"What’s
he barking at?" asks Wendy, as P.J., our Yorkshire terrier, is screaming
at the top of his little lungs.

"He
knocked over the pile of punk rock CDs, again," I explain.

"You
really have to put those away," says Wendy, as P.J. continues to bark loudly,
"and while you’re at it, maybe you can empty the dishwasher."

"Fuck
it," I tell her, "I’ll just review the damn things."

Out now
on Heavy Nose Records is Bantam’s first CD, titled, well, Bantam.
The band’s fronted by none other than Gina from the Lunachicks, who can
kick ass on guitar better than most men I know. Here she takes a stab at singing
as well, and it works out just fine. The songs are heavy and mean, yet somehow
poppy. "Come Undone," "Dirty Machine" and "Gorilla
Rose" really yank my crank, and when I caught the band live a few weeks
back, they had the same effect. Looks like this monkey is gonna be doing the
pogo to this CD for quite some time.

Do you miss
GG Allin? The Mentors? Sewage? Me too. That’s why I was so happy to get
the Dead Dean LES NYC self-released CD. Turns out their singer
and guitarist, who just happens to be named Dean, used to have a band called
"Dead Dean & the Battered Babies" until they all kinda died. But
Dean survived, and on his new CD the songs reflect this guy’s anger and
great sense of self-destruction. I mean, "Teenage Wanna-Be Junkie Slut"
and "Dead Dean Dance" say it all. These guys sound as mean as they
look, and even my crazy Aunt Mimi wouldn’t invite them over for dinner.
Anyway, in the CD booklet they have a "Free Spike" page, which claims
the ex-Sewage lead singer was "wrongfully accused of homicide in 1999."
This CD will scare your parents, kids.

The Put-Downs’
debut album, Wrong Side of Texas on Mortville Records, rocks in that
Southwest sorta punk rock way. They totally have that Ramones influence, but
also that Supersuckers and Nashville Pussy sorta sound working for them as well.
Best song? "If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will)."
Yee-haw!

Speaking
of Nashville Pussy, their new Say Something Nasty is a lot like their
last one. Only this one is on Artemis, and starts out with a spoken-word rant
against their last label. The songs here are almost too much like their last
album. I mean, I’m all into recording the same song for 15 or so albums.
Just look at the Ramones. Or my career. But these guys seem to be ripping themselves
off, because you know they’ve got more in them. Anyway, stand-out tunes
include "Gonna Hitchhike Down to Cincinnati and Kick the Shit Outta Your
Drunk Daddy" and the clever "You Give Drugs a Bad Name" and "Jack
Shack," a nice little ditty about beating off in private. Don’t get
me wrong, I love these guys. I just know they can do better. And will.

What do
you get when you cross David Bowie with cabaret and Cirque du Soleil and Black
Flag? New York City’s own Daddy, of course. Their new self-released CD
Back to the Mothership is certainly unique. While at times they almost
sound like a traveling minstrel act, at others they totally rage like the best
of New York’s hardcore. And while all the songs are almost one-of-a-kind,
the thing that really shines are the musicians. Guitarist Matt and singer Laurel
really do have their own style as well as a keen sense of self-promotion, and
I’m sure we’ll be hearing a lot more from them. Oh, I like this.

On No Charge
No Profit records comes Jesus & the Gospel Fuckers’ CD. It’s really
too bad these guys are all about the "free" punk rock and stuff, because
they kick ass. The tunes are fast, furious and fucking fantastic. I mean, fuck,
even I would probably pay real money for this thing. "Kill the Police,"
"Dope" and "Alcohol" are nowhere near as generic as the
titles suggest.

Weezer’s
new one, Maladroit, on Geffen, sucks.

The Everyothers’
new self-released CD/EP Can’t Get Around It is what Weezer shoulda
done. Catchy songs that rock. With loud guitars and a real sense of songwriting.
What happened to Weezer I’ll never know. They should go back to doing what
they do best, and listen to this Everyothers CD. It will give them a clue.

Like the
White Stripes? The Star Spangles? The Strokes? Me neither. That’s why when
I heard Sahara Hotnights’ Jennie Bomb on Jetset I was taken aback.
These guys, I mean girls, are really good. Instead of playing that predictable
fuzzy garage shit from the 60s that no one likes except dumb people who just
got their 10th tattoo, the gals kick-it Runaways meet Blondie meets the Donnas
meet the B-52s. Word up, this stuff is fresh. And I’m not even gonna mention
how hot-looking they are.

The Restraints’
self-titled CD on Scarred Records scares me. Inside there’s a picture of
a guy with a gun in his mouth, and he looks serious. Turns out most of the songs
were recorded as demos 1978-1980, hence the raw sound. But the vocals coulda
been sung yesterday. Some really funny and twisted stuff here that actually
makes me laugh out loud. Titles like "Cancer Dancer" and "I Cannot
Be a Nun" say it all. As does that gun.

