MCMYS Gilman Street

If you've been reading this blog very long, you'll have noticed that I do this with almost predictable regularity: make a trip back to Gilman Street and then proceed to sing the praises of what what, if it isn't the longest-lived volunteer-owned and operated music and cultural center in the world, most certainly has to be one of the best.

Much of the joy has gone out of seeing live music in recent years, at least at all but the most grass-roots and DIY levels. Even the undeniable talents of today's or yesterday's megastars are seldom sufficient to compensate for the double whammy of insult and injury dished up to fans: music is most often presented in a sterile, soulless environment, completely deracinated from the passions and cultures that gave it birth, and is packaged and resold at prices obscenely inflated by monopolies like Tickemaster and its imitators, whose rapacious tentacles may well end up choking the last remaining life from the "entertainment" they purport to traffic in.

I swore off corporate rock shows after my last experience seeing one of my longtime favorites, MORRISSEY. While the substantial gouge effected by Ticketmaster on my wallet was bad enough, I don't absolve Morrissey himself of blame for his part in this dispiriting spectacle. As many of you will know, the Mozzer inspires a level of adulation among his fans that verges on religious dementia. As a result, his shows have historically been nearly as remarkable for the performances of his audiences as for what transpired on stage.

But by the time Morrissey put in an appearance at New York's Hammerstein Ballroom in October 2007, commercial considerations - a factor the Mournful Manc has never been oblivious to, as witnessed by various lawsuits and bitter band infighting - had drained much of the life from the experience. An incompetent and unpleasant opening act, chosen, it's hard not to suspect, for no other reason than that they would work cheap, ticket prices high enough to ensure banks of empty seats and the absence of some of his most devoted fans, all combined to cast a pall over the proceedings that Morrissey's assiduous prancing and posturing could never completely dispel. A more reasonable ticket price and an exciting opening act would not only have filled the hall with an impassioned audience rather than a stultified one; it also, ironically, would most likely have produced just as much income for performer and promoters alike.

Since that time, I've been to a couple of what might be called corporate shows, but only as a guest, when friends' bands were playing, and only in small to mid-size venues. I've stuck to my resolution to never again pay a Ticketmaster "service" charge or to see rock and roll (or soul, hiphop, or for that matter, hillbilly) music in a venue dominated by tables and chairs. I've missed seeing some artists who at one time I very much would have liked to see, but the way I figure it, the songs they're singing these days say, as Morrissey himself once put it, nothing to me about my life.

Contrast that with the many small shows in bars and basements and living rooms that I've been privileged to attend the past couple years, and I feel as though I haven't missed anything at all. Only a handful - if that - of the musicians I've seen are likely ever to the fame and fortune attained by friends from "back in the day" at Gilman, but I just may have reached that point in life - reached long ago, it must be acknowledged, by kids half my age - that in the overall scheme of things, it just doesn't matter.

It might not be evident to those who weren't there that Gilman in its early days was very much the granddaddy to the vast network of independent shows, bands, labels and promoters that spans the globe today, while simultaneously burrowing deep within the decaying skeleton of the Ticketmaster/Live Nation octopus. What's even more remarkable is that Gilman itself is still going strong, after more than 22 years. For newer bands that grew up in its far-reaching shadow, a chance to play Gilman is akin to making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

And you know, I still feel a little like that myself even when I'm there only as a fan. This past Saturday night was especially meaningful for me because I took my 13 year old nephew to his first Gilman show. When we were constructing its hallowed walls back in 1986, I don't think any of us in our wildest imaginings would have thought that Gilman would still be there by the time a kid who wouldn't even be born for another ten years was old enough to go there.

The occasion was PUNK ROCK JOEL's annual birthday extravaganza, a two-day affair that has been one of the highlights of the Gilman calendar for quite a few years now. In hindsight, I kind of wish I'd taken my nephew on Friday night rather than Saturday; there were more kids his own age there, and while it was a very good crowd, there was still room to dance around and do all the goofy things kids have been doing at Gilman for a couple generations now.

