Okay, since it’s the 4th of July and a holiday, I thought I’d stay home and just relax and cook a nice holiday dinner. It’s going to be a little bit of what I like to call a “quickity blickity blog.” So let’s get this party started!
I'll warn you in advance, this isn't going to be the most exciting MAD post ever. Okay, on with the holiday dinner. I'm starting off by cooking a sliced red potato in my electric skillet.
Next I'll pop this ear of corn into the microwave.
And here's the main course, a T-bone steak! I just realized tonight I've never cooked a steak in this apartment.
And here goes. Will my tiny little toaster oven be capable of cooking this? I think so, it'll just take some time.
And while everything's cooking, time to take a snack break with Chicken in a Biskit and Sleazy Cheese.
Sleazy Cheese always has a somewhat nuclear look to it, but it's delicious and probably horrible for you. Which makes it even better.
And here's my 4th of July feast. It was delicious!
And now for dessert! Tomorrow's blog will have a little more substance to it, I promise! I hope you all had a great 4th of July, but now the party's over. Sob! See you all tomorrow after dark.
I was going to meet MAD commenter Jason Hwang tonight, but he bailed on me at the last minute because he’s super busy this weekend. The reason he’s so frantic is that he’s moving to France this Sunday to be with his wife, the infamous, Zioum Zioum. I know how it goes to uproot yourself and how at the last minute there’s a billion things to do. It was that way when I moved here and I can’t imagine what it’s like getting ready to move to a new country. Anyway, I just want to take a second and wish them both the best of luck and please keep in touch!
Alright, since I have no plans and it’s the start of a holiday weekend, I thought I’d just shoot some pictures on my way home and maybe stop and have a drink somewhere. No plans, just my camera, my feets and a somewhat powerful thirst! Let's go wandering.
And we're off, we'll travel down 7th Avenue in search of something to do and more importantly, something to drink.
Look at this, a few blocks into the journey and I've stumbled upon a brand new deli on the block called the Green Tomato. Let's check it out.
It's nice and streamlined in here and I can guarantee you there's beer in those coolers.
There's lots of wooden tables in here and the gentlemen behind the counter told me it's open 24 hours. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Fortress of Solitude number three! I think I'll sit at the table up front with a nice view out the door of the people on parade at the sidewalk.
Gumby's all settled in...
And I've got a giganzo 24 ounce can of Budweiser, so all is well in my world.
It's relaxing in here just drinking beer and watching the world go by outside on the sidewalk.
There goes a hipster couple...
There's a woman talking on a phone and gesturing wildly. At least 75 percent of the people walking by are talking on phones or doing the Zombie text walk. I always wonder what the fuck everybody's talking about.
Fuck, I didn't get a shot of this, but a one-armed man just walked by and made eye contact with me. Whenever I make eye contact with crippled or disfigured people I feel like I've been hexed. I hope I make it home now. One time I was in midtown about five years ago and at the corner of 55th and Broadway a nun in an electric wheelchair whizzed past me and not only made eye contact with me, she scowled at me. I was so freaked out, first of all you rarely see a nun in the oldtime penguin habit, but she was decked out in one from head to toe. And to make matters worse, you know who she looked like? Burt Young, the actor! It took me a couple minutes to figure it out after she had rolled past me, but then it hit me, she was a dead ringer for Burt Young. I remember leaning against a building with chills running down my spine and feeling like I had been hexed for life and I still wonder if I am. I mean, Burt Young as a crippled nun in an electric wheelchair? In midtown? Sheesh!
Okay, enough of creepy memories. The beer is empty and Gumby's getting antsy, so it's off we go.
This block is always lit up like it's Christmas time, it's a cheery little block in Chelsea.
And smack dab in the middle of the block is Salsa y Salsa. I came here on the bar crawl last year. And now I'm craving a Michelada. Let's go inside.
It's crowded inside, but the bar is wide open, let's go snag a seat.
Hey, there's a familiar face behind the bar...
It's Rubens the bartender who was on duty last year when I was there. He remembered me and after a brief reunion, he set to work making me a Michelada beer cocktail.
The beer is added to the spicy mix, ice is added and...
Rubens serves it up with a smile.
The drink is served with a salted rim and a lime and it's delicious, a great summer cocktail!
And an ebony and ivory hot sauce shot completes the night. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Live, from New York, it’s Cheeseburger Saturday Night! Starring brgr and featuring the ready for Prime Beef Player, Marty Wombacher. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a hand to brgr!
Okay, I had to go back to work because I left my phone there after last night's monster shift. There's a cheeseburger joint nearby where I work called brgr, and I've always been curious about it, but have avoided it because I thought they didn't serve beer. But I checked out their menu and it turns out they do indeed have bottled beer. So that's tonight's cheeseburger destination.
Sheesh, this wig store window always gives me the creeps. I've probably passed by it hundreds of times and it still sends a chill down my spine.
And here we are at brgr. I like their logo and sign.
The restaurant is long and narrow with wooden and brick walls. It's got a nice, casual feel to it.
You place your order here.
I thought I'd start out with a beer and the lovely Nicole happily serves up a Stella.
There's tables up front...
But I chose to sit at the counter in the back.
