the sticking point

Root Root Root for the Home Team

At age nine, I was at the re-opening of the old Yankee Stadium on April 15, 1976 versus the Twins. I remember how steep the upper deck seemed and how the jewel of the Stadium's renovation -- that big "futuristic" centerfield scoreboard/screen (which was actually going to show instant replays!) -- didn't work. Dan Ford of the Twins hit a home run in the first inning. The Twins had the early lead, the Yankees came from behind and won it late. My Uncle Pat ridiculed me for peeling the cheese off his homemade sandwiches and hiding the slices under my seat.

I know I'm in the narrowest of minorities, but that 1976 opening game was the last time I was impressed by that Stadium. After attending a few hundred games there, by the time last season ended, I was more than ready to see it go. What a horrible place to see a game! Narrow rows and aisles, narrow seats (all aimed at second base), and worst of all corridors and vending areas that showed a supreme disrespect for fans. If you ventured out of your seat at that place, heading to a concession or a bathroom, you'd end up detained in dark, windowless cinderblock tunnels. Suddenly you were in Cell Block D. No fresh air, no natural light, and you couldn't see even a glimpse of the field while you served your sentence waiting for a $9 hot dog. For an open-air stadium, the place seemed to have incredibly little outdoor space.

A couple weeks ago, my wife ("S") and I went to the Friday night Yankees-Cubs exhibition game at Yankee Stadium*. It was the first baseball game played there, and it was as exciting as adulthood ever gets. The new ballpark is amazing. They did everything right. The sightlines are very good, and even in a sellout -- with everyone wearing heavy jackets -- fans don't feel packed-in like 55,000 conjoined siblings. Even though the overhanging tiers are gone (the new place opens up like a tackle box), the seats somehow feel lower, closer to the ground. But best of all: so much open space.

Behind the last row of practically every section is a handicapped-seating space and behind that... standing room. You can lean against these rails and at once be watching the game and finding food. The walkways behind the seats on every level are like plazas. You can stroll from vendor to vendor, from one concession to another, without ever losing a view of the green grass and the basepaths. And the whole time, it feels as though you're out in the open air.

Minor detail that means a lot: The outfield walls are midnight blue, matching the Yankees' caps and pinstripes. The new color makes everything look better. (Why were the walls at the old place royal blue?)

Major feature that means very little: Hard Rock Cafe. Open all year, and no view of the field. (Just like the HRC in Times Square!)

Feature that means more than you'd think: The facade/frieze that goes entirely around the structure. I shrugged my shoulders about this until I saw it. Cliché alert: It looks... majestic.

But that's not what I really wanted to write about. I didn't come here to review Yankee Stadium, as fun as that is to do.

I wanted to write about what I, personally, took away from the new ballpark that night a couple weeks ago. My first vivid memory. Like the cheese slices and the disappointing scoreboard burned in my mind from the 1976 opener, I will forever remember the April 3rd exhibition game as the night my wife and I held hands as we explored the new Stadium. The memory will be more about holding her hand than anything else.

I love being at games with S., and we've been to a lot of them together. I treasure every minute spent sitting next to her at ballgames. Camden Yards, Wrigley Field, Citizens Bank Park. We've been together since 1997, and we've had Yankees season tickets since 1999. When talking baseball, I regularly hear myself saying "S____ and I were at that game." It's important to me.

And we've seen some great ones together. A sampler:

September 10, 1999
vs. Boston Red Sox
Instead of just the two of us, this time we were a crowd: one of my future brothers-in-law, one of my future sisters-in-law, some friends of S's from work, and a handful of those others' significant others. Some of them Bosox fans. One of the best pitching performances I've ever seen, even though it went the other way. Andy Pettitte went six innings and gave up two runs. Nice enough. But Pedro, effing Pedro, was dealing. He hit the first batter he faced, Chuck Knoblauch, who immediately got himself caught stealing. In the second inning, the greatest Jamaican baseball player in MLB history, Charles Theodore "Chili" Davis hit a solo homer to right-center. Apart from those two at bats, Pedro Martinez owned the Yankees. He struck out 17. He got even better as the innings went on, fanning eight of the last 9 batters of the game. It was a complete game 1-hitter; only Knoblauch's HBP and Chili's HR foiled what might have been a perfect game for Pedro.