But for reasons I can't remember now, I wanted him to see Gilman on a very big night, with a very big crowd, and that was what was in evidence Saturday for none other than THE THORNS OF LIFE, playing the kind of openly advertised show that they have yet to play in their home town of New York. Sure enough, people were lined up down the block - WAY down the block - long before the doors opened, but somehow everybody squeezed in. I don't know how crowded it was at the back of the club, but up front the density compared favorably with that of a New York City subway car at rush hour, albeit in the days before air conditioning.

Having previously only seen the band in a living room and with a rudimentary sound system, it was a revelation to hear the music and the vocals clearly. Also, since TTOL had been playing somewhere nearly every night that week, they'd approached a level of tightness that was, well, almost frightening in a band so young. Given the excitement level and expectations of the crowd, it would have been difficult for the band to be anything but great. And surprise, surprise; that's exactly what they were: great.

Gilman emptied out considerably after TTOL, which was a shame, because it left HUNX AND HIS PUNX playing to a half-empty house, not that that bothered the dance-crazed Hunx loyalists who quickly turned the old punk rock club into a cracked-out (referring to the magazine and the mental condition, NOT the drug) disco. Earlier in the evening we saw some inspired hardcore from a youngish band called COMADRE, who insisted on playing on the floor in front of the stage instead of on the stage, not that there's anything wrong with THAT (says the guy whose own band used to pull similar stunts), and for only their second time at Gilman, the rollicking Midwestern sea shanties of OFF WITH THEIR HEADS.

I'm liking this band more and more, and even though friends who know them better keep telling me that OWTH are all about gloom and despair and doom, something I'd understand if I'd only read their lyrics, I can't help thinking what a rollickingly happy band they seem like. And I still don't know the lyrics, but they're one of those bands you can always sing along to even if you don't know a single one of their words. Confession: even though I'd put out their records, I was doing this for YEARS with GREEN DAY. I was actually kind of surprised when I finally did get around to reading their lyrics. There was all sorts of stuff going on there that I had no idea about!

There was one other band called the RE-VOLTS. Quite a few people enjoyed them. I was not one of them. Which was all right, because it gave me time to run around the club and be mind-boggled by some of the people who'd crawled out from whatever they'd been hiding under to put in appearances at the club. There were people who I only see at Gilman every couple years, like the fabulous JANELLE and the equally fabulous KAMALA, people I haven't seen there in five or ten years, like PEPITO PEA, and people that I quite literally haven't seen in 20 years, like WALTER GLASER (co-creator, along with yours truly, of the legendary SPIKE ANARKIE) and SOUTH BAY WAYNE, who I think originally showed up with the STIKKY crew circa 1987.

This no doubt had something to do with The Thorns Of Life, all three of whom have Gilman pedigrees dating back to near or (in Aaron's case, anyway) before the beginning. But I think it was also just one of those nights when the stars aligned and people just somehow knew it was time for what in essence was a family reunion. I don't know if my nephew got the full impact of it - for all I know, it might have seemed like a lot of old people slapping each other on the back and talking about incomprehensible things - but wow, what a feeling it was for me to be able to say, "Here's this thing that my friends and I helped build, and now it's yours, too."

Don't want to give short shrift to the Friday night show, which, as I said, was in some ways even more fun. Perennial favorites PANSY DIVISION and KEPI put in their more or less annual (in PD's case) or semi-annual (Kepi) appearances and the crowd went wild. Kepi, who's been sans Ghoulies for a couple years now, has put together a new band with himself on (standup) drums as well as lead vocals. The guy is a pro, there's no denying that. He just loves the music, just loves working the crowd, and they love him right back. He'll still be doing this when he's 80, and be better than ever at, if I don't miss my bet.

And Pansy Division just might be sharing a bill with him, because they're getting pretty timeless themselves. 15 years and God only knows how many records later, and they're not only still getting better, they've also managed, despite the four members living in four totally different corners of the country, to put together a new album that will be coming out in a couple months, with tour to follow. AND a DVD documentary, AND a book, also with tour to follow, by lead singer JON GINOLI, documenting his life in Pansy Division.

San Francisco's legendary AVENGERS, who share two members with Pansy Division, finished off the night with a smaller but no less enthusiastic crowd, made up in no small part by a bunch of hyper-enthusiastic 10 to 14 year olds who were tearing around the pit as though this were the Mabuhay circa 1978. That's the part I think my nephew would have liked best. Friday night also featured THE SECRETIONS, who I enjoyed, and THE BOATS, who apparently were great but who finished playing about two minutes before I arrived. I think they're both from Sacramento, and I know I'll be quickly corrected if I'm wrong.

