August 19, 2011

I had to work late tonight, so I’m just going to go home and unwind while writing a short story. I recently watched a documentary on the comedian, Sam Kinison. Sam was from my hometown of Peoria, Illinois and would come back at least once a year to do his stand up in the Civic Center and go nuts all over town. I met him once and I wrote about it a long time ago, I think back on MySpace where I first started blogging. But most of you never read it, so I’m going to write it one more time. With feeling! Play it again, Sam!

Taking Sam’s Advice

The year was either 1987 or 1988 I can’t remember, it was so many beers ago. Anyway, it was the late ‘80’s and I had just published a book I had written called “I Was Elvis Presley’s Sheep,” a silly book supposedly told from the point of view of Elvis' pet sheep, Hoppy. I was still living in Peoria, Illinois and I was pimping the book anywhere I could. I scored a feature article in the Peoria Journal Star, got on two of the local news stations and did all of the morning and afternoon radio shows. There was a local talk show on a radio station WMBD (hello Greg and Dan!) and the host was a curly-haired guy in his late 30’s named Robert Roth. I went on his show to talk about the book (and more specifically to tell people where they could buy it) and after the show Robert asked if I was going to the Sam Kinison show at the Civic Center that Friday. I informed him that yes, I had tickets and was going with my girlfriend Lynda. Robert told me he was going to do his show Friday from backstage at the Civic Center and that Sam was going to be the only guest. And better still, he said he was looking for people to come and act as an audience for the show so they’d have live laughter in the background. And then he asked if I wanted to be part of the audience. Well I didn’t waste any time in saying, “Fuck yeah,” and asked if I could bring along Lynda and he told me by all means. It was kind of fitting, because Lynda was the original producer of Robert’s show and that’s where we had met over a year ago. Since then she had moved on and was working for the Arthritis Foundation in Peoria. I was toiling at a night job at a printing company called, Fleming Potter.

I was a huge Sam Kinison fan (I’ve lost weight since then) and I was psyched. You always knew when Sam was in town because he lived it up when he blew back to P-town. There were always stories of him showing up at bars and buying everyone drinks,  doing coke with strippers after hours at Big Al’s, Peoria’s strip club on Main St. and he would always appear on the local radio shows and newscasts. You could tell he loved being a hometown boy that made good. And I was going to be able to meet him! So I went over to Lynda’s apartment and told her the news and she was excited too.

“I’m going to take my book and give him a copy,” I told Lynda who got a funny and kind of frightened look on her face.

“What’s with you?” I asked.

“Well, don’t take this wrong,” she explained, “but what if he makes fun of you or the book?”

“Who cares,” I brazenly shot back. But I was wondering the same thing in the back of my mind and was hoping this wouldn’t happen.

Anyway, show day came and we went to the backstage area of the Civic Center and they had a mobile radio unit all set up, with a desk and microphones and there he was, Sam Kinison, seated next to Robert Roth. They were just about to go on the air and there were about fifteen people in the “audience” sitting on grey metal folding chairs. Lynda and I sat down and I had two copies of the book, one to get signed and one to give to Sam. They did the first segment with Sam cracking everyone up with Hollywood stories and pre-fame Peoria tales from when he was a preacher. After about ten minutes they went into a break and it was fairly quiet in the studio.

Robert was talking to an engineer. The moment had come.

“Hey Sam, can I ask you a question,” I hollered out from my chair. Lynda was holding my hand and squeezed it tightly after I asked.

Sam stood up, kind of sneered at me and then in that Sam Kinison patented ear-splitting scream yelled out, “NO! CAUSE I’M A PRIIIIIIICK!”

My mouth fell open and Lynda’s fingers were digging into my hand. I was probably red as a beet and was speechless for one of the few times in my life.

Sam looked surprised and then started laughing and said, “Hey, man, I was just kidding, what do you need to know?” He looked like he felt kind of bad that he scared the shit out of me.

Lynda lightened up on her death grip on my hand and I said, “I wrote a book and I’d like to give you a copy.”

“You wrote a book? Yeah come on up here, let me see it.” He told me.

Well I promptly marched up there with Lynda and introduced ourselves. He looked at the book and was really nice and told me it looked really cool. I gave him a copy and he told me he would definitely read it. Robert butted in and said they were back on the air in a minute and I had to go back to my seat. I asked Sam if he would autograph my copy after the show and he said he’d love to.

So we sat down and I was thrilled and so was Lynda. Then it got hilarious.

They came back from the break and Robert asked Sam if he had any future TV or movie projects he was working on. Sam picked up my book and said, “I’m glad you asked that, Robert, I’m working on a movie adaptation of the book, “I Was Elvis Presley’s Sheep” by the world famous author, Marty Wombacher.” And then he waved to me and I was laughing and waved back. Robert laughed, and said, “Oh jeez, don’t get that guy going, he’ll never shut up.”

After they were done with the show, I went back up to him and he signed a copy and he asked if I wrote full time. I told him I worked a night job at Fleming Potter and he said to me, “Hang in there man and keep at your writing, you won’t be there forever. You’ll get out of this town just like I did. I can feel it in my bones.” That meant a lot to me that he said that.

I thanked him and we shook hands and Lynda and I started walking away and Sam hollered out in his scream persona, “Hey Lynda, why don’t you ditch that loser and come and have a drink on the tour bus with me?”  We both laughed and he shouted out, “Just kidding, have fun at the show.”
Postscript: Sam Kinison died on April 10th, 1992 when a pickup truck smashed into his car. Lynda and I broke up about a half a year after the night we met Sam. She married some guy who worked for the Arthritis Foundation with her. The last I heard they were living in California and had two kids. I took Sam’s advice and kept writing and lo and behold I did get out of Peoria and moved to New York on July 7th, 1993. I’m still working nights, but I thank Sam Kinison for his inspiration to take a chance and move the fuck on with my life. Cheers to Sam Kinison!

