The Scrap Heap

Saturday's Vendy Awards in DUMBO are a culinary destination for those who love to waddle and nosh. I live a food quest and will eat anywhere, anytime, under most any circumstance. Therefore street food carts and their proprietors are a constant pique of my interest. The 5 finalists are vendors of varying shades who are competing for the Top Cart in NYC. You can have Project Runway's elitist designs, give me some street side collard greens or a taco in a napkin and i'll prance up and down the runway of life like Heidi Klum in gilded garters. It's an event designed to support street vendors while allowing us habitues the opportunity to eat and drink like Falstaff in Eastcheap. Once more into the breach, my friends, once more. And repeat.

What is that Damned Thing Lurking in the Shadows?

Who is this mysterious Shadow Candidate for Shadow Senator of the District of Columbia that has Megan Kelly's, as well as Joe Lieberman's, panties in such a wad, if not a bartender masquerading as the reincarnation of Hagbard Celine? But is that really possible? Well, there are some clues....

Your Blazing Saviours

Do yourself a favour and hit up the Charleston in Williamsburg tonight. A metal show in that tiny venue is sure to blow the roof off the place and your head off your shoulders. Headlining are the incredible Saviours whose stonery metal brings back major 70's riffage and all around good headbanging vibes. Tthis is the only night you'll ever see them in a venue of less than a 100 people! Rounding out a terrific lineup are stalwarts Titan and Villains.

What I like about heavy metal is the sort of renaissance fair gone methhead vibe. There is danger but also some loveable gallantry. So get thee to the Charleston pleb where the night will be thankfully free of swing jazz. Sort of reminds me of that ELP song, Lucky Man what with the guitar mayhem and fair maidens by the score.

An Honest Debate Can Be Had: The Penguin v. The Batman

The McPenguin makes some pretty good points but the O'Bamaman's bondage hood and leotard are too intoxicating for this independent mind.

The Endless Dumbing Down of American Pies & Thighs

As the Debate between McCain and Obama slogs on tonight, ask yourself, "What Would Woody Guthrie Do?" This Land Is Your Land after all.

Jesus is Lard

Once upon a time I helped produce a venture for The Vice Guide to Travel that sent artist David Choe to the Congo in search of a dinosaur known as Mokele-mbembe. Choe is fearless and a believer in the possibility that a live dinosaur can be found. And soon I came to believe as well. The Congo is mad. It's perhaps the one last place in the world isolated enough and also free of dramatic climate change over the eons to have a habitat conducive to the survival of undetected dinosaurs. What can I say? I am a sucker for pipe dreams.

Such a tale is fascinating in the hands of Redmond O'Hanlon. In dizzying contrast to O'Hanlon's objective explorations however, are the most ardent hunters of dinosaurs, the most enthusiastic believers in living dragons: Creationists. We learned along the road that legions of Christian missionaries/crytopzoologists are prowling the ends of the earth to prove dinosaurs and humans existed side by side. Their quest is a crusade to debunk evolutionary theory. According to them, Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem might not have been astride a mule after all but rather a lowly T-Rex. Way to burst my bubble.

BREAKING NEWS: Christopher Buckley Out at National Review over "Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama"

Chris Buckley's resignation over his temporary support of the opposition makes for a dark day at National Review. If conservatives can't deal with reasonably argued dissension within the tribe then the old war horse and Founder of National Review, William F. Buckley is indeed turning over in his grave tonight.

Read "Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama"

No No No, I Don't Sign It No More

Don't ask! Ringo is out

Ringo Starr has announced he will no longer be signing autographs. And who can blame him? Don't send him anything because he's over it, retiring his John Hancock to the annals of rock & roll history. His refusal to knuckle under to the knuckle heads reminds me of Mencken's take on fame,

A celebrity is one who is known to many persons he is glad he doesn't know

.
From afar, I've always dug his version of The No No Song and if he'd add a "don't sign it no more" verse and rerelease it, I venture he'd be back signing all the way to the bank in no time. Give Ringo a break, he's just the drummer dammit.

"Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama"

The son of William F. Buckley has decided shockingly to vote for a Democrat. Chris Buckley is a respected conservative and great wit, his fiction is marvelous, his essays prescient, and he comes with a quite extraordinary life story. Appearing on 60 Minutes while tripping on LSD for one thing.