It was all over before 10 PM. The Red Sox, with a starting lineup of where-are-they-nows like Veras, Huskey, Buford, and Lewis, beat the Yankees 3-1.

Game 4
1999 World Series
vs. Atlanta Braves
The only World Series-clinching game I've ever attended. The Yankees led by three runs for most of the game. When Roger Clemens came out of the game with two outs in the 8th, he'd given up just a run on four hits. He had gotten shelled against the Red Sox in the ALCS, so there was a lot of redemption in this effort. In my mind, it was the first time he felt like a "Yankee" to me. The strangest and most memorable moment of this night came immediately following the final out: Chad Curtis caught the fly ball that ended the game and won the World Series for the Yankees, and the players raced toward the mound to celebrate. I watched my favorite player, Paul O'Neill. He was running faster than the rest. But he never converged with the others. He was heading toward the dugout, his left hand shielding his eyes. I saw Joe Torre approach him and hug him briefly, then O'Neill bolted down the dugout steps and through the door to the clubhouse. I said to my wife (then girlfriend), "Did you see O'Neill?! He ran in. What the hell?!" We stayed at our seats watching the rest of the team celebrate on the field, near the mound. I can't remember if it was 10 minutes or 20, but after a while a message appeared on the centerfield message board reporting the death of Paul O'Neill's father early that morning.

Later, we moved down to field level for a closer look at Clemens, who was pacing the roof of the dugout and spraying fans with Champagne.

(Meanwhile, back home in my Brooklyn apartment, an engagement ring waited for our upcoming trip to Italy and my proposal in Rome.)

Game 1
2000 World Series
vs. New York Mets
The first game of the first-ever Yankees-Mets Subway Series. It was a Saturday night game, and I had to work that day. Those tickets almost burned a hole in my pocket. The work was good, at least: I was shooting segments with Destiny's Child who were (in 2000) very cool, very easy-to-work with, women. Beyoncé and I got along well, and she kidded me about not taking her to the game.

The game was scoreless until the Yankees took the lead in the sixth, followed by a Mets lead in the seventh. The Yankees tied it in the 9th when O'Neill (who fouled off pitch-after-pitch before until he drew a walk) scored on a sac fly.

My wife had a short nap during the extra innings, but woke up before the Yankees won on a bases-loaded Jose Vizcaino single in the 12th.

Some wild things happened in this game. In the 4th, Todd Zeile didn't run out a foul grounder that rolled into fair territory. Scott Brosius threw him out by about 50 feet. In the 5th, Jay Payton never left the batter's box on a nubber into the dirt near home plate. Jorge Posada tagged him out where he stood. In the 6th, Zeile hit a double off the top of the left-field wall. Thinking it was a homer, Timo Perez trotted leisurely around the bases. Derek Jeter threw him out at home by about three or four steps.

I still tease S about her falling asleep for about an inning ("Who falls asleep during the extra innings of a Mets-Yankees World Series game?!"), but in her defense this was the longest game (by time) in Series history.

Game 5
2001 World Series
vs. Arizona Diamondbacks
The first-ever World Series game played in November. Less than two months after the September 11th attacks, baseball was a comforting distraction. It's hard to tell, but it seemed like it meant something even to people outside of New York that there was a New York team in the Series.

When we got to the Stadium for Game 5, everyone was still talking about the previous night's game, which Jeter won with a walk-off home run in extra innings shortly after midnight. One of the guys sitting near us said, "Man, there'll never be another game like that." And then there was. We saw the Yankees shut down for eight innings. That was bad enough, but with the team losing and the final two games happening in Arizona, I knew this was the last time I'd see my favorite player in a game. O'Neill was expected to retire after the season. When the Diamondbacks made the last out in their half of the 9th, I stood up and said to S, "That's it, that was the last time we'll see O'Neill play." I was surprised when all 56,000 people stood up and chanted his name. Incredible.

Brosius came up in the bottom of the ninth with a runner on and two outs. He tied the game with a homer off the same pitcher Jeter had beaten the night before. The Yankees won it in the 12th inning with some small ball.

