Henry Miller is totally the man I hope to be (plus a little Larry David), when I’m a geezer. Miller has balls. he’s a man’s man. The kind of strange, old dude you down beers with and listen to horrible, debauched tales from, while killing time in a bar. This will be me. It’s gotta happen.
Yet again, I have sustained injury due to the prolific use of my BlackBerry and moderate addiction to Twitter. As detailed in an earlier post, I had a slight slip-up while composing a tweet on some stairs that resulted in a bitch of a sprained ankle. You would think I’d have limped away with some kind of lesson learned and perhaps seared into my gray matter á la Pavlovian response. Nope.
Last night, fresh of the subway, a bit drunk and walking the home stretch to my building, I whipped out my trusted BlackBerry and let my thumbs start tapping away a tweet, all without breaking stride. Head down and absorbed in the glow of the screen, I walked head-first into a steel pole. Nice, right?
I struck the pole with a fair amount of momentum, though whether it be by virtue of the alcohol in my system or the fact that I have a rather hard head, I didn’t really feel much pain, nor did I knock my ass out cold.
Unfortunately, there were a fair amount of witnesses, but I managed to quickly recover and continue as if I had not just completely pulled a “dumb drunk walking” moment. The whole episode was a matter of seconds.
However, this morning my forehead has been graced with quite a nicely-sized and tender lump. I’m sure that in 24-48 hours it will be gone, but until then, it serves as a reminder of the dangers of tweeting while walking in even a mild state of inebriation. At some point (I swear), there will come a time where I will have learned my lessons concerning BlackBerries and perambulation.
On Saturday, I managed to survive two concerts back to back. Starting at four, I went to ABC No Rio for Coffins. Never will I go back there. The place is a tiny, cramped shithole, with no bathroom, alcohol or ventilation. It was disgustingly hot. I lasted fifteen minutes in there before common sense and a bit of chew-my-own-leg-off animal frenzy drove me out to an Australian bar across the street to down beers with other like-minded Australian metalheads. I would have liked to catch the opening bands, but fuck that oppressive shit, I just checked back every couple of beers till Coffins went on.
The band was great, although I had trouble seeing them. A stage to elevate things would have been much better. Coffins was loud enough that flecks of the ceiling were dislodged by sonic vibration, raining down on the people in front of me. They played a good set and I enjoyed seeing them live for the first time, but fuck that venue.
Here’s a few photos of Coffins live.
After leaving that hellhole, I shared a cab with some Australians to Williamsburg (they were going to see the next Coffins show of the evening, at a proper venue) and rushed my ass to the Music Hall of Williamsburg for The Sword. I hung out downstairs in the bar, getting fairly buzzed at this point, skipping the first opening band and a bit of Stinking Lizaveta. Eventually I headed up to the hall and hooked up with a buddy of mine.
Stinking Lizaveta was pretty good, though I can’t say I was really into them that much. Still, they were far from sucky. Torche was entertaining. I’d nabbed one of their albums a few weeks prior, just to check them out and really wasn’t into them at all. Live was a different story, though. They were pretty solid. Good enough that I later revisited the album I had and can definitely appreciate it more. Often, seeing a band live makes you a fan far more than an album will (or vice versa).
Finally, The Sword. Those Texas fuckers tore the goddamn roof off. They were even better than the first time I saw them live. It was one of those “Holy shit, this rocks” moments. My neck is still quite sore from headbanging. Of course, at this point, I was pretty much thoroughly shitfaced, lost and at sea in stupid drunk land, rambling and weaving. At one point I recall chucking a plastic cup with the dregs of my beer out over the heads of the audience, something that horrifies me, because it would have really pissed me off if I were on the receiving end. Oops. Sorry. It was, the booze not me. Swear it.
Here’s a bunch of photos from that show.
Look at this…just look at it:
This a a bacon cheeseburger, beer and onion rings from a bar called Royale in on Avenue C and 10th Street. I popped in there yesterday afternoon, prior to a mammoth evening of two concerts in a row. Since I’d be missing dinner, I wanted to have a rather big lunch. It was the third time I’ve been there. I ordered the same thing I’ve had each time.
Why?
Because it fucking rules. There’s a sign out in front of the place, declaring “Best Burger In NYC”. Whether that statement is entirely true or not, I don’t know, but I do know that it’s one of three burger places in New York (the others being Stand and Schnack) that I personally think are the best I’ve had so far.
This place definitely has the best onion rings I’ve eaten in my life. I don’t particularly like onion rings, being more of a french fry person, but these kick ass.
If you’re in Manhattan, around that area, try it. Do it, if only because I told you to.
This morning, I rushed onto the 2/3 train, heading into work, managing to catch a seat. As I settled, I spotted my upstairs neighbor a bit farther down the car from where I was sitting. I was about to wave when a man sitting next to where she was standing leaned over a let loose a massive wave of multi-colored puke onto the floor, liberally splattering her legs and feet.
Not even pausing for a moment of shock, she runs from the train, barely making it past the closing doors; I assume to go home and clean up. People quickly start moving to my end of the car. Meanwhile, Mr. Yakkity continues to hurl forth streams of joy and partial digestion.
For three whole stops, the man kept barfing. He must have had a second stomach or something, because it was fucking impressive. Someone gave him a bottle off water and some napkins and eventually, the torrent of chunks tapered off and stopped.
After wiping off his backpack, the guys stays on the train (thanks for that, buddy) and just slides down the bench, away from the scene of the crime and acts like nothing happened.
Gross, yet slightly exciting. I wish more morning commutes were like this.
