The Final Skate for Two Man

 

Several years ago, my band, Blackout Shoppers, was setting up for our turn to play on the stage at a punk rock show. We were playing with one of my favorite bands of all time, Two Man Advantage. Two Man’s “Captain,” Jeff Kaplan, noted striking similarities between our two musical groups.

“We have an intro song,” he noted with a smile, “and you guys have an intro song.”

“We have a guy with a mask on stage,” he continued, “and you guys have a guy in a mask on stage.”

“Captain,” I replied, “we only steal from the best.”

No doubt, I count myself among many whose life would not be the same today had I not been a fan of Two Man Advantage. The Long Island-based hardcore punk band was put together in 1997 for the purpose of playing one single show at a friend’s party. This past October, they hung up their skates after 28 years.

I had never heard of them before going to The Knitting Factory in the summer of 2003 for a Go Kart Records show to see two bands fronted by former members of the Lunachicks (Bantam and Team Squid). I had no idea who else would be playing.

When a hockey-themed band started setting up I really wasn’t sure I would like them. I was afraid they might be a beat-down hardcore band that took itself too seriously, which the sports jerseys seemed to portend. But the music started and they had a guy in a mask! An excellent artistic flourish. The music was not beat-down drudgery but fast-paced, hard-driving old-school hardcore punk – the finest. When the lead singer came to the stage waving a hockey stick with ‘DRUNK BASTARD’ emblazoned on the back of his jersey, I could tell this band had a sense of humor. The music never let up; they played a set full of fast, aggressive songs that were catchy tunes and were mostly about hockey. I didn’t follow hockey, but so what? The music was so much fun and the band attacked each song with a volume and intensity that I couldn’t help but jump in the pit.

And at the time I was looking to start or join a band, and over the next year Blackout Shoppers came together and started playing regularly. Stealing ideas from Two Man Advantage and Philadelphia’s Loafass, I started wearing a mask on stage and we developed an intro song so our singer could make a separate entrance.

Throughout their nearly three decades, the band has played with all manner of hardcore punk’s elite. and toured the U.S. extensively. Not too long after Blackout Shoppers formed, we had the opportunity to share the stage with 2MA, and every time we did it was a great time. Getting to know the members of the band over the years increased one’s appreciation for the group. Every conversation with guitar player the Captain teaches me something interesting, be it mathematical theory or records – he’s forgotten more about music than I may ever know. Lead singer Anthony “Spag” Spagnolo and drummer Aaron “Coach” Pagdon were DJs at my wedding – Spag’s apartment has the largest record collection I have ever seen outside of a record store or radio station. Not long after DJing my wedding, Coach and his wife were married on Easter Island. Guitar player Robert “Sk8” Locasio works in film and television production. Bass player Jeff “Slapshot” Marsala had been traveling to New York from Pittsburgh to play shows, and produced a great series of videos of Two Man members and friends sharing stories from the band’s past. Backing singer Myk Rudnick works in merchandising for the music industry, from thrash metal to rap—I was happy to learn he is friends with M.C. Search from 3^rd Bass.

Blackout Shoppers was also fortunate to put out a split 7-inch record with 2MA, and we booked a weekend tour together to promote the new record. While it was perhaps not as eventful as some of Two Man’s other adventures on the road, our brief tour included staying in a dilapidated house in February with no heat; witnessing a car fire that blazed with bonfire-sized flames on a busy highway; playing in a warehouse DIY space so densely crowded with sweaty people moshing that it had its own visibly sticky atmosphere; spending the night in Boston at the home of a woman who was a former pro-wrestler, made us the best chicken nachos ever, and had converted an entire room of her apartment into a ball pit; and playing a final show in the midst of a blizzard that threatened to shut down New York City. What little money the bands made went to pay for gas and beer, and it was an absolute blast.

When Blackout Shoppers celebrated its 20^th anniversary last year, Two Man Advantage was on the bill. They delivered a great set that helped keep the momentum going.

Earlier this year, notices appeared on social media promoting Two Man Advantage’s ‘Final Skate.’

I asked if there might at some point be a Two Man Advantage reunion; after all, I had been present for several “final tours” of bands such as Motley Crue and Slayer. “This will be it,” Captain replied.

Tickets went on sale for the band’s final show at Amityville Music Hall in Amityville, Long Island, and I quickly snatched up a pair of tickets online. I am glad I bought them early—the show sold out.

On the night of the show, I got to the venue early and joined a line that stretched down the block. Once the doors opened, I got on the merchandise line almost immediately; by the time I reached Two Man’s merch table, most of their t-shirts were gone. They sold out of nearly all their merchandise before a single note of music was played.

