honored New York tradition we made our way down to four conveniently unoccupied seats in a much lower section, and we stayed there unmolested for the duration of the game -- not quite court side, but close enough to spot any celebs sitting front row. No Spike Lee this night, but there was a Steve Schirripa of Sopranos fame sighting, as well as long-time Hebrew Dustin Hoffman, a Garden regular for years. More importantly, from our improved vantage point we were able to appreciate the finer points and parts of the Knick City Dancers, of booty-shaking dance moves during timeouts fame.

The unquestioned wearer of the goat horns for the hometown squad was Chris Duhon, who shot just 2-10. Duhon is a very average player with a contract that pays him 6 million dollars, which tells you everything you need to know about the dismal state of the NBA. Hardly a fan favorite already, he single-handedly butchered numerous key Knicks possessions, including the end of regulation when he heaved up an exceedingly ugly airball from 3-point range with the shot clock winding down that had lower odds of going in than a random fan coming down from the stands and hitting a half-court bomb. Duhon's heave led to deafening boos from the crowd. Not that the Knicks' lack of execution down the stretch didn't deserve a round or two of harsh booing, but the volume would only grow when, as if coached by no one, the last shot in OT inexplicably went to non-shooter Jared Jeffries of all people, who wildly fired a 3-pointer in desperation with the clock running out. The 6-11 Jeffries makes almost $6.5 million a year and gives the Knicks 5.5 points and 4.4 rebounds a night in return. Nice bang for the buck there, GM Donnie Walsh. The Knicks did get 35 points from Wilson Chandler, but somehow he never saw the ball down the stretch.

The Kings on the other hand are not waiting around for the LeBron James sweepstakes to play itself out over the offseason and instead have assembled some good young talent: 20-year-old Tyreke Evans is a 6-foot-6 point guard with silky smooth moves who finished with 27 points and 10 boards; 6-11 forward Donte Green (21 years old) had 24 points, including the bucket that put his team up 4 in overtime with a minute left; and Jason Thompson, also a second-year 6-11 forward, averages 13 points and 9 rebounds a night and is all of 23. That's how you build a team, rather than a collection of expiring contracts.

Now I'm looking forward to seeing my beloved Philly Sixers at the Garden next month, even if the 76ers are underachieving this season at 20-32 after making the playoffs last year. The game on March 19 may very well be the rapidly fading Allen Iverson's final career appearance at the Garden also, and I bet the place will be packed if New York fans realize that.

Death Comes To Ditmars

2010-01-26T18:49:00.037-05:00

NOT THAT ANYONE in the Greater Blogosphere is likely to care or shed a tear, but let it be noted that at 7:30 this very morning a City sanitation worker was struck and killed by a truck just a few short blocks from where I live. When I met my brother at around 8 this morning for coffee at the Bagel Shoppe, he told me that the area around 35th Street and Ditmars Blvd. was blocked off with cop cars. He thought a sanitation truck had hit someone, but later I found out that a 41-year-old garbageman was hit and then pinned between two trucks, and was pronounced D.O.A. at Mt. Sinai, the local hospital, leaving behind as they say a wife and two young kids. Just another death by motor vehicle in a City quite inured to and even tolerant of them.

I always said that if mob hit men were smart (a stretch, granted, but play along), their best bet would be just running over the intended victim. As long as you're not intoxicated, let's face it, no one does hard time in this city for killing a pedestrian or cyclist. In any case, the odds are against it. Last year, according to Streetsblog, "Of the 66 pedestrians, seven cyclists and one wheelchair user known to have died since January, in only 12 cases was the driver reportedly charged for taking a life." Why the hell would you go through the elaborate ritual of stalking a guy and pumping a few bullets into him. And of course if you use an SUV as the "weapon" of choice, the chances of anyone surviving a collision are few and far between. Just get behind the wheel like you usually do, tune everything out, pump up the tunes, crank it up to 70 and BAM! the guy's history. Shoot, you can probably even be texting or sexting or carrying on a cell conversation while you do the deed; most you'll get is a meager fine. The police don't seem to prioritize moving violations for the most part in the City under the all-important guise of keeping the precious traffic rolling along; after all, there'll be plenty of chances to fill the city coffers later when you're caught double-parking.

I have my own rather draconian yet I think fair and indeed necessary solutions when it comes to assholes caught talking on cell phones while driving that involve not only a 90-day suspended license right on the spot but also more far more fitting penance for such selfish behavior -- i.e., violators being forced to pull rickshaws full of obese tourists around the Theater District for a like duration. Because from what I've heard, your conversations suck anyway, so put the damn phone down or pull over and, for chrissakes (as my father used to say), if it's not too much trouble, pay some attention while operating your 2-ton metallic monstrosity. I mean, is it too much for you to live in the moment, to interact with what's in front of you for a change?

Fill 'er up, Draco!
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Déjà Vu All Over Again

2010-01-20T11:12:00.033-05:00

IN A TEXTBOOK CASE of Groundhog Day -- and not the good kind -- we find ourselves in almost the exact same position as when we started this epic blog, as it's almost four years to the day of the first ever Warden's World post, and once again we're out of work, fast running out of unemployment benefits, down-shifting into panic mode. Freelancing itself has totally dried up over the last year, after I had built up a nice stable of clients over a 3-year period, only to see them drop off one by one. That's right, boys and girls, your Uncle Warden needs a job (along with something like 14 million other out-of-work Americans!!), ideally in the field he's put 20+ years in (publishing) -- but at this point how can he possibly get too picky? (Don't answer that, it's a rhetorical question.) But please, no pity parties; we've been there, you've done that. We the people need jobs, as "The System" fails us yet again.

Before the Big Layoff Of '05, I had only been on unemployment one time in my entire existence; now I'm finishing my third such bout in the last 4+ years. One of the only bright spots if you will is all the time it leaves for reading, which in my case is mostly history, although I recently went on a fairly big Shakespeare run to my surprise, finishing the likes of Hamlet, Macbeth, Richard III, the Henry's (IV, V, VI), which were my favorites, and also a great bio of Willie the Shake called "Will in the World."

Then after watching a PBS special on early Christianity around Christmas, I was really intrigued by the Gnostic movement, the recently discovered Gospel of Judas and other so-called Lost Gospels, as well as choice books of the New Testament, which I had never felt compelled to read before. And who among us without a dental plan can't relate to lines like, "And verily, there shall be great weeping and gnashing of teeth..." Fascinating stuff all around, but the Gnostic use of numerology really had me intrigued -- and when I found out its message of achieving a kind of personal divinity via gnosis, or self-knowledge -- “Whoever discovers the interpretation of these sayings will not taste death” (Gospel of Thomas) -- had roots predating Christianity, going back to my ancient Greek homies Socrates and Plato, I was and still am hooked, so to speak.

ONE MORE THING and then we'll let each other go. Just got back from the supermarket, Key Food if you must know and why else would you have read this far, and in the time it took for me to collect my 12 items in a basket, I heard four songs over their in-store system that could have formed the heart of any one of my classic mixtapes. I mean, I walk into the store and David Bowie's Hang on to Yourself is playing! Not nearly loud enough, but it was early in the morning. This is followed by the weakest of the 4 songs, but it's still an AM nugget from my youth that I never mind hearing and usually end up singing all day when I do: Come and Get Your Love, by Redbone. Again, you probably had to be there, both this morning and back in the early '70s when that song was all over the airwaves, but Song 3 was another unexpected gem, one of my absolute favorite Bob Marley songs: Roots, Rock, Reggae with the great shuffling refrain of "Dis-a reggae music" after every line. And last, as I was leaving, another classic: the Kinks' Jukebox Music. When the day starts like that, it's usually a good omen. I'll keep you posted...
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Jersey Shore cast joins Jay for Jaywalk All-Stars

2009-12-27T12:32:00.001-05:00

Video Recaps | Full Episodes | Webisodes

2009-12-04T14:21:00.004-05:00

Abusive Kansas Football Coach Resigns
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Sam, My Man

2009-10-14T13:46:00.013-04:00

I WAS WAITING for the Lincoln Center library to open up this morning, a few minutes before 11--trying to fill the hours of yet another unemployed day with some bare modicum of social interaction--when who should I see but Sam Waterston, the excellent actor who plays the District Attorney on one of the 47 or so incarnations of Law & Order, walking right past me. For some odd reason, I found myself saying "Good Show" to the guy as he walked by dressed in a suit and a beige trench coat. He said "Thanks" and as he walked away, I felt the need to throw out another line, asking him if he was the narrator of the latest Ken Burns PBS documentary on America's national parks. I mean, I watched about 3-4 hours of the series, so I already knew he was, but I guess I wanted some verification to that effect, and he admitted that it indeed was him doing the voice-over. I further surprised / embarrassed myself by complimenting him on a job well done. This time there was no "Thanks" in return; old Sam just kept right on walking. And here I thought we were really hitting it off, just two New Yorkers shooting the breeze of a morning. Of course, looking back, can't really blame him: I probably looked like a stalker type in my shades, or just another street crazy or nosy nutjob to the esteemed thespian, whose best movie role was undoubtedly the journalist in The Killing Fields. I too would have walked away from myself had I been in his shoes. Lord knows I've tried, and we all know how painful that can be.

As Sam left the scene, I remembered that there was a terrific bordering on riveting Law & Order episode about three weeks ago dealing with the prosecution of a John Yoo-type scumbag for his depraved legal brief endorsing the use of harsh, okay-as-long-as-it's-not-fatal interrogation techniques by the last administration. Old Sam really made an impassioned stand against the use of torture in that show, and I would have loved to pick his brain on how close his own views were to those of the character he played. Oh well, now I have some material for next time, including some choice personal info I picked up on Wikipedia. Can you say Rupert Pupkin ??!!

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When Ignorant Sheeple Attack

2009-09-16T12:49:00.004-04:00

"I hear hurricanes a blowing.
I know the end is coming soon.
I fear rivers over flowing.
I hear the voice of rage and ruin.

Don't go around tonight
Well it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise.
All right!..."

Do We Miss You, Yes We Do

2009-09-09T17:40:00.005-04:00

There may never be a five-year period in music again like 1976 to 1980 or so. The greatness and originality of these bands only appreciates and resonates more as the years pass, and oh how they do pass. If you don't have the sound up as loud as she goes on your speakers for these videos you're pretty much an ass in my book.

Sarah Palin's Slightly More Crazy Twin?

2009-08-28T16:09:00.011-04:00

Sponsors Leaving Glenn Beck Show

A Bronx Jinx?

2009-08-27T17:50:00.025-04:00

WELL, NOW IT'S 0 FOR 2 on the 2009 season for me at the new Yankee Stadium following a loss to Texas this afternoon on a picture-perfect day for baseball. Good thing I don't have season tickets, because based on my track record the Yankees would be winless at home on the year. For the record, without my presence, they're 42-18 at the new Stadium this year.

We got there about an hour early, so we circumnavigated the huge ballpark. And who should we see pulling into the players' entrance but one Alex Rodriguez, driving his own black SUV. Who knew that would be the highlight of the day! Well, that and seeing ex-Yankee "legends" Ron Blomberg (MLB's first designated hitter back in 1973) and Oscar Gamble (he of the giant Afro and funky batting stance) signing autographs in front of one of the old souvenir shops across the street from the Stadium. But at $20 a pop, we bypassed their table and instead took our chances on a dollar street dog with all the trimmings before heading inside the park.

Starter A.J. Burnett had great stuff today, striking out 12 Rangers in just 6 innings, but he walked 7 men and gave up a 3-run bomb to Ian Kinsler in the 4th inning. He left the game trailing 3-1, but Phil Coke and the rest of the Yankee relievers couldn't hold it there, and the final score was 7-2 in favor of the visitors.

I don't know if it was due to a day game following a night game, but the energy level in the park was almost nil, despite a crowd of over 47,000. Boston also lost last night as well, so the division lead remains at 6 games with fewer than 40 left to play. Barring a New York Mets 2007/2008-type collapse, the Yankees will be back in the postseason again, where of course it's one big crapshoot, if I can still say that on the Webosphere. We've got tickets for at least one more regular season game this season, so it would be nice to see a victory in person and break this curse once and for all.

2009-08-17T14:55:00.021-04:00

COUNT ME AMONG yesterday's teeming multitudes flocking to the last Summerstage show of the year. The price was right (free) to see two pretty good indie/alternative acts -- the Walkmen and Dinosaur Jr. -- as was the locale (Central Park). And if nobody is around to remember it or mythologize it in 40 years like a certain anniversary that just passed, then so be it; that's okay too.

