Happy "Even though I didn't die and didn't know anyone who did on 9/11, it's my day to hate," day

While the kids and I roasted wienies on a few blazing copies of the Koran ("Quran" if you're not wearing some fruity biker mustache and flimsy comb-over in a failed attempt to deny your parents weren't related, in any way, before they begot another Elmer Gantry), chatting about killing moozlim babies and merkin baby killers, it was remarked how all brown people are really the enemy. "Agreed," I said, looking for another Koran to stoke the fire and, not finding one, grabbed a Torah scroll (they make great Yule logs, BTW).
Wienies consumed and brown people hiding out and calling the cops (apparently I have a constitutional right to own a gun but not to actually point it at people and fire it. What fun is that?), we strapped bibles on the bottoms of our feet and stomped out the fire, singing "My god is an awesome god; your god is substandard, at best."
Swaying back and forth, with our arms in the air and our eyes closed, we stomped those cinders dead.
Unstrapping the bibles from our feet, my son asked why 9/11 was such an important day.
"Why did they fly planes into buildings?" he asked, "and isn't a few more than three thousand dead kind of, um, small potatoes?
"You mean like a few million dead in Sudan?"
“Yeah, that, but why fly airliners into skyscrapers? And why those buildings?”
Chickens coming home to roost, I told him.
Watching the metaphor in his mind (he’d just “metaphor” in school), his eyes tracked a chicken screaming across the sky to topple a tall building, while soldiers torched families in mud huts.
“2 million in Sudan?”
“Two, three, who’s counting? At least ten times that many die in Africa every year due to famine, disease and thug governments.”
“So when is Africa Day?”
Too many brown people, I told him. Not gonna’ happen.
His mind again tracked metaphors and seeking out chickens, counted the eggs, knowing that more than just a few would hatch.
“So what am I going to do with these?” he asked, waving the bibles from his feet, pages still smoking and stinking of burnt Koran and Torah.
“Toss em’ up in the air.”
And, as soon as he had done that, I peppered it with a burst of my AR-15, bits of paper and shards of leather sprayed across the horizon, shrapnel taking to the air like cabbage moths.
Blasting the next one similarly, we watched bits of Luke and Deuteronomy drift down on pine needles and leaves of scrub oak, snow in September so to speak.

A little post for my little man

He turns eight today. Seems like just yesterday when he was like this.
So, I have a party to plan and Tacos to make; no time for blogging.
Mister would like to pass on this party favor, though:

We didn't need dialogue. We had faces!

"Popcorn?"
Apologies for having delved into the cream of the crop as far as Rock and Roll cinema — an admittedly mundane exercise in which my poison pen was set on “dull” and aimed in the worst fanboy direction. A nominally interesting column meant to steer the untutored towards some truly great movies but ultimately, my self-indulgence got the best of me; mea culpa.
This week, I steer my craft to the galaxy of stupid and, adjusting my poison pen to “obliterate,” I set my sights on the worst Rock and Roll movies, the ultimate losers, those films that aspired to nothing and inspired even less. The most worthless and meretricious pieces of trash exhibiting a feckless disregard for the music and the viewer, lame ideas germinated in the well-fertilized fields of corporate greedheads and then cultivated for no other reason to feed the fatted, golden calf. Films that didn’t just fall flat, but sagged so low their bellies displaced the detritus, taking their dubious position at the bottom of the barrel.
What binds these turkeys together is their unabashed cynicism; all over-preening big studio releases basted in bombast and barfed upon the movie-going public with no other reach than to the bottom line. More than that, the music — Rock and Roll — takes a back seat to the sludge that the studios, producers, director and everyone else involved dumped on our doorstep like a flaming sack of dog crap.
Last week, I mentioned the gawdawful schmaltz from the late ’50s/early ’60s, a class of dreck unto itself. Doubtlessly, the studio heads responsible for those abortions were due the bad acid trips they inevitably suffered (a twisted karmic retribution where the infantile were reduced to wearing diapers ala David Vitter) but they achieved a level of Technicolor camp, harmless (and mindless) B-movies meant as nothing more than 90 minutes of cotton-candy piffle. They can only be viewed as quaint, in retrospect, like walking down into your grandmother’s basement and finding a washboard and an old ringer dryer — with sufficient imagination and psychotropic adjuncts, the entertainment value is immeasurable (if not perverse).
Conversely, nothing redeems the mangy curs on this list and the only a masochist, strapped down and forced to watch a few minutes of these, would appreciate a single frame of these monstrosities.
Working backwards, from the least worst to the absolute wretched, behold the power of Hollywood to walk the strip in fishnet stockings, stiletto heels and a faux latex miniskirt and ask, “Wanna’ suck on a sewage pipe?”
It has always been my considered opinion that Karaoke is one of the signs of the Apocalypse and “The Rose” (bound to be sung several thousand times a night across the country by tipsy account executives) arose from one of the most overwrought and maudlin cinematic murder scenes ever produced. Why, in 1979, Hollywood felt we needed an extended allegory on the life of Janis Joplin is beyond me; it reminded me of the Monty Python sketch where a slimy movie producer promises Marilyn Monroe to star (her corpse falling out of cupboards or standing in as a footrest).
Bette Midler’s histrionic performance as the drugged-out Rose (“Pearl” — get it?) is all emoting and no emotion, endowing her character with all the psychological depth of a junebug banging against a light bulb. Worse yet, Middler and the music make a travesty of Joplin’s legacy. Whereas Joplin could command her corner of the universe with her boozy, bluesy ferocity and move mountains, the performances in “The Rose” are flat and flatulent, moving little more than my feet to the exit.
The fact that the Academy granted this stinker four nominations merely proves that, with enough powdered sugar, waste products can look like a cruller.
Never a fan of Oliver Stone — “Salvador” and “Wall Street” were OK — I’ve found most of his work pedagogic and preachy. However, as bulimic as his worst excesses are (tons of junk thrown in, followed by the inevitable purge of a movie), “The Doors” (1991) presses the gag reflex beyond human endurance. Between the trippy sequences and the pseudo-spiritual palaver, Val Kilmer’s portrayal of Jim Morrison, while probably accurate, amounts to a movie that (in the words of Roger Ebert) “is like being in a bar with an obnoxious drunk while you’re not drinking.”
Apparently uninterested in endowing his characters with any depth or sympathy (like the incidental cartoons of Mickey and Mallory in “Natural Born Killers”), Stone seems torn between trying to reproduce the high of a peyote trip as well as the gut bomb and somnolent agony of a hangover. He succeeds on the latter; on the former, well, only someone who’s ingested a fistful of buttons knows where that goes.
Neither a fan of Stone’s movies nor much of a fan of The Doors music (though I’ll concede they made several truly great songs, however), I can say that no animals were harmed as I decided this garbage was about as endurable as a BB-sized hole in a molar.
I really, really should have enjoyed “Streets of Fire” (1984). With direction by Walter Hill (“The Warriors,” “48 Hours”), Ry Cooder’s musical direction and the pulp/comic book attempt to tell a “Rock and Roll fable,” the movie should have achieved greatness. Unfortunately, this seven-car pile up amounted to little more than art-house pretention and some truly awful Springsteen mock-ups (compositions courtesy of Jim Steinman, the creator of Meatloaf… nuff’ said) via Eddie and the Cruisers, the band for which “Bruuuuuuuuuce” really is “Booooooooooo!”
I won’t even go into the absurd plot except to say that it merely confirms Willem Dafoe has, by far, the worst actor’s instincts for choosing roles. Michael Paré (with a face looking like silly putty wrapped around the head of a G.I. Joe doll) and Diane Lane (um, actually at her hottie-est) round out a cast babbling out dialog that Raymond Carver would have ascribed to a night of bad whiskey.
The harder this movie attempts to achieve its “fable” status, the more it comes across as an episode of “Robot Chicken” after the writers had huffed gold-speckled spray paint.
Breaking out the Miller’s Analogy Test booklet, “Streets of Fire” is to inhalants as “Tommy” (1975) is to horse tranquilizers and self-induced oxygen deprivation — an interminably bad trip with all the joy of landing face-first on the floor.
With performances by Tina Turner as The Acid Queen, Eric Clapton as The Preacher and Elton John as The Pinball Champ, one wonders how the movie could go so horribly wrong but it does to an extent surpassing “so bad it’s good” territory to “Anyone associated with this road kill of a movie should be sentenced to a year in rehab.”
The blame has, I’ve always believed, largely rested with the confused direction of Ken Russell. Many of his films (“Altered States,” “Gothic,” “The Lair of the White Worm,” among others) have been almost rococo in their surrealistic and hallucinatory elements; in “Tommy,” Russell outdoes himself, splattering the screen with images both sickening and scatological (the scene with Ann-Margret writhing around in a sea of baked beans had all the erotic impact of Don Knotts in a speedo). The more Russell assaults us with fetishist imagery and dumbed-down Dadaism, the more our skin crawls with the distinct sense that we’re watching something filthy (in a John Waters “Pink Flamingos” sense of the word). The result is a execrable piece of cinematic excess that should only be viewed under severe restraints with a ball-gag firmly in place.
Along with casting non-singers like Ann-Margaret and Oliver Reed in principal roles — Ann-Margaret has a two key range (both flat) and Reed moans like a man with a bad hernia — Russell certainly deserves his share of the blame for the 30-car pileup that is “Tommy.” However, the real culprit is producer Robert Stigwood, the same producer of the Gehenna Toilet of bad Rock and Roll movies, by far, the worst of the worst.
Having produced one of the best Rock and Roll movies ever made (“Saturday Night Fever” — see last week’s column) and a passable piece of pop pabulum (“Grease”) back to back, Stigwood decided to embark on an ambitious (if ill-conceived) project in 1978, a cinematic version of The Beatles’ classic “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
As careful as The Beatles had been up to that point with their catalog, largely due to their entrenched mutual acrimony, I’m surprised this clunker even made it out of the scrapyard. Unfortunately, the laws of physics and the dictates of good taste were shamelessly violated as this lemon wheezed its way into theaters everywhere, fouling the air wherever it appeared.
With the BeeGees and Peter Frampton starring as the Fab Four (I. Kid. You. Not.), the movie strings together performances by a few late-’70s headliners (Steve Martin, Aerosmith, Alice Cooper and Earth, Wind and Fire) and a cast of thousands who, for all intents and purposes, wander in and out of scenes as if they’ve lost their way to the buffet table.
The venerable George Burns was enlisted to provide the film’s narration — I guess after playing God it was felt he could raise Lazarus and make him dance like a frog on a hot plate — citing a tale, told by an idiot, full of ear-splitting sound and moronic fury, signifying nothing.
Whatever plot existed in pre-production was subsumed by the musical-revue construction of the film that took over, with bands taking the stage and then shuffled off to make room for the next act, with the ruthless efficiency of a subway turnstile.
As for the performances of Frampton and the BeeGees, to describe it “wooden” would be to deny the organic quality of timber. Their acting repertoire amounts to raising one eyebrow to express pleasure, both to express dismay. Otherwise, “deadpan” takes on an entirely new meaning as they sleepwalk through their roles and even their musical performances exhibit all the animated glee of half-filled water glasses shimmying with the vibration of a passing city bus. Apparently, the shame with which they obviously felt in butchering perfectly good Beatles’ songs held them in some sort of catatonic paralysis.
There was no reason to make this film and even less reason to watch it. The original Beatles’ album was already cinematic in its ambition and effect; putting on the headphones and closing the eyes is more than enough to produce an infinite number of mind movies.
As far as watching Stigwood’s atrocity exhibition: Imagine yourself trapped in a flea-bag hotel room with an hysteric, coked-out drag queen while you watch paint peel. While you have a raging hangover. And your wallet is gone.
That would be heaven compared to watching this movie.
Maybe I’ve been overly cruel in applying my poison pen to these horrible movies. I think not. What was cruel was taking the time to commit these to celluloid and expecting us to be entertained by them. Sometimes, I concede that sociopaths are born and not made, that the extent of sadism knows no bounds.
Watch these movies (this is not a recommendation) and see if I’m right.

