CRACKHEAD LOVE AT THE KEY FOOD

I was on the long-as-always line for the express checkout at the local Key Food supermarket today when the attention of myself and every other on-line patron was caught by a a woman causing a fuss on a checkout line a few rows down from where I was. The woman was clearly zonked on something and loudly berated her mindlessly-grinning male companion while she pulled item after item onto the checkout counter's conveyor belt. Loud, seemingly insane... Yep, these were crackheads, and things were about to get interesting.

"Muthafukka, you tellin' me to save muthafukkin' money... YOU AIN'T MY MAN, MUTHAFUKKA! YOU AIN'T MY MAN!" The hapless male crackhead huh-huh'ed to himself in a vain attempt at shrugging off his public humiliation and wittily countered with "You be runnin' yo' mouf an' shit...ain't impressin' no muthafukkin' body..." This Pinteresque exchange went on for a good five minutes, utterly holding up the line that they were on and trying the patience of the justly-nervous checkout girl until the two morons just abruptly walked out of the store, leaving behind a mountain of groceries that were easily worth around $200.

The relieved checkout girl exclaimed "That shit was ridiculous!" and I commented with a black woman in front of me and a West Indian man behind me that it was a good thing that only two white people witnessed the embarrassing display, since it would have been yet another citable example of us highly-rhythmic individuals as boorish, drug-addicted vermin who bring down property values. Ah, the free entertainment that is the Five Boroughs.

TO EVERYTHING TURN, TURN, TURN…

A good friend of mine whom I’ve known for over twenty-five years recently noted that due to many diverse factors our thirties are the new twenties, and the more I think upon that statement I realize that she’s absolutely right.

I left home to find fame and fortune in early 1990 and spent much of the Nineties enjoying the sort of extended post-collegiate party-boy-with-a-job existence that usually comes to a halt at around the age of twenty-five, yet I and many of my friends held on with a vengeance to the reckless thrills and borderline-delinquency of the days when we first congregated. Turning thirty in June of 1995 did little to alter my routine and I soldiered on in a relatively low-paying job in the field that I wanted to be a part of since I was a kid; the comics biz is notorious for rock bottom pay unless you happen to be in the right place at the right time, but those of us who stuck with it despite the lack of fair financial reward did it for love of comics as a whole, and that’s how the biz can hook you for life. But looking back on it now, sticking with the production department end of things for as long as I did offered little advancement in my chosen field and offered mostly a steady paycheck, medical benefits (which are admittedly nothing to sneeze at) and a comfortable space in which to work. Basically I was still thinking like a teenager who was stuck in a rut and afraid to move on and get a real job.

To their credit, many of my like-minded friends found the balls to move on and at least attempt something different while I accepted my place in the Marvel Bullpen as a loyal retainer to a steadily-changing comics-empire daimyo. My move to another company and eventual move up into the ranks of editorial provided fleeting creative satisfaction, some new friends and a raise in pay, and also made me realize that, for the most part, my days of carefree playtime were over. Looking around me and observing not only my own life, the lives of my friends and the paths that we had all taken, I came to the stunning conclusion that we were now grownups. It had taken most of us until our mid-thirties, but we were fucking GROWNUPS!

Now there were partners, marriages, spouses, children, sobriety, the physical evidence of fast-waning youth, out-of-state moves, out-of-the-country moves, major surgeries, parental deaths, marital infidelities, non-life-threatening VD from adultery, divorces, layoffs and long-term bouts of unemployment, mortgages… the stuff that we witnessed our parents going through was now a part of our daily existence and waking up to that reality was a serious motherfucker.

As I face the acceptance of my actual status as a card-carrying grownup I realize that I never could have predicted the twists of fate that have brought me and my extended family to where we are now. Our group was once so close-knit that we could easily have been confused with some drunken, promiscuous cult with nearly all of its core members located within the five boroughs, but mostly within walking-distance of each other in Brooklyn. Little was done without all of the family involved and the oft-repeated tales of our glory days in college have become so ingrained into our insular culture that they are known by rote even to those who joined the collective hive-mind when our days in the ivy-covered walls of higher learning were long past. No one could have imagined this familiar community someday scattering to the four winds, but that is exactly what has happened over the past six years or so. Fortunately it doesn’t bother me to lose my friends to the daily realities of grownup concerns since many of them married well, I like most of their spouses, and all of those who have children have stepped up to plate and proven to be quite good parents, some of whom are downright spectacular at it. I’m just pleased to see that the majority of them are happy.

Currently only four members of the core group remain within the Manhattan/Brooklyn area, and since one of us is recently married he and his spouse have begun house hunting in upstate New York. Many of our number have ended up in the charming hamlet of New Paltz, New York, a two-hour bus ride from Manhattan, with abundant quiet and real estate prices of a far more affordable nature than anything to be found in the Big Apple. For the money that one of the New Paltz-dwelling ex-pats shelled out for a stunning house with lush property, one could barely afford to own a one-bedroom apartment in my neighborhood, so I don’t blame those who fled North one bit. In fact, I plan on ending up there myself whenever my fortunes reverse and I can afford to pack up and leave. My other goals are finding steady employment and hooking up with a long-term girlfriend; poverty and loneliness are a bad combo, and despite the availability of loneliness-relieving sex I am holding out for something hopefully deeper than that. My summer fling was quite fun, though...