So I was fascinated to read his declaration of support for Obama.


This interview with Buckley on Bloomberg TV is long but well worth the investment if you
like funny stuff and Wall Street has already
broken your heart.

Wanna get FuckedUp for 12 Hours tomorrow?

To celebrate the release of The Chemistry Of Common Life, Fucked Up will be playing live for a ridiculous twelve straight hours on Tuesday, October 14, from 2PM until 2 AM. The show is at the Rogan store on the corner of Bowery and Bond. Admission and alcohol are free. Blood is optional.

Depressions Be Dammed I'm Gonna Have Some Fun

The New York Daily News reports that prostitutes are banking while the rest of the world is getting fucked by the financial crises. It's a funny story without real legs though the thought of pouring over the 7 volumes of Remembrance of Things Past with Sienna, the English Literature graduate student and happy hooker (see article) certainly appeals to the modern man in me. Hello Odette, my name is Charles Swann, I'd love to hook up but we gotta make this quick.

Capitalist Shrugged

Ayn Rand Saw This Coming

Objectivist are a strange group, serving as minions to a personality cult all their own but in this crippling economic situation they may just have a valid point. As a quasi egalitarian, I personally don't find much buggaboo in socialist politics and am content to stop pretending free enterprise is always best. However, Bush's approach has been predictably half-assed and Ayn Rand would surely shout so from beyond the grave, if she believed in an after-life that is. So I'll make a point in her absence, if we as a country believe in free markets we need to embrace capitalism wholly. Let it carry the day with all of its faults and let people, and companies, pay the price for poor judgement, poor luck and poor timing. That's just the way the cookie crumbles.

As far as book reviews go, Atlas Shrugged is a damn fine yarn. Pick up a copy at your local fire sale.

Worst Week Ever?

The Dow Jones Industrial Average had its most volatile day ever Friday, oscillating more than 1,000 points before ending up 128 points down, capping the worst week in the Dow's 112-year history. The index lost 18.2 percent of its value between the opening bell Monday and closing bell Friday. Amid the panic, some very somber discussions are being held and all the papers lead with some kind of reaction to the bad news.

After the panic attack of reading about this subsided I turned to the sports page only be greeted by the nerve wracking proposition of todays Red River Shootout. The shootout is the greatest rivalry in sports and actually a college football game played the second weekend in October between Texas and Oklahoma. Texas is my team but ever since that maniac Bob Stoops' rolled into Norman I've been jumpier that a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Oklahoma has won 6 of the last 8 in part cuz Stoops is craftier than Mac Brown and now Oklahoma has Sam Bradford a magical Cherokee Indian at quarterback. Criminy!

They've been playing this game for over 100 years and because of the fanatical following of both schools and States, the game is played every year at a "neutral site" halfway between Austin and Norman. The roving bands of crazed supporters were too much for either little college town to handle so the game is held at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas, during the State Fair of Texas. The designated "home" team alternates from year to year, and ticket sales for the game are split 50–50 between the two schools, with the stadium divided along the 50 yard line. It's wild scene man cuz these people are crazed about beating each other and then there are carnival rides. This is not some Florida powder puff bullshit. The two programs have a combined 11 national championships since 1950 and this year a national title could again be on the line so expect total mayhem.

On the lighter my dad took me to the Texxas Jam in 1978 at the Cotton Bowl. And while perhaps not a highlight in the annals of responsible parenthood the video shot there of Aerosmith and the fairgrounds in '78 allows a brief respite from the worrys. Stop worrying, Texas Fight.

AND WE HAVE A WINNER

"Johnny Rotten, You Fat Old Irish Fuck"

Way back in the Year of Our Lord 1996, the Sex Pistols announced they were reuniting to tour. I'd seen PiL in '86 but this was different. I didn't care if the band lipsynched the whole damn record. I was going to be there. So my buddy Stephen Schubert "borrowed" a car from his job at the Porsche dealership which we loaded down with a variety of drugs and booze for the three hour drive from Houston to Austin. After innumerable pit stops and dust-ups we finally made it to the venue, jacked, as they say, to the gills. The Sex Pistols were slated to play a former K-Mart in an abandoned strip center. As we drove up nothing hinted at a punk show. It was just a huge deserted parking lot with a few cars, no loitering punks, and even weirder, no cops.

