MY SPACE ALERT!

Yes, this old fogey has moved on to My Space, so now I have added that new black hole vortex of time consumption to make me wonder where most of the day went, when I could have been doing something useful like composing, fey pinky skyward, feather quill a-drip, or at least weeding the back yard.

Also there’s the new question of this Rupert Murdoch ownership, and incipient censorship, and perusal by a “former federal prosecutor” - for what? Bad taste? Darn! Does this mean I’ll have to tone down my kiddie porn pedophile ass rape jokes? But really - this is America - did someone really expect free speech and a right to privacy? Go back to Scandal-otsvia, faggot lovin’ pinko!

At least I’m happy to report that, just as I was promised by the many musically inclined friends who hounded, and hectored, and cajoled, and needled, and wheeeeeeeeeedled me to join (because they really care!), even as I pled technophobia and general crustiness of attitude, it’s actually been quite fun. You really DO end up having nice, if brief and lexicon challenged, note exchanges with many an eccentric you wouldn’t have met otherwise, and re-connect with ghosts from the past without having to get out the ouija.

To wit: Rude Staircase - the best combination of Scraping Foetus Off the Wheel and the Banana Splits I’ve ever heard - and the auteur of these crazy sounds is friendly, funny, and he even sent me hard copy actual CDs through that arcane organization of murderers and misfits we used to call “the mail”. Now that’s a return on your entertainment dollar!

One note I received actually gave me some pause however: it was from a friendly Silverlake lifestylist whom I’d seen in all manner of glam frippery at many a pop nerd event. I had sort of cheated on the “blog” option on my My Space page, because I thought, “It’s already hard enough to keep these darn kristianhoffman.com diaries updated!” - so I just put a link to this self-same admittedly terminally self-indulgent rants’n’raves page.

My “friend” - that dubious My Space term that seems to apply with microwave speed in the ether, rather than eking through the torturous processes of real-time human interaction that I’ve become inured to out here in the semi-hardscrabble streets of my historic-overlay craftsman/transitional East L.A. neighborhood - my “friend” wrote me with glib coviviality that he enjoyed my Jane Wiedlin/Las Vegas story because ‘blogs about celebrities are fun and engaging, while political commentary is by its very nature redundant, dull, pompous, and boring because the corruption and amorality of the human race was so gosh darn predictable’. (‘Gosh darn’ is mine, of course!)

Bathed in the comely pink spot of hopelessness, and swathed in a satin ruffled “After Six” vintage tuxedo shirt of ironica, that’s a pretty attractive pose - ennui and despair wrapped up into a tasty hipster hot pocket of detachment. Who can blame him?

Didn’t we once young (it’s true!) punksters say “Fuck the System blah blah blah” with the simple-minded sloganeering of youth? Didn’t it used to be uber-cool to say “Not my problem, fuckers!” and even the more lumbering “I’m so bored with the USA”? But even the Sex Pistols engaged in political commentary: “A Fascist regime made you a moron!” And apparently it’s still working. Does that mean it’s unworthy of remark?

I thought, “Oooohhh, Miss Hoo-Hoo! (Alonzo King, who sat next to me in Mr. Eikleberry’s SBHS creative writing class, came up with that). He’s right! I’m tiiiiiiiiiiiiiired!”

And believe me, that’s a classic drag remark that’s much more fun to aim at others than oneself. Wheeee! I’m a draggy bore belaboring the obvious!

But then I thought of two things:

1. (Most important, obviously) This is MY goddamn page motherfucker, and I’ll rant if I like because it’s fun for ME!

and

2. I really think it’s our JOB to be outraged! Is that so much to ask?

Look peeps, don’t fail me now! Sure it’s tiring, and sometimes (well, make that often) tiresome! But unless you manifest your outrage, THEY WIN! Those fuckers want you to think it’s boring and pointless to whine! It’s like exercise; it’s not always fun, in fact it’s a goddamn chore - but you sometimes do get a rewarding little endorphin buzz out of it, and it’s good for anatomical maintenance, and fighting gravity. Outrage is exercise for the soul and the planet, and it’s good for universal maintenance, and maintaining levity!

So I’ll opt for the greater challenge - to continue to be OUTRAGED, even as outrage exhaustion, outrage fatigue, downright outrage burnout sets in, even as the Mome Raths become even MORE outgrabe! Yes, even as those at the spiritual oxygen bar affect a voguish languor and enjoy the extra vacu-pac freshness afforded by the comforting chill of detachment. Even as every day the horror (Quel Horeur!) becomes more and more predictably outrageous, as every ugly event brings outrage to a simmering indecipherable all encompassing tinnitis white noise of “just the way things are”, so it becomes the generic canvas of our existence and fades to mere background. Even then, I will fight against my inner outrage-slacker pose of “fuck that boring shit”, and continue to do what God put me on this planet for: Whining!

BUT OH, WITHER SHALL I WHINE?

So, what current whining is there to be done about ol’ lambaste-able Bush? Sure, I hope he’s a puppet, but what puppeteer could be stupid enough to bumble his tangled strings into these dark corners? And what different does it make? The world-ending idiocy continues unabated either way.

Well, even though Bush has proven himself to be a heartless moron over and over until it’s at best unremarkable, we still have to muster up some outrage over the fact he’s now saying “We’re in Iraq for the long haul” four bloody death filled years after his costume party at the “Mission Accomplished” sign. THIS SHALL NOT PASS!

Yes, it’s predictable, you doe-eyed goth sylphs of sloth! But still, let’s say it together: THAT’S OUTRAAAAAAAAGEOUS! More outrageous than Charles Pierce and Jim Bailey rolled into one, and what’s more, Bush does not have the diminishing factor of being an “illusionist” ala the pretentious internalized-homophobia Bailey - he’s not even a street corner variety drag queen, because that implies at least some snappy rejoinders - he’s just an OUTRAAAAAAAGEOUS gutter bitch ho. Or perhaps he’s a “delusionist”. But it’s still not funny, or magical!

And then he tries to blame it on the fact that the press still actually dares to cover bombings, explosions, killings and the fact that about 170 journalists are either dead , kidnapped, or MIA in Iraq? Don’t ask, Don’t tell! He’s actually trying to blame the atrocities of war on the fact that the press tries to cover them? That’s OUTRAAAAAGEOUS!

And the fact the we get closer everyday to an “armed conflict” with Iran - I just don’t see how we can buy a new car when the old one was just repossessed for lack of funds. I guess they think the approval ratings are down because this current war just isn’t Downy fresh anymore, it’s just soooooooooooooooooo 2002! So they want to start a spanking new one? That’s OUTRAAAAAAGEOUS! Hmmm..do you think it might inspire just a wee bit more anti-American sentiment, and maybe even another hot 9/11ish type event, so Bush can do what he’s really good at - read books about Pet Goats to children, run around in some hot fetish role-play camo fatigues, and talk about “terror”? How much oil is IN Iran anyway?