Ah well, Gilman. What more can I say. Except that as great as the weekend was, I'm sorry I missed the social event of the winter thus far, CHADD DERKINS' birthday party on the 29th floor of New Jersey. Everyone was still buzzing about it when I got back. I really need to figure out a way I can be more places at once.

The Fest So Far

New York seems so far away at the moment, especially because my trip down here was not the straightforward affair it might have been. Knowing I was going to miss my old friends Pansy Division and the Avengers, who will be playing at New York's Knitting Factory on Saturday night, I made a side trip to Baltimore to catch them on Wednesday.

Baltimore looked better than I remembered it, perhaps helped by the fact that Matt from Dead Mechanical and the Sick, Sick Birds took me in hand and guided me to not one but two fine dining establishments, the first where we had an excellent Afghani meal. My review, apart from the very good food: "This place has tablecloths. I usually can't afford to eat at New York restaurants that have tablecloths."

We then had a second dinner with members of the bands (actually, just dessert for us) at the charmingly bizarre Zodiac Cafe and Bar, very close to the Lo-Fi Social Club, where the gig actually took place. It was a long and leisurely meal, full of scandalous sex and tour stories (I had none of my own to offer, but it was fun to listen) before we had to dash through the now-pouring rain for the show itself.

Which was good, but I'm in a hurry to finish this Fest post so I can get back to the Fest, so let's just cut to the following morning, when I caught a train to Washington DC's very impressive Union Station (never been there before; it puts New York's Penn Station to shame), where I had a few minutes to step outside and marvel at a few fancy buildings before hopping on the similarly impressive Washington Metro, which is just like San Francisco's BART (same builders, I believe) except that it's cheap and it works. Anybody connected with BART should be ashamed (if those vampires of public transit were capable of such an emotion) to see how much better Washington has done with its system. It took me to National Airport in 23 minutes for (I think) $1.45 (compared with 65 minutes, three separate trains, and almost $6 to get to SFO), and I got a plane to Tampa.

Tampa was the home of the much ballyhooed pre-Fest show, which turned out to be about a thousand drunken beardos, some of whom were actually quite nice, and about a hundred regular people milling around inside and outside a skate park on the edge of, if not right in the middle of one of Tampa's, shall we say, less affluent neighborhoods. All the bands sounded like Crimpshrine with beards, which could be either a good thing or a bad thing, depending, but I couldn't stick around too late (apparently the show went on till 4 am), so I left around 11 and drove to Gainesville, rested up, and on Friday afternoon met up with PPMB luminaries Chris Grivet, Chadd Derkins, Carla Monoxide and Chelsea Short Attention for an alligator hunt which proved fruitless, though we did turn up a whole slew of giant snapping turtles.

After that I explored a bit of Gainesville before the shows actually started, featuring yet more bearded Crimpshrines, but also the poppier sound of the Methadones and the now almost legendary SoCal veterans Toys That Kill. We stopped in for about 45 seconds of Naked Raygun before Grivet proclaimed, "Okay, it's history and I've seen it, let's go." I will say that the NR singer looked as though he hadn't aged a bit since I last saw them sometime in the 80s. That was impressive. The music, not so much.

Apart from that, most of the time was spent hanging out on the sidewalks of University Avenue, watching the freak and beard parade stroll and stumble by. Oh, and at the very first show of the night I found myself standing behind my onetime business partner and co-founder of Lookout Records, David Hayes, whom I hadn't seen or spoken to (apart from a couple email/internet exchanges) in at least 10 years, probably more. He was sporting - what else? - a beard, and seemed rather startled to see me at the Fest, as well he might be, since up until a year or so ago, I would have been startled to see myself here as well. Unfortunately he left before anyone turned up with a camera, but maybe today or tomorrow.

Okay, I'm off to see the Max Levine Ensemble, Delay, Vagina Sore, Jr., the Ringers, possibly Avail and American Steel, and about 10,000 other bands. Next time you hear from me it will probably be my birthday, which starts at midnight tonight and, thanks to the end of Daylight Savings Time, carries on for 25 rather than the usual 24 hours. Wish me well or not as the case may be; the fact remains that I'm at the Fest and you're not! Well, except for you sad Festgoers reading this on your Blackberries, of course...

