Death to "Mr. Blue Sky"

Ricky Gervais is brilliant, and there's sweet promise around a new movie written and directed by him, The Invention of Lying. As part of advance PR for the movie, Gervais presents at the Emmy Awards and kills it, then it cuts to a commercial break which features an ad for his new movie. Sweet!

But sweet quickly turned sour, and I moaned and writhed on the couch during the entire ad because "Mr. Blue Sky" played over the entire advertisement. ANOTHER MOVIE USING THIS SONG?! I swear they're out to get me, and someone must pay for this unceasing lack of imagination and reatrded marketing.

I remember the "Mr. Blue Sky" plague beginning in 2004, with the release of the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, where it was used only in the trailers, but not on the soundtrack, and it worked very well in this context.

"Mr. Blue Sky" was not a big hit for the Electric Light Orchestra, reaching only #35 on the Billboard charts in 1978, bolstering the theory that really good songs usually don't chart that high because it takes a certain degree of water-down to reach an audience mass that makes Top 20 hits. But it was a fan favorite, and always elicited a positive response when someone ran across it in their musical travels. The song just makes you feel good!

And this is probably why they used it for Eternal Sunshine. But come the same year, at the start of the new fall television season, the short-lived NBC show LAX used it as the theme song. There was a short break until the flood gates broke open and the cinematic redundancy gushed out. Here's the short list of the over-use of "Mr. Blue Sky" in movies:

2007
Martian Child
The Game Plan
Dan In Real Life (I swear this was the second Steve Carell movie to use this song, because upon seeing the trailer, I turned to a friend and asked, "Does Carell have it in his contract that this song must be used in all his movies?")


2008
Role Models

2009
Paul Blart: Mall Cop
The Invention of Lying

It was because of Role Models that I started asking around about why does this song get used so often. Someone in the entertainment field educated me on the basics of song rights for movies, and how the cheaper songs tend to get used more often because of budgets. So maybe "Mr. Blue Sky" sells real cheap, and because Jeff Lynne is a multi-millionaire, maybe he figures, "Why not? I can afford a little largesse." But doesn't he realize how the over-use of this song dilutes its impact? Jeff, where's your dignity?

Someone in the entertainment marketing field said that songs - especially when it comes to the marketing campaign - are used to evoke a mood and reach a specific demographic. So does this mean that each of these movies are targeting the subset of Gen Xers who were in grade school in the late 70s? And are we really that easy to manipulate?

The continual use of this song must serve some important purpose, or have some deeper meaning beyond crass movie studios shooting into a dead vein. So maybe there's a specific someone to blame for this hackery!

I plowed through everyone of these movie titles on IMDB, sifting through page after page of names and companies and credits, just trying to find a common link, and the only person who shows up twice is Peter Rotter, who was listed as music contractor for Martian Child and Role Models. But this is a guy who has worked on, literally, hundreds of movies, and a music contractor basically fills orders rather than gives them. So I feel bad about placing my anger on him, so I merely grumble quietly in his general direction.

But cramming this song down our throats has got to stop. Seriously, just knock it off, because hearing "Mr. Blue Sky" is now a potent form of aversion therapy, and the one I'm angry with now is...


Ricky wields a lot of power and exerts deep control, and he seems like the type who knows better than to go in for sloppy sevenths on the town whore song. Then again, maybe he's " 'avin' a laugh" at our expense, but he's not getting my box office dollars until the death of "Mr. Blue Sky."

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Details magazine, September 1988

Before Details became a junior GQ, it was the the bible of New York City fashion, culture and party people. For 20-somethings in the Midwest wishing they were in Manhattan, $2 at the magazine stand was cheaper than a plane ticket, and we could be a part of the hip crowd without the threat of not measuring up. It picked up where Andy Warhol left off when he died in 1987.

The ads - like for Gaultier, above - seemed to speak a minimalistic NYC language that was decipherable after a couple of issues, and the cutting-edge designers tended to run different art in Details than they did in the mainstream fashion magazines like Vogue.

But unlike Vogue, they also ran ads from anyone who paid, so the hip was balanced with crap and that underscored the multiple layers of sublime to ridiculous that made the idea of NYC so enchanting.

The NYC clubs - like Odeon, above - or China Club were the destination, providing a shot at hanging in the same building as Matt Dillon or Dianne Brill. Most likely the NYC Club Kids would have blocked someone like me from entering, but I could avoid that embarrassment and still stay in the loop with...

...the best part of every issue, Stephen Saban's party-hopping column, lousy with photos and anecdotes about Cher's Bagel Boy, Rob Camilletti or Keith Richards hanging with 1980s supermodels. Saban knew everyone and dropped trivial facts learned about them while scarfing down free drinks at every cool place in the City. His was the ideal job.

Details had their own fashion issue every September, a decidedly low-rent affair of imperfectly laid-out black & white photos from the runways. This haste and nonchalance about haute couture from Marc Jacobs and Isaac Mizrahi was beyond cool and made this obtuse world much easier to understand. Which also pretty much sums up how Details ladled out NYC to those who couldn't be there.
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The Michael Jackson Memorial: Tweet So Therefore You Are

OMG! Waiting to board my lane to the LA Michael Jackson memorial. They say my M.J. poster is too big for carry-on, but if I check it, it will get crumpled, I just know it!
5:41 AM Jul7th from Facebook

Just landed in LA for Michael Jackson memorial. Gotta find ride to the stadium.
7:50 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Getting ride with actor/waiter who picked the 1984 model of Michael Jackson for his nose job.
8:00 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Stuck in traffic 2 miles from Michael Jackson Staples. Vendor selling Jesus Juice. Little early to start drinking but what the heck!
8:32 Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Getting closer to MJ's Staples. Lots of red leather jackets. Little warm for that, don't you think?
9:09 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Just bought a white glove! But the spangles are coming off all over my clothes and floating in the Jesus Juice.
9:26 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Signed the MJ memorial wall. Got black Sharpie all over my white glove. Reminds me of "black or white." Sigh...
9:53 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Swear its Joe Jackson selling MJ's forks and spoons for $50 a pop. But he is still at Forest Lawn so must be an imposter. Will not buy.
10:05 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Just saw my 12th MJ impersonator and had my 4th Jesus Juice. Is it OK to be having fun at this solemn event?
10:23 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

MJ body on way to Memorial. Crowd getting restless. Bought some souvenir loafers with white socks.
11:05 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Guy who claims he was once MJ's doctor is passing out commemorative vicodin. In honor, I took 2.
11:32 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Ticket holders being let in Staples. OK to be outside cos surely Mariah will be walking by.
11:39 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Stomach rumbling, need food. MJ fan notes that he can't eat anymore so I can survive a few hours without food. Respect.
11:50 AM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

pills and jesus juice got me woozy. hope stay awake cos memorial is starting.
12:02 PM Jul 7th from Tiny Twitter

Back in StL from MJ's Memorial. Seems Corey Feldman found me passed out on sidewalk and eventually deposited me at LAX. Good times...
10:14 AM Jul 8th from web
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Michael Jackson: Victory defeat or death; it's that walk!

There's lots of conflicting thoughts about Michael Jackson, but it takes a poet to distill the emotions.

Every time I listen to Jimi Hendrix, I now think of K. Curtis Lyle and his poem about him, "Electric Church." And Lyle has done it again, with his piece (or is that peace?) on Michael Jackson. This is a towering achievement. Thank you, K. Curtis Lyle.

THE COMING OF MAN

Michael Jackson died today in internal exile;
His heart was put under house arrest
At a rented room in Holmby Hills;
Someone saw him fall out, put their
Mouth on his and then called 911;
Rushed to the UCLA Center for the
Medical Arts he was dead on arrival

"Once in awhile I like to be
Driven around town in a black hearse;
I sigh and ride past my old
Haunts and search for the faces of
Friends who started a joke by saying
They knew I'd end up on the
Front page of a check stand journal"

"With no place to be, I headed
Home for a reunion with my family;
I had lost contact with them maybe
10 or 15 years back, but I
Met them with my wit and they
Found me by rolling their lunches out
To the highway and wading through traffic"

"Do you ever wonder how a digit
Gets put to gether? How a life
Flies apart? I found some phone numbers
In my back pocket the other day;
None of them were praying; all were
Suspect; to find love and respect, you
Have to reach out and touch someone"

"I hadn't been around a lot lately;
I was out in the garage taking
Super secret notes on Duke's nuances in
East St. Louis Toodleoo, Rockin N Rhythm
And It don't Mean a Thing; from
My late teens til this after noon
he was my model and my man"

"I never stayed married after the wows
Because I felt glad and unhappy at
The same time; I put whiskey in
My shoes, laughed out loud twice at
The altar to make my feet move;
I feel that old and that young
Now, please, rip out my tongue"

The feather down knee pads remain, along
With the one jeweled glove; his hair
On fire during the filming of the
Pepsi scam; the magic screams of babies
At the opening of the best mother
Fuckin' video ever made; brother wore black
Shoes with snow white socks; so what!

Michael Jackson is a monster! Bubbles is
His real sweetie! Never Land is a
Coo Coo Nest! A scare crow jumps
Over the wall and buys up the
Beatles' memory as if it were a
Bottle of cheap British Schnapps; this totally
Pissed white folks off; say, so what!

