I’m All Lost In, #73: RIP David Johansen; the menu at Peloton Cafe; a playlist of one’s own.

I’m All Lost In …

the 3 things I’m obsessing about THIS week.

#73

First, some goods of the order.

A thank you. Thank you, Zeitgeist Coffee. I always found it incongruous that this grunge-era Pioneer Square hippie-adjacent institution didn’t have a vegan option (nor barely a veggie one). For my part, I’d taken to finagling a DIY order—their green salad and some bread on the side—so I could concoct a salad sandwich of my own.

I’m happy to report that Zeitgeist’s new menu addresses this pressing issue. They’ve now got a tasty hummus sandwich; it’s lovingly laced with kalamata tapenade, cucumbers, red onion, and black pepper. Simply titled “Vegan Sandwich,” this noticeably hefty and healthy fare (served on slices of Macrina Bakery sourdough) has a utilitarian bent that matches Zeitgeist’s timeless Jimmy-Carter-for-President profile.

A couple of other Thank Yous this week go out to the Los Angeles Review of Books and Vox for their candid Anora take downs. As you likely know, at Sunday night’s Academy Awards ceremony, Sean Baker’s retrograde comedy about a prostitute-with-a-heart-of-gold won the Oscar for best film. Having given Anora my own thumbs down after seeing it in early January, I was feeling gaslit by the film’s critical acclaim, so checking out LARB’s extended critique and Vox’s thorough pan helped restore my sanity. Vox’s reality check concludes:

Ultimately, Anora may fall into the category of Oscar-winning movies that seem like a cool, progressive choice on paper, but are ridden with problems and critiques from the communities they purport to represent.

There are other factors that have presumably lent to this win, too. Baker is one of the few modern auteurs who’s been unwavering in his commitment to making independent cinema for over 20 years now. Anora is also a monument to ’70s filmmaking canon, an era of cinema that Hollywood has heralded as an emblem of taste. With Anora, Baker puts himself in the conversation with celebrated auteurs like John Cassavetes, Martin Scorsese, and Robert Altman. If only his work contained some of that era’s more radical politics and subversive representations.

Lastly: some reading recommendations.

First, a George Mason University think tank study titled “Urban Minimum Lot Sizes: Their Background, Effects, and Avenues to Reform.” Not only does this piece convincingly make the case that doing away with prevalent minimum lot size regulations will help increase affordable housing supply, it simultaneously clarifies a related, important point about the burning planet. Requiring capacious lot sizes is an alarming anachronism.

Second recommendation, Athletic tennis writers Matthew Futterman and Charlie Eccleshare posted their Indian Wells preview; the 1000-level tennis tournament got underway on Wednesday and Futterman and Eccleshare’s report focuses on the players they believe have urgent storylines at this annual Coachella Valley tennis showdown. Their list includes two of my favorite players. There’s “ropey” (the pejorative British definition) Aryna Sabalenka, who despite still being No. 1, is coming off two recent losses. “I’m all over the place in my thoughts …,” Saby ruminates. “The decisions I’m making on the court are a bit wrong and emotionally I’m not at my best.” And then there’s (slipped to) No. 9, Qinwen Zheng, whose “0-3 record this year tells a story.”

In other major tennis news: On Friday afternoon, under the influence of Seattle’s annual late February heat wave, I booked a Saturday morning reservation at the Volunteer Park courts. By the time Saturday arrived, the temperature had actually dropped into the 30s and a Transylvania fog had settled in. But nonetheless, it was a diaphoretic two sets—the hoodies came off—and in one play, in a tennis first for me, I knew exactly where I wanted to place my serve, successfully painting the deuce court corner. This was during a rare 40-Love win as I acted out for a spell before otherwise getting creamed by tennis natural, Valium Tom.

Volunteer Park, Lower Courts, 8 am, 3/1/25. Before Valium Tom arrived for our own Indian Wells qualies, I practiced my serve, calling out “Saby!” as I tossed the ball in the air and, riding a rush of endorphins, came down like the crack of a pool hall break.

Onto this week’s obsessions.

1) RIP New York Dolls Front Man, David Johansen, 1950-2025
I was a teenage anachronism. When I was in high school during the early 1980s, the New York Dolls’ 1973 debut LP was one of my favorite records. I came to it through my other retro teen crushes, early ‘70s Bowie, early ‘70s Lou Reed, early ‘70s Eno, and fellow contemporary meta teenagers, Blondie.

