the sticking point

Pot Kettle Black

In the gym yesterday, one locker's door was dangling off the top row like a broken shutter. I think it was attached by just a couple screws in the bottom hinge. I was gathering up my gear and putting my jacket on to leave when one of the employees walked over to the broken locker. He lifted the door up and pressed it shut against the back housing of the locker units. Fixed.

Except not fixed.

I wanted to say something. I wanted to say, "Hey, man, where's your common sense? Why not use the five or six active cells in your walnut-sized dollop of ectoplasmic paté that impersonates a human brain, and think about the next poor fucker who opens that locker. With no top hinge on there, what do you reckon is going to happen? Won't that three-foot high door swing down and split open the guy's skull like a lobster tail? What the hell?! That's not fixed, you douchepacker. It's half-cocked and loaded!"

I wanted to. I didn't.

Because something happened recently. Nothing tragic, just this: My son H, who will be 5 in a few months, has picked up an unkind word from a schoolmate. "Stupid." For about a week or so, he's been trying it out at home, and getting an earful of fatherly advice every time. He understands. He gets it. It's turned into an experiment for him at this point. He and I will be having a conversation about something and he'll interrupt himself to say, "I'm going to say... 'stupid.'" He'll raise an eyebrow and look at me to note the reaction this catalyst sparks from me.

"Be careful with that word, H. Don't get into trouble...."

He'll say the word and I'll tell him again that he shouldn't call people stupid. As I said, he knows it now. I think the novelty of seeing me react so seriously to the first few times he said it ("My teacher is stupid," and a phone message to his cousin that ended, "Happy birthday, stupid") caught him off guard.

"Listen to me, H. Saying things like that is like hitting someone... with words." It's a clear lesson for what is, perhaps, the worst thing he's done. But every time I discuss it with him, I feel like a fraud. I mean, his dad is a cynical and sarcastic misanthrope with a multi-functional, 24/7 insult factory operating within his cerebrum. The black and white lessons of childhood frustrate me. I can't wait until he can comprehend nuance. Once he's old enough to understand shades of grey and the subtle variations in human comportment, I can tell him what I really want to tell him. I can look him in the eyes and say it's OK to call 'em as he sees 'em. But leave words like "stupid" to the... stupid, and tongue-strafe them with style.

Years later, he and his brother will be taking me out to walk the grounds of my "living facility," when a careless attendant hurriedly slams a door in my face. My waning lucidity will allow me to witness my life's reward: hearing H snap, "Hey knuckle-fucker, you just let the door hit my father! Did you not see us here, you swag-bellied assclown?"

* * *

And as long as I'm here, there's something else. New rule: If you want to call another human being "a cancer," you yourself must have cancer. Outside of oncologists, there is apparently no group with more practical experience spotting a cancer than the professional baseball player. Once or twice per season, some overpaid hayseed identifies a former teammate as having been "a cancer in the clubhouse." Baseball's opening day for diagnoses came earlier this week when Jonathan Papelbon biopsied former Red Sox teammate Manny Ramirez, and told Esquire, "We weren't afraid to get rid of [Ramirez]. It's like cancer. That's what he was. Cancer. He had to go."

Cancer is the Adolf Hitler of cellular diseases; and it's wise not to compare anybody to either.

I can't believe the New York tabloids didn't jump at the chance for a "PAP SMEARS MANNY" headline.

Of Thee I Swing

Now that Junior's back with the Mariners, aren't we all hoping it means a long-awaited creative reunion with Kid Sensation? It's been 16 years since Power of Rhyme came out. Bring it, Seatown!

Griffey's got a nice flow on the mic, but he sounds like he's holding a toothpick in his mouth. Here's just a little bit of a taste of the bass for you.

Download "The Way I Swing (Ken Griffey, Jr.)" by Kid Sensation

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Barbra from the album Teen City E.P. 12" by Modernettes

Scumdog With Éclair

When SO'C Furthest Point sent me the link to a story about an NYC baker's newest creations, my first two reactions were...

"Holy. Shit."
"What the fuck?!"

Here's the heart of the matter...

Freedom of expression is a powerful American right. But our freedom of choice wields every bit as much heft. The current economy is too porous, too fragile to put money in this guy's cash register while on every New York City block is a bakery/coffee shop without overtly racist management and inventory. This pus-oozing, putrescent man-mountain of clotted cream and human waste can be put out of business before Mother's Day '09. Freedom of choice has an amazing way of regulating the right and the dead wrong.