He fucked Elvis's baby girl; true 'dat;
But then, Elvis fucked our baby girls,
Baby boys, mama, daddy, grandma, grandpa and
Such, til the black was stroked out
Of our blues; but, there is no
Such thing as fair trade in the
Bruised wars of culture; say, so what!

"I Moon Walk around Notre Dame calling
Out to Our Lady in ways that
Defy speech; the breach in the classic
World that I created can never be
Closed; from the mad Geto Boys of
South Houston to the sperm soaked streets
Of Lagos ruled by Fela Anikulapo Kuti"

"I cross myself in death with symbols
Of the Coming of Man; the right
Hand grabbing the crotch; the left waving
To my baby; maybe she's in the
Next room; the left knee and ankle
raised in eternal dispute with grave yards;
Ham strimg loose below the right thigh"

"Samson had all the muscle in the
World, but he couldn't move like me;
Whippet stray coal housed under white canary
James Brown Stevie Wonder Ray Charles Marvin
Gaye Jimi Hendrix made my way; I
Give them praise and thanks for showing
Me how to rob banks with music"

Steel carrot parlays as birds of Bahrain
Are almond stuffed in little holes of
Concrete and sand and left on the
Beach to preach in silence to the
Masters of oil wealth; their stealth and
Cunning in the art of running a
Game would not please the Prophet Muhammad

"Who will offer me cool leave; then
Who will grace me with station and
Fixed chords; care taker of earth air
Metal wood water and fire; I desire
Two things; a place to be and
The name of the archer who launched
Me from the pad of Cape Michael"

"When I come back as a jaguar
There will be throats torn out;
Knee caps will crack; shins and calves
Will be shred like wheat under the
Battle plan of a John Deere tractor;
Save your money and buy your tickets
'Cuz you know I will be BAD"

Rudy & the Valentinos Charlie & the
Lindberghs Jimmy & the Deans Marilyn &
The Monroes Elvis & the Presleys Johnny
& the Lennons Mikey & the Jacksons
Make the globe tremble; shave an iceberg
Out from its center; no doubt, this
is the Age bearing the Bozo Yuga

"This is not real opium you handed
Me, but a placebo drug with pizza
Flavor; I asked for a Georgia stomp,
An Alabama strut, a Carolina shout and
You hand me a stapler to shoot
Myself through the door and deflate the
Pain; I'm insane! I want the pain!"

For every Gabriel blowing a joyous horn
Through her mouth there is a drunken
Son House on Hollywood Blvd; crack slouch
Asleep in his red rocking chair wonders
Where when and why her prayers turned
Away from the power to reveal the
Rising sun and into genuine night mares

We come; press our Beijing ducks with
Time and hammer them into food; craven
Thin men remove the shake from nails
The rude whip from the back of
The body; a turtle strides into the
Camp ground: he brings a blue guitar
Back from Gary; Indiana of my youth

"I saw two men take down a
Third; lay him gently on the ground
And remove the rope from his neck;
As one man soothed the burned throat
The other reached inside the dead man's
Chest and pulled out his heart;
The art of healing is never lost"

O night of wax lament where we
Release the last record of your soul;
The people are not sad about what
Became of you; of elfin limb and
Papier mache, you are solid inside; in
Cloud sedate and funeral mount there is
Heard coming and going liquid lotus fire

What does the down button mean? In
The face of the panel of the
Ride, there are lines that explain the
Price of a stumble or a missed
Step; he wanted to go to the
13th floor; the door opened at #
9; what kind of sign is that?

God is the aim, but mostly the
Claim is one that only moves persona
From one solemn horizon to the next;
What if the motion was toward a
Black vertex that endured and out lasted
Time health illness rank grammar logic truth
Vision and being; beyond even inner seeing

The roan mare raised the rose stud
The rose stud went down town; down
Town was blank and gone all day;
So mare and stud down town became
Full and bold like warriors with the
Self control of women; to be a
True animal means to know your limit

Cool sugar beet crushed under mortar by
Cruel pestle is the prime meta phor
I'd use to light the plat form
Of my love; I need to just
Squeeze and ring your fleet frame until
Its thin as a wet rag drying
In the sweat lodge of plains summer

That walk is the walk of a
Killer; slow to deliver a motive, but
So brazen that the smell of terrain
The shift of wind the drift of
Sky has no choice but to choose
You over the victim; it's not about
Victory defeat or death; it's that walk!

When you sing in unison with any
Being you become one; beget their letters
And laws as long as the song
Endures; a cricket is a lonely woman;
Spike Lee hugs Madonna in the open;
Alms for kids wailing in Malawi compose
Psalms for those who weep in London

Gristle and carti lage and white bone
Poke through skin; this is after the
End of the world; history and mystery
Criss Cross one another a billion times
Before a new stage begins; every 50,000
Years Shiva rises in the wild west
To test the mettle of our DNA

To GO is the nature and the
Symbol of godhead; to stay is the
Nature and symbol of mankind; the smoothe
Middle path at first seems wise, then
Finally foolish; the holy man chews lemon
Drops to soothe his gut's deep burn;
At death he leaves a sweet tooth

"The beauty of causes and games is
Set in the same basket as assault
With intent to commit mayhem; I loved
Richard Pryor because he figured out how
To make the naivete of Leon Spinks
The power of Coltrane and the primal
Daring of Tupac into an elegant hustle"

The dark horse trims fat so that
He can get to ship shape; William
Butler Yeats sailed off to Byzantium when
His muse told him that he had arrived
In a country where there was no
Place for old men; degrade color romance
Sound then founder in your own phlegm

"A widow makes me kiss a Masonic
Stone; I am alone in the part
myself that can't stop the
Needle and scalpel from peeling all the
Flesh down from around my asshole;
I was once fierce in my loins;
My heat broke and the climate changed"

"The thought of being buried offends me;
Big hole fronted by a marble stump
They expect me to just jump in
And let them pile on until I
Rot and become an after thought; some
Ritual residue rehash urn; I didn't come
From dust; so why should I return?"

tksh9feux8

Scrapbook: Farrah Fawcett-Majors

The untimely (62 is too young) death of Farrah Fawcett is sad, but knowing in advance that she was dying was deeply distressing. Well before the airing of Farrah's Story, I was keeping track of her condition, awaiting the inevitable. She eventually chose to tell the full story of her cancer journey, and then we knew exactly what kind of living hell she bravely persevered through.

It made me think of Paul Newman, who surely went through the same kind of cancer hell, but he and his family worked hard to hide this from the public, who only had a few brief heads up that he was dying. Because of this privacy, the news of his death became a celebration of his life and accomplishments rather than a study of his terminal illness.

But Farrah made the decision to let us in on the illness phase, and it created a new level of empathy and connection with a lady who was, technically, a stranger. For anyone who has personally experienced family or friends dying of cancer, you know that their death comes as a relief - they are finally free of the pain. So, rather than sadness, I reacted to Farrah's death with a great sense of relief: relieved that she was released from the prison of her own body, and relieved that I could now give up this unusual form of extended grieving for someone I didn't really know.

Turns out millions of us feel like we did know her, as highlighted by the media comments and remembrances by us common folk. The one commentary that struck me the most came from Greg Archer on The Huffington Post because it so closely mirrors my experiences and reactions to those early days of Farrah Mania, especially the parts about getting a skateboard and the scrapbook. Archer had three of them! I only made one, and since it was never thrown away, I can now share some of the pages with you.

Leafing through this nearly-ancient and rotting 3-ring binder has been a touching way to remember Farrah and my 5th grade self, as well as a fascinating study of sudden stardom, media saturation and how the woman at the center of it spent the majority of her life trying to get out from under it.

Because I was a grade school TV junkie, I'd seen Farrah plenty of times. She was Lady Shick, and the Noxema girl, and the Mercury lady who cavorted with a cougar. Because I was a magazine junkie, I knew her as the gal hawking Wella Balsm, Winchester cigars and jewelry. Then she began showing up in magazines like Rona Barrett's Hollywood and Gossip because she was the wife of Lee Majors, which didn't mean all that much to me because I just wasn't a fan of bionic people.

Then in September of 1976, out of nowhere, came Charlie's Angels and BOOM - it was full-time Farrah. Oh sure, the other two Angels were crucially important (I even named my first cat Sabrina): little girls typically never played cops and robbers until the girl detectives burst into our lives, and there being 3 of them made group re-enactment a democratic form of make-believe. But re-creating Roller Derby Angels couldn't get under way until resolving long, intense debates over who got to be Jill.

Jill Munroe being the favorite angel among little girls was not all that mysterious or complicated. Kelly Garrett was impossibly beautiful and sneaky, procuring secret information and suddenly unleashing mad karate; she was dangerous. Sabrina Duncan was cute and brainy, plotting strategy and putting thugs in their place; she was authoritarian.

But Jill Munroe was physical - skating, skateboarding, diving, dancing, jumping and punching - and fearless and friendly and slightly silly. She also had the coolest car, the coolest clothes and would clearly be the most the most fun Angel to hang out with. Jill was like the ultimate big sister and/or the embodiment of what you hoped being an adult would be like.

But Jill was nothing in comparison to Farrah. Everything about her was fresh, abundant and slightly alien, starting with that very unusual name and ending with that hair.

Previous to Farrah, ladies' hair was either meticulously styled and glued into place or stick straight and parted down the middle. Then suddenly, there was bangs and layers and wings and movement; even when standing still, Farrah's hair seemed lifted in a constant breeze. It was a mesmerizing spectacle, compelling most every female of every age to layer their hair and attack it with curling irons and hot rollers to studiously achieve the care-free look.

