M.E.L.T.

Teenage Scribbles: Vogue Magazine

2012-02-01T18:00:00.000-06:00

Beads, July 30, 1979
Crayola crayon on 3-hole punch paper

Bored on a summer vacation day, leafing through the July edition of Vogue, getting upset that my puberty-ravaged body had nothing in common with anything on any page.

Profile, July 30, 1979
Crayola crayon on 3-hole punch paper

I used to raid my mother's makeup drawer to try and approximate these looks. Paper was more cooperative than my face, thus I went for the higher success rate.

Special note must be made that the skin tone in this drawing, and the one above, was done with the Indian Red crayon. Political correctness was several years in the future.

Hand, July 30, 1979
Pencil and nail polish on 3-hole punch paper

After a half hour with the crayons, I went high concept by filling in the fingertips with my mother's Avon nail polish. To this day, it still gleams all frosty orange.

Jerry Hall, July 30, 1979
Watercolor on 3-hole punch paper

By the afternoon, I graduated to watercolor. And I was not going to pass up an opportunity to draw Jerry Hall, who - even though she had it made by hooking up with Mick Jagger - was still actively modeling at this time.

Oh, how I loved me the Some Girls album from the summer before. Anything to do with it was glamorous - 'cept for maybe Jerry's nose? Can't help but note that I took some artistic license - the junior high version of rhinoplasty.

(Teenage Scribbles = finding a large stash of drawings I did between the ages of 14 - 20, with the vast majority happening before too many drugs, boys & bold misadventures preoccupied my time.)

Teenage Scribbles: Rod Stewart

2012-01-31T18:01:00.000-06:00

Rod Stewart, July 24, 1979
Color pencil on 3-hole punch paper

The summer before starting 8th grade, I loved disco. So I was not bothered by "Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?" I even thought that most of the album it came from - Blondes Have More Fun - was pretty damn great.

Later on, I went backwards through Rod Stewart's music catalog and quickly realized why so many were upset. But not before thinking large chunks of Foolish Behaviour was pretty damn great.

RELATED A fictional imagining about THE decisive moment in the downturn of Rod Stewart’s career.

(Teenage Scribbles = finding a large stash of drawings I did between the ages of 14 - 20, with the vast majority happening before too many drugs, boys & bold misadventures preoccupied my time.)

Teenage Scribbles: Olivia Newton-John

2012-01-30T20:03:00.000-06:00

Olivia Newton-John, May 6, 1979
Color pencil on 3-hole punch paper

I was a hardcore Livvy fan, joining her fan club during the 1976 Don't Stop Believin' era. Things were looking pretty bleak for her - both artistically and chart-wise - come 1977's Making a Good Thing Better. Grease saved her career and gave us all something to obsess over during those last innocent moments before junior high began.

Olivia's Bad Sandy and her (still amazing) album Totally Hot inspired me to makeup my face and hair in an endlessly bittersweet parade of 15th-rate imitations (she always had the best hair, didn't she?). Growing weary of the uphill battle, I finally gave that all up and just drew her, instead.

(Teenage Scribbles = finding a large stash of drawings I did between the ages of 14 - 20, with the vast majority happening before too many drugs, boys & bold misadventures preoccupied my time.)

James Spader is Fat, and It's OK?

2012-01-15T15:26:00.006-06:00

James Spader got fat and it makes me sad.
Above left is James Spader from 1989's Sex, Lies and Videotape, and above right is Mr. Spader from the January 12, 2012 episode of The Office.

It was brave of him to don that formfitting workout suit in the pursuit of comedy, but then we can see just how fat James Spader is, and it makes me angry.

I'm sure Delta Burke is now at peace with her body, but maybe she sees something like this and still feels a tinge of anger at all the grief she had to suffer through because she stopped starving herself.

Do actresses over 40 who starve themselves into social X-rays see this and wonder if it's OK for them to have some cheese popcorn, just a few handfuls, maybe?

James Spader, Alec Baldwin and Val Kilmer are the three biggest examples of working actors who were once ultra hot but who have let themselves go. I have run across some places making whale jokes about Val when he was photographed flopping on the beach, and that was just as fair as all the nasty remarks about Kirstie Alley. But tally the points of Val vs. Kirstie fat cracks for statics on the injustice of double standards.

The long-standing double standards of male vs. female fatties is no longer acceptable because of the number of female voices now in the media. To that end, kudos to Glamour magazine's campaign to include normal-sized models in their fashion layouts. Now let's take it a step further with an article about what a big fat drag it is to see James Spader rubbing his big fat tummy!

Christina Aguilera has let herself spread out, and it's the focus of a Marie Claire cover article. Why isn't Alec Baldwin on the cover of Men's Health as the warning signs of a heart attack waiting to happen?

James Spader again goes for the laugh offering up a tray of Oreo cookies, but it's irritating to see him displaying his downfall without any further retribution.

I've read comments about how sad it is to see what Brigitte Bardot has become, but keep in mind she's old and is no longer in the business. She's living a normal life, and getting heavy and getting old happens to everyone, outside of Hollywood, right? But when you're a steadily working actor that was once a white hot symbol of heart-stopping sex, it's just sad to see it blow up in your face. And that it happens free of the snarky side-eye that an actress peer has to endure.

Oh well. James Spader is no longer hot, he's just fat. Let's look back at what we've lost:

Paul McCartney: Sing the Changes

2010-08-01T20:03:00.008-05:00

I like to picture Paul McCartney running across a coffee mug with this old chestnut on it and he chuckles knowingly: “A woman has to work twice as hard as a man to be thought of as half as good. Luckily this is not difficult.”

That quote neatly sums up his career; be it the Beatles or John Lennon, or even George Harrison, he always seems to work overtime to prove that he’s worthy just as he is, constantly battling the qualifiers of his past. In truth, the total output of his entire musical career is staggeringly weighted toward eternal relevance, but it may take two more brand new generational cycles to erase the ever-present “Yeah, he’s great BUT…”

We drove from St. Louis to Kansas City, MO on July 24, 2010 to see Paul McCartney. We were very clear that we wanted to “see a Beatle” while we still had the chance, and on the drive out, we sang along to a few tracks from every Beatle record, and it was glorious. The Beatles are Everything That Is Music to so many of us, and it is a joyous world because of this.

Here’s the set list from that night. Doing the math on what we paid for a ticket divided by how many minutes they played, it broke down to $1.26 per minute, and it was worth even more than that. The band (and if you see them play, you KNOW it’s a true band – and I wish he’d cut a new song or two with them) played 37 songs. 23 were Beatles tunes, 14 were not; it breaks down as 10 Wings, 2 from the 2008 The Fireman record, one 1982 and one 2007 solo Paul tunes.

It was truly transcendent to hear that undiminished voice do “I’ve Just Seen A Face,” “Paperback Writer,” “I’ve Got A Feeling” or “Helter Skelter.” But aside from his tributes to Lennon (“Here Today”) and Harrison (“Something”), the songs that stole my breath and brought tears of joy to my eyes were NOT Beatles tunes. It was 2 Wings tunes (“Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Five” and “Let ‘Em In”) and The Fireman’s “Sing the Changes” (with a graphic nod to President Barack Obama).

In retrospect, I’m not surprised that Wings tunes plucked my heartstrings; Paul McCartney & Wings were the soundtrack to my grade school 1970s childhood. Same goes for most any early Gen Xer. There were 3 artists that dominated the charts and radio in the ‘70s: Stevie Wonder, Elton John and Paul McCartney. And people our age were pretty much free of The Beatles Baggage that Sir Paul still carries to this day. We reacted to the Wings hits and albums as they happened with a relatively clean slate, and we liked what we heard with no disclaimers.

For those who grew up in the 1960s, disclaimers are all over any of McCartney’s post-Beatles work. Considering how The Beatles changed their lives forever, this is totally understandable. Those 10 years continues to alter the DNA of anyone who hears it, no matter the year or your age. But when only 10 of his 50 years in music were with The Beatles, when does the guy get a break?

Even to this day – even on a 21^st century website like allmusic.com – 40 years worth of musical output is still judged against The Beatles, and there always remains the unspoken “Lennon would think this is crap.” But analyzing it in a detached manner, this is a Baby Boomer rock journalist perspective that is being repeated by subsequent generations of music writers, which is really lazy and maddening. It’s especially maddening when all generations’ votes for post-Beatle McCartney via albums, singles and download sales is often dismissed as clueless listeners “falling for” McCartney’s populist pandering (which remains the underlying tone of so many of his solo critiques). It becomes clear that many music writers are trapped in amber, beholden to narratives that will lose resonance as the decades pass. And poor Paul will probably not live long enough to see the day when his entire musical output is justly revered (though nabbing the Gershwin Prize probably soothes a lot of Paul’s wounds).

Of course his entire post-Beatles catalog has low spots; any artist that has been going steady for 40+ years has peaks and valleys. Many times I’ve heard hardcore Bob Dylan and Neil Young fans trashing some of their wonkier albums. But oddly enough, those 2 artists are given a hall pass because when you look at their output as a whole, their levels of consistency far outweigh the momentary lapses of sanity.

But Sir Paul is too often denied that same hall pass by the very same music aficionados. He is rigidly held to an impossible standard that he helped set, and often derided for religiously adhering to a songwriting work ethic, even as they may be haunted by the “du du du du du’s” from “Another Day.”

Considering what he has contributed throughout his entire career, it’s puzzling that McCartney can’t catch a break from a select group of writers and taste-makers of a certain age (and the younger ones who ape their perspective). It’s also puzzling that McCartney is seemingly haunted by this… if you buy into this old narrative.

If you follow the still-popular party line, Lennon and Harrison (and even Ringo) achieved moments of freedom from the oppressive Beatles’ shackles, while Paul continues to run the popular music hamster wheel. Would Paul catch a break if he had taken musical sabbaticals, have public breakdowns, substance issues, or spiritual journeys? Do we need him to be splayed open with misery in order to escape being the lesser in a Beatles compare-and-contrast?

Because it seems that we require our Beatles’ to come down to earth, McCartney had two “opportunities” to rough it up: the death of his wife Linda in 1998 and the sordid divorce trial from Peg Leg in 2008. But rather than show up in a club with a Kotex on his forehead, Paul dealt with his pain through music and by taking the high road. And this may be the rub for many: McCartney is an old-fashioned professional songwriter and performer who keeps his personal life separate from his musical output, which was also the case in the Beatles’ days. He’s been fairly consistent in this manner, but without the protective blanket of The Beatles, he’s been dismissed for the same behaviors and songcraft that was accepted wholeheartedly while in the fold. The double (or triple) standard is, again, maddening.

Wouldn’t you hate to be a Beatle? Wouldn’t you hate to have to live like that? The other three reacted to and tried to move away from that very problem. Paul just seemingly shrugged it off and kept going, unabated. And even though he has given us decades of memorable and hummable songs, it somehow wasn’t enough for the millions of people who still control the narrative.

But that night in Kansas City, for almost 3 hours, we were free of that tiresome narrative. Those of us of all ages were enthralled by everything he gave us, regardless of its pedigree. That’s the power of exceptional songs performed at peak ability: it’s of the moment, of your memories and your emotions. And this does not lessen the impact – there are no disclaimers because this is the truth of right now. Paul McCartney has always written songs for every one of all ages, and this is why – as President Obama noted before handing over the Gershwin Prize for songwriting – McCartney has been on the charts for a cumulative total of 32 years.

It’s ridiculous to divorce McCartney from his Beatles years (and none of us want that, including him!), but it’s equally ridiculous to chain 40 subsequent years of music to The Beatles. Let it be or live and let die, it all matters, and Paul knows this. There is no better protector or curator of The Beatles legacy, and for that he deserves deep gratitude. For everything else, he deserves deep respect. He’s had to work twice as hard to get half of that respect, but for him, that’s not difficult.

RELATED
October 1965: The Beatles - Yesterday
April 10, 1970: The Beatles - Let It Be

It's a Rough Shop Christmas

2009-12-14T20:22:00.005-06:00

12.12.09 The 6th annual Rough Shop Christmas Show at The Focal Point was, once again, ultra magical. Actually, the entire journey was magical.

