Wednesday, August 24, 2005

An Ode to a Goth - Impressive Showing

When I was a punk-ass teenager hanging out on Coventry, the local gathering for high school kids of all varieties from around the east side of my city, I always got a particular kick out of the goth kids. Now Coventry was indeed a melting pot, you had the skateboarders, the punks, the jocks, the metal heads, the deadheads and the goths. In most cases there was a pretty healthy Venn diagram of interaction. I'd occasionally drop my skateboard to join the hacky sackers, the metal heads would often times share a ride to a show with the punk kids and so on. The poor goth kids however, always got an earful from everyone, even the freaking deadheads. Imagine a dude in a tie dyed shirt wearing socks with Birkenstocks making fun of you, yeah, you'd go home and listen to Bauhaus too.

Well this same scenario followed the goths to the clubs we all used to go to as well. But some of these goth kids really put some effort into the whole look. I'm talking some serious medieval times costumes complete with frocks, corsets and bustiers. Then the makeup, oh boy the makeup. Lots of pancaked white foundation and tons of eyeliner, think zombies from Dawn of the Dead (the original, ass). Sitting around watching these kids we'd always concoct shit that they did during the day, like what job they had. We'd picture a goth kid as a gas station attendant or a lawyer heading to work all 1672'd out. That actually became a challenge we'd pose to them when "discussing" their look. We'd all be like, "Dude, do you go grocery shopping like that?" Of course they'd be all like, "Fuck you, skater dick!" To which we'd all share a hearty laugh.

Oh man am I very excited to report that yesterday, a very wonderful and committed person actually answered that challenge my friends and I issued oh so many years ago. After work I dropped into my local Key Food to pick up my standard fare of chicken breast and Green Giant Broccoli in Three Cheese Sauce (have you guys tried this stuff? Holy shit is it good!) when I turned down aisle five and ran smack dab into the largest goth person I've ever seen, I'm talking 6' 5" and about 240, no shit. Man it was awesome! I'm still not certain if it was a man or women, and quite frankly, I don't even care. This person was wearing a black corset with a flowing black skirt and some serious platform boots. The kicker absolutely had to be the fishnet arm warmers that were anchored by this dude/chick's middle finger. Holy cripes was that awesome! I grinned, maybe even gave a little laugh. I only hope he/she didn't think I was laughing at him/her, rather I was chuckling at those conversations I had with my friends 20 years ago. I'm proud to report that we now know for a fact what these folks do during the day. The same damn thing we do! This guy/girl just had the balls (or not, sorry) to not give a fuck and maintain their goth cred. Fuckin' A great job!

Friday, August 19, 2005

Anatomy of a Night Gone Wrong (or working with a hangover)

Few things suck harder then going to work with a hangover. I've been drinking for a number of years and I know both precautions one can take when drinking on a work night. They are, in no particular order:

drink water
eat food

I consistently manage to do niether of the above. Here's how the events typically unfold. You leave work with a glint in your eye and a little hop in your step, hey, you're going to drink booze! Usually this occurs with friends or co-workers. If it doesn't involve friends, relatives or strangers at a bar and you're drinking alone, in a dark room, you may be an alcoholic. At that glorious point in the evening, just before the first drop of sweet sweet liquor touches your lips, you don't have any desire to eat. Before you realize it, your cubicle mate is offering to buy the group's fourth round and you're on your way. After the sixth Goose and soda time starts to lose its meaning, what once was 7 pm is now 10:30. Eight deep and you begin telling stories that never seem to get anywhere remotely close to finished; your story's point is the sun, you're pluto. And so on and so on. Until you're reeling out of the bar at about 2:30 stumbling towards a bodega like an extra from Dawn of the Dead. Now you want to eat, nay, you must eat! At this point, the only thing that food will do is slightly mitigate the hangover you're going to experience in about four hours. After you tumble out of the cab and stiff your driver you spend about six minutes trying to force your office key into your apartment's front door. After finally getting inside you manage to set your alarm before passing out fully clothed (oddly except for one shoe, it's always one shoe).