This is where all the action is.
I checked out the menu and decided on the "Down On The Farm Brgr" which is a cheddar cheese burger with bacon, horseradish sauce, onion, lettuce, tomato and pickles. Sounds good!
The view from my perch at the counter.
There's tables opposite the counter to sit at in the back as well.
A Heinz ebony and ivory shot.
And here's Dwight with tonight's cheeseburger meal!
The cheeseburger was fantastic and I got a side of the onion hay, which was also delicious. A great meal.
And for dessert Nicole serves up a shake shot, which is 5 ounces of one of their famous and award winning milkshakes.
I got the black and white shake.
And yes, it lives up to its title that New York magazine gave it back in 2007.
Evan was seated next to me and told me he's been coming here for the burgers for the last four years. Evan's a comedic actor who participates in shows at both the Magnet Theater and Upright Citizen's Brigade.
Obligatory bathroom mirror shot with an upside down Gumby and this night is over. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
My Meal As stated above, my cheeseburger was delicious and the vibe in here is casual and very friendly. Dwight told me once you come in here you are treated as family and it certainly felt that way. The menu here is simple with over ten types of burgers, a hot dog for non-burger eaters and sides including: onion hay, Russert potato fries and sweet potato fries. They also have beer and wine and you have to try the award-winning milkshake.
I’ve whined so much about my job on here and here I go again. The day started out fine, there was work, but no crazy deadlines and no stress. Then all of a sudden, boom, super rush jobs, problems and out of control stress. Another shitty fucking night and now it’s after midnight and I don’t even feel like going to my Fortress of Solitude. I just want to go home and have one or 17 beers and pass the fuck out go to sleep. I don’t even feel like writing a short story, so I thought I’d pull some stuff out of a magazine I put out a few years ago called Natalie Word. You can read more about the magazine here: Natalie Word.
The whole thing was just a goof, I knew there was no commercial potential, it was just something to do. It was fun, because I did both the issues all myself, from writing everything, to designing the logo to laying out the pages. I can kind of be a control freak when it comes to doing a project like this and it’s fun to do it all alone. I liked the second issue a lot better than the first one. For that one, I took magazine layouts and ads, scanned them and then wiped their copy out and wrote my own, using their layouts as a template. One of the articles came from Time magazine and it was called, “What Would Lincoln Do?” I wiped out their copy and put mine in and for some reason its always cracked me up. Usually when I finish writing something I’ll read it quite a few times if I like it and then move on and never look at it again. For some reason I’ve read the Lincoln story over and over and it still cracks me up. I’ve always thought it could be a Saturday Night Live skit that they run into the ground. (Although I’m hardly the one to be criticizing anyone on running something into the ground. See: Dog, Papaya!) So here it is below along with a few ads I doctored for the second issue of Natalie Word. Enjoy!
You’re in a tight jam, a problem has risen and you think to yourself: “Hmmm...what would Lincoln do?”
--------------------------------------------------- You’re at home enjoying a nice dinner when all of a sudden out of the blue, three masked burglars with shotguns burst in and demand all of your money and valuables.
WHAT WOULD LINCOLN DO?
He’d glance up from dinner, look the burglars right in the eyes and forcefully say, “Hey, I’m Lincoln! You don’t seriously think you’re going to rob me, do you?”
The burglars think for a second and then realize that it would be a huge mistake to rob Lincoln. They leave and Lincoln goes back to enjoying his steak dinner.
--------------------------------------------------- You have a very bad back condition and you’re driving to the hospital in your car when your left front tire blows out. You pull over, but there’s no way you can change the tire with the condition your back is in. A group of unruly, drunken teenagers stop at the scene, but just mock you and refuse to change the tire.
WHAT WOULD LINCOLN DO?
He’d shake his head at the teenagers and then loudly declare, “Hey this is Lincoln here! Now get out of that car and change my tire so I can get to the hospital for some painkillers. And speaking of painkillers, give me one of those beers.”
The teenagers give Lincoln a beer and proceed to change his tire like they were a pit crew at the Indianapolis 500.
--------------------------------------------------- You’re at Bed, Bath and Beyond and you find a quilt that is marked “50 percent off.” It’s just the thing you’ve been looking for, but when you go to buy it, the cashier says you have to pay full price because that sale ended the day before and the tag was mistakenly left on. WHAT WOULD LINCOLN DO?
He’d cock his left eyebrow and then forcefully and confidently say to the cashier, “Listen, Tootsie, maybe you don’t realize it, but I’m Lincoln! Now you don’t think I’m paying full price for this do you?”
The cashier realizes the error of her ways and rings the quilt up at the sale price.
--------------------------------------------------- You wake up with a horrific head cold. All you want to do is drink some NyQuil and go back to bed, but you’re all out of NyQuil. So you get up, get dressed and walk to the Duane Reade drug store on 14th street, but you can’t find any NyQuil. When you ask the store manager, he tells you it’s on back order and you’re out of luck.
WHAT WOULD LINCOLN DO?
He’d scowl at the manager and then in loud and angry tones say, “Look, you’re dealing with Lincoln, here! Now get me some NyQuil!”