Further reading: Sam Kinison Website, Find A Death, WikiQuote and ew.com.

You Might Also Like: EV Grieve, EV Gif and EV Parts.

Four other Sams
Samuel Adams
Sam the Butcher
Sammy Maudlin
Sam I Am

The universe is permeated with the odor of kerosene.

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Bonus Photo From Gui Stecher!

MAD reader (and once in a while commenter) Gui Stecher sent in this frightening photo all the way from Brazil. It seems Cardboard Box Man has made his way there and is morphing into vegetables there. Aaaahhhh!

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Vote For Jeremiah's Vanishing New York For Best NYC Blog!

Jeremiah's Vanishing New York is up for CBS's best NYC blog and I think he deserves the title. Please go and vote for him here.

August 14, 2011

Live from New York, it’s Cheeseburger Saturday Night. Tonight’s host is The Hollywood Diner (originally headed for Arthur’s Tavern in Hoboken) and featuring the Ready For Prime Beef Player, Marty Wombacher. Ladies and gentlemen please welcome the Hollywood Diner!

Alright, since I haven't gone out in a couple of nights, I thought we'd venture out of the city and go to Hoboken in New Jersey. I found a place there called Arthur's Tavern that's supposed to have great cheeseburgers.

And it's down into the bowels of the subway we go.

Oh no, this guy again.

Aaahhhh!

This way to the PATH train to Hoboken.

Grumbler alert!

Jesus fucking Christ, it's hotter than hell down here and it's empty, which means a train must've just left. Looks like we might have a bit of a wait.

Two people texting away.

Here's where we're headed when the train finally shows up.

It's been twenty minutes and still no train. I'm having a Clash moment here.

And these two continue their texting.

It's starting to get crowded down here and still no train.

Sweet mother of fuck, it's been almost 45 minutes and there's no train in sight. Everybody down here is getting antsy.

It's really crowded down here. When the train does finally come, it'll be packed with all these people. I'm starting to feel a little claustrophobic down here.

You know what?

It's time to improvise, maybe we'll try Arthur's next week.

When in doubt, stay close to home and hit the good old Hollywood Diner.

There's always a seat at the counter...

And friendly people to take your order. One cheeseburger please!

First up, a much needed beer.

They love Lucy in here...

See what I mean?

Cake!

And here's the cheeseburger! I got the English burger which has cheddar cheese and is served on an English Muffin. Note the star of mustard they put on the burger.

I also got onion rings, they look great.

A delicious burger, right in my own neighborhood.

On my way out I thanked the cook in the kitchen for excellent work. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.

Cheeseburger Rating
Three Wimpy’s. A fine burger indeed!

Hollywood Diner
574 Sixth Ave. (@16th St.)
212-295-3850

Further reading: New York Magazine, flickr and Meghan Hickey Photography.

You Might Also Like: Waxing, Taxing and Relaxing.

Four Other Arthur’s
Arthur Magazine
Arthur Treacher
Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips
Arthur

Arthur we like you and want to help you,
Somebody loves you, don’t you know it?

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August 9, 2011

Motherfucker! I just realized I forgot to bring my camera with me. I’ve been leaving it by my bag so this wouldn’t happen again, but I had to go to work early today (I had to be there by the crack of noon!) and must’ve left it behind. That kills the plan I had, because I’m not going all the way home and then traveling somewhere else. But since I stayed home last night I do feel like I should do something, so I thought I’d go home, get my camera and wander around where I live. Just a random night in my neighborhood. Why the fuck not? Next stop, my apartment where I’m hoping my camera is. If somehow I lost it this post is going to be a little bit dull tonight.

****UPDATE: The comments  section is acting up again. Right now it's not allowing me to leave a comment. If anyone else has a problem, please email me. I'm working on getting it fixed now. Thanks!

Okay, this is how stupid I am. I'm back in my apartment and sure enough, my camera and phone were on the futon where I left them and forgot to pack them inside of Gumby. I just said to myself, "This'll be good, I'll take a picture of the camera on the futon." Then I realized that I needed my camera to take that picture, so here's one of the phone and Gumby. And yeah, I talk to myself, you got a problem with that?

Wow, the beer selection in here is a little anemic. I need to fix that before the night is through. Okay, it's out we go.

And so it's down the steps we go, out into my neighborhood.

Here's the Hollywood Diner which I've documented earlier on this blog.

And next to the Hollywood Diner is the Wine Gallery liquor store.

Marilyn Monroe is featured in their front window.

A flavaboom just opened up here. Just what this town needs another frozen yogurt place. Okay...full disclosure, I come here at least once a week. You make your own fro-yo and they have a toppings bar where you can put whatever you want on top. It's a chain place, but it beats the shit out of the fucking Olive Garden up the street.

Here's Maffei's Pizza place. This corner pizza parlor has been on the block forever and has great pizza. I eat here a lot.

They're closing up and the guys inside posed for this photo.

And here's the fucking Olive Garden. Ecch. Hey, I just thought of something. We're a couple blocks away from the Chelsea Hotel. Jeremiah Moss recently wrote a great post on Jeremiah's Vanishing New York about spending the night in the Chelsea Hotel the last night before it closed. It's one of the best things I've ever read on the internet, check it out here: Last Night At The Chelsea. Let's go check out the Chelsea Hotel.

The Chelsea Papaya Dog! Well we have to stop in here. Sorry, Al!

A dog and a papaya drink. I wish they had beer in here, but what are you going to do?

I couldn't resist an ebony and ivory ketchup and mustard shot before I go.

And here it is, the dimmed Chelsea Hotel sign. I tried to get a shot of it using a flash so you could see it, but I couldn't get it, it was too dark. It's like a ghost that refuses to appear.

