[Courtesy of Gemelli, who just discovered the excellent clicking noise a keyboard makes when pounced upon.]
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As a follow-up to “Drag me to Hell(‘s Kitchen): Applebee’s“, an email I received from old friend Krissa “Le Petit Hiboux” Cavouras:
In honor of your brave chicken fiesta, here is my favorite story about that Applebee’s, having worked one block from it for five years (though never having been so brave as to EAT there).
During Fleet Week one year, [her husband] Stuart and I are walking from my building to the subway, and we pass a young sailor on the phone with a friend, both clearly trying to locate each other in Times Square.
Young sailor: “Where the fuck am I? I’m in front of the biggest motherfucking Applebee’s on the planet, where the fuck are YOU.”
Congratulations for eating at the biggest motherfucking Applebee’s on the planet.
With recorded music ever easier to find, fewer and fewer people take the time to go see their favorite groups perform live. Which is a shame, because a good live show is an experience completely unmatched by disembodied sounds floating out of living room speakers. My old friend Josh Lilienstein recently emailed along this summary of a MMW concert he attended. I’m posting it up here in the hopes that it will get a few more readers out of their chairs, and into clubs, bars and concert halls.
If you go see one popular band this week, this month, this year, or this decade, these guys should be on your radar. When was the last time you saw a concert where all three members of the group (plus the special guest) were ALL incredible musicians? When was the last time that you heard improvised music that made a crowd get up and dance? When was the last time you saw a jazz concert where each of the musicians onstage traded off leading the group, instead of trading solos?
As soon as i could find a musical reference, they were on to the next. Ellington degenerates into chaos which is rescued by funk slipping into blues, at which point the guy on the standup bass grabs his bow, hits the reverb pedal, and launches into Hendrix, soaring into a Miles Davis bebop breakdown and across the Florida keys to mid-century Cuban dance hall, shimmies out to Mariachi shores and back-to-Africa tribal chants, dropping the bass into some deep house, devolving into 80s metal, with country western rock and roll gracefully saving the day, and Indian raga bringing us back into downtown New York jazz. And that was just the first song. They played for two hours.
Medeski, the keyboardist, is a master of his craft. He actually used, often in ridiculously complex combinations, three keyboards, a moog, a sequencer, a sound board, and a record player. Often, in order to somehow account for genius, we imagine that impressive people had been born in the wrong decade; thankfully, this guy was not. Using a historically-informed musicianship and contemporary instruments, he shows up an entire generation of DJs and computer geeks.
The Bros holla’ed. The tube-top girls grinded. The fat man clapped and jumped along. The hippies twirled. The stoners passed joints with a smile. The intellectuals bobbed their heads while scratching their chins. Something for everyone!
When was the last time you saw a drummer who was subtle? Who had a real dynamic range? Who used every snap, crackle, bop, wheeze, and thump he could think of to move the music instead of making noise?
When was the last time you really wanted to hear the bass, and actually could? Have you ever seen a standup bass played like a Stratocaster? Ever head a saw (yes, a saw, placed on the bridge of the bass so it resonated) ROCK the party?
Those of you who were involved in improvisational music thirty years ago need to see the fruits of your movement. Those of you who feel alienated from popular culture need a reality check. Take your kids. Get high. You musicians out there, go get inspired.
In response to my recent post on school lunch, a guest blog entry courtesy of reader Christina Znidarsic, on the joys of her school’s ill-conceived and short-lived milk pouch experiment:
When I was in 7th grade, our forward-thinking but not very bright administrators introduced “milk pouches” to our school. These were square plastic bags, sealed on all four edges and corners, filled with milk. A straw with a pointed edge would then be jabbed into the center of the pouch, permitting access to the milk. The idea was to cut down on trash volume generated by hundreds of milk cartons being tossed into the garbage bins every day, by replacing them with small, easily collapsible plastic bags.
The intention was noble, but waste management was not on the minds of 200-odd grade schoolers when they encountered the milk pouches for the first time. The bags were the perfect size for juvenile hands to grasp, insert straw, and squeeze firmly. In essence, the school had just armed 200 children with ready-made long-range milk guns, of both the white and chocolate variety.
