Last night while enduring yet another lonely day of hearts, flowers and chocolates (with that misery compounded by really shitty weather) I finally had enough and decided to get out of my apartment and drown my sorrows at a local bar until midnight, in other words the time when Valentine's Day ends. I hate many of the bars in my neighborhood and the only options that I have not tried are Jackie's Fifth Amendment — a hardcore alky watering hole for people who are straight out of a Bukowski book — and O'Connell's, a very sleazy looking establishment that is roughly ten blocks from my apartment.
I opted for O'Connell's.
From the outside O'Connell's looks like a faceless brick bunker identified by neither number or name; the rotting sign blew away months ago during a storm and the management didn't think it was important enough to shell out the money for a replacement. On the inside the place is a classic dive bar that remains pretty much as it was when it opened in the late-1950's, a fact all too evident from the utter lack of any sort of maintainence or attempts at modernization. The ceiling was full of holes that exposed the deteriorating infrastructure and probably provided a suitable breeding ground for bats.
I met my friend and roomate from over ten years past, Jessica Goldberg, there at 9PM and we shared a couple of very inexpensive drinks while listening to the excellent jukebox, a contraption loaded with old rockabilly, psychedelic rock, r & b compilations, and the first album by my beloved Devo (note: if it were my bar, I would go with their second album, "Duty Now For the Future," but to each his own). Jess eventually split since she has to work in the morning, and I spent the rest of the alotted time discussing music with the very knowledgeable bartender, a personable guy from England named Trace.
By about 11PM the place cleared out and only Trace and I remained. Thus freed of his bartenderly duties, we had a lot of time to shoot the shit and get to know one another, and let me be the first to tell you that he's a really together guy. Sorry ladies, but he only works Monday through Wednesday... Soon Mark showed up; Mark is an fifty-something black dude who is a hardcore gambler and is apparently a regular who is easily the most articulate old school wino I have ever had the pleasure to meet. He ordered a glass of cheap red wine and two triple shoots of Wild Turkey, and regaled us with tales of his adventures playing "African Golf" — for you white folks out there that's shooting dice — actually claiming to be making $800 a night during these marathon gamaes of chance. Since Trace now had some company, I ventured home at 12:30 AM.
So, the point of all of this is that I have finally found my favorite neighborhood bar, something that would have happened sooner if I had gotten off my ass and ventured more northward toward Flatbush Avenue. Now if only I had the balls to check out Jackie's Fifth Amendment...
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
THE MANDINGO PROJECT-introduction
So here it is, Black History month again - and don't think I didn't notice it's in the shortest month of the year, motherfuckers! - and for once I have decided to do something scholarly in its honor.
Since blacks in America were brought here very much against their will and subjected to every form of degradation the human mind could conceive, slavery remains a hot button issue and one that touches very raw nerves when discussed in any format. Many pop culture analysts will tell you that the first major work to really present the myriad horrors of slavery in realistic and uncomfortable detail would be Alex Haley's multi-generational saga ROOTS, and more importantly its 1977 television dramatization; the TV miniseries hit the airwaves like a blowtorch to the stomach and forced white viewers to see the torture, mutilation, rape, forced separation of families and other such details of the human chattel system that fantasies like GONE WITH THE WIND gloss over to an alarming degree. Not only did it shake up adults across the nation, but it was also the first time that most non-black American kids really understood why slavery was an unmitigated evil that was inadequately explained in the woefully skewed history schoolbooks of the era. By the time the second episode aired, I had many of my classmates come up to me apologizing for atrocities committed by their ancestors some three hundred years past. Needless to say, that shit got old fast, but it was a strange thing to witness.
The impact of ROOTS was and is undeniable since it is still frequently discussed and referenced today, but for my money it was not the first pop culture hit to unflinchingly detail slavery for a mass audience. My vote for that distinction goes to Kyle Onstott's massive 1957 novel MANDINGO.
First edition cover for MANDINGO, perhaps the worst book cover of all time. Seriously, somebody got paid to produce this!
You have probably heard the name and associate it with lurid interracial shenanigans during the plantation era Old South thanks to the outrageous 1975 movie version, but most people don't know the film was based on a lucrative bestseller that was the literary equivalent to Hiroshima and Nagasaki when it hit in the late 1950's, an era of post-war American prosperity that reveled in the secure knowledge of white superiority in all things and a barely acknowledged awareness of any wrongs committed on the historical road to getting the US to where it was.
MANDINGO was an anti-epic, replete with scalding violence and then-shocking interracial sex - or rape, in most instances - peopled with characters that ranged from the pitiful and obsequious to the downright reprehensible. The core of the story centers on the daily goings-on at the Falconhurst plantation, an establishment for breeding and selling slaves, and the tawdry intrigues set into motion upon the young master simultaneously acquiring his cousin as his wife, a new “bed wench” slave girl who becomes the real love of his life, and an ultra-studly fighting slave of the title bloodline. None of the characters come off as admirable for a variety of reasons, and the narrative squarely points out that slave-owner, slave-breeder and slave were all victims of the foul system in no uncertain terms. So why has MANDINGO gone on to be universally hailed one of the most infamous and offensive concoctions of the twentieth century?
The blame for that falls largely on the movie, a film released nearly twenty years after the book's publication; despite its documented status as a runaway bestseller at the time, there was absolutely no way that MANDINGO could have been filmed and not seen every single person involved in its translation to the big screen arrested as twisted sadists and pornographers. Even after the advancements of the civil rights movement the book was still simply too hot to handle and though there was no screen adaptation there was a flourishing genre of potboiler paperback sequels that cheapened the literary impact of Onstott's original work until the series became sort of bodice-ripper drugstore fiction with as much sex and violence as the law would allow. By the time the feature version of MANDINGO hit screens in 1975 much of its content had become fodder for rip-off novels and porno films, and many people had not read the book in its unabridged form, so much of the character and sociological insight found therein was utterly lost. The film version simplified the complex 659-page source novel to fit within a two hour running time, dumbing it down to nothing more than an overacted, ludicrously-scripted S & M/soft-porn GONE WITH THE WIND parody filled with wall-to-wall nudity, torture, bloody violence, and an overwhelming blast of unbelievable bad taste. I personally relish the film for its balls-out insanity and tastelessness, parts of which convulse me with laughter every time I sit through it, and in my opinion it remains the single most offensive film ever released by a major motion picture studio. And there is absolutely no fucking way that film could have been made today without riots breaking out in the streets. Believe that, Jack!
Sadly, the film has tarnished the considerable merit and bravery found in the novel, a book that to the best of my knowledge is out of print today, and what stands amid the rubble is perhaps one of the most misunderstood books in all of American literature. Most people have never read it, and if they have they've only seen the abridged version - admittedly, Onstott's uncut version is a trifle unnecessarily long-winded - and read it only to glean what thrills can be had for those who get off on misery and master/slave sex fantasies.