I'm a white guy, I don't deny that. In fact, I'm pretty up-front about it. When a co-worker IMs to say we'll meet for lunch in 15 minutes, I type "Okie dokie." And when the double-protein smoothie costs four dollars and twenty-six cents, I put down a five and then say, "Wait, I have a penny." I'm embarrassed to tell you that when the customer in that story says the baker told her Obama's "following in the same path of Abraham Lincoln; he will get his," it went right over my head. Missed the point completely. I watched the clip a second time before I realized what not even the reporter wants to give voice to: the baker affirms Obama will be assassinated.

Whoa.

Tough first week, Mr. President, huh? The guy who held the job before you left with blood on his hands and the scent of our money in his farts, and not a whisper was heard about even, say... indictments. No one told him, "Hey, don't leave town." Instead, he got a free flight to Texas and a victor's welcome in Waco.

But I digress. (And with a project deadline looming at 1800 hours, I can't fucking digress.)

Progressive, liberal, non-racist, fair, honest, decent people like you and me and the children we raise were in the passenger seat for too long. Now we have a chance to drive this thing. We can't nod off at the wheel.

I should say it more: Thanks for coming here and reading this stuff I write. I appreciate all your comments and emails. Have a good weekend. Take care.

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On iTunes right now: Ballroom Blitz from the album Machine Gun Etiquette [2004 Expanded] by Damned, The

[posted with ecto]

Ron Asheton 1948-2009

The Stooges have released the following statement via IggyPop.com:

We are shocked and shaken by the news of Ron’s death. He was a great friend, brother, musician, trooper. Irreplaceable. He will be missed.

For all that knew him behind the façade of Mr Cool & Quirky, he was a kind-hearted, genuine, warm person who always believed that people meant well even if they did not.

As a musician Ron was The Guitar God, idol to follow and inspire others. That is how he will be remembered by people who had a great pleasure to work with him, learn from him and share good and bad times with him.

Iggy, Scott, Steve, Mike and Crew

-----------------------------------------

I am in shock. He was my best friend.
Iggy Pop

[posted with ecto]

See How We Are

No matter what you might have heard elsewhere, I am not in Mogadishu providing private security for Somali civilians. I'm still right here. I've been waiting for one or two missions to end, when I'll be able to give The Sticking Point more of my time and keep it active for you. Thanks, as always, for the emails asking if it's coming back. Those of you who wrote and requested mp3 files of the expired Pointcasts learned that I am still very much into sharing great music (and writing endlessly about it).

I don't know if your team won last night, but the way you felt when you woke up this morning was right on the money. This campaign inspired great passion and fire from followers on both sides. I've never seen this level of involvement, this level of interest, from so many people; this new complicity will pay greater benefits to our nation than the result of any single election. When we fix our attention on government and leadership, and what those leaders are (or are not) doing for us, when we hold elected officials feet to the fire with our bullshit detectors aimed at every syllable they utter and every bill they sign... we sculpt America into the country we want it to be.

We did a great job of it throughout this campaign: watching the debates, reading the speech transcripts, pointing out inconsistencies and sourcing facts on our own. We listened to pundits and poured over the op-eds. I spoke to people who'd shamefully admit they haven't read a classic novel or substantive non-fiction in a dozen years, but could parse the nuances out of a candidate's platform like a surgeon.

This week was the big game, but the season doesn't end there. Let's stay primed, focused, and at attention. The Military Commissions Act (which at once torches the Constitution and pisses on the Geneva Conventions) wasn't signed amidst a presidential campaign. It passed while our attention was elsewhere. So, as we are inundated today with well-deserved words like "pride," "unity," and "patriotism," let's stay en pointe and continue the work.

* * * * * *

All I thought I was going to write was: while I'm sure Rev. Jesse Jackson felt sincerely and deeply moved last night, I couldn't help but think his tears were conjured for the camera. Did anyone else see him straining his entire face, squinting, just 30 seconds before the camera found him again -- this time with glistening brooks of tears under each lower lid?

I am thankful that "The First" won the office because he is a fine man and an inspiring, intelligent leader and not because... of... his... race.

* * * * * *

Pointcasts -- and more -- are coming. I'll be back here real soon. In the meantime, enjoy this...
A Change Is Gonna Come - Sam Cooke (mp3)

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Ambulance vs. Ambulance from the album Burn Piano Island, Burn by Blood Brothers, The

Pointcast One: Dry Mouth, Lip Smack and More!

Amtrak / en route to Providence.
Smile, you're traveling! It's Friday, it's the Fourth of July, and that could mean only one thing: the first of the Pointcast things I've been promising since March is here.

What goes up, must come down. I’m proving it today, heading up the eastern seaboard and back down again without so much as time for meal in between.