It started with recording the CD that became Just Because It Was Christmas.
You should buy it here.

There was a stop at the KDHX studios to record 4 of the songs from the instant classic album. Listen to them here.

And after a whirlwind week of rehearsing, the show went down with gusto and glee.
Here's photos from the event.

And thanks to Roy Kasten, there's excellent video of all the performances that night.

And here's some lesser-quality video shot by Steve Scariano on my crappy digital camera:

That's me in the red Liza dress, Kate Eddens with the red feathers and Anne Tkach on bass, which completes the Gift Trio.

That's Kate Eddens doing a Rough Shop original by Andy Ploof and John Wendland.

That's John Wendland singing the hell out of a Paul Kelly song! And my deep thanks to John and all of Rough Shop for the honor of being part of their Christmas music magic. They make it the reason for the season.

And Bonus footage:

Death to "Mr. Blue Sky"

2009-09-22T20:45:00.002-05:00

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

2009-09-07T15:43:00.006-05:00

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

2009-07-12T10:22:00.007-05:00

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!

2009-07-05T14:02:00.004-05:00

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

2009-06-25T18:16:00.020-05:00

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"

2009-03-29T13:52:00.041-05:00

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

2009-03-11T12:49:00.005-05:00

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

2009-02-08T08:22:00.011-06:00

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?

2009-01-19T19:03:00.006-06:00

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

2009-01-06T18:14:00.004-06:00

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

2008-03-13T21:17:00.007-05:00

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.

RELATED
Hotel Murano: A Sleepover Art Museum

The New Face of Raquel Welch

2008-02-09T14:28:00.000-06:00

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

2008-02-02T15:34:00.001-06:00

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

2008-01-23T18:11:00.000-06:00

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

2007-10-16T17:33:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-23T13:11:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-06T21:55:00.001-05:00

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

2007-05-28T09:32:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-19T18:15:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-15T09:33:00.000-05:00

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.

Anna Nicole Smith Is Not Marilyn Monroe, She's Jayne Mansfield

2007-02-10T17:44:00.000-06:00

Other than my next door neighbor just securing a ticket for the Anna Nicole Baby Daddy Sweepstakes, I have nothing new to add to the Dead Anna media saturation.
But I do have a complaint:
The Marilyn Monroe comparisons are just plain wrong, and lazy.

Trying to make a shallow connection between Anna & Marilyn is insulting because it disses Jayne Mansfield. It was the masterminds at Guess evoking Jayne Mansfield that first brought Anna to our attention.
Here's a page of Jayne to explain
why the Anna Guess ads were so compelling.

A few years later, we all began to learn that she was a walking hillbilly disaster who's main gift was following art direction orders well. She went from strength to strength when she earned her John Waters Merit Badge in September 1996 for exploding implants.

By the 21st century, she was the benchmark for quality reality TV.
During our weekend of national mourning, I keep wondering about Anna's former assistant Kim (above), the person who loved Anna the most. I wonder if Kim's friends are laying flowers around her tattoo, in memorial.

Jayne Mansfield got her start as the exaggerated Marilyn Monroe clone, so Anna being made the clone homage was a brilliant move. Trying to draw parallels between Anna & Marilyn is just retarded when the life parallels between Jayne and Anna are so eerily exact. For starters...

Jayne died on June 29, 1967
Anna was born November 28, 1967
Making Jayne's Reincarnation as Anna a genuine metaphysical possibility.
They both died in their 30's, and the agony they felt in their final days was reflected in their hair.
Those are enough "embodiment" highlights to get the dedicated conspirators on the trail, which then might make up for the heinous oversight of Jayne, via Anna.

Anna lived a tragic life, allowing herself to be scuttled and muddled about, and death does not solve that aspect of it, the poor dear. This is probably where the Marilyn comparison comes from, because other than the eyebrows and a brief hairstyle or 2, it's the only thing Marilyn & Anna have in common.

We had Jayne Mansfield Reincarnate, and most were too distracted to fully appreciate the gift, and now they're disrespecting Jayne yet again. Because when Jayne and her Chihuahua died (while Mariska and her siblings survived) in a gruesome car wreck, most every obit got the "poor man's Marilyn Monroe" in by the first paragraph. Even in death, Jayne is forever second-billed.

So it would complete the karmic wheel spin if Anna was forever second-billed to Jayne. But karma's wicked fey, Marilyn is the unwitting scene-stealer for a cliché-ridden media, and not a single gal in this Peroxide Trinity gets to rest in peace.

"Recent Linear Landscapes"

2007-01-29T07:29:00.001-06:00

VIDEO "Recent Linear Landscapes" by Finn's Motel

The astronaut is Thomas Crone.
The Indian is me.
The clown is Joe Thebeau, the leader of Finn's Motel.

REALTED
The Gateway Arch

Eddie Izzard & Judi Dench

2007-01-14T15:52:00.000-06:00

New issue of Entertainment Weekly
First Thought at First Glance:
What is Eddie Izzard doing on the cover with Mirren & Streep?
Second Thought:
Oops, that's Judi Dench.
Third Thought:
Probably the first and last time we'll ever see ladies with their natural, aging faces on the cover of this magazine.

But here's proof that present-day Dame Judi and mid-period Eddie Izzard do share a certain look.
The inside photo of Dench is even more Izzard-esque. Which is far from an insult to either performer. From my perspective, Dame Dench resembling Eddie Izzard gives her a certain cool cache I'd never attributed to her before. And casting directors should take note of this for any future British Mother/Son casting needs.

Brad Pitt & The Fountainhead

2006-12-09T11:26:00.000-06:00

Brad Pitt & Angelina Jolie visit Falling Water on Thursday, and by Friday afternoon, we're told about it, and given the classic photo op (above). They took a two-hour tour which ended with a private birthday (his) celebration afterwards in the living room.

This isn't a case of the media finding out and letting us know. This is clearly a case of Brad and His People making a concerted effort to get this photo and press release out. There are two points that Brad wants in the public consciousness.

#1: "Brad said he had a visual sense of Falling Water but experiencing it in person, hearing the sound of the waterfall cascading under the house and smelling the wood from the fireplace, was better than anything he could have imagined."

#2: "Brad said he had wanted to experience Falling Water ever since he took an architectural history course in college," said curator Cara Armstrong. "He and I talked quite a bit about design and art. He was incredibly well-informed about architecture."

Point # 1 amuses me. How nice of Brad to share poetic thoughts on his Falling Water experience. It's almost like enjoying his vacation photos over a glass of cabernet, isn't it? Such a warm and fuzzy feeling.

Point # 2 slightly disturbs me. It's that bit about wanting to see Falling Water ever since he took an architectural history course in college, which was well over 20 years ago.

Mr. Pitt has spent the last several years making sure that we know he loves architecture. We've heard details of how he personally re-designed the interior of a Hollywood home (and how it left Jennifer Aniston so unimpressed that she didn't even want the place in the divorce). He's gone out of his way to repeatedly insert his name into the star glow surrounding his favorite architect, Frank Gehry. And he's been so successful at representing himself as a design-driven creature that what clothing accessories he prefers bears mentioning.

At first, I was enamored with Brad's architectural bent. "Gee, he's such a huge and handsome star, yet he spends his spare time immersed in architecture... he's so smart." But in reality, I know that stars of his magnitude only release that kind of information for precise purposes. And that's what disturbs me.

He's spent years rolling out this architectural image of himself, but other than the remodeled house that Aniston hated, nothing's come of it. So, when he makes this latest concerted effort to share his Falling Water experience, I get concerned because it could indicate that his architectural id will finally manifest into the physical.

I picture him financing a public building that he designed himself, or donating money to expand an architectural wing of a university in his name, or designing and building an entire village in one of those countries that his girlfriend adopts children from. I also know I'm lending him way more architectural gravitas than he actually has. He's a movie star, an actor who enjoys acting like an architect...

Then the mailman delivers my current Netflix selection, The Fountainhead. Gary Cooper as a barely-disguised Frank Lloyd Wright antagonized by his secret patron/love interest Patricia Neal. The movie was just finally released on DVD, which I consider a big deal. Brad Pitt probably does, too.

And then it hits me!
Mr. Pitt wants a Fountainhead remake with him and Jolie!
Rather than having to make good on all his publicly-declared architectural aspirations, he can just act like the ultimate architect. So, he trots his girlfriend/co-star out into the snowy woods across from Falling Water for the photo op, sends out the press release, and in a few weeks he'll be in the executive office of a major movie studio getting the financial green light for this project.

This idea would be the perfect resolution to his "I want to be an architect" desires, as well as a brilliant career move. Plus, I'd much rather he re-do The Fountainhead than actually foist upon the world a building he designed. So, here's hoping for the win/win.

RELATED
A Case Against Frank Lloyd Wright: Architect
Angelina Dearest

Lopez & Clooney: Hollywood Perfection

2006-11-11T14:00:00.000-06:00

Here is Jennifer Lopez and George Clooney on November 9th, at Tony Bennett's 80th birthday celebration. The sheer perfection of this moment took my breath away. While simmering down from the 1000x star wattage, I reflect on how Out Of Sight, the Steven Soderbergh movie they co-starred in, is one of my ultra-favorite movies. I've seen it, easily, 10 times, with my most recent viewing being about 3 weeks ago. Everything about it is great, from the cinematography to Don Cheadle to the smoldering and energizing chemistry between Clooney & Lopez. Sure wish they'd team up for another movie... J.Lo's movie career could sure use a boost like that.

And the photo triggered a subliminal comparison with the golden age of Hollywood. Who do they remind me of?

Ah yes! Sophia Loren & Cary Grant. So, now I'm asking Hollywood:
Please work up a remake of Houseboat with Clooney & Lopez. Lopez has already done the maid thing, and Clooney is the 21st century Cary grant, so this is a no-brainer.

New Blog: SONG LINE

2006-10-18T10:35:00.000-05:00

A third title has just been added to my tiny Blogging Empire.

Song Line

The title comes from a Tim Finn song about musical heritage, and is my chronological musical memoir. If you know the songs, and know (something) about the time periods covered, then there's something to be had from it, even if you don't know me.

Winona Ryder & Kate Moss

2006-09-15T05:53:00.000-05:00

It's slightly unnerving to see Winona Ryder & Kate Moss hanging together, as they're both Johnny Depp ex-fiances. Makes me think of...

Ava Gardner and Lana Turner forming an ad hoc "Ex Wives of Artie Shaw" club.

Or Liz Taylor finally making amends to Debbie Reynolds more than 40 years after she stole her husband, Eddie Fisher.

Then again, the thoughts inspired by new BFF Winona & Kate are far more glamorous than the actual Depp exes. I'm guessing that if Johnny saw any of the recent shots of them shopping and smoking in NYC, he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

The New York Dolls & Mike Shelton

2006-08-21T07:30:00.001-05:00

A new record from the New York Dolls is a dicey proposition. 3/5 of the original band are dead, and what they spawned has been so diluted over the decades that trying it again would be like trying to get another cup out of a spent teabag.

Then Steve Scariano let us know that One Day It Will Please Us To Remember Even This was absolutely great. No, it’s not a New York Dolls record, but it is the best David Johansen solo album ever, and isn’t that reason enough?
Yes.

He goes on to say that “You know if Mike Shelton were here he’d be in everybody’s face, rounds of phone calls, telling us how amazing this record is – go out and buy it, you’ll love it!” Shelton adored David Johansen, seeing him every single time he came to St. Louis, even attending the opening night of Car 54, Where Are You? because he starred in it. Shelton couldn’t convince anyone to see the rotten movie with him, so he went only with his unceasing loyalty to Johansen’s ever-more-curious career moves.

Both Shelton & Scariano are right about the new record: it’s bloody brilliant. Where I disagree with the boys is I do think it’s a New York Dolls album, undoubtedly and unceasingly.

Based on historical review of a 33-year career, Mr. Johansen has always played a character, worn a costume, trotted out a new musical act for his audience. Transvestite proto-punk, BoHo Chic troubadour, New Wave Mick Jagger, lizard lounge act, ancient white bluesman… He has artfully continued the David Bowie-inspired craft of Musical Chameleon while never requiring the PR fanfare of more calculated practitioners like Madonna.