After seeing the movie during the late-1980's I tracked down the novel in its abridged form and read it, marveling at just how raw the book was for a mass-market item of its time, and determined to find the uncut version just for the sake of comparison. Thanks to eBay I recently acquired a first edition hardcover of MANDINGO and am in the process of reading it from start to finish with the intent of analyzing it both as a book and as a statement about the dehumanizing aspects of slavery. The novel runs for fifty chapters but as previously stated the unabridged version tends to ramble, so I intend to review the book in sections since sequences that cover twenty-four hours of time can go on for as many as six chapters. So when next I write on this, I will cover chapters one through five, in which we meet the Maxwells and their supporting cast of (mostly) adoring slaves.
Since blacks in America were brought here very much against their will and subjected to every form of degradation the human mind could conceive, slavery remains a hot button issue and one that touches very raw nerves when discussed in any format. Many pop culture analysts will tell you that the first major work to really present the myriad horrors of slavery in realistic and uncomfortable detail would be Alex Haley's multi-generational saga ROOTS, and more importantly its 1977 television dramatization; the TV miniseries hit the airwaves like a blowtorch to the stomach and forced white viewers to see the torture, mutilation, rape, forced separation of families and other such details of the human chattel system that fantasies like GONE WITH THE WIND gloss over to an alarming degree. Not only did it shake up adults across the nation, but it was also the first time that most non-black American kids really understood why slavery was an unmitigated evil that was inadequately explained in the woefully skewed history schoolbooks of the era. By the time the second episode aired, I had many of my classmates come up to me apologizing for atrocities committed by their ancestors some three hundred years past. Needless to say, that shit got old fast, but it was a strange thing to witness.
The impact of ROOTS was and is undeniable since it is still frequently discussed and referenced today, but for my money it was not the first pop culture hit to unflinchingly detail slavery for a mass audience. My vote for that distinction goes to Kyle Onstott's massive 1957 novel MANDINGO.
First edition cover for MANDINGO, perhaps the worst book cover of all time. Seriously, somebody got paid to produce this!
You have probably heard the name and associate it with lurid interracial shenanigans during the plantation era Old South thanks to the outrageous 1975 movie version, but most people don't know the film was based on a lucrative bestseller that was the literary equivalent to Hiroshima and Nagasaki when it hit in the late 1950's, an era of post-war American prosperity that reveled in the secure knowledge of white superiority in all things and a barely acknowledged awareness of any wrongs committed on the historical road to getting the US to where it was.
MANDINGO was an anti-epic, replete with scalding violence and then-shocking interracial sex - or rape, in most instances - peopled with characters that ranged from the pitiful and obsequious to the downright reprehensible. The core of the story centers on the daily goings-on at the Falconhurst plantation, an establishment for breeding and selling slaves, and the tawdry intrigues set into motion upon the young master simultaneously acquiring his cousin as his wife, a new “bed wench” slave girl who becomes the real love of his life, and an ultra-studly fighting slave of the title bloodline. None of the characters come off as admirable for a variety of reasons, and the narrative squarely points out that slave-owner, slave-breeder and slave were all victims of the foul system in no uncertain terms. So why has MANDINGO gone on to be universally hailed one of the most infamous and offensive concoctions of the twentieth century?
The blame for that falls largely on the movie, a film released nearly twenty years after the book's publication; despite its documented status as a runaway bestseller at the time, there was absolutely no way that MANDINGO could have been filmed and not seen every single person involved in its translation to the big screen arrested as twisted sadists and pornographers. Even after the advancements of the civil rights movement the book was still simply too hot to handle and though there was no screen adaptation there was a flourishing genre of potboiler paperback sequels that cheapened the literary impact of Onstott's original work until the series became sort of bodice-ripper drugstore fiction with as much sex and violence as the law would allow. By the time the feature version of MANDINGO hit screens in 1975 much of its content had become fodder for rip-off novels and porno films, and many people had not read the book in its unabridged form, so much of the character and sociological insight found therein was utterly lost. The film version simplified the complex 659-page source novel to fit within a two hour running time, dumbing it down to nothing more than an overacted, ludicrously-scripted S & M/soft-porn GONE WITH THE WIND parody filled with wall-to-wall nudity, torture, bloody violence, and an overwhelming blast of unbelievable bad taste. I personally relish the film for its balls-out insanity and tastelessness, parts of which convulse me with laughter every time I sit through it, and in my opinion it remains the single most offensive film ever released by a major motion picture studio. And there is absolutely no fucking way that film could have been made today without riots breaking out in the streets. Believe that, Jack!
Sadly, the film has tarnished the considerable merit and bravery found in the novel, a book that to the best of my knowledge is out of print today, and what stands amid the rubble is perhaps one of the most misunderstood books in all of American literature. Most people have never read it, and if they have they've only seen the abridged version - admittedly, Onstott's uncut version is a trifle unnecessarily long-winded - and read it only to glean what thrills can be had for those who get off on misery and master/slave sex fantasies.
After seeing the movie during the late-1980's I tracked down the novel in its abridged form and read it, marveling at just how raw the book was for a mass-market item of its time, and determined to find the uncut version just for the sake of comparison. Thanks to eBay I recently acquired a first edition hardcover of MANDINGO and am in the process of reading it from start to finish with the intent of analyzing it both as a book and as a statement about the dehumanizing aspects of slavery. The novel runs for fifty chapters but as previously stated the unabridged version tends to ramble, so I intend to review the book in sections since sequences that cover twenty-four hours of time can go on for as many as six chapters. So when next I write on this, I will cover chapters one through five, in which we meet the Maxwells and their supporting cast of (mostly) adoring slaves.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
BARTERIN' IN BROOKLYN
Last night I wandered out among the slowly melting glaciers festooning the Brooklyn streets and made my way to Spanish convenience store/meat market supreme Jany's in search of a bar of soap and some roast pork egg Fu Yung from the Chinese joint next door, and as I approached I saw what was unmistakably a junkie looking for a handout obscuring the entrance. The guy was a tall and scrawny early-twenty-something who twitched a lot as he nervously declared “Yo, man, I don't wanna axe nobody for no money an' shit; I just wanchoo ta buy me suntinta eat. I just got outta prison, yo…” He grinned and held out a hand, but I told him that I was broke and unemployed too, so no. He cursed and let me pass.
When I headed next door to the Chinese takeout joint I was surprised to see that the beggar was nowhere in sight and I breathed a sigh of relief. I entered, placed my order and began to read a book that I had to review for Publisher's Weekly when the junkie walked in. He noticed me and knew better than to hit me up for grub, then sidled up to the counter and attempted to look cool, but his disheveled look fooled no one and the cook looked at him with weary disdain in anticipation of the inevitable pitch.
“Yo, nigga, gimme some food, yo!” he said, displaying his apparent inability to distinguish an Asian from a black person. The cook attempted to dismiss him but he persisted and began to whine and plead pathetically, “C'mon, nigga! Gimme some food, yo! I teyya what, I trade you my bike for some food, man!” Before the cook could say anything the guy shot out of the storefront and quickly returned with a rusty, presumably stolen mountain bike with two flat tires.
He displayed this bit of vehicular refuse as though he were a spokesmodel — no pun intended — at a high-end bike show, attempting to convince the obviously uninterested cook that it was a quality piece of equipment while begging for some rice and chicken. The cook appraised the bicycle and offered a trade of a quart of chicken fried rice for the item when another black customer walked in.