The manager sends a clerk to the Rite Aid drug down the block to get a bottle and then gives it to Lincoln free of charge.
--------------------------------------------------- You go to a Chinese massage parlor and the woman who greets you tells you it’ll be two hundred dollars for a full body nude massage with a “happy ending.”
WHAT WOULD LINCOLN DO?
He’d scoff and demandingly say to the Chinese woman, “Hey that’s a little steep, you do know that you’re dealing with Lincoln here, don’t you?”
The Chinese woman says to him, “You pay two hundred dollars. I don’t care if you are Lincoln. You’ll have good time and a happy ending, well worth the money. You’ll see.”
Lincoln realizes it’s ridiculous to try and haggle with the Chinese woman and pays her the two hundred dollars. She gives him a massage, stimulates the Lincoln log and this writer is thrilled to finish with a happy ending to this story.
I realized I didn’t have a movie to screen for tonight’s midnight movie, so I to post some YouTube clips from one of my favorite movies, “All The President’s Men.” I’ve probably watched this movie over fifty times and I love it each time. It’s a true story and Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein were consultants for the film and I’ve read in interviews with both of them that the movie portrays how Watergate went down really accurately. I can’t imagine how exciting that would've been to break and write the stories that uncovered Watergate and brought down Richard Nixon and his whole dirty crew. I remember reading about it in the paper and later Woodward and Bernstein were on the cover of Rolling Stone. I read the book as soon as it came out and when I heard they were making a movie out of it with Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford, I knew it would be great. And it is. And I met Carl Bernstein once and he was a real nice guy. I’ll post that story, after the movie. Oh and I posted a couple of clips at the end to show you the real-life results of their work. Ready? Lights, Camera..."I am not a crook!"
------------------------------ The Day I Met Carl Bernstein! The year was probably 1995, and at the time I lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and I was publishing and writing a magazine called fishwrap. I started the magazine shortly after I moved to New York, seeking a writing job at a magazine. Within the first two weeks of arriving in Manhattan in the summer of 1993, I had managed to get job interviews at People magazine, Entertainment Weekly and In Style. And: boom, boom, boom: was turned down by all three. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to tell Jim Seymour (then the editor of Entertainment Weekly) that those list stories they do ("The Top 100 Movies of All Time!") are really boring and appeal only to the dumbest dullards on the planet. And maybe it was a mistake telling Cutler Durkee (I can’t remember his exact title, but he was second on the masthead of People magazine) while he looked disgusted at a clip of mine I had written about a homeless man who eats roadkill, that it had been fun smoking pot and drinking with that guy. And maybe, just maybe, it was a mistake telling the woman (I completely forget her name and title) that I thought In Style was a real piece of celebrity ass-kissing trash. In any case, being told in such short order to go away and not come back by all three editors was quite a depressing trifecta of rejection.
But in spite of their naysaying I picked myself up, dusted off my jeans and sent clips and pitch ideas to Spin, Rolling Stone, Esquire, GQ, Playboy, New York and any other title I thought might be interested in my unique writing styles and ideas for eye-popping stories. And this mass mailing of my clippings and feature article ideas were met with a thundering silence from the media elite in Manhattan.
“Oh well, I’ll show them,” I said to myself a month later, while looking for a night job, “I’ll publish a magazine and ridicule the whole stinking lot of those fuckers.”
Which is exactly what I did. The magazine, fishwrap, was mainly me making fun of all the assholes who wouldn’t hire me. While it almost guaranteed a blacklisting of sorts in the New York media world, it was great fun and it lasted around six years, till magazines got so stupid you couldn’t even make fun of them anymore. I always say it got to be like making fun of the retarded: It’s fun for a few seconds, but it’s too easy and gets old real quick. But anyway, I digress. It was 1995 and I had just finished up the latest fishwrap. And it was a real beauty. It was our special “Just Say Dope” issue. The cover story was an interview with Stephen Hager and John Holmstrom from the magazine High Times. And we had a special “Bud of the Month” foldout that was of the cast of "Father Knows Best" with a circle around the head of troubled middle child Bud. What was great was after the show went off the air, the real life Bud was busted for possession of pot. It was a good issue and I was packing up comp issues that I would deliver all around town to the various magazines I made fun of.
I packed my bag up and started to head down Amsterdam Avenue towards the Time, Inc. offices. Rolling Stone and Entertainment Weekly were a stone’s throw away from the Time Life building, so I could hit quite a few magazines in this trip. My bag was stuffed with issues and I carried many more in one of those oversized Duane Reade plastic bags.
As I plodded towards midtown somewhere around 65th Street I happened to look over at a pay phone and saw a short weathered-looking man with grey hair talking into the phone. He was wearing a white trench coat. A younger, attractive woman stood by his left side. I looked at him briefly, then continued walking while thinking to myself, “I’ve seen that guy somewhere.” Three blocks further, I stopped dead in my tracks. “Fuck me,” I said aloud to myself. “That was Carl Bernstein.”
Carl Bernstein. As in Woodward and Bernstein. As in the writers from the Washington Post that uncovered the Watergate scandal (when nobody else would cover the story). As in one half of the team who wrote all All The President’s Men, a book I’ve read about fifty times, and I’ve seen the movie probably more times than that. This guy was my hero. Carl Bernstein ripped Richard Nixon’s nuts loose and then put them on a silver platter and handed the balls back to the president and forced him to resign or be impeached. Carl Bernstein was one of the reasons I became a writer.
