My apologies for the sudden and seemingly-neverending evaporation of this space yesterday. I got a pile of e-mail asking me if I'd relocated the site, taken it down and headed out to Tazmania, or, worse, taken ill by eating far too much ecoli-tainted spinach souffle.
Fortunately, none of those things has occurred -- yet. I don't eat spinach souffle -- it's not tasty enough to risk a long, painful, drawn-out death, like that derived from enjoying the tainted, dangerous delicacy that is blowfish. As for Tazmania, I haven't received the brochures from my travel agent, though I doubt I'd enjoy it there anyway; they have strange electrical outlets, far too few Starbucks and hordes of little creatures which everywhere around the world are referred to as Tazmanian devils (though interestingly enough, in Tazmania, they call them Sharptons).
As for relocating the site, that will soon happen. I've got the new digs being prepped as we speak, and once the relocation occurs, it will require one short click (and some reshuffling of your bookmarks, favorites or that little list of your favorite internet sites you keep magnetically affixed to your refrigerator) before you arrive at the new destination.
But until that day happens, the move is merely in the works. Yesterday's site absence, apparently, was the host's growing pains; there was some sort of intended outage -- a pleasant way of saying "the shit's hitting the fan at some point soon and we're letting you know ahead of time since we know it's going to happen" as opposed to one of those sudden screw-ups akin to the oxygen masks dropping from their overhead hiding places onto unsuspecting coach passengers.
On top of the disappearing act, it appears that the draft, rather than the final (not quite ready-for-publication) version, of my last post hit the virtual shelves. So if you managed to survive it once and enjoy sado-masochistic behavior, go back and re-read it in its shiny, intended glory. If you're one of those people that doesn't take pleasure in sniffing spoiled milk, don't bother.
In either case, I apologize for what amounts to a speed bump and suggest that if and when these things are within my control I'll make sure they don't perpetuate, and for those of you who have no clue to what I'm referring (or simply are here to more effectively learn English), read on.
Either way, thank you.
- The Management -
Friday, October 27, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Political Sleight of Hand
In this "post-9/11" world, terrorists are indeed plotting to destroy the US and the Middle East is filled with people thinking up ways to destroy Israel and any and all Jews that walk the Earth. Having said that, the fact is that the more things change, the more they stay the same. There's little, if any, disparity between today's quasi-nuclear post Cold War fear of Islamic extemism than there was, say, in the early 1980's when a different yet equally facsist, ultra-nationalistic religious whacko headed Iran. Suicide bombers marched with hoods and suicide belts, brandishing AK-47's and rocket and missile launchers and chanted and prayed for the destruction of the US and Israel -- just as they do now, only then they didn't have internet access, broadcast capabilities and cheap, Japanese- and Korean-made vid-cams with which to do so.
The same thing is happening today, and the only difference is that instead of the potential to obtain high-end explosives like C-4 and Semtex, terrorists may one day obtain and use nuclear-based weapons. True, that's a big if, but the bottom line, whether we like it or not, is that as technology improves, that improvement benefits those who wish to kill on a mass scale as much as, if not moreso, those intent on preventing that from happening.
So each and every time I encounter that "post 9/11 world" phrase, I bristle on some subconscious level, if only because it suggests that the world, on that day, suddenly became aware of the capabilities and the extreme fervor spouting from that part of the world. On some level, I believe many in the West use the post 9/11 tag to describe a much more dangerous world; as I indicated above, I think that depiction, and that assumption, is foolish and incorrect. The world has always been dangerous, at least as long as there have been armies of brainwashed, uneducated, religious zealot low-life peasants pledging to die so they can achieve martyrdom and win their families the equivalent of $10,000 in post-martyr reward. In truth, those who describe our world in post-9/11 terminology to suggest merely that we now have witnessed a major attack on Western soil are probably a lot closer to getting it right.
