America Is Always Worth Celebrating

 Independence Day in these United States should be a stupendous and excessive explosion of red, white, and blue, with fireworks lighting the sky and masses of people celebrating America with the fervor to put a Roman bacchanal to shame.

This year’s Independence Day, our 250^th (apparently "semiquincentennial," "quarter-millennial," and even "bisesquicentennial" are all acceptable terms) —finds a more subdued mood as we approach this celebration.

The mood of the country is grim. Our politics are bitterly divided and many find it hard to separate the love of their country with the approval of their government. But don’t let the current state of affairs step on your celebration of America.

Hating the government does not diminish the spirit of America. Hating the government IS the spirit of America. Apple pie is as American as hating your government.

Rejecting the politicization of our Independence Day celebration is not a sign of America’s decline; it’s a sign that the rebellious patriotic spirit that created America still lives and endures. It is American as hell to detest pompous self-aggrandizement wrapped in the flag.

Theodore Roosevelt expressed this sentiment in 1918, “PATRIOTISM means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the President or any other public official save exactly to the degree in which he himself stands by the country.”  He put this notion into even stronger terms later the same year, “To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public.” 

America has always been politically divided. Even during the American Revolution, which has been described as America’s first civil war, many Americans remained loyal to Britain – Benjamin Franklin’s own son William was the royal governor of New Jersey and fled the U.S. for England toward the end of the Revolution.

Today’s political divisions are vast and won’t be healed overnight, but our country has shown its resilience through much worse than our current state. We survived a real Civil War that killed more than half a million people. We survived rebellions, terror attacks, pandemics, natural disasters, and economic depressions.

No matter what your political leanings, you’re right to be dissatisfied with the state of our government and disgusted with the people ruling it (yes, both sides!). But the people in positions of power are not the nation itself. The low quality of our political leadership doesn’t make America less great, it reflects the growing disconnect between the people and those who govern them.

This Independence Day, fly your American flags proudly. We are descended from rogues and scoundrels who defeated an empire and built a nation that eventually forged an empire of its own.

A nation is not made great by the iconography of its most powerful, but the perseverance of its people.  America remains a land of promise and possibility. That is worth celebrating every day. 

Stopping by Buc-ee’s at 3 a.m.

It was the early hours of a Sunday morning, and I was traveling with my band, Blackout Shoppers. We had played the Anarchy at the Arcade Festival at Super Rad Arcade Bar in Lynchburg, Virginia, and shared the stage with some amazing bands. It was great fun, but we had a long drive home and wanted to make it to a hotel to get some sleep.

Cruising along, I saw the sign of a beaver looming large over the highway, a bright beacon of road trip joy.

“Have any of you guys been to a Buc-ee’s yet?” I asked the rest of the band.

They had not.

“That changes tonight.”

I had visited a Buc-ee’s in South Carolina on a road trip to Georgia and back with my daughters. The chain has built a reputation as a bastion of largesse and Americana; I was not disappointed. We bought stuffed toys of Buc-ee the Beaver, the institution’s mascot, for my girls’ younger cousins, bought gas, and helped ourselves to a bag from a floor-to-ceiling wall of beef jerky. I made a point to stop by again on our return journey to New York.

My comrades wanted to buy beer, but as it was past midnight—technically Sunday morning—and would run afoul of Virginia’s blue laws, they were denied. I have not had any alcohol since early 2010, but I still hate these blue laws with a passion. My friends took it in stride; they still had beer and bourbon waiting for them in the truck.

We experienced the super clean Buc-ee’s bathrooms, which stand alone and set the standard for public restrooms; the rest of America has a long way to catch up.

At 3 a.m., Buc-ee’s is not the crowded madhouse during daylight hours. There is a camaraderie among people who are awake in those strange pre-dawn hours. Some are up early for work or in the middle of an overnight shift, others are on their way to a hotel after playing a crazy hardcore punk and metal show. There was a skeleton crew manning the place, but Buc-ee’s still ran with attentive precision. It lived up to the hype for my bandmates.