The plan was to get to the Park at around 2:00, so that by 2:30 we were already inside with a decent spot for when the first band, the Walkmen, came on at 3:00. But nooooooo! For whatever reason, the promoters snuck a third band in the lineup, a heavily tattooed, shaggy-haired, leather-clad heavy mental band calling themselves the Saviours. They hit the stage at 3, and I can't say anyone was especially thrilled to see them remain there for the worse part of an hour.

The Walkmen were about what I expected, maybe a little better, especially when they used a 6- or 7-piece horn section on a few songs. One minor criticism is that too many of the songs were the same tempo. Toward the end of their set, they finally unleashed their best song -- The Rat -- a blistering new wave raver, and you wonder where that energy was the whole afternoon. Granted, the sun was beating down on everyone by then anyway, but still...

The headliners made it onstage a little after 5:00. By my highly unofficial account, they mixed in six classics from their first time around-- In a Jar, Freak Show, The Wagon, Out There, Feel the Pain and their scorching cover of the Cure's Just Like Heaven -- with stuff from the two newer albums. Farm (2009) and Beyond (2007).

Out There might be my single favorite Dinosaur Jr. song, with one of those patented J Mascis solos that sends chills up your spine like very few other living guitar players not named Neil Young. On the 1993 album (Where You Been), Out There leads right into the terrific Start Choppin, which unfortunately was nowhere to be heard yesterday. But I'm not gonna complain about getting my money's worth at a free show. What kind of example would that set for the kids?

A Razor In The Wind

2009-08-13T13:19:00.018-04:00

WILLY DEVILLE, FOUNDER OF ONE OF THE ORIGINAL CBGB's house bands, passed on last week at age 58 after a battle with cancer. DeVille's group was lumped in with the burgeoning mid-'70s New York punk movement that featured acts as diverse as the Ramones, Talking Heads, Television and Blondie, but the soul-and-R&B-drenched sound of Mink DeVille was indeed most NOT like all the others in that groundbreaking scene.

As DeVille said of his time at the legendary punk club on Bowery Street: "We auditioned along with hundreds of others, but they liked us and took us on. We played (at CBGB) for three years. During that time we didn't get paid more than fifty bucks a night."

Actually, the Mink DeVille story -- "one of the greatest all-but-unsung legacies in rock history" according to AMG -- began many years before, when Willy DeVille left his native New York City for London in 1971, hoping to find like-minded musicians who were into old blues instead of all the groovy, hippie vibes left over from the '60s: “electric this and strawberry that,” as DeVille put it. The journey next took him to San Francisco, where he formed a band called Billy DeSade & the Marquees that played in some of the seedier bars of that city. After changing their name to Mink DeVille ("There can't be anything cooler than a fur-lined Cadillac, can there?") and reading an article about the nascent New York punk scene, Willy convinced his bandmates to drive cross-country in 1975.

Mink DeVille would catch on in New York quickly enough to have three songs chosen for the landmark Live at CBGB's compilation album a year later. The band was signed to Capitol Records after label executive Ben Edmonds was blown away by their exciting live show:

"When Mink DeVille took the stage (at CBGB) and tore into "Let Me Dream if I Want To" followed by another scorcher called "She's So Tough," they had me. These five guys...were obviously part of the new energy, but I also felt immediately reconnected to all the rock & roll I loved best: the bluesy early Stones, Van Morrison..., the subway scenarios of the The Velvet Underground, Dylan's folk-rock inflections, the heartbreak of Little Willie John, and a thousand scratchy old flea market 45s. Plus they seemed to contain all the flavors of their New York neighborhood, from Spanish accents to reggae spice."

Mink Deville's first two albums, 1977's Cabrera and '78's Return to Magenta, wear those influences on their sleeves, but played with an aggressively jaded swagger. Both records were produced by the legendary Jack Nitzsche, who called DeVille the best singer he had ever worked with. Cabrera features the band's best-known song, "Spanish Stroll," as well as its "punkiest" moment -- the dual guitar attack on "She's So Tough" from the first album would have fit in nicely on a Television album. But most of the songs:

"reached deep into blues and soul, the classic romantic pop of Ben E. King and The Drifters, with a side order of Spanish spices and New Orleans Zydeco swing. They favoured castanets over tom-toms, and accordion over distorted guitars, and Willy delivered his vocals with a sweet, tuneful flexibility that brought out the emotional resonance beneath his nasal sneer. What the wiry, dapper DeVille had that tied him to fellow CBGB resident bands like The Ramones, Television, Blondie and Talking Heads was an edge. He was drawing on some of the same musical areas that Bruce Springsteen’s epic rock dipped into, but Willy was an entirely different creature, a macho dandy in a pompadour and pencil moustache, with the dangerous air of a New York gangfighter and an underbelly vulnerability that came out through the romanticism of his music. Springsteen sounded like he was your friend in desperate times. DeVille sounded like he couldn’t quite decide whether to serenade you or pull a knife on you." [Daily Telegraph critic Neil McCormick]

By the time I saw Willy DeVille live -- New Year's Eve 1985, the Ritz on 11th Street, $35 ticket price -- he was incorporating even more flavors into the mix, especially Cajun music. Can't recall if there was an opening act that night or what time the show ended, but I was working at a liquor store on 88th Street and Second Avenue at the time while attending storied Hunter College. New Year's Day fell on a Wednesday that year, and so after the concert ended in the wee hours, I headed uptown to open up, catching a few uncomfortable hours of sleep on a desk chair in the back of the store before 10:00am reared its ugly head. Just a rock & roll snapshot as we remember Willy DeVille and his singular contribution to its history.

"Mink DeVille knows the truth of a city street and the courage in a ghetto love song. And the harsh reality in his voice and phrasing is yesterday, today, and tomorrow — timeless in the same way that loneliness, no money, and troubles find each other and never quit for a minute. But the fighters always have a shot at turning a corner, and if you holler loud enough, sometimes somebody hears you. And truth and love always separate the greats from the neverwases and neverwillbes."
-- Doc Pomus

Here's Venus of Avenue D, Spanish Stroll, It's So Easy, Bad Boy and She's So Tough, courtesy of Nevver.com

Retro Music Snob has an MP3 up of Little Girl

New York Times obit

New York Rocker tribute

When The Kids Had Killed The Man I Had To Break Up The Band

2009-08-06T11:21:00.027-04:00

YOUR FEARLESS NARRATOR was actually almost in this band -- or more accurately I was the singer in an earlier incarnation of Kraut -- back in the very early '80s. Now that I have your attention, allow me to 'splain how I came to be the NYC Hardcore scene's version of Pete Best...

Two weeks ago, Big Mike, the Urb, the Admiral (aka Jimi the Greek) and me were having a smoke outside Stini Yiamis on Ditmars Blvd. when the subject somehow turned to the rock bands we tried to start back in our wayward youth. Putting the cart way before the dead horse, I'll reveal the absolute highlight for me came when I joined Urb's group, Peer Pressure, for an encore set at a small club in Sunnyside. Literally jumping onstage, I took my leather jacket off in dramatic fashion and grabbed the mike for stirring renditions of the Ramones' Rockaway Beach and the Clash's White Riot. Sadly, and to punk history's great detriment, no known footage exists of this seminal event.

Documentation, however, conceivably could still exist of the recording session our nameless band made at a Long Island City studio. I know Dave last had the cassette, which captured about an hour's worth of our covers-laden material. These were mostly punk standards like Blitzkrieg Bop, Garageland and Pretty Vacant. I was always fucking up the last song, jumping in either too soon or too late with the first line "THERE'S NO POINT IN ASKING YOU'LL GET NO REPLY" while waiting through the fairly long intro:

But we also had a few original compositions, such as my very own Stiff Little Fingers ripoff/homage STATE OF THE UNION:

THE PEOPLE I KNOW ARE ALL PATRIOTS
CONTENT TO LIVE THEIR LIVES IN FRONT OF TV SETS
THEY DON'T MAKE WAVES FOR FEAR OF A STORM
THEY PAY THEIR TAXES AND FOLLOW THE NORM

WELL I DON'T WANNA BE JUST ANOTHER JOE
I WANNA KNOW WHERE THE TAX DOLLARS GO
THE PENTAGON YELLS COMMIE, GIMME MORE MORE MORE
WHILE THE GHETTOS IN NEW YORK CRUMBLE ON THE POOR

YET THE POOR ARE THE ONES WHO GO OFF TO WAR
TO PROTECT BIG BUSINESS ON A FOREIGN SHORE
AS AMERICAN DEMOCRACY AND ALL IT STANDS FOR
MURDERS ITS CHILDREN FOR OBEYING THE LAW

THIS IS THE STATE OF THE UNION!
THIS IS THE STATE OF THIS UNION!!

Soon after we made a recording of this song, I parted ways with the lads. There was a fairly big age gap, with me going to college and just about to turn 21 while the rest of the band was 5 or 6 years younger than that. I wanted to do more original material and, even more important to me at the time, much more political stuff, like the lost classic above. I never imagined this band going in that direction, despite my constant history lectures (El Salvador = the next Vietnam), and so I just stopped showing up to Dave's basement on Saturdays after my film appreciation class at Hunter College in the the morning, and soon I lost touch altogether.

Amazingly, just a few short months later, Davey had a new band called Kraut made up of some of the guys I played with and some I didn't. Davey Gunner, who I knew as a drummer, was now the lead singer, and Johnny Feedback -- who used to hang around while we practiced -- was now on drums. By May of '81 they had secured an opening slot for the Clash at Bond's based on a demo tape of 3 songs! The Clash had originally signed on for a week's worth of shows at the legendary Times Square venue, but they sold too many tickets and had to play additional shows. Thus they needed opening acts on short notice, and Kraut enterprisingly got the tape in Mick Jones' hands, who evidently liked what he heard. According to the band's MySpace page, the Bond's slot opening for the punk icons was their first-ever live gig. Talk about your baptism under fire.

Their first single, Kill for Cash b/w Just Cabbage, was a self-made DIY affair that nevertheless sold out fast. I bought a copy at Bleecker Bob's in Greenwich Village, but alas sold it along with the rest of my punk singles and albums for a mere song about 10 years ago on the advice of a long-gone ex. I can still hear her saying, You never play them, they're just taking up space; you might as well get some money for them. It's my fault for listening to her, of course, but just like that about 100 vintage punk albums and 50 singles were history. Shortly after, I went on eBay and looked up what some of the 45's were going for. A copy of Kill for Kash was going for close to 100 bucks -- and that was before bidding closed. I ended up with about 150 dollars for my whole fucking collection.

Kraut contributed two songs to the essential hardcore compilation New York Thrash. Their first album, 1982's An Adjustment to Society, featured the Sex Pistols' Steve Jones on guitar for a new version of Kill for Cash. The video for All Twisted was in rotation on MTV. Later on, Kraut would become more of a speed metal band, but they had a nice little thing going on there for a while, and they're much more than a footnote in the history of New York Punk. Me, on the other hand...

My own crew in Astoria tried to get a few more bands together over the years, including one where I tried to learn an instrument. Big Mike had a huge, fretless jazz bass with an amp that he lent me, and I could play a few progressions, but soon found out I could not play an instrument and sing at the same time. No kidding. Anyway, we spent way more time trying to come up with catchy names for the band than actually practicing. I still remember trying to convince everyone that my idea to call us "Stavros and the Two-by-Fours" was a winner, to little or no avail. And so folk-punk songs of mine like the haunting, elegaic Momentless Times would go unrecorded.

Soon we finally gave up our musical dreams, Real Life being what it is. My friends would kid me about how right after I left, Kraut took off and made it big; how I coulda been a contender, etc., in the way your closest buds like to bust your balls just because they know they can. In reality, I never begrudge anyone's success or even harbor regrets in that way. In other ways, sure, but that's for another time, another place, another girl, another planet.

Portrait of The Warden as a young poseur

The Sleep Of Reason*

2009-07-30T14:15:00.023-04:00

I'M VERY DISHEARTENED, but not all that shocked, that retired Lt. Col. Ralph Peters' call for the U.S. military to abandon a captured soldier in Afghanistan didn't get more traction in the mainstream press. Then again, this past week was virtually subsumed by yet another racial Rorschach test, Gates-gate -- the controversial arrest of Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates by Cambridge police for disorderly conduct. All news seemed to pale in comparison to President Obama calling the actions of the arresting white officer "stupid," and it was obvious the story wasn't going away any time soon -- at least until a round or two of beer diplomacy at the White House by everyone involved set for Thursday afternoon. And we can all drink to that.