Previous to Farrah, female sex symbols were curvy and stacked and presented like dolls in a display window. Then suddenly, an athletic build and a healthy glow was sexy and attainable. Farrah wasn't busty (it was more about nipples than cup size) so was unencumbered by a bra. She wasn't hourglass so wasn't confined by tight clothes exaggerating the obvious. Her physical presence conveyed movement, and freedom and fun. Whereas Raquel Welch's cartoonish sexiness elicited women's jealousy, it was easier to approximate and benefit from Farrah's new kind of sex appeal.

Farrah was not classically beautiful. This became apparent when she stood next to Jaclyn Smith, who had the traditionally exquisite kind of face that maybe only .1% of the female population possesses. Instead, Farrah had an energy and charisma that combined with that hair and that smile to project a a new and revolutionary personality.

I remember a Vogue magazine spread with Farrah, wherein the writer revealed that the photo shoot crew were first shocked and then relieved to see her legs were peppered with scrapes and bruises, the true hallmark of an active person. They realized she wasn't perfect and thus adored her even more. Farrah created a new standard of beauty and desirability, and healthy, casual and robust was something every female could realistically achieve. Previously rigid standards of beauty were finally buried.

Her allure was immediately apparent, but that is a job requirement of most Hollywood folk, and instant hit TV shows happen all the time. So what was the key to rapid fire Farrah Mania?

The Baby Boomers had Beatle Mania, and that flash flood cultural revolution was due, in part, to the deft media manipulation of their manager, Brian Epstein. For the Generation X version of Beatle Mania, Farrah's Epstein was Jay Bernstein. And just as most Beatle fanatics knew who Brian was, same went for Jay. I remember a TV Guide article that reported the floor of the pool at his mansion had a mural of the famous Farrah Fawcett poster. He was an important - and fascianting - character in the story of Farrah.

Bernstein had a rare flower and he deftly threw out the seeds, growing dolls, toys, posters, T-shirts, trading cards, lunch boxes and folders.

Books and special edition magazines sprung up like dandelions on the newsstands, and for a generation of young kids attuned to Tiger Beat and MAD, we plucked them with fervor.

For the older folks, Bernstein made sure Farrah was always on the cover of some magazine that reached precise demographics. And if she wasn't a cover feature, her lingering contract with Wella Balsm made sure she would still be somewhere inside every issue of Redbook and Cosmopolitan. Today, it is deeply touching that People magazine did such a wonderful job of documenting all the milestones of Farrah's life.

A key component of Beatle Mania was the distinct look and personality of each Beatle, which made it easy to emulate them by adopting a few key ingredients, like the mop top. Farrah had That Hair, and magazines endlessly shared diagrams of exactly how to get that look. Even though most of us failed spectacularly at achieving the precise Farrah Flip (they warned us that she had very thick hair), it did insert Feathered Hair into the eternal lexicon of hair styles. Even my thin and fine 5th grade hair received a boost from having layers, which is one of the reasons variations of the Farrah 'do will never completely die off.

Once millions of women had approximations of That Hair, what better way to celebrate this achievement than with Farrah Look Alike Contests! For the thousands of new suburban shopping malls springing up across America, there was no better way to bring in customers than to invite ladies' to competitively duplicate Farrah for cash prizes and shopping sprees, and bring along your family and friends.

In North County St. Louis, we had our Farrah Look Alike Contest at the freshly-opened Jamestown Mall. The mother of one of my school mates entered the competition because she felt that her tan, her frosted blond hair with banana curls and her blue eyes made her a sure bet. But as she paraded around the stage in a navy blue one-piece swimsuit smiling so wide her neck veins bulged, it became embarrassingly clear that she'd made a huge miscalculation. For several days afterward, it was difficult for her children to look her in the eye.

The winner of that contest actually did look awfully similar to Farrah, and this achievement earned her local celebrity status for several years afterward. Even better? I ran across this lady at a Famous-Barr department store in the mid-1990s, and she looked exactly the same! In the best possible Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? way, she had preserved every iota of that 1977 Farrah-ness, and considering that Farrah herself couldn't even do it if she wanted to, I about cried with happiness over this demented bit of physical nostalgia.

In August 1977, the overheated race car that was Farrah Mania hit a huge speed bump with the news that she was leaving Charlie's Angels. The emotional and fiscal impact this had would be equal to the absurd notion of The Beatles breaking up in 1965. I wasn't alone in my instant dislike for the newest Angel, Cheryl Ladd.

While the producers of the television show sued Farrah for breach of a non-existent contract (which ended in Farrah returning to the show for 6 episodes during Seasons 3 and 4), Jay Bernstein continued throwing logs into the fire.

The media was still cranking out Farrah magazines, posters and T-shirts.

And new variations of her hairdo were still worthy of cover story placement. See, Farrah was not going away, she just wouldn't be on TV once a week, so there's no need to panic or get angry.

The Farrah PR juggernaut worked all the angles: she left the show because her husband couldn't take it anymore (the Good Wife angle) and they wanted to start a family (the Good Mother angle), and she wanted a chance to become a real actress (the Movie Star angle). So, the focus shifted from her being a phenomenon to wanting to earn the right to be so damn famous by returning to films. A constant stream of news and photos from the set of her new movie mingled with the introduction of The Fawcett necklace.

Somebody Killed Her Husband opened September 1978, and we went on opening weekend to see it. My mother and I went to the movies constantly, and she had long ago stopped restricting me to kiddie films, so I had seen a large number of the movies for adult audiences, and had developed a good critical radar from constant exposure to and passion for movies.

That back story is required for my 7th grade opinion that Somebody Killed Her Husband was actually really good. Even my mother - who did a good job of pretty much ignoring Farrah - liked it. It had an engrossing murder mystery plot, Jeff Bridges was great as usual, and it was easy to overlook that it was "Farrah" because she did a solid job of being "Jenny." I was relieved that the movie worked, and that Farrah had not made a mistake in leaving Charlie's Angels.

Seems I'm the only one who thought that... or saw it. It eventually made its way to VHS (and I liked it even better many years later), but never to DVD. It's a case where bizarrely overblown stardom coupled with relative shock over her career choice created no chance to meet the unusually high expectations for such a small, unassuming film. Maybe her passing will bring about a reassessment of this time period of her work; there's nothing to be embarrassed about with this picture.

But her first flop was no big concern because Faberge unleashed a line of Farrah Fawcett hair care products!

So all the rabid Farrah fans that didn't see Somebody Killed Her Husband still saw her regularly in magazine ads and television commercials for the products. Here's the first commercial, and this is the second commercial.

I instantly noticed that "Majors" had been dropped from her name, and wondered what that was about. But I let it drop because the stuff was really great. I'm not the only Gen Xer who still vividly remembers the smell of the shampoo and conditioner; it was sweet with vanilla underscored by enticing spices.


Come the release of Farrah's second post-Angels film, Sunburn, in August 1979, Farrah Mania was truly past tense. Even I didn't bother to go see it, and have still yet to see it because it never merited much more than an illegal release on Japanese DVD.

And the same goes for Saturn 3, released February 1980, which for me personally wasn't worth the trip to a movie theater because it was a sci-fi flick (same reason I still haven't seen her 1976 film Logan's Run).

During this one-year time period, she separated from Lee Majors (thus the dropping of "Majors" from her name), took up with Ryan O'Neal, and parted ways with manager Jay Bernstein. In retrospect, these were neon signs of a woman forcefully excising oppressive features of her life (husband, manager and fame) in order to figure out what really mattered for her career and personal satisfaction.

In essence, she purposely walked away from it all at the height of crazy fame, making her trajectory not unlike J.D. Salinger or Greta Garbo, but actually more akin to Leonardo DeCaprio recoiling in fear after Titanic, some 20 years later. Yes, she continued to work, but only under her own terms.

Over the years, Farrah has addressed how insane the heightened fame was, and how it instilled a need in her to control her privacy, which usually turned out to be a futile aim despite her best efforts. Because of the speed and impact of her ascendancy, she was forever an icon and would forever fight to keep it in control and in perspective. Her thoughts on the matter are really no different than what has been expressed by all the former Beatles, with the major difference being she checked out from it far sooner and far more successfully than any of them did.

It wasn't until August 1977 that she determined what kind of acting career she wanted, and it took another 7 years for her to hone that talent and finally receive the respect and validation she needed.

Let's not forget that she was, essentially, a good Catholic Girl ( after one divorce, she never remarried and she surely bore the unorthodoxy of an unwed pregnancy in 1985 even more than the general public did), so it's easy to imagine the guilt she felt over undeserved success and fame. What is most deserving of respect and admiration is how drastically she moved to correct it, and how hard she worked to achieve the right balance of personal and professional that would make her comfortable in her own skin.

Her personal journey is another reason she has remained such an intriguing icon to both Boomer and Gen X women. The first quarter of her life was about following the rules, while the rest of her life was about writing and re-writing her own rules. It wasn't always smooth, it wasn't always pretty, but a life lived honestly never is, and if someone as blessed as Farrah - who had no choice but to live it partially in public - could trip, fall and always get back up again,then maybe we could, too. We couldn't have her hair, but we could use her as a barometer and inspiration.