Dean Dean
& the Sex Machines’ self-released and self-titled CD is so punk rock
it’s not. Meaning it’s flat out the finest rock ’n’ roll
I’ve heard in quite some time. Sure, the singer sounds like Alvin, Simon
and Theodore all wrapped up in one, but that works for her. Guitarist Renee
from Blanks 77 plays guitar here, and she’s got that Cheetah Chrome/Johnny
Thunders thing down almost better than they do/did. Then there’s the songs.
What can I say about titles like "Swap Spit," a song about the
loop, with lyrics like "You want David Lee, swap spit with me"?
And "Absolutely," a love song to vodka? These guys and gals really
know that the punk rock is best played drunk, high and really fucking loud.
Oh, and Dean Dean may just be the smartest guy in the punk rock. His work ethic
is even worse than mine. You guys go!

Finally,
got the Loaded Undies’ self-released CD from the singer/guitarist, Frank.
Or "Big Cock Benalto," as he likes to call himself this week. Anyway,
as I was expecting this thing to totally blow, it sat in my leather jacket pocket
for a couple of weeks before I even found it, and only by mistake, when desperately
searching for a smoke. With songs like "Zena Warrior Princess (Love Me!)"
and "Cute Baby Genitals (Traditional Oi! Arrangement)," how could
this be anything but a joke? Of course it turned out to be the best hardcore/punk
rock I’ve heard since the Dwarves, and we all know how much I love Blag
and Company. Anyway, other tunes include "NecroHomoPetaBeastiality,"
"One Eyed Willy" and the tune we all wish we had written, "Where’s
the Beef?" This CD is the hit of the year on alt.punk, so track it down
if you can.

"That
wasn’t so bad," I tell Wendy as we exit the Continental airplane that
just flew us from Newark to Portland, OR. Wendy just stares at me.

"Okay,"
I admit, "there was some turbulence."

Wendy stares
harder.

"Well,
P.J. did kinda bark under the seat in front of us," I concede.

"How
would you know?" Wendy finally says. "You took two Xanaxes and only
woke up for two minutes to swallow your dinner."

I admit
she’s right, as usual, and suggest that on the way home she should take
some pills as well. She says she’ll think about it.

As we wait
for our suitcases and AeroBed and shit we talk with Wendy’s younger brother,
Derek, and his firstborn daughter, Tess. Who’s in her terrible twos. His
wife Bernadette and his second daughter Brooke are home. Asleep.

"They
were searching everybody," Wendy explains to her brother, "even little
children. Yet they didn’t even look twice at us."

I silently
curse myself for not sneaking on that tiny pile of drugs a friend had given
me for the trip.

"They
didn’t even take my tweezers," Wendy proudly proclaims, "and
there was a big sign at Newark that said, among other things, NO TWEEZERS."

"Gweezas?"
asks Tess, who is finally feeling brave enough to poke her head out from behind
Derek’s bluejeans. Her eyes are as blue as the ocean and her hair blonde
as the sun. Obviously there’s some Jew missing there.

We finally
get our bags and start the short drive home as P.J. jumps excitedly around the
floor of the Volvo looking for kiddie crumbs.

"Ya
mind stopping at a supermarket?" I ask Derek.

"We
got everything you need at the house," he replies.

"Really,"
I say, "I just need a few things."

So we stop.
I don’t want to tell Derek what I really need, but he tells me he needs
a sixpack. Of Bud.

As I enter
the supermarket, I notice it’s the size of an airplane hangar. As are most
stores outside of New York. I run my cart up and down each aisle, sometimes
passing two carts on my right, picking up my prunes, my figs, my prune
juice and my fiber laxative pills.

Traveling
plugs me up.

Bigtime.

It was either
these natural remedies or a coffee enema. And I hate all that caffeine. Not
to mention being filled to the rim with Brim.

Eventually
I find the beer aisles, next to the liquor aisles. Then I go to the cashier
and give her my credit card.

"Ined
eye day," she says.

Not understanding
Oregonian, I tell her she’s holding my credit card.

"Ined
eye day!" she says again, louder.

"Ined
eye day?" I ask.

"Ya-huh,"
she says.

"Ined
eye day?" I ask again, totally confused.

"Yes!"
she yells. "Ya ned eye day!"

"Ya
ned eye day?" I ask, even more puzzled.

"No,"
she fumes, "ya ned eye day!"

"I
need ID," I finally say to her.

"No
shit," she says, in perfect English.

I reach
into my chain wallet and retrieve my driver’s license.

"New
York?" she asks as she looks at me with my bleached blond hair, my black
punk-rock jacket, black women’s stretch jeans and sneakers.

"Taint
real," she tells me.

"What?"
I kind of scream at her. It was a long flight and the Xanax was wearing off.

"I’m
gonna have to git the manager," she tells me.

"Fuck
the beer," I tell her, "just gimmie the other stuff, okay?"

Instead
of saying anything to me she grabs this big black microphone in front of her,
pushes a button and says, "Manager to eye-L three, manager to eye-L three."

"What
seems to be the trouble?" the manager asks the idiot.

The idiot
explains that "taint no way" I’m the age it says I am on my driver’s
license. The manager looks at my license and tells her she’s right, and
thanks for bringing it to his attention, and what a good eye she has, and how
she’s a hard worker and stuff.