The first band on was Burrito Bowel, a young grindcore band that includes Vlad Rudnick, son of Two Man backing singer Myk Rudnick, on bass. I remember when Vlad was 10 years old and standing by the side of the stage at Two Man shows, with a few of us shielding him from flying bodies emanating from the mosh pit. Now he sometimes plays bass in the mosh pit while wearing a hockey jersey. Vlad works as a sound engineer and mixed TwoMan Advantage’s final record. Next were The Stress, an old-school style Oi band, who delivered a great set of tight songs with excellent, envy-inducing bass lines. Deathcycle took the stage next, delivering great, metal-infused hardcore. Deathcycle’s singer, Ron Grimaldi, spends almost as much time off stage as on it, and their sets become a ‘Where’s Waldo?’-like exercise in seeing where Ron will pop up next; they deliver in-your-face hardcore like no one else. No Redeeming Social Value is the gold standard of how to do hardcore punk without taking yourself too seriously (though they may give that designation to The Six and Violence)—songs about beer, Guidos, chicken, and pussy overlaid with showers of malt liquor and costumed mayhem. Perfect for the occasion.

People got into position for Two Man Advantage, and I had a nice spot at stage left. It was both a thrilling and solemn moment. This was going to be a great Two Man Advantage show where the band and audience was going to give their all, and it was also the last time the band would perform. Anticipation built as things came into place.

The sold-out crowd roared when Two Man Advantage took the stage. As is tradition, Coach took the microphone to give an introduction before the music started. He thanked the audience and he noted that it was hard to say goodbye to something you love, and that decades of music had changed all of their lives for the better. “This family is a band,” he told the crowd.

Two Man started their traditional intro song “2MA Intro,” and the crowd quickly turned into a churning mass of moshing. It rained beer and bodies, which intensified with each song, and I struggled and then gave up trying to get good, up-close photos. This was musical chaos to be savored in the moment, and it felt very fitting that the final Two Man Advantage performance was a donnybrook that eventually chased me away from the front of the stage. The music was relentless and people were yelling themselves hoarse singing along.

The band played crowd favorites, including “Don’t Label Us;” “Hot Rod GTO,” about the Pontiac GTO and Spag’s experiences with them; “Zamboni Driving Maniac,” which earned the band a threatening legal letter from the Zamboni company (Zambonis are the machines that smooth out the ice on an ice rink); and “Captain Morgan,” about the rum bearing the name of the pirate—the band had two very large bottles of Captain Morgan run passed around to the crowd to share. Two Man brought up former members and special guests throughout the show. The venue at the end of their set felt like a battle had been won; then they came back for an encore and played more songs.

Two Man Advantage made music with sincerity and love, and shared it with the world in the same way. That is why their final show sold out, why their merchandise was snatched up in minutes. That’s why people planned road trips to follow their tours, and why people traveled thousands of miles to be there for the farewell.

Thank you, Two Man!

New Poem on Impolite Literature: Snowman

 

This past Sunday my girls asked if they could make a snowman. Of course they could. What kind of gobshite would I be to not let children build a snowman? I did not have time to take them to a nearby park, though; I was busy making Double Satanic Deviled Eggs for a family party. They made do with a snowman on the sidewalk in front of my home. They came to the door to ask for things to use for eyes—I did not have coal or carrots, but some almonds and a pecan worked for a face.

I wrote a poem about it, Snowman, which can be found on the Impolite Literature website.

The snowman is still standing guard a few days later, leaning a bit in the sunlight.

The touching holiday story of the Crack Whore Santa

 

One evening at Blackout Shoppers’ band rehearsal, our drummer at the time, MickeyFingers, was recounting a story of his apartment being robbed.

He worked in broadcasting at the time and was working midnight shifts. His roommate had been out drinking heavily at bars and had brought home a woman of ill repute with the intention of carnal indulgences. The roommate, however, passed out drunk and the woman burglarized the apartment. She had ransacked the place and taken numerous valuables. Mickey gave the drunkard roommate his walking papers and was shortly rid of him.

Mickey ran through a catalog of what she had stolen: expensive cameras, high-end electronics, books, DVDs, and a plethora of CDs had vanished in the hands of the larceny-prone harlot. It was an immense amount of property, beyond the capacity of one person to haul off by themselves.

“How did she carry all of that stuff out of your apartment?” I asked.

“She took pillowcases from my bed, filled them up with my stuff, and walked out of there like some kind of Crack Whore Santa.”

The Crack Whore Santa never left our imaginations after that. Not long after Mickey Fingers departed from the band, we recorded a song called “Crack Whore Santa” and asked him and his son to come in to the studio and record an introduction to the song. His son was five years old at the time. It is preserved for posterity on the recording:

“OK, so who don’t we want to see for Christmas this year?”

“Crack Whore Santa.”

“And why not?”

“Because she took Daddy’s things!”