SCHOOLYARD FOLLIES

What about soaring educational costs? Aren’t they OUTRAAAAAAGEOUS? I read articles in my old liberal softie standby: Rolling Stone, and in a variety of other rags, about how college tuition fees are rising at an appalling rate. Soon having an education will be just as expensive as a visit to the doctor!

So, was I actually just dreaming that in my youth the California University system used to be free? Um......no!

Why do you think there was a generation of people smart enough to question authority and try, in their bumbling way, to build a better world without war, and with a little more (everybody wince - it’s okay to be embarrassed) love?

But all you knee jerk wincers, couldn’t you use some more? Or do you have too much already? I’ll take your extra love, if you’re not going to finish that! I’m still hungry for it as the Revillos said, by way of the Searchers: Hungry for love!

Have we actually dieted ourselves into an anorexia of love because we’re too busy louche lounging? Too busy rolling our eyes and calling human behavior “predictable”? Sounds dumb to me.

Did those Iraqi families we’ve killed have too much love already? Did those poor stupid cannon fodder soldiers whose coffins couldn’t be shown to the American people by the press - the press that we now know caused this war - did they have too much of it?

So, isn’t it OUTRAAAAAAAAGEOUS that we’re cooperating in systematically denying generations of youth an adequate education that might actually make them a little smarter, and perhaps a little more, um....loving? Education that might make them consider caring a little more for this poor beleaguered planet, and by extension, us?


Isn’t it OUTRAAAAAAAAAAAAAGEOUS that knowledge, breadth of vision, constructive thought, scientific method, philosophy, the lessons of history, even exposure to the arts and music, have become class entitlements, gated community privileges, dilettantish Godiva bon-bons exclusive only to the rich and super rich - although you wouldn’t be able to tell it by looking at them!

Try to think of a single act of George Bush’s (from “Bouche”: An allowance of meat and drink for the tables of inferior officers or servants in a nobleman's palace or at court - Wow, even in the dictionary he’s an “inferior officer”!) that would boast even the most minimal exposure to the basics of college instruction, imperial etiquette, or even common table manners for that matter. I mean, we’re not talking formal education here!

But he’s smart enough to know that if you give those plebes’N’peasants some gol’ durn edumakation, they might get sassy enough to ask a couple of pesky questions!

So as this regime (apparently successfully) feeds the not-so-turbulent education-free masses a steady diet of sugar, MSG, and fear - fear which they dutifully create daily out of whole (oil-based) cloth, where is the dreaded terror threat? In Madrid, in London? Oh you mean those reactions to OUR terrorist act of invading a country, reducing it to an infrastructure-free pile of rubble, and bringing down its government, and capitalizing on the destruction when no threat was actually posed to us? Oh you mean that terror that we ourselves manufactured by default? That terror that has no effect on the lives or bank accounts of the rich and super rich, except to line their pockets further, and give them more invasive powers? Oh - that terror!

But an education-free America doesn’t know enough to comparison shop, and buys that terror, to keep right next to their Paris Hilton “Just Me” perfume. MMMM, spicy! And a little tart! Which is OUTRAAAAAAAAGEOUS! Really, in a good way. That’s hot!

After all, this isn’t just any K-Mart terror. This is fancy-signature-collection-premium-brand-2-disc-director’s-cut -unrated terror that magically strips us of the ability to foresee, create, build toward, and even think! This is the uber hot latest upgrade fly-off-the-shelves, can’t-keep-enough-in-stock X Box terror that makes us deny education and healthcare to our own children! And since we spent all our resources on that fabulously collectible terror, (still in the original box!) with a petite soupcon of religious disdain, we can’t afford books, or pencils, or field trips - or even darn a sing-along !

So will our children have the imagination to know what that fatty diet of McTerror (with a side of curly fries) has denied them? And what their bulemic relationship to, um..... love (still wincing? I’ll talk you down) and to the arts has cost them?

Or will they only have the sculpted pre-fab “imagination” of games and like consumer product that prepare for a life of servitude and violence by feeding you a steady input of simplistic grim either/or options: assault /defense; wealth/poverty; pre-programmed material signifiers/social (and sexual) ostracism? Hmmm - could the OUTRAAAAAAAAAAAGEOUS cost of education have ANYTHING to do with this? Could the deplorable state of our public schools have ANYTHING to do with this? And could this actually have been planned? Girlfriend, I mean, Miss Hoo Hoo - That’s OUTRAAAAAAAAGEOUS!

THE EXCEPTION PROVES THE RULE?

Massachusetts signs into law near universal health care. That’s OUTRAAAAAAAAAAAAAGEOUS - in a good way. No this time I mean it! That’s actually HOT! Despite items that were possibly necessary to fund the bill being vetoed by the governor, doesn’t that sound like a GOOD thing? I believe once something like this is set in motion, you CAN actually figure out ways to make it work. A major accomplishment! I’m already packing! Boy, Boston never looked more like a major cultural center to me than today.

The expected chorus of nay-sayers claiming it can only work because Massachusetts is a SMALL state, or a RICH state, or even a WHITE state (let’s distract with imflammatory remarks - maybe soon they’ll be able to figure out how health care aids terrorists)- that’s like a speed addled Rush Limbaugh claiming his own drug dependency didn’t affect his hardline position on drug abuse. I think maybe it happened because....could it be? Massachusetts is a SMART state? Or an EDUCATED state? Anyway, as soon as the first discomforts of the elderly make their way into my wizened frame, I know where I’m retiring to!


STATE OF THE ART

And BTW, AT LEAST can’t we be OUTRAAAAAAAAAGED that the clinically generic Arctic Monkeys, who are a characterless compendium of all the most lack-lustre conventions of new Brit Rock since the Ferdinand/Hives/Sea Power/Strokes neu rock resurgence, are being force fed to us as something new? And there’s not even a rock star in the band?
They’re OUTRAAAAAAAAAAAGEOUS!

Who says you can't listen to Jewel?

We've got your red hot stereotypes heah! Or mono, if you prefer!

Don't ask stupid questions! Buy this now, and be happy!

Personally, I’d rather ignore all this shit, enjoy my neighbors, and listen to my new copy of Quarteto 1111, the great Portugese ‘60s folk rock band that sounds a little like that fab Lee Hazlewood-produced Donovan-wannabe record, “Arthur” - by Arthur; no, not the Kinks’ Arthur, just Arthur! Quartetto 1111 is great light folksy music for coffee, paper reading, and quiet, relaxing half baked ranting.

