My First Interview: Five Questions from Grant Miller

Grant Miller vs. Grant Miller: who do you prefer?







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Believe it or not, as a child I used to interview myself constantly, because that's the kind of narcissist I am. Or, maybe it was all those hours with no one to talk to. But seriously, I had things to say.

These days, I no longer have to bounce my musings off the walls like a formerly crazy person, as I have been graced with the interest of Grant Miller Media! I think I guilted him into it. Regardless, finally my deep thoughts will be circulating the internet like another banal Paris Lohan Ritchie rumor for whatever the cumulative jailtime actually is.
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The Interview


GM: We're both Led Zeppelin fans. If you were Robert Plant would you use a tube of toothpaste, a wadded up sock or the customary wad of paper to highlight your package?

KFC: That admission makes me feel so close to you, Grant. As for the frontman, an ironic term for a guy who wants to be your backdoor man, not sure he needs any embellishment. When I attended the screening of the Royal Albert Hall concert film, shamelessly wriggling about in my seat like a submissive pup, while gushing about how HOT he was at 22, mi amigo, Billy, turned and said "You just want to crawl up in his lap, DON'T YOU?" Well... So, maybe he could tie one of those protective red Kabbalah strings around it, but beyond that it would just be gilding the lily.

amigo Billy


GM: If you wrote a song about Alex Chilton, would you title it "Alex Chilton?"

KFC: Almost. You see, I went down to the crossroads recently, and now I have a pact to keep. So I think I'd call it "Alex Chitlins." He'd like that; he's southern.

GM: If Grant Miller Media reignited its blogwar with The Company Bitch, whose side would you chose?

KFC: Hmm, that's a tough one, Grant. You know, as much as I revere GMM, I really do love that Bitch. It's all so he said/she said - don't really want to get caught in the middle. I think I'd choose Unremitting Mike's side. Or maybe Mimi Smartypants. I'm a lover not a fighter.

GM: You represent a band in Los Angeles. What the most rock and roll thing you've seen them do?

KFC: Those guys are nerds. Good-looking nerds, but nerds all the same. Let's see... karaoke at Smogcutters, which I understand is staffed by Thai trannies. That strikes me as somewhat Glam, though the GLs aren't that, either. Nathan almost took a gig with the BeeGees. There's nothing rock-n-roll about them. Clark produced a few of the Dandy Warhols albums, but just how "rock-n-roll" are they, really? It's tough, because the whole genre might just be a thing of the past. Still, our primary drummer, The Rev. Derek Brown, is pretty dope (I only use such terms when I'm doing band stuff). He's going on the road with Earlimart soon - they are cool, but still pretty el sensitivo. Then again, Robert Plant was in love with Joni Mitchell, so you know... But back to Derek, there's a Harley in the picture and he had this ZZ Top beard he was sporting for awhile, because he was still playing with The Eels, so he definitely increases our R&R cachet. Recently he shaved it way down, and now he just looks really rugged-handsome. Come to think of it, they all wear beards. I renamed them The Hairy Listeners for my own amusement. Actually, Billy's probably more Rock&Roll, 'cuz he hangs with zombies and Jodorowsky and stuff, but he's not in the band. But seriously, I love those guys and they are really talented, but as far as acting out goes, they truly disappoint.

GM: Why should people read your blog?

KFC: It's probably best that they don't, it only encourages me.

What a Concept

Calling All Cars

The Los Angeles based band I represent is preparing to write their third album and shoot an accompanying documentary film, and we have quite a wonderful but simple concept. We need the assistance of other musicians and people of taste to complete a national search for talent.

We are looking for approximately ten musicians of any age (maybe even a preference for older folk) and genre who are extremely talented, possibly with a unique or eccentric aspect to their music, who have given up on trying to "make it" in favor of a more normal life. We want "coulda/shoulda beens," not "has beens," with whom we can write and record a song in their town or city, while documenting it on film, and telling their personal story.

Can you think of someone exceptional you have encountered in the last decade plus, someone who really should have been recognized nationally, or attained a "musician's musician" status, someone you can't believe didn't make it? If you are willing to share their name and/or contact info, we would be most obliged.

Maybe you can link me to other recording professionals, small radio stations, club owners, artists in your area or society whose tastes are discriminating and would be willing to help find these people?

I think this can be a really beautiful project.

“Three things

cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.”

-Buddha

The Sick Rose

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.


- William Blake

The Wit is Dead: Requiem for a Blogger

Caveat & Disclaimer - my thoughts on the following, while calm, are muddy, inchoate, incomplete. But, I am sober as a judge. I imagine I will return to this subject in the days to come:

I had been wondering at the abrupt end of posts at The Wit of the Staircase, which was surprising, as the authoress generally apprises her readers of trips and other absences. Then today, stopping by Gazpachot, I learned the tragic news that Theresa Duncan had killed herself last week, an apparent overdose of pills washed down with alcohol. The stories have remarked on her last post, but I have been more interested in this quotation she put up the day before:

"Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets...."

~Rupert Brooke, The Great Lover

and the day before that, 7/8:

"A child in the dark, gripped with fear, comforts himself by singing under his breath. He walks and halts to his song. Lost, he takes shelter, or orients himself with his little song as best he can. The song is like a rough sketch of a calming and stabilizing, calm and stable, center in the heart of chaos. Perhaps the child skips as he sings, hastens or slows his pace. But the song itself is already a skip: it jumps from chaos to the beginnings of order in chaos and is in danger of breaking apart at any moment..."

--Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

Still, nothing in the overall tone of her writings (on 7/9 came the title, "Wit and the Warrior Heart"), choices, musings, suggested a deflation of spirit. Her intermittent yet characteristic whimsy and blitheness were present. That, and she was scheduled to travel in the upcoming weeks... Had she intended a permanent departure just two days prior, and meant this as an ironic post, I imagine she would have made this one a perverse last, artful as she was. So what happened?