Good movies, Pt. I

While movies embraced rock and roll a little late in the game, they did so with the same cynical precision that has tainted the studio system since celluloid itself became more than just a fad.

Hollywood, an industry run by pseudo-puritanical suits possessing a tin ear (like almost all businesses) has never been very kind to rock and roll. Most of what passes for rock and roll in cinema is, and has always been, innocuous schmaltz presented with the sole purpose of making a quick buck (not unlike much of the music industry).

Yet, when the movie industry managed to look at rock and roll off the ledger and acknowledge it as something more than the silly music of adolescent angst, the results have been sublime. Unfortunately, it took some time to rise above the sludge.

One of the great unanswerable questions of the universe is when rock and roll began. Certainly, some of the blues, R&B and jump jazz of the late ’40s and early ’50s qualified as rock and roll but the success of the sound on those sides was confined to a handful of white teenagers (with whom “race music” was rising in popularity, in every sense as an underground movement) and African-Americans — something that hardly mattered in the Jim Crow America of the time.

It’s the Sun Records session of July 1954 that is largely agreed upon as the point where rock and roll found its voice, when Elvis Presley cut Arthur Crudup’s “That’s All Right” and Bill Monroe’s “Blue Moon of Kentucky” for Sam Phillips. Within a few months from the record’s debut on a Memphis radio station, DJs across the country were spinning records similar to Presley’s sound. Chuck Berry, Little Richard and various Rockabilly bands had been recording for years but it took Elvis to ignite the fuse on the underground and make it a movement.

Hollywood, like the rest of the establishment, refused to accept that America’s youth had fallen under the spell of the new sound. Convinced that teenagers across the country had succumbed to mass psychosis, the establishment negated rock and roll as nothing more than a moment of pubescent hysteria.

The first rock and roll movie was the 1956 comedy “The Girl Can’t Help It” and was produced merely as a vehicle for propelling its star, Jayne Mansfield, to prominence. The opening sequence, a none-too-sly innuendo of Mansfield walking down the street clutching two bottles of milk against her prodigious breasts (with Little Richard’s title tune pounding out on the soundtrack), the tone was set for a satire of the silly fad that was sweeping the nation — rock and roll.

Yet, despite its sneering disregard of the music, the movie sabotaged its own intent, convincing American teenagers that their new music had at last achieved affirmation.

What followed was, in Hollywood’s cynically greedy tradition, was a slew of rapacious rubbish that was both sophomoric and soporific. Almost all rock and roll movies amounted to nothing more than a musical revue (with current hot acts) tied together with the thinnest of plots, all meant to cash in on the budding baby boomer’s taste for The Rock and Roll.

By the early ’60s, those movies had largely devolved into Beach Party movies (riding the wave of surf music’s popularity), almost all of which involved a plot in which some middle-aged villain was determined to squelch the kid’s desire to just dance and make-out. In the end, the bad guy was vanquished, either locked in a closet or found redemption in that, well, the kids were all right and that music was actually kind of catchy.

On the flip side, while Elvis made a few movies that rose above the standard Hollywood Rock and Roll movie dross (“Jailhouse Rock,” “Kid Creole”), asking what was better is rather like asking, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

Given the truly dismal state of Rock and Roll movies, it appeared that the music would remain marginalized by Hollywood; the music presented as Rock and Roll in “proper” movies of the time was largely lousy jazz passed off as “that crap the kids are listening to.” However, in 1964 two movies forever changed how the movies would treat Rock and Roll.

In 1964, experimental film maker Kenneth Anger released “Scorpio Rising” with the first all Rock and Roll soundtrack. Including artists like Elvis, Ray Charles, The Crystals and Martha Reeves and the Vandellas (among others), the film hinted at a trend that wouldn’t find its footing until the ’80s — exploiting the emotional power of rock and roll to score a narrative.

That same year, The Beatles released “A Hard Day’s Night” (directed by Richard Lester), the first excellent Rock and Roll film.

Largely regarded by film and music critics as the greatest Rock and Roll film ever made (although not at the top of my list), the movie fictitiously chronicles 36 hours in the life of the band that was, at that time (and in the words of John Lennon), “more popular than Jesus.”

With zany dialog and madcap action, the movie zips along with the chaotic energy of the best Marx Brothers as The Beatles dodge throngs of screaming fans, confused cops and British blue-bloods just to make it to their gig. Interspersed with numerous Beatles’ performances (a precursor to modern music videos), there is barely a wasted frame in the film.

While Rock and Roll movies had been maudlin and mawkish in their portrayal of the music’s effect, “A Hard Day’s Night” is vibrant and fresh, never missing a chance to make fun of the music (or The Beatles, for that matter). The movie is, quite simply, celebratory, an expression of utter joy that is at the authentic heart of Rock and Roll.

What makes the greatest Rock and Roll movies is that spirit of celebration, that expression of the joy of life lived at its fullest and on the edge. It is a characteristic shared by all the best Rock and Roll movies I discuss here.