While Buc-ee’s has the bulk of its locations in Texas and has expanded into the Southeast, the chain may have plans for the Northeast. While traveling in Connecticut last summer, I saw a Buc-ee’s billboard on I-95 that informed drivers that the nearest Buc-ee’s was 700+ miles in the opposite direction. Would the company spend money on a billboard over one of the busiest highways in the country just to troll Northeasterners over not having Buc-ee’s? I contacted Buc-ee’s through its website to inquire of such designs. I have yet to hear back.

On my previous trips, I did not try the establishment’s famous brisket sandwich. In the spirit of early morning road trip adventure and punk rock excess, I splurged and emerged with another coffee and a brisket sandwich.

We stood outside, close to the bronze statue of Buc-ee the Beaver, a form of pagan idolatry befitting our gluttony in the early hours of the morning. I tore off pieces of my brisket sandwich and shared this feast with my bandmates. It was delicious. 

Second acts are American lives

 

“There are no second acts in American lives.”

—      F. Scott Fitzgerald

Fitzgerald scholars are rightly irked that the line about no second acts in American lives is often quoted by itself and attributed to “The Last Tycoon.” The line was first used in a 1932 essay titled “My Lost City,” which documents the resilience of New York in the aftermath of the stock market collapse that helped launch the Great Depression.

The original Fitzgerald quote from “My Lost City” is:

“I once thought that there were not second acts in American lives, but there was certainly to be a second act to New York’s boom days.”

Fitzgerald’s own life contradicted the idea that there are no opportunities for renewal in America.

He was preparing to dominate his own life’s second act when he died at the age of 44. And true to his 1932 essay, New York has shown its resilience multiple times and survived more crises and disasters in the decades since 1929.

Fitzgerald is one of the giants of American literature. While his writing celebrates the Jazz Age and the promise of American prosperity, it also pulls back the curtain on the dark side of the American dream. His most celebrated work, “The Great Gatsby,” is a great example of the ability to make a new life for yourself, but also the pitfalls and dangers of the heedless pursuit and indulgences of wealth.

Jay Gatsby’s material success is undermined by his need to be something he is not. He cannot accept that the material rewards of his life are not the trappings of noble lineage. In America, we don’t care who your father was. We care about what you can do now, not what someone in your family tree did 100 years ago. That’s the essence of the American experiment—be judged by what you do and where you are going, not where you came from.

America was founded on the premise of second acts. From New England’s pilgrims to the hardscrabble pioneers who settled the American West, our country is one big series of second acts and new beginnings. Second acts are as American as a bald eagle eating apple pie.

I find encouragement in this as I look for a new job. I have been out of work for several months and have cast a much wider net than in previous searches. I no longer feel the need to go back to the same industry or seek the same salary. I’m old enough that I can be honest with myself about the things I would like to do and prioritize things that will lead me to enjoy the everyday more than how things read on a resume. This is well beyond my second act, and I’ve lost count of the new beginnings I’ve had to carve out. But that’s no matter. It is never too late to start again or become something new.

This year, as the United States celebrates the 250^th anniversary of its founding, remember that our country was born from one of the bravest second acts in world history.

And remember that second acts are rewarding to the extent that they allow you to be who you really are, and not what others expect of you. Part of having a successful second act in life means not caring about what others think. Your life exists to make you and your loved ones happy.

Here’s to second acts in American lives—one of the things that makes America great.

Snowbound NYC feels the filth of winter

 

The Northeastern U.S. has become accustomed to mild winters over the last decade. Prior to the latest snow blizzard that pummeled much of the country, online newsreels were commemorating the 30^th anniversary of the blizzard of 1996. Now we have a new milestone to mark in the history of the five boroughs’ struggles with snow.

The Northeastern U.S. had weeks of below-freezing temperatures immediately following an exceptionally large snowstorm. The usual melt that happens in the days after a storm hasn’t happened. I can’t remember any time in my life that so much snow sat around for so long afterwards.

