Read:My:Back

Oh Noes! Chinese Novelty Mice join the War Against Christmas

With audio!

And here I sit without a radio show anywhere in sight. Curses!

[Via SKM]

Future of Music Coalition on FCC/Free Speech Matters

Here's a good/short read on the Future of Music Coalition's recent action in the Second Circuit Court of Appeals regarding the FCC's perplexing and wildly inconsistent indecency policy.

As someone who's been putting together weekly radio shows for getting on 20 years now, the constant wondering if some expletive's variant exceeds these cryptic "standards" is something I've grown quite weary of. (And is perhaps part of the reason I've packed up the broadcast version of my radio program for the wild west of the internet.) Here are two popular examples of the bewildering topics I've had to consider vis-à-vis so-called "indecency" in the broadcast environment:

1. The word "pissed". Used on air in one context, i.e. "pissed off", it's OK -- not indecent. Used on air in another context, i.e. "pissed on", NOT OK -- indecent, and a punishable offense. Yet strangely, the variable that makes the difference—the word "on"—isn't a cussword by anyone's standards. Except for the FCC. Come again, sailor?

2. The late night "safe harbor" period is alleged to grant some broadcast leeway in the airing of expletives, so long as they are not sexual or excretory in nature. If you've read this blog even semi-regularly, you know that I am not one for needlessly lewd discussion or extraneous profanity. I'd even go so far as to say that I keep things downright family-friendly most of the time. Yet thanks to the FCC, I have had to give professional consideration to matters of whether or not an instance of the word "shit" is excretory in nature. Similarly, I have labored exhaustively on numerous occasions regarding the sexual or non-sexual implications of various uses of the word "fuck". Believe it or not, working in mass media today frequently involves discussions of sexual/non-sexual fucks and excretory/non-excretory shits with one's colleagues.

At the lunch table.

Via email.

One time, I paged the entire building in a panic because I suddenly feared that something I was playing could be construed as having a sexual or excretory subtext. And why are we so paranoid? Because the FCC demands it. And before you tell me that if I just listened to nice music like the Jonas Brothers or Mariah Carey, such language issues would never come into play, let me remind you that these same standards apply in a news/talk radio environment. And as recent history has taught us, sometimes saucy language is newsworthy in and of itself.

Suffice to say, all this talk of f*cking and sh!tting is probably enough to make a truck driver blush. It makes me wonder who the perverts are that get paid to think about this stuff all day long and come up with these policies. Whoever they are, I certainly wouldn't want to introduce them (let alone Ernie Anastos) to my parents. If only there was some kind of agency I could complain to about them...

Oh. Right.

Meet Zack: A Real American Hero

While on assignment for The Awl, writer Abram Sauer attended an anti-healthcare reform tea party in North Dakota, where he encountered a gentleman named Zack. In Sauer's words:

I met Zack after walking over to ask him if he had to make two trips to bring his sign and his enormous balls to the event or if he was able to do it in just one trip. Zack was the only counter-protester at the entire event. He stood in plain sight, not fifty feet from the tea-folk, at least one of whom was openly armed. He asked where all these patriots and small-government champions of freedom were during the last eight years. Zack works at a store in Grand Forks and probably faces many of the very protesters regularly. [Full article here.]

A fantastic point, and one I'm glad someone's finally made with some real brevity and precision. Angry people of America: Where have you been?

It's apparent that the so-called "coastal elites" have finally captured the reigns from those we once defined ourselves against. We're the patriotic family values crowd now, whereas social conservatives have re-cast themselves as the radicals and revolutionaries. "Hippies", of a sort. Who saw that coming?

The lunatic fringe aside, I'm hopeful that the tea parties and town hall shouters represent little more than the customary rumblings associated with any such transitional period. People are scared, pissed off, and worried, and The Government is an easy and obvious target to focus their anxieties upon. But perhaps the anti-reform crowd is most frightened by the coming abandonment of their long-cherished fuck-you-I've-got-mine ideology. With 47 million Americans lacking health care, it's quite apparent that their system has failed with spectacular efficiency. (I happen to think that even if only ONE million Americans were uninsured, it would qualify as a crisis demanding immediate legislation. Trying to comprehend 47 million is simply impossible.) But above all, I take issue with what I suspect may be the deeper motives behind these protests. Although I admire their take-it-to-the-streets style of activism, the movement's apparent contentedness with the last eight years reveals more about its core values than any sputtering, ill-informed tirade ever will.

Thusly, I'm sending this one out to Zack.