The truth is, neither is really accurate in any particular sense; 9/11, to many, marked the change from ignoring the mission of Islamic extremists, regarding it as something to be concerned about only in terms of Europe or the Middle East. And of course, 9/11 demonstrated that that misplaced, distant worry should be amped up somewhat, if not a lot. So on some level, that term has some relevance. But mainly, when I hear some ultra-coiffed, empty-headed newscaster toss that term into the mix with as much alacrity and thought as a story about the extreme weather in North Dakota, it makes me wonder whether there is someone running the show -- whether at CNN, Fox News, or The White House -- whose sole job it is to keep America pacified and content rather than edgy, concerned, thoughtful and involved. The 9/11 stories we seem to hear most about focus either on Ground Zero and Larry Silverstein and the other major players in the redevelopment of the location or about the Bush Administration's failure to bury the constantly-spawning insurgency that claims more and more soldiers' lives each day. Rarely do they meaningfully explore what needs to be done to prevent attacks of equal or greater severity from happening again. Granted, a lot of that stuff remains behind closed doors, and it should; however, if guys like Thomas Friedman can narrow it down in two columns of text on a page in The New York Times with regularity, you'd think someone from ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN or Fox would get the hint. Disposable, sensational, ineffective, and moronic journalism have as much use as toilet tissue manufactured from sandpaper, and -- in my opinion, at least -- are less desireable.
Basically, it comes down to this: we ignore what's happening behind the closed doors in Iran, Syria, and even parts of Pakistan and Afghanistan. We focus on the daily body count of American soldiers killed the prior day or the prior week, or we focus on something stupid uttered by George Bush, Donald Rumsfeld or one of their missives. We lament the nation's CEO, bemoan the absence of Dick Cheney (or question it), and we bitch and moan and point our fingers at what's on our plate rather than question what's being left off it.
Until we acknowledge and change the fact that we're looking under the wrong shell for the pea, so to speak, this behavior -- and the behavior of those far beyond our borders -- will continue. As long as we repeat the same patterns, we can't pretend to not understand why others in this "post-9/11" world are doing the same.
The same thing is happening today, and the only difference is that instead of the potential to obtain high-end explosives like C-4 and Semtex, terrorists may one day obtain and use nuclear-based weapons. True, that's a big if, but the bottom line, whether we like it or not, is that as technology improves, that improvement benefits those who wish to kill on a mass scale as much as, if not moreso, those intent on preventing that from happening.
So each and every time I encounter that "post 9/11 world" phrase, I bristle on some subconscious level, if only because it suggests that the world, on that day, suddenly became aware of the capabilities and the extreme fervor spouting from that part of the world. On some level, I believe many in the West use the post 9/11 tag to describe a much more dangerous world; as I indicated above, I think that depiction, and that assumption, is foolish and incorrect. The world has always been dangerous, at least as long as there have been armies of brainwashed, uneducated, religious zealot low-life peasants pledging to die so they can achieve martyrdom and win their families the equivalent of $10,000 in post-martyr reward. In truth, those who describe our world in post-9/11 terminology to suggest merely that we now have witnessed a major attack on Western soil are probably a lot closer to getting it right.
The truth is, neither is really accurate in any particular sense; 9/11, to many, marked the change from ignoring the mission of Islamic extremists, regarding it as something to be concerned about only in terms of Europe or the Middle East. And of course, 9/11 demonstrated that that misplaced, distant worry should be amped up somewhat, if not a lot. So on some level, that term has some relevance. But mainly, when I hear some ultra-coiffed, empty-headed newscaster toss that term into the mix with as much alacrity and thought as a story about the extreme weather in North Dakota, it makes me wonder whether there is someone running the show -- whether at CNN, Fox News, or The White House -- whose sole job it is to keep America pacified and content rather than edgy, concerned, thoughtful and involved. The 9/11 stories we seem to hear most about focus either on Ground Zero and Larry Silverstein and the other major players in the redevelopment of the location or about the Bush Administration's failure to bury the constantly-spawning insurgency that claims more and more soldiers' lives each day. Rarely do they meaningfully explore what needs to be done to prevent attacks of equal or greater severity from happening again. Granted, a lot of that stuff remains behind closed doors, and it should; however, if guys like Thomas Friedman can narrow it down in two columns of text on a page in The New York Times with regularity, you'd think someone from ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN or Fox would get the hint. Disposable, sensational, ineffective, and moronic journalism have as much use as toilet tissue manufactured from sandpaper, and -- in my opinion, at least -- are less desireable.
