The Strokes

The Commute

I was standing center aisle on the subway, one hand on the pole, the other propping up my book, when this guy started yelling at the woman sitting next to him.

"Bitch, you better shut the fuck up; you don't know me; I'm sitting here, reading my book, I'll fucking hurt you; you don't understand, I'll fucking hurt you; I don't care if you're a woman; you gonna talk shit and you don't even know me."

I looked up from my book and the guy was flashing a mouthful of gold teeth in this girl's face. There was another lady to his left, who had a concealed dog in her purse that started barking.

"Ah, shit, now I'm making the dog cry; you don't know what kind of serious shit I'm capable of; you don't know who I am, let's keep it that way."

We pull into Jay Street where I cross the platform and make my connection. A mariachi was picking the guitar all precise and singing with his gal. When they were done, he went around hawking his CD.


The Strokes

I saw The Strokes at the Hammerstein Ballroom on Saturday night. The show had the electricity of Pearl Jam at the War Memorial in Rochester, N.Y., during the Five Against One tour.

The kids were going crazy. I had to have a couple of Red Bull and vodkas to keep up. Luckily, the bartender had a heavy hand. We hooked up during the Eagles of Deathmetal, who were good, just in a different league.

The Strokes came up on Manhattan's Lower East Side like modern day Ramones. This was their third show back from a month in Europe, where their last two stops were Dublin and Belfast, Ireland. And now they were home, eating well, smoking great dope. Casablancas actually looked like he showered and put on a clean shirt for the occasion. He said, "It's gonna be a real shit storm tonight. You guys are great!"

This cute girl was dancing in front of me, tight ass jeans, t-shirt, tilted cap. I tried to give her room, but she kept rubbing up against me like I was meant to sire her children. The Strokes hit us with everything they wrote. Man, it was tight, Razorblade, Someday, Last Night. The stage was drenched in purple haze with the crowd bubbling over like a pot of boiling water, and this girl kept thrusting her hips at me like I was a hula hoop. Later, outside on the curb, I saw her, but she looked away.

Speaking of Strokes

Life is Kirby Puckett, who played baseball with the kindred enthusiasm of a little leaguer. Who won championships. Who got hit in the eye socket by a fastball from his friend, Dennis Martinez. Who was elected to Baseball's Hall of Fame. Who died of a stroke at 45.

And the Award Goes to ...

Sure Keira Knightly and Salma Hayek were ravishing, but one cannot overlook Jessica Alba, and for all you haters out there who say that's the closest she'll ever get to an Oscar, she was sitting a few rows in front of Keanu Reeves.