An Open Letter To The Drunk, Horny Couple Who Blocked My View Of The Stage Almost Six Months Ago Today

How I loathe you. The disturbing image of that grinding and humping to the sounds of the local band I was straining to watch has been permanently seared into my brain, and for this transgression against my existence, I will personally assist in arranging your travel plans to Hell. Your attempts at what I will call, for lack of a better phrase, dirty dancing--not to mention what appeared to be a 25-year age difference between the both of you--speaks volumes about the type of people you are. This tirade is directed to you, the male, sporting The Ponytail Which Dare Not Speak Its Name, and the woman, hitherto known as Lil' Slutty Slut Slut (Lacking Rhythm) (Owing to Her Honky Heritage) (And Bad Fashion Sense). How I wish the groovy band I was trying to enjoy hadn't inspired you into such appalling physical behavior, all of it taking place right in front of the table at which I sat, right in front of my very own eyes, the eyes I must now hollow out with a stick to rid them of these tarnished visions. How I wish the sounds emanating from the stage hadn't been so dance-heavy; how I wish the artist on stage had instead been Miss Violetta Beauregarde as she violently shreiked Adolf Hitler's Emotional Side and I'm The Tiennamen Square Guy And You Are All The Fucking Tanks into your sexually twisted ears. Observing your endeavors to writhe and bop along to Flanger When You Die and The Umbearable Lightness Of A Farm Tractor--with their warped psychopathic tendencies and intensely anti-social leanings--would make my heart skip a thick joyous rope. If there is one reason, and one reason only, to support abortion rights in America, it is to provide the last God-given opportunity to kill off any possible living offspring as a result of your abhorrent intermingling. On the upside: you left before the encore.

Chicken Feast

Earlier today, as what appeared to be the entire cast of Wassup Rockers jettisoned past me on their skateboards, it occurred to me that my life would be so much more enriched if Mark E. Smith would fire his current hired hands (again) and simply continue using Mouse On Mars as his permanent back up band, as he did on the new excellent CD Tromatic Reflexxions. Curb your shock and awe as you dine upon Chicken Yaiamas and Duckrog. Think of how much better the last Fall album had been if it had featured The Rhinohead or Speech Contamination/German Fear Of Österreich. Dream of how much less wormy Graceland would have been if it had included Dearest Friends, and Smith never would have allowed Paul Simon to hog all the song credits for himself the way Los Lobos did. You can bet his false teeth would have been clamped on Simon's hair extensions in a Manchester minute.

Lo Mucho Que Te Quiero (The More I Love You) by Rene & Rene

Montebello by The Sugarplastic

Born In Xixax by Nina Hagen

Crazy Horses by The Osmonds

Annalisa by Public Image, Ltd

I Love Paris by Jonathan and Darlene Edwards

Gimmie Some Money by The Gories

Lycanthrothene by the Lemon Kittens

Just A Little Is Enough by The Last Roundup

Le Tourbillon as sung by Jeanne Moreau in Jules & Jim

Move Out Of Wichita by Paris 1942

Front Loader by Neil Innes & Eric Idle

Reflections In A Crystal Wind by Richard & Mimi Fariña

Mauna Kea by King Bennie Nawahi

Live Blogging The Season Finale of American Idol

7:01pm Why the hell am I watching this shit?

7:08pm Why the hell am I watching this shit?

7:14pm This program is America at its greatest! I can't believe the line-up they have tonight: Hollywood jokester Bruce Vilanche and his entire wardrobe of ribald t-shirts, long-time professional Nixon impersonator Rich Little, supermodel and current U.S. Treasurer Anna Escobedo Cabral, an inanimate George Foreman Grill, the entire state of Israel and Palestine (who will be explain the Arab-Jewish conflict in song) and so many more!

7:29pm They just announced that Lynne Cheney and her partner will be giving birth to their turkey-baster-conceived baby right after the commercials. The 10th caller into the show gets the placenta for free.

7:33pm I actually like this new Mac vs. PC ad...

7:40pm Holy shit, Lynne Cheney is having her baby live in front of an audience of 800 million people!

