Gabba Gabba Hey

"And then there was one."

About a half hour ago, I was stuck in traffic when I got a call from a good friend on my cell phone. "What?" I asked. "Somebody died," he answered. "Another Ramone?" I said. And I was right.

Why I said that, I don't know. Just popped into my head. The Ramones are one of those bands that people will be listening to forever, and they aren't even very talented. There is just something about them.

The Ramones are now considered classic rock, at least according to my boss who also happens to run a music licensing department. (This means if you ever hear a Ramones song in a commercial, I will know who to yell at about it.) That a man a couple decades my senior can sing "Blitzkrieg Bop" properly and then lump the Ramones into the same category as Cream and Led Zeppelin is a little freaky to me, because I listened to this band in high school. That's the way things go, I guess.

I loved that the Ramones couldn't really play, just couldn't really play well at all. But their hearts were in the right place, and there was a sweetness to their "onetwothreefour" approach. It made sense that they loved garage rock and girly 50's music, and it made sense when Phil Spector (now accused of murder cuz he's a NUTJOB) produced an album for them. They took pop music and ran it through a blender, and it was fun.

I can't believe there are more Rolling Stones alive at this point than Ramones. I guess the Ramones should have sniffed less glue and done more acid.

R.I.P. Johnny. Thanks for all the head boppin' and slam dancin'.

You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby

"Beauty is all very well at first sight; but who ever looks at it when it has been in the house three days?"
--George Bernard Shaw

I just watched about 15 minutes of a show on E! (the heights of culture, I know) about plastic surgery. I know these shows are on all over the place and all the time, but they freak me out too much to really pay them any attention. I saw two things on this program before I switched channels: a woman getting cheek implants, and a woman injecting collagen into the balls of her feet. Seems it provides a soft cushion, all the better to withstand hours of Jimmy Choo shoes. Yikes!

I have met people over the years who are too intimidated by Los Angeles to actually move here. Many people simply hate LA for the same reasons these people won't move here: too many "beautiful" people. Too much plastic surgery, implants, extensions, whatever. People who have to have a personal trainer and work out however many hours a day in order to look good - because that is their job. Or perhaps, that is the job they want.

And it's true. There are a lot of beautiful people here. People with glamorous hair and perfect skin and flat stomachs and great tans and pearly white teeth. But there are a lot of "regular" people here too. Los Angeles has a population of about 4 million, and although it seems like one out of three of those people has some sort of creative aspiration, that doesn't mean they are also intimidatingly beautiful. And those who are intimidatingly beautiful aren't necessarily the most interesting to talk to.

(I once ran into a horrifyingly gorgeous woman on the elevator in my building, and she was picking at a granola bar and hitting the 3rd floor button repeatedly. I told her that she needed a special card key to trigger that floor, and the receptionist at the front desk could help her out. She looked at me and said, "Oh. But I was just up there a second ago! It should still work..." She kept hitting the button. I know this is a bit of a stereotype, the dumb beauty, but I see it way too often in this town.)

I spoke with a woman once who was visiting from New York City, who said that she couldn't live here because she would never be able to handle the dating scene. She felt that there was too much competition, that the men are more conditioned to "perfect" women. Well, maybe that's true in certain circles, but those don't have to be the circles she moved in.

Anyway, you get used to it. And beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right? I see beautiful people every day. Maybe not movie star/ model beautiful, but definitely beautiful in their own right. You never know who is looking at you, when you don't think you're all that, and thinking, "Damn. What a beauty." And then for those with "beauty," it is difficult to keep.

"Show me a beautiful woman, and I'll show you a man sick of fucking her." -- Frank Sinatra

(Not as sweetly said as Mr. Shaw, but you get the drift.)

Girls Against Boys

A few months back, I asked some of my girl friends to tell me about pleasant and unpleasant experiences they've had with boys, in the hopes of enlightening some people out there. Maybe. Anyway, one of my friends wrote a really wonderful piece which I've been threatening to print, and now I am. Names changed to protect the innocent, cuz she knows who she is (thank you!).

*********************************
I think the majority of the cat-call days are over for me, luckily. I don't know if it was just weird pedophiles or that I'm more confident now, but in recent years, I hardly get any cat calls.

Though creeps are ALWAYS staring at me. I think I instill awe, fear and sometimes obsession in men- always something off balance, and not at all appealing to me. I think since I'm intimidating (ed. note - she's a 6 foot looker, this one) or whatever, no guy that I find attractive has ever hit on me. I've played the look-at-him-look-away game millions of times in my life, but still the guys never approached me.

One time I was feeling really confident and after that little game I walked by the guy's table and dropped my name and number in front of him. He turned out to be a brainless pretty-boy. (But it was an exhilarating experience!)

I think because of the traumatic scarring of my psyche when I was 10 or 11 years old (the year that adult men started hitting on me - talk about pedophiles. Sure I was 5'8" or so but I know I acted and dressed like a late blooming dorky little girl. No boobs. My best friend & I played Barbies until 8th grade!) that I am so disgusted by any man talking to me in public that I don't seem to remember anything clever or amusing. Though I know I've laughed sometimes, so I've heard amusing things. Also, so much of anyone's opening line in the bar or on the street is regarding my height - so very unoriginal. Like I haven't been asked if I played basketball 5 million billion times before in my life.

Amusing incident: In New Orleans, on Bourbon Street, age 20, walking with my best girlfriend in the afternoon: some drunk, chubby overgrown fratboy type guy started yelling about the things he'd like to do to us. I yelled back at the top of my lungs "Fuck you, asshole!" He then said something like "Well, I didn't say I was going to LIKE it."

The most scared I've been was in Santa Cruz. I went to school there for 2 years right out of high school. That town made me believe in energy spots within the earth that draw people unconsciously to them because EVERYONE in that town is so f-ed up! I got followed on foot at least 3 times - a guy on foot, a guy in a Jeep just keeping pace with my walking. I had to walk around for a while so they wouldn't find out where I lived. One time an extremely buff, tattooed homeboy would not stop talking to me and eventually revealed he'd just gotten out of San Quentin after a long sentence (hello, murder?). He couldn't understand why I asked him to not touch my arm as he was talking to me. I was too afraid to tell that guy off. Another time I was waiting for the bus at like 7am to go up to campus and an old old man in a champagne colored American sedan drove by really slowly. Then he turned around and stopped in front of me. He rolled down his window and drawled really slowly "you're reeeeaaal perty". He'd probably been making women feel uncomfortable (or worse) for 80 years!

The funniest come-ons have been from young teenage boys. I just can't believe it sometimes. It's always black guys; I think it's an accepted art form that they start practicing young and hope to hone. (White teenagers have never hit on me.) One time on 6th street in Berkeley I was walking to the gas station to get cigarettes or something and these 2 boys, couldn't have been older than 13 or 14 (one had braces and their voices were hardly changed!) started hitting on me. Asking if I lived around here, could they get my number, etc. When I laughed and said I was much much too old for them, they were still friendly and continued to walk with me and chat. That was really cute. Some day they'll be smooth operators.

Here's something I've only voiced to myself but I think it's pretty true: I think often we create our own experiences by how we see ourselves and how much or little self-esteem we have. If I had an ounce of self-esteem or self-confidence growing up, I think that would have shown somehow in my face or posture and people might not have been such assholes to me. I think I looked like I would just sit and take it, you know? On top of that, I expected shitty things to happen to me and never expected hot guys to hit on me, etc. I try not to expect bad things to happen anymore and I have tons more confidence, but only because I've worked at it so hard. I guess I believe somewhat in self-fulfilling prophecies. Not entirely though, and I'm certainly not saying I or anyone else deserves crappy experiences. I wish I had a positive mental attitude (ed. & author's note - or PMA as our brilliant mutual friend used to say) at a younger age, then maybe I would have had more fun, or at least funny, experiences.

*************************************

My super tall super hot super clever friend now lives with a super rad guy. You see? The PMA really does work!

Another One Bites the Dust

So it seems that the people of Nissan (some friends experienced horrible bigotry lately at the hands of a Nissan dealership) have a little common sense after all:

***********************************************

Dear Friends:

I have just been informed by Patrick Finley, the co-owner/general manager of Douglas Nissan Huntington Beach, that David Maxwell has been fired. Mr. Maxwell is the salesman who began and incited the homophobic remarks at the dealership on Sunday.

I take no joy at another human being losing his job but, in this case, I did not do it. Mr. Maxwell sealed his fate when he put his hatred on display and defied us to do something about it. With your amazing support, and that of untold others, we did just that. Mr. Finley is amenable to outside sensitivity counselors going into the dealership. The details need to be worked out, and I am hoping to find a volunteer attorney to actually dot the i's, cross the t's, and to monitor/oversee the carrying out of the still-as-yet written settlement terms.

I was interviewed by Laurie Kelman from KFWB Radio at my home today. Her calls to the dealership also had a strong motivational effects on the dealership. More as this develops. We cannot thank you enough.

Dave Russo
Greg Kamerer
*************************************************

Karma. It can be a bitch.

