gremmie.net

My roommate Jeff Cantwell is a swell guy. I use the word ’swell’ because it harkens back to an age where guys like Wally Beaver and Andy Griffith had their fingers on the pulse of American culture. The word accurately captures Jeff’s demeanor. Jeff is Wally Beaver.

According to Tim Monaghan and company however, there is a dark side. There exists an underground cadre of misfits known as Jeff Club. The following is a list of rules I managed to procure through arduous means.

Rule #1
You do not talk about Jeff Club

Rule #2
YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT JEFF CLUB

Rule #3
Any break over 20MM will be cleaned up and taken care of by Mike, no earlier than 5pm.

Rule #4
Any break under 1,200 is of the utmost importance and will be brought to Mike’s attention immediately; they are priority!

Rule #5
Any break between 1,201 and 20mm will clean up by itself.

Rule #6
Be content with the smaller, individual trophy.

Rule #7
Nobody else matters but me!

Rule #8
Buy high, sell low…or buy high, hold it until the company goes bankrupt; whichever makes the least amount of sense.

Rule #9
You’re never wrong, if YOU think you are right!

Rule #10
It’s not a sport if judges and/or machines are involved.

Rule #11
Liar’s poker is not a game, it’s life.

Rule #12
No matter what anyone says, skinny ties are still “in.”

Rule #13
If a basketball player ever dunks “in your face”, deny it ever happened.

Rule #14
Whatever is not nailed down is mine.

Rule #15
When asking to explain a situation/process, the following steps should be taken:
a.Listen to correct answer.
b.Criticize and defend incorrect (your) answer.
c.Begin explaining why this process is stupid/dumb.
d.Continue defending your answer/opinion until other party becomes annoyed and asks you to leave.

Arlene’s Grocery on Stanton in the Bowery is not a good place to buy peppers. On Monday night’s however it’s a great place to be a rock wannabe. At the behest of my old high school pal and current Bear Stearns employee Len Copicotto, my roommate Jeff and I took the F Train to the Bowery last night to what can only be dubbed a microcosm inside a microcosm. Every Monday night Arlene’s Grocery, which you gremmies have undoubtedly figured out is NOT an actual grocery store, hosts Hard Rock Karaoke where everyone can be a rock n’ roll star. With a full backing band that’s hella tight, the place suggests if you have the proverbial cohones to get up on stage and sing in front of the crowd. It’s simple, you pick a song from the short list of covers, wait for your name to be called, then start rocking.

The jovial atmosphere of hard rockers straight out of Brooklyn and all 5 points makes for a surprisingly communal bunch with a decidedly “amongst friends” attitude. And there were some kick ass peformances to boot. Between the AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses, Kiss, Janis Joplin, and what? Madonna? there was ne’er a dull moment. Seeing how this wasn’t exactly the type of music I sing, I opted out, much to the chagrin of my two inebriated friends. Highlights included some guy’s rendition of “Another Little Piece of my Heart” by Janis Joplin and “Welcome to the Jungle” by G n’R.

Pittsburgh is a dirty place. For all its years beneath clouds of toxic soot and its tumultuous history with Andrew Carnegie and the riotous Pinkertons, there are better places to take vacations. That’s what I thought anyway. This is what the world thinks of Pittsburgh. But as it turns out, Pittsburgh is a surprisingly lovely place to visit. Visit.

I promised my good friend H I would come see him in Pittsburgh, and more specifically Carnegie Mellon, before he graduated with his Master’s Degree in Design. My flight was last Wednesday evening, the 13th. I was to stay until early morning Sunday. I left work early on Wednesday for my 7pm flight. Hoping to have my advanced copy of Haughty Melodic before I left I rushed home and checked with the doorman if the package had arrived. “Nope.” he says. To which I responded with, “Are you sure?” Looking at me like a dumb deer in headlights he said, “Yup.” This was an omen and I should have seen it sooner because the next hour consisted of my rush to leave betwixt dirty laundry, an undecided but mostly HOT shower, and creating new but unsatisfactory playlists on my iPod. On the way out of my building I was fine for time so I once again asked the doorman, “Look it was supposed to be here today. I tracked it online. Can you check one more time?” (Checks for disc) “Oh my bad, here it is.” Great. So I rush back upstairs in an effort to get these tracks on my iPod. It takes me a 45 minutes. By now I’ve missed the bus to the airport, and a taxi seems like the only solution. Fortunately there are piles lined up outside my building. $45? Fine, whatever - just get me to JFK in and hour and a half. “No problem.” my Pakistani driver insisted. Traffic during rushour in NY moves slower than frozen molasses running down a maple tree. But I had time on my side. To make a long story short, time wasn’t on my side, I made my flight with literally 4 minutes to spare and in the process pissed off an entire line of people waiting at the shoeless security check. Oh, and my flight was delayed during the stopover in DC for an hour. Joy.