Basically, it comes down to this: we ignore what's happening behind the closed doors in Iran, Syria, and even parts of Pakistan and Afghanistan. We focus on the daily body count of American soldiers killed the prior day or the prior week, or we focus on something stupid uttered by George Bush, Donald Rumsfeld or one of their missives. We lament the nation's CEO, bemoan the absence of Dick Cheney (or question it), and we bitch and moan and point our fingers at what's on our plate rather than question what's being left off it.
Until we acknowledge and change the fact that we're looking under the wrong shell for the pea, so to speak, this behavior -- and the behavior of those far beyond our borders -- will continue. As long as we repeat the same patterns, we can't pretend to not understand why others in this "post-9/11" world are doing the same.
"Whenever the people are well-informed, they can be trusted with their own government."
- Thomas Jefferson
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Piling On
Coming into this weekend, I had a variety of minor projects, goals, to-do items and things to keep in mind. With the weekend winding down, I've gotten a bunch of them finished, despite my inherent, weather-inspired laziness.
Aside from meeting a friend last night for drinks at a bar on the East Side, I essentially did a lot around the house: cleaning and cleaning up; taking out garbage; laundry; packing up CD's that are now safely ensconced in both my PC's storage and on my iPod; doing a sink's worth of dishes; electronically, via the Internet, renewing a prescription; and, most importantly, insuring my Fantasy Football picks were in (along with the Fantasy Hockey picks) prior to the start of football (and hockey) this weekend.
Notice I didn't mention the World Series -- that omission was purely intentional, as I'd rather watch ESPN 8 ("The Ocho") than watch the Cardinals/Tigers play. In fact, I spoke to a friend in Miami and he asked me if I was going to watch; my response was that, once the Yankees were/are eliminated, all remaining games -- playoffs, World Series, etc. -- are akin to spring training games. And no self-respecting baseball fan gives a shit about spring training games. It's like watching a late-night rerun of the next-to-last episode of Cheers. No suspense, no significance, no point.
I've still got a few items left on my checklist, but before readership herein sinks to match the boredom of my weekend, I'll spare the remaining details. Suffice nothing much of excitement is happening, other than Kaia and I spending time on the phone, guessing hummed TV theme songs, reminiscing about the past and the future, and fighting to stay awake.
Other than that, I'm counting the days until an upcoming party happens. It's scheduled for 11/4 in midtown, and a friend and I have been co-planning it. We figure somewhere around 100-125 people will swing by, and other than burning a bunch of mixes -- rock, lounge, dance, etc. -- all the planning the party requires is making sure everyone knows where, how, how much and when to be there. When necessary, I send out more evites, check in with people and answer the random question via e-mail or instant message. As far as the party goes, I'm really looking forward to it; we're not sure if Kaia will be in town or not, but we're hopeful that her schedule changes and she's able to make it. I've been so preoccupied I haven't done much checking in with many of the people that will be at the party, but I'm guessing as the date approaches, as it continues to do, I'll be increasingly excited about it. About the only thing that, for me, will make it perfect, is if Kaia's in town and there with me. Alas, we shall see.
I've still got a few small piles of CD's and DVD's floating around, so I'm going to return to getting them organized and boxed up in anticipation of getting my place in order and making it easier to move when the time comes. More on that later.
Finally, I forgot to mention a double birthday party I attended last weekend. My friends Linny and Dave (the same Dave who I mentioned in the last post in connection with Tony Bourdain) each had birthdays so a mutual friend decided to throw a mini-surprise party. It was a smallish group that assembled at Kanvas downtown on the West Side; but despite the small size, it was great -- everyone seemed to have fun, and it was definitely a lot of fun. It was called for 7:30 -- I know, very early for a Saturday night party -- but we didn't end up getting there until after 8. Turns out I had been doing work late Saturday afternoon and was wearing a hat, and apparently -- much to my surprise -- the hat left a nice, fat red ring across my forehead. So as I came out of the shower and spied the newly-acquired forehead graffiti, I frantically tried to rub it until it disappeared. As they say in non-gambling localities, no dice. So after 15 minutes of failed attempts at removing the offending line, I gave up, got dressed and grabbed a cab to meet Lisa (of LisaB in Da City fame) and we headed down. I apologized for running so late, and she graciously understood my predicament. By the time we made it downtown, and I had explained the situation to most, if not all, of the attendees, every one of them told me -- either truthfully or generously -- that the line was gone. Unfortunately, in my frantic rush to remove the line and to head out on time, I forgot to bring my camera, so my friends' inability to see the line was not documented, but, unfortunately, neither was the party. In either case, a (belated) happy birthday to you both!