While I still go out on the weekends, the nights of Viking-style partying and sleeping with equally horny women who I cared for as little more than a means to an orgasmic end are over; I look back on my romantic adventures and with the notable exceptions of six women who immediately spring to mind I would happily trade all of my sexual encounters for time spent catching up on my reading or sitting through classic movies that I haven’t seen. We all change and grow with age and right now my priority requirements from any woman I get involved with are a sense of humor, a love of food since I live to cook, the ability to tolerate my taste in movies and music, and most important of all, she must not be unstable. I am famous for hooking up with unstable women who range from painfully needy and insecure to outright loonies who are dangerous to themselves and others, and that is an ongoing pattern that must change.

Sooner or later I’ll enjoy the perks of grownupness that my more together friends have found, and then I’ll finally be able to close the door on my misspent-yet-fun youth and get on with my destiny of becoming the local bizarre-yet-cool old codger. Hopefully with a fun, sweet mate and an income that will allow us to support a gaggle of little Bunchelings; hopefully all little monster-lovin’ metalhead girls who I can dress like little punker princesses and teach the lyrics to “I Wanna Piss On You” and other like classics. Ah, bliss.

THESE KIDS TODAY

My Brooklyn neighborhood is a study in cultural and socio-economic diversity, with poverty and wealth literally staring each other in the face on a daily basis. The building next to mine is a welfare fortress, a twenty-four-hour party since apparently none of the residents work, and the kids and teens who live there have a minimal amount of parental supervision or involvement in their lives. The one heartwarming exception to this is the recently-out-of-prison dad who graphically lectured his son on the dangers of getting ass-fucked in the lockdown shower by horny gang members; this Hallmark moment was answered by his nine-year-old son who said "When I go to jail ain't nobody fuckin' me up the ass!" The father smiled proudly at his little man and the two of them celebrated their tender father/son bonding with deep drags on a fat joint. I marvelled at this and sorrowfully noted that the father in no way offered advice on staying out of jail and apparently accepted the inevitability of his offspring following in his footsteps.

Most of the boys next door hang out noisily on the stoop and hawk pitiful ditch-weed that I wouldn't have smoked even during the worst of "droughts" in my long-ago college stoner days, and the girls are all — and I do mean all — mothers of infants at ages below sixteen, each bearing the stretch marks and post-baby flab of women at least a decade or more older than they are; that lamentable spectacle is punctuated by the fact that they wear outfits that reveal way too much skin — and consequently doughy fat — and they believe that they look sexy. Sorry, girls, but you look like Hispanic variants of ignorant trailer trash like my relatives in rural Alabama.

This kind of slack behaviour is also quite evident among the progeny of the moneyed white residents up the street, kids who are every bit as uncouth, hip-hop affecting, foul-mouthed and knocked-up as their more "ghetto" counterparts. The difference is that the white kids are under the supervision of their parents more often than not, but what kind of supervision are they getting?

A few weeks ago I was walking down the street and noticed a local white mother and her fourteen-year-old daughter laughing amongst themselves and enjoying the sunny day. I smiled at the obvious camaraderie between the two and was charmed by their sweet demeanor... until I saw the t-shirt that the daughter wore. The shirt was a good three sizes too small and was obviously meant to showcase her gravity-defying, erect-nippled, fresh-out-of-the-box breasts, but that wasn't the problem. To my horror, the girl's shirt was emblazoned with the slogan "I have the pussy, so I make the rules."

Not a Photoshop gag. Buy one for your tweener daughter today!

Now, I am about as far from being a prude as a person can get, but there is no way in Hell that I would allow my jailbait daughter out of the house — or in the house for that matter — in that shirt. Sure, the sentiment is amusing, and in the case of most women I know absolutely true, but the girl wearing it was just a kid! What does that say about her mother? Does she think it's an appropriate statement to be made by an adolescent? I'd love to hear other opinions on this one...

COSTUME DRAMA: HALLOWEEN AS A SUPER-HERO

Bonfires burning bright
Pumpkin faces in the night
I remember Halloween

Dead cats hanging from poles
Little dead are out in droves
I remember Halloween

Brown leafed vertigo
Where skeletal life is known
I remember Halloween

This day anything goes
Burning bodies hanging from poles
I remember Halloween

Candy apples and razor blades
Little dead are soon in graves
I remember Halloween

This day anything goes
Burning bodies hanging from poles
I remember Halloween

-“Halloween” by the Misfits, 1981

So, do ya think this guy remembers Halloween?

Ah, Halloween. The finest day in the month of Rocktober, the day wherein the imagination is brought to vivid life, crazily bedecked and given license to wander your neighborhood and scrounge for heavily-sugared comestibles when not launching eggs at your house or setting light to paper sacks filled with dog turds on your once innocent porch in fervent hope that you will stomp out the blaze while wearing your brand new Hush Puppies. Legions of costumed urchins and their sometimes equally twisted elders ringing your doorbell in a yearly ritual of extortion that will hopefully keep your trees free of soon-to-be-dew-soggy rolls of Charmin and any sundry, festering detritus that they may have schlepped with them just in case you are stingy with the candy. The high-pitched, out-of-tune cacophony of that immortal chant:

Trick or treat!
Smell my feet!
Give me something good to eat!

With the exuberance that only children have and all pretense of good manners and tunefulness thrown merrily to the brisk fall winds, is there any sweeter music known?