BACK INTO THE QUAGMIRE

But “this shit” (caca?) I can’t quite ignore seems to be a little in-your-face at the moment, especially when apparent spokesmen for the thousands on the street are quoted on the radio (obviously selectively, for some manipulative purpose, and of course to keep us inflamed, .....or not?) as saying “Los Angeles is the second biggest city in Mexico!” Now, that’s a cute slogan, and maybe if I were a true liberal, I’d be celebrating it! But I don’t really know what it means. Anything? And I was born here! Help me on this!


It’s like being invited to a birthday party where you’ve never met the host - what do you say? Is it okay to eat the cake anyway? And then you find out it’s taking place in your own house, even if you’re not sure that it’s your cake. Confusing! There seem to be a lot of messages all at once, like getting a bunch of competing radio stations on one static challenged soundwave. And of course as a non-Latino, and a loser liberal to boot, I’m afraid of seeming uncaring, unsympathetic or uninformed. Unhip! And, dag nabbit, I AM uninformed.

But on a purely theoretical basis, if a law is unenforcable, or we choose not to enforce it, then shouldn’t the law be changed, or the means to enforce it be put in place? Otherwise ALL law is meaningless. I know, I know, that’s a groaner! Oy! But if we can pick and choose the laws we enforce and whom we enforce them upon, then all law is innately unfair. Oh I forgot - we already do that, with rich white people! So maybe it IS fair that poor Latinos and Rich White people have that one thing in common - that laws are bent to the breaking point where they are concerned. Anyway, if everyone gets to pick and choose which laws are enforced, it might actually make it more fun! But I’m not certain that’s an option they’re offering me at my next audit or speeding ticket.

Again - on a completely theoretical basis - if the people who “will do the jobs that American citizens refuse to do” (which I somehow feel is apocryphal - where’s the evidence?) suddenly disappeared, then those corporations and systems that paid less than minimum wage and offered no health benefits and depended on illegal (you know - the old sense of the word - against the law, get it?) immigrants as employees would either find ways to pay the legal “living wage”, and be responsible for legal health benefits etc., or they would FAIL. That sounds GOOD to me!

And perhaps Americans would not “refuse to do” those jobs if the wages meant they could afford to pay their rent, put food on the table for their families, and even have a little health care benefit on the side and go to a couple of movies a month.

And those with jobs that “American citizens do not refuse to do”, who already depended upon LEGAL employees would either succeed, or FAIL as they settled into the reality of a new minimum wage based market. Which might be a GOOD thing!

Then new corporations that perhaps do NOT pay unconscionably stratospheric salaries rife with probably illegal perks to their corporate heads, might have to use some of that money to figure out how to make a sustainable business in this new “legal” world, by paying actual living workers an actual living wage! That might be a GOOD thing.

And perhaps if the “millions” (is that true? or another manipulative word?) of undocumented workers were suddenly gone, or legal, and getting an adequate wage to live on, then the fast food industries and big box stores, that are most likely the only place the illegal immigrants could afford to give their custom, would be impacted by the subsequent loss in revenue, and have to adjust to the new market as well. How bad could that be?

On a theoretical basis, obviously, what if, after some painful adjustment, we actually ended up with a workforce that all received at least the minimum wage, and maybe even some benefits as well, and their income were able to be taxed because it was actually reported, so then that tax money could be used for the infrastructure and educational needs of a slightly reduced workforce, and there were less people in each community living at the enforced poverty level of doing “the work Americans refuse to do”? What if the price of vegetables and fast food and consumer goods and oil went up slightly, but the work force had an enforced slighty better income to afford it? Would that be so terrible?

What if NOBODY did the work “Americans refuse to do” and we were all just forced to LIVE with it, until somebody decided that equitable wages should be paid for work that people “refuse” to do?

What if we had immigration laws that WERE enforced, without exception? What if people who now come here illegally were either given the option to come here legally, or else be punished or expelled for knowingly breaking the law, when we made a law that was reasonable enough to be enforcable? So illegal would actually mean illegal ?

THE MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION OF ALL:

And - more basically, What the fuck am I talking about? Help me!

AY AY AY!

Now you know WHY La Cucuracha marijauna que Fumar! Because of eye-glazing meandering ramblings like these!
Yawn! I’m only puzzling this out because it’s been so saturated on TV, especially when there are no “Law and Order” reruns, and I’ve already seen that episode of “Top Chef” more than once. (What about that one poor little Top Chef fag guy’s involuntary grimaces? Isn’t that like Aunt Hepzibah or who ever she was in The House of The Seven Gables, who was unaware that her own involuntary scowl was scaring the children she so longed to hold? But his Mexican food sure looks tasty! Wait - is that an inflammatory remark? ) But whatever this darn immigration shit is, it does seem important to a relatively large segment of the populace - a segment in whose neighborhood I happen to live!

Or is it yet ANOTHER bait’n’switch, like the “predators” the federales are going to cruise mio espacio for?


ANYWAAAAAAAAAAAAAY, SPEAKING OF PREDICATBLE!

(PLEASE FEEL FREE TO KEEP SKIPPING, RANT NAYSAYERS)

This darn guest worker program: I was reading in the paper that the people who are most skeptical of it are Democrats without college degrees. Oooooooops! That’s me! Without a college degree - doesn’t that imply I’m too stupid to understand it? Oh yeah, I already copped to that.

I felt as weird and predictable and sad reading that as I did when, at about 10 years of age, I was reading in the World Book Encyclopedia about yawning, and it said “Yawning is very easily prompted by suggestion. In fact, you’re probably yawning as you read this!” And I was! Bummer! Does that mean I’m not special? I felt tricked, trapped in my own inability to be unique - I was just another yawning loser!

So am I just another college-degree-free loser on this stupid reform issue? I better shut up then! But still - does a guest worker program mean employers STILL get to pay now newly “legal” immigrants LESS than the official “living wage”? What does THAT fix?

The paper also says that I am in the sector that would face the greatest competition from such a program, since if I chose to enter the work force (icky!), I would have to compete with “guest workers” willing to work for less than me. Bummer squared! Like I would ever actually WORK! The very idea makes me ILL! But, do these “guest workers” pay taxes? And who’s going to enforce this “guest worker” shit? And what are the qualifications of a “guest worker”?

Obviously, by my questions, I prove that I don’t understand a thing about the immigrant experience, beyond the fact that I know they’re fucking hot, and most of them that I have personally met are very nice, and intellectually I know they are an exploited servant class that somehow benefits major corporations in their current undocumented state.

I also can’t afford a maid, or a gardener, and don’t need a baby sitter or live-in Nanny. And even though I’ve had some major house repairs lately, they were done by my friends from the musical community who happened to have carpentry skills. (I’ll give you their phone numbers - just ask! And they’re cute too! And sometimes you get free CDs!) So I haven’t had that “other end” entitlement experience either. I haven’t gone down to the parking lot at Home Depot to hire people whose qualifications and background I’m unsure of, like I’ve seen in those well intentioned PBS documentaries.