The Golden Girl who always had it all and continuously threw it all away in her search for something true had come to her final chapter. Because of all the previous chapters of her life, she was fully equipped and fully prepared to face the ultimate meaning of her life, which is why her decision to let us in on the most painful, final chapter of her life has such resonance: she had nothing left to fear because naked honesty is the final reward that all spiritual practices aim for, and she finally attained it.

We have all noted the bravery of her final years, but when looking back on her life, that bravery was always there; we just didn't quite see it because of all the trappings of beauty and crazy fame. But even though we didn't acknowledge it until the end, she lived it every day, and she more than validated the reasons why we have been so captivated by her for so many decades. She has earned the rights of her iconic status, and she has earned the right to rest in peace.

Sexual Archetypes: the 30th Anniversary of "Sooner or Later"

We all react to subconscious triggers embedded in our brains, and often the key to breaking a habit is making the effort to unlock that code. Sometimes it's impossible to identify Ground Zero, while other times we know exactly what it is and the struggle is to try and lessen the power it has over you.

There is a certain type of guy that always sets off my alarm. While I don't consider this a bad habit, it does tend to make me overlook a more appropriate type of mate simply because he doesn't match the archetype. This was never considered a problem when I was younger, but now that I'm on the other side of 40, I wonder if remaining keenly attracted to this specific archetype will eventually back me into a corner? Should I try to break this spell? Can I? And do I want to?

I know my Boy Ground Zero: It was March 25, 1979 when ABC aired Sooner or Later, starring Denise Miller (fresh off the TV series Fish) and Rex Smith. If you don't know the story, within this page, I've depicted the most crucial plot points of the story, as remembered from the perspective of a 13-year old girl. That's exactly how old I was when it aired, that's how old the character Jessie was in the movie, and that was the target audience.

The film was written, produced and directed by Carole and Bruce Hart, who did a masterful job of knowing exactly what things 13 year old girls obsessed about. Horrible job yes, but if you've got a job to do you gotta do it well. There are plenty of money guns aimed at that demographic at any given moment, but it takes a little more effort and heart to create something that goes off like a bomb at the time and then continues to resonate for years after.

On a Friday, not a single junior high girl knew who Rex Smith was, but come the following Monday, it was a wonder we'd survived that long without him. I was blown away because his singing voice sounded quite a bit like David Cassidy (my first true love), and unlike the fawn-like Shaun Cassidy (who was on my walls at this time - as well as on the walls of a character in the movie), Rex was a dangerous, sexy MAN. And he fell for someone my age!

Denise Miller was the perfect blank page for writing yourself into the story. She was cute, but not exceptional, so not a threat. She was audacious without being precocious, so a believable role model for a confusing period of life. She confirmed the secret to jump starting a love life - makeup. And she landed the hottest rock guy in a not too improbable way. It was the most believable of scenarios, and that air of real life possibility is probably what makes it an emotionally enduring film.

I bought the paperback book. I bought the album. I bought the issue of Us magazine with a feature on Rex Smith that featured a photo of him by a pool, completely naked save for an electric guitar. I swear to you the tip of his penis was visible in the picture. I threw Shaun Cassidy under the bus. I got a $35 acoustic guitar from Sears. I waited expectantly for my Michael Skye.

About 14 years later, I finally got around to proper guitar lessons. I about plotzed when my teacher was a long-haired, Italian stallion metal guy. Knee-to-knee in a tiny room, I could barely concentrate as he put my new Telecaster through its paces. I soon dropped the lessons because he was too hot for me to be serious about learning, and because it made all those latent Sooner Or Later emotions well up. That, and I also had a boyfriend who played guitar and had hair much like Michael Skye.

So, I went home and put the dog-eared paperback and the well-worn vinyl into a box of stuff that went off to a garage sale. This was the grunge era, so these items from a bygone era were way uncool and embarrassing.

Sooner or Later happened right after my puberty kickoff. The whole point of the movie was dealing with the issues of girlish daydreams becoming all too real. "They tell me I should slow up/ Take my time and grow up/ But sooner or later is too late."

It quickly becomes apparent that the dividing line between child and teenager is hormones, and what to do about it. Your body tells you plenty, you're all ears, but you don't understand and are mortified by what it's saying. The outcome - sex - is inevitable, but it's the steps toward it that were the most confusing. Wait, that aspect doesn't change much, no matter how old you are. I guess we just have so much practice with it that it's no longer as scary.

But it was that fear of the unknown that made it so indelible and so special. Just like first love, the lead up to first sex is filled with rush of new emotions that then become unsustainable once you've experienced it. They are replaced with sensations that we experience over and over again, in many new and different ways, but The Firsts have a powerful hold on our psyche.

Many, many years later, my Mother ran across Sooner Or Later on cable, and was kind enough to tape it for me. I circled that tape for a few days, afraid to watch it again 20 years later because what if it sucked? I loved those memories from that time; why chance ruining it?

Have you ever run across an old commercial from your childhood that you completely forgot until you saw it again, but it was like being transported right back to that very moment in time, and you recall it all crystal clear? The sensory input actually produces a physical reaction; it can make you feel good, instantly. I believe the physical sensation it produces is why we spend so much time on YouTube - it's like huffing emotional glue.

My second viewing of Sooner Or Later was the second coming of puberty, and it was good. Real good. It turned out to be an exceptionally well-written and executed piece of work with an honest, emotional core that allows it to float past being unduly dated by its time period. Yeah, all that... and it had me giggling and screeching like a 13 year old girl, all over again!

I swooned and cringed in the exact same spots as before. Every emotion was just as pure and expansive as it was at 13, and being able to fully conjure that at such a late date was a heady experience. It reminded me of a Rufus Wainwright song: "I twist like a corkscrew, the sweetness rising, I drink from the bottle, weeping why won't you last? Why can't you last?"

Well, yes, it can last - just hit rewind!

Viewing it from an adult perspective just adds to the fun. Considering my age, it's now PG cougar porn primo, and I appreciate the care they took in lingering on certain camera angles. It produces this weird sensation of my teen and adult selves swooning simultaneously for different - but just as valid - reasons. It's as close to an out of body experience as I'm going to get without meditation or medication.

During the drive-in scene, Michael sings "She's Still a Mystery To Me" to himself as Jessie stuffs her face with junk food to avoid the necking that accompanied drive-in dates. Jessie asks what's the song, and Michael teaches her about John Sebastian and the Lovin' Spoonful, following up with another pointed reference by singing "Young Girls." This makes Jessie cry, because she has a bucketful of secrets to soon reveal, but at the time, it sent me to the library to dig deeper into the Spoonful, beyond the radio hits. So, Rex, thanks for another enduring gift!

Jessie is 13, Michael is 17. Yes, technically, it will be statutory rape (if 17 was considered adult in Yonkers in 1979). That's the first lens we view through, today. But of far more emotional impact is the deep sea change within that 4 year age difference at that time of life. The writers didn't need to cite laws to make the revelation of the concealed age difference so gut-wrenching for both of them.

But it does beg the question: could this story be told as convincingly today? For multiple cultural reasons, a 13 year old girl is a much different creature than she was 30 years ago, outwardly. Could the changing shape of society, parenting and criminal paranoia make this a quaint, old-fashioned story?

I've now watched Sooner Or Later with male and female friends around my age, some seeing it again, some seeing it for the first time. Everyone enjoys it, which verifies that it truly is quality work. But I've yet to have a clock in from a young girl of today. Would the story resonate? Would the Michael Skye type still be considered foxy in this era?

Personally, the Michael Skye type still resonates within me. Maybe a bit too strong... depends on the perspective and the day. I didn't need to see the movie again to conjure that, only to verify the starting point. But now that I know what the trigger is, maybe it will be easier to quell the sensation and explore the world of Non-Michael Skye types. Especially when I can get my fix any time I want by popping in the DVD!

Turns out there is a part two and three to the story of Jessie and Michael. The Harts wrote two more books about it. Waiting Games takes place immediately after, with 14 year old Jessie deep in a sexual relationship with Michael, whom after declaring his undying love for her, leaves for Los Angeles to become a rock star.

Now or Never zooms ahead 4 years, finding Michael a drunken and failed rock star coming back home and hoping Jessie will take him back.

I haven't read the sequels, though I'd certainly love to. They are not available at any of the libraries, and the third book is fetching some crazy high prices in the eBay world, so that's not happening for me. I'm content with leaving it right where it is, and wishing we could get a little more 30th anniversary love for this romance classic.

Paying for People & Time Online

Would you pay to read select sections of People and Time magazine online? It may be a future decision, as Time Inc. mulls over the idea of web subscriptions.

From the article: "I think it is time for Time Inc. to sit down and seriously think, what is the model," (Time, Inc. CEO Ann) Moore told England's Telegraph newspaper. "We are going to have to figure out a way to have paid content in the future."

I have already lamented the reasons why the death of the magazine is so tragic. I have switched to a gratitude attitude every time my remaining subscriptions land in the mailbox, and I flip the pages to the sound of a clock ticking down.

So, the thought from Time, Inc. makes complete sense, financially. Emotionally, it's preparing for another divorce, much like the one I recently had with the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

I let the daily paper subscription run out since the content has been altered mostly unreadable by the severe staff cuts to try and keep it afloat. Their corresponding website is - by popular consensus - an absolute nightmare to access and navigate. Until they can spare the time and money to redesign and reconfigure their website (think in terms of replicating the print form, please), I am divorced from our local newspaper, and now seeing the online-only St. Louis Beacon through RSS feed and the St. Louis American every Thursday.