My buddy Nathan sent me this link to a Black/Doom Metal ballet company that’s performing here in New York City next month. Ballet to extreme Metal… I don’t know, but I suppose it’s about time. I do like most of the bands (except for Arsis, they blow).
I’m mulling over whether I have the attention span and willingness to get a ticket and see it. I suppose it’s not something that’s going to sell out, so I have some time.
This morning, on my way to work, I made my usual transfer to the 4 train. Seeing an empty bench, I was about to sit down when I noticed a fairly serious shit (as in feces) smell. The bench looked clean, so I figured the girl in the corner was having some kind of diaper explosion and decided to deposit my body elsewhere, settling into the bench across from her.
Sitting there, with the smell still hitting me, I looked again and noticed that the edge of the seat was smeared with nasty, toxic diarrhea. Splattered and smeared—god knows why. The girl was sitting just outside the range of it, but seemed oblivious. Subways just smell bad sometimes.
Soon after, the train pulled into a station and when the doors opened, people flowed in, gunning for a seat. Noticing the stench, they checked the top of the bench and then sat, completely missing the fecal death smeared on the sides.
I sat there, watching them wrinkle their noses at the smell of their morning commute, stifling laughter as they rose and exited the train, the backs of their legs marked with the contents of some crazy fuck’s bowels.
Today is going to be a good day. I can smell it already.
Lots and lots of photos.
Back in February, I caught Gibby Haynes, singing most of the better songs of the Butthole Surfers with The Paul Green School of Rock backing him. Watching kids, from 8-18 perform on a stage is not my idea of fun at all. But I figured, when am I going to see a Butthole Surfer concert ever again? So, there I was with a bunch of moms and their cameras, along with a gaggle of aging Puppies (that’s Punk/Hippy). The crowd was pathetic and after suffering through part of one of the opening band’s set, I seriously considered leaving.
However, I’m glad I stayed because Gibby was fucking awesome. The dude is pretty old looking, but he still has his voice and rack of distortion gizmos. The kids were a marginally acceptable backup band. No one could manage any of Paul Leary’s signature shit. But still, it was sick seeing Gibby live. Here’s a photoset.
Then, on March 4th, I went to The Knitting Factory to see one of my all-time favorite live bands, Boris. The club is far too small a venue for the band and sold out as it was, the place was packed to the fucking gills, hot and uncomfortable.
The opening band, Growing, sucked fat donkey balls. They had a seriously impressive array of effects pedals, but all they could manage to create was substandard dance floor-ish music, delivered via guitar and effects pedals. Who the fuck wants to listen to that and what the fuck do they have to do with Doom Metal? Terrible. I stepped outside and let them finish their crap set beyond the range of my ears.
Boris was great. It was my second time seeing them live. They played a bunch of songs off of their soon to be released album and just all-around blew me away, as was expected. Photos, photos, photos. Boris rules.
Lastly, on the 5th, I saw the Sludge Doom juggernaut, Weedeater. Originally booked to play Club Midway, they switched at the last moment to Don Hill’s, due to Midway being shut down for some violation of some sort. After a couple of seriously mediocre opening bands (can someone say jam-metal?) and a large amount of PBRs, Weedeater finally took the stage.
As usual, they were molar-shattering loud. Unfortunately, about four and half songs in, the cops showed up and shut the show down because of it. One faded rock geezer who worked at the club said to me, “In my 25 years working this place, it ain’t never been shut down ’cause of noise. ‘Dat band is fuckin’ loud!”. Weedeater never fails to disappoint.
In truth, I was amused. I love Weedeater, but I was drunk and tired and they did manage a few songs. I hope they play New York again. I had a bunch of beers with the band and a completely one-sided and heated DRM debate with the very drunk guitarist (call me an Anti-DRM Nazi).
Some pretty good photos of the aborted show can be found here.
Here’s a set of photos from the Sourvein concert at The Knitting Factory last Sunday. It was really dark in the club and I couldn’t really take photos the way I normally do (without a flash), but I was twisted enough to actually bump the singer on stage, in between songs and ask permission to use one, which he very graciously gave.
Wretched, drunken and loud Doom Metal. I had a great time, although I did get way too smashed, somehow ending up at the Staten Island Ferry and nearly falling down twice in the various subway stations I stumbled through till I finally found my way home.
I think the plan to have heavily-armed police randomly patrolling subways is a fundamentally stupid, fear-mongering, ineffective and money-wasting load of shit.
In the first counterterrorism strategy of its kind in the nation, roving teams of New York City police officers armed with automatic rifles and accompanied by bomb-sniffing dogs will patrol the city’s subway system daily, beginning next month, officials said on Friday.
Under a tactical plan called Operation Torch, the officers will board trains and patrol platforms, focusing on sites like Pennsylvania Station, Herald Square, Columbus Circle, Rockefeller Center and Times Square in Manhattan, and Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn.
Officials said the operation would begin in March.
Financing for the program will be funneled to the Police Department and will come from a pool of up to $30 million taken from $153.2 million in new federal transit grants to the state.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Each team in the operation will comprise a bomb-sniffing dog and six officers: a dog handler and a sergeant and four officers from the Emergency Service Unit who will be outfitted in heavy, bullet-resistant vests and Kevlar helmets and will carry automatic weapons, either an M-4 rifle or an MP5 submachine gun.
This does nothing except intimidate people, waste money and promote fear. Pathetic. Atlantic Avenue is a daily stop for me. I’m not looking forward to commuting a route patrolled by some underpaid douchebag with an automatic weapon. Is the city going to equip the commuters with kevlar?