Carlapalooza

Long one of the mainstays of New York City's burgeoning pop punk scene, Chadd Derkins is also one of its most loved denizens. His slightly more than passing resemblance to Seinfeld's George Costanza may have something to do with it, but his childlike enthusiasm for all things fun and/or funny is no doubt a bigger factor. But first and foremost on the list of Chadd Derkins' most endearing qualities has to be a heart as big as all outdoors, no, bigger than that, as big as all of New York City!

A couple of years ago the lovely Ms. Carla Monoxide, Chadd's longtime companion and sweetheart, was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Serious illness can often put a strain on even the strongest of relationships, but while Carla was busy working on getting her health back (she's doing great now, thanks for asking), Chadd was getting busy as well: organizing Carlapalooza, a day-long concert in her honor, with all proceeds benefiting the National MS Society.

The first Carlapalooza took place on Carla's birthday, September 29, 2006; this year it's been pushed back a week so it wouldn't conflict with another local benefit show, and expanded to two days and two states. Today was the first show, and I made the supreme sacrifice of traveling not just out of New York City, but into the wilds of New Jersey for it. Thanks to the generosity of Matt Lame, who's up from Maryland for the weekend, I got a ride right from my doorstep to the front of the American Legion hall in sleepy little Secaucus, and as we pulled up, I kept saying, "You must have the wrong address, this can't be it."

The reason for my doubts was that I'd pictured some kind of cement block warehouse-type structure on some godforsaken industrial backstreets; this American Legion hall looked more like somebody's cute little red brick house, and was set in a nice all-American neighborhood, half-urban/half-suburban, with kids playing and houses decorated for Halloween. "There's no way the neighbors are going to put up with an eight-hour punk rock concert," I said, but as often happens these days, I was dead wrong. There was nary a complaint, the show went off smoothly, starting late but ending right on time, raised - by preliminary count, $1,230, and as we left the geezers (and I say this in the affectionate British sense) from the American Legion smiled, waved and called out, "Thanks for coming, come back any time!"

When I think of all the VFW and American Legion halls I saw wrecked by punk rockers back in the old days, I have to marvel at what punk rock - at least the pop-punk variety thereof - has morphed into today. At one point I was outside having what might be called a spirited discussion with a very nice girl called Melissa who was visiting New York City for the first time and who I'd just found out was not only a card-carrying member, but an active employee of the ACLU.

Okay, so I shouldn't have called her a commie, and I know perfectly well that she's not a commie (she admitted to socialist tendencies, but those are hardly uncommon hereabouts), but it did liven things up a bit. But in mid-argument, er, discussion, it came to light that she had a master's degree in - what else? - social work, which at least in principle meant that she was smarter than me and that I should shut up and listen rather than try to pick fights. But while I was momentarily being taken aback, I glanced around and noticed that I was almost completely surrounded by people with postgraduate degrees. A couple of doctors - chemical engineering and materials engineering, respectively - and several more masters, including - count 'em - three schoolteachers. My puny little bachelor's degree suddenly was looking even tinier, and I more or less had to fall back on the really shabby defense of, "Well, at least my university was better than yours..."

No, I didn't really sink to that level - I was tempted - but I was feeling a little intimidated. Not enough to make me shut up about my opinions, but almost. Anyway, what I'm trying to get at was how it flew in the face of all the assiduously cultivated stereotypes about dumb and nihilistic punk rockers. And to point out that if you want to hang out with some of these high-toned and high-minded people (yes, I'll be there, too, but I'm easily enough avoided), there's still another day of Carlapalooza to come. And this day, Sunday the 7th, offers not only the advantage of what might be arguably a stronger lineup than Saturday's show, but it's also accessible by subway, always a plus in the minds of New Yorkers.

Sunday's (today's) festivities get underway just past noon at the lovely Cake Shop on Manhattan's Lower East Side. It's only a tenner, you can meet some of the smartest and nicest people in New York City, hear some of the best and liveliest music being made today, help the fight against multiple sclerosis, AND still be home tucked up in front of the TV not too much after the street lights come on.