All these musical personas work because Johansen always comes from a musically pure place. His unceasing fascination and precise historical knowledge of all facets of popular music have always guided him. A New York Doll was the first mask he donned, and he was fortunate enough to have a randy glam boys’ glee club willing to go along with the lark. The Dolls profoundly influencing an important sector of rock music was the divine intervention of being in the right place at the right time. Rather than lessen the achievement, it makes the story that much sweeter.

The Dolls were Chapter One, while Buster Poindexter was Chapter 4, and all his characters are important plot points in Johansen’s musical review. Revisiting the New York Doll character is a gripping plot twist, and David is such a passionate, professional performer that I feel bad for even momentarily doubting that he’d do a disservice to the Dolls legacy. He remembers exactly the Dolls recipe: Chuck Berry, Ellie Greenwhich, Greenwhich Village drag queens, comic books, The Beatles, trash & kitsch culture, urban snark, street punk bravado. Using fresh ingredients, this recipe still works in the hands of the master chef.

The 21st Century New York Dolls philosophy is still irreverent, world weary and joyful. Creationist freaks get humorously poked with “Dance Like A Monkey,” my favorite protest song of the year. On “Plenty of Music,” they revisit The Ronnettes and score 10 points for the use of the word “superfluous” in an era-perfect chorus. The rowdy songs (“We’re All In Love,” “Punishing World,”) uplift, the spiritual songs (“Dancing on the Lip of a Volcano,” “Maimed Happiness”) inspire. Johansen’s lyrics are consistently arch, articulate, and snotty. The 3 new guys are top-notch rockers, and with Johansen and Syl Sylvain leading them astray, it all sounds like a band that’s been goofing off and making music for years. It’s all pure, it all rock, I’m so happy it’s in my life.

And it would be an absolute pleasure to have obsessive conversation about the record with Mike Shelton, but I can’t.

August 2004 Mike, his wife Carrie and his teenage daughter Emily were killed in a freak car accident. They were driving home from Beatlefest in Chicago, when a northbound car crossed the median and slammed into them, instantly killing all 5 people involved. An entire family literally went up in flames, and the shock still lingers like the smell of smoke in your clothes days after a bonfire.

Mike Shelton was the hub that held together the spokes of a musical family. The tires had just blown off the bus and we all crashed hard. Only after he disappeared did we finally realize how large that wheel was, and what a driving force he and Carrie were amongst all St. Louis Rock Obsessed.

The night after their tragic deaths, there was an impromptu wake at CBGB’s. Everyone was dazed and drunk, and tears of abject sorrow turned into tears of bittersweet joy as all the musical loves of Mike’s life played overhead… Bowie, The Beatles, The Stones, Mott the Hoople… every track brought Mike back. Everyone could feel Mike in the room. At one point, the lights went down, the Stooges went up to maximum volume, and an abandoned, tribal dance of celebration took place. The greatest moment of sadness was when they played “Michael Picasso.” Ian Hunter wrote the song as a tribute to his late, great friend Mick Ronson. Ronson was not only Shelton’s greatest musical love, but his personal pal. The ironic karma of Ian’s song to Mick becoming Mike’s song was eerily profound, and even Mike himself broke into tears over how painful our sorrow was.

In the days and months after the Lindsey-Shelton family left, each of us encountered Mike. Whether buying into life after death or deeply cynical about the prospect, each of us had undeniable moments of Mike checking in on us. It was always through the odd placement of a song so poignant and pointed that it defied mere coincidence. He used this same form of communication in both life and death, and each time we experienced it, the message was the same: I’m OK, I’m happy, I’ve still got your back.

The public memorial for Mike Shelton was a benefit concert. Iggy Pop and the The Stooges were Mike’s godhead. The Stooges became The Shemps in the hands of Scariano, Bob Trammel and Craig Petty, and a line-up of Mike pals throughout the decades paraded past the stage, being Iggy for a few minutes (earning the chance to do “TV Eye” is one of the greatest moments in my life). The Duck Room donated the space for the night, a film crew recorded all proceedings, and all of Carrie & Mike’s friends and family gathered for a raucous, magical, cathartic celebration. Mike’s actions in life are a lingering lesson in treasuring your family of choice – your friends. Old connections were renewed, new connections were made, and we’re all still a part of Shelton’s song line.

See memorial concert footage here.

August 2006 The 2nd anniversary of his abrupt exit, so four of us met for brunch before heading to the cemetery to hang around the family headstone. During the meal, Barb suggests that remembering how we each first met Mike would be a nice ceremony.

May 1995 Mike & Carrie always threw a Memorial Day BBQ at their home. One year, Mike gave Scariano specific instructions to bring some “new, cool people” to the party. In a case of mistaken identity that resonated like a whoopee cushion, I was recruited and brought along as one of those “cool people.” Within 10 minutes of meeting Mike, he asked what turned out to be his litmus test question: Do you like Mick Ronson?

“Oh yeah,” I told him. “But actually, I love Ian Hunter even more. To show how warped I am, in junior high, I used to fantasize that I was married to Ian Hunter.” Mike fixed me with smiling eyes, and said in all mock seriousness, “So did I, honey. So did I!” From that moment on, he was my source of all Ian Hunter news, as well as the imp who fed me smokes and drinks when I shouldn’t have, and goaded me into listening to albums that I probably never would have.

August 2006 Nowadays, Scariano has taken over Mike’s role of the person who practically forces me to get certain new records, with One Day It Will Please Us To Remember Even This being the latest of his benevolent commands. And every time I listen to the new Dolls CD, it easily conjures Mike Shelton.

We head out to Memorial Park cemetery, and walk up to the family headstone that’s constantly covered with tokens of honor and remembrance. In front of Mike’s plaque, a CD had been inserted into the dirt, like inserting it into a player. Getting up close, I see it’s the new New York Dolls CD!!!! Turns out Chris left it there a few days earlier; on what would have been Mike’s 56th birthday. Is this not the gift he would want the most?
Yes.

The four of us lounged on the ground in front of the gravestone, as stories, meat cracks and memories of Mike, Carrie & Emily flowed freely. It felt perfectly natural, it felt good. Once back in the car, Scariano did the absolutely natural thing: He rooted in my glovebox and pulled out the new Dolls. Before ever pulling away from the grave site, it cranked out full blast, and roared all the way back home. It was a riotous symphony that allowed for contemplation and sadness. But then that sadness got slapped silly by love and joy and David Johansen basically describing Shelton: “I’m not an artist/I’m a singing, dancing work of art.”

Mike, I love ya, but I can’t miss you if you won’t go away!
Girl, I can’t go away while you’re playing The Dolls!
Mike, this is why I play it everyday.

A Dictator & A Don

2006-08-17T19:11:00.000-05:00

Fidel Castro is an expiring creature, so they tarted him up in a track suit and clown makeup in a half-hearted attempt to assure Cuba that he's still in charge. Along with fantasies about traveling to Cuba in 2007, I wondered why that AP photo of Fidel kept poking at the Cultural Connection section of my brain.

Hours later, the connection roared onto the radar screen:
Fidel reminds me of Uncle Junior Soprano.

The analogy is absolutely poetic. A don and a dictator, both of them feeble lion kings who now only hinder their pack. Where they once ruled with fear, they are now only accorded begrudging respect because once they were King of the Jungle. And both men have close family that rarely shows up at the convalescence home because they're too busy manning the herd while the lion sleeps tonight.

Cuba Libre!
Viva Sopranos!
And both of their funerals will play out like a lit match landing in gasoline.
And now it's time talk with a travel agent...

The Bangles

2006-07-11T19:35:00.000-05:00

The Bangles
House of Blues, Chicago, 7.8.06

A group of 8 of us made a road trip from St. Louis to Chicago to see The Bangles. Considering the broad musical diversity of the people involved, Steve Carosello posed an unanswerable question:
What other band could get everyone in this group to Chicago for a show?

(Above, Vicki Peterson) The lowlight of the trip up was when Jon Bitch learned that bassist Michael Steele was no longer with the band. His bubble popped, but the replacement bassist was young, cute and a much better bass player than Michael ever was.

(Above, Debbie Peterson & Susanna Hoffs) But her absence reminded me of seeing Fleetwood Mac without Christine McVie; that other voice was missing. In the case of Steele, I truly missed her low-end harmony parts. Sure, the remaining 3 sounded marvelous and complete without her, but her departure was duly noted.

The band was magical, digging deep into the catalog, a healthy handful from the last studio album, and tossing off all the hits you do want to hear, as well as those I wish they'd skip. All 3 girls look gorgeous, sing better than ever, and genuinely enjoy playing the songs they perfectly execute. It's still hard to fathom being able to see The Bangles in 2006; to have them deliver 110% when even 75% would have been acceptable is a rare treat.

Being 3 Bangles made it much easier to get group shots. Which leads to the venue, The House Of Rules. The place gets more oppressive with every visit, so it always feels good to break at least one of their rules by sneaking in a camera.

Afterwards at a hotel bar, Miami Mike (above, left) invaded our space, yanked beer bottles out of his drawers and tried to get fresh with Joe (above, right).

Above, L-R: Joe's wife Gina, me & Steve.

And, above, Jon Bitch. Not pictured - but ever present - Tony Boyer.

Marilyn Comes Home

2006-07-04T10:52:00.000-05:00

The culmination of this journey brings Marilyn to my house.

Demetrie Kabbaz's exhibit of Marilyn Monroe paintings at the Barton Street Lofts started on June 1st, Marilyn's 80th birthday. The opening reception was glamorous and lively, and it was the perfect setting for a predestined moment 3 years in the making: Could I Now - Finally - Have A Marilyn Painting?

As soon as I spotted The Painting (above), I felt it was mine. It's Marilyn from her last, aborted movie in 1962, Something's Got To Give, from a scene where's she's kneeling down to speak with her children. But Kabbaz had inserted a b&w photo of a young man, and I assumed it was a young Joe DiMaggio. This made it even more enchanting!
I declared aloud to my friend (who shares Marilyn's birthday), "That's my painting," while crossing my fingers that it was even vaguely, remotely affordable.

Seconds after the declaration, Kabbaz' dear friend Linda came in and gave me a huge hello hug, and I gushed to her that I was buying "1962." She smiled grandly and said what a great one for me to have because that's Demetrie's high school graduation photo on the painting!!
Destiny Fulfilled!

Mr. D. generously made her affordable, but the catch was I had to wait until after the exhibit closed... a whole month. Rather than cramp myself with childish impatience, I just tried to forget about it.

But finally, the Kabbaz call came: "She's home and she's all yours."
And then he came over and hung the painting for me (above), which was a joyous ceremony.

My definition of art:
Anything that unlocks the guileless part of your soul and makes it sing.
Those are coveted moments, and sometimes I've skipped paying utility bills in pursuit of beauty. But logic has little to do with art.

That's Kabbaz, Marilyn & me, above. I feel joyous and peaceful now that she's "home."
Demetrie, thank you for every magical moment of this journey, which will continue for the rest of my life, every time I gaze at "1962."

Def Leppard

2006-06-19T21:03:00.000-05:00

Yeah! is the most appropriate album title since Never Mind the Bollocks Here’s the Sex Pistols. While the Pistols’ made a declarative statement, Def Leppard simply went with the gut response one gets at some point during each of their cover choices.

It feels both weird and titillating to be energized in the summer of 2006 by a band that had some of my attention for a few years in the early 1980s. Along with New Wave, I bought into the New Wave of British Heavy Metal, and bought Def Leppard’s 1980 debut album, On Through The Night. I hated the cover art, and was left cold by most of the contents, but it was obvious from interviews that Joe Elliot was a huge glam rock fanatic who was jazzed to finally have a band of his own, and they were all awfully young and cute. At 15 years old, this was sufficient reason to be a fan.

But the follow-up, High ‘n’ Dry, was a genuine blast, and when unloading all my Def Leppard vinyl years ago, it’s the only one I held onto because it still moves me, hard. The band still had all the original members, and Robert John “Mutt” Lange came on board to create a loose, power crunch of pop metal. The singles “Let it Go” & “Bringin’ On The Heartbreak/Switch 625” still work perfectly.