While the roads may be cleared in theory, large snowbanks have turned two-lane streets into one-lane streets. Slippery snow and ice patches make driving in the city more dangerous than usual.

The sidewalks and crosswalks are in an even more dismal state. Plows push large quantities of snow into icy walls that solidify into chunky walls of hard-packed ice and snow.

The city’s Department of Sanitation continued to plow the same roads and did little or nothing about freeing up sidewalks, bus stops, and crosswalks. I recently stood behind a plow wall at a bus stop and watched a snow plow drop loads of salt on an already dry road while piles of filthy, frozen snow sat nearby untouched.

Even with the understanding that this was an unprecedented storm, the city’s response rates poorly. Long stretches of sidewalk, including those abutting public parks and city-run spaces, remain largely inaccessible weeks later, thin paths cut by the feet of harried pedestrians the only things working to clear any walking space.

Snow makes New York City look beautiful for about three hours. Snow in NYC quickly turns into a mosaic of street and sidewalk filth, collecting dog urine, car exhaust, and the varied effluvium that regularly pulses across our sidewalks and curbs. After several weeks, the hardened snowbanks sport a spattering of grotesque shame, rife with collected bacteria.

New York’s sidewalks and crosswalks, already a crowded place of give-and-take silent negotiations of movement, have become more challenging to navigate. Having a good pair of waterproof boots is paying big dividends, and I am trudging through frozen sidewalk tundra like an over-the-hill urban sherpa.

Warmer temperatures in the weeks ahead promise relief through melting snow, but city authorities should take stock of this storm and improve their response. In the meantime, New Yorkers are waiting for the Great Snow Melt of 2026.

Tear down these (excessive) paywalls

I attempted to watch Super Bowl LX on television this past Sunday. As I pay for several subscription services, I assumed that one of them would be able to show me the game, which was broadcast on a national network that one would be able to watch for free if you had a traditional or cable television.

As a Jets fan, I have absolutely no reason to watch postseason football, but I wanted to watch the Super Bowl to see the halftime show, which generated pointless and contrived garbage controversy, and to see if the game or commercials might be entertaining.

Last year, I was able to stream the Super Bowl so my daughters could catch a glimpse of Taylor Swift in the stands. I didn’t have to subscribe to anything new or pay a fee to see the game, and it worked out well. My girls got to see Taylor Swift and the game was interesting to watch by Super Bowl standards.

But it was not to be. I tried every service I could find that offered live streaming of the super bowl, but all I was able to access without a subscription were live feeds of people watching the game at a bar or in some kind of lounge area, or video-game approximations of the action on the field. Neither was the game.

To get the Super Bowl score during the game on The New York Times website, I’m blocked and told I need to upgrade my subscription to include The Athletic, a premium service because apparently the bespoke genius of The New York Times has found a way to give us the score of a football game that is premium and better than the masses of hoi polloi who long ago figured out how to do this.

This was especially sad to see The New York Times sink to these depths. The Times is one of the first websites I ever had a subscription to. Back when it was free, I signed up online and got a cool username and password for the Times website that still works to this day. It was a rite of passage in entering the digital age, and I was proud to begin my journey of consuming news online with the newspaper of record.

I gladly stained my hands and arms reading vociferously since my father introduced me to the Gray Lady when I was in middle school. Now I’m just another mark that the Times thinks it can squeeze for an extra subscription to get the score of a football game. ESPN’s web site had the score of the game without going through a paywall, but I would have just as soon given that web traffic to the Times.

I had to enjoy the Super Bowl vicariously through the news and social media posts of friends and family. As a large, national event, it goes against the populist American ethos for the Super Bowl to be shuttered behind multiple pay walls. I felt betrayed by the providers I already pay handsomely for access to the digital world, even if I was probably the better for it.