Bottomfest 2007 - God, I Love These Guys

What is a Bottomfest? And whatever it is, doesn't it sound vaguely unappealing? If not slightly salacious?

That's what I thought when I first heard of it, but as it turns out the "Bottom" in the fest came only from Dr. Drew Peabottom, Ph.D., who despite his passing resemblance to Harry Potter and his childlike obsession with obscure Queers vinyl, is not only a genuine scientist (who studies, you know, science), but also is turning 30 years old this month.

Which prompted his devoted consort Ms. Sarah Peabottom to organize a two-day fest in his honor in a remote corner of northeastern Pennsylvania where about a dozen pop-punk bands could wail away to their hearts' content and the usual fest-related tomfoolery could ensue, all without any risk of alienating the neighbors or incurring the wrath of the authorities.

The first night's event actually took place in not-so-nearby Wilkes-Barre, and I managed to miss most of it, but things kicked off again before noon on Saturday with solo performances by Rapid Randy (of the Backseat Virgins) and Pat Termite (Beatnik Termites) before the full-fledged bands took over. It's always seemed a bit weird to me to see bands whose natural environment seems to be dimly lit night clubs and bars playing on green grass in broad daylight, but by the time New Hampshire's Guts, Maine's Leftovers, and New York's Steinways finished tearing things up, things like stage lights and walls and ceilings seemed thoroughly superfluous.

Some of the sets were sloppy and good-natured fun - especially the Guts' runthrough of a dozen or so punk classics in addition to their own songs. These guys are just so, so good, even missing vocals from Geoff, who had mysteriously mislaid his voice somewhere that weekend and could only croak along in the background. Others were more straight-ahead, like the Steinways, who debuted some of their best new songs yet. Who else? Project 27, Be My Doppelganger, Nancy, Dead Mechanical among others: a veritable treasure trove of pop punk circa 2007. Oh, and a "surprise" (Dr. Peabottom was one of the only people there who appeared to be genuinely surprised) appearance by the mysterious Jerkingtons, who first rocketed to prominence in 2005 with their merciless lyrical scourings of some of the PPMB's leading personalities (I hope I'm not being too vain in using that description, since I myself have been the subject of one of the Jerkingtons' verbal brickbats: "Larry Livermore Is 80 Years Old").

Unsurprisingly, given the participants, the locale and the nature of the occasion, there was a fair bit of drunkenness, though none so flamboyant and flagrant as that exhibited by Matt Lame, who seems to specialize in this sort of thing at fests of all sorts. Sporting a fishing hat of the style featured by Wilson on Home Improvement and wielding, among other implements of destruction, a purple air mattress, Matt wreaked several strands of havoc on festgoers for pretty much the entire 24 hours he was on the premises. Apparently he passed out at one point inside the tent that had been set up for him by less inebriated companions, but for reasons as yet unexplained, the tent proceeded to collapse and envelop him, as Chadd Derkins put it, "like a cocoon."

"It was awesome watching him struggle to find his way out of the collapsed tent this morning," observed Doctoracula, another attendee, "It was like he was being born." If, of course, being born entails being greeted with a cream pie to the face, which was Pete Repellent's payback for Matt's antics of the previous day.

Pete, who journeyed all the way from Chicago with his devoted partner Simple 81 (he actually refers to and addresses her as "Simple," and she occasionally even answers, though not infrequently with vulgarities or obscenities) also helped orchestrate one of the fest's other highlight when he dressed up in a yellow Peep costume (you didn't know there was such a thing? Neither did I) to confront Chadd Derkins over the latter's thoughtless boast that he could "probably" match the world record for Peep-eating (103 in half an hour). Chadd got through 30 before staggering out behind the garage to vomit; his orange (these were special Halloween pumpkin Peeps) puke pile proved to be a popular tourist spectacle for the rest of the weekend.

Someone, apparently relations to Ms. Peabottom, thought it would be a good idea to order 15 pizzas, which arrived sometime around 9pm, a few hours after dinner and just before a massive birthday cake was served. Then came the campfire singalong and marshmallow roast, though I suspect more marshmallows were thrown than roasted, especially once the aforementioned Mr. Lame arrived on the scene.