When I came home from the Yankees game last night I worked on the Pointcast and some other projects, hammering away until past 0300 hrs this morning. I finally got in bed and read the Dean Wareham book for a while, before lights out around 0400. I knew I could sleep in today, maybe as late as 0930, because all I had on the itinerary for this July 4 was to wrap up the last pieces of writing for the song list below, drink some coffee, get a good workout, and then wait for Mrs Sticking Point and the boys to arrive home from their week on Cape Cod. My comet of non-stop work and to-dos and errands would flame out, and I could relax today; well-rested and work completed.

Ha! My feeble "itinerary" is a mere yarn-ball between the giant paws of fate: toyed with, and ultimately swatted under a couch.

The phone woke me up at 0727. It was my wife. Feeling ill and feverish, the 5-hour-plus drive from the Cape (with our two Subaru-monkeys in the backseat) looked unmanageable in the least, unsafe at the worst. She asked, could I at least meet her and the boys in Providence to get them the rest of the way home?

I could, at least, so here I am. Sweaty, tired, and somewhere between Stamford and Bridgeport.

I bought a ticket on the Internets, packed stuff into a bag and hurried out to catch the subway to Penn Station. I had 70 minutes before the ticket, waiting for me somewhere in the cyber kingdom, became non-negotiable and utterly useless. My intensity and nervous froth eased up when I finally sat down on the E train.

It was short-lived comfort. At one stop, still in Queens, a creature boarded my train car. It would take a while before I could discern the lumped, hunched figure as female; what I knew immediately was fear.

It was dressed in a bright white shirt and bright white pants, the cuffs of which bunched up atop a pair of very new, very bright white shoes. Industrial white shoes like ER nurses wear. And, as I said, brand new. On its head was some sort of white cloth, a piece of apparel difficult to identify because the human-like entity was covered entirely with a plastic raincoat. Clear plastic, of course; and thin as Saran Wrap.

It had arrived on the train with two large and over-packed Duane Reade shopping bags that seemed quite heavy, and it stood in the center of the car. Nearly everyone stared warily at this stranger and I was relieved that even a pack of jaded New Yorkers might be as nervous and hyper-vigilant as I.

Nervous. Hyper-vigilant. Because… while this odd passenger stood, hunched over and incessantly adjusting and readjusting its head cloth and plastic hood, I patched together the details and wondered if maybe somebody woke up with Sarin gas attack on his itinerary for this holiday of American independence. The train crawled nearer to the underwater tunnel linking Queens and Manhattan, and I wondered if there were others; what if I looked through the doors and saw cellophane-covered creatures in the train cars ahead and behind? I decided, well -- that would make it time for some go get ‘em. Maybe I could stop something tragic, or diminish the horrendous aftermath, even a little. I conjured the inevitable press conference on the steps of City Hall. “No, no, no; I just did what anyone else would do. But my wife, she’s a hero. If she hadn’t been ill enough to suggest I meet her in Providence… Ha! It was providence! Does anyone else find that ironic? Hel-lo?! Is this on?!”

Idiot funboy can laugh now, but as we left the last subway station before the tunnel, and the featureless figure in white took down her hood to tie the white headscarf more firmly, I got about as fight-or-flight nervous as I’d been since September ’01.

The cult group that carried out the attack in the Tokyo subway was clad all in white and transported the Sarin in bags. They used the tips of umbrellas to puncture the bags and release the poison. There was something about the brand new white shoes keyed me up. They seemed more than just part of a uniform. The white headscarf up top and new white shoes down below lent a ritualized look to the wardrobe.

But. You already know the punch line to all this is that there is no punch line. No soap – radio, as they say. Without incident, the abominable terrorist and I both detrained at 34th Street/Penn and went separate ways.

*** ***

Before we cue the music, here's one quick note to the struggling couple:
I think it is a parental felony to leave your children (one of whom is about 90 days old) in Florida while mommy's in Paris going forth with the Lance Armstrong of Rock and daddy's in the Bronx batting fourth for the New York Mediocritees. But I'm sure you've got it under control.

*** ***

All aboard the kundalini express, here's the all-new Friday 10 Pointcast -- five songs at random, and five songs chosen. Every Friday that I can capably accomplish it, I'll record a podcast with all ten tracks and commentary. You can download it by clicking the link provided. Each 'cast will be available for one week. If you miss one, or discover the site weeks later, write me at TheStickingPoint@gmail.com and I'll get it to you.
UPDATE: The Pointcasts are now available indefinitely.

Your feedback means a lot, so even if you don't share your own Friday 10 in the comments section, let me know you were here and what you think of the music.