June 7, 2003
Wrigley Field
vs. Chicago Cubs
There was a lot of backstory for this game. The Yankees hadn't played at Wrigley Field in 65 years, since the 1938 World Series. (New York swept.) It matched up living legend Roger Clemens against Kerry Wood. Just shy of his 26th birthday, Wood was already looked upon as heir apparent to Clemens's power-K throne. He was just a rookie in 1998 when he tied Rocket's record 20 strikeouts in a game. Old guard, new guard. Teacher, student. Master, servant. It was all there. Oh, and also: Clemens was going for his career 300th win.

We had great seats, and sitting next to us was a very popular Cubs fan who took a liking to us. For much of the game, he very generously treated us to hot dogs, fries, popcorn, sodas, and beer.

In the 4th inning, Jason Giambi popped up to first, and Hee Sop Choi collided violently with Wood. The big guy was on the grass for a long time before an ambulance came to carry him off (double-click the photo).

After six-and-a-half innings, the Yanks were up 1-0. The Cubs had two hits and the Yankees just one. It was the Clemens-Wood battle I'd hoped for. Until the wheels came off in the bottom of 7th. Clemens put a couple guys on, and the Yankee relievers spent the rest of the game watching home uniforms circle the bases.

It was a memorable baseball road trip. A great city and a day game in a beautiful old ballpark, my wife and I, we were -- she was -- pregnant with twins. We'd been to the doctor that week for a check-up and he said everything looked great and "enjoy that trip to Chicago!" When we got back to our hotel after the game, S began to feel ill, so I think we skipped dinner to stay in the room and relax.

Back in New York a few days later we lost both babies to miscarriage on our third wedding anniversary.

When I look at photos from that weekend in Chicago, from a game and a trip we don't talk about anymore, I'm rocked by how young we look. We'll never thoroughly shake off the pain of that week, and the months that followed in 2003, but it was nice to see the Yankees/Cubs again all these years later, our two amazing sons comfortable at home while S and I walked hand in hand in a brand new park.

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* Which many refer to as "The New Yankee Stadium." I think we should start getting used to dropping the "new."

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Rock'n'roll (Original Mix) from the album Chef d'Oeuvre [Disc 2] by Métal Urbain

Download it free, here.

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.

Thursday Dispatch

Rented a car today to drive to our car and remove the license plates and all our personal belongings. The whole process took about two hours and it sucked.

It was weird to see the vehicle, with no obvious damage visible to the eye, and think that it could be "totaled." But that's the fact. The water got in pretty high. (If anyone had been sitting in it, the water would have reached the bottom of the kneecap.) It ruined a lot of the electronics, wiring, and crept through the transmission line into the car's mechanical nethers. The insurance adjuster put a big sticker on the rear side window, that was like a checklist of what was "good" and what was "damaged." Looking at it, I could sense used parts dealers or junkyard owners squatting in the bush, waiting to pounce. Waiting to pull it apart like carrion. Each tire was listed individually. The "good" box was checked for each. There were about 20 items on this list, and the score was fairly even between good and bad. However, the radio/cd player was marked "damaged," which I know to be incorrect.

Anyway, it was saddening to walk away from that car. We drove it off the lot on 11-20-05, and the rain killed it on 8-8-07.

* * * * * *

I have been working out hard and quite efficiently in the last month-plus. I devised a new periodization cycle for myself and I've stuck to it with religious dedication. It's based on ten days of workouts and four days of rest every 14 days. That's the length of the cycle. I keep my max-effort, overload days heavy; but more importantly, I keep the weights low on dynamic effort (speed) days.

It's still powerlifting training, so my focus is on the big three: squat, deadlift, and bench press. Anything I do outside of these exercises is done for the sole purpose of improving my technique and increasing my strength for those three. I do a lot of grip work (DL), abs (all 3), neck (S, DL), and hips (S, DL) solely for their benefits for squatting, deadlifting, and benching. That's all I care about. Not cuts or muscle size or any of that crap. I don't do biceps, or any other vanity exercise. All I care about is strength. Moving heavy weight.