And I just walked past him.
“Stupid!” I said, hitting myself in the forehead. I really would’ve loved giving this guy a copy of fishwrap and telling him what a hero he was to me. And I walked right past him.
I decided in the slight chance against all odds to trace my steps back three blocks in the slight chance he was still around the area. I hurriedly walked/jogged back to the pay phone, but now a burly guy with a beat-up blue jean vest and giant ZZ Top beard was yakking away to some methamphetamine dealer a few blocks away.
I absent-mindedly walked another block and squinted in the distance a few blocks, and saw the back of a white trench coat walking down Amsterdam. It was him. I took off like a shot. One block, two blocks and I was standing right beside Carl Bernstein on the corner waiting for the light to change. I took a deep breath and then spoke.
“Excuse me,” I said nervously, while sweat rolled down my forehead, “you’re Carl Bernstein, right?”
He narrowed his eyes and looked me up and down. I was wearing old black Levi’s, black boots that were coming apart at the heel and a black shirt with a hole in the elbow. Plus, I was sweating profusely by now. I sweat heavily in normal conditions, but when I get nervous or unsettled, the sweat literally pours out of me. Think Albert Brooks in Broadcast News.
“Uh, who wants to know,” he said with a somewhat frightened look on his face. The woman tugged at his sleeve.
“Fuck,” I thought, “he thinks I’m a crazy person.”
I took a deep breath and started talking.
“Well, my name’s Marty and I do a magazine and you know you’re my hero, I hated Nixon and Watergate was great and it was you that did all that, and I’m a writer too and you know you’re my idol...” I was talking a mile a minute and sounded like a complete nut job, but I think Mr. Bernstein was just relieved I wasn’t the second coming of Son of Sam. He smiled and interrupted me.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down...Marty, you said?”
Holy shitballs, he was talking to me like I was a normal person.
Yeah,” I answered. “My name’s Marty.”
“Hi Marty,” he said smiling while stretching out his arm for a handshake, “My name’s Carl.”
I shook his hand and profoundly replied, “Uh, yeah, I know.”
“So what’s this magazine you say you do?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” I excitedly shouted out while pulling one out of my bag and handing it to him. “It’s called fishwrap and it mocks the world of mainstream journalism,” I explained.
He flipped through the magazine and said, “You do the whole magazine yourself?”
“Well a friend of mine does most of the page layout, but I think of all the story ideas and write most of it myself,” I said proudly.
“Wow, that’s great,” he said while thumbing through the magazine.
“Well, I gotta tell you,” I said, going back into stalker mode, “you’re a real hero to me. I remember when the whole Watergate thing went down, man that was great. I was in high school and I remember reading the story and then reading about you and Woodward breaking the story and the book and the movie...”
“Yeah, those were heady times all right,” he said shaking his head. The woman now had a big grin on her face and was beaming a smile at Bernstein.
“You guys were on the cover of Rolling Stone,” I commented.
“That’s right, that was nuts,” he said, smiling at the memory.
Then an awkward silence settled in.
“Well, listen,” he said grabbing the woman’s hand, “we’ve got to be running, but it was great meeting you, Marty. Thanks for your magazine, I like people who make fun of the media,” he said, smiling and shaking my hand.
“Well, it was a real thrill meeting you.” My voice trailed off because I couldn’t bring myself to call him Carl.
Bernstein smacked me on the shoulder with the magazine and said, “Keep writing, my friend,” and headed off down the block.
I ran home and called some of my friends in my hometown of Peoria, Illinois. Nobody was around, but I finally got hold of my friend Moon at the finance office he runs. I called and his secretary said he was in a meeting and could she take my name and number and he’d call me back. “No,” I barked into the telephone. “You tell him to get on the phone right now, it’s a goddamned emergency.”
She put me on hold, and shortly Moon was on the other line.
“Marty,” he spat out excitedly, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong asshole, guess who I just met?” I asked.
“I’m in a meeting here,” Moon said sharply.
“Fuck that, I just met Carl Bernstein,” I told him in proud tones.
“Is this why you called?” Moon asked in a voice steeped in anger.
“Yeah, can you believe it? I gave him a copy of fishwrap and he told me to keep writing. Carl Bernstein told me to keep writing. And he called me his friend! Me, Carl Bernstein’s friend. Can you believe it?” I didn’t say anything else, because I realized he had hung up on me at the beginning of that last sentence.
I had to go into work, so I showered and couldn’t wait to walk in and tell everyone that I met Carl Bernstein and gave him a copy of my magazine. I worked the overnight shift at a small pre-press service bureau in downtown Manhattan. As I walked in, I quickly announced, “Today I met Carl Bernstein and I gave him a copy of fishwrap. And he told me to keep writing. And he called me his friend.”
Nobody even looked up.
“We’ve got a lot of rush jobs due tonight,” Giovanni, one of the daytime managers, told me.