Do You Believe In Magic?

My alarm is set to a radio station, Indie 103, which I indulged in ranting about a few months back when it started. I don't hate it, I don't love it... It does it's best as a commercial "alternative" station. If I wasn't bred on college radio, I'm sure it would be my favorite station in LA.

Especially because this morning, when my alarm went off, they were playing "Hey Deannie" by Shaun Cassidy. Ummm... what? I haven't heard that song on the radio in... well, maybe never. Although it's by far my favorite Shaun Cassidy song.

Whoever played that (because Indie 103 doesn't really have DJs - only for specialty shows), thank you. I was so able to face my lame boss today because of you.

Escape

A couple Fridays ago, I went with some friends to see another friend's band. I know a lot of people in bands, so I get out to shows quite often. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to actually like their band! That's always a bonus.

This particular evening was a project my friend does maybe once or twice a year. They always sell out our local hipster club, make a chunk of change and have a blast. They are called Infinity. They are a Journey tribute band.

The first time I saw them play was a couple years ago. The show was at a cool lesbian bar (the singer of Infinity is a woman - who better to do Steve Perry, really?) and they sort of did it as a joke. They were so spot on, however, that they began getting requests to do the show again around town, do some proper Hollywood gigs, become a REAL TRIBUTE BAND.

When I was explaining to some friends of mine what I was doing that night, there was a snicker. I tried to defend myself, "But they're funny! And they're really good!" I stopped, horrified. I was defending a tribute band. I tend to be the first to mock tribute bands, because I usually see them as something white collar types see to let off a little steam at the local bar on a Friday night, before they go back to their stucco'ed home and listen to the REAL band they just saw the facsimile of that very evening, drunkenly singing along with their hairbrush in the mirror. Because these types don't have the time or desire to get out and discover anything new, try out a band they have maybe heard a little something about, take that risk and maybe learn something. Instead, they revel in their drunken comfort zone of hearing Led Zeppelin or Doors knock offs.

I know, I know... I'm a total snob. And a total hypocrite. Because I Heart Journey. Maybe because I can sing along with them, maybe because they are totally non threatening, maybe because they are kind of nerdy and funny. And I spent my Friday night with a bunch of hipsters, pretending that we had nothing in common with the white collar types who would normally frequent these kinds of shows, wholeheartedly singing along with every word. "Oh I want to be THERE... in myyyyyyyy ci-tay-ay..." Oh oh oh. We love it.

There are some tribute bands that escape the classification I throw them into - Infinity, AC/ DShe, Mini-Kiss maybe (although they don't actually play, which would make them better)... but really, a tribute band is a tribute band, right?

Don't Stop Believin'.

Don't Call Me Nigger, Whitey

This really happened. Go nuts, everybody. Long live the O.C.
**************************************************

August 29, 2004

Dear Friends:

Greg and I had a most humiliating and frightening experience today. I never believed anything like this could happen in this day and age, let alone in California and at a business place! We had an appointment to meet with the Fleet Manager at McKenna Volkswagen in Huntington Beach at 3:00 pm. Both he and that dealership are exceptionally friendly, competent and ethical. Before going there, Greg wanted to stop at Nissan to test drive the new Altima. Sadly, we had the misfortune to venture into Huntington Beach Nissan on Beach Boulevard.

We were “assigned” a brand new sales representative, a young Asian man of about twenty. From the beginning, we sensed trouble. Despite having Greg’s driver’s license in hand, he kept calling him Kamer, George, and all other names except Greg. Finally Greg told him for the third time that it is Greg. The young man chattered ceaselessly, asking us the same questions over and over again. To make matters worse, he drove us for five or six miles until he would let Greg test drive the car. Once they switched places, Greg discovered that it was the wrong model car. Also, the man could answer none of our questions about the vehicle. Then he kept pressing us about our “relationship” to one another and where our wives were. I told him that we were a couple, a gay couple, whereupon he got just plain goofy, alternating between protestations and giggling.

When we finally got back to the dealership, I went into the office to speak with David Maxwell, the General Sales Manager. I did not mention the rep’s insulting behavior about our being gay: I gave him the benefit of the doubt, assuming it was cultural or age differences that led to that. The only words I said to the manager were: “We drove down here from Long Beach to buy two vehicles; you should reconsider having that man take clients out on test drives.” I told him that none of our questions were answered, that the rep did not know the product and that he took us out in the wrong vehicle. The manager then told me that this was no big deal, give the kid a break and “get over it.” I then told him that he had insulted us, too.

Mr. Maxwell’s reaction? “Nissan doesn't want or need your business”. He then proceeded to swiftly follow me [I felt like I was being physically confronted and chased] out the showroom, where he said: “You fellassssss [with lisp] should go back to Long Beach, you don't belong around here." Then a round of catcalls began—in front of other customers and dealership staff. Greg and I heard things like—“see, they have one of those rainbow emblems on their car” and “looks like two Queers for Kerry!” (By the way, we have no political stickers at all on our vehicles.) Several employees followed their manager’s lead. Customers were either laughing or embarrassed and we were just humiliated an appalled.

I want to ask each and every one of you to suggest ways in which we might address this situation. If you know anyone in any position of influence in government, auto dealerships, business bureaus, media, whatever, please please help us. I cannot tell you what this felt like for us. I never knew one could feel so horrible. I know the old “sticks and stones” thing, but this was just awful. In public, in the business place, in front of customers and employees, this man stole our dignity and held us up to scorn in a way I can't imagine. …and he laughed at us through the whole ordeal, challenging us to “do something about it.” Please email this to your networks and help us to at least get an apology from this man.

Most sincerely,

Dave Russo
Greg Kamerer
Long Beach, CA

*If you want to get in touch with these guys, let me know.
No haters need apply.

Teen Dream

Last Thursday I saw Shaun Cassidy on the way to work. I was on the way to work, he was getting out of his SUV on Little Santa Monica in Beverly Hills. This made me very happy.

Shaun Cassidy was my first teen idol. I wasn't exactly a teen yet, but you know what I mean. My bedroom was absolutely plastered with posters of the guy. I cut articles out of 16 Magazine and trimmed pages from Tiger Beat. I had a locket, a t-shirt, and even a pair of khaki bellbottoms with his face emblazoned on them. I have a Hardy Boys record case for my 45s which gets ooohs and aaahs whenever I take it out to my DJ gigs. I had (still have) the first three albums, each one with my name and address scrawled across the gatefold in crayon.

I also have the October 1977 edition of Dynamite featuring a cover story on the Hardy Boys (my friend Pam preferred Parker Stevenson... whatever) and the January 1978 edition of Dynamite with both Shaun Cassidy and CHEWBACCA on the cover. They were proclaimed "Top Stars of the Year!" (My love for journalism must have come from this.)

I won a poetry contest when I was 8 and the local paper came to do a little human interest story on me. It featured a picture of me sitting on my bed, with my cat Fluffy in my lap, and my Walls of Shaun behind me.

I had, however, moved on when he was covering David Bowie's "Rebel Rebel." Although, in retrospect, that was pretty cool considering that most people listening to him still were girls who wore braces and had never heard of Bowie.

But they say you never forget your first love... and I never forgot mine. I had a boyfriend who wandered around India for a year, and he would check in on me about once a month on a questionable phone line while most likely under a tin roof of a shanty from somewhere, inevitably at 4am or so California time. I would wake up (sorta) and ask two questions: "Where are you?" and "How's you hair?" Don't ask my why this was important to me, I don't exactly know myself. One time his answers were: " Jaisalmer" and "Kind of a shag." I think I squealed. He later told me that he had almost said "Kind of like Shaun Cassidy's" but he didn't want me to get all nuts during the few moments we had on the phone.

I don't exactly understand it, but I still have a sense of loyalty towards my Shaun. Every once in a while I'd get some news of him: producing a movie, writing, on Broadway... He had something to do with that cheerleading softcore "Bring It On," because my brother in law was on the crew and got me an autograph. He's written for TV shows like "The Agency" and "Cold Case" and even created my favorite ill-fated series ever, "American Gothic." (I still have videotapes of that show.)

So Shaun being in LA... Me being in LA... it was only a matter of time. It was one of the few instances I've been glad for gridlock in Beverly Hills. The other time was when I saw George Clooney, but that's a story for another day...

Is She Weird?

A couple months back tickets went on sale for a series of Pixies shows at the Greek in Berkeley. My friend was frantic to buy tickets, but had no computer on which to buy them. I was frantic for tickets, but had no money to spend. We combined forces, and I used his credit card information to happily secure 4 tickets to see our favorite band in the whole world.

A month or so later, after the tickets had arrived, I learned - quite accidentally - that this friend had given all four tickets away. And hadn't held one for me. Due to a misunderstanding, my Pixies ticket for the Saturday, September 25th show was gone. I cried.

Soooooooo... I'm looking for a ticket to see the Pixies on Saturday, September 25th, at the Greek in Berkeley. If you know someone selling one for a somewhat reasonable (regular) price - please tell me. Or I'll cry some more.