In case you hadn't heard and/or weren't paying enough attention, according to MSNBC.com, on July 2:

"An American soldier (Pfc. Bowe Bergdahl) is believed being held by the Taliban after he walked off his base in eastern Afghanistan without his body armor and weapon, officials said Thursday. Initial reports indicated that the soldier was off duty at the time he went missing, having just completed a shift."

This is where five-star wingnut Peters comes in. He made an appearance on Fox News on July 19, right after the Taliban released video of a shaken Bergdahl in captivity. Channeling his inner Cheney, Peters cautioned that we shouldn't be making a hero of this soldier, who after all is engaged in anti-American propaganda:

"We must wait until all the facts are in to make a judgment, but … he is an apparent deserter. Reports are indeed that he had abandoned his buddies, abandoned his post and walked off.”

“I want to be clear. If when the facts are in we find out it’s through some convoluted chain of events he really was captured by the Taliban, I’m with him. But if he walked away from his post and his buddies in wartime — I don’t care how hard it sounds — as far as I’m concerned the Taliban can save us a lot of legal hassles and legal bills."

Peters' odious diatribes are usually confined to the fairly unbalanced op-ed pages of Rupert Murdoch's New York Post. But back in May, he outraged decent people everywhere in a different forum: asserting in the "Journal of International Security Affairs" that, in the future, "godless" journalists criticizing the glorious war effort just may have to be sacrificed on the altar of a Pax Americana Uber Alles:

"The phenomenon of Western and world journalists championing the "rights" and causes of blood-drenched butchers who, given the opportunity, would torture and slaughter them, disproves the notion--were any additional proof required--that human beings are rational creatures. Indeed, the passionate belief of so much of the intelligentsia that our civilization is evil and only the savage is noble looks rather like an anemic version of the self-delusions of the terrorists themselves. And, of course, there is a penalty for the intellectual's dismissal of religion: humans need to believe in something greater than themselves, even if they have a degree from Harvard. Rejecting the god of their fathers, the neo-pagans who dominate the media serve as lackeys at the terrorists’ bloody altar.

Pretending to be impartial, the self-segregating personalities drawn to media careers overwhelmingly take a side, and that side is rarely ours. Although it seems unthinkable now, future wars may require censorship, news blackouts and, ultimately, military attacks on the partisan media. Perceiving themselves as superior beings, journalists have positioned themselves as protected-species combatants. But freedom of the press stops when its abuse kills our soldiers and strengthens our enemies. Such a view arouses disdain today, but a media establishment that has forgotten any sense of sober patriotism may find that it has become tomorrow's conventional wisdom.

The point of all this is simple: Win. In warfare, nothing else matters. If you cannot win clean, win dirty. But win. Our victories are ultimately in humanity’s interests, while our failures nourish monsters."

Call me overly sensitive, but I detect a subtle anti-liberal bias buried in there somewhere. In a nutshell, and where else would you find a crackpot like Ralph Peters, this is the standard neocon credo: the future consists of eternal, endless war against whatever bogeyman we're demonizing at the moment, and if you get in the way of the War Machine, you too will be demonized and ultimately destroyed. Because according to Peters, "Our failures nourish monsters." This guy's hateful, overheated rhetoric fits right in alongside Joe Goebbels and Joe McCarthy.

Not surprisingly, Peters has seen as much actual live combat as I have: zip, zilch, nada... He was forced to admit as much a few days later on an appearance with fellow chickenhawk Bill O'Reilly, who seemed crestfallen at the news that Peters too was a war virgin. Peters then regained his footing, calling the captured soldier "mentally disturbed," and O'Reilly quickly chimed in that the guy "must be crazy." Ironically, the only people who fit those labels more than Bill O'Reilly and Ralph Peters usually wear straitjackets to the dinner table.

*El sueno de la razon produce monstruos
(The sleep of reason produces monsters)
Francisco de Goya
1797-98

Rider In The Sky

2009-07-23T14:44:00.026-04:00

JOHN "MARMADUKE" DAWSON, founding member and driving force behind country-rock pioneers New Riders of the Purple Sage, passed away Tuesday at age 64 from cancer.

The group was originally conceived as a side project for Grateful Dead members Jerry Garcia, Mickey Hart and Phil Lesh to indulge their country & folk interests. By the time the first New Riders album was released in 1971, the lineup was independent of the legendary psychedelic band, although Garcia plays throughout the record on pedal steel guitar.

The Adventures of Panama Red, the New Riders' gold album from 1973, featured the marijuana-fueled adventures of the title character in the group's best-known song, written by Peter Rowan. Dawson contributed two plaintive ballads to an almost perfect record (one drawback is the flimsy running time, a mere 29 minutes, 51 seconds): "One Too Many Stories" and "You Should Have Seen Me Runnin'."

Panama Red spent as much time on my turntable as any other record in the collection back in those "heady" days -- my mellow Deadhead phase: New Riders, Hot Tuna, Marshall Tucker, Charlie Daniels Band, Poco, Pure Prairie League, etc. This is the kind of music I was listening to at the time... before the metallic-sharp Punk Rock phenomenon would slice through my wooden Americana doors of perception a few years later.

All Music Guide gives Panama Red short shrift, awarding it only 3 out of 5 stars, then almost makes up for the slight by sagely pointing out:

"The freakiest thing is that the record segues together so beautifully and the songs are so tight with nothing extra between, it feels like it's a lot longer than the mere 29 minutes it is. The listener feels satisfied that after 11 songs it's all been said and done in a delightful way ... Musically it can do a lot to teach modern-day alt-country cookie cutters something about knowing the rules before trying to break them." Amen to that...

Their first album's 10 songs were all written by Dawson. The rollicking "Henry" chronicles an enterprising young pothead's trip to Acapulco in search of "twenty keys of gold" -- with "fifty people waitin' back at home for Henry's load." "Glendale Train" is Dawson's detail-oriented embellishment of a famous 19th century train robbery -- where the robbers "MADE CLEAN OFF WITH SIXTEEN G’S AND LEFT TWO MEN LYING COLD" and "THEY FOUND AMOS WHITE IN FIFTEEN PIECES, FIFTEEN MILES APART."

Dawson also had a hand in one of the Grateful Dead's most enduring songs, co-writing "Friend of the Devil" with Garcia and Robert Hunter. In fact, future Riders Dawson and David Nelson make key contributions to that American Beauty record, along with its companion Workingman's Dead (both released in 1970).

I saw the Riders play in Central Park circa 1975. Looking back, NRPS were at their absolute live peak at this time. They would stay together for another five or six years, and after the original lineup disbanded in 1982, it was Dawson alone who kept the name alive, with a revolving cast of new members, for another 15 years.

Unfortunately, the NRPS selections on YouTube are underwhelming at best. Here's a "video" of "I Don't Know You" from the 1971 first album. A year later, of course, The Eagles would release their own debut album, offering a safer, more mainstream version of what the New Riders were doing, but it was The Eagles who would go on to ride country rock to the corner of Fame and Fortune -- a cross street that eluded the more visionary New Riders of the Purple Sage.

And here's a touching video of a frail Dawson with the 2007 version of NRPS, performing "Portland Woman" from the first album; it takes a while for the band to get going -- only for the video to cut off abruptly. Boo, hiss...

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The Original Moonwalk

2009-07-20T13:12:00.031-04:00

TONIGHT MARKS THE 40th ANNIVERSARY of the human race's singular technological accomplishment -- bigger than Twitter, even more impressive than the George Foreman Grill: sending three men to the moon and back. On July 20, 1969, sprawled in front of my aunt's living room color console in New Jersey, I watched in awe as the Apollo 11 spacecraft touched down and deposited Americans Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin on the surface of the moon.

If we could somehow time-travel back through the miracle of the Interweb to that miracle summer of '69, there could not have many kids more into Apollo 11 and the whole space program than my 9-year-old self. Put it this way: Leading up to the big event, I began to fill a shoebox with articles I'd clipped from newspapers relating to all things space exploration. I also had this huge book on astronomy passed down to me from my older brother, and I knew a helluva lot more back then about the planets, their moons and orbits than I do now.

I remember keeping the shoeboxes on the floor of my bedroom closet, and at the slightest interest evinced by anyone in my vicinity, I was ready to break out the clips and go over each one while providing a running commentary. At a moment's notice, I'd have my Apollo 11 model set up for a detailed demonstration of precisely how the Eagle landing craft separated from the mother ship Columbia before oh so lightly touching down in the Sea of Tranquility. I was kind of a geeky kid before I got into sports a few years later.

Sadly, the man most of us watched narrate the whole incredible lunar landing passed away just a few days short of the anniversary: Walter Cronkite. There's that famous clip of Cronkite right after the Eagle landed exclaiming, "Man on the moon... Oh boy!" and then removing his glasses as if in disbelief of what his eyes were showing him.

For centuries Man had dreamed of somehow escaping the bounds of Earth and reaching the moon. For a country mired in an unpopular war thousands of miles away from home, the lunar landing was the ultimate feel-good moment and the payoff to an 8-year commitment set in motion by JFK -- albeit with the help of scientists with rather unsavory pasts.

But somehow I think the late great Cronkite got it wrong when he said: "500 years from now they will be celebrating the first landing on the moon and the first walk on the moon." Acknowledging, yes, the way we mark Lewis & Clark's voyage of discovery in the history books or Chris Columbus' three jaunts across the Atlantic on the calendar; but as far as celebrating and being emotionally involved across the next five centuries, I don't see it. Interest in the space program peaked that very night 40 years ago, and it's been steadily waning ever since. Ask yourself what got more interest: the actual moonwalk or Michael Jackson's moonwalking across a stage?

Sometimes I gaze up at a full moon and have a real hard time believing it's possible to land a spaceship on such a distant body, whether manned or unmanned, over 240,000 miles away. Now, just to be clear, I'm not a moon hoax conspiracy advocate. But it's the sheer implausibility of it all -- looking up at that big hunk of cheese in the sky and imagining a spaceship taking three of your fellow human beings there and back -- that undoubtedly drives many a moon landing skeptic. And as you might expect, there's no shortage of interesting fabrication scenarios.

Fueling the fertile minds of the roughly 6% of Americans who doubt the landing actually took place, just four days ago NASA admitted that 45 videotapes recording the actual landing were erased sometime ago -- meaning precious little actual footage remains of perhaps the landmark event in history. So the timeline goes something like this: Three years ago NASA couldn't find the tapes, then they turned up a few days ago demagnetized -- evidently some bureaucrat's idea of a cost-saving measure. And now as a consolation, just in time for the 40th anniversary, NASA is releasing digitally restored highlights.

But the signal the TV stations were broadcasting that July night 40 years ago came from network cameras filming the NASA monitors in Houston, hence the extremely low picture quality -- while the much clearer direct feed from the lunar camera to mission control has never been viewed by the public, and now in all likelihood never will be because of the tape-erasing fiasco. You can see where skeptics might wonder whether a government agency is deliberately withholding the visual documentation because it doesn't want a high-tech examination of its veracity.

The blueprints of the lunar module and rover have also gone missing. One major question mark voiced by the landing deniers revolves around whether the Eagle craft's foil-thin walls and the astronauts' spacesuits were advanced enough to withstand the dangerous radiation levels of the moon.

As for all the moon rocks the mission brought back? Well, the conspiracy crowd has an explanation for that too: The rocks brought back from the Moon are almost identical in composition to rocks collected in documented expeditions by NASA scientists to Antarctica two years earlier (led by ex-Nazi Wernher von Braun). Throw in a little Stanley Kubrick post-production, and you've got one mind-blowing covert operation! But if you're one of the almost 90% of Americans polled who believe we indeed landed those men in funny white suits on the Moon, tonight's your night to go a little loony.

World Still Turning

2009-07-16T15:38:00.025-04:00

Impassioned letter in the current (July 15-21) Village Voice criticizing its contribution to the off-the-wall Michael Jackson media circus. Proving great minds indeed think alike, Adam Laten Wilson specifically took aim at the Voice's eulogizing scribes -- the shameless, almost textbook case of revisionist history by '60s anachronism Greg Tate, and singer Jean Grae's delusional gibberish about MJ's magic. (In the same issue, Jessica Hopper did some good-old-fashioned reporting: going back to Gary, Indiana, to trace Jackson's roots and influence in that downtrodden community.)

Let's check the actual letter first, followed by some more "regurgitation and synthesizing of the news" and in all likelihood "snarky commentary," whether faux or otherwise.

"The Man in Our Mirror" by Greg Tate might pass for a pseudo-neo-Hegelian-post-Soul tractatus on God-knows-what. Nonetheless, it has nothing to do with Michael Jackson and is atrociously self-indulgent.