There’s also a sentimental attachment to High ‘n’ Dry-era Lep. The weekend I turned 16 years old was celebrated with concerts by Van Halen (the Fair Warning tour), and Def Leppard. Actually, DL opened for Blackfoot (who?!), and even at that time, it was an absurd and backwards bill. But the DL boys packed a lot of tight rock into a 40-minute set, and they were awfully hot. When overly inebriated on a Sweet 16 weekend, that – and David Lee Roth the next night – was all I needed.

In 1983, there was no ignoring Pyromania. Coming out the radio, “Photograph” was a bright and immediate latch-on. Then MTV bombarded our every viewing moment with the video (actually, it was more of a sword fight between DL & Duran Duran’s “Rio”), and chart domination was complete.

The appeal of that album was undeniable, but the relationship between Def Lep & Lange intrigued me way more than the music. Much like George Martin with The Beatles, or Roy Thomas Baker with Queen, producer and band worked together on the tunes to craft a distinct sound. In the process, these bands became better musicians, and left behind instantly recognizable slices of rock.

Robert John “Mutt” Lange produced a lot of seminal hard rock albums, but Def Leppard were like putty in his hands, allowing him to craft a signature wall of sound that eventually sucked the blood out of DL. While I wasn’t a fan of the chipmunk compressed vocals and layers of frills Lange plastered onto the boys, I did appreciate an audio craftsman perfecting his vision. Lange moving onto his own sonic Barbie Doll with Shania Twain makes perfect sense, and bought him a large chunk of New Zealand. So bully for Lange, but too bad about Def Leppard (if you consider untold riches and popularity a detriment to creativity), who were left without a master.

After floundering about, the boys decided to take a breather and rediscover what inspired them in the first place. What they discovered was pure joy, and how to properly share it.

Yeah! is absolutely exhilarating, both musically and spiritually. By returning to their roots, they uncovered the band they actually were under all that Lange pop rock tulle. They gave themselves a parameter: only 1970s British (save for Blondie) bands they loved before they got signed. They used a democratic system for song selections: everyone made a list and they found the common threads. They used good judgment: no obvious choices. They used their smarts: what they’ve learned over the decades reapplied to what made them do it in the first place. And they produced it themselves so they could just revel in the moment and deliver an honest set of songs.

The songs they settled on got my attention just from the advance blurbs. Anyone combining T. Rex, Blondie, Sweet, Kinks, ELO, Mott The Hoople, Badfinger, Roxy Music and Thin Lizzy on one record will probably get my cash. I did cringe at the thought of Def Leppard going light alloy on “Waterloo Sunset,” but that hurdle was easily cleared.

A good song is a good song, and shouldn’t depend solely on the performance. Ray Davies made an eternal impression with his wistful, trembling “Waterloo,” and anyone who’s covered it since latches onto that melancholy. Def Leppard get major props for having the balls to give the song some meat, and Joe Elliot’s vocal interpretation changes it from a hermit’s view of life, to an observer weary of city life just looking for humanity where it hides. In the extensive liner notes (totally worth the price of admission), Elliott writes: “I don’t know what it is about the Kinks, but they had a wonderful knack of making what were essentially sad melancholic songs sound so uplifting! … his chord structures were so simple, that had they been kids, they’d have been in remedial class! Brilliant.”

Elliott’s brilliance is in understanding that, seeing it as a template, and knowing more could be pulled from this classic tune. And for every time Joe endears himself to me with his reasons for doing a song (“We had, HAD to pay tribute to Roy Wood somehow – so how???"), he and the band then deliver more than expected (ELO’s “10538 Overture,”) and more than we may deserve.

Twice, DL has me loving their cover more than the original: David Bowie’s “Drive-In Saturday” & Mott The Hoople’s “The Golden Age of Rock ‘n’ Roll.” That last one made me feel like a traitor, but when considering how much Elliott adores Mott, he thought long and hard about how to do this without embarrassing themselves.

He shares his theory that the song “was really a Sex Pistols song minus, er, the Sex Pistols guitars!!! …it’s big, ballsy, & if I’m honest, the one song I had doubts about singing!! Paul Rodgers, no problem (they also cover a Free song); Ian Hunter, he’s my hero!!! What if I ballsed it up?!! …If I’m honest, I thought it was about time you all heard where the “woah ho” stuff in “Photograph” and “Foolin”’ and a lot of our “call to arms” choruses really came from.” And then they got Ian Hunter to appear on the song! You can just hear Def Leppard popping a woody every time they think about that.

The band introduced me to something I’d never heard before, but now can’t live without: “He’s Gonna Step On You Again” by John Kongos, a British one-hit wonder. And they tried a noble experiment that most everyone but me loves: “Rock On” by David Essex.

They’ve made me swoon because each band member picked a favorite album cover to replicate (Phil Collen doing Raw Power = hot), and if he could curb his exclamation point tendency, I could read a novels-worth of Elliott’s music musings. Plus, I discovered some things undetectable under all that Lange production: Joe Elliot has an elastic, authoritative and manly voice, and Def Leppard just plain rocks; no disclaimers or descriptors, just rocks.

So, this is a kick ass summer album, and I’m grateful for every second. But what next?

Considering how the band has opened up and gone back to basics, this should translate over to future original work. Because, how can you have a journey like Yeah! and remain unchanged? They’re 27 years into this game, and should have the guts to do as they wish from here on out. I’m hoping that they remain so jazzed by reconnecting with the essence of rock fanaticism that it allows them to drop the gimmicks and marketplace facades and produce something worthy.

Joe Elliott on their cover of “Hell Raiser”:
“The Sweet were, in my opinion, wrongly accused of being puppets because of their involvement with Chin & Chapman – an accusation occasionally leveled at us when we worked with Mutt Lange. All nonsense, of course, for both bands!!”
Here’s hoping that, in the future, Def Leppard remembers what they’ve learned from their past.

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VH1's Long Live Stupidity

2006-06-12T19:48:00.000-05:00

Legal wars over who owns the phrase "Bat Out Of Hell" is not only a wasteful misuse of the justice system, but highlights just how idiotic certain kinds of "rockers" are.

Rather than come up with anything new, former musical partners Meatloaf and (the poor man's discount Phil Spector) Jim Steinman have been whoring out Bat Out of Hell for 28 years (there's even a live symphonic version!).

But sometime in 1995, Jim Steinman legally trademarked the phrase, which just seems silly to begin with. Imagine how uneventful someone's life must be to pay attorneys to draw up legal papers on a cliche. It feels like he longed for that day in the future when he would pull a hissy fit over Meatloaf's 18th comeback attempt, and have an opportunity to huff the exhaust of a dubious achievement. Plus, he's probably frightened off Bonnie Tyler from pulling a Total Eclipse Of The Heart II: Bright Eyes Turns Around... which is actually quite the achievement.

While this moronic event is as compelling as debating which direction toilet paper should spin from the dispenser, Meatloaf and Steinman have, so far, avoided total moron meltdown...

...whereas Ronnie James Dio's past pronouncements on his Devil Horns trademark should be included as a special bonus feature on the next DVD repackaging of Spinal Tap.

In 2002, Dio threw a girly snit after seeing Britney Spears flash the horns, and tried to take control of the hand gesture. While admitting he didn't originate the sign, he did make it clear that it was clearly identified with him, and that got quite a bit of free publicity for another of his embarrassing garden gnome gothic records. It didn't help his sales any, but the event may have been the inspiration for the self-absorbed show biz minutia that consumes a character like Johnny Drama.

Review Dio's comments on Devil Horns:
"The point is that you can't just flash it. You have to have a face that goes with it. There has to be some emotion behind it. It can't just be the raising of the arm, trying to get your fingers in the right position... A lot of times, bending of the knees always puts it in a slightly different perspective. It puts you in the Sumo position. Now you're ready to charge!"

You just know he delivered those quotes with intense seriousness, and comedy writers across the land kicked themselves for not having imagined it first.

Meatloaf, Steinman and Dio have one thing in common: strict adherence to album covers that make 5th grade boys feel all warm inside.
Actually, they have something else in common: strict adherence to infantile, overblown lyrics that make 5th grade boys feel naughty and/or evil.

At least Loaf & James center on paperback romance novel hoopla, indicating that they once had sex with women. But poor little Dio... he's been working the winged unicorn sailing through demonic dragon's breath schtick for decades. And he shows no signs of maturity other than maybe switching from the board version to the cyber version of Dungeons & Dragons.

So, maybe "rockers" like this mine the same collapsed vein because they are tragic cases of arrested development. The performing arts are a safe haven for the IQ challenged. But someone like, say, Cameron Diaz hires a PR firm to keep her most embarrassing utterances and deeds out of the paper. Or going back to Idiot Rock, Sammy Hagar at least matured into a tequila and chain restaurant entrepreneur.

But Ronnie James Dio continues to sit in his chain mail-covered Lazy Boy watching Excalibur on an endless loop, while Meatloaf & Jim Steinman bitch slap each other over who gets the last stale Milk-Bone in the box. VH1 should do me a favor and corral these 3 for a reality show, a la Supergroup. But in this case, sould the title be Super Stupid? Or Long Live Stupidity?

Tom Petty Aging Crises

2006-04-23T19:57:00.000-05:00

Tom Petty's vanity issues have always intrigued me more than his music has. He's never been what you would call good looking, but he has usually looked like a rock star, and that's the most important part.

He began his careering aping the Dwight Twilley look (above). That's an awesome aspiration, but far greater looking men have tried and failed to scale those heights. Still, Petty's hair was always very important to him and his image. In the early days, a reporter revealed that several times an hour Tom whipped a comb out of his back pocket.

So, as Mr. Petty's hair began to go, he played out the panic in various public ways. He does look good in hats; he should stick with that.

Over these many decades, as his hair reduced his looks grew scraggily and scarier (above). But that's cool because he's a good 'ole trailer gator Florida boy, and aging into haggard gravitas like his idol Dylan is a worthy aspiration.

But sometime last year, his mental odometer flipped over to mid-life crises, and his vanity issues go well beyond the hair. Something tells me the younger bride pictured in many of his public appearance photos has something to do with it... Think Heather re-working Paul McCartney's look, and hear that train of thought whistle past.

So, last season he trotted out as many new looks as Ashlee Simpson...

This season, he trots out a whole new face!!
Ew.
Yes, he's done something to the hair, too. Understandable, and it looks OK.
But Tom Petty with Botox and cheek implants?!
You're Tom Frickin' Petty, not Kenny Rogers! What's with the face warp?

The thought of Tom Petty Plastic is too hilarious and too absurd to contemplate.
He reads like a sub par mash-up of Nick Gilder & Iggy Pop...
Perfuming the pig...
Gilding the septic tank...
Somewhere, somehow some plastic surgeon must have kicked you around some.

Blondie

2006-04-16T09:02:00.000-05:00

Much like calculus, yard work or NASCAR, the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is unimportant to me, so I only just now got around to watching Blondie being inducted into it. Blondie being “honored” in such way was a big yawn… until I was genuinely moved by parts of Shirley Manson’s introduction speech:

“Blondie will enter the hall of fame as one of the coolest, most glamorous, most stylish bands in the history of rock & roll… There is just coolness and sweetness and integrity and grace.

“Debbie Harry, the most beautiful girl in any room in any city on any planet… She carefully subverted her mind-blowing beauty with her punk spirit and her gladiator heart.”

Chris Stein put it best when he responded with, “That really put dents in my cynicism.” Agreed. It also caused a flood of old feelings to break my dam.

For every serious music fan, there is that one song, that one moment, or that one album that completely changes their life. It’s such a dramatic, cinematic moment that classifying ones life as B.C. or A.D. is the only way to convey the religious weight of it. My Jesus of Cool rose from the dead the moment I heard Debbie Harry sing, “Yeah, riding high on love’s true blueish light/Ew ew oh oh.”

I heard “Heart Of Glass the very first week it hit the Top 40 Billboard chart, and my antennae started quivering. I knew the song was trying to be disco, but there was a lot more going on under the covers. I suddenly recalled all the little tid-bits about Blondie that I’d run across in my teen girl magazines (like a picture of Debbie with Brooke Shields), and I could literally feel pieces falling into place.