More to come.
Aside from meeting a friend last night for drinks at a bar on the East Side, I essentially did a lot around the house: cleaning and cleaning up; taking out garbage; laundry; packing up CD's that are now safely ensconced in both my PC's storage and on my iPod; doing a sink's worth of dishes; electronically, via the Internet, renewing a prescription; and, most importantly, insuring my Fantasy Football picks were in (along with the Fantasy Hockey picks) prior to the start of football (and hockey) this weekend.
Notice I didn't mention the World Series -- that omission was purely intentional, as I'd rather watch ESPN 8 ("The Ocho") than watch the Cardinals/Tigers play. In fact, I spoke to a friend in Miami and he asked me if I was going to watch; my response was that, once the Yankees were/are eliminated, all remaining games -- playoffs, World Series, etc. -- are akin to spring training games. And no self-respecting baseball fan gives a shit about spring training games. It's like watching a late-night rerun of the next-to-last episode of Cheers. No suspense, no significance, no point.
I've still got a few items left on my checklist, but before readership herein sinks to match the boredom of my weekend, I'll spare the remaining details. Suffice nothing much of excitement is happening, other than Kaia and I spending time on the phone, guessing hummed TV theme songs, reminiscing about the past and the future, and fighting to stay awake.
Other than that, I'm counting the days until an upcoming party happens. It's scheduled for 11/4 in midtown, and a friend and I have been co-planning it. We figure somewhere around 100-125 people will swing by, and other than burning a bunch of mixes -- rock, lounge, dance, etc. -- all the planning the party requires is making sure everyone knows where, how, how much and when to be there. When necessary, I send out more evites, check in with people and answer the random question via e-mail or instant message. As far as the party goes, I'm really looking forward to it; we're not sure if Kaia will be in town or not, but we're hopeful that her schedule changes and she's able to make it. I've been so preoccupied I haven't done much checking in with many of the people that will be at the party, but I'm guessing as the date approaches, as it continues to do, I'll be increasingly excited about it. About the only thing that, for me, will make it perfect, is if Kaia's in town and there with me. Alas, we shall see.
I've still got a few small piles of CD's and DVD's floating around, so I'm going to return to getting them organized and boxed up in anticipation of getting my place in order and making it easier to move when the time comes. More on that later.
Finally, I forgot to mention a double birthday party I attended last weekend. My friends Linny and Dave (the same Dave who I mentioned in the last post in connection with Tony Bourdain) each had birthdays so a mutual friend decided to throw a mini-surprise party. It was a smallish group that assembled at Kanvas downtown on the West Side; but despite the small size, it was great -- everyone seemed to have fun, and it was definitely a lot of fun. It was called for 7:30 -- I know, very early for a Saturday night party -- but we didn't end up getting there until after 8. Turns out I had been doing work late Saturday afternoon and was wearing a hat, and apparently -- much to my surprise -- the hat left a nice, fat red ring across my forehead. So as I came out of the shower and spied the newly-acquired forehead graffiti, I frantically tried to rub it until it disappeared. As they say in non-gambling localities, no dice. So after 15 minutes of failed attempts at removing the offending line, I gave up, got dressed and grabbed a cab to meet Lisa (of LisaB in Da City fame) and we headed down. I apologized for running so late, and she graciously understood my predicament. By the time we made it downtown, and I had explained the situation to most, if not all, of the attendees, every one of them told me -- either truthfully or generously -- that the line was gone. Unfortunately, in my frantic rush to remove the line and to head out on time, I forgot to bring my camera, so my friends' inability to see the line was not documented, but, unfortunately, neither was the party. In either case, a (belated) happy birthday to you both!
More to come.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
The Best Two Minutes of Today
It started out as one of those days where I was the bug, not the windshield: a lot happening, most of it at fever pitch, and me, feeling like a pinball under a thin sheet of glass, ping-ponging fearlessly at high speeds between noisy, unflinching bumpers.
Of course, the above generally describes most of my days. But that’s hardly relevant.