The venue was sparsely populated with an unexpected mix of mexican rancheros and leather fags. Now in the old days gay bars were the only place punk bands could play so that was reasonable and it gave the dull cavernous space hope. The Mexicans I had no idea about. But Mexicans are fun. I only mention this curious blend of concert goers because there was no one who looked to have ever been affialated with underground hardcore or even popular punk stuff.

So it's a weird crowd, we're blitzed, and it's hot as shit. Had to be 95 degrees inside at 10pm. No AC. But with the 'punk & disorderly' spirit possessing us, we gave the place and crowd our full attention. We rolled around like Sid Vicious had dropped us off himself, bullshitting with anyone who would talk to us and trampling roughshod over the rest. "Support or Die" was the tongue in cheek motto of the moment. As we continued ramping up in anticipation of the show, I decided we should go backstage. This thinking didn't portend any journalistic interest, rather the opposite, I wanted to drink the Sex Pistols' beer and I was certain they'd share a pint with a couple of kindred spirits flying on mushrooms. There was no security so getting backstage took about 10 seconds of effort.

Okay now is the start of the story I've come to tell.

We slip past the barricades through a curtain and there they are, the four of them, John, Steve, Paul and Glen. All alone. Staring at us. They walked right up to us probably half assuming we were supposed to be there. It was just the Sex Pistols and us, frozen for a second eying one another. Sensing the moment, I reached out to catch Glen's hand saying with great emphasis, "Glen Matlock, you are my favorite Sex Pistol!" As the moment played out in silence I looked to Schubert. He was just staring drunkenly at Johnny Rotten. And Johnny Rotten was staring back at him. Then slowly Schubert deadpanned, "Johnny Rotten, you fat old Irish fuck." I gulped having lived through a similar situation between Schubert and Dennis Rodman while out on the latter's boat. Anyway, Rotten was better prepared for the moment merely grunting "piss off" and flinging a can of Guinness that knocked Schubert's glasses off and cartoonishly bruised his forehead  Then the Sex Pistols were gone. They marched past us, jumped on stage, and launched into Bodies. My body went numb. We were left to our own devices.

That's the story. It's one of the proudest rock 'n roll moments of my life primarily because Glen Matlock was never anyone's favorite Sex Pistol. That riff had caught the whole band off guard. While the spontaneous 1-2 of willfully misplaced adulation combined with Schubert's "fat old Irish fuck" quip has to be one the most absurd, i.e., punk moments in Sex Pistols lore. The rest of the night was a blur of backstage beers being thrown in both of our faces.

And it's because of that night I'm giving John Lydon a pass on the Country Life TV advert. We shared a riotous time. The lump never really went away. And for a moment we were all friends.

Bravo Mr Lydon. Bravo Absurdity.

And God Bless the Dazzler
RIP
Stephen Schubert
May 21, 1966-March 19, 2007

UPDATE: This viral protest ad is hilarious however.

The Wisdom of Waiting for the Messiah

Lyndon Flakebower (not his real name) made us take down the internet classic My Best Fiend video cuz it was interfering with his ability to conduct business with Banana Republicans and oil industry zealots. Times are tough if you don't have a trunk full of krugerrands buried in the briar patch, so we understood. Pulling the greatest gold to ever hit the internet from YouTube was difficult and our addiction to Flakebowerian revelry sent us scrambling to pantries far and wide for leftovers, crumbs of the master to see us through this depression. A depression in every sense of the word.

The Royal Order of Flakebowerian Nonesuch is gonna have to lay low for a few fiscal quarters. At least until our Wall Streeter gone wild feels we're worthy of his return. So commit his words, his wisdom and his visage to memory. Remember him. Clicking on the pictures will yield hints at the breadth of the masters accumen but keep it on the down low. And remember boysssss, it's just business.

to live on in hearts...

Just kidding you can see the video here

And Now For Something Completely Different

The show SPIN is running at the old Cherry Lane Theater in Greenwich Village thru Nov 8 and is getting big ups here at The Mule. This is fiery and subversive shit from the stageFARM not some lily-livered broadway sap.

The show is comprised of 5 short plays dealing with the topic of spin and runs from 8-9:15pm in the evening. It's a bargain, it's fast paced and smart. Sneak in a flask if you must, but get out an mingle minions.