Today was heavy squat day. My favorite. (Until recently, my fave was heavy DL day. But that's been getting crazy-nauseating.) I went to the gym with nothing in me, I thought. I'd had a disappointing workout yesterday -- even though I felt good walking in -- so I didn't expect much today. I did well. After a few warmup sets, I kept raising the weight and doing singles. I felt good. I had a good spotter. I kept increasing the weight. I didn't use wraps, but for the last two sets I wore the belt.

I managed a new personal best in the squat. Within two weeks, I believe I can finally break the 400# mark for sets. I've been training toward that magic number for a couple years, but something (illness, injury, work schedule, travel) always seems to get in the way of the training and set me back. I've never been this close.

One very weird thing happened during this session today. Four or five people stopped their workouts and came over to watch. After my final set one young man approached me and, even though he'd just watched me double-rep it -- with his own eyes, asked, "Did you lift that?" I sat on the floor for a couple minutes talking to him and his friend. They tried to lift it up off the pins together and giggled their asses off when it didn't budge. I asked if they did squats and said it is one of the best exercises anyone could do for themselves. In broken English, he asked, "Why do you do it? Can't you break a muscle?"

Awesome.

Tomorrow is the hardest workout of all. I'll run, do hundreds of crunches, do neck work, and work with my flex bands and Blast straps. I will not pick up any weight, that's what makes it so hard. But that's psychological, an ego thing I have to get over.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Kamera from the album Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by Wilco

Liquid Launch

Yesterday, a friend told me he was spit on while sitting in a cab with his girlfriend last week. Their driver had just pissed off a guy trying to cross the street on a DON'T WALK, so the guy crossing fired a lung-nugget at the vehicle. Unfortunately for my friend, poor aim and a slight westerly breeze brought the phlegm through the open rear window and onto his chest. He told me it had heft to it, he felt it.

As the taxi drove off, he did what any of us would do; he sat there stunned and silently listing all of the violent, self-righteous ways he could respond to this attack. He so badly wanted to get out and run back to the guy for a confrontation. Of course I knew the feeling. It's that part of your brain which demands that wrongs be righted, and even for a second, the a-holes of the world contemplate their stupidity. When they see the crazed dude running at them, we want to see the look of terror and "Oh, shit. What did I just do?"

Never happens, though, does it? Forget about that. It's all another reason to stay in the car and suck up the rage into something more productive.

My friend didn't get out of the car, and I'm happy for that.*

His story got me thinking of the times in my life that I've been spat upon, and how I responded.
1) Age 7. At Tibbetts Pool in Yonkers, NY. My mom, my friend Suzanne, and me were on a blanket against a wall. Spit landed on my head and neck. A cheer and teenage laughter erupted from the top of the wall above.
Response: I ran into the pool and scrubbed and scrubbed. When I was back at the blanket, after I'd ranted so hard tears came from my eyes, and after the rage-tears dried off, Suzanne deadpanned, "I knew they were gonna do that." Might have told me!
2) Age 10. On Altamont Place in Yonkers, NY. I was playing punchball or kickball with my neighborhood friends, Jimmy, Chris, Debbie, Brian, and Sal. Joey LaValle rode over on his bike. Joey was my best friend in grade school, but now that we went to different middle schools we were like strangers. He kept riding his bike through our ballgame. I ran at him as he figure-eighted between third base and home plate. His spit hit me in the cheek and eye. Joey rode off.
Response: I lamely wiped off the mess with a tissue I had to borrow from my crush, 17-year old Valerie.
3) Age 19. At Nathan's arcade in Yonkers, NY. JCC and I were there to feed not our hunger, but our addiction to 720. Some guys were playing it when we got there. I don't know if anything was said between us and them, but I doubt it. Me and JCC parked ourselves at a nearby pinball machine to wait. Three or four guys approached. One of them took a long sip from his cup and straw and spat a mouthful of fruit punch onto my shirt. The crew walked out the arcade door.
Response: I wasted at least 20 seconds trying to answer who and why. JCC and I ran out after them. (Through the restaurant door -- we'd seen too many ambushes start this way.) We did recon on the entire parking lot, inside and between every car. They were gone.

Yonkers is a real shithole, isn't it?