Holmes has earned it.

WFMU Fans Say: Crooks and Thieves Must Go!

The corruption scandal that tore through Brooklyn and north Jersey last week had me on the edge of my seat along with everyone else in the metro NYC area, and I've greeted the followup stories with appropriate astonishment. (Organ trafficking with crooked rabbis and Jersey politicians? Seriously?! That sounds like the Sopranos AND the Wire! Where's the HBO development team when I need them?)

Anyway, rumors have begun circulating that Hoboken's mayor, who is accused of accepting a $25,000 bribe, may be announcing his resignation sometime tomorrow. However, I'm more interested in the idiotic widget that NBC's website is running next to their coverage of this breaking story. Readers are asked to "rate" the news in much the same way that Indian restaurants on 6th Street ask diners to rate their meals with those "how was the service?" cards. As of this writing, 67% of the respondents claim to be "thrilled", and 33% are "laughing", yet 0% report any sensations of fury, boredom, sadness, or intrigue. (As I recall from my last voyage to 6th Street, the options there are no less confusing. How does one distinguish between food that is "sumptuous" versus that which is merely "exquisite"?)

Meanwhile, at yesterday's council meeting in Jersey City, it seems that some WFMU fans were among the concerned citizens who showed up to pressure resignations from the accused. Pow to the people! [Screengrab via NJ.com]

Indulgence or Necessity?

Yesterday, I spent $27 on a bottle of shampoo.

Before you accuse me of skipping out on my Recession Sensitivity classes, let me stress that it was a super-sized bottle which will probably last me a full year. But on the other hand, it is a fancy/goody brand made with tea tree oil, it has a wonderfully camphoraceous scent, and features a hi-tech hand pump that releases the precise amount needed for routine cleansing rituals. I started buying it more than ten years ago because my girl at Supercuts uses it, and I got hooked on the warm and tingly feeling that would resonate on my scalp for hours after every visit. I could buy something much cheaper at the local dollar parlor, but... I don't. And in an age when I've made financial cutbacks in every area of my life, I can't deny the need to qualify the few remaining indulgences I enjoy on a regular basis. Perhaps more boldly, I've elevated a few of those indulgences to necessity status, if only to dilute my fear that we're all headed for life in a communal mudpit anyway.

So let's talk about indulgences and necessities by first reviewing some of the cutbacks. At the grocery store, my wife and I now purchase the store brand plastic wrap (even though it's maddeningly uncooperative in comparison to the name brand), whole chickens instead of pre-cut chicken parts, and corporate milk instead of the organic brand we used to pay almost twice as much for. Additionally, I've become a fiend about crunching numbers and multiplying unit prices while roaming the aisles of the Stop n' Save. I have an array of price-plus cards tumbling out of my wallet, we grow all our own tomatoes and herbs in the backyard, and I'm totally willing to hold up a checkout line if my five cent discount for using canvas bags isn't honored. But in spite of the proactive rationale and general belt-tightening with regards to exotic household goods, there are some things that I am completely unwilling to give up—sacrifices that don't even earn a fleeting consideration on the profit and loss report that lives inside my head. To wit, here are a couple of the necessities.

Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, which we continue to drop upwards of twelve bucks a slab for at least twice a month. Fresh shavings of it served on an arugula salad with lemon juice and olive oil equals one of the most magnificent yet simple meals I have ever plated. More importantly, I've tasted that pre-shredded parmesan "cheese" that comes in the crude, shake-n-bake canister, and the idea of scattering that salty sawdust onto any meal summons an immediate and crippling depression.

Suffice to say, greeting the apparent endtimes by re-evaluating everything on the grocery list has produced some positive fallout. We eat more healthily now than we ever did back when there was money for things like vacations or dining out or going to bars. Crazy as it may sound, I'm thankful that in spite of modern history's plentiful gloom, recent years have taught me a smarter and more economical way of life. For anyone who rode the crest of 90s prosperity into the full stride of their adulthood, it's a pretty critical lesson to have learned, especially since so many of my peers have lost houses or their entire life's savings. I never would have imagined that simple thriftiness would help me dodge a bullet as big as the early 21st century.