I was in the mood to write tonight, so I thought I’d write up a story I emailed to BBC member and MAD commenter, Gene Rubbico a while ago. It’s a story about Eddie Van Halen and it’ll be below this sentence after I write it tonight. In April of 1992, Eddie Van Halen threw the book at me. Well, he actually threw a magazine at me, let me explain.
In April of 1992, I was working on the latest issue of POP magazine, a magazine I published out of my hometown of Peoria, Illinois for three years. In the beginning I was the editor and publisher of the magazine. We all know what editors do and the publisher is the person that pays for the magazine and handles the business end of things. I was always all editorial because I’m a terrible businessman. That year while writing an article for the Pekin Daily Times, I met Jay Goldberg, who’s a successful local businessman in Peoria, Pekin and other towns surrounding the area. The name of his company is Jay Goldberg Events and Entertainment and one of the many things he does is bring in bands to perform at the Peoria Civic Center. After I met Jay, I had a meeting with him and asked if he’d be interested in publishing POP magazine.
The magazine was selling very well, but I couldn’t get any advertising for it, because the local business people thought both the magazine and myself were insane. I thought having Jay on board would help not only the business side of things, but our image as well, since Jay had a great reputation in the local business community. So we came to an agreement and Jay came on board as the new publisher of POP. I retained my title of, “The Crazy Editor.”
One of the things Jay did for the magazine was get us free office space in a building downtown that he was helping to manage. I was working third shift and most mornings I would stop by and flirt with Lisa, the fabulous babe receptionist talk business and magazine related stuff with Jay for an hour or two.
One day in April of 1992, after Lisa told me to get lost for the millionth time I was in Jay’s office and we were shooting the shit. Jay mentioned that he had booked Van Halen for the Peoria Civic Center. One of the perks of having Jay as publisher were I got to go to any shows he produced and most times I got backstage pass priviliges.
“You know what would be cool,” I said to Jay in his office after hearing the Van Halen news, “I’d love to get a shot of Eddie Van Halen holding a copy of POP.”
Jay smiled and said, “That woud be great, but I’ve heard he’s really moody and not too accesible to the press. I can get you into the meet and greet, but I don’t think you’ll have much luck getting the photo.”
By then Jay and I were pretty good friends and he knew I could get obsessive about stuff and I think he threw that out as a challenge. And I bit, as usual. “You know what, fuck that guy! I’ve bought every fucking Van Halen album and he owes me. You get me in the same room with him and I’ll get that shot!” I fired back, straightening up in my chair which faced Jay at his desk.
Jay laughed and he had a meeting to go to, so I went out and tried to look down Lisa’s blouse then went home and got bombed worked on the next issue. As the days passed I got more and more obsessed with getting that photo. How cool to have Eddie Van Halen endorsing my magazine. Maybe I’d send it to Rolling Stone and they’d hire me as their midwest stringer. Maybe Eddie would take a liking to me and ask me to be their new lead singer. I’d fit right in, I’m a Kinks fan and I hate brown M&Ms too. The possibilities were endless. But they all hinged on me getting that one photo.
Finally the night came and Jay said he put my name on the list for the meet and greet. I drove to the civic center and found the room backstage for the meet and greet. It was a typical backstage civic center room, white brick walls, cement floor and kind of an overall sterile feel to it. There was a lot of people milling around and I asked a long-haired kid who looked stoned out of his mind where you sign in at. He laughed and pointed to a woman sitting behind a folding table at the front of the room. I approached her and she said, "What group are you with?" Most of the people at this meet and greet had won a radio contest where they could come backstage with six of their friends and get their picture taken with Van Halen.
“I’m not with a group, I’m a solo artist,” I jokingly replied. She didn’t laugh and just looked confused. “I’m not with a group, I’m here alone,” I further explained, since she didn’t get the joke. “My name’s Marty Wombacher, I’m sure I’m on the list.”
She checked and told me my group number was three and wrote it on a piece of paper. I thanked her and wandered into the crowd. There was beer and soda on tables and people were mingling and talking. I found Jay and took his photo for the magazine. I then saw Jamie Markley and Scott Robbins two local radio personalities. I knew them both, because I was the world’s biggest media whore in Peoria and would try to get on all the radio shows whenever an issue of POP would come out. Jamie and Scott were on competing radio stations so I got a shot of the two of them strangling each other. A few minutes after that a woman came into the room and said she would explain how the meet and greet would work.
Basically, she just laid out a bunch of rules. She said no one could take their own photos, no one was to talk to the band, when your group number is called your group should walk up to the band and she’d take the photo. Then you were to approach the table and give the the woman your address and your photo would be mailed to you within a month. At the end she stressed again, that no one was to take their own photo of the band. “Fuck that,” I said to myself. I took my camera out of my jacket and turned my back to the people at the table and made sure the settings were correct on it. I shoved it back in my jacket pocket and was clutching the last issue of POP that I brought along for Eddie to hold. I was going to get that fucking shot one way or the other!
After her lecture on how to behave, they brought the band in. Everybody applauded and you could tell this was the last place in the world that Van Halen wanted to be. They were pointing at people and laughing and rolling their eyes. I kind of thought they looked like a bunch of assholes. Then the woman started calling numbers and my stomach really got the butterflies. If I didn’t get that shot my entire evening and probably rest of the week would be ruined. All I would do is obsess over how I blew it...I had to get that shot.