Maybe my “entitlement” is that I’ve benefited by their unsung exploitation in the low price of fruit and vegetables, but the price on those products has been going up as fast as the price on oil, so someone’s maniplating that somewhere, and I bet it isn’t the “illegal” workers.

Oh, and I’m not personally a big fan of most of the Latino music that I’m aware of (which doesn’t mean much!), although I LOVE Zurdok because I’m a pop nerd in any language, and their televised soap operas are endlessly fascinating!

So I guess I’m too stupid to figure this stuff out. If only we’d kept that free university system in place! And any question that involves, however tangentially, the race word - any question that even BRUSHES on that is inflammatory - even though this is legitimately an immigration law question, and NOT a, um........ race question. Is saying a question is NOT about race - is THAT inflammatory?

But it seems like these simple (- minded? dopey? okay, moronic) questions haven’t been answered, at least in my hurried skimming of current events. And of course, now the paper isn’t covering it any more anyway!

One thing I HAVE figured out - my opinion probably won’t make a bit of difference. And I’m just going to vote against evil Republicans anyway. So who cares what I know or don’t know?

In absolute fact, I wish that I’D skipped this whole section TOO!

So I think I’ll just go back to mindlessly objectifying the cute guys in the neighborhood instead. Mmmmmmm, tasty!

HEY SKIPPERS! - YOU CAN ALL COME BACK NOW! I’VE GIVEN UP ON THAT “immigration” STUFF!


To Netherland We Go!
MINK STOLE AND HER NETHER REGIONS - EXPOSED!
An Anatomy Lesson

Back to something I might have some facts about - Mink Stole!

On the first night of a two night run, in the familiar confines of Silverlake’s Cavern Club in the basement of Casita del Campo, Mink was a tad loopy in front of an intimate but animated audience filled with attractive girls who all seemed to be there for one reason: George Baby Woods! Like father, like son I guess! The girls were squealing piercingly at George’s every minute change in facial expression, and were considerably less vocal about accomplishments or appeal of the rest of the band. Charisma - you can’t buy it - yet! Even if you could, I probably couldn’t afford it.

Anyway, I think the smaller crowd, or perhaps the particularly strong vodka and soda (Mink’s not much of a drinker), give Mink a freedom to extemporize she doesn’t always feel in the more packed houses, and she was suddenly diverging into stories I hadn’t heard before, like the one about her first fuck - “I did it with the guy from down the street whose last name I can’t remember in the basement when I was about ten. I only did it to remove my hymen. I’ve always hated the hymen, and thought it was purposeless. What IS that thing for? So I just thought of this first fuck clinically, as surgery to get rid of it the darn thing, not because I was eager for sex, but because I LOOOOOVED Tampons so much and couldn’t wait to start using them!”

hmmmm...and...

“My favorite body parts are my tummy and the fat under my arms. Really, the fat under my arms is just as comforting and soft and lovely as breasts!” A gasp that might be mistaken for a titter comes from the crowd - “...If only I could have a couple of extra nipples on that particular under arm fat...” - and here, she made a rather disturbing gesture at the audience, lifting her elbows straight up, so the undersides of her upper arms aligned with her neck and upper torso, and the imaginary extra nipples under her arms would be staring the audience right in the face, joining the original two on her breasts, so her torso became for a moment an imaginary quadruple areolae-empowered pink fleshy trapdoor spider arachnid face, with four variously placed nipples for eyes, glaring inscrutably into the room. I don’t know if it’s just because of my sexual leanings, but I found the unavoidable mental image somewhat discombooberat.... discombobulat.... discombobblat.... oh, just unsettling!

That’s a journey we don’t usually take in a Mink show - but she’s always full of surprises!


I See You!

She also revealed that her real name was Nancy, (not news) and out of the ten kids running about her single mom home, her mother chose this moniker for her: “Nancy Shut Up”! “That’s what she always called me, every time she spoke to me - Nancy, shut up!”

LURCH INTO MERCH! A Mink sidebar

Immediately the merchandising prospects came to a boil in my inner scam projector, and from my little corner of the stage under the high school level glitter and foam core quarter notes spelling out “Doe-Ray-Mink” that adorned the black curtain, I dreamily imagined the proto-cabbage patch frenzy for “Little Nancy Shut-Up” dolls - probably modelled after the Keane inspired “Little Miss No Name” street urchin dolls of the late 60’s.

But these dolls would be so much better - The Dakota Fanning style little blonde school girl features with the big pleading puppy eyes and the cute turned up nose would have some radio controlled yammering in Minks inimitable drawl about how dreadful Catholocism is coming from a tiny speaker in the mouth, that would end only when you yelled “SHUT UUUUUUUP!” at your very own “Little Nancy Shut Up” doll!

And of course, when you stripped off the fetish-lite Catholic school girl uniform, there’d be an extra nipple under each arm - so when you raised the arms and took off the dress it was kind of like those transformer dolls where a tiger turns into a robot - except in this case, the prim little school girl doll turns into something similar to an adult toy blow up doll crossed with a spider face! And, they could have a removable hymen! Like cabbage patch dolls, they’d come with fancy scroll gilded certificate of authentication - from John Waters! For an extra fee, you could get official “Little Nancy Shut Up Tampons” in a variety of pastel colors.

Well, this really set my imagination in motion. What this rabid e-bay generation of on-line shoppers really needs is a new breed of super collectible dolls - because collectibles are the new votive medals! How about this: “Abortion Barbie”?


You heard it here first! And in red states she could be sold with a rusty hanger (with a grisly little foetus eye stuck on it to give it that Todd McFarland stamp of detailing quality). And you could get the “dirty back alley” red state Abortion Barbie play set!

In Blue States you would of course get beautiful soft curvy pink and white plastic hangers, and the abortion clinic would be gleaming and clean, with cute friendly nurses in a rainbow coalition of races, and uber handsome doctors, complete with that super clean “Doctor Scent” Glade Air Freshener endorsement - the scent could be situated in the Doctor’s hair - you know, that Ken-style hair that’s like flocked wall paper some of them have (although, like Ken, their sexuality would remain indeterminate). You have the friendly stem cell researcher side line, and outside there could be some fun right-to-life play-pals, with paint guns that spray fun-filled mock “pig blood”, and there could be a whole line of born again Christian memorabilia! Snakes for snake handlings, a speaking-in-tongues magic decoder ring! What about Abu Grahib Barbie? Complete with her own disposable camera? Could be very “empowering” for today’s complex woman! Mattel - give me a call! I’ve got a million of ‘em.

What better way could there be for young girls of a tender age to learn about one of the most pressing issues of our time? And, like an Ideal toy, it’s fun for boys too!


