While glitz and glamour epitomizes NYC, the seedy cultural underbelly that created this great city has endured a slow suppression. Yes, the streets are clean and flocks of prostitutes have been stuffed indoors, but it’s not really about the hoes and crack. There’s a darkness that’s gone missing. My hope was to find any vestige of a live cultural underground or even just crazy ape shit¹ that goes on behind closed doors, to remind myself that this city has not completely broken from its past.

And so began my feeble journey. Couple weeks ago, I stumbled upon an ad, for the Death Bear. Here is what the Death Bear can do for you:

“We all have someone or something we would rather just forget. Things fall apart. Love hurts. Dreams die. But when you summon Death Bear to your door, you can be rest assured that help has come. At first you may be intimidated by his stature and color (7′ tall with a hard, black bear head, black jumpsuit, and black boots), but absorbing the memories of others is a dark art, and Death Bear must present himself appropriately for this solemn duty. Death Bear will take things from you that trigger painful memories and stow them away in his cave where they will remain forever allowing you to move on with your life. Let Death Bear help you, and absorb your pain into his cave.”

Holy shit, I thought, it’s a real life version of an “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”, except it’s a bear and fucking strange. Apparently it’s considered performance art. How it works: You text him for an appointment. He prefers it to be on the weekend and in Brooklyn. You can use utilize his services as you please.

So a friend and I texted the Death Bear. We anxiously waited as he walked up the stairs to my Brooklyn apartment. When I saw him, I couldn’t decide if it would be funny or really strange. He asked me what I needed from the Death Bear and I tried to concoct a sizable love-lost story, and I ran around the apartment to find shit that I could give him to put into his cave. Unfortunately, all I came up with was empty bottles of champagne and Grey Goose (don’t judge me). He asked if I needed anything else, I said no, and offered him a drink, which he kindly refused. Then he left. I can’t say that I felt any different, but I guess for some people the act of purging one’s feelings/mementos/memories upon another can be therapeutic.² I just hope he recycles those bottles.

Doc broke into the bigs in 1984 and proceeded to pitch three years of the best baseball anyone ever saw. A Nike mural featuring the Mets ace remained on the side of the Holland Hotel on w. 42nd St. for 10 years. (Speaking of numbers, Doc’s appetite was revered around the clubhouse — one teammate claimed Gooden ate 30 chicken wings in one sitting.) The boy was young and skinny, tall like a string bean and straight out of high school in Tampa, Fla., (with a pit stop in Class A Lynchburg, where he went 19-4) with a 98 mph heater and an infectious fun-loving attitude that New York City adored. They nicknamed his curveball “Lord Charles” and dubbed him Doctor K, eventually shortened to Doc. He was The Man in New York during Wall Street’s heyday, though No. 16 would eventually amble down a dark path, struggling with cocaine addiction for the remainder of his career, which ended in 2001 with the Yankees at spring training.

A troubled a man as ever a Trumbull Man was, Dwight Gooden, we salute thee.

The baseball-rock nexus is a weird one. Lots of serious guys with goatees and bad white shoes, lots of guitars, lots of Americana. Some weird indie rock bands have baseball-themed albums. But this photo might be weirder. And weirder in the good Psycho Sin way, not the bad intense goatee way.

“Life’s a gamble it’s all how you play / The cards that you’re dealt, the chances that you take / Life’s a gamble, it’s all how you roll / You’re in it to win it, or just go with the flow”

One of us grew up in Maine and had this poster up on our wall. That’s Red Sox country. Dwight’s the name, and it still resonates.

Man, how messed up do you have to be when Mike Tyson is the most put-together person in the picture? These guys (Dwight, left, and Darryl, center), really fell off hard. Like, bad. Mike was a boxer. Boxers are all on borrowed time to begin with. But baseball prodigies, two of them, flaming out, that’s tough to watch from here, just looking at the photo. It’s not even my team and it hurts. Some claim his arm was overused — he pitched a total of 550 innings in 1985 and ‘86, not yet 22 — some say it was the drugs. It might have just been being a Major League pitcher that did him in. I can only imagine what it was like for little Mets fan kids at the time. To be fair, it was a slow death, and none of it happened overnight.