The claim that Jackson is (despite his entire career of continual transmutation) nothing more than the latest installment of "The Real Soul Man" is an absurd form of conceptual masturbation that disrespects Jackson's true brilliance.

And "In Defense of Magic: A Solo Bed-Stuy Dance Party" is not only an example of horrendous journalism, but also a pretty meaningless diary entry that ought to have been burned immediately after writing.

What your writers don't seem to understand is that Jackson was not simply a genius, but also a failure and freak. Mr. Tate almost touches on this point when he compares him to Icarus. Unfortunately, he then wonders if it's not a blessing that we are now freely permitted to forget he ever fell.

I find it telling that in '82, the populace applauded Jackson for pretending to be a zombie, but when he actually became one . . .

Since he appears to have died more than 15 years ago, last week's memorial feature seems woefully behind the times.

Back on July 8, if you missed it the first time, Warden's World, ahead of the pack as usual, harshly but rightly singled out Grae's column as perhaps the most notably ludicrous example of Michael Jackson canonization:

Speaking of psychobabble, if there were an award for Most Cringe-Inducing Commentary on Michael Jackson's death, rap "artist" Jean "I need that Grammy" Grae would definitely be a contender, given her gushing, near-hysterical column in last week's Village Voice:
"I'm lucky and blessed to have been one of the millions who received Michael's magical, awesome, immortal presents/presence ... I'm not going to speculate on any of the controversy, the darkness--we all have, all of us. I can't judge anyone, and I won't ... No, I never met Michael Jackson. No, never even got close. But if he wasn't the most brilliant sliver of magic alive, I don't what is or ever will be."

Wilson took Tate's rambling, overwrought column to task as well, no doubt bothered as I was by
all the glorifying gibberish, such as the following representative non-gems:

The absolute irony of all the jokes and speculation about Michael trying to turn into a European woman is that after James Brown, his music (and his dancing) represent the epitome—one of the mightiest peaks—of what we call Black Music. Fortunately for us, that suspect skin-lightening disease, bleaching away his Black-nuss via physical or psychological means, had no effect on the field-holler screams palpable in his voice, or the electromagnetism fueling his elegant and preternatural sense of rhythm, flexibility, and fluid motion. With just his vocal gifts and his body alone as vehicles, Michael came to rank as one of the great storytellers and soothsayers of the last 100 years ...

His orgies of rhino- and other plasty's were no more than an attempt to stay ahead of a fickle public's fickleness ...

Critical sidebar: I have always wanted to believe that Michael Jackson was actually one of the most secretly angry Black race-men on the planet.

Put down the fucking bong, Greg... or at least pass it along. As we used to say back in the day when confronted with such fantasies: AND THEN YOU WOKE UP! Well, the Tate article is chock-full of similar nonsense -- thereby a worthy exemplar of the insufferable oversaturation, overanalyzing and overrating of all things Mike Jackson. Hopefully we're done with all that now, until the suckfest of the inevitable American Idol Michael Jackson tribute. Bank on it, because the flock of sheeple will undoubtedly demand it.

Back, In Full Attack

2009-07-15T12:10:00.006-04:00

Jonathan Swift: "When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him."

Boxer Found Dead

2009-07-13T15:15:00.013-04:00

CALL ME CYNICAL, but this doesn't seem like your typical, run-of-the-mill "ex-boxer gets strangled to death at a Brazilian resort by his wife using the strap of her handbag" story. Yet according to police, that's exactly how Arturo Gatti, the 37-year-old former world champion, was killed over the weekend.

Gatti moved to Jersey City from Montreal in 1991, and earned his nickname "Thunder" fighting in nearby Atlantic City. His career record of 40-9 included 31 knockouts -- with seemingly all of them on HBO! His three 10-round battles with Micky Ward for the junior welterweight crown from 2002-03 were legendary fights. Gatti was the definition of a fearless brawler -- willing to trade 5 of his blows for 10 of yours anytime -- which made the match-ups with a fellow high-motor puncher like Ward so intriguing.

The first report I saw, from the Daily News Saturday, did not mention the wife, 23-year-old Amanda Rodrigues, as a subject of investigation, but did state that the police suspected foul play upon discovering his blood-spattered body around 6am Saturday; after all, it's not like you can chalk this case up to natural causes. By Monday Rodrigues was the only suspect, with reports that she may have bludgeoned Gatti before strangling him. The couple were in Brazil on a second honeymoon, and leave behind a 10-month-old boy in the wake of this brutal slaying.

Ironically, Gatti -- who retired two years ago -- was scheduled to provide testimony this week in New York for a lawsuit filed against the New York State Athletic Commission by a former opponent. Joey Gamache, knocked out in 2000, alleges Gatti outweighed him by almost 20 pounds at the time of the fight. Hopefully, the inevitable Lifetime TV movie will tie up all these loose ends.

Grief & Folly

2009-07-08T14:35:00.026-04:00

SOMEBODY WAS BOUND TO SAY what a lot of other people were thinking, and just because that someone was narrow-minded, reactionary blowhard Peter King, the Republican congressman from Long Island, doesn't mean his remarks were totally bereft of merit. King has made more than his share of outlandish statements over the years, but none caused a backlash quite like his Youtube video about the Michael Jackson media circus:

"Let's knock out the psychobabble. He was a pervert, a child molester; he was a pedophile. And to be giving this much coverage to him, day in and day out, what does it say about us as a country?"

You can question the timing of the comments -- but considering that half the country and most of the media seem to have lost their mind over the last 10 days, I thought if nothing else King provided something of a balance to all the over-the-top idolatry. I mean, pharaohs have been buried with less ceremony and adulation. But then of course as far as we know the King of Tut never busted out the moonwalk, did he?

Speaking of psychobabble, if there were an award for Most Cringe-Inducing Commentary on Michael Jackson's death, rap "artist" Jean "I need that Grammy" Grae would definitely be a contender, given her gushing, near-hysterical column in last week's Village Voice:

"I'm lucky and blessed to have been one of the millions who received Michael's magical, awesome, immortal presents/presence ... I'm not going to speculate on any of the controversy, the darkness--we all have, all of us. I can't judge anyone, and I won't ... No, I never met Michael Jackson. No, never even got close. But if he wasn't the most brilliant sliver of magic alive, I don't what is or ever will be."

Writing about Jackson but refusing to deal with the child molestation charges or talk about his tortured visage is like mentioning Richard Nixon but avoiding the Watergate scandal. By the same logic, when Phil Spector dies, I don't want to hear anything about his personal flaws or murder conviction... only uncritical, non-stop coverage of all the hits he produced in the '50s and '60s and the joy he brought to millions. Anything else would be disrespectful to his family and fans.

By all means, feel free to call me a "playa hater," but Jamie Foxx has always struck me as an unfunny, arrogant, ignorant, overrated, overbearing-narcissist-even-by-current-Hollywood-standards, jive-ass fool -- if I can still say that on the Internets -- so his remarks at the Black Entertainment Awards came as no surprise to me, but I'm glad others took notice of his needlessly exclusionary remarks: "We want to celebrate this black man," Foxx said while wearing an absurd Michael Jackson costume. "He belongs to us and we shared him with everybody else."

Perhaps most disturbing was the almost unhinged tone in Foxx's voice as he spat out those words, channeling the vitriolic rhetoric of a Malcolm X as opposed to Jackson's lifelong message of racial inclusion and tolerance a la Martin King. Put me down in the camp that hopes Foxx's career bombs from here on out.

Continuing the charade, P. Diddy lent some much-needed ghetto gravitas to proceedings with his astute historical observation: "Michael is one of the reasons Barack Obama is president." Let me guess, P: your own career spent mumbling hip-hop cliches into a microphone and coming up with mad whack beats is another reason, right? I guess we all voted for Obama because we just knew his moonwalk put McCain's outdated dance routine to shame.

Rent-A-Reverand Al Sharpton was predictably omnipresent, holding court at seemingly every ceremony, offering more of his tradmark overgeneralizations and exaggerations:

"Michael Jackson made culture accept a person of color way before Tiger Woods, way before Oprah Winfrey, way before Barack Obama ... Blacks never abandoned Michael. When Michael had the problem with his catalog, he came to Harlem and we marched with Michael. When Michael was indicted with the molestation case, black people stood by him, all the civil-rights leaders, and were criticized for being there."

At the Tuesday memorial, Ervin "Rent-A-Center" Johnson used his 3 minutes at the podium to relate that Michael Jackson somehow made him a better basketball player, and that he believed white fans brought his jersey into their homes because Michael was already there. Then Magic became the first person to work a product placement into a memorial service -- admitting that the best moment of his life was learning the King of Pop ate Kentucky Fried Chicken. Would it surprise anyone if it turns out Johnson was paid by KFC for the plug?

There's no other way around it, so I'll come right out and say it: After that garish funeral-palooza at the Staples Center, there are an awful lot of folk who need to take a good long look at the Man in that Mirror we've all heard so much about the last two weeks.

Looking back, that surreal tribute to Michael Jackson in a Philippines prison on June 27th was a dignified, classy celebration compared to what our own twisted celebrity culture had in store for us.

For me, the prevailing image of the whole spectacle will remain Joe Jackson -- an octogenarian ludicrously sporting a hoop earring -- repeatedly plugging his new record label -- only because someone else brought it up first, mind you. Four days after his son's demise, here was Joe and his business partner, the equally "opportunistic" Marshall Thompson, announcing the formation of Ranch Records -- because that's that Michael would have wanted.

In one clip, a CNN reporter repeatedly asks how the family is holding up, while a distracted Jackson appears far more concerned with bringing up the record label. Nice to see the gruesome exploitation continue after death.

Paul Mann 1960-2009

2009-07-07T16:36:00.011-04:00

BOY OH BOY, lately it's been one downer after another. I hate having to write this, but I just learned via Facebook that one of my high school classmates was found dead today on the shore of Oregon's Columbia River after an apparent drowning. Paul Mann was a fellow Class of 1978 alum from long-defunct McBurney School in Manhattan. He helped out the football team as a manager, and was one of those guys who was truly well-liked by everyone: the Jocks, the Brains, the Freaks, the Stoners, you name it.

His father was the legendary jazz flutist Herbie Mann, who died six years ago. But you would never know his dad was a world-famous musician, as Paul was as down to earth as they come. Coming after we lost Tony Tortora about a year ago, this kind of sad news really brings home how fragile life is.

Body of paddle boarder found near Hood River this morning
by The Oregonian

If you click to enlarge this pic of our '75 football squad, Paul's the shaggy-haired fellow wearing the light blue jacket on the far right, just to the left of #74 (Ralph Tucker).

R.I.P, Paul.

Steve McNair 1973-2009

2009-07-06T13:33:00.006-04:00

THIS IS NOT THE WAY star athletes are supposed to perish -- shot four times, twice to the head, with his mistress, 20-year-old Sahel Kazemi, lying dead next to him in a Nashville apartment. The 2003 co-MVP and a three-time Pro Bowl selection, Steve McNair exemplified toughness during a superb 13-year National Football League career with the Houston Oilers, Tennessee Titans and Baltimore Ravens. Just 36, he leaves behind a wife and 4 children.

Police are ruling that Kazemi shot McNair before turning the pistol on herself. Kazemi was driving a 2007 Cadillac Escalade with McNair in the passenger seat early Thursday morning when Nashville police pulled the couple over and charged her with driving under the influence. Two days later, the apparent murder-suicide occurred in the early morning hours of July 4.

Alexis Arguello 1952-2009

2009-07-05T13:51:00.009-04:00

ONE OF THE MOST skilled boxers of any era, Alexis Arguello held titles in three different weight classes (lightweight, junior lightweight and featherweight) and almost captured the welterweight crown. He later entered politics, becoming mayor of his hometown Managua, Nicaragua in 2008.

He was found dead in his home Wednesday, gunshot wound to the chest, apparently self-inflicted...

Back in the revolutionary 1970s, he had most of his property seized by the Sandinistas. Yet when Arguello ran for mayor of Managua last year, he had that party's support in the election, which he won amid charges the vote count had been rigged.

Arguello was far better known in the States for his epic fights against the likes of Ray Mancini, Aaron Pryor, etc. Standing 5'10" but weighing in at only about 130 pounds, Arguello forged a career record of 82-8 and was nicknamed El Flaco Explosivo, which seems to lose something in the too-literal translation: The Explosive Thin Man. In 1978, a boxing magazine proclaimed: “Alexis Arguello is regarded by some people as the perfect fighter. He is thought to be--pound for pound, inch-for-inch and punch for punch--the best puglist in the world...a fighter without a flaw.”