I bought the single, and actually liked the flip side much better. “11:59” was urgent and pleading while the singer’s voice was cool and detached, and the dichotomy sucked me in. Plus, the label read:
"Produced by Mike Chapman.”
Oh, man, count me in!

I then rushed out to buy Parallel Lines, and there was no going back. Despite the prejudice of my religious conversion, that cover is still one of the most striking examples of album artwork: simple yet effective, conveying layers of meaning and style with just a few broad strokes.

That album sounded like a jukebox full of promise. Sounds that I’d loved in various forms before were now brought together under one umbrella. I heard “Sunday Girl,” and “Pretty Baby” and found them just as yummy and hook-filled as any of my childhood AM pop favorites, and they did a cover of a Buddy Holly tune! But I also heard hard, chaotic, frantic sounds that riled me up, like “One Way Or Another,” “Hanging On the Telephone” and “Will Anything Happen?” I asked myself, “Is this punk rock?”
“Heart Of Glass” was the lamest thing on the album, and I was ecstatic!

With a gift of hyper information absorption, I went through a crash course on Blondie. I discovered new magazines like Circus and Hit Parader, and it was blast to find Blondie popping up in staples such as People, US and Dynamite. In short order, I was a Blondie encyclopedia, and when “Heart Of Glass” hit #1 two months later, I was both shocked and pleased.

Blondie was a new world, where not all songs were love songs, where there was subtext and layers of meaning behind every lyric, every riff, and every artistic decision. Blondie was the tree trunk that sent me climbing onto a thousand branches. They “schooled” me on punk, Andy Warhol, CBGB’s, underground art and films, early 60s girl group pop, and that there was a lively, exotic world thriving outside the Billboard Top 40. Blondie taught me more about the broader cultural world within a couple months’ time than I had learned in my previous 13.5 years. It was heady and addictive.

“Blondie is a Group,” and then there was Debbie Harry. She was (and is) a goddess! Aside from Cher, I’d never experienced anyone like her. She was absolutely gorgeous, cooler than shit and had the most glamorous clothes, shoes and hair imaginable. In print, she was intelligent and insightful, but very coy about her past (back then, she had age issues), which gave her an air of mystery. She and boyfriend Chris Stein created and ran the band, and she was an equal partner in songwriting, presentation and direction. She was so beautiful and powerful and talented that she seemed more like a comic book hero than a real-life woman, but it was all true. Everything I needed to know about life, sex, fashion and music was learned at Miss Harry’s feet, and because American media became as infatuated with her as I was, it was easy to get all the advice I needed.

Blondie profoundly altered my view of the world, and I had the utopian belief that it affected everyone else, as well. But I quickly learned that at Kirby Junior High in St. Louis County, there was no change at all. Blondie was a bad topic with my peer group who labeled them disco, or punk, or queer or strange. I knew they were dead wrong, and the Us vs. Them mind set took firm root in my psyche. I’d unwittingly found another way to further ostracize myself from my peers, but this time it left me with something better. Blondie gave me football fields of things to think about, which made staying quiet and ignoring everyone so much easier to do.

Blondie was always ahead of the curve on so many fronts, and because of this gift (or curse), they sometimes confused me, but they always wound up accurately predicting future pop trends (for better of for worse). After Blondie melted down, Debbie Harry continued to improve as an artist. In her 50s, she took on the exacting task of becoming a jazz singer, and her time with the Jazz Passengers turned what was previously a distinctive and effective voice into a true musical instrument that has vastly enriched the sound of the present-era Blondie. Most singers’ voices erode with time; hers improved. That is just one example of the alien miracle that is Deborah.

And it can’t be stated enough: She’s just naturally cool, “with her punk spirit and her gladiator heart.” Even when an ex-band mate tried to put her on the spot at the induction ceremony (read Chris Stein’s tale of the event), she breezed right past it with a crack and a kiss on the lips. To be so continuously and effortlessly cool for so many decades is, basically, impossible. That may sound so junior high of me, but so what? If someone thinks “cool” isn’t important, than they never truly got rock at all…and they probably think the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is important. It’s not, but Blondie is.

Moses Martin-Paltrow

2006-04-10T19:02:00.000-05:00

So, Whine Paltro & Chris Martin have a new child.
They named him Moses.
Whereas naming their daughter Apple just seemed, um, fruit, adding Moses to the equation just makes the whole thing biblically creepy.
If they name their next son Pontius, it'll just confirm my worst suspicions.
As if they weren't ponderous enough already...

Demetrie Kabbaz

2006-04-07T16:23:00.000-05:00

The current issue of Arch City Chronicles features a piece I did on Demetrie Kabbaz, the man behind the mysterious Marilyn Shrine. It was a nice way to formally honor the man behind the art that kept me enthralled for so long.

Here's the story, in original blog entry order:

May 10, 2005
May 29, 2005
August 4, 2005
September 25, 2005
October 23, 2005
December 6, 2005

And here's to many more reels in the Technicolor MGM musical that is Kabbaz!

Farewell, Gene Pitney

2006-04-05T07:07:00.000-05:00

The morning began with the incomprehensible news that Gene Pitney was found dead in a Welch hotel room, after another fabulous performance the night before.

The tributes will start rolling in shortly. My quick take:

The best male interpreter of Bacharach/David songs. His version "24 Hours From Tulsa" is better than Dusty Springfield's, and for me to say that is sacrilegious, but it's true.

He wrote "He's A Rebel." 'Nuff said.

In the late 1990s, Gene Pitney headlined one of those multi-band Oldies Acts cavalcades that played at Riverport in St. Louis. Steve Carosello and I made the trek to the dreaded Shed to see this, feeling that even watered-down Pitney would be better than none at all.

I truly don't remember any of the other bands on the bill. Was one of them The Grassroots? But memorable was that, after a hot summer day, the night turned bitingly cold and windy after the sun went down. So cold, that people, devoid of jackets, started leaving in droves. By the time Pitney took the stage, it was about 45 degrees and maybe 400 people were left in the seats.

All of us survivors were rewarded. Gene Pitney took the stage in a formal suit with a full band, strings and a full horn section! Do you know how expensive it is to take a band like that out on the road?! He couldn't help but notice the sea of empty seats, but it mattered none. He performed as if it were a packed house of V.I.P.s at Madison Square Garden, and it was transcendent and magical.

His voice was flawless and powerful, his presence commanding. The band was spectacular, like listening to his entire catalogue with maximum fidelity. He played every single thing we wanted to hear, and then some, and improved on how personal favorites were remembered. That night, "24 Hours From Tulsa" brought tears to my eyes. "Town Without Pity" wasn't about teen agony, but just agony, period. "It Hurts To Be In Love" was thunderous.

It was a sensory overload; I can only recall snippets and emotions because my brain blew a joy fuse when the opening notes of "I'm Gonna Be Strong" sounded. It was just absolute perfection, and that it was shared by so few in such surreal circumstances made it magical.

It's no shock that Pitney had put on a "wonderful" show the night before his death. Because of the range and depth of his catalog, he could phone shows in and leave folks satisfied. Instead, he always delivered nothing but maximum quality with maximum passion with a voice that improved with every passing year. He was a truly unique artist, and he has left a gaping void.
Farewell, Mr. Pitney.

Arch City Chronicle

2006-03-25T14:35:00.000-06:00

The new issue of Arch City Chronicle is out, and I'm a part of it.

Though I've written for them in the past, they asked me to be a regular contributor to their new architecture/real estate/design section. Basically, I'll do B.E.L.T. entries in print. Nice work if you can get it.

Click on the image if you want to actually read it. Or, if you're in St. Louis, just pick up a copy.

Dennis Quaid & Manorexia

2006-03-20T19:41:00.000-06:00

Dennis Quaid flashes more flesh than most of our favorite bimbos, yet no one ever calls him on the endless chain of gratuitous shirtlessness for fear that he’d stop doing it! More accurately, since he’s a talented actor, popular media concentrates on that and overlooks his blatant flesh peddling. There’s a gender bias at play, but what choice do we have but to accept this and move on?

Even in his 50s, he has an amazing body, and an awful lot of work goes into that. There’s no such thing as accidental 6-pack abs, and I’m sure his daily fitness routine would shame Madonna. His dedication to his craft is acknowledged, yet his dedication to his physique is ignored.

Ignored, until Dennis revealed he was once manorexic. Yes, the same warped body image that is a tax write-off for Hollywood actresses also zapped The Torso. If the ever-svelte Quaid had fallen prey to the pressurized vanity of Hollywood, it begs the question: how many other actors have experienced this? Dennis was man enough to admit to a “girly” preoccupation with his looks, but is now secure enough to withstand the onslaught of “boylemic” jokes.

While contemplating Quaid’s disease that temporarily threatened that exquisite physique, I had brunch with a guy friend who’s been dieting to lose 30 pounds. So far, he’s lost 23 pounds and looks fabulous. As great as he looks right now, he insists that those last 7 pounds have got to go. I asked him to seriously consider staying right where he’s at because it’s (ahem) a thin line between looking good and looking scary. I sited the Farrah Fawcett’s and Nicole Richie’s of the world and warned that some future lost pound could mark the difference between looking youthful and looking elderly.

Rather than seeing what he actually looks like, he’s fixated on the goal. It has nothing to do with reality, but with a sense of self that’s threatening to veer out of bounds. Suddenly, I had a complete understanding of how someone like Dennis Quaid could have fallen prey and succumbed to that same mindset.

Dennis Quaid is ultra famous and constantly scrutinized by thousands of eyes. My friend is a somewhat public figure, but the pressure he feels to keep losing the weight comes only from him. Despite his profession, Quaid’s pressure came only from himself, too. Then he got a handle on it.

While contemplating the body image issues of my friend and Mr. Quaid, I noticed Fall Out Boy’s chubby singer, and wondered why so many American rockers are pudgy. Once upon a time, there were no fat rock stars allowed, with the exception of Leslie West, Meatloaf and Frank Black. But a generation of housebound, 20-somethings raised playing Nintendo on the couch have inherited rock, and the given of a rocker being a lean, hungry slash of energy is an antiquated notion… though Gerard Way, of My Chemical Romance, did purposely lose weight, maybe because a fat Goth is a complete oxymoron.

So, the young music boys are getting fat while the young music girls are starving themselves. Contrast the self-induced starving with the escalating obesity rates in America, and then Dennis Quaid reveals the secret of manorexia. For the young, weight has become such a dramatic black & white issue, but for Dennis Quaid, my friend and all of us middle-agers, a touch of grey is preferable.

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George Clooney vs. Teri Hatcher

2006-03-14T21:10:00.000-06:00

I believe George Clooney when he says he never dated Teri Hatcher, and I feel bad that he’s been dragged into her quivering mass of whack despite his efforts to avoid any serious entanglement with her.

Clooney is an experienced lady’s man, and can surely sniff out a clinging vine before it takes root. That he’s a Hollywood veteran probably gives him radar that can sense opportunists. Also, doesn’t he seem like the type of guy who’d steer clear of this:
“I have so much pain,” says Teri Hatcher. “I’m a woman who carries around all these layers of fear and vulnerability. I’m trying to be my powerful me.”

Thankfully, Fametracker.com just cataloged all the problems I have with Miss Hatcher, and saved me the time it would have taken to say it in a more diplomatic manner. To sum it up:
Teri Hatcher is a lunatic. Much like Kim Basinger, even a blind man can sense that a haze of neurotic craziness hangs over her. Her aura is testosterone unfriendly.

The Clooney-Hatcher Saga in a Nut(job)shell:

Hatcher starts a rumor that she and Clooney are dating by denying that she and Clooney are dating, thus causing Clooney’s people to substantiate it by denying it.

But Clooney does concede that he went to dinner with her once. They ate at a place he frequents because he’s never bothered by the press. But funny enough, the night he takes Hatcher to that restaurant, there’s press waiting outside at the end of the evening. That hoary PR shenanigan killed Hatcher’s chances of even being his pal.