*Which reminds me of something I wanted to tell you all: remember last week's Friday 10 preamble/tirade, titled "Big Knowledge, Part One"? I've got the second installment percolating in my brain, and it will probably kick off this week's F10.

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When It Rains, It Sucks Dept.: Our car, flooded out in the Great 60-Minute Storm of 8-8-07, was declared a "total" today by the insurance adjuster. I'm bummed. A car's a car to me, but I bought that car with my wife; it's the one I drove my family, my sons around in. I am too sentimental, too nostalgic for my own good.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Dizzy Boogie from the album Vout For Voutoreenees by Gaillard, Slim

Photo/art credit: "Spit #2" Liz Magic Laser; lizmagiclaser.com

Dispatches from the Eyeful Tower

Our old pal StereoMic was up early yesterday, documenting what our neighborhood looked like when the rains came.

Here's the view from his balcony. Those cars across the street weren't sideways when the drivers parked them.

And also? When I walked past that white car later in the day, it had a parking violation ticket on the windshield. Must be illegal to have your car swept away by a flood. Know what that is? One of Forest Hills' weak-ass parking cops thinking, "what the fuck? I'll be one ticket closer to my quota, and this will be a bitch for this poor sucker to defend in court."

On that note, I want to mention what I saw out my own living room window this morning. A car pulled out of the parking garage underneath the apartment building across the street, and the driver drove against the one way and jetted through the intersection. My blood boiled. Anyone crossing at that corner would have had no chance. Nobody would have looked in that direction for a car. But this fucker, this sack of rotting shit, whose time is so important to him that he can't follow the most basic rules of the road, puts everyone else's safety in jeopardy to shave 45 seconds off his commute.

I will not forget that car. I live right across the street. I'll see it again. And when I do, I will calmly tell the driver what I've seen him do, and if I ever see him do it again I'll pull him out of that vehicle by his throat.

On iTunes right now: Hirnsäge from the album Kollaps (reissue + bonus) by Einstürzende Neubauten

[posted with ecto]

The Perfect Storm

This morning was mine to wake up with the boys, H Himself & W Himself. My wife and I alternate days, hoping that the other one of us might get to "sleep in." Like, as late as 0800. For the one who gets up at the sound of the first awakened child, it's a crapshoot. The days can start anywhere between 0430 and 0700.

This one began after sunrise. The boys chose to sleep in. H is still asleep as I write this, sprawled across mommy's and daddy's bed like a hobo in a boxcar. And I've no work to get to today. A simultaneous occurrence of conditions which, taken individually, would be far less powerful than the result of their chance combination. A perfect storm. I was able to bang out a Friday 10.

01 K-hole - Coco Rosie: I haven't given the Noah's Ark disk as much attention as it deserves, I think. I usually go back to La Maison de Mon Rêve. I really dig their work; there are always nice melodies and smart lyrics tucked into the strange atmospherics of the songs. I used to think the Cocos weren't for everybody, but the more I listen to them the less challenging the music becomes. I guess that makes obvious sense. Or it's just a ridiculously stupid thing to have written. What I meant is the music not hard to get to.

02 Paid Vacation - Circle Jerks: Not the best song from the legendary Group Sex album, but hey -- that there is Keith Morris. He brings everything he's got to the vocal, every time. This is a very old album, but it never sounds that way to me.

03 Hybrid Moments - Misfits: One of my top three Misfits tracks. How cool is this song?! This version is the Static Age mix. The band used to mix and remix their session tracks all the time for singles and EPs and all the comps (it gets very confusing - this site helps). There are four distinctly different mixes of "Hybrid Moments" from one 1978 session. Who cares? I do!

04 Crater Lake - Liz Phair: I can't remember if the Whip-Smart album was well received. I'll go on those Internets and check the reviews from back then. I reckon that after Girlysounds and Exile, there was probably a battalion of sack-less writers and reviewers waiting armed behind the tree line, to fire off a backlash against ol' Liz.

05 Miniskirt Blues - Cramps: Iggy Pop! Lux Interior! This song was the only thing to get excited about from the Look Mom No Head disk.