The singalong turned out to be one of my favorite parts of the day, not so much for its quality - it was a rare song where anyone could remember all of the words - but for its enthusiasm and the realization that the last couple decades of pop-punk songs had turned into - at least among this group - genuine classics. The group went through pretty much the entire Queers catalog, and large segments of Screeching Weasel, the Riverdales, Weston, MTX, and, of course, the Ramones. At one point there were competing singalongs, with the larger group carrying on with "Punk Rock Girls" while Oliver Poopsounds and I unaccountably tried to drown them out with our own version of "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out." Oliver was rather drunk; I had no such excuse.

Chadd and Oliver also serenaded me with their own ribald renderings of several Potatomen classics, apparently in an attempt to persuade me to pick up the guitar and do a few tunes myself, but I wouldn't fall for it. I'd seen Matt Lame dodging enough marshmallows to not want to take his place as the principal object of the crowd's ire. Afterwards, of course, I regretted my reticence; it's not often in 2007 that I'm likely to encounter people - drunk or not - bellowing for Potatomen songs. Maybe next fest.

It wasn't all goofing around - well, yes, actually that's pretty much exactly what it was - but the whole weekend just left me positively glowing. It wasn't a massive fest on the scale of Baltimore; probably no more than 50 or 75 people were there at any given time. And although some of the best bands of our time were in attendance, it wasn't primarily a musical event. The crucial element was just a lot of good friends getting together and having the time of their lives, and while I'm sure your friends and their friends and everybody's friends are just as nice and just as fun, these are my friends, and they're the best, and right now I feel so lucky and privileged and blessed to know them all.

Hounds On The Hudson

My writer's block, aka procrastination, aka bone idle laziness continues. I can barely drag myself to the keyboard these days... Well, actually, that's not true; I'm plopped down in front of the computer as much as ever, but all I manage to do is vacantly flip from one website to another, occasionally mustering up enough energy to compile lists of all the things I need to write about and then filing them away until they are hopelessly obsolete.

I'm not sure what's brought on this flagrant mopery, but there you have it. I'm not even sure why I'm bothering to tell you about it, since there hasn't exactly been an upwelling of anguish from the internet when I've absented myself from blogging for a few days or more. Which I guess proves that I'm doing this more for myself than for an audience, though sometimes it's hard to tell which is which.

Certainly I'm no 327 Dave, who's just completed the self-posed challenge of writing blog entries on 327 consecutive days, each consisting of exactly 327 words (bear in mind that he's a professional philosopher, and if you ever wondered just what it is that sets philosophers apart from the less lettered masses of humankind, now you know). For one thing, I rather doubt I could muster the discipline to limit myself to 327 words (though if I used the same formula as Dave, i.e., based on his birthday, I'd have to crank out 1,028 words), and more to the point, my life is not sufficiently structured or consistent to do much of anything on a daily basis.

A sad commentary, some might say, and I'm often tempted to agree with them. Dave, of course, is gainfully employed and a family man to boot, both of which require a structure and consistency which have largely eluded me even during those occasional (and rare) years when I did have an actual job. Bear in mind that the only time I ever worked at one place for more than a year was when I was the boss, and even then I ended up firing myself. Several friends, knowing that I'm at least semi-looking for a job these days, have helpfully suggested that I put together a résumé (I've never had one, seriously, except when they made us write pretend ones in high school), but while I'd like to think of myself as a creative fellow, I doubt I'm creative enough to make a record like that look good.

So, no job and no responsibilities apart from coming up with an occasional blog entry, and now even that is becoming too burdensome? If this were the Old West and I were a horse, they would have taken me out and shot me long ago. But this being New York City in the no longer quite so early years of the 21st century, I got some pizza and went to a punk rock show.

Rotterdam's Apers were ostensibly the headliners, but technical difficulties prevented the boys from being at the top of their game. Even Kevin, their diminutive motormouth pothead frontman, seemed unusually subdued; normally he spends at least as much time talking (and hilariously so) as the band does playing. The Apers were still frighteningly tight and powerful - if they were an American band, they would have sold hundreds of thousands of records by now, but tonight the show was stolen by the Steinways, a last-minute replacement for New Hampshire's Guts.