Here it is brightened up via Photoshop.

The canopy remains for now.

The hotel is temporarily closed. Sorry for the inconvenience and to all the tenants that we threw out, enjoy the street!

Take a picture now, because when it reopens it'll probably have a Chipotle in the lobby.

The El Quijote is a great restaurant next door to the Chelsea Hotel, I need to stop in here one of these nights.

Okay, the last stop of the evening is the Blue Valley Deli. My corner deli. I'm in here almost every night of the week for my two staples of life.

Beer...

And diet Mountain Dew for the morning.

And Tenzen behind the counter rings it all up.

And we've come full circle, back to the apartment. That looks a little better, doesn't it? Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.

Further reading: About.com, New York Magazine and Jeremiah’s Vanishing New York.

You Might Also Like: Green Day, Green Hornet and Green Green Grass of Home.

Five Other Chelseas
Chelsea Handler
Chelsea Morning
Chelsea Clilnton
Chelsea Kane
Chelsea Girls

Capital punishment, she's last year's model,
They call her Natasha when she looks like Elsie,
I don't want to go to Chelsea.

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August 8, 2011

Tonight I thought we’d have a dinner and a movie here at MAD. I didn’t get a cheeseburger last night, so I thought I’d cook one at home and have a nice stay at home Sunday dinner. And I got a movie from a friend of mine at work called, “Captured.” It’s a documentary about photographer Clayton Patterson who has been documenting the Lower East Side  in pictures and video since 1979. It’s a great film with wonderful New York imagery and I’ll post a link to where you can watch the film in its entirity for free. But first...it’s time to eat! Well, I have to cook it all first.

Here's all the ingredients for tonight's Sunday dinner.

Instead of a bun, I thought I'd have an English Muffin to house the burger. Before I cheese them up, i'm going to toast them in the toaster oven. Away you go.

I'm grilling a chopped up onion in the electric skillet.

Okay, the muffin nice and toasty brown, so it's time to add cheese to them. And tonight we're using two cheeses, Velveeta on the right and Provolone on the left. Okay back into the toaster oven you go!

Okay, now I've added some pre-cooked bacon to the onion mix. You can buy cooked bacon at the store now, I never knew! Oh the miracles of modern foodism.

Okay, the onion/bacon topping is done, so I've put that off to the side and thrown the burger into the skillet. I've seasoned it with pepper and mustard powder.

We'll cover it and have an appetizer while everything cooks.

I was inspired to cook at home tonight after reading Britta's latest Justice Girl post at her blog. She had a photo of popcorn dusted with chili powder, so I thought I'd try that myself and here it is!

And of course whenever you have popcorn, you have to have a beer or four. And look, a lone bottle of tea has snuck into my refrigerator. How did that happen?

And now a little intermission time as we enjoy the beer and popcorn.

Okay, back to the dinner. The muffins are properly cheesed off.

And the burger is all done. I've melted a slice of Velveeta on top of it. This is going to be one cheesy burger!

Okay, time to put it all together. The burger's on the muffin and a dollop of mustard is added, much to Kari and Britta's delight!

And it's topped off with the bacon and onion mixture.

And here's the meal with some of the chili powder popcorn as a side dish.

That is a tasty burger! And now for the movie portion, just click here and you can watch the entire movie, "Captured" for free. Enjoy and see you tomorrow after dark.

Further reading: The Fader, The Villager, Brooklyn Rail and food•in•mouth.

You Might Also Like: Eclairs, e e cummings and esquared.

Four Cheesy Chefs
Rachel Ray
Guy Fieri
Emeril Lagasse
Chef Boy-Ar-Dee

I hope that you're happy now like you're supposed to be,
And I know that this will hurt you more than it hurts me.

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Bonus Cardboard Box Man Sightings!

Gene sent in this TV CBBM sighting and writes, "Look who has been spotted in a Sonic commercial UFB!

And Kate, from One More Folded Sunset sent in CBBM mutated as a door at The Commonwealth Bar in Brooklyn. Aaaah!

August 4, 2011

First off, let me explain about the comments section. I had some troll posting comments the day I went to Chinatown and did the whole post in Chinese. He commented that I and a lot of commenters were racists. Okay, here’s the story: The Chinese blog happened because I went to Chinatown to take random pictures and I thought the pictures weren’t that great and that the post would be a bit of a dud. Then I thought about doing the whole thing in Chinese using a Google tranlsator. Everybody thought it was fun till the troll showed up. He claimed I was racist and signed off as “Marty = KKK.” (I know that the KKK are a hate group of idiotic white guys, but I didn’t know they were famous for targeting Asians. Also anyone who knows me knows I am about as far from a racist as one can be.) Then he left a couple more. Each one more stupid than the last. Last night he sent in a comment and it read: “Call me: 212-243-6197” and once again signed off as “Marty = KKK.” The number he posted was my landline phone number. I guess he thought I’d get crank calls. The only problem that this loser didn’t realize is that I shut my landline down over a half a year ago. But it shows he took the trouble and time to find my phone number. I think he’s got way too much time on his hands and he appears to be obsessed with me. So now I have the comments moderator turned on in my blog. But I will be checking it though the day and night and your comment will appear in the order it shows up. I hope you all continue to comment, the comments section here sometimes takes on a life of its own and it adds another dimension to the blog. And once again I thank those of you who comment and all of you who read this blog, I really do appreciate it. Okay, enough of that!

It’s been raining off and on all night and I don’t really feel like going anywhere but home, so that’s the destination tonight. I’m in the mood to write something, so I thought I’d write about the day I met Johnnie Johnson, Chuck Berry’s original piano player. I’ve written about it before, but I like to write stories over and over and most of the people reading this blog have probably never read it. I’ll take some pictures on the way home and write up the tale of my afternoon with Johnnie Johnson at a Blues Festival in Peoria, Illinois.