"Excuse
me sir," this horn-rimmed idiot then says to me. "Do you mind coming
to my office?"

I tell him
I do, that I am the age that it says on my license, that I’m old enough
to buy beer, as well as needing to buy prunes and fiber pills, and to
leave me the fuck alone.

"There’s
no need for that kind of language," the manager tells me as he begins to
walk away with my credit card and eye day.

"Give
me back my fucking cards," I say to the guy, "please?"

The guy
tells me if I want them back and don’t want to be arrested, I should come
with him.

The word
"arrested" kind of bothered me, so I followed him.

We went
back to his little office, which was located somewhere behind the deli section,
kind of near the bakery, but not quite where the produce was. He had me sit
down while he turned on his computer. While he’s doing this, I know
Wendy and Derek are wondering where the hell I am.

"Uh-huh,"
says the manager.

"What?"
I ask.

"Well,
Mr. Tabb," he says, "it seems you are indeed who you are saying you
are. And your age is correct."

"No
shit," I say.

"You
New Yorkers," he replies, almost laughing.

When I get
back to the car and Wendy asks what took me so long, I tell her that supermarkets
in Portland have better security than any airport I’ve ever seen.

She and
Derek just stare at me.

Meanwhile,
P.J. is giving Tess kisses, and she squeals in delight. Over and over.

•Almost
10 bowel movements later, my best friend for 22 years arrives in Portland. He’d
moved there years ago, and was now working in the San Francisco area while keeping
a place in Portland. He thought he could come visit earlier, but got tied up
with work.

And that
was okay. I spent most of that time just hanging out with Bernadette, Derek,
Wendy, Tess, Brooke and P.J. Brooke was just 10 months old and learning to walk,
and Tess was learning that the word "no" can be used almost as much
as I use the term "punk rock."

Meanwhile,
P.J. was learning that babies drop lots of food, and they are not to be humped.
Wendy was learning that the term "cold" meant a whole different thing
in the Pacific Northwest, and I was learning that this town has the highest
number of strip clubs per capita of any city in the United States.

And that
these strip clubs are all-nude. And they serve alcohol. And they allow 18-year-olds
to strut their stuff.

The town
literally reeked of pussy.

Punk rock.

So Aaron
comes to town and asks what I want to do. Of course I tell him I want to go
to the strip clubs. He tells me that that’s stupid, that there are museums,
art galleries and great punk clubs like the Satyricon, which I remember playing
back in the 80s with the False Prophets. I remind Aaron that I live in New York,
that we have museums, art galleries and punk clubs as well. What we don’t
have is 18-year-old girls putting their vaginas so close to your face that if
she’s untrimmed her pubic hair could poke out your eye.

Aaron finally
agrees to take me to "those places." On the way to one of them, he
finally admits to me he’s gay. Something I’ve known for 22 years but,
obviously, he didn’t. So I offer to go to gay strip clubs as well, if he’d
like.

And he takes
me up on that offer.

But first
we hit the straight ones.

One, called
Union Jacks, is by far the best. It could almost be my home away from home.
As soon as we walk in the door we see a punk chick dancing onstage to Iggy Pop.
After taking a good long look at her, I glance at the bartender, who says, "Hey
George, what’s up?"

For a moment
I feel that Twilight Zone thing where I think I’m falling off the
side of the Earth. Then I realize I know the guy from New York. I look around
and see other punk rockers I recognize, as well as drunk old men who I don’t.

"Christ!"
I exclaim to Aaron. "This place is Mars Bar with naked girls!"

We watch
more punk chicks dance to the Ramones, Dead Boys and even Black Flag. It almost
makes me want to move to Portland.

Almost.

Then this
guy I know from Mars Bar gets me really high. And that almost makes me want
to move to Portland.

Then this
hot stripper chick who looks like Bettie Page sits next to me and asks if I
like her body. Having just seen it as close as a gynecologist could, I tell
her I do, especially her pierced clitoris. She tells me she’s 18.

I say, "Eighteen?
And you dance to the Dead Boys? How did you even hear of them?"

She tells
me her father turned her on to them.

I begin
to feel kind of iffy about the Northwest.

Then she
tells me who her father is.

And I decide
that I don’t want to live in the Northwest.

Obviously
our days of Johnny Appleseeding the punk rock across America had sprouted. And
its blossom was beautiful. But knowing who planted it kind of ruins the whole
thing.

So I grabbed
Aaron, we said our quick goodbyes and got the hell out of there. Before anyone
could call me Daddy.

•That
night and the next one Aaron and I hung out at a place called Silverado, which
had a big sign inside that read "Cruising Mandatory." It also had
naked guys onstage flopping their dicks around like wounded salmon, and a barrel
full of condoms that disappeared faster than a free line of cocaine at a glam-rock
show.

As Aaron
and I hung out, we talked about his coming out of the closet and how tough it
was. We talked about the available men in Portland. Aaron told me he knew most
of the guys in the bar, and it was just a gay thing to pretend that he didn’t
notice them. Or them him. I looked around and understood why.

Most of
them looked like Bill Gates.

