Chaos Theory

Things recently found on my apartment floor:
1) 2008 Russian Consulate General receipt for my buddy Troy. From his PC, he runs an international cell phone minutes-arbitrage business -- a full-fledged sub-industry in the 90s I'm convinced continues to exist so that Troy will continue to have a reason to visit places like Russia, and its Consulate.
2) Old business card from friend now married w/ child, a condition that did not exist when the card found its way to my apartment floor. That's not to suggest anything tawdry -- she's never even been to my apartment. It's just illustrative of the fact that if you take several years off from cleaning, magical lessons might be learned.
3) Unicorn-humping-Dolphin stationary from Rocks Off Entertainment, whose founder has the same tattoo on his bicep. He once gave me a pink t-shirt with the same image. I wore it on Halloween. A girl I know told me it was disgusting. I said "It's totally consensual -- the dolphin's just enjoying itself". She told me I was disgusting. She is a very tidy person. Whatever she's picked up over the years, she definitely doesn't leave any of it just laying on the floor of her apartment.
4) Troy.

La Passion

Obsolescence

I actually find it thrilling when Somebody does, and twice as thrilling when Somebody is not homeless. For some reason, I also find it annoying when people put an unnecessary "that" in their sentences.

The Round Mound of Music History

Mick Jagger sang “Don't need a whore, don't need no booze, don't need a virgin priest” right next to this same exact pole, in what used to be Tribe, and before that was...the bar where Mick Jagger sang “Don't need a whore, don't need no booze, don't need a virgin priest”. Now it's Vbar, and while Dylan above's not a rock star, he is a damn fine photographer who once shot Charles Barkley, the only public figure in recent memory to freely volunteer that he did, on occasion, need a whore.

The drink's Four Roses Bourbon, on the rocks. The cherry's there because my friend Dan ordered a Manhattan but turned down the Maraschino. I decided to show Dan and the bartender, Declan, that sometimes being a man means admitting you like artificially sweetened cherries. Everyone was very impressed. We started talking about bartender showmanship. Someone mentioned lighting orange peel essences -- very big in cocktail bars these days, not so big in the sort of bars Declan works in. Declan told the story of a bartender down the street who lit a little bartop fire trail, culminating in a bottle or glass (can't remember which) that unfortunately exploded in a patron's face. For reasons other than Mick Jagger's warning, Declan does not play with fire.

Somehow the conversation turned to Edwin McCain, who despite also being from the Southeast is not to be confused with Shawn Mullins. My friend Dean related a story from his brother, about being at a Rockets game where the slated National Anthem singer didn't show, and someone spotted McCain in the crowd and asked him to step in, which he did enthusiastically after grabbing his guitar from his car. I caught Edwin McCain in '98 or so – my friend Marlo wanted to see him, and I wanted to see the opener, Pete “If You Don't Love Me (I'll Kill Myself)” Droge. During McCain's set, some guy OD'd and had to be carried out of the club like a seizuring baby. I'd started laughing, because how embarrassing is it to OD while some guy's singing

“I'll be your crying shoulder,
I'll be love's suicide
I'll be better when I'm older,
I'll be the greatest fan of your life”

But maybe being a man means admitting that you'd prefer to OD at an Edwin McCain show. Given that National Anthem story, maybe being an American means admitting that you'd prefer to OD at an Edwin McCain show.

Plunk Your Magic ABACAB

During my parents' NYC visit last weekend, my dad and I exchanged “I knew I was old when...” tales over Bowery Hotel lobby drinks. Mine involved vodka, travel by bus, a Genesis reunion at the Meadowlands, 25-year-old girls who thought they knew the difference between Genesis and Phil Collins solo, frantic texting in search of cocaine, and a Martinetti's basement booth overstuffed with hard-banking UVA grads in shorts, sandals, and Dave-Matthews-concert hair.

My dad's basically had him in his early 30s, somehow surrounded by early-20s kids (who are now early 50s kids). At some point, my dad had said “Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy”, a nonsensical phrase used to summon a mischievous Buster Brown Show frog who apparently had a profound disrespect for authority.

My girls were very disappointed when instead of “Against All Odds” they got an extended jam of the soft-prog classic “Home by the Sea” (nothing rocks quite like a shitty half-hour instrumental intermittently punctuated by fat bald Englishman singing about a haunted house). I was disappointed when my 25-year-old girls found the cocaine, which happened to be in the pockets of the shorts-wearing UVA grads.

My dad's younger acquaintances just didn't have any idea what the hell he was talking about. He didn't mention whether this disappointed him or not. He was a single man raising two kids at the time, so there might have been more pressing concerns, but still, it's nice when people speak your same language.

The Year of Aging Gracefully

The Pour House Has Descended Into Madness

A Purple Cow Named Desire

I emailed this text to a coworker who played offensive tackle at Williams. It's David Halberstam's description of Elia Kazan's years as a Williams undergrad:

“Williams College was not a particularly hospitable place for the son of immigrants in those days. In the late twenties, it was a citadel of the American upper class. To Kazan, everyone seemed tall, blond, and socially graceful. He was short, dark, and socially inept. Never before had he felt his foreignness so intensely nor had he ever felt so vulnerable because of it. He loved to watch the football players at games and at practice, and he even at a particular local short-order restaurant where they hung out so he could sit in the corner and admire them: ‘How confident they were, how glamorous, how awesome. They looked as if their glory would never die.’ (Years later he returned to Williams as the famous movie director and found that the former football players now sought him out. One even confided how empty his life had been, and Kazan found that vengeance was his.)”