It was pouring down rain on my way home, so I couldn't take any pictures. Instead, I'm posting two photos that Crazy Eddie took on our night out at Percy's. Thanks Crazy Eddie, they're insaaaaane!

Here's a picture of a can opener that Crazy Eddie has from the '60's. It's an official Madison Square Garden can opener his brother got when he was selling beer there. You could inflict some damage with that thing!

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Johnnie Johnson
In the late 1980s, the documentary/concert film, “Hail! Hail! Rock ‘n’ Roll” came out, first as feature film and later as a VHS tape. It was a film celebrating Chuck Berry’s 60th birthday and his contribution to rock ‘n’ roll. It was directed by Taylor Hackford and included an all star band featuring, Chuck Leavell, Joey Spaminato, Bobby Keys, Steve Jordan, Robert Cray and Keith Richards as the musical director.

There were guest appearances from artists ranging from Eric Clapton. to Etta James, to Julian Lennon. to Linda Rondstadt and many more. It also reunited Chuck Berry with Johnnie Johnson, his original piano player who played on most of the early hits. This is the man that many people feel is responsible not only for the signature “badadadadadada” riff that starts out so many of Chuck Berry’s songs, but also for the music for most of those early songs as well.

In the film, many musicians discuss how all of Chuck’s songs aren’t written in chords that most people play on the guitar, they’re written in piano chords. “Johnnie’s chords” as Keith Richards says within the film.

Johnnie Johnson is even asked in the film about Chuck’s music and he says, “We just supplied him with music that fit his lyrics.”

I remember watching that scene in the film and thinking about all the money he threw down the drain. I mean can you imagine the royalties from a song like “Rock and Roll Music?”  There’s royalties from Chuck Berry’s version, but throw in royalties from The Beatles and The Beach Boys covers and that’s a pretty nice little payday. Now multiply that by dozens of Chuck Berry’s songs who have been covered by countless bands and you’re talking a small fortune. And Johnnie Johnson just kind of threw it away without knowing any better.

When they made that film, Johnnie was driving a bus to supplement his income. Chuck Berry was using part of his fortune to install hidden cameras in the women’s bathrooms of a restaurant he owned to secretly film them as they did their business. The world spins in strange ways sometimes.

In 1990 I was publishing and editing my magazine POP, a quirky local People magazine in my hometown of Peoria, IL. I had been doing it for a year and found out it was easy to get backstage at concerts and events by saying I was the editor. Even if I didn’t get a picture or a story, nine times out of ten there’d be free beer and food and if I was really lucky, Eddie Van Halen would be nowhere near the backstage area.

Every year in the  summer, Peoria hosts a Blues Festival on the river front and this year was no exception. I saw an ad in the paper and surveyed those who were on the bill and one named jumped out at me: Johnnie Johnson. I decided I’d go and see if I could interview him.

It was held on a sunny, warm Saturday and using my POP editor’s status I was allowed into the “backstage area.” It wasn’t really a backstage, because it was outside, more of a roped off makeshift picnic area in a back parking lot, complete with wooden picnic tables and benches. They had grills going and kegs of beer for the musicians and the lucky ones who got to enter the roped in V.I.P. area. I went and got a beer and looked around and there seated at a faded yellow wooden picnic table eating fried chicken off a red paper plate was Johnnie Johnson.

He had a round, brown moon face with sleepy, half opened eyes. He was wearing a short sleeve black sports shirt that looked like it would rip apart at the seams any minute from the sheer force of his mammoth gut. His pants were also black and his head was adorned a black and white yachting cap with a gold seal on the brim.

 I sauntered over and said, “Excuse me, you’re Johnnie Johnson, right?”

He didn’t look up from the chicken breast he was eating and just grunted. And not really in my direction. In fact to this day, I don’t know if he was trying to communicate with me or if he was just burping.

“My name’s Marty Wombacher and I’m the editor of a local magazine called POP magazine,” I continued in energetic tones. This didn’t impress him and it was obvious he was more intrigued by the chicken than by yours truly. I tried again.

“Listen, I’m a big fan and would love to interview you. I won’t take up a lot of your time,” I explained.

He just kept eating his chicken and didn’t really acknowledge my presence. It was really starting to feel uncomfortable.

“You’re just about done with that chicken, can I get you some more?” I asked grabbing at straws to get his attention.

And it worked, he slowly looked up from what was left of his chicken breast and said, “You goin’ for food?”

“Yeah,” I shot back, “can I get you anything?”

“I’ll take some more chicken,” he lethargically said and then threw the bones from the chicken breast on the red paper plate in front of him.

I grabbed the plate and said, “I’ll get you a fresh plate.”

“Thanks, can you get me a beer too?” He added.

“Why not, it’s free,” I threw out.

“It’s one hell of a spread,” he replied in a slow, lazy drawl.

“Yeah, right,” I said as I made my way to the food tables.

As I walked towards the food tables I looked at the musicians and backstage people lounging around on picnic tables and on the grass, eating food that was bussed in from Brown’s Chicken restaurant and being kept warm on grills.

I thought to myself, “This really isn’t one hell of a spread,” and wondered what Chuck Berry was doing that day. He sure as shit wasn’t eating warmed over fried chicken at a well-worn picnic table in downtown Peoria.

I got the beer and the food—fried chicken, corn, mashed potatoes and a biscuit—and returned to the table. Johnnie was sitting at the yellow wooden table just staring out into space.

“Here you go,” I shouted out as I put the plate in front of the piano man.

Johnnie looked down at the plate and said, “You got me two pieces.”

“You looked hungry so I got you an extra piece,” I told him as I slid a beer in his direction.

“This is one hell of a spread,” he once again proclaimed as he started in on a chicken breast.