And just so you know, you really shouldn't feel too much pity for me. I'm seeing them in LA on the 22nd and 23rd, then driving to Berkeley for the Friday show on the 24th and Sunday show the 26th. But I'm a completist. And a brat. And I have a history of following this band around as if they were the Grateful Dead and I was a stoner with no shoes on wearing long colorful skirts and tripping. Except for the Pixies, I just thrash around a lot.

Anyway, if you hear anything...

Will Power

I didn't want to love Will Ferrell, but you just can't help it sometimes, can you? So watch this. And donate. And get Bush out of office. (But you already know you have to do this, right?)

(Thanks for the link, Spean!)

Celebrate good times... Come On!

Republican National Convention Opening Day Schedule:

6:00pm - Opening prayer
6:15pm - Supplementary opening prayer
6:30pm - Prayer in thanks of first two prayers
6:45pm - New energy policy presented (in secret session) by Exxon

7:00pm - Canonization of Reagan
Swift Boat Veterans announce Reagan single-handedly defeated Hitler
7:15pm - Additional prayers
7:30pm - Opening remarks by Halliburton 's CEO

8:00pm - Prayer for the safety and well-being of Ken Lay
8:15pm - Additional remarks by Halliburton
8:22pm - Adoption of Republican Platform.
United States of America to be renamed in honor of Ronald Reagan

8:30pm - Stoning of the first homosexual
8:45pm - Donor lottery to draft new healthcare policy.

9:00pm - Invasion of Iran or North Korea (TBA)
9:15pm - Halliburton contributes 1.4 billion to Republican party
9:30pm - Reagan elevated to Co-Saviour (Holy Trinity now referred to as "the Quad")
9:45pm - Bush undergoes plastic surgery to look more like Reagan

10: 00pm - Cheney runs into Ron Reagan, Jr. Tells him to go f__k himself
10:15pm - Recall of troops from accidental invasion of South Korea
10:30pm - Burning at the stake of 16 year-old girl who had an abortion after being raped by her cousin
10:45pm - Dancing around the golden calf

11:00pm - Stoning of the first homosexual's partner
11:15pm - New forestry policy presented by Weyrhauser
11:30pm - Silent Auction of all Federal Land.
11:45pm - Thanking God for his wisdom in choosing Bush as President

12:00am - Closing prayer
12:01am - Hookers arrive!

Concrete Jungle

I'm going to rant, kinda. But first of all, read this. It's basically about how Bush is going to allow energy companies to tear up the remaining wilderness of the USA.

There's a ride at Disneyland that nobody but little kids, their parents, and people who are tired of walking ever go on... I think it's called the Disneyland Railroad, and it takes you all around the park so you get "behind the scenes" (meaning you get to see generators and such) views of some rides. But at one point, they actually give you a little natural history lesson, as you get to venture through their version of the Grand Canyon and "Primeval World." So, during a lull between Disney attractions, the train goes into a sort of tunnel, and you are offered a view of the Grand Canyon, stuffed with fake wildlife and plants and things. Like I said, very natural history museum. Then the voice in the tunnel tells us that we are about to go back in time... to see the original inhabitants of the Grand Canyon... (cue menacing music): DINOSAURS! The scenery is much more lush, and you get all sorts of dino action - eating trees, hatching, eating some poor smaller dinosaur, fighting, whatever. I love this part of the ride. It's so silly.

Thing is, I'm starting to wonder if this is how future generations will see nature. Bush seems to really be on a rampage about tearing everything up in order to find as much fossil fuel as possible. I can't help but imagine a place where nature is just pummelled into submission and the world really does seem all man-made. And you get to see displays of what nature was like in a museum.

I have a friend who has a brother living in Alaska. He's lived there for about 15 years. He wants Bush to come and tear the place up. Why? "Most of the 'wilderness refuge' of Alaska is as hospitable as Venus! Lots of baby moose die every year because they get clogged up with mosquitoes the size of your fist. The Sahara Desert is a much more hospitable environment than most of Alaska."

Okay then. Maybe drill that to shit. But does he have to level desert plateaus still marked with petroglyphs, destroy more habit for actual wildlife, and contaminate the few water sources the West has left?

Who am I to talk? I live in California. Los Angeles, no less. People were never supposed to live here in the first place - it's a desert, and what few natural water sources we had we destroyed a long time ago. California's living on borrowed time. So I guess the country has just decided to catch up.

But have you ever noticed how grass and weeds come up through the sidewalks? Maybe there's hope after all...

Gossip Folks

I've been meaning to do a shout out for a while, but a few months back I was lucky enough to chum around with one of the loudest gals LA has ever heard (at least, at 3am on a school night when I was trying to sleep), Ms. Jessica Coen. You may know her from her Blueprint blog, which I've got linked over there to the right.

Anyway, this delicate flower was invited to wander the distinguished halls of Columbia's Journalism graduate school, and she decided to bail us Californians and head to the fabulous NYC. Then Gawker came-a-callin', asking if she would do her own particular brand of smack talking on their website. So Goodbye J-school, hello Gawker!

I just wanted to say congrats to Jessica, and that the whole world will love her like we west coasters (and mid westerners... it was only a matter of time before she conquered the entire nation) do. She's a smart, sassy, hilarious, super clever and fun gal that New Yorkers better take seriously, because she has one razor sharp tongue and can size you up in about .002 seconds flat.

Really, I don't mind that you kept me up nights. Two snaps and a circle, sista.

If I Could Turn Back Time

I've been really busy - so it's time to play recap. I tell stories. Sometimes they become stories within stories, careening off onto some other random tangent and eventually finding their way back to the main point.

But I digress.

And as my boss is on vacation (this new gig has been seriously hampering my ability to slack), I will be taking full advantage of his absence to catch up on the writing. I promise.

So what snarkiness to embark upon just now? Hmmmmm... well, first things first. Rilo Kiley.

Last week at Amoeba Music in Hollywood (the best record store ever; excluding the Amoebas in Berkeley and SF), Rilo Kiley did a free instore performance. I went, being curious about the band I had sort of accidentally seen twice before. The first time was last year at the Sunset Junction Street Fair in my hood of Silverlake, the second time being that same evening onstage with former label-mate Bright Eyes (who was opening for Belle & Sebastian). I didn't see an entire set - just heard a song or two. So I went to Amoeba, knowing I liked a song or two, and wondering how a whole set would be.

It turns out I wasn't the only one with this idea. Approximately 2,000 other people had the exact same idea. It became the biggest instore the store has ever held (surpassing other biggies by PJ Harvey, Badly Drawn Boy, Paul Westerberg, Fantomas, Black Flag and even Queens of the Stone Age). There were about 300 people waiting outside who couldn't get into the store once we had to close doors due to capacity (and the store is about a city block big). The majority of the crowd was young college aged kids, with a smattering of twenty and thirty somethings like myself.

I normally camp out at the Info booth of the store, dead center view of the stage, so I can chat with friends and watch the show without being terribly disruptive. This time, however, the store was so caught off guard by the crowd that I took over my old job as the Info counter person, while those scheduled to be there were moved to security positions or cashiering areas or crowd control. We (the staff of Amoeba) were collectively stunned at the indie rock masses.

Well, once the show was over, I remained of the "Eh?" opinion I have of this band. To me, I liked a couple songs because they remind me of a couple songs by early nineties indie band Bettie Serveert. (Well, they still exist actually.) I liked Bettie Serveert because they kinda reminded of a couple songs I liked by Linda Rondstadt and Jackson Browne (mid 70's era). So I guess Rilo Kiley reminds me of the California lite pop of that era; a twinge of country, earnestness, catchiness and all done just poppy enough to not totally bore you. Not bad, but not shut-down-Sunset-Boulevard great.

I know I am a minority in this opinion amongst my particular group of pals, and I can accept that. We all know that back when Linda was dating Jerry Brown and Jackson was making the young starlets of Hollywood swoon, they put out albums highly regarded by the critics and still revered by singer-songwriters today. Nick Hornby has a whole chapter in his Songbook collection of essays about the poignancy of early Jackson Browne tunes. I still don't care for those records all that much, and I just can't get into Rilo Kiley.

Hopefully, I won't be kicked out of Silverlake for that.

...for amber waves of grain...

You know how the image of the stereotypical American abroad is the pasty fat guy with food stains on his t-shirt and a baseball hat and a camera slung around his neck and bulging pockets and expecting everything handed to him on a silver platter? Well, I think he has to eat here. This is exactly what the average American wants for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Too Sexy

I had to DJ a party in Bel-Air last weekend for an advertising firm, and the guy who hit on me drunkenly at the end of the night was named STIG HARDER. Really.

Hyperactive!

Yes, I realize I dropped off the face of the earth for a while. Actually, I've dropped off the face of the blogsphere. Know why? REAL LIFE, BABY! And too much of it. (That means I've been quite busy.)

So, yes, I'm alive.

