Obligatory Acknowledgement of Pazz & Jop

(The Onion got theirs in right on time, unlike mine. Mine is still on the way. Seriously. And I don't know what you're supposed to do with the "blog this" icon on The Onion site and copy in some code because, well, look who you're dealing with.)

Stegosaurus Is My Second-Favorite Dinosaur

The bones in its face just make it look so cool. It's huge, its knees are awesome, and of course, it has tail spikes. I would be totally remiss if I didn't mention the sweet tail spikes.

But it's not my favorite. As anyone who's read this column knows, T-Rex is obviously my No. 1 dinosaur—that goes without saying. A common choice? Perhaps. But I defy anyone to legitimately deny the raw power of that perfect killing machine. And please, I don't want to hear anything about T-Rex being a scavenger, because I'll go to the mat on that.

However, I'm not talking about T-Rex today. I'm here to give Stegosaurus its proper due. This gentle, awesome giant is easily lost in the mainstream shuffle of Apatosaurus—No. 33—and Pachycephalosaurus—No. 12—and I don't condemn anyone who, albeit wrongly, puts Stegosaurus lower on his list. Plus, other pundits out there will pick the safe route, going on all day about Allosaurus and its thumb spikes—admittedly really cool—or Velociraptor and its claws or whatever. It's just that I'm not going to pad my favorites catalogue with a bunch of obvious carnivores.

Stegosaurus is definitely, solidly, my No. 2 favorite dinosaur of all time. No. 2, mind you, out of all dinosaurs. Ever. Even Ankylosaurus, though I imagine some of the so-called experts out there will find that pretty hard to believe.

Ever since watching Land of the Lost at my fourth-favorite age of five—the original 1974 series, that is, which is the 17th-best television show of all time, easily—Stegosaurus has had a special place in my heart. Granted, that show introduced me to many wonderful dinosaurs: Pterodactyl was No. 2 for a time, Brontosaurus was in that slot for months, and even those reptoid midgets, the Sleestacks, with their big black eyes and pointy heads were ranked second for six episodes until they were disqualified due to a technicality. But Stegosaurus has an undeniable staying power—and awesome tail spikes, as I said—and eventually edged them all out.

Of course, it could never edge out T-Rex. Just look at its teeth! But I've already devoted my third- and fifth-favorite columns I've written about dinosaurs to Tyrannosaurus, so, again, there's no need to get into that. Nor will I dwell on dinosaurs three through 10, considering they're all different types of pterosaurs, and, for now at least, I don't have the space to break down the subtleties.

Anyway, Stegosaurus. Why No. 2, you ask? The obvious answer for this, of course, are the thermoregulatory plates on its back, but that's my distant third-favorite reason as to why Stegosaurus is my second-favorite dinosaur. No, my No. 1 reason is the "second brain"—the coolest brain, by far, in the Stegosaurus—near the base of its tail used for controlling reflexes in the rear part of its body. Reasons two and four are a little complicated and both tail-spike-related, so I'll leave those for another time.

Reason No. 5 for loving Stegosaurus is because it could regularly and easily knock down trees. Huge trees. Which is awesome.

In many ways—well, eight ways, actually—Stegosaurus embodies a lot of things on my various lists that are pretty great but don't quite make the top. For example, the Clash's triple album, Sandinista—the second disc of which is the third-best disc—the 31st-best record of all time, between The Faces' Long Player and Neil Diamond's Jonathan Livingston Seagull soundtrack. To me, Stegosaurus carries on its back, along with those wicked, massive plates, the weight of all the silver-medal winners in my life, including my second-favorite list and my favorite salty snack foods, which are the third-best variety of snack foods.

It may seem a little excessive to a few self-styled experts (who are high on my blacklist—well, my blacklist for self-styled experts) to place so much secondary importance on an extinct herbivore. My answer to that is: No, it's not. However, I'm not so petty as to allow ranking to consume my entire existence. Nothing could be further from the truth. Ranking things, like Stegosaurus, comes in second, right behind drawing, and just ahead of my mom, who's currently at a solid No. 3.

She's up from No. 5 after a stellar showing this past Christmas.

Where Eagles Dare

Buzzcock NYC @ The Eagle—featuring SMUT—10/13/06

I was totally okay with skipping the gig if I had to, if the place didn’t want extra cooties and girl germs—aside from those in the band. I even asked them if the place would be cool with me going and told them it was no biggie if I couldn’t go. But Buzzcock encourages those who don’t fit the scene’s prerequisites to come out (and I won’t say “no pun intended” because that’s way too obvious a comment) and support. All the naughty stuff happens upstairs, Cutie said—I guessed the “naughty stuff” being Barber Andy, Jake the Barber, and Dave, the guest bootblack, as mentioned on the flyer. Among other things. According to the NYCP site, there’s going to be head-shaving. I was kinda thinking about asking if they’d just whack 2 inches off my hair since I can’t afford a decent haircut right now, but if it comes out bad I’d be all like This happened when I went to see SMUT!