The junkie went into his “I'm outta prison” spiel and found a sympathetic ear in the new customer who handed him five bucks. After the customer picked up his phoned-in order and departed, the cook suggested that the junkie just give him the cash instead of the bike; the junkie pretended that he had no cash, but then admitted that he needed to hold onto his money and the cook would have to take the bike. As this exchange volleyed back and forth another cook emerged from behind the kitchen's impenetrable bank vault-like door and swiftly whisked the feeble bicycle back among the woks and racks of spare ribs for a thorough appraisal.
The junkie attempted to protest, saying that he intended to keep the bike and return with a better one, but the cook wasn't having it. He calmed down the junkie by sending him into the night with an order of chicken fried rice, two fried chicken wings and some beef lo mein — which the beggar insisted was for someone else — with no utensils. Those would cost him cash, said the cook. The junkie just picked up his bag and bailed.
Ah, the barter system, legacy of our pioneering forefathers…
When I headed next door to the Chinese takeout joint I was surprised to see that the beggar was nowhere in sight and I breathed a sigh of relief. I entered, placed my order and began to read a book that I had to review for Publisher's Weekly when the junkie walked in. He noticed me and knew better than to hit me up for grub, then sidled up to the counter and attempted to look cool, but his disheveled look fooled no one and the cook looked at him with weary disdain in anticipation of the inevitable pitch.
“Yo, nigga, gimme some food, yo!” he said, displaying his apparent inability to distinguish an Asian from a black person. The cook attempted to dismiss him but he persisted and began to whine and plead pathetically, “C'mon, nigga! Gimme some food, yo! I teyya what, I trade you my bike for some food, man!” Before the cook could say anything the guy shot out of the storefront and quickly returned with a rusty, presumably stolen mountain bike with two flat tires.
He displayed this bit of vehicular refuse as though he were a spokesmodel — no pun intended — at a high-end bike show, attempting to convince the obviously uninterested cook that it was a quality piece of equipment while begging for some rice and chicken. The cook appraised the bicycle and offered a trade of a quart of chicken fried rice for the item when another black customer walked in.
The junkie went into his “I'm outta prison” spiel and found a sympathetic ear in the new customer who handed him five bucks. After the customer picked up his phoned-in order and departed, the cook suggested that the junkie just give him the cash instead of the bike; the junkie pretended that he had no cash, but then admitted that he needed to hold onto his money and the cook would have to take the bike. As this exchange volleyed back and forth another cook emerged from behind the kitchen's impenetrable bank vault-like door and swiftly whisked the feeble bicycle back among the woks and racks of spare ribs for a thorough appraisal.
The junkie attempted to protest, saying that he intended to keep the bike and return with a better one, but the cook wasn't having it. He calmed down the junkie by sending him into the night with an order of chicken fried rice, two fried chicken wings and some beef lo mein — which the beggar insisted was for someone else — with no utensils. Those would cost him cash, said the cook. The junkie just picked up his bag and bailed.
Ah, the barter system, legacy of our pioneering forefathers…
AOL CAN LICK MY FUCKING NUTSACK
As you may have gathered from the title of this entry I am utterly fed up with America Online and after almost two years I have parted ways with the worthless motherfucker.
During my time at the DC Comics gulag, the parent company - namely Time/Warner - merged with AOL and the company promptly shifted their email service to that of their new corporate bedmate. Presently it became apparent that the wares of the new partner were lousy with service problems, and just as quickly as we got AOL we kicked the sorry sack bastard to the curb in favor of another service. What does it tell you when the company that merged with AOL doesn't even use their own system? And wouldn't you think I'd be smart enough not to use it when I activated my internet service at home? Well, guess again.
After I got let go from DC I received one of those AOL startup plan discs that offered me three free months of service so I figured I'd use it since it was free and eventually move on to something more efficient, such as sticking my head out of the window and shouting into the ether for whomever I wished to contact. But, as these things often go, I got lazy and just left it as it was despite a high number of shoddy service incidents during my daily search for work, loose women and intoxicants.
What finally drove me to remove AOL from my list of stress-inducers was the fact that my man in England, Chris Weston, kept attempting to send me files of his stunning artwork and any stuff that he thought I might find interesting and those documents were endlessly fucked up by AOL and would open only as a display of cyber-code gibberish. At the recommendation of computer whiz and old college pal Smoky I switched to Earthlink and found myself quite pleased since it is hella cheaper and eleventy-jillion times more efficient than AO-Hell.
Then came the night when I called the bane of my internet existence and declared my intention to cancel my service; this statement was met with one of those fucking foreign outsourced “customer service” drones who would not listen to what I had to say and attempted at all costs to keep me on AOL. After being asked over and over why I was canceling my service and hearing me give the same answers each time, the unwelcome Hadji repeatedly pointed out how often I used the system and how she was willing to lower the monthly cost. At that point I started screaming like the crazed, scary Negro that I can occasionally be: “LISTEN TO ME, GOD DAMN IT! I HAVE TOLD YOU TWENTY MOTHERFUCKING TIMES THAT I WANT TO CANCEL MY SERVICE AND I AM ABSOLUTELY FUCKING TIRED OF TELLING YOU THAT! I WANT TO BE OVER AND DONE WITH THIS FUCKING AOL BULLSHIT RIGHT FUCKING NOW! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, YOU STUPID BITCH?!!!?”
Finally having gotten my point across, I was redirected to the standard “sorry to lose you” recording and told that my service will terminate at the beginning of the next billing cycle, in other words in four days. Then I was told that they hoped I would change my mind and return to their fold in the future.
Well let me tell you, that has all the likelihood of happening as that of a burning and naked Jesus Christ jumping out of my distended browneye and fucking the nearest parking meter with his six-foot, turgid heliotrope and puce tallywhacker.
Trust me, ass-fuck your own grandmother as she undergoes kidney dialysis before signing up with AOL, dear readers. That experience would be far less scarring.
During my time at the DC Comics gulag, the parent company - namely Time/Warner - merged with AOL and the company promptly shifted their email service to that of their new corporate bedmate. Presently it became apparent that the wares of the new partner were lousy with service problems, and just as quickly as we got AOL we kicked the sorry sack bastard to the curb in favor of another service. What does it tell you when the company that merged with AOL doesn't even use their own system? And wouldn't you think I'd be smart enough not to use it when I activated my internet service at home? Well, guess again.
After I got let go from DC I received one of those AOL startup plan discs that offered me three free months of service so I figured I'd use it since it was free and eventually move on to something more efficient, such as sticking my head out of the window and shouting into the ether for whomever I wished to contact. But, as these things often go, I got lazy and just left it as it was despite a high number of shoddy service incidents during my daily search for work, loose women and intoxicants.
What finally drove me to remove AOL from my list of stress-inducers was the fact that my man in England, Chris Weston, kept attempting to send me files of his stunning artwork and any stuff that he thought I might find interesting and those documents were endlessly fucked up by AOL and would open only as a display of cyber-code gibberish. At the recommendation of computer whiz and old college pal Smoky I switched to Earthlink and found myself quite pleased since it is hella cheaper and eleventy-jillion times more efficient than AO-Hell.