Number two on my list is “Almost Famous” (2000), a veiled retelling of Cameron Crowe’s adolescent experiences as a budding rock critic (Crowe wrote and directed the movie).

Probably the best cinematic portrayal of what it’s like to be in love and, more so, what it’s like to be in love with music, the movie the young William Miller from his first stab at rock journalism to his travels with the fictional band Stillwater (a kind of amalgamation of The Eagles, Allman Brothers and Led Zepplin). Transcending familiar Hollywood plot lines of emergence (and the journey leading up to that), love, betrayal and redemption, the movie possesses the gift of transporting the viewer into William’s world, allowing us to see that world through his innocent eyes — and experiencing his transformation as we share his pain.

Honestly, I have never met anyone who has said that they don’t like this movie; on the contrary, anytime I have mentioned “Almost Famous,” they’ve only said that they love this movie.

Not so, regarding my fifth favorite Rock and Roll film, “Hedwig and the Angry Inch” (2001). Definitely a “love-it-or-hate-it” movie, I think some people are disturbed by the transgendered lead character while others find some of the film rather depressing. However, the movie is, from start to finish, celebratory in its declaration of the redemptive value of music and how that value is the soundtrack of a life lived on the edge.

Also depressing in much of its plot, “Saturday Night Fever” (my fourth favorite Rock and Roll movie) from 1977 is nevertheless a celebration of life and how important music is in that.

Stuck in a racially-charged Brooklyn with a dead-end job, a squabbling family, and a group of lunkhead macho friends, Tony finds himself elevated at the local disco, the king of dancing. Painfully aware of his limited chances in life (and made more self-aware by his new dance partner, the successful and educated Annette), Tony seeks an escape from his narrow existence and the trap that life has set for him.

With a soundtrack comprised of some of the most exhilarating music of the ’70s, the movie is liberating, both for Tony and the viewer. Like “Almost Famous,” “Saturday Night Fever” is about how someone risks everything in order to fulfill a dream, to make life everything that it is supposed to be — an expression of love for someone and something.

In its own odd way, “This Is Spinal Tap” (1984) is precisely about expressing love of someone or something except that it does so in a way that is sidesplittingly hilarious. In fact, it is not just the funniest Rock and Roll movies ever made, it is one of the funniest movies ever made.

Marty DiBergi, a documentary film maker and longtime Spinal Tap fan, follows his heroes around on what proves to be, the demise of the band.

With a lethal history of losing drummers — one by spontaneous combustion, another by choking to death on vomit (“but not his own vomit”) — and apparently having outlived their shelf-life, Spinal Tap is unable to bring out a single fan to an autograph signing, gets lost in a labyrinth on their way to the stage, wind up with midget stage props (due to a misunderstanding of proportion), find themselves trapped in other, malfunctioning stage props, find their latest album rejected by their record company, and unceremoniously land a gig for an officer’s dance in a U.S. Air Force hangar.

Yet, in the meantime, the band remains completely optimistic (even the drummer, aware of the life-span of past drummers) at their ability to make their comeback and oblivious to their ineptitude. Indeed, they have complete faith in their talent and music, even if the rest of the world has passed them by.

“It’s very special, because, as you can see, the numbers all go to 11. Right across the board. Eleven, 11 ... And most amps go up to 10? Exactly. Does that mean it’s louder? Is it any louder? Well, it’s one louder, isn’t it? It’s not 10. You see, most blokes are going to be playing at 10 — you’re on 10 on your guitar, where can you go from there? Where? I don’t know. Nowhere! Exactly! What we do, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do? You put it up to 11. Eleven. Exactly. One louder. Why don’t you just make 10 louder, and make 10 be the top number, and make that a little louder?” says guitarist Nigel Tufnel to Marty as he explains the unique configuration of his equipment. And it is that “one over the top” attitude that expresses the sheer joy of Spinal Tap.

It is that joy that sets these movies far above the standard Rock and Roll cinematic fare. In these movies, the liberating quality of music and the Zen of maximizing the moment are evident in every frame.

A 1974 Ford Pinto

In less than four months, our country is having an election and, frankly, I’m depressed.

Not in a partisan, us-against-them kind of way; I’m far too realistic and jaded to concern myself with party politics. Ideas excite me, political parties both amuse me and bore me.

No, I’m depressed because I fear our system is so broken that a fix only distracts the voters from the real condition. Politicians and a complicit, duplicitous media (more interested in the stench of celebrity than in honoring the spirit of the First Amendment) are merely morticians applying makeup to a corpse.

There’s a lot that needs to be done in this country but we won’t get there under the current system. Short of creating a Parliamentary system (my preferred solution, giving rise to a multi-party system, one among many advantages), the House and Senate need to :

• Restrict races to six weeks; if a candidate can’t articulate a clear vision in that amount of time, they’re just more muddle for the game. The endless media circus we call political campaigns is an essentially endless process. Allow the electorate catch its collective breath and force the media to pursue real news.
  
  
• Pass The Fair Elections Now Act to get the mega-rich and large corporations out of the business of buying politicians. Influence peddling has become the primary purpose of politicians and our representatives too often side with paid interests rather than voting in the interests of their constituents. Legislators are so busy rounding up favors to fund their next campaign that they forget why they’re in office.
  
  
• Pass filibuster reform. It’s silly that the Senate requires 60 votes to pass critical legislation and the only argument in favor of the filibuster is that it protects the rights of the minority party. What drivel. The only purpose of the filibuster is to create gridlock, preventing the Senate from getting any work done, and creating a tyranny of the minority.
  
  
• Enact Legislative reform. Rules for legislation in the House demand that amendments are germane to a bill and no riders are allowed. Unfortunately, the same doesn’t apply to the Senate and too often, good bills are killed by bad amendments or riders. Conversely, bad legislation often gets passed riding on the coat tails of a good bill.

Look, if your pet legislation is so crappy that no one will vote for it, get a clue. And if you oppose a bill, be honest and lobby against it, round up votes or get over the fact that things don’t always go your way. Defeating a bill with a poison pill amendment or grabbing some pork through the use of a rider is puerile.

Call me a dangerous radical (or depressed idealist) but until our government can pass the four reforms above, we have a 1974 Ford Pinto of a government.

The worst of the Best Of

Too often, so many “Best Of” CDs contain what amounts to a collection of cuts from albums that, on their own terms, weren’t worth buying — a single cut and a dozen songs of absolute crap.

Or so we think.

As conscientious music buyers, we buy the “Best Of” CD in an attempt to avoid buying an entire collection, assuming we’re getting the “Best Of” as determined by the artist’s record company or some other dimwit who has decided they’ve decided what you’ll consider what’s best by the band, disregarding the gems by the band. Worse yet, some worthless weasel has decided that a band deserves a “Best Of” designation due to their years of assaulting our ears and our spare moments of avoiding that band’s crap.

As a service to my readers (or as a way to irritate a lot of people), I present you with the Worst Of the Best Of: Those collections of hits and knock-offs that should be avoided at all costs, to avoid embarrassment (and someone like me identifying the worthless cur in your collection, in an announcement as welcome as genital warts on a wedding night) or save you precious coinage when you could have purchased something worthwhile.

You’ll thank the IMS in the end, I assure you.

Strictly Commercial: The Best of Frank Zappa. Yes, commercial, but hardly the best and barely anything I’d want to hear as far as Zappa’s output. Indeed, a Zappa “Best Of” release is about as much as an oxymoron as “Pagosa night life,” Chimera, like the Black-Winged Snipe or the left-handed Skyhook. “Best Of” Zappa barely scratches the surface and the cuts on this disk, while “Strictly Commercial,” are hardly the songs that matter to anyone looking for an introduction to the man’s genius. Skip this and purchase a score of Zappa (and Mothers) disks.

The Best of Billy Joel: Really? Was there anything he did that resembles real Rock and Roll? If there was anything Joel produced that didn’t elicit at least a slight gag reflex, please alert me and we can listen to that cut over a slice of white bread slathered with Ragu. Until then, send this disk flying towards the back 40 and fill it full of buckshot; spare the clay pigeon.

Ultimate Yes: Ultimate migraine. Between Jon Anderson’s hideous screech, Rick Wakeman’s onanistic manipulation of the keyboards and the rest of the band’s plodding, prog-rock pretensions, a minute of this tripe is like an evening trapped between two stoners discussing theories of The Pyramids, aliens and Eleanor Roosevelt’s breasts. If you’re intent on playing this disk, do so with the engine running and the garage door closed; we’ll figure out why it was important to you at the inquiry.