I arrived in Pittsburgh at close to midnight. The airport was desolate, much like the nameless town from the 1959 episode of the Twilight Zone, Where is Everybody?. H picked me up and we drove to his place. The drive back was peaceful and I got to see Pittsburgh at night, we chatted about the things we always chat about. Depth shorted by weary brevity.

The food in Pittsburgh is unmatched for what it has to offer. H, having been a resident for the better part of 2 years, knew all the swell places to go. His knowledge base was the stepping stone for the sumptuous meals we’d had. Pamela’s fried pancakes with whipped butter was the first bite I had on Thursday morning. The crispy cakes mixed with syrup made for the best breakfast to ever soften this Gremmie’s lips. And I wasn’t the one who ordered it, it was H. I was cramping his breakfast. The decor was markedly blue collar, something I found to be both common and charming about Pittsburgh. The steak burgers and layer-thick milkshakes at Steak N’ Shake, pirogies, the filet mignon steak sandwiches, and endless array of crispy fries were just some of the things I devoured in Pitt. It may clog your arteries, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t worth it.

The weather was perfect all weekend with temperatures in the 70’s.

We began Thursday with a tour of Pittsburgh and great tunes in the dashboard. Any guy who puts “Say Hello to Heaven” on a mixtape gets my vote for president. Of the U.S.A. Yes, THAT U.S.A. The houses in Pittsburgh remind me of what America should have been all along, and something that it once was. The sturdy brick houses and rocksteady, yet accessible neighborhoods harken back to a day when condos didn’t exist and next door neighbors spoke to one another. Every other house had a porch on it; memories of the older days. H had as much of an appreciation for these aesthetics as I did, no surprise there. Pittsburgh is a very hilly town. Like the Appalachians only without the Indians and DUI’s. The city is separated into no less than 20 neighborhoods each with its own character and personality. Where Squirrel Hill is more locally residential, Shady Side was more student oriented with its requisite Starbucks and Banana Republic.

Then there was Jenni. If you held up an emerald to the sun on warm and clear day, the illuminated green shone through best describes the color of her eyes. The poster child for Pantene Pro-V, her hair full and shiny. She’s as pleasant as a lamb yet she drives a pickup truck. Appealing in a way I cannot adequately describe.

The nightlife in Pittsburgh is what you make it. Someone once told me it’s ranked number 40 on the list of cities to be single. Who conjures up these ridiculous polls anyhow? Like anytown, it’s a fun and exciting place if you know where to go. Fortunately Harlan and Jenni were well versed from 2 years of steeltown kicks. Between Fatheads, the Tiki Lounge, and the Sharp Edge, there was never a dull moment in Pittsburgh. Well except for that house party where we all saw what could only be described as the inspiration for Jeff Kanew’s Revenge of the Nerds. See below. That’s a GIRL. I mused to myself if these people were aware they can only exist in a vaccuum.

wow

2 herbs and a hottie

The girl on the right is Kara. She’s Jenni’s great friend and a laugh-riot that everyone needs to know if only to bring a bit of boisterous sunshine into their lives.

The Tiki Lounge. Fun place, apparently they have a dark make-out room.

H & M

M + J

Kara and the guys she was not-so-secretly poking fun of.

And here’s a couple at the Sharp Edge where once a year the Grad Students get a few rounds of free drinks. I snuck in and was no worse for the wear.

awww

again, awww

Since it was a festival weekend at Carnegie Mellon there was an outdoor fair with Skeeball, mock up fun houses made by frats, and a Monkey Maze, something I regret not going into. It was like Coney Island, only without the meth addicts and gang wars.