Top Ten Holiday Movies For Jaded Curmudgeons

 

We are in the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, when the days get jumbled and we want to maintain the holiday spirit as much as we can until the real world comes roaring back at us. One of the holiday traditions I look forward to every year is watching holiday movies—both rewatching the classics and discovering new ones. Here are my top 10 holiday movies:

#10 National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

This Christmas version of the National Lampoon’s Vacation series that never got as good as the original National Lampoon’s Vacation, follows the Griswold family trying to navigate the holidays. Like the original, Randy Quaid’s performance as Cousin Eddy makes the movie complete and his arrival in the film (“Shitter’s full!)” is its most memorable moment.

#9 The Naught Nine

A group of kids who don’t get Christmas gifts because of their varying misdeeds take it upon themselves to steal gifts directly from Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. The motley crew of miscreants is likeable from the start. Danny Glover pulls it off as a beleaguered but compassionate Santa Claus and the story left me wanting a sequel, which the film’s ending seems to indicate is coming (so far it hasn’t; get on that, Disney).

#8 Red One

This Christmas action-adventure features Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson as the head of security for the North Pole when Santa Claus, played with sharp-witted and jovial panache by J.K. Simmons, is kidnapped. Chris Evans, best known for playing Captain America, is the ne’er-do-well computer hacker who unwittingly helps locate Santa for the kidnappers and is drawn into a battle between two differing views of the supernatural world’s view of Christmas. It’s a bit heavy on the CGI but it works and it’s kid friendly with some nice material for adults also.

#7 It's a Wonderful Life

This is the movie I watched because everyone I knew had seen it because it’s a classic Christmas movie. Although time and technology have chipped away at its dominance among Christmas films, it continues to occupy a place in the American consciousness. The classic Frank Capra American drama of good vs. evil and community vs. craven greed holds up as every bit as relevant today. Enjoy a classic American film and believe. 

#6 Home Alone

This story of an isolated young man waging a campaign of mechanized violence against two bumbling thieves never gets old. It has slapstick comedic appeal for adults, self-recognition for parents, and good goofy fun for kids. It also has the same appeal that Death Wish has in that we get to see lowly criminals dealt harsh street justice at the hands of a would-be victim.

#5 Elf

This brings holiday cheer for children with some nice crumbs thrown to adults. Will Farrell’s over-the-top performance as Buddy the Elf helps sell the film, as does the casting choice of Ed Asner as Santa Claus. Santa’s advice to Buddy as he prepares to leave the North Pole for New York City is memorable: “First off, you see gum on the street, leave it there. It isn't free candy.” It has a great scene with Peter Dinklage as an enraged executive and James Caan is Buddy’s long-lost father. Good holiday cheer and kid friendly.

#4 Santa’s Slay

Hilarious purposely B-movie gory comedy horror starring pro-wrestler (and Georgia Bulldog) Bill Goldberg as a murderous St. Nick who delivers over-the-top carnage while driving a bison-drawn sleigh across the land. Robert Culp, who I loved as a kid when he played a rugged FBI agent on “The Greatest American Hero,” plays a loving grandfather with a secret past who must confront the evil Santa to save Christmas. Not kid-friendly but perfect for holiday gatherings with adults.

#3 A Christmas Story

This is many people’s number one for good reason and it never gets old no matter how many times you see it. I feel Ralphie Parker’s pain as he longs for a Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action 200-Shot Range Model Air Rifle. The scene with Santa Claus in the department store is a must-see Christmas scene, and there are many iconic scenes in the film that represent the experience of growing up in America at Christmastime. This has stood the test of time and will continue.

#2 Fatman

This movie takes you by surprise in its subtlety. You almost don’t think Mel Gibson is playing Santa Claus but someone who just looks like Santa. Make no mistake though, “Chris” is Chris Cringle himself, and struggles with finances and sleigh repairs in a down-to-earth way that makes the holiday spirit impact that much more effective. The scene where Santa gets letters from kids who are living their dreams will give you the holiday feels. Also, there’s a ruthless, Santa-hating assassin hired to kill Santa and a bloody gun battle ensues. Put this on your holiday movie watch list. 