Legend — The Best of Bob Marley and the Wailers. A disk for people who don’t really like reggae but believe they need a Marley disk to impress their friends. Sure, all the Marley songs you’ve ever heard are here, all overplayed and redundant in their own way, with the collection a complete disservice to arguably the most influential musician in the world (even more than Elvis or the Beatles). A true “Best Of” Marley collection would include at least a half dozen disks and even those would be impoverished and not worth owning with the availability of his individual albums.

Light & Heavy: Best of Iron Butterfly. Owning this disk is like framing and displaying that freshman year report card for the semester you pulled a .25 GPA. This disk is a testament to the fortitude of the sound engineer who, apparently, enough drugs in his system to tranquilize a herd of elephants, still managed to stay vertical at the mixing board. Including 21 cuts of some of the most pointless and moronic sludge ever recorded, the collection doesn’t even include the LP version of “Inna-Gadda-Da-Vida” — as interminable as any Grateful Dead self-indulgent noodling — but the “single version” which, in its very existence, verifies that humans are not nearly as evolved as we’d assumed. Living Inna-Gadda-Da-Vida Loca translates into “A quart of tequila and a quaalude won’t get me through this garbage” without a power drill and several well-placed targets along the scalp.

Hold the Line: The Very Best of Toto. Fly to Africa, eat some monkey brains, catch a nice case of Ebola and then chart the progress of your decaying flesh with a cheap digital camera. Print your favorite photos from that process and glue them onto pieces of cardboard, all tied together with old shoestrings. Your “Best Of” photos, chronicling your lesions and oozing scabs will be immensely more entertaining and socially relevant than anything included in this collection. “I bless the rains down in Africa,” indeed; a nice dose of Ebola is preferred.

Tom Waits — Greatest Hits. Owning this is like buying a .44 Magnum and a box of Nerf bullets. I can only imagine that this exercise was the result of some meretricious contractual obligation that Waits was unprepared to argue away. Ill-conceived and essentially useless, this collection forsakes truly great songs (“Goin’ Out West,” “The Earth Died Screaming,” “Filipino Box-Spring Hog,” among dozens of others) for some truly baffling choices. It’s as if some record executive hired his idiot nephew to pick whatever he liked and the kid made hash marks on the back of Waits’ albums while playing “Metal Gear Solid 4.” Waits deserves much, much better.

Very Best of John Coltrane, is not just a lie but a damned lie: At best this collection is a Reader’s Digest sampler for a twisted rest-home version of musical chairs, at worst, a proud declaration of ignorance regarding Coltrane’s expansive and inestimable genius. There’s no excuse not to own dozens of Coltrane CDs and even less excuse to own this expression of absolute disrespect for an American treasure. Owning this disk makes one as about as cool as Tucker Carlson astride a plastic pink pony.

1 — The Beatles, is OK, I guess, if you’re 14 years old and your parents think an evening of Lawrence Welk is a nifty way to kill a couple of hours, but how realistic is that (and is Lawrence Welk even broadcast anymore?)? I remember this disk topping the charts about a decade ago and thinking that, in this age of easily digestible information, broken down into fruity and chewable Flintstones vitamins, “1” was a perfect example of how distracted our society had become. A race of shattered skulls, continuing to run face first into tree after tree while the forest remains obfuscated. Apparently millions of listeners bought this shameless attempt to continue to milk the Beatles cash cow but the only purpose for owning this disk is to hand it off to our alien overlords and saying, “Listen to this and get back to me when you can tell me what you think of these guys.”

Best of the Beast, Iron Maiden. No true metalhead would own this and the only purpose I can think of for releasing this collection was to give it space on countless jukeboxes in pool halls.

Made in the Shade, Rolling Stones, was a cynical attempt by the Rolling Stones to make a few more million dollars and skirt the fact that they had done far too many drugs in the early ’70s. Drawing cuts off of two great albums (Sticky Fingers, Exile on Main Street) and two mediocre albums (It’s Only Rock and Roll, Goat’s Head Soup), Made in the Shade was released as a way to mollify fans and make a few bucks while the Stones dragged themselves out of their most debauched and demoralizing period. Unfortunately, Jagger and Richards would not redeem themselves for a few more years, nearly going over the edge with the halfhearted Black and Blue, rising back to something of their former stature with the cocksure Some Girls. Skip Made in the Shade, buy Sticky Finger and Exile on Main Street (truly, two essential albums) and if you absolutely must own the rest of the cuts on this travesty, purchase them off iTunes.

Playlist: The Very Best of the Spin Doctors, is a groove-infused, hippy-dippy whippit fest of putrid mid-’90s jam-band excess. These guys didn’t do anything remotely memorable or notable and to there’s any “Best” here is like choosing between puking in the shower or in bed.

Every Breath You Take: Classics (the Police). I don’t know what is more amazing: that these guys managed to sell so many records or that they had so many people that they were a “new wave” band. If edgy haircuts and skinny ties make the “new wave” band then I guess you could include Huey Lewis and the News and Hootie and the Blowfish in that category (and you’d be dead wrong). The Police were, from start to finish, a band that produced some passable pop music and gave millions of teenagers an excuse to puff up their dos and dye them blue. I shouldn’t be so hard on the Police except for the fact that they gave us Sting, the most annoying, nauseating pap-producer to hit the carousels of middle-aged women attempting to stay hip and young, a Vegas lounge act for the geriatric Gen X set.

Enough. It was a good friend who led me down this path and, this far into it, I’m beginning to realize that the Worst of the Best of is an infinite road, a moebius strip of mediocre and mindless music that, not worth listening to when it was first released, is even less worthy on a Best Of compilation.

Either bands are far too great to require a Best Of compilation and their output should be recognized on the merits of individual works or bands are so inept and awful that a Best Of compilation is a painful reminder of a bad idea gone horribly wrong.

Perhaps the age of the MP3 player has made the era of the Best Of compilation as dead as cassette tapes. Unfortunately, I don’t have faith in that evolved state. While my music snobbery may be insufferable, my savvy regarding the recording industry’s infinite capacity for greed refuses to bury the dead an rotting cur. And, in the words of H.L. Mencken, “Nobody ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public.”

Happy non-snark day

A lachrymose start to my day. Was just getting out of the shower this morning when I heard a tiny knock at my door. Throwing on my bathrobe, I ran to answer, discovering my nine year old neighbor (a friend of my daughters), holding out a little envelope to me.

"This is for you, for Father's Day," she said, pedaling off on her bike after I took it from her.

"Ohhhh... thank you so much, sweetie!" I called out to her as she rode away, looking back to make sure I had the gift in my hand.

After closing the door, I looked at the envelope, "from Dani" and "To: Jim" written on the back in a tenuous, second-grader scrawl. Opening it, a carefully folded sheet of stationery, the same scrawl reading:

"To: Jim From: Dani," underlined and then, printed below, "happy Father Day I wish you have a fun Father Day Jim your nice and funny." Beneath it all, a smiley face drawn, speaking of the breadth and width of a nine year old's heart.

I cried. Not in that in neurotic, maudlin Glenn Beck way but with a genuine flood of emotion. Missing my children, of course, but mostly touched by the fact that my little neighbor remembered that my kids were 200 miles away and that I was alone today.

It's just after 3 P.M. and it's already beer-thirty for me. Hammering out this week's column, a piece on building a house and a Lego-like approach to my novel, I am incapable of drawing upon even a scintilla of snark or cynicism -- it escapes me.

The bittersweet atmosphere made sweeter and less bitter by the light tap at my door this morning.

Thank you, Dani, more than you know.

No particular place to go...

Kids are gone for Spring Break and I'm about to head out to a friend's for a day of food and frolic...

Bad blogger me, I've been terrible about reading other's blogs, much less posting anything here. And as mean-spirited as my last post was, it was a true tale and little there that was strictly bilious. Anyway, thanks anonymous and Johnboy, I do appreciate the support.

I'll again cheat and post last week's column but I have HUGE news to post here (probably in the next day or so) but, until then, I hope you enjoy this:

The lamb laid down this past weekend, after the lion took a somewhat vicious nip on Friday. A nice slice of springtime on Saturday and Sunday, following a blast from the past the day before; as if March is a spoilt child — adorable one moment, a candidate for the river-bound gunny sack the next.