Frat Row at CMU

Wither goest thou sweet Monkey Maze

Fortunate as me.

For good measure.

Harlan was doing a lovely thing for his little cousin. He had sent H a cutout of a gentleman named Flat Stanley to keep him company. H, took some great pictures of Flat Stanley in and around Pitt. What a nice guy. The first picture taken was at a pod race (dubbed aPods) at Carnegie Mellon. A clash of engineering and tiny Asians, I missed out on the event for reasons defined harrowing.

flat stanley

There was a great picture taken of a whiteboard in one of the Design rooms where H and Co. design all manners of things. It read “gremmie was here and he beat up some nerds” but since it has mysteriously dissappeared I can only tell you gremmies about it. The Carnegie Mellon campus is great, nothing like what I am accustomed to. It’s rife with history and culture and H and myself even managed to find time to throw around the old football on the campus green. Like the town, the campus is also quite hilly, like Tuscany only without the Italians and lush verdant fields.

Pittsburgh was a great excursion. The food, the nightlife, and more importantly the company made me a happy gremmie in Laundrytown. There’s more to tell in this story, but that’s the case with any tale worth its weight in salt. We’ll just have to see where it goes.

My Mom called me at 7:00 in the morning yesterday and I didn’t pick up. I was asleep. After checking my voice mail, my heavy eyes suddenly popped open like a window shade pulled down too tight. The planned ‘Cinco De Mayo’ C-Section for my robustly pregnant Sister-In-Law was haphazardly and immediately rescheduled last night and James Cornelius Moore was born. Congrats to Jackie and Neil.

Despite the axiomatic media machine that suggests men are frequently rough, beer chugging buffoons replete with naturally unkempt hair, dirty socks, and stacks of Dad’s old porno mags, I have discovered evidence that tells a different story. There is a place in New York City where grown men go to be pampered. That place is John Allan’s.

Eschewing the moron caricature that fans the flames of idiot magazines like Maxim and to a lesser extent Spike TV, John Allan’s is testament to the long forgotten sentiment of class. At the behest of my boss, Sam Gilman, I scheduled an appointment for 5:30pm yesterday. Having often had a laugh at Sam’s expense with co-workers Edwin, Rahul and Jeeil, it was time to put up or shut up. Located on 46th and Vanderbilt and dubbed the ‘manspa’ by my collegues, John Allan’s is described on its website as a “club”; though that barely does the establishment justice. The Full Service treatment - which is the only way to go - consists of a well-groomed doorman removing your blazer and bag to the coatroom and adorning you with a fresh black John Allan smock, a soporific scalp massage and shampoo follows, a hot towel wrap, a professionally styled haircut by the amiably chatty staff, a manicure (which i have since dubbed ‘dude-icure’ ), and a shoeshine that gleems in the midtown sun. Did I mention the beer? As you begin your fantastic voyage, the staff asks what beverage you’d prefer. If you’ve never had a pretty girl ask you if you want a beer before giving you a hand massage, you’re missing out. Running the gamut from beer (2 kinds) to iced tea, you are also premitted to bring your own alcohol. There’s also a full bar in the back by the pool table. That’s right, once you finish your service you can treat yourself to a game of 8-Ball or a cigar in the smoking room. The atmosphere is a rife mix of elegance and comfort. The classic brown leather couches in the waiting area slightly worn from wear, the old school cast-iron barber shop chairs, the red velvet on the cherry-black pool table, and free flowing beer taps makes this Gremmie wonder why he ever went anywhere else to begin with. John Allan’s is the kind of place any self respecting gentelman needs to know about. It’s a gentleman’s place.

I’m fairly certain that on repeat visits, one garners an even deeper appreciation for John Allan’s. I’m told getting to know the staff on a more personal level is just one of the fringe benefits as their smiles and pleasant company are only outshined by their rockity hotness.

Lucky Gremmie. I obtained an advanced copy of Mike Doughty’s Haughty Melodic late last week before my trip to Pittsburgh. I am hard-up on it and this is how it goes.