06 Get Busy - Sean Paul: Really. I don't know which year it was. My wife and I were down in Miami working a job, and the only performer who really brought it, who was actually exciting, was Sean Paul. I respected him for that. I don't have anything else by him but this track, not even a B-side. But I'd listen if it came along.

07 School's Out - Alice Cooper: I was at the Beacon Theater in NYC one night in 1986 or 87 for a Replacements show. Got there about a half hour before opening act (Johnny Thunders) went on. The place was still practically empty. Tommy Stinson came out and sat next to me and my friend, and wanted to talk about music. He started with the song that was playing through the house PA, "Under My Wheels," by Alice Cooper. Why am I telling you this? I know very little about Cooper, but I like a lot of what I've heard.

08 Genetic Engineering - Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark: Can never seem to bring myself to abbreviate such a great band name. Of the whole glut of bands that made music like this from that era, Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark is one of the two or three I'd still listen to. This track is the 7" mix.

09 If 6 Was 9 - Jimi Hendrix Experience: "I'm gonna wave my freak flag high!" First time I'd ever heard a freak flag reference was in this song. This is from the Axis: Bold As Love album, the follow-up to Are You Experienced. I think Hendrix was trying things out on this one, adding some bells and whistles that stepped in front of the music a little too much, but still a fine album. A few years ago, there was a vinyl-only release of Axis in mono. I'd love to get my hands on that, or a cdr burn of it.

10 Stop The Clock - Blasters: If you talk about good music for only a little while, of course The Blasters come into the conversation. Check out everything they've made, I say. These are incredibly talented guys who crafted great songs, and they were ferocious onstage. "Stop The Clock" is from the classic first album. Out of print, but all the songs are included on the Testament set

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To leave you on a happy note, Kurt Waldheim is dead. "Where do bad folks go when they die? They don't go to heaven where the angels fly, they go to a lake of fire and fry."

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Seasons in the Sun from the album Son of Sam I Am by Too Much Joy

Sculpture by Allen Linder, "Man Waking Up" (2005)

We Are Repairs

I found this official notice posted in the elevator as I went downstairs to do laundry. "Boiler is Broken Not. Hot water we are Repairs."

Good to know.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: I Am A Poseur from the album Peel Session 03.06.78 by X-Ray Spex

Can I Get Some Recognition Around Here?

This weekend, on TV and in a magazine, young H found two men he identified as "Daddy!"

These are the guys.

[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Mercenaries from the album Beach Blvd by Rik L. Rik

Leave the Poetry to the Pros

I'm a proud father. My not-yet-three-year-old son H was on my lap last week when he got a ponderous look on his face. He cocked his head and looked toward the ceiling for a couple seconds. Then he looked at me and spoke:
"Birthday star, sunshine eyes."

A poem. I believe it's his first.

Today's Friday 10 is in Iambic Pentameter.

01 A Long Way From Home - The Kinks: From one of my top three all-time favorite Kinks albums, Lola Versus The Powerman and the Moneygoround. The last time I had a Kinks track come up on one of these Friday 10s, I wrote, sincerely, about how much better than the Beatles they are (and always have been). I thought for sure that would stir a little bile from the Beatles fans among you. Nothing. Nary a comment about how John and Paul invented the modern day pop song or any of that nonsense usually spouted as if it were fact. (Or even provable!) So today, I'm trying a different approach, just a little poke in your bread oven to see if you're still with me: The Kinks are better than you.

02 Wasserturm - Einstürzende Neubauten: This was a bonus track on the re-released version of Drawings of Patient O.T. The Neubauten guys play a water tower on this song, behind lyrics that Blixa Bargeld has said were inspired by a dream he once had, in which he was hammering spaghetti and music came out. I like all the Neubauten stuff, but Kollaps and O.T. are the serious business.
Impertinent Personal Info Dept.: When I go to have baby W's name and birthdate tattooed below his brother's on my leg, I'm going to stay in the chair for the EN logo. Don't yet know on which patch of skin, though.

03 Suzie is a Floozie - The Lurkers: I miss the Lurkers... I haven't listened to God's Lonely Men in more than five days!

