Coming this season: Testosterone. And lots of it.

Posted on August 13, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

Those tough sons-of-bitches at the Atlantic Theater Company have outdone themselves this time. The 2009-10 season is a (mostly) testosterone-fueled program of plays by men who write about manly men. Mainly.

They kick off with two one-acts by David (you either love him or you hate him) Fucking Mamet; a farce called Keep Your Pantheon (Get it? It’s a play on words.) and another comedy called School. Mamet was a founding member of the Atlantic, which is a damn lucky thing for them.

After that punch in the face, we have Ages of the Moon, the new comedy by cowboy roughneck Sam Shepard. It’s a two-hander about men talking while they drink bourbon. It was a big hit at the Abbey Theater in Dublin where it premiered and will star Irish actors Sean McGinley and Stephen Rea, who originated the roles in Dublin. It’s always a treat to see the original cast.

As though that weren’t a big enough kick in the nuts, Irish ball buster Martin McDonagh follows with A Behanding in Spokane. This will open on Broadway (as opposed to the intimate Atlantic Theater on W. 20th St.) in the spring. It’s McDonagh’s first play set on U.S. soil. I saw The Pillowman on Broadway. He managed to write about violence against children in a darkly funny way. His stuff is like that.

The season closes with Gabriel by British playwright Moira Buffini. I’m not sure who she is.

What to avoid in NYC. Tip #1: taxi TV

Posted on August 12, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

There are enough guide books that tell you what to do while visiting New York City. As a public service, I thought I’d do a series of posts telling you what to AVOID during your stay. So far, I only have this one idea, so this may be as far as it gets. Leah, if you have any ideas, jump in.

* * *

A few years ago, in an effort to enhance revenue, the TLC (Taxi and Limousine Commission; a powerful government regulatory agency) decided to allow small flat screen TVs to be installed in the back seats of taxi cabs. They purport to play brief snippets of local news and weather but what they really are is yet another in-your-face way for advertisers to promote their products.

Once you step into a cab and the meter is activated, Taxi TV boots up automatically. TV is so ubiquitous in our lives that it’s difficult to tear your eyes away from one once it’s turned on. There are flat screen TVs in the elevators at A Company Called Malice, Inc. and it’s the same way. People ride up to their floors starring into the glowing screen with blank looks on their faces. I wish I had invented elevator TV. I’d be posting this from Tahiti.

Can you imagine? All of Manhattan is rolling by just outside your window and people opt to stare at a TV instead. You could miss the beautiful façade of The Waldorf Astoria or someone being shot outside of the Port Authority bus depot.

Thank God almighty you have the option to turn these things off. When they were first installed the ad industry, of course, did not want to allow the on/off option. But in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity, the TLC insisted on it. When visiting New York, turn off Taxi TV! Life is too short and Manhattan too interesting to waste your time watching another Claritin D ad. The “off” button is in the upper right corner.

I’ll bet it’ll be a cold day in hell before you see these insidious devices installed in London cabs.

* * *

Tomorrow at 5:00! The beautiful people of Fashion Week!

Do you like piña coladas while you consume human flesh?

Posted on August 10, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I was shampooing the carpets on Saturday afternoon (don’t ask) and out of nowhere I remembered a snippet from a song that was a hit when I was a little kid. It was just a fragment—one line of a lyric and a piece of the hook. I couldn’t dislodge it from my head. It kept pinging around and around. It was an unlikely hit in that it was about cannibalism. And not in a funny way—real cannibalism.

I thought my mind might be playing a trick on me and that my subconscious was making the whole thing up so I consulted our old friend the internet and sure enough; in 1971 there was a song called Timothy by The Buoys that reached #13 on the Billboard Top 100 list. Does anyone remember this?

I looked up the lyrics and they’re HORRIFYING! I wondered how something as dark as this could be played on the radio at all, much less become a hit. The Wikipedia entry claims that the songwriter intentionally wrote something so heinous that he was certain it would be banned from radio, believing that there‘s no such thing as bad publicity. It turned out he was right! To everyone’s surprise, including the songwriter, it became a hit.

Take a look at this mess. And stick with it through to its gruesome conclusion.

Timothy

Trapped in a mine that had caved in
And everyone knows the only ones left
Were Joe and me and Tim
When they broke through to pull us free
The only ones left to tell the tale
Were Joe and me

Timothy, Timothy, where on earth did you go?
Timothy, Timothy, God why don’t I know?