Photo by Kenneth Cappello

Are they really sending him away this time? Poor chap. He simply refused to go anywhere without … excessive firepower — I suppose it was only a matter of time before John Law caught up with our friend. Look, I’m strapped — that’s a given. You see this? This is a Remington. <discharges three shots into the ceiling> What does Dwayne need with scatter-shot and automatics? Oh, look, some of the ceiling’s landed on your hat.

I’ll sorely miss our South Beach shopping sprees and his jokes. There was the day I introduced him to crêpes at A La Folie. He loved them! He must have ordered five different kinds. Slim once told me — this was last year — oh, forget it.

The boys say they’ve been pestering you with a list of “Lil Wayne’s” best mixtape tracks on their Twitter account, and asked me to say a few words to introduce their fancy little playlist. So, without any further ado, Trumbull’s Top 10 Weezy mixtape jams:

10. “Shorty Bounce” – Worldwide Legacy Presents Wayne’s World
9. “Raw Tunes” – Da Drought
8. “Stand Tall” – Drought is Over 4
7. “Workin ‘Em” – Dedication 2
6. “Dough Is What I Got” – Drought 3
5. “Back On My Grizzy” – Drought 3
4. “Down Here” – The Drought is Over 6
3. “Dippin” – Best Kept Secret Vol 2 (Jody Breeze)
2. “Prostitute Flange” – Tha Carter 3 Mixtape
1. “Scarface” – Tha Carter 3 Mixtape

Click here to listen to our YouTube playlist.

Hey everyone. This thing on? So, we were all over the place this week. Washington. Haiti. Beijing. Gov. Paterson’s mansion. We took photos in the utility closet, which we called the “Hurt Locker.” Trust us, it’s funny. Not the closet itself, that place is the opposite of funny. It’s dark. Real dark.…

We dropped by Mike’s Apartment. He’s not in porno anymore, but he throws a hell of a party. Grillo’s Pickles made a cameo. Neysa Malone, the NYC street-famous singer called us with some news: “I got this new song ‘Walking Zombies.’ It’s about us against the zombies meaning everybody who is brainwashed by the media. In the video, we, the street fighters, take over. It should be out very soon!” Neysa’s been on her grind lately, and we’ll sure be keeping our eye on her this year.

Today is the last day to see A Failed Entertainment: Selections from the James O. Incandenza Filmography on exhibit at Columbia. We’ve been meaning to make it in all month, so you might see us there. That is, of course, if we can dig ourselves out of the snow. Today is also a good day for Agnostic Front fans; they’re playing a show at the Bell House in Brooklyn with the Victim in Pain lineup from 1984: Roger Miret, Vinny Stigma, Rob Kabula, and Dave Jones. We heard it’s sold out, but you could probably get in.

We’re getting ready for a very special week coming up featuring the work of some talented photographers. This thing’s on, right? Cause we’re dead serious. And now that we have your attention, we might as well say that our very first shirt will be available for order soon. And it’s a collaboration with someone so icey that we can’t even mention their name here without writing them a check so we’ll just wait until the store officially opens for that.

You say you want your links? You’ve had enough links this week, buddy. How could you possibly want any more links? Okay, well, I think we’ve got some photos for you. 3 nice sets:

“Vans and the places where they were” by Joe Stevens

Brian Scalabrine of the Boston Celtics gets a tan on 98.5’s Toucher and Rich show

Business Insider shows the leather so soft in Lil Wayne’s $14 Million La Gorce Mansion

I’m watching Spongebob Squarepants!

What else?

I have no elbow!

Huh?

Wanna see a picture of my brother?

OK.

Hermes baseball mitt (1/5):¹ $8,500

Brooklyn Dodgers baseball hat signed by Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale, Pee Wee Reese and Duke Snider: $750

Manny Ramirez’s Nike Air Max MVP Player Edition baseball cleats: $1,199

Snake River Farms‘ Kobe beef gourmet frankfurters (hot dogs): $55 for a bundle of 8 packages (5 links per package)

“What happened to that dude, what fucking happened?”