To add to the loss, on Tuesday, July 17th, her longtime companion and world-reknowned artist, Jeremy Blake, seems to have left a note, along with his clothing and shoes on the shoreline at Rockaway Park. His body has not been recovered.



Why do people go naked in the water to die? Is it a return to the natal state in utero?

Whatever you felt about the opinions of Theresa Duncan, posted here on June 1st, 2007, her seeming paranoia and "conspiracy theory" bent (interestingly, the papers are whitewashed of any mention of the harassment Wit claims she and her longtime lover suffered.*), I found her an extremely intelligent, artful, bold and beautiful woman. I did not always agree with her manner, and was often uncertain of her point of view (which is in no way meant to denigrate it, rather as an expression of my own ignorance and anlage opinions), I held her in very high esteem.

The loss of Jeremy Blake to the culture of art is a grave one. As quoted in the New York Times today, "Roberta Smith, writing in The Times about a 2005 exhibition by Mr. Blake in New York, said that his work had “given the stream-of-consciousness narrative, so long a part of modern literature, a time-based visual equivalent” and that he was moving past predecessors like Ed Ruscha, William Eggleston and Raymond Pettibon into new artistic territory."

This couple, darlings of the art world and, by all accounts, very much bonded and in love, and graced with so much talent, intelligence, activity, seem to have had everything to live for. No doubt, suicide is possible even at such great heights, but seems an antidote to life administered more rarely. What happened?

Madame Wit will be sorely missed. Very few people have such an abundance of cultural learning right at their fingertips and, I imagine, their lips. It is a pleasure to read the musings of someone with such a thoughtful, tense and synthetic mind. I am always enamored of people this curious about life, and was regularly inspired. To Gazpachot, I am of a like mind:

"...like many, I was stuck on her ability to make you yearn for a world as vibrant and original as hers - A secret Lunar Society, a great home in Venice, a well turned phrase, a great picture choice, a coveted item, a sapphic celebrity crush**, a flare for stylish elitism. Honestly, her sometimes haughty voice, like most haughty voices, seemed put on, and often made me wonder what (kind of pain) she was trying to cover up. Anyhow, I'll miss her passionate assertions and I hope she's found some peace."

Jeremy Blake, Century 21, 2004

God Bless the both of you, your families, friends, and all you have inspired. God bless anyone who might have thought to or tried to harm you, even if it is you yourselves, most of all. If they exist, they need blessing all the more. You will be missed.

ADDENDUM (7/30): Their friend, Glenn O'Brien, has posted on Theresa's blog, The Wit of the Staircase today.

(* Her theories about the death of Jean Seberg, who she feels was pushed to suicide are interesting to note:

The declassified "Cointelpro" FBI document requesting permission to smear the actress and Black Panther activist Jean Seberg. J. Edgar Hoover sent letters to the Los Angeles press claiming that Seberg's pregnancy was the result of an affair with a Black Panther. Seberg, who was married to playwright Romain Gary, subsequently miscarried due to the stress of the scandal. She and Gary buried their child in a glass coffin to prove that the dead child was Gary's, and to show the public that they had been lied to. Seberg suffered mental health problems for years afterward, and eventually succeeded in commiting suicide after many attempts. Seberg was gorgeous, one of kind. She can be seen in "Breathless" "Bonjour Tristesse" and Otto Preminger's "Joan of Arc."



**he is most assuredly referring to her obsession with Kate Moss.)

Principles of Comedy

Things are funnier doubled, in unison.

That blog always makes me smile.

Going to California

I have to say, if I haven't before, that I understand people who dislike Led Zeppelin about as much as people who don't like dogs (exclusion clause for those of you who were bitten as children; that I get).

Tonight I'll be here:

At The Egyptian Theater

Wednesday, July 18 – 7:30 PM
West Coast Premiere! Long-Lost 1970 Led Zeppelin Concert!
LED ZEPPELIN LIVE AT THE ROYAL ALBERT HALL, 1970, Contemporary, 108 min.

Peter Whitehead shot this rarity in color when the band performed at London's Royal Albert Hall in January 1970 - just after the release of Led Zeppelin's second album, and it's the finest example of the band's early days at full-throttle. No flashy camera-tricks - just pure Zeppelin. "Whole Lotta Love", "Communication Breakdown", "I Can't Quit You Baby" and a 15-minute version of "Dazed and Confused"! The film has never been screened theatrically in Los Angeles. This will be a great night for Zeppelin fans! With the Egyptian's 60 foot widescreen - and the 60-surround speakers pumping out 30,000 watts - prepare for a Whole Lotta Zep!

I can't stop

listening to Thirteen by Big Star, written in 1972.

The lyrics reflect the age they describe, simple, unschooled, which makes it even more sweet and heartachy. The tune is for all time.

Rolling Stone magazine:

"Chilton wrote this acoustic ballad about two kids in love with rock & roll, featuring the deathless couplet, "Won't you tell your dad to get off my back/Tell him what we said about 'Paint It Black.' " It's simple musically; as Chilton said, "I was still learning to play and stuff." It never came out as a single or got any radio play, but "Thirteen" is one of rock's most beautiful celebrations of adolescence."


Won't you let me walk you home from school
Won't you let me meet you at the pool
Maybe Friday I can
get tickets for the dance
and I'll take you
Won't you tell your dad, "Get off my back"
Tell him what we said 'bout 'Paint It Black'
Rock 'n Roll is here to stay
Come inside where it's okay
And I'll shake you.
Won't you tell me what you're thinking of
Would you be an outlaw for my love
If it's so, well, let me know
If it's "no", well, I can go
I won't make you

I searched high and low for an mp3 or video of the original recording, but came up empty-handed, until I happened across this blog, which I linked above to the song title. Do yourself a favor and get your hands on a copy of the album (pictured above). I did find a recent acoustic version of Thirteen with Alex Chilton on You Tube, but was disappointed. I feel it lacks luster. So here is a very barebones and heartfelt version by Elliott Smith. The footage contains recognizable spots in south-east Portland.



