Happy Record Store Day

“Certain beautiful experiences can only happen in the environment of a record store.” — Jack White

Indeed.

Rotten tomatoes

Today I read possibly the most unpunk thing, ever. A singer-songwriter on Facebook was commenting on a photo of a raucous punk show at a local venue.  She wanted to know how she could attract such an enthusiastic audience. The subject of anger came up. It seemed apropos to quote John Lydon. “Anger is an energy,” I responded. She wrote, “My spirit doesn’t vibrate at that frequency.” Once I controlled my gag reflex, and attempted to raise my own frequency via forgiveness, I was compelled to listen to the song I was referencing, “Rise” by Public Image Ltd.  Say what you will about John Lydon but as uncool as it is to admit,  I’ll take the Pistols over shitty commercial Clash any day. (For the uninitiated, Clash vs. Sex Pistols is akin to Beatles vs. Rolling Stones.) This tasty morsel came up in the search results. Of course I had to share. My spirit doesn’t vibrate at the selfish frequency.  Please enjoy John Lydon’s commentary while watching  Part of Me, the film about Katy Perry. My favorite part is when he says “I don’t like them songs! They’re getting in the way of an interesting human being.”

Oh my genitals! (During Women’s History Month, it’s ok to objectify men)

I stopped watching Mad Men somewhere around season 3,  for reasons I can’t remember, but probably having something to do with getting addicted to a different show, which is weird because I really got into the subtleties of the story arc and complexities of the characters. (I should probably blame Netflix.)  Something tells me, however, that it may be time to tune back in. Something being leading man Jon Hamm’s (Don Draper), umm, rather large wardrobe issues.

It seems that Season 6, the next season to air, takes place in the sixties when it became fashionable for men to wear tighter fitting slacks. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be a problem but apparently the situation beneath Hamm’s belt is far from normal.

So rather than risk viewers being distracted (read: offended) by Hamm’s meat, they’ve asked him to keep his privates in check, which translates to, at the very least, wearing underclothes. But by all means, let Christina Hendricks’ (Joan Harris) juicy jugs spill out all over the place.

So why the double standard? It’s cable TV after all. Anything goes, right? Why is male anatomy so protected in entertainment while female anatomy is openly exploited? I suppose I’ll never know the answer, and male frontal nudity will be a perfectly ordinary occurrence in television and film when I’m too old to appreciate it. For now, let me enjoy Jon’s hunky Hamm however it’s deemed acceptable within the confines of bun huggers and worsted wool dress pants.

It’s still Women’s History Month…

Let’s celebrate Women’s History Month some more

Grading on a curve: Mama Cass and the cruelty of superficiality

Recently I was watching one of those PBS nostalgia specials featuring performances by hit makers during the 1960s. I’ve never been a big fan of the Mamas and the Papas, but I’ll listen when a song comes on the radio. (Yes, I listen to oldies in my car.)

I remember being a kid when “Mama” Cass Elliot died and the news media mistakenly reported  that she choked on a ham sandwich. Unfortunately the public’s fixation on her weight overshadowed a much bigger phenomenon: her enormous pipes.  Even worse was how much attention her svelte and listless bandmate Michelle Phillips received, her tepid style often eclipsing Elliot’s superior vocals.

As I watched the old footage of the group performing, I was struck not only by Elliot’s technical prowess as a singer but also by her mojo. The woman had moves. Big, sexy moves. She basically blew away the waif like Phillips in every way.

But we live in a superficial world. And it was much worse back then. For all our pining (boomers, I’m talking to you) for that era, the truth is it was an unkind one in so many ways. I can’t help but wonder how different it might have been were Cass a young performer today.  Not only are curvy women more accepted than ever (BBW is the most searched porn term and no, it’s not considered a fetish) the talented ones are finding success without prejudice. Adele and Brittany Howard are great examples, but there are many others.