“Listen, as I said, I’m an editor of a local magazine and I would love to interview you and take your picture,” I told him.

He barely looked up from his chicken and mumbled, “Nah, I don’t do that shit.”

At least he didn’t mince words.

“Alright,” I said in surrendering tones, “okay if I sit here?”

I took the grunt he let out as a yes and I sat down and took a swig of beer from the standard red, 16 ounce, plastic keg cup I had gotten for myself.

“I watched, ‘Hail! Hail! Rock ‘n’ Roll’ a while ago,” I told Johnnie who was back to chewing on the chicken breast. I noticed some of his teeth were missing. “What was that like, being part of that film?” I asked.

He put the chicken breast on the plate, looked up at me with his half-opened eyes and slowly and deliberately said, “Oh man, did they have one hell of a spread there! Chicken, fish, roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, chocolate cake...every single day! I’ve never seen spreads like the one’s that catering service put out for us.”

“Yeah, it sounds great,” I replied, slightly amused with his obsession with ‘spreads,’ “but what was it like working with Chuck Berry again? And Keith Richards? He seemed like a big fan of yours in the film,” I added.

Johnnie picked up the chicken breast again, shook his head back and forth and said, “Shit, those two. One minute you’d think they were going to kill each other and the next you’d think they were going to start fucking like two horny kids. Crazy-ass, motherfuckers.”

And then he went back to work on his chicken breast.

“You know, it came out in the movie that it was you that wrote the music for a lot of his songs and that it was you that came up with that signature Chuck Berry riff. Keith Richards said you drift naturally into that riff on the piano. I remember he said, ‘Without Johnnie, all you got is a bunch of words on paper, no song.’ Is that true?” I asked him.

He slowly looked at me and said, “I don’t think about that stuff.”

“Yeah, but you should get royalties, that’s a shitload of money,” I spat out.

He put the chicken breast on the plate and said, “Oh man, I don’t like to think about that.” And then he slowly got up and walked away.

I watched the big piano player get smaller as he walked away from me and felt depressed. I went to  a bar in downtown Peoria and started drinking beer. After a few beers I ordered a cheeseburger and onion rings. When the bartender placed them in front of me, I said, “This is one hell of a spread,” and burst out laughing. She looked at me like I was nuts.

Eventually Johnnie must’ve thought about it, or maybe a lawyer did and in November of 2000 he sued Chuck Berry. The lawsuit said he deserved co-writer status and royalties for dozen’s of songs that Chuck Berry claimed to have written alone. Some soulless judge dismissed it saying that too many years had passed since the songs were written. Hell, hell, rock ‘n’ roll.

In 2001, he was inducted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, with Keith Richards leading the campaign to get him in there.

In April of 2005, Johnnie Johnson died in his hometown of St. Louis. I truly hope that after the funeral someone put on one hell of a spread for the man who brought so many rock ‘n’ roll songs to life with his fingers and his piano. Johnnie be good and rest in peace.

Further reading and watching: Johnnie Johnson Blues and Jazz Society, Blues Music Now!, All Music and Keith Richards Hall of Fame Induction.

You Might Also Like: Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Marcia, Marcia, Marcia and Tony! Toni! Toné!

Five Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Piano Players
Little Richard
Leon Russell
Terry Adams
Jerry Lee Lewis
Steve Nieve

 

Come on baby and do as I say,
We goin’ down to the corner and have a drink of Tanqueray.

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Bonus Video From Danny Maness!

Here’s a bonus video that my friend Danny Manny Maness recently put up to blabvertise his new book, “Hitchin’—God’s Way of Letting You Know You Don’t Have a Car.” Enjoy!

July 17, 2011

Live, from New York, it’s Cheeseburger Saturday Night! Your host this week is Tipsy Parson and featuring the ready for prime beef player, Marty Wombacher. Ladies and gentlemen, Tipsy Parson!

As the sun sets on the city, it's off we go in search of a cheeseburger.

And here we are, the reason it looks like it's daylight out here is that like an idiot I forgot to take an outside shot of the place, so I had to take this one off the internet. Just imagine it's a little darker out here and all will be well.

The bar is full but there's one seat open at the end with our name on it, so let's go snag it!

And no sooner am I seated than Jerry the friendly bartender serves me up an ice cold beer.

And Gumby's all settled in at the foot of my stool.

JR was seated next to me and was waiting for some friends to arrive. We had a nice chat about New York City at the bar.

It looks like there's bookshelves in the front of the bar...

But in reality, it's bookshelf wallpaper. But it really looks like the real thing.

There's tables opposite the bar for dining.

And there's a full dining room in the back.

Here's the cozy, candlelit window table up in the front of the bar.

Meanwhile back at the bar, Jerry tends to business and he took my dinner order.

And speaking of dinner, here it is! Yes, I know this doesn't look like a cheeseburger, it turns out they only serve cheeseburgers at lunch time, but that's okay. I had a late lunch and wasn't that hungry anyway, so I got a couple of appetizers. On the left is hush puppies with pimento cheese and on the left is fried pickles with a buttermilk ranch dipping sauce.

JR took a shot of me at the bar enjoying the appetizers.

And shortly after, JR's friends showed up. From left: Diana, JR and Al.

One of my favorite things at the bar was this vintage Remington typewriter.

Hey, how'd that get there?

Okay, one glance out the window and it's out into the night. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.

Tipsy Parson
156 Ninth Ave. (@20th St.)
212-620-4545

Further reading: Daily Candy, Paper & String, Time Out New York and New York magazine.

You also might like: Mr. Rogers, Mr. Wizard and Mr. Mister.

Five Movies Starring Tipsy People
Days of Wine and Roses
Arthur
Leaving Las Vegas
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Any W.C. Fields movie

I ain't lookin' to block you up,
Shock or knock or lock you up.