For more than a month, I’ve heard locals grumble at the hint of snow, “I’m done with it, already.” No argument from me but I also know that, if this spring is anything like the previous two I’ve experienced in Pagosa Country, the massive mounds of snow will disappear quicker than we could imagine, the afternoon sun will warm our shoulders, with more hope than despair and more green than white, brown or gray, but the lion will continue to return.

Readers here will have noticed that I keep bringing up springtime in my columns and for that, I won’t apologize; spring is, for me, air. Arising from the dark cave of my despondency, the winter of my discontent, I embrace every ray of sunshine and bask in the warmth, breathe deeply, savoring the aroma of new life, celebrating the numerous moments of my own rebirth.

Yet, the season does not come without some regrets; some bittersweet some need to seriously reflect on the march of time (as Pink Floyd said, “Shorter or breath and one day closer to death”).

This spring is no exception. During the past week, the passing of one Rock God occurred in tandem with the resurrection of another Rock God.

Close as we are to Easter, I’ll begin with the resurrection: the release of “Valleys of Neptune” by Jimi Hendrix, a compilation of previously unreleased material that, apparently, hasn’t pissed off Hendrix fans in the way that previous posthumously released albums have.

And, considering the album shot to number one on the album charts the day it was released, I figure the rest of the world was, like me, waiting for another Hendrix album.

Considering my first guitar came with a “Hendrix note-for-note” tablature book, I have to admit to a certain bias and affection for Jimi, “Purple Haze” being the first proper song I learned how to play on guitar (my band would eventually arrange the tune of “Purple Haze” to feature the lyrics to the “Green Acres” theme). Everything Hendrix played was my standard as a lead-guitar player. I knew I’d never come close to the bar but we all need something to shoot for, no matter how impossible to reach.

So, to see some dead Hendrix stuff released had my chain yanked — and I was not disappointed. While the previously recorded songs on the album — “Stone Free,” “Fire” and “Red House”— all involve much more production than the originals, yet not substantially different, we hear those cuts as if experiencing them for the first time.

Of course, Jimi’s playing is sublime … who the hell else plays like him?

No one. Hendrix stands head and shoulders above anyone else, not just as a guitarist but as an arranger and “Valleys of Neptune” shows him as both, miles above Count Basie or George Gershwin — I’d bet Hendrix will continue to stand long after many of his predecessors have fallen from renown and memory.

For instance, the version of Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love” bypasses anything Eric Clapton could have done, raising it beyond — if you can imagine — anything Cream or Clapton could have conceived of or arranged. Whereas the Cream version is a classic in its own right (deservedly so), Hendrix turns it into a garage band rave up that nonetheless pits the slow hand against Magic Sam’s dice. Who shot the sheriff? Who cares, there’s a new sheriff in town, Hendrix declares.

As a guitar player, however, I listen to songs like “Hear My Train a Comin’” or “Ships Passin’ Through the Night” or the title cut and wonder how I ever imagined that I could even imagine to play guitar. Hendrix didn’t just intimidate me, he reminded me of my tiny place in the universe. Just an insignificant speck on a small planet in a tiny solar system residing in one in a billion galaxies ... dude.

Rising from the dead, Hendrix brings an awareness: the eternal nature of music, the miracle of his talent and its ability to transcend time and death itself.

Likewise, lyrically (and compositionally) so did the guy that died last week: Alex Chilton.

I have to admit that I walked backwards in order to understand Alex Chilton. Whereas Hendrix held me close to my guitar (I slept with my first one for years, a Fender Broadcaster teddy bear), Chilton escaped me for a long time. In the ’80s, as a punker, I read how bands like REM and Teenage Fanclub would go on and on about how awesome Big Star and Chilton were and, well, I just wasn’t convinced. The little access I had to Chilton and Big Star didn’t really impress me.

It was another example of how nearsighted and closed-minded I could be. When I finally took the time (and shelled out the scratch for the records), it was apparent to me how wrong I had been. It was as if I’d pulled an old suit jacket out of the closet, something I’d never worn before because I’d made up my mind that it was ugly and boring, only to discover a hundred dollar bill in the pocket and the coat made me a chick magnet.

Anyone listening to indie rock now hears Big Star (and, by implication, the genius of Alex Chilton). #1 Record” — Big Star’s first release —has plenty of evidence: “The Ballad of El Goodo,” “In the Street” (which became the theme song of That 70s Show (with a brilliant remake by Cheap Trick), and “My Life Is Right,” are complete classics. Likewise, songs like “Thirteen” and “Try Again” remind one how modern how Big Star was — off of one album. One incredible album, that was, one off for whatever reason. While we were listening to Zep or Lou Reed or whatever, this album was out there, floundering, unheard until we got hip.

Whereas #1 Record never came close to grabbing whatever Chilton hoped to achieve (he’d done fabulously with the Box Tops and hits like “The Letter” and “Soul Deep”), Chilton continued to create some of the most revolutionary pop music ever. The rest of us be damned; his follow up album, Radio City, really wraps it up with an emphasis on Beatlesque harmonies and song structures thirty years ahead of their time – songs like “Life is White,” “Way Out West,” “Daisy Glaze” and “September Gurls” could be heard on XMU today, without a second thought or a wayward glance.

Whether #1 Record or Radio City, it’s all contemporary, as fresh as if you’re listening to the latest Frightened Rabbit or the Shins or A.C. Newman (all profoundly influenced by Chilton) — and the records were from the early 70s, amazingly enough.

Whereas most music contemporary to those two albums sound dated and quaint, snapshots of that place in time, #1 Record and Radio City remain timeless, not of that time or any other time, for that matter. The Zen quality of Chilton’s music on those two albums is that it captures the here and now.

While Chilton’s arrangements refuse to be locked in time, it’s the lyrics that seal the deal. Universal and consistently fresh, Chilton’s themes are simple: a celebration of love and life, even if heartbreak is involved. He manages emotional complexity only because he is capable of capturing exactly how we feel; there is never a false note nor inauthentic phrase. There is nothing maudlin or manipulative about the music, nothing rococo or pretentious. What draws us in is that we know precisely what Chilton is singing about.

The music is an exuberant testimony of what it is to be young, to have no other worry than to steal a kiss or score some beer, to drive all night with no particular place to go. “Hanging out, down the street/the same old thing we did last week/not a thing to do but talk to you,” might have been turned into a dirge of adolescent angst and ennui (see Big Black, “There’s kerosene around, there’s something to do ... set me on fire!”) but Chilton makes it a paean to having nothing but time to talk to his sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing angry about the sentiment.

At the risk of being a blowhard, I state the obvious and declare that adolescence is a tumultuous time, the threshold between the nursery and the workplace, full of adventure and sorrow and confusion and discovery and love and fear — but mostly, fun. Chilton risks nothing, he states it with such clarity and unassuming wisdom that we are only reminded what it is to have loved and lived, reminded that the simple things are indeed what we should most appreciate.

And so, with his passing last week, I was reminded of those simple things: the slight chill in the morning after sleeping with the window open all night, the distant sound of a lawn mower and the smell of fresh cut grass, the rattle of a baseball glove dangling from the handlebars of a bike, the taste of Coke from an ice-cold bottle, the way the horizon looks like it has caught fire at the end of the day, well into the evening, with the chatter of the neighbors on their porch, the cool skin of the hood of a car and the exhilaration of finally, finally touching the fingertips of a new love and feeling her hand move timorously to respond, palms pressed together, warm and wet.

Chilton’s music is just about that, really, and not much else. Were he still with us, he’d ask us to crank up the new Hendrix CD, I think, pull a cigarette from behind his ear and light it up, smiling and looking up from behind the bill of his ballcap to say that, yes, it’s about time. Spring is here.

OH! To be her!

In better times, seeing what a phony tastes like

So, last year we filed taxes together, 'married, filing jointly' because the IRS likes everything on the up and up, supposedly.

However, this year we're no longer married and I need copies of those taxes.

Nope, she says, you can't have them.

What? I mean, I signed my name to that shit and everything, I should have them. Already one agency has asked for my taxes from the last three years and I have this big blank from last year, because she... well, she just doesn't want to give them to me. God knows why she just doesn't want to, maybe she has her reasons, but it seems fucked up.

Supposedly she's all spiritual and shit, moaning at the moon every other week with her supposedly-spiritual friends, burning incense and chanting in their made up moon people babble but, hey, isn't spirituality about treating people right?

Right. All you have to do is look at all the Christian assholes and Muslim assholes and Jewish Assholes and Hindu Assholes and on and on, with their guns and fire and bombs and frothing-at-the-mouth zealotry and you'll see that "spirituality" gets you a hole in the head when you're standing on the wrong end of dogma.