Looking beyond the kitchen, shoes are another recent purchase that caused me to suffer the mental gymnastics of price point consideration. My adolescence and early adulthood were spent wearing archless Converse All Stars, hipster-doofus John Fluevogs, $5 flip flops, and clumsily unlaced work boots, sometimes all in the same day. When not traumatizing my lower extremities as such, I also frequently drove my car while barefoot, and sometimes walked around un-pastoral environments like Brooklyn and New Brunswick with no shoes at all. As a result of this foolishness, my feet are now what an experienced podiatrist might call "fucked", and I pay handsomely for it every time I need new shoes. Annoyed with the self-negligence that caused these problems, a recent shoe-shopping mission (which I had hoped to fulfill at the always-empty DSW in lower Manhattan) turned into a multi-borough search for black Doc Martens. I hadn't purchased a pair of Docs in more than 15 years, but my disdain for Skechers and other such craptastic footwear finally pushed me into that zone where paying a higher price for a more durable product becomes a no-brainer. As such, my quest for non-steel toed Docs eventually set me back a hundred bucks, but I'm pretty confident it was worth it. Properly cared for (read as: "not worn to Cro-Mags reunion concert"), Docs can last a good five years and offer unparalleled comfort, even for someone with feet as ravaged as mine. They are expensive, but they're also highly versatile, as well as being a long-term investment in basic health and necessity. Interestingly, the only shoes aside from Doc Martens that I find comfortable are skateboard-issue Vans, which makes me worry that in spite of my sartorial prowess, I will always look like an 18 year old punk rock enthusiast from the ankle down. Though that might be an asset in the event that my interest in the Cro-Mags re-emerges, part of me just wishes the Italian leather industry would collapse so I could scoop up a pair of Forzieri wingtips on the cheap.

Next time: "Apparently Netflix isn't interested in my idea for a three disc PER YEAR plan", or "I got thrown out of Bed, Bath, and Beyond for questioning the patriotism of anyone who charges that much for a shower curtain."

Tuesday Morning Five-Finger Linkdump

FCC vs. Fox (CommonLaw Blog)
A straightforward explanation of what recent changes vis-à-vis the FCC's wildly inconsistent "fleeting expletive" policy mean for the future. Personally, I've grown weary of First Amendment issues being steered by the potty-mouthed gaffes of c-list celebrities. But this is America, after all—with only one notable exception in recent memory, we're not really known for putting our best and brightest out there on the front lines of any critical issues.

Pregnant Mom Breakdancing Flashmob (YouTube, via Dan Bodah)
This one's already made the rounds, but since I'm calling the shots around here (and have no delusions of what my editorial impact is), I don't mind being behind the curve once in a while. Besides, who rightfully complains about guilt-free Fatboy Slim tracks this early in the morning? Jokers and lightweights, that's who.

The Next Generation (New York Magazine)
Squeezing the original Star Trek's elderly cast members into futuristic track suits for those last few films was cruel in hindsight, so I guess this Muppet Baby treatment was inevitable. Don't get me wrong, I'm as excited for this as your garden variety cellar-dweller, and David Edelstein's review only makes me more antsy for opening day. Brilliant phraseology alert: The first generation of Trekkers is elderly or gone to that most final of frontiers, the next generation is up in years, and the most memorable thing about the generation after that was the Borg with big breasts whose distaste for sex clubs helped elect Barack Obama. Either we accept this “reboot” or watch The Wrath of Khan for the thirty-eighth time.

NJ Punk Rock -- Alamogordo (Latest Cool Thing)
I stumbled across this a while ago, forgot about it, then got freaked out when it started showing up randomly in my iTunes rotation. For the punk rock archaeologists in our midst, this tape is alleged to have been cut by a going-nowhere-fast noise combo from Madison, NJ, circa 1986. Having discovered the weirdo music at around the same time, I can confidently state that it's exactly the kind of thing I would've sent away for through an ad in any of the era's hastily-photocopied fanzines. Much of it is unlistenably amateurish, but when they hit their stride, songs like "Academic Genocide" and "Under the Landfill" handily reveal the hazards of a Jersey upbringing on the skids.

LetsGoMets.Tumblr.Com (x818)
Pete takes on the insurmountable task of exposing the art behind the game. Subsequently, his is the only sports blog I find myself re-visiting constantly.

Thursday Night Five Finger Linkdump

Actually, make that seven fingers.

Isabella Rossellini speaks loudly about penises [New York Magazine]
She's as weird and wonderful as ever. Among other things, I really want a soundbyte of her saying: I will develop a tunnel and it will be a labyrinth (in, as Logan Hill calls it, that "heavily accented, slightly naughty voice".) I'd play it on the radio every week.