Half price tickets can be had by thumping the discount code SPFARM21


"As with last year's 'Vengeance,' the stageFarm is interested in using five great playwrights as a barometer for what's happening now. 'Spin' is this year's zeitgeist, it's the victory of style over substance. Presentation increasingly obscures content in American discourse and decision-making. The media, industry, politics, the establishment and the arts have conspired to bring us not their constituent parts, but a presentation of what they would like us to think they are. 'Spin' is the icing under which the cake of our country now lumbers. Everyone's running around spun out, high on icing"

All Aboard for Atonement

Jewish Traditions are old school and that makes them pretty cool. Far out names and wild scenarios are dreamier historical precedents than anything Pitchfork or Politico can clue me to. As the suns set this evening, you better get on the right path because the book on you is closing for the year. No rewrites. No last minute addendum.

Yom Kippur is observed eight days after Rosh Hashanah (The Jewish New Year). It is believed that on Rosh Hashana God inscribes all of our names in the "books", and on Yom Kippur the judgment entered in these books is sealed. The days between Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur are called the Days of Awe. Yom Kippur is, essentially, our last chance to demonstrate repentance and change God's judgment. On Yom Kippur, our fate for the coming year is sealed.

I am not Jewish, more of a Tom Paine deist cuz I don't dig dogma. I do however dig stories and a day of reflection seems like a solid idea without bugging anyone else. So why don't you all sit down a bit and reflect amongst yourselves. I am sure you can remember a few sins for which you need atoning. Might as well seal fate with a kiss of your own.

Presidential Debate Result: "That One"Takes The Cake

John Sidney McCain III can we please stop the insanity already? You're not in a the position to be giving Barack Hussein Obama great campaign tag lines!

Pick Your Poison: The Debate Plods On

Whether you're pulling for John Sidney McCain III or Barack Hussein Obama, tonight's debate in Nashville will no doubt bring more politics as caricature. So why not turn the empty gestures of party politics into a drinking game? Every time John Sidney sez maverick swig from your Bud Light can and grab a hunk of SPAM off the tv tray. When you hear Barack Hussein mention community organizing give your Kendall Jackson chardonnay a good swirl and schmear some unpasteurized chèvre on a Carr's Table Water cracker. If, like me, you find them both pandering party confidence men then celebrate every time the moderator gets involved.

As for 3rd party options, there's always:

The Beer To Have

When You're Having More Than One

.

What if Ike Turner Trashed America and No One Heard?

On the eve of another Debate, the fuckheads over at the campaigns of Obama & McCain brave on with insipid talk about each others past. The US financial crisis has turned to a world wide meltdown and Governor Palin can only gossip about Obama being within arms reach of Bill Ayres while the Democrats are in a tizzy about McCain's involvement in the Keating Five. LISTEN! If Democrats friendly with leftist professors and Republicans in bed with bankers is tipping point electoral news, god fucking help us. Any god!

This depressing and polarizing political yakity-yak has me on my heels so I propose we head for common ground. Natural disasters have a way of bringing out the best in humans once the whirlpools, tidal waves and fires have subsided.

This vast collection of images from Texas is fascinating in the way attack ads are, just more grounded in reality. And since the political climate demands we pin blame, I say Ike Turner is the perfect fall guy for this Gulf Coast destruction. Ike had a bit of a stormy side in life and perhaps like a vengeful Hindu god he reincarnated in the guise of a monster hurricane. Science Fiction has got nothing on the Hindu Pantheon. Perhaps we should have sacrificed Tina Turner in the face of the storm. It would have made very for great TV ratings and in the end a less divisive collective decision than this Election. Gods are you listening?

The Juice Is No Longer Loose

The OJ Simpson murder trial was a spectacle hijacking American culture for much of 1995. Simpson was able to use his cultural fame as an American footballing hero to escape prosecution but inexplicably the Juice has blown his get out of jail free card and will be sentenced to prison on December 5, 2008.

The Greek tragedy template can hardly be ignored. In the first trial, OJ's fame and fortune were used day in day out as a reason to proclaim his innocence. The evidence of the murder investigation was secondary to the question why would a man so handsome, so successful and such a damn good football player risk his freedom for one woman when there were hundreds waiting in the wings. Johnny Cochran's magic was real and against all odds OJ was loose again. But almost from that very day of freedom his fall has been predicted. He just seemed too crazy.

