Any Law and Order fan knows that show is just as known for snappy one-liners from the late, great Jerry Orbach as it is for being a show about solving murders. In a substantial state of loopiness, I started dreaming up one-liners that I am certain could have made the show. This is why I have not landed a gig writing for a show; I waste my time writing for dead people on shows that don’t exist. Anywho, enjoy…
Victim…
worked at a golf course- “Looks like he had too many holes in one.”
is found in full bondage gear- “Someone should’ve told him leather doesn’t breathe well.”
is found dead at a cigar shop- “I guess no one ever told him smoking will kill ya.”
is Jennifer Grey- “Looks someone finally put Baby in the corner.”
is Patrick Swayze- “Looks like you shouldn’t have put Jerry Orbach in the corner.”
I got up last Sunday and made myself a pot of coffee, just as I do every weekend. Then, I turned Meet the Press, just as I do every weekend. And there was Joe Biden, being Joe Biden, just like he does on most weekends. And then he came out for gay marriage. I suppose the way David Gregory harped on the Vice President’s response struck a chord but otherwise, I thought this day to be any other Sunday. I had no idea that in just a few short days, history would be made. A president, OUR president, Barack Obama, would come out for gay marriage. And I am proud.
To be honest, call me a simpleton but I still can’t comprehend why it’s even a big deal that two men or two women would marry. I’ve looked at it from every angle. Religion? Okay so some say it says in the Bible that marriage is between a man and a woman but a) I thought that was just an interpretation b) aren’t we all God’s children and c) so what? I am always confused when people use religion as an argument for policy in this country because I thought there was something called separation of church and state. And government? The conservative right HATES when the Government gets too involved in our lives and tells us what to do. Except when it comes to gay rights and abortion, of course. That’s like me telling my girl that we are to never stray outside of our relationship, unless I have an opportunity to have sex with Kim Kardashian, because her ass is awesome (though after five years I think I am finally no longer interested in keeping up with her). I know self-interest is a big part of politics but it confuses me that people who are so against the involvement of their government will make an exception for one thing because they find it icky.
Someone asked me this week why I was, “so up gay marriage’s ass” (poor choice of words). While I suppose that is true, the bigger truth is that I am just up civil rights’ ass. I was bullied as a kid. I guess that combined with liberal parents made me hate to see people suffer, on any level. What if things were turned around? What if the majority in this country were gay, what if that was the “normal” and “right” thing? What if straight kids had to grow up pretending to be something they’re not, just for survival. Being forced to memorize the words to the entire Rent soundtrack just so no one would catch on that all they really want to do is watch football and chase skirts? How would those against gay marriage feel then?
So thank you President Obama and really, thank you Vice President Biden. This is fucking huge.
When I heard the news of Beastie Boy Adam Yauch aka MCA’s death on Friday, like so many others, my world temporarily stopped. A Beastie? A man who once fought for our right to party? Rock and roll and hip hop are supposed to be a fountain of youth and their stars are supposed to be invincible so, even when we know people like Clarence Clemons, Whitney Houston, and MCA have health or addiction issues, their passings are usually somewhat of a surprise. We knew MCA was diagnosed with cancer but thought things were getting better. Nobody expected this.
We’re going to miss MCA because he was one of the great ones. I was one of just millions of white kids from the suburbs who were introduced to this new culture called hip hop by the Beasties. My first thought of these three NYC rappers was “dangerous.” I was eight years old and I saw these three kids in the (You Gotta) Fight For Your Right to Party video just demonstrating pure anarchy. The next year, I was hanging out at Mike Dwyer’s house when he pulled out his cassette collection, which consisted of albums from Maiden, AC/DC and any other band most parents might consider inappropriate for a nine-year-old (this is same guy who brought Playboy to our 3rd grade class like it was Highlights and smoked Marlboro Reds as a preteen so owning The Number of the Beast was the least of it). But right there towards the front was License to Ill. I still remember being mesmerized by the cover with the airplane on it. And then we put the album on and, growing up on strictly classic rock, I had never heard anything even close it before. I specifically remember hearing She’s Crafty and, though the sample of Zeppelin’s The Ocean was familiar to me, everything about it, the rhymes, the beat behind it, their brashness, was so fresh. By the time I heard Brass Monkey and No Sleep ‘Til Brooklyn I was hooked.
