I went to see the Pixies last night at New York’s worst venue — Hammerstein Ballroom. The music sounded great, of course; any night you get to hear “Broken Face” live is a very good night. But the club — yeesh. Memo to the management: 1) Pay for two more coat checkers by eliminating the entirely unnecessary and unwanted bathroom attendants. Your venue’s shitters are linoleum and porcelain, and your hand towels are made of cabbage-rough cardboard. This isn’t Tavern on the Green. It goes without saying that no one wants your fucking Aqua Velva. 2) Expedite the entrance procedure by eliminating retarded bag searches at a Pixies show. No one is going to pull a Dimebag Darrell on Frank Black or Kim Deal for breaking up the Pixies — they would have done that long ago. And al Qaeda has more salacious targets than a run-down concert hall stuffed full of honky-white indie rock fans. (It must be noted here that I stood next to a black guy, and felt privileged to do so. He was an inspiration to say the least; he danced his legs down to the knees in general, and nearly took flight during “UMass.” This exuberance was a stark contrast to everyone else nearby, who were almost certainly one of the following: 1) fat, 2) pregnant, 3) old as Satan, 4) ugly, 5) unmoved by the awesome power of the Pixies, to the point where they barely moved their heads, even when “Here Comes Your Man” kicked in. Bonus fact: There wasn’t even a fucking mosh pit!) 3) Make David Byrne dance. Don’t let that pale-ass motherfucker sit on his bony buttocks the whole show. And definitely don’t let him get up to go to the bathroom during “Monkey Gone to Heaven.” Suggestion: Use a taser. 4) Tell Frank Black Francis that he absolutely must play “Distance = Rate x Time” tonight, under penalty of AJS law. Or a taser. Who wouldn’t want to see someone taser that guy?


It is 22 below zero in my apartment right now. My landlord told me last week that the thermostat is in the most well-insulated room in the brownstone, meaning that I’m fucked unless that particular room, many floors above me, is kept Haiti hot. But that shouldn’t be a problem because — no guff — he’s from Haiti. So why am I freezing my nips off?