The words rang out from my friend Zac Greer’s shiny, bic’d up head. Al Pacino was on television, one of many stars urging Americans to donate to One.com. The actor looked creaky and old, haggard. Zac was not exactly paying attention, but became saddened. What happened to Pacino, the strapping young colt of “The Panic in Needle Park”? What happened to Serpico, to Bobby Deerfield, to Glen Ross? Zac wondered aloud. We laughed, but five years since the ad’s air date, we’re still none of us sure.

I felt the same way Sunday night watching Canadian Olympic hockey team suffer an ignoble 5-3 home loss at American hands. What happened to the Canadian team, made up of All-Stars and Hall of Famers both? Where did our legs go? Why wasn’t there any fire from the point? Where was the development factory of years past, short and tall Quebecers, broad hosers and technically-citizens from British Columbia? What happened?

Goaltending was a big issue. Ryan Miller, of Buffalo, stone-colded Canadian shooters, saving 42 of 45 shots in a game where his offense was badly outmatched. The Canadians spent the better part of the first and third periods in the American zone, but did not score reflective of their chances. In a small sample size — in this case, a single game — a great goalie goes a long way. Canada’s Martin Brodeur isn’t what he was, and coughed up the puck several times, once leading to an American goal when he left the net. Brodeur could be the greatest to ever play the position, but he has Achilles heels: he can’t save anything high stick side. (The Ottawa Senators exploited this in 2007, en route to beating him and the New Jersey Devils like a drum.) Roberto Luongo, an Italian-Canadian with a sick ponytail, and the goalie for Vancouver’s NHL team, should have been in nets. There was no paucity here: The Canadian third-string goalie is the reigning Stanley Cup winner, and has been tested. But Brodeur was creaky, and Canada lost.

There was also the question of lines and rosters. Coach Mike Babcock, who graduated from McGill, gave the Canadians some odd lines. Jarome Iginla was playing with Crosby: Iginla might have been better served on the second line. Dany Heatley, used to playing by power on the Pizza Line, would have provided a fearsome tandem with the playmaking Crosby. (Speaking of playmakers, Ottawa’s Jason Spezza, always a defensive liability, would have only helped the team create shots on the ice.) Ryan Getzlaf, who is huge and rocks a faux-hawk, looked hurt, and his roster spot could have been more effectively filled by Jeff Carter. Or, Anson Carter.

That said, it’s just a game. No taking away from the Americans.¹ They played a better discipline of hockey, took fewer penalties and made bigger shots. This was the first sports game I invested myself in emotionally in a while, and it hurt. But Canada is not dead. It plays the Germans on Tuesday, and, if we win, Russia on Wednesday. Tough assignments, to be sure, but extra ice time shouldn’t hurt these All-Stars.

The titular characters are the crown jewel of the show — indeed, of any show on television. It is hard to believe that employees wrote their dialog for nothing more than money, that the two teens did not arrive fully formed. Same goes for Suicidal Tendencies. When the world was created, so too were they, only they bloomed later, around the ’80s. The best band from California, the second-best two-era band (after the Cro-Mags), the baddest dudes to wear Vans. It’s not whether this video is the best of all worlds or isn’t. It’s the truth, and “it speaks for itself.”

Benny, have a seat. No you may not. Keep it on. Benny, why did you disturb those men today? Which men? You know who we’re talking about, Benny.¹ That’s right, Messrs. Carter and Combs, very good.

Now, Benny, we’ve talked about this — about the character. But certain men deserve respect, even from a character, don’t you think? Benny! You put that mask back on! I don’t wanna see your face right now, I am not in the mood!

Benny, Messrs. Carter and Combs are close personal friends of Mr. Reinsdorf. You know what that means, Benny? It means that when you wag your ass in front of these guys, I hear about it. You think I enjoy getting a call from Big Jerry about this bullshit? Benny, let me ask you a question. Were you drunk, Benny? You must have been drinking to pull a stunt like that. Tell me, were you drunk?

Yeah, I was drunk…

I’m gonna breathalyze you on Saturday, Benny. I’m gonna breathalyze you before every basketball quarter for the next month. Because it’s my ass, Benny. We run a fun, friendly, respectful show. This is family entertainment here, son. Now you’re going to write letters to Messrs. Carter, Combs, and two to Jerry R. to tell them how sorry you are for your actions tonight.

Yes, sir.