I watched the opening ceremonies of the Olympics last Friday, because I was waiting to see Bjork. I was also running around like a mad person organizing a gig featuring Kristin Hersh and her new band, 50 Foot Wave, but that's another story. Anyway, the commentators wouldn't shut up. I know you noticed this. Finally, there's Bjork, and I guess she's singing, but I couldn't hear her because Katie Couric was saying something precious like "There are zillions of yards of that material on her dress, Bob, to represent this earth" and Bob Costas was saying something really invaluable like, "Well, I hope nobody tugs too hard on that dress because then she's gonna be topless!"

And I was glad that the US basketball team lost, because I used to enjoy watching basketball and now most players seem to be a bunch of snobs. You see, I live in LA, where the Lakers are not so much a TEAM as a collection of egos and endorsements. Oh yea, and role models (ahem).

So read these lovely rants by one of my new favorite people, Chuck Klosterman (SPIN, Esquire) and his buddy at ESPN, Bill Simmons. A hilariously intellectual debate about the Olympics and how lame Americans have become. I mean, pop culture.

And thanks to the roomie for sending this my way.

Rockin' In The Free World

Rock the vote!

If you wanna help get Bush out of office, you can rock out while doing so! I'm going to do it by checking out my favorite guy, John Doe (of X... swooooooon) and my favorite girl (Kristin Hersh) along with some other folks (Grant Lee Phillips, Bedroom Walls, Blake Hazard) all at the Echo here in LA. It's on Tuesday, August 10th. The show is being put on by Concerts For Change, who are hosting a series of shows across the country as a fundraising tool for anti-Bush forces. I am a part of those forces, as it were. Sounds very Star Wars of me.

Also on Tuesday the 10th, you can support the same cause at the El Rey (but pay more money if you got it) by attending "Unplug Bush!" It's an acoustic show featuring Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Mellowdrone (whose new EP is GORGEOUS, by the way), Michelle Shocker (um, what a shocker) and Johnette Napolitano of Concrete Blonde. It's worth the high price of admission for Johnette alone; she's a showstopper.

Let's not elect Bush in 2004, either!

And since I'm telling you what to do... Go to Fais Do Do on Friday the 13th. Kristin Hersh will be rocking like a madwoman with her Throwing Muses mate Bernard Georges in their new incarnation - 50 Foot Wave. There will also be the beautiful noise (think early My Bloody Valentine) of The Loudest Tragedy Ever Heard, and the manic folk pop of Linister. It's the last showcase that online radio station Little Radio will hold for a while, so come on down and celebrate a fun summer with us.

Oh yea, and PJ Harvey is going to be doing a free instore performance at Amoeba Hollywood. Thursday. The 12th. 6pm. But you didn't hear that from me...

Tahoe City Crossroads

I spent this weekend in Tahoe City (at Lake Tahoe) at a wedding. Adventures were had. The best one, however, will be re-told by guest blogger for today, Disco Shawn. (Listen to him Thursdays at KALX!):

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So it all started after my girlfriend Rachel and I enjoyed a tasty lunch at Subway. There was a Baskin-Robbins in the same shopping centre, and after devouring our sandwiches we found our tummies clamoring for ice cream. During the short walk over we were talking about movies and Netflix, yet I failed to notice my girlfriend's sudden silence when we entered the store. I specifically remember looking around and beginning to wonder what flavor I would get. (Gold Medal Ribbon has long been a favorite, but I've had a weird desire to order French Vanilla as of late. No idea why.)

Anyways, we settled into line next to these two jockish dudes and began to wait. Rachel was still strangely silent, although she claims she was trying to quietly get my attention. Still oblivious to what I was about to witness, I finally noticed this blonde girl at the front of the line. She had just grabbed her ice cream and began to walk out of the store. At first, I noticed nothing unusual. Young woman, dressed in a yellow tank top and white sweat pants - no big deal. I do remember a big head, more of a long face actually. Quickly my brain began to put together the pieces and I thought, wow that girl kind of looks like Britney Spears. That was quickly followed by another thought - wait a minute, that IS BRITNEY SPEARS!!!

Oddly enough, everyone in the store played it cool. Rachel had apparently noticed Miss Spears right away and had been stunned into silence. As for the other patrons, there was no yelling, no asking for autographs, nothing at all. I think Britney did notice our collective gawk on her way out and gave us all a quick smile. After she bailed, the store collectively exhaled and everyone began chatting to affirm that yes, we had all just seen the teen pop queen at Baskin Robbins in Tahoe City, California.

Oh wait, the story gets better. Her new fiancee was there too! Mr. Kevin Federline, the new tabloid star and apparent impregnating force (for those of you out of the loop, he knocked up another girl before getting with Britney) was also in the store. He actually lingered behind and paid for their ice cream while Britney slipped out. For those of you wondering, yes - he does look like a douche in person. Decked out in hip-hop clothing but still screaming skinny white dude, you have to wonder just what Britney sees in him. After paying, he too exited and climbed into a white Range Rover parked just outside. With that, they drove off and the Britney Spears chapter of my life came to an abrupt end.

If you're still reading, I'm guessing that you really want the REALLY gory details. Britney had bad skin - blotchy zit bad. And not the one micro-zit that hot girl you know gets and subsequently finds funny. I'm talking patchy forehead redness. Somewhat surprisingly, she didn't look bloated, chunky or fat. Despite recent rumors of Britney ballooning, her body actually looked pretty trim. She was not tall, but not short either. I'd say around 5'4" or 5'5". Her head did seem big, though - her face just seemed really long. She had no entourage. No bodyguards, personal assistants, nothing. Just her and Kevin. I'm guessing the lovebirds were on some kind of weekend getaway, although we didn't witness any amorous activity. There were no paparazzi either. Despite my lengthly description, the whole thing happened in about a minute or so. And the whole thing was remarkably low-key. Like I said, no freakouts. There was even a little girl in the store, but I don't think she (or her mom) even noticed. Leave it to us young adults to go nuts over these things.

Beep Beep, Yea!

I am driving from Los Angeles to Lake Tahoe tomorrow. I will be surrounded by tall trees and giant SUVs. I drive a tiny Honda CRX. Driving for me is like driving between the walls to the fortress, pretty much all the time.

Most of the cars around me are about three times my size. They never see me, they rarely signal, and I can't see past them. Yet I console myself knowing that I will never be asked to drive anyone somewhere (in my little two seater? In this town, if it ain't a Posche or an Audi TT, who cares?) and I get better gas mileage than all of them. (My roommate drives a hybrid - ROCKIN'.)

I can't imagine what it must be like for motorcyclists.

So read this article. Just another reason why SUVs are a bit much.

Everybody Dance Now

It's the little things that make me happy. Like being the first one to use a toilet after it's been cleaned in a semi-public bathroom. How do I know? Because the seat is still up and it's all sparkly. Unless a very tidy tranny shares this bathroom with me, that is.

Speaking of trannies, I went to the Scissor Sisters show last week with my best friend Steve. Steve's no tranny, it's just that those Scissor Sister kids are fond of reminding the audience that they have been greatly inspired by the wiggy population, especially San Francisco's infamous Trannyshack. "They taught me how to tuck in my penis. BOTH of them." Or so claims lead singer, wig wearer and sassy gal (really, a gal) Ana Matronic. (Love the name, by the way.)

This fag hag co-leads, along with Elton John sound-a-like (in the good years) Jake Shears, a rag tag group of queers doing damage on the dance floor for the indie homos. I had seen the Sisters at a free Spaceland gig about a month or so before, but it was the wrong space and the wrong crowd. Too many jaded hipsters to let the vibe totally loose, although I commend those who did get nuts!

But last week I saw the show with a bunch of my gay boyfriends and it was a blast. We danced all night and got sweaty and everything. The Sisters (who, by the way, did a European tour with Duran Duran last spring - handpicked by self proclaimed "not gay" keyboardist Nick Rhodes) broke through with their interpretation of Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb," if Pink Floyd actually happened to be the Bee Gees on crack in Amsterdam. Now I guess they are all over VH1.

I still think they are a bit of a novelty act, but maybe they'll have staying power as a novelty, kinda like the B52s. They have been staying like, 25 years or something. So we'll see.

Oh My Golly!

Monday, August, 2nd, 2004

PIXIES ANNOUNCE L.A. DATES

The PIXIES announce that they will headline two Los Angeles concert dates at the Greek Theatre on Wednesday, September 22 and Thursday, September 23 as part of their Fall North American concert tour. These will be the Pixies' first L.A. concerts since their performance at the Palladium on December 22, 1991, more than a dozen years ago. (Editor's note: um, yea, I was there... the infamous got-my-foot-broken gig.)

Tickets will be priced at $35.00 and $45.00 and will go on sale this Saturday, August 7 at 10:00AM at all Ticketmaster outlets including Tower Records, Wherehouse Music, Robinson-May and Ritmo Latino. To charge by phone, call 213-480-3232 or 714-740-2000. Tickets will also be available online at http://www.ticketmaster.com/, at the Greek Theatre box office, and, starting tomorrow, Tuesday, August 3 at 9:00AM PDT, as a "pre-sale" here at PIXIESMUSIC. Radio station Indie 103.1-FM will present the September 22 show, and the Distillers and Grant Lee Phillips will open; KCRW-FM will present the show on September 23, with The Thrills and Grant Lee Phillips as support acts. On both nights, doors will open at 6:30PM, the show will start at 7:30PM, and the Pixies will take the stage at 9:10PM.