If you are a lover of both horror and unfettered imagination there is no more sacred day in the entire calendar; when enjoyed properly Halloween can be more fun than Christmas, Thanksgiving dinner, your birthday and your most fondly remembered sexual encounter all rolled into one, and brothers and sisters, that ain't nothin' to sneeze at!

Sure, many of us don crazy getups and lose ourselves in our chosen character on that most bitchin' night of nights, but we were all indoctrinated into the Halloween spirit by parents and loved ones who were all about fostering a love of fantasy and make believe in which even little ones who were often overlooked or relegated to the dreaded “kid's table” at grownup social gatherings could participate. For the young and young at heart, Halloween is an “everybody's welcome” mass equalizer that not only allows the individual to be someone or something other than himself or herself for a short, blessed time, but also guarantees that you will see some outrageous costumes and activities.

Most of us got into the Pumpkin Time groove at an early age, forced to represent in those horrible POS Ben Cooper one-piece costumes that came equipped with vision-obstructing plastic masks which had sharp edges that scratched us around the eyes and the character's name needlessly emblazoned across a good portion of the outfit's front (well maybe not so needless since it saved adults from asking “And what are you then?”), and if enduring that exquisite commercially packaged child abuse and looking like total pint-sized assembly line douchebags didn't kill our Halloween spirit then nothing, and I do mean NUH-THING, could.

My earliest memory of soldiering in the name candy and costume (candy that I invariably gave to my mother since I have never had much of sweet tooth) is from 1969, when I was handed one of those large-to-a-preschooler boxes which contained a costume of Hanna-Barbera's super-hero, Birdman. For those not in the know, Birdman was pretty much a bland Hawkman knockoff that was such a lightweight you could theoretically rob him of his solar-derived powers by chucking him into a closet and handing him a most righteous ass-kicking; since he was a pretty pathetic washout in the super-hero department, Birdman is currently seen to much better effect on the Cartoon Network's Harvey Birdman, Lawyer as a defense attorney for errant cartoon superstars of yore. Yet none of his mediocre adventures mattered a whit to my four-year-old sensibilities since that night I would put on a costume that amounted to little more than glorified cellophane and be a super-hero. I knew I couldn't fly over the neighborhood on great wings, shoot rays from my clenched little fists or receive top secret communiqués on a wall-mounted TV screen from a mustachioed John Tesh look-alike with an eye patch, but for a marvelous, brief stretch of an hour our two I could sure as hell feel like anything could happen and I would be full of enough super-heroic piss and vinegar to take on all comers.

The following year I got to be Batman, my second favorite hero after the Sub-Mariner (who I knew from the fondly-remembered yet horribly-animated “Marvel Super-Heroes” show that ran in syndication). I pushed for the green light on going out as Namor, but that idea got shot down due to the fact that my comics-friendly parents (who grew up on the classics from the Golden Age) were not going to even attempt concocting plausible pointed ears and ankle wings, and the simple fact that it isn't a good idea to be running around at night an naught but a pair of green swim trunks, so rather than becoming prime pedophile bait I instead opted for the Caped Crusader.

The Adam West Batman series had ended a year or so before my debut in Bob Kane-inspired Ben Cooper finery, but I was rabid for it thanks to the miracle of daily afternoon reruns and I was just itchin' to burst forth from the old homestead and hit the Gotham City that would spring to life from my fevered imagination. I nearly burst from excitement as I checked myself out in the mirror and thrilled to Neal Hefti's unforgettable theme music as it resonated in my head; I may have been five but I looked cool enough to kick King Tut square in his skirt and hopefully get a kiss from that strange Catwoman who made me feel funny, but funny in a good way that I hadn't figured out yet.

My reverie was interrupted when my dad came in and asked if he could make one last adjustment to the cheap plastic mask that came with the costume. I handed it to him and wondered what else needed to be done; here was a dead-on likeness of the hero I saw every day, and I was perfectly happy with it as it was. I didn't see how anything could possibly be done to make me look any more like Batman, well at least as much as a five-year-old with an Afro can look like Adam West by any stretch of the imagination.

My dad left the room for a few moments and I heard the unmistakable sound of something being sprayed from an aerosol can. The telltale smell of paint soon wafted into the room when my dad returned, and he beamed as he handed me the mask. I was horrified to see that my father, in a well-intentioned act of black pride, had spray-painted the flesh-tone portion of Batman's face a light brown to match my own shade.

I was outraged to the core of my being! Sure, I knew I was black, but I also knew that Batman wasn't black, and the addition of canned melanin offended my sense of authenticity, to say nothing of the fact that I just knew If I went out with that altered mask I'd hear heckles such as “It's the Colored Crusader!” or (think of the theme tune) “Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah - Black Man!” After much back and forth arguing I finally saw my father's point of view and agreed that blackness would not in any way hamper me representing the spirit of Batman. My mother now recalls the whole incident as perhaps the stupidest argument she ever witnessed, and nowadays I'm inclined to agree.