Aaron told
me that’s just how gay men are in Portland. Most of them aren’t into
being flamboyant or radical, but just want to live out their lives in peace.
Like Wendy’s brother and wife are doing. Most of them don’t have the
desire to live in a big city and change the world. Or even fight for their rights.
They just want to exist.

To most,
the weather is the most important thing. It tops the news there every day.

I left Portland
a few days later feeling very mellow. I had had a great time with the family,
as well as with my friend Aaron. I began to realize that maybe I shouldn’t
always try to swim upstream, but sometimes just go with the flow.

Who was
I to change the world, anyway? Maybe it is just about the music, the
beer and the good times. Maybe those Eastern philosophies are right. Maybe it
would make me healthier.

All this
was running through my head as my pal Dave drove us back into the city from
Newark in one of his bitchin’ muscle cars. As soon as we got through the
Holland Tunnel, Wendy and I got a good whiff of the remnants of 9/11.

"I
wanna make those motherfucking terrorists pay," I snarl, "and the
fucking lying EPA and our landlord as well."

"Yeah,"
says Wendy, "time to kick butt."

As I felt
my blood pressure rise and my prostate go into spasm, I just look at Dave and
smile.

"Welcome
home," he replies.

•Ramones,
Ramones, Ramones. It’s all about them now that they’re in the Hall
of Shame and Joey and Dee Dee have died. Everyone is jumping on the bandwagon
saying how great they were. Never mind that these same people never saw a show
in their lives.

But the
true fans are starting to pay their respects too, and Ramones Forever: An
International Tribute, out now on Radical, is really putting its money where
its mouth is. Comprised of 23 tracks, this CD features lots of bands from overseas
that play Ramones covers, well, weirdly. Some try hiphop, some reggae, some
even try that Sonic Youth noise stuff, while others just rock out with their
cocks out. But whatever they do, all the bands on this thing understand where
their covers are coming from. My favorites here include "We Want the Airwaves"
by 5¢ Deposit, and Club Diana featuring Neef doing their very eerie "Here
Today Gone Tomorrow." Also, I gotta admit digging the lounge version of
"Somebody Put Something in My Drink" by Daan, and Skunk’s "Pet
Semetary." Fuck it. I like this whole album.

Another
Ramones tribute comes to us from trend is dead! called Ramones Maniacs.
It’s the Ramones Mania album redone with many different musical
acts. I like this whole thing as well, and am really impressed by Dee Dee and
Youth Gone Mad’s version of "Blitzkrieg Bop." Also, the tracks
by Blanks 77, Hammerbrain, Cletus and the Vapids rock. However, there’s
a cover of "Pinhead" by Furious George that sucks. Sorry.

Speaking
of the Ramones, I met this guy Evan years ago, who was a friend of Johnny Ramone’s.
He’s got a band up in Beantown called the Nines, and he’s just self-released
a CD called Junk Food. With songs like "Laura’s a Liar,"
"Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda" and "Bad Thing," you get the idea.
1 2 3 4!

The Business
is this old punk/oi band that played CBGB recently. They also just put out a
CD-EP called Hell 2 Pay on TKO. I like the band, but the name of the
record shoulda been "Hell Toupee." Take a look at them and you’ll
understand. Anyway, rockin’!

Also out
on TKO is the Riffs’ new CD Dead End Dream. Not only do these guys
look like the L.E.S. Stitches, they sound like them too. Well, they also sound
like the Sex Pistols. And a lot of other punk bands. Including New York’s
next big band, the Kick. Anyway, the Riffs play old-school punk and the production
here is clean and good. The singer is really snotty and I love the tune "White
Line Kids." They go!

Duane Peters
& the Hunns have a CD called Wayward Bantams on Disaster. For those
of you who don’t know, Duane was like this rad skater from years ago who
did all those gnarly tricks on his board and practically invented a new vocabulary,
as well as a new fashion, dude. Anyway, complete skate rock here, like all that
other stuff from Southern California that ends up usually being on Epitaph and
doing the Warped Tour. Good, if you’re into that sort of Left Coast stuff.
But if you ask me, it’s the sun that’s fucking them up.

Finally,
I got the Spunk Lads’ new CD called Paddington Station on Triage.
These guys claim to have been around in 1976 in London.

Of course,
I may know their kids.

"That’s
what the band Cracker calls him as well," says my friend L.P. as we discuss
our mutual friend and lawyer–plus birthday boy–seated at the table’s
end.

"Did
they like your ping-ping?" asks Wendy as I stumble in the door around 7:30
a.m.

"My
what?" I say as P.J., my Yorkshire terrier, barks furiously at me, telling
me not only that I’m super-late coming home from The Motherfucker party,
but that I smelled like booze and tobacco and to top it off I didn’t bring
him a treat.

"Ping-ping,"
Wendy repeats.

"Ping-ping?"
I ask.

P.J. barks
yes.

"It’s
called bling-bling," I say, crossing my arms in front of my leather jacket,
taking a stance like the guy who copied my look, Eminem.

"Ping-ping,
bling-bling, whatever," Wendy says.