And this highlights the dilemma of the dividing line: for every print relationship I have to let go of, there's a cyber one waiting to take its place, and it never asks me for a financial commitment. But what if it did? What would I do?

Time, Inc. has the power and the resources to force this decision.

Free milk vs. buying the cow, and I'm getting a bit uncomfortable about restrictions on playing the field.

St. Louis Mayor Slay Lacks Substance

Francis Slay is running for re-election to a third term as Mayor of St. Louis City, and one one of his campaign brochures landed in my mailbox. I was intrigued by this bit highlighted in red, below:

He created a problem Property Task Force... really? I was unaware of such a thing, and I keep up on such topics. Then I wondered how Blairmont consistently escaped having to fix their derelict properties. Maybe paul McKee got dispensation due to bulk quantity?

Research into this Problem Property Task Force was needed, and since he touted it in the campaign brochure, Slay's website would be the first stop, logically. But there's one very large thing missing from his re-election website: he shares NO information about his issues, beliefs and accomplishments!

Sharing a candidate's issues, beliefs and accomplishments is standard procedure. This is how informed voters decide who to choose. Irene Smith is running against Slay in the primary, and her website lists her issues and beliefs because that's what's expected of someone running for public office.

Francis Slay's complete absence of solid information about his record, issues and beliefs is very odd. Does he assume we already know what we need to know about him? Or does he not have any issues or accomplishments he can substantiate?

The average voter will not do this (and is this what they are counting on?), but I went digging for solid information on this Task Force, and here's what I learned:

● Less than a year after taking office in April 2001, mayor Slay was featured in the January 2002 newsletter of the Holly Hills neighborhood Association. They asked if anything can be done about landlords who let their property run down, to which Slay answered: "People in the suburbs do not tolerate landlords who allow their properties to deteriorate nor people who disrupt our neighborhoods. City residents shouldn't either. I am utilizing the problem properties team to work with neighborhoods to crack down on landlords who let their properties run down."

● In Chapter 9, page 235 of the 5-Year Consolidated Plan Strategy they report: In July 2002, three police officers were assigned to the City Counselor's Office to investigate various aspects of nuisance properties and to clear up numerous outstanding Housing Court bench warrants for landlords and tenants. A telephone hotline was established to allow citizens to anonymously report problem properties.

● Mayor Slay namechecks the program in two subsequent State of the City Addresses.

The April 2005 speech: "We have - together - made City neighborhoods that are safer and cleaner; and a City government that is fairer and leaner. The budget document that you will soon consider upholds these values. It includes my strong recommendation to keep 40 additional police officers, staff the Most Violent Offenders program, and strengthen our Problem Properties Task Force."

The April 2006 speech: "I also propose that you fund an expansion of the Problem Properties and Nuisance Crimes Task Force to more effectively prosecute these new cases and fight problem properties."

This implies that no one acted on his 2005 recommendation and he's still pushing for funds and resources for the program. Seems it took about 5 months for Slay to finally announce: "To make our neighborhoods safer, we are hiring 40 new police officers. Half of them will join our Most Violent Offenders task force. The other half will focus on problem properties, nuisance crimes, and other bad behavior that disrupts our neighborhoods."

● Digging deeper, it turns out that in 1996 the Neighborhood Stabilization Office - an agency long in place - was adding a "Community Development Specialist to administer the City's Problem properties ordinance." So, Slay's program was actually the beefing up of an ordinance that already existed at least 5 years before he took office.

● It takes a bit searching, but reporting problem properties is a service offered on the City of St. Louis website. The Neighborhood Stabilization office and the Citizens Service Bureau are the two excellent agencies that have always been in place to handle these issues. We would have to ask them exactly what new benefits the Task Force provided for their daily duties.

On this web page, they fully define what constitutes a problem property, and sure enough, Blairmont has been violating for a good 5 years. How do they get away with it? Oh wait, there was one punishment in that arena last year.

Surely they included that prosecution in the number cited by Mayoral Chief of Staff Jeff Rainford in a December 2008 speech: "The mayor created a Problem Property Task Force to do something about run down property and nuisance crimes that drive people crazy. We are closing in on 10,000 violations that we have forced landlords to address."

OK, if that's strictly true then Slay should be very proud. So proud that they detail this Task Force and its accomplishments on the re-election website. That's what all other campaigning politicians do.

Instead, one curious voter spent an hour learning that city agencies have been working on this issue long before Slay ever took office, but by giving it a new name and a few more cops, Slay can use it as a piece of campaign feel-good fluff devoid of follow-up details.

This isolated bullet point could be an explanation as to why there is no substance on his campaign website: you start digging and there's no there there. It leaves me with the impression that he's simply running on a manufactured image and is so sure of the win that his campaign can't be bothered to supply any meaningful facts and figures.

Are St. Louis City voters OK with this?

Now, if I just had the spare time to get to the bottom of what Slay really believes about St. Louis Public Schools...

Bruce Springsteen Plastic Surgery?

Bruce Springsteen looked rather good at the 2009 Golden Globes. When he came onstage to accept his award, he actually looked better than Sting (who looked like Hobo Jones). But The Boss looked so different that it has to be surgically enhanced, and surely the press would be all over that in the following days.

Nope. A Google search for "bruce springsteen plastic surgery" brings up nothing useful, whereas a search for "bruce springsteen hair transplant" brings up a wealth of goodies... we'll get to that in a moment.

So, if the media at large won't bite, I will. Let's take a look at...

...The Boss on the cover of Spin in 2007. Contrast that with the top picture, and we see the lower half of face looking much fuller.

In 1986 he was Steve Guttenberg-esque...

...and in 2009 he's rather Neil Diamond.

In Spring of 2007 he looks tired and craggy, in the best sort of way.

In December of 2008 he looks rested and fabulous.

You can cruise any of a thousand Springsteen websites for a host of pictures of him through the years. The one constant is the triangular shape of his face. Suddenly, it's oval.

His forehead does not appear overly Botoxed, his eyes are not noticeably lifted. We know it's still him, but something is definitely different, and evidence shows The Boss is not immune to cosmetic enhancements.

By 2003, he finally had enough of fretting over thinning hair and did something about it. The various stages of his hair rejuvenation are a common fan topic. The Boss should help out his loyal guy fans who are aging right along with him and reveal the magic of successfully growing hair where none was before.

No disrespect meant to Bruce, just noting the obvious. Most famous folk are not as candid as Deborah Harry about cosmetic enhancement being a sound business decision, and it's different for guys, especially when you're the champion of The Everyman.

Even with the hair rejuvenation, Bruce was letting himself age naturally, and it looked good. But now that he's getting ready for another major album, major tour and major lawsuit with Kiss, something told Bruce to spruce up his face.

It must be noted that whatever face work he had done is excellent, the best money can buy. And I'm sure after a few drinks at the Globes after party, Bruce quietly shared the name of his doctor with his new BFF Mickey Rourke. And I hope he's kind enough to pass on the name as needed, because it's not often that someone gets to look fabulous while still basically looking their age.

Meet The Remodels

I'd like to introduce The Remodels, a musical project I worked on with Steve Staicoff. We recorded 6 songs by other people, remodeling them with the intent of pulling out something new and possibly undiscovered in each one.

The Remodels blog includes a video for each song and a brief explanation of why it was covered, along with a bit about everyone involved in the project.

There is also a Remodels MySpace page that streams the songs without the makeshift MTV business.

Or you can stay right here and listen to each tune:

This Is Love
A song originally written and recorded by George Harrison.

Girl Don’t Come
A song originally recorded by Sandie Shaw.

Johnny & Mary
A song originally written and recorded by Robert Palmer.

Love Is Alright Tonite
A song originally written and recorded by Rick Springfield.

What Makes You Think You’re The One
A song written by Lindsey Buckingham and originally recorded by Fleetwood Mac.

When You Walk in the Room
A song written by Jackie DeShannon and best known as a version by The Searchers.

THE LOOK OF LOVE: Burt Bacharach & Hal David at Hotel Murano

I have a long and intense history with the music of Burt Bacharach and Hal David. Burt & Angie Dickinson are still my illusionary romantic ideal. This has been covered in depth here, and this back story is what makes the following story so monumental. Oddly enough, the back story ends on the same note that becomes a climax of this story.

My friend Jim Staicoff had been talking of an amazing project he was working on in Tacoma, Washington, the Hotel Murano. When he came into St. Louis in December 2007, he told me that for the grand opening of the hotel on March 8, Burt Bacharach would be playing in its ballroom. He then casually mentioned that Hal David would make an appearance that night.

My head exploded.
In their 40-year history as a songwriting team, they had never appeared together on stage. Hal is 87 years old. How is this possible?! And if it happens, I must be there.

Jim said he would do all he could to get me into that show, which would take some doing, as it was a $500-a-plate charity event for the Tacoma Art Museum that was already sold out. The whole concept was so surreal that I had to let it go. But Jim worked miracles and found a way to, literally, sneak me into the event.

The Hotel Murano is absolutely fabulous. Read about that experience here. But as fabulous as it is, it can't top what happened in the ballroom.

That's me with Hal David, above.
Yeah, that's me with Hal David!! My inner voice repeats this constantly; it will become an annoying tick in my senility.

As we drove up from Portland, Oregon on the day of the show, Jim gets a call from his design partner, Denise Corso. Eunice told her that the Murano is the most beautiful American hotel she's ever been in.
"Who is Eunice?" I ask.
Eunice is Hal's wife. They checked into the 24th floor the day before.
Is it OK to be first name-only with a musical god? My head exploded.