Though I was fairly hip for a 10-year-old, when Paul’s Boutique came out in the summer of 1989, I was too consumed with Batman to notice that Beasties had released what would eventually be considered a groundbreaking, hip hop classic (I also may or may not have been consumed with Hangin’ Tough but don’t give me grief, okay?). But when Check Your Head was released in 1992 I was fully on board, the punk rock/B boy hybrid fitting perfectly with my teenage mindset. I just remember watching the video for So Whatcha Want and thinking to myself, “This is cool. I want to be these guys.” Even the way they moved, like Lower East Side spaghetti, that’s how I thought everyone should move.
From that point on, I never lost touch with what the Beasties were doing. In 1994, Ill Communication was the soundtrack to everything I did, whether it was preparing for cross country races or riding the school bus (it made me feel ten times cooler than I actually was). I particularly liked that they rhymed about Anthony Mason and they sampled a guy talking about sticking his man parts into mashed potatoes. And it was around that time that MCA, Ad Rock and Mike D made me feel good about my 70s hand-me-down bell bottoms I snagged from my dad’s “get this outdated shit out of the house and to the Salvation Army” pile.
I think for many of us, and I include myself high on this list, MCA’s death means the end of the Beastie Boys, which ultimately means the end of our youth. Okay, I realize that my youth ended quite some time ago. But every now and again, we pay a good amount of money to go see a band who was a part of the soundtrack of simpler times, when all we had to worry about was video games, riding bikes, and getting laid (though the two formers often cancelled out the latter).
I, for one, am upset I will never get to see the Beasties live in concert again because of all the shows I’ve been to in my day, the one time I saw them in 1998 was the epitome of being young, dumb, and full of idiocy.Visiting my friend Dan for the day in Philly, as I stepped off the train in Suburban Station, he informed that the Beasties were in town and that we would be attending their concert. Did he have tickets? No, but that didn’t matter. I miss those times. There was no plan and even if we had one, it probably would have been a terrible one. But it didn’t matter. We were on our way to see three MC’s and one DJ.
First, though, we had to get beer for tailgating. But there was a problem (and no it wasn’t that we were underage). We had no car. So while it was nice to buy beer, carrying it around in a Styrofoam cooler in broad daylight all over Philly was not. And while tailgating is fun, doing so when you’re just two idiots without a car has a certain element of sadness to it. But it didn’t matter. Once arriving at the arena parking lot, we staked our claim to a nice piece of curb in the corner. I think one girl said hello to us out of pity so the night wasn’t living up to it’s promise. Until we came up with the genius idea of dropping acid, of course.
As a line cook at the local Denny’s, Dan knew a lot about drugs. Though I had bleached blonde hair (which looked natural with my Italian features and dark arm hair) and piercings, I knew next to nothing. But in the spirit of the “just go with it” theme of the rest of the day, I agreed. Whereas I had no idea how to score LSD outside of a concert or who to score it from, my partner in crime did. And who sells such a drug? In our case, some dude in his late 30s, whose mullet and porno mustache matched the spirit of his 1970s Monte Carlo. How did we find this guy? How did we know he had acid? How did we know we wouldn’t die? To this day, I don’t know. I also don’t know why, when this man asked me if I wanted some angel dust (I know he had some because he had probably at least half a bag of it sprinkled into his stache), on the house, I turned it down. On one hand, it was probably the only sense I showed all day. On the other, it was probably the only opportunity I’ll ever get to smoke PCP inside of a Monte Carlo with a guy who has Angel Dust in his mustache. But what can you do. Instead, we paid for the tabs of acid, put them on our tongues, and began our long, strange trip.