It was a triumphant return to form for the Queens pop-punkers, whose last couple shows have been a bit desultory and lackluster. Elfin-eared Michelle Shirelle may be no virtuoso on the bass guitar (singer-guitarist Grath McGrath frequently had to coach her on how a particular song went, e.g., "This one's in the key of 6"), but she gets the job done, and deserves to be front and center if for no other reason than her delightful line of gibberish. And Grath, as I've said before and will no doubt say again, is a genius.

The Steinways, also consisted of Handsome Ace and internet celebrity Chris Grivet, are rumored to be backing Ben Weasel for at least part of Baltimore's Insubordination Fest later this week. Longtime readers of this blog will know that last year's fest was the most amazing cultural event thus far in the 21st century, and this year's threatens to massively surpass it. Normally you have to drag me kicking and screaming to get me out of New York City, but I'm eagerly packing my bags for Baltimore already.

After the show (New York's other faves, the Unlovables, and Florida's Hi-Life also played), I jumped into the Apers' van, piloted by roadie Sebby Zatopek, for the journey from the Knitting Factory up to the East Village. Thanks to Friday night traffic, it would have been faster to walk, but that would have meant missing out on the rapid-fire commentary of four Dutchmen on the current state of Nieuw Amsterdam. You thought Americans had an attitude and didn't hesitate to express it? They're shrinking violets by comparison.

Our destination was Manitoba's Bar on Avenue B. I've walked people there, I've hung out on the sidewalk in front, but I'd never been in the joint before, assuming it would be little more than elephant's graveyard for old punk rockers (and no, I don't think that necessarily means I'd feel right at home there, Mr. Smartypants). But as it turns out, it's a fairly pleasant place as bars go, crowded but still negotiable, and with a decent blend of ages and cultural affiliations.

About 10 or 15 of us were there, mostly habitués of the Pop Punk Message Bored, and while some busily occupied themselves with getting shit-faced, I had the privilege of hearing a baleful tale recounted by Chadd Derkins, who's an even bigger internet celebrity than Chris Grivet, if such a thing is possible. Chadd, it seems, regularly has to go out to New Jersey to house-sit his parents' apartment. I'd always thought that a bit strange, not understanding how much sitting a high-rise could possibly need.

As it turns out, the real job involves looking after his parents' dog, which has to be taken every morning to a doggie day care center called "Hounds On The Hudson." Affable guy that he is, Chadd takes this in this stride, but he admitted to being a little put out by the doggie report card that little Foo Foo or Fifi or whatever it's called, brings home each night.

"It's not so much the idea of the report card that gets to me," he said, "but for some reason I'm supposed to believe that it was actually written by the dog. I'll get this card that says, 'Today I had a very good day. I ran around a lot and played with Sasha and Fred (I'm assuming these are dogs, not people) and had a delicious bowl of kibbles.'"

Does it always say positive things, or does he get a bad report sometimes, I wanted to know? "Well, they put it diplomatically, yes, but sometimes it will say, 'I was really very lively today,' which I'm assuming means 'I was a holy terror.'"

Always intrigued by these slice-of-life tales from mysterious New Jersey, I asked Chadd if he thought his parents' rather intense relationship with their dog mirrored or was an attempt to replicate the relationship with Chadd himself. He was, after all, the last child to leave home, and not all that many years ago, either.

"Well, let me just tell you this," he said. "In the living room my parents have a frame with spaces for four photos. My parents have four kids. In the frame are pictures of my three sisters and..."

"Their dog?" I asked. It seemed the most obvious answer but apparently nothing is obvious in the Derkins family.

"No! It's a picture of Dr. House!"

"The guy from the TV show?"

"That's the one."

"Don't they have a picture of you?"

"They must have thousands of pictures of me. But in the frame is Dr. House. It's cut out from some magazine."

At this point I was left speechless, as I often am when attempting to plumb the depths of the ever-amazing Chadd Derkins and the world from which he emanated. Chadd and his band Short Attention will be in Baltimore this week too, so I suspect you haven't heard the last of him just yet.

A Man And His Pants

Yesterday's 4th Annual Pop Punk Softball was every bit as awesome as expected, actually maybe even a bit more so, thanks to the weather, which was just about right, i.e., not a lot of sun, but neither too hot or too cold, just perfect for lounging about (can't speak for those who were actually playing), and to Central Park, which was just coming in to its full springtime glory (in fact, those of you who are in or around New York might want to get up there soon, like today even, to appreciate the full effect of everything gently exploding into leaf and bloom).

