GIMME SOME MO

TV on the Radio return in October

Mencken a Whole Lotta Sense

"The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace in a continual state of alarm (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing them with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary."

-H. L. Mencken

Kings Highway*

Photo courtesy of Jason Wallenstein

* the state of mind

VIA CHICAGO

Last weekend was fun. Chicago, as usual, delivered. Great music, great food, great weather...great times for SpiderRoll. The trip started off with a bump when my flight was cancelled, but from the moment I landed to the time I left it was amazing. Three days in a row at Grant Park for Lollapalooza, a Saturday late night trip to the Green Mill to see some jazz, an early Sunday afternoon at Wrigley, Oberon on tap nearly everywhere. Awesome.

Top 10 Acts I Saw (in order of level of enjoyment):

1. Wolfmother
2. Wilco
3. The Raconteurs
4. Ween
5. Sonic Youth
6. Ryan Adams
7. Red Hot Chili Peppers
8. Shins
9. Editors
10. Iron & Wine

Whether it was the Cubs game, a cheeseburger at Boston Blackies or just plain hard choices (The Raconteurs v. My Morning Jacket, Wolfmother v. Calexico, Ween v. Death Cab for Cutie, etc.), there was a bunch of music I didn't get to see...

Top 10 Acts I Missed (in order of level of dissapointment:)

1. My Morning Jacket
2. Calexico
3. Death Cab for Cutie
4. The Secret Machines
5. The Hold Steady
6. Broken Social Scene
7. Sleater Kinney
8. Hot Chip
9. Built to Spill
10. sa-ra

And while were at it, the Top Six Things I Ate:

1. Chicago dogs in the shadow of Wrigley
2. Saganaki in Greektown
3. Truffle french fries at Rockit
4. Deep dish at Lou Malnatis
5. Cheese burger at Boston Blackies
6. Tacos in Bucktown

Dental Damn!

by Ian Dougherty

I hate dentists. Really, F all of them. Ever since I was little, I dreaded going to that cocksmokers office, full of needles and devilish grins. The truth is that a dentist soled me out. For real, the deal went all wrong. Correct me if I am mistaken but the deal has always been I eat a ton of shit and you fix my teeth. I shell out money for a visit that my insurance does not cover and you fix my fucking teeth. This has always been a sweet deal, one that has stood the test of time. Then why do I have a fucking blue tooth? Want to know why? I have shitty insurance and went to a doctor on my plan. The doctor, this smug icehole with his fucking tan. You know the dude, short, stocky white guy who was wearing Birkenstocks and a lacrosse shirt in college. This pipesmoker sits me down and looks at my teeth faster then a Jew charges interest. Then he says o.k. and walks out. O.k, O.k? What the F is that shit? He leaves, forcing me to stare at pictures of him and his brother (the other bitch dentist) with their bad tans and umbro shorts, drinking some Johnnycake drink on the beach. Like I care where you vacation you pompous dickweed. I want degrees on my doctor’s wall, lots of them proclaiming that he can perform surgery and juggle burning spears. Next, some long nailed, Brooklyn accent hygienist comes in and X-rays my teeth. As she does this she is talking to the television during Price is right. Fucking price is right, hey lady, I have this x-ray film half way up my check and drool running down my fucking shirt, who the shit cares if the Formica table is only two fifty. Shit!! Fifteen minutes later the dude comes back and tells me that I need Root Canal, he cannot do the surgery, the canal is too narrow. Fuck it, Root canal. I have never had it but it has been a scary word since I was a kid.

Things I feared as a child:
1) Root Canal.
2) Jumping on a bed with a balloon in my mouth because I could choke and die.
3) Hebrew School
4) Cat Piss

So the tan shiteater recommends a colleague of his, a broad endodontist. F it right, what do I have to lose? I do not know, how about a Farging Tooth. A week later, I am in this bird’s office and she is X-raying me again, for her own results. Like she knew what the F she was doing. She returns five minutes later and tells me that she can do the Root Canal. Cool, let’s dance. She numbs the back of my gum, not once but twice. I tell her I can still feel so she hits the front of my gum, swelling my lips and gums. She goes to work, drilling and poking and drilling and poking. My mind is racing, back to pulled teeth and reciting my haftorah. Days of my dad chain smoking with the car windows rolled up, of my grandmother looking at me like I was a slice of bacon at the Seder, not a mixed up half-breed. She is drilling and poking, 45 minutes. Then she stops abruptly, says interesting and puts her instrument down. She tells me that the canal is to narrow and she can’t continue. She wants me to come back in a few days. What, you were working on my shit for 45 minutes and now you say this!!!??? That is what I want to scream; instead, I say “o.k.” One week later, I return. Except this time, I have brought a friend. Either this doc didn’t use sterile equipment or I had a drunken night with female sailor because I had a sore in my mouth that would make a crack head cringe. I have never had a canker sore before but imagine getting a hot iron shoved up your ass while listening to a Yani marathon. Shit ain’t no good. So she goes back to work and twenty minutes later, she gets more X-rays. This time she notices a crack in the tooth. Now I am no doctor but last week there was no mention of a crack and now the tooth is fucked like Ken Lay. So I ask a profound question, “What does that mean?” Next thing I know the bitch is talking about extraction and inserting a flipper. Yes, a damn flipper, a removal tooth that looks like a chicklet with a bit plate. What, is this for real? She says we should extract it today, I know a great surgeon. I say fine. I need to make a call. I tell the receptionist that I need to go outside and I jet. I just take off, up the block to my childhood dentist who doesn’t take my insurance. I call my mother on the way so she can use her yenta skills to get me an appointment. The conversation went something like this:

I: Mom, they screwed up my tooth and I think it needs to be extracted
M: Oh my god, Oh my god.
I: I am not sure, can you call Dr Koonan for me and get me a quick appointment.
M: Oh my god, Oh my god
I: Mom just call him
M: What do you mean it needs to be extracted?
I: Mom
M: Oh my god

So I finally get the appointment. My old trusty doctor X-rays my mouth again; this is getting to be ridiculous. Any more radiation and I will be growing a third testicle. He looks it over and tells me, not good. Whoever drilled your canal drilled east to west and cracked your tooth. What, now I am getting neurotic, full Woody Allen meltdown. He tells me if you hurry, I can get you an appointment with my guy, he is a root canal expert. So I run four blocks away to the doctor. On the way my father calls. The conversation went something like this:

D: Ian? What happened?
I: Some dentist fucked my tooth up
D: I will kill him.
I: It was a her
D: I will kill her
I: I am going to a new dentist
D: Where is that ladies office?
I: I will call you later…

I enter the new dentist’s office and explain my story. He takes me right in. Of course, he doesn’t take my insurance but at this point, I just want to keep the damn tooth. He sits me down and takes X-rays, my face glows in the dark. He tells me that the tooth is compromised, not cracked. He explains that he can try the root canal and then help fix the tooth. As he begins to numb my gums (for the second time today), he asks if I was also numbed in the front. I say yes. He says Geez. What the fuck is that shit dude? Geez, I am fucked. He starts on the Root Canal. He drills and picks, drills and picks. Can’t do it he tells me, the canal is too narrow. What the fuck is this shit, Venice? Drill that shitsucking canal. He can’t. What he can do is put some concrete shit on the back of my tooth to close the crack. This shit feels like I am tonguing the pavement. So he works on my tooth for a while, tells me to wait four hours before I eat or drink so that I don’t loosen the concrete. I pay and I go home. Fuck it, I wait seven hours. Unfortunately, I just received one of those sonic care brushes as a present. I decide that I am slick enough to go around the tooth. Fucking wrong. This think was like a damn sandblaster, goes right over the tooth and the concrete goes fucking flying. Off my tooth, on my tongue. Bastardo!!! Well, there goes the cement and my tooth is not far behind. I tell myself all will be fine. Well guess what, the tooth is blue and the last dentist I say a few weeks ago told me the tooth is now mobile. Mobile, like it’s going to go to the fucking store and pick up a pack of fucking camels. Yes, the tooth needs to go. I am just stalling, just enjoying a little more time with this once healthy tooth. Can’t wait for my flipper!!! This is why I fucking hate dentists and how one broad dentist cracked my tooth and ruined all of my dreams. I am a mess…

The Magnificent

Getting inexpesive Italian food in the East Village is easy. For year's Ive been going to the same 3-4 places, getting the same 3-4 dishes with the same 3-4 people. Until recently, when I was introduced to the 2 year old Luzzo's, barely noticebale under a wood sign reading "la pizza di napoli" on 1st Avenue between 13th and 14th.

Over my third Sunday night dinner there in as many weeks, I commented to my friend Justin that the pizza may be the best I've ever had. Crazy talk, given the first part of my life spent in Brooklyn, a place with arguably the best pizza anywhere. The pizza in question from Luzzo's though, "The Martha," is made with truffle oil, truffle pate, proccuitto, and buffala mozzarella and it is, in a word, awesome.

Justin shared with me his father's profound insight that pizza can be either white collar or blue collar. I had to concede that, covered in truffle pate and oil, buffala and with warm prosciutto oozing off, Luzzo's thin crusted masterpiece could not reasonably be compared to some of the incredible "blue collar" pizza I grew up eating in BK.

And it costs a bit more too. Still, blue collar, white collar, its no matter. This is the stuff dreams are made of. Literally, Ive been dreaming about going back for my "Martha" (plus a bottle of the chilled Gragnano).