Some people drop acid and see far out visions. I dropped acid and saw my HS friends Lauren and Ashley. While it’s always nice to see friends, one would prefer not to do so when experimenting with a mind-altering substance. Still, everything worked out alright. The acid kicked in and while I didn’t see much in the way of visuals, I did dance my ass off with an assertive club girl in camo pants. A Tribe Called Quest, the opener, was amazing and the Beasties put on one of the finest shows I have ever seen, drugged up or not.
That night could have wound up a lot worse than it did. Minus not accepting PCP from the mullet man, I made some terrible, terrible life decisions. But I think when you’re young, you kind of need to do that; you have to sometimes act like an idiot in order to get smart. I am just glad the Beastie Boys helped guide me through it. RIP MCA. Thanks for the rhymes and thanks for the life lessons.
Anyone who knows me or has read enough of my writing knows I am a lifelong obsessed Bruce Springsteen fan. On the heels of the release of his 17th studio album, it’s nice to see all of the excitement in the air as he does promotions ranging from opening the Grammy’s to Bruce week on Jimmy Fallon. Well it’s mostly nice.
Last week, Spin posted on their website Bruce Springsteen’s 13 Most Alt-Leaning Songs. Is it awesome? Of course. Is Bruce deserving of alt cred? Yes. But what I find troubling is that the cool people are now telling us that Bruce is cool. I mean they’re right. He is cool. And people who were at least teenagers from around 1974-1975 through about 1989 have known this. But those of us who went to high school in the ’90s who were devoted to The Boss were not always a large group. Trust me, sporting a World Tour ’92-’93 shirt was not going to serve as an ice breaker with the hot girl in Spanish class. I suppose she might have said that her father liked Bruce but she almost certainly would have noted that he was super lame. And it wasn’t just the hot girls. Or even the guys. It was the teachers too. In my guitar class, once you achieved a certain level of aptitude the instructor would teach you Stairway to Heaven. This was around the same time Wayne’s World came out and yet the man wouldn’t come up with an alternate. When I said that I’d rather learn Bruce’s Atlantic City, he was baffled. Why would someone my age in 1993 want to learn a Springsteen song. The man was middle-aged, over the hill, burnt-out, and without The E Street Band. But I knew better. Maybe his new band didn’t have Clarence, but they were still pretty good. And I refused to believe that the man had written his last great song.
I was right. Less than a year later, Springsteen won a Grammy and an Oscar for Streets of Philadelphia. And then he had a brief reunion with E Street when he released his Greatest Hits album the following year. Then he released the prolific The Ghost of Tom Joad. Momentum was picking up and once he made the reunion official in 1999, Bruce was back on top. And now, everywhere you look, people are Brooocing.
So shouldn’t I feel happy that I was right all this time? I mean after all, now people of all ages are enjoying the music that has been such a big part of the soundtrack of my life for 30 years. But it’s not like investing. It’s not like I am getting a big payout for blasting Prove It All Night in 1993 instead of Snow’s Informer (though perhaps I should). And I certainly can’t be considered a visionary. He had already been a star for 10 years before I was old enough to know who he was. For me, being a fan of Bruce Springsteen is sort of like being a Yankee fan in the Tri-State area in 1986. For a time, everyone went over to the Mets to enjoy their success but, once the good times shifted back to where they belonged, everyone followed suit.
So where does that leave me? Same place I’ve always been; at the show. Next to people in tight jeans and ironic tee shirts, as well as people who give the devil horns during Dancing in the Dark (I think I know what I am going to write about next time).
I went to the gym today and, even in my “it’s way too early for this” haze, when I was on the treadmill, I sensed evil behind me. I turned around and there it was. On the screen behind me was Satan herself, Nancy Grace. Oddly enough, though the television was on mute, her voice was as annoying as it ever was.