N.Y. Times obit here: Alexis Argüello, 57, Boxer and Politician, Dies

The Seeds - Pushin' Too Hard

2009-06-27T13:50:00.008-04:00

Slightly more obscure than either Michael Jackson or Farrah Fawcett, nevertheless it should be noted that the lead singer of The Seeds, Sky Saxon, also passed away on Thursday. This song is just fucking brilliant, a Top 40 hit in '67, as is Can't Seem to Make You Mine, later covered by the Ramones on Acid Eaters. Part of a wave of great garage bands captured on the terrific Nuggets series, The Seeds were punk in attitude before they were calling it such. Set volume to 11 and play often.

Back To Back Endings

2009-06-25T17:49:00.023-04:00

SEVENTIES ICON FARRAH FAWCETT passed away this morning at age 62 after a long bout with cancer. I was just the right age to be, ahem, aroused by that famous poster of her in a red swimsuit -- her long curly blond tresses falling about her perky breasts while she cracked a dazzling smile exposing perfect white teeth. That pinup shot and the Sly Stallone Rocky poster were damn near ubiquitous in 1976 -- until that shot of John Travolta in a white leisure suit from Saturday Night Fever eclipsed both of them about a year later.

Charlie's Angels was just another cop show with a lame-ass premise except for the eye candy, but I was a mere lad of 15 when the series began and will admit to tuning in semi-regularly. But I was much more of a Kate Jackson fan if you must know. After just a single season, Fawcett would walk away from Charlie's Angels at the height of the show's popularity to pursue a film career, but contract issues forced her to return for a handful of cameo appearances as special agent Jill Munroe.

It's a shame Farrah couldn't even have a whole day to herself, because only minutes ago I heard a report of an even bigger cultural icon's demise: Michael Jackson went into cardiac arrest today and passed away. I was also the right age for the Jackson 5, and bought most of the group's early 45's like The Love You Save, I Want You Back, ABC and Rockin' Robin. To this day I still have those scratchy Jackson 5 singles I grew up with -- bought 'em way back in the day at Bobby's Beat, a record store which used to be on 31st Street off Ditmars Blvd. here in beautiful downtown Astoria; if we paid more than a buck apiece I'll take a bite out of the vinyl. I was never much of a fan of Jackson's later solo career, but it was hard to hate catchy songs like Thriller, Beat It and Billie Jean as they blasted out of radios in the 1980s. Now he's dead at age 50, only a year older than yours truly. Man, how I loved that Jackson 5 cartoon that used to run on Saturday mornings!

The website TMZ is reporting that the R&B legend is survived by three children, which I had forgotten about ... because let's be honest: "Dad" isn't the first thing that comes to mind when you hear Michael Jackson's name.

If celebrities indeed die in waves of three, then there's another big shoe to drop perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Then again maybe Sidekick Par Excellence Ed McMahon kicked off the celeb deathfest earlier this week, bowing out at age 86.

Just checked my official dusty singles bin and sure enough I've got the original blue label Motown 45's of The Love You Save b/w I Found That Girl from 1970; Got To Be There b/w Maria (You Were The Only One) from 1971; and Rockin' Robin b/w Love Is Here and Now You're Gone from '72-- timeless, almost perfect pop tunes. And actually to call these singles dusty and scratchy" doesn't do justice to their sorry condition! But I'm gonna play 'em anyway, hisses and all, after I finish this post, if only for nostalgia's sake.

Just for tonight, I'll remember Jackson as the precocious little teenager with the big voice and the nifty dance moves instead of the freak show pedophile and plastic surgery disaster he would later become. Not to make excuses for Jackson's later behavior in any way, but sometimes it's worth keeping in mind that the seeds for abhorrent adulthood are often sown in childhood.

His overbearing, abusive stage dad Joseph reportedly administered frequent beatings and punishments -- "Jackson recalled that Joseph sat in a chair with a belt in his hand as he and his siblings rehearsed and that if you didn't do it the right way, he would tear you up, really get you." -- and also cruelly nicknamed the young Jackson "Big Nose". Is there any wonder the kid later grew up with massive self-esteem issues? And who knows how much Jackson's tortured upbringing contributed to his literally never-ending search for an identity, and a face, that he could settle on.

The Los Angeles Times website just confirmed that Jackson went into a coma after his heart attack and then passed away shortly thereafter, at around 3:00 Pacific time. If you needed any more confirmation, Wikipedia just put a bow on their Michael Jackson entry with the proviso that "This article is about a person who has recently died. Some information, such as that pertaining to the circumstances of the person's death and surrounding events, may change rapidly as more facts become known."

The Gloved One in 1984 with two of his more famous groupies.

Condemned To Repeat

2009-06-23T11:25:00.016-04:00

ISN'T IT REASSURING to see Republicans refrain from politicizing President Obama's response to 10 days of mass demonstrations in Iran over the rigged June 12th election? While rightly celebrating the Iranians' bravery in the face of repression, they crossed the line by making it a personal referendum on Obama's willingness to meddle in another country's affairs -- a nation whose relationship to the U.S. is complicated because of a sordid history of meddling going back to the CIA's part in a 1953 coup (OPERATION AJAX) that overthrew a democratically elected government and ushered in the reign of the Shah's brutal dictatorship. That's just one event in a long string of American interventions in the region. And while the average American may be unaware that the Reagan administration sold arms to Iraq to use against Iran in that savage conflict, any Iranian can tell you all about the circumstances behind the infamous 1984 photo of Donald Rumsfeld shaking hands with Saddam Hussein -- giving at least tacit approval to the use of chemical weapons in that war.

Of course, just 11 days ago these same right-wing human rights advocates criticizing Obama for turning his back on the protesters wanted to bomb the hell out of Iran because of its alleged pursuit of nuclear weapons. The face of the reformers, one of at least 17 people killed in Iran since protests against the reelection of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad began, is Neda Agha-Soltan, a 26-year-old shot and killed over the weekend by security forces. More than one conservative website went so far as to juxtapose a photo of the young woman bleeding to death on the sidewalk with one of Obama eating ice cream with his daughters on Father's Day -- as if the president's so-called lukewarm or lackluster public endorsement of the protest had somehow caused her to be shot. Only in the current unhinged right-wing blogosphere could such a disgusting connection be made -- which in fairness I heard at least one conservative talk show host strongly condemn.

Of course, when millions of their fellow Americans took to the streets in protest of the impending Iraq invasion in February 2003, conservatives' passion for public demonstrations was a bit more muted. In reality, the only reason Republicans care about Iranians now is because they see an opportunity to make political capital out of it, sensing a chance to paint Obama in a bad light. Their simplistic approach to a complicated affair fails to take into consideration that an American leader throwing his weight behind the demonstrations could only end up being counterproductive -- witness the harsh crackdown underway and the ringing anti-American and European rhetoric being used against the thousands of protesters taken into custody. The show trials have predictably played up that "foreign interference" angle, with detainees "confessing" to acting under orders from the Voice of America, the BBC, etc.

The closest direct parallel to the Iranian reformists' demand for a recount seems to be the Tienanmen Square democratization rallies 20 years ago. I'm sure President George H.W. Bush spoke truth to Chinese power back then; I'm just not recalling it at the moment. But suffice to say China is now a human right paradise largely because Republicans controlled the White House for 20 of the last 28 years.

Instead, "news outlets" like Fox keep harping back to Ronald Reagan's "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" moment as an example for President Obama to follow -- unconvinced that his "outraged and appalled" statement sets the right tone of bellicosity. In truth, the same contingent of bloodthirsty warhawks who painted Iran as part of a monolithic "Axis of Evil" could care less about that country's freedom movement -- their trademark selective empathy bordering as usual on rank hypocrisy.

Let's give the last word to Salon.com's Glenn Greenwald, who nailed it as usual last week in his column, The "Bomb Iran" contingent's newfound concern for the Iranian people:

Imagine how many of the people protesting this week would be dead if any of these bombing advocates had their way -- just as those who paraded around (and still parade around) under the banner of Liberating the Iraqi People caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of them, at least. Hopefully, one of the principal benefits of the turmoil in Iran is that it humanizes whoever the latest Enemy is. Advocating a so-called "attack on Iran" or "bombing Iran" in fact means slaughtering huge numbers of the very same people who are on the streets of Tehran inspiring so many -- obliterating their homes and workplaces, destroying their communities, shattering the infrastructure of their society and their lives. The same is true every time we start mulling the prospect of attacking and bombing another country as though it's some abstract decision in a video game.

Slow Motion Soak

2009-06-18T22:03:00.031-04:00

THEY SAY YOU SEE something new every day in baseball, and today's has-to-be-a-record 5 1/2-hour rain delay would sure qualify as something different. We got to Yankee Stadium at 12:30 amid a steady downpour, and the rain never let up for the entire afternoon, postponing indefinitely the 1:05 first pitch. Then at about 5:30 it slowed to a drizzle as the grounds crew started taking off the tarp. At 6 the rain stopped altogether, and 6:30 sharp we finally had baseball.

A day game had morphed into a night game before our very eyes.

We killed the time by going to Monument Park and the Yankee Museum, even leaving the Stadium entirely a couple of times. Finally, back at our seats, we watched the Phils-Blue Jays game on the crystal-clear big screen scoreboard.

Still doubting they were gonna get a game in, we walked around the spacious concourse some more -- marveling at the dizzying array of concession choices and the ludicrous prices attached to them. Beers were 9 bucks a pop except for lowly Schlitz at 6, I believe it was. There were steak sandwiches for 15, sushi for 12, pork pull sandwiches 10, sausage for 9, hot dogs for 6, small garlic fries 6, large fries 9, slice of pizza 5 bucks, bag of chips only $4.50. There were yearbooks for just 25 dollars, programs for a mere 10, Yankee caps going for a song at $45. There was even an art gallery where you had the opportunity to purchase Peter Max-tinged bats, balls and player portraits for but a few thou.

Sometimes it was hard to tell if you were at a mall food court, a baseball game or stuck in a long flight delay at the airport.

By the time the game started, the crowd as you can imagine had thinned out to a few thousand hardy souls (paid attendance was 45, 143; rain delay clocked at 341 minutes). Plenty of very good seats remained empty, in fact, until an announcement to the effect of anyone who wants to sit closer, go for it. Now, of course, this did not include the $1,000+ seats you may have heard about: the ones in the first 20 rows or so that come with wait service and free, unlimited dining. Those rows are gated off and accessible only via a separate entrance. But the four of us were right behind those box seats, along the 1st base-rightfield line, where the seats were wet but offered a good view of 1B Mark Teixeira, 2B Robbie Cano, and RF Nick Swisher's new faux-hawk hairdo.

We left after 7 innings and over 8 hours at the ballpark, with the Yankees looking flat and trailing the Nationals 3-0, which is where it ended. We caught the last 2 innings on the radio on the way home. I just called my brother and he said that they announced on the radio that because of the rather lengthy rain delay, ticket holders can choose another non-marquee game later in the season. That's something we will definitely take advantage of. Besides, Yanks owe us a win after this lackluster, going-through-the-motions effort tonight -- getting shut out at home by the worst team in baseball, dropping 2 out of 3 in the series. Don't look now but baseball's highest paid player Alex Rodriguez is hitting a scrub-like .212 on the season after going 0 for his last 14.

Also, this was the first time all season no home runs were hit at the Stadium -- after an astounding 119 balls had cleared the wall through the first 34 games. I like to think the soggy night air had a lot more to do with that power drought than my presence there for the first time all season.

Wash Out?

2009-06-18T08:36:00.013-04:00

THIS CAN'T SUCK ENOUGH! After raining all night, it's 8:36am and still pouring out, so there's a very real danger that my first Yankees game this year, and thus my first shot to check out the new Stadium, is gonna be washed away. I had written YANKEES 1:00 on my wall calendar weeks and weeks ago when Jimi the Greek told me had tickets. Who knows when the makeup date will be if it gets rained out? What a drag this "spring" has been -- with literally one sunless day after another... more like global wetting if you ask me. Joba Chamberlain was scheduled to start, and I was looking forward to a nice sunny day, seeing my old buddies. It's criminal, I tell ya.

But not the kind of criminal a former Yankee got himself mixed up in. It took only about an hour yesterday for a Texas jury to sentence Mel Hall -- a decent slugger for the Cubs (1981-84), Indians (1984-88) and Yanks (1989-92) who mentally tormented a sensitive young Bernie Williams -- to 45 years yesterday for torment of a much more serious kind: the rape of a 12-year-old girl and sexual abuse of 3 other minors. Those are not the kinds of stats you want to be connected to as a ballplayer. If you're counting, barring parole, Hall will be 93 years old should he be invited to attend the Yankee Old-Timers game in 2054. So hold onto your Mel Hall memorabilia, kids.

