Handbill Handout

I saw my first live and in-person mask of the Great Swine Flu Panic of Ought-Nine yesterday. It was a young woman walking up Broadway by NYU. Given the amount of filthy hippies in the NYU area I understand her concern. Fortunately I was on the bus and didn’t have to worry about street germs. Physical well-being isn’t the only worry in today’s fast-paced, on-the-go, cliché-ridden urban society. Mental stress is a real factor as well. For instance, the Line Lady got called on her Line Lady-ness this morning! As I was boarding the bus I heard a male voice behind me urging her to board the bus first. She demurred, he insisted so she slowly and unwillingly went first. He stood behind her and said “Now don’t you take the seat I was going to choose! You better not get the last seat!” though of course at our stop the bus is usually at most half-full. As soon as Line Lady chose her seat the gentleman looked up and said “That was where I wanted to sit!” He smiled and Line Lady laughed

The “little something to relax me” picked me up and dropped me off a cliff as I lay in the pre -op ward at the eye surgery center. Though other than that initial drop the sensation hadn ’t been all that bad and I was now in a slow-moving, muffled space tapping my feet to the classic rock they were playing over the PA system. It must’ ve been some song I didn ’t like because despite my foot tapping I started complaining to the anesthesiologist about the musical selections. “You should get some good jazz, like Coltrane and mix it with some mellow psychedelic stuff in here. Pink Floyd comes to mind. Seriously.” The anesthesiologist nodded and mumbled something to the nurse who took out a syringe and did the old pre -injection squirt and tap. “Was it something I said?” I said. “This will make you feel better. You ever see Lost in Space?” “The movie or the TV series? I’ ve seen both.” The nurse laughed as she injected whatever it was into my IV. “The TV series, the movie was prett

I just finished the best book I have read in a long, long time. "The Unfortunates" by B.S. Johnson. I won't bore you with my review here, if you're interested check out a professional review instead . Today's coffee cup from the coffee cart proudly advertises Kava House, 1445 Lake Drive, East Town, Grand Rapids. "That's One Big Cup Of Mud". Looks like they're still in business; there's a review on Yelp from a couple weeks back calling Kava House "The best coffee in Grand Rapids". Guess if I ever find myself in Grand Rapids I should check it out. The bottom of the cup reveals that it was manufactured by Sweetheart in Chicago, Illinois but unlike the Canadian cup I wrote about last week there's no contact information. Stand behind your product, I say. I wonder how the hell this cup made its way to a NYC cart? There's no sensible explanation like there was for the Second Cup cup. There's no discernible seasonal theme on to

According to Variety magazine, Star Trek is the new James Bond . Nice to see the new movie got a good review. Don’t know if that means I’ll see it though. I see about one movie in the theaters a year. Last year it was “Iron Man”. This year I’m leaning towards “Wolverine”. I read those comic books when I was a kid and teen and unlike those who have continued the comic book habit into adulthood (rechristening them “graphic novels” in the process to avoid the stigma of the term “comic book”) I have been pretty entertained by the film adaptations. Then again, I’m not a serious film guy either. After all, like people say about pro wrestling, it’s all fake anyway so who cares? Back when I was a kid though, back in the 70s, back before cable was really prevalent, Star Trek the original series was a big part of my life. Five nights a week, 6pm, channel 11 WPIX in New York if memory serves me right. No, I’m not old enough to remember the original prime time run; that ended right before

I dream of dead people. So do lots of other people, I’m sure. I dream of dead people more in the spring, which I’m not so sure is as universal, though it would make sense given all the rebirth and renewal hoo-hah that we the humans have imparted to this time of year over the millennia. The equinox stuff and the bunny and egg symbolism and the dead-God-that-we-ate- but-then-he-came-back-even-though-he-wasn’t-a-zombie stuff. It is interesting Christianity is the only belief system featuring a figure that rises from the dead that isn’t destructive and evil isn’t it? Well, the only belief system I know anyway; I have to think there’s some other one out there with something similar to counteract everything we’ve built around mummies, vampires, zombies and the undead in general. That’s beside the point. The dead people I dream of are still dead, and yet they show up in my subconscious more often this time of year. Dead pets sometimes too. Know where I see them? I see them at the house I grew

The woman in the news stand in the building where I work was having a fight. She was fighting with the bag of chips I was attempting to purchase. In days of yore before barcodes took hold of everything, cashiers used to look at a price tag on an item and type it into an adding machine or a cash register. Now, thanks to progress we have scanners that scan a barcode that is incomprehensible to the consumer so generally speaking you have no idea how much something costs until you check out. The upside is the comedy that occurs when the bar code reader doesn ’t work. This particular news stand has a long history of trouble with chip bags. One savvy clerk just keeps one bag of chips behind the register and scans it for every bag of chips that gets purchased. He smartly avoids the trouble that was happening before my eyes. The woman on duty for this particular purchase of mine first tried to wave the bag in a back and forth manner perpendicular to of the scanner. No dice. She tried m