My coworker's initial response: "Noooooooo...vengeance is not mine!"
His response the next day, when the text was shared with other coworkers, who did not play offensive tackle at Williams: "Fuck Streetcar Named Desire."
His response after he found out I had this ridiculous blog: "Say 'He was too content with his post-graduate life to even bother responding.'"

You Can't Take Your Mega Millions With You

Shakespeare is my Homie

Peer through the slats fencing in my friend Betsy's rare Manhattan backyard, and...for the love of all that's holy, what have her neighbors done to Homer Simpson?

Peer through the slats of caterer Macduff Goldman (real name), and you'll find out that his dad was a tremendous Shakespeare enthusiast, and his grandfather was Jewish.

I'm not sure what kind of legs "peer through the slats" has as a metaphor, but you can see how it had to be used just this once.

Finnishing Off The Night

My friend Jake smuggled me into the Michael Monroe Band show at the John Varvatos store last night: Monroe, two former New York Dolls, Danzig's old drummer, and Ginger, The Wildhearts' lead singer, who's stepped back to guitar duties.

Monroe is 48 and built like a tall Iggy Pop. He's also got Iggy Pop's undying manic energy. He didn't cut himself on purpose, but did ram his head into an overhanging light while rocking atop a speaker. The bleeding didn't stop the rocking, or even slow it. The Hanoi Rocks stuff killed, and the new stuff killed too. Monroe even broke out a saxophone, which doubly killed it, because how many 1980s Finnish glam rockers blow brass? (do people say that, blow brass?)

After the show, the MC erupted with spastic enthusiasm. “Thank you Michael Monroe!” The crowd got down with that. “Thank you John Varvatos!” Surprisingly, the crowd also got down with that. Then the MC looked down at a random on the side of the stage. “Thank you Steve!” That fared pretty decently, and under the CBGB-circumstances, it's best not to close with John Varvatos.

A few seconds too late, someone yelled “Thank you rock and roll!”. Put through the sarcasm translator, I'm pretty sure it'd come out “I can't believe you guys forgot to thank Rock and Roll. He's standing right over there. I'd go hang out with him, but I've got this other party I've got to hit...”

I was supposed to catch another show at the Mercury, but we lingered outside forever, talking to:

Tommy Rockstar (seriously – it's on his business card): Tommy has four of five G&R autographs tattooed on his shoulder. He's only missing Izzy, who's apparently a recluse. Axl's signature's scrawled lower than the rest, because by the time Tommy got it, Axl hated the rest of the band; Tommy was afraid he wouldn't sign if he saw their names, so he covered them with his sleeve.

Nite Bob: He's been a sound man since the year before I was born (1971). He's done a lot of big shows, but I can't remember which.

Ginger: He loves playing guitar, and doesn't care if he never sings again. He's sober right now, and said he's only had the craving twice since he quit: once while watching a whiskey commercial, and once as he walked past a bunch of winos. Jake pointed out that twice was a lot, since Ginger's only been sober ten days. Everybody laughed. Both Ginger and Michael Monroe skipped their own afterparty, and headed back to their hotel.
***
Finally make it to the Mercury -- right after my guy's band finishes up. Standing at the bar, I considered faking like I'd caught the show, but that opportunity quickly fell apart. No hard feelings though: the rate of people actually seeing their friends' bands is so low, even showing up late is commendable.

My band buddy headed back inside to catch Love Drug. Me and Jake drank with the bartender, Noah*, who as Jake's intern back when he'd booked for Wetlands had asked permission to bring in an unknown, unsigned band. Jake had said sure, wtf, and The Shins had played the basement, for four people. Noah's birthday loomed at midnight. It sucks to work on your birthday, but taking shots and telling stories about the time you stashed The Shins in the basement make it much more tolerable.

We also talked to Maggie, an Aussie who's been working the door for 20 years, and living in an EVill squatter community for around the same. Her first Thanksgiving in America was spent at..I think a Dead Kennedys show. She had no heater for 18 years (they had a fireplace, for which they'd “chop wood”, and snag pallets in Chinatown). She didn't have an AC until she bought one with cash from winning a Strom Thurmond dead pool. The first time Jake worked with her, Jake put on a $5.98 Metallica tribute. He handed her a sack of pennies, and demanded that she hand back 2-cents change to ticket buyers. She grudgingly agreed, then later paid Jake his $300 cut, also in pennies. She's currently co-writing a book about creative eco-living, with a woman who lives in a bubble in New Mexico. Not a biodome – more like the John Travolta movie.

I got two texts, from this Montreal girl I'd met at the Yacht Rock show.
Text 1: “Me. Jay z. Black people. Drugs. Danger.”
Text 2: “Plus capri sun.”

I had to work today, and I'd been drinking tequila like a high schooler. I tried to cut my losses, but on the way home, I ran into Tommy Rockstar and his buddy Aaron, who owns Trash out in Brooklyn, and who just graduated law school. Crazy. I did that too. May he practice as little as I have.

They dragged me without protest to 3 of Cups. Tommy told me a story about his 90s band heading to Australia as the lowest act on the Warped Tour totem pole. Their drummer, who they'd recently hired and nicknamed “Alien” because he was just so fucking out of it, started a riot during a for-the-bands set by his favorite-band-of-all-time-holy-shit-i-psychotically-love-these-guys Suicidal Tendencies, then disappeared, only to resurface after having somehow passed out on a pile of glass. As a result of this, he actually had glass up his butt. But it was too close to showtime to hit the hospital, so he had to play, with glass up his butt, cushioned by a bunch of circled towels.

The last song I remember hearing was Britny Fox's “Long Way to Love”. Thank god then that even in 2010, it's a short way to rock. Shit is even on business cards.

*Also in the band Sam Champion