"Yo,
bee-yatch," I say in my best ghetto accent, "don’t be dissing
my bling-bling by calling it ping-ping. Besides yo, my ping-ping ain’t
no ping-ping, it’s a big-thing."

P.J. barks
at me, much as he does at the guys down the block who are always riding skateboards
and talking that way.

"Well
you and your bling-bling take a shower and come to bed. Me and the boy have
been worried," Wendy explains.

Sighing,
I take off my PaRappa the Rapper 2^TM gold chain and big gold dogbone
that reads "PaRappa" on it. I hang it on the dresser across from the
bed so I can stare at it until I fall asleep, thinking how cool I am.

So I look
at the damn thing. I pick it up, feel its weight. Then I take out my leather
jacket. I figure I can put it on the other shoulder buckle of my MC jacket,
much like my Johnny Ramone^TM chain, and get a few laughs.

Anyway,
so I get dressed up for The Motherfucker party that night, which is at a place
on 6th Ave. After spraying on only about a quarter of a bottle of Jovan Musk
for Men, I look at my PaRappa the Rapper 2^TM bling-bling and wonder
if I should wear it. I mean, Motherfucker is full of people who look like they’ve
either posed for Playboy or Playgirl, and I don’t wanna look
stupid.

"Well,"
I explain, "there’s this game for the PlayStation2 called PaRappa
the Rapper. Well, now it’s actually called PaRappa the Rapper2^TM
and–"

Jello Biafra
is a pussy. And I say this even though I kind of consider the guy a
friend. But after watching what the ex-lead singer of the Dead Kennedys has
been up to for the last few years, I believe this now more than ever.

"Geeeee-hod!
Geeeee-hod!" yells this insanely loud voice, as my forehead lies firmly
on the hand-carved wooden trim of the bar at Mars.

"Geeee-hod!"
it repeats over and over as I try to keep my eyes closed as tight as possible,
and also keep all the Jose Cuervo, Rolling Rock and vodka and cranberry down
below my teeth.

"Geeee-hod!"
the man yells louder, as the words echo and bounce around inside my already-fried
brain, filled with images of the Twin Towers crashing down outside my window,
five short blocks from my living room.

Inside my
brain I hear Wendy yelling, "Oh my God! Oh my God! A plane just hit the
tower!" I look out the window after hearing a screaming noise so loud that
pictures of our deceased parents have fallen off our walls and shelves. Sure
enough there’s a hole in the building, which begins to burn like the top
of a cigarette.

"Geeee-hod!"
the voice echoes, as I remember watching people jumping from the heat and smoke
to their untimely deaths. Couples holding hands. Women and their children. Men
on fire.

"Geee-hod!"
as a second plane hits, and no one knows what to do.

"Geee-hod!"
as Wendy, P.J. and I flee, and a cloud larger than Godzilla chases us up Broadway.

"Geeee-hod!"
as I found myself back at Mars Bar, about two months later, still trying to
make sense of, well, anything.

•

I think
it was the blowjob that started it all. A very natural act. A nice pair of firm
Jewish lips around the penis of some guy. Some guy who just happened to be the
president of the United States.

When caught,
he lies about it.

Who wouldn’t.

For this,
he’s not only tried and convicted by both Congress and the media, he’s
impeached. The president. Impeached for a blowjob.

"Geeee-hod!"

I remember
Nick, my stepfather, as well as my brother Seth telling me that this was a very
important time in history. One that we are lucky to live through, so we can
tell our grandchildren. Remembering Nixon’s resignation speech, I nod my
head and say nothing. It was a blowjob.

Then there’s
the presidential election. Two scumbags running against each other. One of the
scumbags, the now fat and occasionally bearded one, has a wife who really screwed
with freedom of speech back in the 80s, and helped land me in the slammer a
few times. The other guy, if put in a leather jacket and sunglasses, could pass
for the Furious George monkey on the cover of any of my albums.

So they
run against each other, and the counting of votes takes weeks. It all comes
down to the Satan State itself, Floriduh. A place that long ago should have
been severed from this country and given to Cuba in exchange for the legal import
of better cigars.

"Geeee-hod!"

Again, Nick
tells me this is a very important time in history, and something I’ll likely
never see again. My brother says the same thing, as do the media and everyone
I meet on the street.

"Can
you believe an election has come down to this?" they’d ask.

I was still
thinking about the blowjob.

Then comes
Sept. 11. Awakened by a screeching whine, Wendy screaming, the dog barking and
a tremendous blast, I see my worst fears come to life. When I moved to Tribeca
more than five years ago and noticed that the Twin Towers stood like two monoliths
from 2001 right outside my window, I thought to myself, "It would
really suck if those things fell. Because, if they did, they’d land on
our heads."

Later I
told Wendy and Nick my fears. They both thought I was being paranoid as usual.
That I should increase my Prozac. I did. But the dreams continued. Dreams of
mass destruction. Of trying to find my way out of my father’s house to
my building. Which was near these two giants that could one day crush me.

Then, that
morning, they almost did.

"Geeee-hod!"