Orenthal James "O. J." Simpson has been almost a comically bad citizen since that first trial. The irony is the crime in Vegas was a bungled attempt to recover the trappings insulating OJ from jail the first time. He was on a failed hero quest to steal the things that had once marked him a hero. Some signed pictures and footballs, etc. Because sports is merely soap opera for men this is a neatly tied tragic bundle. Get your t-shirts, sportsfan.

This time I doubt many people are pulling for anything but prison for the formerly elusive Simpson. The fall is complete. And the Greek for OJ in prison may be more than just theater.

To lay off or not to lay off, that is the question

After a number of lost weekends and unsuccessful business trips, the ever intrepid entrepreneur Lyndon James is back in the thick of things with a new self help project. Based on the model masterminded by Bill Wilson, Lyndon hopes to put the fun back into sobriety with this list of the things that just taste better without the tequila shot.


10 reasons to lay off the sauce for awhile
1. daily sounds start to come come back;
2. keys, wallet and cell phone are surprisingly in their proper place;
3. fewer mysterious bruises and side pains;
4. 2" come off your girth from less gas;
5. you can smell your coffee and taste food;
6. the aneurysm egg yoke in your brain is gone;
7. no more forced sexual sessions with your wife at 4:30 am
8. moisturer skin;
9. you start finding $20's in your clean laundry;
10. you will start feeling sexier about yourself....

But in a typical yet brilliant businessman hedge he has now released his list of reasons to get back on the bottle. Talk about book sales!

10 reasons NOT to lay off the sauce for awhile
1. more wild rides;
2. the night is your friend again;
3. chance encounters increase ten fold;
4. because your more fun when you do;
5. gateway adventures come into full play;
6. late night porn becomes one of your major hobbies;
7. finding lost items becomes fun and rewarding;
8. nudity becomes a natural part of your personality;
9. no more bad dreams;
10. life seems more like living..

To lay off? Or not to lay off?

And keep in mind that unlike Michael Jordan with the shoes and Lance Armstrong with the bike, Lyndon doesn't need the booze to make it happen. Roll video.

Beyond the Palin

When I was a kid having a beautiful but dumb gal on your arm was cool. Preferably one who didn’t ask too many questions. These dimwitted babes operated purely on emotion. Any discussion that didn’t involve tan lines or the temperature of Cold Duck was pointless. Sure there were dreamy reminisces of a hometown’s simplicities but mostly it was exactly like you would expect when dating a Kim Cattrall.

The worst of it was that these kittens never got jokes. And rehashing punch lines to even the most beautiful women is tedium. It takes the fun out of the funny. The endless explaining of the mechanics and irony and references of humor was the only thing that turned me away from a lifetime of free gas station credit card purchases and sex in public. I learned the long and hard way that smart women were more fun, though mind you I'm not complaining about the road traveled.



This leads to the reason why I'm worried about Sarah Palin. She’s got the babe part down and if elected will undoubtedly have the best tan lines to ever preside over the Senate. I just don’t know if she’s smart or not. And smarts is all I want in these people. She appears to have some verbal zingers in her quiver which is nice but she employs them solely in obfuscation or once in awhile in defending her home state’s dreamy simplicity. Palin’s quips never zing with the hum of substance but rather with a kind of hot for teacheresque BDSM. I'm afraid she's nothing more than generic republican emotion. Not being able to name any Supreme Court rulings or recall what she reads is weird but I'm more concerned that if she can't get a simple joke like "Why don’t women have brains?” we're truly doomed. So at tonite's Vice Presidential Debate, I hope Joe Biden tells Sarah Palin at least one joke for the good of the Union. I gotta know.

Punchline: cuz they don’t have a dick to put them in.

The Minnesota Independent put together a nice piece on Palin's religious extremism.

Skirting The Issue

Look hating on Richard Kern is easy. He's a weirdo who wants to take naughty pictures of your gal. But you have to admit the guy has got some gig. Check out his new show at Feature, Inc. beginning tomorrow. The opening will be as New York as downtown New York events get. So follow your mom's advice, put on clean underwear and prance over. As for the rest of your panties, sell them on ebay. A gal's gotta make a living after all.