Download this week's complete file (which will open in iTunes)
CLICK HERE:
TSP Pointcast 070408

01 Media Blitz - The Germs: From the must-have complete Germs anthology. What a cool place to start these Pointcast things, with "Media Blitz."
By the way, could Pat Smear be the Forrest Gump of punk rock? Befriended Darby Crash and formed the Germs (with original drummer Dottie Danger a.k.a. Belinda Carlisle). Joan Jett produces first album. Crash commits suicide. Smear joins the Adolescents. Leaves Adolescents, is asked to join Red Hot Chili Peppers (1992). Turns down offer. Befriends Courtney Love. Kurt Cobain asks Smear to join Nirvana. First gig with Nirvana is SNL (09.25.93). Cobain commits suicide. Smear joins Foo Fighters. Quits Foo Fighters (1997). Serves as Creative Consultant on the Germs film What We Do Is Secret. Rejoins Foo Fighters as touring guitarist.

02 Ghost Rider - Suicide: Track one, side one from the "oh-you-don't-have-it -- what's-your-problem" debut album. Suicide was part of that great New York No Wave scene in the 70s that included Lydia Lunch, Mars, James Chance, Theoretical Girls, and DNA. Rollins Band once throttled this song; find it on Do It.

03 Freddie Freeloader - Miles Davis. (Kind of Blue): Recorded at Columbia Studio on West 30th in Manhattan. If you look up all the lineups Miles assembled over the decades, it's like a who's who of top-shelf, mind-boggling jazz legends. People write volumes about albums like this, jams like this. They are experts, and I'm just the unwashed zoomtard from Podunk who knows nothing but I sure like them sawngs.
Brief Wynton Kelly writeup here.

04 Dirty Water - Jesus and Mary Chain. (Stoned and Dethroned): I have loved this group from day one, the first time I heard the "Never Understand" single, in 1984. I went certifiably over-the-top apeshit for it, and the unimpeachable Psychocandy album that followed. That year, my friend Liz and I saw them play the Ritz -- the best 30-minute concert I've ever witnessed. And where is that long-rumored JMC box set?

05 Illumination - Rollins Band: From Get Some Go Again, criminally overlooked and underappreciated. (GSGA is right near the very top of my LastFM charts.) Features "On The Day," which I've now listened to a few times a week for several years.

06 Shout Bamalama - Otis Redding with the Pinetoppers: From the Definitive Otis Redding collection, the sound of a man singing his pain away. On "Shout Bamalama" though, his 19-year old voice has twenty-five years of thuggin' in it. A great one from the great one.

The George Carlin piece is from a 1986 HBO special called "Playin' With Your Head." My brother-from-another-mother Neil and I used to watch it several times a month; it was on a well-worn VHS tape that had Animal House on it, too. With my caveman audio gear, I was able to take it from TV to CDR to The Sticking Point.

07 You Want The Candy - The Raveonettes. (Lust Lust Lust): I have three of their disks, but never really paid close attention. A few tracks from this new one put the hooks in me, so maybe I have something to gain by giving their back catalog the time of day.

08 Son - 5'nizza: Pronounced "pyat NITsa." And guess what? Their name means "Friday" in Ukrainian. It's a duo that played together for nearly eight years, broke up in 2007, and of course I only discovered them this past February while trolling mp3 blogs for new sounds. It's about the most fun Eastern European music I've ever heard. The layered vocals are amazing and that guitar... are you kidding me?!
Paying it forward: I bumped into this band on the redoubtable Aurgasm weblog. If you go to this well-informed site, you'll leave with a few new favorite songs.

09 Dethbryte - Dax Riggs. (We Sing of Only Blood or Love): "The fragile wave of days / They break against the shore / Of all these years." I'm going to play a lot of Riggs on these Pointcasts, because you have to hear it. Mrs Sticking Point gave it to me. A great album... but you knew I was going to say that.

• Check out the "Dethbryte" video here.
• Dax performs a swamp-ified version of the Misfits' "Skulls" here.

10 Plastika - Idoli: Belgrade Rock City! It's been hard to find info on this band, but I sometimes see their name published as "VIS Idoli." One thing I did learn, is that we all missed out on quite a scene in the former constituent republics of Yugolslavia. I mean it. The Killed By 7 Inch collection is on Redrum Records, the label that releases the endless, rewarding Killed By Death series of obscure punk. You can download the KB7I collection for your own self HERE.

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Now, do it yourself. Put your digital jukebox or mp3 player on "shuffle all songs," and let me know the first 10 tracks out the chute.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Constant Pain from the album Corpse Love - The First Year by Pussy Galore

"I think it's the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn, and cross it deliberately."