Group number two was called and I felt a little sick, but determined. I put my hand in my jacket pocket and put my camera in my hand. I wanted to be ready, because I knew I wouldn’t have much time. Then the moment came. “Group number three, please approach the band,” the woman barked out. The moment of truth had arrived. I took a very big and long breath and slowly approached the band. When they saw that I was the only one in my group they all started laughing at me. Alex Van Halen turned to Sammy Hagar and said something I couldn’t hear, but I did hear basist Michael Anthony say, “It’s the Maytage repairman! The lonliest man in town!”
I laughed and walked right up to Eddie Van Halen. He looked a little wasted on probably more than booze and I quickly spat out, “Eddie, please hold this magazine up in front of you.”
He made a face and said, “Huh?”
Now the woman’s yelling at me not to talk to the band and to turn around for my photo.
I ignored her and once again said to Eddie, “Please just hold this up in front of you, it’s more important than you know!”
And then it seemed like time stood still as Eddie grabbed the magazine and held it in front of him. I grabbed the camera took one shot and immediately after I took it, Sammy Hagar said to Eddie, “Look who’s the salesman now!”
To this day I have no idea what that meant, I’m guessing it was something about endorsement deals, but it pissed Eddie off and he said, “Fuck you!” and threw the magazine at my feet.
By now the woman is screaming for me to leave the room, so I just picked up the magazine, waved her off and said, “See ya!” and headed for the door before she called security. On my way out I made eye contact with Jay and mouthed the words, “Got it!” And he laughed and shook his head at me.
All night long I was nervous that the shot wouldn’t turn out. It took me at least twelve beers to get to sleep. The next day I got up, floored it to the mall and went to the one hour film store and said I needed them processed as soon as possible. The guy told me to come back in about a half an hour and they’d be ready. I went to the Orange Julius and got a hot dog and a diet Coke and then walked around nervously. It would be horrible to have gotten all that way and then blown the shot. Finally the half hour was up and I walked back to the one hour photo store.
I paid for the pictures, and quickly ripped open the bag. I was sweating as I was flipping through them and finally I got to this one. I ran to my car, put the pedal to the metal and raced it downtown. I ran into Jay’s office waving the photo bag and said, “I got it!”
Jay immediately broke out into laughter. We looked at the pictures and he congratulated me and then he had work to do. So I shook his hand and said, “This is going to be a great issue.” I walked over to the reception area and started flirting with Lisa.
“I heard you pissed off Eddie Van Halen,” she said laughing as I approached her desk.
“Ah, fuck him, I got the photo and that’s all that counts. Hey, I’ve got an idea, why don’t you take a little break and we can go make out for awhile in my car,” I asked her while moving my eyebrows up and down.
“You never quit, do you?” She said while laughing.
Lisa had long dark brown hair, was really pretty and was really...uhh...well, stacked, for a lack of better words. You know the car washing woman in “Cool Hand Luke?” Put brown hair on her and you’ve got Lisa, I swear to God!
“Look, why don’t we just go into my office, you take off your shirt and just let me look at your tits. And maybe touch them for like a minute. Then I swear to God I’ll leave you alone forever,” I told her.
She really laughed at that and said, “You know I’m half tempted to take you up on that offer, because part of me thinks you’d chicken out!”
“Really?” I said as my eyes got big as milk saucers.
“No,” She shot back as soon as she saw I was serious about it. “Look, I have phone calls to make and things to do, surely there’s a can of beer with your name on it somewhere in this city, far away from my desk.”
“Now that’s a great idea, and that’s exactly why I love you!” I told her with a smile.
“I love you too, sweetie, now get out!” She said smiling at me.
I drove home, opened a beer and put Van Halen’s first album on the stereo. I always liked Van Halen in the David Lee Roth years, he’s a great front man and Eddie is a genius guitarist. But you know what? They ain’t got nothing on Ray and Dave Davies!
I had a big day yesterday and put up a huge post. It took me over two hours to do, so today, since it’s a holiday, I thought I’d take it easy. I was going to go somewhere and get something to eat, but since it’s Memorial Day, I thought I’d have a cookout. I was out all day yesterday, so I’ve decided to have an indoor cookout. I’ve got the indoors, all I need now is something to cook. To the Food Emporium!
And through the magic of the internet, here we are.
And, again, through the magic of the internet, you're spared the shopping experience and get to gaze at this pretty woman who rang me up.
It's warm out tonight and the streets are still somewhat deserted, thanks to the holiday weekend.
Here's the inside of Union Square Park. I'm so happy summer's finally here!
Now it's time to show you the ingredients for tonight's meal. First off, I thought I'd have an appetizer and for that I got some shaved ham slices, Genoa salami, Italian crackers and Velveeta cheese.
For the main course, I decided I would make my own version of a Sloppy Joe. So I got two ground beef patties that have cheese and bacon mixed in with them, and for the sauce I got Stubbs Barbecue sauce, spicy mustard, A-1 Sauce and Italian dressing. In the bag is a fresh croissant. Let's get cooking!