Then Hatcher reveals her childhood sex abuse to Vanity Fair. She also reveals that being “emotionally shattered” by a Hollywood Mystery Man is what prompted her to finally confess her horrible secret. It then gets leaked to the press that Clooney is that Mysterious Heartbreaking Cad.

Hatcher issues an “official” statement defending Clooney, saying he is not the man that crushed her like a little sparrow. Clooney issues a statement that all this mickey mouse takes away from Hatcher’s brave decision to reveal her secret.

Much like a stalker pulling any stunt to keep the victim engaged, Hatcher, in her precisely orchestrated battle against “tabloid sensationalism,” keeps throwing Clooney’s name into the mix. Why Clooney responds at all is a mystery; it just perpetuates Hatcher’s warped sense of connection.

But one thing about stalkers: They will stop bothering you once they find a new victim.
In Touch Weekly claims she’s now (ahem) dating Ryan Seacrest.
After snorting soda out the nose, note that Miss Hatcher’s “friend” calls Seacrest the “anti-George.” Note that a funny fuse has been blown.

Mr. Clooney, please take this opportunity to fully remove yourself from the Hatcher Job. Much like her face, it’s only going to get messier, and you’re supposed to be too smart to drown in the desperation.

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John Travolta's Church

2006-03-10T20:34:00.000-06:00

The Scientologists have expressed their displeasure at John Travolta hoping to star as a Edna Turnblad in the cinematic remake of Hairspray. They’re reportedly griping about L. Ron Hubbard – the late Scientology founder – being severely anti-gay, and that Travolta parading around in drag would be a violation of Hubbard’s beliefs.

Let’s set aside that the Scientologists are a reported safe haven for closeted gay celebrities, or that Scientology is considered a cult by most of the globe. Instead, let’s concentrate on a church publicly questioning a parishioner’s career choices.

Many utter unkind words about the Catholic religion, but not a single Catholic CEO has ever said squat to the press about Jennifer Lopez’s divorces. The Jehovah’s Witnesses never said peep about any of Michael Jackson’s activities violating their by-laws when he was one of them. And the Mormons’ felt no need to rush to a microphone to denounce any of Maria Osmond’s public downfalls as a pox against their faith.

Now, the Church of Scientology never said diddly about parishioner Kirstie Alley’s over-the-top Fat Actress escapades, or Tom Cruise portraying a killer-for-hire in Collateral, and surely those roles violated some Hubbard creed. But Travolta tries to land the part of a fat housewife, and they go ballistic?

Considering the careers of their high-profile members, and with one of the church headquarters located smack dab in the middle of Hollywood proper, it just seems queer to publicly mess with Travolta’s next movie paycheck. And he needs to keep the benjamins rolling in if they want him to continue to afford being a member of the Church.

Separation of Church & State is, currently, an eroding concept, but separation of Religion & Hollywood has remained fairly consistent. When a scandal rocks the celebrity world, we hear condemnation from every limo-driver, waitress and spurned business partner, but never from the notorious person’s church. A person’s faith is supposed to be a private affair (Madonna), and even the religions the Christian masses consider too whacky to be legit (like Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons) know to stay out of a member’s livelihood.

It's difficult to be fair about accepting the Church of Scientology as a valid religion when they’re hectoring Mr. Travolta about his career choices. They’re acting more like a bitter producer than a religion, and surely the movie community anxiously awaits Tom Cruises’ thoughts on Hairspray casting decisions.

Matt Dillon & Oscar

2006-03-05T16:12:00.000-06:00

Tonight's the night Matt Dillon could win the Oscar.
Last night he won Best Supporting Actor at the Independent Spirit Awards, so maybe he's not sweating tonight's outcome. I'm probably more nervous than he is.

It's his time to win, really it is. At this point, he's a solid Hollywood veteran, who's worked his way up through the ranks, always giving solid and ever-improving performances. He's honestly earned the right to join the Academy ranks.

Instead, this will be the only time I'll ever be disappointed that George Clooney won.

Besides, even if he doesn't walk away with Oscar, he has finally been accepted into the club, and will have more opportunities in the future to be a contender. So, I'm still rooting for Dillon, even though he did not pick me as his Oscar date. Life's too short to hold a grudge, you know?

11:00 PM Post-Script
OK, so Matt didn't win, but he looked breathtakingly dashing, and losing to George Clooney is an honor.
Then Crash goes for the upset Best Picture victory. Whoa.

An insightful friend at the Oscar viewing party quickly noted that Brokeback obviously got the voters' nod. But because things are so dire for his administration, Karl Rove intercepeted Price-Waterhouse and made them change the winner to Crash. As far as conspiracy theories go, this one is not that far-fetched.

But most importantly, note that Matt Dillon was dateless. Uh huh.

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Dave Chappelle's Burden

2006-02-20T13:05:00.000-06:00

I just saw Dave Chappelle’s turn on Inside the Actors Studio, and I was riveted. It came close to answering some questions I have for Chappelle.

I was late to the Chappelle Party, but from the moment I entered, I always wanted to know: What's next? How do you take this to the next level?

Pointed, humorous discourse on race is good. His way of conveying it is perfect. Personally, he's never offended me, never crossed the line, but that's not what I need from him. But because he's so intelligent, so multi-layered with his comedy, I always want to know:
How do you take this to the next level?
What have you learned? What can you teach us?

I never expect any examples of honest, humanitarian behavior - or answers - from artists. I accept what they present to me, and use it in the manner most relevant to me. It’s a fair exchange.

But from Moment One with Chappelle, I developed these expectations:
What have you learned? What can you teach us?

These questions seemed inappropriate: Why would I expect something beyond what he's giving me? I never had an answer to that, just a strong intuition, just a hunch.

At one point, Lipton asks Chappelle what he would like to do for a living if not what he's doing. He answered:
A teacher.
BINGO!

It's in him, and he knows it. That's obviously what I keep picking up on.
Now, the man is obviously content being what he is: a comedian. But he's also always struggling to "keep it real." When showbiz demands started to compromise who he is and what he does, he split in order to save the pieces of him that he values. This kind of behavior is the true measure of a man, and not only does he measure up, but also he’s created a new benchmark.

Now, to place any heavy burdens on him is insane, and he won't accept any unnecessary expectations or compromises. But I think about the oft-asked question:
Where are the true leaders in the black community?
I think it's Dave Chappelle.
I think he knows that's in him, too. But that would carry him away from his true essence... or would it? And there lies his struggle.

With Lipton, he also said that his role is to point out and talk about the white elephant (institutionalized racism) in the room. To some degree, talking about it removes some of its power to harm. But then what?
How do you take that to the next level?
What have you learned? What can you teach us?

Dave Chappelle's actions show the content of his character, his mind and his soul. Thus, it brings up those expectations that I've developed for him. But I wouldn't notice it if he wasn't conveying it.

His family background puts him squarely in the ring of educational leadership. He even told Lipton that people of all races and ages come to him with their approval. He's primed for something beyond being a genius comedian.
It's his personal Black Man's Burden.
Mr. Chappelle, if Barack Obama should come knocking, open the door and let him in.

T. Rex on Glam Rock

2006-02-15T19:29:00.001-06:00

Much like a kid watching their Thomas The Tank Engine tape 5 times in a row, I can’t stop watching Glam Rock.

There are Must-See clips: 2 top-notch performances by the always-amazing Roxy Music, and one apiece for the great-for-a-long-moment Alice Cooper Band, and never-great-but-so-what Suzi Quatro.

There are bizarre clips: Lulu stands frozen as she rocks a 1930s gangster look while covering a Bowie tune. Showaddywaddy’s front man had tube socks down his trousers. Literally, you could see the ribbing, I swear.

There are “What The Hell? They Ain’t Glam!” clips: Nazareth, Dave Edmunds, Rod Stewart and the Tom Robinson Band. Hypocrisy comes into play for the David Cassidy clip of “Rock Me Baby”. No, he wasn’t glam, he was simply fabulously cute, and he did sport a pair of silver glitter platform boots for this live clip. He gets in on a technicality.

But there are 2.5 clips that I keep repeating. The Sweet mimed a performance of “Teenage Rampage,” and it doesn’t matter that it’s canned because they look like Crayola tin foil and carry on like it’s last call at the corner tavern. Not having previously seen footage of them performing, this was a surprising delight.

At age 6, the very first 45 that I bought was Sweet’s “Little Willy.” I didn’t know who the band was, had not even seen a picture of them. I simply adored the song, and was powerless to resist. I played that infectious slice of romper-stomper pop so often that I was told to “give it a rest.” Which meant I flipped over to the B-Side, “Man from Mecca,” and absolutely loathed it. In retrospect, that would be because the boys in the band wrote it, rather than Chinn & Chapman.

But that Sweet moment in time still registers as a musical regret. Even though the more bubblegum aspects of glam rock were supposedly targeted to 8-year-old British girls, this American grade-schooler didn’t have a clue as to what was going on across the pond. If I’d been several years older during the Glam heyday, it would be a different tale to tell. But essentially, I missed it all, and that’s the regret.

I would have been the ultimate American glam freak, embarrassing my family and non-Glam friends with an overload of glitter and feathers, and naked alien Bowie posters on the bedroom wall. Upon first viewing of the movie Velvet Goldmine (paid to see it 2 days in a row at the theater), I had the strange sensation of vividly recalling something I never did, while my friend – who was the exact right age at that time – chuckled over how accurately the movie depicted that era. I was so jealous.

But the most revelatory item on Glam Rock is the opening clip of T. Rex performing “Jeepster.” It’s an absolutely live and utterly perfect performance, so simple yet so energetic, with an underplayed charisma from Marc Bolan that had my nose pressed up to the TV screen.

“Underplayed” is a word seldom associated with Bolan, but on this particular Musikladen moment, it’s an accurate description. He is wearing a simple blue, button down dress shirt and black bell bottom trousers. His magnificent head of curly dark hair is shiny immaculate. His singing is calm and focused, his guitar playing spot-on and propulsive. No makeup or spangles, no primping and preening; Bolan is merely rock star cool. The other 3 members of the band are in the zone with him, especially the strikingly handsome Mickey Finn, elevating conga-playing to the ranks of cool.

“Jeepster” is an achingly basic blues shuffle, but as with all solid rock, it’s the tone and energy that creates an arresting tune. This song left plenty of open air for spontaneous moments, which included Bolan forgetting the words of the 4th verse, so he makes some up on the spot. But it’s done so casually, so naturally that it’s a testament to how perfect Bolan was at that moment in time.

Music history remembers Bolan and T. Rex in a precise way. This single performance shows that he/they were actually much more than their outrageous, bubblegum fairy dusters label reveals. They had the look, the sound, the chops, the magic, and that’s rock & roll.

But then comes the 2nd T. Rex clip, and the magic spell is broken. It’s only a span of about 18 months between these 2 Musikladen appearances, but the difference is Grand Canyon wide. T. Rex does a lackluster live reading of “20th Century Boy” that never stood a chance of matching the crunchy metal energy of the record. But the truly disarming aspect is Bolan.

He’s now decidedly puffy and orange, his hair a dry, dull mess of static electricity. He’s either wrestling his mouth free of a ginormous white feather boa, or primping and posing like a poncy peacock, and both these activities cause him to miss cues and remain generally distracted. Now, this represents the lingering impression of Bolan, as the larger-than-life, egotistical pop brat. Whereas that image was perfectly fine to me for all these years, in light of the “Jeepster” moment, it suddenly became unacceptable. If I’d been a viable participant of that era, his upward trajectory would have made smooth sense. Taken out of context, and based solely on musical merit, it’s just sad.

So, my thumb crashes down on the remote’s back button, returning to the first T. Rex, the one who didn’t need glitter to sparkle, or a large studio budget to slay an audience. Much like a kid watching their Thomas The Tank Engine tape 10 times in a row, I can’t stop watching Glam Rock.

Saving Pamela Anderson

2006-02-02T21:17:00.000-06:00

There has been too much Miss Pammy bashing going on, and I'm putting my platform-booted foot down, hard. There are plenty of celebrities who deserve a beat down, but she's not one of them.