Again, Nick
tells me that we’ve just witnessed a major event in history right as we
arrive at his home in the West Village covered in white dust and who-knows-what.

Hours later
I cry.

Uncontrollably.

•

"Geeee-hod!"
yells the voice again at Mars Bar as I keep my head plastered to the comforting
wood."George," says a faraway voice, "Chet’s on top
of the bar yelling. He’s just whipped out his dick."

I nod my
head ever so slightly.

"Geeee-hod!"
yells Chet, as I begin to think how it all started with a blowjob and came down
to this. How it had now been more than three months since I started drinking
daily and taking whatever drugs I could get my hands on.

I wanted
to forget. About the blowjob. About Florida. But mostly, about the dead people
I breathe in daily. The dead people who I can still hear crying every night.
The dead people I see covering the cars, the sidewalks and windows of New York
City. The dead people I see covering the faces of those I love.

"Geeee-hod!"
Chet yells again, as I peer through half-open eyes and see the guy standing
on the bar amongst spilled drinks, with what looks like his penis in his hand.

"Geeee-hod!"
he yells once more before my stomach finally gives way and I run into the blood-colored
bathroom and puke my guts out.

I return
to the bar and start drinking again.

And in my
head, I hear Nick’s voice telling me about how I’m lucky to be living
through this important time in history.

And then
tears begin to well up.

History
my ass.

•

Speaking
of the Mars Bar, my pal Zach Lipez, who bar-backs there, just put out a mini-book
of his poetry on Evil Twin Publications. It’s called No Seats on the
Party Car, and aside from being clever, sensitive and, well, so damn good,
it’s punk rock! What does Zach write about? What he knows. Sex, self and
the subway. If you can find this, pick it up.

Again speaking
of the Mars Bar, Matt, Dick Army just gave me his first feature-length CD, called
Unsafe at Any Volume, on Vital Music Records. When I asked him what he
though of it, he told me it was "punk rock." After listening to it,
I have to agree. Sort of. It’s actually more like early hardcore. Like
Black Flag. Or Agent Orange. The guitars are very heavy, the drums sound
like cardboard and the vocals are full of rage. Just the way I like it. While
some of the songs I feel are kinda boring, there are tunes like "Company
Man," "The Man on Your TV" and "The Throttle, the Bottle,
and Me" that just about guarantee that Dick Army will go down in the history
of punk/hardcore as being one of the greats of the 21st century. History. I
hate that word.

Remember
F.Y.P.? That rad band from San Pedro? That singer guy, Todd, who also owns Recess
Records? Well, anyway, his new band is called Toys that Kill, and his new album
is called The Citizen Abortion, and it’s out on, you guessed it,
Recess. Of course it’s amazing, well-produced and punk as fuck. But it’s
also got more soul than past F.Y.P. albums, and, damn, am I allowed to say it
actually sounds musically better? Maybe I shouldn’t. I’m not
sure how that will go over.

The Kick
is an up-and-coming band here in New York City, and they fuckin’ rock.
I recently caught them at Continental, where I found myself so impressed I begged
them to let me and Evan do the Dead Boys’ "Sonic Reducer" with
them. Later, they gave me their new self-titled, self-released three-song CD
produced by the infamous Nitebob. What can I say about these guys? Besides being
the nicest fuckers around, the have a firm grasp on what rock ’n’
roll should be, and play it that way. Think early L.E.S. Stitches meets the
Clash meets Elvis Costello. With none of the attitude.

In the world
of video games, I just got Super Monkey Ball for the Nintendo Gamecube, made
by Sega. Now I know you’re saying, "What the fuck…?" That’s
right, Sega now makes games for all the console systems, and while they used
to compete directly with Nintendo, they are now making software for them, and
it rules. Super Monkey Ball is a kiddie game that adults will enjoy as well.
You can choose to be one of four monkeys (where’s Furious George?) and
play all these mini-games, plus this big one where you roll over 3-D squares.
Sound weird? It is. But it’s way fun. Plus it’s better to control
your monkey with a joystick rather than spank it.

For you
sports fans out there, 989/Sony just released NCAA Final Four 2002 for the PlayStation2.
It’s got new player graphics–well, compared to the 2001 version–plus
it’s got this Dynasty Mode thing where you can recruit freshman and fire
the surly seniors. But best of all? It’s got guys named Eddie Doucette
and Billy Packer doing the voiceovers. Man, just change one letter in each last
name and you get Douchette and Pecker. Sorry. Gotta get my kicks somehow these
days.

For the
GameBoy Advance, I got Disney’s Atlantis: The Lost Empire, made by THQ.
While I never saw the movie, I sure am enjoying this game. I’m getting
to explore deep dark wet caves, and check out hot underwater babes in sexy clothes.
Plus I can take control of my large submarine and enter into battle. Wait! This
game is for kids? Eeeek!