04 Smothered - Die Cheerleader: It's a crime that the Son of Filth album is out of print, and a shame that so few rock fans have ever heard about this great band. Three gals, with a guy on drums. The lead singer, Miss Sam Ireland, has one of the most powerful voices you'll ever hear. Die Cheerleader is melodic and solid like Jane's Addiction was melodic and solid. Get it? If you find Son of Filth around -- eBay, GEMM, etc. -- grab a copy. (I just checked Amazon... you can find it used, starting at .01. Easily worth 2,000 times that!)

05 Mony Mony - Tommy James & The Shondells: I don't know too much about TJ, but I've always loved his songs. At first, they'd show up on comps that I'd buy, and ultimately I went and tracked down a few solid TJ&tS records. (Crimson & Clover is packed with great songs, and it's not even a greatest hits.) You can sneeze into the H-I-J section at any CD store and soak about 25 disks that have "Mony Mony" on them. There was, of course, that well-known version by the guy from Generation X, and another cool one by The Stranglers backing up Celia and the Mutations.

06 London Dungeon - Misfits: From the very hard-to-find Misfits album 12 Hits From Hell. The record was recorded at Master Sound Productions in NYC on 08-07-80, and was original known as the MSP Demos. They were demos for what became the Walk Among Us LP. The 12 Hits tracks were remixed in July 2001 for release on Caroline Records that October. Just before it was about to hit stores, the band had a change of heart and pulled it. (There are too many reasons floating around and no real answers why.) A very few promo copies had already made it out into the real world, and it's from these promos that lucky collectors have shared the wealth. If this thing ever landed in the bins, it would have made a lot of Misfits fans awfully happy. (I'm sure some band members are seething over the existence of this CD. I've written before about how common it is for Cease & Desist letters to land in the hands of eBay execs every time some cool and rare Misfits product is on their site.) There are some amazing tracks on 12 Hits From Hell. You know all the titles, as they've all found release on other records and singles, but these are all significantly different mixes, and in most cases they're better than the ones we already know and love. One interesting thing to note about these 12 Hits recordings is that original guitarist Bobby Steele was kicked out of the band during these sessions, but after he'd recorded all the guitar parts. Then Doyle, Jerry Only's brother, joined the band and added additional guitars. So what you have here is a document of a five-piece Misfits lineup that never actually played together. You can read boatload of information on this rarity at this URL. And here. Today I heard "London Dungeon" from 12 Hits. I have a playlist on iTunes that I built so that I can listen to the original version of the songs followed by the 12 Hits version; I like to A-B them like that to hear the differences. "Dungeon" is a truly stellar song, proof that Danzig could hang with the best American songwriters, and the arrangement is so pure. The original, single mix of the song used to annoy me a bit, though, in that the vocal always sounded like they were shot through a tube, compressed to high heaven. The 12 Hits mix is far superior. (But you knew I'd say that.) The vocal is warmer and has its midrange back. The drum sound is much fuller and wider, with the snare nestled nicely inside the pocket.
Talk About Hi Tek Dept.: I finally got my hands on a vinyl copy last fall. I went upstairs to Stereo Mike's apartment and ran the turntable through a mixer and into his computer, where we ripped WAV files. We burned the WAVs onto a DVD, and I ripped those files off the DVD, through the Audacity software (minus EQ) and outputted them to MP3s and into iTunes, where I later burned off an audio CD. Caveman style and clunky, but hey -- at least I've got the thing!)

07 12XU - Minor Threat: I love it when one band I love covers a great song by another band I love -- and does it SO well. It happened right here, with Minor Threat's pass at the classic Wire song from Pink Flag. I'm not a huge fan of cover songs, especially when they tend to be more of a one-off novelty than anything else, but when all the parts are in place, it's fucking magical. It's Minor Threat paying great homage to the masters. Of course it's on the Complete Discography.

08 Raisans - Dinosaur Jr.: The You're Living All Over Me album came out in '87, and if put your ear to it today, it still sounds so fucking cool. What a mix -- it's frightening, the sounds coming off those songs. "Raisans" is great, as is "Tarpit," but "Little Fury Things" is unmatched, I think.

09 Sex and Dying in High Society - X: The three X shows I caught last year were three highlights for me. They landed on those shows like a ton of bricks. Amazing! This phenomenal song is from the must-have sonic bible, Los Angeles.