I also found a young man with a remarkably good voice, who seems to reside in Iowa - Nick Lind. It's worth a listen if you're a fan of the song.

But ain't nothing else like the original.

Sweet dreams.

We hang the petty thieves and appoint the great ones to public office.

- Aesop

The Leader of the Band

The things you don't know about the bandmates until they tell you... This is the lead singer of the band I manage, back in '99 when he was at the helm of Lowcraft, back in Portland. Could they be bigger 80s Anglophiles? Just shows you how much Portland and the Oregon coast have in common with the British Isles. Of course, having a tea-timing director doesn't hurt. We might be working with this guy again, soon. I sure hope so, he's really talented.



Anyway, Nathan and the music could not look and sound more different these days. I also love the traces of that great old English thriller, Don't Look Now, which you should endeavor to watch if you've not already.

Two Typos of Note So Far Today

Baba Ram Sass
Laundry Deterrent

And one I found online soon after:

"Quote the Raven nevermore..."

(I agree, that use of that phrase was hacking Poe's knees.)

Where I am now

Lately I am very uninspired to write. No words are coming my way. I think I've mentioned that sometimes this happens to me when there's too much to say. Often, that's when it is best to be silent and let music speak for me. Love to you all.

(does Ray Lamontagne follow Baba Ram Dass?)



and have you heard him cover Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy"?

Hot Steaming Dose of Cellulose

I always wondered why the food in Beijing tasted so bland.

The Speed of Sound

A simple observation about music:

I do not find that listening to Skynard as I drive on the freeway helps me to observe posted speed limits.

7.7.7.

Why I've been away so long...




tree huggin', and stuff.

7 bands. 10 dollars. And a whole lotta love.

(but I'm very tired. wish me luck.)

The Girl in the Photo

No one wants to know who that chére bébé below is? Or even guess?



Anne Frank.

What with the recent slew of birthdays

I feel it's only fair to mention that mine was on Tuesday. I am sorry to report that while I am, indeed, another year older, I am not one whit the wiser.



(I'll be seriously impressed if you can name the person in that photo.)

While I did have a nice dinner with Tex, and an even greater conversation with him later that evening (that is, after I awakened from a brief sofa coma, induced by two glasses of wine and one ill-advised post-dinner cocktail), I can't say it was the most auspicious of days overall. First off, that morning I dreamt I was four months pregnant, and upon waking was disappointed to realize it wasn't true. I should have been relieved, as it really is for the best. Still, I had a protracted moment of grief over my childlessness. Mercifully, that is an emotional visitation which happens only occasionally - I've rigged the snooze button on my biological clock for longer increments between alarms.

Then there was the incessant stress over this hare-brained fundraising event that I've been planning, which has, of late, been nothing but obstructed, and I've wondered at the wisdom of doing it at all. My frustration is such that I'm moments away from pulling the plug, which only gives rise to greater feelings of self-doubt. And all of it is ridiculous, because it's supposed to be worthwhile and fun. Think the Uni is trying to tell me something?

Later that afternoon, I was seriously encumbered by the inappropriate gift of the husband of one of my employers, who accompanied the earrings he bought in India with a note confessing his long-standing crush, which he hoped would remain our secret. It should have remained his. The wife is my friend and confidant, and I have yet to decide the most appropriate course of action. She left me a card with a certificate for a Thai massage. We give each other lots of things. She trusts me, and I her. She's in Paris for a while, and he joins her on Friday, so I have some time. Fortunately, I haven't actually seen that sucka of a husband, he simply left the offending objects for me to find when I came to work in their home. Hours later emailed me all in a fluster of anxiety because he knew he was indulging in risky behavior.

Why does this have to be my problem? I did nothing to encourage any such advance, I swear on my life. I toil in their home, fixing broken windows and door handles, and painting rooms. Sometimes I tend to their child*, I am friends with her and friendly to him, a man I almost never see. They offered me an administrative job running the office of his new internet company, which I declined. They have been very good to me. So now I have to choose between a complicity of silence and a brutal honesty that will disrupt everyone's life. I'm leaning towards returning the earrings with a strong slap on the wrist, because I cannot accept any gesture that requires my complicity in something I know will hurt her, but will remain silent about the matter until such time as he trespasses again. And what kind of present is it to entangle someone in something that has absolutely nothing to do with the beneficiary? He should have given the earrings to her; I will never wear them. It's all so perverse, and it gave me a major meltdown as I was trying to dress for my dinner date, because I am practically incapable of not taking such things personally, or deflecting guilt, even when none of it is mine to bear. I was so angry, which almost always registers in tears, because I'm not the lashing out sort, though I should learn to be. Oh, Bother. Happy Birthday. Don't go looking for drama, drama will find you, Children.

What would you do, my dutiful readers of the Blogosphere?

Finally, birthdays are always a reminder of the anniversary of my father's death, which is this day, right here. While I don't feel a conscious grief, I do wonder at the significance of having that loss attached so near the day that is supposed to be a celebration of my own life. Perhaps there is no meaning there at all, but I am always reticent to celebrate my birthday. It could be the pall of that spectre, or it could be the wet blanket tradition, established on my twelfth birthday by my mother, who picked a fight with me every year after the cake was cut and the tinsels had hit the floor. I do believe the first time stemmed from my protest against the notion that I should clean the house after the guests were gone, as it was my birthday, after all. Her peculiar pugilistic habit lasted for the duration of high school, though the reason shifted from year to year, as did her convenient forgetting of the date of my father's passing. I was intended to forget, as well.