[Together:] “Crack Whore Santa! One, Two, Three, Four!!”

Mickey Fingers recovered from the theft of his property and lives in Westchester with his wife and children. Despite having played in Blackout Shoppers, he is gainfully employed and lives a productive life. The drunken roommate managed to turn his life around—the next time Mickey Fingers saw him he appeared sobered up and in a stable relationship.

And Blackout Shoppers continue to play music inspired in part by such absurdist comedies of life. We are playing Otto’s Shrunken Head on Saturday, Dec. 20^th and “Crack Whore Santa” is on the set list.

Book rescue in Queens and its vortex of unknows

 

I was cleaning out my motor vehicle, disposing of a handful of parking meter receipts that accumulate on the dashboards of cars in large American cities. As I deposited my trash in a receptacle, an open book nearby caught my eye.

Someone had dropped or thrown a book, and it had landed open against a curbside trash shed outside a co-op. It was an odd place to see a book, and it looked like it was thrown from a moving car or dropped out of bookbag that was being kicked down the street. I retrieved it.

The book, “Who Put This Song On?,” by Morgan Parker, was in good condition considering its rough treatment. Upon inspecting the book further, it bore a label on its back cover that read “FLUSHING HIGH SCHOOL LIBRARY.”

Flushing High School is a mile away from where I found the book. I made a note to return it. No book should be homeless, and someone may be looking forward to reading that, or may not be able to afford whatever fine may be levied for losing it.

A host of possibilities flooded my mind regarding how the book came to rest upon the sidewalk a mile away from its library home. Did someone steal it and try to throw it in the trash bin? Was a student carrying this when they were attacked by a kidnapper or serial killer, and the page was open to a passage that would reveal the whereabouts of the victim or give a clue as to the motive of a brutal killing? Am I now a suspect in a kidnapping or murder that has not been made public yet? Or will I be considered a cringeworthy thief, found with a book stolen from a local high school?

I made it my mission to return the book as soon as it was convenient, lest I be unwittingly caught up in these mysteries, but more likely, that the book can continue to be enjoyed by students. I was prepared for whatever grilling I would receive when I brought the book back—I can explain my fingerprints on the book were from finding the book, not stealing it or doing anything untoward to whatever student checked it out.

I set about my task taking a public bus to the high school, arriving in the afternoon after classes were over for the day. I tried to look as assuming and non-threatening as possible while carrying a book clearly geared toward young women.

Flushing High School is on a nice green campus surrounded by the dense vertical sprawl of downtown Flushing, Queens. It’s an oasis of beautiful architecture and calm grass and trees amid the rapid overdevelopment of a city fueled by commerce without a thought for beauty and cohesion. I hope it fights to the death to stay the way it is.

My returning the book was anticlimactic. I stepped into the front entrance of the school and handed the book to a school safety officer behind a desk, who thanked me for returning it. I walked out of school and enjoyed the walk home, having done my good deed for the day and rescued a book from oblivion.

Lotto Dreams

 

The Powerball lottery game recently reached a jackpot close to $2 billion. Those jackpots spur people who don’t normally buy lotto tickets to shell out for a big win, and I am guilty of being one of those people.

Compared to some of my family and friends, my investment in lotto tickets is pretty low. With that weak justification, I forgive myself for this vice. I am not sure what else $2 will buy you today, and sometimes a hopeless dream can get you through the day.

The odds of winning the lottery are massively stacked against us. Still, I have a go-to lotto buy that I repeat to the tired clerks at my local drug store:

“Two Powerball, two Mega Millions, please.”

They have raised the price on some lottery games recently, so this minor vice is now more expensive. I buy two kinds of lottery tickets because it increases my chances of winning by a minuscule amount and I can pat myself on the back with the illusion of being a smart tactician, when I am really a hopeless dreamer like everybody else.

The news cycle surges around big lotto jackpots have been going on for as long as I can remember. Lotto was ubiquitous growing up in the New York City area in the 1980s, and my parents played it semi-regularly. I remember buying a lotto ticket soon after I turned 18 as a rite of passage, similar to registering to vote or getting your draft card.

When I moved to Georgia in the early 1990s, there was a statewide referendum on the ballot over the question of whether there would be a lottery. I couldn’t believe the lottery didn’t exist in Georgia. What was wrong with these people that they didn’t have lotto? It was a mark of civilization in my mind.

It was actually a close vote; the lottery ballot initiative passed, but barely. Churches and religious organizations had organized against the lottery, and people were divided over the issue.

In retrospect, the church groups and religious activists who oppose lotto raise good points: Lotto preys upon the poor; it exacerbates gambling problems and gets the bulk of its cash from those who can least afford to give it. It promotes a ‘get rich quick’ ethos and encourages the illusion of wealth without work.