BACK TO THE CAVERN CLUB

So went the evening, as I downed the cheap-tasting Cabernet supplied gratis by the most fabulous stage manager and tech officiator of all time, Mr. Dan. He’s every where at once, making sure everyone is happy, and saying retro theatrical things like “Places!”. It wasn’t his fault that the wine they served tasted like anti-freeze! But obviously, it did the trick. It was actually so acidic and so painfully sweet that our diligent drummer, Matt North, wouldn’t drink his, so I HAD to drink it for him. I’m no under-achiever! And I’m certain there were more merchandising ideas in the bottom of that disposable cup, if I could only remmber through my blinding headache.

We premiered our version of a fab George Baby Woods/Lisa Jenio composition “Thank You Baby” (which I was a little envious of, because it edged my own composition “Waiting For the World”right out of the set). But Mink remained true to “God If Any”, singing it with her usual aplomb, and we even played “Windmills of Your Mind”.

There’s a song I took for granted as an essential psych-lite bon-bon, until we actually tried to play it, and found out how truly weird it is. It seems inherently uncomfortable at any tempo, and if you check out any version, from Noel Harrison’s original speed freak breakneck reading on the original soundtrack of the Thomas Crown Affair (like he can’t wait to get it over with and connect with his pot dealer), to the Anita Kerr Singers stop’n’go Free Design stylings, to Petula Clark’s somewhat funereal reading, you’ll know what I mean.

We first attempted the absolutely definitive Dusty Springfield version, and realized that it must have been recorded truly “live”, because upon examination, it wavers flippantly in and out of speeds and time signatures like a cheesy CSI crack addict extra. So we settled on a more straightforward faux Sergio Mendes reading, because at least (we hoped) then Matt could hold us together. Mink hit the octave jump notes in the weird third verse (not a bridge - just a maddening shuffle of chords!) like a pro.

We also added “Goin’ Back” to the show, a song which Mink knew through Dusty’s rather sappy version, and which was apparently also recorded by Queen (!), but which I knew through the Byrds slighlty less saccharine version from “The Notorious Byrd Brothers”. I was happy when my slightly “rock”-ier version won out - and Foster proved an able raga rocker, complementing the fantastic Electric Prunes stylings he adds to “Waiting For The World” (sniff, sniff, boo hoo) whenever Mink will play it.

Anyway, the hymen/nipple stories that were tender, scary and inner-soul revealing on Friday turned into seasoned professional hilarious schtick the second (sold out) evening of Saturday. Mink’s no dope! When a good story pops into your head, it needs to be told! And it was fun playing for a capacity audience that wasn’t quite so George-centric. There was actually applause for each of us after our names were thoughtfully announced - several times - by Mink, and I recognized the voices of Super Starlet Selene Luna and vocalist extraordinaire Lisa Jenio in my personal huzzahs.

NOT MY NEGRO PROBLEM

After the show we gathered for futher imbibement at the bar upstairs, with local luminaries like the adorable Debbie Spinelli and Carol Cetrone, and I noticed that Heidi Roewald from Stew’s band was there. I completely invaded her booth, unfortunately not remembering the name of the friend sitting in the booth with Heidi, whom I later discovered I’d met no fewer than ten times. I not sure how long this senility excuse will hold up. Oh wait, that’s not true! I DO know! Until I die! One of the FEW advantages of being a village elder.

Anyway, Heidi was, as usual, being the incredibly sweet adorable wonder that she always is, inspiring love in all those around her, including, of course, me! Damn she’s cute. Irresistible! I just LOOOOVE her! But there was an incipient ugliness inside of me gnawing its snaggle-toothed way to the surface. I felt like Jeffrey Combs in “From Beyond”. Eewwww - it was acid reflux envy! From some bilious cavity within comes the Scrooge-esque nasal query. “Pardon me, but isn’t that MY success you’re having?” As I tried not to visibly manifest my wrong-side-of-the-red-velvet-rope covetousness, Heidi innocently listed the many wonders happening in her career with Stew, as one does when something remarkable is happening in one’s life. She was about as full of herself as her Shirley Temple name sake, and more self-effacing than the Dalai Lama, but still I had to fight my unseemly inner umbrage back down my throat with a couple of high pitched unconvincing remarks like, “How WONDERFUL for you - after all the work you’ve done, isn’t it great to have something good like this happen?”

I heard the list of their much feted accomplishments wafting over me - Their musical play “Passing Strange” would opening in Berkeley before moving to NYC, and Heidi innocently detailed her slight discomifture at the way everyone seemed to be treating Stew as a precious national treasure. How much EVERYONE loved them.....The development meetings at Sundance, on and on..... Instead of the appropriate congratulations to the obviously incredibly gifted artists they are, who have worked endlessly and tirelessly for every iota of success they’ve achieved, playing all over the country 300 days a year on less than a dime, sleeping on floors, producing fantastic music - instead of appreciating THAT, my soul was mutating into a bitter “Fuck That! Where’s Mine?” bobble head hobgoblin. I hope that wasn’t written all over my face, as I struggled to stay at least partly in the conversation by relating my pale pith-impoverished stories of distant momentary brushes with a threadbare bottom feeder version of the kind of love and support they were (deservedly) receiving.

So I was as smiley and congratulatory as I could manage to be, and guess what? Nobody hit me, and when I got collared by my Mink cohorts to adjourn to Mink’s booth and actually get paid (!) it kind of reminded me that I work with fabulous artists and get to do all sorts of cool stuff. Duh!

BLACKBURN BEATLE BONGO!


4,000 holes? We only really need one!

Unfortunately, one of the four thousand holes in Blackburn Lancashire wasn’t one made by a bullet in the middle of our wandering Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice’s head. She was met with many delightful protests, and actually had to pull out of a planned photo op at some Mosque because of the protesters. But she lived through it, if you can call that living. Darn!

But the protests didn’t stop her from confessing that she wanted to continue on to Liverpool because of her love for the Beatles! No, this wasn’t an uncharacteristically sardonic jaunt into the hitherto unxplored frontier of Condoleeza Ironica - she was serious! Is it actually legal for someone of her moral persausion to “love the Beatles”? I guess all you need isn’t love, or at least not THAT kind of love.

She must have missed a few bed-ins I guess. “War is over if you want it!” John sweetly offers her. “Thank you kindly, but no-thank you! I don’t want it!” comes the polite newscaster English refusal. I guess she just can’t IMAGINE!

But her strange school girl confession of Beatle Love has some fanciful double think ramifications: If only she’d been in power during Ghandi's non-violent protest movement, she could have helped him win faster - by supplying the guns!

GOD IS WATCHING US FROM A DISTANCE
He just never said how far!


Loving loving LOVING the new study that proves that prayer doesn’t work! In fact, if you pray for the recovery of someone who is ill, it actually makes them sicker, and causes more medical complications!