Life is full of sun and shadows and fog. I had a great date Tuesday night, and lots of friends phoned and wrote, and flowers were delivered. I felt loved, and I'm grateful for that. It was a good day, after all.


(*I didn't really say that to him, only wanted to.)

Spurious Claims of Nativity Aside...

Happy Birthday, Peteski! When we are betrothed, I hope it plays like this:



Yours,
Pinky

ps - thanks for encouraging me to turn my blog into an "adult" site. Lord.
Oh, and my birthday was yesterday.
And as for you, Stitch, naked shout-outs are cold in December!

Happy Birthday, Citizen H!

May love, joy and peace find you this new year.

Happy Midsummer's Eve

"Though western iconography usually called the sun male and the moon female, archaic Oriental tradition spoke of a female sun. Japanese ruling clans traced their descent from a supreme Sun Goddess, Omikami Amaterasu.

The Hindu Great Mother took the form of the sun as the Goddess Aditi, mother of the twelve zodiacal Adityas, spirits who would "reveal their light at Doomsday." The Mahanirvanatantra said the sun was the "garment" of the Great Goddess: "The sun, the most glorious symbol in the physical world, is the mayik vesture of Her who is 'clothed with the sun.' " The same goddess, identified with Mary, appeared in the Gospels as the "woman clothed with the sun" (Revelation 12:1).



Tantric Buddhism recognized a precursor of the Middle-Eastern Mari, or Mary, as the sun. Her monks greeted her at dawn as "the glorious one, the sun of happiness..."

Among the ancient Arabs, the sun was a goddess, Atthar, sometimes called Torch of the Gods. The Celts had a sun goddess names Sulis, from suil, meaning both "eye" and "sun." Germans called her Sunna. Norwegians called her Sol. In Scandinavia she was also known as Glory-of-Elves, the Goddess who would give birth to a daughter after doomsday, thus producing the new sun of the next creation. The Eddas said: "One beaming daughter the bright Sun bears before she is swallowed by Fenrir; so shall the maid pace her mother's way when the gods have gone to their doom."





The Sun Goddess Sul, Sol, or Sulis was worshipped in Britain at the famous artificial mountain in the Avebury complex of megalithic monuments, now known as Silbury Hill. Here she gave birth ti each new Aeon from her great belly-tumulus, over 130 feet high and more than 500 feet in diameter. "The influence of the British goddess, Sul, aextended over the greater part of south west England, and her worship appears to have been conducted on the tops of hills, overlooking springs. Thus near her springs at Bath we have the isolated hill called Solsbury, or Sulisbury, probably the seat of her worship." At Bath, Romans identified Sul with Minerva and set up altars to her under the name of Sul Minerva. "


(This text was lifted from Barbara G. Walker. So sue me.)

Teachers

This woman is a heroine of mine. I endeavor to practice what she preaches. Even at awards shows. (wink)

Pema Chödron clip.



Pema Chodron: The bodhisattva vow has something to do with going cold turkey, naked, without any clothes on into whatever situation presents itself to you, and seeing how you hate certain people, how people trigger you in every single way, how you want to hold on, how you want to get in bed and put the covers over your head. Seeing all of that just increases your compassion for the human situation. We're all up against not finding ourselves perfect, and still wanting to be open and be there for others. My sense of what it means to be a bodhisattva on the path, a student-warrior-bodhisattva, is that you are constantly caught with "don't know." Can't say yes, can't say no. Can't say right, can't say wrong.

...Trungpa Rinpoche used to say that the first step in the training of the warrior, which is to say, one who is cultivating their courage, is to place them in a cradle of loving-kindness. And this is really true. In the Buddhist teachings we talk about cultivation of maitri or loving-kindness toward oneself. This does seem necessary in order to have the willingness to work with all the messy and delightful parts of yourself. Real safety is your willingness to not run away from yourself. In terms of creating a safe environment, you want to create a space in which people can look at themselves and where that's going to meet with approval and it's going to be safe to do that. No one is going to laugh at them for crying or falling apart. Now that's the first stage, because, what you're really talking about is how to live in this world where people do ridicule and laugh at you. And so we don't just want to create a lot of practitioners who can only exist in a "safe" situation where there is no insult, where there's no roughness. The cradle of loving-kindness is not about getting stroked. It's more about developing a friendship with yourself in a more complete way. The real sense of safety that people need is that things aren't going to be hidden.

...Certain practices dislodge a lot of emotional material-for instance, tonglen. Tonglen is a practice where you work with your breath. You breathe in suffering and connect with it fully-yours' and other people's. It's a willingness to feel what hurts, not to shy away, not to reject it. You're willing to take on suffering and develop compassion for it and even relax with it. And when you breathe out, you give away joy, a sense of inspiration, delight. So what you're usually attached to and want to keep for yourself, you get used to sharing, giving. It's very advanced practice when you start working with other people because it shows you every place that you shut down, hold back, every single place where you close your heart. If you're a practitioner of the dharma, you want to see that and make friends with it. I think if you really want to become enlightened, somehow you've got to put yourself on the line. If you're already a student and want to wake up fully, then you're going to get the tests and challenges you need, and they're all going to come from other people. Safety becomes wanting to avoid all that.

Cause I know I don't belong, here in Heaven...

There's a lesser known Circle of Hell reserved and engirded with a red-velvet v.i.p. rope for unrepentant name droppers, and that is precisely where you will find me when I palm some coins off on the ferryman. Alright, I'm mixing mythologies, but the point is that star-gazing is fun! and that's precisely what I got an eyeful of this last Saturday night.

The band played a song at the 34th Annual Vision Awards, a benefit for blindness and award show for visionary work in the arts and sciences. Yeah, I'd never heard of it either. Nonetheless, it was held in The Beverly Hilton which, while famous for many reasons, is mostly known to me via the Merv Griffin Show, as "Friends and guests of the Merv Griffin Show..." always stayed there, capping the end of his talk show. I watched that all the time as a kid, and it's a wonder that my tastes developed as they are, in spite of that particular influence. That, Lawrence Welk and Dinah Shore. Anyway, The Hotel is inextricable from the idea of Merv Griffin and all he represents, as Merv once was from Eva Gabor.