No word yet of Vans designing a Richard Kern limited edition mirrored slip on shoe, but I am all for it.

The Black Lips are Riotous

The Black Lips are the most awesome band in the world for about 5 minutes per show. I could write about them all afternoon but this video from the Heaven Club in London is really all you need to see.

Let's Get This Party Started *

The ten days starting with Rosh Hashanah and ending with Yom Kippur are commonly known as the Days of Awe (Yamim Noraim) or the Days of Repentance. This is a time for serious introspection, a time to consider the sins of the previous year and repent before Yom Kippur. Around here repentance can be quite time consuming.

One of the ongoing themes of the Days of Awe is the concept that G-d has "books" that he writes our names in, writing down who will live and who will die, who will have a good life and who will have a bad life, for the next year. These books are written on Rosh Hashanah, but our actions during the Days of Awe can alter G-d's decree. The actions that change the decree are teshuvah, tefilah and tzedakah," repentance, prayer, good deeds (usually, charity). These "books" are sealed on Yom Kippur. This concept of writing in books is the source of the common greeting during this time is "May you be inscribed and sealed for a good year."

Among the customs of this time, it is common to seek reconciliation with people you may have wronged during the course of the year. The Talmud maintains that Yom Kippur atones only for sins between man and G-d. To atone for sins against another person, you must first seek reconciliation with that person, righting the wrongs you committed against them if possible.

Another custom observed during this time is kapparot. Basically, you purchase a live fowl, and on the morning before Yom Kippur you waive it over your head reciting a prayer asking that the fowl be considered atonement for sins. The fowl is then slaughtered and given to the poor (or its value is given). Some Jews today simply use a bag of money instead of a fowl.

And that concludes this Sunday's service. Peace Be With You

Ed. note: This picture has nothing to do with Rosh Hashanah but everything to do with getting parties started!

Heaven's Chef: Kenny Shopsin

Kenny Shopsin is famously known for hating publicity and because of his cranky eccentricities, Shopsin remains my culinary hero as opposed to the other Lower East Side of Manhattan magician, Wylie Dufresne. For starters take a look at Shopsin's goddamn menu. His crazed improv-short-order cook cum screaming magic bean buying savant style is one of the last great joys of eating in New York City.



THE PHILOSOPHY
My approach at Shopsin's is the exact opposite of "the customer is always right." Until I know the people, until they show me that they are worth cultivating as customers, I'm not even sure I want their patronage.


If you subscribe to Tasting Table or read Counter Culture obsessively, you will love Matt Mahurin's documentary I Like Killing Flies which really dives into the soup to nuts and bolts story of Kenny.

The old Shopsin's location in Greenwich Village was legendary but Kenny is still working the magic at the new location in Essex Street Market. So go see him but beware: He bites. Or just buy the book already.

Uncle Sam, Will You Please Buy My Shitpile?

If the American taxpayers are gonna give Treasury Secretary Paulson a blank check to bail out the shareholders of busted banks then I fucking want help. We all have bad assets, right? And since it's our money in the kitty to begin with, I suggest we (US citizens only) all demand reimbursement for fiscal boners committed while under the influence or debts incurred while working tirelessly for pennies at megahit websites.

Add your shit to the pile. It's fun

The Bad & The Beautiful is getting hitched today

Rarely can any us of turn back the clock to a time when we looked dazzling and hip. Most of us merely limp along just behind the leading edge of fashion picking up second hand tips and last week's cool from generous friends or oblivious lovers. But to have a 90's photo in the archive complete with platinum hair, the still vibrant colors of a fresh sleeve, cool adidas kicks, and a radio flyer wagon loaded with pre-mixed margaritas, that should be at the top of every wish list. Studs come in all sizes and shapes but I assure you our man Trevor Silmser was a darling of the era. Can you say, hardcore?

UPDATE: TREVOR FOREVER IS OFFICIALLY OFF THE MARKET, LADIES, TODAY HE IS GETTING MARRIED!

FOX Loves Buttholes

Kind of a sweet piece for so dastardly a character.

Fuck the Gowanus Canal - Can We Please Party?

We chose Gowanus as the location for the 3rd Annual Celebrity $HAKEDOWN not only cuz it has draw bridges and toxic canals but because it is the best neighborhood in NYC. And now its home to the best music venue The Bell House. Besides what are a few poisoned oysters among the hipperati.