10 Down on the Street - Stooges: Did you know that the original version Iggy wrote was called "Down on the Beach"? The first line, "Down on the beach where the faces shine" makes a lot more sense knowing that. You all know this is from Fun House, another essential record if you're thinking about calling yourself a music fan.

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Now you: Put your mp3 player or digital jukebox on "shuffle all songs," and let us know the first ten random songs out the chute.

[posted with ecto]

The Cactus Where His Heart Should Be

Electro-convulsive therapy must be changing me.

A few hours ago, one of those awkward things happened where, by pure coincidence, I saw the guy who lives in A21, the apartment next to mine, several times in a few hours. I usually go weeks without seeing him at all. When we see each other, there’s usually little more interaction than a hello or an eyebrow raise and nod. In the 14 months or so that I’ve lived in the building, we’ve spoken less than 50 words to each other. Until today.

After running into him several times today, I guess he decided, what the hell – why don’t I ask him about adoption. He stops me on the front steps of our building and starts – “You’re a family of four now? Congratulations.”

Nice start, but this episode went real bad real quick. He proceeded to ask every inappropriate question you can pose to an adoptive parent. And when he wasn’t asking rude questions, he was spewing the most offensive bullshit I’ve heard in a long time. Most people let slip with just one wrong question or rude comment, and I strike back with a well-rehearsed, “Are you rude… or stupid?” But this guy was a pro. He had a routine.

“You’re kids are obviously adopted. What did you think of adoption?”

“Why did you adopt?”

“My wife and I, we considered adoption a long time ago, but – thank God – we had a child of our own. Which was good for us.”

“Oh, Korean? Is that what they are?”

“And what did you do? Did you ask for them, or say ‘Just give us what ya got’?”

“This is a great neighborhood for them. Great schools. And a lot of Koreans, too. In some neighborhoods they would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“It was a good idea to go to a foreign country, because in this country, it’s a mess. A lot of times the mother comes out of nowhere years later and wants the baby back.” (Years later? Baby?) "Any problem with that in Korea?"

“Why did you pick Korea?” This isn’t an inappropriate question, per se. My wife and I had our reasons and we don’t mind explaining them. It’s fine for friends and family to ask. But not the guy from next door whose name I don’t know. And when he learned that the Korean program places babies in families younger than many other country’s programs, he told me, “That’s good. Why should you have to break someone else’s bad habits. This way you can teach ‘em yourself, young.”

He then said something that a lot of people say, friends and strangers, after I describe the agency and the Korean program. And while it is not offensive or rude, it is incredibly stupid: “So, you guys did your research!”

No. It was kind of a half-assed plan we hatched one afternoon while drunk. We got the idea from Oprah! I don’t even remember how it worked, but here we are four years later with a couple East Asian kids in the house. Weird, huh?

I showed no outward anger during this little “conversation.” I can’t understand it. The Tommy Himself that I’ve known all my life would have reacted with either a hard punch to this guy’s throat, or at least a minute-long torrent of verbal assaults. I did nothing but tell him I’ll be letting him be on his way and said goodbye. I don’t get it. When I came upstairs, even my wife wanted to know why I didn’t let him have it. (Though I’m sure the meant a verbal attack.) I don’t really have a clever way to button this story up at the end here, I’m just writing this and trying to figure out why I didn’t feed this guy his own Adam’s Apple. I was telling myself that because he lives in the apartment next door, I might have let him off the hook for the reason that I don’t need a hassle with neighbors. But that sounds like rationalization. The fact is, the guy was stupid, insensitive, misinformed, offensive, and racist and I had him right in my sights and I did nothing to correct him. The more I walk among the animals, the more it breaks me down. I have failed myself. Again.

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Postscript: My nextdouche neighbor also commented that our building is an expensive one, and presumably because my apartment is larger than his, "I don't even want to ask what you're paying!" Yes you do. You asked me the day I moved into the building, and you're nosing for an answer again today, 14 months later. Fuck off, grow a dick, get a life, and keep your goddamn questions out of my business.
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[posted with ecto]

On iTunes right now: Big Gringo from the album Gods & Sods by Too Much Joy