(Editor's note: YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!)

Do You Remember the First Time?

Just getting nostalgic over my many firsts...

The “First Time” : Yes, I mean sex. This is the one everyone always wants to know about. Well, I ain’t gonna tell ya. Let’s just say that it involved me, a boyfriend, a red convertible, and a pesky neighbor that got me mixed up with my mom. ‘Nuff said.

The first time I ever got drunk : High school, at the beach in Del Mar, wine coolers, vomiting. Lots and lots of vomiting. In broad daylight. My friends dragged me into the water to wash me off. Ugh.

The first hangover: That was just last year at Mardi Gras. Thirty odd years without a hangover... But I bet they'll catch up with me.

The first love interest: Shaun Cassidy. But don’t you think he was a babe? Come on, that feathered hair was to die for...

The first obtainable love interest: Greg Rosa, the cutest guy in 4th grade at St. John’s Elemetary School.

The first obtained love interest: I won’t name names, because I still hang out with him, even though we started dating in high school and broke up because I was bored and then got back together and then broke up again when he dicked me over and then started seeing each other again and... well, you know how those things can be.

The first car: Green1972 Volvo 164SE w/fuel injection. I bought it for $800 & drove it for 5 years. I don’t want to traumatize myself by figuring out how much I spent fixing it, but I loved it.

The first brush with fame: When I was eight years old, I won Honorable Mention in Cricket Magazine for the following poem:

The peaceful seashell
Sitting on the beach
Like a wishing well
Full of songs it can teach.
Soft songs, hard songs,
Always something new;
The songs of a seashell
Will never make you blue.

I was in all the local papers. I guess I’ve used up my fifteen minutes.

The first pet: Fluffy the cat. I got him when I was three and he died when I was 22. He was big and yellow and, well, quite fluffy. He had extra toes and would suck them when he was happy. He had bad breath and farted alot and would have seizures that made him lose control of his bladder and spin around in circles. And he was mine, all mine.

The first kiss: Quite cute, actually. It was about 4am and he had snuck over to my house (I was in Catholic school, what else could you expect?) and he actually asked first. Doesn’t it almost make ya sick?

The first fight: The first fight I can remember was with my friend Pam, and I think it was over a Shaun Cassidy or Andy Gibb poster, but we scratched each other up and pulled hair and all that fun girl stuff until my mom separated us and forced us to make up.

The first favorite band: DURAN DURAN! And I still love ‘em. I should, I spent enough babysitting money on them. JOHN TAYLOR IS A TOTAL BABE! I think he’s actually a decent bass player as well.

The first act of vandalism (not counting toilet-papering homes): This gets a little hazy- there was such a long string a mischievous acts- but the first one I can remember involved an illuminated Carl’s Jr. sign in my friend’s living room... or was it that eight foot chicken...

The first zit: Can’t answer that one. Not because I don’t remember, only because I didn’t get one, I woke up with thousands.

The first vivid memory: I was about three years old and chucking lemon cupcakes with pink frosting at monkeys at the San Diego Zoo.

The first concert: Donny and Marie Osmond. I was six. (To make up for it, I took my little sister to see the Oingo Boingo Good For Your Soul tour, and my little brother to the Pixies Doolittle tour as their first concerts. I didn’t want them to be traumatized, as I had been.)

The first time I caught my parents DOING IT: I haven’t because they don’t. That’s just too gross.

The first serious injury: I fell off a monkey bar and fractured my leg. My parents didn’t believe me though. That night, when I had to go to the bathroom, they told me to go myself. I’m probably the only person in the world who actually broke her leg by falling off the toilet.

The first day of school: I got on the wrong bus on the way home and the bus driver dropped me off five hours after school got out. My mom had my kindergarden teacher’s ASS.

The first record: Disney’s Tiki Room, with the narration to the Jungle Cruise ride on the other side. To be played on a white and pink Fisher Price turntable only.

The first time getting stoned: High school. Of course, I had a friend with one of those hippie dads who grew his own pot, so a bunch of us went over to smoke it and listen to Pink Floyd. I sat in a chair and stared at everyone else all night. I guess I was stoned, although I thought I was just really bored.

The first Dead show: Everyone always said you have to experience one, so I went and smoked a little and sort of fell asleep. I could still hear people around me and someone said, “Hey, check Mo out... She’s really getting into it man...”

The first job: Miller’s Outpost. I still have my name tag - a plastic yellow star proclaiming “Howdy!” Sheesh, how revolting.

The first mean thing I ever did to an animal: Gave beer to a duck. It was my duck. My friends told me after the fact that since ducks couldn’t burp or fart, that they would blow up because of the carbonation in the beer. I was really terrified that our duck would explode and my parents would find out I’d had people with beer in our house.

Ah... There are so many first times in our lives. I can only hope that my little journey into the past has inspired similar joy and nostalgia in you, the reader. Excuse me while I slip Rio onto my turntable and dance around in my Rick Springfield Working Class Dog jersey; I’ll be alright. Really.

Go On, Take Everything

Poor poor Courtney Love. She's been sentenced to rehab for 18 months. THANK GOD. Get this woman out of public viewing already; she's just a absolute trainwreck.

I shouldn't be so judgemental, I know. I don't know the woman and she's probably going through a very tough time, losing her daughter and having unspecified gynecological issues and everything. All I know about her would stem from personal experience. Just this one night...

I had my own encounter with Ms. Love back in December, which involved her flopping her hair extensions and body around a lot and poking people in the shoulder while yelling at them about things that no one really understood. I heard her say something about astrology once, and then get really angry at someone for walking away from her. Mind you, she wasn't talking to that person, who didn't realize that just leaving the same space as Courtney Love could destroy Courtney's delicate semblance of sanity. She’d been across the street at another club earlier, storming the stage and stealing the spotlight from the band that was already on it. (That band was one of the nicest bands in the world, Let's Go Sailing, and they wrote about their adventure with Ms. Love too.) 

The whole reason why Courtney was there at Tangiers was because the LA Weekly had written a blurb about the band performing that night - the Hard Place. The writer said something like "If you missed the White Stripes at (insert tiny dive club here) or Nirvana at (insert even tinier divier club here), then you'll feel the same way years from now about missing this show." Courtney took this to mean: "See this show because this band sounds like Nirvana." I only think this because she kept yelling, "You don't sound like Nirvana!" at points during the show, and afterwards, she rubbed up against the Sickboy-clone lead singer.

She wore yellow caution tape ripped from a construction site across her chest like a sash, a striped off the shoulder new wave top which kept falling lower than the shoulder, and a black mini skirt.   As she left the scene, she yelled “Get me back to Promises!” from the van she was being driven in. Promises is the name of a rehab center out here, but I was later told it’s not the one she was supposed to be checked into at that time. Whatever. She was everything I expected her to be – a total mess. We were all amused and frightened at the same time. 

Well, I'm glad she's getting the help she needs. And now there won't be masses of TV crews blocking traffic in front of the Beverly Hills Courthouse on my way to work in the morning.
 

You're Gonna Need One

Last August, I was lying on the floor in Greg Dulli's living room, drinking Maker's in the middle of the day and playing with his cat. He had some movie on (ah hell, it was probably porn) but he was really dorking out over music. He'd been playing DJ for hours. I was kinda of contributing to the conversation, but mostly these sort of afternoons were more about Greg being really jazzed on something he'd just found or just heard and he really wanted you to be equally as jazzed. This particular afternoon, he finally got the "OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS" reaction out of me that he hadn't gotten so far.

"Okay Mo, you're really gonna love this," he said, picking up a CD off the cluttered coffee table while I said, "Yea, okay" and kept on scratching Clyde. He cranked up the stereo, and a crackled bluesy old man voice echoed out... "Too tough to die!" And then a really deep groovy bass kicked in, and a woman's cackly soulful not-quite Billie Holliday voice kicked in: "I always wonder why my mama left town..."

I was no longer lying on the floor. "Dude, what is this?" Greg sat there nodding and grinning like a Chesire cat. I listened a bit more and couldn't believe how great it was... "Is this the Tricky chick? What's her name? Marina?" "Martina," Greg said, exhaling cigarette smoke and looking very pleased that I was pretty much losing it over the one song. "Yea, my band's gonna cover this song." "How?" I said. I genuinely could not see how he could possibly cover this song... it was just so... hers.

I checked out the liner notes to find that this CD, Martina Topley-Bird's Quixotic, had been released only a month or so before in England. Greg had a copy because his friend Mark Lanegan (and current collaborator on a project called the Gutter Twins) made an appearance on the CD, along with Queen of the Stone Age's Josh Homme, on the second track "Need One." The track I was currently going ga-ga over, "Too Tough To Die," was a bluesy rocker co-written and produced by David Holmes, a sort of cinematic dark hop artist of the late 90's who has gotten regular work scoring Steven Soderberg films (like Ocean's Eleven) and more recently tripping the DJ lights fantastic with sixties style blue eyed soul electro remixes.