There is nothing wrong with a strong woman. In fact, I am surrounded by them. But there’s a difference between strength and obnoxiousness. My mom had it right when she told me today that Nancy Grace is the female, Southern version of New Jersey governor Chris Christie. Opinionated and in your face. And opinionated is okay too! But it’s beyond the wrong way and her way. When Grace speaks, there’s her way, which is the right way, and you’re an idiot if you differ even slightly. And the only reason why she was on TV was because she said some about Whitney Houston that was, surprise surprise, speculative and over the top. Unless it’s in regards to a white trash possible daughter murderer from Florida, why is Grace saying anything at all?
Aly and Greg celebrating the most romantic day of the year.
So Valentine’s Day went off without a hitch last night. Aly came home to a steak dinner I made all by myself, a card, roses, candles, and a homemade body scrub I concocted. She was thrilled so the night was a success.
But if I am being honest, I was a little bit annoyed. I cook nice meals several night a week for my fiance and it’s not uncommon for me to bring her flowers. Yet, if I didn’t get her flowers or acknowledge the day in some way, I’d be a scumbag. And it’s not so much her as it is society. On February 14th, we’re either gloating about the flowers and candy we received or the flowers and candy we gave someone. Conceivably, I can be a total dick 364 days a year but, if I order a nice bouquet on that one day, I’m golden. But if I’m a sweetheart the rest of the year but, due to financial restraints I get six roses from Exxon (I didn’t), I might be labeled a loser. And all because Hallmark invented a day they could profit off of our observance. Some deal.
During longer drives growing up, my dad used to play these amazing mix tapes he used to put together, something that I will surely mention in these music pieces a gazillion times. The reason being, these listening sessions, and the idea of making mixes for every occasion, were very influential. Since we’re a Jersey stereotype, our family is obsessed with Bruce Springsteen (which will also be mentioned a gazillion times), thus he appeared on many of these tapes. One song, off of his first live album, was This Land Is Your Land.
I loved that whenever that song came on during those drives, time seemed to stand still. We’d just drive around our state and our country with Bruce singing about… our country. I am a firm believer that music has the ability to shape a person and this song certainly shaped me. It made me curious about the “red wood forest and the Gulf Stream waters,” but more importantly, when Bruce sang “this land was made for you and me,” the nine-year-old me took that declaration very seriously.
Around that same time, This Land Is Your Land became the soundtrack to a new role I took on: activist. In 1988, my dad decided to run for township committee. Something tells me that the South Brunswick Democratic party did not get a cut of the national party’s war chest because, while the town’s Republican candidates had fancy signs, my dad and his running mate had plywood with their names painted on. I think it was actually refreshing. For their campaign float at the annual 4th of July parade, it was pretty simple. They had a flat bed covered with hay, a bunch of us kids waving little American flags, and that song playing on a loop. But a powerful message it was. My dad won.
Less than a year later my mom, disgusted with a proposed high-rise project that would tear compromise a great portion of our town’s forests, started an activist group, Citizens Against Metroplex (C.A.M.P.). When the group picketed a town council meeting, they were in desperate need of a protest song, an anthem to go along with their signs. For some reason, my mom thought the best person to come up with the lyrics was a 10-year-old me (this either says a lot about me, or the group, I’m not sure). The song we modeled the lyrics after? This Land Is Your Land.
I wrote this. When I was 10.
The lyrics I wrote were sung by a pretty large crowd of people that were three, four, and five times my age. It was amazing and, it was the first time I felt, first hand, the power of words. Sadly, it was the probably one of the most significant things I’ve ever done. But I guess it’s better to have peaked at 10 then haven’t peaked at all.
Whenever I hear anything off of The Roots Come Alive I initially think of my old college roommate and dear friend Pat, the guy responsible for first making me truly appreciate The Legendary Roots Crew. Beginning Sophomore year, I really started to dig deep into their catalog and realize their genius.