Since Jim met Hal & Eunice earlier in the night, once we got into the ballroom, Jim dragged me (because I was petrified) over to the table for an introduction to Eunice & Hal. How I managed to speak while my soul was in orgasmic turmoil is still a mystery, but I somehow told him (in a hopefully coherent manner) exactly why this moment was so special for me, and for music history in general:

"Ira Gershwin never came to the gigs of his brother George. Bernie Taupin has never stepped on stage with Elton John. Lyricists just don't usually do such a thing. But you are an exceptional man of words, and this is an exceptional moment in time. I am deeply honored to meet you."

Hal David seemed happy to let me have a picture taken with him. For this photo, I touched greatness. He even touched me. I did not faint, but my disbelieving heart was breaking with happiness.

Then came the concert.
I have seen Burt Bacharach probably 8 or 9 times, starting when I was 9 years old, when he appeared at the St. Louis Muny Opera with Anthony Newly. I have seen him with Dionne Warwick and the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, twice. Every occasion is special because, as Hal David wrote on his website, "Burt is a man of many talents - a masterful arranger, an outstanding conductor, but first and foremost a brilliant composer. Among songwriters there are many tune writers but just a handful of composers. He is one of the few."

Along with the selections one would expect - and never tire of - he and his band and 3 singers did "God Give Me Strength" from his collaboration with Elvis Costello and a selection from his 2005 politically-minded record At This Time.

What made this concert a tear-stained event was that Hal David was sitting at a table behind us (how did we get better placement than him?), and I could look at Burt and turn to look at the man who wrote the words. And get this: Hal was mouthing along with the words he wrote! I could never have even imagined such an event, much less this occurrence at the event. My head exploded.

Near the end of the show was the moment I couldn't fathom happening: From the stage, Burt announced Hal was in the audience and confirmed that it was the first-time ever that Hal would come up on stage and sing!

Hal David sang "I'll Never Fall in Love Again." I captured this mind-bendingly historic moment using the video setting on my camera, thus the quality is not the best (it's a bit shaky because I was a lot shaky), but it is captured.
Here is Part One.
Here is Part Two.

My head exploded.
And then Jim says we're heading up to the 25th floor for an invite-only reception for Burt & Hal.
No, I can't take anymore. I met Hal David, had my picture taken with him, watched Burt, watched Burt and Hal together... I had spent my limit of good fortune and was emotionally spent.

Yes, you're going, and he steers me to the elevator where we ride up with Eunice and Hal David!
My head exploded.

"Hanging out" in a room with Hal David was unsettling. Rather than liquor to calm my nerves, I go over to the banquette to pour a cup of coffee. At this point, Hal & Eunice are seated at tables behind me, and I can hear them having casual conversation with people they know.

During the show, Burt introduced "Arthur's Theme" as being written "with ex-wife Carole Bayer Sager" (because we were so close to the stage, I politely refrained from hissing at the mention of her name). I overhear a lady at the table say she didn't realize "Burt and Carole were divorced. When did that happen?"

Eunice answers that it was "long ago," (1992, to be precise). The lady asks what became of Carole, to which Eunice answers in a politely dismissive tone, "Oh, she's married to, oh, Bob... I can't recall his last name."

I'm overhearing casual conversation about Burt from the mouth of Hal's wife! That the pouring coffee didn't wind up all over the countertop while my head was exploding is a minor miracle. I slammed down the coffee, surreptitiously took the photo above and left because my head hurt from all the explosions.

I was barely back in the room when Jim calls: Get back here now. Burt's here!
Oh shit. Is there any head left to explode?

And here's Burt Bacharach. I adore that he left the stage, went back to his room, peeled off the suit and changed into clothes that looked Sunday morning casual when contrasted with the surrounding formal attire. Good for him.

And here is what one looks like when their head is exploding while standing near Burt Bacharach.

Here's where everything turned into a dual existence in lightening speed slow motion, of being detached from the body while overwhelmed from being in the moment.

Once again, Jim stepped in where Toby feared to tread. He took my camera, walked up to Burt (gasp) and said there was someone here who came all the way from St. Louis just to see this show, and then he introduced to me Burt. I truly don't remember what I said to him; maybe I just blubbered like a lunatic. But I did manage to ask him if I could have my photo taken with him and Hal David. He said "of course."

With the audacity borne of an out-of-body experience, I peered across the room to spot Mr. David, and called out, "Hal!" Hal looks at me (probably thinking, "Oh, that head trauma victim from the elevator"). I ask, "Can you come over here for a picture with me and Burt (me and Burt, how fucking rich!)?" And he comes over!

With Hal next to us, I swear to you it's true that Burt says this: "Let's have Toby (he remembered my fucking name?!) stand between us, since she came all the way from St. Louis to see us." Burt moves me into place between them (Burt's touching me!) and flashes start popping.

I could feel my hands on their necks (yikes!) and with my head pounding, I leaned my head onto Burt and whispered in his ear, "Thank you." I leaned my head onto Hal and whispered in his ear, "Thank you." And I can't recall anything else because, well, my head exploded for the final time.

Here's me looking like a hurricane victim dragged from the wreckage. It is, without a doubt, the worst photo ever taken of me, but screw that. Look at Burt and Hal! They are god like! Anyone who had a heart could look at me and know this is the look of love. A lifetime of musical devotion culminates in a final moment I never conceived of. And I floated out of the room, into the hall and into the waiting elevator.

And I'm sharing it with Eunice and Hal David!

By now, I was completely emotionally spent. I fell back in the corner with my hand on my heart and waved my hand at them in surrender. They smiled sweetly, and luckily had to go down only one floor to escape this shipwrecked fool.

I went back to the room and stood in perfect silence, staying right in the moment because it was so exquisite. I met Burt Bacharach & Hal David! I had my picture taken with them! I will be the most annoying person in the old folks home from constantly muttering this.

To have left this room to go back to the party would have been a series of diminishing returns (and Jim said Burt left shortly after I did), an anti-climactic trek back down Mount Olympus. So I crawled under the covers, turned off the lights and say a little prayer for you, Burt Bacharach and Hal David.
Thank you.

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The New Face of Raquel Welch

Raquel Welch has been out promoting a new sitcom she appears in. A friend sent out an urgent bulletin to beware her talk show appearances, as she's virtually unrecognizable with her newest face. Seeing photos of Miss Welch during Fashion Week triggered a Hollywood trashtastic memory of Raquel and Mae West (above) in the gloriously bad classic Myra Breckenridge.

As documented here, Raquel Welch threw many an on-set hissy over Mae West. From costume misunderstandings to stolen musical numbers, Mae became the Bette Davis to Raquel's Joan Crawford. If decades of industry rumors have any truth, Raquel Welch has never slackened the levels of persnickety she achieved because of Mae West.

I am a lifelong Raquel fan. From the time I was old enough to pay attention to grown ups talking, every woman had something catty to say about Raquel every time her name came up. This is precisely why I like her. But as I gaze upon the latest pictures of Raquel, I can't help but notice that karma's a bitch because she now looks pretty much like...

...Mae West in Myra Breckenridge!! Slap a long platinum wig on her head and we'd have the ultimate Celebrity Plastic Surgery Karma Morph.

Ode to Fabulon

While doing research with a nice stack of Vogue magazines from the very early 1960s, the above ad made my spine tingle because it was so fierce.
My first thought: is that a drag queen?
My second thought: this is so Fabulon.

Fabulon is my favorite non-celebrity gossip blog because it covers everything else that's just as crucial to my upkeep. In quick, bite-sized chunks, he either eggs on my favorite cultural obsessions or exposes me to new ones (I've always adored Zsa Zsa, naturally, but pink poodles are the newest craze!). On cold rainy days, I used to flip through old Cosmopolitan magazines to fell better. Nowadays, I scroll Fabulon.
Cher Bless You, Thombeau.

Moving away from my early Valentine's to Fabulon... LOOK AT THIS!

From the same April 1961 issue of Vogue, the perfect spring outfit from White Stag. Everything about this ensemble - from paisley to skort to the white accessories - is what I need in my closet right now!

Could the ladies' clothing retailers please get over their endless tape loop of mid-70s re-treads and copycat some early 1960s for me? Please?

Heath Ledger Skips Out

Every time an artist dies, I remind myself that I never knew them personally, and the way that I know them lives on forever exactly as it always has, just no new output. That usually helps with the sadness. But what rationale can I use for a shocking death like Heath Ledger's?

On the night of his death, with full details still fully unknown, the bitchy but very fair gossip god Ted Casablancas intimated that Heath's drug problem had long been a blind item. The day after his death, the extent of his drug problems slowly comes above ground. With conclusive autopsy and toxicology results weeks away, this story promises to linger until the explosive final act.

There's a theory that when someone gets fired or laid off from a job, they should be congratulated because in some way they manifested this outcome; it shouldn't be a huge shock. This same theory goes through my head about Heath's death. It's not a suicide, more an accident, but is there really such a thing as an accident?

I was happily on board with Heath since 10 Things I Hate About You (especially because of these scenes!), a movie I can't even watch in mourning since I just watched it (for about the 27th time) a couple of weeks ago, dammit! That movie was the beginning and end of his romantic comedy career, and he never lived well with the "handsome hunk" persona the biz tried to build around him. Turns out he had much better stuff to offer. He was an actor, a real good one, the type that spent more time bettering their craft than playing show biz. Even with a string of actress girlfriends, he wasn't as paparazzi-desirable as other actors in the same situations; he was an actor trying not to be a star. And it paid off.