For Microsoft’s
cough Xbox, I just got Shrek, made by TDK of all people. That’s
funny. Back in the day, when I had my first punk band, Roach Motel, we used
to call ourselves "TDK Recording Artists," because their cassettes
fit into our one microphone boombox. Anyway, the game looks as good as the movie.
Impossible, you say? Nope. Yes sir, the technology is here and this is really
the first example of the wave of the future. I guaranfuckintee that from now
on, children’s movies and games will be almost the same. Anyway, as the
farting Ogre (which I pronounce as "Or-guh," which makes Wendy crack
up like when I say "drawer") you run around collecting and doing typical
game stuff. What’s amazing here is not so much the game-play but the graphics,
voice and feeling that you can control a movie character that looks just as
good as he or she did in the original film. Cripes, I can’t wait until
Martha Stewart makes a movie, then a game. Where should I stick that square
of butter, Martha? I know. I’m sick.

One other
game I got from Sony for the PlayStation2 is Kinetica. In it you play as a hot
chick in a thong that kinda morphs into a motorcycle thing. I swear you can
see the stubble when she bends over. Yes!

Oh fuck,
I forgot, the Dictators have a new album out on their own label, called D.F.F.D.
When I first opened it in John Strausbaugh’s office, I was ecstatic. The
fucking Dictators. They haven’t put out an album in more than 20 years,
although they seem to play a lot. Handsome Dick is one of my favorite singers
ever, and Andy Shernoff, the songwriter and bassist, well, just fucking rules.
So anyway, I show Strausbaugh, and he kinda implies it will probably suck ’cause
they’re old and he’s into that whole Colostomy Rock Sucks sort of
thing ’cause he just wrote a book about it. I tell him I’ll take it
home and give it a listen. Well, Strausbaugh, you, sir, are wrong. Not only
do the Dictators not suck, their new album, pretty much every song, rules!
Dood! There’re loud guitars and lyrics that are bitter, funny and make
sense. Plus, these guys know rock ’n’ roll. Songs like "Avenue
A," "Who Will Save Rock and Roll" and "In the Presence of
a New God" are amazing, not to mention "I Am Right," which I’ve
heard them play many times live. Anyway, how can you say anything bad about
a band that plays a song about how great we are because we eat meat and are
at the top of the food chain? Dictators Forever and Forever Dictators!

Finally,
in my drunken and drug-induced haze these days, I found myself wandering around
some club somewhere looking for free drinks and drugs when some guy walks up
to me and gives me a CD. I say, "What’s this?" He says, "It’s
Scum." I look at the CD and it’s spelled SKUM, with that little omelet
thing over the U. I thank him and ask him what it sounds like. "It
sounds like Scum," he says, and then just walks away. Whatever. A few days
later, while looking for this football-shaped pill in my leather jacket this
chick gave me, I find the CD. I pop it in and am blown away. They have a chick
singer who actually has a good voice, the thing is self-released on JPM Productions
and the guitars and drums are as hard as hell. Oh, and the song titles. How
about "Inner Piece" and "I Wish I Had a Cock"? Or "Your
Mother Sucks Cocks in Hell" or "Fags, in Wigs, on Ice"? What?
That’s not enough? Well, what about my favorite titles, "Pussy Power"
and "Big Black Cock"? Oh yeah, then there’s "I Lost My Asshole
Cherry." With lyrics like, "I lost my asshole cherry to a schnauzer
named Jerry/I couldn’t help myself, oh his balls were so hairy," and
"It always makes me blissful whenever my slit’s full/There’s
nothing I like better then a slit full of pit bull." Or "Ass loving
is so fine/Especially when it’s from a canine."

Viva Skum.
Oh, and don’t forget the omelet over the U.

P.J. sneezed
as I first put a Red Cross dust and particle mask over my face, then one over
his. Within seconds, my 8-pound Yorkshire terrier tried violently to shake it
off his face.

But it wasn’t
going anywhere.

I made it real
tight.

Ever since
the morning of Sept. 11, every time he, Wendy or I ventured out of our apartment,
which is only a few blocks from "Ground Zero," we were sure to have
our masks, as well as water and sometimes goggles. Like the Talking Heads say,
it’s life during wartime.

But this morning,
and perhaps for many more mornings to come, I saw something that made me angry
and want to puke almost as bad as I did when Wendy, P.J. and I watched the towers
burn and collapse right outside our window. It wasn’t the pictures on the
fire station across the street. It wasn’t the National Guard parked on
all four corners of our block. It wasn’t even the stench of death that
hung so brazenly in the air, invading our nostrils with fierce abandon.

Nope.

It was the
fucking tourists.

For some reason,
perhaps just to let people see for themselves and grieve, the City of New York
was now letting people into what they called "The Frozen Zone." "The
Forbidden Zone" is what I would have called it, just like in Planet
of the Apes–the first one. The only one, as far as I’m concerned.

Anyway, as
P.J. and I made our way out the door, the first things we noticed were people.
Not just a few, not even a lot. A shitload is the best way to describe it. Guys
with their shorts and black socks. Kids on their skateboards and scooters. Women
dressed in heels, wearing dresses, and even pushing baby strollers.

And their cameras.

Zillions of
cameras.

Still and video.

And they’re
all shooting pictures of everything they see. The pictures of the missing firemen,
the guys in their military fatigues, the police riding around in golf carts,
and, of course, the twisted metal that was once the world’s twin monoliths.