My daughters will ask me to promise them things if I win a big jackpot. I have promised them a home where they can each have their own bedroom, a trip to Paris and other travel adventures, and adopting a dog to live in our new house. I won’t make a big announcement, but if you see me wearing a cowboy hat and a fur coat like Dusty Rhodes, I’ve won.

I would spend my days writing and playing music, traveling, and sitting on a lawn to feel my own grass under my feet. I would have time to read all the books I want, see all the movies my friends talk about, take my friends to lunch, and plan my next trip with my daughters.

Lotto is not a viable path to changing our lives, but it’s a chance to dream aloud with the ones we love, and in that it serves a purpose.

Wish me luck.

Lessons of strength from September 11

 

For New Yorkers who were out of town on September 11, 2001, the horrors of that day were accompanied by a feeling of horrific impotence. I was at a conference for work in California, and I was awake in time to watch the North Tower collapse on live television. I could do little but make phone calls to make sure some of my family who lived and worked in lower Manhattan were still alive (they were).

There is no way to fathom the extent of the loss the world suffered that day; our city and country (and world) have never been the same. But there are positive lessons we can take from that day that give us strength in the face of lingering darkness:

New York City will be here forever, and our Gotham can survive anything. In my lifetime alone, New York City has survived bankruptcy, riots, the worst-ever terrorist attack on U.S. soil, an East Coast blackout, and a deadly global pandemic. “Tough” doesn’t begin to describe New York. New Yorkers are both tormented and inspired by our city every day, but we love it and will defend it to the death.

Americans will rise to the occasion, no matter how dire or dangerous the mission. The heroism of the passengers of Flight 93 and the sacrifices of the first responders and others who helped people to safety during the attacks is an enduring legacy that gives us hope in dark times. The blood of revolutionaries and pioneers still courses through our veins. At times of our worst traumas come opportunities for greater good, and the mettle America showed in the wake of the attacks is alive and well.

Everyone has a role to play, and life is too important to sit on the sidelines. The heroes of the September 11 attacks include not only the first responders and the Flight 93 passengers, but the train and ferry operators who got people to safety, doctors and nurses who tended to the wounded, and even everyday people who did whatever they could. Those kinds of opportunities to be a part of making our city, country and world better are still present. Don’t be a spectator.

Take a moment to remember those that we have lost. Remember, too, the resilience and character of our city and country—qualities that carried us through and continue to endure.

Embracing the Cringe

Children who call their parents "cringe" today will thank them later.

My daughters often seek to remind me that I am “cringe.” I may get the occasional compliments for buying the right kind of veggie nuggets or for doing a better-than-expected job with dinner nachos, but unless I win the lottery and can afford Taylor Swift tickets, I’m officially “cringe” for the foreseeable future.

But one thing I have learned about being a good parent, or at least a good father, is to embrace the cringe.

Just as Machiavelli said it is better as a ruler to be feared (respected), than loved, so as a parent it is better to be cringe than cool.

“Cool Dads” are cool only in their own minds; their children exploit their parents’ insecurities while quietly resenting the acquiescing of authority. Children need parents that exhibit mental and emotional strength: calm in their authority and stoic in the face of conflict.

I am older than the average Dad in my children’s grade school, actually older than most of the teachers and administrators there also. I went to a school Halloween party dressed as Groucho Marx and I was crestfallen that no one—not even any of the other parents—knew who Groucho Marx was (I vow to make my children watch Marx Brothers films when they are a bit older). But this awkward incongruity is a secret source of strength.

When you are young, anyone from previous generations just looks “older” or “old.” If you were born in a year that starts with the numbers ‘1’ and ‘9,’ you will never qualify as young in the eyes of my children; sorry. But not to fear, being older has its place, and maturity is a quality that is much-needed in the lives of youth.

Because we are not of these times and do not bend to these times, we are a bulwark against uncertainty. My children were born with many good privileges, but they are growing up in a time of great volatility and fear, and children need their parents to be beacons of soundness amidst chaos. I can be that beacon. I can note that the chaos of our times has been here before and our world has seen much worse.

One of the benefits of parenthood is that your place in the order of this universe is set. You are the parent. By the sheer massive need of responsibility, you know your role. You have to provide, you have to protect, you have to pass on knowledge.

While it won’t be fashionable to acknowledge this for several decades, children are grateful for parents that are uncool and provide stability and wisdom to growing minds. They will benefit from getting the right answer and the right amount of discipline, even if they stay too cool to say, ‘thank you.’

I have not always been the stoic my children have needed. I can be quick to anger when they do something they know better not to do, or show outrageous insolence in vital times. I remind them that I love them often but I do not pretend to be their buddy or their friend. I’m their father and while I listen to respectful arguments, my word is final. They begrudgingly obey, and they’ll thank me later.