Needless to say, an odd venue for the band, but conscious as we were of the sense of dislocation, we were happy to be there. After all, the amusement factor was first rate. There was that tiny gal on the parking elevator whom Tex is sure was Renee Zellwegger, and look who's on the red carpet... Charles Durning and Dick Van Patten! And there's Matthew Modine and that tall chick from That 70s Show! And the B-list just keeps getting longer.



Once you entered the doors to the lobby of the auditorium/dining room, you saw the endless display of ticky-tacky auction items - most of them poorly matted and framed film and sports memorabilia. Notable was a heavyweight championship belt, with photos of past winners, the most remarkable of which (for me) was the presence of Ken Norton, who broke Muhammed Ali's jaw in '73, and then went on to star, two years later, in the titular role of a trashy plantation drama, Mandingo. Tex, my friend, Billy, and I just saw it at the Egyptian Theater. Later, when the stage auction was happening, and they sold the old USC helmets belonging to the few that were Heisman Trophy winners, the auctioneer called out their names, skipping right over the photo of O.J. Take THAT!

But sports were not what really interested me about the evening. What did interest me was walking up to the bar and standing near Robert Evans. Robert freakin' Evans, people. Even if you aren't aware of his illustrious producing career (Rosemary's Baby, Chinatown, Godfather, Marathon Man, Urban Cowboy... ring a bell?), or his famous romance with Ali McGraw, before Steve McQueen got his hooks into her, you might have a notion of his imitably slick presence and hedonistic lifestyle. If you haven't seen the "documentary" biopic (I shackle it with quotation marks, because it isn't typical convention to have the subject narrate his own filmic biography.), The Kid Stays in the Picture, don't hesitate to rent it.

Then there was Wes Craven, who received an award, and whose speech was the very best of the night. Truly a thoughtful, intelligent, witty, slightly mischieveous, and sweet man, hardly what you expect from one of the biggest horror masters in film. I want him to be my dad. A friend informed me today that he has a master's degree in philosophy, and his oratory reflected that. He was very polite when we met him, and his wife was very sweet, also. I reminded her not to forget his award, which they left on the table. Actually, quite a few people forgot their little statuettes. I doubt that happens so much at Oscar time, but I think it was Meryl Streep who left on of hers in the bathroom.

Mr. Craven (talk about a great ironical name - 'craven' means 'cowardly'), told a great story about being at a dinner party at Robert Evans' home sometime in the last few years. "Bob turned to me and said, 'I think I'm having a stroke.' " So they phoned the fire dept., which was at the other end of Evans' property. Before they arrived, Evans said, "I promised you an exciting evening, didn't I?" Then, as they were rolling him away to the ambulance he pleaded, "Please, stay and enjoy yourselves!" Kid's got nerve.

Dare I mention the tense and hilarious moment in the Green Room when the hostess, who is, er, sight impaired, was throwing an absolute fit and came out yelling at a woman who must have been her assistant? In self-defense, the beleagured lady entreated, "Please don't blame me, I'm only doing what I'm told." To this the Grande Dame if the evening roared, "You NEVER do what you're told!" It was straight out of Mommie Dearest. Then, as they were headed for the exit, the elder lady walked right into the door. I'm just sayin'. I was holding back the tears, one more reason why I'm taking the down escalator after I croak.

Andy Garcia's acceptance speech revealed that his first "break" in Hollywood was employment as a busboy in the very same hotel. He pointed out that his former captain was still working there that night.

The strangest moment for me occurred when Linda Blair was onstage talking about the honored scientist whose ocular research on Abyssinian felines has restored their sight, which will assist human macular regeneration. Surrealing, I turned to a friend and said, "I feel like I'm in an episode the Simpsons right now." On cue for the stage departure of Miss Projectile Vomit, the orchestra struck up the theme from "Cats." I kid you not. John turned to me and replied, "Well, that just sealed it."

Standing a foot away from Stevie Wonder was pretty great, as is the man himself. I never guessed he was that big! He made a surprise performance for the second song of The Blind Boys of Alabama, who have been doing this for over 60 years, and simply must be heard. After they sang "Amazing Grace," set to the tune of "House of the Rising Sun," Stevie got up there with them for "Higher Ground." Phenomenal. Could I love him more?



Tex and I recently just rewatched Stanley Kubrick's masterpiece, Barry Lyndon, a personal favorite for us both, so it was exciting to speak with Leon Vitali, who played Lord Bullingdon, or "Lord Bowling Balls" as he was dubbed on set, or so he told us. He was also Kubrick's right hand man for what I believe was nearly twenty years, though he had slipped into virtual obscurity as an actor. He looked terribly sickly and had been left out of the big prizes, so I gave him one of the pieces of swag intended for the band (a really amazing roller suitcase that positively SPINS!). While I defended myself to our lead singer, who happens to love that film too, Nathan looked at me for a hard second then forgave my choice. "I like your style," he said.



Perhaps the best celebrity encounter came when Nathan recognized an aging rocker, to whom I slipped both of the band's cds. He wished us good luck, through his impenetrable mop of hair and dark shades. Nothing so notable about the actual interaction, but after all, it was Jeff Lynne. We were pissing ourselves.

Cinematic Pop with a Chewy Folk-Rock Center

Any way you slice it, it comes up nuts.

My band's featured on msnbc.com today. Read the article! Better yet, email it to your friends!

upside out, inside down

these days
the sheep wear wolves
the wolves don wool
and nobody really knows who is who

and be careful who you call crazy
because the looney in the street
is just singing out loud your tunes

Kiss Them For Me

Gene Simmons teaching the pre-K set that as you age, your feet never stop growing.