Then came the night when I called the bane of my internet existence and declared my intention to cancel my service; this statement was met with one of those fucking foreign outsourced “customer service” drones who would not listen to what I had to say and attempted at all costs to keep me on AOL. After being asked over and over why I was canceling my service and hearing me give the same answers each time, the unwelcome Hadji repeatedly pointed out how often I used the system and how she was willing to lower the monthly cost. At that point I started screaming like the crazed, scary Negro that I can occasionally be: “LISTEN TO ME, GOD DAMN IT! I HAVE TOLD YOU TWENTY MOTHERFUCKING TIMES THAT I WANT TO CANCEL MY SERVICE AND I AM ABSOLUTELY FUCKING TIRED OF TELLING YOU THAT! I WANT TO BE OVER AND DONE WITH THIS FUCKING AOL BULLSHIT RIGHT FUCKING NOW! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, YOU STUPID BITCH?!!!?”
Finally having gotten my point across, I was redirected to the standard “sorry to lose you” recording and told that my service will terminate at the beginning of the next billing cycle, in other words in four days. Then I was told that they hoped I would change my mind and return to their fold in the future.
Well let me tell you, that has all the likelihood of happening as that of a burning and naked Jesus Christ jumping out of my distended browneye and fucking the nearest parking meter with his six-foot, turgid heliotrope and puce tallywhacker.
Trust me, ass-fuck your own grandmother as she undergoes kidney dialysis before signing up with AOL, dear readers. That experience would be far less scarring.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BON YOYAGE
Yesterday was the birthday of my favorite martial arts movie star, namely Shinichi "Sonny" Chiba and he is now 66 years old. Hooray and long life, ya bad muthafukka!
And on the same day Johnny Carson died at the age of 79. Now I did not personally hate the guy as a human being since I didn't know him, but I couldn't stand that smarmy schtickfest that was "The Tonight Show" during his overlong hosting stint; that show was the slowly-dying last gasp of the Rat Pack brand of alleged coolness and so-called humor that I absolutely abhor, and as a result I tend to think of Carson as the Jim Jones of of late night teevee since he was the grand poobah of a cathode ray cult that willingly laughed along with every stale rejoinder that issued forth from his snarky gob. Godd riddance to a for-the-most-part enemy of quality comedy, sez I. If only my voodoo powers were strong enough to resurrect Jack Paar...
And on the same day Johnny Carson died at the age of 79. Now I did not personally hate the guy as a human being since I didn't know him, but I couldn't stand that smarmy schtickfest that was "The Tonight Show" during his overlong hosting stint; that show was the slowly-dying last gasp of the Rat Pack brand of alleged coolness and so-called humor that I absolutely abhor, and as a result I tend to think of Carson as the Jim Jones of of late night teevee since he was the grand poobah of a cathode ray cult that willingly laughed along with every stale rejoinder that issued forth from his snarky gob. Godd riddance to a for-the-most-part enemy of quality comedy, sez I. If only my voodoo powers were strong enough to resurrect Jack Paar...
Thursday, January 20, 2005
STICKER SHOCK AND FOOD POISONING: MOM'S 72nd BIRTHDAY DINNER AT WESTPORT'S BOMBAY GRILL
It is just past 11:30 PM on Thursday night and today is my mom's 72nd birthday. I came home to Westport yesterday and had a good time until we went to her favorite restaurant for dinner, the usually appealing Bombay Grill.
Whenever I have gone there previously it has been during their buffet lunch, which is pretty tasty and affordable, but we missed lunch hours and had to return at 5PM for the dinner menu, a menu which jacks up the price tag to an alarming degree. Now I eat a lot of Indian food in NYC, and one thing that any afficianado of such fare in the Big Apple can tell you is that the shit should be inexpensive; in Westport an order of chicken tikka masala will set you back by $16.95. Yet I didn't squawk since it was my mom's birthday dinner and I wanted it to be nice.
That plan quickly went south as our meal arrived:a sub-par mulligatawny soup (usually my barometer for a decent Indian joint; if the mulligatawny ain't good I will walk and never return), oversized and greasy poori (that airy inflated bread), rogan josh that appeared to be assembled from gray leftovers, meat samosas comprised of 85% potato and 15% meat of undiscernable origin, and chicken tikka masala. My mom happily scarfed down her dishes with gusto, aided and abetted by a palate deadened from her years as a chronic smoker while I forced myself to eat the warmed-over and just not very good "delights" in front of me.
The trouble started with the soup, a near-tasteless gruel that was a disturbing shade of gray/green, and continued with the chicken dish; from the moment that the chicken tikka masala crossed my tongue I knew it just wasn't right, but in case I was wrong I managed a few forkfulls. Soon I stopped eating altogether for the simple reason that the overpriced repast just plain sucked. My mom noticed this and I laughed it off, claiming that my eyes were bigger than my stomach. After much nagging, I finally admitted that I didn't think the food was that good, which lead to her bitching about how I'm just a food snob and that although she didn't eat Indian as often as I did she knew good food when she had it. Biting my tongue so as not to further spoil her birthday, I endured in hunger while she eagerly devoured on.
And then my stomach began to rumble.
I began to sweat a bit and once mom had finished I asked for the check, which of course lead to a litany of bitching about how I was rushing to leave. Upon leaving, I told her of my gastric distress and the need to get home immediately, but she insisted on stopping off at the local Cumberland Farms so she could play the numbers. As she went in for her Lotto tickets my guts began an arabesque of evil and I squirmed in abject agony. Once back in the car, my mother slowly began to realize my situation and hauled ass back to the house. The car had barely come to a halt before I vaulted out and dashed to the toilet.
While my ass reenacted Mt. St. Helen's, I tried to fight off the urge to violently puke all over the place... Once the doo-doo doom ended and I flushed, I had about twenty seconds of respite before I flung myself face-first into the bowl as vomit spewed forth in a technicolor dream. This delicate action went on for a short eternity and when it was finally done I felt like I had run a marathon.
Bleary-eyed and teary, I made my way up to the kitchen where my contrite mother made the situation worse by doing much guilty hand-wringing and being overly-protective (too little too late, beeyotch!). After about twenty minutes I was together enough to fix a couple of Red Hots which I sucked down like a hunger-crazed madman; bear in mind, this was the first food I had eaten in nearly ten hours that hadn't done the stomach trebuchet thing, so it was like ambrosia from Olympus itself.
In a little over twelve hours I will be back in my beloved Brooklyn and all will be well, by which I mean that I will be near friends, women, food of my own making and booze.
Thank Thor.
Whenever I have gone there previously it has been during their buffet lunch, which is pretty tasty and affordable, but we missed lunch hours and had to return at 5PM for the dinner menu, a menu which jacks up the price tag to an alarming degree. Now I eat a lot of Indian food in NYC, and one thing that any afficianado of such fare in the Big Apple can tell you is that the shit should be inexpensive; in Westport an order of chicken tikka masala will set you back by $16.95. Yet I didn't squawk since it was my mom's birthday dinner and I wanted it to be nice.
