Stukas Over Southpaw

The always-elusive Dickies played a bunch of East-coast shows shortly after New Year's -- they played a weird $45 New Year's Eve lock-in at some newly-fancy shithole on the Bowery, and then on the 2nd they did a show at Southpaw with The Kowalskis, a ticket for which I bought as soon as I saw found them on sale. I'm always a little worried they're never going to back out here.

They opened with "Rosemary," as they've been doing for the past I-don't-know-how-many years. It's a great song, but nobody danced. And I was like, man, these Park Slope fuckers, they're just gonna stand around. Because that's what punk audiences are like these days, especially for bands of a "certain age" -- moms and dads (both looking like members of The Lone Gunmen) who brought their kids to the show and most certainly do not want to dance. But then they launched into "Nights In White Satin" and the pit opened up so fast and so violently that I thought somebody'd started a fight (actually someone had, but, you know).

• See My Way
• I'm Okay, You're Okay
• Waterslide
• My Pop the Cop
• Give It Back
• Poodle Party
• Paranoid
• Manny, Moe, & Jack
• I Got It At The Store
• If Stuart Could Talk
• Going Homo
• You Drive Me Ape
• Gigantor

And for the encore,

• Rockin' In The Free World
• Banana Splits

By way of introducing the former, Leonard said, "Alright, everybody: It's a new year and we've got a new president. This one's for him." And that's weird, coming from Leonard. But he seemed different all night -- happy, engaged. The lyrics to "I'm Okay You're Okay," always obscure, changed again.

The band was plagued with electrical problems throughout: Stan's amp kept squawking and hissing, the result of a bum cord; and then he broke a string, temporarily forsaking his yellow Spider-Man SG for Kitty Kowalski's powder blue one. And I would've expected Leonard to pout like the Dauphin in Henry IV or storm off or something, but he was relaxed and understanding, and he had banter to spare: After explaining at length how happy he was to be back in beautiful Queens, New York, he opened the floor up for questions:

"Alright, Q & A. Ask me anything."

"When's the new album coming out?"

"No comment."

"How's your mom doing?"

"No comment."

"How old are you?"

"No comment."

The precise attitudinal pH of The Dickies is something I've puzzled over for a long time. A band that plays nonsense music to an audience of shoving punks; maybe it's a California thing, re-purposing your sugary pop-culture milieu as something dark and rough. That's sort of what the Dead Kennedys pulled off, and it's a little like what I always had in mind for The Headliners: Writing music that's not grotty or mean on first listen but nonetheless achieves a kind of punk perfection by tricking the audience into taking seriously a bunch of inconsequential doggerel. You know. "Horse The Cop."

Now (that I've transmitted Christmas presents to Nina) it can be told: I spent several hours on a Friday night several weeks ago waiting to meet Chris Onstad at a signing at Rocketship in the Carroll Gardens. I showed up on the late side, having underestimated both the time constraints and the popularity of the event and found myself at the end of a line stretching around the corner. Passersby kept stopping to ask what all the fuss was about, and the guys in front of me couldn't help themselves, apparently, from sounding like total assholes: "It's a comic. Well, a web-comic. That's a comic that the creator -- usually they're self-published -- puts on a web site, typically in daily installments -- although they're free to publish on whatever schedule they choose..." Ai yi yi. I kept my head down; I felt awkward enough as it was, finishing an enormous George R. R. Martin book. For a long time the line didn't move, and then someone from the store came out to say that Chris had taken a break, sneaking out the back of the store (I shit you not) to drink a couple of shots at a bar, but now he was back and signing again, and to not give up hope. So I didn't, and eventually I made it inside and got to meet him. The guy himself looks like a cross between Ray and Pat from the comic. I was, I think, the third-to-last person to get signed, right behind a short little nerd who asked for five copies and wanted to talk a lot. Onstad looked exhausted, but he was still polite when he shook my hand, even though I still had that gross little chin-beard, the punishment beard.

"Who's this for?" he asked.

"Nina," I said.

"She a Philippe girl?" he asked, signing.

"Actually, she likes Roast Beef," I said.

Later, I shaved off the punishment beard.

Nina and I made another pilgrimage to Bay Ridge last weekend, in order to fill a prescription at the Duane Reade on 86th. It was a bitterly cold Saturday night, characteristic of the frigid weather we've been having. We'd committed to eating dinner out there, but none of the restaurants really seemed to be beckoning, so we just walked up and down Fort Hamilton Parkway. We bought some rye bread at a Polish grocery and looked in the window of a storefront that promised "PUPPIES" (they weren't kidding). Finally, we headed shiveringly down 5th Ave. with the intent of heading back to Sunset Park, but found ourselves in front of a Greek place called Agnanti that we decided to give a shot. It turned out to be great. They sat us (well, me) in front of a nice, hot wood-burning stove. I had lamb stew, allowing my post-November 4th attempt at vegetarianism to lapse a bit. (I am trying, though). Nina had an enormous fish thing. We ordered a half-carafe of retsina, thinking it was a kind of red. Was there something else I was supposed to remember? Along with the rest of the restaurant, we sang "Happy Birthday" to somebody whose birthday it was.

Oh, you know. Happy New Year, too.