(Surprise link...click on it...I dare you!)

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Bonus Cardboard Box Man Photos!

Goggla discovered him at the Mars Bar, somewhat disguised in blue hat and glasses, below. He looks pretty menacing in this disguise.

Karen from Grade "A" Fancy spotted him at one of the many dumpsters he calls home.

And last but not least, MAD commenter and the giver of our daily quote, ragin rr, sent in this link showing that not only does Cardboard Box Man come in many shapes and forms, he's also available in a variety of sexual orientations. He's queer, he's here and he's cardboard. And very frightening. Aaahhhhh!

Cardboard Box Man At Cardboard Pride Rally.

July 16, 2011

I got an email from a friend yesterday that brought back a floodgate of memories. I’m’ going to write about that tonight. But first, a few pictures from a place I look at every night on my way home and love to hate.

They call this place the "Beer Parc." I hate the fact that they spell park, "parc" and it's located behind some fancy schmancy hotel on 6th and 30th, the block where I work. It's populated exclusively by yuppies/after work assholes and people I would really like to blow up. And blow them up good!

You have to buy tickets to purchase the beer and snacks here. It's like an upscale version of a Midwestern fair.

Most people here are dressed in their work clothes and I can't imagine any subversive or interesting dialogue is happening here.

And of course at some tables no dialogue is happening at all, just texting to other people. This place makes me want throw up in my left boot and stain my socks. But that's just me. Okay, onto my story.

-----------------

Rob Grill
June 12, 1967—My family and I were driving to a shopping center in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. We were on a family vacation and my dad was driving us there. My brothers, Tom and Jim and my sister Terry were in the back seat and I was up in front sitting in between my mom and my dad. I was hunched over in the seat twiddling the radio dial trying to find a rock ‘n’ roll station when in between the hiss, pops and static I heard someone sing out soulfully: “One two thee four...shalalalalalala, live for today...”

I turned the volume up and my dad turned it down. I immediately swirled around and said to my brother Jim, “Who is this?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but it’s good.”

I spun back around and turned the volume up and my dad turned it back down. I listened to the song intently and afterwards the disc jockey said in that nasally ‘60’s disc jockey voice, “That was the Grass Roots with their first top ten single, ‘Let’s Live For Today.’”

We got to the shopping center, a strip mall filled with clothing stores, variety stores and to the delight of myself and my brother Jim, a record store.

“We’ll be in the record store,” we sang out and ran over and into yet another vinyl wonderland of my youth.

We bolted in the door and walked straight over to the 45 racks and I flipped through the “G” section and found a tab that said, “The Grass Roots” in hand lettering. I flipped it over and there it was, “Let’s Live For Today,” complete with a picture sleeve. I remember studying the sleeve and saying to my brother, “They look cool, like a combination of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.” He agreed with me and I carried it with me as we flipped through records and admired and inspected various albums and singles throughout the store until the rest of our family arrived and our folks said we were going back to the hotel.

I walked over to my mom, The Grass Roots single in hand and asked, “Can I get this?”

She made a face and said, “Why buy a record on vacation? There’s no record player here to play it on. You can get it when we get back home.”

“But the one at home might not have a picture sleeve,” I whined, holding up the record for emphasis. “Pleeeeeeease?”

After several years of childhood work, I had expertly honed the pitch-perfect, “Pleeeeeeease?” whine into a cringe-inducing tool to weaken my mother’s resistance when I would ask for something special. And once again it worked like a charm.

She slumped a little, pulled two dollars out of her purse and gave it to me. I ran up to the counter and bought, “Let’s Live For Today,” by The Grass Roots.

That wasn’t the only record we got on that vacation. The day before on June 11th, it was my brother’s 11th birthday and one of his presents was a copy of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” We couldn’t wait to get home and listen to it.

A week later we were home and the first thing Jim and I did after unpacking was run to the fake wooden stereo console with our vacation records.

“Let’s listen to The Grass Roots first, it’s just one song and then we can listen to the whole Beatles album,” I said to Jim as we stood before the almighty stereo console.

“Okay, give me the single,” he spat out anxiously. Then he put the record on, turned the speed on to 45 rpm and we listened to “Let’s Live For Today.” Then he put on Sgt. Pepper’s and it blew our everloving minds! That was a memorable day listening to some great music.

I’ve always associated the two records and listening to one always makes me think of the other.

-----------------
Sometime in August, 1987—I was living in Peoria at the time and working at a printing company. My girlfriend’s name at the time  was Lynda and she worked for a company that produced festivals and fairs for small towns. I can’t remember her exact job title, but she more or less coordinated a lot of the small details and made sure everything ran smooth.

One festival they produced was in a small town in Illinois called Decatur. The event was called Decatur Days and I think it ran from Thursday to Sunday. It was your standard small town festival complete with greasy food, cotton candy, some half-assed rides and night time entertainment. Usually this entertainment consisted of bad comedians and bands you’ve either never heard of or one-hit wonders who play the small town fair circuit in the summer to milk money out of a hit that was popular eons ago and the band is currently filed in the “where are they now files,” to quote Spinal Tap.

We were hanging out at my apartment a week before the Decatur Days and I asked Lynda what band was playing the festival.

“The Grass Roots,” she answered, “Remember them? I had the single, ‘Bella Linda’ and used to say they spelled ‘Linda’ wrong.”

I dropped the magazine I was reading and shot up on the couch where I was laying down and looked at Lynda.

“The Grass Roots?” I said incredulously. “I thought they broke up years ago, are you sure this is the real Grass Roots?”

“Let’s look at the booklet,” she said while fishing around in her purse and walking over and sitting next to me on the couch.

She pulled it out and flipped to the page about Saturday’s entertainment and there was a photo of the Grass Roots. I grabbed it and looked closely at it.