The pouches were in effect for the next week or so while the school ran out of the supply it had initially ordered. That period became known as the “7-Day Milk War of 1994.” Then cartons resumed prominence and the pouches were never heard from again.
Mashing guest blogging up with service journalism, I’m today posting long-standing S-A reader JP Toto’s open letter to the Dolly Madison Bakery Company.
To whom it may concern:
I am the most recent victim of the label on your Dolly Madison APPLE Sweet Rolls.
You’ll notice I capitalized the word APPLE. This is to approximate, however inaccurately, the prominence with which the word apple is displayed on the packaging of your Dolly Madison Apple Sweet Rolls.
That prominence would suggest to me and, I suspect, many other helpless vending machine patrons, that the average Dolly Madison Apple Sweet Roll contains a modestly generous portion of (albeit almost certainly highly processed and enriched) apple filling.
This, I discovered, is not the case at all. In fact, the amount of apple filling contained within the baked doughy “roll” is a paltry sum when compared to the overall mass of the pastry. When considered critically, I think you’ll therefore agree that calling your Dolly Madison Apple Sweet Rolls, such as they are, “APPLE sweet rolls”, is a bit of a misnomer.
I cannot provide physical evidence of my claim, having already eaten such. Please let this warning serve as notice, though, that we consumers of pre-packaged vending machine fare will not stand for such poorly conceived confections, no matter how low our standards already are for your run-of-the-mill ninety-cent treat.
—
Continuing the new ‘guest blogging’ trend, a quick story courtesy of my wonderful Boston-based friend Lindsey, about the speed dating event she was dragged to last night:
background: 18 guys, 18 girls, 4 minute match-ups, a whistle blows and the guys rotate to their right. no last names, no numbers, just circle Match, N/F (networking/friend) or NO on your score card.
very cute boy, david. very exciting, since very cute boys were not so
plentiful among the 18. he sits down, all business, none of this ‘so, what are your hobbies’ bullshit.
his question: what’s the worst case scenario boy for you?
my answer: um, a right-wing, bush-loving, evangelical christian republican.
him: i’m pro-life.
me: you like my CHOICE bracelet?
him: if i got a girl pregnant, i don’t think i could let her have an abortion.
me: and, we’re done here.
(3 minutes, 30 seconds of staring at each other)
[The only thing better than posting a good entry you’ve just written, is posting a good entry you didn’t actually have to write yourself. To that end, I’ll be occasionally publishing ‘guest columns’ from friends and family looking to take over my ill-deserved soapbox. To start things off, the inimitable Colin Spoelman on so-bad-they’re-good eats:]
When I first moved to New York, my first question was, where can I find good fried chicken tenders smothered in nacho cheese? The truth is, it’s very hard to find this delectable treat. Even harder to find is a place that serves both chicken and cheese and dollar pints of beer. Now I know many of you are wondering… where, in this bitterly overpriced, food-snobbed, culinary landscape could such a place exist? The answer is, at 83rd and Amsterdam: Homer’s Malt Shop.
Homer’s not only serves Chicken and Cheese, but milkshakes, malts, fried twinkies, corn dogs and other wonderful hard-to-find items. If they served Biscuits and White Sausage Gravy, it might be perfect. (This is also nearly impossible to find in Manhattan, and folks, that white, runny dung at Cowgirl Hall of Fame is not it.) It’s a great place to sit, enjoy some deep fried chicken, and then get snooked on Rheingold.
The only downside is that it is usually littered with small children. But, this being the upperwestside, that means hot mothers in designer jeans (anything with “Humanity” “Mankind,” or “Benevolent” in the brandname) and that beautiful, “life is so overwhelming” pout on their face. Or the same face on a hot little au pair from Belarus wearing Old Navy jeans. The children can be stepped around, and it is well worth it for the afternoon drunk. In fact, I find children are far more personable when you approach them with a soaring beer-buzz. The place is not open late, so you if you’re going to get blasted, you better start early in the afternoon.