In addition to the mental stress of an office deadline on the 24th, I had phone calls to place, a conference call to set up, a client in Tokyo awaiting word – along with a small committee of spectators on the related e-mail recipient list – of how we (rather, I) were next going to proceed in resolving a $3 million exemption deal; on top of that, I had to go downtown for an impromptu, emergency meeting with an inspector, his boss and a set of blueprints.
And it was raining, dammit.
So I left my office with paperwork for my meeting as well as some stuff for other Applications I planned on clocking in once I landed downtown. Since I was down to three dollars, I stopped quickly at the bank en route to Columbus Circle, which is the station from which I typically head down. I grabbed some money and hit the street towards the Time Warner Center. As I’m walking near the structure – referring to it as huge is an equal understatement to saying Paris Hilton isn’t very smart – I get a phone call from a client asking if I’ve heard one way or the other about the Fedex in connection with the aforementioned exemption deal. We talk for about thirty seconds before I advise him I’ll call him when I have info and make my way to the train and thereafter we exchange quick pleasantries and hang up. I pocket my phone and look up and the next thing I see is Anthony Bourdain strolling sorta-kinda toward/past me.
Without going into too much detail, those of you who have been here awhile know I have immense regard for Mr. Bourdain’s writing. His job title, of course, is Executive Chef at Les Halles in NYC, and he is for sure one of my favorite chefs, "celebrity" chef or otherwise. However, a burger’s a burger and a steak’s a steak. I’m far more impressed with what he’s written than his cooking, and his cooking is – admittedly – amazing. However, with respect to his writing, it’s something about his style – a combination of irreverence, self-confidence, self-effacing honesty and genuine respect for his peers and his profession (both, actually) – not to mention his ability to transform “food” into cuisine and a meal into an experience – that leads me to respect the guy.
Don’t get me wrong; if I spied Jimmy Page or Eric Clapton strolling by on some random afternoon, I’d nearly piss myself just for the opportunity to stammer their praises before they walked past me thinking I was mentally ill. I’ve had the chance to hang out with several of my “idols” – Robert Plant and Billy Joel, specifically – and while I was a bit star-struck in the presence of the former (backstage at the Meadowlands Arena after a concert on the "Manic Nirvana" tour), I wound up jamming with the latter and gave him shit (though not too-too much) when he picked up my Strat without permission.
Back to the present. So there I am – in the cool, misty late-morning outside the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle – when Tony, aka Mr. Bourdain, walks by. I say “Excuse me” in his general direction, not wanting him to think I’ve got a 9mm and a grudge. He turns and looks in my direction and I quickly force out “Mr. Bourdain?” Much to my surprise, he actually stops walking rather than simply waving and keeping on schedule. He might not have needed to be anywhere at that particular minute, but odds are good he might have had a meeting, an appointment or simply something more interesting to do than speak to some dude on the street. In either case, he stopped, I asked him a couple brief questions, let him know how much I respected and admired his work, and then quickly mentioned Les Halles. A friend of mine, Dave, and I were talking about meeting at Les Halles downtown (there’s two, one of which is on Park Avenue South in the 20’s, the other of which – the downtown version – is on John Street off Broadway), and I advised Tony I thought Les Halles on Park Avenue South was great and asked him if the John Street version was as good. I won’t reveal his answer but it was truthful, honest and he smiled at me as he said it. I thanked him and told him it was good to meet him; he thanked me, waved and went on about his journey.
As I went on about my day, I considered the number of “famous people” who I one day would really like to meet – not merely for a “wow, I saw Gallagher buying a hot dog on the street!” moment – to actually express how much I respect him or her and how he or she has been a major and/or positive influence on me. I’ve never really constructed that list, but I do know that if/when I did/do, Tony Bourdain would be on it, so I happily can check that off on my life’s Ultimate To-Do List. If I get the opportunity to meet him again, of course, I won’t complain; but I am glad I managed to let him know I’m a big fan of his, and more importantly, I can happily report that he seemed as down to earth, mellow and cool as he does in front of the camera, albeit a bit more reserved and somewhat more guarded.
It’s ironic, of course, that once he’d headed down the street (and I had sent Kaia a txt message advising her "I just met Tony Bourdain!!!"), the next song, once I fired up my iPod's random playlist, was “Limelight” by Rush.