Dang a lang a lang a lang!!! That's the wake up call for the hounds of hell to start raging in your cranium, good times are here! You awake and are convinced for literally three minutes that it's Saturday. As the reality slowly hits you that it is not in fact Saturday you are assailed with a one two punch combination of a dome splitting headache and gut busting queasiness. You concoct no fewer than six different stories you can tell your boss to get out of work. As you hit the snooze button for the third time you realize you're screwed and you've got to pay the piper. You stumble towards the shower and begin to assess just how bad this hangover is going to be. Ooofa, it's going to be a bad one, you're actually still drunk. As you open the front door to your apartment you're immediately blasted with the devil's breath that is a NYC summer. Great, you've sweat through your shirt by the time you stagger onto the L train and quickly plot your most direct route to the train's door "just in case." As you arrive at work, only 37 minutes late, you quickly dive into Duane Reade to buy some Pedialyte (sounds awful, works great).

Your morning consists of attempting to look busy (looking intently at your monitor while scratching your chin works really well) and drinking as much water/Pedialyte as humanly possible. Frequent trips to the bathroom are also in order. If you're lucky enough to have a boss that isn't too conscious of your whereabouts, you can use these bathroom breaks to catch a quick nap. But be careful, it's always awkward walking back to the office with both legs asleep. Has the demon lock on your brain loosened just a bit? Hmm

You've made it to lunch, this is the watershed moment of your day. What you decide to eat and how quickly can determine your fate for the rest of the day, choose wisely, friend. The greasier the better, and yes, wolf it down, let it get to work forcing that dirty alcohol right out of your body (yes, more afternoon trips to the bathroom will be in order). At about 4:30 you begin to feel vaguely human again. Wait, did the clock just go from 4:30 to 4:29?! Crap! After your 37th glass of water and your 14th trip to the bathroom you can actually operate your phone and the computer at the same time, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. 6 pm arrives. Hey! Anyone up for a drink? Of course you are! Yes, you are an idiot.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

History Lesson


So I was a little jerk ass hardcore kid growing up; I loved Minor Threat, The Faction, Dag Nasty and The Descendents. But when I saw the Cro Mags absolutely blow GBH off the stage that summer night at Peabody's I was awakened to a whole new scene and a whole new realm of hardcore. Yep, that's right, NYHC. Some of you will know exactly what I'm talking about and others, well, not so much. In the years following that monumental show I would come to know the music of Youth of Today, Project X, Judge, Beyond, Agnostic Front, Warzone, Sick of it All and maybe most importantly of all, Gorilla Biscuits. We didn't just go see these guys play, we actually got to know them. They stayed at our houses, they met our folks, they ate with our families or we ate with them at Tommy's on Coventry. A common bond was forged all those years ago

Well, fast forward 15 years later and see the news about CBGBs potentially being forced out of their home on the Bowery. Bands and performers from Blondie to Adrenalin OD have shown their support and reunited to raise the money needed to keep CBs where it belongs, on the Bowery in NYC.

Tonight it was Gorilla Biscuits turn to give a little back to the club that spawned so many kids' dreams of being in a band. After almost 15 years the fellas showed up to play one last time for the kids. Walter made the hop from Brooklyn, Civ jumped a train down from Harlem, Arthur rode in from Queens, Luke took a plane from Texas with his wife while Al Brown arrived from the heartland, Iowa. They didn't do it for the money. They didn't do it for the legend, these guys are first ballot hall of famers. They did it for the kids. As Civ said, this show was for every kid out there who was ever in a band or ever thought about being in a band. It was for the kid he used to be, going to see his favorite band at CBs and thinking hey, maybe someday it could be him up there.

The anticipation was palpable as those in attendance pushed their way forward towards the historic stage. A little after 7 PM the anticipation turned to sheer aggression as Gorilla Biscuits ripped into their blistering hour long set. Don't ask me if they played this or that. They played everything they ever wrote and it was as if everyone was magically transported back to 1990. Suddenly I didn't really care about what was waiting for me on my desk tomorrow morning. Being out in the crowd I had an interesting vantage point in that I could see all of GB's friends sitting on the stage stadium style behind the band. Charlie was laughing along with Sammy while Max was next to Tanya and Dylan, good times indeed. CBs was packed on a Sunday, a little later than the old Sunday matinees but folks were getting after it nonetheless. GB didn't miss a beat (unless you asked Luke and Al Brown!), CIV was supported by about 75 co-lead singers as he passed the mic from person to person; some just blurted out lyrics while others sounded like they might have spent some time fronting a band. He joked between songs that he shouldn't even have practiced all week because he could have just relied on the kids to pull him through. There were indeed the kids, kids who grew up on NYHC but were too young to witness the movement first hand; then there were the old asses like me who were lucky enough to see these guys the first couple times around. This was the chance for generations to come together and celebrate a better time.