Fast forward to the fall of 1974, and my total immersion into 1940's Captain Marvel reprints that DC Comics was kind enough to dole out in regular 100-page doses. I first met the Captain in Jules Feiffer's indispensable The Great Comic Book Heroes (Bonanza Books, 1965 - now available from Fantagraphics), and when DC started reprinting his adventures in earnest I was at the perfect age to get hooked on them. While my love for the Captain and his equally fun cohorts grew, CBS television debuted a live action Saturday morning Captain Marvel show called “Shazam!” that many remember with great fondness, but not me. I hated it from day one and gave up on it quickly since it looked like it was made for less money than I earned on a good day from my paper route, had scripts that would have shamed my developmentally-challenged cousin Jimmy, featured an Afroed and apparently Hispanic Billy Batson wandering around the country in a Winnebago with some old fart in a bad leisure suit, had nauseating morals at the end of each low-rent installment, and worst of all, a Captain Marvel who looked like some disco jerkoff with a bad perm and flying effects to match. In short, when Halloween rolled around I felt compelled to stand up for the besmirched honor of the Captain and his family (hell, even for Hoppy the friggin' Marvel Bunny!) by traipsing around the suburban wilderness in his signature gear, complete with the fetching cape and canary-yellow buccaneer boots. The problem was that there was no such costume commercially available outside of establishments such as “Bruce's Flamboyance and Codpiece Emporium,” and no Ben Cooper costume ever came with matching footwear, a consideration that sinks the whole Captain Marvel ensemble.

The problem of unavailability was solved when I realized that my mom was a talented seamstress who didn't take her often-spectacular creations seriously at all; the lady actually put together a life-sized stuffed panda bear that she made from scratch which also doubled as an extremely comfortable beanbag chair. Realizing the likelihood that she could get away with crafting a homemade Captain Marvel outfit, I approached her with the idea and when she said yes I handed her a stack of comics for reference. Working without any sort of pattern, she created a very faithful costume that included not only a cape that was accurate down to the last detail, but also a pair of hand-made vinyl buccaneer boots. The outfit completely kicked ass, made all of the assembly line Ben Cooper costumes of that year look like the pitiful Hershey squirts that they indeed were, and was infused with a super-hero-friendly mother's love. No matter that I looked more like Fat Marvel than the Big Red Cheese himself, I felt great on that Halloween night and consider that evening to be the highlight of my childhood trick-or-treating experiences.

Then came the sad year when I realized I was too old to campaign with the rest of the costumed kids, but I was determined not to go out without a fight. My last stand would be a legend among Connecticut trick-or-treaters if I had my way about it and unfortunately it did, but for all the wrong reasons. Instead of opting for another tried and true super-hero getup I decided to go for something more contemporary and cutting edge, so what did I do? I dressed up as that stalwart goon from the scourge of the late-1970's TV airwaves, “The Gong Show”… Yes, to my eternal shame, I ended my trick-or-treating career by ringing doorbells dressed as the Unknown Comic, bag-over-the-head and all. I was thirteen, so I should have known better.

I haven't decided what I'm going out as this year but I've got a pretty good idea... And it'll be a super-hero!

KING CONAN AT THE REPUBLICAN NATIONAL CONVENTION

Scene from CONAN THE BARBARIAN (1981)

CHIEF HYRKANIAN WARLORD (to a lesser warlord): What is best in life?

LESSER WARLORD(proudly): A swift horse, the falcon at your breast, and the wind in your hair.

CHIEF HYRKANIAN WARLORD: Wrong! Conan! What is best in life?

CONAN THE BARBARIAN: To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you and to hear the lamentation of their women!

Last night, much to my horror, I witnessed California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger - aka Conan - address the throng at the Republican national Convention with perhaps the most shamelessly jingoistic and blatantly contrived “speech” that I have ever witnessed. Putting aside my own political leanings and looking at it for what it was, Ah-Nuld's oration came off exactly like the badly written Hollywood big-budget schmaltz that one would expect.

As we all know, Ah-Nuld came to this country as an immigrant who didn't speak the dominant language and ascended from being a greasy steroid-abusing homoerotic icon to an unlikely Hollywood action movie cash cow and inevitably a member of one of the nation's most politically powerful families. What you may not know is that Conan eventually usurped the throne of fabled Aquilonia and ruled as king until his death. I bring up this bit of fictional history because while watching the speech all I could see was King Conan addressing his adoring public, a public that feasted on his every utterance. So go to http://www.newsday.com/news/local/newyork/nyc-arnoldspeech,
0,6593098.story?coll=ny-nynews-headlines
for the actual, unaltered transcript of Ah-Nuld's address; simultaneously artificial, jingoistic, replete with movie references and bad jokes, horrifying and utterly nauseating in all respects. If you can't believe what you are reading, I have the whole thing on videotape and will happily show it to you upon request. Halfway through, what with the furor of the crowd and whatnot, I could only think of footage of Hitler at the Nuremberg rallies. Read it, and don't forget to supply the accent.

A PERFECT DAY

My man Hughes, circa late 1987.

Every once in a while one gets reminded that life is good.

Freelance gigs notwithstanding, I am still technically unemployed, and with that state of slackerness comes a freedom that I forgot during my thirteen years in the salt mines of comics. Instead of spending another day in fruitless pursuit of reentry into the nine-to-five rat race, today I chose to enjoy some time outside of my rent-a-hovel — which has become sort of a cell with amenities — and run around Manhattan with my equally unemployed pal Hughes, who has been a brother to me since we met during our college days. I had to pick up part of the cash for the latest Bunche/Cat Love Sensation barbecue soiree from Cat’s hubby in the City anyway, so why not make a carefree day of it?