That plan quickly went south as our meal arrived:a sub-par mulligatawny soup (usually my barometer for a decent Indian joint; if the mulligatawny ain't good I will walk and never return), oversized and greasy poori (that airy inflated bread), rogan josh that appeared to be assembled from gray leftovers, meat samosas comprised of 85% potato and 15% meat of undiscernable origin, and chicken tikka masala. My mom happily scarfed down her dishes with gusto, aided and abetted by a palate deadened from her years as a chronic smoker while I forced myself to eat the warmed-over and just not very good "delights" in front of me.
The trouble started with the soup, a near-tasteless gruel that was a disturbing shade of gray/green, and continued with the chicken dish; from the moment that the chicken tikka masala crossed my tongue I knew it just wasn't right, but in case I was wrong I managed a few forkfulls. Soon I stopped eating altogether for the simple reason that the overpriced repast just plain sucked. My mom noticed this and I laughed it off, claiming that my eyes were bigger than my stomach. After much nagging, I finally admitted that I didn't think the food was that good, which lead to her bitching about how I'm just a food snob and that although she didn't eat Indian as often as I did she knew good food when she had it. Biting my tongue so as not to further spoil her birthday, I endured in hunger while she eagerly devoured on.
And then my stomach began to rumble.
I began to sweat a bit and once mom had finished I asked for the check, which of course lead to a litany of bitching about how I was rushing to leave. Upon leaving, I told her of my gastric distress and the need to get home immediately, but she insisted on stopping off at the local Cumberland Farms so she could play the numbers. As she went in for her Lotto tickets my guts began an arabesque of evil and I squirmed in abject agony. Once back in the car, my mother slowly began to realize my situation and hauled ass back to the house. The car had barely come to a halt before I vaulted out and dashed to the toilet.
While my ass reenacted Mt. St. Helen's, I tried to fight off the urge to violently puke all over the place... Once the doo-doo doom ended and I flushed, I had about twenty seconds of respite before I flung myself face-first into the bowl as vomit spewed forth in a technicolor dream. This delicate action went on for a short eternity and when it was finally done I felt like I had run a marathon.
Bleary-eyed and teary, I made my way up to the kitchen where my contrite mother made the situation worse by doing much guilty hand-wringing and being overly-protective (too little too late, beeyotch!). After about twenty minutes I was together enough to fix a couple of Red Hots which I sucked down like a hunger-crazed madman; bear in mind, this was the first food I had eaten in nearly ten hours that hadn't done the stomach trebuchet thing, so it was like ambrosia from Olympus itself.
In a little over twelve hours I will be back in my beloved Brooklyn and all will be well, by which I mean that I will be near friends, women, food of my own making and booze.
Thank Thor.
IT JUST GOES ON AND ON AND ON AND...
Just when I thought the Christmas TV ads had finally gone bye-bye for the nextten months I witnessed a local Connecticut commercial which featured "Jingle Bells" as the soundtrack and showcased four border collies done up as reindeer. Soon, hopefully soon...
Monday, January 17, 2005
BARRACUDAS, FLIGHTS OF ICARUS AND FREEDOM OF CHOICE: COVER BAND NIGHT AT CRASH MANSION
So for the second time this weekend I found myself out at a bar to listen to a batch of cover tunes.
The sultry Cristina — perhaps the only woman on the planet whose musical tastes jibe fairly closely with my own admittedly…esoteric leanings — filled me in on a live performance by a female-fronted Devo cover band called, appropriately enough, Deva at some bar called Crash Mansion on the Bowery, and I immediately declared my intention of attending with bells on. What more could a twenty-six-year diehard fan of the boys from Akron ask for?
I braved the twenty-some-odd degree weather and made my way via subway to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, once a much-frequented stomping ground during my early days in the Big Apple, and marveled at how much the area had changed in what seemed like the blink of an eye. The once unspeakably seedy Phebe’s had undergone an architectural facelift and now looked suitable for humans, something I never could have imagined back in the early 1990’s, and a part of me felt a wee bit sad to see the disease of Times Square-style prettification spreading to one of Manhattan’s last true outposts for reprobates and binge drinkers. Even the legendary CBGB’s, a historical landmark and gestation hive for the golden age of the NYC punk rock scene three decades ago, was now a lot spiffier, even to the point of having a somewhat upscale “gallery” that flogs merchandise — or as I call it, “crap” — emblazoned with the establishment’s famous logo, now inspiring no sense of musical discovery or interest and sadly lingering like the slowly fading tattoo on the sock-full-of-ballbearings titty of a long-in-the-tooth whore. Nope, it ain’t yer daddy’s Lower East Side no mo’.
I made my way past the usual assortment of derelicts hanging out in front of the local Salvation Army mission and finally located the venue, a place that intrigued me since the entrance lead to a space below street level. After shelling out the eight dollar cover I made my way into what strongly resembled Auric Goldfinger’s rec room; the shockingly new stacked stone/brick walls, low lights, plasma screens that showed the stage, and the huge, well-stocked bar all looked like they sprang straight from the imagination of production designer Ken Adam during his mid-1960’s prime, minus the signature sloping walls, and simply reeked of being far more upscale than what I was used to in the area. That gut feeling proved to be right on the money when I went into the Men’s Room.
The lavatory was pristine enough to allow one to perform the most delicate of brain surgeries on the tile floor, the stalls were spacious and not lacking for stuff with which to claw the doody from one’s ass, and there was even an attendant at the sink. The guy was black, so I used my rarely-played negro pass and told the guy in no uncertain terms that unless he was going to hold my dick while nature took its course there was absolutely no fucking way that I was going to pay for him to turn on the faucet, add soap and hand me a paper towel. He laughed at that and agreed, stating that he was amazed that people actually crossed his palm with coin for things that they had been accomplishing since they were in the early single digits. After we achieved this understanding, every time I went into the can thereafter he would nod at me and smile.
When I entered the main performance space I snagged a seat with a good view of the stage — which would later prove irrelevant — and ordered a beer (a $5.00 Budweiser, placing it in what I consider the expensive category since while Bud may be the purported King of Beers, it is notoriously cheap for good reason); eventually my friends would show up, but until then I guarded the table and its seats like a mother bear protecting her cubs. While the lights were still up I continued to make my way through the Mickey Spillane classic “I, The Jury,” wallowing in its sleazy pulp noir atmosphere that acted as a counter to the establishment’s “I have a trust fund” miasma. Then, just as Mike hammer was fucking the shit out of the nymphomaniac half of a pair of rich identical twins, the lights dimmed and the show commenced.