During the show Civ said that the HC scene was all about inclusion, that no one should ever be excluded. That was plainly evident during the show. He also implored those in attendance to stay in New York to spread their roots and raise their families. He talked about his despair over seeing artists and musicians looking elsewhere for inspiration. He said that places like CBs had to endure to foster that creative energy.

After a short break, GB came back out and finished with Start Today leaving the crowd spent but utterly satisfied. After the show I managed to catch up with Charlie, Dylan, Max, Sammy and the band. No one wanted to leave. Everyone was drenched but the stories just kept coming one after another. We managed to round everone up and head over to Lil' Frankies on 1st and 1st; true to Civ's words, no one was excluded. The stories continued as the food arrived and old friends were reunited while new friends were welcomed. Charlie, Luke and Max were recounting Friend Fest, a lost night in Vegas with some west coast counterparts while Al and I were riffing on Big Ten football. No doubt stories of tonight's show and subsequent meal will be recounted during the next go round in 2020. Here's hoping we'll all be there to celebrate.

Hey, even Phil Anselmo was at the show.

Um, it's really freaking hot out

So I've lived in the same apartment for going on five years now. And in those five years I have yet to purchase an air conditioner. I often ponder this situation on days like today when weather.com tells me it's 97 degrees but that it feels like it's 102 degrees. As I sit here sweating I ask myself why I am the only person I know that does not have AC. Seriously, think about it. Next time you leave your aprtment (if you live in NYC or some other major city) look up as you walk and count how many AC units you see. It's mind boggling. And yet, I don't own one of them.

I think about buying one every summer. And yet every summer I resist. By the time it gets to this point in August it's almost like a pissing contest between me and God. I'm all like "is that all you got big guy?" And he's all like "OK, now it feels like it's 103." And then I'm like, "Crap!" And I continue to sweat.

I did buy a blender yesterday to make cold and sweet margaritas. I love alcohol.

Friday, August 12, 2005

I got it, I got it... Doh!

So my friend Darren riffed on the Beltran/Cameron outfield collision on his blog earlier today. If you haven't seen it, check out his blog at http://darrencarew.blogspot.com/ to see the carnage. While it was indeed a horrific event, I've got a bit of a different take on the whole thing. As the son of a baseball player/coach and being a baseball player myself, I learned the golden rule of "I got it" from an early age. I've (sadly) been a part of too many dorm/company softball teams and seen too many friends and co-workers who did not grow up playing ball bash their faces into the shoulders of other non-athletes pursuing a lazy pop fly to ever forget this lesson. You hit a pop up between me playing short and the kid who would rather be playing Everquest in a blacked out dorm room in left and I'm either going to command him to stay put in a very loud voice or head quickly in the other direction if I see him wandering towards the ball like a drunk towards a pizza joint.

What's my point here? Well, I'm guaranteeing you that both Beltran and Cameron know the "I got it" rule by heart. I bet they've called each other off balls hit to them no fewer than 35-40 times already this season. But when you factor in the TV cameras, Web Gems and the cool factor of diving full out for a ball, they chose to throw one of the cardinal rules of baseball out the window. You can give me all the crap you want to about how bad these guys want to win and that they're two of the better defensive outfielders out there, I'll call bullshit. They knew the cameras were rolling, they knew Ravich, Reynolds and Kruk would be talking about "the catch" they made later that night and they knew chicks would dig it. I've played the outfiled before, I know that you've got that extra two seconds you need to know you've got a shot to make a highlight reel catch. It's not like third base where it's pure reaction. These guys play in the media capital of the world on a struggling team and know they've got to make it exciting. Do you think Mike Cameron thinks it was worthwhile today as he's lying in the hospital pondering his facial recontruction surgery? I'd go with what is no on that one, Alex.

On the brightside, maybe now the Mets will finally give that Diaz kid a chance.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

so people get fired for these things, huh?

Well, here we go. Or, more aptly, I should say, here I go. Since everyone, including even, I think, my uncle and the ferret down the street, now has a blog, I figured it was high time I clog up a bit of the Internet as well. Why should everyone else think their opinion is so important that it deserves to be documented forever in cyber space and not me?

I'm pretty sure I'll be posting daily observations on the various ways this city (NYC), my life, your comments (who am I kidding?!) and the price of a good stiff drink is fucked up. Although that can all change if I so choose. Feel free to read, comment, laugh, ignore or otherwise hate me, I don't care either way. After all this is a pretty self-indulgent endeavor I've undertaken, isn't it?