I didn’t recognize three of the people in the band, but I pointed to the guy in the front of the picture and said, “That’s Rob Grill, he played bass and sang most of the songs. It must be one of those things where he put a band together and they go out as The Grass Roots and play all the hits. Even though it’s just him and three pick up guys, I can’t imagine them playing Decatur Days. The Grass Roots were huge in their day.”

“I guess it beats working for a living,” Lynda said while getting up and heading for the kitchen.

“I wonder if they’re opening up for the Puppet Show,” I said, referencing Spinal Tap.

“What?” Lynda said, turning around. She had never seen Spinal Tap.

“Never mind,” I said while laughing, “would you get me a beer?”

I drove to Decatur that Saturday and met Lynda in downtown Decatur where the festival was being held. I helped out all day doing odds and ends jobs and that night we were going to see the Grass Roots. Even though there was just one original in the band, I was still excited to see a slice of my youth live. I would’ve killed to have seen them back in the day. And at least the one original was Rob Grill, the guy who sang all the hits, so I was looking forward to it.

Around four in the afternoon Lynda and I were in a tent at the site of the festival that they used as an office for the company she worked for. There was a lot of folding tables and chairs and I was helping Lynda sort some stuff on top of one of them. I can’t remember what, I just remember sorting things on a table. At one point I looked up and saw a guy with an envelope in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other. He had shaggy brown hair, was wearing sunglasses and he was wearing a black t-shirt and had white shorts on.

“See that guy over there,” I said excitedly while grabbing Lynda’s arm, “that’s Rob Grill of The Grass Roots! I’m going to go meet him!”

“Don’t make fun of him,” Lynda said, while looking worried.

“Why would I make fun of him?” I shot back.

She narrowed her eyes and shot me a look that literally said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I said while laughing and getting up.

As I walked over he put the envelope in the back pocket of his shorts and was eating his popcorn and just kind of staring blankly at the front of the tent. A glum kind of look was painted on his face.

I approached him and said, “Excuse me, you’re Rob Grill, right?”

He jumped a little because he didn’t see me coming, took off his sunglasses and squinted at me and said, “Yeah, what can I do for you?”

He was looking at me with an expression of confusion.

“Oh, I’m just a big fan and I wanted to say hi,” I said, all of a sudden feeling weird because he appeared to be uncomfortable with me coming up to him.

Once I told him that, he smiled widely, kind of cocked his head and stuck out his hand and said, “Oh, thanks, what’s your name?”

I shook his hand and said, “My name’s Marty,” and then I proceeded to tell him the whole story about hearing “Let’s Live For Today” in Florida and then coming home and listening to it before listening to Sgt. Pepper. He had a huge smile on his face the whole time I told him the tale. I was thrilled he appeared to enjoy hearing my story.

He told me he loved the story and asked if I lived in Decatur.

“No, I live in Peoria,” I told him, “my girlfriend works for the company putting on the festival. I drove here just to see you guys.”

“Really? You came here just to see us?” he asked. He really looked amazed that I drove from Peoria just to see the band play live.

“Yeah,” I told him. “I was only nine years old when I bought “Let’s Live For Today,” and I would’ve killed to have seen you live back then. I remember watching you on American Bandstand. I really can’t believe I’m standing here shooting the shit with you!”

He laughed and then looked both ways and then said in a low voice, “Look, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that I’m still getting gigs, but this summer oldies circuit can get a little old sometimes. I was in a pretty shitty mood today and you really made my day and I’m not just saying that. Most people only know our songs from oldies radio stations and they have no idea of the history of the band whatsoever. It’s nice to meet someone who listened to our music back in the day. Thanks for taking the trouble for coming to the show today,” he said and then he stuck his hand out again.

We shook hands again and I said, “Man, I can’t wait to tell my brother I met you.”

“Tell him I said hi, okay?” He said as he started to walk away.

“I definitely will,” I said to him as he walked out the tent.

That night Lynda and I were seated in the outdoor wooden bleachers that overlooked the stage. The Grass Roots came on around 9 PM and blazed through all their hits: Midnight Confessions, I'd Wait A Million Years, Two Divided By Love, Sooner Or Later and on and on. Rob Grill looked pretty bored onstage and who could blame him? There was maybe 50 to 75 people there and he’d probably sung the songs thousands of times. I was waiting for “Let’s Live For Today,” I was excited to see him sing it live even if he was bored out of his gourd. After they played, “Where Were You When I Needed You,” Rob Grill just said, “Thanks, you’ve been a great audience, Goodnight, Decatur.

Then they walked offstage. I couldn’t fucking believe it. They didn’t play, “Let’s Live For Today.”

I turned to Lynda and said, “I don’t fucking believe it, they didn’t play “Let’s Live For Today.” I came here just to hear that song live. And they didn’t fucking play it. It’s the only reason I came to this stupid, shitty little fucking festival!”

Lynda grabbed my shoulders and said sternly, “They’re going to come back for an encore. Please don’t go nuts.”

“I’m going to go nuts...I’m going to go nuts...I’m going to go nuts,” I said repeatedly like the Rain Man on methamphetamine.

Lynda just put her hand on her forehead and closed her eyes and looked pained. She knew if they didn’t play that song I’d be talking about it all night long and probably into the week.

I think on about my seventh, “I’m going to go nuts,” when they came back onstage, just as Lynda predicted. I remember Rob Grill holding his bass up in the air while walking back onstage, the way Paul McCartney did at Shea Stadium.

I turned to Lynda pointed my index finger at her nose and said, “They better play that fucking song!”

She looked at me like I was completely crazy and she looked so nervous that I just started laughing and then she did too. Right then Rob Grill said into the microphone, “Okay, we’re going to do the one that started it all and then he ripped into, ‘One two thee four...shalalalalalala...”’