OK, not getting my taxes from last year is not the same as a hot poker down my gullet but stay with me, in some circles, it's just as good.

Per my last post, I live marginally -- hell, I wouldn't pay for internet except that sometimes I have to work from home when my kids are sick (I swear, that's the only reason... well, you got me there but it is handy) but we're frugal. No vacations here, no nights out. I'm no welfare mom.

So, as my last car was on its last legs, I decided to buy a truck from a co-worker, a big truck, a pig on gas but relatively new and reliable. What I didn't know (nor he) was that I'd have to pay nearly $500 to get plates on it. I'm not shitting you, $500 for plates on a 12 year old truck.

Tax refund, I figure, is the best way to get out of this conundrum, I can keep my trips to a minimum and keep the cops ignorant until I get my plates. Going on Turbo Tax, I find I get about $2000 more than I can figure out on paper -- cool. All I need to do is efile and all I need to do that is get a PIN from the IRS based on information from last year's filing.

Uh-huh. Except, she's not going to give me that even though, um, it's kind of mine, also?

This is a woman living off her dead dad's money, doesn't work at all, doesn't volunteer in the community, kind of squirrels up in the family's 200-acre compound and pretends she's head Hecuba for a handful of other aimless women, all going up to the Big House to bow down at the Goddess's feet. Big time spirituality and watch where you walk, motherfucker; bombs and all that shit.

Thing is, if I want to get my own copy of the tax forms, I have to ask the IRS to fax it to the nearest office (in Farmington, NM, a five hour round trip). On my expired tags (she doesn't have to purchase tags, dead daddy's company pays for those), in my vehicle (again, dead daddy's company pays for that), with my gas (ibid), taking a day of from my job (she doesn't need one, dead daddy, yadda)... yeah, there's your spirituality!

It's always amazed me how socialism is considered obscene in his country except how it applies to the rich (the hand outs go to them) and how "a sense of entitlement" gets bandied about for those of us struggling but those at the top -- again, they're immune, it means nothing.

Don't get me started on her lawyers insisting on me filing on 'married - filing separately' to benefit her rich ass (and keeping my kids from their EIC, which she had NO problem filing for last year!)...

Sorry for "my ex is such a bitch" post but there you have it.

Weasels tore my flesh

Thank you, you unfortunates who've read me and keep checking in -- I deserve much better (and you deserve much better than the likes of me) -- you keep me humble. No, OK, nothing keeps me humble, I'm a prick like that.

As some of you know, I'm writing for a small town paper, kind of picking cotton and putting ink down on it. Living in a HUD house, collecting Food Stamps, CHP for my kids and working just enough hours so they don't have to provide me benefits.

Yeah, I'm livin' the life. Just like 27 million other Americans. Because, as they told us, oh, 30 some years ago that, if we cut taxes, and it will all just trickle down.

I have to say, I'm wanting a little more than the trickle and I'd venture a guess that some Americans less fortunate than me, would be happy to share the trickle I'm getting.

Still, I love what I do and I'm apparently willing to do whatever it takes to make that dream work.

In my next post, I'll discuss the life and times of the idle rich... should be fun!

Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)

(Quietly trying to slip the key into the door, one-eyed, then, finally hitting my mark, unlock the door and slowly open it, cringing as it creaks; gently, closing it, softly resetting the lock. Pause. Take off my shoes and tip-toe across the floor, stopping with a mouthful of my own heart at every soft announcement of my presence).

Like a running sore, I return at the most inopportune moment. Fortunately, many of you scrubbed me away, so you'll be unaware of my return. Hopefully, you made your partner aware that I once infected your blogroll (you were younger then, somewhat promiscuous about who you listed, you were really drunk when you added me...) and those days are over.

Things are much different here as well and over the following days and weeks and months I'll explain that in great detail.

For me, it means the world and, no matter how hackneyed it may read, it will truly be a single, full-time dad figuring it out.

Sometimes, ice cream dribbling off my chin is just... ice cream

"On top of that," she said, "your blog is a piece of crap!"

The blogger people (who have one eye and horns and teeth like those rubber erasers you used to stab with a pencil in first grade), told me that, if I was committed to writing a blog, I'd better do it, goddammit.
At least that's what the email said. It had a link to a site for a bank that I don't use that asked for my personal information, so it must have been legit. Figured I'd better get a'bloggin'. Don't want THOSE people crawling up my drain pipes.
Unfortunately, since all my writing mojo goes into tweeting ("Car won't start no jumper cables and I didnt shave - ur prayers appreciated"), there's little left to do but steal from my column. Once those run out, I suppose I'm back to blogging about psycho ex-girlfriends and my bosses breath.
Until then, another blast from the recent past:

As Steely Dan sang, “When Black Friday comes/I’m gonna’ dig myself a hole.” That sentiment seems to have been shared, if initial reports are to believed.

But not by me.

And while I confess the temptation was there for me, I did not go over to the Dark Side. Not a cent was spent, not here in Pagosa Country, not in Durango, nor anywhere, not even online.

I boycotted the day and I was glad for it.

Besides, I believe the real bargains will be just at the last moment when merchants are truly desperate because, I think, well … they’ll be truly desperate.

My holiday version of Game Theory.

If there was indeed an inclination to dig a hole, it would have been something around six feet deep, in a remote location, and furnished with ample amounts of lime. The brain trust that determined a week off from school during Thanksgiving break was a nifty idea would now be facing charges as accessories to murder.

With them having the whole week off, I was at my wit’s end. Literally. By Sunday, I was lip diddling, drooling, der der derrrrring.

Back when Wooly Mammoth was served during the big day and the Macy’s parade was comprised of a dozen or so Native Americans toting a pilgrim effigy, we might have had, at the most, Black Friday (known then as the-day-after-Thanksgiving) off from school; maybe Wednesday if we were travelling to be with distant relatives. Times were hard back then and it used to snow a lot more.

Thus, it was my three, cold weather, a feast and scant reason to travel beyond the tribe.

If you’re not afraid, yet, get afraid.

With no shopping, no sanity and no motivation to do much of anything (including, digging deep holes — I was wearing the stretchy pants, yo), I was further left with no decent programming on the tube, unless endless holiday movies or Deadliest Catch marathons is your thing. Not mine. Click, Monk. Click, Law and Order. Click, Mythbusters.

Yawn. Rinse, repeat.

Late one night, however, scrolling past the standard dross on HBO, I came across “Control,” a biopic based on the life of Joy Division’s lead singer, Ian Curtis. And it occurred to me, as I watched it, that I had stumbled across the final part of an unintentional triptych of movies: the aforementioned “Control” (2007), “Velvet Goldmine” (1998), and “24 Party People” (2004). Although the threads are all there, as surely as they are for the Lord of the Rings trilogy, each movie was produced independently (in every sense of the word) with no connection with the other. Except that, they are all connected, in extremely interesting ways.

While “Velvet Goldmine” is certainly the least of the three, it is the necessary starting point in the trilogy.

Less documentary and more allegory, VG charts the rise and fall of a David Bowie-esque character named Brian Slade (none-so-subtly hammering the point home with four songs on the soundtrack by either Slade, Brian Eno or Eno-era Roxy Music) and through his story, the similar mercurial story of Glam Rock.

Ostensibly paying homage to Citizen Kane (with a young Christian Bale, as the journalist sent out to discover the story of Slade), the movie soon loses its way, slipping quickly from a potentially brilliant story to become a mediocre movie. Thinly veiled references to Iggy Pop-slash-Curt Cobaine in the character of Curt Wild (and, ho hum, Oscar Wilde) and Lou Reed do little to salvage the car wreck the film. However, with a little imagination and ample substances (and a mind open enough to overcome the movie’s outré sexual themes), one can get an idea of what was happening in the early ’70s that led to the early punk scene in England.

It’s important to note, however, that while the early Glam Rock scene influenced the British punk scene (especially bands like the New York Dolls, Mott the Hoople, the previously mentioned Slade and Bowie, himself), punk took an ethos and sound from the Glam Rock scene and twisted it to — well, anarchic ends.

Following the worst of the bunch, “24 Hour Party People” is the best of the bunch. A quasi-documentary about the Manchester scene from the mid-’70s until the early-’80s, 24HPP does a brilliant job of capturing how punk, disgusted in its emergence from the Glam Rock scene, evolved in so many directions. In a short amount of time, like tentacles from an amorphous (and sexually ambiguous) dark cloud, that influence continues to confound record executives. Digital downloads or not, the suits have never figured out what the kids like. Ever.