#1 Bad Santa

Still the creepy granddaddy of all holiday movies. Bad Santa will have you spitting up your eggnog with its absolute depravity but also brighten your day with redemptive holiday cheer. Billy Bob Thorton as a drunken, safe-cracking thief is the jaded antihero we need to balance the relentlessness of the holiday season, which creeps in earlier every year. The ensemble cast includes “Gilmore Girls” star Lauren Graham, John Ritter in one of his last roles as the department store manager, and Bernie Mac as the head of mall security. The sequel that followed a few years later has its moments, but can’t replicate the power of the original. Watch this with your adult friends who have a good sense of humor and after the kids are asleep (not just in bed, asleep).

 

Honorable mentions: Violent Night, Gremlins, Home Alone 2, Die Hard, Scrooged.

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.

The holiday sugar coma of a Kit Kat Cottage

 

The delirium of social media delivered an appealing idea: instead of building a ginger bread house for the holidays, you can create a small log cabin-like home using Kit Kat bars. The idea on its face was sound: Kit Kat bars are more delicious and are easier to eat than plain gingerbread.

I mentioned the idea to my daughters, looking to incorporate it into our holiday traditions. We can feast upon the Kit Kat Cottage with our eggnog amid the dulcet tones of holiday music. Their agreement was a positive reinforcement I didn’t really need to make additional plans for holiday gluttony.

The kits available online would not be delivered until after the holidays; it was time to buy the raw ingredients and make do. The kits come with larger-size Kit Kat bars, sometimes of different flavors of chocolate to help with variety such as having a roof of a different color.

I did not have the easier work of the Kit Kat Cottage Kit – I had to work with the raw ingredients as they were normally bought in a store. A box of 36 Kit Kat bars from the local BJs (BJs is like Costco or Sams Club and stands for Berkley & Jensen – flashing your BJs membership card will only get you the pleasure of buying in bulk) provided more than enough basic building materials. Regular and white chocolate chips to melt for our cottage cement, and thin peanut butter cups and a small tube of decorative green frosting to make wreaths and we had what we needed.

We began construction on Christmas Eve, expecting that the house would come together quickly, but it was not to be. We had to glue the normal-size Kit Kats together with melted chocolate so that the pieces would be big enough to create a cottage of respectable size. The regular chocolate chips didn’t melt into a strong enough adhesive, so we had to switch and re-glue everything using the white chocolate chips. Then once those dried we put together the cottage. Time dragged on, especially with the builders having to eat all the spare and broken Kit Kat pieces, both to ensure we were not poisoned and to not leave any crumbs that would attract insects. We had to finish the cottage on Christmas evening.

After a third round of dedicated construction, including the last-minute addition of a chimney and peppermint crunch Andes candies as windows, our Kit Kat Cottage was complete. As a house it is a dilapidated shambles that Willy Wonka wouldn’t piss on, but as a dessert is a commitment to decadent deliciousness. We admired our creation, but it was too late to begin eating on Christmas night.

The day after Christmas my children and I began eating the Kit Kat Cottage. It is taking us longer to do than I had anticipated. Five days later, after several desserts with my children and a few rare solo desserts specifically dedicated to making progress on this thing, we still have a way to go.

We will literally be eating this thing into the New Year. The sugar and preservatives are such that there are no signs of this dessert going stale. I can possibly bequeath the remains of the cottage to my future grandchildren, though by then such foods may be outlawed.

The Kit Cat Cottage is delicious, but it reminds me why I cut down on sweets except for special occasions. I want to make progress and not let this effort go to waste, but my body is not accustomed to eating sweets regularly and I fall into a sugar coma that makes me feel sluggish and useless.

The Kit Kat Cottage may be a tradition that is here to stay. Or it may be a holiday tradition that can be forgotten quickly and succumb to the need for better health. Wish me luck.