It was weird
to see them, I thought to myself as I began to have an asthma attack, even with
the mask on. This once-quiet neighborhood had turned into a macabre Disneyland.
People were posing in front of wreckage, smiling, as cameras were clicking away.
But perhaps the worst thing P.J., myself and my neighbor Rachelle saw was what
they were doing to the car that had been parked on our corner since that
day.

The car was
a small blue sedan-type thing and it was covered, I mean covered, with
crud. That dusty white crud that coated all the surfaces in our apartments even
though the windows were tightly closed. The crud that was made up of whatever
the World Trade Center had turned into once it went down. Chemicals I’m
sure we don’t even know about, as well as, well, people.

And here were
these tourists, scraping off piles of the stuff, putting it into whatever containers
they could find. Salad bar containers, envelopes, even Ziploc bags some lady
on the corner was selling for a dollar apiece.

As I watched,
I truly wondered what people would want with the crud as they high-fived each
other after scraping off ounces into their receptacles. Perhaps as a memory
of the worst day in American history? Maybe to show their friends they were
actually there? To sell on eBay?

Whatever the
reason, it made me want to vomit.

Until I saw
a middle-aged woman silently scraping just the tiniest little bit into a Altoids
tin. As she did so, a tear ran down her cheek.

Then I remembered
my mother, her cremated ashes still lost somewhere in Brooklyn.

And I understood.

And after P.J.
did his business, I went back to our home, maybe a little less furious.

•

The Mad Daddys’
new album, on my favorite current label, RAFR, is called The Age of Asparagus.
Not only are the title and cover art terrific parodies of the Cro-Mags’
Age of Quarrel, the music here rules as well. Much like their other albums,
the Mad Daddys have stayed in that Cramps sort of style, so much so that I can’t
tell the difference between their lead singer and Lux Interior. Good trashy
rockabilly here and great drinking music. Especially in these weird times.

Death Alley
is the title of Zeke’s new album on Aces & Eights Records. Zeke, for
those of you who don’t know, is the most fucking kickass band since Motörhead
and, well, Motörhead. This disc has 16 tracks, but only two songs. The
fast one, and the slow one. Actually, all the Zeke albums have these two songs,
and this one is no different. Which makes it great. My favorite song here is
"Night Rider" because I saw them play it at Knitting Factory last
time they were in town. I also love "Road Ahead" ’cause, well,
it just rocks. Zeke!

Extermination
is a new video game for the PlayStation2 made by Sony, and you know, it ain’t
half bad. It’s a cross between Syphon Filter and Resident Evil, but you
play as a Marine/Special Op guy with a funny haircut who goes around killing
aliens and mutants on some army base in the north or south pole. What? It sounds
like a ripoff of John Carpenter’s The Thing? Well, yeah, it is.
If it wasn’t, I’m sure it would suck.

Another half-decent
game I got for the PlayStation2 is Rune: Viking Warlord made by Take 2 Interactive
and Human Head Studios. In it, you play a Viking dood named Ragnar, and you
kill lots of bad guys and beasts and shit. The graphics are okay, a little too
much slowdown for my taste, but the sound is great! There’s nothing
like hearing your massive battleax saw through someone’s neck.

If you are
tired of violence in video games–and who isn’t, after recent events–check
out Sega’s Sega Bass Fishing 2 for the almost defunct Dreamcast. Beautiful
graphics of fishies swimming around in the nice blue water. Then you cast your
rod, snag the little fucker and reel him in real good. He’ll put up a fight,
but don’t worry, after lots of practice you’ll be able to snag the
bastard, then catch him and have him die pointlessly.

Some chick
named Amy Fix sent me her self-released CD called Spoon up here at New
York Press. In a cover letter she tells me that she does not rock. That
she is a chick. That she’s a chick that eats pussy. That she’s not
punk although her high school friends were. That she does not have a drummer.
That she has not finished becoming a bad girl. That her lyrics are funny. That
she also sings about being abused as a child, which is not funny, and that she
kicks her own special kind of ass. What else can I say?

God Hates
Us All is the title of Slayer’s new album, released the Day After.
I don’t know about all of us, but perhaps he does hate Slayer. Their last
couple of albums have blown dog dick, with the exception of like one or two
songs. Not so here. This new one actually has almost as many good songs as it
does bad. Plus they brought back their dueling guitar leads, blood-curdling
screams and production that almost ranks up there with South of Heaven
and Reign In Blood. For a band that’s a bit too old to sing about
Satan seriously, these guys are in heavy rotation around here.

Finally, I
got the new Toilet Boys CD on Masterplan Records. The first song is called "The
Party Starts Now," so I put it on expecting to hear a great version of
my pal Dick Manitoba’s classic Wild Kingdom hit. Nope. But it didn’t
matter. The song was good, as was the rest of the album. Especially the songs
"Hollywood" and "Another Day in the Life." These guys look
like a cross between Mötley Crüe and the Misfits, but sound like a
cross between Ratt and the Cars, and I love it. But what I love more is their
live shows. They definitely put on the best show of any New York City band these
days. You go, Boys!