It was a good day.
Of course, the above generally describes most of my days. But that’s hardly relevant.
In addition to the mental stress of an office deadline on the 24th, I had phone calls to place, a conference call to set up, a client in Tokyo awaiting word – along with a small committee of spectators on the related e-mail recipient list – of how we (rather, I) were next going to proceed in resolving a $3 million exemption deal; on top of that, I had to go downtown for an impromptu, emergency meeting with an inspector, his boss and a set of blueprints.
And it was raining, dammit.
So I left my office with paperwork for my meeting as well as some stuff for other Applications I planned on clocking in once I landed downtown. Since I was down to three dollars, I stopped quickly at the bank en route to Columbus Circle, which is the station from which I typically head down. I grabbed some money and hit the street towards the Time Warner Center. As I’m walking near the structure – referring to it as huge is an equal understatement to saying Paris Hilton isn’t very smart – I get a phone call from a client asking if I’ve heard one way or the other about the Fedex in connection with the aforementioned exemption deal. We talk for about thirty seconds before I advise him I’ll call him when I have info and make my way to the train and thereafter we exchange quick pleasantries and hang up. I pocket my phone and look up and the next thing I see is Anthony Bourdain strolling sorta-kinda toward/past me.
Without going into too much detail, those of you who have been here awhile know I have immense regard for Mr. Bourdain’s writing. His job title, of course, is Executive Chef at Les Halles in NYC, and he is for sure one of my favorite chefs, "celebrity" chef or otherwise. However, a burger’s a burger and a steak’s a steak. I’m far more impressed with what he’s written than his cooking, and his cooking is – admittedly – amazing. However, with respect to his writing, it’s something about his style – a combination of irreverence, self-confidence, self-effacing honesty and genuine respect for his peers and his profession (both, actually) – not to mention his ability to transform “food” into cuisine and a meal into an experience – that leads me to respect the guy.
Don’t get me wrong; if I spied Jimmy Page or Eric Clapton strolling by on some random afternoon, I’d nearly piss myself just for the opportunity to stammer their praises before they walked past me thinking I was mentally ill. I’ve had the chance to hang out with several of my “idols” – Robert Plant and Billy Joel, specifically – and while I was a bit star-struck in the presence of the former (backstage at the Meadowlands Arena after a concert on the "Manic Nirvana" tour), I wound up jamming with the latter and gave him shit (though not too-too much) when he picked up my Strat without permission.
Back to the present. So there I am – in the cool, misty late-morning outside the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle – when Tony, aka Mr. Bourdain, walks by. I say “Excuse me” in his general direction, not wanting him to think I’ve got a 9mm and a grudge. He turns and looks in my direction and I quickly force out “Mr. Bourdain?” Much to my surprise, he actually stops walking rather than simply waving and keeping on schedule. He might not have needed to be anywhere at that particular minute, but odds are good he might have had a meeting, an appointment or simply something more interesting to do than speak to some dude on the street. In either case, he stopped, I asked him a couple brief questions, let him know how much I respected and admired his work, and then quickly mentioned Les Halles. A friend of mine, Dave, and I were talking about meeting at Les Halles downtown (there’s two, one of which is on Park Avenue South in the 20’s, the other of which – the downtown version – is on John Street off Broadway), and I advised Tony I thought Les Halles on Park Avenue South was great and asked him if the John Street version was as good. I won’t reveal his answer but it was truthful, honest and he smiled at me as he said it. I thanked him and told him it was good to meet him; he thanked me, waved and went on about his journey.
As I went on about my day, I considered the number of “famous people” who I one day would really like to meet – not merely for a “wow, I saw Gallagher buying a hot dog on the street!” moment – to actually express how much I respect him or her and how he or she has been a major and/or positive influence on me. I’ve never really constructed that list, but I do know that if/when I did/do, Tony Bourdain would be on it, so I happily can check that off on my life’s Ultimate To-Do List. If I get the opportunity to meet him again, of course, I won’t complain; but I am glad I managed to let him know I’m a big fan of his, and more importantly, I can happily report that he seemed as down to earth, mellow and cool as he does in front of the camera, albeit a bit more reserved and somewhat more guarded.