Cracks about her age are a given; she turns 39 this summer. In Sex Symbol Years, that's AARP. But cracks that she's looking road hard and put up wet?
Two words: Hepatitis C.
Maybe she hasn't kept up with her cosmetic surgery because she can't risk going under the knife anymore. Plus, the current state of her face and body is nowhere near as ravaged as some of the Desperate Housewives or Paris Hilton's pals, so folks, just lay off.

In a disposable culture, sex symbols are like used tissue, so why is Miss Pammy deserving of gentle treatment?
Because she's a good gal who gets the joke and has never done any harm.

Good Gal: Dishing dirt is the currency in show business, yet no one has ever had a truly negative thing to say about Pamela's behavior. She's been around for quite some time; if she were a tantrum-throwing, backstabbing hyena, we'd have already heard about it. But we haven't, and no one has any reason to spare us such gory details. This doesn't mean she's Mary Poppins, but it also indicates that she treats everyone around her fairly. It has also been shown that she is a dedicated and genuine mother to her two children. All of the above makes her a very rare breed of Hollywood star and mother.

Gets The Joke: She's never pretended to be anything other than what she's capable of, never had pretensions of being something else. Her failures aren't as steep because she doesn't scale unnecessarily high, and that kind of honest career assessment is oddly refreshing in Hollywood. She is fully in charge of every aspect of her career, the CEO of her image, and you can't laugh at her because she walked you to the punch line.

Caused No Harm: Her animal rights activism generates headlines, but so far, it's documentaries and verbal taunts rather than bomb threats. Her choice in men can be dicey, but that doesn't hurt us, only her.
She hasn't ruined careers, spoken ill of (non-fur wearing) others, or brought about any controversy or negative press due to incorrigible behavior or irresponsible actions. In Hollywood terms, this makes her a saint! She asks for nothing from us (other than don't wear fur), and in return provides laughs and a rack.

As to the Rack Factor: For over 15 years, she has contributed quality material to the Global Spank Bank. That puts her in the Sex Symbol Hall of Fame, along with Marilyn Monroe, Raquel Welch and a few others I can't think of because I'm a straight gal... For her unwavering service to hormones and fantasies, she deserves our respect. For her singular brand of joie de vivre, she deserves our kindness.

Mariah Carey, The Mirror Has Two Faces

2006-01-29T16:35:00.000-06:00

While having an official photo taken, the photographer asked, "Which is you best side?" Not being in a position of public scrutiny, I didn't have an answer, so I let the flash bulbs pop freely. But it did make me think of several famous one-sided ladies.
Claudette Colbert's insistence of hiding the right side of her face is legendary. Penny Stalling's detailed it best in her book Flesh and Fantasy:
"She took the studio makeup analysts at their word when they advised her that she should be photographed only from the left, that being her good side. She was known to demand that entire sets be rebuilt if the position of a doorway called for her to enter with her right side exposed to the camera. She even covered the right side of her face with green greasepaint so her cameraman would remember her best angles."

Miss Colbert's historic neurosis makes it difficult for me to fully concentrate on the finer details of her movies; stealing glimpses of her right side is the main priority.

Several years ago, I noticed that all of Jaclyn Smith's K-Mart photos featured only the left side of her face. A quick glance through her official website confirms the Hiding Right observation. She's always been a classically beautiful woman with nothing to hide, and the work done to her face over the years has been a tasteful and worthy investment. But she obviously feels something is awry with the right side of her face, and has made sure we never find the flaw.

The odd thing is, we would probably never notice celebrities self-perceived flaws if they left well enough alone. We understand that all humans (except Christy Turlington) are born asymmetrical, and even a face like a Picasso painting isn't necessarily a detriment to a show business career. No celebrity will publicly admit that they're trying to disguise a flaw, but for some, it becomes achingly obvious, like in the case of Barbra Streisand.
While she was once exceedingly proud of both sides of her distinct profile, Babs has been Hiding Right since the late 1980s, and in the 21st Century her obsession has become embarrassingly apparent.

Along with staging all her movies and concerts to showcase only her left side, she made both Rosie O'Donnell and Oprah Winfrey rearrange their sets for her appearances on their respective talk shows. Of course, Rosie made all kinds of excuses to try and cover for the drastic set overhaul, and of course, her set went right back to its original configuration after Miss Streisand's visit. Oprah was smart enough to just let it happen without saying a word, because Babs said enough kooky things during the interview to prove what a lunatic she is.

It's certainly Streisand's prerogative to present herself as she sees fit, and there's no harm when it's in her power to control the presentation. But when her obsession demands - and gets - extensive and disruptive changes, then people like Rosie and Oprah are control freak enablers, further contributing to Bab's warped sense of self, feeding the megalomanic monster. Sure, the union set builders earn time and half, but what this woman really needs is a good therapist.

And what does Streisand do when she can't control all the angles?
She makes a spectacle of herself. Even though the photographers at the Meet The Fockers premier were shooting her left side, she awkwardly held up her coat collar to hide her neck, chin and jaw line. She walked the entire red carpet in this ridiculous manner, and a burqa would have drawn less attention. Hopefully, a psychiatrist at the after-party slipped her his business card and a Xanax prescription.

Babs and Mariah Carey should record a duet just so the filming of the video would be a copacetic womb of tranquility for the both of them. There'd be no shrill arguments over angles and positions, for Babs Hides Right, while Mariah Hides Left.

Most celebrities form an aversion to their right side, but Miss Carey is not most celebrities. She is the only Left Hider in show business. Even the most casual observation of 15+ years of publicity photos and public appearances proves that the right side is the only side she likes. Which works out well, since most hosts and emcees traditionally work from the left side. Jockeying for favorable position is the only item missing from her list of outrageous Diva Demands.

She's been known to approve a few full frontal shots, but even those are obviously Photosopped (above, left), or cleverly posed so as not to reveal her reviled left side. Her penchant for Hiding Left has so disproportionately annoyed me for so many years that I've been forced to comb through yards of photos in search of photos of her left side. This is a sick pursuit, yes, but so important for maintaining my mental health. I had to do this just to get it out of my system, and move on.
The scant few photos of her left side are courtesy of paparazzi photographers who were able to capture it before she turned away.
And I wonder what she thinks is so wrong with her left side. As shown by all these covert Left Shots I've posted, everything looks OK. If she'd mix it up a bit, I'd have never noticed a problem with her features.

But since she's been so consistent about this issue, I now notice what she dislikes. Her left eye is a little smaller; the left nostril a slightly different shape than the right one, but it's truly no big deal. She's hardly disfigured. Yet, I have to assume she doesn't view it that way.

I'd long been worried that she was needlessly mountain-and-mole-hilling, when I noticed a breakthrough. During her public breakdown in 2001, her right side was more visible, even making an official (albeit far-distance) appearance in an official PR shot (above, second from left).
By 2002, she was allowing an official close-up of her left side (albeit heavily shadowed, above, left), even looking perfectly comfortable being snapped in public from the left.

It seemed that the mental demons that took her down eventually freed her of self-imposed cosmetic issues. She was finally ready to expose all (body parts and) sides of herself to the world, as if to say, "Love me and my left side, as I am." But what seems a bold showing of Left Love (above, right) is actually a flipped negative; the mole on her left chin is the giveaway.

Then came the gear up to her triumphant 2005 comeback, and she reverted to wholeheartedly Hiding Left. Considering all the work she's had done over the years, why wouldn't she have tackled what she considers to be her problematic left face? It's OK to resemble Pia Zadora (above, right) but not accept your left side? But the mystery that is Mariah shall never be solved, and I now simply accept that Mariah's mirror does not have two faces.

Still Alive

2006-01-24T14:24:00.000-06:00

2006 is off to a wobbly start...
My computer went completely, utterly dead and it just now returned from the repair shop.
There's still plenty to talk about. I shall return shortly.

Jennifer or Jolie?

2006-01-10T21:02:00.000-06:00

When first seeing the above, left photo, I became unnerved when realizing it wasn’t a picture of Jennifer Aniston, but of Angelina Jolie! And one of the finer points of Lloyd Grove’s reasons for banishing Brad Pitt from his Lowdown gossip column came into sharp detail: “Brad adopts the lifestyle, interests and passions of whatever woman he happens to be bedding. A slightly creepy collection of photographs from the archives of Star magazine shows Pitt aping his various girlfriends' dress and appearance.”

Certainly the disturbing apex of that behavior was when he and Gwyneth Paltrow styled themselves into mirror images. But considering recent evidence, I realize Brad has evolved from the “dog owners who morph into their pets” stage into molding his gals into a fetish.

I remember becoming disturbed sometime in 1999 when Jennifer Aniston started resembling Gwyneth after dating Brad less than a year. Jen lost a noticeable amount of weight (she claimed pilates), and her hair became longer, straighter and blonder. At that time, I could imagine Brad poking at Jen’s insecurities, making her think she was a cow, her taking the bait. From Juliette Lewis to Gwyn, he likes his ladies lean, and Jen liked to please.

But it’s hard to imagine Angelina Jolie ever acquiescing to any man’s makeover tips. And considering how Brad discarded his married life to adopt all details of Jolie’s newest life, it seemed he was ready to roll over for the belly rub. But I couldn’t help but notice that…

…after dating Brad less than a year, she’s lost a noticeable amount of weight, sports the black flip-flops and flowing skirts Jen has always favored, and her dark, wavy hair is now much lighter and straight. In fact, during these last two weeks of paparazzi shots, I have difficulty deciphering: Is that Jennifer or Jolie?

Man, that’s so creepy, and makes Jen’s “missing sensitivity chip” quip a lesson in restraint. Mr. Pitt deserves much more grief than he gets about being such a callow egoist, but he still manages to snag bigger and better lumps of clay to mold. Some may see this Archie dumping Betty for Veronica as Brad trading up. But I see it as Jolie got Brad’s baby while Jen got free of Brad. Well played, Team Aniston.

Happy New Year

2006-01-01T14:28:00.000-06:00

Amid all the excessive fluffery of Christmas decorations in my neighborhood, this simple peace sign stood out. Made only of blue garland, it only came alive when the early morning sun shined. It spoke gracious volumes about America and peace, much more so than any gaudy, inappropriate displays of Santa and American flags as seen on many a lawn.

Come night, all the lights and animatronics that now comprise holiday decorations drowned the peace sign out. But it became a special, secret moment on sunny mornings: Peace On Earth and Good Will Toward Man.

Every day during December that I saw the peace sign, I thought of the folks who colonized America, coming here in search of religious freedom. Then, when the Founding Fathers cemented our country, they knew church and state had to be separated in order to maintain both our religious and political freedoms.

If any of the laws that comprise our land need to be changed, it is done in a public manner. That concept – as defined by The Constitution and The Bill of Rights - has worked well for America for 229 years. It is what makes us achingly proud of our democratic system.

That certain groups of people have decided that their opinions can be employed despite these laws - above these laws – is, hopefully, a temporary glitch that can be fixed.

2005 was the year the line in the sand has been dramatically drawn. 2006 will be the year the American public – through their elected representatives – will decide whether to halt the warp, or cross over into the abyss.
Democracy or Theocracy: that is the question.

By the time I was able to capture a sunny morning photo of my favorite public Christmas decoration (above), the peace sign garland was haggard. It has lost its shape, and all too accurately conveys the state our country is in. It’s a bit like a mood ring, in that sense.

For 2006, I hope for a clarity that will save us from calamity, and a sense of purposeful renewal that will lead us back to prosperity, in both a personal and public manner.
Happy New Year.

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

2005-12-21T19:22:00.000-06:00

Aside from being engrossing and masterful, Good Night, and Good Luck is absolutely gorgeous, a visually sensual delight. Hopefully there will be nominations for cinematography (Robert Elswit) and art direction (Christa Munro) to go with all of Clooney’s deserved accolades.

One of Clooney’s greatest directorial accomplishments in this movie is Cigarette Continuity. There is nothing peskier than keeping the lengths of a burning cigarette consistent during take after take of a scene, and it’s the easiest blooper to spot in a film. Good Night, and Good Luck has about a thousand smokes per frame a-blazin’, yet I spotted only one overt inconsistency (when Murrow and Friendly are being admonished in Paley’s office). I’m guessing that all the group scenes were shot as continuous takes with multiple cameras, which means this troupe had to rehearse that screenplay to within an inch of daylight before a single frame was shot. All because this film borders on cigarette pornography.