The next movie charms us from the beginning. Narrated by British TV newsman Tony Wilson (a real character, played by comedian Steve Coogan), the movie charts the fortunes of Factory Records and Wilson’s own demise (for better or worse) as his record company and club gives rise to the Rave scene, something that lingers with us, like a case of herpes.

Don’t let my description dissuade you, however; the movie will have you laughing out loud. It’s not just a movie for music geeks. Of the three, it’s the one that I recommend as a stand-alone, the one that is, by far, the one you should see.

Early in the film, Wilson signs “Warsaw” to his label, a band not completely within the punk umbrella — and definitely problematic. As its lead singer deals with a relationship he doesn’t want and epilepsy he can’t control, Wilson realizes he has genius on his hands and he’s signed all his control away. Furthermore, after the band changes its name to “Joy Division” (the name the Nazis gave to women forced into prostitution in concentration camps), the band acquired an unwanted following by neo-Nazi skinheads. Not an auspicious beginning for Wilson’s first signed act, an act he signed, by blood.

While the next two-thirds of the film deal with the Factory Records fortunes and the aftermath, “Control” sits just beneath 24HPP. It’s not a bad movie (“Velvet Goldmine” is not a bad movie either, in that “so bad it’s good” sort of way). It’s just not great’– and kind of depressing.

If you want to end your mix on an upbeat song, “Control” won’t allow you that; you’re going to bed feeling bummed.

As I said, the movie delves into the life of Joy Division lead singer Ian Curtis and his, frankly, bleak existence (despite the fame). While 24HPP lets you know that, what remained of Joy Division became New Order (and the biggest money maker for Factory Records), it doesn’t tell you the danger of nihilism, in all it’s stripped down realism; “Control” does, almost to the point of making you gag.

So, how does this all become, as I said, an unintentional triptych?

Joy Division was never a punk band; their influences go back to the Glam Rock movement, no matter how un-glam they seem. In fact, what they did was blur the lines, spread velvet across the fissures that were created while rock was spitting into seemingly indivisible lines.

The evidence is there in the second movie. The wrap up is in the third movie.

The spear that brings it through, like it’s ripping through a hunk of Jamaican goat (seared in the offices of Factory Records), is the weird little movie that starts the watching.

As much press as was given to Curt Cobain blowing his brains out, Curtis had sparse mention. He hung himself. The TV was on while he did it. One in a million in America knew what he did as opposed to Cobain, who one-in-five or something like that knew what happened, a pretty face shattered face all over the covers of grocery store magazines.

Yet, while Curt Cobain gets reverence from a certain, narrow segment of music, Curtis’s influence remains widespread — from Lady Ga Ga to, yes, Widespread Panic.

With more holidays coming up and many of us wondering if we can afford the local day ticket or maybe it’s better to stay close to home, on those nights locked in the cabin, I recommend those three movies, back–to-back or at least, a few nights in a row. Fill your jug, though.

Eh, it wasn't as bad as I made it sound. Neither were the movies, for that matter.
In the future, I'll work on making everything sound worse.
It's why they pay me a substandard wage. Dontchaknow.

Hello, hellhole

Lucy hears about the Stupak amendment.

Psst, psst, test, test, one, two, three...

Well... that didn't work out.

Not going into details but here I am again, no regrets, just rugrats.

It's not that I haven't been writing: in fact, I'm still at the paper, columning and everything (which, at a small town paper everything means high school sports and bikers with bags of Bakugons strapped to a sissy bar).

Come to think of it, since I've just reappeared here, I guess I could step back out quietly and slip back into the darkness. Light a cigarette and wait. A Ninja with no thought of his lungs. Blending into the background. Hmmmmm. I eat my cigarette butt.

But I'm not like that. The humor value of a doorbell, flaming poop and stomping feet.

And since the two or three of you who read me remember the kiddie snapshots, I give you this:

When it comes to my children and my music, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Well, that’s one-third true. For awhile, my girls have immersed themselves in the tween scene, all Hannah Montana and Jonas Brothers. Prepackaged pap bundled with product placement, the insidious reach of the Disney empire (I, for one, welcome our mouse-eared masters). Tentacles of consumerist madness that go back farther than the Dan Quayle My Little Pony. Indeed, in my time, girls bought into the Osmonds and David Cassidy (and all their crap), while we guys laughed at how gay those guys were. The same-oh lame-oh.

Nuff’ said, that nonsense gets shut down at bedtime. Then, Mozart seems to be their favorite, with Debussy and Bach a close second and third. Smart kids.

My son is another matter. He has no taste for tween twaddle or sing-a-long schmaltz (no “wheels on the bus go round and round” for that kid). In fact, at any given moment, Basement Jaxx, (or other CD remnants from my prior taste in trance/house/electronica), Black Sabbath or Bobby “Blue” Bland blast from his room — and those are just the Bs. He has the same mad eclectic tastes as his dad it seems, abecedarian or not.

Not that this surprises me; it was something I noticed about him early on, when he was maybe a few months past two. I was up late one night, reading, listening to Frank Zappa’s album “Hot Rats” (one of his best, a jazz-inflected excursion in the tradition of the Sun Ra Arkestra), reveling in the brief down time. An hour or so into my repose, Mister arose, wide awake, “I can’t sleep, daddy.”

Mellow, I agreed to allow him to hang out with me, “Do your own thing,” I told him, “just be quiet, let me continue reading, let me pretend you’re not here.”

I tried to focus on my book but my little man’s body kept banging against the couch, in time to the music. I had to stop, watch, put my book and see him bump as “The Gumbo Variations” (the jazziest of the jazz on that album) pounded through the room, the rhythm of his bounces increasing with the songs steady race to its crescendo. Suddenly, the song stops, with a singular, conclusive beat. “Awesome!” he yelled just past the thud of that beat, his chubby arms in the air with a wave, his eyes still staring straight ahead, his body twisting with resonance of the groove.

He continues his taste for jazz to this day.

Just as Justice Potter described pornography (“I know it when I see it”) and Louis Armstrong described jazz (“You know it when you hear it”), my little man will ask me to rule on any given moment. John Coltrane or Oscar Peterson or Dave Douglas, “This is jazz, isn’t it daddy? Because, I like this!”

Yes, I say, I’m glad you like this. Alpha male watching his pup take down a doe. Sweet.

I was up early, throwing up a batch of oatmeal (so to speak). Little man was likewise up, yakking. He diverges from his dad in that he’s an early riser, stirs at the first light and pads around the house while the rest of us snore. Conversely, as a morning person by necessity and not by choice, I was making breakfast and relying on coffee and loud music to shake the sleep from my eyes.

Mister was sitting in a futon, wide awake and watching daddy zombie stomp through the kitchen while “Pay To C***m” by Bad Brains rattled the rafters (if you’re not familiar, it’s arguably the first-ever, hard core punk, the song ripping by like a 440 Nova, fat tires, loud, dual pipes).

Tugging at my shorts, Mister declared, “Daddy, this song is fast!”

“Yes it is,” I said, listening to him and the song. “Do you like that?”

“Yeah!”

He bounced around and pressed his elbow to the floor, rolled, began dancing again.

“Did they play music this fast when you were a kid?”

I was a kid when I first heard this music, I thought, and now he’s hearing it for the first time, a generation later. Thinking that there couldn’t have been anything like it, way back when.

“This is the best music, ever,” he said and, in the spirit of that, I mixed him a CD: Bad Brains, 7 Seconds, The Misfits, all kinds of early hard core. Even though he still listened to Paul Oakenfold, Miles Davis and Green Day, hard core ruled his world for a year or so.

And then, he heard the Stones.

The other day I was doing dishes when “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” came on a mixed CD. Mister stopped, doing nothing, no longer lining up cars and army men and making “cue cue cue” sounds, just sitting still, alert, listening. “What is that, daddy?”

“The Rolling Stones, Mister. They’re the best band ever.”

“Even better than Beethoven? Because I like him.”

“Depends on your perspective,” I told him. “Where you are, at any given moment.”

“What does that mean?”

I considered his question. “It means that there’s are all kinds of different answers, there are no winners.”

“There doesn’t have to be a best of everything?”

“You mean like Superman?” Mister loves him some Superman.

“Yeah, like Superman.”

“Do you think Elvis was, like, the Superman of Rock and Roll?”

“Mommy says so,” he says, his eyes searching the room, unsure.

“Well, if Elvis was Superman, the Stones are like a shower of Kryptonite.”