The ‘60s girl-group-revivalist, yet punk-futurist Dolls first captured my attention with their iconic album cover photograph of the band in thrifted drag. But they officially and forever had me with the pitch-perfect teen manifesto song titles listed on the back: ”Lonely Planet Boy,” “Jet Boy,” “Private World,” “Subway Train,” “Looking for a Kiss,” “Personality Crisis,” “Bad Girl,” “Frankenstein,” “Pills,” and, of course, “Trash,” which successfully summed up the whole yearning sarcastic glamour in one word—and with a DIY panache that cued the blistering campy rock that was on the record itself. “Trash,” fyi, might be the best punk rock song ever recorded; from the rushing pop verses, to the half-time blues on the chorus, to the full-stop vocal recitative—”Uhn, how do you call your lover boy?”—to the “whoa-oh-whoa” rave up, it remains the signature song of the Lower East Side’s stagflation bohemian heyday.

The album’s lone overtly political track, “Vietnamese Baby”—which placed the band’s droll malaise unmistakably in the larger and unavoidable context of early 1970s gruesome American imperialism and impending decline—may be the album’s other signature moment. As Dolls’ singer David Johansen’s striptease-Queens’-accent vocals shift from preen to pain with the My Lai Massacre-conscious “talking ‘bout your overkill/ talking ‘bout your overkill/talking ‘bout your overkill/now that it’s over/now that it’s over/now that it’s over/whatcha gonna do?”, it becomes impossible to ignore the tragedy at the heart of a setlist that once led with comedy.

Johnny Thunders’ Chuck Berry-on-overdrive guitars (and on bourbon and barbiturates as well, if music itself can be sloshed), certainly propelled the record. But Johansen’s bratty yet searching vocals defined it, making good on the set list’s punk voguing.

Of course, you can’t write about Johansen without writing about his juvie hall meta crush, Mary Weiss, the frontwoman for the early 1960s bad girl-girl group, the Shangri-Las. (I’ve always thought “From Shangri-La to Nirvana” would be the perfect name for a history book about punk music.) When Weiss, best known for her 15-year-old vocals on the Shangri-Las’ 1964 hit “Leader of the Pack,” died last year at 75, I—symbiotically—couldn’t help writing about Johansen and the Dolls:

Reclaimed with a sense of sordid 1970s ennui and irony less than a decade later by the proto-punk New York Dolls (also from working class Queens), the Shangri-Las quickly became a template for the CBGB set as bands like Blondie, Suicide, and the Ramones leaned into their own trashy pleas of adolescent angst.

On the louche intro to their 1973 urchin love song “Looking for a Kiss,” the Dolls’ lead singer David Johansen steals Mary Weiss’ spellbinding intro line from the Shangri-Las’ 1965 hit “Give Him a Great Big Kiss” —”When I say I’m in love/you best believe I’m in love/ L-U-V!”

I will say, the mix on the New York Dolls landmark 1973 LP has always sounded a bit muffled; if Johnny Thunders’ heated tube amp riffs had been as clearly defined as the transistor-forward electric guitar sound on, oh say, every other early ‘70s hard rock record (Kiss comes to mind), the Dolls wouldn’t be considered merely punk progenitors; rather, we’d be talking about the Dolls instead of the Sex Pistols. Come the day when the record companies put album masters online where, for some exorbitant subscription fee, people can remix their favorites on a laptop, I’ve got first dibs on New York Dolls New York Dolls.

While I’m set on improving Thunders’ guitar sound, I’ll reverently leave Johansen’s diva performance as is. RIP David Johansen who died from brain cancer on February 28. He was 75.

I staged this Johansen homage at my Seattle apartment years ago with my then-GF, Hester.

2) Peloton Cafe

Located at 13th & Jefferson at the western edge of Seattle’s Central District, Peloton Cafe Bike Shop, a spacious and friendly telework-friendly coffee spot that serves lovingly made sandwiches, is not billed as a vegan restaurant. But given the extensive list of vegan options, from veggie sausage and tofu breakfast burritos to piled-high roasted butternut squash, red onion, and arugula veggie sandwiches, Peloton, which kind of doubles as a not-very-busy bike repair shop, deserves prominent notice on any directory of Seattle’s (too few) vegan oases.