Speaking of:
I spent most of the evening contemplating the film, and also worrying that maybe Clooney spends too much time glorifying the past, and longing for the past is a psychological sign of regret.

With all of these sugarplums dancing in my head, I wound up dreaming about having sex with George Clooney.
Thumbs Up!
This dream also featured the very first time I ever flew. That’s a common dream theme, but I’d yet to do so until last night’s casual float through the nighttime sky. I’m not sure if the two R.E.M. events were related, but I did remember a curious fact.

The very first MELT entry was about how George Clooney watched over me while recovering from traumatically painful surgery. Now, he returns to “relieve stress” during this abominable holiday lunacy.

Odd...Clooney has become the Saint Bernard with the tiny barrel of whiskey under his neck, bounding across the tundra to rescue me. Now, I'm not certain that the barrel would be full... he's been known to have a nip or 3 or 7. And if he's looking to have kids, he can't bark up my tree.
But I do wish him good night, good luck, and sweet dreams.

All I Want For Christmas

2005-12-15T08:15:00.000-06:00

Starring in an upcoming movie together, Matt and Owen hit the town last night.
It's exactly this type of thing that has me howling at the moon. In a parallel universe, Matt is my ideal husband, while Owen is runner up. And then the universe conspires to bring them together

If fate has gone through this much trouble just for me, shouldn't I be there with them? Am I letting the Powers That Be down by remaining immobile in the face of this divine intervention?
Probably.

If I weren't so freaked out by this Hormonal Convergence, I would have been at that party with them last night...

We would have arrived fashionably late, eyes all a-twinkle from fruity Smirnoff drinks during the drive over. Once there, we'd have a few rounds of scotch on the rocks before carousing with guests. Twisting here, rolls of the dice there, often laughing so hard we snort like Chrissie Snow. We'd sneak outside for illicit smokes, come inside to whoopee cushion Maria Shriver, and rank on Johnny Knoxville for gettin' busy with that Jessica Simpson transvestite.

After an hour of this merriment, We 3 leave to satisy our munchies with a round of Moon Pies and Yohoos from the nearby 7-11. After procurring some Schlitz from the QT, we do beer bongs while driving up to the Hollywood sign. Once there, with headlights shining, Matt climbs atop the "D" and bellows into the night: "I'm A Golden Globe God!"

Yes, congratulations to Matt Dillon for that well-earned Best Supporting Actor Golden Globe nomination. Many an actor would have killed for that part in Crash, especially the pivotal scene which surely earned him the nomination. But it's all Matt's; no one could have done it better. Fingers crossed that he gets the award!

Marilyn Monroe Returns

2005-12-06T21:25:00.000-06:00

On December 3rd, I got an e-mail from "abba-dabba," a business partner of the Marilyn Shrine artist Kabbaz.

I thought that art book had slammed shut, but with one small message, I knew more chapters were being written. Turns out "they" have heard of my interest in the work, gave me a link to the updated Kabbaz website, and wrote that if I liked what was done in the past, I'm really going to like what's coming up.

I was simply thrilled that they had made contact, and knew how much I loved the silent art gallery. But then with the promise of something new to come? Is this a holiday miracle?

Today, I drove by the store front and SHE'S BACK! And in fitting tribute to coming back from the dead, it's a replica of her LIFE magazine cover! Some faux marble painting was done to the display window, and when peeking in the front door, there's another painting! At the entrance there appears to be a mural of a squatting Marilyn from the remaining footage of her last (aborted) movie, Something's Got To Give.

Will it be a Marilyn Shrine Coffee House in competition with the Starbucks across the street? A restaurant? A full-blown art gallery for an artist-in-residence?
I'll wait patiently for the answer. I'm just grateful that Kabbaz and Marilyn are back. Santa came to town a little early this year.

A Hickey From Kenicke

2005-12-02T20:25:00.000-06:00

The big news about the Long Island bat mitzvah this past weekend is not the "let them eat cake" cake angle. And, oddly enough, it's not that Stevie Nicks is no longer all that fat while Don Henley is. The biggest news is that Steven Tyler & Joe Perry have both recently had some major plastic surgery, and now look like (above, left & right) Melissa Rivers and Maria Shriver!

But that's nothing compared to:

Aside from the thought of Matt Dillon and Owen Wilson frolicking together on the beach, what truly keeps me going from day to day is landing upon news like this.

First off, it includes a child of Cher chastising someone for being a stoned jackass. She had Greg ("Disneyland on acid") Allman as a stepfather, so don't go all "prescription Benadryl" to her face.

Secondly, the D-list star melting into a quivering pile of candied yams is Olivia Newton-John's ex-brother-in-law, Jeff "f**king" Conaway!!!

Summer of 1978, Grease was most certainly the word when you were a 13-year old girl, and I loved me some Conaway. He was "hickey from" Kenicke, with fluffy, feathered-back hair. Even as I slapped up the pin-ups, I knew it was slightly inappropriate for someone that old to be in the teeny bopper magazines. Even though I adored seeing him weekly on Taxi, I knew his diet consisted of chewed scenery and hammy sandwiches.

After a putrid album (which I bought...and still own) and his divorce from Rona Newton-John, he went onto to star in the best TV movie ever, as "a bitter, emotionally crippled and washed up fellow model." He then began an illustrious career as King of B-Grade soft porn movies, then confessed his coke-whore ways before becoming a born-again Christian, then starred in a crappy syndicated sci-fi series. This is what D-list Dreams are made of!

As it stood, his resume was impressively flawless. But much like a Porsche as it winds into a dangerously sexy curve, or a swan gently gliding onto a crystal blue lake, Mr. Conaway is now perfection and grace personified.

I am now feverishly learning how to needlepoint, so I can inscribe the following onto a series of pillows:

A square, sage green velvet pillow: "I did a show called TAXI - one of the biggest shows ever!"

An oblong, lemon yellow pillow: "I supported a f**king family from the time I was 10-years-old. I went through a paedophile at seven-years-old. At three-years-old I slit my f**king wrist, so keep your f**king mouth shut."

A round, white linen pillow with sky blue tassles: "If they don't want me to be Jeff Conaway then go f**king find somebody else. I've walked off shows before and I will walk off shows again."

Walk on, Master Jeff, walk off.

The Walls Have Ears

2005-11-29T20:44:00.000-06:00

This past Monday, after a 2-week recess, the Supreme Court re-opened for business. Just after a group of citizens made it inside to get seats for the show, a large chunk of marble fell off the building and crashed onto the stairs.

The full details of the incident are here. But what I love the most is AP's dry commentary in this paragraph:
"The piece that fell was over the figure of Authority, near the peak of the building's pediment, and to the right of the figure of Liberty, who has the scales of justice on her lap."

While the building stood relatively empty for 2 weeks, the administration faced implosion and shame. Talking heads to the left and the right filled up media space, going berserk over troubling lies and/or lame attempts to cover them up.

But nothing speaks louder than the "thud, thud" of fine Vermont marble long-bombing down onto concrete. There is something quite dramatic about that particular dentil in that exact position disengaging itself from the building at that precise moment.

This building felt it necessary to speak up, but was it commentary or prophecy? Either way, don a hard hat and listen up.

Truth Floats Away

2005-11-26T18:05:00.000-06:00

Early Thanksgiving afternoon, I pick up a friend who tells me about seeing one of the floats crash into a light pole during the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. We then riffed on how everyone is secretly waiting for something to go awry... In the very early 1970s, I remember watching the Underdog float fly headfirst into the side of a building. It both frightened and excited little kid me. I also remember waiting for more crashes in subsequent years, and being bored when all went as planned.

At Thanksgiving dinner, my mother brings up the wayward float that crashed into a light pole, and how 2 sisters broke the fall of the light fixture.

Early this Saturday morning, I learn the story of NBC not covering the biggest news at the very parade their network sponsors. That even though Couric, Lauer and Roker knew something was up when the M&M float didn't cross the finish line, they bantered over 2004 M&M float footage. "There was no further comment on air at that point in time because we did not have further information," said Cameron Blanchard, a spokeswoman for NBC's entertainment division, which is responsible for the parade broadcast.

These people are globally wired within an inch of the universe, yet can't convey information taking place within a quarter mile of where they were stationed? They have satellites in space but not a walkie-talkie?! Did they not have cell phones?

Richard Huff, of the New York Daily News writes:
"If it was possible for NBC's cable network, MSNBC, to report the accident - before NBC's own parade coverage ended - then someone should have gotten a word to Lauer and Couric."

Turns out my friend and my mother knew about the incident before Lauer and Couric did, and the friend doesn't even have cable TV.

This Parade Coverup reminds me of the White House somehow not knowing about the on-coming threat of Katrina, or the immediate devastation in its wake, while everyone else in America who even walked past a media outlet knew about it all in full detail. Yes, the White House is so primitive that they still have dial-up speed internet and an antennae on the roof that sometimes lets them pick up PBS...

The White House is currently inhabitated by a batch of unconcerned liars, so I'll just let go of my incredulity over their "Katrina? What Katrina?" response. But NBC?

Our American media is far too technologically advanced to ever play the dumb card. They are too deep into too many things that aren't their business to ever pretend they don't know about something that is their business. And trying to squirm out of this by implying that NBC's entertainment division just didn't think the injury-inducing incident was worth mentioning is a really bad move. It confirms that the tail is wagging the dog, that the line between news and entertainment has been utterly erased.

These types of lies reveal the truth, and when NBC - and the White House - don't even bother to pretend to be upset about it, the truth has horrifying consequences.

Happy Thanksgiving

2005-11-23T08:16:00.000-06:00

Maybe the reason Americans don’t heavily decorate for Thanksgiving is because it’s people-based. Inflatable pilgrims in the front yard would be creepy, inflatable Indians would be politically incorrect.

Plus, it’s a holiday about being grateful, giving thanks for what we have, what we cherish. As far as decorating for that, the 58-year old banking executive certainly can’t pose his 22-year old trophy wife in a spotlight on the front lawn. Similarly, the trophy wife can’t staple gun the deed to the Aspen ski house to the front door, or hang the fur coat from the birch tree.

Thanksgiving is not attuned to decorations and ornaments because it’s a personal holiday. As you commune with family and friends, and before passing out from too much turkey and wine, make a mental list of the things you’re grateful for.

WHAT I’M THANKFUL FOR
Matt Dillon & Owen Wilson are starring in a movie together?! Sometimes the universe conspires just to please me.

The new (yes, all new) Dramarama album is not only better than it has a right to be, but it’s genuinely great. Or as a friend (and long-time fan) said after hearing the song “Physical Poetry” for the first time: “John Easdale is my new best friend.”

Possessing an out-of-print copy of Cher’s diet & exercise book Forever Fit. I can pig out mightily for the next month knowing that, when the smoke clears, she has my back, as always.

I’m thankful for all my family, family-of-choice and friends; they make for an adventure-filled, worthwhile life. May we all have a gluttonous and grateful day.

Goodbye, Norma Jean

2005-10-23T18:10:00.000-05:00

On Tuesday, October 18th, Billy Idol disappeared from the window, and excitement brewed when I saw signs of renovation (above). I saw lamp shades; will Kabbaz add lighting to the Marilyn Gallery? I looked forward to the revamped unveiling of a new Marilyn.

Signs say the candle burned out long before the legend ever did...
This afternoon, the black curtain backdrop has fallen to reveal freshly painted red walls, light fixtures, tables, chairs and a man busy on a ladder. Someone has taken over the storefront.
That's not surprising. With major new retail across the street, these old storefronts are now desirable property. If I could sit in the Starbucks' drive-thru and stare at Marilyn paintings, it would make sense for a business to take advantage of that kind of visability.

I should have knocked on the door and peppered the Ladder Man with questions, but I was too sad and too shocked to do so. I walked away with a funeral dirge in my head and a heavy heart.
So was Billy Idol's rebel yell Kabbaz's comment on being evicted?
He didn't even have time to place one final Marilyn?
Will a new shrine/gallery spot be found?
How do I mend my broken heart?