Brokeback Mountain gave him an Oscar nomination, and will always be listed as his most important work. The Joker in the upcoming Dark Knight will become his most iconic role because of all the posthumous drama, among other reasons. I think his shining moment was as Robbie Clark in I'm Not There. He embodied a difficult time in Dylan's life while also revealing his own turbulence. It's exactly the fluid, multiple layers of meaning that director Todd Haynes craves, and considering that he returns to actors he loves working with, I was excited about Heath becoming Johnny Depp to Haynes' Tim Burton. The shock of his death turns to sadness...

But 10 Things I Hate About You and I'm Not There are my comforting bookends for an actor in steady ascent. An ascent that crashed abruptly. Maybe it would be easier to process if he had died in a plane crash... but that poetic symbolism would have doomed him to insufferable legend forever more. Or maybe there's no escaping the looming legend, considering how shocked everyone is long before the whole story is known. But the common denominator surely is the sadness of being robbed of all the great performances to come.

A Top 100 Architecture Blog

Along with John Mayer and Suzanne Somers, today I celebrate a birthday. The most delightful of all b-day surprises was an e-mail I received saying that B.E.L.T. made their list of Top 100 Architecture Blogs.

B.E.L.T. comes in at #48 in the "Niche" category.

My pal Andrew Raimist also made the list for his exemplary site, Architectural Ruminations. Congratulations to him, and my thanks to International Listings for such a cool, out-of-left-field pop fly.

Death and The Camera Eye

A piece about the grand opening of the Ellis Hotel in Atlanta introduced to me the 1946 Winecoff Hotel fire tragedy. This introduced me to the riveting photo shown above, and that it could be the last photo of this lady.

Who took the photo?

While contemplating that, the iconic image above instantly came to mind, another jump from a building, this one intentional. For decades, this photo has conjured deep emotions, even inspiring a book and a song. In this instance, the photographer is known: Robert C. Wiles, but I can't find any information about him other than being credited for this shot.

Richard Drew took this photo on September 11, 2001, and it is known as The Falling Man. Debates about how inappropriate or necessary it was/is to see these images of people leaping from the World trade Center towers has continued for 6 years; how these photos make the viewer feel is the central theme.

Maybe because I'm a photographer, I relate to these images from the angle of the shooter, and always wonder how they deal with the lingering aftermath of their photo. It is understood that a photographer is instinctively reacting and recording when a dramatic moment happens; there's a pronounced disconnect between the person and their camera eye, capturing the moments on autopilot. Only later does the photographer truly fathom what was recorded.

As viewers of the photos, we can look and then look away. Certain images are burned into the mind's eye, and can be turned off and on at will. But the person who took these photos has an entire sequence to remember, or try to forget. For us, it's one or 2 frames; for them, it's a long playing memory. Yet seldom does the photographer get questioned about their thoughts and personal ramifications of being the one to freeze a flash point moment in time.

Richard Drew had captured the assassination of Robert Kennedy as well as the Trade Tower jumpers. This kind of repetitive odd timing gave him an odd notoriety and CNN talked with him shortly after 9/11. There's one thing he said at that time that reverberates hard because it may reveal the emotions felt by each of the photographers represented above:

"I don't think I captured this man's death; I think I captured part of his life."

A Farewell to The Price Is Right

Bob Barker filmed his last Price is Right, but there’s a time delay between his retirement and regularly scheduled programming. June 6th is a sad day, yet the big, bawling farewell is over a week away. It’s akin to pulling off the Band-Aid very, very slowly.

I think I’m goin’ back
To the things I learned so well In my youth*

Making physical contact with the past can be curiously calming. Simply touching a childhood teddy bear or baseball glove can instantly transport us back to a free and happy place, a private moment of intense time travel. Anyone who has ever gone back to find their childhood homes or haunts either damaged or demolished knows the nauseous equilibrium shift that causes; it’s an erasure of everyone’s history. I feel that same kind of public sadness and discontent about The Price Is Right (TPIR) coming to an end.

It has been the only unchanging entity in my life from nursery school to this very day. TPIR is more than a game show, it’s a measure of time. It’s been like having a favorite grandma forever baking favorite cookies to take the edge off a hard day of adulthood.

Simply hearing the theme music creates a Pavlovian need for a fried egg sandwich, as my babysitter made me one to eat while hanging out with Bob Barker and Janice. Come grade school, I looked forward to the Shell Game and current Green Giant canned pea prices when home for sick, snow or holidays. Come high school summer vacations, the ending theme song meant it was time to stop sitting around getting high and actually go do something.

As a productive, organized and aspiring adult, any type of illness is treated with a medicinal viewing of TPIR. It’s my audio equivalent of, “Aw, you poor little thing. Here, this should make you feel better: A New Dishwasher!!!”

Let everyone debate the true reality
I’d rather see the world the way it used to be*

We’ve all pretty much taken for granted that the show has never altered in any significant manner. Because of that, we may also not realize how bizarre the concept is: A daytime TV game show has aired for 35 years without ever really changing.

In our accelerating entertainment culture, TV shows are constantly being dickered with, and we accept new sets, new theme songs and new cast members as part of the deal. But aside from subtle redesigns of the Showcase Showdown podiums and Barker’s hair and weight, it has looked the same for 4 decades. Meaning, every M-F, there are millions of people between the ages of 3 and 93 watching repetitive actions take place on post-psychedelic department store décor from 1972, and it feels perfectly natural.

Surely at many points, some up-and-coming CBS hotshot suit has begged for a cosmetic update to appeal to (insert that season’s hottest demographic). Yet, it defiantly remains the same. Reporter Ken Smith wrote a nice piece about his day as a contestant hopeful in the audience. This part filled my heart with love:

“The first thing I noticed is how vintage the set looks, with its old-school light bulbs and glitter paint. I could clearly see the silver paint peeling off the giant “$1000000” sign they hang during the ‘Million Dollar Spectacular’ episodes, and the place even had a certain musty, old theater smell to it. While it’s comforting to know that the show hasn’t changed much in 35 years, I wasn’t expecting it to appear quite so lived in.”

Oh, that’s exactly how I imagined the set to be! It breaks my heart to be told it’s all really true because I lay you odds Barker’s town car had barely left the parking lot for the final time when producers started trashing the parts of the Styrofoam Fruity Pebbles set that weren’t stolen as souvenirs. Woe onto those impatient dismantlers, for the karmic wheel can become the Showcase money wheel always landing zero, and thanks for playing.

In a world of volatile programming, TV formats are constantly being altered for ratings. TPIR has danced with fellow game shows and soap operas, ignored Jerry Springer nation, waited out Oprah and judge shows, and remained standing as the only daytime game show. Week after week, decade after decade, the show goes on as if nothing has really changed, or changing just enough to avoid creepiness.

I’m confident that this fly-in-amber oddity is due to the resolve and power of Bob Barker. Obviously, the game show has always made piles of money for the network, so much so that it’s not worth a CBS CEO’s life to spar with Barker and his winning formula – his cleverly low-overhead formula. In the process of defining and defending his lucrative territory, Barker created a kingdom, and much like Henry the 8th, King Barker had many Queens.

But thinking young
And growing older
Is no sin*

One of the things that endear Barker to us is his good-natured irascibility. He came up when many game show hosts were sarcastic, flip and snickering, but Bob never converted to rice pudding to keep viewers. It’s this consistent personality trait that has me totally believing every story of affairs, pinching and parties that went on backstage between him and the Barker’s Beauties.

A few of his Beauties filed suit against him, and those were taken care of with a minimum of fuss and/or enough money to make them drop suit. He never denied what was true, but also never called a press conference to discuss it; his generation still follows a chivalrous code toward women. With chivalry in mind, I think it’s worthwhile to look at the Beauties from another reality.

Unlike being a Playboy Playmate, there are only about two handfuls of Barkers Beauties. This prestigious club has so few members that they couldn’t fill a short bus. It is also the only modeling gig with any measure of job security, because Barker is attentive to his ladies long past the industry’s typical sell-by date.

Janice Pennington, one of the original Barkers Beauties, is a brilliant example of rising above a “this year’s model” mentality. She was a 30-year old former Playmate when the show began in 1972, and reigned supreme until her dismissal in 2000, at the age of 58. That dismissal was not because of age – if that were really an issue she would have been gone a decade or so earlier – but because the Queen was disloyal to the King. Janice sided with the banished Holly in a court case. Previous to Holly’s dismissal (and subsequent legal battle with Bob) she worked with them for 18 years. I’ve never held one job for that long, have you?

Relatively speaking, TPIR must have been a great place to work, because no one ever wanted to leave. Show announcers only stopped working because of death (Johnny Olson and Rod Roddy), and death need not stop your billing on the show.

I can still hear Johnny say, “This has been a Mark Goodson/Bill Toddman Production.” Toddman died in 1979 but they kept using the production tag line until 1983. Goodson died in 1992, but “For the sake of tradition, and through special permission…The Price Is Right continues to use the Mark Goodson Productions name, logo, and announcement at the end of each episode, even though the original company no longer exists.”