7:54pm The studio audience has risen up against the entire Cheney clan and is now tearing the baby into tiny little pieces right in front of her grandparents! Dick Cheney has collapsed from the sight and is dying from a stroke! Now they've ripped Lynne Cheney's head off her body and are poking it with large wooden sticks! This is the most awesome two hours of television I've ever witnessed!!!

8:06pm A tribute to Sgt. Pepper...is he still alive?

8:15pm A tribute to The Partridge Family...

8:24pm A tribute to Phil Silvers...

8:35pm A tribute to God...

8:45pm A tribute to the George Foreman Grill...

11:38pm I must have fallen asleep--did they announce a winner yet?

You Can Make It If You Try (But Ask Yourself Whether It's Worth The Bother)

It's a pleasure, finally, to have the long-ignored recorded output of Sly & The Family Stone back in print, each restored with original cover art, unreleased tracks and half-finished demos. The reissues end around the time of the band's demise, right before Sly went hoo-hoo with drugs and began missing live engagements, alienating fellow bandmates from sticking around. Sly himself carried on solo but failed to reestablish a following, even after attempting to win back his audience with several redemption-themed albums such as High On You, Heard You Missed Me, Well I'm Back and Back On The Right Track. One can only wonder if he would have eventually scaled the charts again had he recorded his other proposed titles Won't Be A No-Show No Mo'; Putting The 'Unity" Back In Comm-Unity Service; I Swear, Officer, I Didn't Know That Was A Bong 'Cuz I've Been Using It All This Time As A Vase; and Here I Am Again, Cleaned Up and Ready To Play It Straight (The Record Company Inserted a No Play/No Pay Clause).

My Precious Feelings As I Recount Kissing (With Tongue!) the Tribeca Film Festival and All of New York City

Celebrities Are Everywhere! My first day in the city and I run into Laurie Anderson for the second time in my life, or more accurately, her dog (unlike my last encounter, Lou Reed is nowhere to be found). "Why haven't you called me?", I hiss into the canine's whiskered mug. "I thought we shared something special, you bitch!" She sits staring straight ahead, mocking me with that the-fart-you-smell-was-not-made-by-me look. How is an Alpha Male supposed to lead his pack if the female won't expose her belly in submission?

Some Of The Celebrities Ride the Subway! I always knew that someday I would see Tom Verlaine in a public transportation setting, and here is how I envisioned our eventual exchange:

Me: Hello, Tom Verlaine, Musical Genius of All Time. I am unworthy of changing your guitar strings.
Tom Verlaine: Hello, Disco:Very. I've been wanting to meet you for a long time. For you are the only person in the world who understands me, the only person who really gets how brilliant my overlooked 1982 album Dreamtime is. I happen to know that over 20 years after its release, you still listen to it obsessively, and that is why I would like you to be my new special friend. Will you be my new special friend?
Me: Yes, Tom Verlaine, it would be my pleasure to be your new special friend. Can I play drums on your future albums and tour the world with you?
Tom Verlaine: Yes, Disco:Very, you may play drums for me because now we are best friends forever and you will tour the world with me, and although the other touring musicians will be a revolving door of comers and goers, you will remain my constant source of inspiration.

This, however, is really what went down:

Me: Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! It's Tom Verlaine! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! It's Tom Verlaine! It's Tom Verlaine, sitting on the very same subway train as me! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Is that really Tom Verlaine?? I can't tell if that's really him! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd!Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! It's gotta be him! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Is that really him? Who is that woman sitting next to him? Is that a girlfriend? A wife? Why is she wearing Birkenstocks? Would Tom Verlaine date a woman wearing Birkenstocks? Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Should I go talk to him? Is that really him? Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd!Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd!
Tom Verlaine: (Stares straight ahead with that the-fart-you-smell-was-not-made-by-me look).

Everyone In New York Conceals A Hidden Talent! I'd love to be able to report that the street musician who occupied the 23rd Street platform performed his Neil Young repertoire with great skill and emotion, but in truth, hearing his wheezy whine and insecure big-dreams-on-display performance had me groping for the quick release only the third rail can bring. Where are the flesh-eating subway rats when you need them??