Canopied by a Hollywood-backdrop-perfect blue sky Hughes and I departed for the far Western side of Midtown before noon and rendezvoused with Rich at the CBS news building. Every time I hook up with Richard I think to myself that my old friend Cat has chosen her mate wisely; Richard is a life-loving Brazilian who knows his way around a kitchen and quality butcher shops, along with being a generally cool guy whose presence in the room just makes you feel good. He took Hughes and I into the lower level of the new Time/Warner building/high class shopping Mecca and I was bowled over by its incredible butcher shop. Taking me to such a place is like taking a sports fan to the most incredible memorabilia shop they’ve ever seen, and even though the prices may be steep just witnessing such an array of items fuels fantasies of what you could do if you could get your eager mitts on the stuff. I stood mesmerized by the most visually appealing selection of meats that I have beheld in years, uncaring about my lack of funds with which to purchase these crown jewels of protein. Whenever I have such cash I will return there posthaste, and grab some choice lamb for a slow-simmered stew that will be so good that you’ll want to slap your momma.

After Rich picked up a lunch to bring back to his office, Hughes and I walked up Broadway to lunch at the incomparable — and dirt cheap — Gray’s Papaya on 72nd Street where we scarfed down some of New York’s finest grilled hot dogs; I ate three of these tasty masterpieces slathered with brown deli mustard and washed them down with the chain’s signature papaya drink, and my memory drifted back to the not-so-long-ago era of the early 1990’s when I lived in the area and if the mood struck me I could simply walk out of my apartment on 89th Street for a round of tube steaks at any hour of the day or night. The banner above Gray’s proudly proclaims, “We are open 24 hours a day. Every day,” and they are the welcome low class oasis in the snooty Upper West Side.

The perfect documentary for the perfect day.

Having merrily polished off our delicious meal of reconstituted horse anuses and hooves, Hughes and I quickly realized that we still had most of the day ahead of us and decided to see END OF THE CENTURY: THE STORY OF THE RAMONES, a critically acclaimed documentary that had opened a few days ago and chronicled the stirring saga of one of our mutual favorite bands. The film didn’t start until 4:20, so we had nearly three hours to kill. We needed to make our way down to the Lower East Side and the Angelika theater, a venue despised by myself and many of my film freak pals due to its aggressively “cineaste” leanings, but it’s the only place in the entire city that has the film, so there was no choice but to bite the bullet and wander into this Hell of film-snobbery and pay tribute to the masters of Rock ‘n’ Roll’s three greatest chords.

After we crawled from the Stygian confines of the subway system, Hughes and I wandered around areas that we frequented back in the days, noting that such fondly remembered hangouts like the Samurai Pub have fallen to the passing of time and the yuppification of New York City. Oddly enough, this wasn’t a sad reflection, merely a stroll down Memory Lane.

After stops at a videogame emporium and a kickass record store, we decided to hang out at the fountain in Washington Square Park. That former bazaar of all manner of illegal substances is now quite family friendly, and nowhere was there the furtive exclamation of “Trips…Trips…Smoke…Smoke…,” which isn’t a bad thing since most of the, er, “entrepreneurs” of old sold weed that was pretty much an eighth of dirt.

Everywhere you looked there were people lazing about around the big fountain as children frolicked and shrieked joyously beneath the plumes of soon-to-be-gravitationally-stricken water. Hughes and I took up residence on the south side of the fountain and basked in the sun and wind-borne spray, a refreshing combination that made me realize that I hadn’t been so utterly content in months. I remarked to Hughes that we would never have been able to enjoy such excellence if we had been confined within an office, dealing with assholes.

After nearly ruining a tourist’s photo by providing the subject with the requisite via-fingers bunny ears, Hughes and I made our way to the theater and shelled out $10.25 (!!!) for admission. Yes, it cost $10.25 to get in, and if it weren’t a documentary about one of my five all-time favorite bands I would have asked the cashier if she had ever considered the possibility of turning her reproductive channel into a makeshift cash drawer. But since it was about Forest Hills' answer to the Fantastic Four, I played nice.

The theater reeked of high-falutin’ pretension, what with its overpriced café and gallery of French-language movie posters for films that were mostly rock-bottom-budget Italian superhero films from the 1960’s, but the place was pleasantly uncrowded since it was still early in the day and most of the Angelika’s clientele would not be turning out for a film about four stunningly unglamorous louts in black leather jackets and torn jeans. This atmosphere, some of the best popcorn I have had at a Manhattan theater in at least ten years and the sight of a middle-aged mother lugging her three under-thirteen-year-old sons to see the Ramones put me at ease.

The film itself was not just a treat for the faithful, but also trenchant look at one of the pioneering bands of what would later become known as punk rock, their impact on pop music and their frustrating lack of commercial success despite their status as beloved living legends. Candid and unafraid of revealing the unpleasant idiosyncrasies of the various band members over a twenty-one-year period, END OF THE CENTURY is compelling stuff indeed, and until the end I had to fight down my urge to sing along with each brief three-chord anthem that turned up on the soundtrack.

When the lights went up, Hughes and I parted ways since we both needed train lines that would return us to Brooklyn on opposite sides of the mighty Gowanus River. Steeped in the joys of a day-long romp around the city, good cheap food, the company of one of my favorite human beings and the ancient heraldic majesty of Ramones tunes resounding in my head, I made it back to Park Slope in a mood to spread love to the whole world. I stopped off at the local market and found one of the hard to get, perfectly seasoned sagey sausages that I adore for dinner and retired to my humble abode.

It just goes to show you that despite crushing poverty, every once in a while the planets align in just the right way and you get reminded beyond the shadow of a doubt that life can be good. Quite good indeed.