He thought about that, wondered if it was bad or good, or what it might have even meant. “Do you have any more Rolling Stones?”

I put on “Jumping Jack Flash” as an example of what I meant. Tons of Kryptonite at once and no way to duck it, just find a cave and wait it out..

He agreed. Superman was dead.

Slipping back and forth on his skateboard across the floor, Mister grinned, enrapt, Stones falling on him like beams of warm light.

“Daddy, this music makes me happy.”

At that moment, watching him roll, rock, beaming, in tune, there in love with what he was hearing, the whole thing wrapped my heart in wool. I snuggled in it and remembered.

For now, he’ll be enamored with the Stones; for awhile my girls will continue to hang onto fluff. In thirty years, the girls will look back on their music as a goof, an embarrassing karaoke moment. And all three of my children will rock with the Stones.

And I’ll be thirty years older, happy to have just locked all of them into that moment, Bad Brains, Jonas Brothers and all of it.

After I wrote that, I woke the kids up, made them watch me pour a can of lighter fluid on a junk tire and roll it down the hill. The flaming tire crested the hill and kept on going, rolling center on the road, heading into downtown.

Then we went to bed. The sirens never woke us.

Coda

Well, I went and did it.

As I said in my last post (ok, my next to last post), I have been kicking around with starting another blog since this old place was losing its luster, getting a little threadbare and, admittedly, becoming dreadfully boring. Furthermore, I'd started this blog to chronicle the life, loves, and trials of a single dad. In case you haven't been reading carefully, I got married. No really, to a wonderful woman and everything, not to some farm animal as a few of you were placing bets that would be where I'd end up (I mean, before the inevitable stint in prison).

Having lost my enthusiasm for this - the 4 or so posts in the last year should have been the clue - I've decided to move on and write about what's going on with me right now. And not make up crap, like I was doing.

So, it was fun for awhile but time to say "toodles" and have a toddy.

I'm not going to get all weepy. As much fun as I had with this, better things are in the boiler and my life now rocks. I don't regret leaving this to wither away.

For those of you who stumble here, my new blog, co-written with my beloved, is called Hogepotte and can be found at http://jimandmara.com where you can read both our takes on everything from blending a family to how to stretch roadkill into a veritable feast.

I'll keep comments open here for a month and then, we're done. If you have something to say after April 19, shout it into your pillow. Saying it over at the new place wouldn't hurt, either.

I guess this thing will stay live as long as blogger keeps it up (or gets hacked by some nitwit Russian thug) but for all intents and purposes, it's a ghost blog by sometime next month.

So there you have it. Goodbye. Hope your blogs are better read than this spot on the road and I sincerely hope you'll come visit the missus and me over at our new place, http://jimandmara.com - if you drop by, bring some beer, wouldja'?

*whooooooosh!*

As all of you have guessed, I have lost interest in this place and making updates a priority.

My new life and new family have shifted my perceptions so much, this blog seems largely irrelevant.

Which is cool because that's how life SHOULD be, it should not be a static bore. It's just that the journey I'm on now has made my presence here largely unimportant.

My love for my wife grows stronger each day. Her three kids and I are growing closer as I assume the role of "dad" for them. My own three are thriving, loving their life out in the country.

An idea for another blog has been kicking around for some time and I may get around to firing that up. The emphasis would change - this place was started as "A single, full-time dad figures it out" - and my new blog would be about blending a family, a large family, with some bits about small-town life and being a born-again mountain man (not that I'm "born-again" in the religious sense, apatheist me). I've been thinking about using the domain space we used for the wedding and dumping blogger, making it more personal.

I have to investigate some of the technical aspects: coming up with a design, integrating blogging, keeping the spammers to a minimum. If any of you have suggestions, I'd love to hear them. I really would love to start something completely new that reflects my new life. I'd love to see your emails or comments.

If I get the new place launched, I'll let you know here. I'll try and put up some updates until then (working for a small-town weekly doesn't keep me THAT busy) but I think I'm announcing the imminent demise of this place.

So... until then... please give me your input, suggestions, and help me out!

Ta ta for two weeks and tensum

So long, suckaz
Off to the Emerald Isle and won't be back until June 25. Which means, no posts (are you nuckinfutz?). Not that it matters much - posts here have been scanty at best, boring at worst of late - but don't expect anything until after I get back. While I'm gone you should go pop in at Soiled Dove Inn and give her grief about not posting more.

Also, because I insist on moderating comments (due to puerile asshats in the past who felt a brilliant strategy of getting at me was posting their stupidity here), your fine comments won't see the light of day until I return. By all means, comment away, just don't expect anything to post in the near future.

All of that is not why I'm posting, though. There is something important I want to say before I'm Dublin-bound...

MBS (heretofore, my darling and beautiful Mara) had a fight the other night, something I believe couples do from time to time. As we reached resolution, Mara told me how much she appreciated how deeply I believe in our relationship, how hard I work on it. I didn't tell her (but I will now) is how much I appreciate how hard she has worked on this relationship: if it wasn't for her doing pretty much everything, we wouldn't be going to Ireland and our wedding would still be a distant (if pleasant) dream. Her hard work made all of this happen, I was just the guy she bounced her brilliant ideas off of because I was the guy lucky enough to be the one she wanted to share her dreams and adventures. Lucky enough to walk down the aisle with, dance with, toast some mead with, and now, jet off to Ireland for the time of our lives.

So please don't think I am fortunate for getting to go to Ireland. I am fortunate because I ended up finding my true soulmate, my partner in crime, my co-parent, my best friend, the best (by far) thing that has ever happened to me.

Ah, the luck of the Irish. Even if I am a bit of a prick.

The brew to do

The egg on our faces is from another scientist's head exploding
The "Honeymoon Brew" is racked and ready to bottle; we'll put on the caps tomorrow.

Also tomorrow: gerieatric rocking out, chicken killing, and New Mexican adventures. Stay tuned.

Anyway, we started this first brew about 10 days ago with almost two cans of light malt extract, Irish Ale yeast, Cascade hops to start and Centennial hops to finish (the entire boil went an hour with the finishing hops in the last fifteen minutes). We're calling this our "Honeymoon Brew" because we're bustin' the caps on it after we return from Ireland. Toasting us and Obama.

Not talking about the weather but actually doing something about it

How soft your fields so green,
Can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war.
We are your overlords.
Look around you, outside, what do you see? Skimpy outfits on the swine waiting in line to see Sex & the City? Quarts of sweat dripping off the fat guy's moobs, collecting like strings of pearls on the short curly ones rimming his aureaolae? Kids running and jumping through the sprinkler on your lawn, screaming with the sting of rock salt from your 20 guage?

June 5th and it was freakin' snowing here, I even had a fire going, this morning. It's a good thing we're heading to Santa Fe, to the land of the tiny-feathered silver earring on the blue-bobbed saggy tit. Sssshhhh.... she's wetting her bill with a bit of mohito and seeking to mate with the broad-shouldered personal trainer (after having passed on the talentless artist).

We're going to see X at the brewery and then coming back here to embark on our journey to the emerald city... or isle... I can't remember which.

While we're in Santa Fe, your invitation is here:

Goin' to the north, north, north shore

Yes, THAT kind of surfing...
Despite reports to the contrary (on E! and those phony-ass cable "news" networks), the wedding went off without a hitch and, in fact, not nearly as many people were arrested as was reported. The whole KIA thing is total bullshit and we're not taking any responsibility for the MIA folks - they'll show their faces when they're ready, we reckon.

And no, I didn't spike the punch but with our crowd, who knows who the culprit might have been? I suspect some old hippie from the bride's side.

Now we're off to Ireland for two weeks. It's a backwards country dontchaknow, what with their sod huts and religious wars and lack of potable water. We're taking the exotic route, I know, but what with the dollar's value everywhere else, we're taking the bargain. Point is, don't expect any posts from hereabouts considering they probably don't have internet over there - hell, they don't even have a written language. They're ignorant but they sure make a mean whus-kee.

We're taking lots of beads to trade and a camera in order to take pictures of the poor, dumb savages so that we can steal their souls and then sell the souls back to them at an inflated rate. Again, the rate of the dollar probably puts us at a disadvantage in that endeavor.

I'll report on the wedding when I get back. Hopefully, arraignments will give me a better idea of who is where and the what-diddy-what.

While you're there, I'm here

At the beer garden, exchanging vows. Obviously, no posting today, this done via blogger's nifty scheduled posting mechanism.

We're having the time of our lives. We hope you all are, too. Mazal tov.