The ignominious James Stockbauer has tentatively agreed to MC the event in a purple velour jacket he claims to have purchased for the occasion from Saks 5th Ave. Or perhaps the velour is just a fun coincidence. You can email here And might i suggest, Subject: Can We We Please Party Sept 20th?

Oh, that reminds me, Ben Ritter, he is planning to sue you. Sorry to bring that up here.

Trust me the event will be a gas. The club is fucking cool, the stageFARM really does rock, KiDz in the Hall, Blitz the Ambassador and The Back C.C's will destroy and yours truly will be there glad handing each and every one of you. Plus Stockbauer does not disappoint unless your are naive enough to expect him to MC an event with professionalism. Like Sabotaging your own event?



THIS POST APPEARS COURTESY OF RIOT STYLE
So, our loyal Admiral Stockbauer flaked at the last minute and the show at The Bell House was left without an MC. Fortunately consummate showman Gibby Haynes stepped up to the plate and introduced the Back CC’s. Thus we must call out our dear old pal, proprietor of the Long Branch Inn and Scoot Inn in sunny Austin, TX and his Merry Band of Lawyers™.


Take us on, Stockbauer. Take us on.

Rest in Peace David Foster Wallace

It's not often you read a book and think wow this dude is genius. And when you watch DFW you get the same feeling wrapped in protective admiration. He was smart and he was a good guy. His death is a bummer bigger than literature. If you are curious for more listen to the KCRW interviews with DFW.

The Unending War On (a) Terrible Notion

On the morning of the 9/11, I was staring at lower Manhattan trying to wrap my mind about the improbable idea that a jumbo jet was lodged in 1 World Trade Center. Scorched trading papers were blowing all over South Brooklyn when the sound of a huge engine redlining, struggling like it was about to blow up, began to dominate. It was all sound. Eventually the slowest moving "black" airborn object I've ever seen came arcing over my head and flew back towards Manhattan. I assumed it was a survlliance plane. It turned out to be United Airlines Flight 175. When it hit the South Tower, I almost jumped out of my skin, backing quickly, instinctively against a wall. My first thought was whatever is happening, I'm way too close. My second thought was Osama Bin Ladin. And I'm no genius.

The fireball caused by the strike of UA175 was so vibrant and immediate it was like I was watching a movie. My eyes felt untrustworthy and I even asked a Jamaican dude standing next to me, "Did I just see that?" I wasn't prepared to process what had happened. No one is. Watching those buildings tumble with the naked eye was beyond surreal. The dust and debris quickly followed a sound like Godzilla tearfully roaring across New York Harbor. At the time I didn't have a TV, so for weeks I would have nothing with which to compare my almost psychedelic experience.

That evening as I was sitting by the radio staring at the hole in the sky and breathing in the wretched stench Stephen Schubert suggested we go see the site for ourselves. I jumped on my bike and rode over the Brooklyn Bridge towards the site as nervous as I've ever been. On the nights of the 11th and 12th of September 2001, we spent probably 16 hours exploring, and trying to help in the area around Lower Manhattan. You could go anywhere at that time. It was a like Romero movie, pulverized debris, fires, and a host of zombied emergency workers. But mostly abandonment. Quiet. Ghastly. No reporters, no sightseers, no homeless. We drank beer and wandered, wondering innocently how all the buildings could have fallen down so completely. It seemed even a movie couldn't have come off that perfect. People are still wondering. Me? I still can't wrap my head around any of it.

Schubert always contended mischief was afoot but today he's dead, the towers that so dominated this City are gone, and Osama too, has vanished like a puff of devilish smoke. At times, I dream of Schubert laying in wait for Osama Bin Ladin in some otherworldly way station ready to rip his turban off and lay a "flying ham sandwich" on the so-called Sheik. The thought of his hairy ass flying through the air and knocking that tower of a muslim phony on his is one of the few things that makes the memories bearable.

The most incredibly personal footage of 9/11 you'll ever see is here. You should watch it. Again and again. ~ What We Saw.

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Man on Wire - The Artistic Crime of the Century

Philippe Petit's daring, but illegal, high-wire routine performed between New York City's World Trade Center's twin towers in 1974 is a nice trip back to a time before our memories were corrupted by 9/11. You should see it.