Beat Mining with the Vinyl Hoover [BBC Radio 4]
A brilliant, one-hour audio history of beat mining and record collecting. With thoughtful commentary from Steinski, Afrika Bambaataa, Malcolm McLaren, the 45 King, and other such luminaries. Only available for few more days, so don't snooze on this one!

F***ed by Grandma [Roving Gastronome]
Zora's bouncing around Spain for a few weeks, doing what any sane person would do—Eating in as many different restaurants as possible, and then writing about it in such a way that'll have you alternating between pangs of hunger and peals of laughter.

Top Ten Punk Jazz Records [Lovegloom]
Blurt, Last Exit, Rudolph Grey, Ornette Coleman, and other aggro skronk made somehow approachable via the casual genius of WFMU's Scott McDowell.

The G20—Be Bold [The Economist]
Early theorizing on the summit from my favorite bunch of over-educated doomsayers. Seriously, cover stories from the last few issues have been so grim, I'm now anticipating a headline that simply reads: WE'RE ALL DOOMED. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES.

Russian Nuclear Icebreakers [Dark Roasted Blend, via Tale of the Twelve]
Impressive photo essay of exactly what the link title implies. Sort of like The Shining meets that Sean Connery movie about the submarines. Also, mammoth fossils just lying around the place.

Death [MP3s]
When NPR creams itself over anything music related, it's usually time to pack up the wagon and start looking for a new mud pit. So no one was more shocked than I was to see them get their panties in a twist over Drag City's brilliant re-issue of that Death record. (Detroit proto-punk band featuring all African American band members.) The New York Times has also worked itself into an accordant lather over this one. No doubt that the MP3s are nice, but support the label and mail-order yourself a hot slab of vinyl right now!

Excelsior Interior!

As you've probably heard by now, another of our musical generation's dwindling icons checked out of the Hotel Terra Firma this week: Lux Interior, frontman extraordinaire for The Cramps. I'd be hard pressed to name another band of any stripe that was more prolific and consistent. The Cramps probably put out more records than Elvis, and while some were maybe better than others, none of them sucked, and that's a detail which earned them the distinction of being a band that newcomers could properly approach with any record they happened to blunder into. Besides, the most committed fans were likely to be more interested in the band's incendiary live shows anyway -- Splitting hairs over the relevance of Gravest Hits vs. Big Beat from Badsville was never an argument that gained much traction, at least in my particular weirdo circles.

Although I had plenty of opportunities to see them perform, it's one of those things I never got around to, and I credit my own laziness as the only real excuse for this grievous error in judgment. When I was 16, I had a Cramps poster featuring the above album artwork plastered on my bedroom wall (which I later learned had scared my young nieces something fierce.) Sometime during the summer of 1988, I used a knife to extract the "Bad Music for Bad People" banner slogan from the poster, and mounted it in an outward-facing direction on a friend's car. There it dutifully served as a sign of committed fandom, as well as a kind of warning to others.

My non-attendance at the band's routine visits to Trenton's City Gardens notwithstanding, I was well aware that the Cramps were an utterly peerless live act, and a few quality minutes on YouTube will assuredly convince you likewise. Definitely check out the holy-hell-did-this-really-happen? clip of their 1978 performance at the Napa State Mental Institution if you've never seen it. I know the phrase is shamefully hackneyed, but it is truly the stuff of legend.

No doubt, the internet is now lighting up with Lux n' Ivy tributes like some kind of demented Christmas tree, but rather than adding to the pile of frantically foisted MP3s, I'd like to point towards something a little more unusual: A recording of Lux Interior's 1984 radio broadcast entitled The Purple Knif Show.  This one-off evening behind the mic of an L.A. radio station clearly demonstrates the unique way the Cramps zeroed in on detritus from the past in order to create an alternate history of pop culture. That history, in turn, became a roadmap that zillions of others would seek to emulate in the years that followed. Like watching old noir flicks and suddenly understanding where countless film clichés originally came from, Lux's considerable skills in the DJ chair come across like a lurid, tell-all biography of the band he dedicated his life to.

Here's an excerpt.

The whole thing is available on CD from the great Munster record label, or you can stream more of it over at Garagepunk.com. Eternal thanks to Lux for all the great sounds!

Culinary Distractions for our Crap Economy, Part Two

In the first installment of this series, I wrote about my experience cooking duck breast with fig and red wine sauce. Since the ostensible topic was inexpensive eats for tough times, referencing exotic ingredients in such a discussion was an editorial feat requiring what Dabney Coleman once called "balls as big as church bells." Several of you were concerned enough to point this out to me privately, so okay -- I get the hint. My original purpose was only to proclaim that cooking on the cheap need not sequester you to the rice and beans ghetto, where the rewards are as limited as they are gastrointestinally challenging. But somewhere along the way, that idea was diluted by my sudden desire to work prepared waterfowl into the mix, and my good intentions were misinterpreted as support for clinging to extravagant ways, even as the world collapses all around us.