First on the bill was Randy Newton and Her Majic Men, a band who specialized in covering Heart’s “Dreamboat Annie” album, and thankfully none of their unlistenable 1980’s “comeback” bullshit. The singer was a very attractive blonde who blatantly pleaded with the audience to buy booze for herself and her band mates since they were all single, and then launched into thirty minutes of mediocre renditions of the Wilson sisters’ classics. The bassist was very good and flat out punished his instrument, however the guy not only resembled Jack Black, but he had also clearly watched the DVD of SCHOOL OF ROCK one time too many since his onstage antics aped the portly actor to an embarrassing degree, and whenever he bent over he unintentionally treated the audience to glimpses of his pasty buttcrack. The guitarist was a tall dork who admittedly could play, but he suffered from noodly, wannabe Ygwie Malmsteen fingering, which was wholly inappropriate for the material in question, and he even had the nerve to abruptly halt his six string jackoff fest and cup his ear toward the audience in a self serving and pitifully vain attempt to vamp the audience. During their heyday I was deeply enamored with Heart, or as I affectionately called them “Led Zepplin with more original musical ideas and really nice titties,” so I was probably judging this band a bit unfairly. Then again, maybe not, since I am in no way impressed by vocalists who think they can get by solely on their looks and mistake shrieking for singing, or by the spoiled brat/ please kick my ass monkeyshines of axe-slingers who are way too in love with themselves.
Next up was Baby Maiden, an Iron Maiden cover crew with a scrawny, near-Goth frontwoman on vocals, and they were not only a vast improvement over the previous band, but also an improvement over the actual Iron maiden itself, in my opinion. While I am an unashamed metalhead, I have to confess that Maiden never did much for me thanks to their irritating vocals, especially those of the eternally pretentious Bruce Dickinson, but hearing most of the “Number of the Beast” album performed by a woman who had a voice rich in both power and appeal made me seriously reevaluate the tunes found therein. Her renditions of the title track, “Run to the Hills,” and especially “Flight of Icarus” gave me douche-chills and made me sad that I couldn’t enjoy them again on a CD when I got home. Trust me, folks, if you get a chance to see Baby Maiden you will not be disappointed.
My friends Daniel and Susan showed up during BM’s set and we chatted while waiting for Deva to take the stage. Cristina eventually showed up after spending the previous few hours at her company’s belated office Christmas party, and she held her liquor like the party warrior that she is while looking cute as hell in a skirt that displayed her already enjoyable rear to spectacular effect…
*AHEM*
But I digress.
Deva then trotted onstage and were by far the most visually bizarre act of the night; with the exception of the Booji Boy impersonator who wore the requisite mask and a cheesy sailor suit, all were clad in head-to-toe black gear with the word “Deva” skewed across their chests, replicating the Spudboys’ utilitarian t-shirt uniforms, accented with white Lone Ranger masks and gaucho hats. The singers were two female brunettes, one of whom towered over nearly everyone in the whole joint, and they performed an assortment of Devo classics culled from “Freedom of Choice” and “Devo’s Greatest Hits.” The set was fun for me simply because I love the material, but the vocals were delivered too mechanically to really engage the listener; most casual observers only know Devo from the videos for “Satisfaction” and “Whipit,” but the only one of those songs to feature robotic non-emoting is the former, and if one bothers to delve deeper into the Devo catalog they will find that the musically mechanical/minimalist stuff is almost exclusively restricted to their first album and that the vocals are quite expressive, if a bit on the cool and sardonic side. Deva stuck to the Robby the Robot delivery and it pretty much killed the exuberance found in the songs. That, and the lack of any real stage presence or schtick other than a couple of broads standing around acting like uninspired audioanimatronic manikins.
Despite what may seem to be harsh criticisms, I enjoyed Deva’s set, as did the audience, many of whom drunkenly thrashed about on the dance floor, transported by the strains of white boy dorkdom’s most snarky musical offenders. I signed up on the band’s mailing list and look forward to future shows, by which time Deva will have hopefully learned to generate some palpable stage presence. Face it, if you’re gonna get up on stage and purport to rock, THEN FUCKING ROCK! Goofy costumes and someone else’s music ain’t gonna cut it forever, so they should at least make it as much balls out fun as they can while this lasts. Aah, what am I bitching about? The shit was fun.
The sultry Cristina — perhaps the only woman on the planet whose musical tastes jibe fairly closely with my own admittedly…esoteric leanings — filled me in on a live performance by a female-fronted Devo cover band called, appropriately enough, Deva at some bar called Crash Mansion on the Bowery, and I immediately declared my intention of attending with bells on. What more could a twenty-six-year diehard fan of the boys from Akron ask for?
I braved the twenty-some-odd degree weather and made my way via subway to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, once a much-frequented stomping ground during my early days in the Big Apple, and marveled at how much the area had changed in what seemed like the blink of an eye. The once unspeakably seedy Phebe’s had undergone an architectural facelift and now looked suitable for humans, something I never could have imagined back in the early 1990’s, and a part of me felt a wee bit sad to see the disease of Times Square-style prettification spreading to one of Manhattan’s last true outposts for reprobates and binge drinkers. Even the legendary CBGB’s, a historical landmark and gestation hive for the golden age of the NYC punk rock scene three decades ago, was now a lot spiffier, even to the point of having a somewhat upscale “gallery” that flogs merchandise — or as I call it, “crap” — emblazoned with the establishment’s famous logo, now inspiring no sense of musical discovery or interest and sadly lingering like the slowly fading tattoo on the sock-full-of-ballbearings titty of a long-in-the-tooth whore. Nope, it ain’t yer daddy’s Lower East Side no mo’.
I made my way past the usual assortment of derelicts hanging out in front of the local Salvation Army mission and finally located the venue, a place that intrigued me since the entrance lead to a space below street level. After shelling out the eight dollar cover I made my way into what strongly resembled Auric Goldfinger’s rec room; the shockingly new stacked stone/brick walls, low lights, plasma screens that showed the stage, and the huge, well-stocked bar all looked like they sprang straight from the imagination of production designer Ken Adam during his mid-1960’s prime, minus the signature sloping walls, and simply reeked of being far more upscale than what I was used to in the area. That gut feeling proved to be right on the money when I went into the Men’s Room.
The lavatory was pristine enough to allow one to perform the most delicate of brain surgeries on the tile floor, the stalls were spacious and not lacking for stuff with which to claw the doody from one’s ass, and there was even an attendant at the sink. The guy was black, so I used my rarely-played negro pass and told the guy in no uncertain terms that unless he was going to hold my dick while nature took its course there was absolutely no fucking way that I was going to pay for him to turn on the faucet, add soap and hand me a paper towel. He laughed at that and agreed, stating that he was amazed that people actually crossed his palm with coin for things that they had been accomplishing since they were in the early single digits. After we achieved this understanding, every time I went into the can thereafter he would nod at me and smile.
When I entered the main performance space I snagged a seat with a good view of the stage — which would later prove irrelevant — and ordered a beer (a $5.00 Budweiser, placing it in what I consider the expensive category since while Bud may be the purported King of Beers, it is notoriously cheap for good reason); eventually my friends would show up, but until then I guarded the table and its seats like a mother bear protecting her cubs. While the lights were still up I continued to make my way through the Mickey Spillane classic “I, The Jury,” wallowing in its sleazy pulp noir atmosphere that acted as a counter to the establishment’s “I have a trust fund” miasma. Then, just as Mike hammer was fucking the shit out of the nymphomaniac half of a pair of rich identical twins, the lights dimmed and the show commenced.