When it comes to athletes, however, Florida justice is another matter. Earlier this week, a Cleveland Browns wide receiver received a sentence of 30 days after pleading guilty to a manslaughter charge for killing a pedestrian while driving drunk. Returning home from an all-night party celebrating a $4.5 million roster bonus, Donte Stallworth's Bentley was going 50 in a 40MPH zone when he struck a construction worker getting off his shift at around 7:15am.

The sentence mandates 1,000 hours of community service, a lifetime driver's license ban (yeah, right), eight years' probation, and drug & alcohol testing. Prosecutors cited Stallworth's clean record and cooperation -- he remained at the scene and called police -- for the light jail time; he could have faced up to 15 years in prison without a plea bargain. But you don't have to read between the lines to notice that it was the family's need for "closure" that evidently played the larger role: "a confidential financial settlement to avoid a potential lawsuit from the family of 59-year-old Mario Reyes."

Dog-killer Michael Vick becomes eligible to play again in the NFL this season after spending the last 2 years in jail, should any team want to deal with that PR nightmare. Will Stallworth end up suspended for the upcoming season after killing a man? Probably -- but he's still getting off too lightly. In fact, with time served (the day of his arrest) and an automatic state credit of 5 days for every day served, Stallworth will be in jail for a total of 24 days.

They say Justice is blind, but more likely it's just shutting its eyes so it doesn't have to see all the money changing hands in the courtroom.

Non Compos Governmentis

2009-06-14T10:37:00.049-04:00

IT'S TIMES LIKE THIS when you throw up your hands and break out the You Can't Make This Stuff Up line. Allow me to explain.

I had about an hour to kill this morning before meeting my brother for coffee, so I decided to run out and grab the Sunday papers. I wanted to read about the Subway Series as well as the latest developments on that bush league coup up in Albany, where two Democratic senators defected to the other side on Monday. So what do I see on the cover of the Daily News? For a second I thought it might have been Photoshopped or even a clever caricature, but it was real: Under the headline SCREWBALLS, it's the two jokers at Yankee Stadium yesterday taking in the game from $650 box seats -- Pedro Espada wearing a Yankees jersey and cap, Hiram Monserrate sporting a Queens Dominica shirt and I Love NY hat. And just like that we have a new post-Spitzer low in dignity and decorum.

Following gains in last November's election, Democrats took control of the state senate for the first time in 40 years, but on Monday that majority was history after less than six months as Republicans enticed Espada and Monserrate to join their power grab. The result: a slim 32-30 Democratic advantage became a tenuous 32-30 Republican advantage -- with a court set to rule on the gridlock Monday.

Not to worry, because the two freshman senators come with impeccable credentials when it comes to holding their own in the free-for-all Albany infighting. Espada represents a Bronx district but, contrary to Senate law, may not actually live in the borough he serves. Instead he is accused of residing in an exclusive Westchester suburb, and at last check did not even have an office in the Bronx. But wait, it gets worse. He's also been fined tens of thousands of dollars for campaign violations, with more pending, and the state attorney general is investigating allegations he diverted hundreds of thousands of dollars, perhaps millions to a nonprofit healthcare organization he founded.

The other statesman in question, Hiram Monserrate, is even more scary. Last year, the same Republicans who on Monday welcomed him with open arms were calling on him to resign after he was charged with stabbing his girlfriend in the face with broken glass:

"It took more than 20 stitches to close the wound - "first in the face and muscle and then to the top layer of skin," prosecutors wrote. The heavyweight former cop was enraged because he found another man's business card in her purse, prosecutors said. Monserrate was caught on tape dumping the card into the trash chute and dragging his screaming girlfriend from the building."

That's right. This piece of work, who represents Elmhurst, a part of Queens about one district over from where I sit typing this stirring entry, was forced to "retire" from the NYPD because of a "psychological disability." He's also accused of falsifying a campaign bio, claiming he served in the Persian Gulf War although "military records indicate he never left the United States."

TAKING OF THE SENATE 1-2-3
Yesterday's Room Eight New York Politics has a possible smoking gun. The website speculates on Monserrate's motivation for joining the coup and turning control of the Senate over to the Republicans. The dots connect the dissident senators to state power broker Tom Golisano -- the Rochester billionaire and serial gubernatorial defeatee (1994, 1998, 2002). Turns out Monserrate is looking at 7 years if convicted in the assault case, and maybe just maybe Golisano is willing to help out a little in a textbook case of political quid pro quo for dummies.

The turning point for Golisano, according to the New York Times, may have come "when Golisano met with senate majority leader Smith a few months ago to demand that the new majority drop its plans for modest tax increases for the wealthy, the billionaire was not treated with sufficient deference." Golisano soon was announcing he was moving to Florida to escape New York's burdensome tax code, claiming he would save $13,800 per day in income taxes, plus more from sales taxes, gasoline taxes, utility taxes and property taxes. Golisano then let it be known that he planned to fund "worthy causes" instead of spending it to fund "Albany's bloated bureaucracy, corrupt politicians or regular handouts to the special interests."

Room Eight notes that back in early May, just as Tom Golisano, political operative Steve Pigeon, Monserrate, Espada and new majority leader Dean Skelos began plotting to overthrow the Democratic majority, Monserrate switched lawyers to high-powered Joseph Tacopino -- who represented Michael Jackson in his child abuse trial. Among the revealing questions Room Eight raises are:

-Where's Monserrate getting the money to pay Tacopino $750 per hour, and what's its provenance?
-Was Monserrate promised help with this by Golisano, Pigeon, Espada, Skelos, Libous or any other individual?
-Were Monserrate's legal problems raised during the planning or recruiting stages of the coup, and if so, in what context?

-Why was Monserrate, in particular, recruited by Espada for the coup, and no other Democrat?

Juan Gonzalez also tried to make sense of the switch Friday in his Daily News column, noting that it came with just two weeks remaining in the session. The move put on hold legislation relating to issues like mayoral control of the city's education system, same-sex marriage, ethics reform, property taxes, changes to NYC rent laws:

One of the most important bills to be voted on in the last days of this Senate session is the end of vacancy decontrol. More than 200,000 city rental apartments would be placed back under rent stabilization. That would brake skyrocketing rents and directly benefit thousands of working-class Latino tenants. That legislation is the landlords' biggest nightmare.

Espada, as the head of the Senate Housing Committee, gets huge backing from those landlords. Monserrate, on the other hand, has always had a liberal voting record. People forget he was the first cop ever to sit on the board of the New York Civil Liberties Union. He is also the main sponsor of the bill to end vacancy decontrol. So why would tenant champion Monserrate join with landlord buddy Espada? And why would both defect to Republicans on the eve of the all-important vote on vacancy decontrol?

Why indeed? Well, it's never a surprise when politicians act according to sheer opportunism, self-interest and greed -- which in this case would certainly explain why rats like Espada and Monserrate would jump ship. After all, the former is reputedly upset he didn't get enough consideration for legislative “earmarks,” money for favored projects, as well as other perks; while the latter is said to be still smarting from the "Senate leadership’s stripping him of a committee chairmanship and the $12,500 stipend that goes with it after his indictment." Also, according to the Daily News, the Bronx District Attorney is looking into "whether Espada lives within his Senate district, as required by law" and in a separate matter, "whether a nonprofit Espada controls...demanded $2 million in state funds."

The new coalition immediately showed signs of fracture, with Espada claiming more Democrats were coming over and the new majority was "growing stronger by the minute" -- at the same time Democrats were trying to lure Monserrate back into the fold as he attempted to explain, if by explain you mean shed no new light whatsoever on the subject: "I am not a Republican. I am a Democrat. My understanding and agreement to coalition government was under certain criteria. You can't have a coalition with two Democrats and 30 Republicans."

For his part, on his way to Yankee game Saturday afternoon, a defiant/delusional Espada told a reporter “We are in a war and I told Hiram to leave the load at home and come enjoy the game." However, another player in the "Albany Circus" sees it a little differently, telling The Borrero Report: “Espada has to keep Monserrate very close and guarded or the weasel will succumb to the pressure from the Democrats."

Yet there's an even uglier reading of the recent events in the Capitol: that Golisano and other Republicans exploited tensions between black Democratic politicians (Smith, Paterson) and Latinos in the so-called Gang of Four (Espada, Monserrate, Ruben Diaz Sr. and Carl Kruger). That and a reported promise of Golisano helping the two traitors fight off challengers in the 2010 Democratic primary.

But leave it to accidental governor David Patterson to put it all in perspective. Last week he pleaded with the two sides to come to their senses, imploring everyone to “think of the lobbyists” who had worked hard “to persuade legislative leaders and legislators of issues." I suspect lobbyists will do okay for themselves whichever side comes out on top. The same can't be said for Paterson -- one of the least popular governors in the nation -- and his reelection chances in 2010. How does "Governor Giuliani" sound to you?

Going Gone

2009-06-11T09:38:00.019-04:00

WELL, THEY FINALLY tried to get to the bottom of what's causing the home runs to fly out of the new Yankee Stadium this season. A report on AccuWeather.com blames not wind patterns but the height of the outfield walls, specifically in right field. I for one ain't buying it. It's classic meteorological behavior: never blame the weather for anything. I mean, it's not like you need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

105 homers have been hit in 29 games at the new park, that's both teams, with the home team clubbing 59 of them. According to the report, close to 20% of those HRs would not have left the old Stadium. The notion that weather had anything to do the increase is shot down: "there has been no consistent pattern observed in the wind speed and direction that would lead to an increase in home runs so far this year." Glad to see AccuWeather's resources going to the right priorities. Maybe we can get the CIA involved after the All-Star Break if the power surge continues.

The study also notes that the new right field wall is shorter by an average of 4-5 feet, "but up to 9 feet shorter in spots." But just how do shorter walls account for the broken bat HR hit by Mark Teixeira a few weeks ago? The all-time record for a ballpark is the 303 HRs hit in the thin air of Colorado's Coors Field 10 years ago; Yankee Stadium is slightly off that pace right now.

I'll get a chance to examine the conditions firsthand in a week: I've got tickets to next Thursday's day game against the storied Washington Nationals. Quite a rivalry these two franchises have going for themselves.

The other new stadium, Citi Field, is playing quite differently for the Mets. They've only managed 21 HRs as a team through 28 games, and there are indications it may be getting into the head of some members of the Collapsin's. 3B David Wright confessed to Chipper Jones that he's losing some long balls that are being contained by the new park's spacious dimensions. Wright took it back the next day -- but the numbers don't fib: just 3 homers in 27 home games after hitting 21 in 80 games at Shea last season.

David Wright may not be smacking a ton of homers, but it's not exactly David Ortiz futility (.196, 3 HR) we're talking here; he's hitting a sizzling .354 with 35 RBI and a surprising 16 steals.

Going into tomorrow night's Subway Series opener at Yankee Stadium, Yankees have hit 95 HRs in 2009 compared to 37 for the Mets. Ace Johan Santana will pitch the Sunday night game, coming off a start where he surrendered 4 HRs to the Phils at Citi Field.

Yankees are 0-7 now against Boston this year after losing 6-5 last night at Fenway -- and 34-18 against everyone else. That's gotta be in their heads going into series finale tonight. You'd think New York would have the pitching edge with CC Sabathia matching up against a struggling Brad Penny, who's let on 96 baserunners in his 60 innings so far.

Yanks recently went MLB-record 18 straight games without an error. Then they made at least 1 error in 7 straight before the y played a clean game last night. Some Jorge Posada detractors would point out that the catcher missed most of the 18 games with an injury and returned to the lineup as the errors started.

Mets are playing with a patch on their uniform sleeve commemorating the first season at Citi Field, which would be okay if it didn't look exactly like the Domino's Pizza logo, which is lame. Maybe I'm not the first one who noticed the resemblance; someone going by No-Name247 pointed it out back in January, but he's kind of dismissive of it. I made the connection as soon as I saw the new patch in April. Just want to get that on the record.

Death By Association

2009-06-07T20:06:00.036-04:00

IF, LIKE OCEAN WAVES, celebrity passings come in threes, then this past week made for some strange deadfellows. Shuffling off this mortal coil in rapid succession were Sam Butler, age 81, and Koko Taylor, 80, on Wednesday, followed by David Carradine, 72, Thursday. And although all three enjoyed a pretty nice run, check back with me in about 20 years: I have a feeling 72 years old is not gonna seem all that ancient or far away anymore.

I don't necessarily like when people die, but I do love to read a well-written obituary. Is that wrong? Does it say something morbid about me?? Is this seat taken???