Embrace being politically homeless

 

I remember standing in the Atlanta airport the day after Election Day in 2004, watching John Kerry and John Edwards give concession speeches. I was dumbfounded that America could vote for a second George W. Bush administration. How could any thinking person cast their ballot for such a vacuous disaster as that?

George W. Bush had neither the intelligence nor the dignified manner to hold the office of president. He was tested in his first term by the enormous events of September 11, 2001 and failed miserably by falling prey to his coterie of ambitious and careless advisors. His invasion of Iraq got thousands of Americans killed needlessly; it further destabilized the Middle East and made the mullahs of Iran more powerful.

Four years later, John Kerry was not a perfect candidate, but he wasn’t George W. Bush, and that was all that mattered. The infuriating absurdity of the George W. Bush presidency was compounded tenfold by a public that took this empty suit seriously; many even thought it was some kind of patriot duty to vote for him.

So when Donald Trump won re-election earlier this month, I felt like I understood people who were morally outraged and angry at their fellow Americans. When your opposition candidate is an unqualified absurdity, a high level of moral outrage is natural. I’ve been there.

But I no longer rank among people emotionally swayed by election results. I’ve embraced political homelessness, and with that comes great freedom.

Maybe it’s a certain level of age and experience, or a knowing cynicism that has crept into my worldview, but I don’t see the world in the same black-and-white landscape of good and evil that I did in 2004.

Maybe it is my background working as a financial journalist that allows me to look at issues and policies more clinically and with a sense of emotional detachment. I’ve learned to look at what people actually do and what facts on the ground are, and pay little attention to rhetoric.

I’ve come to expect the worst from everyone and so I’m rarely surprised or disappointed. Of course, the government is going to abuse its power, it wouldn’t have attained power if they hadn’t planned on using it. I’m often saying to my friends, regardless of their political affiliation, “Your side did this too.”

So I went into the presidential election predicting that Donald Trump would win and confident that I wouldn’t be happy with either outcome. I’ve seen Democrats and Republicans sacrifice principles for political advantage repeatedly, over multiple election cycles, to the point that I know neither is capable of keeping its word or staying grounded.

But while I have lost whatever faith I had in the American political system, I have not lost faith in America. If anything, our country shows us over and over again that it is resilient and capable. America exists in a superior plane far above our wretched politics. George W. Bush and his cabinet of incompetents deserve to smolder in the ash heap of history, but the people who voted for him were mostly decent people who loved their country and felt wounded by being attacked. The Trump supporters who put him back into office have seen their grocery bills triple.

There is so much more consensus on vital issues than we’re led to believe, and in the real world, if people are able to meet on their own terms, they can build meaningful bridges with neighbors and political opponents. It’s being done on the local level around the country every day.

So, if you’ve become frustrated and disillusioned, political homelessness may be for you. It won’t cure all frustration and aggravation with American politics, but you won’t blow a head gasket when the next unqualified hot mess takes the Oval Office.

America’s greatest tennis hero is a pro-wrestling manager

 

The U.S. Open has recently concluded here in New York. It is one of the tennis world’s grand slam tournaments and makes dreams come true for thousands of fans. Tennis discovers new heroes and heroines and celebrates the champions crowned on the court of Arthur Ashe stadium.

Despite being exposed to tennis on a grand scale every year, I never think of a tennis player when I see a tennis racket. I think of Jim Cornette.

Jim Cornette is a professional wrestling personality who has been an inside player at the top of the pro-wrestling world for decades. I became a fan of Cornette’s watching wrestling on TV as a kid in the 1980s. Cornette was a terrific heel (bad guy) manager, and his character was that of a spoiled rich kid who brazenly bragged about the support he got from his momma. His principal prop was the ubiquitous tennis racket he always carried.

The tennis racket in Cornette’s hand was not just a totem of perpetual un-earned wealth that flaunted his status above the rank-and-file working-class wrestling fans, it was also a constant threat of illicit violence, and Cornette didn’t hesitate to use it against opponents of his wrestlers.