But first...
Let's uncork a beer! I think I'll have the giant Budweiser.
Okay, first we'll brown the ground beef. I've also seasoned it with pepper and Coleman's mustard powder.
Okay, now I've added all the sauces and mustard and poured a splash of beer to turn the beef into a Sloppy Joe mixture. And by God it does look sloppy!
We'll cover it up and just let it simmer for a while.
Okay, while that simmers, I'm going to have the appetizer. It's a simple one, I just stacked Velveeta cheese, Genoa salami and ham on top of four Italian crackers and added a dollop of the spicy mustard to each one. (Sorry, Kari!)
Here's a fuzzy shot of it, delicious and went well with the giant beer!
Okay, three beers later and everything's ready! The Sloppy Joe mixture smells great!
For a twist, instead of a hamburger bun, I sliced a croissant in half and covered them with Velveeta cheese and toasted them.
And here's the finished product. Oh look, they're spooning, how cute! It was delicious if I do say so myself and I just did, so there! Hope you all had a nice Memorial Day, now I have to get ready for work. Ecch! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Okay, are you ready for your daily dose of whine? It was another horrific day at work. A stress-filled, rush job, nerve-jangling day. I was thinking about going the the Fortress of Papaya, but decided to just go home and have a few beers on my roof overhang outside of my apartment. I don’t go out there much and I really should. Everybody’s always jealous of it when they see it. Thinking about it brought back a memory I have of being out there and I thought I’d write that up tonight and illustrate it with real life pictures. So here goes!
On August 14th, 2003, it was a little after four in the afternoon and I was getting my shit together and getting ready to go into work. It was a hot summer afternoon and my window unit air conditioner was humming away. I was walking over to turn it off and before I got there it stopped on its own. I tried to turn a lamp on and it didn’t turn on either. The power was off. I was running late for work, so I just walked out and locked my door.
Walking down the stairs, I ran into my neighbor Deloy.
“Hey Deloy, is your power off too?” I asked walking down the creaky stairs.
“Yeah, I think the whole building is out. Are you going to work?” She asked.
“Yeah, I’m running a little late, I’ll see you later,” I said as I headed for the front door.
“Okay, I’m sure the power will be back on when you get home,” She said as I opened the front door.
And now it can finally be revealed. It was Deloy that caused the widespread blackout on August 14th, 2003! When she uttered the words, “Okay, I’m sure the power will be back on when you get home,” she jinxed a large part of this country and Canada. It’s like when you say at work, “It looks like it’s going to be an easy day” and then the proverbial shit hits the old fan. I’m sorry to be the one to finally reveal this Deloy, but I could keep it a secret no longer. It was too much of a burden on my conscience. Look on the bright side though, you’ll probably make the NY Post tomorrow! I can already picture the headline: “DELOY: DAUGHTER OF DARKNESS!” But anyway, back to the story! So I went out and walked to 6th Avenue. And when I got there, there was tons of people on the street. I looked up and noticed the traffic lights weren’t working.
“Do you know what’s going on?” I asked a sweaty fat man in a brown suit.
“The electricity is out over the whole city,” he told me while sweat ran down his fat face. “My neighbor said she heard on the radio it was another terrorist attack.
“Oh fuck!” I said in response. “Well, listen take care of yourself," I said to him and started walking uptown to work. I didn’t know what else to do.
He wished me good luck as I headed uptown on 6th Avenue in a sea of people with worried-ass faces. My stomach was in knots. I did not want to go through another September 11th. I was walking as fast as I could and soon I was at work. A lot of my co-workers were standing out in the street. I saw my boss Mike and went up to him and asked if he knew what was going on. He explained it was a blackout that was not only in New York but in several other states as well. I was just relieved it wasn’t going to be another September 11th. He told me he heard it could last through the night and that I might as well go home. He also told me some people had no way to get home because of the train situation and might be stuck there all night.
And this is where I have to confess a bit of a selfish moment takes place. I started realizing people might start asking me to spend the night at my place since I live in the city. My apartment is tiny and it could turn into a mess if people were to start asking and it would be hard to turn people down. I told Mike I’d come back if the power came back on and walked right into Sam Wong and his wife, Hilda.
I had worked with Sam for years and he’s a friend of mine. He and Hilda live in Long Island and I knew they had no way to get home, because the trains weren’t running.
“Listen, I hate to ask this,” Sam said and I knew what was coming, “but we have nowhere to go. Can we stay at your place tonight.”
So what was I going to do? I told him they could and then said, “Let’s get the hell out of here, I can’t have twenty fucking people staying at my place. So we walked to my apartment. When we got to the corner of 16th and 6th I looked at the corner deli and my resources kicked in big time and I uttered five very important words: “We gotta get some beer!”
Sam and Hilda don’t drink booze, so they got some water and I bought three six packs of 16 ounce Budweisers. I’m always a firm believer of, it’s better to have more, than not enough! And so we went back to my apartment.
We walked in, put our bags down and it was hotter than a bonfire in hell in there. I instinctively walked over and tried to turn the air conditioner on.
“Unless that thing’s hooked up to a generator, I don’t think you’re going to have much luck with that,” Sam said, being a wise-ass.