Being in Philly, I was surrounded by Roots lore. While I did get around to seeing them many, many times over the years, I kick myself for not having seen them earlier. I had a chance to see them in February of 1999. Pat, another roommate of ours and his shady brother were going to see them at a small club in the homeland. I was invited to go but the thought of hanging out with shady brother for several hours just wasn’t sitting right. Instead, I took the 90-mile trek to see Lisa.
Lisa was a girl I knew of throughout middle and high school, though we really didn’t get to know each other until Senior year. Without having even a conversation with Lisa, I was always intimidated by her. She was cute and always seemed wise beyond her years; as far as I know she started the trend of black pants, Diet Coke, and Marlboro Lights. Since we had yearbook together in the twelfth grade, the ice slowly began to break for Lisa and I. One night, after a very innocent party at Rachel Rabinowitz’s house, Lisa wound up giving me a ride back to my house in her 280Z. We wound up talking until like three in the morning on my parents’ couch. There was no sex, not even a kiss, but that night we got to know each other. Winding up deep in conversation until 3:00AM, this was the first time in my life that I not only was with a woman until the wee hours of the morning, but I knew, somehow, that this was something of significance.But I didn’t make a move that night because I figured I’d never have a shot with someone so smart, so cool.There were many other nights like it where I didn’t make a move for the same reason.
And then one night, I decided instead of going to see The Roots, I’d not “go see about a girl,” I remember getting to Lisa’s apartment and thinking it was just any ordinary night with my friend. This was my thought for the next hour… until we arrived at the drag queen bar.
Arriving at Stingy Lulu’s, I just thought it was going to be any old bar. I had the same thought when I witnessed the dolled up cocktail waitresses but was confused when said waitresses had Adam’s apples. Mostly, I was just puzzled when one showed us her ass. In the suburbs and in Philly, I didn’t have access to drag queens but, I certainly had no beef with it. And as much as I was surprised to get mooned by one, the night was full of a bigger surprise. Lisa’s hand was on my knee.
From the moment our hands explored one another’s legs, I knew something interesting was about to happen. And it did. The moment we got back to her place, we ferociously made out. While listening to Born to Run. Victory! The night was perfect. Until I said the following: “I’ve wanted to do this for two years.” Friends, don’t let the rom coms fool you, that “aw shucks” shit doesn’t work. I swear to God, even though we were listening to a CD I heard a record scratch. Things got awkward.
The next morning, they remained awkward. Here we were, close friends who took it to the next level and the guy, not the girl, shared his feelings and the girl, not the guy, got weird. And we never really spoke of it for some time. It wasn’t the last time we got together and it wasn’t the last time it resulted in tension but it was the first time I experienced how complicated mixing the physical with a friendship could be. And it wouldn’t be the last.
When Hold Me Now by the Thompson Twins was released in the U.S. in February, 1984, I was nearly five years old. Most people in my age range are probably most familiar with the song as part of The Wedding Singer soundtrack. Not me. While my parents were strict about many things, they were quite lax when it came to my MTV intake. Most people have maybe a ten year window of MUSIC Television (ah, those were the days) but because I started young and ended inappropriately late, mine was about 22 years. And I’m not talking about throwing on Jersey Shore semi-frequently (that would get my window to almost 30), but rather MTV as a lifestyle.
There’s one day in particular that I remember Hold Me Now being on the television. It was definitely a Saturday in 1984 and my parents were putting blue plates (our “we’re having company” plates) in anticipation of their college friends coming over. I was always happy when the blue plates came out because it meant that it didn’t matter how they were getting along, once our guests arrived happy days were here again. When the guests were college friends it was even better. It meant Heineken, laughing, and a whole lot of reminiscing. During a listen of the Eagles’ Hotel California I swear I saw my dad and his old roommate Eggs transported back to 1977. When friends came over, my parents weren’t so much my parents but Vinnie and Betsy and I was there little buddy. It was also around this time that I discovered the best way to get crowd approval was to have shtick.