Perhaps you are thinking to yourself that sounds nasty, I don’t want to eat Nacho Cheese on Chicken. You are wrong, snob. But by way of explanation, I will detail how I came to love this culinary wonder. Growing up in darkest Appalachia, the federal government didn’t provide my high school with a cafeteria. So at lunchtime, we were “turned loose” in downtown Harlan. Which might sound awesome, except that the only places to eat were the drugstore (where the only thing I could afford was a $1.10 grilled cheese–not too filling for a growing boy on a $2 budget) or any one of a number of gas stations. My favorite place was the Kwik Mart, a BP station on the Highway 421 bypass. In order to get a satisfying lunch for two dollars, my friend Nitro and I would order chicken “planks” for $1.65 and then smother them in nacho cheese from the chili-dog cheese well. After two years of eating this everyday, I developed an addiction–an addiction that had left me suffering from crippling withdrawal symptoms, such as compromised mental function, lactose intolerance, and hairloss. But those times are behind me, and they could be behind you, too.
Please go to Homers, displace the children, ogle the nannies, and get drunk. You won’t regret it.
As a prelude to the general troublemaking planned for this evening, friend and colleauge Yoav Fisher (with a bit of assistance from me) crafted this delightful and thoroughly offensive little ditty to perform for Bobby’s bachelor benefit:
The Ballad of Bobby Den
At his bris, his mother said
“marry a Jew or I’ll chop off your head.Be a doctor or a lawya,
but make sure she’s Jewish and not a goya.You can play or dance or laugh or read,
just don’t waste any of your Jewish seed.”[Chorus:]
Oy what a mensch that boy became,
and all the ladies knew his name.But mainly he learned, the one real fact is,
shiksa girls are just for practice.[Verse 2:]
At his bar mitva the Rabbi said,
“puberty is just ahead.You can talk to girlies, but please be wary
of those with names like Christina or Mary.And this one thing you can’t ignore:
blond hair girls are all just whores”[Chorus]
[Verse 3:]
At the college, his friends were stating,
“we think it’s time you started dating.”He met a girl, her name was Tova
She ate some ham and it was ova.He kept on trying with other girls,
But none appreciated his pais curls.[Chorus]
[Verse 4:]
Then one day, he met a lady,
and he knew at once that he was ready.She was the best looking girl on the Upper West Side,
and he asked her to be his Kosher bride.Soon he’s a doctor, oy grandma’s proud,
and in just three days he’s wedding vowed.[Chorus x2]
So long as we can get everyone singing along with choruses, it should kick things off nicely.
The story, something as it was relayed to me by one of my colleagues:
“We were sophomores at the University of Chicago, and prone to ‘urban exploration.’ We’d wander the campus, sneaking in to closed buildings, exploring steam tunnels and the like. We had gotten into one of the old science buildings and were wandering around when we stumbled upon a room full of skeletons and pickled biology samples. The place was great – we poked around for a while, and eventually came across a human fetus floating in a cube filled with formaldehyde. We were transfixed. We stared at it for maybe an hour before deciding we needed to have it. We wrapped it in a jacket, and carefully brought it out of the building and back down to our dorm room.
“We didn’t really know what to do with it, so we stashed it behind the radiator. We named him Irving the Unnerving. We’d take him out regularly, to shock dorm-mates and other visitors. One of his fingers had come unattached and floated around at the top of the cube – we spent whole afternoons observing it. Eventually, however, we had shown Irving to everyone we knew, and his appeal began to wane. We wanted to find Irving a good home, with someone who would appreciate him, and my roommate had a cousin at a different college who we were convinced would love him.
“We decided to ship Irving out, but, this being college, it took us almost a month to actually find a box and packing material. All through that time, we would leave messages for my roommate’s cousin. ‘Irving’s coming,’ we would say. ‘We’re sending you Irving the Unnerving.’ He had no idea what the hell we were talking about, but the mystery got to him. He would leave us messages in response: ‘Send me Irving. I’m dying to meet him.’
“Eventually, we said our goodbyes, packed Irving up, and UPS’ed him out. ‘Irving is finally on his way,’ we told the cousin. ‘Get ready for Irving.’ A few days later, the cousin was notified about having received a UPS package. The box was soaked through and fairly foul smelling, but he dutifully brought the box back to his dorm and opened it. The glass had shattered during shipping, and Irving lay at the bottom of the box, partially dried out, dismembered finger and all.
“I don’t know how the cousin reacted at first, but he called to say that Irving had been set free. He had brought Irving into the dorm’s lounge and propped him up in one of the chairs. I don’t know what finally became of Irving. But sometimes, I really do miss him.”