Just because Jon Stewart has covered this to death doesn’t mean that the the fact that if millions of morons pray for Bush, it will actually help him fail doesn’t tickle the funny bone! He better tone down the Godspeak, or prayer will get him right out of the White House. Maybe he can catch the tail end of that new anomalous outbreak of Mumps on his way! (No that’s NOT a shameless plug for the recent CD/DVD 2 Disc fabulous Sympathy For the Record Industry Release MUMPS “How I Saved the World”. Really!) Anyway, I’m soooooooooooo hoping there will be a court room logjam of law suits, brought by poor gimps with “complications”, against being prayed for! If only prayer had surgeon general health warning stickers on it! And maybe we can outlaw it in public places! And while driving! Or maybe just altogether! Hot!

But having scientific proof of anything hasn’t ever swayed the darn believers: witness those kids being groomed and prompted to “stand up for God” against teachers of Evolution, and doing it so stridently and effectively that some teachers are actually avoiding the subject out of burn out and exhaustion. Oh, you don’t think the little angels have been groomed and scripted? And I bet you believe Santino made the final three of Project Runway because of his talent? Please, be careful who you pray for! You know it’s bad for your health!

Anyway, I have a rejoinder for those teachers to use if they care to: You kids better pray that evolution exists, because otherwise the only conclusion we can draw is that if God were so smart he’d have given you a brain. And maybe one for your parents too. Basically your idiocy is God’s fault. And if God were so smart, why are there more Moslems than Christians? Maybe the Moslems are just more evolved!

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY CHRISTIAN

L.A. Times: “Christians sue for the right not to tolerate policies! Many codes intended to protect gays from harrassment are illegal!”

I feel a musical coming on, and it’s not Jesus Christ Superstar! Perhaps “My Unfair Lady”? I don’t know, but this new “I gotta bitch’n’moan for Christ” movement is so rife with zingers that Kander and Ebb better get out the staff paper!

“Ruth Malhotra” (what a drag name!) “says her faith compels her to speak out against homosexuality.” But her darn school, the Georgia Institute of Technology (Isn’t that a euphemism for hair dressing and nail salon studies? Or how to copy the charcoal drawings of cute little dogs on the insides of matchbooks?) bans speech that puts down others because of sexual orientation. You can see where this is going, and apparently there’s a movement burgeoning, although that movement could be as “real” as Santino’s sartorial gifts! But apparently they have laywers trying to overturn anything to do with diversity training that promotes acceptance of gays and lesbians, speech codes protecting them, and anti-discrimination policies for campus clubs.

Evangelical Reverend (! Who’d be dumb enough to revere this guy?) Rick Scarborough (imagine what lilting soprano porn puns could be made when Rick gets aroused by Ruth’s Malhotra and goes into a malhotrance - he might scar her burrow!) says this is the defining civil rights struggle of the 21rst century - the fight for the right to be Christian! Good to know! Christians should NOT be discriminated against simply because they are discriminating! That’s a Christnundrum! Christian activist Gregory Baylor says (and I’m not making this up - it’s THAT rich!), “Think how marginalized racists are - if we don’t address this now, it will ONLY get WORSE!”

I hear the next song, hopefully with a huge all black gospel choir of faggot hating born-agains: you could sing it to the tune of “Pity The Poor Immigrant”, but you’d be pitying the poor marginalized racist, and singing, “Good Christ, don’t let that happen to me!”

But in the middle of all this joyous musical falderal I have a plot point to suggest that might make the resolution of this crisis a little less remarkable, and rob the show of some of it’s dramatic thrust. I don’t really want to be a spoiler, but the kids are gonna see right through this faux crisis (Christis?), and durn if it won’t be as big a bomb as Van Helsing!

Because, Poor Miss Ruth, see that invention called a “cross walk”? No - not THAT cross. The one in the street. Wait for the light! Now, why don’t you just walk across the street? Because if you read the fine print, before all the name calling and fag baiting and of course most importantly FUNDRAISING (who profits?), you’ll find that these diversity protection rules only apply ON CAMPUS and for CAMPUS BASED CLUBS AND GATHERINGS.

Hmm- can you move to the left about 20 feet? (I hear a new dance number! Sung by cute little after school traffic monitors, To the tune of David Bowie’s “Fashion” - “Christian - Turn to the left!”) Then you can yell angry ani-homosexual vitriol, based on fear, and lack of experience, and small minded bitterness, and a complete LACK of any real Christian values, as LOUD and as LONG as you want - at least until someone PRAYS for you, because then you’ll probably get “complications” - like throat cancer!

Speaking of CROSS walks - remember the Christian prostest against using the letter “X” in words painted on asphalt, such as “SCHOOL XING”, because the X was based on the cross our dear lord was nailed to by those horrible Ro-Jews a while back? Where are those civic minded people now? We could sure use their clarity of vision and purpose!

SPEAKING OF FAGS - AND WHO DOESN’T?

Is it really so long that I haven’t made a bitchy remark about Broke Back Mountain losing the Academy Awards? Not that it was such a great movie - sure I cried, but you know I wept at Gay Purr-ee.

And the performances were uniformly nice, although the over-designed over-the-top austerity of the “Christina’s World” setting of Jake Gyllenhaal’s family of origin at the end of the film took it to just this side a Madonna video - all that distressed wood , all that grey, all that lack of furniture. Very minimalist opera. Dems sho am sum po’ folk! I could almost hear a distant chorus of “Express Yourself” as Heath fondled the shirt that was recently auctioned for some unGodly sum.

The movie itself though was disappointingly safe - like Will & Grace without the laughs. It used the distancing of time to keep the audience in it’s “back then” comfort zone: back then before Oprah and Doctor Phil (and Jerry Springer), back in the olden days when we had so much difficulty communicating our true “feelings”.

One need only look at the demon spawn on the chairs and couches of those shows to see how much we have progressed - not!

And it was set in “another world” as safely removed from 99 percent of its target audience as E.T.: the world of cowboys. It might as well have been the circus, or France, for all of the audience identification with those poor people.

It did have genuine emotion though, and its milestone contribution to cinema and culture is that it did have what Will and Grace sorely ( or not so sorely) lacks - an actual butt fucking scene! Which leads geometrically to the fact that it had the screen’s first “out” macho bottom. Hot! Bottom liberation! Although how Heath got (what one would assume is) a fairly massive Aussie protruberance into what must surely have been a very dry and somewhat musty cowhand receptacle in Jake’s posterior, without even a little spit, or cow fat, or a moment of massaging encouragement with a finger (or tongue) showed that the writers were a little ahead of themselves in the research deparment. Ouchy! Must have been one tender spot in the morning, and I don’t mean tenderfoot!