Mike Doughty’s voice has a melancholy ring to it. It’s somber when appropriate, and kinetic when kinetic comes calling. In his first full length studio album since his days in Soul Coughing, Haughty Melodic succeeds more than it fails but ultimately leaves listeners marginally let down by what could have been. It’s remarkable what sobriety can do to a man. The first single, ‘Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well’ is fantastic. An eclectic rock palette of sonic guitars, power driven vocals, and acute mix of percussion, ‘Well’ comes off sounding like the first wave of what could be a professionally produced album. As the introductory track, ‘Well’ gives the newcomer fan something to chirp about and in the end, ends up being only slightly-deceptive. The follow up track, ‘Unsingable Name’ is of the same ilk.

Fan favorites ‘Busting Up A Starbuxx’, ‘American Car’ and ‘Tremendous Brunettes’ color the album with broad appeal as they are both accessible to Joe Public and ensconced in enough urban word stylings to nibble the ears of the hip. As a guest vocalist on the last of the three, Dave Matthews sounds ridiculous. While Doughty’s hip-hop inspired motivations of having Matthews guest on the track is ostensibly a good idea, the execution falls flat as their two voices go together like Mustard and Glue. These three songs were otherwise well cared-for in the studio however and wholly sate the thirst of those who have heard the songs thousands of times live and wondered how studio renditions would fare.

‘White Lexus’ is exactly the same as the rough mix many Doughty fans heard while anxiously awaiting the completion of Haughty Melodic. Marking my favorite rough mix, this is more complimentary than anything else. With an acoustic guitar and lullaby lyrics this track could both get you laid and put you right to sleep afterward. ‘Grey Ghost’ is the same; no different than its rough mix version, albeit a bit cleaned up. Sadly, the result isn’t the same as ‘White Lexus’ as it’s drums sound hollow and guitars are too threadbare to give the song the assaulting personality that audiences chew up during live shows.

Haughty Melodic’s standout track is ‘I Hear the Bells’. Hidden past the halfway mark, ‘Bells’ is a gem that made a welcome transition from ordinary live song to studio monster. Harkening back to better days in Soul Coughing when Doughty’s perseverate wordsmithing made for the most esoteric and mouth-watering lyrics of the decade, the line from ‘Bells’, “You snooze you lose, well I have snost and lost.” reminds me of how good Mike Doughty can be when he sticks to what he’s best at.

‘His Truth is Marching On’ is in fact NOT a cover of the Julia Ward Howe song ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ whose most famous line is eponymous of Doughty’s song. It should have been a B-Side. Misguided but chock full of theological character, this song will make you wish Doughty and Wilson decided to include the cover of The Magnetic Fields’ ‘The Book of Love’ instead.

‘Sunken-Eyed Girl’ is a dissappointment. Layden heavy with New York references, the lyrics succeed at illustrating the environment. The direction Doughty took with this one in the studio musically however really kills the South of Houston vibe. The progressive drum beat drowns out the savory imagery, murdering lines like “Keep the wrong hands off the biscuit fortune.” as if it refuses to let anything else reign.

I’m glad that Mike and producer Dan Wilson decided on drumming up ‘Your Misfortune’ from this album’s cache of recorded songs. As it closes the album, it’s a fine song and one that Doughty’s fans - on the whole - have never heard before but will surely appreciate if at least for its agreeable acoustic backbone and lullaby catchy chorus.

The main problem with Haughty Melodic is that it’s sometimes half baked, leaving you with a doughy,’that could have sounded better’, taste in your mouth. Dissappointingly wistful. Primarily suffering this are the percussive elements. Dan Wilson, the album’s producer mixes it up occasionally with N.E.R.D.’s Eric Fawcett on drums but often doesn’t sound any more creative than your average drum machine. The bland percussion bleeds into a handful of the songs, hampering an otherwise maverick effort. And therein lies the root of the problem. While Doughty has often toured with a drummer and keyboard player, he hasn’t been able to successfully blend his distinctly throaty voice and capo driven guitar riffs to anything but a one man act. While the more hardcore fans would argue ‘the Doveman’ - Doughty’s sometime keyboard player and muse - between a variety of other voices, the strongest and most overwhelming still remains Doughty’s.

Fans of his music will undoubtedly flock to pick this up as soon as possible. And they should. Having waited a number of years for Doughty to release a full-on EP, the result is satisfying and worth much more than the sum of its parts. Where it’s flat, it isn’t flat to the point of being entirely off-putting and where it shines it fits perfectly and unwittingly forces you to flip the “Repeat All” button.