And had she been born into a more forgiving era, she wouldn’t have been forced to hide her body under those hideous muumuus. I like to think of Ms. Cass rockin’ an A-line dress with a thin, shiny belt and a pair of heels. I like to think of her belting it out, shaking her stuff and spreading all that delicious soul like butter on toast.

Poetry: Red Verses Blue

Not to stoke the fire of division that keeps this country’s government in a perpetual stalemate (because my blog is that important), but today I noticed two things: the presidential inauguration may be the only time the reading of a poem will hold the attention of more than 25 people in a public setting (I say this as fan, not foe), and though the inaugural poem is a relatively young tradition, begun by John F. Kennedy when he invited Robert Frost to read, so far it’s only democrats who have felt it was one worth carrying forward.  (Though democrat Lyndon Johnson declined to invite a poet, stating that he hated them.)

Maya Angelou’s reading of her poem “On the Pulse of Morning” for Clinton’s inauguration still gives me goosebumps, as much for its beauty as her authoritative, soulful delivery. “One Today” written and read by Richard Blanco for the inauguration of Obama’s second term had much in common with Angelou’s, though it was perhaps more accessible and less preachy.  Why it is that conservatives are so averse to verse? I can’t think of a more meaningful way to connect people to each other and those they have placed in power. Art is a great translator, no matter the medium. I hope the next republican president chooses poetry for his or her inauguration. It will tell us more about his (or her) character than the speech that follows.

As much as I enjoyed Blanco’s poem today, as well as his reading of it, I think I may prefer the one that a handful of regular ol’ Americans wrote together as an experiment in crowd sourcing by The Takeaway for president Obama:

A People’s Poem for the Inauguration

Say “nation.” In the wake of quarrels, say “hope.”
Be not divisive nor divided.

Say “neighbor.” Say, “What can I do?”
Doors open. Together walk through.
In the hurly-burly of the day’s governing
remember the freedom of peace.

At the dawn of uncertain tomorrows, say “change.”
While darkness floods our spirit, say “light” and shatter
all our scattering shadows.

Dream, “neighbor.” In the face of fear, sing, “mercy.”
Hear unity from voices that speak.

Say that freedom, both the blessing and right,
remain the provenance of open minds.
Acknowledge the dreams that birthed a great nation — say “freedom.”
Speak it into action and watch our dreams reshape the future.

And heart in hand, for the sake of the young,
of the old,
of all those who
wade thru injustice’s tide, say “freedom.”

Say and shout and sing! Progress is a storm and our voices the thunder.

Say “peace” for the hearts of a nation’s people, in times of grief.
Say one, say all. To abandon hope is to further the fall
Say “take my hand” to the downtrodden, the lost.
Sing harmonies that blend in a spectrum of love.

In the dark of failures, say “try”; encourage, persist to light.
Say friend, my hand for your strength, your eyes for my light as we forward together.
Say hope is ours.
Wash away morose pessimism and the failings of the nascent.
Remember our virtue; remember our lofty intent.
In the wake of the struggle, speak, so that together we all may speak courage.

Say “hope,” eyes turned not to the gauzy sky
nor to the brassy gates of power
but to the frost-bitten grass beneath our feet.

I need to hear, again, those antiquated words
in this new light.

…………………..2012: A List………………

(Hope you don’t get seasick) p.s. it’s all local

Cassettes were all the rage this year. Massenger was my favorite band.

Recorded Music
Massenger
No//Se
The Pullmen
Kapeesh
D on Darox and the Melody Joy Bakers

Wussy

Live Music
Wussy at Zoey’s
Pangea at Indie West Fest
The Pullmen at Bombay
Kapeesh at Red Cove
Alexandra and the Starlight Band at Zoey’s
Miguel Garcia & the Vaquetones at Yolie’s
OFWGKTA at the Ventura Theater (for the sheer spectacle of it)

Outstanding film! Bob Forrest actually remembered me from the old days.

Film
Bob and the Monster at Indie West Fest

Shenanigans at the Scavenger Hunt. (Appropriately, I stole this photo.)