But the true tragedy of the film is the most predictable one: that it had all the promise of historical moment, a genuine milestone, and of course America dropped the ball. Not since the moon landing has a true cultural epiphany been so very nearly in the grasp of our great lumbering country - here was a chance to say “Hey, some of us ARE civilized after all, and we’re ready to send flowers to this cause that is still so moronically divisive - we’re going to defuse it and make everyone feel a little better about themselves so we can go back to the work of repairing the epidemic stupidity of everything else we do.” It was going to say “You can use this as a wedge device in political campaigns from here to eternity, but there IS a kinder, smarter, more sophisticated side of America, and we want to share that face with the world.”

It’s very hard when you’re watching the retard and he gets the square Fischer Price block so close to the square hole (no innuendo intended - we’ll save the child molesting rant for another paragraph). You’re just rooting for the little loser. And America, the supremely retarded country, came sooooooo close!

But no, once again the dope is somehow dazzled by the round hole, and the primary colored block goes unfitted, and all is lost. Prognosis: He IS a hopeless numbskull after all.

That’s how America is - when they defaulted to the safer “issue” film, “Crash” - about the safer issue we discuss so often that it actually doesn’t mean anything any more: racism. I’m not saying we’ve resolved racism - America is an endemically epidemically racist country, and it needs to be continually addressed. But we’ve defused it in the world of entertainment by constant sit com talk show massaging until as a choice for an Academy Award it’s about as progressive and status quo threatening as margarine. Can you spell “To Kill A Mockingbird”? This is not new territory, and threatens no one.

And “Crash” was an ensemble film as well - MORE very likable actors (and MORE friends of the actors voting for them) doing really good work in the smart man’s “Magnolia” - a not-so-fun-house of coincidence that was never supposed to be real - more like a dance that engages you, and then riles you, mortifies you, and actually makes you think a little. I actually liked “Crash” better than “Broke Back Mountain” myself.

But it was not a film of moment. It was a film of intelligence and craft and ultimately hope, but it was not historical. Sure it was a minor revolution to have so many (somewhat) low budget “statement” films up for awards (although it was a no brainer after the disappointingly unwatchable pap of King Kong etc.). And it was gratifying that they were uniformly of a leftist liberal slant, by which I mean THEY WERE RIGHT AND ANYONE WHO DISAGREED WITH THEM IS WRONG!

But reread the word “minor” - America can’t even crawl to it’s own birthday party. It was a vacuum of moment, a silent world wide applau (as opposed to the plural, actually audible applause). Everything went back to normal the next day, and Brokeback Mountain was reduced to the charitable status of the little-art-house-film-that-could. It became a blip on the cinematic consciousness of America that caused a little discussion, fueled a few late night jokes, and whose most notable and lasting acheivement is merely that it didn’t actually destroy the careers of its two stars.

But even that was no act of real courage - Tom Hanks can truly call that his own in the certainly much smarmier but ultimately far more groundbreaking film Philadelphia. He was truly a major star taking a major risk in a major film. And the Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen songs were so much better than the unmemorable slush of whatever was on Ang Lee’s tired folksy schmolksy soundtrack (sorry Rufus, not your most shining moment) - they were actually the most beautiful songs to address the gay experience other than, well.......Scarecrow! By ME! Kristian Hoffman!

Of course Philadelphia was equally “safe” - the distancing device of “ that fag disease” that kept the fags resolutely “other”, like watching wounded wombat surgery on Animal Planet, and really feeling for the little guys. Poor things - emphasis on thing. And I don’t think the red spot on Tom Hanks' squinty grimace during his wincing opera hoe-down scene made the gay plight seem any more familiar.

In fact the REAL “moment” of playing gay in a semi-mainstream film has GOT to go to.......drum roll!..... Will Smith in “Six Degrees of Separation”. That took courage! He couldn’t even bring himself to kiss the guy - he was that scared. And he did a great job anyway.

So America, you li’l retard, you’re just HOPELESS! But we love you just the same. And next time - remember the lube!

ALL YESTERDAYS PARTIES

I’ve been to LOTS of parties lately. Very uncharacteristic for someone who starts yawning uncontrollably at 7:00 p.m.!

First the fantastically lovable Millionaire swept back into town for a couple of days, and had a delightful meet’n’greet at the bar in Hotel Figueroa, that wonderful mock Moroccan neu exotica lounge where I’ve embarrassed myself before with Alice Bag, the only girl I know who STILL sneaks liquor into a bar!

Mill and his fiancee Sascha were in fine and friendly form. But unfortunately one of those events involving the strange and inscrutable parallel universe called “Sport” had just finished at the Staples Center, two blocks away, and the revellers in their cultish uniforms of pin-striped navy polyester and sweat togs emblazoned with the exotic logos of unknowable ritual worship were crowding the sidewalks, and just as soon crowding the interior of the bar as well.

I didn’t know that these religious fanatics were allowed to drink, but apparently in this particular sect it’s encouraged. So it was nearly impossible to get to the bar, or get a drink, or hear anything.

I did manage to get in a brief conversation on the wonders of the Critters’ two Project 3 LPs with Eric Bonerz, visionary behind “The Super Casanovas In Space”, record collector and mixmeister extraordinaire, engineer on the Velvet Hammer Band’s classic recording of the Millionaire composition “Ass Tassels” (from which my organ solo was summarily edited for live purposes!), and apparently also member of some uber hipster band with John C. Reilley in it. Who knew? Sounds very “Largo”! So I’m afraid you can’t go. But then, neither can I!

Then I had to rush off to meet Abby Travis and the luscious Donita Sparks at the Echo Park home of Bryan Lee Brown, Downtown Sensation drummer and scofflaw of Las Vegas reknown.

When I finally managed to park on his almost perpendicular street, I came in to find a living room free of furniture to encourage interpretive dancing, and the comforting familiarity of some “Nuggets” garage punk selections on the stereo. Abby was looking gorgeous as usual, and having an easy time mingling with the folks, most of whom were in, or had been in, all manner of “Spin” covered hipster combos.

There was plenty of liqour, and everyone was friendly, and Bryan had made a delightful tiki grove in the back yard, (which you had to squeeze past the back porch surfboard stash to get to). It boasted a glittering view of the downtown skyline, one of Los Angeles’ most Oz-like features, and one I sure don’t have at my house. But everyone there was SO young! And there were so STRAIGHT! It’s not a crime, but it should be!

Fortunately for me, in my usual pop nerd cul-de-sac, even though 99.5 % of the gentlemen are clinically straight, they also are quite a fey bunch, given to vintage 60’s clothing and a wimpiness of affect that leaves me feeling quite at home.

But these lovely welcoming folks were of the hooded sweat shirt, quilted nylon parka vest variety - it made me wonder WHY they were playing that retro music in the first place. Don’t these kids have some NEW music that they call their own? The seemed to communicate with a series of knowing insider macho grunts, and I didn’t have my Clan of the Cave Bear handy translation device with me.