And unlike the previous numbers he was smiling and dancing around and he was really getting into it. I’ve always liked to think that maybe he was thinking of my story when he was singing it. I’ll never know, but it’s what I like to think.
-----------------
July 14, 2011—I was at work yesterday and checked my email. This came from my friend Mike Trent. Mike and I worked together in Peoria, Illinois and we’ve remained good friends. He lives in Tennessee now and I’m in New York, so we don’t see each other much, but we keep in touch via phone and email. We’ve always called each other Daddio (much like “Boris” and I do) and he had sent this email to me.

•••
From: mvt@hart.net [Add to Address Book]
To: marty wombacher <fishwrap@earthlink.net>
Subject: The Grass Roots
Date: Jul 14, 2011 3:27 PM

Hey Daddie,

I just read that Rob Grill the lead singer for The Grass Roots died.
They were one my favorite bands. Hope all is well. Take care.

DaddyO
•••

I hadn’t heard the news and called Mike up in Tennessee. I told him my story about meeting Rob Grill and he said when he read he had died he thought of me and we realized that maybe I had told him that story years ago. Then we shot the shit for a while and I went back to work.

When I got home, I found a YouTube video of them singing, “Let’s Live For Today,” hit play and closed my eyes and drifted back to 1967, when times were so different than today and the only things that mattered were record stores and picture-sleeved 45s. I really miss those days.

Rob Grill 1943 - 2011, R.I.P.

Further reading: RobGrill.com, Angelfire, last.fm and  NY Times.

You also might like: Grass Skirts, Grass and Mary Jane.

Five Pop Songs About Death
I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead by Warren Zevon
Hammer to Fall by Queen
Spirit in the Sky by Norman Greenbaum
The Art of Dying by George Harrison
Dang Me by Roger Miller

I didn't cry,
I just stood and watched her say goodbye.

ARCHIVES

(Surprise link...click on it...I dare you!)

July 6, 2011

Anybody who’s followed this blog for any amount of  time is familiar with the fact that from time to time I whine, piss and moan about my night job and here I go again! Tonight really sucked puckered ass, and again I’m not going to blog about my job, but my head feels like it’s been squeezed in a vice for 10 hours while someone poured Tabasco sauce in my eyeballs till I cried out, "Uncle Charlie." I was tempted to go to one of my Fortress of Solitudes and sulk, but since I goofed off last night, I figured I should go out and do my duty.

Since it’s Tuesday, it’s the one night of the week I go to a bar and search for the elusive swizzle stick, in addition to getting some shots of the place, one of the bartender and maybe a few shots of the patrons in there. Since I had to work late, I thought I’d hit a bar nearby and then I remembered a bar from last year’s bar crawl that kind of got the short end of the stick last year. I had had a night even worse than tonight and was in no mood to do my bar crawl routine and so I didn’t. The bar is Mustang Harry’s and while it’s not the type of bar I would normally hang out at, I really didn’t give them much of a chance a year ago. I just slammed three beers, took a couple photos and went home. I got some shit in the comments for being such an asshole (although it was kind of tongue in cheek) and I promised I’d go back and document it a little better. So I thought that’s where I’d go for the swizzle stick bar night. Plus it’s just about two minutes away.

See, I told you it was close by, but the bad news is they close at midnight. They informed me they had already had their last call when I went in. Motherfucker, some nights you just can't win. Time to take that lonesome walk.

Luckily, just two blocks away is Mustang Sally's, whom I guess is Mustang Harry's second cousin or something. The good news is that they're still open. Let's get this shit over with. Let the night begin!

Here's bartender Mike serving me up my double gin and tonic in a tall glass and sadly there is no swizzle stick.

There's the dreaded straw as a swizzle stick. But to be honest, the way the night has gone, I expected something like this. Let's take a look around Mustang Sally's.

Here's a longshot of the wooden bar. It's kind of empty in here tonight seeing that it's Tuesday and the night after a holiday.

Large booths line the wall opposite the bar.

Here's the view from my seat at the bar.

One complaint I have is there's too many TV sets in here.

A gang ebony and ivory shot!

The bar does get points for the tin ceiling hanging above.

There's tables up front for dining.

Some of the Happy Hour specials.

I love the McSorley's coaster at the bar.

But I really hate baseball and there's no escape from it in this bar...

So I take one glance out the window and head out for home. See you tomorrow after dark.

Mustang Sally’s
Mustang Sally’s isn’t a horrible bar, it’s just some place I wouldn’t normally hang out at. The crowd is usually equal parts tourist and bridge and tunnel people. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just that I’d rather be at the Mars Bar or the International Bar any old day of the week. They do have a large selection of draft and bottled beer and a menu that includes: Black Angus Sirloin Steak; Shepherds Pie; Rigatoni Bolognese with garlic bread and a Reuben On Rye. There’s booths opposite the bar and a spacious dining area in the back. It’s just a couple blocks from Madison Square Garden, so if you’re going to a game or concert, it’s a decent place to throw back a few drinks before or after your game or show. It’s not a bad bar, but you won’t find me in there too often, and that might be a selling point that Mustang Sally’s would want to advertise! Cheers.

Mustang Sally's
324 Seventh Ave. (Near 28th St.)
212-695-3806

Further reading: New York Magazine, nycgo.com, Shecky’s and Time Out New York.

You also might like: Popsicle, Pop Art and Pop Tate.

Five Other Sally’s
Sally Rogers
Sally Field
Sally Kellerman
Sally Rand
Sally Struthers

All you want to do is ride around Sally, ride, Sally, ride.

ARCHIVES

(Surprise link...click on it...I dare you!)

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Bonus Photo!

The first thing I did at work last night was to staple something. Check out the bottom of the stapler, there's no escape, I think he hexed the entire day and night. Aaaahh!