Yang-Yang

Three-year-old Yang Yang kisses a beluga whale during a publicity photo shoot at the Qingdao Polar Ocean World, located in China's eastern Shandong Province, on June 2, 2007.

The Ill-Posse Comitatus

Yesterday I was stunned to read an interview with Father Frank Morales on Theresa Duncan's blog, The Wit of The Staircase, which is a personal favorite. Herein you will discover their dialogue about Gov't conspiracies, dissent in art, Scientology, Christianity as subversion and Jesus as Insurrectionist, some meaning of Time, Lennon, P.K. Dick, Disney, St. Paul, the truth about 911, how the artist must take risks...



I can just hear the reactions now and I await them with bated breath (or should I say, 'baited'), but please, Gentle Reader, take in the entire piece. Whether you agree or not, I doubt you can deny that the level of discourse is elevated and offers some very interesting insights. Also note, as background reference, that Theresa Duncan and her husband, the illustrious artist, Jeremy Blake, have been monitored by the FBI and allegedly harrassed by the Church of Xenu. You can read up on that in her 5/13 post, The Trouble with Anna Gaskell.

(picture credit: Jeremy Blake, Winchester (still), from Winchester trilogy, 2002; DVD with sound; 18-minute continuous loop; courtesy of the artist and Feigen Contemporary, New York; © Jeremy Blake. More on his work, specifically the Winchester series, here.)

O Woman! Lovely Woman! Nature made thee

To temper man: we had been brutes without you.
Angels are painted fair, to look like you;
There's in you all that we believe of heaven, -
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,
Eternal joy, and everlasting love.

Thomas Otway (1652-1685)



This is almost hypnotic. But how did they just skip right over the Pre-Raphaelites in this 500 year survey of woman's portraiture? Or did I blink?

Divinyl

My mother and step-father visited recently, bringing me their old stereo with the cd player I gave them, a very old Dual turntable ('85, I wanna say), and an Onkyo receiver. Needless to say that, although this equipment is obsolescent (you should have seen the trouble I went through to get a new needle), I am ecstatic to have it, because I can finally play not only my old vinyl, but my mother's entire collection, which I have been asking for nearly a decade. The only thing I have wanted more, and for which I ask each and every Christmas and birthday, is a pair of perfect flat ovular turquoise earrings, the size of robin's eggs, set in sterling, which are an unusual and extraordinarily vibrant color. They are also absolutely clear of any veins, with a flawless surface. I once wore them into a jewelry store in Park City, and the shopkeeper was positively stunned by their quality and beauty. Like most of the things that my mother has, she claims she will give them to me when she dies, to which I always reply, "Mom, you're too mean to die."

This is, of course, funny to us both, and she probably will outlive me, but it should be noted that my mother often boasts, or reminisces, if you prefer, about the great collectibles and antiques bestowed upon her by her parents and Grandma Bessie. This includes family silver, furniture, and antique jewlery (sadly the garnet filigree necklace, brooch and one earring, once belonging to Eleanor Roosevelt, were stolen when I was in high school). My second favorite thing, which I don't often ask for, is a glass globe lamp, supported in bronze by two Atlas figures and whatever that circular band is called that engirds it from pole to pole, and papered by a lovely jade and manila yellow map, naming countries with antiquated appellations such as, Siam, Persia, and Ceylon. She once asked me if I thought she should replace itt with an updated map, causing my heart to drop out of my chest like a ton of lead. "Mother... if you touch that thing..."
My mom is a great "changer" of things. In astrology, the "cardinal" signs are the great instigaters of movement and transformations, and she is the Cardnial of cardinals. She's the one carrying the bull-whip, and tearing down the pyramids, and building a staircase to the moon, because she had an extra ten minutes just lounging about in her day, and hell, as she likes to say, she can sleep when she's dead.

Excepting, she's too mean to die.

She even cut down the eighty-year-old Cherokee-Red Dogwood tree in our backyard, because it was "diseased," in her estimation, which is completely false, though she does have her Master Gardener's Certificate. What this really translates to is: "The tree is MESSY," a quality she cannot abide. It was possibly one of the most beautiful trees I have ever seen, full of seasonal bliss. The leafy stage was pretty, the flowering stage - cranberry extraordinary, the red berry stage - an odd and beady beautiful, the chlorophyll breakdown stage - crimson phenomenal, and the bare stage - swizzle stick elegant. It is the one thing in our lives together that I will never get over. I have forgiven things about her past that would make up an entire season of Lifetime Television for W____(sorry, I can't bear to finish that phrase, as it rankles my sensibilities entirely, as it is a completely unfounded and utterly unjust representation of women, like the cartoon, Cathy.), but the tree? I just hope I don't take that resentment to the grave. I am working on it.

I have inherited some of this trait from her, this need to "improve" things, except that I have a greater sense of preservation. I also possess her clutchiness, or maybe I clutch her possessiveness, but the difference is, she has all these things passed down through the family, while I have almost none, though I never point this out when she gloats about it time and time again. If she ever goes so far as to use the word "trousseau," which is essentially what they built for her as a teen and twenty-something, I will keel over and vomit indignation.