So if they’d allow girl germs in the place, I assume wearing my Spunk Lads shirt is pushing it. And then it dawned on me, after being the recipient of a botched pickup attempt, at The Eagle there won’t be any married men copping a feel, no guys goosing me hello, no guys poking me in the ribs hello, no strange guys hugging me in the middle of a show, no guys continuing to dance with me no matter how often I back away and then they get thrown out only to come back in, start up again, and then get thrown back out, and no guys hitting on me because they “like their women thick.” And after asking if I had a boyfriend, the guy asked if I’d mind a personal question. I said, “If you don’t mind my fist hitting your face.”

And since we were standing on the corner of 23rd & Bway and of course my skirt billowed out from a passing train underground I said, sarcastically, “Well, now you can see just how juicy I am.” That was how he started w/me, I look juicy. Which could mean fresh and happening, radiant and full of life, until he explained that about my being thick and all. “No, I could tell from your top half.” Well, congratulations. You like big boobies. So do a lot of men. Why do you think Playboy and Maxim sell? You like fatties! How liberating! Let me drop to my knees and blow you right in front of the Flatiron Bldg! On my lunch hour! He told me that women these days look too skinny, but all the women he uses the juicy line on get offended because they think he’s telling them they’re fat. That’s sweet. You tell me you use the same line on many women and they all get insulted. And I’m supposed to be flattered by your honesty? The fact that you’re a liberated guy and don’t like your chicks looking like cadavers? And when I went back to the Eagle site to see where to RSVP for the $5 cover and I couldn’t access most of the site from work, I noticed their promise of the hottest guys in NYC.

Shit, man, you had me at hello.
***
The avenues were getting longer as I headed west, the weather cooler, and the winds picking up. People were hanging out of sports bars and as I headed to 28th, the neon gave way to darkness. As I walked down 28th, I worried that I’d be caught up in some housing complex and the street didn’t go through, which is what happened after the Flogging Molly show at Spirit, but I think it was 23rd St. that does that. Then I realized that I’d probably have to hold it all night, because I don’t know if there would be a ladies’ room in a place like that. After I hit the High Line, I started worrying. I didn’t write down the exact address of the place, other than remembering 28th & 11th, but I figured I’d keep walking and see a bar with a big eagle-shaped sign and that would be it. The street, one I’m never on in the first place, seemed kinda deserted—until I crossed 11th Ave. and saw Crobar, with a crowd in the front, behind the velvet ropes, Scores, and then the Eagle. It’s like a bunch of theme restaurants only instead the theme is clubs.

The heavily facially-pierced and tattooed guy checked my email address off the list; I was in good company with Hipdagger and Hyperrainbow. It’s actually not a bar, per se, but an S&M-themed club. It kinda looked like a garage—there was a tire hanging from the ceiling above the bar—and I’m thinking, Y’know, this is probably just like when The Spunk Lads played Meow Mix, yet totally opposite.

They have a gift shop there. Well, that’s what Xtene told me, anyway, where they sell whips and lube, and, I would assume, among other things. The head-shaving and boot-shining was on the first floor. There was all sorts of porn being shown and breath mints at the bar. And there were cups with The Eagle’s calling cards and pencils. Brill. So if you want to get somebody’s #, you don’t have to scrounge around for a writing utensil. ‘Course if the guy is just not that into the one asking, they really can’t feign the whole “Sorry, I don’t have a pen” routine in order not to hurt the other’s feelings.

The band played across from the bar, along the length of the room, and that was weird at first because I was trapped behind people taking pix and I didn’t want to block John and Mike’s views. Maybe it was because the head-shaving stations and boot-shining stations were at either end and that cut down on the space there, but after their photogs moved I was able to move my spot and had room to run around, so that was good as the SMUT-sters were blazing and the crowd was really into them. So I was happy after the small audience space/good band sitch at the Real McCoy. One of Cutie’s friends kept yelling “Show me your titties!” all through the set and she was like, this is the one place where I didn’t think I’d hear that.

Same here. But even though I didn’t explore the place at all, I went to a queer club and I still saw SMUT.

After the show, there was still a huge crowd outside Crobar and there were construction site-grade halogen lights set up. I crossed the street, away from the crowds, and spot money at my feet. Before I can swoop down upon it, I notice police arresting a guy right in front of me.

I’ll . . . just . . . uh, keep walking.

P.S.: I got an email about the next Buzzcock. “A party for queer Punks and Skins as well as the straight guys who put out after a few drinks.” They probably mean straight guys who put out after a few drinks for other guys—not that there’s anything wrong with that. Oops. Sorry. But thanks for letting me go. Then again, $5 is $5.

P.P.S.: I got an email today that Buzzcock is over and not happening at the Eagle or anywhere else. That’s so weird, because I was thinking about this post and wondering when I was going to post it, because I really needed this one up. I love it when a plan comes together.