Anyway, ladies first. Koko Taylor -- "Queen of the Blues" -- was the most highly regarded modern female blues singer after Etta James. Her version of Willie Dixon's raunchy roadhouse romp Wang Dang Doodle is absolutely the gold standard -- which is saying something considering how ferocious the Howlin' Wolf version is.

Taylor's rise was nothing less than a real-life rags to riches story. She grew up as Cora Walton on a plantation in Tennessee the daughter of a sharecropper and

"gave little thought to pursuing a career in music until she was living in Chicago, working as a cleaning woman by day and frequenting the city’s blues clubs with her husband by night. At Mr. Taylor’s urging, she began asking the performers to let her sit in.

In 1962 Willie Dixon, an influential behind-the-scenes presence in Chicago blues, heard one of her impromptu performances and said, as she later recalled, “I never heard a woman sing the blues like you sing the blues.” He took her to Chess Records, where he was a talent scout and producer, and wrote a number of songs for her, most notably “Wang Dang Doodle,” which she recorded despite her initial trepidation about its raunchy lyrics. It made her a star."

Sam Butera was best known as the wailing saxophone player and arranger on just about all of Louis Prima's classic '50s sides, as the serious record collectors say: Oh Marie, Just A Gigolo, Jump Jive an' Wail, Hey Boy Hey Girl. Butera also regularly served as a foil for Prima's in-song banter -- mostly being implored by the bandleader to keep up or blow harder or play what he just sang. And like any good sax man, you can't imagine the songs without his contribution (think Springsteen with no Clarence Clemons, or David Bowie's Changes missing the bittersweet sax coda)...

Butera formed his own band in the late '70s after Prima passed away, and he remained active until about five years ago, often playing with Keely Smith. And you have to be encouraged by Butera's ability to know crap when he sees it. According to The Times:

Among Mr. Butera’s best-known arrangements was the medley of “Just a Gigolo” and “I Ain’t Got Nobody” that was a hit for the Prima-Smith team in 1956. To Mr. Butera’s chagrin, it became an even bigger hit for the rock singer David Lee Roth three decades later. “He copied my arrangement note for note, and I didn’t get a dime for it,” Mr. Butera told The New York Times in 1997. “But there wasn’t an act in Atlantic City or Las Vegas that would do that song, out of respect for me.”

David Carradine will always be known for the hit '70s TV series Kung Fu, which has achieved almost cult status over the years -- that is, he WOULD HAVE always been known for his starring role in that Asian Western if -- and there's no real way to sugarcoat this -- the man had not been found dead with a rope tied around his private parts. Call me judgmental, but that kind of ignominious ending will tend to have an adverse effect on your reputation, on how people think of your body of work -- uh, legacy. But no, instead Mr. Fancypants Autoerotic Asphyxiation goes to Thailand and hangs himself in truly bizarre fashion instead of engaging in the more acceptable local custom of paying to have illicit sex with underage prostitutes like any normal, decent Westerner.

Actually, despite being the right age for Kung Fu when it ran from 1972-75, for whatever reason I never took to it. Instead, i got to listen to friends who did watch it reciting variations on the series' signature line "Snatch this pebble from my hand, grasshopper" whenever they could squeeze a reference in.

Bound for Glory -- the 1976 feature based on the Woody Guthrie autobiography whose title now takes on comically ironic overtones -- is the consensus critical choice as Carradine's best performance out of his more than 100 movie roles. However, as the Times dryly notes, Carradine was "a busy actor if not always the most discriminating in his choice of roles."

In the excellent Times obit, observing the more respectful graciousness of the format, habitual obituarist Bruce Weber omits mention of just what role the actor's bound genitalia may have played in his demise, while revealing that Bangkok police were treating the whole mess as a suicide -- apparently standard operating procedure even in Thailand when a dead man is found swinging from the light fixture.

I jumped off the Quentin Tarantino bandwagon pretty much for good about 10 years ago (right after Jackie Brown, which I liked) , soon after realizing what a complete, utter doofus the guy is -- so I never did see Carradine in either of the gratuitously violent Kill Bills. In me 'umble opinion, the Kill Bill franchise was Tarentino's desperate, cynical attempt to rescue his flagging career by making movies so repulsively violent that critics would have to take notice, moronic suburban teenagers would flock to the multiplex, and clueless hipsters would watch it in some downtown art house & pretentiously hail it as a masterpiece of cinema, you know the type: "Kurosawa meets Peckinpah."
______________________________________________

Also saw on the Daily News website yesterday a story about Tony Darrow, an actor you'd know by face, who was arrested Thursday at LaGuardia Airport and charged with good-old-fashioned extortion stemming from a 2004 incident involving known members of the bent-nose crew Joseph "Joey Boy" Orlando and Giovanni "Nothing Catchy Rhymes With My Name" Monteleone. Darrow, like just about every Italian-American actor, was in The Sopranos, but as Bamboo Lounge owner Sonny Bunz, he had some of the most quotable lines in Goodfellas as he runs afoul of the crazy Joe Pesci character, including the demented:

"But I'm worried... I mean, I'm hearin' all kinds a fuckin' bad things. I mean he's treating me like I'm a fuckin' half-a-fag or somethin'. I'm gonna wind up a lammist, I gotta go on the fuckin' lam in order to get away from this guy? This ain't right, Paulie."

So his acting career is not only on hold, but now in intensive care and on life support. It looks like the guy's gonna be doing some time here -- officially unavailable anytime soon to play those mob stooge types he had down to a science.
.

Buyer's Remorse?

2009-06-03T11:51:00.033-04:00

CAN'T HELP BUT NOTICE how testy Mike Bloomberg has been acting lately. Despite a tightly controlled, almost scripted narrative of a run for his third term, it hasn't been all smooth sailing for Bloomberg, who has recently squeezed in a full campaign season's worth of verbal blunders -- and it's still early June.

The most recent example came in the aftermath of Dategate: the First Couple jetting into New York City for dinner and a show. Asked how much the president's trip cost the City in security expenses, Billionayor Bloomberg swatted the question away while typically boiling everything down to tourism: "I can't think of anything that is better as an advertisement for our tourism industry, for Broadway, for our restaurants, for saying that this is a safe city and an affordable city."

Then, as if intentionally trying to compound the absurdity of calling New York City "affordable," he belted out the following gem: "The President doesn't get paid that much. He's on a budget, too."

Well, as you might expect, the tabloids let Bloomberg have it for that one, with one Daily News story headlined:

Get a clue, Bloomy! Mayor touts Obamas' 'affordable' night on Broadway

Even The Times couldn't resist piling on. As Michael Barbaro put it in a fairly caustic Monday column:

"It was the latest puzzling remark in a re-election campaign filled with colorful foot-in-mouth mayoral utterances. He has scolded a disabled blogger, Michael Harris, who uses a wheelchair, for accidentally turning on a tape recorder at a news conference. And, last week, he bitterly rebuked a reporter, Azi Paybarah, who asked about his decision to overturn the city’s term limits law." This kind of foot-in-mouth syndrome would have to manifest itself on almost a daily basis from now until the election in November for the 67-year-old frontrunner to be denied his third term. Toward that end, Bloomberg has already spent $20 million of a projected $60 million on radio and TV ads.

standing what is essentially an unlimited budget, Mayor Mike continues to make headlines for the wrong reasons. Last week at a press conference he again managed to veer off-message -- calling the New York Observer's Azi Paybarah "a disgrace" for having the temerity to bring up the mayor's original rationale for seeking a third term -- that the financial crisis demands a leader of his rare business acumen. Now, the question was served with a side order of sarcasm that seemed to set off Hizzoner:

Mr. Paybarah: If the economy is turning around, as you said, does that mean that the rationale for extending term limits–

Mr. Bloomberg: I don’t know why … why don’t we just get serious questions here. The rationale for extending term limits is, the City Council passed it and the public’s going to have a chance on Nov. 3 to say what they want. And I don’t think we have to keep coming back to that. When you have a serious question about the economy I will be happy to answer it. Anything else?"

After that, a fuming Bloomberg stared directly at Mr. Paybarah and said, “You are a disgrace.”

Barbaro's piece included two other examples of Bloomberg's trademark callousness:

After parents complained about dangerously hot rubber safety mats on city playgrounds, he responded: “If it’s hot, don’t sit on it.” About crowded subways, and the griping they engender, he once said: “So you stand next to people. Get real. This is New York.”

A guy would have to be awfully insecure to be this nasty this often. I mean, Bloomberg is the wealthiest New Yorker and the 17th richest guy in the whole world. But no matter how much he spends on advertisements attesting to the contrary, he shares a bullying streak with his ho unsurprisingly also sought to circumvent the term limits statute following 9/11.

It should be emphasized that the mayor's latest blunders come in the wake of much stricter ground rules for reporters lucky enough to cover his expected coronation. The new directive limits all questions to campaign matters, with policy questions off limits. Yet obviously there's little the mayor's staff can do to offset his recent propensity to say the wrong thing at the worst time.

Last week he somehow found a way offend the widow of a swine flu victim with his remark that "In some senses, if you have H1N1 [virus], you should consider yourself lucky because it so far seems to be a milder flu than the garden variety." To be fair, Bloomberg did follow up his impromptu diagnosis with an explanation that "It's very sad that those that we've lost are gone, but the good news is that so far it does seem to be a relatively mild flu" -- but the damage was done and the tabloids had their money "consider yourself lucky" quote and were busy running wih itIn short order, Bonnie Wiener, whose husband Michael was the city's first death frirus, waw one om the vfor his insensitive remarks:

"I'm not feeling very lucky. I'm sorry I can't agree with that. My children are not feeling very lucky either. It's a very puzzling comment to make." -- also revealing that, "When my husband died it was on the media before they called to tell me."

One of the free daily papers here today noted that Bloomberg has spent 10 times more than his closest challenger -- City Comptroller William Thompson, who is 15 points behind in the latest poll. Then a chart showed what the $20 million could restore to the mayor's 2010 austerity budget:

$12 million -- cuts to prekindergarten classes

$3.8 million -- afterschool programs

$561,000 -- home meals for senior citizens

$1.5 million -- literacy classes

$500,000 -- Housing Court

$1.3 million -- dropout prevention

$360,000 -- anti-predatory lending awareness

Of course, the whole premise is kind of unfair -- the campaign spending is coming out of Bloomberg's own deep pockets while the cuts are part of a $59 billion municipal budget -- but I'm not hating it. Because after all 20 million dollars is an obscene amount of money to spend on a race that is for all intents and purposes uncontested.

Wingnut Wednesday

2009-05-27T16:07:00.029-04:00

IT IS NO ACCIDENT that President Obama's tapping of Judge Sonia Sotomayor to replace the retiring David Souter represents the quintessential "rock and a hard place" conundrum for the right wing. That's what makes the choice such an inspiring one, and quite possibly Obama's single best move of his young presidency.

The beauty of the selection lies in the simple logic that the harder Republicans fight the nomination, the more likely they will continue to be seen as the anti-minority, anti-women, anti-progress bunch. And the more inflammatory the rhetoric, the less likely it becomes that Hispanics -- the fastest-growing voting block in the U.S. -- will want anything to do with the party that already has done so much for them on issues like immigration.

Granted, Sotomayor is no Harriet Miers when it comes to legal experience or jurisprudence -- who is? -- yet leading Democrats are confident of her eventual confirmation. Chuck Schumer even warned Republicans that they oppose the nomination "at their own peril."

And so with the lines drawn, the race was joined to see which leading right-wing figure could slander the nominee most irrationally. As expected, professional bigot Rush Limbaugh broke out well ahead of the pack, followed closely by warped hatemonger Anne Coulter and tiresome charlatan Newt Gingrich. The trio took turns branding her a "racist" based on an out-of-context soundbite from a 2001 speech she made to a Hispanic group:

“I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion [as a judge] than a white male who hasn’t lived that life.”

Gingrich actually used his own Tweet account to urge Sotomayor to "withdraw" from consideration for the Supreme Court vacancy: Imagine a judicial nominee said "my experience as a white man makes me better than a latina woman" new racism is no better than old racism. And former Congressman Tom Tancredo -- never one to pass up an opportunity to slander a brown person -- just had to throw his own white hood into the fray. Readily admitting he had never even glanced at a single word of Sotomayor's legal rulings or opinions from 16 years as a federal judge, the ~~deranged~~ ~~crazed~~ zealous anti-immigration ~~lunatic~~ advocate nevertheless used an MSNBC appearance to weigh in:

"I’m telling you she appears to be a racist. She said things that are racist in any other context. That’s exactly how we would portray it and there’s no one who would get on the Supreme Court saying a thing like that except for a Hispanic woman and you’re going to say it doesn’t matter. Well, man. Where are you coming from? How can you possibly say that? There’s plenty of stuff."