Still, I have the vinyl, and it is a quirky collection to be sure. I am thrilled to have it. There are clasical records from the 50s and 60s, a sixteen-disc, leather-bound, "treasury" from back in the day when records were unbendable and weighed a pound, covering Bach, Berlioz, Medndelssohn, Wagner, all with bios, portraits and album covers with glossy nature, landscape or landmark photos, colorized absurdly if romantically. There are some hippy-dippy works from the 70s, which will get the most play. There are original Beatles' albums, lots of them, musicals (Glynis Johns singing "Send in the Clowns,"
anyone?), Dylan Thomas reading aloud, and a 1963 collection of ten Shakespeare plays, performed by Richard Burton and John Gielgud, Dame Peggy Ashcroft, O'Toole, Redgrave, and Anna Massey. What else? Firestone Tires' Christmas music series from the 60s, more Folk music than you'd ever know what to do with, bluegrass, and a History of the British Blues, with several early Yardbirds tunes, and old old Rod Stewart, before he turned into a wheel of 80s cheese. Finally, there are scads of, OH GOD!, Andy Williams, 60s Streisand, Mantovanni, Andre Previn, Vikki Carr, Percy Faith... all those sounds of the well-heeled 60s bridge-playing, cocktail circuit Republicans, a part of which my parents most certainly were, for a time.

I think I'll be posting about the ones most important to me, like this one I remember most clearly from my pre-K years. I loved it even back then:

Sparrows, Now onThe No-Fly List!

Evidently, this happened at the moment Bush finished averring, "I've got confidence in Al Gonzales doin' the job!" Celestial commentary?



Then again, fishermen consider that good luck.

Talk Like Bob Dylan Day

Shabtai Zisel ben Avraham was born today in '41. I only mention it, because I like both kinds of music, Bob & Dylan. Many happy returns of the day, Mr. Zimmerman.





"...The kingdoms of Experience
In the precious wind they rot
While paupers change possessions
Each one wishing for what the other has got
And the princess and the prince
Discuss what's real and what is not
It doesn't matter inside the Gates of Eden

The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly, totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden

At dawn my lover comes to me
And tells me of her dreams
With no attempts to shovel the glimpse
Into the ditch of what each one means
At times I think there are no words
But these to tell what's true
And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden"

The Gates of Eden, 1965

Able was I, ere I saw Elba

Just back from computer exile - a new hard drive and ram, all for $207, and the guy might have put earthworms in there for all I know, but she's working. All I had to do was endure him asking me to ask him out. Tech nerds are so socially well-adjusted, it's a cautionary tale in pitching woo.

I have things to write, and no time right now. But since UNREMITTING MIKE was so taken with my star sighting, and invoked Allen Ginsburg, I direct you more recent readers to an old (pre-UM and Peteski, and maybe even you, Steve), "celebrity encounter" from my tender freshman days at old Brunonia. I think you'll enjoy it.

The rest of you, sorry for the redundancy, and please be patient.

The Best Picture Show

I went to see The Last Picture Show last night at The Egyptian Theater/American Cinematheque with Texas, as it's a favorite for both of us. It just gets better and better each time I see it. Truly a masterpiece, maybe even a top 10 all time movie, in my humble opinion. It's a perfect film, and a lesson in nuance, the unspoken, showing not making explicit in the dialogue, three dimensional characters, and fine acting all the way around. And the cinematography. Exquisite. The camera should tell the story to some degree in film. Remember the scene where Sonny's been exiled from the main street businesses and he's driving slowly past in that beat-up truck, watching the people in the pool hall, and the diner, as if they are moving on a conveyor belt? Camera work can connote emotion. It's amazing.



Anyway, I'm standing at the popcorn buttering device before the flick, and the two guys next to me are debating whether or not to salt the popcorn, and I say without looking, "It's not salted." Ya know, trying to be helpful. I look up and it's old Peter Bogdanovich, who just stares at me as if, well, I'm not sure what. Did I step on his toes? Was he thinking "Who is this creature? Oh the impropriety? " I have no idea, but that was a star sighting worthy of mention for me. When I got back to our seats and told Tex how I'd put my foot in my mouth with the directing legend, Texas 'bout came out of his skin with excitement when told him. And then the old fellow came in the auditorium. Texas could not stop grinning every time he looked over at Mr. B. He was so happy it was utterly charming. After, he thanked the man. I threw popcorn at him. Not really.



It's a shame he doesn't make movies of this caliber anymore. I'm a huge fan of Paper Moon (1973) and am crazy forWhat's Up, Doc? (1972), which is simply one of the funniest films ever, and a retelling of one of my all-time favorites, Bringing Up Baby.

I had this thought last night, one I've had before - the film industry is having a fair amount of trouble these days, and generally not giving us a lot worth the ten dollars plus. So why don't they take existing masterpieces, especially those as relevant today as they were decades ago, promote the hell out of them and get the American public well fed again? I think people tend to eat what you put before them, particularly if you tell them it's good. In the meantime, support your local art house theaters, if you've got them. There are worlds of old cinema just waiting to be sampled by you.

Sometimes It Doesn't Go Ok

I'm sure you've all seen the video that made Ok Go famous.

But have you seen this?

More Intelligent Design from My Street

My neighbor made the documentary Flock of Dodos, which airs on Showtime tonight. Go to the site and watch the trailer.

here is some response from the I.D. camp, and Randy's rebuttal, from the DVD extras:

They Are Gaining on Us

A pair of roosters in Shenyang, China have been playing ball regularly ever since their owner found it three weeks ago, according to China Daily.

Be the Change You Want to See in the World

What will that be?

Obsessive Collection

2.5 million plastic bottles are used in the US every hour. In case you don't know, they are bad for you in several ways, including simply drinking out of them.



Check out this website.

So much of this waste is completely avoidable. We have only to try a little harder.

Man on Fire

Here's a little video by my band boss, who got evacuated, about the Griffith Park fire this week:

I'm funny to me sometimes

because I forget to do things sometimes, like actually including an excerpt from the book I fawned over yesterday. That would be sensible, no?

But what to choose? Start at the beginning, if you like.