First on the bill was Randy Newton and Her Majic Men, a band who specialized in covering Heart’s “Dreamboat Annie” album, and thankfully none of their unlistenable 1980’s “comeback” bullshit. The singer was a very attractive blonde who blatantly pleaded with the audience to buy booze for herself and her band mates since they were all single, and then launched into thirty minutes of mediocre renditions of the Wilson sisters’ classics. The bassist was very good and flat out punished his instrument, however the guy not only resembled Jack Black, but he had also clearly watched the DVD of SCHOOL OF ROCK one time too many since his onstage antics aped the portly actor to an embarrassing degree, and whenever he bent over he unintentionally treated the audience to glimpses of his pasty buttcrack. The guitarist was a tall dork who admittedly could play, but he suffered from noodly, wannabe Ygwie Malmsteen fingering, which was wholly inappropriate for the material in question, and he even had the nerve to abruptly halt his six string jackoff fest and cup his ear toward the audience in a self serving and pitifully vain attempt to vamp the audience. During their heyday I was deeply enamored with Heart, or as I affectionately called them “Led Zepplin with more original musical ideas and really nice titties,” so I was probably judging this band a bit unfairly. Then again, maybe not, since I am in no way impressed by vocalists who think they can get by solely on their looks and mistake shrieking for singing, or by the spoiled brat/ please kick my ass monkeyshines of axe-slingers who are way too in love with themselves.
Next up was Baby Maiden, an Iron Maiden cover crew with a scrawny, near-Goth frontwoman on vocals, and they were not only a vast improvement over the previous band, but also an improvement over the actual Iron maiden itself, in my opinion. While I am an unashamed metalhead, I have to confess that Maiden never did much for me thanks to their irritating vocals, especially those of the eternally pretentious Bruce Dickinson, but hearing most of the “Number of the Beast” album performed by a woman who had a voice rich in both power and appeal made me seriously reevaluate the tunes found therein. Her renditions of the title track, “Run to the Hills,” and especially “Flight of Icarus” gave me douche-chills and made me sad that I couldn’t enjoy them again on a CD when I got home. Trust me, folks, if you get a chance to see Baby Maiden you will not be disappointed.
My friends Daniel and Susan showed up during BM’s set and we chatted while waiting for Deva to take the stage. Cristina eventually showed up after spending the previous few hours at her company’s belated office Christmas party, and she held her liquor like the party warrior that she is while looking cute as hell in a skirt that displayed her already enjoyable rear to spectacular effect…
*AHEM*
But I digress.
Deva then trotted onstage and were by far the most visually bizarre act of the night; with the exception of the Booji Boy impersonator who wore the requisite mask and a cheesy sailor suit, all were clad in head-to-toe black gear with the word “Deva” skewed across their chests, replicating the Spudboys’ utilitarian t-shirt uniforms, accented with white Lone Ranger masks and gaucho hats. The singers were two female brunettes, one of whom towered over nearly everyone in the whole joint, and they performed an assortment of Devo classics culled from “Freedom of Choice” and “Devo’s Greatest Hits.” The set was fun for me simply because I love the material, but the vocals were delivered too mechanically to really engage the listener; most casual observers only know Devo from the videos for “Satisfaction” and “Whipit,” but the only one of those songs to feature robotic non-emoting is the former, and if one bothers to delve deeper into the Devo catalog they will find that the musically mechanical/minimalist stuff is almost exclusively restricted to their first album and that the vocals are quite expressive, if a bit on the cool and sardonic side. Deva stuck to the Robby the Robot delivery and it pretty much killed the exuberance found in the songs. That, and the lack of any real stage presence or schtick other than a couple of broads standing around acting like uninspired audioanimatronic manikins.
Despite what may seem to be harsh criticisms, I enjoyed Deva’s set, as did the audience, many of whom drunkenly thrashed about on the dance floor, transported by the strains of white boy dorkdom’s most snarky musical offenders. I signed up on the band’s mailing list and look forward to future shows, by which time Deva will have hopefully learned to generate some palpable stage presence. Face it, if you’re gonna get up on stage and purport to rock, THEN FUCKING ROCK! Goofy costumes and someone else’s music ain’t gonna cut it forever, so they should at least make it as much balls out fun as they can while this lasts. Aah, what am I bitching about? The shit was fun.
A SHORT TASTE OF MANHATTAN’S SIDEWALK SLEAZE
While walking down 14th Street on Saturday I passed a thirty-something black dude who was manning one of the city’s donation posts for the homeless and witnessed the following smooth move directed toward a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old.
BLACK DUDE (to teenage girl): Girl! I said GIRL!!! Yeah, YOU! When you eighteen, IT’S ON!!!
You may now shudder as the creep factor engulfs your very soul.
BLACK DUDE (to teenage girl): Girl! I said GIRL!!! Yeah, YOU! When you eighteen, IT’S ON!!!
You may now shudder as the creep factor engulfs your very soul.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
BREWS, BLUES, GOOD NEWS AND SPEWS: LIVE AT THE CUTTING ROOM
My pals Susan and Daniel invited me and many of the usual suspects to a live performance by their loosely-knit band at the Cutting Room on 24th Street in Manhattan, and wanting to support the creative endeavors of my friends I showed up with bells on.
I expected the sort of hole-in-the-wall dive that my friends and I usually frequent, but to my horror the Cutting Room is yet another of the many waaaaaay overpriced watering holes that infest the Big Apple; a tip seeking attendant in the pissoir, bottled beers started at $6.00 and their jaw-dropping menu included a green salad for $9.95 and a bacon cheeseburger that went for $16.50 (which people actually paid!!!). My pal Chris and I both ordered beers that we made last for as long as humanly possible and waited for my crew to show up. Presently Susan arrived, followed shortly by her man Daniel (a lucky bastard, who’s smart enough to know it), and the rest of the evening’s attendees whom I give a shit about began to trickle in; Ginna and Lexi Robertson (or as I call them “the cute Romulan Chicks” thanks to their short hair and somewhat exotic eyes), the ever ebullient Carl (whom I later had a great time hanging out with until he just up and disappeared), tiny wee Laurie (exhausted after a week of endless business-related plane-hopping), Christopher Meloni look-alike Mick, Martin (a dead ringer for Stork from “Animal House”) and the delectable Lia the Leather Kitty with a male friend in tow. With a cast like that, fun was guaranteed despite the legal highway robbery being committed via the bar/menu/bathroom.
The band took the stage at 7PM with an assortment of cover tunes, most perpetrated by vocalists who had absolutely no business in front of a live microphone, but those wielding instruments almost made those in the audience forget about the caterwaulings that plagued our ears. Some very good guitar work from our Daniel and others graced the stage and this hulking Italian dude who looked like an accountant let loose with some hearty blues yowls, but the true highlights of the night were:
1. Some rather drunk motherfucker named Bryan who looked like a telepod experiment involving Mike Meyers and Stephen King that went savagely wrong belting out a rendition of Prince’s “Purple Rain” that had my mouth hanging wide open for most of his performance. This virtuoso later returned with the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated” and closed the show with U2’s “I Will Follow.” This guy I would see again in a heartbeat.