Cornette, like other great heels of his day like Rowdy Roddy Piper (my personal Greatest of All Time), got audiences to hate him passionately. When Cornette was eventually smacked down by one of the baby faces (good guy wrestlers), the crowd cheered loudly. Cornette made being hated look cool, and wrestling fans love him for it.

In addition to his career as a wrestling manager, Cornette served as a promoter and creative director, working behind the scenes during some of the most historic events of pro-wrestling history. He still has a hand in the wrestling world, and hosts podcasts.

As a commentator, Cornette combines a folksy Southern persona with a razor-sharp wit, and levels devastating criticism with an inside knowledge of pro-wresting that would shame most fans.

Pro-wrestling was born from the world of the traveling carnival circuit, and retains a patina of carney culture. Fans are “marks” and wrestlers stay in character by “keeping kayfabe.” A truthful interview or a real fight is a “shoot.” Despite the millions of dollars spent on production values of today’s top wrestling promotions, wrestling has never party with the shifty underworld of the carney life.

Almost every behind-the-scenes documentary about pro wrestling involves shady business deals, rampant substance abuse, broken bodies and early death.

Cornette serves as both pro-wrestling’s greatest source of inside insight while being one its most stalwart defenders. He lets us in on how the sausage is made, while also advocating for its more old-school customs and traditions. He has little patience for the tabloid, lowest-common-denominator approach that became popular a few decades ago.

Cornette will not hold back if he sees something wrong, and some of his real-life feuds have become more famous than any scripted in-ring storyline. Do an internet search for “Jim Cornette shoots on…” and you’ll find a trove of strong opinions dished out with well-said sarcastic aplomb.

Jim Cornette continues to be a great asset to pro-wrestling, and because of the boundless joy he brought to fans as a classic bad guy, the tennis racket will always mean Jim Cornette to me.

New York’s most punk band leaves the stage

In the early 2000s, I picked up a copy of the punk rock newspaper The New York Waste, and paged through the show listings, record reviews and other articles. I came across a comic strip, ‘Last In Line for the Gang Bank, the GG Allin Story,’ a comic biography of late punk rock musician GG Allin.

GG Allin was a legendary punk rock performer known for his obscene and violent performances. His posthumous notoriety has grown in recent years but at the time his legend was more restricted to a smaller circle of punk rock die-hards.

Holy shit, I thought, someone is writing a comic-strip biography of GG Allin’s life and that is the coolest thing ever!

I read this comic strip religiously in every issue of the New York Waste. At the bottom of every comic in a small banner or border was a web address that looked somewhat cryptic. Unable to resist, I fired up my large desktop computer at home (this was several years before smart phones became publicly available) and visited the web address to find it was for a band called World War IX. Their guitar player, Justin Melkmann, was the man behind the GG Allin comic.

Based on the strength of this awesome comic alone, I made a mental note to see World War IX play at the earliest opportunity.

I first saw the band play at CB’s Basement, a smaller, downstairs venue attached to the legendary CBGB’s. They were the kind of raw, no-frills garage punk rock that I can never get enough of. They brought a loud punk sound with catchy tunes and, importantly, a sense of humor.

After their set, I found their guitar player, Justin, and told him that I liked his comic, and that World War IX was playing great music. I was in the process of getting my band Blackout Shoppers off the ground and we promised to stay in touch.

Fast forward a few months, and Blackout Shoppers and World War IX were playing shows together frequently, and the first recordings that Blackout Shoppers ever had for sale was a split 7-inch record with World War IX called ‘Larceny Armageddon,’ playing off the names of our bands.

People have been arguing over what constitutes “punk” since 1975. If you ask 100 punk rock fans for a definition of punk, you will get 100 different answers. We can agree maybe on two key attributes that make a band punk: an aggressive, often purposely offensive style of rock, and a base level of honesty with its fans and the general public.