“For the sake of tradition,” is the peculiar aspect of the shows longevity and success. In the malleable, superfluous world of entertainment, Barker was defiantly steadfast, upholding a tradition until we noticed it was a tradition. His unique business practices also created a sense of permanence, like families or the neighbors on the block where you grew up.

Now there's more to do
Than watch my sailboat glide
And everyday can be
My magic carpet ride*

So Barker’s retirement feels like losing my teddy bear just as the bulldozers come to demolish my childhood home. It’s a bit weird to feel so emotional over a game show, but The Price Is Right was a weird, magical adventure that transcended beyond several different realities.

Sure, the show will go on with a new host (who better not dare use the tall, skinny mike) and a new set with the prerequisite Battlestar Gallactica décor. There will be dry ice, silicone sister merchandise models, and contestants hamming it up in hopes of becoming the next celebutard. Considering the Barker Legacy, the producers had better not be fool enough to simply insert a new host into the 35-year old blueprint.

So catch me if you can
I’m goin’ back*

Bob Barker has certainly earned a rest, because 35 years of keeping an unwavering enterprise alive is hard work, even though he made it look easy. I hope our profound sadness does not ruin his triumphant farewell, and may he have a long and satisfying retirement. Thank you Mr. Barker, and help control the pet population. Have your pets spayed or neutered. Goodbye everybody.

* “Goin’ Back” by Gerry Goffin & Carole King

Farewell, Charles Nelson Reilly

As Bob Barker's retirement is just days away, I've been wallowing in nostalgic television research, which naturally brought Charles Nelson Reilly into the equation. I'm just a tad freaked that as I've been remembering how much laughter he brought me as a kid, he then ups and leaves this mortal coil. I have promptly ceased all thoughts of Brett Somers and Richard Dawson, hoping to avoid a Dies-In-Threes Match Game smack down.

From Horatio J. Hoodoo on Lidsville, to Match Game to Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In to my beloved Love American Style, Charles Nelson Reilly was like a 1970s prototype of Where's Waldo? He constantly popped up everywhere on TV, and it was always a treat when he did. Just like Paul Lynde, there was true humor for everyone of every age and awareness, and that's how it's supposed to work. A sad and fond farewell to a true entertainer.

Sanjaya, The Possibilities Are Endless

Even before Sanjaya got the boot, I was thinking of his future possibilities. My first thought had been reviving Dan Rowan & Dick Martin's Laugh-In for the 21st century. The update would be:
Donny Osmond & Sanjaya's Laughin'
Topical humor, skits and songs with a regular cast including Jessica Simpson, Kimberly Stewart, Stephen Dorff and George Hamilton. Andy Dick as the new Artie Johnson.

We're overdue for the variety show format's return. Networks have picked apart each component of it to make new formats, so now it's time to bring them all back together. Plus, it would provide gainful employment for all those cyber-celebrities who don't have a valid reason for their notoriety.

But only last night, with tears of sadness rolling down my cheeks as he said goodbye, did the truly brilliant idea hit me:

Sanjaya and his sister Shyamali are the 21st century Donny & Marie!

For the pilot episode of San & Shy's variety hour, just dust off any Donny & Marie Show script and perform verbatim, with all songs, banter and costumes left intact.

Come today's post-loss press conference, Sanjaya seconds my thought with allusions to "a wide-ranging career that will probably include performances with his sister, Shyamali."

To network television producers, this idea is my gift to you (and if it actually happens, I'll be looking for a "creator" credit, naturally). To kids' book publishers, time to hop on the following:

Post Script: Only this morning did I learn that Donny Osmond & Sanjaya did a bit on Leno last night, mere hours after posting my Sanjaya variety show pitches. I am the Showbiz Nostradomus!

Premiere Magazine: A Toast at the Wake

I’ve finished reading the final issue of Premiere magazine. Upon hearing it was laid to rest, my first reaction was, “Hey, I paid for a 2 year subscription!” My second – and lingering - reaction is sadness. The death of another magazine is disturbing on so many levels.

On a personal level, my mother’s movie magazines are some of my first memories (especially being spanked for scribbling in her stack of Photoplay). Upon learning how to read, magazines became babysitters. What has always been a sentimental, tactile and informational attachment could become an historical artifact rendering me a bewildered fossil.

On a fan level, after the sad and pointless content change of the once-genius Movieline magazine (it was to movies what Creem was to music), Premiere was the only American populace movie magazine left. Rather than concentrate solely on trivial aspects of celebrity, it was only about movies and the people who made them. I deeply appreciated this last serious holdout landing in the mailbox each month.

On an objective level, I’m one of those people whose “consumer behavior” has been radically altered by the internet’s easy and instant access to information. Yet, that subscription assured me at least one good meal a month amidst all the on-line celebrity junk food. So, I didn’t directly contribute to the magazine’s demise, but I do contribute to the culture that killed it.

Unlike Movieline, there’s a nobility in their decision to not cave in and follow the easy money that lowered standards can net. Their decision to be a web-only presence means they are still alive, and if Libby Gelman-Waxner can be persuaded to finally join them on-line (so far that column is absent), then I will make sure to regularly visit. But the stinging truth is that the internet has forever changed how we gather information and how long we wait to get it, and if Premiere wishes to be viable competition on those terms, then the cave in of previous standards is a prerequisite.

Paper vs. Plasma: What We Lose In Translation

This article from Daily Variety is an accurate telling of why Premiere had to die. One paragraph in particular brought understanding into sharp focus:

“In a universe where misinformation travels swiftly over the Web, Universal Pictures publicity executive Michael Moses would like to see studios enter the blogosphere and provide information directly to consumers.”

While the Internet basically killed my lifelong music magazine habit, the trade-off is bands being able to talk directly to listeners with much less music business hype and manipulation. Plus, the point is supposed to be the music itself, so jumping straight to hearing it means no more money wasted on records that didn’t live up to a dynamic review. So, if this sea change applies to selling music then, yes, it applies to selling movies, too.

With technological advancements, there is no going backwards (except during power outages), and I can no longer live satisfactorily without them (as proven during power outages). But the potential demise of the magazine saddens me because:

No More Layouts
Have you ever browsed an article you wouldn’t normally read because it looked so fabulous? Exceptional graphic design can lend substance to insubstantial content, and elevate the worthwhile to awesome. An art director gives atmosphere and impact to a magazine; as of yet, websites just can’t replicate or advance the art of graphic layout and design. Compare a feature layout in Entertainment Weekly to its web counterpart (above) to see the vast difference. I fear for the grand tradition of the visionary art director.

Diminished Photography
Have you ever spontaneously ripped a photo from a magazine because it was so arresting? Right-clicking, saving and sending a 72 dpi photo to your crappy printer just doesn’t cut it. Not that photographers need worry about job security in the face of magazine obsolescence, but it will become more difficult to see their work any larger than half your monitor size (on those websites that care enough to provide a larger pop-up version). Compare 9 x 12 inches to 100 x 200 pixels and understand the negative impact the web has on the art of photography.

The All-Important Cover
No matter the industry, “landing the cover” is the ultimate achievement. It is magazine covers that make the news, catch our eye in the grocery line and signal when someone has arrived. The coveted cover can be a classic Hollywood horror story, a graceful show of power, or a deal breaker when it’s denied. Websites just can’t do covers, and they need to develop some new form of prestige to take its place.

Bathrooms & Waiting Rooms
What will we read in those places? Do people actually use laptops while sitting on the pot? And if magazines disappeared, what would be left on our coffee tables for guests to browse through?

Frickin’ Ads Everywhere!
Most magazines adhere to a format of ads in the front and the back, with only a few placed between features. This keeps advertisements from gunking up the layouts and content in the heart of the publication. On-line, there is never an escape from ads, and this means there is never a truly attractive or contemplative webpage layout.

No Chance To Linger
The Internet delivers tons of information real fast, so I’ve developed the skill of speed skimming to take in as much as possible before my eyes spazz out. A magazine can be like the cool down after cardio kickboxing. A magazine is like savoring a good meal, while the Internet is like gobbling fries in the car. I need the balance of both options.

Two-Timing the Print & Cyber Entities

Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair and Entertainment Weekly are magazines with a concurrent and strong web presence. I subscribe to VF and EW, and have barely thumbed through an issue of RS in the 21st century.

Even though they continually promote it in the magazine, I’ve visited the Entertainment Weekly website maybe once. The kind of celebrity gossip they provide is done better elsewhere on-line. Their more in-depth print articles are either not on-line or very hard to find, and then they don’t look as nice, so why bother?

Pouring over an issue of Vanity Fair is a luxurious contact sport. Their website is rather nice (below), and they go out of their way to respect the photography they are known for. But I only go there in hopes of finding an on-line version of an article to e-mail to someone.

Somehow, I receive Rolling Stone’s weekly e-newsletter (above). I do look at it because it’s loaded with lots of quick information, yet I only click one or two headlines before getting sidetracked. I’m incapable of applying past behaviors with the print version to the web version.

There’s the gist of the situation: The sporadic nature of the Internet is at odds with the continuous nature of magazines. A 13-year old may have a hard time hanging with the commitment a magazine requires, while a 70-year old might not want to keep up with the motion of the web. I’ve got a hand in both camps, and so know them as two distinct entities that socially mingle about as well as a 13- and 70-year old. I appreciate having both options, and often get drunk on the plentitude. The demise of Premiere magazine feels like a court-ordered 12-Step program. The hint of a diminished presence for all magazines feels like the threat of Prohibition.