So after that track, Greg goes, "Okay - you've gotta hear this one." He skips to a tune called "Lying" which puts Martina's voice back in the familiar context of the Tricky songs I was accustomed to hearing (and most people reading this have at least heard "Makes Me Wanna Die" from Pre-Millenium Tension). It was a pretty, contemplative number with somber beats and her breathy yet earthy voice, and words like this: "I walked out of the house in your girlfriend's clothes... They fit me better than I would have supposed..."

"Man!" Greg said. "I wish I'd come up with that. Isn't that fucking excellent?"

We listened to the whole CD, many times over, for the next couple months. I was too broke to buy the import, but he'd burned me a copy anyway and finally I saved my pennies and got one. In the meantime, I'd been turning other friends on to it. It made my Top Ten list of last year (making it at #3 - only because Throwing Muses reunited that same year and did an album which was my #2, and then that damned Greg got me addicted to his new CD, Blackberry Belle, my #1 which I still listen to far too often.)

So guess what? The album is finally coming out in the States. July 27. It's been changed a little - the title is now Anything, after the forthcoming single, a soothing, almost druggy number - and the cover is now a bit sexed up. A few of the songs have been dropped off too (so buy the import anyway). It's being put out by Palm Pictures, a label run by Chris Blackwell, who used to head Island Records - Tricky's American label. He admits that the new sexy cover shot would most likely bring it to the attention of more buyers, but I'm hoping that the sexiness of the music itself, and it's beauty, and it's style, will keep it flying off the shelves.

And by the way, Greg's band, the Twilight Singers, did cover it. They played it at shows last spring and made it so completely their own (Greg is good at that sort of thing) that's it's going to be on their next CD of cover tunes, She Loves You (August 24th).

You'll have to compare the two to hear which one is sexier. Um, don't be mad Greg - I'm going with the girl. But thanks for playing it for me!

What's New Pussycat?

I had some interesting conversations with some of my guy friends this weekend. Mostly, we talked about pussy.

(I bet this will be the one blog entry my parents actually read. Ummm... sorry!)

I had been thinking about women and their pubic hair for about a week. I don't know why, I just started wondering what men prefer. I remember when the whole landing strip started showing up, and I thought that was so weird... One thumbsized strip of pubic hair in that whole area and that was it. Then my last roommate happened to be a very sexual young lady who was always strutting around the apartment in pushup bras and skimpy tops and lacy underwear (she really knew how to work it - there were always boys sniffing around) and I saw that she just waxed the whole thing, which was something I only thought existed in porn. Until I dated a guy for a few months who basically brought me a razor expecting the same thing. Oh, and he was really into porn.

So the other day, I was at a friend's house swimming in his pool with his brother and a friend. Mr. I, as I like to call him, was flipping through the French edition of Photo magazine when one of the ads made him laugh out loud. "Max!" he yelled to his friend. "This one has you written all over it."

He flipped the magazine around to show us a Gucci ad, which consisted of a skinny woman in her underwear, stilettos and some sort of open shirt, standing with her legs spread and slightly greased up. You can only see her from about mid-breast down, because there was a guy on his knees at crotch level pulling her underwear off, and her pubic hair was shaved into a "G."

Max asked, "Why do you think that especially interests me?" And Mr. I responded, "Well, didn't you say that you always go at a woman's pussy with a pair of clippers?" And I said, "Oh, are you one of those guys that likes it totally naked?" And he got all defensive and said, "No no no! I just like it groomed! I mean, you take care of the hair on your head, why not the hair down there? After all, I'm gonna pay more attention to the area if I want to be there." And I said, "Of course, that makes sense." And he said, "What - are you au natural?" "What do you mean by that?" "You know, just let it grow wild... just a great big hairy bush." And then I got defensive: "If that were true, you'd see it flowing right out of this bikini, wouldn't you? No, I keep myself trim, thank you very much."

Then Mr. I interjected, "You know though, it's the current wave of the twenty somethings today. All the young girls are just doing this total seventies bush." And I said, "You mean like, lots of it?" "Yep, that's what they say." So I had to ask them, "Well, what do you prefer?"

Max said that he just liked it trimmed small, but not the landing strip thing. Mr. I said he preferred "Stripper couture," which I took to mean landing strip and not totally naked because he'd objected to that earlier. And then Max said, "What is the point of pubic hair anyway?" And Mr. I said, "It's a primitive thing... it has to catch and hold scent, so that men smell it and get turned on and it gets the whole reproductive thing going."

"Ugh," said Max. "I don't want it to smell." But then I said, "I don't know, I've known guys who love the smell, if it smells right. I guess it's a chemistry thing." And Max said, "That's true, like when a girl has a little b.o. - that can smell great." Which led us to a discussion about extracting and somehow selling pheremones, and how that's probably bullshit, and how crazy it is that such a subtle smell can really cause someone to react.

And somehow, this conversation was insanely relevant to something that had happened to me just the night before. My roommate had a friend visiting from NYC, and he had another friend who was in town promoting a book. This writer is a rock critic and is a very witty, observant and hilarious spazz of a guy who was just ending his tour and looking to get away from the book stuff for a bit, so all four of us got together after the writer had finished his reading and wound up at the strip club where Courtney Love got her start. (And who knows - maybe she'll be back there again soon at the rate she's nosediving.)

After hanging out with the naked ladies, we decided to get out of LA on a Friday night and come back to our apartment in Silverlake. My roommate and her friend were making drinks and I was to give the writer a tour, but he was already in my room at the end of the hallway. I said, "Yea, I got lucky and got the big room." And he goes, "This is great. This room is really great." I thought he was looking around, admiring the hipster books on the shelves and Chinese antiques, when he said, "It just smells great in here."

I was a little taken aback, but only because I couldn't smell anything. My sheets were relatively clean and my laundry was in the basket, and I don't wear perfumes or use scented detergent, so I couldn't figure out what he was smelling. "Really? What does it smell like?" He kinda bounced a bit and looked around and said, "It just smells like...like... it smells like girl." "Oh," I said. "Ummm, well, then, here's my big ass walk in closet." And he liked that too, because my CDs and records are hidden away in there, out of display range as he said. He looked through some of my music and we talked about it a bit, and as he walked out of the closet he goes, "So it's not lotion or anything?" And I said, "No, I don't use any scented lotions really." And he goes, "Wow - great."

I guess if these talks taught me anything, it's that men are more into personal grooming than I thought. Mine, that is. Interesting...

Mmm Mmm Good

Hey Jake-

I hear you're single now. I may not be as cute and petite and blonde as Kristin, but I am hella single. And dating older women is cool with you young hotties, right? I mean Ashton & Demi, Cameron & Justin (even though that's apparently heading south too - but let's not talk about such things right now)... you should give it a try. Besides, I'm not as old as they are.

So you're on My Space? So am I! I'll look you up and we can be pals... tee hee...

XO
Mo

This & That

Well, because I am a little stressed for time, but wanted to give y'all a little something to giggle about/ contemplate/ watch while goofing off at work - I offer the following:

If Woody Guthrie were alive today : This Land Is You Land (Thanks Dad!)

A Bush/ Cheney sponsored art project for the masses gone horribly (and wonderfully) awry... the Sloganator!

Clean out your garage!

Sweating is so uncool - and now you don't have to!

Uh huh yea: PJ Harvey writes a little about making her record. Such a gal.

Could Texas be entering this century? Or do they just want their sex toys?

Now you can turn your petunias up to 11!

I was lucky enough to spend my weekend sunning and swimming and enjoying myself. However, some folks need a little extra zing to their tanning sessions. Ouch.

Ciao!

My Private Dancer

Today is my last day at my current position. I'm moving on to a better one (with a touch more money), and one with a whole new set of interesting issues. But let me tell you about some of my misadventures with this job.
 
Some of what I do during the day is handle phone calls from cracked out songwriters who may have had a hit for about 32 seconds, 18 years ago. And since one of my bosses - the guy who is supposed to handle these calls - refuses to talk to them, I get to pass on the good news that they won't be getting a check from us anytime soon. "How the fuck am I supposed to feed my chilluns, beeyatch?" "But I'm on the street; can't ya give me a couple thousand?" Stuff like that. Now they aren’t all crazy – some of the nice folks I’ve chatted up are Glenn Frye, Irene Kara, Afrika Bambattaa, and Kool (the leader of The Gang). From time to time, however, it’s also a name that I recognize responsible for the rantings on the other line...
 
On this particular day, it was Ike Turner.
 
What made this call special was that it came on my private line. That was because my boss's line was busy, and good ole Ike told the receptionist that he had better talk to the person who could interrupt that phone call, because a call from Ike Turner was more important than a call from anyone else... Damn straight! And that person was me. So as I'm telling Ike that my boss is on a conference call, he interrupts to say, "Baby, you have a beautiful voice. Is that why they put you on this phone?" "Yep, you know it." "Well, maybe I'll just come on down to the offices there and see your boss myself." I told Mr. Turner that I'd have my boss call him to set up an appointment as soon as I could.
 