“Listen, unless you want to sleep on the street, you better start kissing my ass!” I told him.
“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Sam shot back.
“Aw fuck you,” I said and I grabbed my beer to put it in the freezer.
I don’t defrost my freezer nearly enough...
See? But it worked in my favor that day, I knew it would keep my beer cold through the night. As you can see, I fall into survival of the fittest mode fastly!
So we opened my door that leads to the roof overhang so some air would come in. I walked over to my boombox and said, “I’m going to turn the radio on and see if we can hear some news.” Then I realized I didn’t have any batteries for it.
“We have to go get some batteries,” I said to Sam and Hilda.
“No batteries? Wow, you’re really prepared for an emergency situation here,” Sam said sarcastically.
“Hey fuck you, I’ve got more beer than anybody on this block right now, let’s go, it’ll give us something to do,” I shot back and we headed outside.
We got the batteries and were back in my apartment listening to the radio. I was drinking beer and it was boiling hot in there. We finally decided to go out and just take a walk. Walking around we found a pizza place that had a wood burning oven, so each got a slice and walked to Union Square park and ate it. There were a lot of people out and the mood was almost festive. I think a lot of people were like me and were just relieved it wasn’t some terrorist thing.
It started getting dark and before you knew it, New York looked like this!
Sam, Hilda and I headed back home and it was spooky walking in the pitch black New York night. The only things that were lit up on the streets were Mr. Softee trucks, they work on generators, and they were doing a booming business.
We made it back to my place and with the help of a cigarette lighter I found some candles and a flashlight, we lit them up and sat down, but the heat was stifling.
I’m going to go sit out on the roof,” I said getting up and taking a plastic chair with me to sit on.
Sam said he’d join me and Hilda said she just wanted to lay down. So we opened up my futon, I got her a pillow and Sam and I went outside. We brought a couple candles out and I set the flashlight at us so we wouldn’t be sitting in the pitch black night.
There’s a huge loft across from me and it was lit up with candles and I think a few flashlights. There were two people on the couch and they were making out.
“Looks like we might see some action!” I said to Sam.
“This is better than TV, hey look, channel 2,” Sam said pointing to another window lit up with candles. There were people inside and it looked like they were having a party in there.
I got up and got a beer and when I walked back out on to the roof, I looked over and saw a small window that was lit up and there was a woman standing in front of a mirror, messing around with her hair. She had light brown hair down to her shoulders, she was attractive, probably mid-twenties and she had on a pink halter top.
“Hey asshole,” I said to Sam, “check out channel 3!”
“Whoa!” Sam said eyeing the woman who was still posing in front of her mirror. “She’s pretty hot!”
“No shit,” I fired back. “She must have a portable light in there, it’s all lit up. She’s got a halter top on, if she takes that thing off we’ll see her tits!”
“Oh, shit!” Sam said kind of loudly.
It’s sad, but true, that two guys our age could be reduced to the mentality of a twelve-year-old boy looking at his first Playboy, at the thought of seeing some strange woman’s breasts. But what are you going to do?
When Sam said, “Oh, shit,” she looked out the window in our direction and immediately ran out of the room after she saw us leering at her. Seconds later she came back with a towel and covered the window up.
Sam eventually went to bed and I moved on to vodka, but that’s a whole different story and one too long to tell now.
The next day, Sam and Hilda left and went to Penn Station. The power was still off and I went out to get the chair off of the roof. I looked over at the window and the towel was down and you could see in again. I walked over and was staring at it and before I knew it, the woman was back in there and saw me staring at the window. She ran out of the room and there’s been a shade on the window ever since.
------------------ Bonus Photo by Jason Kuffer! Last week I went to the 11th Annual Joey Ramone Birthday Bash and ran into my friend Jason Kuffer there. Jason snapped a photo of me taking a picture and here it is. To see more of Jason’s photos from the show click here: Jason Kuffer’s Photos From the Joey Ramone Birthday Bash. And here’s some backstage and after-party shots he snapped: More Jason Kuffer Photos. Great work, Jason, thanks for sending in the photo and links!
Okay, since it’s the 4th of July and a holiday, I thought I’d stay home and just relax and cook a nice holiday dinner. It’s going to be a little bit of what I like to call a “quickity blickity blog.” So let’s get this party started!
I'll warn you in advance, this isn't going to be the most exciting MAD post ever. Okay, on with the holiday dinner. I'm starting off by cooking a sliced red potato in my electric skillet.
Next I'll pop this ear of corn into the microwave.
And here's the main course, a T-bone steak! I just realized tonight I've never cooked a steak in this apartment.
And here goes. Will my tiny little toaster oven be capable of cooking this? I think so, it'll just take some time.
And while everything's cooking, time to take a snack break with Chicken in a Biskit and Sleazy Cheese.
Sleazy Cheese always has a somewhat nuclear look to it, but it's delicious and probably horrible for you. Which makes it even better.
And here's my 4th of July feast. It was delicious!
And now for dessert! Tomorrow's blog will have a little more substance to it, I promise! I hope you all had a great 4th of July, but now the party's over. Sob! See you all tomorrow after dark.
Four Holiday Songs
Holiday by Madonna
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