It’s ironic, of course, that once he’d headed down the street (and I had sent Kaia a txt message advising her "I just met Tony Bourdain!!!"), the next song, once I fired up my iPod's random playlist, was “Limelight” by Rush.
It was a good day.
Monday, October 16, 2006
RIP CBGB & OMFUG 1973 - 2006
RIP CBGB & OMFUG 1973 - 2006
A victim of gentrification, yuppies, corporate sponsorship, MTV and beer/soda ads.
CB's was the only "gig" my band ever played; it was in late July of 1997 and we got an invite for an open-mic night sort of thing and we ended up playing three songs: "Train Kept A'Rollin'" by The Yardbirds, "Rock and Roll All Nite" by Kiss, and Led Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll." Immediately after we literally jumped off the stage before we got hit by any flying beer, sweat, or urine. It was hot, stuffy, cramped and uncomfortable, and we loved every minute of it. We made it, and we never looked back. It was our first and only gig other than parties, rehearsal space or loaned/gifted studio time. And it was great. Somewhere in there, our signatures are on the backstage wall, the same wall that has overseen The Ramones, Talking Heads, and countless other long-since-retired members of the former rock and roll community.
Little Steven (aka Steven Van Zandt) perhaps said it best: "New York City and rock 'n' roll in general will never recover from losing this place."
RIP.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
I'm Going to Hell
This afternoon, about 3:15, began a very strange four-hour period for me. I was out getting lunch as the news began getting out about the small, single-engine plane that struck and set on fire an apartment building on New York's Upper East Side. Since I live near where the accident happened, I began receiving worried calls from friends and since there was so little info out there, everyone was calling me with differing details.
So, essentially, I got about 20 or 25 phone calls, all piggy-backed one after another, to the point that I couldn't hang up with any one person because each call was interrupted by another via the magic that is call-waiting. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not complaining that my friends care enough about me to make sure I was okay -- it was just very surreal. Every third person on the street was on a cell-phone talking about the "helicopter" -- most people seemed jittery, and with good reason -- although it was going through my head that if anyone wanted to make a real splash, they would have parked the aircraft -- helicopter, plane, whatever -- in the middle of Times Square. So I assumed this was the result of an accident.
Anyway, I was knee-deep in work upon my return to the office when I got an e-mail from CNN Update. It essentially said that Joe Torre said the plane that crashed into a building in Manhattan is registered to team pitcher Cory Lidle. And me, in my quasi-cloudy, yawning state of mind, thought "Why would Cory Lidle lend his plane out to someone that crashed it into a building?" And then it dawned on me. Cory was the guy drivin' the bus, so to speak.
By now, most of you have gotten the scoop on Lidle's background and what apparently happened with the plane. His biography, his family history, and the last public statement he gave prior to leaving Yankee Stadium will have been splashed across every New York-centric newspaper and website on the planet.
And yet, once I realized he had died in the crash, my first reaction was "Wow, now the Yankees really need pitching."
As I said, I'm definitely going to hell.
So, essentially, I got about 20 or 25 phone calls, all piggy-backed one after another, to the point that I couldn't hang up with any one person because each call was interrupted by another via the magic that is call-waiting. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not complaining that my friends care enough about me to make sure I was okay -- it was just very surreal. Every third person on the street was on a cell-phone talking about the "helicopter" -- most people seemed jittery, and with good reason -- although it was going through my head that if anyone wanted to make a real splash, they would have parked the aircraft -- helicopter, plane, whatever -- in the middle of Times Square. So I assumed this was the result of an accident.
Anyway, I was knee-deep in work upon my return to the office when I got an e-mail from CNN Update. It essentially said that Joe Torre said the plane that crashed into a building in Manhattan is registered to team pitcher Cory Lidle. And me, in my quasi-cloudy, yawning state of mind, thought "Why would Cory Lidle lend his plane out to someone that crashed it into a building?" And then it dawned on me. Cory was the guy drivin' the bus, so to speak.
By now, most of you have gotten the scoop on Lidle's background and what apparently happened with the plane. His biography, his family history, and the last public statement he gave prior to leaving Yankee Stadium will have been splashed across every New York-centric newspaper and website on the planet.
And yet, once I realized he had died in the crash, my first reaction was "Wow, now the Yankees really need pitching."
As I said, I'm definitely going to hell.
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