Cut to 28 minutes later.
 
I received a call from our receptionist that Mr. Ike Turner was downstairs. I passed on the info that my boss was in a meeting and couldn't be interrupted, but it turned out that Ike wanted ME to come downstairs to help him out. As I came out of the elevator, I was greeted with, "Well, there's my lovely voice! And a lovely lady too..." (Sigh.) I told him my boss was in a meeting, and he said that he just wanted two things: two find out if "some woman" was stealing his money, and to meet that voice on the other end of the line. I was leaning against a counter, and pretty soon he was leaning up against the other side of me. And that man was all bling, let me tell you. He was wearing loads of gold chains, a gold bracelet the width of my hand, and a freakin' Superbowl sized ring encrusted with diamonds which I just kept imagining hitting the side of Tina's head. So he asked me if I would find out what address we had on record for him, "just in case that bitch, Beatrice, is trying to run off with my money." I said sure.
 
While he was rubbing my arm, I asked him if the number he'd left me earlier was a good one to call, and he said, "Oh no, baby, I'm gonna give you my real phone number. Junior!" He snapped his fingers and the guy I thought was his assistant, but turned out to be Ike Jr., ran over with a couple promo shots of Big Ike. "Which one of these do you want?" I took the concert shot instead of the still shot of him posing with a guitar. "I should have known you'd like the action shot, honey," he said with a wink. He wrote down two phone numbers. "Now this one is my home number in San Diego. And this one is my cell. That way you can reach me, anytime. Now what's your name, baby?" I told him, and he signed the picture, "To Mo, I Love Mo're (that you!), Love, Ike Turner"
 
I'm not sure what that means, exactly. But if you want to call Ike for any production needs or advice on the ladies, I've got his number.

You Got to Know When To Hold 'em

This was emailed to me, so I don't know where it came from. If you do, tell me and I'll give credit where it's due. Cuz this rules.

And now...

Poker With Dick Cheney

Transcript of Joe Schmoe’s regular Saturday-night poker game with Dick Cheney, 6/19/04.

Joe: I'll take three cards.

Dick Cheney: Give me one.

Sounds of cards being placed down, dealt, retrieved, and rearranged in hand. Non-committal noises, puffing of cigars.

JS: Fifty bucks.

DC: I'm in. Show 'em.

JS: Two pair, sevens and fives.

DC: Not good enough.

JS: What do you have?

DC: Better than that, that's for sure. Pay up.

JS: Can you show us your cards?

DC: Sure. One of them's a six.

JS: You need to show all your cards. That's the way the game is played.

Colin Powell: Ladies and gentlemen. We have accumulated overwhelming evidence that Mr. Cheney's poker hand is far, far better than two pair. Note this satellite photo, taken three minutes ago when Joe Schmoe went to get more chips. In it we clearly see the back sides of five playing cards, arranged in a poker hand. Defector reports have assured us that Mr. Cheney's hand was already well advanced at this stage. Later, Mr. Cheney drew only one card. Why only one card? Would a man without a strong hand choose only one card? We are absolutely convinced that Mr. Cheney has at least a full house.

Tim Russert: Wow. Colin Powell really hit a homerun for the Administration right there. A very powerful performance. My dad played a lot of poker in World War 2, and he taught me many things about life. Read my book.

JS: Powell's extremely good at Power Point. But I would like to see the cards, or else I can't really be sure he has anything to beat two pair. I don't think he would lie to me, but ... well, it is a very rich pot.

Jonah Goldberg: Liberal critics of Mr. Cheney's poker hand contend that "he doesn't have anything". Oh, really, liberal critics? Cheney has already showed them the six of clubs, and yet these liberals persist in saying he has "nothing". Why do liberals consider the six of clubs to be "nothing"? Is it because the six of clubs is black?

Matt Drudge: ****DRUDGE REPORT EXCLUSIVE****MUST CREDIT THE DRUDGE REPORT**** The Drudge Report has learned that Dick Cheney has a royal flush, hearts. Developing ...

JS: Perhaps if you could just show me a subset of your cards which beat 2 pair? Or tell me exactly what your hand is?

DC: We will show you our cards after we have collected the pot. It is important that things be done in this order, otherwise the foundation of our entire poker game will be destroyed.

JS: I’m not so sure ...

DC: Very good. And here are my cards. A straight flush.

Judith Miller: Dick Cheney has revealed a straight flush, confirming his pre-collection claims about beating two pair.

JS: Those cards are of different suits. It's not a flush.

Mark Steyn: When will it end? Now liberal critics complain that Dick Cheney's cards are not all the same suit. Naturally, these are the same liberals who are always whining about a lack of diversity in higher education. It seems like segregation is OK with these liberals, as long as it damages Republicans.

MD: ****DRUDGE REPORT EXCLUSIVE****MUST CREDIT THE DRUDGE REPORT*** A witness has come forward claiming that Joe Schmoe engages in racial profiling in blog-linking. Developing ...

JS: Wait! It's not even a straight! You've got a eight and ten of hearts, a six of clubs, and the seven and five of diamonds. You have a ten high. That's nothing.

Sean Hannity: Well, well, well. In another sign of liberal desperation, liberals now complain that a ten high is "nothing". Does ten equal zero in liberal mathematics? That would explain a lot.

Robert Novak: It's a perfectly valid poker hand. Apparently, liberals have never heard of a "skip straight". It's a kind of straight, just with one card missing. But if you skip around the missing nine, it's a straight.

Alan Colmes: Mother says I mustn't play poker.

JS: There is no such thing as a "skip straight".

Brit Hume: It seems like some people are still playing poker like it's September 10th. Back then, you needed to have all your cards in order to claim a straight. But, as we learned on that day, sometimes you won't have perfect knowledge. Sometimes you have to learn to connect the dots, and see the patterns which are not visible to superficial analysis of the type favored by the CIA and the State Department. Dick Cheney's skip straight is a winning poker hand for the post-9/11 world.

Rush Limbaugh: Does Joe Schmoe have two pairs, or a pair of twos? First he says one thing, then another. What is he hiding?

Andrew Sullivan: Dick Cheney never said he had a straight. He was very careful about this. His cards can form many different hands. None of these hands alone can beat a pair of twos; but, taken together, the combination of all possible hands presents a more compelling case for taking the pot than simply screaming "Pair of twos! Pair of twos!" as unprincipled liberal critics of the Vice President so often do.

MD: ****DRUDGE REPORT EXCLUSIVE****MUST CREDIT THE DRUDGE REPORT**** Did Joe Schmoe claim to have "a pair of Jews"? Are they anti-Semites as well as racists? Developing...

Zell Miller: As a lifelong liberal Democrat, I believe Dick Cheney, and I hate liberals and Democrats.

William Safire: Why are liberals so obsessed by Dick Cheney's poker hand? The pot has been taken, the deal is done. If liberals are upset that we are no longer playing by the Marquis of Queensbury patty-cake poker rules, they clearly lack the stomach to play poker in the post-September 11th environment. And why do they never complain about Saddam Hussein's poker playing, which was a thousand times worse?

Christopher Hitchens: The Left won't be happy until the pot is divided up equally between Yassar Arafat, Osama bin Laden, and Hitler. Orwell would have seen this.

Ann Coulter: Why do liberals object so strenuously to the idea of conservatives having a "straight"? Perhaps because it doesn't fit in with the radical homosexual/Islamist agenda they hold so dear?

Report of the Bipartisan Commission on Poker Hands: There is no such thing as a "skip straight".

DC: I have access to poker rules that the Commission doesn't, and so I know for a fact that the cards in my hand are all intimately connected.

George W. Bush: Dick Cheney is telling the truth. I'm a nice man who would drink a beer with you.

Vladimir Putin: I dealt Dick Cheney three aces and two kings.

DC: My deal.

In Order to Form a More Perfect Union

This was sent to me as an email, so I don't know where it originally came from. I wholeheartedly agree with its sentiments though, so will repost here and say that this person's rant is also my own.

Let anyone who wants to get married, get married. Straight, gay, knocked up or drunk in Vegas... it's their right to honor or abuse the ceremony.


We the HETEROSEXUAL People...

It seems the "war president" has officially declared war on yet another group of terrible people. He says these immoral outlaws threaten the entire concept of western civilization. That the moral thread of our society will unravel should they prevail. He says this issue is so important that we must amend the Constitution of the United States, the fabric of which our country was founded upon, to protect its citizens from the horrors that they conspire. Is he talking about Al Queda? NO. Is he talking about Islamic extremists? NO. Is he talking about his own administration? UNFORTUNATELY NOT.