Fine. You're right and I'm guilty: The 28 dollars I spent on a modestly elegant home-cooked meal for my wife have eternally damned me along with the hoards of asshole investment bankers and their zillion dollar "retention" bonuses. When the middle class tax revolt is finally upon us, just cast me in a role like Harry Dean Stanton in Red Dawn -- thrown into re-education camp, force fed propaganda films vis-à-vis the merits and virtues of Top Ramen, and screaming for vengeance from behind barbed wire fencing in Central Park. I am signed on and anxiously anticipating your hotly prophecized dystopia.

Or not. While I'm in full agreement that we're all screwed six ways from Sunday on the economic front, I can't bring myself to abandon all indulgences in the face of adversity. But in a nod to the committed doomsayers in our midst, here's a recipe for an amazingly satisfying dinner, the ingredients for which can be 100% obtained at the local ghetto C-Town. So tasty and simple (and cheap) is this concoction that the associated agonies of your hastily departed life savings will vanish after just a few mouthfuls. To wit, please sit back and enjoy three minutes of the über-foxy Nigella Lawson as she whips together this sumptuous favorite of my broke-ass-poor ancestors:

One observation: Umm, pardon me, Nigella. But exactly how big are your wine glasses? Your call for "about half a glass" looked more like half a bottle to me, unless that's just some visual trickery created by the multiple camera angles. Not like I'm one to complain about an excess of wine, but honesty is a critical element for those of us who enjoy cooking by the light of a flickering computer monitor.

This recipe is seriously idiot-proof. Unless you are wholly unfamiliar with the use of A) a wooden spoon, or B) your hands, there is really no way you can muck this up to a state of ill fame. However, after several experiences in turning this one out for ourselves as well as for company, I would recommend the following alterations:

* Brown the chicken for a few minutes before adding the tomato. I am a major salmonella-phobe, and I have been guilty of cooking chicken to the point of non-recognition (and then taking it outside to run it over with the car a few times just to make sure it's really dead.) Fortunately, you're not me, so there's no need to behave so irrationally if you believe in the basics of physical science. After all, the chicken is going to boil away in the tomato and wine for a good while, thusly killing any bad bits which might make you sick later on. Just thank the god of your choice that dark meat is usually merciful enough to stay juicy no matter what indignities you inflict upon it.

* Bacon, of course, is the noblest of all cured meats, but even I recognize that not everyone eats it and that you've got to cater to all sorts in this world. If you're against using it for some reason or another, I can freely recommend Godshall's Turkey Bacon as an acceptable stand-in. Godshall's is the only brand of turkey bacon I have come across which doesn't make me want to light myself on fire and run screaming into the night. And no, I don't actually want to know what they do to it in order to achieve that effect. If you opt for real bacon, however, definitely spoon out some of the excess fat before browning the chicken, lest your guests' arteries seize up before you've had a chance to offer anyone an apéritif.

* Use more rosemary. Because really, when have you ever eaten anything that had too much rosemary?

Next time: Recession Transgression in full effect! (AKA How to make a tasty broth by boiling up the Doc Martens that have been lying in your closet since Autumn of '91.)

Say Amen! Steinski Remixes Reverend Lowery's Benediction Speech

As with most people who keep an orifice bent towards the illegal art world, I'm a big fan of Steinski -- as much for his storied relevance to the hip-hop and sampling communities as for his on-again/off-again Rough Mix radio productions at WFMU. He's an undisputed champ when it comes to pulling down fresh content from the media glob-o-sphere, and then re-modeling it to create social commentaries that are critical, humorous, or as with his most recent offering, filled with expectancy for what may be yet to come. Reverend Joseph Lowery's benediction at Barack Obama's inauguration last week was no doubt an event that will be celebrated by history texts and civil rights supporters for years to come. Listen to Steinski's masterful remix of the good Reverend's speech, and revel in the days at hand.

Steinski & Reverend Joseph Lowery - None Shall be Afraid

A downloadable version is available on the always-great Blame it On Steinski blog.

"Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get back, when brown can stick around, when yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right. Let all those who do justice and love mercy say Amen! Say Amen! And Amen!"