Shit.

Piss.

Fuck.

Cunt.

Cocksucker.

Motherfucker.

Tits.

School Tase

We've all seen video of 21-year old Andrew Meyer getting Tasered by campus police at a John Kerry event in Florida this week. Everyone's got an opinion on this one, obviously. To be fair, Meyer cut the line then refused to get off the mic. He's possessed of a damn annoying voice and comes off more cheeky than serious. Really, he seems the kind of irritating asscock we all avoided in college. He did have a legitimate question, though, even if it was delivered in a manner more reminiscent of Gus, the unhinged vagrant living under the FDR Drive.

Then the police on that campus did what panicked, angry, poorly trained cops do all the time: they violently overreacted.

(Does anyone else find it ironic that he demanded to know why Kerry didn't stand up and question the results of the 2004 election, only to painfully learn what happens when you stand up and ask uncomfortable questions?)

As I watch the video, which is on YouTube in a variety of angles and running lengths, the most appalling thing of all is the audience of college students which does nothing to stop the cops or help Meyer in any way. In all the versions I’ve seen, I've heard only one voice of dissent: that of an off-camera woman asking, “Hey, what did he do?” A few audience members actually laugh at what they’re watching and, of course, there's the obligatory handful of ignorant fuckmonkeys who get out of their seats to get a better shot on their camera phones.

This is unbelievable to me. What was wrong with those kids down there? Have they been so brainwashed, so mind-fucked by the slow erosion of their rights in the last six years that they’ve got no sense when they’re being abused? Probably.

College students are pathetic. Apathetic. They're feeding like suckbirds on cynicism's bloated carcass. What does it take for a little righteous indignation to stir their Myspace-deadened hearts into action? Maybe their wireless connectivity needs to be embargoed first. Tom Hayden was quoted somewhere saying that if this had happened in his SDS days, it would have sparked an all-out riot. My own college days weren’t nearly as incendiary as his, but I sincerely believe -- even in the Reagan 80s -- there'd have been an angry scrum in my lecture hall if a fellow student took 300kV to the central nervous system just for being an outspoken douchebag.

Stupid fucking kids. I saw that the next day they held a “protest” on campus. Ah, good... lip service. Protests are so fucking easy. You can yell a little, stand around a lot, and then shoot a lot of video of each other yelling and standing around. Protests even fit conveniently into your already frantic collegiate schedule. You can fit one in between cramming for the Sociology exam and updating your blog. You might even leave early to beat the lines for custom Wiimote faceplates. Protesting is easy. Getting off your ass to intercede is hard. It requires getting… off… your… ass.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Shake a Leg from the album Back In Black by AC/DC

Seedy Gonzales

Alberto Gonzales wrote the 1/25/02 memo to the President stating that prisoners and detainees in our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan aren't protected by the rights of the Geneva Convention (even outlining many reasons why this was so), a decision that led directly to the physical abuses in Abu Ghraib and Constitutional abuses in Guantanamo, and indirectly fueled the insurgency. Every American military death since the so-called "Mission Accomplished" has been a result of the insurgency.

He lied to Congress about the Bush Administration's secret policy of eavesdropping on U.S. citizens without warrants.

Alberto Gonzales authorized the firing of nine U.S. Attorneys whose actions were perceived as damaging to the Republican Party, so they may be replaced with "loyal Bushies."

He has stated that "there is no express grant of habeas [corpus] in the Constitution."

Yesterday, he resigned.

Here's Bush's response:
"After months of unfair treatment that has created a harmful distraction at the Justice Department, Judge Gonzales decided to resign his position, and I accept his decision. It's sad that we live in a time when a talented and honorable person like Alberto Gonzales is impeding [sic] from doing important work because his good name was dragged through the mud for political reasons."

Ah, yes. The sad, unfair treatment of checks and balances. The trauma of due process.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: It Was Cold from the album The Crack by Ruts, The

3,720

The Department of Defense has identified 3,720 American service members who have died since the start of the Iraq war. It confirmed the deaths of the following Americans yesterday:

Edgar E. Cardenas, 34; Lilburn, Ga.; Pfc., Army; First Cavalry Division.

Adrian M. Elizalde, 30; North Bend, In.; Sgt. First Class, Army; Second Battalion, First Special Forces Group.

David A. Heringues, 36; Tampa, Fl.; Sgt. First Class, Army; 82nd Airborne Division.

Michael J. Tully, 33; Falls Creek, Pa.; Sgt. First Class, Army; Second Battalion, First Special Forces Group.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Pink Steam from the album Rather Ripped [UK] by Sonic Youth