Hungry as hell no food to eat
And Joe said that he would sell his soul
For just a piece of meat
Water enough to drink for two
And Joe said to me, “I’ll have a swig
And then there’s some for you.”

Timothy, Timothy, Joe was looking at you
Timothy, Timothy, God what did we do?

I must have blacked out just around then
‘Cause the very next thing that I could see
Was the light of the day again
My stomach was full as it could be
And nobody ever got around
To finding Timothy

Timothy…etc.

Sweet Mother of Jesus! Upon further research, I found out that this was written by none other than RUPERT HOLMES! This is the same guy that gave the world Escape (The Piña Colada Song) in 1979. It’s a ridiculous song about two bored lovers who try to cheat on each other via the personnel ads only do discover that they’ve answered each others’ ad. I’d be pissed if I found out she was stepping out on me (even though I was doing the exact same thing).

If you like Piña Coladas
and getting caught in the rain…

I dare not quote more for fear of starting an ear worm chain reaction that could take down the world financial markets.

This means that one man is solely responsible for writing not one, but TWO of the worst songs ever recorded! You might think that I’m disparaging Mr. Holmes but I’m NOT.

Rupert, if you’re out there, you are THE MAN! Where are you? We want MORE!

Does this photo make you: a) sick to your stomach or b) hungry?

Posted on August 9, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

What do you think about that, bitches? This is a steak sandwich with cheese, peppers, onions and a little hot sauce. I wish you guys could smell it. (They should make an app for that.) Sitting across the plastic red checkered tablecloth is The Daughters. (Mrs. Wife is off camera by request.) They’re eating fried chicken strips and french fries.

There are certain parents out here in the lily white suburbs who wouldn’t think of feeding this kind of crap to their precious jewels. God’s little gifts only deserve the best. They’re not going to pollute their fragile, growing bodies with anything that isn’t from Whole Foods or grown on an organic farm.

Not my girls.

When you attend the Monmouth County Fair, you have to eat county fair food. You just have to. That steak sandwich was so satisfying that I almost bought a second one. Do you know what zeps are? Fried dough with powdered sugar? I wish I had one right fucking now. There was a vendor selling deep fried Oreos but even I’m not that crazy.

While at the county fair, 7-Year Old Daughter got a quick lesson on the potter’s wheel. Shades of Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze in Ghost!

I’m a bit afraid of heights, but Mrs. Wife is really afraid of heights, so when it comes to the Ferris wheel. I have to take The Daughter up. When she is old enough for for roller coasters, she’ll be on her own. I’m an amusement park pussy.

The wheel stopped at the apex and we sat quietly looking out over a sun drenched suburban New Jersey. Daughter didn’t say anything but she had a big grin on her face. What do you want from life?

Has anyone seen my New York City-hipster elan lying around anywhere? It’s seems to have fallen out of a hole in my pocket.

Wrecker of Homes

Posted on August 8, 2009 by Exile on Pain Street

I don’t know nuthin’ about no home ownership.

I don’t know anything about electrical work, structural maintenance, plumbing, carpentry, heating/cooling systems or mechanics. Do you know what I keep in my tool box? A credit card. I arrived at this pathetic state via 20 years of apartment life in New York. It was great! If something broke, you called the super and it was fixed by the time you got home from work. Sweet!

A lot of guys are taught these sorts of things by their fathers but, honestly, my dad never taught me a damn thing.

[Sidebar: When I was in 6th grade, my dad took me to a father/son night at school. It was a one-shot sex education class. They showed us a horrifying filmstrip about fallopian tubes, gestation periods and ovaries. I was a terrified little kid and wanted to hide under my chair. On the way out, as we walked toward the car, my dad looked down at me and said, “If you have any questions, ask your mother.” My hero.]

Can someone more manly than I answer this question? If the tub is draining a bit slow, and you ask your wife to buy some Drano, and the instructions say to pour in one-quarter of the bottle and let sit for :15 minutes (:30 if it’s a stubborn clog) and rinse it out with hot water but you want to do a thorough job so instead of one-quarter of a bottle, you pour in half, and instead of :15 minutes, you go downstairs to read the paper and forget to flush it out for 2 hours, is that bad?