Event
The Local Rock Picnic
86 Scavenger Hunt (I was a secret weapon. Plus, I sacrificed my son’s innocence. See pic.)
Westside ArtWalk

Comics and Comics at Hypno Comics

Comedy
Comics and Comics at Hypno Comics

I purchased one of these pieces from Sean Tully. Can you guess which one?

Art
Sean Tully at The WAV
Stacie Logue’s guerrilla bluebirds
Paul Lindhard’s gateway to Ventura
Evan Ames’ and Lauren Mosinka’s yard sale
Everything at Sylvia White Gallery
Michael Pearce at Carnegie Art Museum
Art of Autism at Westside ArtWalk
MB Hanrahan’s Scabenue Calendar

Story
End Transmission: The Life and Death of the People’s Radio

You are intrepid

Christmas Eve, 5 p.m. I’m sitting in my car in front of my mailbox waiting for a mail delivery. I see the mail carrier is at the corner and I’m in the middle of the block, so I lean my seat back and take a few moments to eyeball some magnificent post-storm clouds in the distance, occasionally glancing in my rear view mirror to track the carrier’s progress.

It’s cold. It’s late. He probably wishes he was doing anything but this. As he approaches, an older gentleman (“older” being at least five years past my 49 years) on a bicycle pulls alongside the car parked in front of me and begins calling to the carrier.

“You are intrepid, brother man!”

The carrier does his best to ignore the man on the bike with a scar nearly the length of his entire calve.

“It’s almost dark and you’re out here making sure those last packages and cards get to their destinations by Christmas,” he yells, cars racing by. His voice is in the James Earl Jones register, kind but authoritative.

I can’t hear how the carrier is responding, if he’s responding. I can only see him, focused, intent on getting the job done.

The cyclist thanks the carrier for his hard work and wishes him to arrive home with his loved ones quickly and safely.

“You are intrepid, brother man!”

(Lately I’ve noticed what appears to be an increasing tendency toward  suspicion and disdain among people during every day encounters. When did we begin defaulting to meanness? What changed in humanity to create such casual hostility among us? All I know is we need things like what I witnessed to happen more often. We need to default to friendliness, compassion.  Let’s not imagine a world where strangers stop in the middle of the street to offer encouragement to the weary. Let’s be that world. )

Goodbye sucks

Enrique’s office at VCReporter was like a scaled down health food store and nutritional pharmacy. Every day around noon, the piercing whirrrr of his juicer could be heard throughout the office as he prepared some sort of plant-derived concoction. Eventually it became necessary to ban the dreaded Durian fruit he so loved to torture us with. A raw vegan from way back, Enrique loved to play with his food, but he loved to share it even more. From his homemade raw vegan ice cream (soooo delicious) to premium chocolates, tea, dried kale and a regular supply of organic fruits, the delight he took in natural food was infectious. I will always be indebted to him for turning me on to CALM, a magnesium supplement that relieves anxiety and associated symptoms.

Enrique and I bonded almost immediately around skateboard culture and old school punk rock. We were only a year apart and we liked the same things. We also shared a similar faith. When he found out I’d written a story about the Dogtown documentary and that I still had the audio tapes of my interviews he lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. I brought him the tapes to listen to and I think he transferred them to digital audio files. He was always the go-to for tech stuff.

We would discuss all things pop culture as well as parenting, health and politics. He recorded podcasts and TV shows for me. We exchanged books and on a few occasions we prayed together. During the course of his illness I awoke numerous times at 3 or 4 a.m. compelled to pray for him. But all the prayers, the hope, the love, the faith, couldn’t stop the relentless march of the those damn cancer cells.

Everyone dies but not everyone lives. Enrique lived and I’m better for having known him. Time will calm the sting of loss, but I will not forget Enrique’s sweet, generous nature and of course his hatred for last minute editorial changes… oh, and the rubber chicken.

xoxo