There have been a rash of celebrity deaths over the last few days, and all of them were sudden and unexpected: Harry Kalas, Nick Adenhart, Mark Fidrych, and of course Marilyn Chambers. Makes you realize that you could go any time, without any warning whatsoever. Since I have an unhealthy obsession with death to begin with, this run of famous folks suddenly plucked from the planet got me thinking about the rituals surrounding death and in particular the things we say to each other when someone has kicked it. One of the things you inevitably hear is “If (deceased) were here, he’d say (whatever)”. Now of course this means other people are putting words in the deceased’s mouth, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand its people putting words in my mouth. So, today’s homily will be a little clip and save pocket guide for things that I would ACTUALLY say if I were still alive. I mean, I am still alive, but when I am gone I want all of my dear friends and loved ones to keep this list a

Looks like a Jiffy Lube supporter didn't like what the cabby from my previous post said. Sorry buddy, I just report what people say. I don't make it up. If you'd like to take it up with the guy who said it he drives a large white United Cab van on the day shift, you could probably find him in the Quarter near one of the hotels. Easter parades. Never been to one in New York, checked out two in New Orleans and was going for a trifecta but the third parade never materialized at the time and location noted in the paper. Too bad too, it was the gay Easter parade which would've likely been all kinds of fun. The first parade we went to before brunch was a relatively staid affair. No music, just ladies of a certain age in giant hats riding in convertibles and horse drawn carriages doing a lap in the quarter before church, though it bears noting that they were served either a sizable cup of wine, a cocktail or a shot before heading into church. Why not? Easter is a da

"I used't live in a wood frame house but I moved out because I had to repaint the damn thing every three or fo' years". The van rumbled and rattled over every single pothole between the Quarter and the Audubon Zoo , but I didn't mind a bit. Our driver was an immaculately dressed black gentleman who was 70 if he was a day, and he was dispensing wisdom on a variety of topics. For instance, you don't want to live in a wood-frame house unless it's "the right wood", which is Cypress. Cypress lasts forever even if this climate, but if you have some other kind of lumber you're always repainting it. Better to live in a brick house. You should buy all your work clothes at Wal Mart. Nobody can beat the prices and if you wash a pair of pants 4 or 5 times and then take 'em to the dry cleaners to get the creases back in 'em they'll last you for years. Don't go to Jiffy Lube for your oil change, go to your local mechanic. Jiffy Lube

Land and begin eating. That's what you do here. Or at least what I do. A half-dozen lovely oysters at Acme and then a cab ride out to Willie Mae's for "the best fried chicken in America" only it ain't, though it is damn good and worth a pilgrimage. The wait was long but the day was nice and the neighborhood, was, well, a neighborhood that was knocked on its ass and shows all signs of trying to pull itself back together. There are still trashed houses out there to be sure, though I only saw one with the spray paint markings that followed the storm. What's that about the chicken? Well, the coating is excellent, the meat is nicely cooked though I felt like they pulled a little bit of a fast one on us when we both ordered 3 piece lunches and they served us six pieces family style and 3 of the 6 pieces were wings. It was really, really good fried chicken though, though the fried chicken I had for part of my dinner at Coop's Place was just as good. Th

Bob Mould is even older than I am, which is to say he's in his late 40's, almost 50 in fact while I am still on the early side of that decade. He's been performing for 30 years now in various incarnations from screaming punk rocker, acoustic folk-rocker, dance DJ, pro wrestling producer and writer and borderline-arena-rock guitar hero (with Sugar, of course). He has long since reached the point in his career where he knows how to manipulate a crowd. He knows how to rev everyone up early on, sneak in some possibly-less-loved-by-his- fanbase stuff in the middle and go out on a high note with songs that his fans regard as true classics of the pop canon. Several years ago Bob quit smoking, hit the gym and generally started taking better care of himself. It shows in both his appearance and his mastery of stagecraft. His voice has never sounded stronger; in a room the size of Joe's Pub (I would guess maybe 150 people were squeezed into this sold-out restaurant-sized est

Arrive late Friday to a roaring party already ongoing. Help move the pig, stuff the pig, rub the pig, watch as they stitched the pig, wrap the pig and load the roaster. Down a few and watch some of the tipsier celebrants weave about the room in a motion replicated later by windblown trash cans slowly rolling back and forth back and forth back and forth on their sides in the street in the middle of the night windstorm. Arrive late morning Saturday to grease fires windstorms and a thermometer rendered useless by a now-too-short-probe and the howling howling winds. At least it’s not raining, I thought. Even more help than normal this year, 2:45 the middle gets to within 5 degrees F of temp and we vent the top and let it coast in until 4pm when it’s at temp and we move to the table to rest. Meanwhile the special guest dog that we’re dog sitting makes friends with everyone. Help consume the half-cans of crap beer that need consumption before filling with bay leaves garlic and spice mix and

I was streaming Bob Mould’s 1989 album “Workbook” this morning while working preparing, in a way, to see him perform most of the record along with a chunk of his new record at Joe’s Pub next week. Songs that have been leaked/previewed from Bob’s new record has gotten mixed to negative reviews on a fan e-mail list that I’ve subscribed to since 1996. Then again, the same could be said for every record he’s put out the entire time I’ve been on said mailing list. A friend of mine who is only a year or two older than I am insists, absolutely insists that the best era for rock music was in the last 1960’s to mid 1970’s and that no truly great records have been made since then. I don’t think it’s the artists. I think it’s us. It occurred to me that while there is still a whole lot of music that I enjoy, even for me it’s been seven years since a record really blew me away emotionally. Don’t get me wrong, I have loved a lot of records that have come out since then, I’ve seen some great shows

gone . Can I leave yet?