Tobias Wolff, a friend of the author, wrote Marry Karr this advice while she was writing her personal history, which she taped to her computer:

"Take no care for your dignity. Don't be afraid of appearing angry, small-minded, obtuse, mean, immoral, amoral, calculating, or anything else. Don't approach your history as something to be shaken for its cautionary fruits. Tell your stories, and your story will be revealed." Karr's mother, on the other hand, put it more bluntly. "Hell, get it off your chest," she counselled. (source)

The release of The Liar's Club, some twelve years ago, is credited with spurring on the memoir explosion of the last decade. When asked about it, Karr replied:

"Well, I think memoir started with St. Augustine -- not with me, and not with Oprah. Memoir has an august, and inaugust, history. St. Augustine got drop-kicked for just using the first person pronoun at all. It was considered morally reprehensible. Memoir has long been what Geoffrey Wolff has called an "outsider's art." People want some sort of moral compass, and the subjective suddenly has power it hasn't had before because all of the measures of how we are doing -- the church, community life, religious or government leaders, certain kinds of values, family -- no longer mean what they once did. There are other people who have written memoirs -- Frank Conroy, Maya Angelou. Maxine Hong Kingston wrote a great memoir, "Woman Warrior." I think I'm the current ... (trails off). But I don't know why they don't call Richard Ford and bust his chops about all the Harlequin romances that are being published. Most of the memoirs are going to be bad, the way most novels are going to be bad, the way most articles are going to be bad, the way most poems are going to be bad. It's hard to make something of quality." (Salon interview, 5/97)

We have our secrets

...and our needs to confess. We may remember how, in childhood, adults were able at first to look right through us, and into us, and what an accomplishment it was when we, in fear and trembling, could tell our first lie, and make, for ourselves, the discovery that we are irredeemably alone in certain respects, and know that within the territory of ourselves, there can only be our own footprints.

- R.D. Laing

That is the quotation which opens Mary Karr's memoir, The Liar's Club, one of my very favorite books. If you are unfamiliar, I strongly urge you to pick up this work - it is a thing which causes me to write, with a short glance down any page. Her words are so resonant for me that re-reading the first page this afternoon sent such a frisson down my spinal column I wondered if there was some preternatural connection between this woman's life and my own.

What books do something like that for you?

Five-legged frogs

I have decided, after being informed by a friend (you know who you are, Pop Killah! Shout out, yo!), that I cannot, in fact, be made sick by the fires (which is completely wrong wrong wrong), that I am some sort of Indicator Species. Slight change in the toxicity off the air? She gets a rash. Water too hard, too chlorinated? Splotchy blotches. Someone in the environment angry, disgruntled, or generally making her nervous? Hives. Smoke in the air? Headache, swollen glands and a sore throat. And. A. Rash.

I've always been this way. My skin isn't really skin, it's like some sort of agar in a petri dish. Ooh, that is sexy.

Requiem for a Blogger, v. ii

I'm not really over the vestiges of this cold, now made infernal (now there's an oxymoron for you) by the Griffith Park fires raging up behind my home. Though we're in no danger of evacuation, et. al. here in the canyon, the smoke has given me a headache and general body weariness that is hardly amenable to the work schedule I'm meant to be honoring. It's nothing like the illness I experienced three years ago during those major fires north and south of LA that covered this city for about four days. I left work at noon each one of them - winded from walking up a single flight of stairs, complete muscle fatigue, respiratory problems, the list goes on. Even my normally eager to hike dog was flattened out and listless on the floor for that entire period. I wonder how the animals over at the zoo are faring?

I couldn't help thinking this morning, as I was asked to sign an online petition for the restoration of habeas corpus, that the damage done there last October wasn't so unlike the 600 acre swath burned down last night. Something hungry and vengeful can tear through another thing old and established quite readily if there is no protective vigil.

Does it sound like I am in a funk? I am not. Despite aches and pains, I am quite a happy girl these days. Things are progressing in a way that can be described as flowing, synchronistic, serendipitous, integrated, and flowing. Everything seems very in alignment there, and I'm more grateful than I can say. I really hope the work I'm doing for them ultimately pans out. I am hopeful. Just yesterday, through the gracious offer of a friend, I booked them an interview on a branch of the second most trafficked website on the internet. I won't tell you where yet, so as not to jinx it, but stay tuned... I wish I could take some credit for all the things that are going on, and while I realize that I am doing a good job of connecting the dots, and that much of these oppourtunities come from the connections I've made and affinities I've built over the last five years, it really feels just as though it's falling from the heavens and into my lap. This is a lovely feeling, and I wouldn't trade it for any other.

So maybe the lesson, if there is one to be gleaned from the disparate parts of this disjuncted psuedo-essay, is that that one doesn't have to violate in order to build or to take for oneself. Better to do your work, attempt to create, and have the patience to know that when the day comes, something bigger propels you forward, like a gentle but powerful wind at your back. Or maybe it's the warm current in a river. Whatever metaphor you fancy, and I'm sure there are plenty more to make, the world will carry you if you don't try to force things.

Much love to you all.
KF

Requiem for a Blogger

or, "Why I no longer write."

For the last week, I have been fighting a pernicious head cold/flu bug. Today, I received a gracious email from a friend asking me if I was feeling better. Better? Yes, but not "well."

What is it like, you ask?

Remember that scene in "Sleeper," when Woody Allen, posing as a robotic butler, tries to make a meal and ends up battling an ever-expanding pudding with a broom? That is what is going on in the sinus cavities in my head, rendering me practically incapable of stringing two related words together. Just ask anyone who has tried to communicate with me in the last several days. I'm just grateful not to have slept over at my man's place the night I sneezed in my sleep and dislodged and jettisoned my frontal lobe.

Talk about soft in the head.

Happy Beltane!

Today is May Day, or Beltane - the time of ritualized sexual license and union, under the full Taurus moon. I am tired, so I will refer you to last year's pedantic posting, in case you need a refresher course, or don't know what the hell I'm jibber-jabbering about.



Go make hay! Oh wait, that's in September... Well, go roll in some, then.


(Henry Fuseli, Titania and Bottom, c. 1790.)