Contributing to Peloton’s oasis status: It’s also the rare Seattle cafe that stays open until 9 pm during the week; they serve wine and cocktails, plus booze-friendly sides like fries, tots, tacos, and sloppy joes (vegan version available.) Even more unique, despite the dive bar trappings, Peloton has a Mister Rogers' Neighborhood sensibility as opposed to Seattle’s standard flannels and fries vibe.

Civic bathrooms at Peloton Cafe: Abortion clinic info and free condoms. 3/5/25

This civic feng shui might have something to do with the tidy minimalist tables and booths, the shelves of board games, and the free condoms and Plan B in the sparkling bathroom. And, of course, the good-for-you veggie-heavy menu.

Peloton’s official 12-item vegan lunch menu is as long as both its “meaty” menu. And they back up this earnest commitment by serving fresh, thoughtful vegan entrees—as opposed to the microwaved, “vegan” patty and plastic plant-based cheese afterthoughts you find all over our lazy-does-it city.

I’ve had two of Peloton’s elaborate sandwiches so far (both this week): a “Vegan Hot Pastrami,” which meant roasted broccoli florets with pickled red onions, shredded cabbage, herbs, and Dijon served on grilled ciabatta; and their “Vegan BLT,” which meant soft and seasoned tofu with tomatoes, red onion, greens, avocado, and vegan aioli on sourdough. These sandwiches come with chips or salad; I’ve gone with the salad option, which, like the sandwiches, come super sized.

Peloton’s “Vegan Hot Pastrami Sandwich” is a hardy roasted broccoli main course.

“Peloton” is a bike word that means a group of bikers. It’s a term that pops alongside the vernacular of an otherwise soloist sport; a bit of biker vocabulary that fits this neighborhood gathering spot. As I was leaving around 5 on Thursday, the place, which had been quiet during the afternoon, was filling up fast, buzzing with giddy food orders and conversation.

3) A Playlist of Their Own

“What a waste,” Seattle’s premier cultural critic (and fantastic old friend) Charles Mudede wrote in his recent article about bar owner dictates that their employees adhere to anodyne, preordained playlists that soothe rather than bring curious, new jams to regulars’ ears, brains, and bodies.

My experience of this DJ-as-AI phenomenon at Capitol Hill bars and coffee shops? Being stuck, per some High Fidelity algorithm, in a monotonous stream of 1979- 2000 indie rock classics plus some early ‘70s Bowie and ‘60s Velvet Underground thrown in. I first noticed this tiresome playlist 20 years ago when the Buzzcocks’ 1979 pop punk hit “What Do I Get?” held the No. 1 spot on the coffee shop/hipster bar circuit; this song is still in the mix today.

Charles, using a more (populist) universal example, notes the prevalence of Rolling Stones and Fleetwood Mac songs at local bars.

He continues:

Bartenders, particularly in this city, are often musicians or artists, and have very original tastes in music. Forcing them to play music that we keep hearing all over the place is like pouring way too much water into the pot of a plant. It soddens our imagination. We are bloated beyond boredom when we hear "Burning Down the House" for the gazillionth time. Growth is only possible with forgotten music, or music whose new " sounds... give delight .” Music we must Shazam, capture like an Ariel in the air, and add to a playlist. (For me, the playlist is called Bar Beats.)

To make his point, which is kind of profound when you consider how it taps, elevates, and expands the role, skills, and definition of bartenders (for both the bartender and the drinker), Charles goes on to detail a few specific bartenders around town who are given free rein to feed your Shazam queries with the likes of T. L. Barrett and the Youth for Christ Choir from 1971, contemporary Japanese “soft hip hop,” and French Electro artist, Sumac Dub.

In addition to the potential musical discoveries at hand (freeing up bartenders to DJ is a bit like freeing up librarians to open indie bookstores), Charles’ concluding “plea to let bartenders DJ their drinkers,” can also lead to urban happenstance. Regular readers will remember my own story about connecting with my young artist friend Rob Joynes, who ended up doing a computer music set at my book release event back in May 2023 after he and I originally bonded over his Jump Blues playlist at the Cha Cha Lounge where he tends bar and I drink.

Our musical camaraderie continues; we are currently collaborating on a secret project, TBA this spring.