The people of which he describes are homosexuals. With all the war, terror, and hate in the world President Bush has decided that two people who love and care for one another should not be allowed to solidify their commitment in marriage, or be afforded the same rights and privileges as other citizens. From the man who preaches about "freedom for all people of the world" as a precursor for war, I find this truly ironic. In his infinite wisdom and knowledge he has decided that we must amend the document which has guided the people to live in the most democratic and free country in the world, to discriminate against it's own citizens. Not only has he aliented the U.S. from the rest of the world, he now must alienate and divide our own people. He is truly a visionary.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do not see the words "except homosexuals" in the Constitution or any of it's amendments. In fact, Article 1 of the Amendments clearly states that "congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion", the grounds of which Bush uses as his argument.

If you find this whole concept as absurd as I do, and you do not want George W. Bush's name on the document our forefathers created, there are three things you must do:

1. Sign the Million for Marriage petition

2. Tell everyone you know about Million For Marriage

3. Vote Bush out of office in November!

Happy Birthday to Me

It's my birthday tomorrow, and as I've been poor for the last couple of years, there have been some treats I've wanted to get myself but haven't. You can if you want!

For curlin' up on the couch time... Some of my favorite movies. Guaranteed to make you swill your gimlet while tossing out phrases like "the twist shouldn't a been in this joint" or "baby, you're like leaves blowin' from gutter to gutter." (For more noir speak, check this page out.)

Shadows, Lies, and Private Eyes - The Film Noir Collection, Vol. 1 (The Asphalt Jungle / Gun Crazy / Murder My Sweet / Out of the Past / The Set-Up)

The Big Clock (1948)

Double Indemnity (1944)

The Bogart Collection (Casablanca/The Maltese Falcon/To Have and Have Not/The Big Sleep/The Treasure of the Sierra Madre)

In a Lonely Place (1950)

Then for some light summer reading:

Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991
Michael Azerrad

The Dirt: Confessions of the World's Most Notorious Rock Band
Tommy Lee, Mick Mars, Nikki Sixx, Neil Strauss, Vince Neil

Straight Whisky: A Living History of Sex, Drugs & Rock 'n' Roll on the Sunset Strip Erik Quisling, Austin Williams, Lemmy Kilmister (Afterword), Foreword by Henry Rollins

Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk
Legs McNeil, With Gillian McCain

Let It Blurt: The Life and Times of Lester Bangs, America's Greatest Rock Critic
Jim Derogatis

Main Lines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste: A Lester Bangs Reader
Lester Bangs, John Morthland (Editor)

And of course, music to get me through...

Mark Lanegan – Here Comes That Weird Chill
Mazzy Star – She Hangs Brightly
Sun Kil Moon – Ghosts of the Great Highway
Stills – Logic Will Break Your Heart
Camera Obscura – Underachievers Please Try Harder
PJ Harvey – Uh Huh Her
Lyrics Born – Later That Day…
Loretta Lynn – Van Lear Rose
The Shazam – Godspeed the Shazam

And thanks to my rad boss for giving me Nick Hornby's Songbook.

Cancers rule!

Am I Demon?

You know how Glenn Danzig likes to be all badass and pretend he's Wolverine and stuff? Well, here's a funny story from a gig in Arizona that went awry the other night... Guess this happened on Monday the 5th? For video and discussion, check here.

From Danny M, of the band the North Side Kings (I've edited it down a bit):

Before crazy rumors begin to spread, I would like to explain what happened:

North Side Kings were to play with Danzig last night in Tuba City, Arizona. To make a long story short, the whole show was a disaster and a few bands got bumped off. Mr. Danzig (or his managment??) refused to push back the original scheduled time slot so North Side Kings and Rapid Fire would have to play "after" his set. Whatever- we agreed to play later because we drove 6 hours and didn't feel like going home without playing.

Needless to say, as soon as Danzig was finished, the venue turned on the lights and Danzig's crew and the staging company began to take the stage apart almost instantly. I confronted Mr. Danzig backstage while he was signing autographs and told him I thought he was an asshole because of his "rockstar" attitude and no consideration towards the FEW other bands that got bumped off tonight.

In a fit of rage he turned around and slammed me into the wall yelling, "Fuck you motherfucker!" trying to be a big toughguy in front of his fans. I, in self defense, punched him in the face - knocking him out as he was attacking me again. He went down, bleeding from his mouth, eyes rolled back, and in shock that he got knocked to the floor so quickly.

A friend happened to tape the entire incident and this is all documented. Many witnesses saw him attack me, and I did what any man would do.

It was unfortunate that this went the way it did - and I hoped Glen Danzig learned a valuable lession tonight... Do not lay your hands on anyone unless you can handle what may happen.

I apologize for nothing, except for the poor little kids that had to witness this big asshole get his ass kicked in a matter of seconds.....

See kids, another example of why steroids are BAD for you!

Work For Love

You know that wanky British goth dance number "Everyday Is Halloween?" Hey, I loved it; still do sometimes. And you remember how the band that sang it, Ministry, later had a massive hit called "Jesus Built My Hotrod" that was all noisy industrial styled NIN stuff? I love that that happened. Al Jorgensen, leader of Ministry, cracks me up.

The way the legend goes, Al started a band and decided to do poppy goth numbers, while singing with a fake British accent, in the early 80's because he just wanted to get signed. It totally worked. The heavily eyelined, black haired (dyed, of course) kids of the era still swoon fondly to tracks like "Work For Love" and "Effigy" and "I Wanted to Tell Her" and all those fun (yet dark... brrrr...) tunes from With Sympathy.

Then a couple years later, Al came roaring out of the gates with The Land of Rape and Honey and tore out the eardrums, with an industrial screech, of all those kids (who were now getting pierced while listening to Skinny Puppy anyway)and they really appreciated it. And he kept going that route, and everyone kept buying it. No one seemed to mind that the British accent was gone.

Anyway, Al just put out a new record, and while doing his obligatory promotional push for Houses of the Mole, he's also jumping on the political platform and encouraging everyone to vote the Evil Idiot W outta office. He's a part of Punkvoter.com, and will be heading off on tour this fall. The only reason I'm telling you this is because he's offering free oral sex, kinda: "Our goal is to register 100,000 kids on the tour," says Jourgensen. "I'll do anything to entice them: sign autographs, give blowjobs, whatever."

The rest is up to you.

I'm A Loser, Baby

On June 24th, I went to the LA Weekly Awards. This is not a big deal, as the awards are kind of a joke and the ceremony epitomizes all that is gross in the music industry. So, of course, I wanted to be a part of it.

Kidding! Kidding... kinda. 50 Foot Wave was playing, and since Kristin Hersh is one of my musical heroes, I would endure any sort of ickiness in order to see her perform. I also had friends among the list of nominees and wanted to see The Like, an up and coming young band (and I mean young... they are all still jailbait).

The line up included those bands I already mentioned, along with Patrick Park - a wonderful singer songwriter, the metal blast of Abloom (which deservedly cleared the room; ugh), host Kennedy - a glam indie rocker who usually winds up naked by the end of the night (and this was no exception - my retinas have been permanently scarred), and the ultra cool Suicide Girls. I think they have a philosophy of "all kinds of girls can strip for you - fat, skinny, pierced, tattoed" etc... but they actually just sort of writhed around between stage events and bored me to tears. (Take me to Cheetah's any ole time for the same thing; I'll gladly throw some cash on the stage for the ladies.)

The main reason why the LA Weekly music awards are a joke is because nobody gets to vote for anything. Some of the writers for the Weekly come up with a list of artists, print it for all to see, and then those same people make the decision on who should "win." There is no actual community participation in the process, at least, not that I've been able to find. This means that generally, the people you expect to win, do win, and as a result, one will spend the entire time at the outdoor bar drinking and smoking and maybe catching some of the show being projected onto the wall behind them. And most of the "winners" aren't even there to pick up their awards anyway.

I still saw some interesting people milling about... Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo was there (they got a lifetime achievement award) and I felt like I was running into him all night long. Shannyn Sossamon was also actually into watching the bands more than schmoozing. Ummm, I can't remember who else was wandering about.

My special moment of the night involved the Twilight Singers and 50 Foot Wave, both nominees (and still winners in my book) for the evening. I've sort of accidentally gotten to know both bands over the years.

After briefly chatting with Greg Dulli (and almost stealing his cherry lollipop - although Greg would never let me get away with that)and Bobby MacIntyre, we wandered inside and I finally met Sully (the bass player who took over from my friend Scott Ford on the last leg of the TS tour but also recorded on the album). Sully, guitarist Jon Skibic and I were talking when former Throwing Muse/ current 50 Foot Waver Bernard Georges approached to say hi. Sully is a huge fan of Kristin's work, and since she was out in the motorhome with her boys till their performance, Sully didn't mind meeting a fellow bass player, especially of a band he loved. Jon, a Berklee school of music grad, had been heavy in the Boston music scene and had met Bernard once before. Then 50 Foot Wave drummer Rob Ahlers approached and expressed his appreciation for the Twilight Singers, and the mutual lovefest was in full swing.

I was only too happy to be the bridge for these talented folks - how nice to know that two bands I adore respect each other as well.

And this is why I didn't totally hate the LA Weekly Music Awards. Well, that and all the booze.