FAY WRAY, KING KONG AND THE END OF AN ERA

Yesterday word of Fay Wray’s death at age 96 hit the news. Fay Wray, leading lady in the classic 1933 version of KING KONG, screamer extraordinaire and the cinema’s quintessential damsel in distress. The black and white image of her stunning blonde beauty, adorned in naught but a torn teddy while struggling to escape the fearsome-yet-adoring clutches of the thirty-foot monster god of an uncharted island has been carved in stone as a cinematic landmark for seventy-one years and is unforgettable proof of the dream machine that was once the Golden Age of Hollywood.

Upon hearing of Miss Wray’s passing the first thing that crossed my mind was “Was she the last person involved in KING KONG to go?” If she was, she may have been the last of a dying breed, the old-school Hollywood movie star. When one thinks of those who pass for stars these days, that’s a sad thought indeed. Will Keanu Reeves, Brittany Murphy or even Adam Sandler be remembered down the line with the fondness afforded Wray and her contemporaries? I sincerely doubt it, and that’s ironic since Wray publicly bemoaned the fact that the mythic status of her role in KING KONG lead to the overshadowing of every other part she essayed.

With the flagrant love that I have for giant monster films it should come as no surprise to anyone that the 1933 KING KONG is my favorite movie. I say movie because film is a somewhat lofty term often applied to films by artists such as Bergman, Kurosawa and Jarmusch, items of deep examination of the human condition and such. Not so with KONG; KING KONG is a rollicking piece of entertainment, sheer fun from start to finish with nothing on its mind except entertaining its audience and placing the viewer firmly within an adventure into the fantastic. Fun and entertainment is what it’s all about, and by those criteria KING KONG is a great movie.

A Depression-era adventure yarn like no other, KING KONG has mood, romance, thrills and balls-out monster action from start to finish and several sequences that have since become ingrained into the worldwide popular culture. And considering that Kong himself has existed on his island for thousands of years, I have always wondered what his typical day was like. During the harrowing adventure shared by Anne Darrow and Jack Driscoll deep within the teeming jungle of Skull Island, we see Kong handing out ass-whuppings on his fellow jungle denizens like it was Halloween candy. Remove the two hapless humans from that picture and you have to realize that Kong’s day-to-day existence would have sucked most egregiously when he wasn’t being offered native women with which to do God only knows what. I can see it now: the big guy is lumbering down a dense forest path when, suddenly, some primordial crawly thing drops out of a tree and attempts to eat his face. Kong savagely dispatches this creature and continues on his mighty way. Then, without warning, a Tyrannosaurus Rex jumps out a ditch and tries to bite his nuts off. Our giant-ape-about-town puts much foot to scaly ass and vanquishes the errant T-Rex by ripping off its head and taking a big dump down its throat. After foraging for whatever may constitute the diet of a thirty-foot primate, Kong returns to his mountain top lair to chill out and relax. As he reclines and begins to nod off to Slumberland, a giant carrion bird swoops from the skies and tries to lodge its beak up Kong’s hairy ass. Kong clenches his titanic butt-cheek muscles, breaking the bird’s neck like a Mister Salty pretzel stick. Kong then stands atop the corpse, throws back his head and drums on his chest. He lets out a cry of what may appear to be triumph, but he’s more likely saying “Can’t I go through just one day without somebody trying to eat my ass? FUCK!!!”

In honor of Fay Wray’s passing, I watched the film again last night, and it was sort of like attending the wake of someone I’d known since childhood. I just wish that I could have invited everyone I know over to share it with me.

THE BEAUTY OF NEW YORK CITY-REASON # 73

So there I was, eating lunch at a local White Castle — a particularly scurvy one which caters to the dregs of humanity more than these establishments usually do, since this location doesn't give a fuck about whether the regular junkies and beggars pretty much take up residence without paying rent, or whether they perpetually harass the customers for money while a foot-long bolus of mucous or spittle dangles from their noses or mouths — when a guy entered the restaurant with a bulging gym bag.

This upstanding citizen looked at me and said "Yo, nigga! I gots DVD's an' shit!" The DVD's in question were undoubtedly of questionable quality, and more likely than not shot off of a movie screen by an enterprising video-bootlegger who had smuggled a video camera into the theater; not easy to do anymore since security measures at press screenings these days stop just short of a strip-search and flashlight-assisted cavity probe. Anyway, I asked him "whatcha got?" and he furtively displayed his ill-gotten wares.

Now, I am firmly against film piracy, but under the right ridiculous circumstances I have been known to buy the occasional bootleg DVD. Those circumstances usually involve a film being made available to me on DVD on the same day or night as I'm seeing the film in question. I purchased a bootleg of THE MATRIX RELOADED while walking down the street on the way to see the movie, and in a much more balls-out brazen situation, I obtained KILL BILL VOLUME 1 while on line to see it on opening night when a guy set up an open suitcase full of bootleg DVDs at the front of the line and in full sight of the uncaring theater staff.

This time, however, the utterly illegal situation upped the ante and I handed the man five bucks up front. I was less concerned with the movie than I was with the incredible circumstances of the purchase: I was able to buy a bootleg DVD of HAROLD AND KUMAR GO TO WHITE CASTLE on the day the film opened at the location that the film's central motivation was about.

I'd say being able to truthfully tell that story was worth the five bucks, and the bootleg itself was very good (as those things go). And the movie itself is funny as hell, coming from nowhere to be not only one of the few intelligent stoner comedies, but it's also a great piss-take on ethnic stereotypes in the US. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!