Sure enough, soon some dishevelled guy with the droopy jeans and the de rigueur wrinkled plaid boxer waist band over hang (that’s the neu plumber’s crack!), his face completely obscured by his hood like a LOTR Ring Wraith, was at the laptop that served as the stereo module, and just as quickly some of those repetitive kindergarten tribal pulses accompanied by a bunch of arrhythmic electronic blips and squeaks took over the soundwaves. He also had that “nervous DJ” tic of switching the “song” (if that’s what these monotonous oscilloscopean patterns are still called) every 30 seconds or so, as if he were browsing through holographic vacation possibilities on the Star Trek TNG Holideck, all the while bobbing what must have been his head under that shadowy snood.

Bryan was everywhere in his Viper Room circa ‘96 leather accented finery, hobnobbing chattily, making sure guests had their drinks, parading his charming dogs around (and I’m NOT a dog fan, but these dogs were adorable. I even had pet envy!), and maintaining that “soon the dancing will start”. Is that a promise or a threat?

I was glued by a feeling of social inadequacy to the couch, uncomfortably close to the two other people that seemed superficially to be approaching my age, but with a little more grace than I was. So I wasn’t exactly alone. But by the third time they offered the observation:“Isn’t Jane Wiedlin fabulous?” (and of course she IS!), I felt a bit out of my depth, or my niche, or possibly my coffin. Dracula needs his beauty rest!

There was no pop nerd safe corner here. There was no Marizane member I could wow (or bore) with my encyclopaediac knowledge of “Bowie: Images”. These people were ROCK! Good rock, tasteful rock, now rock, but ROCK! It’s funny, but I can “pass” in punk rock circles, but I don’t think I can “pass” in rock. So I tucked in my paisley shirt, grabbed my western jacket (Pretenders II style if you’re interested) and crawled carefully down the deadly incline outside to my car without even saying good bye. But I did think it was a good place for Abby to meet a romantic prospect!

I also attended the Paula Kelly post “Some Sucker’s Life”CD Release party at their cute Atwater Village apartment. She and her BF Aaron Tap are giving Carolyn Edwards and Steve Stanley quite a run for the title of Pop’s Cutest Couple! I smell cat fight! And they are wonderful hosts. AND Aron even confessed he paid full price for “How I Saved The World”. That’s commitment! And there was lots of delicious cheese and guacomole and Makers Mark and exotica decor and friendly chatty expat Bostonians. And no one was encouraging me to dance! I was in my pop nerd barrio and loving it!

ENGAGEMENTS

Played with Carolyn Edwards at her bittersweet “Fare the well, Thou Brief Taix Residency” show. The crowd was filled with luminaries: Paula Kelley, Aaron Tap, Nick Walusko, Darian Sahanaja, Jim Laspesa, Jonathan Lea, Todd and Debi from Marizane, several California Navels, Gwynne Garfinkle, - and when you’re in a room with Bill Inglott, Andrew Sandoval, and Steve Stanley all at once you better pray (oh, I forgot! Christ on a Crutch! Prayer doesn’t work!) I mean wish that there is NO natural or unnatural disaster - otherwise there will never be another re-issue you care about. It’s the re-issue Mafia!

I forced a copy of my new MySpace faves Rude Staircase’s full length masterwork CD into Steve Gregoropulous’ willing hand - hoping that La Staircase will find a home at Steve’s (and Carolyn’s and Heather’s and Weba’s) fab label collective “True Classical Records”. I also gave one to KPFK psych expert Barry Smolin.

Carolyn’s set was fab as usual, with her band consisting of several Bryan Wilson/Now People alumni, Steve, and then of course ME. She had us play the most inspired pop nerd encore of all time: “Flying” from Magical Mystery Tour. I had to forgive her for insisting somewhat bossily that rising chords in the second verse were on organ, even though I listened on head phones and am pretty darn sure they’re on a string mellotron patch. It’s her band after all! And what if she’s right? Gulp! She usually is. This selection has it all: Beatle cred thankfully minus Beatle burn out, no words to speak of, an Oz-friendly basso Chorus of Winkie Guard La La Las, and a coda of mellotron flute noodles into lite jazz/psych complete disintegration.

Then the Now people played with their unbelievably ambitious counter-melodies and five part harmonies, most of which were magically in tune.

I remember in the Swinging Madisons, for the first five years or so, I wouldn’t let ANYBODY sing back up, because I thought it was a better gamble if you just risked less things that could go wrong. That’s why it took me that long to discover that Robert Mache was a great singer! I was too busy saying, “NO!”

Not so this yes-sayin’, sleigh bell shakin’, risk takin’ conglomerate of pop daredevils. Smile, Schmile! The Now People are all about orchestration!

And then they had a surprise treat for us: Steve announced that they would be singing “Windy”, and of course everyone was cheerful and excited about THAT, and he continued: “With the great lady who wrote the song!” Screams of disbelief as Ruthann Friedman stood up in the crowd. Now that’s REALLY collectible! She was very petite, and had a cute little page boy hair cut, and the howls of appreciation were deafening as she made her way up to sit next to Steve while they went through the Now People version of this pop classic - unfortunately she was so terminally shy that she kept her mouth about two feet away from the mike, but you could tell she was moving her lips. Steve tried to give her morale and encouragement by singing with great restraint from about a foot away from the mike, but even at minus one volume Steve’s voice obliterated whatever sounds, if any, Ruthann was making. So we just gaped in wonder at the woman who made one of the quintessential twee pop hits of ALL TIME! If I’d only known, I’d have brought my “Constant Companion” Ruthann Friedman LP to get autographed, even though the textured raw paper cover (a la Neil Young’s “Harvest”) looks like some hippie spilled coffee all over it, and the fairly rote acoustic blues/folk inside bears little semblance to the magical lite pop confection of Windy. I guess if one only heard “Night In The City” by Joni Mitchell, one might bring a different set of expectations to her catalogue as well.

RECORDING NEWS FLASH - MUSICAL CHAIRS!



Eat this, Eno!
I am now an official “Chair” player - in the last Ann Magnuson session when we were doing overdubs to “Pictures on My Dentist’s Wall”, I noted that the black quilted polyester Target style desk chair on casters in the control room had a fairly distinctive squeak. No sooner was the observation made than engineer extrordinaire Mark Wheaton had set up some gleaming top line mikes around it and I did a “session” of chair squawks and squeals and whines for placement in some “spoken word” Dentist break. I’m now available for tours, jam sessions, and recording dates, playing - God, no! I’m trying to resist the painfully awful pun tweaking my frontal lobe, but I guess sometimes I have to just set it free - chairemin. Forgive me.