I got there not just late, as was expected, but even later, which was disheartening, as I must have missed out on some of the afternoon's most dramatic happenings, at least those that took place on the playing field. By the time I arrived I think people were tiring and no longer capable of exhibiting their full athletic prowess (or not). But the quality of the hitting and fielding was mostly pretty impressive, confirming my belief that my place on the sidelines was in fact the right place for me.

And it was in fact on the sidelines that the most memorable - at least for me - event of Softball 2007 unfolded: an hour-plus discussion of Chadd Derkins' somewhat unusual Philosophy of Pants. Before I proceed, I should note that living in Britain as long as I did has left me somewhat skittish about using the word "pants." There, of course, it's mainly used to describe underpants, and it's also viewed, at least among children, as a slightly "naughty" word, the sort of thing that can make kids or slightly older but still immature teenagers giggle when it slips into polite conversation.

There was little polite about the Chadd Derkins confab, however, as a growing circle of participants and onlookers harassed, questioned and heckled the man about his policy of owning only one pair of pants (which, incidentally, he "borrowed" from his dad when his last pair split during a visit to his beleaguered parents). Chadd wears this somewhat knackered pair of brown trousers, apparently made from fibers not commonly found in nature, for work every day, for relaxing on the weekend, for playing softball (as a grass stain and rip along the side testified), for the rare "dress-up" occasions he attends, and though we neglected to inquire, possibly for sleeping in as well.

Naturally, there were questions. "What do you wear if you've got an important business meeting?" Lucas the Lawyer wanted to know. "Business meeting?" Chadd sputtered, "I've never had a 'business meeting' in my life, and if I ever did have one, I'd know it was probably time to change my 'career.'" What about weddings? "If someone doesn't want me at their wedding because of my pants, then that's all the better for me, because I hate weddings!" What about your own wedding, should that ever come about? "Hopefully Carla (Chadd's lovely consort) will want to marry me just the way I am."

Further discussion revealed that Chadd not only owns only the single pair of pants, but has never in his life bought a pair of the infernal things. They've always been gifts or hand-me-downs, and he was shocked, yes shocked, that people would voluntarily squander their earnings at Old Navy (for which Chadd seems to have a particular distaste, or perhaps it's the only pants store he's heard of; for whatever reason, he kept fulminating against it). When Colleen pointed out that if he shopped around (in the "Pants District," P Smith helpfully suggested, home of shops like Pants'R'Us, House Of Pants, and Pants Pour Vous), he could find a good quality pair for as little as $25, Chadd grew even more outraged.

"You mean none of you think it's crazy to spend that kind of money on a pair of pants? No wonder I can't communicate with you. You're all living in some kind of ivory tower! No thanks, you can go down to the yacht club and discuss your portfolios without me." When it was revealed that Lucas the Lawyer's Diesel jeans had cost $180, Chadd was reduced to sputtering apoplexy.

It was no use pointing out Chadd spends enough on video games to outfit a small African nation in pants for life. "Video games are useful!" he insisted. "What are you going to do with a closet full of pants? Stand in front of it each morning and meditate? 'Hmm, what is my mood today and which of my 97 pairs of pants will best harmonize with it?'" Anyway, what is the problem you guys have with my pants? I'm clean, I change my underwear everyday. Do I stink? Do I? Here, smell me and tell me if I stink!" There were no takers, but I'm here to testify that a distance of several feet Chadd had no detectable odor.

It should be noted at this point that Chadd has a slight physical resemblance and a far more uncanny likeness in terms of speech and manners to Seinfeld's George Costanza, especially when it comes to the ability to make preposterous claims with blithe, almost blissful self-assurance. As we learned yesterday, however, when Chadd is pressed too far, his inner Newman comes out, and at times like that, you're not too sure you want to be around.

For the curious, it was also determined that in addition to his single pair of pants, Chadd owns between 200 and 800 band t-shirts (the number kept escalating along with his agitation) and that comprises the sum total of his wardrobe. Chadd Derkins, ladies and gentlemen, one of a kind, and we love him.