A VISIT WITH OLD FRIENDS: DEVO IN CENTRAL PARK-7/23/04

“This is the first time that Devo’s played Central Park in twenty-four years, and we were wondering what you’d be like… And we gotta tell you that you’re a better audience than your parents!” -Booji Boy

Twenty-four years ago. 1980. I was fifteen years old and had been a fan of Devo since first seeing them appear from out of nowhere on the night of October 18th, 1978 at the age of thirteen.

The late 1970’s were an odd time in the history of pop music, what with the airwaves dominated by the juggernaut of disco and the predicted “next big thing” — namely punk rock — fizzling out with the near simultaneous breakup of the Sex Pistols and the Clash signing with a major label (and consequently pissing away their talent for all the world to see). At the time, network institution SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE was in the midst of being the big counter-culture confection hungrily gobbled up by a nation that had weathered the staggering disappointments of Watergate and the end of the Viet Nam war. Fuelled by a well-documented cornucopia of booze and hard drugs, SNL managed to introduce to its dosed-up audience a plethora of then-unknown musical acts, many of which went on to lucrative mainstream success, such as the B-52’s and Talking Heads, to name but a few.

On the October night when Devo was foisted upon an unsuspecting public, you could almost hear the late-night TV-watching audience spewing its beer out of its collective nostrils and exclaiming “What the fuck is this shit?!!?” Presented for our consideration were five ultra-geeky white boys attired in yellow bio-hazard gear who moved with herky-jerky movements that suggested faulty animatronics while cranking out a disturbingly minimalist version of the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction.” Before the show was over, we were also treated to the now-anthemic “Jocko Homo,” perhaps rock ’n ’roll’s only examination of human evolution and the fact that we haven’t progressed as far as we like to think. After that double-barreled offensive, many in the audience scratched their heads in disgust and confusion. For those of us who got it, it was the start of a strange musical journey that the members of Devo were confident that we could take alongside them. From their near-invisible genesis in 1974 Ohio through their influence on many forms of music and their inevitable fall from both original artistic intent and mainstream popularity, Devo has endured as both a common ground joke amongst those of a certain age and as an entity/philosophy that has proven over and over that only the meanest survive. And the goofy bastards also still happen to know how to rock. Hard.

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Devo live on several occasions but I missed them during the 1980 performance in Central Park, so when I heard that they were not only appearing on the East Coast for the first and only time since 1988 but also returning to the Park, I immediately enlisted my close friend Chris — another die-hard Devotee — and obtained tickets. To my surprise and delight, several people I knew told me that they were going to attend as well, some of whom were barely out of diapers when the boys first hit the scene, further proof of the spudboys’ cross-generational appeal.

Chris and I made it to the band shell entrance at 6PM but nature was against the concertgoers, due to the downright biblical torrent that spewed forth from a cruel sky. The sold out crowd was quickly soaked to the DNA and the discomfort was only compounded by the swamp-like condition of the standing-room-only Astroturf and outrageously overpriced concessions and souvenirs. $35 for a t-shirt? Bite a fart, motherfucker!

The first opening act was a band called Stella Star (presumably named for the lead character in a spectacularly bad Italian Star wars rip-off called STARCRASH) and their frontman tried his damnedest to sound just like that pussy who sings for the Cure while the band valiantly rocked out in stark counterpoint to his blazing wimpiness. The next act was a local favorite called the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, whom I had heard of but not actually heard, and let me tell you that if what I heard live was anything like what their album sounds like, their label is pissing their money down the toilet by supporting those clowns. Their singer had the aspect of a crazy homeless woman decked out in a psychedelic/stained glass one-piece bathing suit wreathed in a plastic bag, with the whole ensemble accented by her lime green hightop Chuck Taylors. Her shrill voice violated my eardrums and that’s no mean feat since I voluntarily listen to music that would make most sane people head straight to the rubber room, but I was forced to alleviate this aural horror with homemade ear stopples crafted from bits of a torn-up copy of the Village Voice. (Annoyingly, one of the earplugs proved to be smaller than intended and ended up lodged deep within the confines of my left ear until I could later remove it with a pair of tweezers.)

The rain continued to pour until shortly before the Yeah Yeah Yeahs mercifully departed, and the crowd was palpably jazzed in anticipation of Devo taking the stage, the change in weather seeming like the gods themselves said “Enough of this bullshit, we wanna see Devo!” The roadies busied themselves like a swarm of worker ants, readying synthesizers, drum machines and string instruments while the lighting crew practiced their visual cues and synched the movie screen for its role in the upcoming multi-media circus. Soon, the opening film rolled; the old intro from the NEW TRADITIONALISTS tour (1981) featuring General Boy’s guide to proper behavior and dress for a Devo concert, and it was greeted with laughter from the neophytes and nostalgic chuckles from those of us at which it was originally aimed. Then the boys took the stage.

Despite being in their early-to-mid-fifties the band exploded into the limelight like they’d just taken 50,000,000 volts up their collective ass and shook the venue with a bass-heavy rendition of “That’s Good.” The crowd bounced along with the funky-yet-minimalist groove and both young and old rocked like they had just discovered something other than the corporate shit that passes for music these days. In fact, I’d bet that that’s just what happened for many of the newcomers in attendance.