I actually don’t remember many details of this particular gathering. What I recall everyone sitting around the kitchen of our old house in Cranbury, NJ and having fun. And most importantly, I remember eating some sort of Chinese dish that was doughy. For years, I tried to figure out what it was we ate because it was so delicious. The problem was, it definitely wasn’t on the menu of the takeout places we’d order from on Friday nights. I would have asked my parents but if I asked them what that doughy thing we ate that time I saw the Hold Me Now video in 1984, I’m not certain they would have had the answer. So instead, I wandered around for years and years, knowing I was missing something great, even if I didn’t know its name. Then, about three years ago, my lady and I were having lunch at a Dim Sum dive in Chinatown with my brother and his wife when I saw something on another patron’s plate. It was doughy. As it turns out, the thing I had been searching for is a Chinese steamed bun, specifically, with a meat filling. And this whole time, all I had to do was take the short ride south of Canal street. Regardless, the doughy deliciousness is back in my life. Sometimes, I go to the less convenient A&P just because they sell steamed buns. Even frozen, it’s one of the best dishes I’ve ever tasted.
Released in November, 1988, What I Am shot Edie Brickell & the New Bohemians into the public eye and for Brickell, into the arms of Paul Simon. Though Simon continues to show the lead singer love as a husband, the public has not been nearly as kind, as What I Am remains the only huge hit for the band. But what a hit it is.
I’ve always been fond of the video because it’s this great sort of mix of the 1960s and 1980s. As a nostalgic person, I love incorporating the past into the present but it’s not an easy thing to do. Take Lenny Kravitz. I like his first few albums and his ode to the 60s and 70s but by 1993, when Are You Gonna Go My Way was a huge thing on MTV and the runways featured models in bell bottoms (who didn’t look like they’d ever talk to people who sincerely wore bell bottoms), I stopped buying into it. But in the video, there are real hippies, 1980s hippies. A healthy combination of mullet and tie-dyes. And that’s what think life should be. Not specifically mullets (though I do kind of miss them; they were sort of innocently stupid) but just a series of organic moments. Woodstock ’69 was organic, Woodstock ’99 was not (with $8 water it didn’t stand a chance).
For some reason, What I Am mostly reminds me of Friday nights in the fall of 1988, when I was in the fourth grade. I remember going to my friend Steven’s house. He was Chinese and had this grandmother who looked really old but never seemed to age. After watching American Horror Story, I now realize the only logical explanation is she’s a ghost. But more than that, I remember Friday was “parents don’t cook night.” Usually that would mean takeout, which usually meant pizza from Sansone’s (who later fell victim to my Jerky Boys phase) or Chinese from one of two “ghetto” places on Route 27). Other times, we’d get a giant bucket of fried chicken from Chicken Holiday. In the cases of the Chinese joints and especially Chicken Holiday, I can’t seem to find places that match the quality of those fine locations. My dad would display the greasy bucket on our vomit green kitchen counter and I would admire it like a work of art. On the nights that I’d go to pick up the order, we’d often see our mailman who worked a second job there. There’s nothing significant about that except that he a) was such a long talker that he once was partially responsible for making my brother and I miss a flight to Fort Lauderdale and b) I am pretty sure he used to read people’s copies of Playboy before putting them in their mailbox.
On a really special day, we’d go to Chauncey’s, the friendly neighborhood bar and restaurant that I’d eventually work at (that period is a book). Back then, it was not the place where I hung out with alcoholic men who had a penchant for sleeveless shirts for any occasion, but instead a magical place where us kids ate hamburgers and our dad would unwind with a tequila shot. I remember driving in our Dodge Shadow, on our way to Chauncey’s and What I Am was playing on the stereo. Friday night, the song was loose and my parents were too. It was going to be a good night.
