I Work, Therefore I Am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Video Recaps | Full Episodes | Webisodes

Abusive Kansas Football Coach Resigns
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Sam, My Man

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

"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

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?

Sponsors Leaving Glenn Beck Show

A Bronx Jinx?

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.

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

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

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