2. Our Susan wielding some very solid bass, which was a lot of fun to witness after years of hearing her plunk and thub away on her couch and finally getting to see her prove once again that are few things in this world hotter than a tall, cute bass-playing chick letting loose some crushing bottom. And as if that wasn’t enough of a revelation, she completely stole the show with a killer rendition of the German language version of Nena’s “99 Luftballoons.” The crowd totally went bullmoose apefuck for her, and as she left the stage a far less talented chanteuse had the nerve to (allegedly) kiddingly chide the audience for making a big deal out of a first time singer like Susan rather than her. Sour grapes much, beeeeyotch?
On an irritating note, I went to use the can and upon returning I was just about to take my seat when a blonde who had been onstage earlier flagged my attention and said, “Can you get me a chardonnay?” I looked at her, confused, and said, “Excuse me?” She looked at me again and repeated, “Can you get me a chardonnay? A CHARDONNAY???” while miming kicking back a wine glass. Before the words came out of my mouth, her companion looked at her and said “Uh, he doesn’t work here,” which should have been readily apparent since I was sporting a black t-shirt with Sonny “The Street Fighter” Chiba’s screaming mug on it surmounted with huge white letters that read “BADAZZ MOFO.” The mortified blonde apologized profusely and began to grill me on how I knew Susan in a vain attempt to deflect my attention from her faux pas, so in keeping with the goodwill of the evening I let her slide.
The evening finally wound down with the drunk motherfucker doing an encore of “Purple Rain” and our little crew casting itself to the four winds, some going home and others heading out for further liquor-fueled adventures in the city that never sleeps. Since I was in no way going to pay the exorbitant prices for food at the Cutting Room, I held out until we left and made my way to the Wendy’s on 23rd Street, where I scarfed down a burger and then made my way to the Brooklyn-bound “R” train.
One stop after I got on, the doors opened at Union Square and an Asian kid of perhaps eighteen stumbled into the car, sat down next to me and blearily eyed the subway map. The kid reeked like a fucking distillery — along with a sickening redolence of bad fried fish — and he immediately passed out, slowly nodding and falling over on top of me, so I moved to a seat six feet away from him. It’s times like this when I realize that the subway survival skills that I earned during the ‘90’s and my then almost nightly barhopping have not gone rusty, and I listened when the kid’s presence set off my internal alarm bells: just after I moved, the kid began to cough and in short order he blew chunder all over himself and two fortunately empty seats, and then he passed out again, nearly landing face-first in the results of his own puke-alanche. Needless to say, that display cleared much of the car when the doors opened at the next stop, and I flew from the train with a speed and gazelle-like grace that belied my size.
Not a bad Friday night, if I do say so myself!
I expected the sort of hole-in-the-wall dive that my friends and I usually frequent, but to my horror the Cutting Room is yet another of the many waaaaaay overpriced watering holes that infest the Big Apple; a tip seeking attendant in the pissoir, bottled beers started at $6.00 and their jaw-dropping menu included a green salad for $9.95 and a bacon cheeseburger that went for $16.50 (which people actually paid!!!). My pal Chris and I both ordered beers that we made last for as long as humanly possible and waited for my crew to show up. Presently Susan arrived, followed shortly by her man Daniel (a lucky bastard, who’s smart enough to know it), and the rest of the evening’s attendees whom I give a shit about began to trickle in; Ginna and Lexi Robertson (or as I call them “the cute Romulan Chicks” thanks to their short hair and somewhat exotic eyes), the ever ebullient Carl (whom I later had a great time hanging out with until he just up and disappeared), tiny wee Laurie (exhausted after a week of endless business-related plane-hopping), Christopher Meloni look-alike Mick, Martin (a dead ringer for Stork from “Animal House”) and the delectable Lia the Leather Kitty with a male friend in tow. With a cast like that, fun was guaranteed despite the legal highway robbery being committed via the bar/menu/bathroom.
The band took the stage at 7PM with an assortment of cover tunes, most perpetrated by vocalists who had absolutely no business in front of a live microphone, but those wielding instruments almost made those in the audience forget about the caterwaulings that plagued our ears. Some very good guitar work from our Daniel and others graced the stage and this hulking Italian dude who looked like an accountant let loose with some hearty blues yowls, but the true highlights of the night were:
1. Some rather drunk motherfucker named Bryan who looked like a telepod experiment involving Mike Meyers and Stephen King that went savagely wrong belting out a rendition of Prince’s “Purple Rain” that had my mouth hanging wide open for most of his performance. This virtuoso later returned with the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated” and closed the show with U2’s “I Will Follow.” This guy I would see again in a heartbeat.
2. Our Susan wielding some very solid bass, which was a lot of fun to witness after years of hearing her plunk and thub away on her couch and finally getting to see her prove once again that are few things in this world hotter than a tall, cute bass-playing chick letting loose some crushing bottom. And as if that wasn’t enough of a revelation, she completely stole the show with a killer rendition of the German language version of Nena’s “99 Luftballoons.” The crowd totally went bullmoose apefuck for her, and as she left the stage a far less talented chanteuse had the nerve to (allegedly) kiddingly chide the audience for making a big deal out of a first time singer like Susan rather than her. Sour grapes much, beeeeyotch?
On an irritating note, I went to use the can and upon returning I was just about to take my seat when a blonde who had been onstage earlier flagged my attention and said, “Can you get me a chardonnay?” I looked at her, confused, and said, “Excuse me?” She looked at me again and repeated, “Can you get me a chardonnay? A CHARDONNAY???” while miming kicking back a wine glass. Before the words came out of my mouth, her companion looked at her and said “Uh, he doesn’t work here,” which should have been readily apparent since I was sporting a black t-shirt with Sonny “The Street Fighter” Chiba’s screaming mug on it surmounted with huge white letters that read “BADAZZ MOFO.” The mortified blonde apologized profusely and began to grill me on how I knew Susan in a vain attempt to deflect my attention from her faux pas, so in keeping with the goodwill of the evening I let her slide.
The evening finally wound down with the drunk motherfucker doing an encore of “Purple Rain” and our little crew casting itself to the four winds, some going home and others heading out for further liquor-fueled adventures in the city that never sleeps. Since I was in no way going to pay the exorbitant prices for food at the Cutting Room, I held out until we left and made my way to the Wendy’s on 23rd Street, where I scarfed down a burger and then made my way to the Brooklyn-bound “R” train.
One stop after I got on, the doors opened at Union Square and an Asian kid of perhaps eighteen stumbled into the car, sat down next to me and blearily eyed the subway map. The kid reeked like a fucking distillery — along with a sickening redolence of bad fried fish — and he immediately passed out, slowly nodding and falling over on top of me, so I moved to a seat six feet away from him. It’s times like this when I realize that the subway survival skills that I earned during the ‘90’s and my then almost nightly barhopping have not gone rusty, and I listened when the kid’s presence set off my internal alarm bells: just after I moved, the kid began to cough and in short order he blew chunder all over himself and two fortunately empty seats, and then he passed out again, nearly landing face-first in the results of his own puke-alanche. Needless to say, that display cleared much of the car when the doors opened at the next stop, and I flew from the train with a speed and gazelle-like grace that belied my size.
Not a bad Friday night, if I do say so myself!
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