But when it comes to politics, no part of the nation reliably brings the crazy like the Loon Star State.Could anyone have been surprised to learn that David Carney is an advisor to Texas Governor and recent secession advocate Rick Perry?

Apparently untroubled by poll after poll showing the number of Americans identifying themselves as Republicans shrinking to near-record lows, Carney still was having none of that Big Tent approach advocated by softies like Colin Powell. Times may be tough for the GOP, but as Carney told the Dallas Morning News on May 16, “that doesn’t mean you take your principles and throw them out the door and become a whorehouse and let anybody in who wants to come in, regardless.”

Any more talk along those lines, and David Carney may find himself slapped with a "mental anguish" lawsuit -- what with prostitutes, whores and streetwalkers polling higher than Republicans these days. After all, stranger things have happened inside an American courtroom.

Gone Too Soon

2009-05-25T13:23:00.053-04:00

SOME REAL SAD NEWS for music fans of a certain age and taste. Just clicked on the New York Times website and the first thing to catch my eye is Jay Bennett, Ex-Member of Wilco, Dies at 45. Bennett made news earlier this month after filing a lawsuit against former bandmate Jeff Tweedy for unpaid royalties over his contribution to five Wilco records and his appearance in the movie I Am Trying to Break Your Heart. Cause of death is still unknown at this time, with the obituary saying he died in his sleep early Sunday morning.

In fact, it was seeing the Wilco movie in a Greenwich Village theater when it first came out in 2002 that drove me to jump off the Jeff Tweedy-Wilco bandwagon, never to climb back on. I thought Tweedy came off as overbearing and humorless in that film, and the shabby way he treated Bennett left a real bad taste in my mouth.

I always felt Wilco lost its heart and soul when it ousted Bennett. Tweedy in particular seemed to patronize the dreadlocked guitarist as they butted heads over the direction of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, with Tweedy trying to move the band away from its Americana roots and Bennett wanting to add some rock-and-roll attitude to the songs. Tweedy "won" that debate, and my revenge has been ignoring all things Wilco ever since. Despite my boycott, Wilco has done just fine, judging by the often over-the-top critical praise from every quarter as Tweedy took the band in new directions.

That said, the first Wilco album, 1995's A.M. was an unabashed country-rock romp and remains one of my favorite albums. Bennett would join Wilco for the expansive second double album Being There and remain through Summerteeth and YHF, in addition to playing a major role in the two terrific Mermaid Avenue albums adapted from Woody Guthrie lyrics made with British punk-folkie Billy Bragg.

What propels the songs on A.M. more than the songwriting are the tasty guitar licks played by Brian Henneman of the underrated Bottle Rockets -- elevating songs like "Boxful of Records," "I Must Be High" and "Pick Up the Change" to a higher level, just as multi-instrumentalist Bennett would do with future Wilco material when he came on board for 1996's Being There.

I remember reading about Bennett's lawsuit, and Tweedy's cavalier response had the effect of turning me off even more: "It was such a long time ago. Aside from everything else, I'm being sued for not paying someone for appearing in a movie I didn't produce. Go figure."

Apparently Bennett lived the last few months of his life in intense pain, but didn't have enough health insurance to pay for the hip surgery he needed. According to court documents, he was seeking damages of $50,000 in his suit, a relatively small amount considering the big part he played in Wilco's financial success.

The one time I saw Wilco live was just over 10 years ago -- Irving Plaza here in NYC on April 21, 1999 (my birthday) -- an outstanding, rollicking show, as were the Austin City Limits and Sessions at West 54th concert broadcasts from around the same time which I taped. Watching those shows over the years, what stands out is the sheer fun the band is having onstage as they rip through the sets. But Tweedy was so intent on moving away from alt-country toward something less pop-oriented and more experimental that he was willing to dump his ex-guitarist in the process.

In addition to his work with Wilco and solo releases, Bennett was a highly respected session musician and producer, working with artists as diverse as Billy Joe Shaver, Blues Traveler and Sheryl Crow. R.I.P., Jay, you'll be missed more than you probably ever thought -- out of sight, yes, but definitely not out of mind.
_________________________________________________________________________
Boogie Woogie Flu has a selection of Wilco songs, including some alternate takes and rarities, that Bennett had a major hand shaping; here's your link to yesterday's memorial post.

Here's a link to Cover Lay Down's Bennett tribute, also well worth checking out.

Aquarium Drunkard has demos and other outtakes from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

Adios Lounge has a Jay Bennett & Edward Burch solo tune from a 2002 Minneapolis appearance.

And here's Bennett's myspace page, where you can hear his latest solo album and read the heartfelt testimonials from his fans.

"Tall buildings shake,
Voices escape singing sad sad songs,
Tuned to chords strung down your cheeks,
Bitter melodies turning your orbit around.
Voices whine,
skyscrapers are scraping together,
your voice is smoking,
last cigarettes are all you can get,
turning your orbit around.
Our love, our love, our love is all we have.
Our love, our love is all of God's money, everyone is a burning sun."
Jesus, Etc. (Bennett, Tweedy)

Freestyle Friday

2009-05-22T11:54:00.035-04:00

LET'S OPEN THINGS UP with some sports on this fine Freestyle Friday... a little hardball, some roundball, maybe even throw the old medicine ball around if we have time left over.

Yankees go for their 10th straight victory tonight at the new Yankee Stadium versus Philadelphia in first interleague matchup of the season -- in my opinion way too early for that, but I go through this every year; I love interleague play, but MLB should wait till at least July before scheduling these games. They just feel too much like exhibition matches otherwise.

Remember we told you last month how the balls were just flying out of the new Stadium, with 26 HRs hit by both teams in the first 6 games? Well, Yanks have played 20 games now, and that pace has slowed only slightly: 75 have been hit, an all-time record for a new stadium.

Something's not quite right: Johnny Damon already has 7 HRs at the new park in just 75 at-bats -- an almost Ruthian percentage; last year he hit 7 HRs all year at home in 272 ABs.

The other New York team has dropped 4 in a row to fall out of 1st in the NL East, and Mets now head to Fenway Park, where Red Sox are 16-4 on the season. With SS Jose Reyes day to day, there's never been a better time than tonight for Johan Santana to take his microscopic 1.36 ERA to the mound.

Boston slugger David Ortiz probably wishes he got to play in the Bronx Bandbox on a regular basis because, speaking of microscopes, you need a magnifying glass to find Big Popout's paltry output. His batting average, at .211, is 20 points below his listed weight, charitably rounded off at 230, with just 1 HR in 142 ABs. In fact, this is part of a downward spiral that has seen his power numbers tumble from 54 in 2006 to 35 in '07 and then just 23 last year in an injury-shortened season (109 games). People are using the D word in relation to Ortiz now -- D as in DONE. If so, then credit Peter Gammons for first raising that possibility, citing physical problems.

Since my Philly 76ers were knocked out of the first round of the NBA playoffs in 6 games by Orlando, I've been rooting for the Denver Nuggets -- a real likable team led by George Karl (879-614 lifetime). Karl's teams -- Cleveland, Seattle, Golden State, Milwaukee, Denver -- have made the playoffs 22 times in his 25 years of coaching, and this might be his last best chance at that elusive NBA title.

In addition to Chauncey Billups -- finally getting his recognition as one of the top clutch point guards in league history -- there's plenty of talent in Carmelo Anthony and Kenyon Martin, as well as the white Dennis Rodman -- 6' 10" power forward Chris "Birdman" Andersen. Not that there's much competition, but Andersen is hands down the punk-rockin'est player the NBA has to offer. Like Rodman, he's got the attention-grabbing 'do and the crazy tats: in Andersen's case a crown of gel-spiked hair that looks like a lethal weapon -- as well as the non-stop motor that rubs off on his teammates and gets under the skin of opponents. But it wouldn't matter unless Andersen can ball, and like Rodman he can -- giving the Nuggets basically 6 points and 6 boards a night in about 20 quality minutes, and trailing only Dwight Howard in blocked shots per game on the season.

The Nuggets split the first pair on the road, and now head home to Denver for the next two games. I'm rooting for them to spoil half of Commissioner David Stern's wet dream matchup of Kobe-LeBron, and for Orlando to upset the Cavaliers after stealing Game 1 in Cleveland. Nothing against LeBron, but I always go underdog once my team is out, and so a Magic-Nuggets finals would work just fine for me. Plus, there's an added bonus for me as a 76ers fan: if LeBron is denied a championship this year, he's unlikely to leave for the harsher spotlight of, say, Madison Square Garden until he gets it done in Cleveland.

Finally got around to Mickey Rourke's The Wrestler, watching it over Bob & Holly's last night. We were just blown away by the movie, unlike many critics who couldn't get past some of its admittedly corny cliches. I could've done without the gruesome industrial-staples-into-the-back routine, but that's part of what gave it so much heart. It all added up to one of the most authentic, unapologetic blue collar portraits ever captured on film -- making the original Rocky seem almost like a genteel Ivory-Merchant period piece in comparison.

The funniest scene in The Wrestler had to be the one where Rourke gets a job at the supermarket deli counter. This had me and Bob carrying on a little too loudly, so Holly had to put the subtitles on -- which caused us to start saying the lines out loud along with Mickey. At that point Holly came up with a new bar game for the ages -- "Movie-okie" -- where you put a famous flick on and act out scenes with your friends. Well, it sounded good at the time...

The Wrestler's odd subtitling decisions also provided some hilarity. In addition to the usual DOOR OPENING, TIRES SCREECHING, CROWD HISSING... we saw "IMITATING SIREN" while a woman screamed in orgiastic ecstasy -- alas, a sound I rarely seem to encounter in real life...

Speaking of which, boy, you can really make a nice little compilation video out of all the times Marisa Tomei has pranced around naked in recent films. There's the topless scenes in The Wrestler, the convincing butt-fuck scene in When the Devil Knows You're Dead...

Notice how concept albums are making something of a comeback? The one garnering a lot of headlines is Green Day's follow-up to American Idiot: 21st Century Breakdown. I've downloaded 3 songs from the album so far, so the concept thing eludes me at the moment. For what it's worth, my initial impression is Know Your Enemy channels Combat Rock-era Clash lyrically but otherwise sounds like an outtake from American Idiot. Restless Heart Syndrome is a stab at White Album-vintage Beatles, an homage I thought they executed much more effortlessly on Warning, their 2000 album that is still in my opinion their strongest album by a considerable margin: their most interesting lyrically, most diverse musically. Horseshoes and Handgrenades has a great punk riff, but how if fits into the rest of the album I leave to reviewers who have absorbed the whole 21st Century Breakdown CD.

But if nothing else, the new Green Day album spotlights the trend toward making concept albums -- or at least works intended to be taken as complete entities. Which brings to mind how uber-dweeb Chuck Klosterman carried on last year about how Guns N Roses' hideous Chinese Democracy was "The Last Album" because no one will ever listen to a whole record at one sitting in the future. Klosterman was dead wrong then, and therefore even less right today as we look back at his half-baked premise:

“Chinese Democracy is (pretty much) the last Old Media album we’ll ever contemplate in this context—it’s the last album that will be marketed as a collection of autonomous-but-connected songs, the last album that will be absorbed as a static manifestation of who the band supposedly is, and the last album that will matter more as a physical object than as an Internet sound file. This is the end of that.”

As I said, have you heard the new Green Day release marketed as a collection of singles or as an entire album to be appreciated from start to finish? Of course it's the latter; all the reviews make the point that it's a throwback concept album.

It's way too early to weigh the gravitas of 21st Century Breakdown against heavy concept albums of yesteryear like Freak Out, Sgt. Pepper's, Ziggy Stardust or my favorite, Lou Reed's New York. It just feels good to point out how wrong Klosterman is and how overrated he is as a supposed pop culture guru if we're having the concept album conversation at all.

Not far from where Green Day formed in 1987, rising from 3-chord punks to worldwide pop stars, a new group named Divisadero throws its hat into the ring with Lefty -- "the sad tale of an emotionally and physically scarred boxer" (L.A. Underground). Maybe they'll make an album out of The Wrestler next!

Well, the other day their record company dropped an MP3 into my mailbox, and I've really been taken with the song The Boxer's Daughter [mp3] from the 2008 album. I've played it a lot the last 3 days, and it's giving off a real Soft Parade vibe, the melancholic Doors album from 1969, and trust me when I say I don't offer such praise lightly. Divisadero's myspace page has 5-6 other songs up and a group bio if you want to get a better feel.