Many punk bands try to act as if they are completely above the fray, that because they play this style of music they exist on a higher moral plane than those that play more lucrative genres. I can tell you first-hand that punk musicians harbor all the same egos and insecurities that the rest of the rock world has. As much of a joy as it is to play music, there comes a time in every band member’s life when they look at other bands and say to themselves, “Why can’t we have what they have?” or otherwise questions or gripes about their position in the entertainment industry food chain.

World War IX has a case for being New York’s punkest band of the last few decades. It played a raw, aggressive punk rock style that evolved but never mellowed, and it was very honest with its fans. Especially as told through Justin’s comics, World War IX narrated its own journey with all the pitfalls and aggravations that come with keeping a band afloat for years. Lineup changes, issues with drugs and alcohol, job worries and marriages and the weight of the world that is crushing at times have all been illustrated with humor, grit and ultimately gratitude.

As World War IX embraced its creativity, I had the opportunity to share the stage with them as a member of Blackout Shoppers and other bands, and I also had the chance to play villains in several of their music videos for CutlassSupreme, Carrera conel Diablo and BenderRoyale. I cannot think of an instance when I had a bad time at a World War IX show, or had a bad time with a member of World War IX.

I felt great joy when my friend Philthy Phill became their singer. A super-creative soul who has embraced the arts of writing, stand-up comedy, and music while surviving in New York, Phill was a natural choice when the band was looking for a singer once more. It was a sign that the forces of the world had brought on a confluence of punk rock perfection when Phill was on the mic. His departure from New York is what got Blackout Shoppers back on stage and playing again regularly after a few years on semi-hiatus.

Phill was replaced on singing duties by Johnny C., previously of the band CitizenBlast Kane. A few years later, World War IX decided to call it quits. There wasn’t any big drama or dispute over money (there is no money in punk rock!), but there comes a time when a band just feels it has run out of road and needs to move on and do other things. That time came for World War IX, and the band decided last year that they would play a final show this January at Otto’s Shrunken Head.

World got out that WWIX was breaking up and having a final show. People from all over the country made plans to fly to New York for the event. The band invited all their former members to return to play one last time. Most importantly, Philthy Phill would be coming in from Indiana.

The night arrived for World War IX to say a loud farewell. Otto’s was packed and first on the stage was Cash Bribe, featuring WWIX bass player Brian Jackson on bass. Cash Bribe kicked things off with hardcore fury that blended old school Black Flag with heavier distortion and more metal-sounding riffs, truly a modern hardcore band building on gritty, guitar-fueled punk.

All but one of Dr. Ex and the Break-Ups are World War IX alumni, and Dr. Ex took the stage next to play classic garage rock with a more punk rock treatment; imagine QuestionMark and the Mysterians after an all-night drug orgy with The Kinks. The jean jackets, white-frame sunglasses, and keyboard-infused rock set them apart from the rest of the night’s entertainment.

Philadelphia’s Loafass was next, and beer flew everywhere as things were getting heated up. Loafass brings a funk-influenced punk-hardcore sound and their work is a testament to the longevity of music that is made with the intention of having a good time. Loafass has been around for more than 25 years; and they are the same intense fun they were when I first saw them in 2003.

My band Blackout Shoppers were next, and before we started, I mentioned to the audience that while the four of us as a band have nearly 200 years of bad decisions under our belts, one of the soundest decisions any of us have ever made was befriending World War IX. “World War IX, you are the best, we are Blackout Shoppers.”

Then it was time for World War IX to take the stage. What followed was a chaotic masterpiece of a punk rock sendoff. It was a loud, demented family reunion that was extremely energetic and sweaty, and amazingly raucous fun. The songs were delivered with the kind of energy punk rock is famous for. It was a sweet relief to see one of my favorite bands of all time go out with a the kind of impressive roar that its history deserved.

World War IX left the stage a battered, beer-soaked mess. It left the New York punk scene better than it found it. We are grateful for having been there to listen.