Like Protest?

Protest like these guys here

Lyndon Baines Johnson

Today is the 100th anniversary of the birth of LBJ, one of the great political dazzlers of all time. A genuine hard-ass, hell-raisin' Texas sumbitch. Without him, Obama wouldn't have a chance at even eyeing the prize currently within his grasp but rarely does LBJ get mentioned much these days. George Packer of the New Yorker recalls the man who with faults galore still tried to do Civil Rights and MLK justice. Cat was truly larger than life. His deeds as President make JFK's pale in comparison.

I nominate August 27th LBJ Day-- a no shit taking holiday.

Unconventionally Yours Truly - The RNC of Minneapolis/St. Paul

Unconventionally Yours Truly - The DNC of Denver

Trace Crutchfield Emerges From The Shadows

Iraq: Life & Death in Hell

War is a bad trip. Hell, even fern bar fights can make the most devout proponents of violence wobbly for a few days. But reading David Bellavia’s, account of battling jihadist jacked to the gills on epinephrine in the bowels of Iraq has lead me the only imaginable conclusion: “Allahu Mat.” (God is dead.) Apologies to Nietzsche, Muhammad & Yahweh.

The bad news continues as Captain Sims closes the laptop and turns to us. “We expect the insurgents have stockpiled drugs. We’ll be facing fighters hopped up on dope again.” Here’s a some logic from the book:


“I look over at [Staff Sergeant Colin] Fitts, and I know what he’s thinking. If this is true, these guys are going to be hard to kill. In Muqdadiyah, my squad watched a drug-crazed Mahdi militiaman charge Cory Brown’s Bradley. The gunner blasted him with coax machine-gun fire, shredding his legs. He tumbled off the Bradley and flopped face up onto the street. As we approached him, he started to laugh. The laughter grew into a hysteria-tinged cackle, then ended with a bone-chilling keen. That froze us cold. Watching us with wild eyes, he then pulled a bottle of pills out of a blood-soaked pocket and drained its contents into his mouth. Then he went for something under his jacket. Thinking he was about to detonate a bomb vest, three of us opened fire and riddled him with bullets. We shot and shot until he finally stopped moving.

Leaving my men behind, I went to investigate the corpse. His right arm was torn off. His legs were nothing but punctured meat. Most of his face was gone, and only a bloody lump remained of his nose. Both eyes had been shot out. I put a boot on his chest. The Mahdi militiaman didn’t move. I kicked him. No movement. Given how many times he had been shot, I didn’t expect anything else, but just to be sure, I shot him twice in the stomach. Then I marked him with a chem light so the body disposal teams could find him later that night.

A few minutes later, a Blackhawk landed and we started loading wounded insurgents into it. While we worked, two men carried the shattered husk of that Mahdi militiaman to the helicopter. To our astonishment, he was still alive. Blood bubbles burbled up through his mangled nose and mouth. Blind, in agony, he still managed to scream through broken teeth and punctured lungs. We loaded him on the helicopter and never saw him again.

We later discovered the Mahdi militia had gained access to American epinephrine — pure adrenaline that will keep a heart pumping even after its owner has been exposed to nerve gas or chemical weapons. A dude with that in his system is almost superhuman. Short of being blown to pieces with our biggest guns, he’ll keep fighting until his limbs are severed or he bleeds out.”



Read House To House: An Epic Memoir of War

John Brannon with FU at the Scoot Inn

Beth and Trace Productions Present

My Idol: Kurt Vonnegut, Jr

At the Museum of Television & Radio in 2003, I met Mr Vonnegut. We briefly shook hands and exchanged a giggle before sitting down to watch a rough cut of Robert B. Weide's Kurt Vonnegut: American Made. The cut ran long and Mr. V. fell asleep in his chair. He was alone at the screening. At the conclusion he was expected to walk up to the stage and speak about the movie of his life. As he rose from the low seat he wavered off balance. I didn't want to embarrass him by grabbing prematurely but I was worried. As he began to fall back, Dick Cavetts's wife (?) screamed grabbed him and I reached up and steadied my idol. He looked back graciously but sadly into my eyes and thanked me. He was an important man and I am sorry to this day I waited till told to lend him the hand he had always granted so willingly. I will miss him.

God Bless You Mr. Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007)