As for us old school Devotees, we danced and sang along like maniacs. My favorite spectator was a woman who had to be about sixty who was wearing a Necrosis t-shirt and singing the words with a familiarity similar to that of the person who penned the tunes in the first place. And if one were to scan the crowd, one would note the sea of metalheads, punk rockers, B-boys and urban cowboys all united by a common love of the weird. I tell you, dear readers, you will find no more diverse a concert crowd than that found at a Devo show.

As the proceedings were filmed for an upcoming DVD release, the boom camera danced its dark, industrial arabesque over the onlookers’ heads while enthusiastic dancers squelched and throbbed upon the marshy fake grass. Anti-Bush sentiments flew wildly as the boys urged the audience to vote at election time, lest their predictions of a heartless totalitarian empire come true…Hmmmm….

Surprisingly, the set list consisted largely of the pre-“Whipit” punky stuff, and it went over quite well with the newbies; perhaps the boys finally realized that their ideas were most potent when not merely traipsing down the path of dance music, and unleashing such balls-out rockers as the electrifying “Uncontrollable Urge.” The crowd ate it up, and the evening wound to a satisfying conclusion when that mascot for disturbing mutants everywhere, namely the baby-masked Booji Boy (for some reason pronounced “Boogie”), emerged and sang a screechy rendition of “Beautiful World.” With that the show ended, and as Devo cried out “Good night, New York! We’re outta here!”, as if on cue the sky opened up and pissed down on the rapidly exiting concertgoers. Every living thing that was outside was utterly soaked, and the streets of the Upper West Side looked like a riot hose had been turned on, its cleansing bath washing away all of the needles, vomit and discarded prophylactics from a befouled city.

An altogether fitting end to what may turn out to be the last East Coast Devo tour.

HOLIDAY WEEKEND GETAWAY 2004: FAMILY FUGUE IN NEW PALTZ

The Fourth of July, our country’s annual self-congratulatory pat on the back. Fraught with high-calorie cookouts, Revolutionary War reenactments featuring local pub patrons dressed in powdered wigs and tri-cornered hats, drunkenness and fireworks, the Fourth is perhaps the most enjoyable of all American annual family gatherings. Rather than Thanksgiving, which focuses on the actual biological family for the most part, the Fourth allows family and friends to gather in a tribal celebration that further cements the bonds of years gone by and forges new ones with those who are still new to the whole twisted unit.

For me, the Fourth in ’04 was spent in the woods of upstate New York in the lovely hamlet of New Paltz (question: where the hell is old Paltz?) at the incredible home of my old college buddy John and his redoubtable spouse Sue. The place is situated on five heavily wooded acres (the perfect place for kidnappings, murder and cannibalism), and the enormous wooden deck faces into the deepest portion of the forest, giving the casual observer a ringside seat for the after dark galaxy of fireflies. In all of my short life, I have seldom witnessed anything so beautiful, although the epic nudity of some women I know comes in pretty close... But I digress.

Seven friends from the Five Boroughs (including your humble raconteur) descended upon the woodland paradise on Saturday afternoon and those of us who had not been there yet were wowed by the location and the domicile itself; as most of you know I frequently bemoan my lack of an acceptable kitchen in which to get up to my culinary alchemy, and I now envy John and Sue for the marvelous operating theater that houses a kickass stove and oven, along with voluminous countertop prep space. Yeesh, I’m starting to sound like some hideous gene-splicing of Martha Stewart and some home improvement show idiot, so let it suffice to say that I was stoked by the kitchen, m’kay?

Saturday night was a cozy fun-fest of pals reconnecting in an adult slumber party replete with delicious grilled comestibles, frothy keg beer and liver-assaulting blender drinks, and yours truly was also treated to the delectable sight of a particularly attractive friend of the female variety sleepily attired in black shorts and a matching tank top emblazoned with a skull and crossbones, framed against her stunning brown eyes and dark curly hair (single guys out there who are not directly involved with our extended family, you really need to hook up with the lady in question, so get off your asses and take notice!).

On the day of the actual Fourth, people came from far and wide to bestow the hosts with housewarming gifts and contributions to the festivities, many with their children in tow. It’s always fun to see all of the tribe’s little ones running about and shrieking with childish delight, and this time around was a cavalcade of cubs for all to enjoy. The first of our tribe’s young’uns was Sadie-Rain, and she’s been a fixture at these gatherings since she was a babe in arms; nowadays she’s the elder statesman among the six sprogs who own our hearts. We’ve got Sadie-Rain, her new brother Nate, textbook example of little girl cuteness Lianna-Ray (who’s obviously going to leave a trail of broken hearts in her wake when she’s older), the cerebral and unfairly adorable Hannah (whose mother is learning the agonies of black people hair the hard way thanks to her daughter; the stories are hilarious to those of us who have lived them as kids), new addition by way of Korea, August (a game little guy who’s already a lady killer, and is interestingly reprogramming his language centers for English input; I love this guy!), and fresh-out-of-the-womb Cleonir-Rose (who’s still too little to attend, but she’ll be joining the family wackiness soon enough). I had a great time playing with and attending to each of the small humans in attendance, and someday hope for at least one of my own. Who knows what life has in store?

The whole day was a whirlwind of activity, with me at the grill as is proper, and with all of the kids and parents having a fun time; the only thing missing was a sloppy ol’ dog running around. But, no big deal, it was a picture perfect example of a family gathering gone right, with none of the painful dysfunction and infighting usually found at such functions featuring our biological relatives. Next comes Jared’s annual birthday shindig in early August, and I can’t wait to attend.